Contents
Dedication
Quote
From L. Kyle Ricci
CHAPTER I. Massachusetts
Runaway
CHAPTER II. California
Arrival
Hotel
The Diner
Fate
CHAPTER III. Massachusetts
The Discovery
The Search
Blank Screen
CHAPTER IV. California
Dreams
Fight Club
Date
CHAPTER V. Massachusetts
Morning Glory
An Old Friend
The Ex
The Tip
CHAPTER VI. California
Storm
A New Friend
CHAPTER VII. Massachusetts
Mother Tears
Shattered Glass
CHAPTER VIII. California
A Love Never Found
Chaos
CHAPTER IX. Massachusetts
Details
CHAPTER X. Massachusetts
Unexpected
CHAPTER XI. Massachusetts
What Happened
CHAPTER XII. Massachusetts
Change
CHAPTER XIII. California
Exit
CHAPTER XIV. Massachusetts
Awake
Mary
CHAPTER XV California
Cassie
CHAPTER XVI. Massachusetts
Away
Tour
Asleep
Author's Note
Alone
For my father, who, like one of the main characters of this book, stays with me wherever I go.
"It slaked no thirst to say what love was like which came too late." — Malcolm Lowry
"With love I found you
and with love I bound you.
To me, betwixt fixed lines of reality
we stand broken, chained
comfortable in our ignorance, our youth.
Aging poorly to wither nonetheless.
And when the fires of desires forge
darkness, our minds are tempered,
hands quenched, clenched,
by the spirited waters of madness...
And Regret.
The haunting whisper of the heart."
— L. Kyle Ricci
Massachusetts
The Runaway
Shawn parks his car on the corner of the street where his ex-girlfriend lives and watches her through her bedroom window. She’s still awake.
And, more importantly, she’s alone.
The mere thought of the possibility that she’s spending time with someone else — some financial advisor with a tucked in, pale blue shirt, balding hair, a fancy silver watch that he probably won at a company retreat — melts his stomach with an acidic wave of jealousy. Mary always wanted to marry a rich guy, anyway. An older, rich guy. A man with a plan. Shawn has never been a man with a plan.
Except for tonight. Tonight, the plan is to watch Mary from his Impala, just to make sure she tucks herself in and goes to sleep alone. Probably best to not let someone else get in the way of their love. He’ll win her back anyway. Eventually.
Isn’t that right, Shawn?
The dirty streets of downtown Lowell are especially quiet for a July summer night. Shawn hates Lowell, with its wicked thin streets made up of houses that choke each other. Police sirens and screaming ex-wives, who hope to get their alimony or their Italian boyfriends to stop selling opioids and not end up over at Norfolk behind bars, drown out the sounds of summertime.
But tonight it’s quiet. It’s the exception, not the rule.
Yeah, Shawn hates Lowell. Maybe it’s because of what he and Mary’s lives have become. A droll, dismal life, where they’re stuck in an apartment complex that looks like a tooth splashed with one too many cups of coffee and glazed with the smoke from a cheap pack of cigarettes.
Shawn, with the Lowell crickets chirping around him and keeping him company, pulls his own Camel Crush out and lights up. He sucks up the smoke and blows it out the side window. Some of his nerves evaporate, but some stick to him like leeches, digging at his skin. Just turn out the light, Mary, he thinks. Turn out the light, shut off the Kardashians and go to sleep. For me, please.
He turns away, because really, how much longer can he look? His eyes find his keys. A Yankees keychain dangles thanks to the wind. He hates the Yankees. BoSox, all the way. But Mary loves those pinstripes. Happy wife, happy life, right? Guess the same rule applies for a girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend, now. Right?
The sound of Tic Tacs banging against their plastic case echo through his car as his right leg vibrates. He slides his iPhone out and sees MARY glowing on the screen above a smiling photo of her. He takes an extra second to stare at the bubble gum lips and pearly whites.
The emotional flood held back by the dam of his eyes slides down his throat and splashes against the acid wade pool of vodka and tequila shots. Shawn wishes he had made a plan now. He didn’t expect her to call.
He slides his right thumb against the screen. Leaning against his open window, he scratches the fake itch on his eyebrow.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“I know you’re still here,” she says.
He peers up at the window. The pale amber nightlight glows, as does a soft blue-white hue from the television. He thinks he sees the faintest hint of orange from Kardashian skin, too. Mary’s shadow flashes across the room.
“I’m leaving now,” he lies. He has somewhere else to go. Will and George invited him out for a guy’s night.
“You won’t get away with this,” she says, voice shaking.
The nerves camp in the acidic lake of alcohol and decide to fizzle and spread like dark ink, which flows down into his gut. Really, it feels like he’s been socked in a highly-sensitive area. His legs go numb and the hair on the back of his neck stands erect.
“You know it was a mistake.”
“Still did it.”
“Mary,” he pleads.
“I’m calling them,” she says. “You’re not going to get away with this.”
