by L.J. Shen
So, Mom didn’t have to remind me Trent Rexroth was a big deal. Recently, I’d found myself thinking about him obsessively, in and out of the office, which was why I made it a point to push him away whenever he was in my vicinity.
“Your dad’s been acting weird. Cheating again, I’m sure. I think it’s serious this time.”
“Doubt it.” I offered a consoling smile. I meant the serious part, not the cheating. He definitely cheated.
She rubbed at her cheek tiredly. “His business trips have never been this long or this often before.”
“Maybe he is gearing up to become mayor. Meeting donors, yada yada.” Though he hadn’t talked about his political aspirations in a while, and that meant they weren’t on his mind. Jordan Van Der Zee had one true love, and that was the sound of his own voice.
The kitchen door made a soft noise, and I snapped my head around on an instinct, ready to yank a drawer open and chase a bastard with a steak knife. When I saw that it was the devil himself leaning on its frame, I exhaled, but knew better than to relax.
“You’re up, too? What’s up with you guys? It’s half past four in the morning,” I muttered, clutching my drink. The weekend was fast approaching, and I didn’t want to piss off Jordan. I needed this visit on Saturday, so playing nice was crucial.
“Edie and I have something to discuss. Go back to bed, Lydia. I will make you some tea in a moment.” Even though his disapproval was directed at my mother, it didn’t make the burn less marring. She got up on defeated feet, walking out of the room not unlike a ghost. Every step she took screamed negligence, abandonment, and weakness. My mother was abused just enough to break her, but not enough for me to go to the police with it. Balance, Rexroth said. Is everything. And oh, how right he was.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. You will not lose your shit over this, Edie. Screw surfing and his little ego games and making a point. Look at the big picture.
Jordan snatched the coconut water from my hand, slam-dunking the bottle into one of the two giant sinks in the kitchen island.
“I was drinking that.” There was spite in lethal quantities in each of my innocent words.
“Not anymore. That, and the surfing…it makes you look like a hippie. Van Der Zees drink coffee every morning. It keeps us sharp.”
“You make Mom tea twice a day.” I grinned.
“Your mother is not a Van Der Zee. Her claim to fame is marrying one.”
There wasn’t a way for me to acknowledge him that wouldn’t start a third world war, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Edie, we need to talk.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The grave look on his face told me he was disappointed with me again, though hell if I knew why.
“I saw your exchange with Rexroth yesterday in the break room. The whole floor did.”
My eyes darted to him, my mouth falling open before I could fashion a comeback. If my father suspected I was flirting with Rexroth, he would strip me out of everything I cared about and had left. I couldn’t allow it.
“Listen—” I started, but he cut me off with a wave of a hand.
“No daughter of mine would be stupid enough to fall for his brute charm. I do know that, Edie.” He started slipping on his tie, tying it without even having to look in the mirror. I sat back, folding my arms over my chest.
“But I saw the way he looked at you, and the way he leaned into you, both of which weren’t appropriate considering your age difference and your recent employment with us. I’m not sure what Trent Rexroth has in mind, but he will not get his way, whatever that is. Now, you know your father well enough to understand the consequences of associating with him, correct?”
Was Jordan going to off Trent Rexroth? I wouldn’t put it past him. He was positively certifiable when it came to protecting his family’s honor, with honor being the operative word here. Love, feelings, and general wellbeing were disposable in his world. The realization that this conversation could go in so many different ways—all of them wrong—hit my stomach first, then rolled up to my chest, making my throat close up. My heart was littered with broken promises and half-baked happy moments. A wasteland of hopes and dreams that could never be fulfilled without Theo.
“Rexroth doesn’t interest me, so don’t waste your breath warning me off him,” I said, flicking old sand from between my chipped fingernails. It was always there, no matter how much I picked at it. Truth be told—I loved it there. The sand reminded me of the ocean, of surfing, of freedom.
