Memories with The Breakfast Club: A Way with Words

by Lane Hayes

  “Give her a chance, Tony. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Ma—”

  “Do you want coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She stood slowly and came to my side, setting her birdlike hand on my shoulder. Then she pointed at the family photo and spoke softly. “We’re going to be okay, sweetheart. I don’t think he’d have it any other way. I love you and I want you to have what I had with your dad. Someone who makes you happy the second they walk into a room. You have a big heart. It’s time to share it.”

  She kissed my cheek and stepped away. “I’m going to pack some food for you. You’re too skinny. Finish your dinner.”

  I watched her move into the kitchen and did my best to follow her conversation with my sisters, but I struggled to swim above the onslaught of emotion and find even ground. The mention of my dad could do that to me. They said it got better with time, but it had been a year. I wondered how many more years would pass before life felt normal again.

  On top of the usual gut-wrenching sadness I felt, I was beginning to worry that my mother looked to me to fill my father’s shoes. To become the patriarch for our wing of the De Lucas…meet a girl, get married, start a family. I swiped my hand over my stubbled chin and closed my eyes. I wasn’t ready and I never would be. And while I hated the idea of disappointing my fragile mother, it wasn’t fair to start something I couldn’t finish with anyone. Karen or Remy. They’d thank me to keep my distance ’cause let’s face it, a dishonest man was no catch.

  The following day, I told myself to stay clear of the park. Yeah, I’d brought lunch for two but that didn’t mean I had to share it with Remy. I could claim I’d accidentally over-packed and give one of the containers away. My resolve was strong in the early part of the workday. In fact, I almost offered my extra lunch to Pete Costanza when he said he’d forgotten his, but something held me back. I hesitated for a second before adjusting my hard hat and turning to bark orders to the newbie who was assisting me with a partition.

  When the job was done at eleven thirty, my assistant went to lunch and I decided I might as well go too. Just not to the park. Except, my brain wasn’t in tune with my instincts. My feet seemingly moved of their own volition to the corner crosswalk as I changed my rationale. Going to the park didn’t mean I had to eat lunch with Remy. The park was big and hell, he might not be there anyway.

  Of course, my heart sank when I noticed he wasn’t in his usual spot strumming his guitar for spare change. And that right there was what I should concentrate on. What was I thinking crushing on a glorified panhandler-slash-bartender? Or anyone at all? I was working, I reminded myself as I strode purposefully along the winding path toward the fountain. What I wasn’t doing was looking for a lover or a booty call or—

  I stopped in my tracks and stared at the beautiful man sitting under the tree a few dozen feet away. His feet were propped on an empty chair and his handsome face was lifted to the sky, basking in fragments of sunlight filtering through the leaves. He was a vision. The celestial kind they painted on church ceilings and referred to as hallowed and divine. Something mere mortals might aspire to but would never achieve. People like him were magnetic and innately attractive on a level that had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with self-possession.

  Remy turned then and smiled. And suddenly, I knew I was where I was supposed to be.

  He removed his feet from the chair across from him when I approached and made a grand gesture, wordlessly indicating he’d saved it for me. I flopped gracelessly into it and bent to unzip my cooler. I handed him a plastic container and a fork then grabbed the second one and sat back before braving a glance at my companion.

  “How’s your day going, sweet-cheeks?”

  “Sweet-cheeks?” I repeated in a deadpan tone.

  Remy chuckled. “Sorry. You seem a little tense. I was just trying to get you to smile. Thank you for the—what is this? It looks delicious.”

  “Cold pasta. It’s okay.”

  “Ahh. ‘Okay cold pasta.’ My favorite! I brought dessert.” He reached for the paper bag next to his feet. “These are called ‘better than extraordinary’ chocolate cupcakes. I brought you two. One for yesterday and one for today.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Remy narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “And you didn’t have to bring lunch. I did it because I wanted to. I hope you didn’t feel like you had to bring—”

  “No. That’s not it.”

  “What’s wrong, then?”

  “Nothing. I’m just…I shouldn’t be here, Rem.”

  “Why not?”

  “I like you, that’s why,” I snapped. I unfastened the top on my container and stabbed at the fusilli noodles.

  “Oh. That makes sense,” he teased. “For the record, I like you too. I think I even told you so.”

  I looked at him then, loving the warmth in his pretty eyes. “Why do you like me?”

  “Because you bring me food,” he said with a laugh. When I didn’t join in, he kicked my boot until I met his gaze again. “Hey. Come on. Get it off your chest. What’s eating you?”

  I didn’t respond immediately because the answer overwhelmed me. I took another bite and stared unseeing at the greenery over his shoulder.

  “I shouldn’t be here, but I’m happy I am. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure. You feel guilty. You like me, but you wish you didn’t. Is that right?”

