by Amy Knupp
“Gemma?” Her voice was gravelly with fear and she cleared her throat. “Gem?”
No movement or sound came from the apartment. Mercedes eased the door farther open and stepped inside.
Her heart lodged in her throat at the first thing she saw—or rather, the first person.
Scott was sprawled facedown on the couch, his bare feet hanging over the edge. His wrinkled clothes were twisted around him.
“Scott?”
He didn’t stir.
She stared at his torso for several seconds, trying to ascertain that he was breathing. She moved closer and was overcome by the smell of sour alcohol, or more specifically, the smell of someone who had alcohol coming out of his pores.
Mercedes clamped her teeth together audibly and stepped backward, unsure of which was winning—disgust or anger.
“Unbelievable,” she said, more to herself than the comatose, irresponsible—
“Mercedes?” Gemma’s sleepy voice startled her from behind and she spun around.
“Gemma, are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? What’s wrong?” Gemma’s hair stuck every which way. She wore the same Gumby boxers and a black tee printed with the name of a band Mercedes didn’t know.
“I woke you up,” Mercedes said apologetically.
“No big deal.” Gemma walked past her, staring at her roommate. “Scott?”
Mercedes took in a slow breath, trying to soothe her temper. “Good luck getting a response from him.”
Gemma chuckled. “Is he alive?”
“For now. I’m seriously considering killing him. Was he home when you went to bed?” To think Mercedes had been relieved he was gone when they’d brought in the mattress they’d borrowed from Faith’s parents and the rest of Gemma’s admittedly few things.
“This is the first I’ve seen him since we brought him lunch yesterday.” Gemma stopped grinning, as if realizing Mercedes wasn’t as amused by Scott’s state. “Maybe he came in late and didn’t want to bother me by walking by my room.”
“Or maybe he was too drunk to find the way to his room.” Mercedes went over and shoved his feet as she spoke.
Scott slowly turned his head from one side to the other and muttered something unintelligible. His face was an odd shade of green. Mercedes put some distance between herself and the deadweight on the couch, recognizing her urge to do him physical harm was dangerously overpowering.
She turned to Gemma, her back to Scott. “I’m craving the breakfast platter from Egg City. Eggs, biscuits and gravy, bacon. I was hoping you’d go with me.”
“Do they have chocolate-chip pancakes?”
“And blueberry, and banana nut…”
“Let me get dressed.”
“Take your time. Shower if you want.”
Gemma hurried to her bedroom and Mercedes turned toward Scott, unsure what to do about him but concerned in spite of herself. He’d of course passed out again.
She sat on the coffee table, facing him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. He must have sensed her stare because his eyelids fluttered, as if they’d been cemented shut and he had to fight to open them. When he’d finally won the battle, it took seconds, lots of them, for him to focus on Mercedes and recognize her. She could tell when he did because he did some near-dead semblance of a grimace.
“We told you we didn’t need you to babysit, but would it be too much to ask for you to take care of yourself?” she said, fighting to keep her voice even and her volume low enough Gemma wouldn’t hear.
Scott groaned and again said something she couldn’t understand. Something she probably didn’t want to understand, judging by the kiss-off tone.
“Is this your usual Saturday-night fare, Scott? Or something you do nightly?” She rose from the table, paced the floor, biting down on so many things she wanted to say. She wasn’t generally confrontational, but some things pushed her too far.
Behind her, Scott rustled around noisily and groaned, obviously suffering. Good. He deserved it.
She involuntarily turned toward him when he made a particularly pained sound. He was sitting up and his face had drained even of the green tint. Recognizing what was happening, she sprang into action, glancing around frantically. There—a popcorn bowl on the floor, littered with unpopped kernels. She grabbed it, dumping the kernels on the floor and flying to Scott’s side with it, holding the bowl at arm’s length.
He took it from her and emptied his stomach, but she didn’t stick around for details. God, really?
