by N. N. Britt
I had to get rid of my frustration over Dante Martinez, and Harper happily lent his ear.
“You have to admit, the man can be very persuasive,” he said calmly, leaning forward to grab his lemonade from the coffee table.
I stopped pacing and glared at him. “That’s not helping. You. Taking his side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side, sweets.” Harper shrugged, then took a small sip of his drink and placed the glass back down.
“You just sat there and watched him play me.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Yes, it was.”
There was a long pause.
I grabbed at my T-shirt to peel it away from my sticky chest and fanned myself with my palm. This heat was unbearable. I’d forgotten to turn on the AC today before we left, and now the house felt hotter and stuffier than a sauna. It was an older building with thick walls that took a while to cool down. My electric bills in the summer were usually so high, I was scared to look at them.
“You know what you need?” Harper murmured, tapping his chin with his index finger.
“What?”
“To get laid,” he mouthed, a grin splitting his face.
“Don’t say stuff like that with my daughter in the next room,” I fumed softly and resumed pacing, my gaze darting toward the hallway. The lack of music unnerved me. Quiet Ally was always up-to-something Ally.
“I’m pretty sure your daughter has better things to do than eavesdrop on her abstinent mother and her single gay godfather.”
“You don’t make us sound like much fun.” I flung my hands in the air, suddenly feeling very old and tired.
“Right now, I don’t want to be fun.” Harper motioned at his ruined khakis. “I’ve been used and abused for over ten hours today. I have my limits, you know.”
“So do I, and men with shady pasts don’t fall within those limits.”
“I really think you should give the guy a chance.”
I pinned my friend with a deadly stare.
In turn, he reached for his glass again. “He has a point. He can open up a lot of doors for Ally if she continues to work hard. Honestly, I’m trying to look at this whole situation objectively.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re not the one who’s going to have a stranger visit your place weekly.”
“Oh, sweets.” Harper batted his lashes. “We’re not talking about a series of one-night-stands here. We’re talking about guitar lessons... With a chaperone.”
Suddenly, there was a disturbance down the hall. A door slammed. Outside, a car approached, its headlights streaking across the living room windows for a brief second.
Ally emerged, dressed and showered, heavy eyeshadow, lipstick so dark, it could have been black for all I knew and made my daughter look like she’d been eating charcoal and drinking blood.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she informed us on her way out, all business.
Instinctively, my gaze shot up to the decorative round clock on the wall. The time was almost eight.
“It’s late, Ally,” I said, examining her tank top, particularly the number of holes it bore.
“It’s summer, Mom.” She was already near the door.
“Wait a second.” I marched over to her. “Where are you going?”
“Just grabbing some milkshakes and fries.”
“Who are you going with?”
“Pauline and some friends.” Her face stayed perfectly still and, to my horror, I couldn’t tell whether she was lying.
“Who are these friends?”
“Mom, seriously?” Ally cringed as if I’d asked her something utterly outrageous.
“Who’s driving?”
“Cal.”
A small amount of relief flowed through me. Cal was harmless. “Who else?” I peered outside as she swung the door open. My driveway was crammed with my own 4Runner and Harper’s Jaguar.
“Mom, come on. Don’t be embarrassing.” She hopped down the stairs and ran for the car parked by the curb. It was a silver Honda, a model that was a couple of years old at least. Loud rock music blasting from the vehicle pressed against the quiet of the neighborhood like darkness against light.
“Be home by ten,” I warned, straining my vision to see past the tangle of lemon tree branches that obstructed my view of the car. All I made out was four heads. And some wild laughing.
“Eleven,” Ally responded, her voice determined. Then she ducked inside the Honda and the kids took off.
I stood immobile and stared at the empty street until the sound of Harper’s footfalls moving through the room brought me back to reality.
“Hey, sweets. I’m exhausted.” He rested his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You going to be okay if I head out?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I nodded. “Thank you for helping today.” Never mind the fact that it was wholly his idea.
“It was fun.” Harper smiled softly. “And I needed it.”
Silent understanding passed between us. He was still going through the motions of a post-relationship heartbreak and as much as he tried to hide his misery, it poured out of him like water from a tipped over glass. I felt its heavy presence and my skin crawled.
“See you at work,” Harper blurted out and strode to his Jaguar.
“See you at work.” I gave him a wave and watched him maneuver out of my driveway, then went back inside, took a much-needed shower, and settled in front of the TV to wait for Ally. Halfway through the movie, exhaustion knocked me out and when I startled awake several hours later, Ally was still gone, her room empty and devoid of life.
The AC had cooled the house enough that I shivered as I called her cell. She didn’t pick up. Instead, I was greeted with the voicemail recording.
It was quarter to midnight when a car rumbled outside in the street, and soon after, the noise became an obvious blend of music and excited laughter. I almost stepped onto the porch but remembered what I was wearing—a silk robe that hardly covered my thighs—and decided against further investigation. Moments later, footsteps sounded across the front yard. They were unmistakably Ally’s, tiny and sure. She shouted something into the night and several voices responded.
