Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  “My real name is Skylar,” I say, giving him a practiced smile.

  “You look too stiff,” Jordy says. “Think about Jack’s penis.”

  I giggle immediately and that’s when Jack snaps the picture. “Money shot!” he yells. “Ooh, can I pick the filter?”

  “Sure?” I never post on social media because I’m always too busy working.

  “So does anyone want to report the news?” Lane asks. “I suppose we could just show a half hour of selfies later and then get fired. It’s your call, though.”

  “I’ll get out of your way,” I say quickly. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

  “Not so fast, missy,” Lane says. “Let’s talk first about why your boss shipped you to Vermont.”

  “That penis video,” I grumble. “The station was getting comments.”

  “Those comments are going to show up no matter what,” Lane points out. “They probably get mail on a daily basis about your shirt and your bra size and your lipstick color. And no rational human thinks you were intentionally drawing porn on live TV.”

  I can only shrug. I think my boss putting me on paid leave was just a fit of temper that he regretted about fifteen minutes after I left.

  “You got a big boost on social media and a lot of attention,” she muses. “Maybe somebody got jealous.”

  “Nah!” I laugh. “I’m not important enough to make waves.”

  “Really? Columbia journalism degree, good technical background, camera-ready face and a big following on social media? I’ll bet your phone extension at work lit up with job offers this week.”

  This stops me cold. “What?”

  “Maybe your boss wanted you out of the way so nobody could steal you.”

  My first thought is, that’s ridiculous. But McCracken had been so weird about not sending my laptop with me. My laptop is where my work email account lives. “But who would steal me?” I squeak. “I’ve been applying for jobs and nobody cares.”

  Lane’s smile turns a little wicked. “I’d steal you if I had an open job. You’re a multitasker in news production. A small newsroom needs that skillset. If you’re only applying for investigative news spots in major markets, it’ll be harder for you to find a job. Or it would have been before last week.” She shrugs. “If you decide you like Vermont a whole lot, give me a call. We aren’t hiring right now, but we sometimes need subs. I’d hire you knowing you’ll probably quit in two years for a job in a bigger city. All the good ones do.” She flips a business card onto the desk in front of me, then rises to her feet with a sigh.

  “What are we?” Jordy yelps. “Chopped liver?”

  “Thank the lord you’re both unambitious,” she says. “I have to beg for the work to get done, but at least you show up every day. Let’s go, boys. No cookies unless I have your stuff by five.”

  “Cookies?” I can’t help ask.

  “She makes really good cookies.” Jack grabs his computer keyboard and wakes up his machine. “Better get crackin.’”

  What planet have I landed on? There are no cookies at New York News and Sports. We snack on veiled threats and fear.

  “Nice to meet you, Skylar,” Lane says. “Don’t lose my number.”

  “It was lovely to meet you, too,” I reply. But my mind is churning. Could I really find a better job? And is it possible to experience career growth from accidentally drawing male genitalia on air? “What a strange world we live in,” I whisper to myself as I shut down the computer that Jack and Jordy allowed me to borrow.

  “True story,” Jordy says. “I hope we see you again. You’re fun, Skye.”

  “No, you’re fun,” I insist. “I think I needed to see a newsroom where people aren’t afraid of each other.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid,” Jack says. “Jordy gets really pissy when you get his lunch order wrong.”

  My phone chirps, but there’s no message. Then I realize it’s the burner phone. Call me, is all it says. Yay. Time for more drama with Rayanne.

  “Where’re you headed?” Jack asks.

  “I wish I knew,” I tell them as we all shake hands one more time.

  I head outside, pausing in front of the building to call Raye. She answers immediately. “Raffie, I’m leaving.”

  “You’re leaving where?”

  “Here. Vermont. I just need to go somewhere alone and ride this out. Yoga hookup man says I’m stressing him out. His chakras are out of alignment because I’m afraid for my life.”

