Come Undone

by AJ Matthews

  “You’re safe. He’s a little embarrassed he’s the one who took a beating. Plus he’s been drinking, so he wants to avoid explaining that. Later.” Markie flips her blond bob out of her face and walks to the kitchen to the left of the door. I walk down the paved path, and the sound of ice churning from the dispenser floats through the open window. Must be for Dean’s lip. Or eye.

  I was stupid for coming here. He is an asshole. I don’t want him back, of course, but running him down, trying to make sure Mac was in the clear, was the first active thing I’d done since the night Dean broke my heart. I’m tired of having things heaped on me. Time to take charge.

  The one thing that might bring me a little peace?

  Finding my real dad.

  “Rejection crashes in my ears/Echoes in my heart/Blocks out the healing light/I thought was coming into sight.”—Lyrics from “Blackout” by Mac Kelly

  I TOUCH MY FINGERS to my lips, recalling the press of Trini’s mouth beneath mine.

  What the hell just happened?

  Had she kissed me back? Considered it for a second and moved her mouth a little? Or had my imagination conjured the movement, like a crazy tactile delusion? I’d heard of people having these, but never experienced one myself.

  My reflection in the mirror over her dresser mocks me. I feel different, but I look the same. Like a dork.

  After being rooted in the same position for what seems like forever, I get my feet working again and drag them across the uneven wood floors of Trini’s narrow attic bedroom to the screen door.

  I haul ass down the stairs because I don’t want to be here when she returns. She seemed pissed, and rather confused, never an ideal combination where my hot-headed firecracker of a best friend is concerned.

  I’ve been on the receiving end of her wrath a few times, and I do not want more of the rage tonight. I have too much going on in my head without her yelling at me.

  I hit the last step, and my cell rings, the plaintive opening chords of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” muffled in my pocket.

  It’s not Trini. I breathe a sigh of relief. Or regret. A combination of both.

  It’s Shay.

  “Hey man.” I answer the phone, trying to sound casual but failing, like I have at so many other things tonight.

  “Sorry to call, but man, where are you? Mom’s worried.”

  I don’t want to explain anything to Shay, and besides, he just got engaged. I don’t want my issues creeping in on his happiness. “Headed home. I should be there in ten.”

  “Cool. I’ll tell Mom so she can go to bed. Talk to Liam when you can. He’s got a story to tell. You may want to wait till he’s sober. He’s been tipping back a few more beers since … well, you can ask him yourself.”

  “I will. See you in few.”

  So Liam’s drinking again. There’s a surprise. He seems to drink a lot when he comes home on leave. I guess Afghanistan would drive anyone to drink. Alcohol and my cornucopia of pharmaceuticals do not mix well. I’ve seen enough inebriated assholes wandering around Duval and Mallory Square to know I never want to be those guys. I’m uncoordinated normally, and if I ever did get drunk, I’d cause myself serious damage on top of looking like a giant idiot.

  I walk through the overgrown fragrant garden Trini’s mom established years ago behind the house, but never tends to. The wild, natural appearance of it reminds me so much of Trini. The scent of gardenias is identical to the shampoo she uses.

  Get a grip, Kelly. You sound like a dumb romantic.

  Which anyone would tell you is not the way I am.

  At least not on the outside. Most people never see what’s going on inside.

  Only Dr. Givens, Dr. Reinhold—my therapist who had died suddenly in August—and now Trini. She doesn’t know how long these hopelessly romantic thoughts have rattled around inside my skull.

  Forever.

  The feelings had come and gone, but for the last year or so, they’d lodged in a corner of my brain and refused to leave, taunting me with a love that will probably never be mine.

  Trini had stormed off, so it’s definitely not happening now.

  I reach around to latch the garden gate.

  “Hey, Mac, headed home?” Trini’s mom startles me.

  “Oh, hey. Happy New Year. Yeah. It’s past my bedtime.” I strum chords on my jeans before I start flapping my hands.

  “Tell your family I said hello. Is Trini upstairs?”

