by Piper Lennox
The good parts. The moments in between—the arms across our chests during a sudden stop, the ice cream brought to our doorsteps. The arms around us on kitchen floors. The fact they stay, ready to raise babies and step up and try. Ready to fight for us. Even on the days we don’t.
“You aren’t worried about that, are you?” Dad asks suddenly, brow furrowed when I look at him. “That you’ll get depression too, after the baby?”
“Oh...no, not really.” Yes. Absolutely. “I mean, I guess the thought’s occurred to me, that I’m at risk for it. And I do get worried sometimes, because things still don’t feel totally real. Like...I don’t think I’ve grasped that I’m actually having a baby, and I know failing to connect with it is one of the symptoms, but—”
Dad laughs, holding up his hand to stop my rambling. “Julie, it’s okay. I don’t think you’ll have it. But even if you did?” He hitches his thumb behind him to some imaginary place. “Cohen will take care of you, no questions asked. He’s a good man.”
I deflate, closing the baby book and setting it aside. “Yeah,” I say quietly, as Dad gets to his feet. “He is.”
Dad winces when he puts weight on his bad leg, but refuses my help. I watch him click the top of the storage container into place, then slide it back beneath the bed.
“Wait, what about this one?” I hold out the baby book.
He smiles. “Why don’t you hang onto that one, for now?”
We walk out to his wine shed. Dad checks the latest batch, something cloyingly sweet. “Strawberry-apple wine,” he explains proudly. “New recipe. I’ll get Cohen over here to try it when it’s all ready. Another week, maybe a week and a half.”
I hug the baby book to my chest and take a long breath. “Dad...Cohen and I broke up.”
He feigns a gasp. “No! I liked that one.”
“Yeah,” I say, studying him; he’s up to something, “you sound devastated.”
His laugh echoes as he checks the lid on another fermenter. “I would be, if I thought it was serious.”
“Huh.” I pivot in a circle, following him around the shed as he works. “I thought breaking up with my child’s father was serious.”
“I mean ‘serious’ like ‘permanent.’ I’m sure it’ll work out. You tend to get a little dramatic, Julie.”
“What?” I lean over him, honestly offended. I’m not the drama queen in the family. That’s Viola, indisputably. Abby’s a close second. But never me.
As if reading my mind, Dad grabs a white shop rag and waves it over his head until I back down. “I know, I know—your sisters are worse about it. But you,” he adds, pointing, “are dramatic in your own way. Your sisters broadcast it loud enough for the whole city to hear. You mull.”
“Mull?”
“You keep it in your head and spin your wheels about it, until you snap. If you ever bring it up at all, that is.” He takes his surrender flag and wipes down a work table. “And you’re always worrying about what could go wrong. You miss the rest of it—all that stuff that’s going right.”
I narrow my eyes. “Have you been talking to Cohen?”
“Why? He tell you something similar?”
My sigh drags on for about thirty seconds as I rake my hair back from my face and turn away. “Pretty much verbatim.”
“Smart kid. No wonder he graduated college early.”
I almost laugh, thinking Dad’s joking. He has to be.
“He didn’t tell you that?” The shop rag swishes into the bucket overflowing by the door. “Hmm. Modest, too.”
College, early graduation, modesty: none of these are words I’d associate with Cohen. You’d think I’d be used to his surprises, by now.
I wonder why he didn’t tell me. Then again, I didn’t give him much of a chance. I never even asked if he’d attended college—I just assumed he hadn’t, adding another mark to my Guys Like Him checklist.
Sunlight pours in through the singular, dirty window of the shed, glinting through the bottles Dad lines up across his table.
“Call him.”
“I can’t just call him, Dad. We broke up for a reason. Multiple reasons, in fact.”
“Which are..?”
The morning after the fight, I could have rattled these off without a second thought. Wouldn’t even need to come up for air. But now, with Dad glancing at me while he pretends to work, I’m silent.
