by Jay McLean
I grunt, causing her to laugh silently.
I call for a car and five minutes later, it shows up. Chris set us all up an account with a nationwide car service so we don’t catch cabs. It’s for security, he says, but I think it has more to do with the fact that pictures (which I’m sure a cab driver had taken) of Nico receiving um… pleasure… in the back of a cab once surfaced. Nico thought it was amazing. So did the other guys. I thought it was funny. Nico’s grandmother—a crazy old Puerto Rican lady who always seems to be holding something she can use as a weapon—did not find the amazement or humor in it.
She beat his ass pretty bad—though he’d never admit it—and promised to paddle the boat that would take him back home, all while cursing the entire United States of America.
Poor fucking Nico.
“What’s funny?” Becca says through her phone.
I blink out of my daydream and face her, shaking my head. “Just thinking about something Nico did.”
We arrive at the sports bar & grill. Becca told me earlier that it’s where a lot of the students from her college hang out. She said we were meeting up with a few of her friends. A few is a table of fifteen. “The girl of the hour,” some guy shouts, standing up and moving toward us as soon as we come into view. He hugs her, and she hugs him back, and they seem to do this for a long time. Much longer than I’m comfortable with. Best behavior, Warden.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone,” he says, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. I do the same, mentally calculating the outcome should push come to shove. He offers me his hand. “You must be Josh?”
Men are such dicks, and I say that as a man who two seconds ago was ready to throw down over some guy hugging his girl.
He says, “I’m Pete. I’m the editor on the school paper.”
“I’m Josh… but you knew that already.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Becca’s slightly obsessed with you.”
Becca shoves his shoulder.
And in less than a second he goes from “imminent threat” to “one of the guys.” As I said, men are dicks.
He leads us to the table, introducing me to everyone there, as well as what their roles are on the paper. I’m surprised by how many of them are still here even though it’s summer break. Once I’m seated, they explain that many of them get local summer jobs and/or internships just like Becca has. In the back of my mind, I recount Pete’s statement. The girl of the hour.
Soon enough, meals are ordered, eaten and drinks are flowing and that thought passes. Becca sits, listening to her friends talk, our hands linked under the table. They discuss things I know nothing about, but Becca does, because she laughs with them, and although silent, the impact on my heart is the same. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it—her voice, and the sound of her laughter and the occasional snort that came with it.
Pete stands, clanking his fork against his beer bottle, gaining my attention. “I want to make a toast to Becca,” he announces, waving the fork in the air. Becca grasps my arm, using it to hide her face. “If only half the population could see the world through your lens.”
The rest of the table applaud and cheer for Becca. I turn to her, pull my arm away and ask, “What’s going on?”
“She didn’t tell you?” Pete asks, and I go back to hating him.
“That’s so Becca,” shouts a girl at the other end of the table.
“It’s not a big deal,” Becca signs.
I shake my head, trying not to let my annoyance take precedence over whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to be celebrating.
“Your girl Becca here…” Pete says, pointing his bottle at her, “wrote an article and attached a photograph with it that now has”—he looks over at the That’s-So-Becca girl—“how many retweets now?”
The girl looks at her phone, a huge grin splitting her face in two. “6,438!” she yells.
“It’s the most in WU history,” Pete tells me, sitting back down. “It’s had so much exposure that it caught the attention of one of the board members from Fine House Awards. He wanted to buy it from her, but she refused to sell it, so instead, he nominated her for debut artist of the year!”
It must’ve happened recently because I have all the newer editions of the paper at home. I just haven’t had a chance to go through them. “That’s amazing,” I tell Becs. Part excited, part angry, part annoyed that they all seem to know more about my girlfriend than I do.
She rolls her eyes and holds her phone between us, using the Notes app to type, I assume so the others don’t hear. It’s just a nomination. I’m not even a finalist.
