Page 76 of My Grape Crush
Suddenly, I had a full-blown career.
More money than I knew what to do with.
A rabid fanbase.
Dream life, right?
Not really.
Behind the shiny curtain lurks the darker reality I’ve never shared. @Thetrentontroublemaker was born out of necessity, not for some sad reach for fame. I was lonely. And I still am. Crazies populate my world, a sure sign that whatever mystique I’ve created no longer serves a purpose.
Myla camped out on her suitcase, refusing to leave, highlights everything that is wrong with my life.
“Do you want me to physically throw you out?” I pace back and forth, trying to stay calm. “Because that can happen.”
Myla stares me down, absolutely unfazed. “Maybe we need a longer break,” she suggests.
I rub my temples and remind myself to breathe, not to hyperventilate. Has she lost it so thoroughly? Does she think we will shack up and craft matching Burning Man outfits? Bake apple pies? Aside from diabolical horniness, why did I crumble for her, of all women?
“Don’t you understand how wrong this is?” I plead. “I made a mistake bringing you home. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression, but I like someone else.”
She spends some time trying to work out whether I’m being serious. Then, with a sneer of contempt, she reveals who she really is. “That dark-haired pica?”
One of the benefits of living in Europe is exposure to languages. I can swear in nine different tongues and know enough Czech to understand that she just called Dani a cunt. I’m done playing nice.
“If you’re not out of here in ten minutes, I’m calling the police. Seriously. Get the fuck out.”
Is it overkill to point at the door? No. This psycho dimwit needs all the bloody encouragement.
Myla blinks. There's a long pause. In the pin-drop silence, her asthmatic breathing sounds disturbingly like Darth Vader. But I feel the first glimmer of hope. That there is a sliver of normalcy buried deep in her gray matter.
Or a healthy fear of authority.
“And where do I go?” she asks.
“Home,” I stress. “Hop a flight in the opposite direction. Happy to pay for your return if that helps.” If I could charter a jet to depart from the vineyard, I would. It is that dire. “I assume you flew into Kelowna?”
She runs a hand through her hair, and sparkly pieces of silver cascade to the floor. I bet she left a trail across the Atlantic.
“I don’t need your money,” she says, like I’ve offended her.
“Then what is it you want?” I ask this openly and honestly, to crack the code of her behavior, because every Crazy was, at one point, normal.
Myla swallows hard, her throat working against the tightness that seems to have calcified her. Her eyes appear glassy, blinking rapidly, but no tears fall. It's like she's trying to hold on to something, anything, to stop herself from unraveling.
I know that feeling all too well.
“Maybe I like you,” she says, her voice wavering before she ducks my eyes.
Even if I knew the answer already, it’s still surprising to hear those words after the drama and pouts and stick limbs crossed tight. I look into her drawn face, and behind it, the damaged expression scribbled like the mess she is. It makes what I have to say that much harder.
“Fair,” I say, buffering what comes next so as not to hurt her feelings. “But if I don’t like you in the same way, nothing can ever come of this. Relationships aren’t one-way streets.”
She slides her shoulder blades together and sits up straighter. I tried not to sound like her teacher explaining a bad grade, reducing her emotions to superficial fluff. My idea to acknowledge them without incorporating any specific language or framing us in any manner of relationship came out of nowhere.
I hope I presented it in the best light possible.
Because plan B is the police.
