by Claire Adams
“No,” he says. “I’ve got a friend on the force[13] who gives me the heads-up if someone files a report. I’m not that worried about the money,[14] really, I just want what’s mine.”
“You’re not in with loan sharks or anything like that, are you?” I ask.
“Are you kidding me?” he asks. “People like that hate people like me. It never really made sense to me, though. When ya think about it, we are pretty much in the same line of work.”
“So there’s nobody that’s going to come after you if you don’t go back for that money,” I say.
Chris’s eyes go wide and he’s shaking his head as he takes a step back.
“That’s mine,[15] bro,” he says. “I love you and everything, but this place isn’t exactly worth giving up all I’ve worked so hard to achieve.”[16]
“It’s not your money,” I tell him. “You have an opportunity here. You can finally make the change we both know you need to make and I’m willing to help you every step of the way, but I need to know—and I mean absolutely know—that you’ve given up the life.”
“I don’t see why your panties are in such a bunch,” he says. “I pitch in with food. I’ve helped you with rent when I’ve stayed with you before…”
“You mean last time you were here and you gave me fifty bucks to replace the toilet seat you broke—how, I still don’t know—and with the food, I’m assuming you’re talking about that time you bought Funyuns and forgot to take them with you when you left?” I ask.
“You can paint me any way you want to, but this isn’t a one-sided deal,” he says. “I help you, too.”
“You’ve helped me before,” I tell him. “You helped a lot when I was younger and that’s probably why we haven’t had this conversation until now, but I’m sick of it, Chris! I never know when you’re going to show up, and when you do, there’s always the chance I come home to police cars and helicopters.”
“Oh, I’ve never brought the fuzz home with me,” he says, making another grab for the remote control.
“That’s just the worst case scenario,” I tell him, pulling the remote away from him. “Usually, you end up drinking all day, every day, and you never miss a chance to humiliate me. It’s really not that much better.”
“So, what?” he asks. “You want me to give up a quarter of a mil just because I like the sauce?”
“If it was actually your money, I’d tell you to spend it on rehab and some serious counseling,” I tell him. “Since it’s not, I’d say the bigger gesture would be giving it all up in favor of your new life.”
“I can’t do that,” he says. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d do that.”
“Then I guess we both know what happens next,” I tell him. “You’ve got five seconds to grab your stuff and get out of my house.”
For a second, he just stands there, but as soon as I actually start counting, suddenly, he has a lot to say.
“Whoa, whoa, wait,” he says. “Just hold on and let’s talk about this.”
“Four…” I count.
“What are you going to do?” he asks. “You going to literally throw me out of the house?”
“Three…” I count.
“The cops?” he asks. “You’re not actually saying you’d call the cops if I don’t—”
“Two…” I count.
“Do you have any idea what we could do with that kind of money?” he asks.
“One,” I count and take a step toward him.
“All right!” he cries. “I’ll give up the money, but I’m not paying rent. You’ve kind of just poached my nest egg there.”
“That’s fine,” I tell him. “First thing I want you to do is start looking at therapists.”
“You said I didn’t have to do that if I gave up the money,” he says. “I’m giving up the money. How am I supposed to pay for a therapist?”
“I’ll take care of it,” I tell him.
I have no idea where I’m going to get the money to cover someone else’s therapy, but I’ve got a very small window here, and I’m not going to let it close without doing everything in my power to get my brother to stop swindling people.
“I’ve been to therapists before,” he says. “You know that. Why do you think this time’s going to be different?”
“I don’t,” I tell him. “I just hope that it is.”
“You really think some shrink’s going to make me not want to work?”[17] he asks. “I really don’t think it’s a psychological issue.”
“Maybe it won’t do anything,” I tell him. “Maybe it will. I don’t know. It’s one of my requirements, though. I need to know that you’re making a real and honest effort.”
“I’m not going to any Freudians,” he says. “They’re all about Oedipus complexes and penis envy. It freaks me out.”
“As long as you’re going, I don’t care whose philosophy your therapist subscribes to,” I tell him. Remembering my brother’s unique way of twisting just about everything I’ve ever said, I decide to be more specific, saying, “It has to be a real therapist, though.”
“Who’s to say who’s a real therapist and who’s not?” Chris asks.
“I think that would be the American Psychological Association,” I tell him.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll give up an hour a week if it’ll get you off my back, but I’m going to need something in return for all that money I’m giving up for you.”
“You’re not giving it up for me and it’s not your money,” I tell him. “I will let you stay here rent free for the first month, and after that, I expect you to have a job—a real, normal person job. We can figure out how much is going to be fair with rent after that.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” he says.
“Yeah, but I know you,” I tell him. “I’m not going to give up anything more than I’m already giving for this. If you don’t like the deal, there’s the door.”
He looks at me, then at the door and then back at me.