In the kitchen, Mercedes grabbed a handful of paper towels and dampened them with cold water. Then she found a large plastic cup in the cabinet, appreciative that Gemma had started her cleaning crusade in this room last night, and filled it with water and several ice cubes from the freezer. As she worked, she registered the sound of the shower running at the other end of the apartment. Thank goodness Gemma was otherwise occupied and didn’t have to witness her unheroic half brother’s disgusting antics.
When she returned to the living room, Scott was gone. So was the bowl, she noted, grateful as she’d never been before that he hadn’t left it behind. The front door was still closed and she hadn’t heard him leave, so she headed down the hall past Gemma’s room, past the closed bathroom door. There was only one other door and it was open.
Mercedes peered into Scott’s bedroom. Piles of clothes lined the floor and a stack of paperbacks towered unevenly next to the head of the bed. The queen-size mattress was one big tangle of sheets and blankets pushed toward the foot. But no Scott.
He stumbled out of what she assumed was an adjoining bathroom then, his color only slightly more human. With an angry glance at her, he continued then and collapsed onto his bed.
Concern nagged at her. Scott wasn’t some low-tolerance, novice drinker. That was obvious from the bottle on the kitchen counter. It had to take a lot of liquor for him to be this messed up.
Without hesitation, she barreled into the room to his bedside. “Put this on your forehead,” she said, holding out the wet paper towels.
He shifted slightly, moving only his head and only the minimum amount necessary to look up at her. When he didn’t respond further, Mercedes placed the towel on his forehead herself, half expecting him to jump up and yell at her. That he didn’t just reaffirmed her worry.
“I brought you some ice water when you think you can get it down.” She set the cup on the cluttered nightstand and again noticed the stack of books. He wasn’t the type she’d ever guess was into reading.
“I don’t know much about alcohol poisoning, but…are you going to be okay?” she asked, noting he didn’t budge an inch when she took her hand away from the towel.
“I’m fine,” he said shortly.
“This doesn’t seem like ‘fine’ to me.”
“Go away. Not your day to save me.”
She studied his pale face, trying to make concessions for how he must feel right now. It’d been years, but she’d had hangovers before. None as extreme as this, however.
“I said leave.”
Who was she to argue if he wanted to asphyxiate on his own vomit? If she stayed here for another minute, she might just stick the towel in his mouth and help him.
“Enjoy your morning, Scott,” she said with a falsely sweet voice as she left him alone.
* * *
A HEAVY, SUFFOCATING MASS of self-loathing weighed on Scott when he woke up later.
To say his head throbbed would be an understatement. It felt as if someone was taking a pickax to it, chipping away for a treasure. But that was the least of his misery—more urgent and unbearable was the churning in his gut. He breathed in slow and evenly to fight off the nausea.
The worst part of it, as if feeling like death warmed over wasn’t bad enough, was the fact that he’d lost a large chunk of his night. No recollection whatsoever of what he’d done or where he’d been for several hours. How he’d gotten home. When. Who’d seen him being out of his damn head.
He’d left th
e apartment on foot, so as long as his Mazda was still out in the parking lot in the same spot, he could be pretty sure he hadn’t driven. Thank freaking God. Wouldn’t that be swell to have his colleagues come peel his remains up from the street somewhere.
He hadn’t felt this bad in…ever. He was a guy with fast metabolism. His hangovers, when he had them, were minor, maybe requiring a couple ibuprofen. At least they used to be.
He raised himself slowly to sit against the headboard and breathe, then he shut his eyes to stave off the vertigo effect of moving and blanked his mind.
When he eased his eyes open several minutes later, the cup of water on the nightstand caught his attention like prime rib to a homeless man. He reached for it with a shaky hand, sloshing water over the side. The ice had melted, but the liquid was still cool. Only after he’d taken several sips did he stop to think about where it’d come from.
Jesus. Mercedes had seen him like this. He hated that anyone witnessed his worst, but her, someone who had her act together, whose bad moments probably consisted of an uncharacteristic swearword slipping from those feminine lips…that didn’t sit well at all.
