Tell Me How This Ends

by Victoria De La O

  “It’s nothing. Just nonsense. Some girl has me sort of fucked up.”

  “I don’t think I h-heard that right,” I say smiling. “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s no one. We didn’t even sleep together. She chose someone else, which is fine.”

  “This is the first time that’s happened?”

  He nods.

  “Rejection sucks. You c-came to the right man.”

  He laughs. “Shit. I guess I should have been nicer when Katie what’s-her-face dumped you sophomore year.”

  “Nah. It all worked out. It will for you, too.”

  Jude doesn’t say anything, but he kicks my toe with one foot. “How’s Miss Shakespeare?”

  “Good.” My face creases into a smile.

  “Well at least one of us is getting laid.”

  I don’t correct his assumption. My hope is that someday soon, this will be true.

  I’m having such a bad nightmare that I wake myself up. I must have cried out, because Jude is in my room.

  “Dude, you scared the shit out of me. You okay?” he asks, sitting on my bed.

  “Yeah. Only a nightmare.” I don’t need to tell him about it. His are worse than mine.

  He shuts his eyes. “Been years since you had one.”

  “Yeah. You?”

  He opens his eyes, but I can tell he’s far away, remembering things he’d rather forget.

  “Not often. I had one about Uncle Rob a couple of weeks ago, though,” he admits, and he slides down until he’s lying next to me. When Mom died, she was estranged from my grandparents. Jude was only fifteen, so Rob took us in. He had always been our cool bachelor uncle whom we’d see at holidays and family barbecues, but we didn’t know him all that well. Mom said Rob was too busy being Peter Pan and having short-term relationships with crazy women, but she always said it with affection.

  “I was thinking the other day about what it must have been like for him to have the two of us dropped into his house without warning.”

  Jude laughs. “No shit. He was so fucking stubborn, too.”

  Rob tried damn hard to accommodate us and be a good role model. At the time, though, all we cared about was that he was strict as hell, and he’d get frustrated a lot.

  “I can’t believe you two didn’t kill each other.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t like someone being up in my shit all the time.”

  Jude was used to being the man of the house, and when Rob would try to ground him for coming home late or going somewhere he wasn’t supposed to, Jude would tell him to go fuck himself. That all ended one day when Jude stormed out of the house and Rob tackled him on the lawn, like those alpha silverback gorillas you see on animal documentaries.

  “He finally tamed you, I’ll give him that.”

  “Shit, no. I gave up because I got sick of his headlocks. They hurt like a bitch.”

  Rob was a plumber and drove a big black truck filled with tools. Jude and I loved that thing. But when I was sixteen and Jude was twenty, Rob had a heart attack on his way to work, and that truck was no match for the pole it smashed into. Jude and I were heading out of the house when the police called. Jude answered and he kept saying, “What? What?” over and over again. Strange how I knew right away what they were saying on the other end of that call.

  We use so many words—day in and day out—but it seems like all the important things in our lives are communicated without them. Like when your heart thumps around a girl you like. Or that joy that fills your chest when you see the sun set over the ocean. And the dread you feel when a phone rings and you know it’s bad news.

  It felt like, right when we had figured out how to be a family, Rob left us. You’d think Jude and I would have known how to handle loss because of our mom, but that’s not something you get better at with practice.

  Worst fight Jude and I ever had was over Rob. The day after he died, the morgue called Jude and told him he had to go down and make funeral arrangements and view Rob’s body. As Jude was leaving, I grabbed my jacket and headed out with him.

  He put his hand on my chest and pushed me back. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “No way.”

  “Fuck you, Jude, he was my uncle, too.”

  “Why do you fight me all the goddamn time now?” This was followed by Jude yelling at me for twenty minutes—saying he was only trying to help me, telling me how ungrateful I was. I let him rant and rave.

  Finally, I put my hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m going to go whether you like it or not. And you need me there.”

  “You want to live with these memories all your life? Be my fucking guest.”