He shoves his key so hard into the ignition that he’s sure it will snap, or at least break through the dashboard and slice some of the wiring inside. With a hard tug, he pulls the key forward and ignites the engine. The car’s bass booms to the tunes of a hypnotic rap song, one either from the mid-90s or just last week. Whatever it is, a female sings the hook and the rap artist rhymes about rims, liquors and chains.
Shawn’s foot stomps against the gas and he’s off. He speeds around the corner past the package store and zips along the back road. He passes a Dunkin Donut and curves around onto Pawtucket Street. The roads are narrow and dark, with few lights to guide him. He flies by three separate motels along the way, all of which, he notices, have blinking NO VACANCY signs. But he needs a place to stay.
Where you going, Shawn?
Away.
He speeds along the thin New England roads until he finds 495. As he curves around the bend, he hears the faintest whoop-whoop of the po-po. They’re coming for him.
He checks his rear view mirror and just sees the headlights of some piss poor Masshole, who probably is heading over to KillKenny’s, or looking to find something better down in Boston.
He doesn’t realize he has already lit another cigarette and that his right hand is shaking. The reality settles in like the first snow of the season, dusting over him and chilling him all at once. She had seen him. The cops knew he was in Lowell and that he had been within reasonable distance. His new car was registered with the state, too, so eventually they’d find him, wouldn’t they?
Wouldn’t they, Shawn?
He swallows hard and slaps his right cheek to bring himself
back. He drives along a dark road with faint streetlights. Once every few minutes another car passes him. But really, he’s alone. Nothing rides shotgun, save for a few pieces of tobacco which pepper the seat. But tobacco won’t save him. He’s alone. And he always will be.
Right, Shawn?
He reaches into his pocket for his phone. He never picked it up from the floor earlier. Hunched over, he rips the phone from the ground. One eye on the road and one on his smartphone, he dials a number of a friend, one he knows will still be up.
“No way,” the voice says.
“Brandon,” Shawn sighs a breath of relief. “Thank God you’re awake.”
“It’s only nine here, man, of course I’m awake. What’s up? How’s your girl? What’s her name again? Mary?”
He didn’t know what happened. But Mary knows. Doesn’t she, Shawn?
“Good good, look, I’m gonna be in town this week and thought maybe we could catch up,” he says. Another lie, but a respectable one. He doesn’t want to explain that he’s running from the cops.
“Oh really. Yeah, man, yeah,” Brandon says. “Look, I’ve got some stuff going on, but feel free to stop by when you’re here. When you think you’ll be around?”
Shawn runs the math in his head. If he drives 12 hours every day, stopping for gas, food and a night or two at a hotel, it shouldn’t take too long to get to California.
When the conversation ends, Shawn pushes the pedal harder than before and drives on through the night. He checks behind him. A faint flash of blue and red glimmers in his rearview mirror.
California on his mind.
California
Arrival
When he finally escapes Lowell and reaches California, the sun blinds him and stings his already burning red eyes. He hasn’t gotten much sleep since he left home. Driving across country didn’t make it any easier. Especially not with his mind crowded with anxieties. His nails rest chewed. A hangnail drapes over like a crescent moon. His face lacks blood, pale with an insomniac’s tan, one brought on by the glowing moonlight.
Shawn’s not happy that he ran away. He’s anything but. But he had to. It was either run or be thrown in jail. No way he’s getting locked up. Too much potential success rests on his shoulders. Since high school he’s been told that he’s going to succeed, that he’ll be the one to break his family’s curse and become a leader in the world. The first member of the Hughes clan to rule the world, they said.
Shawn doesn’t see it. All he sees is the blinding sun.
His fresh Impala wends around the highway, the 405 — it looks like all the others. Plain, faceless and boring. Cars kiss each other, bumper to bumper. Honking horns and screeching brakes cut through the silence of a traffic jam. Shawn’s eyes find the giant E on his dashboard. The meter leans too close to the E for comfort.
His stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten since Denver. That’s a long twelve hours without something to eat. The chase played a big part in it. He didn’t want to rest too long. The whole drive he could hear the cops playing cat and mouse. The whirring, droning sirens and the flashing lights. They all followed him across the country.
He checks the car to his right. An older lady waits patiently in her beat up Grandam. To his left, a cheery family, a modern day vacation story, cheerfully dance and sing to a radio playlist. It probably has all the hits from those cartoons that wracked him as a youngster. You know, the ones about becoming a real girl or having no seashells to hold you down. Whatever. The family looks to be enjoying it. Good for them.
He reaches for his phone. Just about dead. A thin red line signals the coming blackout. No messages, missed calls or notifications to bother him. About an hour ago he saw one filter through from The Washington Scribe. Something about a breakthrough and a long-form magazine piece about Malaysian betting markets and soccer. Had he more time, he would give it a read. Maybe tonight on the toilet. He played soccer when he was young. Before all the trouble. Might as well read about it.
There’s not a lot to think about, so he stares out at the morning horizon. A perfect blue sky and a flowery yellow sun flood the city ahead. Smog gently hangs above the slanting light. Just enough to blacken the lungs of the clean teens. Los Angeles looks a little better than he remembered it. He’s been here a few times. Brandon always flies him out here for a getaway. It’s the perfect place to relax, his best friend told him.