  “Maybe. I had dinner with my family last night and…” My nostrils flared and to my absolute mortification, my voice cracked when I continued. “God, I wish I wasn’t me sometimes.”

  I was on the verge of losing it, and fuck, it was embarrassing. I was grateful he let silence take over before addressing my outburst.

  “Tony, look at me.” He waited until I complied before continuing in a fierce tone. “You’re the you that you’re supposed to be. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Thanks, but—it’s not like they said anything wrong. The problem is they don’t know who I really am and I can’t tell them. Then there’s Karen Cannoli. I like her. As a friend. I guess my mom is getting leery of those three little words because I always say I like everyone ‘as a friend.’ Now she thinks Karen making bacon chocolate chip biscotti for me is a damn marriage proposal and I don’t know how to tell her that even if it was, she’s not who I want.”

  “Who do you want?”

  “You. And shit…I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud.”

  “I want you too.”

  “We’re eating pasta in the fuckin’ park. We can’t do this,” I whispered in a strained tone.

  Remy gave me a lopsided smile. “You’re right. Who’s Karen Cannoli? Is she the girl you met at your grandmother’s a couple of days ago?”

  I nodded then gave him a more in-depth account of my family’s latest attempt to set me up. “I texted her last night to thank her for baking the biscotti. She didn’t answer the text. She called me instead. I hate talking on the phone. I hate talking at all, but I especially hate talking on the phone.”

  “You’re talking to me,” he singsonged.

  “You’re different. You’re…easy.” I chuckled when he raised his brow. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “I thought she was easy too…in a platonic way,” I added when he frowned comically. “But I feel all this pressure now and…nothing seems right about it. I hate lying and isn’t that a fucking laugh? I’m living a lie.” I snorted derisively and stabbed another bite of pasta.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself doesn’t fix anything, you know. It only makes you feel worse. Concentrate on the positives. It’s a beautiful spring day in the park. It feels like we’re in a tiny oasis away from the real world. This tree is our island and nothing can touch us. It’s just me and you, some ‘okay cold pasta’ and some cupcakes. Sounds like heaven to me.”

  I smiled softly. “Maybe it is heaven and you’re like an angel or somethin�
� ”

  Remy blushed furiously as he speared his pasta. “You say you don’t like to talk, but you say the best things.”

  “Hmph. I—where’s your guitar?” I asked, feeling flustered.

  “At home. I had an interview for a big boy job this morning,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Ah! Congrats. What kind of big boy job?”

  “Teaching music at a hoity-toity private school a few blocks from here. I don’t know if I’d fit in if I got it.” He snapped his fingers like he had a sudden, bright idea. “Maybe I should change my name to Remington. That sounds fancy, doesn’t it?”

  I let out an amused huff. “They don’t like you, it’s their loss. What kinda name is Remy anyway?”

  “You mean, besides an awesome Cognac?” he asked, rolling his eyes at my inelegant query.

  “Right. It’s unusual. Don’t get me wrong. I like it. A lot. It suits you.”

  “Thanks. What kind of a name is Tony?”

  “The awesome kind,” I quipped with a laugh. “I was named after my dad.”

  “So you’re Tony the Second. Did they call you Junior when you were a kid?” he teased.

  “As a matter of fact, they did, smartass. Until I pitched a fit in the third grade and refused to answer to it. Everyone stopped calling me Junior right away except for Dad. He made me nuts. He was the parent who’d drop us off at school then roll down his window and yell, ‘Have a great day, Junior!’ Ugh.” I shook my head with mock consternation as Remy snickered. “He used to tell me to lighten up and not take life so seriously. I can practically hear his voice saying the same thing now. Want to know something crazy?”

  “Sure.”

  “I saved his voice messages, which is weird ’cause I don’t save shit. But when he got sick, I had a bad feeling he wouldn’t make it—almost right away. I don’t know why. His prognosis wasn’t terrible and he was pretty upbeat about the ol’ C word. I wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” I let out an exasperated sigh and shook my head. “See? This is my problem. I talk when I should shut up and—”

  “Give yourself a break, Junior. You need to mourn,” he said kindly.

  “It’s been a year.”

  “Maybe it takes longer for special people. The best thing to do is to talk about him. Lucky for you, I’m a good listener. Go on…tell me stories.”

  “Huh?” I furrowed my brow in confusion.

  “You heard me. First memory that pops in your head starting”—he glanced at his watch and then at me—“now.” When I didn’t speak, he inched closer and laid his palm on my knee. “Hey. It’s okay. Talk to me.”

  I gave him a funny look and huffed unhappily. “Rem…I’m not good at that. And you didn’t know my dad. You don’t want to hear old—”

  “I want to know you. All of you. I have an idea. We’ll swap stories. I’ll tell you one, you tell me one. I’ll even go first if you want.”

