Pull (Push #2) (17 page)

Chapter 28

After Jenny

I am standing on the bridge trusses looking down at my own hands. My calloused palms are steady and composed, just like they are when I’m watching television or driving my truck. I’m waiting for the rush of pleasure to sink in and rattle through my bones. I’m waiting for the flood of adrenaline to pump out of my heart and set my body on fire. I’m waiting to feel
epic
again. Like I did the last time. Like I did after Elizabeth.

But epic doesn’t come. Because this time is different.

Maybe it’s different because I wasn’t mad at Jenny like I was at Elizabeth. Maybe it’s different because Jenny was not self-righteous or smug or demeaning like Kelsey. Jenny was nothing more than a disordered and distracted addict who was no better—or worse—than me. Jenny never made me feel inferior. She never lied to me. She never invited herself into my life only to turn around and judge the shit out of it. Maybe it’s different because I really didn’t
want
to push her. Not today, anyway. I had no rope, no premeditation, no desire. Not at first, anyway.

We’ve sat on these bridge trusses more times than I can count. Yes, I’ve thought about the day this might happen. Yes, I’ve anticipated the pleasure of its possibility—how could I not? And yes, I’ve looked out over the river and considered how and when it would happen. In fact, I’ve looked forward to it since the day Jenny first said “I love you,” and I replied, “You shouldn’t.” But I didn’t think it would be today. And I sure as hell didn’t think it would happen in a moment of sadness.

I’m not impulsive. Things like this require planning and summation. They should not be brash and reckless. But today…today they were. Today, my brain seems to have temporarily swapped some sort of idiotic emotion for control. Though I still wholly manipulated and directed every word and movement, my brain and body were hasty. Greedy, even, in the actual act of pushing her. It wasn’t time. I wasn’t ready. But the alien and searing unfamiliarity of sadness caught me by surprise and made me act with more impulsiveness than I have since I was a child.

We came here to talk. We came here to do what we always do here. To smoke and drink and converse. When I asked Jenny if she would die for me, if she felt the kind of love my mother told me about, and she said yes, I was happy. Because it meant that we were alright. It confirmed that she cared about me, that she really did feel the kind of love you would die for. But then, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to ask her to prove it, and when she told me the whole thing was only metaphorical, I got sad. Really sad. What if she’s right? What if that kind of love is nothing more than a heap of metaphorical bullshit? And even if it does exist, what if my own selfishness makes it impossible for anyone to be able to love me like that?

Jesus.

The thought lashed at me. If Jenny’s right, why the hell should I keep on caring? About her, about me, about anything? Why should I give a fuck about today or tomorrow or any other day for that matter? If the only thing I’ve ever wanted is
metaphorical,
why bother to keep existing?
Fuck her
for pointing out the possibility that the kind of love a person would die for
does not even exist
at all
. Her words swept despair into my soul, and hopelessness entered my mind for the first time in what felt like forever.

It was easier to push her than it was to contemplate what would happen next if I didn’t.

When she hit the water, there was satisfaction. But there was not pleasure. There was nothing epic about it, and there still isn’t. It feels good to have removed the questions, to have controlled the moment as I did, but spontaneity born of sadness is clearly not as gratifying as obsessive preparation and methodical execution. I know this—hell, I’ve always known this—and I will not forget it again. I will never again allow myself to be fueled by sadness and despair.

I lift a calloused hand and run it up my arm and over my biceps. My fingers land on Jenny’s hummingbird. They touch it lightly, stroking its purple and green feathers, feeling its weakness and doubt. Feeling her. I will never lose myself like that again. I am not her. I am not weak. And I sure as shit am not sad. Not anymore. And I never will be again.

Chapter 29

David—Present Day

It’s dark out now, but the air is still close. The humidity fills my lungs with its thick vapor, causing more fear to clot in my throat. When I step off the porch, I quickly glance up and down the street, looking for any sign of Brad’s car, any sign that Emma is nearby. When I see the street is lined with only a handful of beat-up SUVs, a minivan, and two shabby sedans, I know I’m going to have to go find Cameron and his phone on Beacon Street. For a second, I consider running there, but I know my car will get me there far faster than my legs. The bar is only eight blocks away, but I can’t shake the feeling that every second somehow counts. I jump into my car, turn the key, and floor it to the corner of Beacon and 14th.

                                                        ----------------------------------------

Luna’s is like a parade of hopefulness smothered in makeup and cologne. A line of people sit at the bar, their heads bobbing up and down like pistons fueled by alcohol and exhibitionism. Everyone wants attention. Everyone wants to be noticed. Everyone wants to be at the center of someone else’s universe, if only for this one night. The place is full of twenty- and thirty-somethings, all with shit to prove. All with motives and dreams. All looking to score, both literally and figuratively. And amongst this mass of needy humanity, I see Cameron. He’s on the opposite side of the room, with his back to me. He’s sitting on a barstool with a pool cue in his left hand and a beer bottle in his right. There’s a girl standing next to him. Hell, she’s not standing
next
to him. She’s standing
in
him, between his open knees. Her hand is resting in the crook of his arm, the one holding the pool cue, and she’s flickering her goddamned eyelashes at him like she’s the fucking Queen of Sheba. There’s no doubt about what she wants, and there’s no doubt that Cameron is more than happy to give it to her. I’m not talking about sex, though I’m sure they both want that, too. I’m talking about consideration. About how clearly she wants to maintain his attention. They’re both happy to have someone else’s eyes on them. To be part of the
game
.

