by Brent Jones
Drew knew that his father had always been fond of Heather. She was a plain girl of average height, slim build, straight hair, freckles, and a bit conservative. A girl, his father often asserted, not so different in character from his mother—devoted and nurturing by nature.
“Dad, me and Heather broke up like a month ago. I told you.”
Russell was cutting his food into small forkfuls—easier to chew without triggering a coughing fit. “Yeah, s’pose you did.” He paused to chew a mouthful of bacon. “Thought maybe you changed your mind.”
“We wanted different things. So I ended it.”
“Sure. She want a baby or something?”
“I guess so. But not right away.”
“She sleep with someone else?”
“No, Dad. That’s not it.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I need a drink. That’s what. Jesus fuck. Drew sighed. It was unlike his father to push but he knew why. In three days, they would observe the twentieth anniversary of his mother’s death. A time of year that always seemed to leave Russell searching for answers.
Angela looked vibrant this morning, lively even. Drew noticed his father taking a sudden interest in her presence at the table, as though she had caught him off guard.
Russell picked up her frame. “Man was not meant to walk through life alone, son,” he said. He popped a cigarette in his mouth and fumbled for his lighter. “Angie knew that.”
Drew swallowed his last bite of breakfast while Russell peered at the frame. He sucked on his smoke, inhaling deeply, predictably followed by coughing and choking.
“Dad,” Drew began. But no other words came.
His father appeared content to bask in nostalgia for a moment, using his fork to play with his unfinished breakfast. “It is what it is,” he finally said, returning Angela to her original spot. “But it wasn’t always this way, son.”
Drew stood up, cleared the table, and walked to the kitchen sink to start the dishes. His father’s despair was palpable, and Drew found himself emotionally unequipped and stone sober—a combination that left him unsettled under the best of circumstances.
He was eight when his mother had passed away. Drew recalled the rainy June evening she went missing. His father knew something was wrong when she hadn’t returned home after running an errand. He contacted the police, but it wasn’t until the early hours of the next morning that the call came in—Angela Thomson’s body was found in Northwood Park.
The details of her rape and bludgeoning followed days later. Russell tried in vain to shield his boys from the gruesome details. In so doing, it seemed he avoided confronting his own loss, never fully accepting her fate.
At the time, Drew was too young to understand yet too old to ever forget. He was repeatedly tested throughout childhood for dissociative disorders. His teachers worried about his antisocial behavior. They couldn’t conceive of a traumatized young boy struggling to socialize and adapt.
Logan, on the other hand, as the youngest, seemed mostly unaffected. The gory particulars of Angela’s death had eluded him. Police at the house, his mother’s face on the news, candlelight vigils, and never-ending theories crafted by creative journalists: Was it an affair gone sideways, or perhaps a robbery turned violent? Could it have been a matter of wrong place and wrong time? These were questions the Thomson family never got answered. A brutal crime without reason. A family without closure.
Angela Thomson, born Angela Nowak, was survived by her mother and sister. Both of whom blamed Russell for her death—as though he should have been able to prevent it. Without living relatives and shut out by the Nowaks, Russell raised Drew and Logan on his own.
He sold his commercial trucking business for pennies on the dollar shortly thereafter. He sold their house, too, moving his sons across town. It was a desperate attempt at distancing his boys from tragedy—desperate and unsuccessful. Over the next two decades, Russell became a prisoner of that very house.
“Drew?” Russell had slipped into the kitchen undetected, despite his labored movements and heavy wheezing.
He was startled. “Yeah?”
“It was good to see you.”
Drew felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out with wet hands and saw a text message from Logan. “Just finished the dishes, so I’m gonna get going,” he said.
“All right.” Russell refilled his coffee, lit a fresh cigarette, and followed Drew to the door. “You heard from your brother lately?”
“No. Not in a while now.”
“I figured as much.”
Drew nodded and walked out.
* * *
Chapter 3
Drew took a cab back to The Stone Goblin. Russell would likely have given him a lift, but Drew didn’t want to trouble his father to leave the house twice in so many hours. He walked over to his car at the far end of the lot. Bald tires, a cracked windshield, and a faded bumper sticker that read, Watch Out for The Idiot Behind Me. It was just as he had left it. Drew climbed in the driver’s seat, reached for the glove box, and pulled out a joint. He sparked it up, rolled down the window, and watched time pass.
The weekend lunch crowd filed in and out of The Stone Goblin. Friends swapped greetings near the entrance. A young man walked an elderly woman—presumably his grandmother—across the parking lot. A couple guys left with takeout containers. A server took a smoke break a few feet from the front door. A pigeon defecated from the roof. Minutes passed and Drew felt his tension subside. His troubles went up in smoke and the world became tolerable again. He glanced down at the text message from his brother.
Logan: Call me Brevity was a trait Drew admired. But Logan was nothing if not aggravating and Drew knew better than to call him without first clearing his head. He kept in touch with Logan mostly out of obligation. His brother was, after all, one of his only living relatives. Every couple of months they would have lunch together—usually on a weekday. It always ended with Drew remembering that his brother had a personality like sandpaper.
