Sparrow

by L.J. Shen

  I heard his laugh, and my heart twisted in anticipation and sadness.

  “I changed my mind.” His voice had a hard edge. “I’m not letting you fly away. Ever.”

  SPARROW

  “CONSIDER THIS…” Lucy’s hands were quick as she peeled potatoes at the speed of light at my kitchen sink. “You told him to fire Connor and he did. You told him to quit fucking around and it looks like he did that too. I think it might come as shocking news to you, but honey, your husband has feelings for you.”

  Standing next to her, I stirred the Alfredo sauce for the rotini, dunking my finger and having a taste. I added a dash of salt, stalling. She was no longer concerned for my safety. Now, she was more interested in my love life.

  “Mmm,” I said, not really eager to tell her about the part where the so-called loving husband dragged me on a plane with a fake passport against my will and screwed another girl in our bedroom.

  On the same day.

  Yeah, Disney wouldn’t be calling him for tips on how to play a credible Prince Charming.

  “Yeah, well, we’ve been married for three months, and he’s still bottling up all these secrets, not letting me in on anything. Why did he marry me? Who did he refer to when he said ‘they’ that night before we went to Rouge Bis? He won’t even tell me what happened with Catalina.”

  We were making tons of food for a charity event for the homeless shelter down the road. Over the past few months, I’d gone to the shelter often, bearing tasty donations. The volunteers who worked there were all too happy to ask me if I could help cooking for their little gathering.

  Lucy was about to pour the drippings from the bacon for the Alfredo into an empty jar when I redirected her with a wooden spoon to the garbage disposal down our sink.

  “Seriously? It’ll clog up your pipes.”

  “Don’t run the water either,” I shot back.

  She grinned, but did as I told her and poured the grease down the disposal.

  I was still rebelling in small, mundane ways. Keeping him on his toes. Showing him that just because we shared a bed—and enough sex to make me walk all wobbly the day after—didn’t mean that I was an agreeable little wife. So far I have managed a few “accidents,” including breaking his iPad, staining his favorite suit with white sauce and keying his Maserati. The headboard we broke together, so that wasn’t exactly just on me.

  “Look at you, all grown up and having detached sex.” Lucy gave voice to my thoughts, talking over the grinding of the disposal. “How can you hate him, doing everything you can to show him just how much, and still sleep with him at night?”

  I didn’t hate my husband, but somehow, I was horrified by the concept of admitting it aloud.

  I downplayed the whole situation by offering a half-assed shrug, wiping my oily hands on a paper towel. “It’s just sex. If I didn’t do it with him, I would have ended up having to stay a virgin until he dropped dead. Even I’m not stupid enough to cheat on a Brennan.”

  Now that Connor was out of the picture, I spent more time in our neighborhood, cleaning and cooking for Pops, and also more time with Lucy and Daisy. Lucy was in the loop again. Knew that I was sleeping in the master bedroom. Knew that my nights were warm this stormy, cold Boston summer. A summer that somehow was bleeding into an even worse New England fall.

  My best friend was also privy to the fact that we shared civil conversations when my husband came home from work. He got back at reasonable hours, sans lipstick stains and the cloying cloud of flowery perfume of a woman who desperately wanted to be acknowledged.

  One time he even took a bite of my famous blueberry pancakes. Yup, that sugary crap.

  “Humor me here, sister.” Lucy started wrapping up some of the dishes in foil. “If he does happen to have feelings for you, would that change anything? I mean, would you ever consider treating this like…I don’t know, a normal relationship?”

  I snorted into my chest, eyes firmly on the dishes in front of us. “No. Not unless he came clean about everything.”

  Deep down, I knew that we would never be equals until he’d let me in on why he’d married me in the first place. I also knew that no amount of sex and small talk was going to prod the truth out of him. If I was detached, his heart was practically on another planet, nowhere near my own.

  “Do you think he’ll ever come clean?”

  My gut twisted in pain. “Honestly? Fat chance. I think people like Troy spread so many lies to hide their secrets, they drown in them and forget their own truths.”

