Tears

by Francine Pascal

  “Do yourself a favor, Sam Moon,” the voice commanded—low and threatening now, all trace of laughter gone. “Do not touch Gaia Moore. Listen to me. Don’t touch her, or you’ll be sorry.”

  Sam’s mind seemed to splinter into shards as he tried to process the words. Part of him wanted to hang up and run. But the caller wasn’t finished.

  “Don’t tell anyone about this call. Especially not Gaia Moore,” the voice continued. “Because if you do, your worst nightmares will come true.”

  A rush of blood, thick and cold, sent panic coursing through Sam’s body. Was he still asleep? It was as if someone had gotten right inside his head, tunneled into his dream life. But that was. . . impossible.

  Sam found his voice again. “Who is this?” he managed to gasp.

  For a while there was silence. Then there was another light, mirthless chuckle—more like water running through a drain than any human sound.

  “Who is this?” Sam repeated, more urgently.

  “I’m watching you, Sam.”

  The line went dead.

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE PUTTING enough of that in the filter?” Gaia joked as Sam tipped half a pack of coffee into the coffeemaker.

  Some Male Territorial Thing

  “If it isn’t strong, then it’s not coffee,” Sam muttered. His hands seemed unusually clumsy as he dropped mounds of brown coffee grains all over the kitchen table. He was jumpy. Then again, he’d probably already had a few cups of coffee already. “It should be somewhere between liquid and the consistency of wet tar,” he joked, but his voice was brittle.

  Gaia wrinkled her nose, staring at him, trying to figure out what was on his mind. Then she shrugged and offered her mug. If Sam liked his coffee to taste like sludge, that was fine with her. Because she was here. She was with him—having breakfast with him at 7:45 A.M. on a Monday in his dorm. Just like a normal girlfriend. All in all, it was a good start to the morning. Coffee, doughnuts, and Sam: the only valid reasons to get up on a day she’d otherwise consider a write-off and maybe dodge in favor of scamming Zolov at the chess tables in Washington Square Park.

  Gaia took a sip, then made a face. “Mmmm. Motor oil,” she teased.

  But Sam didn’t seem to hear her. He sipped from his own mug and stared out the window with a vacant gaze.

  All right. Something was definitely going on here. She put down her mug and moved over to Sam, then wrapped her arms around his waist and met his gaze. For a moment they just stood there. Gaia allowed her eyes to soak in every aspect of Sam’s face: the pensive mouth, the curls that seemed to change color depending on the light—but most of all, those amazing hazel eyes. . . the patterns in the irises like shattered glass. Or gold spiderwebs. Gaia felt her pulse quicken, her stomach flip and jangle. But Sam seemed stuck in some kind of temporary cryofreeze.

  “Hello?” she whispered.

  Still no response.

  Gaia’s brow furrowed, silently pressing him for an answer, but this only made him look away. Her pulse slowed. She stepped back. Clearly this was not the time to make an attempt at a romantic moment or even to ask what was wrong. She didn’t understand it. Sam had been like a manic-depressive ever since she’d gotten back from France—reeling from bouts of extreme highs one moment and grimly tense the next. At first she’d thought it was just the roller-coaster strangeness and freshness of their relationship. Of course, there was also the small fact that she’d taken off for Europe with her supposedly sick uncle—only to have returned with her father and discovered that Uncle Oliver was a psycho terrorist. It was a hell of a lot for Gaia to knock back, and maybe more for Sam.

  All at once she felt guilty. Maybe Sam was just plain old freaked out. Did he even know what he’d been getting himself into by diving into this fledgling relationship with the daughter of a CIA agent? It wasn’t exactly par for the course for a well-adjusted premed. Not to mention the small fact that Gaia hadn’t exactly managed to tell Sam what was happening during these European high-jinks escapades. She’d e-mailed, but his computer had been taken in for repairs. Sam had been near frantic when she got back. She’d all but disappeared.

  But we’re cool now, she said to herself. Or on our way to being cool. At least we’re cooler than we were when I always found myself bursting in on him and Heather....

  She exhaled slowly. Maybe it was nothing. For all she knew, Sam just wasn’t a morning person. But somehow Gaia doubted that one.

