Heart Breaker

by Cole Saint Jaimes

  Fucking bullshit.

  For as far back as the Callahan line goes, Callahan men have been cut from the corporate cloth. It’s just what you’re supposed to do. You’re not meant to question it. You’re meant to marry a beautiful woman who will tolerate you fucking her in missionary. Who will bear you more Callahan sons, and who will know exactly how to keep an immaculate home and entertain guests. But that sort of life was never for me. For starters, missionary sex makes me want to fucking shoot myself in the head.

  The old man sat down with me one day, right after college, and told me that he’d fund my travel for one year, wherever I wanted to go. The unspoken part of this agreement was that I’d get the wanderlust out of my system, and then I’d come back and work with the family. I backpacked around Europe, went to Thailand, Japan, went to Whistler, BC, Brazil, Fiji. My final stop was Hawaii. Perhaps a bit of a cliché, but I’ve always loved Hawaii. Kauai especially. I did actually have a plane ticket back to Chicago, but I let that day come and go. I decided I was going to stay in Kauai. I knew Dad would cut me off, yeah, but I decided I wanted to make my own way in life. I worked at a coffee shop and couch surfed until I’d saved enough to get a cheap apartment. At the same time, I started offering surfing lessons to tourists. It was less than a year later that I had enough private clients to support myself without the additional income from the café.

  “But what kind of car are you driving?” my mother asked during one of our infrequent phone conversations. “And you’re . . . you’re living in an apartment?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I’d said, with far more patience than I felt. I loved my mom, but she was concerned with all the things that didn’t really matter. “And, actually, didn’t Alex and I grow up in an apartment? Don’t you and Dad still live in an apartment?”

  “Darling, it’s the penthouse. Please don’t call it an apartment. Now, tell me what kind of car you’re driving.”

  “A Jeep Wrangler.”

  “A what? A Jeep? Are those things safe?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

  “I just want you to be happy, Aidan. I’m your mother. Aren’t I allowed to want you to be happy?”

  But I was happy, and she just couldn’t seem to understand. I couldn’t really be happy, could I? The only way I could really be happy would be if I went back to Chicago, if I did what every Callahan man before me had done. If anything, I think my dad might’ve understood how I felt about it, even if he didn’t agree with it. One night, not long before I was to take off to Europe and begin my backpacking expedition, we’d stood out on the penthouse’s terrace, overlooking the city skyline. Dad had a glass of cognac. I had some lemonade. I remember that, the way the ice cubes were melting in the cup, the thick humidity clinging to the air.

  “I hope you’ll have a good time,” Dad said. “You’ll have to take lots of pictures; send us updates. It’s actually something I always wanted to do, y’know? Just never had the time. Also, there’s no way that your grandfather would have allowed me such an indulgence.”

  Hint, hint. Aren’t I such an indulgent, generous father?

  “Well, I do appreciate it,” I told him. “And I’ll be responsible with the money. And if I can find work along the way, I’m not going to turn it down.”

  “I know you’ll be okay,” Dad told me. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Life’s funny, sometimes. Often, we find ourselves having to do things we don’t want, or might think we don’t want to do. But after we give it a try, we realize that it’s not so bad.”

  Hint, hint. When you get back, you’re going to give this thing your best goddamn shot.

  He seemed to be talking more to himself, even though I was standing right there. “People have certain obligations they’re bound to, whether or not they want to be. That’s what makes them obligations.” He looked at me. “You have obligations, too.”

  “I know, Dad.” Then, all I could think about was Europe and getting as far away from Chicago as possible. I don’t remember the entirety of that conversation, but I do remember the promise I made to myself as Dad was standing there, talking about responsibilities and obligations. I promised that I would never get involved with the family business. I would never become a corporate suit like my brother. No matter what happened.

  ******

  Oh, Chicago. I have not missed you.

