Ruckus

by L.J. Shen

  “What?” he asked, his eyes were still hard on his phone.

  “Tell me my hangover is messing with my vision.” I pointed at her door. He swiped his front teeth over his lip, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  “Darren,” I spat out. “Fucking Darren. Doctor Dickhead just walked into her room.”

  There was a moment when so much adrenaline coursed through my veins, every nerve-end in my body sizzled. What was he doing there, and who gave him the courtesy call I never got? It couldn’t have been her. It couldn’t. Picking up my pace, I noticed Vicious following suit.

  “What the fuck are you doing, man? Let it go.”

  The fuck I will.

  “Charlene!” I called out to her mother, who was at the other end of the hallway. Her head shot upward from the chewed foam cup she was staring into, and she got up from her seat. Her grave expression suggested that I was Lucifer himself, and at that moment, she wasn’t completely wrong. I’d had enough of this bullshit. I stopped a foot away from her and jerked my finger at the door.

  “Her ex-boyfriend just walk in there?” I swear I was foaming from the mouth. “Did that just fucking happen?”

  “Darren,” she supplied, her puffed eyes and swollen face somehow breaking into a timid smile. “Nice boy,” she articulated. Because apparently, I wasn’t.

  “Who invited him?” I demanded.

  “Paul.” Rosie’s dad. “Darren has always been there for her. It was only fair that we let him know.”

  “I was always there for her,” I stressed, punching a wall and not feeling anything, not the pain, not the burn, nothing.

  “Not when she needed you.” Charlene’s voice was too sad to be flustered by my spontaneous act of violence. “When she needed you, Dean, you disappeared.”

  “I’m kicking him out.” I made my way to the door. Rosie was obviously awake if they let him in. There was a little square window on the door, but I knew better than to look. Did he hold her hand? Was she glad to see him? Was she going to kick me out? My head spun with possibilities.

  Vicious clasped my arm, squeezing once. “Man.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  I stormed in. Darren was sloped in a chair by Rosie’s bed. She was awake. And she looked horrible. I’d never seen her like this. So…not herself. Her eyes were dim, dark circles framing her baby blues. Ten pounds skinnier, exhausted, and sad. It was then that I realized that Nina never broke my heart.

  Rosie did, eleven years ago.

  She did when she pushed me into her sister’s arms.

  And she did now, in that hospital bed. Because if she was going to die—so was I.

  “Leave,” I commanded, my eyes honing in on my girlfriend. My girlfriend.

  Paul and Charlene barged in, yelling at me in decibels human ears weren’t meant to contain. I didn’t listen. I didn’t fucking care. I was going to give Darren a very good reason to stay in the hospital if he didn’t get the hell out.

  “She wants me here,” Darren’s white-boy, Connecticut soft voice reported. God, I bet he never said ‘fuck’ and used the word ‘shit’ sporadically.

  “Darren.” Rosie leaned forward to pat his hand, her lungs wheezing like a balloon that was losing air. “I’m so sorry my dad asked you to go through all this trouble. There’s a lot going on in my life right now. Please don’t take it the wrong way. I’m very grateful you made it here, but it’s time for you to go.”

  Hearing her kicking him out soothed some of my rage away. I gulped thin hospital air and stepped deeper into the room.

  Darren looked between Rosie and her dad. Paul shook his head, his lips pursed. Her mom rounded the bed and hugged her. Millie was probably resting somewhere in the hospital. Vicious and Rosie’s parents were about to join her so I could finally have a few fucking moments alone with my girlfriend.

  “Fine,” Darren said, finally. “As you wish, Rosie-bug. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  Confrontational silence hovered between us after Darren left the room. All eyes were on me.

  “Everybody out,” I said.

  “Even me?” Rosie quirked an eyebrow and tried to smile. And failed. Looking pained for even trying.

  “No. I’m keeping you. No one else can handle your ass, anyway.”

  “Why are we letting this happen?” Charlene LeBlanc threw her hands in the air. “He left her in the pouring rain, for goodness’ sake! He. Did. This.” She pointed at Rosie, her finger dancing. “Paul, do something.”

