by Kim Holden
“Yeah, that’s her name, Spare Ribs. I found her this morning down the street. She’d climbed into the Cominsky’s trash can and was going to town on some—”
I interrupt him, smiling. “Spare ribs. I get it.”
He nods.
Sometimes … most of the time … his originality entertains me. It’s refreshing. Who names their cat Spare Ribs? “That’s not very ladylike for a girl kitty,” I say.
“Spare Ribs is a righteous name. And she’s no lady, Impatient. Don’t let her fool you, she’s a hardcore hustler.” He raises his arms to show me the claw marks up and down each forearm. “She fought valiantly. We’re friends now.” He looks at her in my arms again. “Sort of. I think she likes you better. Not gonna lie, I’m a little hurt, Spare Ribs. I offer you refuge and you fucking turncoat for the first chick who walks in. Not cool.”
I smile when he says Spare Ribs again, because it’s just funny. “Have you taken her to the vet? This looks bad,” I say, touching her damaged head.
“Took her this morning. Old injuries. She healed up fine. She’s healthy as a horse; don’t go feeling sorry for her. That’s what she wants.”
His words hit me: old injuries … healed up fine … healthy as a horse … sorry for her … that’s what she wants. I swallow hard. That’s me. I’m healed. I’m healthy. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me though. I want them to ignore me. At least that’s what I’ve always wanted up until I moved to San Diego. I don’t know what I want anymore. And that’s not a bad thing. Uncertainty is the beginning of change. Maybe it’s time for change.
He puts his hand up to shield his mouth, as if the cat won’t be able to hear him. “She’s awesome, though. I just don’t want it going to her head or she’ll fucking own me more than she already does and I’ll turn into a crazy cat lady. I may be about ninety-seven percent there already, and I’ve only known her for about eight hours. She’s going to work me over. Hard. I just know it.”
I’m pretty sure Gustov just earned about ten points in the nice department with all of this. Physically, he’s this huge man. Who’s also a rock star. Who lives with and adores his mom. Who befriended Paxton in an instant. And he’s just rescued a hurt, stray kitten. He’s definitely not the man I thought he was a few months ago. He’s … just … good. And goddamn ... that’s attractive.
Monday, September 25
(Gus)
Ma told me that, over the weekend, her mailroom guy lost his grandma. The funeral is in Seattle, which means he’ll be gone for the rest of the week. I volunteered to help her out because, to be honest, I’d rather do anything than sit at home alone, just me and this motherfucking block. I can only stare at a blank piece of paper for so long. Or hold my guitar and hear radio silence. Or sit at the piano and let the keys taunt my lack of musical cooperation.
I can’t write.
I don’t want to write.
Everyone needs me to write.
I hate it.
So, I’ll gladly work in the mailroom again.
“It’s lunch time.” Her voice rouses me out of my monotonous haze of sorting and stacking envelopes. Impatient is standing in the doorway of the mailroom.
I nod. “Yeah, thanks.” I didn’t bring anything from home this morning and I don’t want to go to the deli around the corner. The last time I went in there, I got recognized … and it was ugly. I felt claustrophobic and panicked. So, I’ll settle for a few cigarettes out behind the building instead, even though my stomach is growling.
She holds up a bag. “There was a special at Antonio’s. Buy two slices, get two free. Want half?”
I shrug. “Sure. You offering to feed me, dude?”
She laughs. “I’m offering to provide you food to eat. Feed your own damn self.” Things have been so much easier between us lately. I can joke with her. She’s not so uptight around me and we can actually laugh together.
We eat in silence sitting at a picnic table out back. When we’re done, instead of leaving, she stays while I smoke a cigarette.
“I know what you’re doing,” she says flatly.
“Killing myself,” I say, looking cynically at the cigarette in my hand.
“You’re hiding,” she says. “Why are you hiding here? Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, working for Audrey. But you … you shouldn’t be here.” It’s straightforward Impatient.
“Why not?”
She sighs. “Gustov, you’re stalling. You’re wasting time. You’re not living. You’re not doing what you love.”
