Paul pulls a bottle from the cupboard and a thin, black cord comes with it. “What the hell?” He lifts the cord in his fingertips. He gives it a yank and an old headset with foam earphones falls out.
“Oh man,” James laughs. “You probably left a pair of Gada’s headphones in there! I forgot all about that! Remember how she’d walk around, listening to all our mix tapes?”
“She called it hippie music,” I say wistfully, “but she listened to it all the time.”
“Don’t you remember the ones she made for us? Elvis and Johnny Preston, the Rolling Stones and the Eagles,” Eve says, her eyes a little glassy with the memory. “I miss her tapes!”
Gada loved swapping mix tapes with all of us. I always thought it made her feel younger and more connected with me. At Halloween, she’d tape us, ghost-groaning, monster-moaning and snarling like rabid wolves, to make home-made sound effects that she’d play through her front porch goose, for unsuspecting Trick-or-Treaters at Halloween.
“Do you know where her tapes are, Grace?” James asks. That butter-smooth tone in his voice takes me off guard and the zip whistles through me again, wobbling my stomach before settling into places it shouldn’t. Emilio’s off buying us all food, and I’m here with James, allowing the old zip ravage me. I shake it off.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t been home in seven years. It doesn’t seem like her, but maybe she tossed them.”
“I didn’t see any in the basement,” Lisa says.
“Not in your old room either,” Eve adds.
“I didn’t go through the den, but unless they’re in the closet, I didn’t see any. Maybe she did chuck ‘em.”
“I doubt she would do that,” I say. It feels good to have a conversation, however meaningless, moving around the table. For a second, I get the old feeling of who we used to all be together and to one another.
“Maybe they’re out in the garage,” Paul says, casting a glance out the back window and across the yard to the garage. “I wonder if it’s still a spider nest out there?”
“I’m sure it is,” I say. Paul shivers. He is scared to death of spiders.
James stretches his arms. “We can look out there tomorrow.”
“I’m going to go call home,” Lisa says, getting up from the table.
“Where is home?” I ask and as soon as it comes out of my mouth, I wish I could eat the words. I don’t want to know her business and the way Lisa whips around to face me, I know she doesn’t want me knowing it either.
“I live over in the Estates,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
Oh shit. We used to make fun of the kids who came from the trailer park across Main. It had always been a rough place, dominating a regular slot in the crime section of our local newspaper.
“Oh,” I say. I scramble to think of something nice that will keep Lisa from decapitating me in my sleep. “It’s probably a lot nicer than it used to be.”
Nope, not good enough.
Lisa’s eyes ratchet down to a solid glare. “No, it’s not. It sucks as bad as it ever did,” she snaps. “But I’m a single mom with two deadbeat dads that don’t pay me a fucking cent in child support, so I’m pretty damn proud that I keep a roof over my kid’s heads even though I never got some fancy degree to do it.”
Shots fired.
I’m wondering if James is one of the dads. Then James touches my elbow, distracting me with a gentle, you-know-how-Lisa-is grin that throws me back to the old days and those times when I could read him like a billboard. He gave me this look a thousand times before and my heart breaks a little, wondering again if he knows her more than he ever did before.
Dammit. Even if his name is next to hers on one of the birth certificates, it shouldn’t have any gravitational pull on my universe anymore. It pisses me off that I keep on poking at that old scab on my soul.
James motions to the cupboards over the coffee maker. “I saw some coffee over there, and you always made it even better than Gada could. I haven’t had a good cup in years. Do you guys remember her coffee?”
Lisa doesn’t say a word, but Paul and Eve nod with mild mumbles of yeah, it was good…I wouldn’t mind some.
I’m nailed right between the eyes or straight through the heart. It’s just a stupid request for coffee, but the moment transports me back to the days when I loved James with my whole heart and would do anything in the world for him…before I knew what a lying, deceitful bastard he was.
