Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  Fiona, with her massive, nonlumpy rack.

  Liz gave a stink eye to the Con Ed worker who was next in line, and he quickly switched his order from “for here” to “to go.”

  “I’m gonna jet. My problems are bad for business.” If she lingered any longer, she’d no doubt wax neurotic on the fact that her uncle had jumped on the first offer made on the building. Was he that desperate to unload? She’d be teaching yoga out of a cardboard box on the Bowery by next week, at this rate.

  Liz huffed a sigh of protest. “No. It’s not you. It’s the damn hormones. Some women get a pregnancy glow. I’m phosphorescent with rage.” She expertly wrapped Con Ed guy’s Hell Hole—aptly named for the heat level of the jalapeño bagel stuffed with turkey and pepper jack cheese—and thrust it at him. Forcing a smile, she managed, “Thank you, come again soon.”

  When he was out of earshot, she muttered, “Come again and go. That’s all men ever do. They’re dicks, every single one of them. Dicks with arms, Sidra.”

  Sidra couldn’t help it. Despite the last hellish twelve hours, she laughed. The mental image of Liz’s words, along with the utter conviction in which she said them, was too funny.

  Liz just shrugged and grabbed a huge apple from the fruit bowl next to her. Chomping down with gusto, she mumbled between mouthfuls, “Eve was an idiot to give Adam a taste of anything.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Kevin?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Liz gestured toward the general vicinity of her abdomen and snorted. “It’s been at least a trimester or so.”

  “Oh, jeez.” Like preparing to clear her mind for yoga practice, Sidra tucked her worries under her mental mat to concentrate on her friend. “You have every right to be upset with him. Does he expect you to deal with this all on your own?”

  “He’s not . . . expecting anything.” Liz tossed the apple core into the trash.

  Sidra gasped. “Liz! You haven’t told him?”

  “My baby. My problem.” Her friend pushed her lip out, aiming for strong, but Sidra wasn’t fooled by the way her voice broke.

  “That’s it.” Sidra marched to the door. Flipping the lock and the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, she ignored Liz’s protests. “You need a break. And you’re too stubborn to see it.” She forced Liz off her feet by sliding a stool behind her knees. “What, were you going to hide out from him for nine months, and then what?”

  Liz pulled an unsliced bagel from the basket behind her and nibbled at it like a manic little mouse. “I’ll tell him as it gets closer.”

  “Closer? Liz, you’re half-baked! That bun is cooked more than your bagels.”

  “Let’s become lesbians,” Liz begged. “We’ll swear off guys and raise the baby ourselves.”

  Sidra quirked a brow.

  “Okay, okay. At least be my date, then? His sister is getting married next month and I’m going to need a buffer.”

  “Next month? To hell with a buffer!” Sidra joked. “You’ll need an epidural and a midwife by then.”

  “Nuh-uh. Not till after I get my money out of wearing that bridesmaid’s dress.”

  Sidra’s eyes bugged. Liz was delusional. “When’s your due date, anyway?” Having demolished the bagel, Liz reached for a bear claw next. “Maybe eat a calendar, so the baby will know exactly when to be born.” Sidra plucked the pastry out of her friend’s hand and took a flaky bite. Liz’s eyes immediately brimmed, like emerald pools at the base of a waterfall. “Jeez, I take it back! Sorry, sorry.” Sidra pushed the treat back.

  “It’s not you,” Liz blubbered. “Or this.” She waved the bear claw forlornly. “It’s me. I . . . I’ve never told anyone this. Not even my oldest, closest girlfriends. But when Kev and I dated in high school, I . . .”

  Sidra waited patiently as Liz took a deep sniff, composed herself, and continued. “We got pregnant. It was just as much on him as it was on me. He was great about it. I mean, as great as any scared-out-of-his-wits sixteen-year-old could be. We . . . you know. Made it all go away.”

  “Oh, honey.” Sidra embraced her friend.

  “And maybe afterward, I regretted it a little. Even though I knew it was for the best, at the time. But now?” Liz reciprocated, tightening her arms around Sidra. “The longer I wait to tell Kev . . .” She dwindled, but Sidra caught the drift. “I may lose him because I didn’t include him in the choice, but . . . I want to keep it.”