“Which is?”
“Making music. You have this huge following; I saw them all at the shows,” she pauses. “They love you.” Her eyes are downcast, like the admission was hard for her.
I nod even though her eyes aren’t on me. I'm accepting the compliment without verbal acknowledgment because that would kill this moment and make her embarrassed. She’s so guarded, and I know that took a lot for her to say. “Yeah, well, writing music is a bit of a … challenge … right now.”
Her eyes find mine again. “Challenge? What’s that supposed to mean?”
I don’t want to talk to her about this. I don’t want to talk to anyone about this. “It’s nothing.”
She doesn’t let it go. “It’s not nothing. It’s everything. It’s your everything.” Then she stands and leaves.
I’m left here pondering what in the hell just happened. She’s right. I know she’s right. I need to get my ass in gear.
But I can’t.
Wednesday, October 11
(Gus)
“I think it’s time for us to move out.” Her voice is quiet. Unusually quiet even for her.
It’s like a slap. A wake-up call. “What? Move out?”
She’s mixing cookie batter in a big bowl on the kitchen counter. She bakes a lot. She doesn’t eat much of it; I think she just does it to make everyone else happy. And it does make us happy because she’s damn good at it. Though I think even if it tasted like shit I’d eat it, because it’s her way of showing love. She has trouble letting love go freely, there’s a block. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, because I feel it in the little things she does, but more that maybe she doesn’t know how. She keeps her eyes on the bowl. “Paxton and I can’t live here forever, Gustov. Audrey’s been so kind to let us stay here this long.”
“Ma loves having you here. Don’t even worry about that.” She does. Ma and I talk a lot and whenever she talks about them there's nothing but love in her voice. Ma’s a giver and nothing makes her happier than helping people, especially when she becomes attached to them. She’s a mom to everyone, selfless and so loving. She treats those she loves like family, because that’s exactly what they are to her.
“I do. Besides, Paxton was an unexpected surprise for her. She didn’t sign on to have him around too when she hired me and offered me a place to stay.”
“Pax is fucking ace. He’s a great kid.”
She finally smiles and faces me. It’s the first time she’s looked at me all morning. “He is.”
“It’s Spare Ribs she can’t stand,” I add. I’m trying to make her laugh. Ma loves Spare Ribs. Too much. That goddamn cat has every human in this house wrapped around her cute little paw.
She ignores the joke and continues, “And Paxton idolizes you. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but he loves being around you. And I think it’s good for him to have a positive male role model.”
I laugh at that. “Bullshit. I’m nobody’s role model.”
She’s not laughing with me. “Gustov, can I be honest for a minute?”
“By all means. And I appreciate honesty at all times, not just this once, just so you know.” She hides a lot, I know that. Not that she’s a liar, she just holds back. Information, emotion ... she’s private to the point that I wonder if it’s suffocating her.
Her eyes drop back to her mixing bowl. She's scooping cookie dough out of the bowl and dropping it on the baking sheet. She’s thinking about what I just said. Thinking about it a lot harder than I intended, but
probably not as much as she truly needs to in order to believe it. After several seconds, she nods. “Point taken.”
When she looks at me again I nod to acknowledge her.
She continues. “When I first met you, I thought you were an asshole.”
I nod again. “You were probably right. Especially back then.”
She shakes her head to dismiss my comment. “Stop. Let me finish.” She takes a breath. “I was wrong. I was so wrapped in my own issues that I let it cloud my judgment. Every guy I saw, every guy I met, was automatically an asshole. It wasn’t just you. But because you were the one I was forced to deal with for my job, that animosity was amplified. I have things in my past,” she pauses like she’s contemplating stopping right there, and then she sighs, “I made some bad choices. I did things I’m not proud of. For a long time I tried to blame that on other people. Now I’m trying to take responsibility.” She pauses again, trying to compose herself. “Sorry, this isn’t about me. What I’m trying to say is that I was wrong about you. You are a role model. You’re kind. And you have this charisma that attracts people to you. You don’t try, it just happens. Because it makes them happy to be around you. I know you’re dealing with something right now, something dark, but in your heart of hearts, you’re just … happy. And good. I don’t know how to do that. But, it’s who you are. I admire that. And I want Paxton around that. I think that’s who he is, too, but he’s never been surrounded by it. I try my best with him, but I’m not like you and Audrey.”
