by Emery Rose
“That was you? He broke up with me because of you?” Four and a half years ago. He’d been trying to get clean. He had gotten clean. Then he broke up with me and went right back to the drugs. And my mother had been behind that?
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“That he didn’t deserve you. That he wasn’t good enough for you and he never would be.” There was no hint of guilt or remorse in her voice.
“All his life he’d been told he wasn’t good enough.” I pictured his graffiti, my hands holding his heart. “How could you have said those things to him? He was trying to get clean, but you—”
“Oh no, missy. Don’t you dare blame his weakness on me. I did what any good mother would do. Your father and I were worried sick about you. Because of him, you couldn’t even enjoy your college experience.”
“It wasn’t your decision to make.”
“He knew he never deserved you. He admitted it.”
“All his life he was told he wasn’t good enough. You know what Seamus did to—”
“I never believed that for a minute. Seamus Vincent was a good cop. God rest his soul. And because of Connor, he’s dead.”
“Good. He got what he deserved.”
My mom sighed loudly. “Sometimes I don’t know where you come from, Ava. I tried to raise you right. With good morals and values. Just like Seamus did with his boys.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I drew blood. “It couldn’t have been easy for that man. Left on his own like that … and those boys had trouble written all over them. It didn’t surprise me when Killian killed that man in a fight either. He’d always been violent … getting into all those street fights like he did…”
“He’s not violent. And Johnny’s death wasn’t his fault,” I said through gritted teeth.
My mom sniffed. I was wasting my breath. In my mom’s book, the Vincent brothers would always be bad news. She’d made up her mind a long time ago and nothing they did now would ever change it.
It was useless trying to argue with her. She saw the world as black and white, right and wrong. She saw what she wanted to see, and even when she was wrong, she refused to listen to reason. My father was a saint for putting up with her for thirty years.
Before I left, my mother hugged me and told me I looked beautiful. “I love you. I only want what’s best for you.”
I knew she loved me and wanted the best for me. But she wanted what she thought was best for me, regardless of what I wanted.
As I rode on the back of Connor’s bike, my arms wrapped around him, I thought about the peacock Connor had sketched for our waitress. A reminder that she could walk tall and proud and find her inner beauty. I’d nearly cried when I saw it. That was what Connor did though. He tried to make people’s day just a little bit brighter.
Connor had always been sensitive, attuned to people’s feelings. He felt their pain and suffering so deeply. When we were in high school, he used to do sketches of homeless people. He would bring them coffee and sandwiches. Hang out for a while and talk with them. In the winter, he bought them blankets, hats, and gloves. He used the money from his job stocking shelves at the supermarket to fund it. Most people would have kept walking, turned a blind eye, but not Connor. He couldn’t bear to see anyone suffer.
Maybe that was why he’d started doing drugs. The real world was too much for him sometimes.
Connor didn’t take me out of Brooklyn, but he took me back to a place I rarely ventured now. Park Slope. As we passed the brownstone with turrets where Killian and Connor lived for four years, I looked up at the windows of the second-floor apartment they used to rent, and I imagined us at eighteen … so impossibly young. Invincible.
The drive-by had been on purpose, a blast from the past that wasn’t on our way. The restaurant he took me to was in Crown Heights, a short walk from Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, one of my favorite places. After a ten-minute wait, the waiter showed us to a two-top and handed us menus. I sat with my back to the exposed brick wall and studied the menu. It was a toss-up. Pancakes topped with fresh fruit or eggs benedict.
Connor saw my struggle. “Should I pick a hand?”
“Why would you do that?” I asked coyly. That was our thing. When I couldn’t decide between two menu items, Connor helped me.
“You look undecided.”
Pancakes. Left. Eggs benedict. Right. “Okay.”
He squinted at my hands on the table and tapped the right one. “What is it? Pancakes or eggs benedict?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He knew every stupid, little thing about me, right down to the two items I would choose on the menu. “The eggs.”
Connor wasn’t as predictable as me. “Shredded kale salad and a smoked salmon omelet?” I asked when the waiter left our table. Killian had always been the health nut, not Connor. “They have burgers with bacon and cheese and French fries…”
His mouth quirked with amusement. “Yeah, I read the menu.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.” I looked around the restaurant, admiring the art deco light fixtures and the glossy wood bar across from me. It was a hipster haven filled with pretty people, more subdued and fancier than the restaurants we used to frequent in the past.
A family of four was sitting next to us, the parents speaking in modulated tones. The two little boys were identical twins, dressed in matching Polo sweaters over white button-down shirts, their hair slicked back so perfectly I could see the comb marks. The mother reminded me of Lana, with styled hair, perfect makeup, and a black wrap dress that was probably designer. Her smile was tight and looked forced to me. Her husband was non-descript, wearing a blue Oxford shirt and khakis. I got the feeling they weren’t Brooklynites. They looked too uptight for city dwellers.