  Most likely it was still Mike.

  Gaia hadn’t really known Mike Suarez, but Sam had been devastated when he OD’d. He refused to talk about it. Gaia knew that feeling only too well. All the Oprahs in the world could glibly expound on your indisputable need to “share” when you were “hurting.”

  But not everyone was the same. Grief did strange things to people.

  “Are you okay?” Gaia finally asked, searching Sam’s troubled eyes. “You’re thinking about Mike, aren’t you?”

  Sam shook his head almost violently. Without a word he brought his mug to the sink, dumping out the fresh cup he’d just poured himself. “I’m fine,” he said as he rinsed it out about six times. He turned back to Gaia. “It’s just. . . I have a lot of work and stuff. I’ve sort of fallen behind.”

  “Hmmm,” Gaia murmured doubtfully. But she didn’t press it. Instead she just walked over and took his hand. Her finger brushed over the artery in his wrist.

  Holy shit. His pulse was racing. Her eyes narrowed in concern. “Jesus, there’s a techno rave going on inside your body,” she murmured.

  “I’m fine,” Sam insisted with a faint smile, pulling his wrist away and putting his arms around her.

  Yes, definitely best not to press it. Sam would share when he was ready. “Hey. . . is your computer back yet?” Gaia asked, trying to change the subject to something lighter. “You know, I sent you something from Paris.” She blushed slightly. “An e-mail. I guess you could say it was kind of a confession.” More like a love letter, she added silently, although the message was clearly implied.

  “No, uh, it’s still in the shop,” Sam answered. His tone was odd, formal.

  Gaia arched an eyebrow. Cagey again. Nothing Sam said was sounding right. But he suddenly turned and leaned down, planting his lips on her own. And in that moment she felt like she had been transported back to singing in that ice-cream aisle; the kiss washed away all the worries and doubts—

  A phone rang in another room. The shrill buzz cut through the sweet silence.

  Gaia felt Sam’s back stiffen as he jerked away from her. He stood stock still for two more rings. Then he shook his head. “You know what?” he muttered, dragging her out of the kitchen. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re not going to answer it?” Gaia asked as she let Sam pull her to the door.

  “The machine can get it,” he mumbled. He threw on his coat and tossed Gaia her own worn leather jacket. “Come on, I’ll walk you to school.”

  Gaia had to smile. “Chivalry? I thought you had to study.”

  “Lots of wackos out there.” Sam flashed her a quick grin. They took the stairs down to street level and exited the glass doors of 32 Fifth Avenue. He was joking, obviously. If there was one thing Gaia could do, it was take care of herself. In fact, deleting wackos from the NYU district was about as close to a daily cleansing regimen as Gaia would ever have. But less than a minute later Sam was unsmiling and serious again. He took her hand, his eyes flicking left and right as they headed toward the miniature Arc de Triomphe in Washington Square Park. The crisp, late winter air sent a brief shiver down Gaia’s back.

  “Game after school?” she asked, looking in the direction of the chess tables, empty of regulars at this time in the morning.

  “Maybe, yeah,” Sam replied. He surveyed the park.

  “Maybe?” Gaia echoed.

  “I mean, yes,” Sam said, flashing her a brief but genuine smile. He kissed her on the cheek. She couldn’t help but notice that the skin on his face seemed taut. Dark circles lined the w
ells of his eyes. He turned away. “Oh, you know what? I forgot. I can’t walk you to school. I have an exam this morning....I’ll see you later, all right?”

  Gaia gaped at him as he turned and hurried back up Fifth Avenue.

  Her face hardened. Whatever. That wasn’t just rude; it was harsh. And completely un-Sam-like. But if he wanted to act like a freak, fine. She whirled and marched through Washington Square West, her sneakers clomping on the pavement. Her thoughts raced. She was angry, yes. But still, she knew deep down that the anger would be short-lived. His tenseness could mean a whole number of things. His flailing former 4.0 GPA. The forty bucks he’d lost to her playing chess the day before. This exam that he had to take.

  A fleeting smile crossed her face. Maybe this was just what having a boyfriend was like. How would she know? Gaia had never had a boyfriend before. Maybe boyfriends got all preoccupied and mood swingy once they’d won you over—once you got comfy in their sock-smelling bedroom. Maybe it was some male-territorial thing.