  Her abdomen, straining at the hem of her Naked Bagel T-shirt, felt like a strong bundle of energy against Sidra’s own. It was both humbling and terrifying to think about the cycle of cells rapidly dividing. Ever since Rick discovered the lump, Sidra couldn’t stop imagining the worst within her own body. But now, pressed up against the amazing life force growing inside her friend, she allowed her mind to conjure up strength and positivity. Life and its unknowns were scary, but amazing at the same time. You are stronger than you know, Sidra advised herself, and her friend, silently. She felt a strong jab to her belly, as if Liz’s baby had decided to say, Hey! Me too!

  “Whoa, did you feel that?” Liz backed up, hands clapping against the little mound.

  Sidra smiled. “I think your little yogi just did a perfect Standing Split.”

  Rick

  Bombed

  Rick came so close. He could practically feel the doorknob, solid and warm beneath his fingers. But his feet continued to make tracks. He passed the blinking Open sign as his brain flashed messages like C-A-N’ T can’t-can’t-can’t.

  Can’t.

  Cancer.

  I can’t do it again.

  He found himself on Essex Street, walking fast and close to the storefronts with no destination in mind. A bloke in a black leather waistcoat burst through a doorway, with more belly and beard than Santa Claus. Rick halted in his tracks to keep from being barreled over, but the man had paused, too, propping the door open for Rick with a chubby elbow.

  “Going in?”

  Rick considered the lettering above the door. “Yes, cheers.”

  I can’t do it again because I’m a selfish bastard, he thought, making his way toward the mostly empty stools lining the bar of the Whiskey Ward.

  Rick contemplated the rows of bottles lining the exposed brick of the wall. In his mind, he saw rows and rows of yoga mats. And Sidra, sitting in lotus, all alone.

  “Jameson, please.” He stared dully at the wood of the bar, even after the drink was placed in front of him.

  “It’s all well and good to drink the Irish whiskey,” came a voice thick with malt, and Rick smelled the eighty-proof breath that followed it. “Marco,” the man called, holding up two fingers as he dropped unsteadily onto the stool next to Rick. He looked to be in his midsixties, with close-cropped silver hair and a face ruddy and puffy from drink. The bartender barely glanced up, but began to pull a pint of Guinness from the tap, apparently the customer’s drink of choice.

  “Jesus Christ, am I the only one seeing double here?” the guy wanted to know. “I meant two, Marco. Dos, zwei, deux, two!” Another Guinness was poured. “Now bring us the Baileys.”

  Us? Rick hated instant alcohol-infused camaraderie. He threw back his drink, letting the whiskey burn dull the longing and regret he felt for altering his course that evening. Instantly, his empty glass was replaced with a foaming, blended shot of Irish cream and whiskey.

  “Erm, many thanks but—” Rick stopped when his stool mate slid one of the pints of dark ruby velvet toward him.

  “As I was saying, it’s all well and good to drink the Irish whiskey, but it’s really no fun to drink it alone.” And with that, the guy plunked his own shot directly into the thick head of his Guinness. He grabbed the overflowing glass and lobbed it in the direction of his mouth. Foam dappled the collar of his checkered shirt and ran down his fingers, but he didn’t pause until the pint glass was emptied.

  “What in bloody hell was that?” Rick asked.

  Marco threw down a bar rag and sopped up the aftermath. “Some places call it an Irish Car Bomb. We j
ust call it the Jack #5 Combo.”

  The drink’s namesake gave Rick a broad grin. His watery blue eyes didn’t seem to be smiling, though. “Well, son. Are you with me or against me?”

  Rick contemplated the two vessels before him. He thought of Sidra’s creamy tan skin under his touch, the dark velvet of her hair whispering across his lips. The cold, unyielding glass was in his hands now, and he chugged the blended concoction before it could curdle.

  No cheers or pats on the back. His drinking partner just lurched off to the toilet, leaving Rick with thoughts that soured in the back of his throat.

  Feckless bastard. You should be with her. You told her you would be there for her.

  Your lies will poison her.

  You’re the poison.