When one of the boys talked with his mouth full, his mother reprimanded him. I tuned her out while she coached her sons on proper restaurant etiquette.
The waiter delivered Connor’s Virgin Mary and my sparkling water and pomegranate juice. Connor handed me his celery stick and I chomped away on it absently. He hated celery. Always had. “This is weird,” I said, taking a sip of my drink to wash down the celery. “Does it feel weird to you?”
He nudged the toe of my boot with his under the table. “Just go with it. Weird isn’t bad. You’re a weirdo, but I still like you.”
I laughed. “Tell me about this shop you’re buying.”
“Jared and I are meeting with the lawyer on Tuesday to sign the papers.”
“Wow. That’s a big deal.”
“I know.” He pushed up the sleeves of his Henley and rested his folded arms on the table, putting him too close to me. Instinctively, I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms then uncrossed them, trying not to look like I was on the defensive.
“Are you nervous?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Jared gave me a crash course in accounting this morning. My head still hurts.”
“I can help you out with that stuff … and the social media … if you ever need—” Seriously? I needed to bitch-slap myself. Why was I offering my help?
Connor gave me a big smile. “Yeah?”
“Well … only if you can’t figure it out on your own, which I’m sure you will. You’re a smart guy.”
He didn’t comment on that, so I asked him more questions about the business which seemed like a safe topic. “Jared’s sticking around until the end of October until I get the hang of it and hire a tattoo artist to replace him. My lease is up in a few weeks, so I won’t lose my deposit when I move into his place. It’s all working out.”
“Jared’s place is nice,” I said, for lack of something better to say. But it was nice. He’d renovated the interior and put in a new kitchen with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances, a sleek bathroom with limestone-tiled floors, and dark hardwood floors in the bedroom and living room.
“Yeah, it’s a nice place,” he said, his eyes clouding over as if he was remembering the month he’d lived there. And maybe the day I walked out
of his life.
Our conversation, already stilted and overly polite, came to an abrupt halt. Connor leaned back as the waiter delivered our food. A few minutes later, Connor asked if my food was good. I said yes and asked him the same question. Yes, he answered. After that, we concentrated on our food instead of trying to make conversation. Despite the silence and the tension, I managed to eat every bite of my food. I stared at my empty plate, racking my brain for something to say.
Our silence was interrupted by one of the little boys from the next table who was around five or six. He approached our table, his eyes glued to Connor’s left arm.
“Hey buddy,” Connor said with a smile. “You good?”
He nodded and held out a blue magic marker. “Can you do that for me?” The boy pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, indicating that he wanted a tattoo on his arm. It made me laugh.
“This isn’t magic marker,” Connor said. “It’s a tattoo. It’s permanent.”
The boy’s eyes widened as he stared at the birds and fish on Connor’s arm. “You can’t wash it off? Ever?”
“Nope.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
His brother joined him, curiosity getting the best of him. “How did you do it?”
“With special needles and ink.”
The boy shuddered. “I don’t like needles. Did it hurt?”
Connor smiled. “A little bit.”
The boy cocked his head, his brow furrowed. “What if you change your mind and you don’t like birds and fish anymore?”
His brother elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s dumb. Everyone likes birds and fish.”
The kid shrugged. “I guess. But you can draw some birds and fish on my arm and I can wash it off, right?” he asked, his voice hopeful.
“You’d need to ask your parents for permission,” Connor said, surprising me. But most likely, he’d observed the same things I had about the boys’ parents and had decided to err on the side of caution for a change.
The kids raced over to their parents and proceeded to beg and plead, all the while pointing at Connor.
Their mother pursed her lips. “Magic markers are toxic. You can’t put that on your skin.”
“But—”
“No buts. We’re leaving,” she said, packing the markers and coloring books into their backpacks.
“When I get bigger I’m getting a tattoo,” the little boy said.
“Over my dead body,” the woman said, handing the boys their backpacks while their dad signed his credit card receipt.
“We don’t pay all that money for private school, so you can turn into a hoodlum,” the dad said, shooting Connor a look.
“What’s a hoodlum?” the kid asked, his brow furrowed.
“It’s a kid from the wrong side of the tracks,” Connor said. “They usually turn into junkies. You don’t want to mix with those kinds of people.”
The father wrangled his kids out of the restaurant, but the mother stayed behind and stood by our table, hands on her hips, her glare aimed at Connor. “That was not necessary,” she hissed.
“I was trying to help your cause. You have a good day now, ma’am.” Connor gave her a mock-salute, with an insolent look on his face that I knew so well. It was the same one he’d used at school whenever the teachers had disciplined him. It made him look like trouble and had never done him any favors.
After the woman left, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, holding my gaze. He was waiting to see how I’d react. “How do you feel about hanging out with a … hoodlum?”
I decided to go with my first instinct. “They obviously don’t appreciate good art. They were pompous asses.”
He gave me a soft smile. “I like it when you’re on my side.”
