“Are you meaning to suggest that Andy should be limited by someone else’s problems?” Harlow asked, her eyes flashing at her husband.
“We’re talking about his mother,” Red said. “That’s hardly ‘someone else.’”
Harlow snorted at his answer, looking away from him. “Didn’t you leave your family behind, Redmond?” she asked. “I recall something like that happening, don’t you?”
Red’s face went taut.
“I could have done worse,” Red shot back. “Some people do.” Harlow blanched.
“I...” Drew spoke up, desperate to save the situation. “No, Red, you’re right. I should be there.”
Before he could continue on his path of self-deprecation, Harlow cut in again.
“You deserved better, so you left. And good for you, honey,” she said with gusto. “You can’t let the world hold you back. You’re too smart for that. Too young.”
But Red’s interrogation had left Drew shaken. It was the last thing he had expected. Red was typically so friendly, so approachable. It was as though someone had flipped a switch. Eerily, it was reminiscent of what had happened back home. One day, everything was perfect. The next, his parents were fighting over everything—and their disagreements had started just like this: out of nowhere and nothing.
But it hadn’t been nothing; it had been a woman in a truck Andrew hadn’t seen before—his dad crawling into the passenger’s seat with that duffel bag heavy on his shoulder. It had been his mother pulling Andrew away from the window, instructing him to watch cartoons as if it was just another day. But she had known all along that it hadn’t been. It had been the first day of the rest of their fractured lives.
Perhaps this was like that. Red knew. He had caught Andrew looking at his wife, and maybe he had noticed the way Harlow smiled when Drew was around. The invitations to come over were growing by the day. Tonight it was dinner. Tomorrow? He could only guess.
Drew swallowed against the tension, his eyes cast downward, his guilt having returned tenfold.
What kind of a son turned his back on his mother in her worst moment? What kind of a neighbor coveted his neighbor’s wife?
“I’m a bad person,” he admitted. As he heard it out in the open, his entire body tingled with the confession.
Those four little words made Harlow want to cry. They made her want to tear at her hair and wail. Because Drew’s confession was her own, one that had been tormenting her for most of her life—from the first night her father had slipped into her bedroom and slid into bed next to her, making her promise she’d never tell her mom; from the night she had left Danny Wilson dead in his apartment. Hearing Andrew declare his own feelings of inferiority turned her inside out like nothing she had ever felt. Sitting at that dining room table, she wanted to reach out to him, wanted to pull him close and press him to her so fiercely that the strength of her embrace would make him disappear. She wanted to absorb him, to make him a part of her that could never be lost or taken away.
Her heart thudded in her ears as she stared at him—nothing but an ordinary boy who turned out to be extraordinary. His guilt made him beautiful. His vulnerability made her buzz with desire. Suddenly, she found herself reevaluating her plan. Andrew Morrison wasn’t just another passer-through.
Andrew Morrison was the one.
Harlow’s gaze drifted across the table to her husband. Red had his head down, chewing his food with a vexed look across his face. And suddenly she hated him with all her being, hated him for making Andrew feel guilty, hated him for trying to scare her darling away.
Again, silence. The ticking of the grandfather clock filled the spaces between their words. Harlow sat stick-straight, so tense it was a wonder she wasn’t trembling. Red dropped his fork and folded his hands together, pressing them over his mouth as if in prayer. Harlow waited for him to excuse himself from the table after his bad manners had been made so clear, but it appeared that Red was determined to keep his post. She looked back to Andrew, the boy beside her looking defeated and disturbed. Leaning toward him, she dipped a hand beneath the table, resting it on his knee.
“You’re not a bad person,” she whispered. “Don’t ever say that again.”
Failing to elicit a response, Harlow leaned back, her hands folded in her lap.
“Look at the work you did today,” she said, full-volume now. “You did an amazing job, Andy, better than Red could ever do. Better than any of the other boys.”
She caught herself a second too late, snapping her mouth shut. Her nerves were getting to her. She waited for him to ask what other boys, but he didn’t, and she exhaled the breath that had caught in her throat. Stupid, she thought to herself. Red was looking at her from across the table, one eyebrow raised in an arch of bitter amusement. It wasn’t like her to make such a sloppy mistake, but it was just like Red to catch it.
She had blown her cover. Red was already suspicious, but now there would be no denying that something was different this time.
Regaining her composure, she plucked up her wineglass and took a nerve-steadying drink.
After another long moment, Drew exhaled a sigh and shook his head before sitting up in his chair. “I’m sorry; I’m a lousy dinner guest. I should probably go.”
“You’ve had a long day,” Harlow agreed.
Folding his napkin into quarters, Drew placed it next to his plate and slowly slid his chair away from the table. Harlow rose as well.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Drew said, and his uneasiness broke her heart.
She reached out to him again, but Andrew stepped around the table before her fingers made contact with his arm. Watching him move across the dining room, she swallowed her nerves as Drew stopped next to Red’s chair and extended a hand.
Red remained seated.
He didn’t make eye contact with the boy standing next to him.
He didn’t take Andrew’s hand.
Drew swallowed, quietly cleared his throat, and turned away.