  The fire in his belly hadn’t dulled a thing. In fact, it flicked hot sparks, riling his nerves and smoldering up to his brain. One more drink, he thought. Although he must’ve thought it out loud, because Marco came down to his end of the bar, staring at him expectantly. “One more Jameson. With ginger, this time.” He needed something nonflammable. “And whatever he’s drinking next.”

  Marco nodded. “Lime?”

  “Sure, mate.”

  A large figure had taken over the stool to Rick’s right and was nursing a bottle of beer that looked toylike under his great mitts. He appeared Native American, with a mane of hair to rival the length of Rick’s back in his heyday, worn in a long straight ponytail.

  Marco delivered Rick’s drink and another Jack #5 Combo. Jack reappeared on Rick’s left.

  “Ah, more spirits to lift my spirits!”

  “Cheers, mate.” Rick clinked glasses and hoped that he was now relieved of his social obligations.

  The knock of pool cues and a bit of trumpet bursting from the jukebox replaced conversation. The Rolling Stones were singing “Bitch.” Simone had always loved Jagger. Rick remembered buying her Sticky Fingers on vinyl during one of his visits to New York as a teen, and the cover had had a real working zipper to the trouser pants. It was probably in that big crate of vinyl her parents had pawned off on him.

  He wondered if Revolve Records ever saw copies come through their door. The image of his hand almost on the doorknob forced an audible sigh. Sidra would be livid. Or hurt. Probably both. Bloody hell.

  “Women!” Jack proclaimed to no one in particular. “Women are always gonna leave.” The giant to Rick’s right flicked an annoyed glance. “Whether they go out with another man”—burp—“or they go out in a pine box. They leave.”

  “Shut up, old man.”

  Rick threw down some bills. It was not a line of discussion he wished to get into.

  He didn’t see the fist coming, but heard the pop. Like a cue breaking and scattering the pool balls on the table. Then he felt the punch and went down, sunk like the eight ball.

  Sidra

  It Takes a Village

  Sidra paced the floor of her father’s living room. It was after nine, yet he still wasn’t home. The hour could be considered early for those who went out to drink socially, but since Jack made a summer career out of it, he was usually tucked in bed by now to get an early start on the stool the next morning. She had had a quick dinner at Molly’s with him, and he had been in good spirits, claiming he’d be heading home after the next round.

  “We put him in a cab a couple hours ago, gave the cabbie the address. He ain’t home yet?”

  Sidra hung up with Molly’s and paced some more. It felt better to do it up here in his quarters than down in hers. She didn’t want to bring the worry and the loneliness down to hers, with no Seamus and no Charlie down there.

  Did I just say Charlie?

  Setting aside his many obvious faults, Charlie had a knack for dealing with her dad. Or maybe, since he himself had grown up in the tavern setting, he had a knack for dealing with drunks. Her dad had loved Charlie like a second son. And Charlie had always treated Jack with respect. When the doorbell rang at three a.m. because Jack was locked out or the cops had given him a ride home, Charlie would handle it. Better than Seamus could ever handle it. Shay had the brute strength to get Jack up into bed, but his inner emotional strength was still that of a scared little boy, hiding behind the couch from his dad’s demons. It collapsed upon itself quickly.

  Sidra paced back to the phone. She called all the usual hangouts she could think of. Finally, she got a lead.

  “Oh yeah, he was here. Left maybe a half hour ago? I offered to grab him a cab, but he wanted to walk. Don’t worry, Sid. He had another patron looking out for him.”

  “Thanks, Marco.” She slowly hung up, shaking her head. Great. Freaking drunks. Walking all the way from the Whiskey Ward? And with company? It takes a village of idiots to stumble home, apparently.

  She sat out on the stoop of the brownstone to wait and watch for any sign. Sure enough, two hobbling specks materialized from the direction of Cooper Union. They had obviously taken the scenic route. Sidra stared, elbows on knees, palms on cheeks, waiting for her eyes and her memory to mold one of the stumbling shapes into the man on her mind.

  She got two for the price of one.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Popping up from the top step, she bounded down to help Rick. Her father sagged against her lover, arm propped over the younger man’s shoulder for support.

  “You know this guy?” Rick asked, looking about as shell-shocked as Sidra felt.

  “He’s my dad.”

