Us After You

by Claudia Burgoa

  “It did. When we dropped Zeke—by the way, he’s not coming to work—I thought about staying too, but …” I shrug, giving her a ‘what are you going to do?’ look.

  “They don’t pay me enough,” she complains.

  I wink at her. “You won’t even notice I’m here. The smell will be gone. That’s why I have a change of clothes around. I’ll just use the gym’s shower.”

  She hands me over a bottle of water. “Well, hurry up because they’re waiting for you in the main conference room,” she says, and I halt.

  Who are they?

  Am I that drunk that when she said it, I tuned her out?

  I want to ask her, but I have an idea or two. Checking my watch, I wonder what’s happening?

  My gut clenches because I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with them. My parents. Who else would be here on a Monday morning ready to lecture me?

  Shit.

  “It’s not even eight in the morning,” I tell her, casually. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  Cynthia shakes her head.

  “I’ve been calling you for the past couple of hours,” she complains. “Where’s your phone?”

  My grin disappears. I lost it somewhere in the Caribbean.

  “You better go and get ready then.” She hands me a couple of aspirin. “It’ll help you.”

  “Have I mentioned you’re a lifesaver?” Then, I ask again, “What happened?”

  She shrugs.

  “Is someone in trouble?” I guess.

  She smirks. “You’re the one to ask.”

  I give her an innocent glance before I head to the gym. Cynthia’s right, I don’t have room to talk about getting in trouble. Just a few hours ago, I was with my friends partying hard in Cancun. No, wait, I was the one making sure Rocco didn’t drown. The fucker was trying to swim at two in the fucking morning.

  Listen, I’m no saint, but at least I’m smart enough to shit where no one cares.

  Mid-step, I stop and turn around. “Would you mind getting me a new phone?”

  “You got it.”

  Cynthia is right outside the locker room entrance when I’m done with the shower. She hands me a new phone. “Have I mentioned that you don’t pay me enough?”

  “A couple of times—just today. I’ll talk to HR, you’ll get a raise by the end of the month,” I say with a wink.

  It’s a short ride from the gym to the elevator to the main conference room. If only I had an Altoid or a piece of gum. My strategy will have to be smiling, nodding, and jetting out as soon as this … whatever the fuck is this?

  Turning on my new phone, I see a bunch of missed voicemails and texts. The last one is from Hannah.

  Nana: Can you check my grandmother’s phone? It’s been disconnected.

  I look at the conference room and back at my phone. They can wait a little longer. I duck into the first empty office and open the browser app, inputting my credentials. While I wait, I text her.

  Tuck: One of these days, my uncle is going to take away my credentials, and I won’t be able to access this kind of information.

  Nana: Sorry, I just need to know where to reach her.

  My heart squeezes when I find her grandmother’s death certificate, instead of her current phone number or address.

  Tuck: Where are you?

  Nana: At home.

  Instead of giving her the news by text, I call her.

  “Hey,” she answers immediately, and I wish I could be there for her.

  “I’m sorry, Nana,” I mumble, trying to figure out if I can jump on a plane and head to San Francisco. “She died a couple of years ago.”

  “No,” she says, her voice breaking. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I mumble. “Do you need me?”

  She sniffs before responding, “No, that’s fine. I … can you find out where Alicia buried her?”

  Before I can start searching, I remember my parents—or at least one of them—are waiting for me.

  “You got it. I’ll send you that later. I need to step into a meeting,” I say, annoyed because my friend needs me.

  “Everything okay?”

  I grunt, remembering the encounter I had with Mom last Friday. “My parents are on my case. Apparently, I’m partying too much.” And my friends need to start depending on themselves.

  I save the last sentence for only myself. If Hannah learns that the guys are off … she doesn’t need the aggravation. She’ll drop everything for us.

  “You are partying a lot,” she agrees with a chuckle. “You just went to Cancun this weekend.”

  “It wasn’t great. You should’ve come with us.”

  “Alex and I …” She pauses, and I wait for her to finally tell me they’re together.

  “We’re working on my dating article,” she says, and I want to ask if there’s more between them.

  It’s clear that she cares about him. He definitely loves her. I wish she could forget about her past and just let someone into her life—and her heart. She deserves it.

  “Next time you guys want to party, come over to visit me.”

  “You don’t want us near Alex,” I joke, remembering that we’re a bad influence, according to my family. “Rocco is having a hard time. I’m just keeping an eye on him.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Please behave, okay? I’ll try to call him later today to find out what’s happening. I might be able to help.”

  Once we hang up, I text Alex.

  Decker: Hannah needs you.

  Spearman: What happened?

  Decker: Look, I’m about to go into a meeting. She shouldn’t be alone.

  Spearman: Thank you for the heads up, I owe you.

  Can’t say I know what’s going on when I open the door and I see my aunt, Pria, and one of my fathers waiting for me. At least it’s not all my parents. They can get intense, and today, I’m not ready for a conversation about … whatever the fuck they want to discuss.

  I have a gut feeling that this isn’t going to end well.