“I’m not good at making it anymore,” I say. It’s partly true—I don’t remember how I used to make it. My secretary makes mud for me every morning now.
Lisa, seeing that I’ve been derailed from her hate-train, makes a soft I-figured-as-much grunt before heading downstairs.
As I sit there, I start thinking it wouldn’t hurt anything to try and make some. It might suck, or it might be like riding a bike—I won’t know unless I try.
I should wait up for Emilio to come back and to help carry in the groceries anyway.
James makes the coffee instead, and it’s terrible.
Eve goes off to bed within ten minutes, Paul is snoring on the couch within fifteen, but there’s still no sign of Emilio. It leaves James and me at the kitchen table with our steaming mugs of murky, battery acid. I should’ve made the coffee.
My eyes wander to the garage more than they should. I’m annoyed by my own guilt of Emilio coming back to find me sitting here with the ex-love-of-my-life, but there’s not a house full of options. I’m not about to be sequestered upstairs all week. Zip and boyfriend aside, we’re all adults here. I shouldn’t be worried about anything but the raw acidic nature of James’s brew as it burns away my esophagus.
James rubs the side of his mug. “So, do you want to talk about—”
“No, I don’t,” I say. He pauses, eyes still fixed on me as his thumb strokes the outer edge of the cup.
“What difference does it make now, Grace?” His soft, earnest tone would sway me if I was still the girl he used to know. The flat stare I return seems to bring him up to speed, although he persists. “We should be able to talk about what happened, at least to clear the air.”
I wrap my fingers around my mug. “I think we all agreed on tolerance this week, not re-hashing the past.”
James takes a swallow from his cup, followed by a wince as if he’s slugging hard liquor instead of java. His gaze wanders off to the living room couch. The mound of Paul’s head pokes up closest to the kitchen and the tips of his feet point toward the ceiling at the opposite end. His snore rattles softly.
James sighs, giving up on his line of questioning. He turns his dark eyes back to me. “So, how are you doing these days? Do you love it in New York?”
I almost laugh. It’s such a not-James thing to say. We never did do small talk. Not ever. From the moment we met, we were always out in the open with one another and because of that, I trusted James from the start. By the time we graduated high school, we were finishing each other’s sentences. He knew where I stood on every issue, what I thought of everyone we knew. He could put his finger on my weak parts. I guess that was my mistake—letting him.
And it’s too bad I didn’t really know his.
“I’m doing great,” I say and then, just because it’s the stone-cold truth, “New York is okay.”
“Just okay?” He quirks up one brow. “I’ve never been, but all I hear about is the Broadway shows and the crime.”
“No,” I shake my head, “it’s a great town. There’s a lot to love about it, but coming from this place, New York is like a different universe. It’s creative and crowded and cutting edge and expensive.”
His grin is bittersweet. “I was surprised when I heard you didn’t love it,” he says.
“Who said I didn’t?”
“Besides you, just now?” He leans back in his chair with a soft shrug. “You know…the neighborhood. I don’t know who said it first, but I assume it came from Gada. You know how the gossip travels around here.”
“What’d you hear exactly?”
“Hmm, that you aced college and landed a cherry job in a fancy company. Heard you’re a corner-office big shot now.” He pauses, his eyes holding me in my chair. His stare doesn’t pin me like a bug; it relaxes me like a full body massage. This is the way I used to feel with James—safe and serene. I miss it. “I couldn’t be happier for you, Grace. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well.”
“Pretty well, but not perfect,” I blurt. Shit. The truth wasn’t supposed to slip out of my mouth. I pound down a drink, the coffee sliding down my throat like metal shavings. James doesn’t deserve even a hint of my reality. I revert to the security of my all-business mode and push my shoulders back against the chair. “Well, I’m working toward CEO. I still have some corporate climbing to do before I’m there, but if all goes well—”
“You’ll get there.” An encouraging grin wafts across his lips.
Zip.
Damn it.
