by Lily Zante
“I can hop on the train,” I tell her when she offers to get a cab.
She asks me where I live, and I tell her. “I’ll be fine with the train,” I insist, but she’s not having it.
“There’s no need to, and you’re not putting me out because you get off first.”
“Are you hoping to get some more information out of me?” I ask.
“No, I’m not.” Her tone is serious, and I wonder if she’s lonely. “Don’t worry about the cost,” she says, as if that’s the deciding factor as to whether I’ll share a cab with her or not.
“I’m not.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There isn’t one. I’ll share a cab with you.”
She flags down a cab and we get in. This time, maybe it’s because she thinks we’re friends, or that we might have crossed the line from strangers over to friends, but she doesn’t put her handbag between us, and she’s not squeezed up against the door of the cab.
Neither am I, for that matter.
We talk, not nosy questions this time. Instead she asks me what plans I have for tomorrow. I tell her my gym routine and she makes all the usual admiring noises.
I ask her what she’s doing, and she tells me she’s meeting her girlfriends for brunch on Saturday, and meeting her dad for lunch on Sunday.
So far, she hasn’t mentioned a boyfriend. “Who’s the ginger-haired dude?” I ask, curious. But she doesn’t answer, and has her head out of the half open window, as if she’s trying to suck in bags of air. “What’s wrong?” I ask, tapping her shoulder.
“I’m going to be sick,” she whispers, closing her eyes, and dry heaving.
“What?” I hiss back, then stare over at the rearview mirror. The cab driver is oblivious to the drama taking place behind him.
Harper fans her face. “Oh,” she groans, low and weak. “I’m going to… I’m going to be…”
Quick as a flash, I position my body to block out the cab driver’s view. I’ve sectioned Harper in the corner. “In here,” I say, and hold my gym bag open, not even stopping to think about the stupidity of what I’m doing.
Tired green eyes stare at me, she shakes her head, then promptly throws up right inside my bag.
I look away, otherwise I will want to throw up too.
“What’s going on back there?” the cab driver asks. I glance over my shoulder.
“Her contact lens fell out. She’s trying to put it back in.”
He looks suitably suspicious, and trains his eyes on the road again. When I turn back around to face her, Harper throws up a second time. The stench hits my nostrils and I lean over to open the window fully. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and slumps back against the seat again.
“Any more?” I ask quietly.
She looks deeply embarrassed and says nothing. I close the bag, wincing as the stench fills the air. I open the window some more.
I’ve been in gyms that smell worse than this, but knowing my gym bag is full of vomit makes me want to retch.
I gingerly place the bag on the floor of the car and tell the cab driver to bypass my place and go straight to Harper’s. He nods his agreement.
I don’t think Harper even hears, because she’s staring out. She looks smaller, as if she’s trying to sink back and disappear into the seat. I understand her feeling of humiliation and I want to tell her not to worry about it, but the cab is starting to smell and I’m worried the cab driver is going to say something. Strangely, he doesn’t seem to have noticed.
We sit in silence for a while, until Harper pipes up. “Weren’t you supposed to get off at your place?”
“We’re going to yours.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” I reply, lowering my voice.
She looks out of the window again, and we travel in silence.
The cab soon pulls up outside an upscale apartment building.
Holy shit.
She lives here?
She must get paid some serious shit ton of money. Or could this be because of Daddy’s fund?
She’s quick on the draw and has her wallet out, then slips the driver some notes and tells him to keep the change.
We get out of the cab, and I follow her, holding the gym bag in front of me at arm’s length.
“You didn’t have to see me home,” she says.
I’m a gentleman, despite what she may think. Also, I’d like to think that if this ever happened to my sister, that the person with her would have the decency to make sure she got home okay. “Someone’s got to clean up after you, if you throw up again.” I’m joking, but it’s the only way I know to shut her up.
We get in the elevator and silently ascend. Harper looks pale, and she seems embarrassed because she doesn’t look me in the eye. I want to tell her not to worry, that it’s okay if she got drunk and her stomach couldn’t handle it, but I figure she doesn’t want to talk about it.
When the elevator stops, I follow her along a hallway to her apartment. She opens the door, excuses herself and rushes off.
I walk in and my eyes nearly bounce out of their sockets. This place looks bigger than mine by a factor of at least four.
This princess really does live in another world.
Chapter Eleven
HARPER
* * *
I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life. As soon as we get to my apartment, I rush away, desperate to clean myself up. I stink, and look gross. Worse, Eli saw me throw up. And even worse than that, I threw up in his bag. Twice.
I will never live this down. Eli thinks I’m too drunk and that I can’t be trusted to get home safely. He won’t believe that I’ve had an upset stomach. I blame the sandwich I bought from the deli.
I stare in shock at the mirror, at my blotchy face. He can’t have remained unscathed. I’m certain he has splashes of my vomit over his clothing.
The thought makes me cringe all over again. I splash cold water on my face, and wish I could wash away the last few hours.
