Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1)

by Claudia Burgoa

  “We needed to change our tune, the band didn’t want to do it and it sounded like the same shit we’ve played for the past ten years. The public deserves better than that. I told them as much, they ignored me and now it’s my fault. Which it isn’t. I am not at fault that Martin blew all his money. That’s what I feared would happen to me from day one, why I only blew half and saved the other.”

  “You’re covered for a lifetime,” I reassured him.

  He leaned his head on the window and closed his eyes.

  “If you ever need something, college boy, I’ll have your back.”

  After a two-hour drive, we arrived at Manning Boulevard in Albany, New York, where my parent’s home stood. The same brick colonial-style house I lived in since the day they brought me home from the hospital after I was born. Nothing had changed except the interior.

  Against their will, I had renovated their kitchen and the four bathrooms. I replaced the old carpets with hardwood floors and had the entire house painted.

  Chris’s mood hadn’t changed much. In fact, he didn’t talk after our small chat.

  “You okay?”

  He nodded. “It’s scary,” he murmured. “I went from not having a roof over my head to being on the cover of magazines and now… I’m not sure if I really have what it takes to grow up and be a normal person.”

  I thought he was grieving. It had been the culmination of an era. A long time being with the same group of people who shared his music and support for each other during the crappy times. Except, after the display I witnessed, the latter wasn’t true.

  “You’re Christian fucking Decker,” I reminded him. “Dude, you have conquered every obstacle that landed in your lap. This is child’s play. You already told me your plans.”

  He bobbed his head while getting out of the car. The driver handed over our bags and we climbed the steps of the porch. The moon illuminated the black door and before I had a chance to ring the bell, Mom opened it.

  Her short blonde hair was tussled around. She wore her frames and a bathrobe. I thanked the Lord that she didn’t wear those plastic tubes in her hair tonight. The tubes, those were a permanent fixture. Something about giving her hair volume and some shit alike.

  “Mom, this is Chris, my roommate,” I introduced them. “Chris, meet Janine Colthurst.”

  “Christian Decker,” he took her hand and kissed it. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  Mom swooned at the demonstration, she was a sucker for ass kissers and it appeared my friend had a trick or two up his sleeve.

  “It’s nice to meet you, we’ve heard a lot about you.”

  They had, every time we are on the phone, I tell them about Chris. The guy who rented me a room and played for Dreadful Souls. Mom wanted to meet him because she thought I was twelve and should approve of my friends. Dad warned me about the danger of drugs and alcohol when I told him I’d be joining Chris on the tour.

  “If you don’t mind boys, I’m heading back to bed.” Mom pointed to the guest room. “You can have your old room.”

  I sighed resigned to take my old twin bed as opposed to the full size they had downstairs. Perhaps the next renovation for the house should be new furniture. That, of course, was a subject for the next day.

  “After ten?” I asked Chris as he marched to the room Mom assigned him.

  “Would they mind if I wake up at noon?”

  I shook my head and without another word he disappeared through the threshold of the guest room and shut the door.

  For three days, we had a full house at my parents. Their friends, my siblings and their spouses, and some neighbors stopped by to visit. All they had to hear was that Christian Decker was in the house and they wanted to do the whole picture and autograph thing. At this point, the novelty of knowing me had worn out.

  Chris had no trouble giving away the t-shirts he had left over from the tour. He signed those and everything else they handed him.

  “Are you coming back for the Fourth of July celebration?” Mom asked as we headed back to Santa Barbara.

  “Yes, Mom.” I hugged her.

  “You should join us, Chris.” Mom hugged him. “In fact, you’re officially invited to all of the Colthurst celebrations, son.”

  I told my parents about Chris’s upbringing and how he had no family. Mom, of course being Mom, wanted to adopt him as her own.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Colthurst,” he hugged her back. “I’ll be here every time you invite me.”

  Once our plane back to Santa Barbara took off, Chris thanked me for bringing him along. He had enjoyed family time.

  “Your fixation with having a family makes sense,” Chris told me. “But you need a nice girl from Albany like your mother to make it work. Not a Hollywood tramp who will clean you out after a few years of marriage.”

  Perhaps in a few years I’d go back home and find myself someone who could provide me with the basics. Love, peace, and a place to call home. For now, I was having too much fun to stop and think about that future.

  2015

  I tossed and turned all night, dozed off a few times, but woke up as the worries about my father’s health, my parent’s marriage, and Porter sneaked inside my dreams.

  When insomnia won, I called the hospital to check on Dad. He had a good night according to the nurse.

  “As good as it can get when they interrupt your sleep every two hours,” she couldn’t hide the smile in her voice. I bet she enjoyed it, keeping someone else awake while you work. “Your uncle is fine, don’t worry about him.”

  Uncle.

  That’s what we said yesterday when the EMT’s picked him up and when we arrived at the hospital.

  How long until this farce continued? Until he died?

  Shut up, I recalled yesterday’s fright. How suddenly the solitude I lived in was about to become permanent. My exhausted heart couldn’t survive another loss. Maybe it’s time for me to come to terms and accept how they needed to live. As long as we have them, they can pretend whatever they want.