“Would you like me to increase your hourly rate?” Father lurched forward like a heavy machine, taking my hand in his and clasping it robotically. His skin was cold and dry, a perfect metaphor to the man he was. I considered my words carefully, my gaze gliding over our hands, how unnatural they looked and felt.
“Well, you do only pay me minimum wage.”
“And would you like for me to arrange it so that you could see Theodore on Saturdays and every other Wednesday evening?” He followed, his smile cunning. Theodore. Not Theo. Never Theo.
My fingers were shaking, itching to withdraw from my father’s grasp. They trembled to touch Theo again. To feel his face between my hands. His laugh on my skin. His soul next to mine. At the same time, I knew Jordan well enough to recognize the carrot he was dangling in front of me was poisonous. My hand still stung from his touch, and I wanted to wash it with soap, scrub it until the first layer of skin peeled. He leaned closer, his breath full of minty toothpaste and venom.
“I need you to help me, Edie. There’s a job to be done, and you’re the perfect candidate.”
“I’m listening,” I said, wanting to see where he’d take it.
“Trent Rexroth. I want you to sniff around him. Find out what his deal is.”
“Why?” It didn’t take a genius to know these two hated each other. Then again, my father collected enemies like one would stamps or Christmas cards. Dutifully and fondly. Every powerful person he came across was labeled, seen and treated as a national threat. The term egomaniac was invented, coined specifically for him. Jordan Van Der Zee had no problem being agreeable to people less worthy, rich and important than he was. But the minute you became a competitor, or an obstacle, he would run you over and reverse back and forth just to double-check and be on the safe side.
“His silence is irking, and he always goes against me. He is up to something. I want to know what it is. I want to know all there is to know about what he does in his office behind closed doors. I want to know what days he takes his daughter to the therapist. I want to know his schedule. Where he keeps his safe and files and iPad. I. Want. To. Know. Everything.”
Clearly, he thought Trent Rexroth was scheming something shady behind his back. A hostile takeover, or maybe a surprise ambush that would affect his beloved investments company.
Trent Rexroth definitely gave the impression of being a control-freak. Maybe Jordan was right to be worried. It made no difference at all. Because as much as I hated turning down Wednesdays with Theo, I also didn’t want to dig myself a deeper grave by letting my father play me like this. It was a damned if I do and damned if I don’t situation. Either he was lying to me about giving me more time with the only guy I cared for or he was telling the truth, but setting a precedent to a chain of blackmails, now that he knew it’d work. The double-edged sword cut my heart in two.
“No, thanks,” I said slowly, flicking my thumb against the edge of the table. “Take your offer to someone who is interested in it.”
“My dearest daughter.” He grabbed my hand again, pulling at my arm on purpose. It didn’t hurt, but it was far from feeling comfortable. “You will do it. The perks are just a little push in the right direction. You have no choice in this matter.”
“I’m not going to spy on Trent Rexroth.” My voice grew louder, steadier. “He hasn’t done anything bad to me and besides, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Rexroth hates my guts.” That was an
understatement. At this point, I was sure he’d rather confide in a neo-Nazi than tell me all his secrets.
My father, of course, chose to disregard my growing resistance. “If you won’t do it, Edie, I’ll be sending Theodore to New York. You know I can pull the right strings and make it happen. His facility in San Diego is grossly overcrowded as it is. I’d be doing him a favor.”
Back in familiar waters. This was more like it. The threats, I was used to. “Blackmailing someone into blackmail is an interesting method. I’d like to see you pull this off. Move Theodore to a lesser facility when you’re trying to run for mayor. Someone you don’t want anyone to know about in the first place,” I said dryly, hating him, and Rexroth, and the whole world for standing between me and happiness. I didn’t care about the money, and the glitz, or the broken Louboutins. I just wanted to surf and be next to Theo. The fact those things felt impossible to achieve made me feel like a trapped butterfly in a glass bell jar. A tiny creature, slamming against the barrier until I ran out of energy, breath, and hope.
“You’re throwing the word blackmail around way too often and loudly for my liking, young lady. Consider it research,” he suggested, releasing my hand again.
