Crashed

by Julie Kriss

  “Curiosity fucks,” I said. “I’m not interested.”

  “No way. He’s just a player, the same as any guy with legs. Don’t you know what year it is? No stigma.”

  “Trust me, there’s stigma.”

  He sighed. “It’s mindset, man. Just mindset. Deep down you know it’s true.” He took the towel off. “Okay, we’re done.”

  After he left, I grabbed some almonds and orange juice from the fridge and wheeled back to the living room. My phone rang. It was Nick.

  I swiped to answer. “I’m answering the phone,” I said to my brother without bothering with hello. “Are you happy? Can I go back to my life now?”

  “What’s going on there, fuckface?” Nick said back. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great. I have hookers here. I’m snorting blow. Just a regular Wednesday at my house.”

  He ignored me. “Did Jon come for the physiotherapy? I put it on the schedule on the fridge.”

  “Jesus.” I swigged orange juice. “Yes, he did. Everything’s fine.”

  “Donna is supposed to come tomorrow.”

  I winced. Donna was a “wellness therapist”—that was what she called herself, probably because she wasn’t any kind of legit doctor. She’d been hired by my mother.

  Two years ago, when my parents divorced, my mother had decided to come back into my life. Nick’s, too. She’d apologized for abandoning us after the accident and she’d tried hard to make amends. Part of those amends, in my mother’s mind, was hiring Donna to give me her wellness therapy.

  Overall, I was good with having my mother back. It sure as hell beat the years when I thought she didn’t give a shit about me. But Donna and her wellness therapy were a pain in the ass.

  “Aren’t you in Hawaii?” I asked my brother. “Why are you fussing about my schedule?”

  “Just making sure you’re following it,” Nick said. “And yes, I’m in fucking Hawaii. It’s nice here. You should come sometime.”

  “What color is the sky in your world?” I swigged more juice. “Kiss Evie for me. Then again, don’t, because you’ll only remind her that she married the wrong guy.”

  This was a common line of ribbing with Nick and me. I didn’t actually have a thing for Evie, even though she was a hot, curvy redhead, definitely the best-looking woman who had ever been inside my house. Nick and Evie were made for each other. And I didn’t have a thing for any woman, because it wasn’t going to happen.

  I thought of Tessa Hartigan, then pushed the thought away.

  There was a muffled female voice on the other end of the phone. Then Nick saying, “No, I’m not telling him that.” Then more talking.

  “I’m getting old here,” I reminded my brother.

  Nick sighed. “Evie wants me to say that she loves you.”

  I put my glass down. For a second I couldn’t breathe. Fucking Evie. Neither of us deserved her.

  “Well of course she does,” I said through the lump in my throat, making my voice sound casual. “Everyone knows I’m the better brother.” I cleared my throat. “With the bigger dick.”

  “I’m not telling her that.”

  In the beat of silence, my doorbell rang.

  “What the fuck was that?” Nick said.

  I was frozen in surprise. I wasn’t expecting anyone; I had no appointments, no deliveries. No one was supposed to be at my door.

  “Andrew?” Nick said.

  “It would seem to be my doorbell,” I said, wheeling myself over to my monitor and tapping it awake. “Probably just kids.” I looked at the front door feed and went very still.

  “Well?” Nick said after a minute.

  “It’s nothing,” I managed. “I’ll call you later.” I hung up.

  And looked at the front door feed again.

  Tessa Hartigan was standing on my front porch. She was still wearing the spaghetti-strap top and short shorts from before. Her sunglasses were perched on top of her head. She had noticed the camera and had centered herself in front of it, waving.

  She carried a white square cake, which she tilted toward the camera. There was one word iced onto the cake:

  Hi.

  Six

  Tessa

  * * *

  It had been a stroke of genius, really. I’d noticed a bakery in the plaza next to one of the restaurants where I’d applied. I had the feeling that to impress Andrew Mason, I’d have to do something unexpected. A Hi cake seemed like just the thing.

