Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  The sun is still out although it’s nearly 7:00 PM, but the scorching hot day has cooled and there’s a slight breeze. I sit back onto the chair, bouncing my knee as I hold Harry low on my chest with both hands the way I would a football. Around us, the neighborhood is quietly alive. These long summer days in late June always bring the people of Boston flocking to the outdoors to soak up the warmth. From beyond the fenced area of the little yard, I can hear the murmurs of people talking and laughing and smell a hint of charcoal from someone grilling for a barbecue. Above our heads, a low rumble of bass starts up from the apartment on the third floor of Griff’s building.

  Harry begins to shift around restlessly, so I start talking in the soft voice that seems to soothe him. Of course, when I open my mouth, the words that come out are about Mackenzie.

  “I messed up, little man,” I tell him quietly. “I hope when you find the girl of your dreams you don’t make the kinds of mistakes I have. I messed up so bad I don’t think I can ever fix it. And I don’t have a clue what to do with myself if that’s true.”

  I hear the door open behind me then Shaina’s soft voice.

  “Are you imparting words of wisdom to my son?”

  She walks over and stops at the side of my chair. I look up at her, though she’s so short I don’t have to raise my gaze all that far.

  “Honestly, I think it’s the other way around,” I admit.

  She makes a little “hmm” sound of acknowledgement and reaches out to trail the tips of her fingers over the soft black fuzz on the baby’s head.

  “And has Harry helped you figure anything out?”

  “Can’t say I have any more answers, but I’m sure going to sleep well tonight.”

  She laughs lightly. “Let’s see if we can get him to stay asleep all the way to his crib.”

  She’s still recovering from the C-section and not supposed to lift things, so I keep Harry in my arms as I stand and follow her inside the house. We pass through the living room where Griff is still out. I see nothing but love in the smile Shaina aims at her sleeping man. Still carrying Harry, I walk behind Shaina toward the bedroom she shares with Griff, where they’ve also set up the baby’s crib. When we’re halfway down, the hall a door opens and Marisa tiptoes out of Layla’s room.

  “She didn’t wake up,” Marisa whispers to Shaina, who responds with a quiet “thank you” before Mackenzie’s roommate turns to me and gives me a sad little wave. I nod at her but keep walking because I don’t want to wake Harry.

  Once I’ve laid him down in his crib, I ask Shaina, “Did Mackenzie come with you guys today too?”

  She gives me a sad smile, very similar to Marisa’s, and nods. My body tenses and my heart races at the thought of Mackenzie waiting for Marisa in the car, right outside. As though she can read my mind, Shaina puts one small hand on my arm and shakes her head at me.

  “Give her time.”

  37. EVERYONE DIES SOMETIME, RIGHT?

  Mackenzie

  Love is just a chemical reaction in the brain. All of these feelings we put so much stock in are really nothing but science—the biological mechanisms of our bodies motivating us to procreate so the species doesn’t die out.

  Love isn’t real. This is my mantra. The words I repeat to myself daily, when the heartache gets too big.

  Marisa doesn’t approve of my coping methods. She may choose to avoid dating in favor of casual hookups, but not far underneath that sass she’s a true romantic at heart. I used to be one too. Growing up, I was all about chick flicks and romantic comedies. I swooned along with the rest of the audience when it came time for happily ever after. Romance. I believed in it, wanted it, dreamed of it. But after Graham went to prison, I became more realistic—Marisa would say cynical. Returning to that mindset has helped me put everything in perspective, to zoom out from my tiny desolate corner of the world and try to look at matters more clinically. I try to imagine that instead of living it I’m observing animals in the wild and taking research notes. Maybe I tend to zoom out too far, but honestly looking at my life from up close hurts way too much lately. Most days it seems that even moving my little observation deck out to the moon wouldn’t be far enough to get away from the Graham-sized ache in my chest and the empty void I see when I try to envision my future.

  “Would you say devoting yourself to schoolwork was how you coped after Graham went to prison and perhaps that became a learned avoidance strategy you now use habitually?”

  “I don’t think I’d necessarily say that.”

  “Well, if I say it, will you agree it’s true?”

  I glare at Dahlia and she grins. It figures I’d get this kind of sass from a psychologist recommended by Marisa.

  “I’m here to talk about the attack,” I remind her a little stiffly.

  And it’s true. My body is healing fine—I’ll even be able to start practicing yoga again soon—but my mind isn’t processing things quite so cleanly.

  I stayed with my parents for two full weeks. Mom and Dad have been really supportive, and I’m grateful that we were able to move past our recent conflict—even if they only let it go out of pity for me. I hid out with them for longer than I should have. The truth is that I was afraid to go back home to our apartment. The fear was irrational and I knew it; I am well aware of the three bodyguards Graham is still paying to protect me. And yet when I thought of returning there, I felt a surge of panic that had me burrowing back under the blankets of my childhood bed. I’m not proud to say that when I finally did return, I needed my dad to come with me, and he slept on the couch for three days until I stopped bursting into tears every time he tried to leave.

