Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  I’m also a little embarrassed at how I melted into Graham like a puddle of needy, weepy woman. Marisa wasn’t lying—I do have my shit together most of the time. It’s likely been five years since I last cried that much.

  “You’re really okay?” Marisa asks me when Graham leaves.

  “Yeah. It’s a lot to process.”

  “Seems you told me the abridged version of this story.” She raises one eyebrow at me, her expression demanding answers.

  Although she’s trying to cover it with some attitude, I can see that underneath she’s a little hurt. Guilt rises within me, because Marisa’s an amazing friend, and I trust her more than almost anyone. This is just something that’s especially hard for me to open up about.

  “I’m sorry, Ris.”

  Instead of responding, she hands me a bag of ice and a small plate of sliced cucumbers.

  “So, no sex?” There’s a hopeful note in her voice. Shameless … she’s still fishing for dirty details!

  “No!” I toss one of the throw pillows at her, laughing. “Go have your own sex, bitch!”

  “Oh, I do.” She smacks her lips at me in an obnoxiously loud air kiss before disappearing down the hall toward her room.

  I shuffle over to mine as well so I can take Advil and do some cosmetic damage control with these cucumbers.

  * * *

  Graham

  I’ve got a shit-eating grin stretched across my face as I call an Uber to take me back to BC for my car. I’m still grinning on the drive back to Westwood and all through my impromptu grocery store stop. So yeah, obviously instead of buying cereal right now I’d rather be having that “reunion fuckfest” Marisa mentioned, but we’re not there yet. Still, I’d say we made a ton of progress today. Though she may have kicked me out shortly after her roommate got home, I got Mackenzie to agree to have dinner with me later this week, so the day is a huge win.

  As I step out of the store into the frigid wind, I hunch my shoulders and pull up the collar of my coat. I’ve just reached my car when right ahead of me three large shapes step out of the shadows.

  “Long time no see, Wyatt.”

  Before I can even react, he launches a fist directly at my face.

  12. SUCKER PUNCH

  Graham

  That motherfucker just sucker punched me. In a Star Market parking lot.

  I won’t let him get that lucky again. I see him coming now, so when he swings a second time I duck and throw a return punch before he can dodge it. My fist catches him in the side of the jaw, and he takes a step back to recoup.

  Before I went to prison, I’d never thrown a punch. But I was far from defenseless, since I’d been through tackling and dodging drills during all the years I trained for football. Football also taught me how to take a hit. While I was locked up, I kept my head down as much as I could and never started a fight, but I sure as hell proved that I could finish one.

  “What the hell is this?” My voice isn’t friendly. At all.

  I get my first good look at the guys. Despite this parking lot’s shitty lighting, I recognize the owner of the fist that just decked me in the forehead. Back when I was buying drugs, I primarily interacted with a guy named Curtis, who was in charge of their little organization, but I remember seeing this kid a few times. Eli. I think he was related to Curtis somehow—Cousin? Brother? The details are hazy.

  “This is a warning.”

  He punctuates his statement by spitting a glob of blood onto the pavement at his feet. I socked him hard, and I imagine his teeth cut up the inside of his cheek pretty good. I’ve been there. But I can’t seem to find a drop of sympathy for him.

  “That mean you’re gonna start talking?”

  He shrugs and smirks at me, cocky as hell even though one side of his mouth is already swelling. There’s an overall sense of confidence to him now—in his steady, wide-legged stance, the edge of arrogance in his voice—that’s new. The few memories I can conjure of him are of a skinny kid always hanging out in Curtis’ shadow. Physically he’s still far from intimidating—a greasy looking white guy with limp brown hair hanging past his chin. And still skinny—he’s probably half my weight, even though I’ve only got a couple of inches on him in height. But he clearly thinks he’s big shit now, and from their body language, I can tell the other guys are looking to him for their cues. Seems little Eli stepped up when the boss man and I went to prison. It’s almost cute, how he wants to show off by fucking with me.

  There’s something else about him, though. Something that I can’t quite put my finger on, a disturbing glint of intellect and madness in his unnaturally pale eyes. My gut, which is rarely wrong, is telling me not to underestimate him.

  “You know all about talking, huh? I’m gonna make you eat that smart-ass tongue, Wyatt.”

  In high school we had to read that book Life of Pi, the one where a kid is stuck in a boat with a tiger (really … nuts!). Can’t say I loved it, but I’ve never forgotten the part where the boy manages to establish his dominance as the alpha—he proves he can make the loudest noise, and the tiger backs down from trying to attack him. That was my strategy in prison—if a guy wanted to show me how loud he was, I made sure I roared louder. Once I did that a few times, things got easier for me.

  “I’m flattered you brought two guys for back up, E. But you should have brought three.”

