by Sandra Block
After I freaked out, she stayed for a little bit, probably to be nice. Then she left.
I’m sure it’s over now since I told her, even if she was nice about it.
Obviously, she has more experience. I never doubted that. I’ve kissed three girls before, that’s it. Emily Messey at a dance in high school. Tara Keyes at freshman orientation at MIT. And Kailey Hudson at a Dungeons & Dragons party. They all turned out bad. Emily laughed at me with her friends when I asked her out. Tara apologized that it was a mistake, and Kailey said she really liked me but was going back home for a job and wanted to focus on that.
But there’s been no one like Dahlia.
Her body is perfect. This is an empiric fact. Her breasts. Her hips. My hands fit over them like we were puzzle pieces, her breath was on my neck, and when she touched me, it felt amazing.
But I fucked it up. And now she’s gone, for sure.
I lean my head back to soothe my neck, which is painfully tense. Usually the crunching of the beanbag has a pleasant, calming effect, but it’s not doing the job, so I reach into my drawer for a couple sand-filled stress balls. I start squeezing them, clenching and unclenching. Both the beanbag and the stress balls were Jamal’s ideas and they usually work, but not right now. The rubber balloon material crinkles under my fingers, but I’m so hot-angry, and it’s not working, and I want to throw the thing against the wall.
Sand leaks through the balls, where my fingernails have torn four slits. So I toss them into the garbage, and I’m still feeling restless and not right, so I do what I do when all else fails. I open the file.
I haven’t told Jamal about the file. I don’t know why. It’s not weird or anything, but it’s mine and I don’t want to share it. It’s a file full of artifacts from Ramona and Rob. A good things file in a way, but a physical one, not just in a computer or in my brain.
Sometimes, I can look at these photos for hours. My favorite is from when we were kids. My mom took it, of us lying down in bed and Rob reading to me. I look enraptured. I still remember that moment. The rough feel of the wool blanket, the book page turning, his lulling voice. I hold the photo at the corner, which is dented from holding it there so many times, then flip to another picture. The postcard Ramona sent me from Milan, from the summer before she got beat up. The blue sky reflects into the water of the canal. The sheen of the paper is dull, the other side tanning from age. Her writing is fading too. “I love it here. People have been so accepting. Let’s hope Mom and Dad will be too! :)”
But they weren’t.
Shuffling the postcard back into the pile, I come to my favorite piece, the one that calms me the most. It’s a cross-stitch she did. She used to say cross-stitching calmed her too. It has a deep-pink flower border and a cursive saying in the middle in forest green.
Be Yourself
I trace the lines, feeling her presence with me and thinking how ironic it is. That’s all she wanted, to be herself. But I’m sick of being myself. Sick to death of it.
I just want to be someone else for a change.
Chapter Forty-One
HAWK CLUB CHAT ROOM
Bruinsblow: We got a problem here. Re: Cary Graham.
Mollysdad: What’s up with Graham? He hasn’t been on here in a while.
Bruinsblow: No, and he won’t be on here for a while. Because he’s in fucking prison.
Taxman: What???
Bruinsblow: As I said, we got a problem.
Holts: He’s the one with the problem. Last time I saw him he was totally freaked out on meth or something.
PorscheD: Coke. Heard he went to rehab.
Bruinsblow: Not this time. He was selling it.
Mollysdad: No way. That’s just plain stupid.
Holts: How is this our problem?
Bruinsblow: He wants us to bail him out.
Joe225: How much?
Bruinsblow: 500K
Taxman: He doesn’t have that?
Bruinsblow: He emailed me. “Bit low on cashola. And the little lady’s got a bun in the oven so…” Guess his parents want him to clean up his act so they’re not giving him any.
Taxman: So we should? Because he’s selling coke? Fuck that.
PorscheD: That’s cold man. He’s a brother. We should help if we can. We could all round that up pretty quick.
Holts: Roberts could. He spends that much on breakfast.