“You can call it research, or blackmail, or Uncle Joe. The answer would still be no.”
It was already five in the morning and I’d officially missed my surfing window. Screw it, I could come in at eight once a week. The chair beneath me scraped as I stood up.
Something hit the table with a heavy slap. I whipped my head around and looked at him once again.
A bag.
My mother’s medication bag.
It shouldn’t have sounded so heavy, but it did, because it was. Because nowadays, my mother required three pills just to get her out of bed, and that’s without her vitamins—which she was addicted to—and the gummy bears promising radiant skin, tough nails, and heavenly slumber, which she chewed on throughout the day. She also took another three to fall asleep at night.
“Reconsider. You have two people to think about. One of them—your mother—is a helpless child trapped in a woman’s body. You’ve burned every bridge in order to save them, Edie. Every single one. From your education, to your dream of becoming a surfer and getting away from here, from me. You’ve made all the sacrifices for your mother and Theodore…what’s one more?”
I stood facing the hallway, an eternal scream making my body shudder. He had me exactly where he wanted me, and he knew it. He sauntered toward me, a cloud of his smugness hanging in the room like a stench.
“Make no mistake, Edie. I will sacrifice your mother and your locked-up obsession without a second thought. You signed up to be my little obedient marionette…you don’t get to make the rules.” The last sentence was spoken so close to me, I could feel his breath brushing my back.
I stormed out of the kitchen, feeling his eyes shooting daggers at my back.
I’d bleed to death before turning around and seeing his face. I knew how he felt.
Victorious.
FUNNY FELIX WAS A SHIT show.
Much to no one’s surprise.
Actually that wasn’t entirely fair to the person dressed in a feline-looking teddy bear whatever-the-fuck costume standing in the center of a circle made out of screaming kids, dancing for them like a trained monkey.
I guess the party was okay for everyone who wasn’t in my immediate circle. For all the parents who were smiling wide, holding hands—even the fucking divorcees were being civilized for the sake of their children—watching the fruit of their loins getting their faces painted and twirling with a bunch of clowns, AKA Felix’s Little Helpers. It was creepy, but when you thought about it—when you really, truly put some thought into it—a lot of the stuff grown-ups found intimidating were kids’ favorite things. Because kids, unlike their parents, watch the world sans the tainted lens of preconception and intolerance.
Kids are not racist.
Kids are not judgmental.
Kids don’t care that your car costs twice the annual salary of the average American.
Kids are fun.
Kids are pure.
But I’m not.
I was a biracial man in a white world, so I knew exactly how Luna was feeling. Just like Luna, I didn’t physically stand out, not even in the WASP-y town of Todos Santos. I wasn’t even dark-skinned. My mother was German, my dad African American. My skin color was diluted, watered-down. Still, it was there. It was there in my height and my soft lips and my curly hair (when I let it grow, which was fucking never.) It was there when people made jokes about big dicks and basketball. It was there when I’d tried to apply for odd jobs while I was supporting myself in college. It was there, but others pretended that it wasn’t.
There’s something to be said about us biracial people. Society fucked us good in all holes and angles. I was too black to be fully accepted in the white, rich town I went to high school in (football scholarship), and too white to be accepted in the black community in San Diego where I grew up.
It’s not that I didn’t have friends, because I had many. It’s the identity I’d been lacking. The tribe. That puzzle into which I’d fit.
Luna was both different and similar to me in that sense.
She was beautiful and exotic, a rare diamond who was likely to suffer less from prejudice because times had changed. She drew people to her and fuck, she looked so normal, until she opened her mouth and nothing came out. Until an unsuspecting mother asked her name, and my daughter looked away and tears prickled her eyes, because she’d been spoken to by a stranger.
Until the mother’s kid called Luna a freak.
“She doesn’t speak English, Ma. She doesn’t even speak Spanish. The freak doesn’t speak at all.”
What did I say? A shit show.
