The Thunder Beneath Us

by Nicole Blades

  “Ready?” Grant says and leads me to the middle of the street.

  The air is crisp. I already regret some of my clothing choices. Didn’t need the wind scratching at my ankles, mocking my capri tights/low-rise sock combo.

  “We’re running in the street?”

  “Until we get to the intersection,” he says. “The sidewalk’s no good for your knees, your hips, lower back. You’ll be fine. I got you.”

  The street is rather deserted. Not even a lonely fool walking their dog. It’s sunny, but cold and quiet. There’s a rusted-out car to our immediate left. The whole thing is giving me opening scene in a zombie dystopian YA novel. I’m half-expecting some dusty hero with a high-powered assault rifle to step out from behind the neighbor’s rickety fence, demanding that we prove we’re red-blooded breathers.

  “Where we going?” I mimic Grant’s stretches.

  “Not far.”

  “I don’t run, not even for the damn F train, Grant. I’m going to slow you down.”

  “You won’t. You’ll be fine. Trust me. Ready?”

  We start off slow, but five brownstones down the road, he’s speeding up. Grant’s got a good, smooth pace. Looks like he’s adopted an impressive running posture too. I’m putting in a solid effort to keep up with him as he glides toward Atlantic Avenue. I can’t remember the last time I went running. Long distance was never my thing anyway. That was all Bryant. He was on the cross-country team from young. Benjamin was basketball, and I did track—sprint and relay. Bryant always played against type: cross-country running, Dungeons & Dragons, and of course, astronomy. Jesus, Bryant and that telescope. Anything that was happening in the night sky, Bryant knew how to explain it. He planned on becoming an astrophysicist. And he would have done it too. I used to blame everything that happened, all of it, on Bryant’s goddamn obsession with the stars, but the truth is, we went out there, resting on our young, foolish trust, oblivious to the raw truth that bad things don’t give a fuck about what you’ve planned for tomorrow, no matter how honorable.

  Grant turns around, starts trotting backwards. “It’s not as cold, right, once you get going?”

  The winks, the grins, the high energy—and on a cold morning. What brand of drug is this guy on?

  “I’m not agreeing with any of this, you know that, right? I don’t happy-run through the cold city streets, Grant. You don’t happy-run, like ever.”

  He trots back to me. “People change, they improve.”

  “Are you life-coaching at me right now?”

  “Best,” he slows to a quick walk, “why are you acting so grouchy?”

  We stop running altogether. “Maybe it’s because I’m grouchy. You show up at my door randomly, drag me out into the cold to go running. Who are you right now? What are we running for?”

  “Hey, listen, listen . . . I’m sorry.” He rests a hand just off my shoulder, at the top of my breast, like he’s trying to calm my heart. “I apologize, okay? You’re right, I should have let you know I was coming.” His hand moves up under my chin. He strokes my jaw briefly. I want to lean into the cup of his hand, but it’s gone before I can even second-guess it. “And the running—I just thought it’d be nice to get some air, see the place in fresher light. The last time I was out here . . . that shit was not fresh.”

  “No, Grant. You shouldn’t be apologizing to me, about anything. I’m grumpy because I’m . . . because I fucked up. I’ve done a lot of crooked shit and it’s starting to come up through my pores; all of the crooked, horrible shit; it’s taking over.”

  For the first time since he showed up at my doorstep, Grant’s grinning glow dims. I want to pull him aside, out of the middle of the street, and tell him everything. Tell him about the gossip stories and where I think the leak is (his agent), tell him about Bauer, about the accident and my brothers. I even want to tell him about Nik. But I don’t have the words or the guts.

  We see another running couple moving toward us, but they cut a sharp turn by the lights. Soon there are other people milling, two holding dog leashes and blue plastic bags, and another woman walking with a purpose along the opposite sidewalk. It’s as if an alarm sounded, letting people know it was safe to come out all at the same time. Grant seems to notice the influx too, but remains at ease, relaxed in his runner’s high. Maybe people do change, improve. The old Grant was always aware of outsider eyes on him. He knew when he needed to pull his ball cap down more, when to head to the back of the room behind the velvet ropes, when to smile, nod, and offer up the firm wave. I see you seeing me, but respect my space.