“Still, Becs. That’s huge. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I was going to, but it happened the same day you told me you moved up a world rank and I don’t know… She shrugs. It just wasn’t as exciting.
I shake my head, my eyes narrowed at her. “I want to see the picture.”
She smiles now, her eyes lighting up with it. She reaches into my pocket and grabs my phone. Her thumbs work to enter my pin, open the Twitter app, find the WU account and follow it. Then she hands it to me.
On the screen is a black and white photograph of Chazarae with a couple, sitting on the grass, a single blanket covering their legs. Chazarae sits in the middle, a man on one side and a woman on the other, both wearing woolen caps pulled low on their brows and layers upon layers of sweaters and jackets. The weariness in their eyes mixed with the slight dirt on their jaws along with the plastic bags piled next to them makes them appear homeless, and knowing Chazarae, they probably are. The picture’s taken from beyond their feet. Chazarae, barefoot, feet angled, heels together and toes apart. On either side of her, the couple wear new, bright white sneakers with the familiar Globe logo on the soles. But it’s none of those things that have my breath catching and my eyes fixed on the image. It’s the fact that Chaz is laughing, carefree and full of life. She’s laughing so hard, her head’s thrown back with the force of it. I hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time and I wonder for a moment how long ago the picture was taken. But her hair’s short so I know it’s recent, because Sadie had called a few months back and told me she’d found Chaz in the kitchen, eyes blank, cutting off her hair because of the spiders living inside it. She was having a bad day, obviously. A black day. But this image captures the Chaz I know, the Chaz she is. The Chaz she wakes up every day trying to find. The ache builds in my chest caused by pity and relief that she was able to be herself, even for the few minutes it had taken for Becca to capture the moment, capture Chaz in all her perfect glory. Beneath the image is the caption:
Photo Credit: Instagram – ViewsOfEmeralds.
Title: True Angels Fly Without Wings.
I blow out a heavy breath. And then another. And another. All while I blink back my emotions. Push back my tears.
“Do you like it?” she signs, her hands low so I can see them.
I look up at her, my bottom lip between my teeth to stop the trembling. “It’s beautiful, Becs. You captured your grams…” The lump in my throat prevents me from saying anything more, but she knows what I mean, because she nods, her hands cupping my face, thumbs swiping at my closed lids, removing the tears caught in my lashes.
When I open my eyes, she’s smiling at me. Her hands leave me to sign, “Have you seen that couple before?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
She switches to her phone again, knowing what she wants to tell me might be too advanced for my sign language skills. I took it when I was with her during spring break. They’re a homeless couple from the park. Did you know she goes there often to hand out food?
I nod. “She’s always done it. Tommy and I have gone with her a few times, but not for a while.”
We stole a bunch of shoes and clothes from your garage and spent the day handing them out on the streets and in shelters. Sorry. I meant to tell you… She chews her lips, peeking up at me, waiting for my reaction.
I laugh once. “I don’t care
.”
She seems to relax. So you really like it?
“I really do, Becs.”
Good. I want to make Grams proud. And you, too. I know how much she means to you.
“Becs…”
She curls her hand around my neck and pulls my face to her bare shoulder, letting me use it to wipe the stupid tears away. I can handle most things life throws at me, but not this. Not the life He seemed to choose for Chaz. “It’s not fair,” I murmur, forgetting for a moment we may possibly have an audience.
Becca presses her lips to mine, soft and warm, and she leaves them there. Not kissing. Not really doing anything but letting me know she heard me.
I’m the first to pull away, eyes scanning the table to find fifteen sets of eyes watching us. I clear my throat and sit up higher, throwing an arm around Becca’s shoulders. “We should celebrate,” I mumble.
I order a round of tequila shots for everyone. Followed by another. Then four more. Until we’re that table at the restaurant. Young, drunk, and obnoxiously loud.
“Are you any good?” Pete yells across the table, his eyes glazed from the alcohol.