  Gaia’s smile widened. Here she was, running to make it to school on time. Worrying about her boyfriend’s mood.

  So close to normal, it was freaky.

  PAY ATTENTION, ED.

  An Invisible Band-Aid

  Ed Fargo had to keep reminding himself to listen to Gaia as they headed down the hallway at school. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to listen. But ever since his operation—the operation that could very well bring back full use of his legs—Ed had replaced all his world-class listening skills with total self-involvement. And this was a quality Ed happened to despise more than most. Here was Gaia, finally back from Paris and back in his life, their friendship totally back on track. . . and what was Ed thinking about? Himself. Just as he had been for weeks.

  He couldn’t help it, though. He wasn’t staying positive like Dr. Feldman had told him. But how much longer could he keep this operation a goddamn secret? You’re doing it again, Ed scolded himself. It’s Gaia, for God’s sake. Pay attention. He desperately tried to focus again on Gaia as they headed for MacGregor’s English class. His grip tightened on his wheels. The only problem was, even when he tried to listen, he had no idea what the hell Gaia was talking about.

  “Reality TV.” Gaia snorted as she heaved her messenger bag over her broad, perfectly sculpted shoulder. “I can’t believe all these people tune in for something that’s even more boring than their real lives.”

  “Hmmm,” Ed grunted, trying to keep up with Gaia’s massive strides and her uncharacteristically happy, free-floating monologue on bad TV. His wheel-chair squeaked on the linoleum.

  “Stuck in a house for a whole month with only one tube of lipstick,” Gaia mocked, mimicking an announcer’s overearnest voice. “How will they. . . survive?”

  But Ed could barely simulate even the dim cousin of a smile. He couldn’t stay tuned. He was on a completely different channel. I’m sick of this chair. When I get out of this thing, I’m inviting everyone to a party under the Brooklyn Bridge, and we’re going to burn this thing. . . if I ever get the chance to tell anyone. His lips tightened.

  He tried not to think about his deal with Heather. It seemed like he was always trying not to think about his deal with Heather. He’d promised her that he wouldn’t tell a soul, not even Brian, his physical therapist, about any potential progress he made with his legs. That way he could still cash in on the settlement. That way he could still help Heather, whose family was fast going broke. Twenty-six million dollars would solve everyone’s problems—

  So why did he feel like shit?

  Actually, he knew the answer. He knew the answer because he was making progress. The physical therapy was working. He’d been busting his ass like an Olympic athlete in training, and it was starting to pay off. Pins and needles in his left quad. A twitch in four of his toes. All he wanted to do was tell Gaia. But he’d sworn himself to secrecy. To Heather.

  Ed felt wrong about it on so many levels, but he’d agreed. Stupid? Probably. But he hadn’t been able to say no to Heather. Not after everything they’d been through—not when he could save her entire family from their financial crisis. He knew it was for a good cause, but all the secrets and lies were just closing him off from everyone. And that was the last thing he needed.

  “You find me fascinating, don’t you, Fargo?” Gaia came to a sudden halt in the hallway, crossed her arms, and stared Ed down, missing nothing, as per usual.

  And also, as per usual, Ed once again found himself amazed at how stunningly gorgeous she was. Of course, she was checking him out as if he’d just offered her a turd sandwich. Not that he could blame her. She’d been talking up a storm, and he’d given exactly one grunt the entire time.

  “What’s with you?” she asked.

  Ed opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t trust himself, knowing only too well that the secret might just fly out of him if he wasn’t damned careful. He hated keeping things from Gaia. Especially after they’d recently gone through a bad hump and only just revived their friendship.

  “Seriously, Fargo, have you found the Lord or what? Your eyes are all glinty, and your lip is zipped. Give it up.”

  “It’s, well. . .” Ed swallowed. “It’s...things are good with Heather is all. And I know you don’t want to hear about that.” A sinking feeling swept over him as annoyance flitted across Gaia’s face. He was lying, for one thing. Things were not good with Heather. But more important, the H word was best not passed between him and Gaia. It was an unspoken agreement. An invisible Band-Aid necessary to hold their friendship together. And now he’d gone and verbalized them into awkwardness.