  One of the things Grant said he liked most about Brooklyn was that people were so wrapped up in their own shit—writing the play, creating the app, delivering the sofa, pushing the stroller, getting to brunch—that celebrity, extra-large or medium-sized like his, didn’t count for much. They like your work, maybe you’ll get an “ay-yo!” from the rolled-down window of a barely slowed car, maybe you’ll get a head nod or a pound, but really, you’re just another anybody doing the brownstone walk-up like the rest of us. But really, who’s he kidding? Grant King is six-foot-one, 180 pounds of lean, caramel-coated man. Even if you don’t immediately peg him for some kind of cool-world hyphenate (actor/model/singer/jock star), you will—man or women—give him that double take. You can’t fight it.

  “Hey, come on, B. Let’s not do all of that. You’re not crooked or horrible or whatever.”

  He rests his hand on my hip and lightly squeezes. It feels good, but I don’t want it to. I want to feel bad, shitty. I want him to stop being so kind and gentle with me, dig his fingers into me instead, pinch me, yell in my face, tell me that I am sickening and deserve nothing good. But he doesn’t know any better. He looks at me, his eyes shining with hope and sweetness and full futures, and it’s clear that he has no idea what he’s really seeing. He doesn’t recognize what’s really standing before him: a basic savage dressed in human skin. It’s like this comic-book series that Bryant used to collect about a young genome scientist named Dr. Scribner, who goes mad after an escaped lifer rapes and murders his wife and three daughters. He locks himself away in a secret cloning lab for decades where he makes these creatures, animals that walk and talk and present like natural human beings, but who are missing hearts and brains. Despite their convincing ability to appear sad, mad or happy, loving or concerned, they have no conscience or character. They have no intentions, only raw instincts. They act only when Dr. Scribner tells them to, following his instructions to the letter. He sends these pseudo-human goblins out into the unsuspecting, unprepared world to infiltrate and eventually take over. In the beginning his creations follow the rules and do helpful, upright things, but somewhere in the story they snap and return to their innate lawlessness. They’re animals, Dr. Scribner says, and that’s all they can ever be.

  “Are you hating this?” Grant says, squeezing my hip bone again. “You’re hating this. I can tell you’re hating this. Let’s just head back. I don’t want to force running on you. It ain’t for everybody.”

  “Is it helping you, with everything—the running?”

  “Yeah, it is, actually. Right after you left, I started running every day. And I’m kind of deep into it now. Don’t miss a run. I enjoy being out there alone thinking—or not. A lot of times I just run and take in the quiet of it, you know?” He shakes his head. “Listen to me. I sound like the typical New Jack, trying to force the feel-good thing down your throat. Sorry. Look, let’s head back. It’s cool. For real.”

  Grant takes my hand and guides me over to the dog-park entrance by the fig tree, the one we used to huddle under whenever we got caught in the hot summer rain. Now bare, scraggly, forgotten, it looks like it should be dug up and replaced. “Real talk: I’m low-key nervous here, and running felt like a solid stall tactic,” Grant says.

  “Nervous about what? Being spotted?”

  “No. I don’t care about that bullshit. I’m not the first person who flipped his wig a little. Not in this town. Please. Freak-
outs are basically a rite of passage in this fucked-up city.” He gives me a tight grin that seconds later slides off his face, and he’s back to straight and solemn and perfectly vulnerable. “Listen, I want say this to you, so I’m going to say it all in one shot. I just need to you listen.”

  “I know what you’re going to say—”

  “No, Best. You don’t. Just . . . ssh. Let me get it out, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “Okay. So, I’ve been talking to my agent, a lot, and she’s been patient and mad cool and really good with everything that happened. She thinks I’m ready to come back. My doctor does too. Ready to rejoin regularly scheduled programming, he likes to say. But he’s corny like that. Anyway, the point is I’m moving to LA, try to tackle pilot season again. I already have three meetings, serious auditions, and—”

  “Moving to—”

  “No. You can’t talk yet. I have to say it all.” He takes a breath like he’s starting from the top. “I’m moving to LA and I want you to come with me. Because I love you, I’m in love with you. But you knew that. You do, you know that. Even alone in my dark pit, I loved you. Being away from you and this, it just got clear: I need to do something about it. And it’s this, it’s me here nutting up and asking you into my life for real. I don’t want to do this without you next to me, Best, in the center of this thing.”