The joint burned down to its paper filter, Drew took in one final puff and threw the crutch out of his car window. He started the engine and took off. With his free hand, he dialed Logan from his short list of contacts.
“Hello?” Logan answered.
“Hey,” Drew said.
“Hi, Andrew. How are you?” Logan always spoke in a formal way that Drew found unsettling.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m just leaving Dad’s.”
“How’s Russell doing these days?”
Russell? You mean Dad, dickhead. “Oh, he’s just like me—high on life, if you can believe it,”
“Yeah?”
“Surprised you haven’t found time to see him, to be honest.” Drew stopped at a red light. Fines were steep for holding a cell phone while driving, but he was certain no one was watching.
“I’ll see him in a few days,” Logan said. “I’ve just been so busy.”
“Busy defending killers, huh?”
“I’m a junior associate, Andrew. I’m not defending anyone just yet.”
Drew had once read that people respond to grief differently. Some shut down. Some become anxious and talkative. And some grow up to ensure predators get a fair trial.
Logan spoke again. “How’s work?”
“Good. Yeah, really good. Thanks for asking. I, uh, think they’re gonna give me a promotion pretty soon.”
“A promotion?” Logan sounded more surprised than impressed.
“Yeah, for sure. I’ve put in three years now. They owe it to me.”
“Well,” Logan said at last, “I’ll stop by your office one day soon. We’ll do lunch again.”
Yeah, you do that.
“What’s the game plan for Tuesday?” Logan asked.
The game plan? What a class act you are. “Well, if all goes to plan, we’ll have a beautiful family reunion.”
“Very funny.”
“We’re gonna do the sa
me shit as every year, Logan. We’re going to meet at Hillcrest at eleven o’clock, drop off some flowers, talk to Mom’s corpse for a while, and head home.”
Logan paused. “Eleven, you said?”
“Yes, Logan. Eleven.”
“I’m going to have to move a meeting.”
“Sorry to trouble you.”
Drew arrived at his apartment complex. The superintendent had given him a clicker for the underground parking, but it wasn’t working, so he pulled into a spot for visitors.
“Is that all, Logan?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that all you wanted? To make sure you knew the time?”
“Oh—” Logan broke off for a moment, “Well, I wanted to hear how you’re doing, too.”
“I’m just great. Don’t worry about me.”
“Did you found a new place to live yet?”
Drew climbed out of his car and eyed the immense and decrepit structure he now called home. “I did. And it’s nice.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the smell of dumpsters in the parking lot. “Gotta say, I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
“That’s good, Andrew. You’ve got to do what makes you happy in life.”
Drew slammed his car door. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
* * *
Chapter 4
Drew had picked up the keys to his apartment a few days earlier, having taken possession partway through the month—but he had only moved in mere hours before joining Neil at The Stone Goblin the night before. He felt an odd sense of enthusiasm to be home.
The apartment door opened into a small and vacant living space. A beat up mountain bike leaned against the wall, a laptop on a stack of boxes, a mattress on the floor, a cheaply constructed rocking chair with faded padding in the corner, and—Heather. She was sitting in the rocking chair reading something on her phone. She looked up at Drew as he entered.
“Jesus,” he exclaimed. “You ever heard of calling?”
“Sorry. I just got here and the door was unlocked.” Heather got to her feet. “I brought you food.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
Drew walked over to his assortment of boxes. He rummaged through one box, and then another. He triumphantly removed a bottle with a bit of whiskey left. “You shouldn’t have,” he replied.
Heather made her way into the cramped kitchen. It featured dated appliances, walls speckled with grease stains, chipped floor tiles, and counters full of burn marks. She picked up a Chinese takeout container and presented it to Drew through a small pass-through connecting the two rooms.
“No, really,” he said. “You shouldn’t have. I just had breakfast with Dad.”
She set the container on the kitchen counter. “How have you been?”
Drew opened the whiskey bottle and took a swig. It burned beautifully. “Okay, I guess.”
“You like it here?” Heather was attempting to be polite. There was nothing to like about the apartment aside from a toilet that flushed and shut windows that kept out the stench of garbage below.
“Yeah, I like it fine,” he replied, taking another swig and setting the bottle down on a box. Drew walked into the kitchen, the tight space forcing him to brush against her. He opened his fridge, observing its chilled interior for the first time, and tossed the takeout container in. “Why are you really here?” he asked, turning around to face her.
“I miss you,” she said with a slight tremble.
Drew brushed past her again, grabbing the whiskey bottle and taking another swig.
A fat tear spilled down Heather’s cheek. Then another.
Oh fuck, don’t do this.
When Drew ended their relationship a month earlier, he had taken Heather out for dinner. Tacos—nothing fancy—but he had hoped that a public venue would prevent an outburst. It hadn’t. Between bites, Drew recited his reasons for breaking things off. But his rehearsed statements and cool disinterest had the opposite effect, resulting in a public spectacle worthy of primetime television. Heather had felt blindsided—equal parts hurt, humiliated, and confused.
