I Love You Like That

by Heather Cumiskey

  The drug lord’s face stiffened. His cold, demonic eyes told Deacon to follow him.

  They entered a side room that had been converted into his office. Facing him, Chalfont tilted his chin up toward the door. Deacon closed it behind him, afraid to say another word.

  He didn’t have much time to take in the small room before the drug lord stomped toward him and slapped him across the face.

  “Do not speak to me in that manner, Xavier! I’m not some lowlife drug dealer. I’m the Lord of Miami. You will respect me!”

  Stunned, Deacon took a moment to realize his mistake. Chalfont’s eyes blazed wild and glassy, like a crazy person’s. Fear rose up Deacon’s scalp, sending every follicle to attention. This man may have saved his life, but he was no ally.

  He bowed his head to the drug lord. “Si, perdóname, mi capitán—I’m sorry, lo siento.”

  Chalfont grabbed Deacon’s hip and yanked him closer.

  The wire.

  The drug lord’s fingers were inches from the part that traveled down his stomach and around his back. Deacon steadied his face, trying to conceal his panic.

  “Show me,” Chalfont ordered. “Show me you’re sorry, mijo. Show me.”

  “No comprendo, capitán.”

  The drug lord’s eyes surveyed his face, resting on his lips.

  Deacon’s eyes widened as he realized what he was asking.

  Yelling on the other side of the door made them both flinch. Luis barged in, announcing, “Men in boats are coming in. Xavier may have been followed.”

  “Come!” Chalfont commanded both of them. He ran his fingers down Deacon’s back before striding past him and out of the room.

  CHAPTER 27

  darien, Connecticut

  “I THINK I’M GOING TO STAY IN TONIGHT,” HANNAH SAID, twirling the phone cord between her fingers.

  “I can come over,” Peter pressed.

  “I’m tired from work. We’ll hang out tomorrow night . . . okay?”

  She hung up and felt her shoulders relax for the first time that day. She turned up her cassette player just as the Violent Femmes struck the chorus of “Kiss Off.” Her body melted into the floor, and she rested against the side of the bed. She closed her eyes and let the pulsing music become her heartbeat. She didn’t want to think about where things were going with Peter or whether she was being unfair to him.

  I like being with you. I like fooling around, too. Just don’t try to be my boyfriend, okay?

  Guys do this all the time, make out with girls who are more into them. Is it wrong to stay in a lopsided relationship? If I end things with him, am I throwing away someone who is good for me? Do I just need more time?

  Hannah called BS on herself. Truth was, she couldn’t stand the thought of being alone for the summer.

  She knew she was a terrible person for feeling that way. But Peter understood how she felt and he’d chosen to stick around, she reasoned. And she liked going out with him. They usually had fun together. But just how much longer could she hold him off?

  “Hannah!”

  She scrambled to her feet and yanked open her door. “Yeah, Dad?” she said, leaning out of her bedroom. She heard the jangle of keys near the front door.

  “I’m taking your mother and Kerry to Dr. Shapiro.” He was the family counselor the rehab facility had recommended. After their last appointment, Hannah had found out from Kerry that the three of them had gone to Carvel.

  “Dad, I need to talk to you about that.”

  “It’ll have to wait. They’re in the car and we’re running late.” Without hesitation, he slammed the front door, sending the transom windows on either side shaking.

  Hannah watched them pull out of the driveway, wondering why she never went to the counseling sessions. Wasn’t she part of the family?

  She sank to the floor again, pulled her knees to her chest, and let the sadness slice into her. It’s not getting any better. This pain inside won’t go away. Everything’s so screwed up.

  She pulled her diary out from underneath her mattress and scrawled the words onto the page until the tears came.

  STOP IGNORING ME! Peter wants me too much. You and Mom want nothing to do with me. I want loving parents to exist and for the love of my life to still be here. Deacon understood what this feels like. Feeling insignificant, being ignored. I need to hear your voice again. I felt whole with you. Now I’m using someone else to ease the pain. I HATE MYSELF. I don’t care enough to walk away, give up the little power that I finally have . . .