  On the other hand, what else could he have said? You could tell the truth, he hollered at himself, dying to get it out of his system.

  But that would only make it worse. Then he’d have to explain how it needed to be a secret. How Heather needed the insurance money to help get her family out of debt. Thereby giving Gaia yet another reason to hate Heather. It was an extraordinarily vicious circle. And Ed was right in the middle of it, swirling like toilet water.

  “We better get in there,” Gaia said evenly, looking toward the classroom as Mr. MacGregor walked through the door. “Or maybe I’ll go ahead by myself,” she amended coolly, turning to look over Ed’s shoulder.

  Ed spun and followed her gaze. Heather. Of course. Ed watched as Heather came closer, materializing out of the shadowy corridor like a walking Maybelline commercial. My girlfriend, he thought. She was beautiful, no doubt: that long brown hair, that perfect figure. But as she walked toward him, her smile broadening even in spite of Gaia’s presence, Ed felt his spirits sink. Why did the two best things in his life—Heather and the fact that he might be able to walk again—feel more like curses than blessings?

  Actually, it was best not to think too hard about that. It was best not to think too hard about anything right now.

  Ed,

  Suggestion:

  Who? You and me.

  Where? My house.

  When? Tonight.

  What? “Watching videos.” (Note use of quotation marks.)

  So what do you say?

  Love,

  Heather

  P.S. Careful passing this. I think MacGregor’s on to me.

  Heather,

  Sorry, I can’t. Too much homework.

  Talk later, Ed

  unshaven ghost

  The fragile house of cards he’d built to protect himself was beginning to crumble. The voice on the phone echoed through his head. Your worst nightmares will come true. . . .

  “MOON, YOU LOOK LIKE CRAP,” Josh remarked, giving Sam a sharp once-over.

  Quid Pro Quo

  “I feel like crap,” Sam concurred. He tried to ignore Josh as he took a gulp of his water and scanned the street through the window of Eddie’s Diner. He rubbed his hands over the stubble on his face, then downed the rest of the glass. He was thirsty. Tired. His throat felt raw and tight. He grimaced as he caught his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. Josh
was right. Sam was an unshaven ghost.

  Josh chuckled. “Enough already with the whole homeless look,” he muttered. He grabbed a fistful of Sam’s fries and scarfed them down as he spoke. “When are you going to clean up and wake up? You’re free and clear. The situation with the cops is watertight. You’re no longer a suspect.”

  Sam suddenly found himself examining Josh again, the same way he had that morning in his bedroom. There was such confidence in his voice, such assurance.

  “How do you know that?” Sam asked finally. “How do you always know my status with the police?”

  “I know a few people,” Josh replied with an easy shrug.

  Sam kept staring.

  Josh caught his eyes. “Why, do you think I’m a cop?” He laughed once.

  “I just. . . forget it,” Sam mumbled, shaking his head slowly. He didn’t know what he thought anymore. Maybe people never really knew who their friends were. Maybe it was just something one couldn’t know. After all, Sam had thought Brendan was a trusted friend, and he saw how that had turned out. He stared down at his untouched burger. “I just don’t think I’m out of the woods. There’ve been some other things going on....”

  That ugly whisper began to haunt Sam again.

  Don’t touch her, or you’ll be sorry.

  “Things? What things?” Josh’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Sam as if he were on drugs.

  “Never mind,” Sam whispered, checking the street again. He didn’t even know what he was looking for— who he was looking for. What did the enemy look like?

  I’m watching you, Sam.

  “Hey, Sammy, you’re scaring me here—”

  “Can you do me a favor?” Sam interrupted, flashing back to the morning’s nightmare. “Can you not call me ‘Sammy’? I can’t stand it. It just. . . it really rubs me the wrong way. I’m sorry. I just don’t like it.”

  Josh gave Sam a long stare. Sam couldn’t read it at all. He’d recently started to notice that Josh had the ultimate poker face. There could have been anything behind his stare: hurt, anger, confusion. There could have been nothing at all. But Sam made no effort to avert his glance. For a moment they were immersed in an impromptu staring contest. Until the bright smile returned to Josh’s face.