  I’m immediately offended on Rayanne’s behalf. “I thought yoga was all about generousness of spirit.”

  “He’s a man, Raffie. They believe in generosity as long as it involves their dick in your hooha. But the minute you’re not fun anymore, that’s it. We’re disposable.”

  Given the day I’ve had so far, it’s not easy to refute that point. “Where will you go?”

  “Not sure. I’ll drive the rental Jeep out of town after dark. I’ll return it somewhere there’s a bus station and then just get on and go.”

  I try to take that in. Rayanne was always a traveler. She thrives on the chaos of not knowing where she’ll end up. “Can I see you first?” She’s the exact opposite of me. And I will miss her crazy self.

  “You can,” she says slowly. “But Raffie, I need cash.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh. So that’s what this call is really about. “How much do you need? I’ll hit the ATM.”

  “How much can you spare? I figure I can use my own card once on my way out of town. But after that it would leave a trail. Whatever cash I can gather is all I’ll have to live on until I can find someone to hire me for cash.”

  “But…” that sounds impossible. “Where will you sleep?”

  “As long as I’m still breathing, I don’t care. Much.”

  It sounds like a terrible plan. Our family specialty. “Okay. I’ll check my balance and see what I can do.”

  “All the banks have a daily ATM limit, anyway. There’s only so much damage I can do to your savings.”

  “You’re leaving tonight?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice is sad. “I have to. Yoga man is uneasy, and if I stay I’ll probably sleep with him again even though I’m mad.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “What do you mean why? Angry sex is the best kind.”

  That makes absolutely no sense to me at all. But it’s off topic, so I press on. “What color is the house?”

  “White with blue shutters. It’s on the corner of…”

  “I know which corner,” I snap. “What time?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m in Burlington. And I still have to make a tiramisu.” Tonight was the night we were supposed to have dinner with Benito’s mom. There’s no way I’m going to that now. But I said I’d bring dessert, and I always keep my promises.

  “Oh. Well. Don’t let saving my ass get in the way of your dinner plans.”

  God, people are testy when they’re making bad decisions. “I don’t have dinner plans anymore. But I promised someone a tiramisu. And you said you were leaving under cover of darkness. So I’ve got hours, right? I’ll text you before I get there.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry to be such a jumpy bitch. Both Mercury and Venus are in retrograde.”

  It would be convenient if I believed in astrology and could blame my troubles on the planets. “It’s fine. See you in a bit.”

  We disconnect, and it then it hits me. I don’t have any reason left to stay in Vermont, either. I came here for Rayanne. Somewhere along the way I told myself I could get closure with Benito.

  And I guess I have. Today we came full circle. He doesn’t belong to me, and he never did.

  I walk around the WBTV building to find my little rental car. The sight of it fills me with thoughts of Benito and Jill in bed. He never mentioned her. Not once.

  I’ve been waiting for you, Skye.

  It makes me cringe to remember how those words had made me feel. Elated. Special.
But everything he’d said sounds different to me now. He’d probably said all the same things to Jill Sullivan.

  He probably whispers that he loves her as he peels off her clothes.

  And—this is what’s giving me the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach—he probably calls her his dirty girl, too. Only she’s okay with it. Maybe she loves that.

  Sex with skittish me, versus sex with Jill Sullivan? That’s not a competition I can win.

  I’ve been waiting for you, he’d said. But if he had Jill, he obviously hadn’t been waiting for me. That claim was just the murmuring of a horny man in the heat of the moment.

  “Well, Benito,” I say to myself. “Waiting suits you. So you can wait some more.”

  Another twelve years sounds like a nice, round number.

  Thirty-Three

  Benito

  The afternoon is a blur. After I watched Skye drive off to Burlington without talking to me, I got called back into my boss’s office.

  My head is in a hundred places, but they need me here at work. We’ve traced the black car with the BBQ bumper-sticker to its owner. We’ve run his sheet and tracked down all our confidential informants to try to figure out how important he is. And everyone tells us that Gage is getting ready to make a new buy.

