by Adore Ian
Answering the phone when she makes her once-a-year call to the Braxton on Thanksgiving would be one way to find out what she wants, and a way to facilitate whatever it is I think I might still need from her. But in order to do that, I’d have to be willing to open myself up to the potential for more disappointment. And I’m not there yet. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.
I suppose I do have a while until next Thanksgiving, though.
Toward the end of my shift, I go out front to clean trash off one of the benches. It’s unseasonably warm today and a few patrons have been sitting outside.
A well-dressed woman crosses the street but I pay little attention. I stack a couple of glasses, pick up some straws, and step on a cigarette butt someone tossed on the ground and didn’t put out all the way. I make one more sweep of the area before turning to go back inside.
“Excuse me, miss?”
It’s the well-dressed woman. She’s in a fitted designer pants suit, a designer bag hangs at her side and I’m pretty sure she’s wearing shoes worth more than my tuition. Her dark hair is pulled into a severe twist at the back of her head and there’s something familiar in her features.
“Yes?” I say, glancing at the car she got out of—a black Rolls-Royce.
“Are you Marrin Braxton?”
My spine goes shotgun straight. I measure the distance to the door. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Nadia Wane. I’m Damian’s mother.”
That’s why you look familiar.
“My apologies for intruding. I only wish for a moment of your time.”
I eye the door. Damian’s home writing a paper, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t show up at any moment. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Please,” she says.
And it’s the look in her eyes that gets me. Like she knows she doesn’t deserve to be asking but she’s so desperate she’s willing to grovel. “Let me put these inside. Hold on.”
“Thank you.”
I race inside and set the empties on the bar. Then I’m back outside. We don’t sit and I keep an unfriendly distance between us. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
She inhales sharply. “I’m not sure what you know about my relationship with my son, but it’s not good. I’d like to make it better, but I messed up recently. Now he isn’t returning my phone calls or answering my texts.”
My face is a mask of indifference, but inside I’m screaming at her full force.
“From looking at social media, I have reason to believe you’re his girlfriend, or at the very least a close, personal friend of his. I was hoping I might persuade you to talk to him on my behalf—”
“Let me stop you right there. If you’re about to pull out a checkbook, consider this conversation over.”
She blinks, momentarily affronted. “No. No, I was just hoping you could let him know I understand that I approached things the wrong way and that I’m going to stop trying to contact him. Not because I don’t want to speak with him, but because I realize that I need to wait for him to be ready. Please, if you could just tell him that I’m sorry and that whenever he wants to speak to me, I’m ready to listen.”
I drag out my silence. Both to make her sweat and because I’m thinking about what to say.
“Please.” Tears cloud her eyes but don’t fall. She looks like a broken woman. A woman who knows she fucked up and is willing to put in the work to make amends and prove she’s changed.
“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises. If he knew we spoke…” I shake my head.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.”
I nod and go back inside.
Damian
The beginning of April rolls around and Marrin and I go out for our first real date. It’s not that we haven’t been on real dates, it’s just that it’s been so cold we’ve mostly stayed at home or played games at the Braxton. (And by games, I mean Realm Quest, which I still haven’t beaten her at.)
Tonight I take her to dinner at a rooftop restaurant in the city. It’s nice, but casual and the weather is decently warm. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt and she’s in a dress—or maybe it’s an oversized shirt?—and sporty-looking leggings with slices of mesh fabric that show off her legs.
We sit outside and have a few drinks, watching the sun set and enjoying our dinner.
When we’re done, and the check is paid, we linger and talk. The patio we’re on is lit by dim, golden lights and it’s early enough in spring that there aren’t any bugs.
In a rare moment of silence, Marrin shifts in her seat just enough that I can tell something’s on her mind. The sun has completely disappeared now and the night air grows steadily colder. Almost uncomfortably so.
“What?” I ask.
She nails me with a look, with those whiskey eyes I love so much. “Nothing.”
“That’s not your ‘nothing’ face. Something’s up.”
She wrinkles her mouth to the side. “Okay,” she sits forward, “but I don’t want you to get mad.”
I match her stance. “Why would I get mad?”
“Because… it’s about Nadia.”
“What about Nadia?”
She looks down, then back at me. “I met her. Last month at the Braxton.”
Insecurity stacks my spine, the whole rooftop fades, blocked behind a wall of quiet so loud every muscle in my body strains to hear Marrin’s next words.
“She came up to me when I was out front and asked me to talk to you on her behalf.”
“To say what exactly?” The words come out harsher than intended.
“She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry about how she handled things last time the two of you met. She’s not going to contact you anymore, but she still wants to reconcile. She’s just going to wait for you to be ready and initiate.”
Anger hits me like a shovel to the face, so fast I can’t stop it. “And you kept this a secret because...?”
Her brow furrows. “It’s not a secret.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me when it happened?” I demand.