  That’s right. I no longer have the right to call myself a tough, grown ass woman. Apparently, I’m a weak little girl who needs my daddy to hold my hand.

  So, I’m back in my own bedroom in my own apartment. But I’ve been having nightmares, and some days I still have to circle the block a few times before I can make myself park my car in the driveway and go inside.

  And so … therapy.

  “You’re here to talk about whatever is going on with you, how you’re feeling. We won’t discuss Graham today if that’s what you want, but I think you need to deal with those feelings soon.”

  Therapists. I swear. Nosy little busy bodies, every one of us.

  * * *

  “Earth to Mackenzie!”

  I look over to Marisa and Shaina who are just a few feet away playing with baby Harry. It appears I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts again.

  “Sorry!” I smile and pull a face at the baby.

  I have to say that Harry is pretty freaking cute. The first time I saw him, I honestly thought he looked the same as any other newborn, with his squishy face and unformed features. I smiled and nodded when Shaina and Griff—and even Marisa—declared fervently that he was the most beautiful baby alive, but on the inside, I was rationalizing with science. My brain cited research on built-in biological responses to the baby—happy chemicals like oxytocin and increased activity in the brain’s reward centers—that incentivize new parents to keep their offspring alive.

  And then Shaina put Harry in my arms and the second he looked at me, research papers flew out of my head. When no one else was around, Harry and I had a heart-to-heart, during which I shared my suspicions that my adoration was the result of his brainwashing and admitted that I was letting it happen.

  “I still can’t believe you named your son after Harry Potter!” Marisa says suddenly, laughing.

  “Oh, I can totally believe it,” I jump in. Once you get to know Shaina, underneath the ink and piercings, she’s actually a huge nerd. “What I can’t believe is that Griff let you name your son after Harry Potter!”

  Shaina snorts out a little laugh and shrugs. “I was doped up after the C-section, and when I saw Harry, he was so cute with the black fuzz on his head, and there’s that little birthmark on his forehead! I mean, how could I not name him after Harry Potter? As for Griff, I think he was so traumatized by th
e whole experience by the time Harry was actually born, the man would have given me anything I wanted.”

  “Not true,” Griff argues in his deep gravelly voice as he enters the living room. He drops his massive frame down onto the floor beside Shaina, and I swear the whole house shakes a little bit. “If you’d gone for Albus or Sirius I would have shut you down. And we don’t have to tell anyone you named him after a wizard. There are lots of Harry’s! Like … uh … Harry Connick Jr.”

  “Harry Truman,” Marisa suggests.

  “Prince Harry,” I say.

  “Harry Styles,” Shaina adds in an appreciative tone. Griff’s brows draw together.

  “Who the fuck is Harry Styles?”

  We giggle. Griff loses patience and produces his phone. His fingers poke the screen for a moment, then his frown gets deeper.

  “Seriously? He looks twelve!”

  Shaina smirks at him a little. “No shame in my cougar game.”

  Our laughter over that is raucous, but Griff remains unamused. Shaina scoots over and wraps her arms around him.

  “You’re the only man for me, babe. But you sure are cute when you’re jealous.”

  “I’m not cute, woman,” he scoffs.

  I’d have to agree that cute is one of the last words I would choose for Griff O’Brien. Let’s be honest: if he were a Harry Potter character, he would definitely be Hagrid, though … less friendly.

  “Stinky diaper alert!” Marisa calls out then motions for Shaina to stay put. “I’ve got it.”

  Shaina smiles at her gratefully as she darts off down the hallway.

  “I gotta go to work,” Griff says. “I’ll pick Layla up from that party on my way back. You be good.” He gives Shaina a goodbye kiss so hot I turn my head away to give them a little privacy. I’d bet anything that if I asked her right about now, Shaina would say, “Harry Styles who?”

  When we’re alone, Shaina joins me on the couch. She rests her head against the cushion and turns toward me.

  “Graham was here earlier.”

  I can’t help the full body jolt of my reaction. Of course, I’m aware he’s friends with Griff and Shaina—I mean, he’s the reason I met them in the first place! —but still, hearing his name and thinking about him here only hours ago …

  “Oh.” I gulp and catch my bottom lip with my front teeth. I want to ask her how he’s doing, but I’m also not sure I want to hear it. I’m trying to quit him cold turkey and I fear any exposure will hurt my progress. But the craving is incredibly strong.

  “Is it harder to hear about him or not hear about him? Which will drive you more insane?

  “You read my mind.” But I still don’t answer.

  “It’s still very fresh, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes it hurts so much I think I’ll die from it,” I whisper. It’s something I’ve never said out loud.