The front door flung open and she appeared in the living room, makeup intact, hair in place.
“I thought we agreed on ten,” I said sternly.
“Eleven,” she countered, hardly slowing down.
“Ally!” I raised my voice. “Please stop for a second.”
She did as I requested, her back still to me.
“Can we talk face-to-face?”
She spun around and popped her hip. “Okay.”
“If I say you have to be home at ten, that means ten. Not eleven forty-five.”
“It’s not a school night, Mom, and I wasn’t doing anything. We just went to the movies.”
“You need to text me, Ally.”
“I wasn’t doing anything,” she repeated, then turned and ran for her room.
Great. I was a complete failure as a mother.
7 Dante
You’re a drive-by.
And you never clean up your mess.
The words came back to haunt me that night after my wet car wash adventure. Then the next morning, and the morning after.
No wonder I hated being sober in my previous life. Everything said and done wasn’t so easily erased when my mind clung to each insult tossed my way. Typically, I just ignored them, but not this time.
Camille Rockwell was the first woman who’d managed to inflict pain on my dormant consciousness. And because I was making amends to the entire world, I thought to myself, what the hell, and called Frank.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Thrice.
The coward in me was glad for it. Maybe Cassy had lied. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to me after all. Maybe he’d moved on.
The line clicked. “Dante.” Not a question.
“Hey, Frankie-boy.” My heart hammered in my chest. The soft hum of the
washing machine carried from the back of the house. Yanneth had agreed to demonstrate how to bake lemon chicken today and, oddly, I was looking forward to my time in the kitchen. The thought made me giddy. Before the stroke, I could barely make toast without burning it.
“Long time.” Frank’s voice was so calm when he spoke, I envied him.
“Been a few months, right?” I tried to sound equally aloof, as if this wasn’t a big deal. As if we were just two dudes catching up.
Truth was, we were two fucking nuclear warheads. One wrong move and the proverbial shit would be hitting not just the fan but the entire universe.
“How have you been?” Frank asked somewhat formally.
I was downstairs, boxes still crowding the space, and despite the AC blasting on full power, the air around me was thick and solid, so I padded across the living room and onto the terrace. Outside wasn’t any better. Stifling heat enveloped me from head to toe, creeping along my spine like a spider, slipping into my nose and coating my lungs. But I liked the fact that there were no walls. Just an endless stretch of empty, plant-dotted land.
I felt my bones grow hot and brittle as a rush of dry wind whipped across my hair and face. It smelled of burnt grass and baked potatoes and reminded me of my childhood, of my years before everything became fucked, of my years before booze and drugs pulled me under.
“I’m managing,” I finally said and sank into a chair.
He was quiet and the silence pressed against me from all sides and angles.
“You know your girlfriend came by the other day,” I started.
“I figured that’s why you were calling.”
“You don’t think I could’ve come to this decision on my own, huh? My brain isn’t scrambled completely. It’s just over easy.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” His tone became combative. Ah, he still had his human heart intact. Somewhere beneath all that titanium.
“What are you saying?” My traitorous voice changed too, shook and wobbled like a newborn baby in a crib.
A pause.
I waited.
“Look, I don’t want to fucking fight right now,” he muttered.
“Me neither, Frankie-boy.” I drew a deep breath. “I’ve been tossing some ideas around...about the shit with the label. I’m considering being part of the assault team.”
“Don’t do this because Cassy asked you behind my back.”
“Nah.” I lifted my feet and rested them on the table. The chair creaked under me, its legs scrapping the terrace floor. “Over easy, not scrambled. Remember?” Although he couldn’t see me, I tapped my own temple for good measure.
“Hmm.”
“I can do my own critical thinking.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need some more details. But not over the phone.”
“Okay. You want to meet?”
I pondered it. The last time we’d seen each other was at Melrose Cinema when I, desperate to reconcile, skipped out from rehab and crashed Cassy’s premiere. For one night, Frank Wallace and I had set our differences aside and made music. And surprisingly, it felt good. Just being and not trying to rip each other’s throats out.
“Yeah, let’s talk,” I said, crossing and uncrossing my ankles. The table rattled softly from the movements.
“Okay. I’ll make some time. I’ll text you.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Bye, Frankie-boy.”
He hung up.
For a long moment, I stared into the distance, surveying the mountains and the skimpy puffs of clouds above the horizon, and then I dialed Javier’s number.
“So he’s alive,” my manager joked.
“If drugs didn’t kill me, nothing will,” I joked back before steering the conversation toward a serious matter. “You following the news?”
“You mean the lawsuit?” We’d spoken about it once, very briefly.
“Yes.”
“It’s not looking good.”
“Johnny’s on it too. I want you to call my lawyer and see how much greater of a chance we have to get the masters back if I’m included.”
There was an uncomfortable beat of silence, as if Javier was processing what I’d just said. I heard him let out a sigh. “You want to go against KBC, Dante?”