  I leave O’Hare and get blasted in the face by an Arctic wind that makes my bones feel as though they’re about to shatter. Forget about crystal blue skies and friendly sunshine. Here, we’ve got dense low clouds and no sun in sight at all. Everything’s grey, somber, frozen. No one looks happy. Everyone seems as though they’re trying to get somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

  Arturo arranged for one of the company drivers to pick me up, but I walk right by the middle-aged guy holding the CALLAHAN sign. The dude doesn’t even give me a second look. After all, I don’t exactly look like a Callahan. I’m horribly underdressed in just a sweatshirt and jeans, so I go by unnoticed. I’d rather freeze than sit in the back of a Lincoln town car right now. Instead, I wait for the train and take it into the city.

  I don’t have a key to the penthouse, but the doorman—I don’t recognize him—let’s me in, telling me he’s been told to expect me. Of course, it’s no surprise when the elevator door opens and Arturo is right there, looking ancient as ever in his grey three-piece suit.

  “Aidan,” he says. My name sounds like a fucking curse word coming out of his mouth. I step out of the elevator.

  My parents’ home hasn’t changed at all. It’s like a museum with its high ceilings and low lighting and dark hues. There’s a noticeable empty feel to the place; it’s too quiet, too cavernous, too cold.

  “Hi, Art.” We shake hands. His skin feels like it’s made from crinkled old paper.

  “I’m going to give you some time to settle in, son,” he tells me. “But after that, we need to have a conversation.”

  I just grunt. There’s a Christmas tree set up in the living room, a few perfectly wrapped presents underneath. I walk down the hallway to my old bedroom, which my mother has kept exactly the way I left it.

  I throw my duffel bag down on the bed, and then walk back out to where Arturo is waiting. Part of me is expecting Alex to be right there with him, a self-satisfied grin on his face. I told you I’d get you back here, you son of a bitch.

  But he’s not there. It’s just Arturo. “Why don’t we go sit down,” he says. I follow him into the den where there’s fire crackling in the fireplace. The whole scene seems so ridiculously quaint and Christmassy that a wave of nausea rolls over me. “Do you want a drink?” Arturo gestures to my father’s vast array of expensive single malts.

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  “Well. All right, then. Yes.” He fiddles with the buttons on his blazer, then scratches at his bushy grey eyebrows. “ I suppose there’s no need for me to tell you how sorry I am, Aidan. I really am. I really should have insisted they got a cab. But Alex—”

  “Was Alex. He wouldn’t have listened to you, Art. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Yes, well. I’m still…so shocked. So very sorry for your loss.” It’s his loss, too. Without a wife or any children of his own, he’s been a part of our family forever. I place a hand on his shoulder, not really sure if I’m meant to hug him or not.

  “Thank you, Art. This is all…just a lot to take in.”

  “I know,” he says. “Alex has been…Alex was under a lot of stress recently. I know he was excited about taking the company over, but something like that…it’s a huge headache, too. He was managing the best he could, but there’s only so much a man can handle before he starts to lose sleep. And he was worried about you.”

  “He was worried about me?”

  “Oh, come now. Your brother cared about you. He wanted you to come home. He had a temper, yes. I know the two of you were like oil and water, but he had a vision. He wanted to talk to you about it in person. I thought it might be better to
at least bridge some of the specifics with you over the phone, but he was adamant that once you got here, the two of you would go out, have a brotherly chat, and then take on the world.”

  “Is that so?” And all I can think of is the last thing I said to my brother before I hung up the phone: Why don’t you fuck off and die?

  I don’t think Art knows I wasn’t planning on coming home, nor do I think he knows how shitty he’s making me feel right now. If I’d been here, maybe I would have been the one driving. None of this would have happened to begin with. Everyone would still be alive. But no. I had to put my own wants and desires before everything else. I mean, acting that way has always served me well before, but now, right now, it appears that it’s backfired horribly.

