Kids called me Stone, because they didn't dare call me anything else. They were mostly frightened of me and rightly so. I was tall and muscular for my age and often used it to my advantage. Starting fights. Breaking up fights.
There were also a couple of teachers who used the nickname as well. They would often say that I was unreadable or unapproachable, because I wore a "stoned face" throughout the day. I think that even one or two of them wanted to get me tested at one point for a personality disorder.
I'm sure that if I had been a cute little girl, with ringlets, and a big grin across my face all the time, those same teachers would have discovered that I wasn't some damaged or flawed kid, but that actually I was pretty intelligent for my age. Smart but bored. Unfortunately, most of my mediocre teachers couldn't get past the fact that I was bigger than them, stronger than them, and quieter than most. They didn't realize I had a brain, and I'm not even sure how much they would have cared even if they had known. I don't bring out the nurturing instinct in people. I bring out the urge to fight or take flight.
For the five years that I served as a prisoner in the New York State penal system, I was also known as Stone or inmate 745924. I served my time quietly and without any real serious issues. Sure, there were definitely times when I had to prove that I was the wrong one to fuck with, but unlike the many prison television shows and movies depicting horrible daily violence such as murder and rape, jail was actually pretty damn boring.
Day in and day out, it was the same routine for mostly every man there. Everyone who isn't serving life in prison, just wants to serve their time quietly so that they can make parole. I was no different. I served my predictable and ritualistic sentence one month, one week, and one day at a time. Biding my time. And that time has finally come.
I was released this morning after serving five of my seven year prison sentence with an early probation under specific conditions. When felons like me are released under a court agreement, someone has to vouch for them. They need to vouch that I won't leave the state in which I committed the crime (New York). Vouch that I'll meet with my assigned probation officer regularly. And vouch that I won't be a menace to the community and actually become a productive member of society.
Because I was an exemplary prisoner, and have no real home to call my own in New York, the court was willing to grant me a parole transfer to another state and place me under the supervision of the one person I needed to put a roof over my head and that's Nate Carson.
Nate isn't my family by blood. Actually, I don't know if I have any blood relatives to speak of. Never cared to find out. If they don't give a damn about me, why should I give a rat's ass about them? Nate Carson was the best friend of my adoptive father, Jack. They were very close. Served over twenty-two years as rangers in the army together.
When I was just a kid, and Jack and I still lived in Pennsylvania, we spent a lot of time over at Nate's house. Sometimes we'd have Chinese takeout together, while they taught me how to play poker. Other times we'd watch a ballgame, while I eagerly listened to many of their old army tales. And then a few times it was obvious that we were over there, so that they could make me babysit while they grabbed a couple of brews at the local pub. That's how I first met Nate's only daughter.
While it wasn't my idea of a good time at that age, I actually didn't mind watching the soft-spoken little bookworm for a couple of hours while the two of them caught up. It made Jack happy, and if anyone deserved some moments of happiness, it was Jack.
He'd had a hard as nails life, which was one of the reasons why he seemed to be so drawn to me. I'd had one too. Both of his parents were addicts and he was raised by his grandmother and welfare. After she passed, he enrolled in the army looking for somewhere to belong. For someone to give a damn about him. That's what he said he found during his time in the armed forces. A family.
I think because of all of that, Jack wanted to save me too, and in many ways, he did. I was the little boy in the foster home that no one wanted to adopt. I was too quiet. Too big. Too old. Too much of a wildcard. When I finally moved in with him, I was also too much of a pain in the ass. I acted out. I pushed him. I tested my boundaries. It was all because I didn't trust that Jack could love me. I didn't think I was worthy of it. If my own parents threw me away, then what would this surly old army ranger want with me.
But he did want me. Probably the only person that ever did or ever would. So, in my eyes, Jack was a saint. A saint who left this earth too soon. I still to this day don't know how to really deal with the fact that he's gone. I don't think anyone can teach you how to move on from the biggest loss of your life. You just have to try. In any and all of the ways that you can, because the alternative is to just lay down and die.
And I sure as shit ain't dying.
So here I am.
Headed south toward Philadelphia, on the New Jersey Turnpike, in Nate's Chevy pickup. Calculating how long it will take me to figure out if he has money and if he does where it is, before I can get the fuck out of Dodge for good.
I feel an emotion that is so foreign to me when I look over at Nate. Guilt. Like a small pebble stuck in my throat. Probably because he looks so happy.
He thinks he's doing his old friend Jack a favor by taking in his son. He thinks I'm getting my shit together. He thinks I'm a good kid that's just been dealt a terrible hand in life. And while it's accurate that I have been dealt a fucked-up hand...the real truth is that I'm just plain ole' fucked-up.
Three
TINY
I twirl a little piece of heaven around my fork, slide it in my mouth, and close my eyes to savor it. There's nothing like a helping of freshly made anchovy pasta. Pasta cooked al dente, mixed with anchovy and Roma tomato pasta sauce, and topped with a little arugula and Romano cheese. It's a simple, authentic, Italian dish that makes my mouth water and almost brings tears to my eyes.