“I’m considering it, but I need to weigh all the pros and cons first.”
“You know you could be in the courts for years.”
“I’m aware.”
“You know the amount they’re suing him for, right?”
Frustration twisted my nerves. Malik had an appointment with his divorce attorney today and we’d skipped the hike in favor of serious adult business, and now I was restless with the extra energy. “What the fuck do you think? I can’t read shit? Call my lawyer. Get me some more info, get me some numbers.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Javier deadpanned.
My attitude never phased him. I suppose wired and sober me was still better than high and out-of-control me.
“What are you, my mother?” I snapped. That was a crappy comparison. These days, my mother didn’t want anything to do with me unless it involved a fat check. The bitter truth was that no one cared about me the way parents usually cared about their children...the way Camille hovered over her daughter.
I wasn’t really loved. Not the way I wanted to be. Not by the people who mattered.
“I got it,” Javier said flatly. “You need anything else?”
I had to think about his question for a second because my mind blanked. Yet again. The new fucking normal. “No.” Then I schooled my tone into cheerful and added, “Thanks.”
After we said our goodbyes, I rose from the chair and went inside. The walls of the house suddenly started to close in on me and there was a long moment that I simply stood in one spot with my head swimming and my body frozen. I stared into the empty stretch of hallway that led to the back of the house, where a woman I paid was doing my laundry.
Yes, money could buy almost anything. Almost.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Martinez?” Yanneth asked as she emerged from one of the rooms.
I cringed a little at how she addressed me. Years later, it still felt too formal for someone who came from the slums. “Yeah. Yeah.” I nodded and patted my pockets, searching for a cigarette. Then I remembered I didn’t smoke anymore.
“Okay. I’ll be done here in a little bit.” She set something on the small console table by the wall and disappeared into the laundry room to finish her task.
Right, we had a cooking lesson appointment.
I walked the length of the hallway and looked at the item she’d apparently salvaged from the pocket of my jeans. A flyer from the Sunday car wash. I picked it up and read the headline.
Ready to Settle Down?
Below it was a color photo of a puppy with a button nose, one ear flicked up, paw toward the camera as if offering it for a handshake.
The next morning after the hike with Malik, I headed out to Simi Valley.
I questioned my intentions throughout the duration of the drive and almost turned around halfway to the shelter, but Camille’s words came back to haunt me again.
You leave tons of damage behind. And you never come back to clean up your mess.
My ego suddenly roared, and that’s how I found myself parked in front of a shabby-looking brick building with a sign above its entrance that read BrightSide an hour later. The hand-painted letters were chipped in multiple places, which made it difficult to figure out what it said unless you put some major effort into deciphering what once might have been an ambitious artistic endeavor.
Even in the confines of my Navigator with its windows rolled up, I could hear muffled noises coming from within the walls of the building.
And occasional barking.
Adjusting my shades, I fished a lollipop from the front pocket of my shirt, unwrapped it, and stuck it between my lips. It didn’t really help to calm my nerves. Sugar�
�s got nothing on cocaine.
But I knew that already.
A frustrated feeling rose within me as I climbed out of my car and into the sweltering California heat. My gaze darted to the entrance of the shelter. It was a glass door and I could see several silhouettes moving inside, strangers going on about their business.
The parking lot was bare, no trees or shade, and the sun was beating down on me without mercy. A hot gust of air ruffled the dry grass, and when I looked into the distance, the shapes farther away on the horizon appeared to be melting.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, then hurried toward the door.
The main lobby was small, with dozens of posters of cats and dogs on the walls. Across from the entrance was a reception area, and a younger girl with short, dark hair sat behind the cluttered circular desk.
“Hi, welcome to BrightSide,” she rattled off, lifting her gaze from whatever she was doing.
“Hello, little lady.” I neared her, hooking my thumb into the front pocket of my jeans. “Just wanted to check out this place.” A shrug.
“Are you looking to adopt a pet today?” she asked, her tone friendly and open.
“I don’t know yet.” It was the honest truth. I’d never had anything to take care of. Fuck, I could barely take care of myself. Mainly, I just wanted to see where the thousand bucks I secretly donated on Sunday went.
“Well,” the girl said, infusing even more cheer into her voice. “The best way to find out is to meet them.”
Ten minutes later, I was walking past the throng of cages cramming the back of the building.
The woman who accompanied me was older, perhaps in her fifties, with a mop of graying hair gathered into a ponytail. She wore dark brown work pants and a matching shirt. A massive keychain that jingled every time she moved hung on her belt.
Behind the bars were dogs of all sizes, colors, and breeds. They stared at me with their restless and hungry eyes as if I wasn’t welcome here because I wasn’t one of them.
“Have you ever had a pet before?” the woman, whose name tag read Sherri, asked.
I wasn’t sure what exactly prompted her to ask that particular question. Perhaps she could tell I wasn’t the type to be responsible for another living creature. Or perhaps she asked that of everyone who came here.