“I used to always be on your side.”
“I know. I remember.”
A minor tussle ensued when the waiter delivered our check. “Let me pay half,” I insisted. “That’s what friends do.”
“Let the hoodlum pay.” Connor threw down enough cash to cover the check and a tip and dragged me out of the restaurant.
“But you’re starting a new business and—”
“Brunch won’t bankrupt me.”
“Thank you.”
“How about a guided tour of the Botanical Gardens?” he said, looking up the street.
“Who’s the guide?”
“Me.”
I probably knew the gardens better than he did, but I went along with it. He led me to the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden, my favorite part.
“Mr. Santos taught me how to look at a tree,” Connor said.
Mr. Santos was the only teacher Connor had respected. He helped Connor put together the portfolio that got him into Pratt Institute. Mr. Santos saw Connor’s potential. He encouraged him and built him up instead of trying to knock him down like the other teachers who treated Connor like a troublemaker in need of a firm hand and discipline.
“What do you mean … he taught you how to look at a tree?” I asked.
“A tree doesn’t float in space. It has roots and it’s firmly planted in the ground, so you need to show that when you sketch a tree. You want to feel the texture of the bark. Show the way the branches are attached to the trunk and the leaves to the branches. He told me to study the negative space between the branches. Branches are never straight. To give a tree life, you need to show the kinks and knots. The gnarled trunk. The shadows and the heavier weighted lines. Trees are so complex. They’re perfectly imperfect.”
I tried to look at the tree through the eyes of an artist like Connor did. When I’d first looked at this tree, I hadn’t seen its imperfections. All I’d seen was the tree’s beauty and elegance, the red-russet leaves in stark contrast with the dull gray sky. I hadn’t noticed the gnarled, twisted branches, the slightly-bent trunk or the roots pushing up from the ground.
Perfectly imperfect. Like Connor. Like me. Like us.
I glanced at Connor. He was watching my face, not the tree. He was putting down roots. He was shadows and light. Complex. Beautiful and damaged, but maybe … not beyond repair.
When he reached for my hand, I let him take it. As we walked around the gardens, talking and laughing, I pretended that we’d just met, and we were still in the getting-to-know-you phase. If that had been true, I would have said yes to another date because this guy … he was someone I wanted to know better.
10
Connor
“How did it go with Ava yesterday?” Tate asked as we walked out of our Monday morning meeting and up the street to our Harleys. Somehow, we managed to snag the same parking space every week, in front of a scraggly tree outside a weathered blue house, the paint chipped and peeling. An old couple sat on webbed lawn chairs next to the moss-covered birdbath in their tiny front yard fenced-off from the sidewalk by white latticed wrought-iron. The woman was wearing curlers in her hair, a housedress, and slippers. The man was dressed in a ratty white T-shirt and dress pants. They sat, staring into the distance, not talking. I turned my back to the house and Tate and I stood on the edge of the sidewalk, facing the street.
“It had its ups and downs,” I said, thinking about the silent brunch and our stilted conversation. But then she’d taken my side. And our walk through the Botanical Gardens had been… nice. We’d talked and laughed, and she’d let me hold her hand. “Mostly good though.” I shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit up.
“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”
I took a long drag and exhaled, looking up at the sky where the sun was trying to break through the clouds. “Are you saying you don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“It’s not my call. But I do know she’s one of your triggers,” he said, eyeing the Winston clamped between my lips. I usually waited until after I’d hit the gym to smoke. “You were a wreck when she left you.”
“I was a wreck because of all the shit that went down. That was my rock bottom.”
“I know that. But that girl gets you all twisted and tied up in knots.”
I couldn’t deny that. Yesterday had been hard. One step forward, three steps back. She was still trying to protect herself from me. “You ever been in love?”
“Yep. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I fucked up. Got sent to prison. Told her I didn’t want her anywhere near me. She wanted to visit me in the state pen. A woman like her should never set foot in a place like that. If she’d been smart, she would have stayed a mile away from me. She should never have had anything to do with the likes of me.”
“Love isn’t logical. The heart wants what the heart wants.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, I know. Makes people do some crazy shit.”
Tell me about it. Wishing and hoping. Trying to toe the line for one more shot at something that might never be again. But Ava couldn’t deny that she still loved me. That had to count for something.
“Whatever happened to the woman?” I asked, tipping back my head as the sun made an appearance.
“Married. Two kids. Nice house. She got the life she was meant to have.”
“Is she happy?”
He narrowed his eyes, looking off into the distance, maybe shuffling through his memories of the woman he loved. “She’s better off.”
I took a drag of my cigarette, mulling that over. “You still love her?”
“No point in dwelling on it. I did what was best for her.”
I’d take that as a yes. Love doesn’t go away. It lives on in our fragile hearts. When you love a woman, she gets under your skin, haunts your dreams and your waking hours. Lovesickness, I’d decided, is a real thing. “You’re saying love is about self-sacrifice?”