  “I’ve been in touch with the only living relative of the man driving the truck. His name was Vaughn Floyd. His sister’s name is Essie Floyd. I did a bit of investigating. Seems it’s been just the two of them for a while. They were struggling to make ends meet,” Arturo says. “I called and offered to take care of the funeral expenses on behalf of the family. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  “How generous of you.” When he says on behalf of the family, he means on my behalf. I’m such a fucking waste of oxygen that I didn’t even think of that myself, and yet I’m mad that Arturo chose to speak for me.

  Arturo shrugs. “Maybe by covering the funeral costs, we might avoid any potential lawsuits this young woman might want to pursue. That’s just one headache we don’t need to deal with right now.”

  How very fucking pragmatic of him. Buy off the poor woman who’s lost the only family she had. “So she accepted?”

  “Yes.” He gives me a tight grin. “Though…she was hardly happy about it. Furious is probably a better word to describe her temperament, in fact.”

  “Can you blame her? I assume you told her who you were. I’d probably be pretty pissed too.” I think about the girl for a minute, whoever she is, and her brother, whoever he was. Like mine, her life is now irrevocably changed, and we’re all just expected to carry on.

  My father’s most trusted friend sighs heavily. “If she can at least give her brother a decent memorial service, I think we won’t have to worry about her in the future.”

  “Jesus. So glad to hear you’re thinking ahead.” I can’t hide the disgust from my voice. I rub a hand over my eyes. “Maybe I should go lie down.”

  “Maybe. Yes. Well.” Art nods, glancing around at his overly shined Italian leather shoes like he’s trying to find something he’s lost on the floor. Eventually he says, “Yes. A nap would probably do you some good. Just one more thing before I go. You’ll be expected to speak at the family memorial service. Just a few words. All the other arrangements have been taken care of. Your mother had very specific requests.”

  “My mother had her funeral planned?”

  “You sound surprised. Your parents have always thought ahead. They were realists. They knew this day would come eventually.” Arturo looks at me. “When was the last time your father spoke to you about his will?”

  “His will?” I laugh. “Never. If he was going to talk to anyone about that, it would have been Alex.”

  A pained expression crosses Arturo’s face, almost like he feels bad for what he’s about to tell me. “The Callahan Corporation was to be passed on to you and your brother. Since your brother is no longer with us, you are the sole heir. The business is yours.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Callahan Corporation is yours. You’ll need to hit the ground running, Aidan. The company was going through major transition already. Everything’s up in the air. What the business needs now is a strong hand and guidance. Everyone’s...well, they’re reeling, of course. Many of your father’s employees are in a state of panic. People think they’re going to lose their jobs.”

  “But…what about the board? Won’t they just manage everything from here on out?”

  Arturo shakes his hand, sliding his hands into his pockets. “The Callahan Corporation never went public, Aidan. There is no board. You trying to tell me you didn’t know that?”

  “No, I…” I feel stupid. I’ve never had even the slightest interest in what happened in that shining glass tower that dominates the Chicago city skyline. But to not even know how the company was structured? That’s madness. This whole situation reminds me of a movie. Something scripted. Completely untenable. This is just like fucking Batman, except Arturo makes a shitty Arthur and I am just about the worst Bruce Wayne ever.

  Arturo speaks some more. I think maybe they’re coherent sentences, but I can’t decipher a single thing that comes out of his mouth. My parents are dead, my brother is dead, and now everything is mine.

  Everything I’ve ever tried to free myself from is mine.

  SEVEN

  ESSIE

  A handful of people show up to Vaughn’s memorial service. Mostly people he worked with from the bike shop. They say kind words to me, but I don’t hear any of it, much like I don’t hear a single thing the priest is saying. How is it this priest can be saying anything about my brother anyway, when he never even knew him?

  The day is spectacularly cold but there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun is a bright hard, shining coin of silver overhead, radiating a brittle kind of light. There are flowers everywhere, flowers that are so beautiful in their explosive array of colors. Flowers that seem shocked to be outside, assaulted by the cold. I know who most of these flowers were sent by: the Callahans. More specifically, Aidan Callahan, who’s paying for the funeral. How can I forget? I feel a twinge of nausea every time I think of that fact. I try to just forget it, to just swallow my pride because all that really matters is that Vaughn is getting the memorial service he deserves, but it’s hard.