  But I stood on the porch in dead silence, holding the cake toward the camera over the door and waving. And nothing happened.

  “Hey,” I said out loud in case he could hear me. “I’m your new neighbor. Come on.” I pointed. “Cake here.”

  Still nothing.

  He was home; I knew he was home, because I’d seen a car come and go, an Asian guy in scrubs come to the front door and get let in. Andrew Mason was here, but he was ignoring me.

  “Hey,” I said again as sweat rolled down my back. Jesus, it was hot. I thought California was hot. Why didn’t anyone warn me that Michigan was fucking boiling?

  I sighed as sweat rolled down my temples in the silence. Why was I doing this? Why was I going to so much trouble? It wasn’t because I thought that poor, sad Andrew Mason needed a friend. It wasn’t because I was a naturally kind person. I couldn’t have said why I was doing it, in fact. And so far, I wasn’t getting anywhere.

  And for another reason I couldn’t explain, that didn’t discourage me. It only made me more determined to get him to answer the goddamn door.

  I was wondering what to do—the cake was about to start melting—when my phone pinged in my pocket. An incoming text. I should probably ignore it.

  My phone pinged again.

  Sighing in annoyance, I balanced the cake on one hand and fished out my phone with the other. Swiped it on. Saw two texts from a number I didn’t recognize.

  Go away.

  I mean it.

  I felt my jaw drop. Surprise, first, and then outrage. What the fuck? I immediately hit the button to dial the unknown number.

  On the other end, the phone rang once and then a masculine voice said, “Can’t you read?”

  “Andrew Mason?” I said.

  “No, it’s Chris Evans. Who the fuck do you think is telling you to go away?”

  “How… How the hell did you get my phone number?”

  “You have no idea how much personal information the average cell phone transmits. It’s all there. It’s only a matter of accessing it.”

  God, what a voice. Deep, even, perfectly calm. And all those big words. I felt a shiver despite my outrage. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had given me a shiver.

  “So what else do you know about me?” I asked him.

  “Your name is Tessa Hartigan, this is your phone number, you have an L.A. address, you’re staying in the house across the street,” Andrew said. “And you’re currently standing on my front porch with a cake that says Hi on it for reasons I have yet to understand.”

  “I’m being neighborly!” I said, exasperated.

  “No, you’re treating me as an object of pity. That’s an entirely different thing.”

  “You’re not an object of pity!” I was shouting now, which I was vaguely aware of, though I didn’t really care. “You’re my new neighbor, and I’m saying hello! It’s what normal people do!”

  “How many of your other neighbors did you bring a cake to?”

  I was silent, my mouth still open in outrage.

  “I thought so,” Andrew said. “You can go now. I’m not letting you in.”

  “Jesus, are you this hard on everyone you meet?” I said, my voice strangled because I was so pissed off.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “My therapist tells me it’s a defense mechanism. It’s a good theory, though when I think it over I find I don’t give a fuck.”

  The cake wobbled in my hand, and I struggled to balance it. The outrage was at war with the shivers again. “I’m glad y
ou have a therapist, because it sounds like you really need it.”

  “You should know. I’m not the one standing on a stranger’s porch in hundred-degree-heat. Besides, I think my therapist is wrong. My problem isn’t defensive mechanisms, it’s that I hate everyone.”

  “Including me?”

  “The jury’s out, but the statistical probability is yes. I’d say sorry, but I don’t have any feelings.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “This is cake. No one hates cake.”

  “Try me,” Andrew Mason said, and hung up.

  I stood frozen, the phone still against my ear. Then I put it back in my pocket.

  “Fuck you,” I muttered darkly. I didn’t know if he could hear me, and I didn’t care. “You think I don’t know assholes? I’m from L.A., jerk. It’s an entire city of assholes.” I marched to the front door and laid the cake in front of it. “Here’s your cake, Andrew Mason. You want to get rid of it, come get it yourself.”