He looked around for the wet towel he thought he remembered, found the wad of paper towels on the mattress next to the pillow. He groaned as he carefully leaned his head back. He’d never hear the end of it, but even worse than dread was bone-deep shame.
This wasn’t the man he’d set out to be.
With that thought, the taste of bile filled his mouth. He rushed to the bathroom, disregarding the pounding of his head, and got sick again.
Afterward, he wilted against the wall, shaking from the inside out, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and neck.
When he could summon the energy, he stretched up just enough to turn on the shower, leaving the temperature cold. Clothes still on, he crawled in, let the icy water pelt his face and wished it could wash him right down the drain.
CHAPTER SIX
MERCEDES’S SISTER, CHARLIE, had been in town for six hours now. Not that Mercedes was counting down the time of her visit or anything…yet. As usual, it’d been really good to see Charlie at the door. It no longer even bothered Mercedes that her sister refused to allow anyone to pick her up at the airport—she never had, preferring to show up in a cab. Now that Gram wasn’t mobile or very portable, it worked out for the best anyway.
Gram’s excitement was infectious, and Mercedes always enjoyed hearing the latest from New York and her sister’s life, which had turned out so different from Mercedes’s.
Now the two of them flanked Gram, who sat in her wheelchair on the screened-in porch on the back of the house. Mercedes had opened a bottle of wine with dinner and her second glass was just starting to relax her.
“So,” Charlie said, holding her glass by the stem and slowly spinning it between her fingers and thumb. “I have something to run by you two.”
The announcement made Mercedes sit up a little straighter in the cushioned wicker patio chair. She forced her thoughts away from Gemma and how she was faring with her hungover roommate.
She studied her sister for a hint. Charlie set her glass on the mosaic end table to her left and grasped her straight dark hair—tinted this time with reddish-pink highlights—at the nape and let it fall down her back. Mercedes had always envied her straight, manageable hair. Charlie moistened her lips, looking unsure of herself for once, and that, more than anything, put Mercedes officially on alert.
“What’s up?” Mercedes said, overcome by curiosity. Her sister never ran anything by her family.
“What is it, Charlotte?” Gram was the only person who could get away with calling Charlie by her given name. She struggled to smooth out the blanket Mercedes had draped over her legs, her left hand severely limited due to the stroke she’d suffered, so Mercedes reached over and helped. It was still eighty-five degrees outside even though the sun had set, but Gram’s frail body didn’t hold much heat anymore.
“I’ve decided to move to San Amaro.” The words came out in a rush and hung in the humid air surreally. They were the last ones Mercedes had ever expected her sister to say, and they didn’t immediately sink in. “I was wondering how you would feel about me living here, at least for a while.”
Mercedes’s brain worked its way around the equally unexpected question. “Here? As in, in this house?”
“Yes.” Charlie was normally so confident, but now she sounded unsure of herself. Leaning forward, she twisted her hair around her finger. “Just for three or four months, maybe. I want to buy a place eventually, but I don’t want to rush any decisions. I’d rather take my time, get to know the area better before shelling out money for my own home.”
Mercedes was still trying to process the idea—and the feelings it evoked—when Gram spoke. “Heavens, we’d love to have you, honey. You know you’re always welcome. The guest bedroom is yours for as long as you want it.”
Welcome, sure. But live here? Her New York City, jewelry-designer sister? “Why?”
“I… Well, I just thought since there’s an extra bedroom…”
“I mean, why are you moving to San Amaro?” Mercedes clarified, aware of the frown her grandma shot her. “What about your job?”
“I quit, actually.”
For ten full seconds, the room was quiet except for the evening sounds from the backyard—the distant hum of the air conditioner, some crickets, a lonely birdcall.
“You quit your job? At Montague?” As far as Mercedes knew, Charlie had always loved designing high-end costume jewelry for one of the most reputable companies in the industry. She’d worked her way up to the top designing position and had a great deal of influence.