  We drove to the funeral home, listening to some stupid pop song over and over. Jude had it on repeat, and he kept tapping the steering wheel in time to the beat, mumbling lyrics that he wasn’t even hearing, to a song that he didn’t even like.

  He was all business when we got there, finalizing everything down to the last detail. Rob had done most of it in advance, but Jude wanted to make sure they got it all perfect, of course. Then it was time to see Rob, at which point Jude gave me one last chance to wait in the waiting room. I shook my head and we went in together.

  It’s odd when a moment is exactly like what you’ve seen in the movies. Rob’s face was waxy as he lay on the table. My knees buckled. Jude threw his arm around me and held me up. I cried, Jude stayed stoic.

  The part you don’t see on screen is what happens after those big events. We went home, ate pizza, drank beer, and had a really nice night together. And then we felt guilty about it. Facing death is like that: It tears you down and builds you back up, all at the same time.

  But Jude was right. I have lived with that memory every day since, and so has he.

  “Did your nightmare involve fishing?” I ask now, trying to lighten the mood.

  It works, because Jude smiles. “Damn, Rob was the worst fisherman in the world.”

  Rob took us out to Calero Reservoir sometimes, and we’d sit for hours and catch nothing. It was mostly an excuse to drink beer. At least I got to read. For a guy like Jude, who can’t sit still, it was a form of torture. He did it anyway, though—not that Rob gave him much of a choice. As Rob said, fishing was good for “bonding and all that shit.”

  I can tell by the way he holds himself stiff as he lies next to me that Jude’s mind has wandered down a dark path. So instead of kicking him out of my bed, I turn out the light.

  He rolls over and falls fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jude

  I keep feeling like I forgot something—my keys, my wallet. Like I’ve left something undone. I’ve felt this way ever since last week, when Elizabeth and I kissed and then agreed to never cross paths again.

  I tell myself that I don’t even know this girl—that she’s a diversion at best. But then why the fuck do I keep thinking about her? Why do I keep remembering that moment she looked right into me and told me I was lonely? Nonetheless, I do what I’ve always done: I pull my shit together and I do my job.

  I say hi to Megan on the way out of my meeting. As predicted, she wasn’t destroyed when I told her we should just be friends. Her exact words were, “Sounds good, cutie.”

  Ink is a small but profitable marketing agency, and they hire smart people. I was lucky to find work at a place like this while I was still in college. God knows, we needed the money. Rob left us the house and some life insurance, but I still had a mortgage and bills to pay, and Ryan needed to start school. I landed the job by bullshitting my way into the most junior position they had, but I’ve had a few solid promotions, and now I’m a senior account manager.

  At noon, Megan decides to come over and chitchat, which is not my specialty.

  “Congrats on your sales this quarter. You want to grab some lunch?” she asks, perching herself on my desk.

  I don’t want people to get the wrong idea, so I make her si
t in a chair instead. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about a job that’s opening up here. Plus, you seem sort of—”

  “Tired? Bored? What?” I ask, wanting this conversation to be over.

  “Depressed. Something wrong?”

  I stare at her for a minute, until it’s uncomfortable.

  She crosses her arms. “Whatever, Jude. I thought we could be friends. You don’t have to be such a dick.”

  Ryan would say that I can’t afford to turn away her kindness, because there aren’t all that many people who give a shit about me or vice versa. Also, Megan has never been anything but cool with me, so I relax.

  “Sorry. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  She accepts my answer and gets up to leave my cube.

  “How are your girlfriends doing these days?” I ask. Shit, I relaxed too much and now I’ve overplayed my hand.

  Sure enough, she flops down into the chair across from me again. “Anyone in particular?” She crosses her legs and swings her foot back and forth. Her high-heel sandal hangs off the end of her toes, which are painted fire-engine red.

  I hold my hands up to end this conversation, but she’s on a roll.

  “Angel? Sam? Or are we talking about Lizzie?”

