by Ann Aguirre
“Can’t believe you showed. I bet your uncle Lou ten bucks you wouldn’t have the balls.”
“Enough, Pop.” Mickey confirmed my speculation with two words. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
A blonde woman joined the group then, wearing a worried look. “Is that you, Max?”
“Hey, Aunt Carol. Thanks for the email.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek.
She didn’t seem like a horrible person at first glance, so I wondered why she hadn’t protected Max back in the day. I noticed nobody was hugging him, though, or touching him at all. I finally understood why he was so tactile; it was reactionary, like bingeing on chocolate after a strict diet.
Clearing my throat, I offered my hand for her to shake. “I’m Courtney.”
His dad skimmed me up and down, then his lip curled. “She must have money. I guess you’re not a total idiot. Cash lasts way longer than a pretty face, and all cats feel the same in the dark, am I right?”
Wow. That wasn’t the first time I’d heard that verdict, but it was the bluntest anyone had come across with it. Max lunged at his dad, and his aunt caught his shoulder. His jaw clenched as he shook her off. But I squeezed his hand, silently telling him to relax. It’s so not worth it.
Carol smiled at me. “You’re Max’s...”
“Friend,” I supplied.
From her expression, that wasn’t the answer she expected. “Nice to meet you. I was surprised when Max said he’d try to make it. He didn’t tell me he was bringing company.”
“We’re not staying with you,” Max said. “So don’t worry about it.”
“Too good for your family.” His dad snorted.
Max cut him a WTF look and I understood why. From his father’s tone, he made it sound like it was Max’s choice, not involuntary exile. Before the tension could get worse, though, Mickey shook my hand with a friendly smile. This kid had incredible eyes, two or three shades lighter than Max’s, and flecked with gold. He must already be breaking hearts.
“With all this bickering, I don’t see an intro anytime in our future. I’m Michael.”
Ah. So he’s grown out of the nickname. Truthfully, he didn’t look much like a Mickey, though I was definitely Disney-biased. I figured he’d been closer as a kid.
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” Only a slight exaggeration. But from his expression, he was glad to hear it, so I smiled and pretended I knew some cute childhood stories instead of only having learned of his existence the day before.
Thanks, Max.
“All good, right?” Michael had dimples, too, plus a faint cleft in his chin. I had the urge to ruffle his hair, but he’d probably take it the wrong way.
“Stop flirting,” Max said, folding his arms with a mock-stern look.
“Him or me?” I teased.
“Both of you. It’s disturbing, Kaufman. I told you it’s never happening between us, and I won’t let you seduce my brother for revenge.”
“So much for my nefarious plans.”
Michael glanced between us, a strange expression dawning. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I remember you as...angrier.”
That sparked a tentative smile from Max, like he was expecting a gong to clang and for his brother to melt into a dog-headed demon or something. “You want to see the bike?”
“No way, you still have it?”
“Yeah, I’ve nearly got it done.”
“You promised me a ride, asshole.” Michael didn’t seem to notice the way Max flinched, but I did. His fingers tightened on mine. “Can we check it out now?” He was already wheeling toward the exit, leading the way.
I didn’t know much about motorcycles, but the brothers seemed to be bonding. So I let go of Max. When he followed Michael without looking back, I decided it was the right move. That left me standing awkwardly with his father and Aunt Carol. Offering a tentative smile, I tried to come up with an innocuous topic for small talk.
But Mr. Cooper beat me to the punch. “Whatever promises the kid made to get you here, I guarantee they’re bullshit. You’re better off getting on a bus. Want a ride?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just offering to help you out, girlie.”
Oh, no, you did not.
My fingers balled up into a fist, but before I could make good on my urge to introduce it to his nose, Carol caught my arm. “Let me get you some coffee. I think there are some cookies, too. Cavanaugh and Sons don’t offer much of a spread.”
“Like I’d pay top dollar to put that old bastard in the ground.”