It’s not that my mind goes blank. In fact, it’s inscribed with every single reason Cohen Fairfield and I were a bad idea from the start. From the very second he handed me that cotton candy, and I dared to smile back.
But something about standing in the presence of a man who believed, and still does, that more good exists in this world than bad—who’s loved and lost in the face of much worse reasons, but never once regretted it—makes my list feel ridiculous and petty. And he would tell me so, too.
We step out into the yard. The birdbath in the center of his patio is filled with brown rainwater, which doesn’t deter a small flock of birds from visiting. They scatter as we climb the stairs. A few veer into the sky, while some retreat to the trees along the fence.
One perches itself on the deck railing, watching us—wary enough to keep his distance, but still brave enough to stay. See how things play out.
“It’s a swallow,” Dad whispers to me. He pulls out his phone to snap a picture, catching it right when the bird decides to hop in the water. We stay where we are and watch.
“Cohen has a swallow tattooed on his wrist.” I can barely hear myself over the flurry of shutter noises, erupting from Dad’s phone as he captures every movement.
“Ah,” he nods. The swallow finally takes flight and hides itself in the leaves of our neighbor’s tree. “Like sailors used to get.”
“How’d you know?”
“Woman I met online in the wine chat is a birdwatcher, too. She knows all about the histories and symbolism.” He pauses. “She invited me on a hike with her, next time she’s in town to visit family. Gotta get myself some hiking shoes, though. Work this knee back into shape.”
“Ooh,” I drawl, elbowing him.
“I know, I know. Last thing I need is another hobby. But hiking seems like a fun one to add into the mix. Maybe it’ll help the arthritis.”
“Actually, I was referring to the date.”
Dad shakes his head, getting his reading glasses back out to judge his photos. “I don’t think it’s a date.”
“Then make it one.”
He looks at me, smiling, before studying the tree where the swallow vanished. “You could learn a thing or two from swallows, you know.”
Typical: I finally get to tease him for once, and he flips the conversation right back to me.
“They represent choosing your battles, and letting go of things that aren’t in your control.” He holds the phone at arm’s length and squints at it, but I know his periphery is on me. “Learning to make yourself happy, not just everyone else.”
I chew my cheek. “Got me there.”
At the kitchen door, after he hugs me goodbye, Dad hands me a bottle of wine. It’s bright red, with masking tape across the front. In magic marker, his handwriting spells out, “LB, May 31.”
“What’s this for?”
“For Cohen.” He’s already shutting the door in my face. “Give him my best, when you see him.”
26
So far, everything is going perfectly. Nothing spills, no one complains, and everything is on schedule, right down to the last second.
It’s a little terrifying.
Lupé is, surprisingly, the only one who agrees with me: “It’s going too well,” he mumbles, as we stand in the corner of the ballroom behind a pillar, out of sight, out of mind. It’s the code of our industry: always be present, but only at the perimeters. See and fix every problem before anyone can notice.
At least, we’re trying to. Since the party’s going so perfectly, we’re standing here like idiots, checking our watches and phones constantly. Our senses ar
e heightened like deer in the woods. We wait for the worst.
I am way out of my element.
“I just wish,” he adds, “whatever is going to go wrong—because you know something will—would hurry up and go wrong, already.”
“Maybe we’re being paranoid.” My phone rings: Lindsay. Probably looking for Levi, whose phone is still off. I hit Ignore. It’s not like I’ve got any useful info for her. “Maybe this is one of those parties where...nothing goes wrong.”
“No such thing.” Lupé brushes some lint off his suit and fixes his bowtie. He dresses like a Ken doll and always has, always will, no matter how old he gets. Which is hard to pinpoint, since his skin resists aging à la Ken, too.
“You’ve never had an event go perfectly?” I ask.
“Have you?” he counters. “Every party has a few crises. If they don’t happen throughout the night, they build up for one big, terrible one at the end. Believe me: I’ve seen it happen enough to know.”
