The Things You Kiss Goodbye

by Connor, Leslie

  “Well, what are the chances?” Cowboy said—in a voice that could melt butter. He hung an arm out and drummed the side of the truck with his fingers.

  “Hey,” I said back. “Where are you coming from?”

  “A sunset.”

  Apparently alone, I could not help noting.

  “And what are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “We took a walk,” I said. “And same as you. The sunset.” I glanced at my brothers, all round-eyed and curious, and maybe even nervous in that don’t-talk-to-strangers way. I felt Avel take hold of the back hem of my hoodie. I rubbed my hand over his head to let him know all was well.

  “So, everybody’s okay?” Cowboy asked.

  It was so good to see him. And that was such a nice question. And outside the garage, he was different somehow—not under a car and not distracted. His face was giving back the last little glow of the sun, especially along the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheekbones. How good it was to have time to look at each other here in the road—and oh, here I was in my ugly sweatpants. Awesome.

  “Hi, guys,” Cowboy addressed Favian and Avel. “Hey, I’m a friend.” He put his thumb to his chest. “Not some creepy dude. You get that, right?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “We’re all good here.” Maybe I should have thought up an introduction. But I was totally thrown, running into Cowboy this way. He was a secret of mine. I didn’t want to give that up.

  “So, where’re you heading with your . . . ice-cream dishes, is it?” Cowboy squinted.

  I laughed a little and Favian piped up. “Home. We live across there.”

  Cowboy craned for a peek out the passenger’s window. “Down that path?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Oh. Okay. So you’re not lost and you don’t need a ride?”

  “Nope,” I said. He was making me wish otherwise.

  “Okay.” He hung a second, grinning at me. He checked his rearview. “Why don’t you go ahead and cross now then?”

  “Thanks!” Favian called. Both boys shot ahead of me.

  “Well,” I said, feeling a little awkward. “Nice to see you.” I took one parfait glass in my hand and walked it along the hood of the truck as I passed in front.

  Cowboy leaned toward the passenger’s side window and said, “Good night, Beta.”

  I started slowly back along the swath. The boys crisscrossed ahead of me as if lacing the path like a shoe.

  I sniffed a laugh. Saturday night and I got to see Cowboy, I thought. And, I realized, I had forgotten to feel so bad about everything else that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. I turned to look back at River Road, noted the narrowing of the path—the perspective.

  “The bad stuff goes away when I’m around you.” I whispered it. Suddenly, my eyes burned. Tears surprised me. Oh, oh, and why? What was this? I shook my head. I didn’t have time to cry. I had to catch up to the boys—with their muddy shoes. I tucked the ice-cream dishes closer and switched from stroll to stride.

  “Hey, dorks!” I called, and I heard them laughing out of the dusk. “Wait up!”

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  Nineteen

  THE LIGHTEST RAIN WAS FALLING ON MONDAY MORNING—the kind where you don’t think you are getting wet until you feel the dryness of stepping indoors. It was like that for me as I arrived at Unit 37. As soon as Cowboy saw me he said, “Well, that was a day-topper.”

  “Day-topper?” I asked. I handed off his coffee. He set the cup on the hood of the silver Chevy—the one he called “the ’57.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a twenty, and held it toward me. “For the coffee fund.”

  I didn’t want his money but he flapped the bill at me and I took it rather than get into a thing over it. But I gave him an eye-roll to say, Ridiculous.

  “What’s a day-topper?” I asked again.

  “Oh, that. I’m not sure. I might have made it up. But seeing you out on River Road on Saturday evening—it was a nice way to top off the day.”

  I steeled myself not to go all smiley and dopey. “Yeah, for me too,” I said, and I sounded wistful even to myself. I recovered. “Well, because otherwise Saturday night was just another night of babysitting. I mean, I like my bitty bros and all.”

  “They seem like good men,” he said.

  I grinned. “Men. They’d like it if they heard you say that about them. Sorry for not introducing them. Favian is the big one and Avel is the little one. I call them Fave and Ave.”

