by A. L. Woods
I had no right.
“You’re lucky I don’t tell you to call him yourself.”
“Dougie?”
“What?” he asked.
At that moment I knew he had no intention of fulfilling the promise. He didn’t pretend to not know what had gone down between Sean and me. He hadn’t gotten any details from my mouth, so Lord only knew what version he got. Still, he had continued to call with regularity—although I suspected that was more at Penelope’s urging rather than from his own concern.
Except this time, I’d called him. “Just tell him, okay?”
“I’m not going to hurt the guy on his birthday, Raquel.” I heard him scratch at what I assumed was his stubble. “He’s still licking his wounds. Mentioning your name would be cruel right after…” he trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Right. I wasn’t helping matters by butting myself into Sean’s life after I had told him to leave, to let me go, to forget me.
“You’re right,” I conceded, playing with the ring that may as well have been an anvil on my finger right now. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Dougie cursed. “Raquel, you just gotta give these things time. It won’t always be like this between you two. Eventually, you’ll both move on and things will feel normal.”
“Normal?” I repeated incredulously. What did normal look like? What did normal feel like? Would it make thoughts of Sean more fleeting? Would I not see and feel him in every minuscule activity of my day-to-day? Would I not seek him out in the faces of people I saw when I ventured outside? Would I stop hoping it was him at the door? Would I eventually forget every kiss, touch, and murmured promise?
Will I forget? Is that what normal was going to be? If it was…
…I didn’t want it.
Dougie’s hesitation was as loud as the crowd at Fenway Park when the Sox hit a home run. “Flannigan,” he said with a groan. “Ah, fuck. That’s not…I didn’t mean—”
I could figure out what he was going to say next, and I wasn’t interested in the lie. That was what he meant, but I didn’t want to stick around to hear him claim otherwise.
“I’m going to go to bed,” I interrupted. “Penelope was right. I haven’t slept yet.”
“Just hold on a second,” Dougie quickly said. He killed the running water. His breathing grew labored, as if he was seeking Penelope’s guidance on how to defuse the situation.
Not that there was anything to diffuse. I was a bomb that failed to detonate. I lacked the will to even make a spark.
“Talk to you later, Dougie.”
“Don’t hang up on me, asshole.” But I did just that before he could say another word. Then I made a point of disconnecting the cord from the phone. I didn’t trust him not to call back any more than I trusted myself to not call Sean.
I was a selfish bitch; that was practically indisputable.
The ring I was sporting proved it.
I’d told Sean no. I declined his proposal. I’d slapped him. I rejected him. I had been merciless. I had no right to wear his ring on my finger, but I did. It made me feel connected to him somehow. It was what kept the tears at bay when I wanted to collapse and supplicate myself for forgiveness I wasn’t deserving of.
As I expected, seeing Sean had threatened to undo all the emotional progress I made, but rather than binge drinking and smoking a pack a day, or oscillating between being destructive and emotionally distraught, I’d thrown myself into writing.
And I’d written a ton, almost a completed manuscript in just a few short weeks, to be honest. None of it was that great, but there was something meditative and therapeutic about penning my thoughts on paper. Recounting my memories and injecting them into a fictionalized version of myself. On the nights that I couldn’t sleep—which this year had been a majority of the time—I watched the sunrise from my spot at the desk. Kinks had formed in my shoulders, and I had reduced mobility in my neck from spending long hours hunched over. Typewriters weren’t ergonomically friendly.
The soft ticking of the keys was a balm to my brain, the repetition acting like a needle and thread that helped me mend and stitch parts of my holed soul back together.
Rosa pretended not to notice the ring, and I pretended not to notice her staring at it. She still came every day, still brought food, still dropped kisses to the crown of my head and smoothed my hair out of my face. Sometimes she sat on the bed watching a telenovela while I wrote, other times she just complained about my posture.
I didn’t go to bed like I told Dougie I was going to. I got up and fixed a pot of bullshit coffee in the Barbie doll-sized coffeemaker next to the television. The fragrance from the grounds were deceivingly aromatic despite being utterly tasteless once hot water hit it.
What did I expect from an inn that only charged fifty-nine dollars a night? I needed to decide soon about what I was going to do next.
I couldn’t stay here forever, no matter how much of a safe haven this place had become for me. In almost three months, I’d burned through nearly six thousand dollars. Which left me with…
…four thousand, five hundred dollars and thirty-nine cents.
Staying here would not be a financially workable long-term solution; that was clear.
Which left me with two choices—find a new job and an apartment.
Or give Penelope what she wanted.
“Make a wish already, you’re taking forever,” Livy complained via teleconference. She was a distorted blob of pixels, bad internet connection, and her usual snippy attitude.
“Olivia,” Maria warned.
“How is it you still find things to complain about from out of state?” Trina observed, regarding the blurred figure of the middle girl in our family on the screen.
I controlled the first genuine laugh that wanted to crawl out of me in weeks. There was something almost reassuring about listening to them fussing. It had been a while since I experienced that feeling, and it seemed so ordinary and familiar. It was a return to life as it had always been, one smooth, freshly paved road, free of debris and roadblocks. It almost distracted me from missing the one person I wanted here the most.
