“Do you want company at the dean’s reception?”
So much.
“Nah, I’ll be okay,” I lie. I can’t keep sucking up all her sympathy. Kate offered to attend too, and I turned her down. Why make it a bigger deal than it is? It’s a stupid reception I was going to attend with Ian.
Now, I’m going solo.
“Are you sure?” Holland stares at me like she can extract the truth with her big eyes.
I could take her up on it, but I’d spend the whole time thinking about her naked.
“Thanks. But I’ll manage. How hard can it be, right? Say a few words, eat some shrimp and salad, and then I’ll be back here, lounging poolside with a piña colada,” I say with a casual shrug, like I can handle this. No problem.
“Piña coladas are always a good idea.” She glances around, and I try to see my home through her eyes. Undisturbed. I cleaned up everything from the party last night, and nothing else has changed from when she was here a month ago, helping my brother through the end as his de facto hospice nurse.
Back then, it was Kate, Trina, Jeremy, Holland, and Omar from Three Martians Pizza, delivering food and chatting with Ian about the Dodgers’ prospects so far this season.
Now, it’s only Holland and me, alone in the house.
I could pull the blinds and watch movies on the couch with her all day. We could hole up here and never leave, just Holland and the dog and me. Order Chinese takeout from Captain Wong’s around the corner for every meal, and have them grab some kibble for Sandy.
But I remember some of my brother’s last words about Holland. “I know you want her back. But take your time. If you go for it now, you’ll lose her again.”
Thanks a lot, Ian, for that fantastic parting shot.
I brandish the fork as I wiggle an eyebrow. “So it’s retro Pie Club time, is it?”
Holland presses a finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”
That was one of our things when we dated three years ago: a deep and abiding love of pie. We’d sneak off to bakeries, order the most absurd flavors, then pretend it was a top-secret mission. One day, we discovered the One and Only Pie Shop and its retro menu—pudding cheesecake, pineapple dream, peanut pie.
I eat a forkful and wince. “This pie sucks toenails.”
“Eww.” She laughs and takes a bite. Her lips curl. “Toenails and old socks.”
“You win. You grossed me out.”
She holds up a hand to high-five. I smack back.
“We could chuck it onto the neighbor’s roof,” she offers, since that’s what we used to do with sandwiches we didn’t finish, with old bread growing moldy, and with apple slices we no longer wanted. We’d sit by the pool and toss food onto the neighbor’s roof that hung over the edge of my yard.
“The squirrels in the hood loved us.”
“I bet they built a shrine to us.”
“Dude, they still talk about us.”
I laugh, and when the laughter fades, the memories sharpen from that summer. Ian was well then. Cancer hadn’t struck yet. I’d finished college and hadn’t started law school. Holland was going to head to Japan for nursing school.
It was just us, camping out in my home, having the time of our lives.
I can hear the echo of who we were then, and I want to catch it and keep it, only I don’t know how to hold on to something so good.
Holland stares at my hair. “Do you want a haircut?”
“Do you think it’s too long?”
She leans in closer. Her fingers brush my face. My heart pounds a tick louder at her touch. “Some guys like long hair.”
“Do you like long hair?” I can’t even remember how she likes my hair.
“I like it short.”
“Cut it, then,” I say, my throat drier than the Gobi.
Five minutes later, I’m perched on a kitchen stool, dress shirt off, T-shirt on. A towel hangs over my shoulders, and she’s snipping the ends of my hair.
Hello, nice view.
Good to see you again, breasts.
Yes, let’s spend the day together. Let’s never leave. Stay here and be my Vicodin.
She moves in closer, her thighs brushing against my knees, her arms near my face, her smell drifting into my nose.
Lemon sugar.
I want to breathe her in and let the day fold like a house of cards. I want to nuzzle Holland and curl up with her, and fuck her, and kiss her, and—
“Do you miss him today?”
I snap out of my daydream.
“Every day,” I say instantly, relieved that someone has asked, that someone wants to know.
She lines up the scissors. “Does it bother you that I asked?”
“You’re the only one who does. Everyone else tiptoes around me like they think I might break. The other lawyers at his firm, the professors—even the dean. No one wants to say it. Like they might catch it.”
She scoffs. “That’s crazy.”
“I know.” I clear my throat. “I was listening to the Dodgers game yesterday when I was working out before the party.”
She offers a smile. “Bet that made you think of him. How he used to shout at the radio during a pitching change.”
I laugh. “Ian was convinced he could run the bullpen better.”
“No doubt. He wouldn’t have lost the World Series for us last year.”
I smile, thinking of the games I went to with her that summer, the way we cheered from the third-base line, the way she booed at all the bad calls. “We’d have the trophy for sure.”
She finishes my hair. “Beautiful.”
“So are you,” I blurt, and then I blink and push away from the stool. I hold up my hands. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says softly.
I back up, walking toward the sink, my ass hitting the edge of the counter. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
She narrows her brow, as if she’s trying to figure me out. “It didn’t upset me, Andrew.”
