The Entangled Engagement of Indigo

Chapter 7

The Welcome Home party lasted longer than Tate liked. He wanted people to head out after Indigo and Diego strutted back across the street. His keys were in his hands, primed to slide into the ignition, but he remembered his parents rode with them. After a plate of food and getting a game of dominoes under his belt, he was happy he didn't kick the guest out Martin style. Indigo may not have missed him as much as he missed her, but the Clarks still did.

He made a couple of friends in LA. There was Hayes, the actor/nanny he met at the guy when he needed a spotter on the bench press. Zen, the dude with the eclectic name but cool personality was the barista he befriended during his first attempt to get out of his loft and work somewhere new and lastly there was Abigail, whom he met when the other writers in the writer's room twisted his arm to join them for yoga after work.

They were great people; Hayes gave him the lowdown on the area—where to go and who to talk to when he got there, Zen never turned down a good hike and his dog Porkie, whose namesake was a cartoon pig, was by his side. Abigail was the burst of energy that got him out of his loft to go to festivals, movies in the park, or anything that wasn't a place he paid to rent. However, they weren't his people.

Harrison, Xavier, and Saxon were his people. He didn't have to tell them he wasn't crazy when he laughed to himself out of the blue or went silent, staring ahead as if he was in a trance. They already knew the meanings of the Brazilian Portuguese phrases he'd unconsciously utter when upset or completely comfortable. Or that his mom was his mom and not the former nanny, even though he looked like a white guy with a tan. He loved not having to explain things. He loved the familiarity. The history. The patchwork of memories that woven them together. He was a fool to push them away, and he was adamant not to do it again when he left this time.

At eight-forty, he ushered all the stragglers out of the house, and because his mom was the attentive helper that she was; she offered to help by instructing him to clear off the tables and load the dishwasher. His parents officially left until nine-fifteen and he got a second wind of energy. After a quick shower, he was finally where he needed to be; in his office with two constructed boxes in need of filling.

The room that was on the opposite end of his room was his favorite place in the house. An immense chalkboard took up a wall. He loved the powdery substance on his fingertips as he mapped out chapters, plot points, and characters. A burgundy threadbare sofa that he toted from college sat underneath a trio of windows that faced the street. He'd lie there during his fits of writer's block, resting his mind as he listened to music. Once the lyrical melodies demolished his mental roadblocks, he'd spring to his feet and rush over to the birch desk in the middle of the room and type until his brain was drained and his imagination sated.

"It's late," Abigail said, bustling into the room carrying a cloud of strawberries, orange, and lavender. "You're really doing this. Tonight."

Tate lifted his eyes from the book in his hand as easy, soul-soothing music teemed around them. "Can't waste a day with only two weeks to pack up an entire house."

She nodded, moving over to the chalkboard. "Why did you buy a house this big, anyway?"

"Wishful thinking, I guess." He tossed the novel he read more than once in the box, ignoring the bitterness gnawing in his chest.

It wasn't a complete lie. He'd hoped to be a husband by now and have the rooms filled with children he created with the woman he loved, but that hadn't panned out. So, it was time for him to create an alternative plan. He turned back to the bookshelf and grabbed three paperbacks at once. The quicker he had this place packed up the sooner he could forget about his mistakes.

"How are you feeling since soaking?" Needing to change the conversation to something that didn't ache his heart.

"The headache is fading," She drummed her unpolished fingernails on the desk, watching flip through novels with care and toss them into the box. "That lavender bath bomb you had was perfection."

"You used my..." He stopped letting his sight settle on the oversized T-shirt swallowing her lithe frame and remembered what others couldn't yet see forming in her womb. She needed it more than him, even though it was a gift from Indigo. "Never mind. Glad to help."

"You've been doing more than helping." She turned away from the desk, tossed her damp braid back over her shoulder, and joined him at the built-in bookshelf. "That's why I'll be totally fine with being your fake girlfriend and make Indigo jealous."

"No." He shook his head while keeping his eyes on a paragraph that caught his attention. "I don't want to make her jealous. I want her to be happy."

Her face twisted with disbelief.

"I mean it." A small smile lifted his mouth. "I am not causing drama in her life. I just want to reclaim my place as her friend."

"If that's all you want." She singsong as if she wasn't buying any of his words. She tugged a book from an untouched row and flipped through the pages as he did. "I thought about it, and I'm going to tell Felix about the baby."

Tate's hand fell on the shelf, "You want me to fly back with you."

"No need. I'm doing it by phone." She plucked another book from the shelf, leafed through the pages, and jumped back as something sprung from the spine. Her yelp snatched Tate's attention and when she saw it was just a rectangular piece of paper, her heart regained its resting rhythm.

"Fuck." She crouched down and picked up the startling object. The glossy texture against her fingertips let her know it wasn't just a slip of paper before she turned it over. "Tate!" She squealed his name with youthful exuberance. "Is this you? This is you. OMG! Is this prom? You two went to prom together?"

"Huh." He groaned at her excitement, but fondness tinted the corners of his mouth as he slipped the picture from her clutches. The image was from a distant time, him in a tux and Indigo in an orange mermaid dress. "We were not dating. Our parents wanted a picture of his to capture the moment."

"Tuh." She sounded, taking another look at the image. "That your goofy smile and hand glued to her waist doesn't look forced to me." She gestured to his face as he peered at the picture intently. "And you don't look like a guy that only wants to get his friend back."

"Abigail."

"I'm just saying." She shrugged. "You look like you're in love with her; like she's the woman of your dreams."

"Well, some dreams are figments of imagination." He jammed the picture into the cress of a book and tossed it into the box.

A smirk ticked up her lips as she handed him a book with his name on it. "Some dreams can be a reality if you act on them." He matched her smirk with a somber grin, and she rose on his tiptoes and placed a peck to his cheek. "I'm going to bed."

"Night." His mouth evened out once she vanished from the doorway. He grabbed the book he stuffed the picture into out of the box and ran his eyes over every detail, remembering the moment with fondness.

He wished it was as easy as Abigail believed it was, but it wasn't. He'd done things. He'd said things. If he told her how he truly felt, she'd just think he was selfish instead of being completely in love with her. So, he'd stick to reclaiming his position of 'best friend' and then proceed from there.

Why do you think Tate gave the prom picture another look?

Is Abigail right, can some dreams be a reality?