I kept my family trapped in a cyclone of suspense as I stared at the tower of malasadas Ma had arranged in layers to emulate a cake. At the top, she stuck candles forming a three and a one side by side.
I was thirty-one.
And all I could think of as I watched the wax roll from the sides of the implanted candle and onto the sugar donut was what I had to show for it.
A family business I’d saved. A family I’d rescued from financial collapse. Three sisters who had the freedom to explore whatever life offered them. A mother who loved us all beyond words.
There was no disputing all of those things were nice, great even. A blessing for most, but now that my family needed me less, I struggled to find the same sense of fulfillment to continue with my line of work.
Those accomplishments had been for the benefit of others. I made sacrifices, hard choices, decisions on the fly to ensure they were all accounted for, that their happiness had been a priority, so they never had to worry about what came next.
But at thirty-one, after everything this year and the tail end of the year before brought me, the desire for something more existed inside of me, something all my own.
Something just for me.
I leaned closer to the lit candle, the flame dancing on the wick, close enough to feel its heat on my skin. Ma gave me a small nod of encouragement, shushing my sisters from their bickering.
And with lips pushed together, I made my silent wish to whatever deity doled out birthday wishes. Then darkness swallowed the room once more, the distinct note of melted candle wax and extinguished flame fanning over my face.
“Fi-nal-ly,” Livy punctuated, heaving a sigh.
“I’m going to hang up on you,” Trina said dryly.
“Don’t,” Livy retorted, the pixels relaxing just as she leaned forward, tipping her nose downward. “Go on
and give him his gift. I gotta study.”
“Study?” Trina repeated, a vicious smile lighting up her face at the same time Ma flipped on the light switch, the kitchen illuminating. “How do you study for theater? Watch movies? Count how many hairs make up Ben Affleck’s beard? Plot your way into tying down an A-list star to propel your career before your likely divorce ends up on the cover of every gossip rag in the country?”
“Maria, hit her for me.”
To my surprise, Maria didn’t hesitate. She flicked the shell of Trina’s ear with deft precision.
“Ow! What was that for?” Trina cupped her ear, sending our older sister a dark look.
“Because Livy asked me to,” Maria matter-of-factly replied, sounding bored while she checked her red-painted fingernails for chipped polish.
Livy’s laughter came out of the computer speakers. “I’m extracting my revenge for what you did to my MCR sweater.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Ma said, clapping her hands to summon our attention. “Let’s eat and give João his gift.”
Ma served us malasadas on dessert plates, giving one to each of us. Maria stood and left the kitchen, only to return seconds later holding an ornate silver gift bag delicately in her hands.
She set the bag in front of me, giving me a nervous smile. “This is from all of us.”
“Not from me,” Ma amended, tsking with a shake of her head. “Bad luck.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “You’re so unbelievably paranoid about stupid superstitions.”
Ma opened her mouth to respond, her hands tenting on either side of her hips.
I cleared my throat, glancing up at her before she spoke. Ma shook out her feathers, preening. She gave me an amenable nod. “It’s from your sisters,” she corrected, settling back into her seat.
Sliding the gift bag forward, I noticed its heft. I tugged on the delicate knot of ribbon that held the string handles together, then pulled the sheets of tissue paper out. Ma took them from me, straightening them and folding the paper along its natural bends, no doubt so she could reuse it at a later date.
No one spoke as I reached into the bag, pulling out a black gift-wrapped box. I tore at the edges, ignoring Ma’s lamenting the loss of the wrapping paper she wouldn’t be able to salvage.
The first two letters printed on the box made my breath catch. I immediately understood why Ma was against the gift.
Stupid superstition, indeed.
Glancing at my sisters, my hands shook as I peeled the rest of the paper away. I ran my thumb along the inky trident emblazoned on the packaging. And then, with the finesse of a four-year-old on Christmas morning, I ripped free the tape that kept the package together. Trina handed Ma the gift bag, her eyes rounding with excitement as she observed me. She leaned forward on the table, resting her elbows there so she could cradle either side of her cheeks.
I removed more of the packaging from the box and then pulled out the leather carrying strap, setting it down in front of me.
“It was between these and the Shun. The person I spoke to said these will hold up better,” Maria said with an uncharacteristic gentleness in her voice, as though she was measuring my response. I unrolled the carrying strap, the glint of the revealed blades catching on the kitchen light above us.
“The blades are thinner on the Shun,” I said with a swallow, my fingers instinctively reaching to run along the dull tops of the Wüsthof knives. “But they chip too easily.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s what they said, too.”
“Do you like them?” Livy chirped, amused by my speechlessness.
Like them? Fuck, I was getting weepy again.
“I love them.” My throat weaved as I passed my eyes between my two sisters who were physically present and my third sister on the screen. “Thanks, guys.”
“Give them a penny,” Ma said, rushing to my side, pressing coins into my palm to neutralize the associated bad luck.
