by W. H. Vega
A thrill courses down my spine as I imagine pinning one of the people responsible for so much loss and pain to the wall and watching him writhe. What can I say? I live for that.
I pull on my favorite Northwestern hoodie and trek out to the kitchen for a cup of joe. Some days, I worry that there’s espresso roast coursing through my veins, rather than blood. The air in the apartment is just a tiny bit chilly this morning, but I can already tell by the look of the brightening sky that it’s going to be a beautiful day. My mother used to tell me that good weather on your birthday meant that you’d been good all year long.
Birthdays were the only normal holidays that my parents and I ever celebrated. They didn’t raise me with a set religion or ascribe to any heritage, so I grew up with a hodgepodge of improvised holidays. Some we’d revisit annually, and some we’d make up on the spot. I think my favorite was always the Red Leaf Festival.
Every fall, the three of us would keep a keen eye out for the first changed leaf of the fall. Whoever found the first red leaf of the season would be crowned the bearer of autumn that year. In celebration, there would be spiced cakes and cider, roasted root vegetables, and a song in her honor. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that my parents let me win most years, but that only makes those memories more precious.
I hear a door swing open behind me as I load up the coffee maker with beans. Curious, I look to see what’s roused Carly so early in the morning. She’s definitely not the early-to-rise type. I glance over my shoulder and a little gasp escapes my lips.
Gerard is slipping out of Carly’s bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of tight black boxer briefs. He smiles up at me, unembarrassed to be seen in his underthings. I wouldn’t be embarrassed either, with a body like that. His pecs and abs look like they’ve been airbrushed on. I wonder how many hours in the gym he has to clock to keep that washboard up. Only as he begins to approach the kitchen do I realize how shamelessly I’ve been staring at him. I turn back to my task of brewing up some coffee as Gerard makes his way into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” he says softly, resting a hand on the counter top.
“Morning,” I reply shortly, hunting around the cupboard for a clean mug.
“I don’t mean to be a nuisance,” Gerard tells me, “I’m just something of a lark. Always up early in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” I return. Gerard’s brow furrows handsomely at my dismissal.
“Did I do something to offend you?” he asks, crossing his sculpted arms over his chest.
“Nope,” I tell him, though of course that’s a lie. I’m still smarting from the brush off he’s given me. “You and Carly, huh? How’s that going?”
“Is that why you’re upset?” he asks.
“She has a boyfriend, you know,” I tell him.
“I know she does,” Gerard replies, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“What does...? You know, for a shrink, you seem to be rocking a pretty impressive set of problems all your own.”
“Why, because I’m not interested in monogamy?” Gerard counters, “Nadia, human beings are not meant to be with one person. The whole mating for life thing is just one way to approach relations.”
“Relations?” I scoff, “How romantic.”
“Ah, so it’s romance you’re after,” Gerard says smugly, “You go in for all that flowers-and-chocolate nonsense, do you?”
“Don’t make assumptions about my life, Gerard,” I say, clutching my coffee mug tightly in my hands. “You don’t know anything about me or where I come from.”
“I know more than you think,” he says, “Carly was quite torn up by your omissions, Nadia. Why didn’t you ever tell her about your time in the system?”
I gape at him, furious with Carly for spilling the beans and more angry with myself for letting her in on my past. If this is the kind of confidence she keeps, she’s certainly not the type of person I’d like to confide in.
“My past is my business,” I tell Gerard firmly.
“You know that I specialize in children who have been through foster care,” he says, “If you ever wanted to talk—”
“I’m not a child,” I tell him, “And I’m not some case study for you to—”
“How is your foster brother doing?” he cuts me off, “Trace. The one who showed up here yesterday morning?”
“What? How—? I’m going to kill Carly, I swear.”
“It’s not as though he was very subtle,” Gerard chuckles, “He was standing outside the building all night. Or didn’t you notice?”
My mouth falls open in surprise. Could that be true? Was Trace lurking around like a stalker outside my home? And why is it that I’m not bothered by the possibility that he was?
“I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to be spending time with this person,” Gerard tells me.
“Oh, really?” I say, “Well, I don’t think I’ll be trusting the opinion of someone I’ve hardly met. Where do you get off telling me how to live my life?”
“It’s simply my professional opinion,” Gerard presses, “It’s best to leave the past behind you, Nadia. You have no idea who this Trace person has grown up to be. You might be blinded for your past affection for him. Unable to see what he’s really become.”
“And what, exactly, do you think he’s become?”
“Dangerous,” Gerard says resolutely. “Waiting outside your building—”
“He was probably working up his nerve,” I say quickly, “It’s not exactly an easy thing to do, meeting someone again after ten years—”
“It’s not a healthy or normal thing to do,” Gerard says. “And yet, he had no qualms about wandering back into your life. Do you think he even stopped to consider that you might not want to see him?”
“No,” I say, “Because he knew that I’d want to.”
“This is what you want, then?” Gerard asks, “After all this time you’ve spent distancing yourself from your past, you really want to let it wandering right back into your life?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I left something back in the past that I’ve been missing ever since. Something that I can’t keep living without.”