It makes me sad to hear her doubt herself; she’s so much more than she gives herself credit for. I wonder if she’s ever had anyone tell her so. “You don’t see yourself, Impatient. You don’t see the person the rest of us do.”
She shakes her head in disbelief as she walks to the oven to put the cookies in. She’s not just feeling sorry for herself; this is ingrained self-loathing.
When she shuts the oven door, I take ahold of her arm and gently turn her to face me. She closes her eyes when we’re facing each other. “Look at me, please.” She does. “Nobody’s perfect. Believe me, I know that. But you sell yourself so fucking short. You’re smart as hell. Ma loves working with you. And that’s saying a lot because Ma needs someone who can keep up with her intellectually. The fact that you could step into Mikayla’s shoes and not miss a beat, is nothing short of fucking miraculous. And you pay attention to everything going on around you. Even if you’re not engaged in what’s going on, you’re still paying attention. And it’s not nosy or intrusive, you’re just hyper-aware, that alone shows you care. And don’t even get me started on Pax. That kid loves you. He’d be lost without you. And I have a feeling that’s how it’s always been. And I know instinctively that you’ve never let him down. Have you let yourself down? Probably. But not him. Not ever. And that says a lot about the person you are. Hell, he’s here with you now. I don’t know the circumstances surrounding the family dynamic you’ve all got going on, but the fact that you’re taking care of him because Jim doesn’t? That speaks volumes.”
“You know about Jim?” She sounds surprised, I guess because it’s never been brought up.
I nod.
She’s trying to hold back tears. “I just want Paxton to turn out better than I did.”
Pulling her into a hug, I tell her, “You’ll both be fine.”
“Will we?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. And you aren’t going anywhere. Ma gets fierce when her nest is threatened. You don’t want that. Believe me.”
Thursday, October 19
(Gus)
My cell is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, and the area code is unfamiliar. Usually I’d let it go to voicemail, but I’m bored. So I answer. “Hola.”
“Hello?” It’s a confused female on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” I question back. I have a feeling this is a wrong number, but I don’t want to be rude and hang up on her.
“Gustov?” Same confused female.
“Yup.”
“Gustov, this is Clare.” Long pause. “How are you?” Unease doesn’t even begin to describe what’s buried in her voice.
Clare? It takes me a few seconds before my mind catches up. Clare from the European tour. “Oh hey, Clare. All’s well here. How’re you?” I haven’t seen or heard from her since the tour. Not sure what this is about, but I’m curious.
“Good. Better.” She sounds nervous and sighs. “I’ve had a lot going on since I last saw you. Been working on myself. Getting cleaned up.”
She pauses again and I feel the need to interject because she’s struggling, stumbling over her words. Even though I didn’t particularly like Clare, I can’t abandon her now when she’s obviously trying to reach out to me. “Good for you.”
I hear the exhalation of relief. “I’m so sorry, Gustov. Sorry for getting you wrapped up in my disaster of a life last spring.”
“Not your fault, Clare. I made my own choices. I was in the middle of my own disaster.”
“The reason I’m calling, well, is to see if maybe you’d like to have dinner tonight. I’ve been in San Diego visiting my aunt for a few days and I leave in the morning. I’d like to see you and apologize properly.”
None of this sounds like the Clare I knew. She’s speaking clearly, talking to me like a normal person. I can tell that she's being honest with me. She sounds vulnerable. She sounds … nice. I’m a sucker for nice, and I also can’t hold a grudge, so I answer, “Sounds good. You want me to pick you up?”
“No, I’ll pick you up. That’s part of the whole apology thing.” She laughs, and I notice that it’s not the high pitched, grating giggle I remember from before. It sounds more mellow, like a low, relaxed chuckle.