  “Fine. You go first.” I motioned for him to start talking then chuckled when he cleared his throat theatrically before beginning.

  “When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the color red. I wanted to be Superman because he wore a red cape. I would only wear red shirts or sweaters or jackets. I asked my mom to paint my room red, but she wouldn’t do it unless Reeve agreed too since we shared. She said it was up to me to convince him. And of course, Reeve refused.”

  “Don’t tell me. He wanted blue.”

  “Yep. He liked the idea of changing the color but it had to be blue. We got in a knock-down, drag-out fight about it. It was ugly. My mom was pissed and told us we’d blown it. She wasn’t painting anything. So…I did it myself.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. I was maybe eight at the time and obviously had no clue what kind of work went into a proper paint job. It was…bad. Red splotchy paint was everywhere from about halfway down the wall to the carpet. It was a fucking mess.”

  I chuckled at his sorrowful expression. “Did you get in trouble?”

  “What do you think, genius? I was grounded forever. In fact, I think I’m technically still grounded.”

  “Poor Rem. Bet you hate the color red now.”

  “Nope. I still like it, but I’m a Batman fan now,” he said with a wink. “Your turn.”

  I laughed then squeezed his hand and impulsively lifted it to my lips. “Fine. But we’ll have to save it for later. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. But I think you should ask me out.”

  “Like on a real date?” I croaked.

  Remy threw his head back and guffawed. “Yeah, asshole. A real date.”

  “When?”

  “I’m off Friday night. We can grab dinner or something.”

  “Where?” I yanked at my collar uncomfortably. Jesus, I was sweating.

  “Anywhere. We can avoid Brooklyn and any borough where De Lucas might be found. Or we can meet at a dark, sleazy bar and hide in a corner booth far from curious gazes. I’m easy,” he said with faux nonchalance.

  “Uh…”

  “Never mind, Tony. I’ll see you tom—”

  “Friday is good,” I blurted.

  Remy studied me for a long moment. “You’re sure?”

  I didn’t hesitate this time. “I’m very sure.”

  Of course, I wasn’t sure. At all. What the hell had I agreed to? I kept my head down as I gathered my belongings and told myself to pull it together. I didn’t have to go anywhere. I could back out before Friday. No problem. But when I looked up from zipping my bag and he flashed that beautiful grin at me, I knew I’d go anywhere he asked.

  Chapter 4

  By Friday, I was a nervous wreck. I couldn’t help it—I’d never been on a date with a man. My experience with same-sex liaisons was limited to infrequent backroom hookups in out-of-the-way gay bars. Not dates. Hell, I hadn’t been on a date with a woman in a couple of years either. Simply put, I sucked at it. Nerves got me by the throat, making conversation practically impossible. If by some miracle I managed to get through a meal, I lived in dread of the final good-bye kiss and the expectation that I was supposed to push for more. It was torture.

  Remy was easy company in the secluded shadows of a giant tree but that didn’t necessarily translate to a nighttime “date.” Add two missed lunches due to another interview for him and an issue that had come up on my jobsite and I had a head full of mixed emotions. Texting with him had helped. And oddly enough, I liked talking to him on the phone Thursday night before he started his shift at the bar. He had a mellow way about him that soothed me. I could have happily listened to his childhood stories all night long. Even via cellular device. But a date…

  “Yo, Tony! Wanna grab a beer tonight? Maybe something to eat too? I told Lindz I’d go home first to pick her up but we’re meeting some friends after. Including a coupla single ladies I think you might be interested in,” Mikey said, waggling his eyebrows lecherously.

  I gave him a cursory once-over then shook my head. “I can’t. Thanks anyway. I’ll see you Sunday at Nonna’s. Tell Lindz I said hi.”

  “Wait! Where you goin’?” he asked, yanking on my elbow.

  “Out.”

  “You have a date! You hear that, Joey? Tony has a date!” Mikey announced at the top of his lungs.

  The immediate round of wolf whistles and catcalls on the crowded subway sent a flush of heat through my body. And yeah, they made me feel sick. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about, now I could add having my cousins on my case. Great.

  I didn’t bother responding. I wasn’t sure I could without giving myself away. So I flashed my middle finger at them and hurried out of the station. I made it home in record time, which was good and bad. Good because I lost Mikey. Bad because I had hours to stress about what to wear, what to say and yeah…how much cologne to put on.

  Dating sucked.

  Remy had suggested we meet at a Lower East Side restaur
ant I’d never heard of called Chandler or Chandelier. He’d heard the food was delicious and the ambience was well worth the high-priced martinis. He’d instructed me to meet him at the bar at eight o’clock. I shifted restlessly on the barstool and glanced down at my cell for the umpteenth time. It was seven fifty-five. I’d nursed the same beer for what seemed like half an hour while clandestinely checking out the clientele in the elegant space.