But it’s not who we are anymore.
I grab my shirt and point to the door. “I should go to the reception. My Lyft will be here soon. Thanks for the haircut and the pie that tasted like toenails.”
And then I want to punch myself for the look of sadness I put on her face. Ass.
* * *
I walk to the podium, take out my index cards, and look at my graduating classmates, my professors, and my friends.
I’ve been asked to speak because I kick unholy ass when it comes to coursework. Like Ian did before me.
I square my shoulders and take a quiet breath.
He was supposed to be here.
I wanted to see him here.
I wince and shove those thoughts away.
I can do this.
I clear my throat and begin. “When I was younger, I didn’t give law school a second thought. I know, I know. Big surprise that as a third-grader, I didn’t carry a briefcase or do my homework on yellow legal pads and call my homeroom teacher ‘Your Honor.’ Back then, I thought I was going to be the starting pitcher for the Dodgers.”
There are a few chuckles.
“I’d have been okay with being an outfielder too. But then a strange thing happened.”
A few smiles appear.
“Somehow, shockingly, I wasn’t scouted for the majors in high school.”
More laughter, and it emboldens me. Makes me think I can reach the other side of the ink on these cards.
“I figured sports broadcasting was a logical alternative. If I wasn’t going to play, I could call the games. I practiced with my phone. I’d do the play-by-play along with the radio.”
A flash of memory hits me. A game we listened to five weeks ago. I did the play-by-play for Ian.
Shit.
A fist of grief grabs me, crushing my chest, throttling the major organs in my rib cage.
I need to fast forward.
“But then, I took a constitutional law class,” I say, meaning to skip ahead, jump over the parts that were most like
ly to strangle me. I flip to the last note card and stare at the blue ink.
That’s when I fell in love with law. That’s when I understood why my brother had loved it, and my dad before him.
They never pushed me to pursue it. Neither one asked me to follow in their footsteps in anything but bleeding Dodger blue. But all at once, like a light turned on, I understood what I wanted in life: something bigger than me, something that made sense of the world.
The law was that. It was a set of instructions for how to live, and how to live well. That’s what I needed; that’s why I chose here. And that’s why I’m proud to be a member of this graduating class. May we all follow the guidelines for how to live, and how to live well.
The words swirl in front of me. The letters levitate off the index cards. I’m not thinking about law at all. I’m remembering the last time I pretended to call a game as Ian lay dying.
I shut my eyes, trying to squeeze away the memory, but the dangerous images only snap into tighter focus.
I open my eyes quickly, reading the words like it’s a stilted recording.
But in my head, I hear my voice, calling the game as we listened one last time.
I wonder if the hall pass extends here. Guess I’m about to find out. I shove my hands through my hair and finish, “Go Dodgers.”
The dean blinks. My classmates stare. A professor furrows his brow.
I rip the index cards in half, grab my diploma from the table, and leave.
You’ve never seen a room go silent faster than when the guy giving the speech makes a dramatic exit two minutes in.
5
Andrew
Come to think of it, I like this hall pass.
No need to make small talk.
No need to shake hands.
Best of all, no listening to condolences.
I’m free, strutting down the street, my gangster rap blasting in my ears. No John Legend for this guy. And no tie either.
Fuck this tie.
I unknot it and toss it in a trash can.
I walk home, since it’s only a couple miles away, handing my suit jacket to a homeless dude on the corner, who thanks me then asks for some chicken wings too, pointing to the convenience store on the corner. “They have a half-dozen wings for $2.99.”
“Sure thing.”
I pop into the store, grab some grub, and hand the man two baskets. “Here’s a dozen.”
He reeks of liquor and gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy.”
When I reach home, I change into shorts and head to the garage, Ian’s dog following close behind as I park myself on the gym bench. Fitness calls.
Holland always liked my arms. Holland liked touching me. Holland liked the way I looked.
“Fuck.” I can’t get her out of my head, but hell if I’m working out for her.
I’m working out because I can’t deal with studying for the Bar. I haven’t cracked a book in weeks. I really ought to reschedule the test, but that’s another thing I can’t handle.
But this 150-pound weight? This, I can handle.
Exercise is what got Ian and me through the phone call no one wants to receive. Our parents were in Hawaii on a thirty-fifth-anniversary trip, doing one of those helicopter tours, when the chopper crashed.
It was quick and painless, we were told. Like that would make it easier to swallow.
Shortly after, Ian built this home gym, patted the weight bar, and declared, “Anytime we get depressed, we lift. When we get sad, we run.”
I’d laughed. “Dude, we are going to be so fucking fit.”
He lifted the hell out of that bench press for months. I did the same. We worked out, we ran, we talked, and we trash-talked, and somehow, we made it through.
It was only us, since our sister was long gone from our lives. She’d become a film producer, married an Indian man in the business, and moved to Mumbai with him to work in the burgeoning Bollywood industry. She’d send us cards and gifts on holidays. She’d check in with us from time to time, but it was hard to stay close when her life was so far away. It still is—though she’s become a champ at weekly emails, so I have to give her credit for that.