  “I heard Gage’ll have a lotta product next week,” a Barre dealer tells me. We call him the jack-o’-lantern, because of his smile. “K2 and smack.”

  Ugh. Like I don’t have enough to worry about without our boys branching out. “Did he tell you personally?”

  “He tole a guy who tole my guy.”

  “And that guy is…?” I try.

  He just gives me that jack o’ lantern grin and says nothing.

  “Thanks for the heads-up. You know where they’re cutting it, at least?” I get the usual head-shake. Then I give the guy his twenty bucks and wish him a good week.

  We used to try to nab the jack-o’-lantern but he always figures out who the undercover cops are and shows up clean. So we switched tactics. Every week we pay him for gossip instead.

  It frustrates me to hand money to dirtbags for information. So I walk away before I can let my attitude show. I check in with Sargent Chapman, who tells me the Colebury police found the black car and Gage. He’s sitting in a bike shop on Route 11.

  “Officer Trache is on him right now,” I’m told. “Go get some food and take a nap because we might be sitting on him all night.”

  “Yessir.” I hang up, but I don’t take his advice. Instead I drive to the Gin Mill and check the lot.

  No silver RAV4.

  Shit.

  Although the coffee shop is officially closed, I let myself in with my key and find my sister sitting at a table, doing her books and looking tired. I ought to feel sympathy, but I’m too irritated with her already. “How could you send Skye to the Toyota Dealership?”

  When Zara looks up at me, her expression is nonplussed. “She asked about rental cars. What’s the big fucking deal?”

  “Jill Sullivan works there.”

  “So what? High school was a long time ago. And if I were Skye, I’d want to know that her tormentor schedules oil changes at Daddy’s car dealership. Skye’s a TV reporter, Benny. She can hold her own against Jill.”

  I cross the room and pull out the chair across from her. “Well, I was there, too.”

  Zara studies me. “Still not seeing the problem here. Aside from putting Jill into a time warp, who cares?”

  “Jill cares! I haven’t returned her texts in a few weeks.”

  My sister puts down her pencil. “Her texts? Why was she texting you?”

  “To arrange the next book club meeting.” Shit. I’d just assumed my sister already knew all my shenanigans.

  “What?” Zara gaps at me. And then her eyes narrow as she catches on. “Wait. You and Jill?”

  “A few times,” I grumble. “She asked.”

  Zara rolls her giant brown eyes toward heaven, which is a move I’ve seen countless times. Zara probably rolled her eyes since the day my mother brought us home from the hospital and put us to nap in the same crib. “How could you?”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t know Skye would walk back into my life.”

  “No! How could you bang Jill Sullivan, of all people?”

  “Why do you care? It was casual. I thought she knew that.”

  Zara is already shaking her head. “You’re a fool, Benny. Some other woman could have kept it casual. But not her. She’s wanted you since she was fifteen. And she’s had a rough couple of years. Her husband threw her over. She sold off her designer shoes and got a job. And then here comes the love of her teenage life and says, ‘Hey baby, let’s keep it casual.’”

  “What?” I yelp. “The love of her…come on, Zara. Don’t fuck with me. Jill already yelled at me at the dealership. Then Skye took off like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July. I don’t know where she is, and she won’t answer my calls.”

  “Oh, Benny. You are such a dumbass. When you break Jill’s heart, you could at least notice.”

  I put my head in my hands. “Do you have any more coffee? I’m having a really shitty day. And it’s far from over.”

  “There’s iced in the reach-in,” she says. “The machines are off already.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  She kicks my leg under the table. “Pour it yourself. I’m trying to add up columns here.”

  “Fine. But then I’m not paying.”

  “Fair enough.” My sister goes back to her ledger.

  I gulp down a large iced coffee and eat two leftover mini muffins. I never ate lunch, so I’ll need to grab some real food soon. “Tonight I’m probably sitting in a car watching drug dealers.”