“Because I knew you’d be upset.”
I take a deep breath, trying and failing to swallow my emotions.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. Let’s just go.”
We get up and head downstairs. My anger mounts with every step, multiplying like a virus in my body. Not just at my mother for having invaded my private life, but at Marrin for not telling me. What the hell else is she keeping from me?
I climb into my Jeep, slamming the door unintentionally. “I need you to tell me everything Nadia said to you.”
She does.
I drive in a silent rage. Pouring over every detail Marrin gave me. Every syllable, word and sentence. We’re nearly back at our complex before I speak again.
“That’s all she said to you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” I accuse.
Her head whips to me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, Marrin,” I half yell. And I don’t. My brain is alive with confusion about what she’s just told me. It feels like I’m coming apart at the seams. “You tend to keep secrets, so I have to wonder.”
I can feel anger building in her silence. Feel the heat and hurt coming off her in waves. When she speaks, her voice is far too quiet, far too calm.
“I’ve already apologized and explained my reasons for keeping things about me and my life from you. This is not one of those things. Don’t you dare try to make it one. The only reason I’m telling you this now is because it’s been a few weeks, and I thought you might be more receptive to hearing what she had to say.”
“Unbelievable. So you’re her agent now, is that it? You sure you didn’t take her money?” I don’t mean it. I believe what she said about her conversation with Nadia. I’m just so mad I can’t stop myself from lashing out. And right now Marrin’s the closest target.
“Excuse me?”
I pull into the parking lot
of our complex. “Shit. I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t baby me. I kept this from you because I knew it would upset you. I made the call I thought would protect you the most. I had every intention of telling you eventually and not on her behalf. Not ever on her behalf. But the fact that you think that—I can’t even look at you right now.”
She gets out of the Jeep and slams the door.
I grab my jacket from the backseat and put it on as I jump out.
She’s pissed to high hell, but her voice quakes with the calm she’s trying to hold onto. “You’re allowed to be angry, Damian. But you’re not allowed to be an asshole.”
“What am I supposed to think when you bring this up? You should’ve told me right when it happened.”
“Well I didn’t. You were clearly still upset about your dinner with her, and I didn’t want to make it worse. I made the call I thought was right, and I regret that decision now. I’m sorry.”
I run my hands through my hair. “What did you think would happen when you finally told me? That I’d break into song?”
“I don’t know,” she yells. “Not this. Obviously. I’d hoped you’d be more receptive to hearing her out. She wasn’t faking it. She wants to make things right. The ball’s in your court.”
Jesus. Now I can’t look at her.
I shake my head, rake my hair. “Are you trying to fix me? Is that what this is? Am I a Sunday School project to you? This is my life, my private life, and you invaded it. Violated it. You of all people.”
At the look on her face, I know I should stop. Should shut my damn mouth, get on my knees, and grovel for forgiveness. I’m screaming feelings at her because I can’t scream them at myself and because I hate that I know she’s right. But rage like gasoline floods my veins, fueling the pain that spews from my lips. The hurt look on her face is the mirror to what I feel inside and it strikes me like a match.
“She isn’t your mother, Marrin.” Hot tears hit my eyes the same time my words hit her ears. “She’s mine. Fixing my relationship with her won’t fix you. Or your relationship with your mother. Some people don’t deserve a second chance.”
It’s dark, but the street lamp illuminating this part of the parking lot is bright enough that I see tears gleam in her eyes.
“You’re right,” she says, voice too quiet. “Some people don’t deserve a second chance.”
She’s not talking about our mothers.
She starts walking away, but not in the direction of the complex.
“Where are you going?” I half yell.
Marrin doesn’t turn around. “To get a textbook from my fucking car. Want me to send you a picture as proof I’m not lying?” she shouts, but I hear the crack in her voice.
It resonates like a crack in me and allows a drop of sanity to spread in my veins like ink in water. “Marrin, wait. I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” she fires back from somewhere in the darkness just beyond the street lamp. Her footsteps stop and when she speaks again, she sounds exhausted. “Go inside. Find me when you’re less triggered.”
Her tone implies I better be gone by the time she gets back because I’m the last asshole she wants to see. She’s right, too. I can’t talk about this until I’m calm enough to keep my anger from clouding my judgment. I’ve done enough damage already.
So much for being confident, calm, charming Damian.
I walk to the door and key in the code. Inside, I slouch on a couch in the lobby and bury my head in my hands.
Somewhere in my head, I hear my mother’s voice, smell her perfume…
“What am I supposed to do? Your father says you’ll be a man one day, and if anyone finds out what happened, it will embarrass this family and ruin your reputation.”
A thirteen-year-old me stands in the hallway in front of my father’s closed office. I stare at my mother’s face. Her eyes are red and puffy, voice raspy from yelling at her husband. I couldn’t hear what they’d been fighting about.