My mother was there to squeeze my shoulder, pleading with her eyes for me not to kick the kid’s head to the ground and shove his face in the dirt and make him eat it. The party took place on the beach, out of all places, and the heat was slowly slaying the cupcakes, face paint, and my nerves.
“What kind of fucked-up kid says something like that, anyway? They’re four.” I dragged a hand over my head. Luna was sitting with Sonya under a tree a few feet from us, trying to calm down from the incident. They were sharing an apple. Since Little Miss Busy on Saturdays was too important to accompany Luna and me, I figured I’d take an arsenal of people as moral support and to keep me company. My parents, Darius and Trisha, tagged along, and Sonya managed to stop by at the very last minute, even though she was supposed to watch her son in some sports competition I couldn’t even remember.
“They’re four, they’re privileged, and they’re blunt. You grew up with the nastiest kids in the country. Why this behavior still surprises you, I have no idea.” My mother ironed my shirt down with her hand. She’d come a long way from Trish who worked at Walmart part-time since I’d hit the corporate jackpot. Wearing designer everything and not apologizing for it, she now looked like the women she didn’t even have the honor of serving, because they’d never set foot in that store. I loved that we were now part of a club that never really accepted us. It was ironic, in the Groucho Marx kind of way.
My dad was the only black male member of the Todos Santos Country Club.
Luna went to school with Toby Rowland’s daughter, the rich bastard who’d broken my ankle in high school to steal the captain of the football team title from me.
We were blending, meshing, stealing everything that wasn’t offered to us.
And. I. Fucking. Thrived. On. It.
“Time to wrap this shit up. I’ve officially reached the end of my patience.” I shook my head and let out a sigh when Luna refused to budge from under the tree and join the other kids in a dance, even when Sonya encouraged her, no doubt promising to never leave her side. Luna was especially trying in social events. I’d spent the first year after her mother disappeared at home with her, before finally caving in to life. I wanted to share the world with her.
She was mine. My blood, my DNA, my cells, my eyes, my fucking being. Still, I wished she’d be more accepting of the outside world, and that it would be more accepting of her.
My parents exchanged worried looks, frowning. They’d been a tremendous help with raising Luna ever since I’d moved from Chicago, where I’d managed an FHH branch, back to Todos Santos, selling a healthy percentage of my stocks to Jordan Van Der Zee, along with a piece of my soul in the process.
“Why don’t you go ahead and get some rest?” My mother rubbed my cheek, forcing a smile on her sweet face. “Dad and I will take Luna back to our place for a sleepover. She’s been dying to help Dar build that spaceship for weeks.”
The spaceship.
My dad was a dreamer. An inventor. He built shit that never worked. He wasn’t really building a spacecraft, obviously. What he was building was a healthy relationship with my daughter, using empty batteries, carton boxes, superglue, and old matches that had gotten soaked in the rain and were no longer usable. He was building what I couldn’t even set the fucking ground for. A healthy, fun relationship with my daughter.
Or the awkward looks she was getting.
Or shouldering the burden that came with being different.
It bothered me because those differences were the things that people would blame me for if her mother ever came back into her life. Luna’s differences were what Val would exploit. So yeah, it made me resent them.
“You don’t have to do it,” I said, not really arguing with her. I could use the night off. I wasn’t even going to call Sonya or Amanda. Straight to fucking bed for me. Maybe watch a stupid action movie and order greasy food I’d never allow myself to eat on a weekday. My six times a week strength training didn’t go well with junk food, but sometimes even grown ass men allow themselves a little pity party.
“Please.” Mom jerked me into a hug. She was so much smaller than my six foot four body, it was funny to think I’d come out of her. It was also funny because Trish Rexroth was one of the most gracious people I knew and I was a Shithead with a capital S. “We love Luna and want to spend every chance we have making her happy. And anyway, I was planning on baking that apple pie, and your dad’s sugar level is sky-high. She’ll be doing him a favor eating the majority of it. Right, Dar?” She turned to my dad, who was arguing—legit quarreling—with a four-year-old boy over what the face paint they’d been using on the kids was made of.