Eli’s outside, waiting in my apartment, and while I feel better now, and the queasiness has gone, I am still sick to my stomach about how the evening has ended. He will judge me, and that bothers me. He thinks I’m a lightweight who can’t hold her alcohol. That’s not it at all.
So, I quickly freshen up and rush into my room to change my top. By the time I get back to my living room, Eli’s walking around, checking out my paintings and the view from the window. It is a lovely view, and this is a beautiful apartment. I wonder what thoughts are racing through his mind.
He turns around when he hears my footsteps.
“I should go,” he says, his eyes noting that I’ve changed my top.
“Sorry about that,” I say. I’m not entirely sure what ‘that’ refers to. I half point to his clothes, but I mean the entire evening. “I had an upset stomach, and I shouldn’t have had any alcohol.”
He nods, and it infuriates me, because when he doesn’t say anything, I take it as a sign that he doesn’t believe me. “I’m sorry about your clothes, too. Did you want to change out of that?” I ask, pointing to his shirt. Not that I’ll have anything big enough for him to fit into.
He nods again. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to the smell now.”
If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t. I don’t have the heart to say I’m worried I might have splashed him with my retching.
He walks up to take the bag which he’d left lying by the door.
“I’ll take care of that,” I say, rushing towards it.
“Hey, it’s fine. I’ll take care of it. It’s got my things inside.”
“Please,” I beg. “This is beyond embarrassing for me. I can’t have you going home and cleaning this mess up.”
“I’m going to throw it away.”
“Then leave it here,” I say, partly because I don’t believe him. I sense he’s crazy enough, and maybe broke enough to wash it all out, and I don’t want him washing my vomit away.
“Don’t worry about it,” he insists.
“This is really, really humiliating for me, Eli. Let me at least deal with this.”
He shrugs and walks towards the door. “If you insist. Take care,” he says, and doesn’t even glance over his shoulder as he walks out of the door.
I’m more than embarrassed, and it feels as if he’s got the upper hand right now.
I stare at the bag and I don’t have the stomach to go through it now. But then I worry that he might have something valuable in there, like his boxing gloves, or phone and wallet. I wrap a scarf around my mouth and put on my cleaning gloves, and gingerly go through his bag as much as I can, without touching anything inside. There’s nothing but gym clothes. There definitely are no boxing gloves.
Tomorrow I’ll buy him a new bag and clothes.
I canceled brunch with my friends yesterday because I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. I am still humiliated by the fact that I threw up in front of Eli, in his bag, in a cab. All three of these things are bad enough, taken individually, but the fact that they all happened in one car ride, with the hot guy who loathes me, makes things a million times worse. So, yeah, I wasn’t in the mood to meet with my friends.
Instead I went shopping and managed to buy a replacement bag and gym clothes for Eli. I did the best I could, and hope he’ll like them.
The lunch with my father still goes ahead the next day. My father tries to make a point to meet up with me at least once a month. It could because he feels guilty or it could be that ‘Meet Harper’ is an item to cross off his to-do list.
“Is Mervyn taking care of you?” he asks as he’s cutting into his steak.
“He’s my boss, Dad, not my babysitter.” I don’t like that he’s on a first-name basis with my boss. It makes me nervous that he might be keeping an eye on Merv and making sure I get interesting work. I’m not sure Merv would be amenable to such bribes, or persuasion, but I hate the thought of it nonetheless.
I hate that all my father has to do is pull strings and I get a job that many would kill for. I want to think that I got it on my own merit, but I really don’t know.
No wonder Merv looks at me like he wants to gouge my eyes out every time.
I stab an olive and lift the fork to my mouth. “If you’re asking how my job’s going, it’s going great.”
“It's only a phase, Harper,” he tells me, smugly. “You don't need to work.”
“Mom works,” I say with admiration. She's a law professor at a college in Boston. I'm immensely proud of her, and I don’t understand how she and my father ever got together. They split up when I was in high school, and I lived with my mom and spent the holidays with my dad up until I went to college. During that time, he got married and divorced again, and is now dating a woman who’s twenty years younger than him.
She could be my older sister, and that thought makes me sick. Thank goodness I’m an only child. The new girlfriend also has a lot of fake parts, despite being so young; boob and butt implants, fillers and expensive veneers.
I avoid going to their house for dinner. His girlfriend hates me and I hate her. My dad is our common ground, and therefore, meeting outside of the house is how we see one another without too much drama
But it means I have to listen to his ‘advice’ on these occasions. My father constantly tells me that I don’t have to do this if I don’t want to—he’s talking about me working. And he often reminds me that I have a trust fund to fall back on if things get too difficult.
I don't want a helping hand. I don't want him to pave the way for me. It might sound ungrateful, me talking like this, but after learning about Eli and his childhood, I appreciate how lucky I am. I completely understand that I sound like a spoiled brat as we sit here, having a ridiculously overpriced lunch. My dad ordered a bottle of wine that cost two hundred dollars.
It’s insane.
I don't want that type of life.
I want to earn it my way.