“Like what?” Gerard asks, “Love?”
I nod silently, eliciting a dismissive laugh from my handsome neighbor. “Is love such a laughable idea to you?” I demand.
“Only when it’s delusional,” Gerard sighs. “You don’t love this person, Nadia. You don’t even know him. You two knew each other as teenagers. Really now—do you feel like the same person that you were then? It’s natural, of course, that you feel some kind of heightened nostalgia. He was probably the first person to make you feel cared for after your parents died, right?”
And last, I think to myself.
“And I’m sure that feeling translated itself into...physical affection, when you were young? Between you and Trace, I mean.”
“Sure,” I allow, “We were dating. We were attracted to each other.”
“And he took advantage of you, didn’t he?”
“What?” I cry, backing away from Gerard, “Of course not! Why would you ask me that?”
“Only because I get the sense that you’ve been a victim of abuse, Nadia,” Gerard goes on, “I know how to spot people like you a mile away.”
“People like me?”
“Survivors. I know you probably don’t want to think about what Trace did to you—”
“Shut your mouth,” I warn him, “I suffered plenty of abuse as a kid, but none of it was at Trace’s hands. He saved me.”
“I’m sure that’s how it seems,” Gerard tells me, “But the fact that he tried to kindle up something between you at such a vulnerable time in your life...it doesn’t exactly put him in my good graces.”
“And that should matter to me why?” I ask, “Why should I care what some heartless, clinical shrink has to say about me or the person I love?”
“Because I’m an expert,” Gerard says lightly, “And deep down, I think you know
that what I’m saying is true.”
“There’s no use trying to convince you,” I say, pouring myself a scalding cup of coffee.
“I’m just speaking for the rest of the world, Nadia,” Gerard says as I stalk away. “Everyone can see what’s happening here but you.”
I slam my bedroom door behind me, not giving a shit whether Carly is woken or not. What right did she have, spilling my life story to the likes of Gerard? I can’t believe that I actually used to find that man charming. He’s exactly like all the other guys that have wandered into my life since leaving the system. He doesn’t care about anything real or lasting. He doesn’t believe in emotions, just chemical reactions.
Tucking my legs beneath me, I sink down onto my un-slept-in bed. I cradle my steaming mug between my trembling hands, watching as the steam dances across the dark brew. The sight reminds me of the pond that Trace and I used to sit beside as kids. Some nights, steam would rise off the water, glimmering in the glow of the street lamps. It was there, in that ramshackle park, that we’d hatched so many plans. So many routes of escape. If only we’d been able to act on any of them before tragedy struck. But maybe it’s not too late.
Gerard’s words tug at my nerves as I take a sip of my coffee. Of course, his notions about Trace being my abuser as idiotic. I won’t let some rich asshole with a superiority complex dictate my own experience to me. But the things he said about the rest of the world...how people would see Trace and me should we enter back into each other’s lives...that stung. Wouldn’t people be able to see that we were always meant to run into each other again? Or would they only ever see Trace, the misguided criminal, as a corrupting force in the life of perfect little me?
I look around my tidy bedroom and try to imagine Trace here with me. What would it be like to come home to him at the end of a long day? Or bring him along to company parties? Or maybe start a family with him? Do I really want all that, or do I just want my own fantasies?
“It’s him that I want,” I whisper to myself, twisting my charm necklace between my fingers. “It’s always been him.” Strong in my resolve, I return to my files and dig in for one last push before I begin the day.
***
The drug ring I’m investigating is not young. It’s been in existence for a couple of decades, at least. But recently, it’s been undergoing some changes in its infrastructure. Whoever used to be running the show is out of the picture, so it would seem. Most people in the ring have moved up a rung, and shifting dynamics have led to some tension. There’s been more violence springing up between known members of this outfit, and sloppy jobs all over the place. The partners were right about one thing—recruiting kids is definitely the business model.
I look over a handful of mugshots from the juvenile cases tied up in this ring. Young boys and girls, barely fifteen, are the preferred drug mules for these particular dealers. My eyes linger on their faces. There’s such terror in their eyes, though they try to conceal it. I can’t help but acknowledge that my foster siblings and I could easily have become these kids, once upon a time. If things had gone differently for me, maybe I’d have a mug shot of my own.
These asshole dealers need to go.
There’s one new higher-up who seems to be more active than the others in bringing in kids and young adults. I haven’t figured out his identity yet, but I have a pretty good guess about how I might find out. I’ve been told that a young man who recently fled the drug ring has come forward with information. With another day or two of persuasion, maybe he’ll even offer up a name.
Here’s hoping.
“Shit,” I mutter as I glance at the clock. It’s already ten by the time I resurface from my work. I promised Trace that I would see him today, and I haven’t even gotten around to showering yet.
I push myself out of my desk and make a beeline for the bathroom. As I bolt through the hallway, my forehead smacks painfully against Carly’s. We stagger away from each other, surprised by the collision. Rubbing the sore spot on my forehead, I move past her toward the shower.