Since that was pretty much exactly what Max thought about the asshole in front of me—the live one—I stared over my shoulder as the older woman led me away. “Sorry. You must think we’re awful.”
A polite response to that failed me, so I took the Styrofoam cup full of bitter-smelling coffee and added powdery packets of fake creamer and yellow envelopes of sweetener until I could pretend it was a milkshake. Most people were surprised that I didn’t just shoot up triple espressos because I exuded that vibe, but in fact, I didn’t like hot drinks—with the exception of Angus’s mulled wine. But normally, even on a cold day I’d rather have a chilled beverage.
Carol wasn’t kidding when she said the pickings were slim. This looked like the employee break room with a few sad round tables, covered in napkins and newspapers, along with scattered cookie crumbs. This reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since noon, and it was nosing toward seven. Silently I nibbled a stale snickerdoodle and pondered the life choices that ended with me in this current situation.
“So how do you know Max?” she asked.
Since I’d almost forgotten she was there, I came back with the absurd and defensive, “How do you know Max?”
Mentally I banged my head on the nearest wall when her pleasant face clouded over in confusion. “Um. Well, we’ve never actually met before, to be honest. I married his dad’s younger brother two years ago. I didn’t realize there was such...drama in the family, so I emailed him an announcement about the wedding.”
Oh, she’s an aunt by marriage.
“And he wrote back?”
“Yeah. I’ve been updating him about Michael, mostly.”
“That was nice of you.”
“It’s the least I can do. I’ll never understand the dynamics here. Sometimes it’s like stepping through a minefield.”
“Yeah, I can already tell Mr. Cooper’s a character.”
“Who, Charlie? It’s okay, honey. You can say it. He’s a jackass. Don’t get him started on his addiction, by the way. He’ll talk your ear off about his stupid chips.” I must’ve looked blank because she added, “He joined AA a few months back, after his dad got really sick. So he’s got sobriety tokens now, three months’ worth. Luckily Jim doesn’t have the same problems as his brother or his dad, may he rest in peace.”
“Jim would be your husband?” I guessed.
“Right, you don’t know anyone. Let me help.” She took my arm and hauled me back to the chapel, where she kept me pinned to her side naming strangers.
Yeah, there’s no way in hell I’m remember any of that.
It was nearly eight when Max and Michael came back in, so they must’ve had a good talk. I’d rarely seen Max smiling so wide, and pleasure washed over me at playing any role in this reunion. There weren’t many people left, just close family, by this point.
Mr. Cooper scowled when he saw his sons together. “Okay, closing time. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
That sounded more like last call at a bar than a suitable farewell at a viewing, a wake or whatever Christians called this deal. I much preferred Jewish services. But the stragglers cleared out in response to Mr. Cooper’s impatient gestures, leaving a middle-aged man who looked a bit like Max with an arm around Carol—that had to be Jim—me, Max, Michael and their dad.
There was a lot of awkward staring until I said, “Can we get some dinner?”
Mr. Cooper snorted. “Better feed her. Ass
es like that don’t grow themselves.”
Max had been spoiling to punch his father all night, and while I shared the impulse, I wasn’t ruining this service or going to jail. “Wow. Well, thanks for noticing...but it’s slightly inappropriate. Try to stare at butts closer to your own age. Max, you hungry?”
“I could eat,” he said, seeming surprised.
“Where are you headed?” Michael glanced between us, obviously angling for an invite. I could read the subtext, if Max was too pissed at his dad to catch on.
“I’m not sure. What’s good around here?”
“The diner over on North Broadway isn’t bad. It’s cheap and tasty. I don’t eat there often when I’m in training, though.”
“You look like an athlete,” I admitted.
“Is it the chair that gave me away?” He had a sporty, streamlined model.
“Frankly, it’s your whole upper body.” Which, from Max’s death glare, might’ve been a weird thing to say, but his little brother was fit.
“What did I say about the flirting? He’s still in high school, for shit’s sake. You’re gonna end up in a mugshot.”