  “Oh, um, no, she left.”

  “Don’t tell me she went to Dean’s.” I don’t think Elena’s overly fond of Trini’s ex-boyfriend, either.

  I simply nod. “So Trini told you why they broke up?”

  “Yes. I don’t get why she’s running back to him after he hurt her.” She shakes her head. Her eyes shine, tears pooled in her deep brown eyes so unlike her daughter’s.

  I shrug. I don’t want to tell her what I’d done, to Dean or Trini. She’d find out soon enough. “Gotta go. Good night.”

  I head home, taking the same steps I’ve followed countless times. I exhale as I drag my hand along the rough wooden fence, like I have so many nights before.

  With a touch of sadness, I wonder if this would be the last time I might take this path home.

  A stabbing heat shoots through my chest, straight down to my toes. It’s the worst agony ever.

  It’s not all over, is it? Twelve years of friendship down the toilet?

  Despite everything I’d ever believed before, I never wanted to be drunk more than I do in this moment.

  I’d give anything to dull this ache of loneliness settling into my bones. Darkness is creeping in again, and I need to do something to drive the black mood away.

  “When the opportunity of a lifetime falls in your lap, you have to jump on it, or risk losing out and wondering for the rest of your life, ‘What if?’”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  THE RUSTY HINGES creak when I push the worn wooden gate open. The scent of orchids and gardenias hang heavy in the air, my mother’s wildflowers staring me in the face.

  Mocking me.

  Like the voices in my head.

  Your dad, Trini. He’s not who you think he is …

  You need to lose weight …

  I’m in love with you …

  The same words, over and over. No resolution.

  I check my phone again. Nothing from Dean. I’m sure Markie told him why I’d stopped by. All I can do is hope he won’t change his mind about having Mac arrested, but a confirmation would be nice. The message is from Mom, checking in again. We hadn’t talked much since Christmas, when she dropped The Bombshell on me.

  Everyone had said he left because he came from money, and his parents cut him off when he married Mom, someone they considered “undesirable.” He ditched us and went home to Miami, and I filled up the sadness he left behind with food.

  If I’d known the real reason he left, I may have coped with things differently. I never correlated my surgery with his departure, since he left a couple months later. I’d noticed things changing. He’d spent less time with me. More time away from the house. When I’d asked Mom, she’d said, “Daddy’s working hard, honey, and he’s tired. He still loves you.”

  One day, he never came home from work, and the father I’d grown up with for seven years never tried to contact me again. So I ended up in a treatment center for eating disorders, spent time in therapy, and changed my last name to Mom’s maiden name before my senior year of high school.

  New school year, new body, new attitude, new name.

  All the effort seems to be wasted now, since the foundation on which I’d built my recovery, my idea of who I am, is unstable.

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  I stiffen. Tension floods my body. I do not want to talk to her.

  “Hi, Mom.” I don’t turn around, but instead take the steps up to the back porch leading to my room.

  The telltale creak of the bottom step tells me she’s following.

  “Te
rrific,” I mutter. I’m in no mood to deal with her.

  I slip off my shoes and let the door fall behind me. Mom must’ve caught it in mid-slam since there’s no telltale bang.

  I stand at my dresser, taking off my layers of necklaces and rings and hanging them on hooks attached to the wall.

  The hackles on the back of my neck stand at attention. I sigh.

  Her voice breaks the silence. “I saw Mac leaving. He acted a little … weird.”

  I swallow. “Mac always acts weird, Mom. That’s the way he is.”

  “No—weird as in something was wrong with him. Did you two have a fight?”

  Normally, I’d want to talk to her about this. We’d share a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and watch romantic comedies while lamenting our guy problems. But not tonight. I can’t look at her, let alone talk to her about my conflicted emotions regarding Mac’s poorly timed confession of true love.

  I stare at the wall and lie to her. “No. We’re fine.”

  “Oh. Well, okay, honey. I’ll leave you alone now. Check your bed. I left you something. I’m still unsure about this. I don’t know how he’ll react. I don’t want you to get hurt again. No more than I’ve already hurt you.”