“Just know,” I tell him, “you walk out that door now, and I don’t ever want to see your face again, you understand me? You walk out that door and show up again, I call the cops. You walk out that door and I run into you out in public, I call the cops. You walk out that door now,” I tell him, “and we are done.”
“You don’t have to be so dramatic,” Chris says.
“Call it what you want,” I tell him. “If you don’t believe I mean what I’m saying, just try me. Go ahead,” I tell him. “There’s the door.”
Chris scratches his head and looks at the ground.
“All right,” he says. “I’ll give it up; will you get off of me about it now?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, handing back the remote control. “Over the next little bit, I’m probably going to need some further evidence that you’re not just going right back to it,” I say, “but for now, we’re good.”
“Okay,” Chris says, glaring at me as he throws one hand over the opposite shoulder and turns the television back on again. “Hey,” he says, walking back to his spot on the couch and sitting down, “this is a momentous occasion in my life. I think we should celebrate.”
“I’m not thirsty,” I tell him.
“Oh well,” he says, “more for me.”
He goes back to his liquor and his decades-old cartoons, and I’ve got to get out of here.
Chris promises to change more frequently than anyone I’ve ever known, and I’m not stupid enough to think things are going to be hunky-dory from here.
Still, on the off chance this is some kind of genuine breakthrough, I don’t want to stick around and let him see all of the doubt written across my face. He’d probably end up using that as an excuse to blow up his end of the bargain.
I’m walking now, no particular direction or destination in mind.
Chris said what he said to avoid getting kicked out, that’s plain. The biggest change is that this time, I’m not going to accept his excuses.
If he fa
ils, he’s out and this time, I’m not just going to give him warning after warning.
This is the most ambitious I’ve ever been in trying to get Chris to stop doing what he’s doing before things take a turn that can’t be fixed by a drunken week or two at “little bro’s” house. That doesn’t mean anything if I’m not willing to follow through, though.
For now, I just walk and try to find something else to put my mind.
Immediately, my thoughts turn toward Ash. She’s at school right now, but we have plans to get together later.
As soon as I’ve got the image of Ash in my mind, though, the last half hour comes crashing back into my thoughts.
She knows about Chris, but that doesn’t mean it’s fair to drag her through all of this. If I know my brother, he’s going to try to weasel his way out of this every step of the way, and this is far from the last argument he and I are going to have about it.
Do I really want to ask Ash to deal with this when we’ve only been sort-of dating for a couple weeks? It doesn’t seem fair.
Conventional wisdom says it’s her choice whether or not to have this be a part of her life, but she doesn’t know Chris like I do and I don’t want to have him take off one day, only to find he’s sold her some kind of sob story and made off with her life’s savings.
Maybe the best thing for both of us right now is to break it off, but at the same time, I’m really starting to feel like those walls between us are beginning to come down, and I don’t want to miss out on knowing her better.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Chapter Eight
Reminiscing
Ash
I’m just leaving for class when I find Jana standing outside our building, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey,” she says as I come within speaking distance.
“I thought you quit,” I say, walking up to her.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says.
“The apartment’s empty,” I say.
Jana looks down at her cigarette and then back at me with a smirk. “I am outside smoking,” she says.
“Where is she?” I ask nervously. If Starbright—I’m getting tired of even thinking the name—could push Jana to picking up the pack again, I’m not sure I even want to know what she’s done.
“Oh, she’s out at a cooking class with some people she met earlier today,” Jana answers, flicking her cigarette before taking another drag.
“That sounds uncharacteristically normal of her,” I say.
“Today,” Jana says, blowing out a cloud of smoke, “they’re making an herbal lube that’s supposed to enhance pleasure and stimulate—”
“Why do I ever ask for more information when it comes to your mom?” I interrupt, smiling.
“Yeah,” she says. “Anyway,” she flicks her cigarette and when she looks back, her demeanor has changed, “how’s it going with Mason?”
“Oh, could we not do this?” I ask.
“Do what?” she returns. “I’m just checking up on my roomie. Things not going so well?”
“Things are going fine,” I tell her. “We haven’t hung out in a couple of days, but we’ve both been pretty busy. We’ll get our schedules figured out.”
“That’s good,” Jana says. “You off to class now?”
“Bio chemistry,” I tell her.
“Ooh,” she says, “that sounds like my idea of hell. Have fun!”
With that, she flicks her cigarette into the street and walks back into the building.
When I get to bio chemistry, I can’t focus.
The professor is going on about valence electrons, and I can’t stop thinking about Mason. It’s true that we’ve both been busy, but it’s really starting to feel like he’s actively avoiding me.
He’s got that tournament coming up, and I know he’s got to focus a lot on his training; I just wish he’d pick up a phone and call every once in a while.