  “Wear your vest,” Zara says without looking up.

  “Always. But I don’t know where Skye is, and I’m afraid she’ll take off without saying goodbye.”

  “Oh.” Zara puts down her pencil. “Would she do that?”

  “I don’t know what’s in her head,” I confess. “Jill made it sound like a big deal. I don’t think Skye got the right impression.”

  “Well, maybe Jill never did, either. To her it was a big deal. She’s probably speed-eating a tub of Phish Food ice cream right now, because you just made it abundantly clear that she’ll never be your first choice.”

  My groan is loud. “I never would have made my little offer if I thought this would happen.”

  “What’s that thing you always say? Everybody thinks he’s the good guy.”

  “Well, that is fucking humbling.”

  Zara just grins.

  “You want to hear something amazing?”

  “Always.”

  “Skye and her nutty stepsister broke open my case this morning.”

  “Really? How?”

  “With a photo of a car that links Sparks, Gage, and a third dealer. My guys found the car and tailed it to a motorcycle repair shop. We’ll get the warrants we need and decide when to bring them in. I’m hoping for a big bust. It could even happen tonight.”

  Zara flinches. “You know I hate this part.”

  “I do.” So does my poor mother. Speaking of which… “Can I ask a favor?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Skye and I were supposed to have dinner with Mom tonight. But now that can’t happen for a variety of reasons. Any chance you could offer to bring Nicole over there instead?”

  “You want me to smooth Mom’s ruffled feathers with smiles from a chubby two-year-old?”

  “I’ve had worse ideas. And I think she was making chicken piccata. You love chicken piccata.”

  “You make a good point. I’ll call her.” Zara smiles.

  “Thank you. And thanks again for suggesting the goddam Toyota dealership.” I get up and push in my chair, taking care not to leave crumbs on the cafe table.

  “Whoops,” Zara says playfully. “If you kept your dick in your jeans, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “Woulda shoulda
coulda. Where should I put these dishes?”

  “Leave ’em,” she says. “Get some real food before your shift, okay? And wear your vest.”

  “Always.” I kiss the top of my sister’s head and get the heck out of there.

  And there’s still no silver RAV4 in the parking lot.

  Thirty-Four

  Skye

  Rayanne does yoga to find her inner peace. But my inner peace responds better to desserts.

  I find the ingredients I need for tiramisu at an upscale Burlington grocery store—mascarpone cheese, fresh cream and lady fingers. I’ll be making an eggless tiramisu, because I don’t really have time to make the traditional kind.

  Also, eating raw eggs squicks me out.

  Before I point the RAV4 back toward Colebury, I stop for two more things: a thousand dollars in cash, and two double espressos from a Starbucks drive-through. But I don’t drink the coffee. I place it carefully in the car’s cup holders.

  And—this is sad—I actually experience a twinge of disloyalty for buying espresso from a chain, when I could have bought it from Zara.

  That’s why I need to leave Vermont. It’s been less than a week since I came back here, but it’s already far too real. I’m not a member of Zara’s family, and I never will be. I can’t stick around playing house with Benito and pretending that I belong here.

  I never did, and I obviously never will.

  Still, I won’t let Mrs. Rossi down. I said I’d make tiramisu, and I will. Then I will hand that dish to Benny’s mom, kiss her cheek, and drive away again.

  I have an apartment in New York, and a job. And I need to figure out if any headhunters came knocking while I’ve been away. There are so many mistakes I’ve made, they’re too numerous to count. It’s time to buckle down and figure my shizzle out.

  When I pull into the Gin Mill’s nearly empty lot, I’m relieved to see that Benito’s car isn’t there. It’s late afternoon, and the coffee shop is closed, while the bar has yet to open. I hate that I’ve already learned the patterns of this place.

  I tap in the code for the downstairs door—the one that’s May’s birthday in about a month. I won’t be here to wish her a happy birthday.