  “Well, you’d have to,” he said, and we both laughed. Then suddenly, Cowboy’s face changed. Dead serious. He was looking at something behind me, outside the door. Before I could turn around, he spoke.

  “Hey, Beta, duck in, will you? And just stay inside while I do this. . . .” He took a couple of huge steps to get by me. One of his hands closed over my shoulder for a split second and he tucked me gently to the side of the doorway. I heard tires on the pavement outside, a car arriving.

  I stood stock-still. When I heard voices, I leaned just the littlest bit so I could peek between the sections of thick, metal track that carried the overhead door. There was a patrol car out in front of the shop. No lights flashing. But there were two cops in it, and Cowboy was leaning down by the open passenger’s side window to talk to them. The cops had their once-in-a-wipers going to clear the windshield. I watched the spritz hit Cowboy’s shirt sleeve.

  I flashed back to the day I had met him, the way he’d been helpful, but also peevish, about my crushed fingers. I remembered that I’d gotten creeped out in the shop’s bathroom for a moment. But I had been wrong that day. He was nice. The nicest.

  So, why were the police here?

  Dozens of thoughts flooded my head. Maybe they were his friends. But they were both older with salt-and-pepper hair. Maybe there had been a break-in at one of the units. Maybe this one. Old cars were valuable and parts were hard to get a hold of. I’d learned that much. But Cowboy hadn’t mentioned any trouble, and things looked easygoing out there. He rose slightly and I slipped back into the recess. I listened as the patrol car drove away. I stayed against the wall and waited for Cowboy to come back inside.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Aw, nothing, really.”

  “But why were they here?” I pushed for an answer. “Cowboy?”

  He took a big breath in. “It’s not a simple story, Beta. My family . . . is kind of broken.”

  “Okay . . . so, what do you mean?”

  “You know, problems.” He sounded annoyed. Again, I waited. “There was this bad night,” he said. “Been a while now, but there was trouble at my ma’s house—”

  “And what? You got arrested?” I tried to sound unconcerned.

  “No.” He sighed. “But I took the heat.”

  “For what?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Those two guys answered the call and now they kind of check up on me a bit. It’s friendly . . . well, as friendly as cops get, I guess. But it’s better if they don’t see you hanging around here. I don’t need them thinking I’m into jailbait.”

  That stung. I guess because suddenly I felt like a thing and not a person. Cowboy lifted the hood of the ’57 Chevy and leaned toward the engine. I knew it was his way of letting me know he was done talking to me.

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  Twenty

  “HA! I KNEW IT!” REGINA COLLETTI SAT FORWARD IN her bed. “Great legs—almost as alluring as my own,” she said.

  I stood before the queen in my leather skirt, having forgotten that she’d recently tried to make me drop my pants. While she gave me a good looking over, I wished I’d worn jeans. I wished I’d skipped the visit. I wished I were at SWS Classic Auto.

  Ton
y Colletti shifted over by the door, embarrassed by his grandmother’s gawking. “Nonna, can I get you anything?”

  “Yes, mio nipote, you can get out,” she said. “Leave Bettina and me alone. We want to talk, and you are a fox in the hen house.” She motioned at me then, patting the bed beside her. “Come. Come sit.”

  I glanced at Tony. He shrugged apologetically. “I’ll come back in twenty,” he said, and I thought, Ten, please.

  Regina told him, “Make it thirty.”

  So there I was on that damn, uncomfortable edge of the bed again, feeling like a sucker—make that a sucker in a very short skirt.

  “Closer, closer!” Regina reached and tugged on my bare thigh. “Oh, feel it! That’s a good, firm leg!” She held her hand cupped on my quads. “I remember now,” she said. “You’re a dancer.”

  “I was,” I said. I was surprised when a little wash of longing filled me.

  “No more?”

  “No.”

  “But don’t I remember that you were pretty good? Yes.” She answered for herself. “Little medals on ribbons, and shiny trophies.” She squinted like she could see them lined up on the windowsill back at the old house.

