Even the Moon Has Scars

by Steph Campbell

  “You made a deal,” Gabe says under his breath.

  “I made a deal on your behalf. You could try being a little more thankful. Ungrateful, just like your father.” She shakes her head. “I did it to protect you.”

  “Eh, Ma,” Gabe tilts his head and does a little tisk-tisk sound with his tongue that I fear might send his mother’s head into orbit. “You did it to protect yourself, too.”

  “In any case, you know what was agreed upon,” she says. “I don’t want you hanging around here. Put up your things and get back to your grandmother’s house. I’ll have whatever you need shipped to you. You don’t need to make another trip into the city for it. Is that understood?”

  Ms. Martinez grabs a small clutch from a drawer and adjusts her fur bolero.

  I take a step out of the way as she walks toward the front door.

  She just sent her son away. She told him not to bother coming back.

  I don’t know how to make sense of what I’m seeing. All my parents have done my entire life is work to keep me safe, to protect me from everything. Is this the Martinez brand of protection? If so, no wonder Gabe wants to escape it.

  “It was good to see you too, Ma,” Gabe says.

  She spins back to him. “Don’t be a smartass, Gabriel. It wasn’t charming from your father, and it certainly isn’t from you, either.” Ms. Martinez turns the door handle and says, “Good-night, dear.”

  I give her a quick nod and a small smile, though it must reek of pity.

  Because that’s what I feel. Pity for her.

  Pity that she can’t recognize how amazing her own son is. Pity that she’d turn her back on him. I don’t know the story, true, but I can’t imagine my mom and dad ever shunning me the way that Ms. Martinez just shunned Gabe. The way I bet she has his entire life. Where’s the drive to do better supposed to come from, when all you’ve ever known is how to be torn down?

  “Hey, you could always kick me to the curb like you did to him. Oh, wait…” Gabe says.

  Ms. Martinez whips back around to him and stomps his direction. She’s in his face with just five quick clicks of her heels.

  Oh. My. God.

  “Gabriel Martinez,” she says it so calmly that it scares even me. Gabe keeps his posture perfectly still and his expression relaxed. “If you’d like, I can call Ted right now and you can spend the rest of your senior year in juvenile detention, and that’s if you’re lucky—”

  Gabe opens his mouth to reply, and I close my eyes. I know it’s stupid and it won’t help anything, but I don’t want to see or hear this moment between mother and son.

  Instead, there’s silence. I crack my eyes open and both Ms. Martinez and Gabe are staring at me. I feel like I’m in a dream. A really awful, embarrassing dream.

  For a woman so consumed with impressions, she must have reigned herself in so that I wouldn’t see—or hear—anything else.

  Ms. Martinez smooths her dress down and gives her long, dark hair a good fluff then turns and leaves.

  I don’t know why, but when the door finally clicks shut, I half-expect that Gabe will rush to me. Maybe because if I were in his shoes, I’d want someone to hold me.

  Instead, he just stands there with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. Like he’s dangling on the end of a thin limb and he has no one to count on—no one to reach out and help pull him in.

  Everything about his life is confusing to me.

  He has all of this money and freedom, but it’s like it only gets in his way. It’s like having all of those things prevents him from being the person he really is. Like maybe he doesn’t even know who that person is at all.

  And maybe he thinks no one cares if he’s a whole person or not.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he says. Even if he just tried to stand up to his mom, his voice now that she’s gone sounds full of defeat.

  “It’s okay,” I say. It’s not. I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my life. I’ve never longed for the overprotective comfort of my mom’s arms. I’ve never missed my room, my bed, all of it more than right at this moment.

  “You should put that away.” I motion to the part that was the purpose of this entire day that has turned from something so full of hope to something I sort of want to forget now. “We need to get home.”

  “Right,” he nods, barely looking at me.

