by Cassia Leo
“I know,” she replies automatically, refusing to meet my gaze.
“I’m serious,” I say, reaching out to lift her chin. “I know your mom’s going to drive you crazy. And there’ll be times you just need a place to get away. I don’t care what time of day or night, call me or come over. I’ll stop by to give you a key soon.”
She looks me straight in the eye, but I can’t decipher the quizzical expression she’s wearing. “I don’t want the key, but I’m sure I’ll be calling you. In fact, can I ask you for my first friendly favor?”
“Anything.”
She presses her lips together as her eyes glisten with tears. “Don’t forget me this time.”
I lean forward, gently pressing my lips to her forehead, then I whisper in her ear, “Never.”
I resist the urge to reach up, run my fingers through her hair, and kiss her. I settle for letting Skippy lick my cheek instead, then I hop out of the cab and into the rain, where I watch my Scar taken away from me.
Troy joins me on the sidewalk with his hoodie pulled tightly over his head. We both watch as the cab turns the corner and disappears. “I’m sure you’re doing the right thing,” he says, patting me on the back.
He’s referring to Rory and me taking a break to get to know each other. I told him about it in one of our many conversations over the past few days when he was shitting bricks, thinking that Rory or I was going to be charged in connection with Liam’s death. Luckily, the whole altercation was recorded on the hotel’s surveillance cameras, and clearly showed that neither Rory nor I were in any way responsible for Liam going into cardiac arrest. I didn’t even call my lawyer to come to California. Of course, when I told Troy about our plan to take a break, he thought it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.
I shake my head and let out a deep sigh as I head toward the entrance to the Barley Legal Pub. “I’m so fucking in love with her. This is going to be torture.”
“No one’s making you do this.”
“I am,” I reply, opening the door for Troy to enter. “She needs to know that I’m serious. And I need to know that she’s serious.”
Troy laughs, though I can barely hear him over the sound of the lunch-rush customers. “The girl’s been serious about you since she was in diapers,” he shouts, waving back at the bartender, Wilma, who’s actually waving at me.
I nod and smile at her as we both head toward the kitchen. “Yeah, that’s what I thought until I divorced my wife for her and she thanked me by moving six hundred miles away.” I grit my teeth against this painful truth. “She needs time… to get to know the real me, not this heroic image of me she’s built up in her head.”
Troy cocks an eyebrow as we enter the bustling kitchen area. “I think that might be the most mature thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He covers his mouth and gasps. “My little Houston is growing up.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m serious as hell,” I reply, shaking my head. “This is going to be pure torture.”
He shrugs as he snags a couple of beers out of the cooler. “Just keep reminding yourself how long she waited for you. You can wait a few more months for her.”
Once I sign the checks for Adaline, I head back to the elevator to leave. Troy is standing there waiting for me.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks for picking up my car from the airport,” I say, pressing the call button. “The last thing I needed was to get it towed for parking in overnight parking for three days.”
“No sweat.” As soon as we step out of the elevator onto the first floor, he heads for the employee lot in the back of the building. “You coming?”
“I’m just gonna check on a few things in the kitchen,” I reply. “You go ahead.”
His face scrunches up in confusion. “What are you talking about? I’m taking you to get fitted for your tux.”
He opens the back door and we stand there for a moment, as if the pouring rain will suddenly stop just so we can walk to Troy’s car. If there’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s that rain is a constant. Your time is better spent building a strong boat than wishing for the rain to stop.
“You may suck at relationships,” Troy remarks, “but you’re still my best man.”
I shake my head as I step out into the parking lot. “I may suck at relationships, but at least I don’t suck wedding-planner dick.”
A homeless man rounds the corner of the building into the lot, probably hoping to take cover under the eaves of the shipping dock.
“Touché,” Troy says as he continues toward his vintage Ford Torino. “I’m deep-throating this fucker ten times a day lately. He’s got me dancing like a fucking single mom at a strip club.”
His voice trails off as I make my way toward the homeless man, whose rain-soaked stench I can smell from ten feet away. He sees me walking toward him and turns around to head out of the lot. He probably assumes I’m going to remind him he’s trespassing in a private lot.
“Hey, man,” I call out.
He holds up his hand as if to say, No need to say anything. I’m already leaving.
“Hey, I’m not telling you to leave,” I say, louder this time.
He stops and the pattering sound of the rain coming down on the trash bag he’s using as a hood breaks my heart. I don’t know who this guy is or how he came to be homeless, but that’s exactly why I feel myself being drawn to him. There are billions of humans in this world with billions of secrets. Some of those secrets are toxic enough to destroy us. Send us spiraling into a bottomless pit until one day we’re sleeping on a street corner or staring down the barrel of a gun.
He looks at me through the damp scrabble of hair matted around his gaunt features. “What do you want?”
His voice is raspy and hollow. He’s naturally suspicious of me as I approach him, but something in his eyes tells me he knows I mean him no harm.
I come within a few feet of him when I stop. “I was hoping I could take you to get something to eat.”
