by Kent, Julia
The look on Mike’s face made Dylan freeze, a preternatural instinct putting him on hyper alert. “You what?”
“I found her phone number on a web page and I just texted her. Let’s see what happens. Maybe Laura’s with her and we can figure this all out. And if not, I’m searching now for her address.”
Tapping his foot, Mike leaned against the metal railing on Laura’s stoop. “So you can stalk the fuck out of women and find eleven billion ways to try to contact them, but we can’t have an open, mature conversation with Laura about the money? You’re such an asshole, Dylan.”
Bzzz. Someone, hopefully Josie, texted him. The word “asshole” hovered in the air between them, like a drone seeking a target. And it had found one. He was the asshole here? He’s the one who found Laura in the first place. Mike’s the one who had lied to him! And who did—
Wait. Read the fucking message. More important. He squinted and read aloud: “Laura says to tell you Don’t chase me. Give me that one shred of respect. Why? Because it’s complicated.”
The sound that came out of Mike was like an animal that had just been hit and wounded by a well-placed, though not fatal, arrow. “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he groaned, hand over his heart as if pierced there.
A huge lump formed in Dylan’s throat. They’d really blown it, hadn’t they? No, you did, he thought. You, Dylan.
Without thinking, he typed back: “It’s always complicated. :)” and hit “Send.” Mike didn’t seem to notice, his back turned to Dylan as his arms flexed, gripping and releasing the metal railing, shoulders hunched over and tight with grief and fury.
“Josie lives nearby. In Cambridge. I found her address.”
Mike inhaled deeply, his shoulders spreading like a cobra rising up to strike, then descending as he exhaled. Five long, deep breaths later he turned to Dylan, blinking rapidly, his blonde hair a complete, wavy mess and his eyes shadowed and cold.
“Let’s go before this gets any more complicated.”
Too late, thought Dylan, but he wasn’t going to argue. He’d done enough damage as the leader. Time to let Mike take over.
All those years Mike had spent sitting meditation, going to retreats, reading books by Jack Kornfield and Pema Chodron and the Dalai Lama, all the time he’d invested in breathing techniques and the miles pounded out on his feet, in skis, swimming and biking in triathlons to maintain a sense of inner centeredness was a waste.
A complete, fucking waste. Because the rage that rose up in him, like a megamonster coming up from the sea in some cheesy B film, was very real, rapidly growing, and so quick to activate that he wondered how he had fooled himself all these years into thinking he had tamed it.
Control? Hah. Control was an illusion. Awareness? Fuck that.
The ache that grew its own voice and began keening within him was what hurt most. Why had he listened to Dylan? Why hadn’t he blurted out the truth to Laura when he’d been ready? Trusting Dylan had been such an enormous mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he berated himself as he drove the quick hop from Laura’s place to Josie’s, her triple decker near a baseball field and a large playground, the typical setting for dogs off leash and an impossible parking situation.
Rules? Who cared. They’d broken most of them already. Why not add a ticket? When Dylan objected to the parking job he’d shut him down fast. It felt good. Whatever made Dylan go silent, Mike needed more of that.
As for anger, there was an unlimited well inside him, as if he’d struck the rage vein, uncharted territory as he became a fireball of pure instinct, driven by the need to fix this, to go back in time, to have been honest and open with Laura and to—
To have Jill tell the truth.
That thought came out of nowhere, whispered in his mind like a snake hissing secrets. He stopped as they walked toward the three-story house Dylan said was Josie’s, as if struck in the face by a falling acorn or a random stone. What? What about Jill? Why would—
“Hey. You ready?” Dylan’s voice was clipped and nervous as he worried a button on his work shirt. Work? Joe fired him? He wanted to know more about what had happened, but didn’t have the bandwidth right now to listen. Without warning, his hands began to shake, the feeling deep and visceral, his chest bones rattling. Completely out of his control, his body seemed to be releasing emotions he didn’t know he possessed.