  As he walks away, I wish there was a way I could turn this all around. That this night didn’t go to hell. But there isn’t. Because I’m just Lena Pettitt, the girl who was green enough to think that the world outside of my little house was somehow full of beauty and magic and instead of all of those fluffy things, what wound up at my feet turned out to be a dirty, flirty mechanic and an ice queen of a politician.

  Suddenly, my tiny world feels the way my parents always meant for it to feel: protective. And I long for it.

  “Gabe!” a female voice yells on the other side of the door, accompanied by a slap more than a knock.

  Gabe is back at the top of the staircase in an instant.

  “Don’t answer that,” he says. He showed zero reaction to his mother in his face, to her hurtful barbs being thrown his direction, but now, his jaw is slack and he’s blinking over and over like he doesn’t believe it. “Is the door locked?”

  “What?” I ask, jerking my head backwards. “Are you being serious?”

  “Gabe, I know you’re in there. I saw you come in with a girl!” the voice calls.

  “Who is that?” I whisper.

  Gabe carves a hand through his jet black hair. “Jemma. My ex.”

  “Oh,” I say. Annoyed, sure. But an ex is better than the axe murderer I was imagining on the other side of the door based on his reaction.

  “Why didn’t Bruce call up?” Gabe wonders out loud. “He must have been too busy talking to my mom. Perfect, two psychos. This night is just…let the bad times roll, huh?”

  Speaking of crazy people: Gabe currently looks like one. He tugs on my arm, pulling me toward him. I crush into his chest just as she pounds on the door again.

  It’s the way I expected him to react when his Mom left, but, instead, it’s a girl he used to love who sparks the most fear I’ve seen in his eyes.

  “What are we supposed to do?” I nervously half whisper-half laugh.

  “This isn’t funny, Lena.” His breath is warm on my face and I don’t know if I should be terrified of this girl behind the door or not, but I can’t focus on anything other than the fact that Gabe is this close.

  “It’s a little funny.” I’m either delirious or it’s nerves, but I can’t help but chuckle. “You know you’re going to have to answer the door at some point, right? It doesn’t sound like she’s giving up any time soon.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters. Gabe has one woman in his life who couldn’t give a damn about him, and another who is maybe stalking him.

  “I don’t exactly know what the protocol is here,” I laugh again. One minute ago I wanted to be back in the safety of my bedroom, and now I’m finding this particular situation mildly amusing. “Should I hide?”

  “Just give me a minute,” he says, walking toward the door. “Let me see what she needs.”

  I think we both know what she needs.

  Gabe walks over to the door and opens it just a crack. Jemma is mid-knock.

  When I catch sight of her, I have to hold back another laugh. This isn’t someone you need to hide under the table from like an earthquake. You don’t need to cower in the corner from her with an arsenal of weapons. She’s beautiful: long black hair, olive skin and a face that probably gets her exactly what she wants.

  And what she clearly wants, is Gabe.

  “Gabe,” she says, her voice breathy. She pushes the door open further, takes two steps inside the apartment and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her tiny body. The place I just was. But not like that. Not like they’re holding each other. “I saw your mom leave. Let me guess, fundraiser?”

  “What are you doin
g here, Jemma?” He pulls out of her embrace, but something in his eyes looks an awful lot like regret.

  “I saw you come up,” she says, then turns to acknowledge me. “Hi, I’m Jemma.”

  “Lena,” I say. I give her a small wave. What else am I supposed to do?

  Jemma flicks her eyes at Gabe like she’s waiting for more of an explanation, but Gabe isn’t offering anything up.

  “Can we talk?” she asks Gabe, but turns to look at me when she adds, “Like, alone.”

  “Jemma, we talked—”

  “Not really, you only talked to me for like, two minutes earlier. You haven’t even given me the chance to explain things—”

  Gabe reaches over and touches her hand.

  It’s a simple touch, probably meant to calm her down, to smooth things over the best he can, because he’s kind—but I doubt Jemma sees it as that. I’ve only known Gabe a matter of hours, but even I know how his simple touches can feel like so much more.