  “I . . . Grant . . .”

  “Zip it, woman . . . not your turn yet. Anyway, I already told my uncle and Rosalie. Gisele knows, of course. Everybody is down with this, Best. They’re happy for me. I mean, crusty old Uncle Dick actually gave me the head-nod on this. And he wants you to come to dinner with us, tonight. I mean—yeah, I know, the Thanksgiving business is total bullshit, but this isn’t that. It’s a dinner to celebrate my uncle’s award and also a little farewell: the loon bird is being set free.”

  “Grant—”

  “Come on, man. Did I stutter? Simple instructions: Don’t speak. Give a brother some space to roll out his shit.”

  “But Grant—”

  “Richard and Rosalie have a reservation at Renard, which is pretty fucking fancy, right? And Gisele is flying in. She lands in about an hour. It’s a legit family affair.”

  “Grant, stop—”

  “A happy gathering for the Copeland-Hecking massive, for once. No drama. Finally. So”—he laughs, sounding relieved and nervous at once—“it makes sense. Feels right, and you need to come to dinner with us. Come to dinner and let’s start this whole thing off right, with a thick-ass steak and some—”

  “Gr—”

  “Hell. I say we go baller with an endless bucket of bub. We can fake the funk, tell the hostess we’re rappers celebrating our dawg who got sprung from the clink early.”

  “Stop, Grant . . .”

  “Uncle Dick might actually choke on an oyster with that one. And Rose—”

  “Grant, Grant, Grant! Just stop! Stop, please. Just . . . stop. Look. I’m happy for you. I really am. I’m happy for you. I’m happy that you feel renewed and mended. I mean—look at you—you’re glowing. And it’s good. But I can’t do this with you anymore. I can’t be a part of all this fantastic that you are bursting with right now. I can’t fuck that up for you. The thing is, I’m not good for you, Grant. I’m not good. I’m just not. I don’t think I’m ever going to figure out how to be good at being a person. And you keep reaching for me, trying to pull me into you. That’s the problem. I am the problem. You’ll end up with my foot on your neck, unable to get your breath. You need to push me away with both hands, and let this end.”

  Grant’s face looks like how I feel. Twisted, hurt, sickened, and sad.

  The narrow park is filling up with more people walking their dogs. I see this black one with what looks like a curly perm. It’s off its leash and running so fast and free. I don’t know where its owner is and I can’t take my eyes off of the furry thing, all loose and giddy. I watch this pup running and rolling for twenty seconds that felt like twenty months. I can’t look up at Grant anymore, so I stay on the dog. “I’m sorry,” I say to Grant’s shoulder and take a step toward it, toward him. He moves back, as I knew he would, and cocks his head to the side. He’s squinting now and his lips are tucked in tight.

  I step to him. “I know how this is going to sound, but it’s the truth: I never wanted to hurt you.”

  He nods and his face loosens.

  “Grant, I’m really—”

  He tilts his head back and slips his hoodie over his head, never breaking his stare. He’s looking right in my eyes. I move in closer, reach my hand to touch his arm, his elbow, his sleeve—anything—but he spins on his heel before I make contact, and launches on a smooth jog straight down the center of the street.

  I want to turn and walk away too, but can’t, and instead watch Grant gliding until he’s nothing but a long, lean blur.

  CHAPTER 12

  There’s this squat, middle-aged security guard at my office building who seems to delight in my forgotten ID badge. It’s his moment to be useful. He taps on his slim podium as I rifle through my loaded tote, and he says nothing. Just tap-tap-tap and that heavy breathing. I call him Puff Daddy or Puffy—a few times to his face too. He never hears me. He’s not listening. He’s not even looking at me. Not my face, anyway. Puffy is straight clocking my boobs. There’s never been anything stealthy about his ogling either. I’ve caught him licking his lips, grunting and—occasionally, on late-evening shifts—playing with the convenient change in his horrible, ill-fitting, gray workpants. All of it is gross, but I could have French-kissed him just now when I showed up at the building on a locked-up, long holiday weekend and he would have let me in.