  “Mama—” Rosie said.

  “Sweetheart, I know, but—” Paul tried to pacify his wife.

  “Jesus Christ, just shut the hell up.” Vicious slammed his palm against a bed stand, and everyone did shut up. Probably shocked that he would tell them to zip it. “I mean, really? Dean stood her up. Once. After chasing her ass for a long time. I’ve never seen a man endure so much bullshit when it comes to a girl before Dean Cole. Charlene, Paul, I love your daughter. A lot. I would die for her if I had to, but even I have to admit—I did terrible things to her. Things I thought I would never be able to overhaul. The fact that she agreed to marry me is a small miracle. The fact that she knows who I am and still chose to have a baby with me is an even bigger one. But Dean…Dean is not Vicious. Dean made a mistake, not a conscious decision to hurt her. And he deserves to be heard.” He twisted his head, pinning Rosie down with his stare. I stopped breathing, waiting for her to say something.

  She coughed, wiggled in place to fix the pillows behind her back, then offered a faint nod.

  “Mama, Daddy, I need to hear what he has to say.”

  Rosie’s parents exchanged worried looks.

  Charlene exhaled. “We’ll be outside.”

  The door clicked shut. Our eyes met. She was not doing well, I knew. Now was the time to tell her I finally got it. Why she pushed me into her sister’s arms. Why she let us both suffer through this shit. Love makes you do crazy, irrational things. Love and death are connected by an invisible string. Pull too hard, and you’re gone. I couldn’t live without Rosie. It was, perhaps, the only thing that was clear to me at this point.

  I plopped on her bed, sitting by her thighs, grabbed her hand, and placed it over my heart.

  Sorry didn’t cut it. I had to go big. I had to go all the fucking way this time.

  “You turned my life upside down, and I’ll never be the same,” I said, feeling my words were a living thing. I not only said them, I felt them.

  She smiled, shrugged. Looking like her old/young self for a second. Other than that yellow hue on her skin.

  “It’s not my fault you fell in love with a dying girl.”

  “It’s not my fault you made it fucking impossible not to.”

  “Where were you?” Her voice died in her throat. Did she mean the day she waited for me in the Hamptons or during her hospital stay?

  “I was right here, Baby LeBlanc. The whole time. The minute I found out where you were I all but flew here. They wouldn’t let me see you, so I stayed at the place I rented for us. And drank. And felt sorry for myself. And kept the loser asshole torch burning pretty bright, thanks for asking.”

  She snorted. “Friday?”

  I let out a sigh, scratching at my stubble.

  “Dean? How was your meeting with your father?”

  The words poured out of me like a broken floodgate. I told my fading girlfriend exactly what happened, not sparing a detail. She shed a few silent tears, clutching my face in her ice-cold hands, but I’d never felt warmer in my entire life. I kissed her lips and said sorry, again and again and again.

  “I’m sorry.” My lips slid to her forehead. “Fuck, Rosie, I am so, so sorry,” Cheek. “I can’t tell you what it does to me, seeing you like this, knowing that it was me who caused it.” Tip of the nose. “It can’t end like this. It can’t.” Lips again.

  She pulled me into a hug, and I felt her hot tears streaming down my neck.

  “I’m kind of hoping it will end like this. You mad
e me happy. Very happy. But…you deserve everything. Wife, kids, a white picket fence.”

  “And I’ll have all of it. With you.”

  “You know that can’t happen with me.”

  “Then it can’t happen with anyone. There won’t be a next Rosie. And there won’t be another story like ours. This is it, Rose LeBlanc. And this is us. If there is no you, then there is no me.”

  “You know, I always hated Romeo and Juliet. The play. The movie. The very idea. It was tragic, all right. Tragically stupid. I mean, they were what? Thirteen? Sixteen? What a waste of life, to kill yourself because your family wouldn’t let you get hitched. But Romeo and Juliet were right. I was the stupid asshole. Look what happened to me. I met my true love at the age of eighteen and spent the next eleven years killing myself slowly while I grieved for you. Then you came back, and I still thought it was just a fascination. But now that I know…” I pulled away so I could look at her face. She was fading. I saw it. Her lungs hadn’t been functioning well. Her doctors said the infection had spread to the rest of her organs. She was burning with fever. Despite her frequent trips to the hospital, this time it was different.