It’s funny to see him this way, commanding another human being’s attention like he is. And a girl’s, nonetheless. Except for the brief moment he was in my face stupidly threatening me about what happened with Nikki, Cameron is sorely lacking in the self-confidence department. He always plays second fiddle to Brad and the rest of the guys. But seeing him here, seemingly by himself, is giving me a glimpse of what he might really be like when the rest of us aren’t bearing down on him. Cameron is, in essence, our little coolie; important but yet not. And though I’m caught off guard by his impressive and surprising show of confidence, I don’t let it alter my mission. I need his goddamned phone—girl or no girl.

“Hey, Cam,” I say when I’ve managed to push my way over to him and the Queen of Sheba.

“David! Hey, what’s up? What’re you doing here?” He pauses for a second, narrows his eyes at me, and adds, “Is that my shirt?” I haven’t been at Luna’s for a couple of months, so I know he’s surprised by my appearance. And by the fact that Emma isn’t here with me. His eyes are liquored over and his speech is already slurred. I suddenly want to wish the girl good luck.

“Long story. I’ll tell you later. Right now I just need to use your phone.” I don’t mean it to sound so sharp, but I can’t help it. My anxiety over Emma’s whereabouts is stirring up my insides.

“What? Why? Where’s yours?” The girl looks over at me, her eyes and mouth pouty over the game’s interruption. I look back at her and tip my chin in acknowledgement of her presence and to let her know I don’t plan to take up much of his time.

“It’s broken, and I need to call Brad. He’s with Emma, and I don’t know where they are.” I keep my voice calm.

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course, man.” He stands up from the stool and hands his beer to the girl for safe-keeping. He digs into his front pocket and pulls out his phone, entering his passcode then handing it to me.

“I’m going to step outside for this,” I tell him, “but I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m finished.”

“No worries.” He takes his beer back from the girl and leans the pool cue against the wall. As I look down at the phone to bring up his contact list, I watch Cam’s arm wrap around the girl’s waist in my peripheral vision. I press Brad’s name and lift the phone to my ear just as I turn away from them to make my way back out the front door. But before I leave, I can’t help but give Cam some mental props for finally acting like a big boy instead of a chicken shit.

                                          -----------------------------------------------------

I squeeze the phone between my ear and my shoulder and pull a cigarette out of my pocket, lighting it and inhaling deeply as soon as I’m out the door. The smoke opens my lungs and settles my unraveling nerves. The phone rings four times before someone picks up.

“Yo, Cam. What’s up?” It’s Brad’s voice. I swear on the heart of everything holy that I am going to reach through this phone and strangle the man for sounding so casual. Motherfucking asshole. Fuck him.

“I don’t know. You tell me.” My voice is rock-solid, the nicotine already buzzing through my veins, somehow serving to keep me in check.

“David? Is that you?”

There is a long pause during which I carefully line up my words. I will not explode. I will stay calm. Just like always.

“Yes, it’s me. What’s going on? Where are you? Where’s Emma?” There is no anger in my tone, only curiosity, even though I want to nail the shit-wad to a cross.

“We just pulled into Cam’s driveway. Emma already ran into the house to look for you, even though your car isn’t here. Where are
you
?” he asks in return. Relief and anger—psychotic, raging anger—course through me. I take a deep breath.

Calm. Control. Calculate.

“I
was
there. I waited, but when you didn’t show, I went to Luna’s looking for Cam. I don’t have your cell number. Remember? Where the hell have you guys been?”

Calm. Control. Calculate.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry, man. I forgot about that. But, hell, we’re not
that
late. Maybe like, what, twenty minutes or something? Dude, you’ve got to chill, man. I’ve got your girl. She’s fine. We’re fine. I had to finish something up at my place before I went over to get her and I was fucking starved, so I stopped at BK. Come back to Cam’s. We’ll be here. Got you a burger, too.”

I will not be eating a burger. I’ll be showing that cocksucker where he belongs.

“Tell Emma I’ll be there in three minutes.”

“Uh…you’re welcome?”

“You’ll get your thank-you when I get there, don’t worry.” The composure in my voice is amusing, in a twisted kind of way.

“Oh, cool. You pick up a case on your way to Cam’s?”

“You’ll see.”

“Excellent. See you soon.”

I press the
End
icon as I turn and walk back into Luna’s to return Cam’s phone.

                                          --------------------------------------------------

By the time I pull back into Cam’s driveway, my words and actions are already carefully selected. I leave the gun in the car, stuffed under the seat, because I don’t need the temptation.