  “How who will react?” I choke a little. I’m sure she means Bio-Dad.

  I love Mom so much. Things haven’t been easy for her. I was insanely hard on her last week. The gravity of her confession still weighs me down though, and I’m not quite in the headspace where I can let myself forgive her.

  She leaves my room and heads down the stairs to her room. The room we once shared until she converted this space for me.

  The renovation must have been expensive, but I’d never spared it much thought. Mom probably dug into our savings. I was happy to have my own space. She snored so loudly. Plus, I could binge in private.

  Something catches my eye on the bed. Next to the crocheted giraffe Nana had given me when I was a baby is a book. Mom’s yearbook.

  I sit down on the edge of the multi-patterned quilt, picking at the loose threads with my left hand as I flip through the book with my right.

  I find the senior portraits and locate Mom’s.

  She was so pretty in high school, like now, but with different hair and now a few laugh lines on her face and silver hairs shooting through her dark curls.

  Senior Superlatives.

  Cutest Couple, Elena Díáz and Lucas Owens. Mom and Dad.

  Well, my fake dad.

  I keep flipping and find a page Mom had marked.

  Class Clown, Jake Riddell. He’s cute in a goofy way. Big ears, but an affable smile and laughing green eyes.

  Wait.

  My eyes.

  There’s a note in the margin:

  Yo Lanie!

  You’re the best. So you’re leaving me for college, and for Lucas? Hope you guys are happy in Miami. I’ll think of you when I’m rich and famous one day, and wonder “whatever happened to the skinny girl with the big hair?” You know I’m kidding! Love you, and you better keep in touch. —Jako

  So this guy … he’s my dad?

  The questions start again. The voices in my head.

  Where is he now?

  How do I find him?

  I need to find him. Everything I thought I was—everything I dreamed I was going to be—changed when Mom dropped this bombshell.

  I fire up my laptop and sit cross-legged on my bed.

  “Jake Riddell,” I say aloud as I type his name into the search engine. Over 6,700 results.

  LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook. The name is all over the place. Which is the right one? Facebook first. There might be a photo.

  The picture would be twenty-five years older than the one in the yearbook, but the ears and the eyes would still be the same.

  A few Jake Riddells are still in high school, even one here in Key West, and a few others are college students.

  Then I strike gold.

  Jacob Riddell, forty-two, of Savannah, Georgia.

  Shit. He’s half a day’s drive away.

  CEO, Gamma Gaming.

  Huh. They make the shooting games Dean loves to play.

  I choke. Mom didn’t want me to know at first, but she’d given me the yearbook. With a name and picture.

  The search was easier than I’d expected. He’s one state away. What’s left is for me to get in a car and drive. Pack first, then go.

  I grab the zebra-striped suitcase from my closet. I rip open the drawers of my dresser, yanking out underwear and T-shirts and socks, throwing everything haphazardly into the suitcase. Jeans, jeans. I find my laundry basket and grab a couple pairs and lay them on top of my other stuff. I unplug my laptop and slip it into my messenger bag.

  I’m doing this. I’m so doing this.

  Why am I doing this?

  If I meet him, will I change at my core? I can’t answer this question now, but maybe I can when I see him. My father.

  The one Mom hid from me. My jaw locks tight. All this pain, all this stress, is her fault. And Dean’s. And Mac’s.

  Am I hurting so much I’m ready to blame everyone for the way I feel?

  Am I being selfish? I deserve to be, if only for a bit. I’ve gotten pretty screwed over lately. All because I put on a little extra weight, and my mom’s a liar. She was selfish, too. So yeah, she gave me life and all, and I should be grateful, but whatever. I want to meet the other person who helped give me life.

  I grab my digital video recorder on top of my dresser. Recording the journey may help me process, help me work through my feelings. Goodness knows, things will be emotional for me over the next few days. Not like they haven’t been for the past few weeks. The meeting my real dad thing? I’m sure that’ll put a serious emotional smackdown on me.