“Uh, uh, um,” he stammered, feeling like an eleven year old asking for a first kiss, giving a first speech, talking to his new stepmother and realizing she couldn’t stand him. “Sure,” he chirped out, the sound pushed between his teeth by an ever-expanding tongue, his body feeling like it was swelling and shriveling all at once.
The bell on Josie’s door made a buzzing sound. He heard an “Eep!” and then an old calico cat appeared in the bay window right next to them. A flurry of curtain movement, then a face that was unmistakably Josie’s.
“Shit,” Mike heard, her voice muted but discernible. Then whispers. He and Dylan exchanged looks of rolled eyes.
“Hah!” Dylan hissed, then pumped his fist. Don’t crow too much, Mike thought. We are still so screwed.
Ding dong! Dylan pressed the buzzer again and stepped back on the concrete steps, which were fairly shallow. He almost fell backwards. A flurry of scuttling sounds and whispers, and then Josie’s voice through the door.
“Go away.” She hollered. That woman could project. Who knew such a tiny body could hold such a mammoth voice?
“Please,” Mike said loudly. “We want to talk to Laura and explain.” Please say yes. A massive wave of déjà vu hit him. How ridiculous this all was becoming. Inheriting this money wasn’t his idea. All it had brought was problems.
“Dylan already said everything. He was quite clear.” Josie’s voice was caustic, like battery acid in voice form. Mike just blinked, over and over, trying not to react to everything, and as he turned his head toward Dylan all he could think was, Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.
“What did you text back to Josie, Dylan?” He could feel the threat in his voice, like lead and cyanide, and knew his poisoned tongue would morph into pounding fists soon.
“I just texted back ‘It’s always complicated’ and a little smiley face.”
Holy shit! “And you thought she wouldn’t take that the wrong way?”He enunciated, every word spat out through gritted teeth, his jaw aching with tension and his mind reeling. Stay calm.
Deadly calm.
Clearly shaken, Dylan flinched. “Well, yeah. I was being light-hearted.”
“You have the instincts of a drunken frat boy when it comes to anything emotionally delicate.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?”
Instead of beating Dylan by ripping out his ego and dropping it on his head, thus flattening him to a pancake from the sheer mass of it, Mike stepped forward and pounded on the door. “Please, Laura, we just want to talk.”
“Go away,” Josie warned, even louder. The woman could do a decent imitation of a foghorn.
“Only when we hear it from Laura,” Dylan shouted back. “Otherwise, we’re going to keep trying until somehow you let us in.”
“Ah, God, Dylan, don’t say that,” Mike groaned. Two dog owners at the park across the field turned and looked at them, their animals playing on the baseball field. It was a hot August day and already his shirt clung to him. The dogs frolicked and the owners were talking to each other and pointing at them.
“Don’t say what? I mean it.” Dylan plucked his work shirt away from his body. He was sweating profusely now, running one hand through his hair. The sweat made it look slicked back with gel, the sun shining off the blue-black highlights in his thick hair.
“You don’t have any power here right now, you dipshit.” Dylan bristled. Good! The truth hurt.
“Quit calling me names.”
“I’m not calling you names.” Mike leaned in, pulling himself up to his full height. “I’m calling you out.”
The door opened and Laura appeared,
eyes red-rimmed and puffy, hair askew, her skirt wrinkled around her belly and covered with white cat fur. Her shoulders were set and one hand clung to the doorway, the other on the doorknob, body language aggressive and dismissive all at once.
Mike’s heart exploded with need and fear. “Laura, I—”
“Go.Away.” Her voice got louder on the second word, cracking a bit, as her eyes narrowed and bored into him and Dylan, her chest heaving and throat choking out her words. “I texted you,” she said, accusation infiltrating every word, anger focused on Dylan, “and asked for one fucking thing. One! Respect. You couldn’t even manage that.”
“But I—” Dylan’s smile warmed and softened as he tried the charm thing. Mike could tell it wouldn’t work. Hell, it pissed him off to see it. He could only imagine what it triggered in Laura.