I walk up the front steps, and the moment I open the door, Emma is wrapped around me, her arms folded around my neck, my hands squeezing into her waist. A stab of relief pushes into me when I see her, safe and sound, right here in front of me. Her skin is hot; I can feel it through her shirt. Its temperature screams at me, letting me know we’re still two of the same. We are both spitting fire—but probably for different reasons.

After a minute or two, she loosens her grip, and her eyes meet mine. I see worry and shock and anger in them. She’s mad at me for not being where I was supposed to be, for causing her to worry. But there’s anxiety there, too. She’s concerned about me and where I was and what happened that kept me from her. Then, after a long second passes, she unwraps her arms and lightly places her fingers on my bruised eye. Her gaze moves down to my mouth, to where the flesh of my lip is split in two. She touches it gently as her eyes narrow in question.

“Are you okay? Where were you?” she says quietly. Suspiciously.

“Just give me a minute, okay?” I say, putting my forehead against hers and breathing in.

“Okay.” She drops her hands and steps back.

I walk past her to the kitchen table. To where Brad is sitting and eating out of a BK paper bag. He grins up at me between bites.

“What?” he says, his voice cocky and his shoulders raised in a small shrug.

“You stopped at BK?”

“Yeah, man. I was hungry. I figured Emma probably was, too, though she denied it up and down,” he says cheerily. Then I see his head push forward as he notices my face. “Whoa. What the fuck happened to your eye?”

He puts down his burger and stands up to get a closer look at my face. The moment he’s up on his feet, my right hand squeezes into a fist and I belt him, my knuckles meeting the left half of his face with a crisp thud. His head shifts to the opposite side, vibrating with the aftershock. He straightens himself and lifts his arm to swing back at me, but before he can even begin to throw a punch, I land another hard hit to his jaw. He falls backward, onto the floor. I think for a second that I cold-cocked him, but he isn’t unconscious. He’s just splayed out on the floor, looking up at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.

I bend at the waist, over his body, and stab my finger at him.

“You just made your last mistake.”

Brad doesn’t move. He doesn’t try to stand or even blink. He’s just staring at me the way a lamb eyes a sheepdog, waiting to see what it’s going to do next. I straighten and turn to walk over to Emma. She’s still standing by the open front door. Her mouth is a tight line, and her arms are slack at her sides. I see the glow underneath her skin and it makes my stomach knot.

“Let’s go.” I put my hand at the base of her spine and guide her out the door.

                                          ----------------------------------------------------

We ride back to our place in silence. I’m waiting for her to talk. For her to start asking questions. But she doesn’t say a word. Is she mad at me? What for? For not showing up? For punching Brad? For worrying her? I don’t know what to say. I have no fucking clue what she needs to hear to make it all better. I’ve never had to deal with “the silent treatment” before—if that’s what this is—and more than anything, I wish Clive were here to school me on what I’m supposed to do next. But I have to fly solo, so I think carefully about my words as we pull into the parking lot and I shut off the engine. Normally, her anger would fire me up. Excite me. But not this time. Because this time, she’s a different kind of mad. And it’s not amusing. It’s terrifying.

“Emma,” I say, looking down at the keys in my hand. “I’m really sorry I wasn’t there to pick you up. Some weird shit happened today, and my phone got smashed and so I didn’t have anyone else’s number. I had to call Brad, but I swear I told him to go straight to your place. I didn’t know he was going to take so damn long. I thought something bad had happened, and I just needed to know you were okay. Don’t be mad at me for hitting him, okay? Please? He deserved it. I told him what to do and he took too damn long to do it, and I needed to let him know that that wasn’t okay.”

“I’m not mad at you for hitting Brad,” she says, turning her face to me.

“Then what are you mad about?” I ask, sounding both penitent and confused.

“The thing is…I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m so fired up. The whole night was just a crazy mess, and I’m having a hard time piecing it all together. I don’t actually think I’m mad, really. I’m just confused, you know? I feel a little lost.” Her face lightens and I see her shoulders relax. The anger is fading.

“Yeah, well, me, too.”

“I’m just so glad that you’re okay. Tell me what happened and we can go from there.” She lifts her hands to my face and brushes my cheeks with her thumbs. Her touch sends a wisp of reassurance up through my throat, clearing away the lump of worry and allowing me to breathe again.

“Just tell me first that this had nothing to do with my brother,” she adds, dropping her hands from my face and putting them on her lap. She looks nervous and fragile. My body immediately tightens.

“What?” I say, as calmly as I can muster. I can’t believe she’s still thinking about him. Still letting her fucked-up family control her thoughts. “Is that what you thought? You thought Ricky
got
me or something? Hell no, it had nothing to do with your brother. I already told you, you don’t need to worry about him anymore. He got what he wanted. And he has way more reasons to stay away than he does to come back.”

This conversation has just turned into a confirmation. A confirmation of my need to put the proverbial nail in Ricky’s coffin. I can’t let her be burdened by him anymore. I didn’t do what I just did only to watch her crumble under the weight of her brother’s existence. I’m done watching her suffer.

“The thing is…he doesn’t need a reason. He never has,” she says. “And frankly, I didn’t know what else to think. I didn’t know what else it could’ve been. I was frantic, and that’s what popped into my head.”