  But that wasn’t completely accurate. Troy was as comfortable in his sea of lies as a synchronized swimmer in an Olympic swimming pool. I was the one who was drowning in them.

  Worst of all? I was feeding myself even more lies. Because I told myself I didn’t care. While slowly, he crept under my skin.

  Piercing through layers.

  Clawing his way deeper into me.

  And I knew it was only a matter of time before he reached the most dangerous place in my body.

  My heart.

  SPARROW

  THERE WAS A lot I didn’t like about my job at Rouge Bis. I didn’t like how Brock tried to worm his way into my good graces like we were friends, despite my best efforts to show him how uncomfortable I was around him after that kiss. I didn’t like Pierre’s attitude toward me, and the way he tried to come up with little, creative ways to make my life hell, just like I tried coming up with ways to piss off Troy.

  But there was one thing I definitely looked forward to every shift—my break. When Brock wasn’t there to try and strike up a conversation, it was my favorite part of the day. I was granted thirty minutes and a choice of entrée to eat in a quiet corner of the restaurant, shielded from the rest of the tables and booths. It was my me time at work, before the hectic dinner service.

  I was twirling a forkful of pasta, relishing the quiet when I heard a pair of heels approaching, clack-clacking on the floor like bullet fire in the dark. The woman’s hip swayed seductively as she strode in my direction on her stilettos. I smiled when I noticed she was wearing a pair of exactly the same shoes I’d worn on my first date with Troy, the ones Maria’s daughter had lent me.

  But when I lifted my gaze from her feet to her face, my smile froze. Her glossy lips were pouted in disapproval as we drank each other in. I hadn’t seen Catalina Greystone since my wedding day.

  She slid into the opposite bench of my booth and tossed a folded napkin over my plate to signal to me that dinner was over.

  Stunned, I put the silverware down, tilting my chin up.

  Her shoes.

  My feet burned with anger. Catalina was Maria’s daughter.

  Her eyes.

  She was furious. Something had pissed her off, and it had everything to do with me.

  “Looking for Brock?” My smile was raw. She was another secret Troy hadn’t shared with me.

  “Actually, I was looking for you.”

  The idea that Brock had told her we kissed crossed my mind briefly, but disappeared just as fast. He kissed you, silly. Not the other way around. Anyway, that was months ago. Why would Catalina suddenly confront me now?

  I leaned back in my seat, acutely aware of my foot that kept bouncing underneath the table, making the utensils clatter against my plate. I toyed with my cell phone. “Well?” I asked.

  “You know, Sparrow, we never really got to know one another properly.” She propped forward on her elbows, like she was about to share a secret, but her voice was anything but friendly. “I’m kind of sorry we haven’t had time to talk.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I felt the persistent hum of a catastrophe in the making.

  “Catalina,” I said evenly, “I have ten more minutes before I need to get back to gutting fish. Whatever you came here to say, just spit it out. I don’t have all day.”

  That seemed to shake her a little. She reached for the cell I held in my hand and stopped me from scrolling my thumb over the screen.

  “Troy’s in lo
ve with me,” she said.

  It never ceased to amaze me how a few simple words could shake you to your soul.

  “He is,” she continued. “You know, we were engaged before I had Sam. Dated for three full years.” She was trying to catch my eyes. Desperately.

  I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing my shock, but inside, the pieces of the puzzle were falling together, quickly, clumsily, with a screechy sound. They’d once been engaged. They were in love. They were a real couple.

  “Funny, I don’t see a ring on your finger. Oh, wait, there it is.” I motioned at her left hand. “And whaddaya know? It belongs to Brock Greystone.”

  “What, this thing?” She sniffed, waving her hand dismissively. Her engagement ring was considerably smaller than mine, but still gigantic to anyone who wasn’t a real-life princess. She wore a thin wedding band on the same finger. “Brock and I are just an arrangement,” she explained, smiling coyly.

  And I believed her. After all, Brock had said so himself.