  Hannah’s head whipped around in the direction of her cassette player. That damn song again. Her heart dropped like an elevator every time she heard it. She closed her eyes and let its haunting lyrics have their way with her. Who will pick me up when I fall?

  She threw her diary to the floor and clutched her knees tighter. If she heard that mesmerizing Cars song, “Drive,” one more time, she was going to lose it. All of the questions in the lyrics seemed aimed at her, as if Deacon were singing it. Figured, it was about a girl on drugs, spiraling out of control. He had been her drug.

  She’d dreamt of him the previous night, and all day her insides had felt wrung out. The more she thought about how she’d been with Peter the other evening in the park, the more guilt plagued her. You don’t belong with him, the nagging voice in her head insisted.

  She shoved her diary back under the mattress and froze. I know how I can hear your voice.

  She grabbed the phone off her bedroom floor and flopped down on her bed. She remembered the first time she’d called Deacon’s private line, thinking how rich he must be to have his own number. He’d brushed it off, acting neither proud nor embarrassed by his parents’ privileged life, just suffocated by it.

  Maybe there’s an answering machine or something, she thought. She dialed and pinned the handset between her neck and shoulder. The first few rings made her heart sing a little. Hope, even. But as the ringing continued, she started to feel like an idiot.

  “Hello?” a male voice answered.

  Hannah’s heart flipped out of her bra. Holy shit. Her body snapped straight up in the bed. The receiver wobbled next to her face. She’d contacted a ghost.

  “Who’s this?” the guy demanded.

  “Who’s this?” Her mind raced, trying to recognize the voice. It sounded too young to be Deacon’s father. Could the number have been reassigned that quickly?

  “Toby Giroux.”

  She gasped and hung up. Oh my God, oh my God. One son dies, the other one moves in? And your son’s killer, no less—what the hell?

  She sprang from the bed and began pacing around her room. She crossed her arms, clenching her elbows, and soon her fingers found the small bumps on the back of her arms, readied to scratch, pick . . . soothe.

  His voice transported her back to that awful night. Deacon’s half brother had given her the creeps the first time she’d met him, and now, after everything that had happened, she understood why.

  She leaned over her dresser, holding its sides as if it would carry her over the rapids. The cruel memories pummeled her forehead like bullets from a semiautomatic. She clamped her eyes shut to stave them off. She could see Toby in Gossamer Park on that dark December night, his knees sunken into the frozen ground, the end of the gun slipping from his temple after realizing he’d shot his brother.

  No, no, no!

  She’d tried to get to Deacon before it was too late. But Toby had turned the gun on her. “No witnesses,” he said. Bang.

  “Stop it!” she commanded, the base of her palms crushing the sides of her head. Stop it.

  Photographs in her mind of Deacon’s last breath . . . the way the shiny gun wobbled in Toby’s hands . . . the blood spilling from underneath the knit hat she’d used to apply pressure to his chest . . . each image shifted like ghostly patterns in a kaleidoscope, tearing slowly away and leaving a cold, blank page.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Still holding on to her dresser, she peered at the sweaty face in the mirror. It�
�s over; it’s over; you’re okay now.

  She collapsed onto her bed like a ragdoll, her emotions spent. She lay like that for several minutes. She didn’t want to dwell on the events that had taken Deacon away, she wanted to relive those days of calling him whenever she wished.

  She picked up the phone and dialed his pager this time. At the tone, she entered her family’s number and waited for it to ring back. She held her finger down on the receiver like she used to, not wanting to waste a minute of talking to him. She felt stupid, but she didn’t care. She wanted to taste those sweet, fleeting days again when everything was new, when they’d steal moments together without her parents knowing. When he’d meet her at the library, where she was supposed to be studying, and they’d wind up back at his house and in his bed.

  The phone in her hand rang. Holy . . .

  “What?” an annoyed voice bellowed.

  Hannah’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, choking her words. “H-hello?” she croaked.

  “What?” the voice grew louder and more impatient.