“Good morning to you too,” she grumbles, “And happy birthday, by the way. Are you getting ready or what? I scheduled us mani-pedis at—”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I demand, glaring at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Why the hell did you think it was OK for you to tell Gerard all those things about my personal life?”
“I was upset,” Carly sighs, “I felt betrayed.”
“You felt betrayed?” I scoff, “Because I didn’t come clean to you about every single facet of my life?”
“Because you never told me anything!” Carly cries, “I feel like I’m living with a stranger or something. Why didn’t you ever let me in, Nadia? We’ve been friends for years. I could have been there for you. Why all the secrets, and the omissions? Is it because you’re too ashamed to talk about what happened to you as a kid?”
“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” I tell her.
“Of course not,” she says, coming toward me, “Whatever he did to you—”
“Who, Paul?”
“No, Trace. Who’s Paul?”
“Trace didn’t do anything to me!” I cry, exasperated, “Why can’t you people see that?”
“Because it’s like he’s got some kind of spell on you,” she says, “He’s not your type, Nadia. He’s tough, and quiet, and not even educated...”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“He’s not good enough for you, Nadia,” Carly says firmly, “And you seem to be the only one who’s unaware of that.”
I take a step toward Carly, and she shrinks away at once. “What?” I ask, “You afraid the little orphan girl is going to take a swing at you?”
“Of course not.”
“You can’t even look at me full in the face, can you? Now that you know what my life has really been? Where I’ve come from?”
“It’s not like that,” Carly says softly.
“No?” I ask. “You can honestly tell me that you’re not intimidated by Trace’s being back in my life? Without him here, you can think of me as your nice Ivy League friend that you used to bring home for Thanksgiving. But next to him, I’m just another low life. I know you don’t want to think about it that way, but it’s true. You’re used to thinking of me as a certain character in your story, but now you’re finding out that I’m someone you never knew. You’re worried about yourself here, not me. And that’s fine, but don’t parade that insecurity around as being concerned about me. I know how to take care of myself. Trust me, I have a lot of practice.”
“I don’t know how I feel about this new you,” she says, her jaw set.
“But it’s not a new me,” I tell her, “This is the same me I’ve always been. And if you don’t like that truth...well. It’s not my responsibility to convince you otherwise. I stopped caring about what other people think a long time ago.”
“Right,” Carly says, “That’s why you hid your past from me.”
“I didn’t tell you about my life because I knew you’d act just like this. Just like the spoiled brat you’ve always been. Thanks for proving me right, Car.”
I brush past her into the bathroom and close the door tightly behind me. Tears prickle my eyes as the hot water begins to steam up the room. I’d forgotten how it feels to be stigmatized like this. To be looked down upon because of things I could never control. Once again, Trace is the only person in the world who accepts and understands me. But at least he’s back, now. At least, after all this time, he can finally be here to stay.
I don’t care what I have to do, I’m going to find a way to make room for Trace in my life. We’ll find a way to make it work. Somehow.
***
It’s just before sundown, and I’m shifting nervously before my floor-length mirror. Trace didn’t explicitly tell me to dress up tonight, but hell it’s my birthday. I can dress up if I damn well please! I turn from side to side, admiring the way I look in my favorite sapph
ire blue dress. The bodice and cocktail length skirt are fitted and snug while the three-quarter sleeves billow out just slightly. The neckline is, admittedly, plunging. I grin, imagining Trace’s face when he sees me in this getup.
I’ve pulled my hair back into a wispy up-do and painted my lips with a classic red. Even I have to admit, I’m looking pretty good these days. I’ve heard that a woman reaches her sexual peak sometime around the age of thirty. But the look of things lately, that might just be the case!
I feel an illicit thrill run through me as I catch myself thinking about sex just before heading out with Trace. It feels daring to imagine sleeping with him now, after all this time. I hope that his expectations for me haven’t gotten out of hand.
A knock at the front door sends me stepping lightly across the apartment. Thankfully, Carly disappeared sometime this afternoon. Probably, she’s over at Gerard’s—screwing him and scheming ways to pry me away from Trace. Well, that’s something that’s simply not going to happen. I’ve made up my mind now to take a stab at this, and I’m not one to back down from the things I set my mind to.
I pull open the front door with a grin on my face. Trace is standing there in a charcoal sport coat and pressed wool slacks. His hair is parted to the side, but his stubble remains just the same. That’s good. I like a man with some stubble.
“You look wonderful,” I tell him, stepping aside to let him in. Trace wanders into the apartment after me, his eyes fixed squarely on my chest. I can feel myself blushing as his eyes bore holes just beneath my collarbones. “Hello. O’Conner. My face is up here buddy. I know the girls look good in this dress, but—”
“It’s not that,” he says quietly, “I mean, it is. I mean, they do. But...” he points to my neckline, and I peer down to see what he’s after. Comprehension washes over me as my eyes fall upon my charm necklace. “You kept the map,” he says, his eyes wide.
“Of course,” I tell him, closing my hand around the charm that was his one and only Christmas present to me, “It reminded me that there would be some way for us to find each other. Someday.”