Just as Drew was about to step onto the front porch, Harlow stepped into the foyer and placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned, offering her a weak smile, and before she could stop herself, she pulled him into a tight embrace. “Don’t pay attention to him. You’re a good person,” Harlow whispered, rubbing his back in reassurance. “A wonderful person. The most wonderful person I’ve ever met.”
Harlow watched Drew walk down the darkened sidewalk before marching into the kitchen. Red was placing dishes in the washer.
“You moron,” she snapped at him.
He stood up straight, a dirty dish held in his right hand.
“‘Shouldn’t you be home with your mother?’” Harlow snorted. “What are you trying to do, make him cry?”
He shook his head, pulled the under-sink cabinet door open, and fished out a bottle of dish detergent.
“If he comes over here to tell us he can’t work for us anymore...”
“And why would he do that?” Red asked.
“Because he’s gone back to his mother like you told him to,” Harlow said. “Because he doesn’t want to work for someone who makes him feel like shit. I swear to God, Red...”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
“...I’ll wait until you’re fast asleep, and I will kill you,” Harlow said flatly. “I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear like a brand-new smile.”
“Really?” Red asked, unfazed. “Or maybe you can fall in love with him,” he said. “Maybe you can do that right in front of me. That would probably kill me too.”
Harlow stared at her husband for a long while.
“You’re crazy. Love.” She spit the word out, trying to make it sound as foul and ridiculous as possible. “He’s just another boy.”
Red laughed with a shake of the head, closing the dishwasher door.
“You’ve always been a good liar,” he said. “But never to me.”
He began to walk away, leaving Harlow beside the sink, but he stopped in front of the entryway, looking ba
ck to her, a look of genuine hurt dancing across his face.
“This wasn’t the deal we made,” he reminded her. “You promised this would never happen.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harlow said, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
“No?” he asked. “That’s why he’s still alive? Because of your disinterest?” He smirked. “So kill me,” he demanded, balling his hand up into a fist before striking himself in the chest, directly above his heart. “Give me some of that passion.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she asked, turning her back to him.
Once upon a time, he had been the boy who had stolen her heart. He had been her Andrew. But after so many years, Red had gotten boring. He didn’t excite her, and he wasn’t excited by anything she did. He used to worry about her getting caught, but even that had subsided. Once, Red had understood that Harlow did what she did to squelch her overwhelming sense of worthlessness. That she did what she did to mourn the loss of her innocence, to grieve the loss of her mother. He had been so sympathetic, loved her too much to be horrified, and he had stayed.
And yet, somehow, they had grown apart. Red no longer cared about what Harlow had to do to be whole. He cared only about what was for dinner. Over time, Harlow had transformed from the girl of his dreams to the happy housewife, and she hated him for that.
“Come on,” he said, motioning for her to come with him. She knew what that meant. He wanted to go upstairs, wanted to “make up” and forget the whole thing. “Prove it to me,” he told her.
Prove that Andy didn’t mean anything. Prove that she didn’t want anyone but Red.
Harlow looked down to her feet, her toes sore from being squeezed into her shoes for so long. Placing a hand on the counter, she bent her leg, catching one of her shoes by its bright red heel. She repeated the process once more, eventually standing on the cool kitchen floor in her bare feet. Tipping her chin upward, she stared across the room at her husband, her jaw clenching as she considered her options.
Finally, she cleared her throat and replied. “No.”
She watched Red’s hope dwindle, then disappear completely as her answer sank in.
Their first date was typical: they went for dinner and drinks, watched Apocalypse Now—Red loved it, while Harlow couldn’t have been more bored—and ended up at Red’s place a few minutes past ten. He lived in a crappy little apartment. It wasn’t difficult to see that the pizza place was Red’s only source of income. But despite his lack of funds, he had splurged on a fancy joint for dinner—giant T-bone steaks with baked potatoes and dessert; he’d paid for the movie and popcorn, and he couldn’t have looked happier with the expense.
Regardless of his footing the bill, Harlow was sure it would be the same story as soon as they got to his place. He’d pour a few cocktails, put on a bad record he thought got girls in the mood, and then he’d proceed to bed her. And that was exactly what Harlow wanted, because despite the fact that the things her daddy had done to her once terrified her, she now found that wink of fear an irresistible high. It was just a matter of talking Red into it. Some boys needed to be smooth-talked into tying down their date, but Red was smitten by her; he wouldn’t need much convincing.
Just as she expected, Red headed toward the stereo as soon as they were inside. He put on some Rolling Stones, then walked over to his kitchenette and pulled a half-empty bottle of gin from an overhead cabinet. Harlow hated this part—telling them what she wanted. It was so graceless, but all the guys before Red had shrugged and fallen into the act without so much as a complaint. She’d fight them first, trying to get away as they held her down. Once that part was over, all they had to do was whisper into her ear, Don’t tell your mother.
Meeting him in the kitchen, she cornered him between the wall and the refrigerator. With her mouth on his neck, she slid her hands down his chest, freeing the buttons of his shirt, working her way down to his belt. She’d taken him by surprise; he precariously held a glass of gin in one hand, the other wrapped around the handle of the refrigerator as if hanging on for dear life. He was older than Harlow by a couple of years, but he radiated an odd sense of virtue, so wide-eyed and love-struck during their date that Harlow had nearly asked whether he was a virgin, but she resisted the temptation, not wanting to scare him off.