  “Jade?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Hi, it’s . . . H-Hannah.” She popped off her bed and couldn’t stand still.

  “What do you need?”

  “Ahh, nothing . . . I just—”

  “Listen, don’t call my pager unless you want to buy.”

  “N-no, I didn’t realize you took over Deacon’s business.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m slammed right now.”

  “I guess I just miss him, wanted to hear his—”

  “Yeah, not me. I’m fine without him.”

  “But—”

  “He’s fine where he is, Hannah. Drop it!” Jade shrieked before she hung up on her.

  The dial tone buzzed in Hannah’s ear. He’s fine where he is? Like buried, underground? “What a bitch.” She stared at the handset cradled in her palm. Her head felt severed from her body. What the hell?

  In a matter of minutes, she’d managed to speak to two of the people from that ill-fated day.

  “Oh my God, get a grip!”

  CHAPTER 28

  South beach, Miami

  “WHY DO YOU CARRY A GUN, YOU A COP OR SOMETHING?” Paul asked, motioning to one of Deacon’s pockets.

  Deacon glanced at him, then back to the Mini Mart on the corner, watching its clientele closely. Though they were in Paul and Ida’s neighborhood, his vigilance never faltered. “No,” he said, wishing Paul would drop it. He wanted to keep these somewhat normal moments with him separate from the chaotic ones he lived in Chalfont’s world.

  “You’re not mixed up with one of those street gangs, are you?”

  Deacon lowered his baseball cap over his aviators. “Paul, I can’t go there, and you don’t want to know. You hungry, old man?”

  Paul snorted. “I could eat.”

  Deacon walked with him to the Nathan’s hot dog cart on the corner, matching the old man’s slower, bowlegged stride. Deacon thought for a split second what a hot dog would do to his ulcer and shrugged it off. He liked being around Paul and found himself looking forward to their time together more every day.

  Deacon raised two fingers to the vendor.

  Paul tipped up his wraparound sunglass covers and squinted at something across the street. “See that building over there? My grandmother used to own it and a few others in this town. She was one tough lady. Shrewd as hell. It was rare for a woman to own real estate back in those days. She was from Colombia, like you. Came here with nothing. Worked hard and created a life here. One tough Latina. A real looker, too.”

  “What? I thought you were Jewish. How do you have a Colombian grandmother?”

  “Imbecile,” Paul scolded. “This is America, your ancestors can come from anywhere. My mother was Jewish, God rest her soul. Not that ‘Jewish’ is a nationality. You think they don’t have Jews in Colombia?” He chuckled. “Anyway, where’s your family, boy? You an orphan?” Paul asked these questions loudly—a tendency of his from when his hearing was damaged after a bomb detonated near him during World War II.

  Deacon eyed the man behind the food cart, who was obviously listening. “Paul . . . stop.”

  The vendor handed Deacon his order and practically saluted him. “On the house . . . sir!”

  “What in the world?” said Paul, wheeling his body around toward Deacon. “They think you’re the mayor now?”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. It didn’t matter what part of town he was in, they all feared him and his connection to Chalfont.

  They walked back to Deacon’s Camaro, then leaned against the car to eat their hotdogs. The conversation flowed easily, and Deacon’s shoulders began to relax. A part of him wanted to come clean and tell Paul everything.

  “This car’s filthy,” the old man said.

  “Yeah, it is.” Deacon agreed with him, for once. His father’s face flashed in his mind. He frowned, thinking of how pristine Kingsley kept his fleet of sports cars, like they were the most important things in the world to him, apart from his gun collection. They probably were.

  “A man should take care of his things, have some self-respect, especially when he owns a fancy car. You don’t even lock it, dingbat.”

  Deacon laughed. “It’s not high on my list. If they want it, they can have it.”

  Paul scowled. “You didn’t earn it, then. Do you know what it means to work hard and deserve such nice things?”

  “I work, okay?” Deacon retorted. “Every day.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “Are you a cop, Paul? What’s with the third degree today?”

  “My gut. Plus, you keep looking over your shoulder. You in trouble?”

