Better Than Nothing: Part 3 of On the Edge Series

Chapter 1

Since I moved out of my parent's house at eighteen, my father had bought me a local landmark ornament for my Christmas tree every year. He'd always give it to me on Christmas Eve to hang on my tree that evening. It was our tradition. For the past ten years, he had started a second tradition. On the second Monday after Thanksgiving, an album would appear at my office. We never spoke of it; it just occurred. But how could it still happen?

I ripped the paper off to find a 7" album of I'm Your Puppet, and my stomach plummeted. It hadn't been my dad. It couldn't have been. He was gone. Anger ripped through my emotionless state. Raw, unfiltered anger at the only remaining person who would've sent an annual album.

I don't remember how it happened. One minute I was standing in my office as a fond tradition I thought I had shared with my father curdled in my hands, and the next, I was staring out a plane window at the flashing lights that adorned the wingtip. Anger was still toppling me. We had an agreement, walk away. That implied no contact. If my dad didn't send the albums, only one other person would've, and the anger quickly soured to hatred.

I had no plan. For a person who prides herself on order and planning, Billy Collins could burn that house down from half a country away while asleep. I tossed and turned on the rough sheets of the Duluth hotel bed. I warred between just dropping the box of records off at his studio's front desk or attempting to see him.

As I neared the studio, the vibration in my chest at his nearing proximity made the answer for me; drop the records and run. It was just before 9 am, so I wasn't even sure if the studio would be open. Do recording studios open that early? I could just leave them at the front door and run away. Nothing wrong with a forty-year-old dropping a suspicious package at the front of a celebrity's studio. What's the worst that could happen?

The worse that could happen started with the doors being open.

"Hi." Suddenly all my career woman powers of the previous ten years melted at the mild prospect of coming face-to-face with Billy. "I'm just looking to leave this here."

"For whom?" There was a snap to the young receptionist's tone despite her not even looking up at me.

"Billy Collins," I stammered.

"We don't just accept packages for Mr. Collins. Is he expecting this?"

"Sure, you can tell him it's a return from Lily Turncott." My anger filled me with more confidence.

"What was the name again?" Her eyes snapped to mine.

I sputtered for a moment as my mouth made the movement of words without producing sound.

"Lily Turncott?" Her eyes suddenly dipped to her screen. "Please hold on a moment while I try to reach him."

"No, don't reach him. I don't want to reach him. I'm just leaving these here," I stammered.

But she was already on the phone and holding an annoyed hand up to me to wait, and I, like a scolded child in the principal's office, muted my protests.

"Yes, I have a Lily Turncott out front with a package for Billy." She paused. "Sounds good." She hung up the phone and raised her face to my gaze. "He'll be with you in just a moment."

"No, I don't want to see him. I'm just dropping this off," I argued.

"If you just hold on, you can drop it off in person," she shot back, matching my annoyance.

I sucked in a deep breath and did the only thing I could do; I ran. I swiveled on my block heel and headed for the door just as I heard the throaty voice call my name, but I didn't stop. I pushed through it and quickened my step to my rental car.