None of this would be an issue if it weren’t for Jana. At first, I had to deal with the mental image of my longtime friend with my new boyfriend, but she doesn’t talk about that so much anymore.
Actually, for a little while there, Jana was really great about everything. I asked her to maybe ease up on the fond remembrances of their past sexual dalliances and she did.
The problem is that she’s developed this strange habit where she feels it necessary to inform me every time she remembers yet another woman in town she’s heard Mason’s been with.
The list, at this point, is still manageable, but every time she adds a new name, I start feeling a bit less secure in my relationship.
Stupid Jana.
The last time I did talk to Mason, he told me that he’d dated a lot of women, but hadn’t slept with all of them. He said that a lot of what people spread about him isn’t true.
I don’t know whether to believe him.
One could argue that a person who’s sewn such wild oats would say he hadn’t in this situation, every time the question comes up. One could also argue, though, that a person who’s innocent would say the exact same thing.
It’s not the end of the world; it’s just harder now to feel like this is something that has the potential to last.
The professor takes a detour from the regularly scheduled lecture to answer a question about Breaking Bad. You wouldn’t believe how often this still happens.
I wish I could just skip class today, but this isn’t an elective. Bio chem is required for my major and I’m not going to jeopardize my perfect attendance because I’m having relationship worries.
The closest I’ve come to convincing myself Mason’s sexual history, whether Jana’s version of it is true or not, doesn’t matter is by speculating that so much experience may be to thank for his uncanny ability to make a woman achieve climax.
That is pretty cool.
I don’t know. It’s in the past and I guess it doesn’t really matter from an objective standpoint. Mason’s not the first man I’ve been with, and while I don’t think my own history, even were it to be exaggerated, would hold a candle to his, I also don’t think it would be fair for him to judge me by the people I’ve been with in the past.
At least I know he’s clean.
Mason’s got a fight coming up, the first one of the tournament, and so he had to go in for a blood test before they’d let him enter the ring. I went with him and the guy’s clean as a whistle. I got one too, just for the hell of it. No surprises: I’m clean, too.
Still, if he does have the kind of past it sounds like he did, is he really going to be able to handle a real, serious relationship?
I almost don’t notice when class ends.
“Hey, Ash,” Nyla, one of my acquaintances from class says, walking over to me. “Got anything going right now?”
I’m so lost in my thoughts it takes me a few seconds to process that I’m being talked to, a few more to process what she’s asking.
“Uh,” I say, pulling out my phone to check the time. “No, I’m free. What’s up?”
I don’t know why I had to check my watch. I know what time my class gets out. I’ve really got to figure out a way through the clutter.
“Wanna grab some lunch?” she asks. “We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk over the last little while. You’ve been pretty busy with your boyfriend.”
Not in the last week or so.
“Sure,” I tell her. “I could eat.”
“Great!” she beams.
Nyla and I don’t know each other very well, but after we hit it off in a class we had together last year, we’ve tried to get together every once in a while for food and a chat.
We chat a bit about classes and professors and current events on campus at first, but once we’ve gotten our food and we’re sitting down, the conversation stalls.
I’m eating my watery penne pasta with its flavorless marinara sauce on top and Nyla’s looking away every time I glance in her direction.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Do I have somethin
g on my face?”
“No,” she says. “Well, kinda.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You just look like you’re totally somewhere else,” she says.
Yeah. I suppose I am.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “So, what’s new with you?”
She starts talking about a new boyfriend and I’m tuned out again. I start to get a little nervous as it sounds like she’s in the middle of asking me a question I wasn’t listening to, but an incoming text saves me.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I really have to check this.”
“It’s fine,” she says, and I check the message.
It’s from Mason.
It says, “We need to talk.”
Okay.
Everyone knows that phrase only means one thing. It’s the pre-breakup breakup that kind of softens the blow when the axe comes down.
“Nyla, I’m sorry,” I tell my classmate. “I’ve got to go. Something’s come up, and I—”
“It’s all right,” she says. “I hope you find the answer to your problem.”
I smile. “Thanks,” I say.
I get to my car in a daze.
With everything going on with his brother and with the extra training he’s doing, I know Mason’s been having a difficult time balancing everything, but things were starting to go so well.
By the time I’m pulling up to Mason’s house, I’m about as prepared as I can be for what’s to come.
I get to the door and lift my arm, though I hesitate a moment before I let the motion complete itself, knocking on the door.
I’m consciously taking slow, deep breaths.
Mason is a deceptively nice guy, so I don’t expect any screaming or rending of garments, but then again, you never know.
The door opens to Mason, standing there smiling.
“Hey,” he says. “Come on in.”
“I got your message,” I tell him as I come through the doorway. “You said we needed to talk.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Notice anything different?”
I look around and the difference is obvious.
Where once there were beer bottles and tortilla chip bags, now there is a clean, well-kept home.