  “That’s another question.”

  “Whatever kind of people you’re mixed up with, you need to drop them and start living a decent life. You’re not doing right. You need to change your ways before they change you . . . for good. These new Colombians that come here now are nothing like my grandmother. These crooks give my ancestors a bad name. Low-life criminals are single-handedly destroying Miami and this country. Vets like me who protected this country’s freedoms are getting robbed and shot up every other day. There’s no respect anymore. These streets have changed. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “So you say,” Deacon said dismissively, waiting for his rant to end.

  “I’ve seen it. Men who surround themselves with bad people, it just leads to more bad choices and bad things happening, until one day you can’t go back, even when you try.”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Paul—”

  “There’s always a way out. Figure it out, dickhead.”

  “Why do you call me these names, old man?”

  “Cause you’re a knucklehead. But you’re all right . . . mostly.”

  Deacon sighed. “You’re mostly okay, too, Paul.”

  Paul finished the last of his hot dog, leaving remnants of mustard in the folds around his mouth. When Deacon pointed to his own face to show him, the old man wiped it away and grinned, sticking out his picket-fence dentures like a snapping turtle.

  Deacon couldn’t help but smile. For some reason, he just liked the guy. He wished he’d gotten to know him under different circumstances.

  “Where’s that blonde of yours . . . Fraud, is it?”

  Deacon snickered. “You mean Claud? Claudia’s at the bank.”

  Paul whistled through his teeth. “She’s there a lot,” he said, eyeing him askance. “Got a figure on her, that girl, like a pinup. You like her?”

  Deacon didn’t answer. He bunched up his wrapper and threw it in the garbage.

  “What? Blondie’s not keeping your bed warm?”

  “It’s a long story . . . not one I’m going to share, either.”

  “Fraud’s always smiling when she’s not saying much. Her eyes, though . . . hard as glass. Probably her heart, too.”

  Deacon smirked.

  “She doesn’t like me much. I can tell she’s not too keen on you having friends of your own.” />
  “You’re probably right.”

  “Xavier, you’re young, smart, and not bad looking. I can tell you’re not happy. What are you doing with your life?”

  “Trying to get home, Paul, trying to get home.”

  CHAPTER 29

  darien, Connecticut

  I wish I had a mother. This one wants nothing to do with me. And never has. She’s a stranger. One that swallows little yellow and blue pills and sips her vodka out of coffee cups all day. Dad walks around the house calling So-Called Mom’s name while she spends the day holed up in her room. He’s stressed about her and the bills that are piling up. He at least talked to me once in a while when she was gone, away in that facility. Now I’m invisible again. So-Called Mom doesn’t even hear little Kerry yelling for her. We’re both back to walking on eggshells, trying to stay hidden and away from everything. Dad keeps trying to get through to her. It’s because So-Called Mom lost her first baby and has no more room in her heart for the rest of us. I wish I had a mother. I could use one now more than ever.

  Hannah shoved her diary aside. Her eyes stung from her eyeliner dripping into them. She bet she looked a mess. She blew her nose and glanced down at the letter next to her.

  Last year Mrs. Myers, her English teacher, had tried to help her deal with the kids at school, the same ones who used to snicker when she passed by and call out her name, teasing her. She’d always felt like an outsider. She never fit in or had friends. Strangely enough, Deacon had been her first friend —and he’d quickly become so much more.

  Hannah had committed her teacher’s words to memory:

  You are better than them. Smarter. Braver. Stop getting in your own way. Believe in yourself. You, Hannah Zandana, can be and do anything. They’re afraid of you. Now act like it. Go.

  She had started to stick up for herself after that and ignore the teasing, which eventually died down. Mrs. Myers had also encouraged Hannah to write. She’d helped her apply back in January for Bard College’s three-week Young Writers Workshop at Simon’s Rock in Massachusetts for “gifted and promising students.” Her acceptance had arrived today. Hannah crumpled up the paper, along with the rest of her dreams. There was no way, not with their money issues. She knew not to ask.