“You smug son-of-a-bitch,” she said in a cold voice, chin tipped down and eyes tipped up, the look nearly evil in its perfect composure and composition. Dylan’s neck craned back and he took a step away, which rattled Mike. No holding back, she was showing them everything right now, and he loved her for it. Raw and broken, she was peeling back to show her true self and he was torn inside, knowing he’d done this to her—they had done this to her —because they had been too afraid to reveal their own true selves to her.
So had Jill.
“All I asked of you—both of you—” her eyes burning through them, making Mike’s body go cold as she alighted on him “—was honesty and respect. You gave me neither. No—worse!—you withheld both from me. I guess you didn’t trust me? Thought I was some kind of gold digger?”
Huh? “Why would we think you were all about the money when we were the ones who found you?” he asked gently. She relaxed visibly, suddenly, as if he’d said what she’d been thinking. As she closed her eyes and screwed her face into an expression of pain, he wanted to take every action, every touch, every word, every breath where he’d hurt her and make it all dissolve and disappear.
Nothing would make their betrayal go away, no matter how much Dylan wished it away with his charm and sweet talking, no matter how much Mike’s earnest tries came from a place of authenticity.
They had betrayed her to the core.
“You tell me!” she shouted. “Oh. No. You can’t.” Her voice went sarcastic. “You can’t ever tell me anything. Anywhere.” She made a strange, dismissive sound. “Except in bed. Right, boys?” The smirk that formed after that was Mike’s personal embodiment of despair. He was dying inside, and just wanted to pull her into his arms, wanted her arms around him, wanted to lose himself in her lushness, her soft, warm self.
That was gone. Long gone.
He and Dylan had driven it away.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice shaky. “I can’t tell you.” Not the answer she expected; her face fell. “I can’t tell you because I don’t even know. If I knew, I’d pour it out. Whatever explanation I could give you, other than blaming Dylan for saying it wasn’t time yet, would be so weak you’d just get angrier.”
She just stared at him with contempt, cheeks red and eyes bloodshot. How had they come to this moment? How could all three of them be standing within feet of each other and be so blindingly miserable?
“You can’t tell me?” Indignant laughter seemed to strengthen her.
“But please, Laura,” Dylan crooned, “invite us in and we can talk. Out here,” he gestured at the staring dog owners, “we have an audience.”
Thirteen different emotions shifted in her face in rapid succession, most of them negative. She slowly stepped back and shut the door, saying, “No. Just go away” as Mike’s view of her narrowed and then disappeared in a line of metal and wood.
“Laura, I want to come in and talk!” Dylan begged.
“You want to come in?” she screamed through the door, her seething so clear it was like a high-pitched tone that crippled, a dog whistle of heartbreak. “Then buy the fucking building, Dylan, and walk in like you own the place.” Mike saw Josie appear in the window, shaking her head slowly.
“I told you,” she mouthed, and whatever shred of function that remained in him snapped.
“You can afford it!” Laura screamed.
And with that, Mike threw the Jeep keys at Dylan and began to run home. It was a good ten miles.
A good start to pound out the pain.
The sight of Mike’s back as he began to run away was unbelievable. Dylan stared, mouth open, the keys loose in his palm. The guy was running home? It was at least ten miles, which was nothing for Mike, but he was dressed in jeans, a polo shirt, and Merell shoes—not exactly runner’s clothing in August in Boston. He’d turn into a puddle of goo by the time he crossed the Charles River.
Maybe that was the point.
Right now, though, he really didn’t have a spare ounce of caring in him for anyone but Laura. How could he have been so callous? Man, he had totally misjudged how she perceived him and his every move. The “It’s always complicated” joke not only fell flat, it seemed to have been the nail in the coffin of any chance they may have had to rewind their botched attempt at waiting for the right moment to tell her about their money. Ego be damned; he could admit when he was wrong. He was man enough. And boy, oh boy, was he wrong.
Mike didn’t even want to be in the same car with him, Laura had just told him, in so many words, to go fuck himself, and now Josie stood in the window shaking her head, mouthing words in an exaggerated way, as if he should be able to lip read.