“W-What am I supposed to do now?” I say.
She wipes my tears, kisses my forehead. Then abruptly she stops, stands. “We’ll sign the paperwork and put this behind us. Your father won’t tolerate any more talk about it. What’s done is done. You have to move forward, be a man.” She starts walking away.
I don’t know what else to do, so I follow.
She goes into the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of wine. She pours a glass. Her hands shake as she sips, then gulps, then pours another glass. And then another.
“Mom?” I say.
When she looks at me, it’s like I’m the single greatest source of sorrow in the entire world. She bursts into tears.
“Mommy, don’t cry.” I half run to hug her. But she doesn’t hug me back. She just blinks through her tears and keeps drinking.
At some point, I back away. Go to my room. Spend the whole evening telling myself my parents love me and that they’re right. I need to put it behind me, man up. Be a man. If my father sees me cry again, it’ll only make him more mad.
Declan comes into my room just past midnight. He crawls into my bed.
He says he knows. I tell him to leave. He says he loves me. I push him out of my bed.
He curls up on the floor of my room and whispers to me that I’ll always be his big brother. He’s ten years old.
I let myself cry one last time. Then I get out of bed and curl up with my brother on the floor.
Callus, bleaching sanity works its way through my body and I realize I’m a complete asshole. This has nothing to do with Marrin and everything to do with me and my issues with my parents. Jesus Christ, I said some horrible things to her.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I need to fix this. I have to fix this.
I stand. I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting and wallowing, but I’m pretty sure Marrin hasn’t walked past me.
I turn to the security guard standing across the lobby. “Has anyone walked in after me?”
“No. Been just you and me for the last five or so minutes.”
Something about that doesn’t sound right. Marrin should’ve come inside by now.
I rush out the door and scan the darkness in the direction of her car. I see her vehicle but not her.
Maybe she’s sitting inside.
I make my way to her car. The parking lot is dark. Only a few street lamps illuminate it. They do a shit job, too. They’re like spotlights, casting sharp circles of light directly beneath them. Marrin would call it low-key or chiaroscuro lighting, the kind they use in the noir films she loves so much.
At the other end of the lot, Marrin rushes into a pocket of light. She almost looks black and white with her silver-white hair and dark clothing. Her eyes are fixed on the complex door. She opens her too-red mouth, my name forming on her lips—
Frank grabs her from behind and yanks her to the ground.
Oh. Fuck. No.
28
Marrin
Damian is allowed to be angry, but he’s not allowed to act like a total jackass.
“Where are you going?” he shouts.
I keep walking. “To get a textbook from my fucking car. Want me to send you a picture as proof I’m not lying?” I yell every word, but I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice.
“Marrin, wait. I’m sorry.” His voice is honest and a little bit dejected.
I march into the darkness beyond a street lamp. “You should be. Go inside. Find me when you’re less triggered.”
I’m too exhausted to continue this conversation, and he’s too angry to think rationally. He’s said some things I know he didn’t mean and likely already regrets, but I can’t handle an apology from him right now. Triggered or not, he’s a grown-ass human and grown-ass humans recognize when they’re too triggered to talk about something and they own it. They explain what’s happening and remove themselves as best they can from the situation. I’d have kept my mouth shut about it until he was ready to talk, but nooo. Dipshit had t
o keep running his mouth—
Something moves in my periphery.
I stop, glance around. I swore I heard footsteps that weren’t mine. I’d assumed they were Damian’s… but, as I turn in place, I don’t see him.
I take two more steps before I realize I’m not uncomfortable because I’m mad at Damian. I’m uncomfortable
because
something’s
not right.
Something’s off.
I scan the darkness and Holly’s words come back to me, “Your gut instinct is your bottom bitch. She’s been with you the longest and she’s always reliable. She doesn’t need proof to know someone’s a creeper or that something’s wrong. She calls it like it is.”
Right now my bottom bitch is tingling like Peter Parker’s spidey sense.
I abandon any idea of heading to my car and turn around. I haul up my anger at Damian and use it like a shield. Willing anyone who might be watching to see that anger and to know I’m not going to be an easy target. I pass through another sharp pocket of light and it’s not lost on me how similar the situation is to a scene in Cat People where Irena stalks Alice Moore at night.
Really, Mar?
I’m hit from behind like a shark attack. Jerked back so violently my teeth slice into my bottom lip.
For a moment, I think it’s Damian. We’ve practiced this so many times it must be him. But everything smells like cheap booze and cigarettes, tastes like blood in my mouth.
“Looky here. Cat finally caught the mouse.”
Frank.
Blood drains from my body, pooling in my feet.
Frank.
My breath shallows, blood pressure plummets.
Frank.
I’m going to faint—Oh God, I’m going to faint.
“So you’re good enough to give it up to that boy but not me? Well we’ll see about that.”