  His touch feels like the way I hold a paintbrush. Full of passion, even in the plainest of strokes.

  I just haven’t figured out where that passion comes from yet. It certainly isn’t anything he inherited from his mother.

  “You can’t keep following me, Jem.” He combs his hair back with his fingers. “You can’t call all day, it’s just…” he looks back at me. “Now’s not the time, Jem. We can have a conversation sometime, but right now, Lena and I are on our way out.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. It’s not, but I honestly feel bad for Jemma right now. For whatever reason, Gabe’s mom is threatening restraining orders against her. The least I can do is give them a minute before that happens.

  “We’ve got a train to catch if you want to make it home tonight.”

  “Back to Gloucester? You’ve got plenty of time to make it to the T,” Jemma says. “Five minutes, that’s all I ask. Please, Gabe. After everything, you can’t just give me five minutes?”

  Gabe’s posture relaxes, and he blows out a long breath. He can’t say no. It’s not in him.

  “I’m just—I saw a sign downstairs, says the rooftop is amazing. I think I’ll go check it out,” I say.

  “Lena,” Gabe says, reaching for my arm as I pass him. I shrug away. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m good.” I won’t look at either one of them. This feels like a private moment I need to escape. “You guys have a lot to talk about.”

  He stares back at me with pleading eyes, but I back up toward the door anyway.

  “It was nice meeting you, Jemma,” I say, but she doesn’t reply. Instead, she keeps her eyes, full of want and hope and desperation, trained on Gabe.

  I make my way back to the elevator and take it up to the roof. The elevator doors open to the night sky. I walk toward the railing even though I’m not a huge fan of heights, because it’s impossible not to look.

  The city below is still full of lights, and the sound of people’s noisy chatter makes its way all the way up to the sky. Above me is the moon, its silver light illuminating the dark sky. I take in a long, deep breath. I’ll be home soon. I have to be.

  It’s late, I don’t know how late because I don’t have a watch or my phone—Oh, god, my phone. I wonder how many missed calls I have. What if everyone knows I’m gone? What if they all think that I’m missing? I need to borrow Gabe’s phone when he comes back up to find me—whenever that’ll be— and leave a message for Kaydi. I need to get home. Or maybe not. Maybe they don’t know and calling will only make things worse.

  I don’t know what the right thing to do is.

  Beautiful view aside, this was all a stupid idea.

  I grip onto the railing and try to hold back the tears that fill my eyes to the brim and swallow the burning lump in my throat. I just need to get home.

  “Jemma,” I say, shaking my head. “What are you even doing? You can’t show up like this you know.”

  I step back, away from her. “You know my mom is considering getting a court order to make you stay away?”

  “Your mom is so full of shit,” Jemma laughs.

  She’s probably right. If Mom had anything that would stick, she would have made sure Jemma couldn’t come around a long time ago.

  “I just needed to see you,” she says, moving closer to me. “And don’t worry, I saw your mom take off before I came up.”

  “You know that makes you sound—”

  “Don’t say crazy,” she says. She holds a finger up and presses it to my mouth. “Besides, you used to like when I was a little crazy.”

  I pull my head back. “I can’t do this right now.”

  “I’ve been worried about you. You left without saying anything—”

  Like I had a choice. Is her memory really that short?

  “I got arrested, Jemma. I got punched in the face and arrested after you texted me and told me you were in trouble—”

  “I was.”

  “Jem, you know that’s not true—”

  “I’m always in trouble without you. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My dad and my uncle said they’ll forgive you for ratting them out to your mom—”

  “I didn’t rat your family out,” I say, for the hundredth time.

  “Okay, well, they’re willing to overlook the fact that the day after you saw those oyster shipments, the cops showed up with a fine—”

  The details about the timeline are true, but I didn’t rat them out to anyone.

