Supposedly the same one where Keane’s hero, Nikolai “Mount Nik” Rustanov had bought his wife’s ring—at least that’s what Mount Nik’s younger cousin and his Hawks teammate, Cheslav Rustanov, had told him.
“Lena, listen,” Keane said. “There’s something I want to talk with you about.”
She blinked, coming out of the daze. “Me too. There’s something I need to talk about.” And unexpectedly she stepped back and out of his arms.
She often did this when she wanted to talk to him with a clear head. She’d joked a few times that having him too close when she was trying to make a point, completely scrambled her head. Usually he found it cute.
But today her step back raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
What turned out to be wrong was that she’d gotten off the waitlist to medical school—one her father had applied to behind her back after reading some article about how West Coast schools were more likely to accept East Coast candidates from prestigious undergrads than Boston area ones. What was wrong, was that instead of saying no and continuing with the plan she and Keane had made together for her to apply to local masters’ programs for clinical psychology the following school year, she was going to drop everything to go along with Daddy’s plan.
Everything including him.
According to her, she’d been going back and forth about it. Thought about trying to do long distance even. But their relationship was so young and undefined, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them to try to keep it going. And this conversation, him buying this house had further convinced her…they just didn’t think alike…or have enough in common.
“So your dad says jump and you say how high? You’re just going to fuck off and live his dream instead of yours? I don’t understand,” he answered, feeling like he’d just been jumped by a bunch of guys behind a bar.
But his lack of understanding had been the final nail in their relationship’s coffin as far as Lena was concerned.
“That’s because you don’t know what it’s like to actually love your parents,” she’d answered with a sympathetic look. “To be grateful to them and want to pay them back for everything they’ve sacrificed for you. I’m sorry, but that’s what I mean about us being too different to work out in the long run. But you see what I’m saying about it probably being the best for us to break up, before either of us get too invested in…whatever this is?”
He hadn’t known how to answer that. How to get her to stay and not leave him. Like his mom had.
And he thought about it. He thought about begging like he did when he found his mom at that hockey player’s house. To his horror, tears pricked his eyes as Lena continued to gently explain why she just had to rip his heart out of his fucking chest for both of their futures. Not just hers.
But then he remembered how the one and only time he’d begged had turned out. With a slammed door in his face. And him having to live with the humiliation that he’d begged, actually begged that selfish bitch to come back, for the rest of his life.
“Stop fucking talking to me,” he said instead of begging, interrupting Lena mid-sentence. Then he told her the thing he wished he’d said to his mother. “Far as I’m concerned you’re dead. You’re dead to me. We don’t have nothing else to say.”
For a moment it had felt good. When she jerked back like he’d slapped her, because he didn’t hug her or cry about it like one of the little boys she’d been working with all summer. That horrified look on her face made a small burst of triumph flare inside his chest. For a second.
But then her shoulders slumped. And instead of telling him to go fuck himself like a real Boston girl would have, she said, “I understand, Keane. I can catch a T back to Roxbury. You, um…take care of yourself.”
Then instead of coming inside for a tour of his first real estate acquisition like he’d been planning, she’d walked away. Just like the girl in the Hawk’s victory song.
And he watched her go, with the ring burning in his pocket and “More Than a Feeling” playing quieter and quieter until she rounded the corner and it completely disappeared.
Chapter Ten
Eleven years ago, Keane had wanted to give Lena Kumar everything. A house in Back Bay…a ring on her finger. But instead of taking what he had to give, she’d ripped his heart out and walked away from him like their relationship was nothing to her. Just some wrong turn onto a cul-de-sac in a bad neighborhood, that required banging a Uey to get out.
But she was here now. Standing in the state-of-the-art foyer of his refurbished and seriously upgraded Victorian brownstone, looking around just like he’d wanted her to eleven years ago. And he had to admit she didn’t look much older.
She was dressed in a blue and yellow Mount Holyoke t-shirt and jeans. She’d eventually learned to stop wearing that single braid of hers the first few times he’d snapped the band and unraveled it during their hello kiss. But it was back now. Longer and even sturdier than before.
Despite having a kid between now and the last time they talked, she was back down to her high school weight. Like the California sun had melted away her Massachusetts forty and taken a few more pounds in tolls. But she still had curves, and unfortunately, he could still sense a fantastic pair of tits hidden underneath that crewneck.
He hated that his hands itched to touch them. Hated that he still couldn’t stop himself from watching her, like she was the only thing that had ever existed in the universe.
Hated that he could still hear “More Than a Feeling” playing loud and clear even through the furious red rage.
“I read you have an ice rink in your basement. Is that true?”
The question brought his head down to the real reason, the only reason he would’ve ever let Lena Kumar through the front door of the life he’d built after he sent her running a second time.
Max…
Looking at the kid now felt like a gut punch, and he didn’t know how he ever, for a minute could have thought he belonged to somebody else. “Children aren’t possessions,” Lena had said, her voice scolding, but hell if he didn’t look 100% his. Keane could see his mom in all the pretty boy features and his Dad in his direct stare as he waited for an answer on his hockey rink question.