  As the sound of taunting waves startles me from my thoughts, I decide to take a walk along the beach. But not before I stop off at the kitchen for some juice and a bite of food.

  Entering the kitchen, I spot them. Mr. Bradley and son. Not surprising. Arthur Bradley has worked for my parents for an eternity. They are also friends, and he makes himself at home when he visits. I have no doubt he does the same here.

  As I look at them, I realize that Mason and his father don’t look much alike. They share the same eye color of gray-green, the height—six-five, but that’s where the similarities stop. Mr. Bradley has rough facial features, a wide nose, and big lips, unlike Mason, who has a straight-line nose.

  Mase looks a lot like his Mom. I met her twice, a beautiful woman with dark almond-shaped eyes, black hair like Mason’s, and fair skin. She’s of Japanese descendant, lovely, outgoing, and with great taste in shoes if I remember well.

  “Good morning, Bradley boys,” I greet them. “A little early to be out of bed, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say, Nine, why are you awake?” Not wanting to answer, I give him a nonchalant shrug and search for some food. “Dad wanted to check on your dad too. I just came from…”

  “Your video game tournament,” I finish the phrase for him. “Can I offer you guys something to eat?”

  “No, thank you, Ainse. How are you?” Mr. Bradley lifts his cup of coffee and takes a couple of sips as he watches me serve myself some juice, waiting for me to answer.

  “Sleepy, tired but happy, Dad is leaving the hospital today,” I answer him. “How about yourself, Mr. Bradley?”

  He doesn’t answer much; he’s a man of few words. Only tells me that he’s fine and that my parents keep him busy.

  I excuse myself announcing that I’m taking a walk. I leave through the back door which leads me, as I expecte
d, to the beach.

  “What’s with you?” I turn around to find Mason towering over me. “Your eyes are red, you have dark circles under them, and you don’t sound happy as usual, Nine.”

  Mason and I have this peculiar friendship. Even though we haven’t seen each other for three years, we keep in touch. We have always been in each other’s life in some way or another.

  We stopped having Mason over after his fifteenth birthday. For his sixteenth, he convinced his parents to send him to camp for computer geniuses. Mason had always known what he wanted to do, something related to computer programming. When he found the way to have that and escape the feud his parents ignited when he had to switch residences, he’d do it.

  The computer geek didn’t stay too far away from me; he sent emails, jokes, and cyber-junk. That’s what we called our exchange of ‘look what I found online, I think you’re going to love it.’ Now we text them: pictures, memes, and gifs of something hilarious with a happy or a sad face in response. Even when it had been three years since we’d last seen each other, we knew the other was alive through the cyber-junk or a phone call.

  “I didn’t sleep well.” I take off my shoes as we step in the sand. “Can you blame me? Things are… different. Did you know my parents are separated?”

  I side glance at him, he’s staring at the sea.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Mason rubs his face. “That sucks; mine are still fighting after all these years. This time, Thanksgiving dinner, and worst yet, I’m still in the middle.”

  I touch his arm and squeeze it; I had forgotten how crappy his parents behaved when it came to him. They fought to have him sometimes and others it was the exact opposite. Mason didn’t know how to stop the fights, or how to make them both happy. In order to forget the delicate matter for my friend, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “I told him.” The words leave my lips without thinking, and I hope Mason doesn’t ask much.

  Mason stops and gently tugs my arm for me to follow suit.

  “Dad, about Porter.”

  “Everything?” His left eyebrow lifts, the gray eyes narrowing as if he can’t believe I actually did it after all these years.

  “Almost…” I trail my gaze toward the house in search of that big room where Dad and I talked yesterday. “Almost, Mase. There are things I can’t share yet.”

  Mason picked up the shreds during those dark days. The days I had trouble taking the next breath. He knows more about the matter than anyone else in my family.

  “Tell me something happy, Mase, please,” I beg. “Right now I can’t travel that road. It’s starting to hurt again.”

  “I will, but you know what? You need closure,” he whispers the last word. “You won’t have it until you accept everything that happened. Until you talk to someone.”

  He sounds like my therapist; at least he’s not telling me that until I decide where I want to go, I won’t be able to move on. Without a destination, there’s no future.

  I don’t know if I want a future, a life. I only want to go through the motions without having to feel one sentiment ever again. That sounds stupid, but…

  “So where do you live?” I ask Mason. “You live here, or in Seattle? Maybe Mexico?”

  “If I tell you…”

  “I’ll finally know,” I finish his sentence.

  “Let’s make a deal,” he says firmly. “I tell you mine if you tell me yours.” Mase winks at me.

  I can’t contain my laughter when he says that.

  I was five when I showed him mine and he showed me his. Mine was the small collection of postcards I started with the help of my family. One that had grown so much I had a plastic container filled with either some sent to me or gifted by anyone who knew I collected them. His, a collection of dead bugs.

  Our fathers weren’t happy when I came rushing into the room and yelled, “I showed Mason mine, and he showed me his and let me touch it.”

  The commotion, the stares at the two of us and the explanation.