“Good?” I ask, leaning forward so I can hear him. “At what in particular?”
He rolls his eyes. “At skateboarding! Are you good?”
I rear back a little, confused by his question. Becca settles her hand on her stomach to ease the ache of her continuous laughter.
The guy next to me, I have no idea what his name is. Let’s call him… Bob. So Bob yells, “He’s a pro skater, asshole. Of course he’s good!”
Ah, so Becca did tell them about me. I was beginning to wonder if anyone besides Pete knew about me or if I was just Becca Owens’s boyfriend from out of town. Not that I’d care.
“I skated once,” he tells me. “Figure skating. On ice.”
The table erupts with laughter.
The That’s-So-Becca girl—Fuck, I should really learn their names—yells, “Not at all the same thing, douche hole!”
“I want to see you skate!” Pete yells, waving a finger between us.
“You can just type in my name on YouTube,” I tell him.
He repeats my words mockingly, and maybe I should be offended, but the laughter around me has me guessing this is just Pete being Pete.
The waitress approaches, asking if we’d like to order anything else. I lean in close to Becca and ask, “Are we here for the rest of the night?”
She rubs my newly shaved head. I don’t know why. She’s been doing it all night. Then she signs, “We normally close out the place.”
I order a few pitchers of beer for the table and another round of shots. “Actually, just leave the tequila bottle here,” I tell the waitress.
She scoffs. “The manager’s going to want you to pay for your meals and drinks and keep a card at the bar before I can get you anything else.”
In unison, everyone at the table moans as they reach for their wallets.
“I got it,” I shout.
Becca grasps my arm. “Sure?” she mouths.
I hand the waitress my card. She stares at the black American Express I just handed her, cocks an eyebrow, and then looks at me. “Yeah, I’m going to need to see some ID.”
I give her my license, used to the treatment.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, spinning on her heels.
“So you actually make money from this ‘pro skater’ gig, huh?” Pete says, using his fingers to emphasize pro skater.
“You’re an idiot,” Bob tells him. “He’s like any other pro-athlete, but instead of major team endorsements, he earns individual ones. Globe, Red Bull, Oakley, Primitive, they all pay him to wear their brands and promote their products.”
I face him, my eyebrows raised.
He just shrugs. “I write the sports column. It’s just general knowledge, right? It’s not like I stalk you in particular.”
“Fucking lies!” the That’s-So-Becca girl calls.
Becca slams one hand on the table, her eyes filled with tears from laughter. She knocks over her drink in the process, and instantly frowns at it. I lean down, my lips to her ear. “You’re a hot mess, Owens.”
“You should teach me to skateboard,” Pete shouts.
I find it hilarious that everyone’s yelling.
He adds, “Skateboarders get all the hot chicks!”
My eyes snap to Becs, who’s still silently laughing. She signs, “He’s drunk. And I’m almost positive he’s gay.”
I cackle with laughter at her response, while the waitress returns with the beers and bottle of tequila and places them on the table. “We’ll keep your card at the bar, just grab it from me when you leave,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.
Becca’s hands are on my head again.
“What did Becca sign?” Pete yells.
So much yelling.
All the phones on the table go off at once. Everyone picks theirs up quickly, their eyes scanning. Then they all laugh loudly. Bob even goes to high-five Becs.
“What just happened?” I shout.
Bob sits back down and shows me his phone and the group message with everyone at the table.
Becca: If that waitress bitch touches my boyfriend again I will cut her. And just so we’re clear, when I say “cut her” I mean, I will throw down and declare war on her ass. I don’t care if he has a black card or not, I can go from Sweet-B to Trailer-Park in less than a second!
I turn to Becca, my grin wide. “Sweet B?”
She crosses her arms. “I’m serious,” she mouths.
“Sweet-B to Trailer Park!” Pete shouts. “That’s fucking gold.”