“Sure do,” he answered. Somehow making it seem like it didn’t take all the breath out of his lungs to answer the question. “What do you want to see first? The rink or your room? I gotta run the Zamboni, but I can have it ready to go in five.”
“The ice rink!” Max answered, bugging his brown eyes like the answer was obvious.
Atta Boy, Keane thought, hating Max’s mother even more for keeping them apart. He’d have to figure out payback for that one. Nine years. Jesus Christ…another twisting rage bit at him that another man had been given the privilege of raising his son.
“But how did you even get a Zamboni down there?” Max asked, once again bringing him out of his rage spiral.
“That’s a funny story. We had to get it delivered down the stairs piece by piece. Took me and Bono weeks to put it together and get it working right.”
“Your brother’s the singer from U2?” Max’s eyes widened, just like his mother’s had back in Daytona when he confessed he liked her all along.
“No, that’s just what all of us call him because he’s too fu—I mean friggin’. Too friggin’ nice. His real name’s Benjamin.”
This explanation would have made complete sense to anyone from Boston, but Max scrunched his face, looking totally confused. Nine years…
“Anyway, we can take a ride on the Zamboni if you want, and I’ll show you how to drive it. Maybe that can be one of your chores or something while you’re here. You California kids have to do chores?”
Max looked to his mom uncertainly. “Just feeding my beta fish. Mom, says that I can’t get a dog until I can keep a fish alive for a whole year.”
Yeah, Lena would put conditions on something as simple as getting a dog. He thought back to how hard she made h
im work that summer. Always having to pick her up at work, so that her dad wouldn’t find out they were dating. No drinking, because how would she explain coming home with alcohol on her breath to her dad. No spending too much money on her either. She’d said it was because she’d read an article on young athletes overspending in Psychology Now. But later on he suspected her not letting him buy her a car had more to do with not knowing how to explain it to Daddy Dearest than the state of his bank account.
Somehow he managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice, as he asked Max, “Oh yeah? How’s that working out.”
Max answered with a sheepish look. “My last one died a few weeks ago, and Mom says I can’t get another one until we go back to California.”
Which was never going to happen. But no need to point that out. Yet. “Okay, well if you don’t keep up with the Zamboni, that’s going to bite you in the ass, because you’re going to have a hell of time trying to skate.”
Max nodded, solemn as a boy scout. “I can do it. I know I can. Just show me how.”
Yeah, that’s my boy, Keane thought, remembering how similarly willing to hustle he was at that age. He used to scrape windows, shovel cars out of snow for the whole block, and deliver packages for the uncles who weren’t really related to earn enough money to buy hockey gear. He even got paid to run and knock on doors for the owner/bartender at his dad’s favorite pub, to tell wives and girlfriends to come pick up their passed-out men in the days before Uber hit Southie. Anything, he used to be willing to do anything, if it meant extra rink time.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said, feeling like his heart was about to burst with pride.
“Max, honey, we should probably get settled in first before you learn how to operate heavy machinery.”
Lena’s voice brought both of their heads up from their father-son conversation.
“But mom…,” Max started to whine.
“Look kid, the ice was zambonied this morning.” Keane pointed to the short set of stairs that led to the basement. “How about you go to the cellar and check out the rink. I’ll show your mom to the third floor guest rooms and meet you down there.”
Max looked to his mom like he needed permission.
And she gave in with a grimace, “Sure, but please don’t operate any machinery without adult supervision.”
“I won’t!” he called back, already heading for the stairs.
But Max took all the happy out of the air with his departure. As soon as he was gone, Keane’s grin disappeared. “Follow me,” he said to Lena.
Then he grabbed the handle of the one suitcase he’d waited for them to pack before driving them here and headed toward the elevator, trusting her to follow. She did.
The elevator wasn’t part of the original plans, but when he’d come out of his yearlong bitterness fest, he’d had one custom designed to look like a much less creaky version of the early 20th century elevators you sometimes still found in these Back Bay brownstones. It lived behind a normal wooden door, and had a grated brass accordion gate, you had to close and secure in order for it to move.
But Lena barely seemed to notice the details of the elevator as they made the trip to the third floor…or the hallways lined in dark blue velvet wallpaper and cutting edge art…or the fact that her room looked like a five-star hotel suite, with a view of the bay.
And hell, if her having absolutely nothing to say about the home she’d rejected eleven years ago, didn’t make him feel like that rich Gatsby fuck from Freshman English as he rolled her bag into the room. He’d hated that book, but now the character who’d spent gobs of cash to impress some chick who ended up choosing her husband anyway weighed heavy on his mind.
Speaking of which…
“So you tricked that ex-husband of yours, too. Made him think he’d gotten you pregnant when it was really me.”
It was an accusation not a question.
“No. I didn’t,” she answered. Voice calm. Face totally neutral.
Keane’s heart lurched with the realization that her face was no longer an open book. He could no longer read her easily or sense exactly what she was thinking.