  In a single motion so swift it catches him off guard, I slam Eli against the side of my SUV with a forearm to his chest. Primal satisfaction surges inside me at the fear that flickers in his eyes. That’s right, motherfucker, you’re messing with the wrong guy.

  I’ve got my arm inches from his windpipe, and I apply some more pressure. I lean in closer to growl right in his face.

  “You and me? We’re done here. So you need to take your ‘warning’ and your little friends and get the fuck out of my sight. Permanently.”

  Click.

  It’s a sound I’ve only heard in person once before, but could never mistake—the cocking of a trigger. In my peripheral vision, I see that while I was focused on Eli one of his guys stepped right up to me. And he now has a gun pressed between my ribs.

  Eli smirks, and for a second he flashes some teeth that show signs of rotting. At least Curtis was a professional—he knew not to sample too much of his product. This bastard looks like he eats meth for breakfast.

  “You happen to be armed, Wyatt? Cause from where I stand, you’re outnumbered and outgunned. For your own sake, back the fuck off me.”

  I step back even though what I really want is to smash my fist into his face again.

  He cricks his neck side to side, trying to play off how much that must have hurt. Then he pins me with those icy blue eyes.

  “My brother sends his regards from prison. You know, the place you made sure he’ll be for the rest of his life?” Brother. “You should have kept your mouth shut. You think you can narc and get away with it?”

  Well, fuck.

  A couple years into doing my time, and a shit-ton of therapy sessions with the prison shrink, I gave in to her convincing and finally called a lawyer. I didn’t bother back when I was arrested—I plead guilty to whatever they charged me with and just went along with it. Maybe I’d been punishing myself all along anyway, and to some degree it was a relief to hand the reins over to someone else and let them do the work.

  After two years of grief counseling and a 24/7 diet of inescapable retrospection, I was fully aware that I’d been a fucking idiot. Honestly, my role in things that night looked a hell of a lot worse than it actually was, and one of my dad’s fancy expensive-as-fuck lawyer friends could have easily brought my charges down to drug possession.

  So, with the aid and counsel of my newly hired fancy expensive-as-fuck lawyer, I made a deal for a reduced sentence in exchange for informing on Curtis. I told the state prosecutor everything I remembered from my various interactions with Curtis and other members of his organization, including a detailed account of that night. They said my testimony wa
s a crucial piece in putting Curtis away for life.

  Did I believe them when they assured me no one would ever find out that information had come from me? Well, yeah, I did. Apparently, I am still a fucking idiot.

  The gun’s barrel presses harder into my side so I can feel it through my jacket. The pressure is forceful enough to hurt a little bit and more than enough to ensure I don’t forget that any second I could have a bullet in my gut.

  It’s a solid intimidation tactic that would work on most people. People who have something important enough in their lives to make them give a damn about dying. Me? I’ve got nothing to lose. Except Mackenzie … but, hell, she’s probably better off without me.

  I meet Eli’s eyes dead-on and speak clearly and calmly.

  “I repeat … you and I have nothing to talk about. So have your goon pull the trigger or leave.”

  We engage in a silent stare off that seems endless. I sure as hell won’t be the one backing down, so I keep my face blank and my eyes defiant.

  Finally, he makes a little tsk-ing sound with his tongue then motions for his man to drop the gun and back away.

  “Like I said, tonight is a warning. It was just a lucky accident that we were in the neighborhood and spotted you. And decided to say hello.”

  His eyes travel up to the tall light poles scattered around the parking lot, and I see that some have small cameras attached to them.

  “I’m smarter than Curtis. When I end you, it won’t be with a clean shot in a parking lot with witnesses and surveillance cameras.”

  I manage to hold back the flinch that wants to roll through me as my mind flashes back to that gas station parking lot and the image forever seared into my mind of the moment the bullet made impact with that guy’s head.

  Something sinister passes over Eli’s face as he gets even closer, till our noses are inches from touching. I stay still even as his whispered words send droplets of spittle landing on my cheek.

  “And, Wyatt? I will end you. I’m going to make sure you pay for fucking with my family. I’m more creative than Curtis too. I can draw things out, make sure you know exactly what’s happening as you die. They’ll never catch me, and no one will ever find your body.”

  13. GRIFF

  Graham

  Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair then pull it back from my temple and lean toward the bathroom mirror so I can examine the red swelling where Eli got in his one and only hit. It’s not too bad, but I will definitely be wearing beanies the next couple of days until the bruising fades.

  Fuck. I’m finally getting somewhere with Mackenzie and this happens?

  After pacing restlessly for a while, replaying tonight’s encounter, I decide it’s time to reach out to my old cellmate Griff. I have no idea what to do here, and he’s the first person who came to mind as someone I can trust with this. He got out a few years ago, but I don’t have a way to reach him. We didn’t exactly sign each other’s yearbooks and exchange hugs and phone numbers before he left.

  Are there still telephone books where you can look people up?