  She’s unfazed by the glare I’m giving her, so I sit back in my chair and try to ignore her. My fingers are tapping out the rhythm to “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” on my desk.

  “You two seemed pretty cozy playing pool.”

  Goddamn girls and their attention to relationships and details.

  “Drop it,” I say, but Megan doesn’t even acknowledge me. This train has left the station.

  “I’m not mad that you like her. You and I had a good time while it lasted. I’m surprised, is all, because she doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “What—nice?”

  “Well, I was going to say prudish.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  She ignores me. “I’m not sure if Lizzie likes me all that much, but she is friends with Angel, and I’m not sure you’d be good for her.”

  It occurs to me that Megan is shrewd. She has a bright future in marketing. “Okay, good discussion, Megan. Now, can you go back to your desk?”

  She studies me for a second and then gets up to leave. “FYI, Lizzie and Sam hang out at Inferno sometimes on Fridays. You might ‘accidentally’ run into her there. But Jude, play nice.”

  Ryan is outside playing basketball with his buddy Brett. Ryan met Brett freshman year of college, and he’s a good guy—normal, funny. I welcomed him into the clan, so he hangs out here sometimes to play poker or watch movies. Brett seems to be as shy around girls as Ryan is, so he likes to talk about his misadventures with women a lot. He thinks it’s cool that Ry and I have a house to ourselves, but he doesn’t understand why we haven’t made it “party central.”

  “Dinner, guys,” I say, shouting out the sliding glass door.

  Ryan and Brett come inside, sweaty and disheveled.

  “You better hurry and eat before your shift starts,” I say, putting the food on the table.

  Brett grabs his phone to text. “Shit. It’s almost six already? I gotta jet. I’ll eat with you guys next time.”

  “I have no doubt,” I say as Brett heads out.

  Ryan dives into the stir-fry like it’s his last meal on earth, and I can’t help but laugh. I still eat a lot, but there’s nothing like being twenty-two.

  Before my mom died, the only thing I could make was scrambled eggs and sandwiches. Rob’s idea of cooking was Pop-Tarts and Hamburger Helper, though, so when I was eighteen I decided I was either going to learn to cook, or die of a weird nutritional deficiency. Women can’t resist a guy cooking for them, so there’s that, too.

  “So when is your date?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t bother to finish chewing before answering. “It’s not a date. We’re having d-dinner tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a date to me.”

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “You w-were about to ask if I would be hitting it after, or s-something.”

  “And?”

  “If I’m lucky. But probably n-not, and don’t give me any shit about it.”

  My brother’s a mystery to me sometimes, which is saying a lot, since I’ve cleaned up his puke and pulled a nail out of his hand. He is good-looking and smart, and girls like the quiet, artsy types. I’m not sure why he acts like any woman that talks to him is doing him a favor. So what if he has a stutter?

  It’s like Ryan’s in a hole filled with fucking quicksand and I’m throwing him a rope he won’t grab on to. But I know I can’t force him to be more confident. How the hell did my mom do this for both of us all by herself? For the thousandth time, I apologize too late to Ella Jane for all the shit I put her through, and I wish she were here.

  Ryan dines and dashes, which is fine. I was supposed to go to a game with this guy, Josh, from work. He’s a junior account exec, and he’s always trying to suck up to me like we’re bros. That guy’s a climber, though, and I don’t trust him, so I bailed. Now, I’m alone on a Friday night, with nothing to do—except for one thing. My fingers are tapping on my thighs, and before I’m aware of it, I’m getting dressed to go out.

  I keep it casual with jeans and a sweater, but I still take time to tame my hair. It’s thick and wavy, so I usually keep it out of my way by slicking it back with a ton of hair clay. Tonight I let it fall where it wants to. I’m heading out the door and into downtown before I can stop myself.