  3

  Tucker

  Pria gives me a smile that’s half sympathetic, half polite. That’s not good. Either someone died or they need me to be the face of some charity they’re starting. My answer would be, fuck never. Find someone else.

  “Hey,” I greet them, stopping right outside the room.

  “Come on in, Tucker.” Dad’s green eyes stare at me. His arms are crossed and his jaw is clenched.

  I haven’t seen that face since … I can’t remember the last time he was cold with me.

  Fuck, what did I do?

  “Have a seat,” Pria orders, gesturing at the empty chairs.

  I do as they say and look up at both of them. More like glare. I feel like a child being chided for crashing his brand-new motorcycle after getting drunk. At thirty, I can’t have that shit.

  So, I cross my arms, set my feet on top of the table, and say, “What’s eating you, old man?”

  Pria takes a stack of newspapers I didn’t notice when I arrived, and distributes them, one by one, on the table and then sets a neat pile of pictures in front of me.

  I rub the back of my neck before straightening up, because I’ve experienced this before. Stacks of papers, pictures, social media posts. My name being dragged like a pile of shit through the mud because I wasn’t careful.

  But I’ve been cautious.

  “Where’s your phone?” Tristan asks and answers. “I’ll save you some time. It’s at the bottom of the ocean.”

  My jaw sets. I don’t say a word. Silence pisses him off. I’m upset too. How the fuck does he know it’s at the bottom of the ocean? I bet he had my Uncle Mason search for me.

  “What the fuck is your problem, Tucker?”

  My blood freezes. See, this guy is usually cool. He never uses obscenities unless he’s raging with anger. Startled by his overreaction, I reach out and pull the pictures toward me.

  Carefully, I look at them one by one, without reacting. The pictures are from t
he weekend. Some of them are in black and white, others full color.

  I can’t tell if they were taken from afar or if someone at our party snapped them. They’re that good. They tell you a story.

  Tucker Decker has an almost naked woman draped on his lap. The next says, Tucker Decker parties more. He moved on from the first woman and now he has two busty women grinding on him at a nightclub.

  This is trash. They should just shred them. Though, the ones from the strip club are worth keeping. The women were beautiful and bendy. My stomach churns when I get to a grainy one.

  I’m around, but the focus of the shot is the table where there are clearly lines of cocaine. There’s a guy wearing an old cap of Sinners of Seattle. It could be anyone, but I know who it is.

  “Rocco,” I mutter.

  Pria pushes a magazine where an old picture of me, wearing a similar cap, has a huge headline.

  Agatha’s kid following in her footsteps.

  My lungs collapse, and I know why my father is raging. Mom.

  These two pulled out the short straw, but knowing my family, everyone is upset with me. I’m dragging the family through a fucking social media shitstorm—again.

  Running a hand through my hair, I pull myself together.

  “I was in Cancun,” I say, as a defense mechanism. “Away from the press.”

  Pria laughs. “You think Cancun is away from the press?”

  “That’s your excuse?” my father says, pointing at the lines of cocaine.

  “I only did drugs once,” I protest. “You know it. We experimented back then. I’m clean.”

  “You. Are. Drunk!” He slams his palm on the table, and I jolt.

  “This isn’t the first time that you and your friend show up like this. We’re done with you.”

  “This is bullshit.” I tap at the table.

  He leans forward and says, “Rocco’s been sent to the lab for a urine sample. You’ll be joining him afterward. Zeke is not even here, but you can tell him he’s fired.”

  I swallow hard because he has photographic proof that Rocco fucked up, and there’s no fucking way I can save him from this one.

  Me, he can test whatever the fuck he wants. I’m drunk, but I don’t do drugs.

  Actually, I never did any shit other than pot. I just let everyone think I tried drugs because it’s easier than explaining why I don’t touch them. It’s not because I’m a saint, but because I’m afraid of the consequences—of becoming my mother.

  The headline says it all.

  Agatha Levitz, the former child actor, started using around the age of nine. As the child of a junkie, I could fall down the rabbit hole easily. Addiction is an illness; it’s hereditary. One thing I don’t allow myself is to lose control.

  Getting drunk contradicts the fear, but for some reason, I feel like I can handle it better than I could handle getting high. I don’t lose my shit when I have a nice buzz.

  “Here’s the problem. You’re working for a non-profit company,” Pria says, giving it to me straight. “Whoever took these pictures, knew your worth. You didn’t touch the cocaine, but the image paints a different story. You’re surrounded by almost completely naked women, illegal substances, and the usual suspects. They cashed and you’re screwed.”

  My head snaps up. “What do you mean I’m screwed? There has to be something we can do to fix this. You’re the PR guru.”

  She tilts her head and sighs. “Kid, I love you, but I’m done wiping your ass.”

  “Dad?”

  He sighs, closing his eyes for a hot second. “Clean your act, choose your friends wisely. You’re officially fired.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Maybe that’s been the problem all along,” he says. “We’ve been making all the decisions for the past fourteen years. It’s time for you to decide what you want.”

  Nausea hits the back of my throat, and suddenly, I’m that fourteen-year-old kid again who was told everything he knew about his life was a lie.