  It’s weird, but I miss Mac already. I overreacted to what he did. I kicked Dean myself, so I was unfair to be angry since my best friend did something to “defend my honor.” I guess he was being impulsive. His medication is supposed to help with impulses, like his self-injurious behaviors and stimming. Those kinds of things.

  I could use medication.

  For the past two weeks, I’ve wanted to do nothing but eat and sleep. I’ve been a little depressed. I wanted to enjoy myself at the party, might have if we hadn’t gone out, and Mac hadn’t found Dean and punched him out of sheer anger. In my defense, I need to remember.

  In my defense.

  Has anyone else ever stuck up for me like this way before? I remember the first time Mac and I met. I was the new kid in school. He was getting bullied on the playground.

  What did I do to defend him? I punched somebody. More like pushed them a little and then they fell to the ground. I guess that’s where Mac got the idea hitting Dean was an appropriate way to defend me—even though it’s been a dozen years. Things stick in his memory. I bet he could tell me what song he heard on the radio on the way home from school the day we met.

  I hope he understands I’m not mad at him. Just sad. I want my friend. I can’t lose him—I’ve lost so much already. I need him now more than I’ve ever needed anyone. He’s not here, so I’ll have to deal.

  I reach for my purse, but insecurity paralyzes me. Do I want to do this? I could go on with my life, but I have the right to know my dad. He has the right to know me.

  What if he rejects me?

  I shake my whole body, shrugging off the self-doubt. If he does, that’s fine, but he should at least be aware I exist, in case Mom never told him. Now I need to convince Mom to give me the car keys.

  I could sneak down and take them.

  Yeah, that’s what I have to do. Otherwise, she’ll try to stop me. And there’s no stopping me now.

  My suitcase squeaks across the uneven floor and my door creaks as I ease it open. The stairs shift under my steps. Every noise is amplified in the dark space before the sun rises.

  I quietly slip into the back room of the store. Mom’s snort travels from the room off the kitchen. The truck key hangs on a hook just out of reach fr
om the threshold. I hold the doorframe and lean in as far as I can, snagging the key. I silently pump my fist. Mom snorts again, and I shut the door as softly as I’d opened it.

  I pick up my suitcase and hurry out of the backyard, through the gate, and to the old pickup truck parked around the corner. I toss my suitcase into the passenger seat and walk through the whole “driving a stick” thing in my head. Once I convince myself I can do it, I pull out and navigate to Truman Avenue. Somehow I find myself on Grinnell, sitting in front of Mac’s. The first fingers of dawn streak across the sky, slivers of silver on a midnight blue canvas.

  So Mac says he’s in love with me? Time for him to prove it.

  “Go chase your dreams/I’ll be here waiting/Hanging out with my fears and my six-string.”—Lyrics from “Fearless” by Mac Kelly

  A SOFT TAP AT MY door pulls my attention from my notebook. My hand hovers in midair, the words inside my head ready to flow again as soon as I put the pen back to paper.

  Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap.

  Trini’s knock.

  She was the last person I expected to come by tonight. Or for a few days, at least. I wait for her to come in, but the door doesn’t open.

  Another knock reverberates, louder this time. I put down the notebook and step toward the door, one hand on the knob. After my earlier humiliation—my lurching stomach is still tied in knots around my lungs—I’m not sure if I’m ready for this conflict.

  My hand turns the knob anyway, but I look away as the door swings open.

  “Hey, buddy!” Trini waves her hand in front of my eyes to get my attention. She has it, but I can’t let her see my eyes yet. They’re still red from the tears of frustration I shed in the shower when I got home.

  “Hi.” I smile, but it’s not a real one. It doesn’t reach my eyes, and I’m not happy about anything right now.

  She sits on the blue-and-red striped comforter as I close the door.

  “How can I help you?”

  “How can you help me? So business-like, Goon. I need you.”

  My muscles twitch under my skin. My jaw aches from clenching. I shift my gaze in her direction, but not to her face. “Why do you need me?”