  “I guess I was good,” I said. “But it was Bampas who loved the prizes. I loved the dancing. But it’s funny,” I added, “I didn’t realize you even knew I danced.”

  “Me? I knew everything about everyone,” she said. “You should go back to the dancing! You are young with your beautiful, strong body. You’ve got to keep doing these things while you can.” She stopped and said, “Oh, poopa! Did I really just say that? I sound like a sick, old woman—someone I don’t want to be.” She sneered at the notion. I felt obligated to distract her.

  “I sort of outgrew that studio,” I said. Then I babbled, “There was only one other girl my age. My best friend, Julia. She moved away. Bampas started to say that maybe it was time for me to stop too. You know, it was a trip across town for my momma, and the boys were starting Little League. Bampas had the restaurant sponsoring their teams so he had to be at all the practices.”

  “Ha!” Regina laughed. “Leave it to Dinos! Thinks they want him when his money would have been fine.”

  She caught me off guard there. His money? Oh, yes, that’s what sponsoring is. But the way Regina said it felt loaded to me, as if Bampas had some terrific amount of money. “Well, anyway,” I said, “if I’d kept up with the lessons the family would be separating all the time now.”

  “Well, that would teeter Dinos’s boat,” Regina conceded. “But what about you? Don’t you miss the dancing?”

  “I do. But I have more time to be at school—do some social things.”

  “Boyfriend!” Regina fired that one into the air. Her eyes widened. “Now this I want to hear more about.”

  I drew a blank screen right then—I actually had to think, who? Who is my boyfriend? Regina was waiting. . . .

  “Um . . . oh, he plays basketball.”

  Regina waited again. When I didn’t add anything more, she screwed her mouth all to one side. Then she blurted, “So . . . basketball? That’s who he is?”

  “W-w-well . . . it’s his biggest focus. It’s important to him.”

  “Pfft! Well then, how are you supposed to stay entertained if he’s all busy with a bouncy ball?”

  “I—I don’t mean just basketball. He has tons of friends all over the school. And I am allowed to see him on weekends. . . . That’s important to him too . . .” Could I sound any dumber? I wondered.

  “So . . . is he it?” Regina asked. “Because I get the feeling he’s not enough for you. Keep your side-view mirrors adjusted. Maybe something else will come along.”

  I popped up off the bed.

  Regina let out a hoot. “You act like I goosed you! I must have hit a nerve.”

  I should not listen to her sass. I crossed the room to look out the window. Down in the flower bed, Tony had Regina’s little-boy fountain upended. He was stripping a length of plastic tubing out of the fountain—part of the demolition phase, I suspected. I hadn’t talked to him about it, and I hadn’t done anything about getting that lump of clay that might complete the aesthetics. How hilarious; I was trying to come up with a penis for Regina Colletti! A convulsive laugh formed at my core. I hugged myself to keep it from rising. As I cupped my hands over my upper arms, I found the place where it was still sore from the bruise Brady had made with his thumb. Brady. My boyfriend.

  Just an hour earlier at the school he’d stood over me while I’d spun the combination to my locker. As soon as I’d gotten the door open, he’d slammed it shut on me. I had to snap my hands out of the way. He’d done it twice in a row. I’d been a good sport; everyone who’d seen us had laughed. Brady was so quick and so cute, apologizing and even kissing me in between each door slam. He looked playful. He looked good to everyone. . . .

  “What’s the matter with you?” Regina asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re all scrunch-brow and puss-face.”

  “No, no,” I said. I shook my head. “There is nothing wrong. Look, if you don’t mind me rummaging in your kitchen, I’d love to make you a cup of tea,” I said. “I could drink one with you, and then I should really go.”

  Regina gave me a look that said she was letting me off the hook. “Bring me a cup of the raspberry pekoe,” she said. “Upper cupboard, right side of the sink.” She must have been watching me as I left the room because she called out, “You know, I used to have a walk like that too. Foxy.”