Michael laughed. “Stand down, bro. I’ll let you know if I feel sexually threatened.”
“You want to take point, show us how to find the eats?” I suspected he must have a ride.
In reply, Michael jingled his keys. “No problem. Follow me.”
Somehow I mustered the last echo of a good upbringing and said good-night to Mr. Cooper without a sneer. I put some more warmth into it when I spoke to Jim and Carol, then we rolled out. Max was quiet as we got on the motorcycle. I didn’t try to talk to him; there would likely be a lengthy deconstruction in the room after we ate. The snarl of the engine drowned out my growling stomach, at least.
The diner was small, a hole-in-the-wall place on the corner of Broadway and a cross street whose name I couldn’t read. On the bike, we didn’t have to worry about parking, though. Michael stashed his retrofitted Scion down the block; I watched as he rolled down the rear ramp and closed things up. Max moved like he’d go help out but I grabbed his arm.
“This is his life, you know? I’m sure he hangs out with his friends.”
“Yeah. I just... I can’t square it in my head. Last time I saw him, he was hooked up to tubes, frail as hell. Now he’s—”
“Fine.”
“You’re such a perv, Kaufman.”
I punched him in the arm. “Not what I meant and you know it. Did you seriously think he’d be sitting in bed, pale and sad for, like, five years?” At the flicker of his eyes, I raised my brows. “God, you mentally had him dying in a Victorian tuberculosis ward, didn’t you? You watch Tombstone too much, I’ve always said that. And Doc Holliday looks nothing like Val Kilmer.”
“What’re you guys talking about?” Michael asked.
“Westerns,” I answered before Max could get awkward. “What’s your favorite?”
Max kept quiet as we found a table and moved a chair so Michael could wheel up. The resulting conversation carried us past ordering, and Max eased up once we switched to action flicks, something he had a lot to say about. He and Michael discussed the underappreciated genius of John Woo, then moved to the interesting stuff currently being filmed in Hong Kong. I added less than nothing to the convo, but since I had chicken tenders, I didn’t mind. The fries were homemade, fresh cut, and the coleslaw was decent; I ate it so I could pretend the veg would counteract all the fried goodness. In the immortal words of Max’s dad—gotta feed dat ass.
But midway through dinner, Michael said, “We should really talk about something Courtney cares about, too.”
“Kaufman’s fine. You are, right?” Max turned to me with a raised brow. He had nice ones, thick enough to make a statement, not wild enough to give him an evil-genius air.
“Yep. I could go for pie, though. Is it any good here?”
“Do you like pecan?” Michael asked.
“Do I like it? I almost married it. But my sweet pastry felt like I was getting all codependent, so we had this huge, messy breakup, and now I have sole custody of the tartlets. It’s hard, man.” Biting my knuckles, I dropped my eyes, pretending to wipe away the tears.
Max was used to my weirdness but Michael seemed startled for, like, ten seconds, then he cracked up. “Okay, no nut allergies, check. Try the pecan pie if it won’t trigger a flashback.”
It had been a while since I hung out with high school kids, basically since I was one, and I didn’t remember guys being so mature and poised at sixteen. But that wasn’t something I could comment on without it seeming strange and/or insulting. Max would also chide me for the third time about hitting on his brother, and that might open a hell mouth or something.
The waitress came over in response to Max’s chin lift. One of these days, I had to learn that. To get a server’s attention, I practically had to get out glowing batons and signal a plane.
“We’ll have three pieces of pecan pie and the check.”
“Any coffee?” she asked.
Before I could reply, Max said, “Nah. It’s too late for me, the kid’s too young and the lady doesn’t like it.”
I was kind of surprised he remembered, but Michael was glaring. He didn’t speak until the girl moved off. “Too young, fuck you. Too young.”
“So opposable thumbs are pretty cool,” I said.