I indulged Ma’s paranoia and handed Maria and Trina their coins before promising Livy I’d hand her a penny the next time I saw her, to which she rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever.” She blew me a kiss and ended the call.
Everyone immediately absorbed themselves in eating their malasadas, but the foreign feeling of excitement left me too overwhelmed to eat.
The knives were beautiful. Full tang handles triple-riveted with the signature trident stamped on each. Sharpness that designed to last, thanks to Wüsthof’s precision-edge technology.
They were stunning, the Cadillac of blades.
I’d wished for something just for me, asked my father for a sign of what I should do next.
Those knives symbolized my answer, carving out the next part of my future.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After what had happened with Sean, knocks at the door left me frozen in terror…particularly after seven p.m., when I knew that Rosa could just let herself in. I turned in my chair, rolling my shoulders as I propelled myself upright, my footsteps moving timidly across the vacuumed floor. Pressing onto the tips of my toes, I leaned forward to steal a peak through the peephole.
The one I should have used a few weeks ago.
What I saw there had my face sloping into a frown.
It was Rosa, but why was she knocking? And who was the suit standing near her?
I turned the knob, swinging the door wide open to regard my favorite pain in the ass.
“I thought you said you had to leave early today?” My question dangled in the air between us.
Rosa hung her head, her hands wrung tightly together. “I did.”
“So?” I pressed, leaning forward to draw her attention.
“I did something,” Rosa confessed, raising her head to meet my eyes. I cocked a brow, glancing at the man behind her. His hair was as dark as freshly ground coffee, short and tailored by an expert blade on the sides. His eyes were both curious and familiar. Face smooth, though the hints of a five-o’clock shadow drew attention to a distinct dimple in his chin and a mouth full of even white teeth. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his thin black tie loose around his neck.
“What did she do?” I asked, looking around her to address her companion. “She in some kind of trouble?”
“With me?” The guy’s voice was deep and brassy, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. “No,” he conceded with a chuckle. “With you, though, from what I gather?” he smirked in a way that I didn’t like. “Maybe.”
I hated when people were cryptic, especially while clad in a suit. “And you are?” I prompted.
“My filho,” Rosa butt in, her Portuguese slipping out. She shook her head as though to amend herself. “My son,” she corrected, tossing him a cursory look over her shoulder. She heaved a sigh. “Move.” She pushed by me, leaving me standing in the doorway with…
Her son. The one I was aware existed, but lived in Los Angeles…or Malibu…or some other rich and bougie area. I couldn’t remember, because the detail had come in passing and seemed so inconsequential, I didn’t think to record it.
“I’m Paul.”
“Raquel,” I offered.
He just grinned, showing off more blinding white teeth. “I know.”
“Right.” ’Cause everyone in this fucking inn knew what was going on except me at all times.
“Can I come in, Raquel?”
What the fuck was going on? I moved out of his way, gesticulating into the circus of my life with an outstretched hand. The door closed with a snick. Rosa sank onto the edge of the bed and Paul settled into a wingback chair in the room’s corner, hooking an ankle over the knee of his dress pants.
“Mom,” Paul said to Rosa. “Why don’t you tell her?”
“Tell me what?” I pressed.
Rosa worried her bottom lip with her teeth, adjusting the thin watch on her wrist she always wore. Several seconds passed before she spoke. “Last week, while you were taking a shower…” she trailed off, looking at the popcorn ceiling. “I took…something.”
My eyes thinned into laser pointers. “What do you mean, ‘you took something?’” I had nothing worth taking, but the notion of her stealing from me made my gut blister with anger all the same, confession or not. Was I about to fight a sixty-something-year-old woman? I was over fighting women half my age, but I would make an exception if this warranted it.
“I borrowed,” she amended with a frown. “I was going to give it back.”
“You’re being cryptic. Spit it out, Pita.”
“Pita?” Paul inquired, arching a groomed brow at me.
“Pain in the ass,” I supplied, my explanation earning me a scowl from Rosa.
Paul erupted into laughter, his head falling back against the headrest of the chair. Rosa shot daggers at him with her eyes, and he stopped almost instantaneously.
“What?” He shrugged. “It was a good one.”
My arms folded across my chest, my shoulders slumping. “What did you borrow from me?” I was just about over this little tea party in my room.
She pointed to the stack of papers next to my typewriter. I froze in place, my eyes widening.
No. She wouldn’t have.
My limbs thawed and as soon as I had the energy, I raced to the manuscript, flipping it over. Sure enough, I was short the first four-and-a-half chapters.
Whipping around on my heel, I glowered at her. “You stole from me.”
Rosa shrugged, mirroring her son’s movements. She blinked at me, looking listless.
I was going to go to jail for killing her.
“Do you know what people from Southie do to people who rob them?” I asked with a growl. “Heads roll.” I stomped toward her just as the suit—no, her son, got out of his chair and stepped in front of me. It was then that I noticed he was all lean muscles and kind of easy on the eyes.
But he was still a suit.
“I think your writing is great,” Paul offered, standing between his mother and me with his hands held up in truce. I shot laser beams at him with my eyes, mentally decapitating him.