He narrows his eyes at me, almost angry with this suggestion. “Are you gonna try to convert me? ’Cause I don’t need no religion.”
I laugh at this. “Nah, man. I was just thinking you might want something to eat. Someone to talk to.”
He’s silent for a moment before he nods. “Okay.”
I turn around and shout at Troy that we’ll have to reschedule the fitting for the tux. Then I lead the silent homeless man around the corner toward the front of the building, where we enter the pub together. Once we’re seated at a table in the second-floor dining area, he shrugs when asked what he wants to eat. I order him a soda and a few of the pub favorites, then I instruct our waitress to make herself scarce.
The man finally speaks up once he’s had a few sips of Coke. He tells me his name is Justin Holmes. That he’s been homeless since he got back from Afghanistan and his parents couldn’t deal with his PTSD and his refusal to take medication. He swears he doesn’t do drugs. He only drinks.
About an hour into lunch, he becomes very quiet again as he sets his filthy napkin on the table. “Why are you doing this?”
I smile as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “I had a sister once. She had a lot of dreams. Lots of things she wanted to do, but she died before the world could see how amazing she was.” I look him in the eye and he meets my gaze as he waits for me to finish. “You want to know why I’m doing this? Because everyone deserves to have their story heard.”
I’m not surprised to find my mom waiting outside in the rain with her umbrella when the cab pulls up to her apartment building. I’m also not surprised to find that the wad of cash Houston handed the driver a few minutes ago was way more than enough to cover my cab ride. I am surprised by the driver’s honesty and refusal to charge me another cent.
He sets my suitcase on the curb and nods his head as he hurries back into the dry sanctuary of his cab. My mom is dressed in all black as she rushes over with her black umbrella. For some reason, the image of a bat pops into my mind.
&nb
sp; “I’m fine, Mom,” I insist, swerving out from underneath her rayon wing.
“Suit yourself,” she replies, rushing into the lobby of her building.
The cool slate floors and the crackling warmth coming from the fireplace on our right seem to contradict each other, but it does smell inviting. I haven’t visited my mom’s building since last summer, but if I recall correctly, the building manager had an air-freshener system installed in the ventilation ducts running through the lobby. Right now, they seem to be pumping out the scent of blackberry and leather-bound books. An odd combination, though quite appropriate for my mother.
She takes me past the doorway that leads to the mail room, and straight to the elevator. “How was your flight?” she asks, unable to keep herself from glancing down at the pool of rainwater collecting beneath me and my suitcase.
“It was fine. First time I get to fly first class and the flight wasn’t even long enough for them to serve us warm cookies.”
She flashes me a tight smile as we step inside the elevator. “You don’t have to pretend everything is okay, Rory.”
Skippy and I step into the corner of the elevator and stare at the panel as she presses the button for the fourth floor. My vision blurs and I blink furiously, successfully preventing the tears from falling. I’ve cried enough the past four days to last me for quite a while.
“I’m fine,” I say, refusing to look at her.
“That’s the third time you’ve said fine since you stepped out of that cab.”
I turn my face away from her because I can’t stop the flood of tears this time. She takes my suitcase as the elevator doors slide open and I let her pull it behind her until we reach apartment 405. Two and a half years ago, when my mom first moved into this apartment, I teased her about the unit number. I said, “Of course you live in 405, the number responsible for endless gridlock and misery.” It was a terrible joke about the horrendous traffic on the 405 freeway. Now, it seems more like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The moment the door closes behind me, Skippy gallops away somewhere behind me, probably to lie down on my mom’s bed, his favorite place at Grandma’s house. My mom sets her damp umbrella in the stand and takes me into her arms. The pain is everywhere. Every inch of my skin, my bones, my insides, everything aches. And I don’t know what hurts more, losing my book and my home, that I played a part in Liam’s death, the possibility that I never really knew my best friend, or that Houston wants to figure out his life without me.
“Everything’s wrong.” I squeeze the words out through the tears. “And I didn’t see it coming.”
She strokes my hair. “Oh, honey. If we could see these things coming, they’d never happen.”
I gently push her away and head for the bathroom to get a tissue off the counter. She follows me in, watching me in the mirror as I wipe my face. She looks like she wants to tell me something, but she doesn’t know if this is the right time.
“What is it?” I ask, tossing the tissue into the waste bin.
“Your father’s coming. He wants to check on you.”
I shrug, too upset to care. “That’s fine.”
“Fine?” She purses her lips. “Surely you’re familiar with other adjectives?”
“I don’t feel very familiar with anything or anyone right now, Mom.”
She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “It may feel that way, but you have a lot of people who love you, Rory. Don’t forget that.” We stand in silence for a moment, before she chimes in with more news. “I invited your father over for dinner. Come with me to the store to get a few things.”
“For dinner? What is this, some kind of intervention?”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to come with me, but feel free to shower. Your father won’t be here for another four or five hours.”
“Are you saying I stink?”
“It’s the traveling. Airplanes have a certain… smell.”
I sigh as I realize the next few weeks or months, however long I have to endure this living arrangement, are going to be more painful than I imagined. “Bye, Mom.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you want anything from the market?”