I look up to the massive, sweeping ceiling of the ballroom and spot the rafter Levi swung from twelve years ago, his face smug with justice as he gave Caitlin-Anne the finger. After all this time, I can still see it: the avalanche of gold and white balloons, blanketing the crowd. Up until that point, I’m sure, Cait thought her party was going perfectly, too.
“God,” I sigh, tipping my head back against the wall, “you’re right.”
My phone buzzes again: another call from Lindsay. She must be freaking out. I excuse myself and step into the service hall. “Hello?”
“Cohen, thank God! Is Levi there?”
“Haven’t seen him all day. He didn’t even stop by the warehouse to nitpick me to death.”
“No, I mean is he there yet? He left in his truck about twenty minutes ago, and he’s been drinking, and...and he....”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down, Linds. I can hardly understand you. What happened?”
“We got in a fight,” she explains, her sniffling thundering through the earpiece, “and he’s drunk, he left....”
“What makes you think he’s driving here?”
“I don’t know.” She sniffs again, voice quieting. “I can’t think of anywhere else. I mean...he’d go wherever you are. Wouldn’t he?”
A couple years ago, this would have been true. Even a few weeks ago: for all our disagreements, no matter how differently we saw the world, Levi and I were best friends. In any catastrophe, we found each other before anyone else.
But ever since he hired me back—over text message, no less, and always managing to be on an errand when I was in the warehouse—things between us feel strained at best. Whatever his and Lindsay’s spat was about, I doubt he’ll seek me out for advice.
“As soon as this party’s over, I’ll find him,” I promise her. “He probably drove off and parked right outside the neighborhood—he wouldn’t drive around town drunk. He knows better.”
The line gets quiet. I hear her crying, but nothing else. Not even static.
“I fucked up,” she says, finally. Her laugh is bitter. “I fucked up so bad, Cohen.”
“Linds, really, I’m sure he’s fine.”
“This was the worst fight we’ve ever had. The whole ‘he knows better’ thing...probably not applicable, right now.”
I check my watch: 8:39 pm. The party will be over in just twenty-one minutes. I can duck out during cleanup; the guys will understand. And even if they don’t, I’ll compensate them enough to make them pretend.
“Twenty minutes,” I tell her. “I’ll leave right away, find him, and bring him back. It’ll be okay.”
From behind me, I hear something strange. Actually, I don’t hear anything. That’s the strange part: the ballroom, suddenly, is silent.
“I gotta go.” I hang up before she can stop me.
The door’s like ice against my ear while I listen. It’s probably someone making another toast, hogging the microphone. If it’s a short and sweet one, the band will let it slide. If somebody starts rambling and making an ass of themselves, the musicians know to start playing again while Lupé escorts the guest offstage.
In other words: this isn’t my problem. It’s a crisis, one we were long overdue to have, but it’s not mine to fix.
There’s a crash, then a roar of whispers. I push through the door.
I’m back to expecting the worst. Chocolate fountain explosion, the custom sign toppling onto some frail guest, maybe even a full-blown fire.
Instead, when I follow the party’s collective gaze to the ballroom entrance, I find my brother, swarmed by hotel staff.
“Levi,” I call, then remember the rule: blend in. Stay on the perimeter.
I edge my way around the ballroom, but start running when I realize nobody’s even watching me. From here, as I nudge past caterers and servers, I see Levi bucking back, throwing arms off him. He curses at everyone, barely able to stand. Guess Lindsay was right. He’s wasted.
“Excuse me.” I try to slip politely into the circle. “Let me through, please, that’s my brother.”
“...calling the police,” someone’s saying, and Levi tells them to fuck off.
But no one hears him, because I shout, at the exact same time and much, much louder, “That’s my brother.”
The circle finally parts. Everyone stares at me, not him.
Levi, halfway on the floor, holds out his hand. I take it, pull him up, and set his arm on my shoulders to steady him.