We drink to Becca, again, and so the night goes. Sixteen college students and me, all sitting at a table, alcohol flowing, conversation loud, laughter constant, and for tonight—just one night—I’m nothing more than Becca Owens’s boyfriend from out of town. And it’s perfect.
Almost too perfect.
33
—Becca—
“What the hell are we doing, Becs? You’re going to get my ass thrown in jail and I can’t go to jail. It’s in my contract and ooh, my mamma will be sooo mad,” Josh says, his words slurred as I slip the key into the entrance of Say Something.
He’s drunk, clearly, which—in theory—is bad timing to bring him here and tell him what I want to say, but he’s leaving in a few hours, and I need to get it out, so here we are.
I take his hand and lead him through the dim light of the Say Something warehouse and to the bottom of the staircase that leads to the rooftop. “Who first?” I sign.
He tilts his head, confused. Then he nods once. “You’re pretty. And you have pretty hair and pretty eyes and a pretty ass so you should go first, so I can watch your pretty ass.”
Surprisingly, we make it to the top without any casualties. Especially considering we spent the entire climb with both of his hands on my ass.
I pick up the battery-operated lantern I keep in the metal box by the door and move to the middle of the rooftop. Tugging his hand, I sit on the ground, my legs crossed, waiting for him to do the same.
“Seriously, Becs, it’s almost four in the morning. What are we doing here?”
“I wanted to talk,” I sign.
His face scrunches and he rubs his jaw. “We couldn’t do that from the comfort and warmth of your bed?”
I shake my head. “Josh,” I sign. “I feel like I owe you an explanation… about the operation and everything that happened this morning.”
He clears his throat as he scoots closer to me, his knees touching mine. “Okay, babe,” he says, his tone sobering. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
I point to my phone, knowing I’ll struggle signing it.
Nodding, he places his hands on my knees and keeps his eyes locked on mine.
After taking a breath, I activate Cordy and gather my courage. “The truth is, after what happened with Tommy last time I was there, I tried really hard not to let it affect me, but it did. And I kind of lost my way a
little bit.”
“You know he didn’t mean what he said, right?” Josh says, his voice low. “He was angry at me and he took it out on you.”
I shrug. “It doesn’t really matter why it happened. It did. And it as much as I didn’t want it to—it hurt. Not so much that he said those things, but it was more the realization that I could never read him a bedtime story like he wanted, or that I could never sing with him, or talk properly to him. I thought about our future—not just you and me, but all three of us—and I somehow convinced myself that it wasn’t fair to have to put that burden on either of you.”
I hit speak and watch Josh as he takes in every relayed word. He’s no longer looking at me, though, he’s looking down at his lap. He doesn’t speak, so I continue, “But I was selfish. I wanted him in my life as much as I wanted you and I wasn’t willing to give it up without a fight. So I spoke to Lexy and asked if there was anything I could do. She told me about Dr. Schmidt, a doctor in Germany—a surgeon who specializes in his field. He comes to the States twice a year and operates on four patients who are prime candidates for what he does. Lexy thought I would be suitable, so she passed on my medical history…
“If I could have had the operation, it would’ve been a couple months from now. That’s why I got that job, but it wouldn’t have been enough, and I don’t know why, but I feel like you should know that I would’ve gone to you, Josh. I would’ve asked you for the money. If it came down to it… that’s how badly I wanted it.”
I wipe at the tears building and attempt to push down the ache tugging at my chest. Without looking at him for a response, I add, “I don’t deal well with disappointment. I shut down and I pretend like it doesn’t exist. That’s part of the reason I pushed you away this morning, because I knew you’d want to talk about it. I knew you’d try to come up with your own ways to fix the problem, because that’s who you are. You like to fix things, and I knew you’d do anything to save me.”
“Maybe it’s my pride. I don’t know. But it’s just like your money. I don’t want it to define us. I don’t want you to have to take care of me. I don’t want you to always be the hero, and for me to always be the girl who needs saving.”