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her my address and we agree on seven o’clock.
I’m tugging on my Catfish and the Bottlemen T-shirt when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Gus, you in there?”
I open the door and Pax is standing in my doorway with a grin on his face that’s half awe and half terror. I hold back a smile. “What's up, amigo?”
He motions with his thumb over his shoulder behind him and whispers, “There’s a girl here for you.”
I glance at the clock on my nightstand, six forty-five. “Huh, she’s early.”
The mixed look’s still in place on Paxton’s face, though awe’s winning out now. “Do you have a date?”
I shake my head. “Nah, no date. Just a … ” for some reason I stumble on the word, because I don’t really know what Clare is. “Just a friend. I haven’t seen her in a while. Just getting some chow with her, that’s all.”
He shakes his head slowly. “She’s hot, Gus. Like a fifteen on a ten-point scale.”
I laugh because the kid never would’ve said anything like that a few weeks ago when he arrived here.
“She looks good, huh? Maybe I’d set you up with her if you weren’t jailbait.” I wink.
“I’m eighteen in a couple of weeks,” he argues.
“Dude, you couldn’t handle a cougar like that. You keep your eyes on the prize with Mason.”
He smiles and his cheeks go crimson at the mention of his new high school crush.
I slip on my socks and Vans and walk out to the living room with Pax following closely behind. Clare’s standing next to the sliding glass door looking out at the ocean view. I don’t say anything for a minute, just letting her enjoy the scenery. Getting lost in calm and beauty is a gift.
If I didn’t know this was the Clare from before, I wouldn’t believe it now. Her ultra-thin frame is curvier, softer, and instead of being marketed for sex, it’s tucked away discreetly inside a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Her dark hair shines in a simple cut that falls just short of her shoulders. I clear my throat to get her attention. “S’up Clare?”
She turns at my voice, and the face that greets me looks years younger and happier than the one I saw months ago. Her skin is clear, almost glowing. She looks fresh, like layers of everything bad and ne
gative have been stripped away along with the heavy makeup and seductive clothing to reveal this new person hiding underneath. “Hi, Gustov.”
“Gustov? Do people really call you that? I thought Scout was the only one who called you that.” It’s Pax. He’s still a shadow behind me.
I laugh. “It is my name, Pax.”
He’s embarrassed. “I know. I guess I just thought everyone called you Gus.”
I nod. “Most of them do. Or douche canoe, that nickname’s popular, too. I’ll answer to almost anything. Just ask Franco.”
Clare smiles. “That’s true. How is Franco?”
“He’s good. He’s building an old motorcycle now that we’re home for a while. It’s keeping him busy.” He’s obsessed with the bike and it’s taking all of his time, which is good. I’m glad he’s keeping busy with something he loves.
“Good for him.” Clare looks around the room and smiles. “Your mom has a beautiful home. What a magnificent view.” She glances back over her shoulder out the window.
“It’s pretty amazing. We’re lucky.”
She nods her head.
“Pax, you wanna tag along and get some grub?”
He clams up and shakes his head. On the inside I can see him trying to play it cool, but on the outside he’s giving off a different message. He looks like he’s going to faint.
“Okay, soldier. Hold down the fort while I’m gone.” As Clare and I decide where we’re going to eat, Impatient walks through the living room from her bedroom toward the front door. She’s dressed to run, which is strange because she always runs in the morning.
She doesn’t say anything. Pax stops her at the door. “Scout, where’re you going? I thought we were going to eat dinner? You made lasagna.”
She looks back and her eyes pause on Clare and on me before they land on Paxton. “I’m not hungry. You go ahead, though.” Her face is pale, her pink lips are closed in a frown, and there's pain in her eyes. Her voice sounds terribly sad. Sad like everything in her world is crashing down around her and she has no control over it. Sad like she desperately wants life to go one way, but instead it’s going another. I know that kind of sad intimately. And when I blink she’s disappeared out the door.