  I wasn’t Tucker Dean Callaway. My birth mother—a junkie—gave me to them. It explained why I always felt there was a missing piece in my life and why coming to live with my birth mother at sixteen never took away the feeling that I wasn’t enough.

  Even now, no matter how hard I try, how hard I work to compensate for being me, I’m still not fucking enough.

  But I’m a grown-up who can do as he pleases. He’s right, I can make my own decisions. I don’t need anyone. They want me gone. I can take a hint.

  “Go and fuck yourself, I don’t need you,” I say and storm out of the office.

  “Tucker,” he calls after me.

  “You want me gone, I’m gone, Tristan.”

  “Stop!”

  “You don’t want your employees to know I’m fired. Call security, Rita,” I order his assistant. “Rocco and I are no longer part of the company.”

  “Tucker, don’t do this.”

  “You did it, not me.”

  As I head down the hall and out of my family’s business, I’m trying not to think about the past, the Callaways. About not being enough for my adoptive parents. How it never matters how fucking hard I keep working to keep everyone happy, I never succeed.

  Fourteen years ago…

  “She said it again." Ethan hands me a joint.

  Don't do it, Tucker. My conscience sounds like a busted record player. I know better. The few minutes I get to forget my fucking life are replaced by a headache and a fuck load of trouble. Here I go again, slipping into what my mother says I'll become, an addict. Just like my birth parents; it's in my blood.

  "What’d the bitch say?" I ask, after taking a hit and passing it back. “Let me guess … ‘I hate you.’"

  And I laugh, because we've been inseparable since kindergarten. We were poster children for suburban living until he was kicked off the football team—for liking not just girls but also boys—and my parents got divorced.

  Now, when we see each other, we complain about our fucked-up lives while getting drunk and high.

  “‘I should have aborted you when I had the chance.’” he mumbles and laughs with me.

  But then I start crying when I think that maybe that’s what my birth mother would've loved to do with me. Abort me. Now the people she gave me to don't want me anymore.

  The novelty of having a child wore off. I was just another shiny object or status symbol to use and lose, I guess. Still, I try doing everything they want to earn their love, because for some fucking reason they hate me now.

  Nothing I do is enough. Mom checks my arms for needle marks every time I come home. And Dad would rather skip the weekends he gets to have me with him. Don't get me started with my stepmother who is a combination of cruel and creepy. I can’t wait to grow up and get the fuck out of this town.

  My goals are to do what my parents have always wanted from me. Be an outstanding student. The MVP of the year. Take my team to the championship and win.

  Go to LSU on a scholarship and end up in the NFL, so my father can watch me every week and be proud that his son went all the way to the Super Bowl as a rookie. Because maybe that's the man worthy of being his son.

  But will this even be enough for him? I remember my mother’s words.

  "‘I wish I hadn't picked you.’" I counteract Ethan's statement with one Mom yelled earlier. "It's like she was throwing darts at me and waiting to see which one would strike me in the chest."

  "We should run away before my mother kills me," he decides, like he's talking about the next test that he knows he needs to study for, but maybe he won't. Maybe he’s too high and he’s talking shit about his fears. She’s been threatening to kick him out since she learned Ethan likes guys and girls.

  "You're taller than your mother, stronger. She can't do anything to you," I remind him. "My mom's boyfriend tried to hit me the other day, and I pinned him against the wall. There's no fucking way I'll let him touch me."

  "What did he do?"

  "He threatened me
with some shit." I lift my head, looking at the clouds. "Bullshit, more like it. Something like making sure I end up on the streets. When Mom came back from work, he complained like the wuss he is."

  "I wish I were brave like you," Ethan says. "Sometimes I wanna say ‘fuck it,’ but I can wait until we graduate. What's two more years?"

  The need to go and teach his mother a lesson crosses my mind. I want to scare her enough that she’ll leave him alone. My six-foot-two height makes some adults uncomfortable. I don't have the body of a linebacker yet, but I’m working on it.

  I have to if I want to get the hell out of my house. The way things are going, my parents will pack my shit and throw me out of both their homes when I turn eighteen. And I have to look after Ethan too. He's my best friend; he’s always been there for me.

  When we were in kindergarten, he defended me to the other kids. I was too quiet, even shy, and I didn’t like to play with strangers. Ethan stuck up for me. It’s the two of us forever.

  Now, I feel like we’re trapped, and I wish I could escape somewhere where we could feel safe. If only my birth mother had wanted me.

  If only I had been enough for her.

  4

  Tucker

  Things don’t get any better after Rocco and I are escorted out of the offices.

  “Nothing personal, Mr. Decker. We’re just following protocol,” the security guy says.

  Fucking protocol my ass. This is my father trying to call my bluff. Well, I’ll teach him a thing or two. I don’t bluff. He wants me gone—he might not ever see me again.

  “What now?”

  “Are you fucking high?”

  Rocco laughs. “Dude, you should see your face. So what if I had a line or two before we landed? We had to finish the shit, or we’d be in jail.”

  Clint, our driver, is already waiting for us when we reach the sidewalk. He has been with us since I was sixteen. He’s also our bodyguard.

  “Did you know?” I ask, as he pulls away.