The dust settled once Drew had packed his things and sought refuge with Neil. But even now, Heather seemed intent on reconciliation.
“I moved out a month ago, Heather. What’s there to miss?”
“Lots.”
Drew rolled his eyes.
“I miss your jokes. You always could make me laugh. And I miss us talking. Like you were always the first person I wanted to talk to about my day, and now I can’t do that.”
Drew stood, frozen. He lacked empathy, but he wasn’t emotionless. Not a monster, just unsure how to react. He liked Heather, and he didn’t take pleasure in her agony, but her vulnerability petrified him. Each tear made him want to leap from his tenth floor balcony.
His thoughts turned to romantic comedies he had seen—Heather never could get enough of them. Hollywood liked to choose handsome, dashing, and passionate men for lead roles. Knights in shining armor and firemen types, mostly. Men who could meet a woman, win her heart, get in her pants, and live happily ever after in under two hours. Men who were nothing like Drew. Then again, life wasn’t a movie. But after five years, Drew found himself unable to reciprocate Heather’s passion. She loved him to a fault, often overwhelming him with affection. The more Heather cared for him, the less deserving he felt. And the more he retreated inward, the more of herself Heather gave. The guilt had become overwhelming—he knew she deserved better, but also knew she would never readily let him go. So Drew firmly resolved to shut her out. She would find a way to move on eventually.
“I’m sorry,” Drew said, returning to the moment. He owed her more than a simple apology but decided it was a good place to start. “I just don’t know what to say. ” He took several more swallows of whiskey.
Heather and Drew had spent most of their twenties together, having first met when she was in her final year of college. She graduated with a degree in biology and had immediately started working as a research assistant at the metropolitan zoo. They moved in together shortly thereafter.
Where she was disciplined and ambitious, Drew was mostly unfocused and subdued. Heather had come to terms with their differences, often describing herself as the gas and Drew as the brake—a perfect match, in a sense. It was clear that he avoided his feelings and feared change, but that had never been enough to deter her.
She sniffled. “This was a mistake.”
Drew felt a pang of remorse as Heather turned toward the door. “No,” he said at last. “Stay.”
She turned around.
“Uh, please.” He pulled the cheap rocking chair out from the corner. “Sit.”
Heather gave him a lopsided grin despite her wet face and red eyes. “Where will you sit, silly?”
He pretended to frantically look about. “How about right here?” he finally asked, parking himself on the floor.
Heather slowly eased herself onto the chair. “That works.” Her eyes darted from one corner of the apartment to other. “So,” she asked, “why Palmer Heights? Didn’t know you liked this part of town.”
“Felt right.”
“You could have kept the apartment, babe.”
Don’t call me babe.
“It’s as much yours as it is mine,” she continued.
“I know, but you always liked it there.”
“I liked it there because you were there.”
“Well, it’s yours now.”
“It could still be ours, Drew.”
Drew tipped back the whiskey, finishing the bottle. He tossed its empty glass shell on the floor next to his mattress.
Heather eyed the empty bottle. “Have you been drinking every day?”
“Only on special occasions, I swear.”
“Like this one?”
Most definitely like this one.
She peered down at him from the rocking chair, an unsettled look on her face. “Have you been gambling aga
in, too?”
Drew had struggled with gambling—particularly the online variety—for years.
“It’s not gambling if you always win.”
“If you always win,” she repeated. “Drew, I paid your half of the bills for years while you blew every dime you made.” Her expression hardened. “You know what? Never mind. It’s not my problem anymore.”
Heather had a tight circle of friends she had first met in college. A group of gossipy and affluent young women—the Indiscreet Elite, as Drew described them—who chewed through men like kale and pumpkin spice. They had tried more than once to convince Heather that she could do better. Their attempts to persuade her were thinly veiled, often resulting in crass remarks about Drew while he was present. But the more they pressed, the more Heather pushed back, waiting for his best self to emerge. A version of himself that Drew wasn’t sure existed.
“I lied for you. For years, Drew.” She sighed. “I covered your ass. I kept you fed and clothed.”
“I’m not a charity case, Heather. Quit patting yourself on the back. It wasn’t that bad.”
“You know what? Fuck you.” She rose from the chair and strode to the door.
“Heather, wait.” Drew stood, unsteady on his feet.
“What, Drew? What?”
“Look, I know I’m not perfect . . .”
“No kidding.”
“Heather, I—I want you to be happy.”
She listened but her eyes betrayed her disbelief.
“That’s why I left,” he said softly, “so you could be happy. You—you can finally be happy without me.”
Heather wiped away fresh tears then approached him, defenseless. “But I’m not happy,” she remarked. “Are you?”
“No.” Drew was being honest.
Heather cautiously extended her hand, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Then why don’t you come home?”
He searched for a reasonable explanation but couldn’t find one, opting instead to stare at the parquet floor. “I don’t know.”
“Do you still love me?”
No. He raised his head. “Yes.”