  That he was there was no surprise. Eldon, my Trini homeboy in the mailroom, mentioned a while back that what’s left of Puffy’s family is in Mexico, so he usually volunteers to work all the prime holidays that everyone else on the security team wants off. He gets paid double-time while leaning up against the podium with his old-timey portable radio-TV hunk-o’-junk combo. Despite my matted hair, pilled coat, grimy Timbs, general homeless look, and layered stench (no shower since Nik’s), Puffy still unlocked the doors and let me in. Might be time to start calling him by his government name. But considering he’s practically leering at my breasts right at this moment, we’ll table the name-change thing.

  So annoyed that Trinity never messengered my stuff over to my place. But riding up in the elevator—the one I’m supposed to be on—a nervous wave rushed over me, pushing that irritation aside. Brief never felt so long, and I cannot wait to get out of this box. The overhead lights feel dimmer, the miniature flat panel is frozen on a night image of the Empire State Building, and the almanac section to the top right of the screen is grayed out, the time stuck on 02:00. I’m trying to think of a song, a funny scene from that Golden Girls marathon last night, anything to cover over the wallpaper in my mind of Grant’s sunken face before he ran off. And playing on loop underneath that is the flashback to three months ago: Grant is handing over his keys before curling up in the passenger seat to sleep like a scared child. His head is propped along the door and angled so that the reflection of his rumpled, blowing hoodie fills the entire side mirror. He’s so sweaty. Even with the wind rushing in all around us, prancing along his expertly shaped and barbered head, he is just so sweaty. I can see that strip of wet, there above his perfect brow, glistening in the sun. Of all the strangeness that soaked through that cool August day, it’s a frivolous strip of sweat that comes to me the quickest, and so clearly.

  He must hate me. I wish he knew that it’s better like this—he’s better like this, without me muddying up his fresh pool. I’ve never been good and I’ll never be good for anyone. Trying to reach out and hold on to me is the worst thing he could do. It’s like Benjamin all over again. Grant doesn’t deserve that.

  I expected the elevator doors to open on a dark floor and prepared myself for the spookiness, but there were some lights on up front and farther down the halls. I op
en my mouth and almost say it, almost follow through on the scary movie trope: white girl calls out into the sinister darkness, “Hello, is anyone there?” and meets her gnarly end shortly after. I still toss an easy glance behind me every couple of steps as I walk toward my office. At least I’m not wearing ridiculous heels and a tennis skirt.

  There’s a strong, weird scent in my office, despite the frosted door being open. Both things are odd. It smells like old food that’s been reheated in a microwave. It’s distinct and disgusting. I set my bag on the desk and follow the odor; it feels like it’s coming from somewhere down the hall near the mailroom where the lights are on. Still feeling brave or reckless, I head toward it. But as I get closer, my heart begins with its nervous twitch. As my mother would say, I’m walking with my two arms swinging, no weapon, no shield. I don’t even have my phone with me. In fact, it’s still off and shoved deep into the bottom of my bag. This moment needs to be added to my disturbingly long list of what the hell was I thinking—all items highlighting my lack of good sense.

  I take a breath and hold it as I line my body flat against the wall by the mailroom entrance. I’ve seen this done on Law & Order a million times. Of course, they are actors trained to look like trained law-enforcement officials with loaded Glocks drawn and ready. I keep going with it anyway, whispering a rhythmic one-two-three before jumping into view of the hungry creeper . . .

  “Whatdoyouwant?” (I’m actually brandishing my bony fists as I bellow.)

  “Father Gawd!” Eldon yells and leaps back, dropping his plastic food bowl.

  “Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry, Eldon. I thought maybe—Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I thought you were—”

  “What, a robber? You thought I was stealing envelopes and packing tape?”

  “I’m sorry. My mind is a wasteland of syndicated TV shows. It’s ridiculous. Here, let me help you clean that up.” I rush over and grab the paper-towel roll near him.