Being a rich man's daughter isn't as easy as most people like to think, and I probably deserve a slap for saying this, but it’s the truth. I don't fully approve of my father's lifestyle, and getting a job and wanting to earn my living is my way of telling him that.
I did try to get a job by myself, but after a month of looking and not finding anything suitable, my father stepped in and put in a word for me with Merv. I understand that this is privilege, but next time I will try to do it on my own. This was just to help me get my foot in the door.
“What have they got you investigating this time?” my father asks.
“It’s not an investigation. I’m doing an article about a boxer.”
“Ugh.” My father's face crinkles with disgust “Why did he give you that? Maybe I should have a word with Mervyn and see if he can't have you doing something more glamorous.”
“Stop it, Dad,” I say harshly.
“I don't see why you can't cover the Oscars, or the Golden Globes.”
“Dad!” I cry out in exasperation. He has no idea how any of this works. “I'm a junior journalist. And I'm working for a newspaper, not a glossy magazine, and I don’t host a show on TV.”
“I could speak to someone about that.”
I put down my cutlery with as much control as I can muster. He's not even joking. That's the sad part about all of this. “Please don’t interfere, Dad. I'm at the bottom of the ladder and I have to climb my way to the top.”
“You're a Lindstrom,” he says, giving me a stern look as he raises his expensive wine to his lips. “We are never at the bottom of anything. And don't you forget that.” He circles his glass in the air, vaguely gesturing at me. “This is a phase,” he tells me, in his smug, I-know-better-than-you tone.
“Please don't meddle,” I plead. I hate to think what Merv would make of this.
“But, still, a boxer?” he asks, visibly disgusted. “What do you even know about boxing?”
“I'm learning about it,” I reply. “There's a big fight happening soon, for the title of the world heavyweight champion. Trent Garrison is the current champion,” I say, trying to read my father’s face for traces of recognition. I see none. “He’s fighting some unknown guy who nobody thinks has a chance.” I look at my father with a smile. “I'm with the unknown at his gym, charting his progress. He's a Chicago guy, hence the local interest.”
“What's his name?”
“Elias Cardoza.”
My father's face remains impassive. He barely blinks. “Never heard of him,” And then, to drive the knife home, he adds, “He's probably some low-life scum. You know what these people are like.”
“What people?” I ask.
“The ones who end up boxing.” He laughs because I look so angry. “They're obviously desperate down-and-outs, they have to be, if the only way to make a living is by getting beaten up.”
I don't like the way he's talking. Even though Eli has been nasty to me in the past, I still don't like it. My father sees the world through a different filter than most, seeing only the champagne, the yachts, and the good life.
I think of Nina and how she works at the diner doing such long shifts, and how she attends night school a couple of times a week. Eli told me this, on a rare day when he was feeling especially giving. Most people live like this, I discover, now that I'm here, deep in the trenches, seeking out stories from the average person in the street.
Except that Eli is no average person.
Everyone else thinks he is, but being around him, watching him fight and train, I see a tenacity I've never seen before.
A killer instinct.
These things are alien to me—boxing and beating, and fighting—but Eli does this for a living, and he’s not afraid to hit and get hit.
I imagine that my father does stuff like this, too, only he probably does it with dirty money, and insider dealings and other seemingly innocuous trades.
Eli and my father are different sides of the same coin.
Chapter Twelve
&nbs
p; ELI
* * *
I tell Nina about the evening with Harper and her throwing up.
“You went on a date?” she asks.
“Not a date,” I clarify quickly. “I took your advice. You said to be nice to her, so I was.”
“How nice?” Nina asks, her eyes glinting with mischief.
I snort, because I know what she’s implying, and even though my evening with Harper wasn’t as awkward as it could have been, there was definitely no attraction there. “She’s not my type.”
“She’s pretty.”
“Pretty uptight,” I reply, even though this isn’t true. “She’s not the kind of girl I go for.” Everything about her is upscale. I’m from someplace she would never recognize. She’s groomed. I’m rough. She’s rich, I am not.
“Why can’t you be friendly?” Nina sounds as if she feels sorry for her. “Is she okay?”
“She was fine when I left.”
“What about now? Did you call to check?”
“I hardly know her.”
Nina looks at me in disbelief. “She’s been at your gym for weeks, you went out with her on Friday, she’s doing a great write-up on you—”
“How do you know it’s going to be great?”
“It’s her job. You’re Chicago’s New—”
“Don’t,” I say. I hate labels, and that bullshit label is one that doesn’t sit well with me. This city holds a lot of bad memories for me, and if I had money, and if I’d been in a position to, I would have turned my back on it and left.
I would never have missed it.
But Nina seems more settled. Each time I talked about leaving here, she didn’t like it, and life had other plans for me.
Lou found me and said he saw I had raw talent. I owe him my life. He saved me. Nobody else looked at me and saw that. That’s why the moment I was put forward for the Garrison fight, and was picked, it was not only unreal, and surreal, it was my moment.
I want to make Lou proud.
I go on to tell Nina about Harper throwing up in the cab and how I saw her back to her apartment.