“We need to call the authorities,” one of the Acre employees whispers sharply. “He parked in a fire lane and completely disrupted the party. The Wallmans are livid.”
“And you think getting some cruisers up here will make it better?” I stare him down. He’s bluffing: the Acre likes handling things quietly. “I’ll take care of it.”
We’re barely outside, the gilded doors still swinging behind us, when Levi breaks away and staggers to a shrub.
While he pukes, I block the view. The staff won’t be quite so forgiving if they see him hurling booze onto their prized landscaping.
“You finished?” I snap. He spits and lets me half-drag him to his truck. It is, in fact, parked in a fire lane, right in front of the building. One tire is completely on the sidewalk.
By what has to be a divine miracle, there isn’t a single dent or scratch on the vehicle. And he thinks I’m the lucky one.
“Get in, asshole.” I buckle his seatbelt and slam the door, just in time for him to slump against it.
“Got him,” I text Lindsay. Then I let Andres know what’s up, where my van keys are, and that Chris has my official, one-time-only permission to drive the van to the warehouse unsupervised. It’s a gamble, but one we’ll have to take tonight.
“You’re cutting the guys a massive overtime check,” I tell Levi. “I’m not taking it out of my pay.”
“Overtime,” he repeats, voice bogged-down and raspy. “Why?”
Before patting his pockets for the keys, I notice he left them in the ignition. Massive theft risk, but hey: at least I don’t have to go anywhere near his dick to find them.
“Because,” I answer, “instead of helping them clean and get everything back to the warehouse tonight, I’ve got to take your drunk ass home.”
“No.”
“No? If those guys don’t get compensated for this shit, you’ll lose three workers in a single day. And I’m not taking it out of my cut—this is your fault.”
“No,” he repeats, “don’t take me home.”
I look at him before veering into the flow of traffic. “Not ready to kiss and make up with Linds, huh?” When he doesn’t answer, I clear my throat. “She said you guys got in a fight. A really bad one.”
Levi laughs, but the sound is so dark and choked and fucked-up, it terrifies me.
“Yeah. Yeah it was.” There’s a thump as he lets his head hit the window again. “She cheated on me, Co.”
It’s like he punched me in the throat. All I can get out is a single breath.
“Yeah,” he says a
gain.
He falls asleep while I drive. When the truck comes up on the entrance to his neighborhood, I sit at the stoplight and stare.
Green. I inch the truck forward.
Instead of going in, though, I swing a hard turn and go back the way we came, taking him as far away from her as I can on the little bit of gas we’ve got left.
27
“Start from the beginning. Like, did...did she actually say it, or are you going off something you found? Because it might just be a misunderst—”
“Cohen.” Levi holds up his hand, giving that laugh again. “I saw it. She was in bed with him.” His eyes shift in the streetlight, red and unfocused from whiskey. “There’s no misunderstanding that.”
“I just can’t believe it.” Even after forty minutes and some change of driving, struggling to process the news while Levi slept, I haven’t accepted it. Sure, people cheat. But not Lindsay.
We’re outside the city line, sitting on the tailgate of his truck. He nods and sips the coffee I got him when we stopped for gas. “I don’t want to believe it either. But I saw it with my own eyes, so. No choice.”
“Do you know the guy?”
“No.” I see his fist clench by his side, then relax, his hangover stifling the fight. For now. “Somebody she met online, apparently. It’s been going on for almost a year.”
I don’t know what to say. Not only because I can’t grasp it, but because...what can I say?
It’s got to be something, though. I can’t just sit here in silence and leave him hanging. This is the guy who comforted me and got me out of trouble more times than I can count, even when he’d been the one to cause it in the first place.
He was there for it all. Every scrape, every failure, every heartbreak.
“Well,” I say slowly, “did you at least get in a good punch?”
Levi laughs. This time, it sounds like his real one. “Twice,” he says, wiping his face on his shirt.