  I blow out a breath and force myself to think. My eyes swing to the kitchen table and land on my silver MacBook. I’ve given that thing a workout recently, filling part of my nights Googling everything and anything to catch up on things I’ve missed the last five years. And, you know, porn.

  Of course—welcome back to the twenty-first century, idiot—I’ll check Facebook.

  I’ve avoided the site (except when I searched for Mackenzie—her privacy settings are so high I could only see her profile picture—and yes, I have that shit saved to my desktop) because I don’t particularly want to find out what all my old high school friends think about me. I bet my profile is covered with hateful comments from five years ago, maybe even more recently. When they’re booking you for involvement in a homicide, they don’t exactly ask if you want to shut down your social media accounts for privacy.

  I pull up the site and stare at the home screen for a minute. Then instead of logging in, I click “Sign Up” and create a new profile with a different email address. I stick in a random picture of me I found on the laptop that’s probably eight years old then stare at the blank page. If only it were this easy to make a clean slate for everything in my life.

  I search for “Griff O’Brien” and find him within seconds. Seeing his face glaring at me from his profile pic sends a stab of something close to nostalgia through me.

  Griff was my very first cellmate, which means he saw me at my lowest point. The state prison is not one of the cushy rehab facilities where stupid rich boys from Westwood usually go, but they had their own medical facilities and program in place to assist with detox. It’s not like I was a junkie—I was only a few months into my relationship with drugs, and I’d been keeping things open bouncing between everything but heroin looking for a few hours of escape. So, while the detox wasn’t fun physically, more than anything it fucked with my mind. Every speck of pain I’d been dulling rushed back in high-def color. Only now it was tinted with added layers of guilt and regret for the shit I’d done while high. Needless to say, I was a miserable son of a bitch for a while there, and Griff had a front-row seat to my breakdown. And for some reason he befriended me anyway.

  Griff is huge, towering over me at a height of maybe 6’4” with a coarse mountain man worthy beard and a perpetual “don’t-fuck-with-me” scowl. He was in for drug distribution and assault, and he’d more than earned his street cred with a criminal history going back to his early teens.

  Griff is definitely not what you’d call a “good guy,” but he’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.

  I peer closer at the Facebook photo and smile. He’s towering over a slight woman and a child, both sheltered within his arms. The saddest thing is that right before the arrest that landed him in a cell with me, he was in the process of changing his ways. His girl was pregnant and they wanted to start a clean life for their kid. It was a big cosmic fuck you that he got busted right when he was taking the necessary steps to go straight.

  His daughter must be almost six now. The three of them look happy, and that makes me think maybe the entire world isn’t as terrible as I sometimes suspect.

  I click to friend request him then type out a short message along with my phone number.

  Hey Griff, I’m out. Let’s catch up. Give me a call.

  Then I go get some ice for my head. It’s not that I can’t handle the pain—I want to reduce the swelling so Mackenzie doesn’t notice. It definitely feels like lying and reminds me of the shit I did before, but I’m not doing anything shady this time around. There’s got to be a way I can get Eli to back off, right? If I can handle this quickly, there’s no reason for Mackenzie to know, no reason to get her involved as I put this last little piece of that life to rest.

  My phone rings in the morning while I’m on my third bowl of Lucky Charms. (They’re magically delicious, okay?) I don’t recognize the number, but since it’s local I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Pretty Boy? Is that really you?”

  His low, gritty voice brings an immediate smile to my face. He gave me that nickname when I first went in because I looked every inch the overprivileged high school quarterback I was. I eventually fought back by calling him “Old Man,” though he wasn’t even thirty when we met.

  If only he could see me now—he would be so proud of the bulk I’ve put on, not to mention the hair and beard growth.

  “Yeah, Griff. It’s me.”

  “Well, shit, kid. Welcome to the outside. What are you doing lookin’ up my ugly mug online? Shouldn’t you be screwing your way through Boston right now?”

  “Not my style.”

  “Ahh, right. Your girl—Mackenzie, wasn’t it? How is she?” I talked about her enough that I’m not surprised he remembers her name.

  “She’s …” How to choose a word? “Perfect. Not exactly planning my welcome back party, though.”

  He chuckles, a deep sound that cou
ld only come from a man as mammoth as he is.

  “Life ain’t gonna throw roses at ya. I think you already learned that one the hard way. So, what’s her deal? She got a ring on her finger? A live-in man? Kids?”

  The very thought twists my insides. I pour the rest of my cereal down the sink.

  “Nope.”

  “Well then, you do whatever you gotta do and get her back.”

  “That’s the plan. Speaking of, I saw your profile pic. You’ve got one pretty girl there.”

  I grin ear to ear, waiting for it …

  He growls.

  “Listen here, Wyatt. I don’t want to hear you ever say another fucking word about my woman. You get me?”