  It’s early yet, and I have some time to kill, so I stop into a coffee shop and order a latte. I nurse it as I try to talk myself out of what I’m about to do, but that talk doesn’t go so well. The caffeine courses through my system, making my hands shake, so I walk around, amusing myself by watching the bearded hipsters going in and out of bars and restaurants. I know nothing is going to keep me from my destination, so I wind my way there.

  Inferno is your typical lounge and bar, with decent drinks and a lot of red walls that accentuate the tacky theme. It’s long in the tooth, as lounges go, but it’s still putting up a good fight.

  It’s 9 P.M., so no one with any self-respect will get here for at least an hour. The bartender is a hip girl with a big Afro and a leather vest. She winks at me, but I can tell she doesn’t swing my direction. Sure enough, she’s making eyes with a girl at the end of the bar. Still, she stops and serves me a really solid bourbon, so I give her a good tip. I take my time as I sip it, and ignore the people sitting around me. I’m here for one reason only, and I might as well not lie to myself about it anymore.

  A while later, I see a girl swish through the door. It’s Sam, with her long dark hair. She’s ditched her yoga pants and T-shirt for a skirt and blouse. You can tell she’s not very comfortable in them, because she keeps tugging the skirt down. Sam’s couldn’t-give-a-shit style works for her because she’s pretty, and because plenty of guys love girls who don’t try to impress them. I used to think they were morons.

  I close my eyes for a second, trying to avoid my fate. And then Elizabeth’s there in my field of vision, and I feel like the hunter she accused me of being. She is wearing a black tank dress—simple and casual but super hot. She has on nude heels that make her legs look a mile long. Her hair is shiny and straight, the golden highlights bouncing off the lights. She is smiling at Sam, and she is incandescent—young and happy and so unburdened. What does that feel like? It’s not so much that I envy Elizabeth her carefree twenties, but the idea of watching her move through them is intoxicating.

  I know she and Sam aren’t big drinkers, so it doesn’t surprise me when they head straight to the dance floor. More people have come in now, so I lose sight of the girls as they move and shake. Every once in a while I’m rewarded with a glimpse of Elizabeth’s blond hair swaying. She throws herself into her dancing, making it a whole-body experience, which is impressive, especially given she doesn’t n
eed liquid courage to do it.

  Some guy grabs Elizabeth’s hips and starts grinding with her. Jealousy and possessiveness hit me as he slides his hand low on her back, but I keep watching. My body feels unsettled and needy, and my mind is muddled, but I like it. Ryan has accused me of being cold because I’m not one to get too worked up about anyone or anything. Tonight, I’m anything but cold.

  The music is slowing down, and the crowd is shifting. I can tell Elizabeth’s about to head off the floor and hit the bar. My feet are already moving. I step up behind her, close but not too close. She turns around, then moves back in surprise when she sees it’s me. I pull her into me with one arm around her waist, and I lean down to whisper.

  “Dance with me once,” I say.

  Elizabeth nods to Sam, as if to say she’s okay. Sam heads to the bar but keeps her eyes on us.

  Even in heels Elizabeth has to tilt her chin up to look at me. She has makeup on, which makes her eyes seem as big as the full moon. Her pale hair glows soft. I pull her in closer to touch a strand without consciously deciding to.

  “Why are you here? she asks, even though it’s a question she knows the answer to. I’m glad her voice isn’t steady.

  I shrug, but then I change my mind. “I’m a masochist, I guess.”

  I can see her wheels turning. I know she doesn’t think she should dance with me but wants to. Finally, she puts her head on my shoulder and we sway together.

  “Just once.”

  My hands stroke down her back to her hips and settle there. Her dress is soft, but her skin is softer, and I’m itching to touch it. She breathes into my neck, and chills swim down my spine. With every turn, we’re gravitating toward each other, inching closer. There are a lot of things I’m curious about. I want to know why she is the way she is. How she came to be here. What she wants out of her life. But tonight isn’t going to be about words, and our bodies already know all they need to. We fit together, hip to thigh, stomach to chest, and we feel connected. I don’t know what I expected from tonight, but not this intimacy.