“An apartment.”
She shakes her head as she leaves the bathroom. I wait for the sound of the front door opening and closing before I head back into the living room to get my suitcase. That’s when I notice the stack of freshly laundered blankets and pillows on the sofa. I have to remember not to invite Kenny over here. The only reason he agreed to keep my apartment in Goose Hollow is because I lied about my mom having an extra bedroom she wasn’t using.
“This is the unraveling,” I remind myself aloud.
My mom said she had cleared out a few drawers and some hanging space in her walk-in closet for me to put my clothes away. But the moment I throw the suitcase on my mom’s bed and open it, the smell of Liam’s cologne hits my olfactory nerve and I’m frozen. I stare at the colorful mashup of cotton and denim, unable to make sense of it.
Then I realize this suitcase is the rest of my life, everything thrown together haphazardly then shaken up until none of it makes the least bit of sense. And running through every inch of fabric, every frayed thread of memory is colored, scented, by Liam.
I shove the suitcase off the bed and it lands with a loud thump on the wood floor, startling Skippy, who was napping peacefully on my mom’s pillow. He jumps off the bed and sniffs the toppled contents, barking at the pile of clothes a few times. He can smell it too.
By the time my mom returns from Whole Foods with two bags of groceries, every article of clothing I own is stuffed into her washing machine. Lights and whites mixed with darks, bras mixed with jeans. I don’t care. I’m wrapped in the bathrobe my mother keeps hanging in her bathroom for guests, as if her apartment is a luxury hotel. It might as well be.
I’m aware my father has been paying my mother a generous sum in alimony for the past six years, but I’ve never cared to ask how much. There’s no way my mother could live this well on a teacher’s pension. And now that I’m reminded just how well she’s been living, I wonder if she was so willing to take his money because of what she suspected he’d done, as some form of retribution.
My mom raises an eyebrow when she sees me in the robe. I try not to think of the irony of her mocking me when I was just mocking Houston for this very thing yesterday.
“Do you need help with dinner?” I ask, eager to do anything to keep my mind off everything.
She sets the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and shakes her head. “No, I have it covered, but can you help me with something on my computer? It’s over there on the coffee table. I can’t seem to remember the password for iTunes.”
“Did you try resetting it?”
“Of course I did, but it asked me some very strange verification questions. I think my account was hacked.”
A spark of pain fires in my chest at the mention of being hacked, but I try not to let it show as I make my way to the sofa. I grab the laptop off the coffee table and set it in my lap. When I open it up, there’s a picture of Skippy above the space to enter her user password. I roll my eyes at my mother’s attachment to my dog.
“What’s your password?” I shout at her as she turns on the faucet to wash some produce.
“Skippy nine zero,” she calls back to me.
Skippy90.
My dog’s name followed by the year I was born. Nice to see my mother takes Internet security so seriously.
I type in the password and expect her desktop to open up for me, but what I see instead takes me by surprise. My mom has Microsoft Word open to a document titled “The Story of Us - First Draft.” I glance at the bottom of the document and see the word count: 143,767. I can tell right away that this isn’t my book. This is her book.
“Did you fix it?”
Her voice startles me and I slam the laptop shut. Then I remember I was supposed to be helping her with something, so I open it up again. I type the password
once more and the sight of the document gives me heart palpitations. I want to read it, but I also don’t want to.
“Did you fix it?”
I look up and she’s staring straight at me with a tomato in one hand and a very large chef’s knife in the other. “N-no. Not yet.”
“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen—” Her gaze falls to the computer in my lap and her eyes widen. “Oh, my God. Close that! Close it now!”
I slam the laptop shut and she drops the tomato and knife on the counter before she hurries over to retrieve it. “I didn’t read it,” I assure her.
She doesn’t say anything as she disappears into the bedroom and slams the door behind her. I find myself struggling. One moment I’m trying not to listen to the noises coming from her bedroom, then the next I’m listening for any hint of a drawer opening, trying to determine where she could be hiding the laptop. After all, she did read my book without my permission.
She exits the bedroom a minute later and heads straight for the kitchen, where she picks up the knife and tomato again. I don’t know if I should approach her in this state, while she’s wielding a sharp object, but I can’t just say nothing.
I enter the kitchen slowly, watching as she peels an onion. “I didn’t read it, Mom. I swear.”
She shakes her head, but again she doesn’t say a word.
“Mom, please say something. Anything.”
She bites her lip as she cuts the onion in half and the resounding thwack of the knife hitting the cutting board sends a jolt of anxiety through me.
“Be careful, or you’ll cut yourself.”
“I will be just fine, Rory,” she says, her voice taut with an unreadable emotion.
Is she angry? Embarrassed? Annoyed?
“Fine? Surely you’re familiar with other adjectives?”
She rounds on me and the fiery anger in her eyes turns my smug grin to ashes. “I know I shouldn’t be upset with you,” she says, pointing the knife at me. “Especially since I read your manuscript without your permission. But I’m upset.” She throws her hands in the air. “I’m upset. Okay?”