  She picked up her father’s other arm and wrapped the dead weight around her shoulder. Together, with minimal shuffling on Jack’s part, they got him upstairs, into the house, and to his bed.

  “So do you live here, too?” Rick asked, now standing and watching as she wiggled Jack’s shoes to loosen them.

  “Downstairs apartment.” One shoe fell with a thud. “I moved there when I was twelve.”

  “All by yourself?”

  She set the other shoe down and glared at him. How dare he ask questions when he had left her to stew on her own all evening! Leaning, she yanked the wastepaper basket from the spot near Jack’s desk and plunked it by the bed, in case he needed to get sick in the night. With that thought in mind, she gently rolled her dad over on his side. Nothing more for her to do, she thought, standing quickly. Too quickly. Rick’s arms were there as she swayed from the head rush.

  “What happened to you?”

  “There was a bloke to the right of me at the pub who took slight offense to one of your father’s recitations. I just happened to be the unfortunate middle man.”

  “I didn’t mean your eye,” she said through gritted teeth, although before she realized it, she was gingerly fingering the bruise blossoming along his right cheekbone. She was glad it hadn’t been her father’s doing. “Let’s get some ice on it.” Ice was one thing Jack made sure was fresh and plentiful in his otherwise empty freezer. Sidra wrapped some in a towel.

  “I swear I had all good intentions. I came downtown and my hand was even on the door and—”

  “Intentions?” Sidra’s fuse sparked hot. “You talk of intentions like they’re an excuse! Do you know why I ask you to set intentions before yoga?” His gaping mouth registered with her, but she didn’t let him answer. “It’s more than just a connection between mind and body. It’s a vow that has been birthed in the very core of your heart—the place of your deepest truth.”

  “I was scared, okay?” he shouted. “That’s my deepest bloody truth.”

  “And you think I’m not?”

  Patience.

  The memory of her mother’s voice echoed in the long hall. Their shouts may not have been loud enough to rouse a drunk, but they had raised the dead.

  What if she didn’t have the time to be patient?

  Patience is bitter. But its fruit is so sweet.

  She wanted to move forward, to see where time might take them. To reap the fruit and savor its swollen sweetness. To love, and to be loved. A surge of emotion tumbled over her, timeless and nameless. It rendered her spen
t and calm, like a crying jag in her mother’s arms used to, after all the tears had been shed.

  Rick’s arms held her now, like she was a treasured thing. She took the ice pack and gently applied it to his bruised cheek. He kissed the inside of her wrist, nuzzling against the thin skin there. She reveled in the solidness of him. He was strength and vulnerability as he murmured apologies and reassurances.

  “Any news?” he asked quietly.

  “I saw my doctor today. We’re starting with a diagnostic mammogram.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. She’s hoping it rules out anything serious, but . . .” Core needle, fine needle aspiration . . . Her brain had stopped processing during the biopsy discussion. “One step at a time.”

  Sidra wasn’t quite ready to stay indoors. Especially not in her father’s apartment with Rick, with this conversation hovering stale and scary above them. “Do you want to take a walk?”

  It was a beautiful night. The breeze was a gentle reprieve from the heat. Sidra thanked the garbage gods that it was not collection night; no roaring trucks or sour-smelling cans on the streets. Rick kept one hand on his eye with the ice and kept the other holding hers.

  “You came up Bowery? There are shorter ways to get here.”

  “Hey, it’s not like old Jack was much help. I’m just a tourist in your town. I stuck to the streets I knew. Or at least I thought I knew. When did CBGB become a clothing boutique?”

  She gently tugged him down her block. “A while ago. We’ve had to make our peace with it. Better that than another Starbucks or a bank.”

  “You think?” His expression closely resembled someone in mourning, Sidra observed. “CBs was my first music experience in the States. I was fifteen. You can imagine the impression it had on me.”

  It gave Sidra a funny feeling to think of Rick in her neighborhood without her. She had always been proud of and territorial about her Village. Yet she knew New York and all its landmarks belonged to everyone, day-trippers and city dwellers alike. It was all here before she arrived and would most likely be here long after she was gone. But for now, she thought, sliding her arm through Rick’s, relish the moment. Show him your New York.