PorscheD: Yeah, where is Blake anyway?
Creoletransplant: He’s never on here. Too busy.
Bruinsblow: TBH, the bailout isn’t even the issue right now. We got a bigger problem. Right after he got arrested, someone sent his girlfriend a GIF of him from the Dahlia party.
Mollysdad: Oh shit. That’s not good.
Holts: So what?
Bruinsblow: Don’t you get it? Obviously he was targeted. The GIF was just of him. AND he’s saying he was framed—he never sold drugs, just took them.
Holts: Riiiiiiight. Sounds like the cocaine talking to me.
PorscheD: PARANOID
Joe225: Cosign
Bruinsblow: Well…you may have a point there.
Creoletransplant: For sure.
Bruinsblow: So one thing at a time. First item of business, do we bail him out, or no?
PorscheD: I vote no. Let him get clean.
Holts: Agree
Bruinsblow: Not really a quorum, but anyone disagree?
PorscheD: *crickets*
Bruinsblow: Okay, so we don’t bail him out. What about Dahlia? What do we do about her?
PorscheD: *crickets*
Mollysdad: Stop with the fucking crickets, man
Joe225: THANK YOU!
Bruinsblow: I repeat. What do we do about Dahlia?
Holts: I still say we sit tight. Whoever did this had their fun. Graham gets clean. All good.
Bruinsblow: Have you seen the video? You’re on it, Holstein. So is Blake.
Holts: Still don’t care.
Bruinsblow: Yeah, well I do care. I’m not going to jail for some shit I did to some drunk girl years ago.
Desiforever: No one’s going to jail. Calm the fuck down, Drew.
Holts: Yeah, she’d never go to the police. Not in a million years.
Bruinsblow: I don’t like it. This is going to come back and bite us in the ass. I just know it.
Joe225: You seriously need to chill out, man. You worry way too much.
Bruinsblow: Well jeez, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to be ass-raped ten times/day in jail.
Creoletransplant: No offense to that Sawyer guy, Holstein.
PorscheD: Haha. Burn. Did that kid finally come out?
Holts: Oh yeah. He’s been a rump-ranger for years.
Bruinsblow: Guys, focus here. What do we do about Dahlia?
Desiforever: Nothing.
Bruinsblow: I’m not doing nothing.
Desiforever: Oh yeah, what are you going to do then, big guy?
Bruinsblow: You’ll see. Soon enough
Chapter Forty-Two
Dahlia
The next morning, I’m exhausted.
After the adrenaline rush of watching Cary G get arrested, then the late night with James, I barely got any sleep. After James told me about the Asperger’s, it was only semi-awkward. We did take it slow, meaning we lay next to each other on the couch, watching some sci-fi Netflix show. When the show ended, I told him I should go, and I think he may have been relieved.
So he has Asperger’s. Honestly, not much of a bombshell if I had just opened my eyes. It all makes sense now—his shyness, his occasional quirky mannerisms. Even his hatred of idioms makes sense, after I Googled Asperger’s. But when I think about last night, I hardly even think about that. I think more about James. WYSIWYG. I think about his dark eyes, vulnerable and hurt. His soft skin. The weight of his body on mine
. And that special, quivery sensation spreading through me, that I’d forgotten all about.
I take a sip of fortifying coffee to focus on work.
Some hours go by. After tossing off a few work emails, I forward a new disability case to Snyder, put the finishing touches on Tabitha’s cardiology case, and sign off on a realty closing for Connor. I’m shoving some papers to serve in an oversize manila envelope, when an email pops up on my screen, from an auction site specializing in baseball merchandise.
Thank you for your interest in selling your signed baseball cap. Though we are always looking for exciting new finds for our store, your “Javier Ramirez” signature is unfortunately not in high demand at the moment. Again, thank you for your—
“Javier Ramirez,” I say out loud.
“Who’s that?” Sylvia asks, folding some papers.