“She’s done” was all he could read, and then Josie pulled back the curtain, replaced by the old calico.
Done.
He didn’t want to give up, didn’t want to get in the Jeep and head back to the apartment because there? There he’d have to face Mike. Eventually. Once Mike got home from his run, which—knowing Mike’s speed—would be in less than an hour, they’d have it out. Not part of their relationship. They didn’t do fighting. No one had ever put them in this position.
Wait. They had put them in this position. He had to be fair to Laura. Hope died a quiet, soulful death as no one moved, he heard no hushed whispers, and the cat began licking its privates.
Time to go home.
Standing on her front stoop, withering in the heat, the object of ridicule from the two hipster pet owners who now held little grocery bags of poop off their thumbs, Dylan made his way slowly down the steps to get in the jeep and just go home.
Home? Where, exactly, was home anymore? Laura was home, where he felt comfortable and important and where the three of them, together, could do or be anything.
Including a billionaire.
Driving Mike’s Jeep made him appreciate his Audi, the Jeep too high, the steering imprecise. He managed it, driving without thinking while on autopilot, not even bothering to turn on music. The route he chose took him past Jeddy’s, ironically, where he and Mike had inadvertently been successful in getting Laura to look past their clumsy error and to give them another chance.
If only he could have another accidental meeting with her. Maybe if she weren’t on her guard he could talk to her openly, apologize profusely, and at least tell her how much he loved her.
Good thing he was at a red light and at a full stop, because the words loved her made his brain smack against his skull. Love? Where did that word come from? He didn’t throw it around lightly. Being a charity auction bachelor and a bit of a cad meant he had his share of women, and he liked it that way—having his share. His slice. His percentage. Love? Love was something he’d saved for Mike and Jill.
And now, apparently, for Laura.
The woman he’d just driven away.
The rest of the drive was a blur until he parked the Jeep in Mike’s spot, then made his reluctant way to the apartment. When he walked in, he found the last thing he ever expected to see.
Mike. Beet red, veins bulging, shirt completely soaked and arms flexing, neck expanded as if he’d just been doing deep squats with twice his weight on the bar. Huffing from exertion,
Mike wouldn’t look him in the eye. Pacing, he walked back and forth down the entrance hallway, a hulking mass of nervous energy.
“How did you beat me home?” he asked, puzzled. At best, he was twenty minutes ahead of Mike’s top marathon speed.
“Cab.”
“Why’d you take a cab? I thought you were running it out.”
Silence. This Dylan could handle; he knew what to expect when Mike withdrew. But walking into the living room gave him a scene he was wholly unprepared to encounter.
Glass. Shattered glass everywhere. On second thought, it wasn’t nervous energy Mike emanated.
That was rage.
The smoked-glass coffee table was a heap of shards and broken footings. A fifty-pound dumbbell lay cock-eyed in the middle, books piled on it from the collapse.
“Mike, what the fuck—” Sheer terror consumed him as he turned to find Mike holding the other fifty above his head, not pointed at Dylan but rather at a small end table next to the leather couch. The crash was splinteringly deafening, the sound of Mike’s grunt as he exuded enough effort to pitch the dumbbell in a perfect, parabolic arc combining with the breaking glass to create a noise that made Dylan’s teeth rattle.
Jumping back, he avoided getting hit by shrapnel. His mind raced. Was he in true danger from Mike? Mike? His partner for more than ten years, the gentle man he’d admired and respected, who was always so compassionate and—
Mike stormed out of the room and started throwing objects in his bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing, loud thumps and thick cracking sounds making Dylan follow him, wary and ready to protect himself if needed. Entering Mike’s bedroom, which has always been minimalist and sparse, the sight before him was jarring. Everything he owned was everywhere—clothes spilling out of drawers, his closet ransacked, candles rolling in jars on the floor and pictures face down. Mike was standing near his bed, wildly shoving items into a hockey duffel bag, head down and muttering to himself.
“What happened? Were we robbed?”