My name is Ariana Carter, known to close friends and family as Tiny, and exclusively to my father as baby girl. Enjoying good food is almost like a spiritual experience for me. In another life, I would have been a food critic, traveling the world trying dishes from all over, and then writing about what did or what didn't make the dish special. Too bad I can't write.
Instead I have a much different career that thankfully doesn't involve the written word. I make a great living as a registered ER nurse at Pennsylvania Memorial Hospital. It's a meaningful career which impacts lives, pays well, and luckily for me is in demand all over the world.
Today I'm out for a late lunch with my ex, Doctor Bill Rappaport, at one of my favorite Italian restaurants–Trattoria. A small place under the radar with fresh ingredients and superior customer service. I asked him here because I need a favor, not because I'm trying to rekindle anything between us, because that would be absolute insanity on my part.
Bill definitely doesn't want to be in a relationship. In fact, I'm not even really sure what Bill wants. We rarely went on actual dates, he hardly ever called, he didn't want people at the hospital to know we were dating, and we never even had sex. He doesn't even know that I'm a twenty-five-year-old virgin, because the subject didn't even come up. Frankly, I'm not sure that the man ever even liked me, and the whole relationship has me second-guessing myself at every turn. It was a complete confidence crusher.
"I think it's safe to say that you like the pasta," he says with a fair amount of snark to his comment. Reminding me yet again of another one of his unfavorable traits. Making passive aggressive comments about my relationship with food.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I challenge. "Don't you like your meal?"
"I don't even know. I was too busy staring at you eat yours."
I quickly remember what I'm here for, and it's not to get into some sort of pissing match with Bill about what I eat or the way that I eat. I really could give two shits about what he thinks. Those days are thankfully over. I roll my eyes and then look away from him for a moment wiping the corner of my mouth with my napkin.
D
on't kick him in the shin under the table. Remember why you're here.
"I didn't mean anything by it, babe. It's just the cardiologist in me. You wouldn't understand."
Another thing about Bill I don't like. I know, the list is kind of long. Always throwing up the fact that he's a doctor and I'm a nurse in a derogatory way. As if I took the "easy" way out. As if I'm lesser than him. Never mind that nurses do all the heavy lifting in every hospital all over the world, and the doctors get paid twice as much as us to "supervise" the work that we do. Work in my opinion that they should be doing too.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that I already know what you meant by it. Let's drop it," I say. "That's not what I asked you here for."
"This meeting isn't about us?" he asks as if he can't believe I would want something from him other than pursuing a reconciliation. As if I'd ever do that.
"No, Bill." I sigh.
"Oh, I thought you might have been a little lonely tonight. Maybe wanted some company." He grins. "I know you typically spend the Friday nights that you're not working curled up with one of those dirty books of yours."
"What are you my grandma? They're called romance novels and no, this isn't about a booty call. I asked you here to talk about your sister's agency."
It's time I get to the point of this dinner, because he's getting on my nerves and I really need to dine and dash anyway. I promised to be home by at least seven.
"The agency?"
"Yeah, I'm thinking about applying for a traveling nurse assignment."
Bill raises one of his eyebrows. "Really?"
"Yes, really."
"You're going to leave your dad to ramble around in that house by himself?"
Another dig at the fact that I still live at home with my father. Something I've never felt I had to explain to anyone until I started messing around with Bill, but now have begun to question myself. Not because I don't think a woman in her twenties can't live with her parents, but because my house is actually a difficult place for me to live in.
Every corner.
Every closet.
Every hallway.
Every picture on the wall reminds me of my mom and makes me extremely nostalgic and terribly sad. I miss her in a way that must be different for my father. While he chooses to live deep in a life full of constant memories and reminders of her, those same memories are crushing me. I feel like I am literally being smothered by all of the reminders of my mother in this house. That's why I'm looking for a traveling nurse placement. I need to get out of there before I suffocate.
"Are you going to tell me about the agency or not, Bill."
"All right, all right. You're so touchy tonight. Are you on your period?"
"Bill!" I exclaim. Completely exasperated with him in the all of forty minutes we've been in each other's company.
"Fine. My sister Stephanie is the one with the agency. She's been a nurse for over thirty-five years and opened the agency about twelve years ago. A lot of good nurses have come through there."
"Your older sister, right?"
"Yeah, the one who lives in Merion with my oldest nephew, Josiah. The one who plays soccer."
"Yes, I remember you talking about them. I really like that an experienced nurse owns the agency and not just an administrative person."
"Right, well she has a lot of solid relationships with human resource departments at every hospital within a fifty mile radius of Philly. Thanks to me of course."
"Of course." I roll my eyes.
"So, she should be able to find you a good assignment. I'll actually see her over the weekend at a family thing. I'll mention to her that you're looking. Where are you thinking about going?"
"Maybe out west or even down south. I just kind of want to stretch my legs. Get out of the metro area for a while and see what's out there."
"You've never lived outside of Philly, right?"