Not true. Los Angeles comes with its own headaches. But not as many as home. Home plagues him. Darkens him. Ices him. Maybe the sun would thaw him out.
The traffic jam doesn’t break. It sticks. Shawn knows he has no one to blame but himself for this chaotic mess of a morning commute he finds himself in. He should have had the foresight to realize he’d slide into the Golden State city notorious for its traffic hiccups just as the sun dawns on the world.
He slips a Tic Tac in his mouth. Mint. Close enough to menthol. He craves a cigarette. His chest and back ache with tightness from the lack of smoke. He coughs. Another symptom of the cigarette drought.
He curls up, resting his head against the backend of the seat. His mind dips into the languid pool of reverie, drawing him into a fog that’s there, but not there.
Colors filter into the fog and slowly it all comes back, a distant memory he’s long since forgotten, and yet remembers all the same.
The big fight. The night he knew it was over.
The whoop-whoops echo throughout probably all of downtown Lowell.
And all he can think about is Omar, the barely legal kid down the block who runs the package store on Tuesday nights and how he probably loses business because the red and blue lights are too intimidating for a normal Massaholic to risk going to a package store.
There’s a knock at their apartment door. Two hard pounds from the cops on the other side.
They let the cops in. Typical checkup.
“Are you alright, miss?” the cops ask. Shawn’s eyes narrow on the pigs, one he calls Mustache and another just Portly because, well, that is their only respective recognizable characteristics.
“She’s fine,” Shawn says.
You sure, Shawn?
“We’re fine,” she says, lips quivering, tears once dry moistening again.
“Miss, would you like to press charges? We’ve heard a lot of screaming tonight,” Fatty says.
She shakes her head. “No, no, he’s a good guy.”
Right, Shawn? Oh, of course you are.
“Miss, sometimes good people need help,” Mustache asks.
“She said she’s good,” Shawn replies. He already has another cigarette in his mouth.
While Portly waits in the background, Mustache walks over to Shawn, each footfall slapping against the black tar. “You listen to me, son. I know what it’s like to be a prick, OK? You touch this woman in anyway and we get word, I’m gonna lock you up so hard you’ll beg me bring you into the station, not my own personal cell. Or worse, I’ll call your father.”
Shawn gets the message. But like the officer says, he’s a prick. So he just nods and blows smoke out of his mouth. He knows the cops will come again. This has been a repeating pattern for awhile now. One of them says something stupid, the other fights back and soon it becomes the neighborhood watch party of the century.
A horn squawks and he’s awake. Blinding sun slapping his eyes and his cheek bones. His eyes sanded over, he shakes his head and lightly presses his foot against the peddle. Down the highway he goes, out of reverie and away from the past.
Hotel
Shawn’s eyes fade as he snakes around the traffic toward the hotel. It's not so much a race against time as it is a desire to finally sleep. Catch the Zs and not wake up until a handful of days pass. Nothing much matters anymore. Not since Lowell. Not since everything fell apart and his life became a screwed up pot of steel. Messy with chewy bits of savory texture that barely make it worth living.
It's a Holiday Inn. Nothing too special about it. He can't afford the more luxurious hotels. Licentious women crawl
outside begging him to spend his last bit of cash on a fun night out on the town, or at least in their bedroom. He's not about it. He's given up on women.
Once he steps inside, the raw hand of dusty air and smoke slaps him across the cheek. It's got that old hotel smell. You know the one. Raw, smoky, a hint of vanilla to mask the tar that hangs in the air. Shawn has spent plenty of time in rundown motels, hotels and casinos. He knows the smell all too well to be thwarted by it. And yet it stings. Maybe not the smell or the lingering taste. Maybe it’s the memories.
The memories of when they went to Vegas. Or Mesquite. Or Mohegan. Not Foxwoods. Or Atlantic City for that matter. They never made it down there. Some trips just aren't worth the journey.
That's how it was toward the end of their relationship. Fights and stagnant conversations. Even when they were happy they were flat. Conversations were short and pointless. She ran out of things to say, he forgot how to make her happy. She barely smiled. Old tricks that bewitched her became poisons. It didn't matter what they said or did, the relationship waded in a swampy lagoon, just waiting for the monster known as Breakup to reach its ugly slimy claw up and snatch the boat into the depths of the sea.
It came eventually. But the hand was slimy and thick. And it didn't snatch the relationship into the water. It smacked it hard across the face, leaving a trailing red mark. Like paint upon a wall.
He can see her still. Faded and blurry, but she's there. Crying with a red face. Dripping with the last tears they'll ever share together. Distraught and uncertain. Unhappy and broken. Shattered and abhorred. She stares at him, longing for the boorish and petulant man to grow into an adult — to be the man she's always wanted him to be. Those eyes. Longing eyes. Eyes that beg him to grow up and apologize, to take it all back, to be the man she met in high school. Grown up and hoping to fix his fitness. Not this man. Her eyes hate this man.
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