Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  It didn't matter how well you could sing if the director was worried that you wouldn't show up on time for rehearsals, or God forbid curtain. Excuses didn't matter, you're either there, or you’re not.

  Of course, knowing that I had an ice cube's chance in hell of getting cast shattered my confidence, and my performance was less North Carolina School of the Arts graduate and more American Idol contestant eliminated in the first round.

  “We’ll see.” I plastered on a smile. “Fingers crossed!”

  "Okay, let's go. We've been back here for over three minutes. Any longer and Mike might say something that will finally push me over the edge."

  We left the stockroom and rushed to get behind the bar. Sasha had obviously worked double time to get it mostly set up to cover for me. It was the bright spot of an otherwise shitty day.

  Sasha was tall, beautiful, and willowy with a complexion of polished copper and eyes the color of dark whiskey. She was also the first friend I made in New York when I moved here eight months ago and the closest thing I have to a family member here. I gave her a look that said, "I can’t believe you did this for me.” She rolled her eyes and gave me a look that said, “I love you, but if you start crying, I'm gonna punch you.”

  Mike approached the bar, and we braced ourselves.

  Mike was the bar's general manager and the owner's son. Which made him smart enough to avoid crossing the line with any of us, but with enough job security to make working for him a living hell. He was white, taller than me, but shorter than Sasha with hair that didn't know if it wanted to be red or brown, which he kept in a military-style haircut though he'd never served. Mike would almost be considered attractive if he never opened his mouth.

  He never hesitated to make lewd or derogatory comments. We all employed an unspoken buddy system when going into the stockroom or cellar so no one would get stuck alone with him. I put up with it because it was the only job I could find where, with limited experience, I could work four days a week and bring home between a thousand and fifteen hundred dollars. My rent and utilities were almost half that amount, plus student loans, lessons, and other bills. I really needed the money and flexibility. If that meant putting up with Mike, so be it.

  “Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her holy presence?” he sneered.

  "Sorry I'm late, Mike." I shot a quick glance at Sasha. "I was stuck on the train."

  "Yeah, right, you're lucky you're so cute, or I would have fired your ass a long time ago." He snorted magnanimously like he expected me to bow. "Don't let it happen again. And what the hell were you two doing in the back room for so long? Did I miss the show?" He snorted again. "Just make sure to wash your hands before you start serving the customers. This isn't a seafood joint." He turned and walked away.

  Sasha narrowed her eyes and closed her fingers around the handle of the bar knife. I put my hand on her wrist.

  "Let's cut the lemons first. Then it'll hurt Mike more when you stab." I looked up at her, cracking a smile. Her angry demeanor fell away, and she grinned at me.

  “Ooo, I can’t stand him,” she gritted.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Join the club.”

  Twelve hours later and three hundred and seventy-two dollars richer, I flopped into my bed fully clothed, hoping that tomorrow would be better.

  * * *

  “Good morning, mija.”

  “Hey, Mami,” I groaned, looking at my watch. The universe was conspiring to rob me of a full night’s sleep.

  "You usually call me after an audition, and I want to hear all about it."

  "It's eight o'clock in the morning."

  “Were you still sleeping?”

  “Yes. I didn’t get home until four.”

  “Four in the morning? In that city? You could have been kidnapped.”

  For as long as I can remember, my mother's number one fear was one of her five children getting kidnapped. We used to joke that she had so many of us so that if one or two of us actually were kidnapped, she'd have plenty of extras. This fear only intensified as we grew up and moved away. Every questionable life decision could end up as a kidnapping.

  New diet: What if you get kidnapped and you aren’t strong enough to fight back?

  Going to a party: Watch your drinks, because I saw on Dateline that they are drugging women’s drinks at parties so they can kidnap them.

  Going on vacation: Be careful not to get kidnapped. Remember what happened to those two girls that went to Paris? She was talking about the movie Taken. It might as well have been a movie about what happens when people don't listen to their mother.

  "I took a car home. I texted the driver's information to Sasha and paid him extra to wait until I made it into the house. No kidnapping."

  “Well, I don’t like it. I don’t understand why you insist on working jobs like that when you could use the money you got from—”

  “I don’t want that money.”

  “Your father fought very hard to get you that settlement. You deserve that money. You earned it—”

  “Ay, Mami. Stop. I earned that money by devoting nearly half of my life to someone who could trade me in like a broken old car so he could upgrade to a newer working model. He wrote a fat check to make himself feel better.”

  "You are not broken. You are strong. You are independent, and most of all, you're too proud. You won't let us help you, and you won't use your settlement. Your father and I worked very hard to make sure you kids would never have to struggle. Do you know how hard it is to watch you punish yourself like this?"

  “I’m not punishing myself.” God, she was so dramatic. “I’m trying to move on with my life. Start over.”

  “By moving to New York of all places? Hundreds of miles away from your family. Working ridiculous hours in a disgusting bar and trying to become a singer?”