  “We don’t touch anyone, Ainsley Janine.” My full name felt like a slap across the face and all for touching a dead ladybug. “Most importantly, we don’t show our special things to anyone.”

  “But you let me show my postcards to everyone, Daddy,” I explained. “He liked the ones from Disney the best, and he told me if I touched the ladybug it would be okay. I didn’t know.”

  Daddy stopped pacing and stared at us both.

  “Cards, bugs… what are we talking about?”

  “I showed her my collection of dead bugs,” Mason responded. “Fair trade since she showed me her collection of postcards. I didn’t know it was special.”

  2015

  “I thought my father was going to kill me,” Mason says. “And your father… he wanted to beat my then eight-year-old boyish ass,” Mason laughs with me. “Once my parents explained to me what the big deal was about I wanted to explain to you, but Mom said you weren’t old enough.”

  “How is your mom?”

  “Mina is on to husband number seven,” Mason responds. “That woman can’t be alone for more than a month. She lives in Toronto now.”

  “You moved to Canada?” He lets out a chuckle.

  Darn, when is he going to tell me?

  “I stopped living with her long ago,” emphasizing the last two words. “How’s school, are those young minds learning something from Miss Nine? No wait, aren’t you supposed to be at school? Playing hooky isn’t the best example, Missy.”

  “School is fine, we’re on Thanksgiving break.” I plunk myself on the sand and my toes start fidgeting with it. “I think I want to move out of Texas. Perhaps closer to my parents’ home… I don’t know, maybe Portland or Seattle like my brothers. I want to figure out how to use all those degrees that are piling up with dust, so to speak.”

  I have a bachelor of music with an emphasis in instrumental. A bachelor of science in applied learning where I majored in early childhood to six-grade education along with a master’s in special education for mild/moderate disabilities. I speak three languages and instead of using my full potential, I teach Kindergarten from eight to twelve, Monday through Friday.

  “My life is boring,” I say out loud. “I’m as lame as Gabriel was at my age. I should be drinking and partying it up.”

  Letting myself go, I don’t’ say that part out loud.

  “Instead, I have no idea what to do.” I point at the house. “They—my parents—let me out of the cage and what did I do? I entered willingly into another one right away.”

  Mason joins me on the sand and stares at me instead of the sea.

  “I don’t have a home.”

  My head automatically springs out of a haze and pays full attention to what he has to say.

  “Sometimes I stay at the office where I have a small bedroom with a bed and a closet.”

  “Office?” He must own it; I doubt an employer would allow that. “What do you do?”

  “Ah, it’s going to be boring not having you guess my activities.”

  I lean against his shoulder as he starts telling me that his office is in Seattle.

  Finally, a location.

  As he reminds me about his kick-ass computer skills, I trace the tattoo on his bicep. A Japanese symbol for strength, he explained to me once. An H-like character and another character next to it that looks like a square hangman to me.

  “Dad never approved of me, being smart and not wanting to do any physical activity.”

  He looks down at my playful fingers and then our eyes lock. The mystery in those gray-stony eyes beckons to me. For a moment, his clean musk scent and those eyes make me want to jump out of the bunker I hide in and steal a taste of him.

  Savor him.

  Try a new flavor, let him in and…

  No, impossible. He’s Mason.

&nb
sp; “Of course you don’t want to do physical activity,” I tell him, breaking the connection that scared the crap out of me. “You’re a couch potato, video gamer extraordinaire.”

  Those burning eyes of his suddenly turn flat, unreadable as a stone.

  “He didn’t want me to be a ranger like him. He wanted me to be a basketball player, an NFL player, something physical.”

  Physical, yes, I can do that. I can do physical as long as I don’t involve my heart. Not that I have one. We could if he wanted to try… no, I couldn’t lose Mase. Anyone, but him.

  “Dad had a daily routine for me since I can remember. I took breaks when I visited your family. If not, I had to do them while at home or on the road with him.”

  Mason’s stare is set on the horizon, I want him look back at me with that flame. A flame I’ve never seen before. Not the burning kind that kills you, but the one that consumes you slowly and melts your heart, keeping it alive, warm, and safe.

  Look at me, Mase.

  “By the age of sixteen I knew how to shoot most firearms, handle knives… even use the bow and arrow.” His boyish grin pulls me closer. “Yes, like Green Arrow.”

  He’s such an adorable geek.

  “Combining my computer skills with the skills Dad drilled on me, I formed a security company. We develop and install personalized security systems for important organizations, and other kinds of consulting all over the world among other things.”

  “Like Tony Stark.”

  I feed that comic dork in him.

  “You’re Iron Man.”

  “Yes, but without the billionaire status,” he amends and finally looks at me with those warm, soft eyes I like.

  “I stay wherever I’m needed or want to stay. No one has to tell me where to be. The headquarters and a small studio are there, in Seattle. My whereabouts are a personal choice, not a security issue.”

  Seattle looks more promising now.

  I’ll move closer to my family and friends. Find my passion again, yes, I make music and I teach. Once upon a time, I wanted to combine them and thrive… now, I survive.