  One day when I was hanging out at her uncle’s restaurant, I saw the shipments of oysters and fish come in. I saw the payment exchange for the fake tags. Seafood is serious business in New England. But I never said a word.

  If I’m honest, I wouldn’t put it past Jemma to have turned in her own family just to watch shit fly. Because that’s what she does. And that’s exactly why we aren’t together now—and won’t be again. No matter how gorgeous she is. No matter how much she pouts in front of me. It used to work, but those days are over.

  “Jemma,” I say. “I came to that protest because I was worried about you. Because I wanted to be there for you—but you didn’t need me then, and you don’t need me now.”

  She steps in closer and wraps her hands around the back of my neck. Her curvy hips touch mine and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have any reaction to her anymore.

  She pouts her lips as she strokes the back of my neck with her long fingernail.

  “Touch me, Gabe,” she coos. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  I don’t know if it’s voluntary or not, but one of my hands finds her waist.

  Her warm mouth is just under my ear. “Come on, touch me like you mean it. Like you want me as badly as I want you.”

  “Jemma,” I croak out. “You—you broke up with me, remember?”

  The words come out with a stutter worse than the one we all teased Luke Mayes for in fourth grade because she’s got her hand on my belt buckle and is tugging on the leather to loosen it.

  “You have to stop,” I say. I push at her hands, but maybe not as firmly as I should.

  “You don’t really want me to do that.”

  “Lena—she’s upstairs. I have to go.”

  “I just want to make things right with us.”

  Enough.

  I pull away, breathing heavily. “Enough. Stop.”

  “You let your family think I was a bad guy, Jemma. You liked the thought of me being something that I’m not. And when I refused to do that anymore, you ended it.” You fucked another guy the night we had that fight. She always seems to forget that part, too.

  “That was a mistake.”

  “Which part?” I laugh, a cold, bitter laugh.

  “I miss you.” She tilts her head to the side and presses her glossy lips together.

  “You ended it, and then you let me believe you were in trouble. I went to jail, Jemma!”

  “You went to a holding cell, Gabe, don’t act like you did hard time.”

  “But it was because of you—”

>   “Hey, that’s not fair. I’m not the one who punched a cop.”

  She’s right, but I did it to protect her. I didn’t know he was a cop. As usual, I was blind to everything but saving Jemma. Well, not anymore.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re not getting it. I was only at Harvard that day because of you. I got kicked out of my house—hell, I got kicked out of the city after what went down that day and all the days before, because of you.”

  It wasn’t always like this with Jemma. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that because I don’t want to believe that I could fall in love with someone so phony, so toxic. Or maybe that’s exactly the type of person I should be with, and I’m just fighting what should be.

  Maybe I’ve been wrong about what love is at all. Maybe I was wrong when I told Lena that love doesn’t go to the most deserving. Maybe the real stuff does.

  Still, I know that there was more to my relationship with Jemma than just mediocre sex and blowjobs to easily end any argument.

  She was the first person who I called when I found out that Gramps had died. I stood outside the diner, not knowing how to put one foot in front of the other. She came to my rescue that day. She brought me home and faced my mother to make sure that I was okay.

  She drove me out to Babci’s and bought me a tie because I couldn’t find my plain black one. She held my hand during the funeral and rubbed the back of my neck when I shook with grief, but wouldn’t allow myself to cry. She told me it was okay to cry.

  So I did.

  And she let me.

  And that felt like the closest thing to real love I’d ever known.

  But then stuff went down with her family, and she didn’t defend me. Not only that, but she egged it on, made it worse. She let her uncle show up at my house, looking for me, wanting to threaten me.

  And Jemma turning her back like that felt like another loss. Except she was still around. Wanting more from me.

  After my dad left, I shut down even more. And she got bored of the grief, so she started playing the games. She started calling at all hours with all sorts of problems to see how quickly and how high I would jump to be with her. And the day I didn’t jump fast enough, she broke it off. She told me things that mirrored what my own mother had said about me.