Plucking the glass of gin from his grasp, she bit her bottom lip and unbuckled his belt as Red breathed heavily, seemingly shocked that this was all happening so fast. And that was when Harlow took the opportunity to make her request.
Red refused.
He blinked as her fingers danced across his chest, her mouth against his ear, then shook his head, disbelieving, as though he didn’t know what to make of the girl he had brought home. As soon as Harlow saw that look, she flushed with embarrassment and snatched up her bag, ready to flee, but Red stopped her. He blocked the door, refusing to step aside when she tried to push him out of the way. He caught her wrists, and that was when she burst into tears.
That night, Harlow told him everything. She told him about her father sneaking into her bedroom, about how her mother had been raped and killed. She even told him about Danny Wilson, so tired of keeping that secret buried. She was sick, crazy; maybe Red would turn her in and put her out of her misery.
He didn’t.
Red had been stunned, but rather than calling the police, he wrapped his arms around her and let her cry. And then he leaned in and whispered, “He was going to hurt you. You’re not a bad person.”
And as if by magic, the hard shell of Harlow’s guilt cracked apart and fell away.
They fell asleep on his bed, all of her secrets spilled between them. When she woke up the next morning and saw that he was still there, she knew she had to have him forever. He was the only person in the world who understood her. He was the only person who could make her whole again.
Harlow and Red were married in a private ceremony two months later.
Reggie Beaumont wasn’t in attendance.
He died in an unexplained house fire a week before their union.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Drew couldn’t sleep. He lay on his mattress, staring out the window at the Wards’ house, trying to place the ache that had crawled into his heart. It was still early and the Wards’ lights burned bright. He could just make out the outline of furniture through the sheer white curtains. The muffled sounds of Mickey watching TV slithered beneath his bedroom door—lots of shooting and explosions and screaming, as though those sounds were coming from the house next door and not the television in the living room.
Rolling over, Andrew put the fairy-tale house to his back. It was all he’d seen, all he’d thought about for the last few days. He had replaced his old life with a white picket fence, with pretty curtains and home-cooked meals. But now, after what had happened with Red over a plate of pot roast, he couldn’t deny what he’d left behind. Stepping out of a black-and-white world and into a Technicolor fantasy was easy; leaving the brilliant colors of the rainbow behind to return to a monochromatic life—that was next to impossible. But Dorothy had been able to do it, and maybe she was right: Maybe there really was no place like home.
After a few minutes of staring at the wall, he sat up, crept across the bed, and grabbed his cell phone from atop his dresser. The room lit up in cold blue as he scrolled through his contacts, stopping on an entry that simply read “Home.”
Glancing out the window again, he hesitated, almost felt like he was betraying Harlow in some unspoken way. He had allowed her to creep into the corners of his heart, filling the spaces his own mother had left empty and dark. And yet he still missed his mom. Despite her abundance of shortcomings, he wanted to hear her voice.
Pulling in a steadying breath, he connected the call. He was ready to hang up after five rings, but just as he pulled the phone away from his ear, Julie Morrison’s voice drifted toward him from the other end of the line. “Hello?...Drew, is that you?” she said, as if she’d been waiting for his
call.
He couldn’t help but smile.
“Hey,” he said. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Drew...I know you’re angry with me,” she said. “I’ve been selfish. It’s really...” she paused. “Well, it’s unforgivable. I’m ashamed of myself.”
Andrew hesitated.
“I’m glad you called,” she pushed on into the silence. “I think I’ve dialed your phone a thousand times since you left.” His bottom lip quivered when she exhaled a weak laugh. “I always hung up before punching in the last number. Silly,” she murmured. “But I’ve missed you.”
It was all Andrew needed to hear. Suddenly, it was as though their blowup never happened. She told him she was proud of him for being out on his own, that she was happy for him, and that maybe, if she could manage it, she’d be able to visit his new home sometime soon. “I want to see what your life is like now, an independent young man...”
Listening to her marvel over how he had gotten a job at the Wards’, how he had bought all his furniture at a secondhand store, he could almost see his mom, young and vibrant with her hair done up in curls, wearing her favorite red dress with the white polka dots—the dress she used to wear nearly every Sunday when they went to church. That dress reminded him of the way she sang, louder than anyone else, squeezing his little hand in hers as she bellowed out hymns. Being quiet throughout the entire sermon would win him a trip to the candy shop, where he’d buy a big sack of cherry sours, ones that matched the color of her dress.
Somehow, her being happy for him erased all her wrongs. Drew’s bitterness melted away, and all that was left was a loving mom; not as perfect as Harlow, but at least she was his.
Arriving at the Wards’ place bright and early the next day, Drew just about bounced as he walked, a big smile plastered across his face.
Red noticed the shift in his mood right away, and a pang of annoyance coiled inside his chest. He had hoped that the awkwardness of dinner the night before would have kept that boy from coming back. Red had a limit, and Andy had crossed that boundary, whether he knew it or not.
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