  “Troy and I are a real item. That’s why he crawls back to me every Friday. You always work Fridays don’t you? I’m the only thing that keeps his charade with you bearable. Don’t get me wrong. He thinks you’re a nice girl. But, you know, just not a woman.”

  My body vibrated with fury. My lungs squeezed, and every nerve and cell in me urged me to lunge across the table and strangle her.

  Troy had a mistress.

  And there she sat, in front of me, telling me that they were in love, no less.

  Worst of all, I recognized her sweet, flowery, in-your-face perfume. The one that hung in the air in my bedroom the day we flew to Miami. The day Troy had sex with someone else.

  “Bullshit.” My voice was low, even though I knew she spoke the truth. My lips kept moving, and what they said next surprised me. “If Troy loved you, he would have never shared you. It’s not in his DNA. He wouldn’t even share someone he doesn’t love.” Like me. “So if he had feelings for you? It would be you in his bed. Not me. Not anyone else.”

  I made sense.

  I made sense and it gave me a little strength. I pushed to my feet, pointing my cell at her face. “He’s stopped seeing you, hasn’t he? Months ago, I’m betting. That’s why you’re here. You’re desperate.”

  By the color rising from her chest to her neck and up to her cheeks, I knew I was right.

  She got up herself, glaring at me through a pinched smile. “The only reason it’s you in his bed and not me is because he made a deal with the devil. I know all about your marriage, Sparrow. It ain’t real.”

  Somewhere in my mind, there was a tiny, cartoon version of me getting punched square in the face by a cartoon version of Cat. The cartoon-me stumbled backward and dropped to her knees.

  But the real me strode toward the door that said Staff Only, knowing that if I stayed, I’d do something I’d regret.

  Catalina followed, still taunting me from behind. “And the only reason you aren’t six feet under and Troy hasn’t gotten rid of you to make room for me is because I cheated on him with Brock. The little fling I had with my husband ended up with me getting pregnant with Sam.”

  Her words were rushed, leaving her no room to inhale. Cartoon-Me took a shot in the shoulder, blood smeared on the wall behind her.

  “Last but not least,” she said, making me hesitate in the doorway, “even after I crushed him, had someone else’s baby in my belly, Troy still took care of me. Did everything for me. What he and I have…honey, you don’t want to try and top that. It’d only mean more heartache for you, and I’d hate to see you getting your hopes up.”

  Cartoon-Me jumped back to her feet, summoning false-strength for what she had to do next. “You know nothing about my relationship with my husband. Know nothing about what’s going on. All you know is this that Troy stopped showing up, and it’s killing you. You’re worried. And you should be.” I smiled. “Things change. People, too. Move on, I know he has. Bye, Catalina.”

  With that, I slammed the door in her face so hard, the walls around me quaked.

  Cartoon-Me kicked cartoon Catalina in the butt, sending her out of the blackening, shrinking cartoon frame. But the second Cat was out of the frame, it expanded again and Cartoon-Me went back to lying in a pool of her own blood.

  Because Catalina was right. He might not love her.

  But he didn’t love me either.

  And the truth was, she knew the one thing he wouldn’t tell me—what made him marry me.

  And what made him tick.

  TROY

  I PARKED IN front of the foggy graveyard.

  My father was buried in one of the oldest cemeteries in Boston. Untamed grass, mud, moss and spider webs adorned the tombstones like Halloween decorations. The place was a rusty gate short of looking like a bad horror flick set, and I had to admit, I kind of liked the extra-touch of morbidity it had. Despite the cemetery looking like hell, I knew Dad wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The graveyard was at the back of the South Boston church we used to go to every Sunday. Practically his second home.

  Here were buried not only my relatives, but also many memories. Some I remembered fondly, some I wished I could forget, like McGregor.

  I came here every Friday afternoon, before the weekend rolled around and with it, new, fresh sins to commit. Came here to talk to the man I so desperately missed. He was my priest, his gravestone my confession booth.

  He never judged.

  Never gave me shit for being who I was.

  And coming here also reminded me that I had an unfinished business to take care of. To find out who was responsible for my father’s death.