  We let the truth settle in the air for a moment before Shaina asks me another question.

  “Have you considered calling him? Maybe getting back together?” My heart pounds in my throat at the question, but I don’t think she’s trying to pressure me one way or the other. She’s simply asking. I blow out a deep breath and answer honestly.

  “All the time. But the reasons I ended it haven’t changed. I just wonder sometimes … if I did the right thing, should it hurt this much?” I huff in frustration then wave my hand at her. “Any sage advice?”

  “I wish my extra years gave me some magical piece of wisdom, but honestly? Life is hard. Getting back together with Graham will be hard. Getting over Graham will be hard.”

  “Geez, make me feel worse, why don’t you?”

  “Sorry! I mean that there isn’t one choice or path to take that will be one hundred percent right because nothing is. You just have to figure out what is most right for you, then work through the hard to get to the good.”

  It’s the truth. And like life, the truth is hard.

  * * *

  Graham

  If I was hoping to find redemption once I got out of prison, I’d say I’ve done a pretty shitty job of it so far. It seems like I haven’t so much redeemed myself as added to the list of things I need to make up for. But that changes now.

  The chief and Mr. Thatcher care about ensuring Mackenzie’s safety, but there are some things only I can do. At this point no risk is too great if it makes Eli disappear forever—no risk to me, that is. I’m not going to risk anyone else. Never again.

  But I have a couple of matters to take care of first.

  My lawyer is confused when I show up at his office unannounced. When he reads the paper I’ve just handed him, his eyebrows creep up toward the crown of his balding head.

  Really, I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. I kept it simple. A single piece of paper with my signature on it and a bullet point list of things I want him to use to make my will. In short, Mackenzie gets everything except for Griff’s Harley, which goes back to him, and an immediately accessible trust for Harry and Layla. Mackenzie will also receive control of the Rose and Tyler Wyatt Foundation, which is officially a thing, according to the paperwork that came in the mail yesterday. It shocked the shit out of me, because it feels like a lifetime ago that Mackenzie and I filled out that application together, back before everything went to shit. It seems fitting to leave it in her hands. She’ll probably do a hell of a lot better than I would making it worthy of my parents’ legacy.

  “Graham,” my lawyer says slowly, “as your lawyer and your friend, I have to say that I strongly advise against whatever you’re about to do that has you coming to me asking for a will.”

  “Just thinking ahead. Everyone dies sometime, right?” I keep my voice cheerful, as though I’m really only here to be responsible.

  “At twenty-three years old I’d hope that thought wasn’t so urgent you’d come to me with this.” He holds up the piece of notebook paper and the envelope with all the Foundation documents.

  “Are you saying no?” I ask. I peg him with a stare, a silent reminder of how much money I pay him.

  “No, I’ll do it, but—”

  “Great! Thanks.”

  I leave without giving him any further chance to lecture me.

  Later, I’m sitting at my kitchen counter, staring at the phone in my hands. I spent the whole afternoon writing a letter to Mackenzie that I hope she doesn’t have to read. And now there’s nothing left to do but set the wheels in motion.

  I tap out a text message to Eli and press “SEND” before I can change my mind.

  You crossed the line going after my girl. I want this to be over for good. Everyone has a price—what’s yours? Name a number and a meeting place.

  38. MISTAKES THAT GOOD MEN MAKE

  Mackenzie

  I keep telling myself to try and enjoy this time off from work, but I’m still unused to hanging around in my room on a random Tuesday afternoon. The weather is scorching, and my poor little window A/C unit is losing its battle against the heat. Which is why I’m sitting here perched atop the covers of my bed in only a sports bra and a pair of pink spandex yoga shorts so minuscule I cringe to think I used to wear them out of the house.

  My phone rings, the display showing a number I don’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mackenzie Thatcher?” asks a deeply melodic female voice.

  “Yes, speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “I’m Dr. Sade Hadiyah, I—”

  “Sade?” I interrupt. “As in Doc Shady?”

  She lets out a brief husky chuckle. “The very one. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised my reputation precedes me.” There’s a pause. “I pulled some strings with an old friend at BC to get your number. I understand it’s an intrusion of privacy and I apologize, but I just need a few minutes of your time. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I am. What do you need to talk to me about?”

  I hear her exhale a long breath.

  “I want to say first that I would usually never blur ethical lines in this w
ay, but it felt emergent. I’m afraid for Graham’s safety.”

  “Tell me,” I demand immediately.

  “He sent me an email that has me deeply concerned, and I’ve been unable to reach him by phone. The email includes an attached letter; he asked that I give it to you if something happened to him. I fear he’s going to do something very stupid, so much so that I’m breaking confidentiality and his trust by contacting you. But I suspect you are the only one who will be able to get through to him if he’s set on hurting himself.”