But things were melting down too fast for me to head them off. Max waded in with boots on, not that I knew why. “You’re a kid, Mickey. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I can see why you’d think that, considering you haven’t even seen me in five years. Guess what, I grew up while you were out.” He took a deep, deep breath, brown eyes flashing. “Your phone doesn’t work, Max? Dad said you had a reason for disappearing on us, and I’ve been waiting to hear it.”
Part of me wanted to defend Max, but I bit my lip. This isn’t your fight, and you only know his side of the story. Things probably looked much different to Michael.
Before Max could answer—tell his brother what he’d told me about being kicked out of the house—the waitress showed up with pie. By the time she walked off, Michael was seething too hard to listen.
He shoved away from the table and wheeled around with a dark stare. “Never mind, not in the mood for dessert. Nice meeting you, Courtney.”
“That’s crazy,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “How is it humanly possible not to be in the mood for pie?”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Because Max stood up and stalked out, stranding me in a strange diner in Providence.
CHAPTER FIVE
In reaction to my predicament, I ate one and a half pieces of pecan pie.
Michael was right; it was delicious. Then I asked the waitress to box up the rest. I mean, how bad can the situation be if there’s pie? Once I had my leftovers in a sack, I paid the check and stepped onto the sidewalk. Part of me hoped I’d find Max pacing, maybe smoking a cigarette like he did when he was really upset or completely hammered, but the bike was gone.
By this point, it was half past nine. Swallowing hard, I went back inside. The waitress didn’t look pleased to see me, but I rode it out. Local info could make all the difference.
“So I’m wondering if there’s a decent motel within walking distance. I don’t mind if it’s crappy, just not a hellhole.” I hoped she’d know what I meant.
“Oh.” Her annoyance softened, leavened with sympathy. “Your boyfriend ditched you?”
It didn’t seem worth it to clarify. “Yeah. There probably isn’t a bus out tonight anyway.”
I felt slightly bad for putting that on the table. If I left tomorrow, I’d fly back to Ann Arbor and ask if Nadia could pick me up. But the waitress wouldn’t feel like helping me if she knew I wasn’t as pathetic as I appeared. You’d have to be a complete sociopath to refuse to answer questions, given my apparent abandonment.
“You don’t want to hang around the station that late, even if there is. If
you can afford a room for the night, taking the bus during the day is a lot safer.”
Since I had plenty of space on various cards and a fair amount of cash on me, plus my ATM card, this didn’t present as much of a challenge as it might have for someone else. My style hid the fact that my family had plenty of money, though not like Angus, of course. Better for me to blend into the neighborhood anyway, especially at this hour.
“Okay, thanks.” I smiled at her.
“There’s a decent place four blocks away. I can draw a map if you want.”
“No, that’s fine. If you tell me what it’s called, I can map it on my phone. Is it safe to walk in this neighborhood? I’m not from around here.”
She nodded, naming the hotel. “Just keep your head down and stay alert. The first block is iffy, but there will be more people when you hit Little Italy.”
After thanking her again, I memorized the route, then put away my phone. Even during the day, it wasn’t a good idea to show you had no fucking clue where you were going. At night, it would be insane. Maybe I should just call a taxi but it seemed dumb as hell to wait twenty minutes for it when I could walk it in less than ten. The waitress was right about the first leg feeling sketchy, so I speed-walked. A few guys stared from their stoops as I jogged by, but nobody made a move.
More lights sprang up as I turned, and by the way the architecture changed, I could tell I’d found Little Italy. The buildings looked more European, painted in brighter hues. Checking the street sign, I saw I’d found De Pasquale Avenue, just as Google promised. I felt better here, as a number of restaurants were still open, mostly bistros and trattorias that reminded me of Rome. I found the hotel, no problem; it was a three-story building—canary yellow with white accents. The front rooms appeared to have balconies, and it didn’t seem like a flophouse, even from the outside, though I could tell it wasn’t posh.
My phone read 9:50 p.m. No messages from Max. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off. But as I put my hands on the door, my cell rang.