  The funeral director asked me if I wanted to say a few words, but I declined, not trusting myself to be able to get a single word out without completely falling apart. And what was there to say, anyway? That none of this was fair? That for everything Vaughn and I went through, for it to end this way was a total and complete slap in the face? No one would have wanted to listen to me ask how a person is supposed to continue living and breathing when it feels like nothing will ever be good in the world again.

  In front of me on this cold, cold day, waiting to be lowered into the ground, is my brother in his casket. The casket gleams—it’s mahogany, covered in a blanket of roses. Beautiful. It probably cost more than a brand new car. Max stands next to me, and he’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. All I can do is cry. All I can do is think that this is the closest I’m ever going to be to my brother again. This is the last time I’m ever going to see him, except I’m not even seeing him because he’s in that casket.

  The priest finishes speaking. The casket disappears into the ground. People come up to me again, press my hand into theirs, look into my eyes, wipe tears from their own. I force a tiny smile and nod, though, again, I don’t hear a word they say. Finally, I am by myself. I stand there staring at that hole long after everyone has gone, after Max whispers for me to take as much time as I need and that he’ll be waiting for me in the car.

  I stand there so long it’s like I’m frozen in place. When I do look up, across the cemetery a huge crowd has amassed. Were they here when we got here? I don’t know. I doubt it. It would have been impossible to miss such a sea of black. How many people? Hundreds. They start to file away as I stand and watch them. A few walk by me as they leave, shooting me steely-eyed glances, giving me brisk nods of their heads. Their conversations wash over me.

  “Poor Aidan. Only Callahan left now. Quite the burden to bear,” one man says to another. Both are dressed in black suits, overcoats, black sunglasses on, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” the other says.

  The man says something in reply, but by then they’ve walked past and I don’t hear what he says.

  It seems to take forever for the people to leave the Callahan gravesites—three yawning holes,
side by side. The family plot. At last, only one person remains, wearing the requisite suit and overcoat. He’s far enough away that I can’t make out the precise details of him. Close enough, however, that I can tell he’s exquisitely good-looking, like some sort of fallen angel. Dark hair. A jaw full of stubble. Dark eyes.

  There’s a hand on my shoulder.

  “Essie.”

  It’s Max. I turn to look at him, to find his brow furrowed in concern. “C’mon. It’s time to go. It’s freezing out here, girl. Don’t want you getting sick, right?”

  His worry is touching, but I ignore what he’s said. I nod over to the Callahans’ graves.

  “That’s him? That’s Aidan Callahan?”

  Max looks. “Couldn’t say. I’ve never seen him before. I’ve only heard his name mentioned.”

  I scan the figure of the stranger at the other end of the cemetery, knowing that I’m right. Who else would hover over a grave like that? Like I’m doing right now?

  Suddenly, as though he can tell he’s being talked about, Aidan Callahan turns and looks right at me. For a long moment, we stare at each other. The only thing that separates us are the graves of our loved ones. Max squeezes my shoulder.

  “Seriously, Essie,” he says. “I’ll bring you back here whenever you want, but we’ve got to get you out of the cold.”

  I let him lead me away. As I trip and stumble numbly over my own feet, all I can think about is Aidan Callahan. I think about the fact that I will do anything in my power to avenge my brother.

  I think about how far I will go to eradicate the Callahan name from the face of this planet for good.

  EIGHT

  ESSIE

  Five Years Later

  Hatred is a curious thing. It feeds you, threatens to completely overwhelm you, yet at the same time, it leaves you feeling hollow. Hungry. It encases you, enshrouds you, but you never feel warm, never feel protected. It’s an empty thing, yet it can completely consume you, demanding you never forgive, never forget. Five years have passed, and I still haven’t forgotten what happened, haven’t forgotten the pain of losing my brother, haven’t forgotten the promise I made that day I stood in the freezing cold at Vaughn’s gravesite.