  "I went to school to become a singer. I have a degree in music, and I'm pretty talented."

  “I know that, querida. You insisted on going to school to do something you’ve been doing well since you were two years old instead of something that you could actually use to make a living. I just want you to be sensible. Are you seeing your therapist regularly?”

  "Yes," I whispered. "And my doctor." I refused to use a penny from my divorce settlement, and I won't accept handouts from my parents, but they insisted that I accept their health insurance. I couldn't really afford to refuse it with my condition, and it made them feel better.

  “Mami, can we talk about something else?”

  “Claro, mi amor.” She sighed. “Your brothers are driving me crazy as usual. August can’t come soon enough.”

  I laughed in agreement. My brothers, Eric and Shawn, were a handful—two handfuls, to be exact. My parents were blessed with three girls and decided to try one more time for a boy and got two. They were the youngest of five and spoiled rotten, but they were good boys. They just turned eighteen and were headed to the University of North Carolina in Charlotte in the fall. My parents met at UNC as students, and all of their children called UNC their home after high school—except for me, of course.

  “That’s because you let them get away with murder.” I chuckled.

  “How was your audition?” she asked to change the subject and ignore my comment about her parenting.

  "Terrible…" I began. I told her about the late-night run-in with my neighbor, making sure to let her know that I had my bat in case he tried to kidnap me.

  “Is he handsome?” she asked.

  "My neighbor, who was so drunk he tried to enter the wrong house and thought I was his mother?"

  “Well?”

  I had to think before I responded. The answer was yes. Yes, my neighbor was very handsome. He was tall and muscular with dark hair and sapphire blue eyes. He kind of reminded me of Superman—more Henry Cavill than Christopher Reeve—or the male love interest from one of Mami's books. She wanted me to start dating again so badly I wouldn't be surprised if she'd actually written him into existence.

&
nbsp; Then I thought about what he said to me, and I instantly remembered that physical attractiveness doesn't preclude someone from being a piece of shit. My ex was a prime example of that.

  "No, Ma, and I'm not interested. I have enough on my plate."

  “There’s always room for dessert, mi amor. Oh, that was a good one. I’m going to write that down.”

  In a few months, I would probably receive a package containing a book about a small-town hero attempting to rescue his family's pastry shop from the grumpy billionaire real estate developer who looked suspiciously like me with a name like Liza or Alyssa. Liza or Alyssa's cold heart would thaw, and within twenty-five chapters, she would be married, baking muffins all day, and popping out babies like Skittles. My mom has written over thirty books and hasn't penned one where the heroine can't have children and finds a hero who loves her anyway, but she wasn't writing real life.

  In real life, the hero would get tired of the lack of children, followed by the health problems, the lack of sex, the depression, and the constant fights, before he finally traded the heroine in for a new heroine who looked suspiciously like the old heroine, but younger and fertile.

  “How’s Papi?” I asked to change the subject.

  “He’s your father. He flew to San Juan last night.”

  "Again?" I asked. My father has been flying to Puerto Rico at least once a month since the hurricane. He was pretty hands-on with a lot of aspects of the recovery, but now he mostly provided legal aid.

  "Yeah, I think he thinks he can fix everything single-handedly like a superhero."

  “How are you doing?”

  "I'm fine. I have my words to keep me company, and I'm so proud to be married to a man like your father. He has a big heart, and sometimes I have to share it." She tried to hide it, but I heard the sadness in her voice. My parents were exactly like a couple from a romance novel. In fact, the heroes from my mom's breakout series, The Montenegro Brothers, are four different versions of my dad, though she would never admit it.

  “Why don’t you go with him anymore?”

  "I did at first, but when I'm home, I can't write. I just look around…" She paused, and her voice choked with tears. She cleared her throat and continued. "And I feel too guilty to write. How can I sit around and write love stories? So many people are still suffering, and there's still so much to be done.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “I’m going to let you go, querida, but please think about what I said. I don’t want to see you struggle if you don’t have to.”

  “Okay, Mami. I’ll think about it,” I lied, knowing I had no intention of touching that money.

  I was exhausted when I picked up the phone, but after a forty-five-minute conversation with my mother, I was wide awake. After cleaning my apartment, I decided to make myself breakfast. I craved waffles piled high with whipped cream and bacon, but instead, I settled for a bowl of unsweetened almond yogurt with chopped berries. Don't get me wrong, I love my diet. Since my diagnosis, learning to avoid foods that trigger a spike in my insulin levels has been a game-changer, but something about my conversation with my mother made me want to drown myself in carbs, all of them.

  * * *

  Sasha: Hey! Text me when you wake up.

  Me: Hey.

  Sasha: Wow. Ok, early bird. Free concert in Central Park. VIP passes. Wanna go?

  Me: Who is it?

  Sasha: Does it matter?

  Me: lol. No. What time?

  Sasha: Meet us at 3, and we can grab some food.