Yet another subtle jab.
He's on a roll tonight.
"You know that I haven't, Bill. I went to U Penn straight after high school and then started working at Memorial three weeks after graduation."
I take another forceful bite of my pasta and eat it with angry swallows.
"Would it be a little inappropriate to say that I hope things don't work out for you? I mean I'd hate to see you go."
"Yes, Bill, that would be totally inappropriate to say and selfish as hell."
His phone vibrates on top of the table. Disrupting our conversation. Thank God.
"Sorry about this. I'm on call."
"No problem. Take it."
I'm used to it. Bill is always on call. Even when he was off shift and hanging out with me, his mind was always at the hospital.
"Dammit, I've got to go. Some guy just came in with a steel rod in his chest. Punctured his heart."
"Not a problem. Sounds like your type of case."
"Actually, I think it may be kind of a problem. It took me a month to even get you to talk to me again, and now I have to go. I'm afraid that you won't talk to me for another month now that you've gotten what you wanted out of me."
"What are you talking about. I'm just following the rules that you laid out between us. No personal chitchat in the workplace. No exposing our relationship to coworkers. Etcetera, etcetera."
"It was the professional thing to do. We'd have been such a cliché if everyone knew. The doctor and the nurse having a thing," he says while he obnoxiously snaps to grab the attention of our server.
A thing is just about all it was between us. It wasn't even worth mentioning to my coworkers, but that's not the point. He was keeping our relationship hidden like it was some dirty little secret. The jerk.
"I'll text you my sister's information later, and give her a heads-up to expect your call."
The server still hasn't come to our table, so he dramatically drops several twenty-dollar bills on the table to cover the bill as if it's some grand gesture.
"We can split the check you know," I say flatly. Wondering if asking him for this favor was even worth the trouble.
"Don't insult me. You know I've got it."
After he leaves, I'm relieved because that means I get to polish off my bowl of pasta and my remaining glass of wine without judgment.
My judgment in men truly stinks. I'm always just friends with all the good ones, like my pal Jagger from Penn, and attracted to the losers.
I check the time and decide to turn down the offer to look at the dessert menu and head home instead. My father should be arriving back soon with our new guest, and I need to straighten up the place among other things. I'm a little anxious about this visitor.
Stone Barringer.
Family friend turned bad boy turned hardened criminal, and now he's coming to live with us after his release from prison. Mr. Jack's son or not, I made sure to share with my father just how much I don't agree with this living arrangement.
Honestly, I barely remember Mr. Jack and certainly don't remember much about his son. Why my father feels like he has to do this is beyond me. It's not smart and it's not safe.
I get about two blocks from the restaurant when I hear the blaring sound of a police siren behind me. I look in my rearview window, wondering if I need to pull over, so that the car can get by me to continue their pursuit. I definitely don't want to be rear-ended by a police cruiser.
I slow down and swerve over toward the side of the road, but when I do, I become thoroughly confused when the police car pulls directly behind me and stops.
Are they stopping me?
Four
STONE
"You hungry?" Nate asks turning down the music in the car. His voice sounds a little funny. Like it hurts for him to speak. Almost in the same way after someone's been slowing squeezing your windpipe. I've given a couple dudes that experience firsthand.
"Nah, not really."
I'm lying right now. I'm a big boy, so I'm actually always hungry, but I don't want Nate thinking that he has to house me and feed me. That's just asking for entire
ly too much. Like I'm staying in some sort of free bed and breakfast for fuck ups.
"All right." He coughs a couple of times and then turns the music back up after a moment of awkward silence.
It's not good for my plan that the two of us are walking on egg shells around each other. I'm not going to get him to reveal any financial secrets like this. I'm not sure what's going on with Nate. This isn't the way I remember him being with me when I was a kid. It was easier then. Probably because we don't really know how to interact around each other any longer. It's been a long time.
Jack and I moved to New York when I was a kid. He had to move for work as a mason, which always kept him busy (at least that's what I thought was keeping him busy), so we didn't get back to Philly too much. I can't remember the last time I saw him prior to Jack's funeral. I just know that when I did, I was basically still a boy. Now I've returned a man.
A very fucked-up man.
I'm sure that part of the weirdness between us is that I've been in prison for five years, and people have their preconceived notions about what prison is like. About what it does to a man. It would be natural for Nate to have those sorts of thoughts about me. Those questions. Those assumptions. I get it and I certainly don't blame him. I don't blame anyone but myself. Besides, some of those preconceived notions are actually right on the money.
"So, I'll be staying in your daughter's old room?" I ask in an effort to make this painful ass car ride a little easier. From what I remember, Nate loves talking about his daughter. She was the center of his world back then. Can't imagine much has changed now. That's probably why that asshole Bucky brought her into this.
"Old room?" He roughly clears his throat. Something he's done ten or fifteen times since we've been in the car. I thought it was some sort of weird tic of his at first. Now I realize it's because he's sick.
"Yeah, isn't she away at school?"
The King Brothers Boxed Set Page 42