I take another drink, trying not to grimace from the taste as I watch him over the rim of my mug. “How about you? How have you been doing?”
“I told you already,” he says, softly drumming his thumb on the table. God, his voice soothes me as much as it ever did. I glance out the window at the empty driveway and the gaping mouth of the open garage. It feels criminal that Emilio is off buying us all groceries, while I am sitting here feeling soothed by James. In the back of my head, I begin to list the things I love about Emilio in order to combat the guilt—
I love how much we have in common, like…New York…and we both enjoy attending the parties…and…
I love that Emilio came running here, to be by my side, because he knows I’m grieving. Whoops. That one isn’t exactly the case. Emilio came screaming out here because he heard there were men staying in the house with me.
I love that Emilio is so possessive…wait. I don’t love possessive. He’s…what’s a better word?
“…and Gada helped me do it,” James finishes. I blink at him like a big-eyed, clueless baby doll. What the hell did he just say?
“That’s nice,” I improvise. “That’s right, you told me she helped you get the shop.”
He smiles the smile that means he caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. “What are you thinking about, Grace? I can tell you’re not here with me.”
“I was,” I insist.
“No you weren’t,” he smirks. “And you still suck at lying.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and land on the empty garage again. I love that Emilio is…he is…Emilio is analytical. No, I can do better than that. “You heard things around the neighborhood…does that mean you’re still living in your mother’s basement?”
“Shots fired,” Paul murmurs from the couch before he rolls over and goes back to snoring.
“I’ve got a place across the street,” James says. “I decided to stay close, to give Mom a hand if she needed it.”
“So…the Estates? Or an apartment?” I raise an eyebrow. Lisa lives in the Estates. I hope he’s not there. There are some cute little houses on the opposite side of the main drag, but further down, there is a huddle of run down apartment complexes—Gada always warned us to stay away from those. A lot of Lisa’s dating pool came from there.
“A house,” James says and from the delivery alone, I know he’s pissed at my questioning. He’s pissed that I asked, or that I assumed, or he’s just pissed at himself for living there, I don’t know which. A zang of guilt rushes through me.
When did I get so high and mighty? James and I used to dream of owning one of the houses across main.
“How’s your mom doing?” I ask to switch the subject.
“Same as ever,” he says, his lips flattening. “She’s still living on Highview. Still dating every loser she can find and still working three jobs to make the ends meet.”
I’m about to say, sounds like Lisa, but I chew back the words and nod instead. “At least she’s managed to keep the house,” I offer, hoping the guilt of my success and their menial survival will all slide away.
“With my help,” he adds. Shit.
He gets up and retrieves the coffee pot, refilling my cup without asking and then his own. I’m sure, by this point in the conversation, he wants me dead and his coffee is just the way to do it. It’s probably more effective than lime. There’s not enough powdered creamer or sugar to neutralize it.
I stir way longer than necessary because our conversation is something it never was before: awkward and dull. This was never the way we were, and never how I thought we would ever end up. We used to talk non-stop, about anything, about everything. It could be about cracks in the cement and it would interest me so long as James was talking about it.
Now, nothing seems interesting.
The longer I sit the more the old anger smolders and begins to burn inside my stomach. It’s that old need I have for James to tell me why he fucked my best friend. I paid Emilio thousands of dollars to suffocate the burn, turning it into a passion for climbing the corporate ladder instead. I love Emilio…because he helped me blow the fire in the right direction.
“So, what else is new?” I ask, sucking in a big breath. It sounds like I’m bored, which is better than sounding like I give a shit about James. Last ditch effort, without even thinking, I ask, “Single? Married? Gay?”
He chuffs a laugh. “Taken,” he says.
“Taken?” I raise my cup quickly to hide my frown. There is no reason for that answer to feel like a battering ram against the wall I’ve erected between me and our past, but it does.
“I wouldn’t say we’re official yet,” he says, “although we’ve known each other a while.”