  In the kitchen, I tugged down on my skirt. I made a note to at least wear tights or leggings next time I came. Waiting for the kettle was a curse and blessing. If the water boiled quickly, I’d have to go back in that bedroom. On the other hand, once my cup was empty, I could split.

  I leaned against the countertop, watched the flame under the kettle. Regina annoyed me with her prying remarks and snap conclusions. But part of me wished I could fast-forward my own life just to try it on. What if I could be blunt, ask questions, and be sure about everything? What if I could be older for a day?

  Suddenly, I remembered myself as a noun: jailbait. Cowboy didn’t want the cops thinking he was “into jailbait.” But how was I jailbait when nothing had happened? Did he ever think—

  “God, stop it,” I snarled. I saw my face reflected in the shiny kettle, distorted, and ferret-like. “You have a boyfriend,” I hissed at myself. The kettle hissed at me. I poured water. I dunked tea bags. I splashed on Regina’s countertop.

  I should have been able to say something substantive about Brady Cullen. Then again, can it ever be anything but awkward to go listing the things that make you care about someone? We went for walks all summer long. He’s funny. He has a hundred friends. He’s handsome and has great lips. Oh, no. I would never leave an opening for Regina to ask me about sex. I was afraid she’d swing that door wide on her own one of these afternoons.

  I guess I could have told Regina how I’d met Brady. That he was a shy boy who Bampas approved of, and that later he—what? Became un-shy? Became popular? And now he was confident and he joked loudly, and played too rough sometimes. Was any of that a crime? People liked Brady. He made everyone laugh, and he could be with any other girl, yet he chose me. We were a couple. I was committed to that, so if there was something not working. . . .

  I just had to steer him around so he’d be funny and tender. But was it wrong for me to think that he needed changing? Was I just being terrible? Anyone else who knew Brady could have come up with a long, long list of all his charms—on the spot. No buts. My head was a lumpy knot of questions. Regina had wanted to know what was wrong with me, and now, I wondered the same thing. Maybe I was the problem; maybe I wasn’t much fun.

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  Twenty-one

  THAT CONVERSATION WITH REGINA COLLETTI DID SOMETHING to me. For the next wee
k or so, I committed myself to making things better with Brady. Every time I felt him cranking up to do something I knew I wasn’t going to like, I’d reach for his hand to hold, or I’d drop my head against his chest and hope he’d put his arms around me instead. If he embarrassed me, I got quiet, but I smiled and willed myself not to blush—or not be seen blushing. My face fit perfectly into my own bent elbow where I pretended to laugh—and I’m pretty sure I sold that move to Brady and his crowd.

  I let every good time we had together be the thing that I clung to. Alone on a Friday night in Brady’s basement we lay, facing each other, the Big Bird sheet rumpled underneath us. Mostly bare and entwined, we rested. Sex wasn’t the only thing that made these nights the good ones; Brady was easy to be with when he didn’t have an audience. I pressed closer to him. A tiny thought floated in—something about how there was no space here for anything to come between us. He kissed my shoulder, traced a line to my breast with his lips. I felt his breath ride over my skin.

  In the quiet of the basement, a loud tick-a-click sounded. A whooshing noise followed—like something inhaling before an enormous sneeze. It sent me into a whole-body spasm. I was scared to hell thinking it was the door sucking open at the top of the stairs—his mother about to catch us—and I would’ve rather the earth swallow me whole. Brady took me up tighter in his arms, saying, “No, no! It’s just the furnace turning on! It’s been getting cold at night.” He hugged me. “It’s okay. It’s nothing.”

  With the rush of fear subsiding in me, I wanted to cry out and ask him, Why? Why can’t you act like this all the time? Why can’t you ever buoy me up a little in front of your friends? What if you had hugged me instead of shoving me around out in that ditch full of rotten apples? Instead, I didn’t say anything. I just waited out my pulsing heart with my eyes squeezed shut and my face against Brady’s warm chest.

  When he drove me home later, he said, “Hey, I don’t know what it is, but you seem kinda different lately.”