  The icing was definitely turning liquid in the heat, a few drops running down the sides. In an hour, the Hi would be nothing but smears of color, unintelligible. It would be a mess, and the flies and wasps would have a heyday. Too bad.

  I turned and walked back across the street to my grandmother’s house, my sandals slapping against the hot concrete. When I put the key in the lock, I heard a soft click behind me. I turned around to see the front door of Andrew Mason’s house clicking shut.

  The cake on the porch was gone.

  Seven

  The next morning

  * * *

  Tessa: Well? How was the Hi cake? Admit you ate it.

  Andrew: Who is this?

  Tessa: Ha ha. You talk tough, but it took you thirty seconds to swoop in and pick it up, big guy.

  Andrew: I didn’t want flies on my porch, that’s all.

  Tessa: Sure. It wasn’t my sweet cake or my nice icing.

  Andrew: I’m not commenting on your icing.

  Tessa: Are you flirting with me?

  Andrew: Since I said I’m not commenting, no I’m not.

  Tessa: It’s okay if you flirt. That’s what normal single people sometimes do.

  Andrew: So you brought me a cake because I’m single?

  Tessa: I don’t know. Maybe? I brought you a cake because you’re the most interesting person on this street. Everyone sort of love-hates you. I wanted to see you for myself.

  Andrew: I’m not sure if I should be flattered. I’m deciding no.

  Tessa: Do you really put up a sign telling kids to fuck off on Halloween?

  Andrew: Since they like to ring my doorbell and run away like I’m Boo Radley, absolutely fucking yes.

  Tessa: Are you kidding me??? They made it sound like you’re a monster. Their kids need a hard kick in the ass. This year, I’ll help you put the sign up myself.

  Andrew: So it’s my mystique with the neighbors that made you bring me a Hi cake.

  Tessa: There’s also the fact that you’re single and hot. I admit it.

  Andrew: Jesus, you need your head examined. Are you one of those crazy needy people who become stalkers?

  Tessa: No, I’m just a single girl who spent too many years in L.A. dating a lot of creeps. I like single, hot, interesting guys. So sue me.

  Andrew: Why are you in Millwood?

  Tessa: My grandmother died and left me a free house. It was better than what I was doing, so I took it.

  Andrew: Not a bad deal, I suppose.

  Tessa: No, except that I’m starting to think the air conditioning is broken. It’s too hot to sleep at night. I’m so fucking tired. You don’t know anything about fixing air conditioners, do you?

  Andrew: I draw comics. I don’t fix things.

  Tessa: You draw comics? How did I not know this?

  Andrew: Because we literally don’t know each other?

  Tessa: You ate my cake. We know each other well enough.

  Andrew: I find you confusing. What do you want from me?

  Tessa: Admit you liked my cake.

  Andrew: No.

  Tessa: Admit it.

  Andrew: My wellness therapist is here. I have to go.

  Tessa: Your what?

  Andrew: It’s fucking weird, so don’t ask.

  Tessa: Who is that woman getting out of her car in your driveway? Is she actually wearing a caftan?

  Andrew: Welcome to my shitty life. Now go away.

  Andrew

  Donna the wellness therapist was about fifty, with drawn-on eyebrows and a large bushel of brown curly hair. She tended to wear caftans over flowered tights, and her bracelets jangled as she motioned with her hands. I told myself the reason I didn’t kick her out every time was because my mother had hired her, but the truth was she sort of amused me.

  Today she sat facing me where I sat on the couch. I had my legs arranged neatly and carefully, because without any sensation it was easy to injure my legs and ankles without knowing it. But once arranged I lounged back, my plate with its piece of Hi cake in hand.

  “So,” Donna said after she had closed the blinds and lit some incense, her usual method of starting therapy. “Your brother is gone on his honeymoon. I sense grief coming from you.”

  “There’s no grief,” I said, taking a bite. The cake was vanilla, buttery, and—I could admit it to myself—delicious.

  “There is definitely grief,” Donna said. “It’s coming off you as an aura. Deep blue.”