And before he could ask her the next obvious question, she turned abruptly to face him, her face placid as lake ice.
“I’m aware that given your limited ability or desire to fully process your emotions surrounding what I did, you’ve probably already opted for the punitive route.”
Keane dead-eyed her. “Speak English. I don’t understand Therapyese.”
She crooked her head, and slumped her shoulders, like even after all these years, he was still a disappointment. Then she translated, “I know you don’t understand, don’t even want to try to understand why I did what I did. I’m sure you’d much rather punish me. So what’s it going to take, Keane? What it’s going to take for you to let us settle this custody issue like adults?”
Expression inscrutable, and eyes unfathomable, he answered, “120 fucks. No condom.”
Chapter Eleven
The Institute for Better Boys looked nothing like Lena remembered.
Indestructible vinyl flooring painted to look like barnyard wood had replaced the converted church’s original rotting floorboards. The old oversized reception desk and lumpy couch at the front entrance had been thrown out and replaced with a simple light switch alert system and a cozy seating area.
A variety of options for waiting parents and patients filled the space: all sorts of stuffed chairs and couches, a table with several board games on top, and even an old school standup Pac Man arcade console with the sound cut off. State of the art white noise machine stood outside each of the doors. Everywhere she looked there were either plants or some other interactive element, like paintings you could touch, to make the space look warm, inviting and safe.
“Wow, a lot has changed around here,” she said to Nancy as they walked down a hallway lined in chalk drawings from the many emotion exercises. “I still remember how hard it was to get the boys to line up and take turns at the easel chalkboard after feelings meditation. Now you’ve got a whole hallway!”
“Yes, we’ve made many, many improvements over the last decade. We were lucky to receive a special grant from DGK to hire a consultant and interior designer to make our waiting spaces more inviting and patient friendly,” Nancy answered happily. She also looked nothing like the good-hearted but harried founder she remembered. The gray hairs that used to feather her temples were gone now, covered over in a matching vibrant red. She also wore her hair in a trendy bob, instead of a frizzy high ponytail, because “who has time for hair appointments?” And though all the day campers would be arriving any minute now, she seemed calm and relaxed.
She’d even offered to introduce Lena around the expanded offices, since the summer camp now apparently ran like clockwork.
Lena was grateful for the extra time, but her stomach soured at the mention of DGK.
“How many day campers do we have this year?” she asked, changing the subject. “I’m so sorry Max had to drop out at the last minute.”
“Oh don’t be, dear,” Nancy answered with a wry chuckle. “I used to have to canvas the neighborhood to get boys willing to attend the Better Connections summer camp. Now we’ve got a waiting list and rich parents complaining about their kids not qualifying to get in. A few of them even threatened to sue us. Can you believe it?”
Wow…no…no she couldn’t. But she didn’t blame them for being angry. If she was still a doctor’s wife, living in South Pasadena, she’d want to get Max into a day camp that looked like this, too. Had Keane really donated enough money to make all of this happen?
Mistaking her agitated look, Nancy said, “Don’t worry. Nothing ever came of it. Luckily, DGK also gave us free access to their legal department to handle the parents who think they can sue their way in. They really have been a godsend—oh, here’s Julio, who runs our Rainbow Grit group therapy sessions. Julio, this is Lena. She’s training with us in the hopes of starting a Dialectical Behavior T
herapy group for her own practice.”
Julio’s eyes lit up. “For girls? Parents are always asking me for referrals. What part of Boston are you located?”
“No part of Boston.” Lena shook her head with an apologetic wince. “My home practice is in Pasadena, California. It’s also co-ed and definitely not a non-profit. Truth be told, they’re a little skeptical about me taking on this training, because there’s already another practice, offering something similar for girls in California—though, that’s not a non-profit either.”
Julio’s shoulder’s sank. “That’s too bad. We need more programs like this for our underserved populations here in Boston.”
“Yes, I bet,” Lena answered, remembering how many girls in the mostly black school she attended before high school could have benefitted from the array of early intervention cognitive and dialectical therapies offered at the Institute for Better Boys. “This place is truly one of a kind. And wonderful.”
Yes, it was. But pointing that out made Lena’s chest erupt with guilt. She had hoped Keane had been exaggerating when he said the Institute for Better Boys wouldn’t be able to survive without his company’s funding. But he so obviously hadn’t been.
Who does this, she wondered as Nancy walked her through the cutting edge chart system software that her Pasadena practice was still trying to decide if they could afford—another gift from DGK. Who gives a worthy cause this much money, then threatens to destroy it if one person doesn’t do exactly as he wants?
The same kind of person who’d answered her question about getting her punishment over with, so that they could arrange a custody arrangement with, “120 fucks. No condom.”
The answer had come back so fast she’d thought she’d misheard. “What?”
“You heard me. I want 120 fucks. One for each month you kept him from me. No condoms.”
Keane: Her Ruthless Ex: 50 Loving States, Massachusetts Page 10