  And all of this could have been prevented if I wasn’t an alcoholic bastard.

  I pressed my cheek into her palm, kissing her wrist. “Now that I know that it can only ever be you, you’re going to get better for me so Earth won’t explode. Can you do that, Sirius? I promise not to leave this room until you get out. Not even for a shower. Not even to get you your chocolate chip cookies. I’ll get someone to drive all the way to New York and bring them for you.”

  “I love you.” Rosie’s tears curtained her vision. Her shaky fingers found my lips when they wanted to touch my cheeks, but once her fingertips swiped across my mouth, I realized that I was shedding a few tears, too. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried. I was definitely not the sobbing type. In fact, it was probably around the time Nina dumped my ass at Walmart when I cried the last time. But I did now, because the woman I loved more than life itself was losing a battle I personally sent her into.

  “I love you, Baby LeBlanc,” I said. “So fucking much. You taught me how to love. How well did I do?”

  She smiled, a tear rolling down her cheek. “A-plus,” she whispered. “You aced it. Can you promise me something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Live.”

  “Not without you.”

  “And have kids. Lots of them. They’re fun.”

  “Rosie…”

  “I’m not afraid. I got what I wanted from this life. You.”

  “Rosie.”

  “I love you, Earth. You were good to me.”

  “Rose!”

  Her eyes closed, the door opened, the sound on her monitor went off, and my heart disintegrated.

  Piece.

  By piece.

  By piece.

  Three Years Later

  “MAN, WHAT THE HELL IS your son doing?”

  “It’s not my son.”

  “Oh, like hell it’s not.” Trent brings the bottle of beer to his lips, taking a slow sip. “He’s wearing a goddamn multi-colored blazer. It’s Knight, all right.”

  I squint my eyes, because it’s bright as fuck in Todos Santos on a September afternoon, and sure enough, it is my son. My four-year-old is…what is he doing, exactly? I’m not entirely sure, but knowing Knight, it can’t be anything remotely constructive, and it will probably earn him an indefinite amount of naughty spot time. This kid has seen more walls than a mural painter.

  He is my mini-me on steroids. Swag, attitude, and mischief all wrapped up in an innocent smile.

  “I think he just drew a giant dick on Jaime’s daughter’s forehead,” Vicious remarks, staring into his glass of whiskey like it holds the answer to the mystery of life. I sip water. For the last three years, it’s only ever been water for me. I’m not gonna bullshit you about being a born-again Christian like Donald Whittaker. Yes, I’m fucking dying for a drink. Staying sober is a sacrifice, but one I am willing to make for my family.

  Vicious elbows Jaime, tilting his chin toward Knight and Daria. “If that’s not pissing all over his property from a young age, I don’t know what is. Your daughter’s in trouble. Keep an eye on that one.”

  “They’re just kids, dickface. It’s called playing.”

  “Playing.” Vicious tastes the word on his tongue. “You played the same game with Mel, if my memory doesn’t betray me. But with a real dick, and it wasn’t her forehead you put it on.”

  That last statement awards Vicious with a punch to the arm. I flip my wedding band around my finger and watch our kids running around us, sunrays glittering between them.

  “Knight!” I call out for him, and he looks up, the black marker clutched in his small fist.

  Oh, fuck.

  It doesn’t look like a marker. It looks like a Sharpie.

  “Come here, please.” I nod toward the corner where Jaime, Vicious, Trent, and I are standing. Luna is clasping Trent’s leg like an anchor. Her gray-green eyes are wide and exploring, and she is wearing a black top, black jeans, and black Chucks.

  She never leaves her father’s side.

  Knight sashays toward us, swinging his arms next to his body in an exaggerated way. We’re celebrating his fourth birthday today, and all of his pre-school friends are here. Trent’s flipping steaks and burgers, there’s a hot dog stand by the giant pool, a clown, a magician, and a cotton candy machine. Only the best for my son.