  Me: (thumbs-up emoji)

  Sasha: Ok. I’m going back to sleep. See you later. ’Caela says hi.

  Me: Tell her I said hey. See you later, Sash.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I locked my door, excited to have something to erase the last, decidedly shitty, twenty-four hours of my life when I was startled by a deep voice over my shoulder.

  “Hey, neighbor.”

  I recognized the voice immediately, and almost wished I still had my bat. I turned around to face the drunken asshole that said I'd make a shitty mother and ruined my audition. He sat on his stoop, and it looked like he was waiting for something.

  “I don’t have time for this.” I walked toward the gate. He hurried down the stoop and blocked my way. I glared at him.

  "Hey, sorry." He stepped out of my way. "I wanted to talk to you."

  “We don’t have anything to talk about.” But for some unknown reason, curiosity slowed my steps and kept me rooted to the spot.

  “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “You think you owe me an apology?” I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

  "Look, I might have had a little too much to drink the other night—okay, I definitely had too much to drink," he added when I rolled my eyes. "And I think I might have said or done something to offend you." He raised his eyebrows, looking for confirmation.

  The question seemed so sincere, and I almost succumbed to the plea in his vibrant blue eyes until I remembered how his words punched me in the chest, which was compounded by the fact that he didn't even remember saying them. He stood in front of me, making me potentially late for lunch with my friends and fishing for details on his disgusting behavior.

  “You don’t remember what you said or did?” I turned to face him and crossed my arms.

  "No," he said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "I don't remember much, but I remember that look on your face, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I feel terrible, and I wanted to try to make it right."

  "So." I exhaled a long breath and narrowed my eyes at him. "You camped outside my house to apologize to me, even though you have no idea why you owe me an apology because you feel terrible?"

  "Well, I—" he began before I cut him off.

  “And I’m supposed to what? Help you? You allegedly wronged me and expect me to do the emotional labor of explaining what you did to me and why it was so fucked up, so you can stop feeling terrible?"

  "Um—" he tried to speak again.

  "This is how real apologies work: one…" I held up my index finger. "You say that you're sorry. Two." Another finger. "You acknowledge your behavior and take responsibility. Three: You right the wrong, and finally four: You put actions in place to make sure you won't repeat your mistake. So, can you see how you might run into difficulty completing steps two through four?"

  “Look. Okay, I fucked up, but I’m trying to make it right. Haven’t you ever drunk so much that you didn’t remember what happened the next day?”

  “No.”

  "You know what? That doesn't surprise me. Fine. I'm done. You obviously have someplace to go, and I'm wasting my time trying to be nice to someone who wants to be miserable." He turned and walked back to his stoop and climbed the stairs. "And you know what else? You owe me an apology, and unlike you, I'm gonna tell you why."

  I crossed my arms and tilted my head in exasperation, waiting for his response. This oughta be good. "Why?"

  “For trying to kill me with a baseball bat.”

  I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “That’s right. I could have you arrested for assault with a deadly weapon.”

  He raised his eyebrows as if he'd made the best argument in the world, and though I tried to suppress it, I let out a small chuckle that sounded like a snort. His eyes glittered at my expression, and an adorable half-smile tugged at his lips. I recovered quickly.

  Being adorable doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole, I reminded myself.

  “You know, you really suck at apologizing,” I shouted up to him.

  His smile dropped from his mouth, and his brow furrowed, giving his face a funny expression that resembled recognition. I almost wanted to question it, then I decided that the less I knew about my handsome, asshole neighbor, the better. I walked out of my gate and headed toward the train.

  3

  cole

  “You know, you really suck at apologizing.”

  Holy shit.

  Kim
berly’s tenant, whose name I still didn’t know, unwittingly solved the mystery of why I couldn’t let my argument with my sister go.

  I called Judy and told her I would be a little late coming into the office and asked her to cover for me. She agreed, but it would cost me an extra latte.

  I got dressed and waited for Kimberly to leave her house. Apparently, stalking the residents of the brownstone next door had become my new pastime. That's how I knew Adam had left forty-five minutes earlier wearing running gear.

  A black town car pulled up in front of her house, and a minute later, Kimmy walked out carrying a small rolling suitcase. I jogged over to her and took it out of her hands as I walked her to her car.

  “Cole? What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Lisa?” Kimberly bit her lip and closed her eyes, realizing what she’d let slip, as my face snapped to hers in excitement.

  Lisa. Her name was Lisa.

  “No, not really.”

  “Get in.” She sighed.

  A soon as we were in the car and the driver pulled away, I turned to face Kimberly. "Your apology was bullshit."

  “Good morning?” She blinked at me a few times.

  “Seriously, why did you apologize?”

  “Ugh, Cole. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned again before rolling her eyes. “Because I was sorry?”

  “Why were you sorry?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and heaved a deep sigh.

  "Because it was obvious that what I said hurt your feelings, and I felt awful because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you. You're my brother, and I love you." She gave me a sad smile.