The Right Side of the Wrong Bed || Bruno Mars

Chapter 19

Bruno

She had not texted since last Thursday night, had not replied to my last message. Two long sleepless nights had passed by so easily.

"Daddy," I heard Phoebe's tiny voice that was probably the only sound that I had been hearing calling for me for the past two days besides Prince's cry.

Lazily sprawled on the couch were the two of us eating fries, watching—God knows what. And I wasn't sure if I was being a good father at the moment. All I saw on the screen were Barbies talking, all dressed in pink, and glitters, and tutus, and fairy wings, and—Jesus! I never thought I'd ever wish we were watching that big fellow in a purple dinosaur costume instead.

On the other hand was Prince just being his royal self, sitting on his throne that was his stroller.

"Yes, princess?" was my reply to Phoebe's call.

"Why hasn't mommy arrived yet?"

5:35 p.m., indicated by the circular clock hanging on the wall. "She should be here any minute now," I said. "Patience is a virtue, Phoebe. You should know that."

A beeping sound split through the air sending my body jerking forward. I reached for my phone on the center table, of course. Where else could that sound came from? I just received a text message from, "Meredith?" I grimaced at the screen.

My apartment, now

I knitted my eyebrows and pursed my lips.

"Is that mommy, daddy?" Phoebe curiously queried.

"Nope. Just... wrong number, I guess," Lie.

Another beep.

YOU FUCKING IDIOT THIS IS IMPORTANT

I rolled my eyes with so much passion and brought my phone to my ear after scanning through my contacts. "Hello, Emily?"

.

"This place really needs a goddamn heater," was my first complain after I arrived at Meredith's turf. It was just strangely cold in the living area as I sat there on the couch. My leather jacket was no help for the cold was like an icy knife cutting through my clothes. Some kind of indie-rock music was playing in the background.

Meredith appeared and carelessly dropped an enormous, ancient-looking book on the center table, producing a loud thud like a thunder clap. I looked at it and figured it was way older than me. Its pages reeked of dust and rust and burned wood, and seemed crispy that if you turn over them, they'd tear or maybe even powderize. She went over to the speakers displayed at the side of the flat screen television and turned the music off just when I was already enjoying it, stomping my feet to the rhythm. She lunged for the couch to sit a feet away from me. "I don't want to hear your complaints," she said with her usual expression of raw nonchalance.

"Sure. Whatever." I shrugged and ran a hand through my messy curls, a bored gesture. "So, what is this a-matter-of-life-and-death-business you want to talk about?" I inquired rather sarcastically.

She ran her fingers through her brunette hair too, that was meant to look dirty and in disarray, as she dropped her back on the couch. She trained her eyes somewhere else not in my direction for a few seconds before speaking, biting her lower lip and flicking one brow up. I had no idea what was going through her crazy evil mind.

Then at last, "Do you believe in fairytales?" she asked, her eyes remained spacing out.

I let out a gasp of laughter. "You asked me to come all the way here in this hell of an apartment of yours just to know if I believe in fairies and mermaids and shit?" I practically burst ranting.