  I know, I know, he’s mine and I’m biased, blah, blah, blah, but I swear, this kid is something special. My wife and I knew that the minute we saw him.

  “He was born on August eighteenth,” the woman at the adoption agency stated when she slid a picture of him across her desk three years ago. We came to see her right after our shotgun wedding in Vegas. My wife and I exchanged an unreadable look before we burst out laughing. That was the date we slept together for the first time. August eighteenth. Fate has a twisted sense of humor like that.

  Knight looks just like me, even though he didn’t come from me. But his hair is ash brown, his eyes jade green. He is twice as tall as kids his age. Well, other than Vaughn, Vicious and Emilia’s son.

  Knight (my better half called him that because he came to save the day) stands in front of me, waiting for the inevitable Spanish Inquisition.

  “What did you do to Daria?” I ask, kneeling down to his eye level. Daria is two years older than Knight. She should be the one bossing him around, not the other way. But I guess it is in our blood to raise little hell-raiser, alpha-males and the girls who fight them off until they cave to their charm.

  “I tattooed her,” my kid says, his voice even. He’s staring me right in the eye, and he has that what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look on his face.

  “You drew on her forehead,” I correct. “Why did you do that?”

  “She asked to get inked.” Jesus Christ. No more watching Ink Master with this dude when his mom is too busy to notice.

  “What did you ink…paint on her forehead, exactly?”

  Don’t say a dick. Don’t say a dick. Don’t say a dick.

  “A spaceship,” he answers. He turns around and calls Daria, who jogs the short distance to us. Knight proceeds to explain, his finger moving across her forehead. “This is the external tank,” he points at the head of the cock—and did I mention that my kid wants to be an astronaut and loves space just as much as I do?—“and this is the orbiter,” he points at the balls.

  “And what is shooting from the external tank, exactly?” Jaime inquires, his voice stiff. I swallow my laughter and wait for Knight to answer. His eyes widen.

  “Bullets, of course. Lots and lots of bullets.”

  Thank God, he didn’t say cum.

  I place a hand on my son’s soft, ruddy cheek. “Listen to me carefully, Knight, okay? We do not draw on other people’s body parts. Ever. Especially not spaceships.” Jaime is a friend, but I’m not sure how I feel about other fathers
knocking on my door complaining that my son is drawing dicks on their daughters.

  “Got it.” He nods. “No spaceships.”

  “And no giving other kids tattoos, period. Now, why don’t you go play with Vaughn?”

  “Because I hate him,” Knight answers matter-of-factly.

  The next generation is definitely following in their fathers’ footsteps. I mess his hair. “Go check on your mom, bud.” I kiss the top of his head.

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  “And give me the Sharpie.”

  Daria is still looking at her dad. Jaime pulls her into his leg with a hug.

  “Baby, can you promise Daddy something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never, ever, look or talk or play with Knight ever again.”

  Daria rolls her eyes and walks off to the cotton candy machine my mom, Helen, is in charge of. Jaime, Vicious, and I laugh.

  Trent is flipping burgers with a beer in his hand, shaking his head.

  “Who the fuck are all these people? I don’t even know half of them.” I motion with my bottled water to the crowd. Now that we all live in Todos Santos—life away from each other felt a little too close to death, we realized, after what happened to Rosie—and live in the same neighborhood, we hang out every day.

  “You did invite most of our colleagues.” Jaime shrugs.

  “Did I?” I scratch my head.

  “Your wife did,” Vic interrupts. “Em told her to. Networking and shit. Oh, and lookie here. Our new partner came to say hi.” He jerks his chin to a man I do recognize. His face was just plastered across the front page of The Wall Street Journal. Jordan Van Der Zee. Late fifties going on seventy. Looks like an evil version of Putin. He bought fifty percent of our shares two years ago, making us split the rest among us.

  A multi-million-dollar deal that left us with more money than we can spend in ten lifetimes but less power in Fiscal Heights Holdings. We now have the time to spend with our families. Together. Van Der Zee scattered his own management team around Chicago, London, and New York, and none of us are crushed, because we took our souls with us when we signed the deal. Sue now has a new person she can call Mr. Whatever.