  “That’s just my usual misery,” I said. “My grief is burgundy.”

  She shook her head. The problem with Donna was that it was nearly impossible to tease her. “No, your deep blue is definitely grief. Your brother was very important to you. He was your connection to the outside world.”

  “Is,” I corrected her. “He is my connection, not was.”

  “But he’s married now,” she pointed out. “He’s found his union with another. That leaves you alone. The honeymoon only outlines what you know deep down is true.”

  “Is this supposed to be helpful?” I stabbed my fork into my cake.

  “When you approach enlightenment, you approach joy,” Donna said.

  I shrugged. “I have Effexor for that.”

  Her lips pressed together. “Pharmaceuticals are not the answer.”

  “Yes, they are. Believe me, they are.”

  Donna looked at me for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. “I placed some healing crystals around your house last time, but I don’t think they’ve taken effect. I may have to introduce herbs.”

  I took another bite of cake and watched her think it over. “Why do you bother with me?” I asked after a minute. “I know my mother pays your fee, but that can’t be the only reason.”

  “You’re a difficult case, but you’re not an impossible one. The spiritual journey is not an easy one, Andrew. It’s especially difficult after physical trauma like you’ve had, which dissociates the body and the spirit. If you wish to commune wholly with yourself, you must make a supreme effort.”

  “I commune wholly with myself every day in the shower.”

  Donna waved her hands, jangling her bracelets. “Hostility. Couched in sexual jokes, no less. That means your sexual energies are blocked.”

  Well, she was dead on about that one. I put down my empty plate. “Maybe,” I said.

  “So you admit your sexual energies are frustrated.” She sat forward.

  Seven years. It had been seven fucking years. “A little.”

  “We are sexual beings, Andrew. Sexuality is part of the wholeness of existence. It must be embraced if we wish our souls to be healthy. As I say, your physical trauma has dissociated that.” She waved her hands again, jangling her bracelets. “Close your eyes.”

  I sighed. I had Lightning Man comics to draw. “Donna, you’re a nice lady, but you’re not my type.”

  “Hush. Close your eyes.”

  I leaned back and reluctantly closed my eyes. “Now what?”

  “Picture the man you were before your accident. Remember what his sex l
ife was like.”

  Jesus. I never thought about this, but I remembered it so easily.

  Before the accident, I was twenty-three, good-looking, athletic, rich, and smart. Witty. Friendly. I was every girl’s dream, and I got dates whenever I wanted. Girlfriends. Any woman I set my eye on, I got.

  I wasn’t a player; I was one of those serial-relationship guys. Every few months I’d have a new girlfriend, each one more gorgeous and perfect than the last. And we’d have sex. Lots and lots of great, healthy, energetic sex—in every place, every position. The Andrew Mason before the accident had the best kind of sex there is, and tons of it.

  Then I made one bad decision, and it all ended. That guy died, and the girlfriends disappeared. I wasn’t the kind of guy any woman would look at anymore.

  “Andrew?” Donna said.

  “Yeah,” I managed, my eyes still closed.

  “Do you still see yourself as that man?”

  The question was so absurd I laughed out loud, my eyes still closed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You’re still that man,” Donna said. “He’s still you. Sexually and otherwise.”

  I opened my eyes. I thought of Tessa Hartigan standing in front of my security camera, her blonde bob and her slim legs in shorts as she held up her cake. “Donna, this isn’t going to work.”

  “If there’s someone you’re interested in, talk to her. Take chances. Take risks. Be that man.” Donna smiled at me. “You never know what will happen.”

  “Except I do,” I said. “I do know. I’ll get turned down and pitied. And I’ll feel worse than I did before. I can’t go down that road again.” The road I’d been on after the accident was the darkest place I’d ever been, and it had taken me years to recover. “It isn’t somewhere I can go.”

  Donna looked at me for a long minute, her expression serious. She opened her mouth as if to say something. Then her expression cleared and she smiled again.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I guess I’ll try the herbs.”