“Oh, nothing.” I minimize the email. “Just that Red Sox ball cap I was telling you about. Figured out whose signature it is.”
She grabs an envelope. “Oh sorry, I meant to ask Beau about that. I’ve been in a brain fog with all this wedding stuff.” She rolls her chair toward the printer. “Was it a forgery?”
“What?” I ask.
“The signature.”
“Oh, right.” I’d forgotten the backstory I’d created. “Still checking.”
Plugging “Javier Ramirez” into Google, I learn that he bounced between the farm team and the Red Sox for five years before retiring from the sport after a knee injury. His heyday was around thirteen years ago. Which basically narrows it down to someone living in Boston around that time, assuming the rapist didn’t come into town for a childhood vacation or receive the cap as a gift.
I am puzzling over this when I get a text from Eli.
In the neighborhood. Free for lunch?
• • •
The waitress drops off the skillet of sizzling Mahi fajitas, and I dig in while Eli spoons sour cream onto his enchiladas. “So, how did the date go?” he asks. “Did you finally get to third base?”
After swallowing an oversize helping, I answer. “Fuck off.”
He laughs. “Why, you still got blue balls?”
“Fuck off, yet again.”
“Seriously, did you guys sleep together yet?” he asks.
“Not exactly. But we kissed. A lot.”
He wipes his chin with his napkin. “Oh, you’re in seventh grade now, I get it. Actually, I went further than that in seventh grade. But it doesn’t count because it was with girls.”
“It’s not a big deal, Eli,” I say, making up another fajita shell. “He wants to go slow.”
“Uh-huh.” He rolls his eyes and picks up his beer. “In other words, he’s gay.”
“No he’s not. He’s…” I decide whether to tell him or not. Somehow, I feel like it would be a betrayal. But at the same time, Eli doesn’t have anyone to tell. And I feel like I’ve got to talk to someone about it. “He’s got Asperger’s.”
Eli stops mid-drink. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Huh.” He lifts the beer again to finish his sip. “I don’t have a witty retort for that one.”
“No, me neither.” I stare at my fajita. “But I like him, Eli. So don’t be a jerk about it.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’ll be nice.”
“So, what’s up with you?” I ask, changing the subject. “Work good?”
“Fine.” He saws through some cheese on his plate. “Brandon might be moving. He’s looking at a new job.”
“AC/DC Brandon?”
“Would you quit calling him that? He’s the only Brandon I know.”
“To where?”
“Colorado.”
“That sucks,” I answer, and he nods. We don’t talk for a minute, and I debate about asking him for advice for step two on Blake Roberts. I know he isn’t keen on our plan, but he might help me in spite of himself. “So, I need some advice with the revenge project.” He huffs and rolls his eyes while I pull out the photocopied picture of Blake Roberts and lay it on the table.
He glances down briefly. “Am I supposed to know him?”
“Blake Roberts,” I answer, moving the photocopy from a drop of soda.
“Oh yeah. Daddy Warbucks.”
“Blake Roberts,” I say with a shiver of disgust. “It’s such a teenage movie villain name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “What a despicable human being.”
“I don’t know what to do about him.”
I dress up my last fajita shell, though I’m already feeling full. “James thinks we should hack into his business accounts. But he said the firewall’s too good.”
Eli nods in thanks as the waitress delivers the beer. “Don’t ask me. I’m terrible with computers. Brandon might know.”
“Plus, if we did hack into his accounts, I don’t even know what we would do to him. I don’t know anything about banking and what’s legal or not.”
Eli scoffs, lifting his beer stein. “Nothing’s illegal, apparently. I mean, think of the Recession. Those fuckers robbed the whole country and walked away with a loan. A banker would have to be funding ISIS to get arrested.” He dips his fork into the mound of rice on his plate.
I drop my fork. “Eli, that’s brilliant.”
“What?” he asks, rice falling from his mouth.
“Funding ISIS,” I say.
“Well, sure, but I doubt he actually is funding ISIS.”