  I whistled as I wove through the graveyard, my own personal touch of irony. Visiting his grave wasn’t a sad affair nowadays. It was like going out for a beer with an old friend.

  Ignoring the drizzle—it really had been the weirdest summer I could remember in Boston, and to my delight, the fall was starting out just as grim—I squatted down in front of my father’s grave, my elbows over my knees. Like all fathers and sons, we had our tough talks, even after his eternal slumber.

  The past few weeks, I’d been pre-occupied again with trying to figure out who’d murdered him. Who sent Crupti. Whoever it was, they used a middle-man (a sorry ass local kid who died in an accident a few months after dad’s death) and bitcoin. The person behind dad’s death was smart. Calculated…and as good as dead.

  I had people digging more, trying to figure out who sent Crupti to kill him. I intended to leave no stone in greater Boston unturned. But it was hard. All of my father’s enemies were either dead or in the clear. Something didn’t add up.

  I was beginning to wonder if the person who sent Crupti was an enemy of mine, not of my father’s.

  At least I’d settled the score with Paddy Rowan, the old shit. Though this wasn’t only for him, it was also for her.

  I’d spoken about Sparrow with my father often recently.

  “Was Robyn such a huge fucking pain in the ass, too? Sparrow must’ve gotten her sass from somewhere, and it’s not from Abe.”

  Dad didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. He never did. But I had a feeling that if he were here next to me, he would have snorted out a laugh and said something crude about the Raynes girls. I had a feeling that even if he’d loved Robyn, he’d never outwardly shown his feelings.

  Couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t exactly in touch with my emotions either. Most of the time, I wasn’t even sure if they existed.

  And now I was fucking Red exclusively. I plucked a few blades of grass and threw them on his grave. It’d been a while since I’d limited myself to one woman. Catalina was my last attempt at monogamy, and that had ended up being a magnificent failure.

  “Baby? Baby, is that you?”

  Speak of the devil. Cat was struggling toward me in her high heels, her blow-dried hair flattened against her head, raindrops spattered on her forehead. Her teeth chattered in the cold drizzle.

  It shouldn’t have surprise
d me that she was there. She’d always had stalkerish tendencies. Even before I first broke it off. When she still wore the sweet, shy-girl mask that made me want her in the first place. She’d accompany Maria when she came to clean for us at my parents’ house, always eyeing me through her long, curly eyelashes, smiling like I hung the moon in the sky and lit up the sun myself.

  But she was also possessive as hell.

  Always sniffing around to make sure I was only hers.

  I stood straight, only then realizing how soaking wet I was from the rain, and stood in front of her, my face hard and unwelcoming. She stopped a good few feet away from me. The rain picked up making it difficult to make out her expression.

  “She is a child,” she announced. “Your marriage was supposed to be an arrangement, you said so yourself. You said she was a burden you had to deal with for your dad.” Her body shook, and it wasn’t from the cold. “I need you back, Troy.”

  She was crying, talking about Sparrow, and as much as it surprised me, I wasn’t so hot about seeing her shattered.

  “Let it go.” I huddled in my soaked pea coat. “We had our farewell fuck, said our goodbyes in my apartment months ago. We’re done.”

  “Troy, baby, no.” She fell on her knees in front of me, mud splashing everywhere around us. She clasped my legs like they were an anchor as tears streamed down her face, mixing with the raindrops. “Please. She is nothing, no one. She doesn’t want you. Doesn’t need you. Doesn’t deserve you. We’ve got history. Chemistry. We’ve got something fucked up and twisted, but it’s ours. It’s us. It’s always been us.”

  “You really should’ve thought about that before you let Brock get you pregnant.” My tone was harsh, but the edge was gone. I wasn’t high on fucking Brock’s wife anymore. Everything about the situation felt tasteless. Worthless. Guess I’d moved on.

  “You told me to marry him.” She sniffed, her nose dripping, her fingernails still clawing into my pants. “You said it’d be the best thing for everybody because of that goddamned pregnancy. Oh, Troy.”