“That’s the one.” Charlie laughed nervously. “The pressure and the long hours were getting to me. I decided it was time for a change.”
“What about Jeff?” Mercedes had met Charlie’s boyfriend only twice, but he and her sister had been together for three or four years and lived together.
“We split up. I let him have the apartment.” Charlie tried to keep her voice void of emotion, but there was a suspicious waver in it.
“You left Jeff?” Gram said, sounding slightly scandalized.
“Something like that.” Charlie again tried to chuckle, and Mercedes discerned a hint of sadness. “We…grew apart. It was time to move on.”
Mercedes wondered how many more clichés her sister could throw out. “Did he leave you?”
Charlie’s false happiness crashed and she hesitated, studying her fingernails, which had leopard spots painted on them. “He said he didn’t love me anymore.”
Mercedes leaned forward, tamping down the urge to hug her sister. “That’s rough, Charlie. Maybe he’ll come to his senses. Figure out he made a mistake.”
“The following weekend, I saw him at dinner with one of his female coworkers. Clearly not talking about business.”
“Oh, Charlotte.” Gram reached out her right hand across her body, toward Charlie. Charlie took her offered hand, looking as if tears were close.
“How long ago did all this happen?” Mercedes asked, feeling helpless.
“Four weeks.”
“You could have called me.” Mercedes’s offer was genuine, though she and her sister had never been confidantes.
Charlie met her gaze over Gram’s head. “I wish I had.”
Again, Mercedes tried to hide her surprise at the uncharacteristic admission. This breakup had messed with her sister big-time.
“So what do you say, Sadie?” Charlie asked with a forced smile. “You’re hesitating. Are you okay with me moving in?”
Hesitating. Yes, she was. How selfish was she?
Though Charlie’s weeklong visits always started out well, usually by two to three days into them, Mercedes was ready for them to be over. It was challenging for a household of two to adjust to being three, even for a short period of time.
Obviously, Charlie needed her family as she never had before. “Of course I’m okay with it. There’s plent
y of room.”
Charlie exhaled and sagged against the back of her chair. “Thank you both.”
“You didn’t really think we’d say no, did you?” Mercedes asked in a gentle voice, regretting that she’d hesitated.
“I’m trying not to take things for granted.” Charlie again became engrossed in her fingernails, running one index finger up and down over the nail of the other. “Jeff set something off in me. Or rather, the lack of Jeff did. Not right away. I was too in shock to think straight for the first week.” She paused when her voice wavered. “It’s weird how fleeting people can be in our lives. Disturbing. You know?”
Gram nodded somberly. Mercedes had had that exact thought many times. There weren’t many in her life who were there for the long haul. Gram. Faith and Nadia. Most times she’d hesitate to put Charlie on that list. “I’ve noticed that.”
It wasn’t surprising they’d made the same conclusion, considering the losses they’d suffered early in life. Their dad’s death. Mom’s paralysis from the same accident. Mom’s eventual death.
“It made me realize that family is it. Those are the only people who stick around. And stupid me, over the years, I’ve put so much distance between myself and the only family I have left that we barely know each other.”
“That’s true.” Mercedes couldn’t sugarcoat that no matter how much she wanted to.
Gram darted an alarmed glance at Mercedes.
“I decided it was time to change that. So here I am.”
“Here you are,” Mercedes repeated, trying to quash any doubt. She didn’t question that her sister meant what she was saying. But Charlie had had a giant emotional blow, big enough to make her take some drastic action. Who knew what she’d do once she’d leveled out a bit. Gotten back to “normal.” Her norm had always been putting distance between them. And maybe that was the crux of her concern about her sister moving in. How long would she stay this time?
“What are you planning to do for a job?” Mercedes asked. There wasn’t a jewelry market in San Amaro like the one she was used to in New York. In fact, there wasn’t a jewelry market at all, unless you counted stringing shells together on a leather cord.