But we didn’t need Laini then. We were brothers-in-arms, and we found our way through.
We had freedom of choice. No debt, no school loans—our parents were well off, and everything that was theirs became ours. We went to the same college then the same law school. I’d join the family firm too, when I finished my studies.
The firm I now own, since it was his, and what’s his is mine.
I curse as I lift the barbell.
I fucking hate owning all his shit.
I fucking hate needing to deal with all that stuff: with the firm, with the damn baseball cards, with the mutual funds, his red sports car, and the apartment in Tokyo our parents had owned. Ian spent a lot of time there during the last year, when he was in remission, seeing a doctor occasionally and seeing a woman too—Kana, the caretaker for the apartment and my brother’s girlfriend.
He met her a year ago and asked her out that same night. He always said she was worth flying all those hours to spend weekends with, sometimes longer.
In the end, their relationship was short-lived, just as he’d predicted.Because his was a short-lived life, and now it’s entirely up to me to decide what to do with the apartment in the Shibuya district of the neon city.
Do I keep it? Sell it? Rent it?
Selling would be easy—the place is smack dab in a trendy part of the metropolis. But renting could net a hefty monthly windfall too.
I switch to the dumbbells, working on triceps, then biceps, thinking of the empty apartment. Maybe I should treat it like an investment, and to do that, I should evaluate it closely. God knows I have the time. Yeah, I have a job whenever I want to start, but no one needs me to run the corporate law firm. I simply own it. The other lawyers there are aces at making that place go, go, go every day.
Maybe I should jet over to Tokyo for the summer.
I love that city, but I hate that city too. I can’t think of Tokyo without Holland reappearing in my thoughts. It’s what wrenched us apart three years ago when she went to nursing school there.
I finish my reps and head inside, Sandy at my heels. I grab my phone, click on the folder with Holland’s pictures in it, and open a shot of her.
It’s a selfie—she’s in Shibuya Crossing, the famous intersection where six roads collide. A gigantic Chihuahua stands on his hind legs on the billboard behind her, and night has fallen. The text message with it said: I’m here, and I should be happy, but I miss you so much.
I run my thumb over the picture. The three months we were together were so much more than a summer fling. We’d toyed with the possibility of doing a long-distance relationship, but we both had school—years of it. In the end, we’d faced the hard truth and decided that it was best to focus on studies and maybe, if fates aligned, see each other again someday.
No promises, but no doors closed either.
I thought—foolishly—that somehow everything would work out.
But distance has a way of smothering love.
Now, there’s hardly any distance between us. She’s mere miles away, and maybe that’s why it’s easier to text her.
Andrew: The reception was great. My speech lasted all of two minutes.
Holland: Was it supposed to be that short?
Andrew: I think the goal was ten or fifteen. I cut to the chase and then walked out. It was a true mic drop moment. But at least my hair looked good.
Holland: Your hair looked great. Sorry the reception sucked. I’m with London, making lasagna. Want to join us?
My shoulders tighten, and I stare at the last message like it’s mocking me. Holland’s hanging with her sister. Her sister is cool, and they love each other like crazy.
No fucking way can I be near that.
Shame, because her lasagna is epic.
Andrew: Nah, I need to mow the lawn. But thanks.
The lawn looks perfect, courtesy of Mrs. Callahan, and Holland knows it because she was here hours ago.
Instead of seeing them, I take half a Vicodin and watch a documentary on baboons, but I can’t stop thinking of Tokyo.
6
Holland
I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know Andrew.
Our parents were friends, thanks to the Japan connection. When Andrew was younger, his folks were expats in Tokyo, helping run an American company overseas. Mine were in the military, but they’d bonded as Americans working in a foreign country and having roots in Southern California.
When we were both kids, our parents relocated back to the States. My family lived in San Diego, and his settled here in Los Angeles. Growing up, I saw Andrew a few times a year at family get-togethers.
I’d have been a liar if I’d said I wasn’t attracted to him. I might have dreamed about him when I was in high school. I definitely fantasized about him when I was in college.
Time and distance were never on our side though—until the summer we both graduated from college. I had an internship in Los Angeles. For one perfect season, we were in the same place at the same time, and the funny thing is it all started with a possum.
I found the creature under the couch at my apartment. The first thing I did was call Andrew, since he lived so close and I don’t do rodents. He told me to grab a broom, then he said, “Screw it, I’m coming over.” A few minutes later, he swept that possum right out of the house and into the backyard. I slammed the doors shut then insisted on cooking him dinner.
Over pasta primavera we reminisced, chatting about barbecues our parents had hosted and when we’d hang out by ourselves playing video games or watching movies.
Then we moved to the sofa as we strolled down memory lane, all that talking like a slow dance bringing us closer together.
“Or how about all the times they’d send us to the store for something?” I’d asked. “And once we slipped away to a coffee shop?”
Unbreak My Heart Page 3