But my mind is already teeming with the possibilities. If we can get into his accounts and make it look like he’s supporting terrorism, that might be our best shot at busting him. And his billion would be confiscated before you could say “off-shore account.”
When the check comes by, I grab it.
“Hey,” he says, making a show of reaching for it. “I invited you. That means I pay.”
“You pay every time.” I put my card down and keep it by my side so he can’t grab it.
“That’s because you’re poor.”
“So are you.”
Eli chuckles. “Fine. I’ll get it next time.”
The waitress swipes it up and is off to another table, and I stir the ice cubes in my Dr Pepper. When I look up, Eli’s face is flushed, and he’s staring at someone in the doorway. Whipping my head around, I see a handsome man with a boyfriend. “You know him?”
“Kevin,” he whispers, looking down at the table to avoid his gaze.
Kevin, the asshole with the blow, Eli’s first true love, who dumped him one day out of nowhere. I squint to get a better look and notice that he appears different, more put-together. His chestnut hair is styled, not mangy like before. And he has a flannel button-down instead of a T-shirt with a tear at the neck. He’s not the same creepy guy who left frenetic messages on my voicemail telling me what an evil person Eli is, which also probably means he’s no longer on blow. I’m about to look away, but then he walks in, sees us, and actually winces. Taking a step back, Kevin whispers something to his boyfriend, and they leave.
“Wow,” I say. “He really does not like you.”
Eli frowns, then tosses back the last of his beer. “Fuck him. He’s not worth a hair on Brandon’s head.”
“That’s true,” I say. “And besides—”
“Hi,” the waitress interrupts us. “I’m so sorry,” she practically whispers, bending over to me. “There’s been a problem with your card.”
“Really?” I’m surprised because I just deposited some money in my account.
“Yeah, maybe it’s our reader or something. But it keeps saying declined.”
“Oh, okay,” I murmur, embarrassed after playing this up with Eli. “Here, I think I have the cash.”
“No way, m’lady,” he says. “This is God reestablishing the house rules. I invite, I pay.”
&nbs
p; The waitress looks at us quizzically, but Eli quickly counts out enough cash and a tip and tells her to keep the change. As she walks away, I’m already on my phone, searching through my bank accounts.
Eli takes the last sip of his beer. “You ready to get going?”
“You can,” I say, furiously scrolling through the site. “I have to check something.”
He grabs his gray tweed coat from the chair. “Don’t worry about it, Dahl. It was probably the chip reader or something.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I say, abruptly standing up. “I have to go call my bank.”
He scoops his blond bangs out of his eyes. “Why, what’s wrong?”
I stare out the window at the grim, misty cold day. “All my money’s gone.”
• • •
“No problem,” Connor says, placing his hands on his desk. “We deal with this all the time.”
“You do?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, though he doesn’t sound so sure. “Dennis has started working those cases.”
Dennis has barely started shaving. “How many has he done?”
“Some,” he answers, again not filling me with confidence. He twirls a shiny black pen in his fingers. “So, the bank is certain about this?”
“Yeah. They said it wasn’t a hack. Someone must have my social security number. Changed my password yesterday and cleared my accounts.”
Connor frowns, scratching his beard. “Do you have a credit card at least?”
“No. Just the debit,” I mutter. “Cut them all up a couple years ago.” I exhale in frustration. “Which is obviously not helpful now.”
“Well, get one.” He reaches over for his phone. “I’ll advance you in the meantime.”
My instinctual pride kicks in. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He adjusts the phone on his shoulder. “Accounting does it all the time.”
“Okay,” I concede. I decide I’m not proud enough to fight it. Otherwise, I’ll be hanging out with Natasha pretty soon. Though Eli slipped a hundred dollar bill in my pocket, probably knowing I’d never take it from him otherwise.
“Bob,” Connor says. “Got a favor to ask you…”
I stand up to let him finish the call, and Connor nods at my departure. When I get back to my desk, Sylvia looks up from her computer.