“Anybody I know?” It can’t be Lisa, could it? It can’t be…she’s downstairs and they don’t seem interested in each other. He didn’t ask to sleep down there with her, so it couldn’t be her, could it? Maybe they’re waiting to spring it on me. Don’t say Lisa. I can’t look him in the face.
“I doubt it,” he says. “She’s from Muskegon. She was my office receptionist for a while. Her name is Sheri.”
“Dating a working girl, huh?” I try to twist the words into a joke, but it doesn’t really work.
“Working girl.” He laughs and I’m grateful he still seems to get my humor, even when it falls flat.
The old video of Steve Perry’s Oh Sherrie wiggles through my skull like a lazy earworm. Of course James would date his receptionist; he was never the kind of guy that ventured out too far to find a girl. Or maybe it’s just that everyone in his orbit is drawn to him. Like me. Like Lisa.
I hear the growl of an engine alongside the house and look out the back window.
“Oh good,” James says with a lifeless tip of his mug toward Gada’s car pulling into the garage. “Your boyfriend’s back.”
Emilio brings in the first two bags of groceries and although I’m pulling on my shoes to help, the minute he opens the back door and sees James re-entering the kitchen, pulling on his coat to help unload too, Emilio scowls. He’s like that. Whenever Emilio senses any competition, even if it’s not coming from anyone but himself, he begins preparing himself for war.
Emilio hefts up the bags he’s carrying by their handles like he’s doing a bicep curl as he walks into the kitchen. I doubt James notices, but I do. Depositing the groceries on the counter, Emilio’s eyes rove across the two mugs abandoned on the table.
“There’s about fifty bags out there in the back seat and trunk.” Emilio kicks off his shoes as he says it. James cocks his head to one side, but he still pulls up the collar of his old, leather bomber.
“I’ll grab them,” he says.
Emilio doesn’t acknowledge him, so I say, “I’ll help.”
I follow him, but Emilio grabs my arm before I can get out the door. “A minute, Grace?”
James shuts the door softly behind himself.
Emilio braces himself with fists on the counter, elbows locked, as he leans over the crinkly bags. Here we go. War.
&nb
sp; “Don’t start this,” I say with a tiny sigh.
“Start this? It looks like you’re the one starting something. I need to know what’s going on between you two, Grace,” he says. His tone dangles between oh-you-lost-your-puppy-little-girl, and tell-daddy-the-truth. It’s his shrink tone and even when I was just a client in his practice, I hated it. Well, that’s not really true. At first, it was kind of soothing. Sexy, even.
When I first met Emilio, I saw him as this handsome professional that was ace at keeping anything about his personal feelings or personal life separate from me. I knew he wasn’t a cardboard cut-out that lived in the vacuum of his office, but session after session, I came to admire Emilio more and more as I realized he never gave away any opinions he had, never expressed an emotional position on anything, and he remained unaffected by virtually everything and anything I said—even when I threw a fit one day (to test him) and fired him. He sat back, a finger running up toward his temple and his thumb under his chin, as he said in a perfectly even tone, “Alright. If you think that’s best, Grace.”
I wanted to learn how to do that—how to remain poised and utterly detached—more than anything else. I told myself that I was doing it in order to keep my emotions separate from my business dealings, so I could operate more effectively and beat the Corporate Big Boys at their own game of hardball. But what I really wanted was simply to be able to disconnect from any of my feelings.
Emilio and I would sit in the warm little cocoon of his office, discussing what was holding me back in my career. It was easy for me never to bring up James or The Band, since Emilio’s therapy technique didn’t focus on what happened in the past, but how the patient was thinking currently. It worked beautifully. He would analyze me and I would study his ability to remain distant. We never went beyond the corporate troubles and, within six months of therapy, I was able to stuff what happened with James down into a little box that only Gada had ever opened with me, and that I never wanted to be opened again.
1985: Careless Whisper (Love in the 80s #6) Page 6
