Текст книги "Heartbreaker"
Автор книги: Cole Saint Jaimes
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 8 страниц)
THREE
ESSIE
Usually I enjoy working at Blossom, enjoy chatting with our regulars, with my co-workers, but today, I can’t help clock-watching and count down the minutes until my shift is over at four. Because when this shift is over, I have eight whole days off to hang out, enjoy the holidays, and spend some time with my brother (who doesn’t have as many days off, but still). It’s December 23rd, only two more days till Christmas, which means only two more days until I can give Vaughn the present that I’ve been saving months for—an iPad. He’s never had something like that of his own before, and I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he opens it.
When four o’clock finally rolls around, it’s started to snow. A thick white mantle of the stuff quickly coats every available surface. I zip up my jacket as I step outside, and I pull my phone out. Vaughn called once while I was working, but it was busy so I let it go to voicemail. I see that he’s called several more times, which is a little strange, though he never left any messages. I give him a call back, but it goes to voicemail.
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry I wasn’t able to pick up the phone earlier. It was really busy today. But I’m heading home now. You already there? I’ll see you soon!”
The streets are packed with cars and the sidewalks are crowded with people, but nothing can bring my good mood down. Vaughn was only working a half day at the bike shop, so he should be home when I get there, and our “staycation” can commence. We’re going to watch movies, eat junk food, and just hang out. I know to some people that probably sounds pretty low key, maybe even boring, but I can’t wait.
No one’s home when I get there, though, so I plug the tree in, put the kettle on for tea. Vaughn might’ve had some last minute Christmas shopping to do, or maybe he went to pick up some takeout for us to have for dinner tonight.
I go into my room, into my tiny closet and get the iPad. It’s wrapped in red paper with silver ribbon. I look at it, trying to picture the look on his face when he opens it, then I decide to bring it out and put it under the tree. We won’t open presents until Christmas Day, of course, but it’ll be fun for him to try to guess what it is. There’s no way he’s going to know.
I make myself a cup of tea and then putter around a little, wondering where the hell my tardy ass brother is. I check my phone, but he hasn’t called or texted. I try calling him but again, it goes to voicemail.
An anxious feeling begins to gnaw at me, but I ignore it, telling myself that I’m getting worked up for no reason, that Vee will be home at any moment, that it’s silly to worry. I have plenty of things to do while I’m waiting for his ass anyway. I take a shower, and telling myself that by the time I get out he’ll be home. When that turns out to be false, I start ferociously tidying the living room. I actually say out loud before starting, “Vaughn will walk through the door by the time I’m done.”
Except we still don’t have a ton of stuff, so cleaning doesn’t take that long.
I do this for the next several hours, finding meaningless tasks to engage in, trying to convince myself at the end of each one, my brother will be home, or will have called, or texted. Or something. Anything. Where the hell is he? Where the hell is he, the inconsiderate bastard? He should have at least phoned.
Finally, the phone rings.
I snatch it up, but it’s not Vaughn, it’s Max.
“Hi,” I say, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.
“Essie.” Max’s voice sounds off, like he’s choking on something. The voice on the other end of the line almost doesn’t sound like him. God, straight away I know something’s wrong. I grip the phone tightly.
“Max, what is it? Is Vee with you?”
“Oh, Jesus.” He exhales harshly, the sound rattling through the receiver. My stomach clenches, twisting painfully. “Essie? Essie, I don’t…Fuck, I’m no good at this shit.”
“What, Max? C’mon, you’re freaking me out. You’re scaring me.”
The line is silent for a painful second. In that second, I know my entire life is over. I know, with a sinking sense of fatality, that if I hear what Max is about to say, nothing will be the same again. My brother’s best friend pulls in a deep, ragged breath and says the words I’m terrified to hear. “He was in an accident, Essie. His truck was totaled.”
The room pitches sideways. “Oh god. Is he…is he badly hurt?” Somehow, some part of my brain is still clinging to the hope that Vaughn’s alive. That he has multiple bone fractures. That maybe he’s paralyzed. That would be terrible, but we could deal with it. He could stay home. I would work. I would take care of us, the same way he took care of me. Max’s next words crush every last remaining scrap of hope I might have, though.
“He…he suffered major internal injuries, Essie. He died on the scene. I’m so, so sorry.”
The whole world seems to stop, like it gets sucked inward, and all that’s left is me, nothing else, no one else, just myself and this horrible pain that has started, that is raging through my entire body. Except I can’t quite feel it, it’s muted somehow, but it will come on full force if I move. So I won’t move. I will just stand here forever, the phone pressed against my ear, Max saying my name.
“Essie? Essie? Are you still there, Essie?”
I am, Max, but I can’t move. Can’t speak. If I do, that will make everything you’ve just said true. And that can’t happen.
“I’m coming over, Essie. I’ll be right over.” He hangs up. I’m still standing there, phone against my ear, when he gets there, half an hour later.
FOUR
AIDAN
Well, look at that. It’s eleven-thirty and I’m loading my board onto the Jeep, seconds from heading to the beach. The plane Alex arranged for me to be on took off an hour ago. I could be wrong about the time, though. I gave the ticket that arrived this morning—express post, like my fuckhead brother’s never heard of email confirmation—to my friend Brewster. His rolling papers weren’t quite cutting it, and that motherfucking ticket was just the right thickness for blunt building.
If me missing the flight means Alex is going to make the pilgrimage down here in order to drag me back to Chicago, well…I’d like to see that. It’ll be entertaining as fuck, I’m sure. No way am I spending Christmas in that barren winter wasteland my brother likes to call home. No, today I’m visiting Celeste, the short blonde with the perky tits I hooked up with last weekend. We’re planning on celebrating Christmas a little early. Our festivities will involve a full three-hour sixty-nine session, and I’m sure there’ll be some reverse cowgirl to finish off the session. Celeste has a mirrored wall in her bedroom and likes to watch herself getting fucked.
My dick’s already hard as I’m driving over to her place, thinking about fucking her, thinking about how badly my tongue’s gonna ache from three hours of eating pussy, when my cell phone starts to go off.
It’s bound to be Alex, realizing that I’m not on that motherfucking plane.
“Ohhhh. Yeah. Fuck you, man.” I hit the reject button. The phone rings again less than a second later. Again, I hit the big red icon, cutting him off. “Eat a big bag of dicks, man.”
I should just get a new number is what I should do. The third time when it starts to ring, I actually fumble the damn thing in my haste to make it shut the hell up. I get a good look at the screen, and I realize it’s not my brother, after all. The A at the beginning of the caller ID isn’t for Alex like I assumed it was. It’s for Arturo. Arturo Mendel, our family lawyer for the past thirty years. He’s been around longer than I’ve been alive. Seeing his name light up my cellphone’s screen is a little strange. Strange enough that I’m compelled to answer the phone.
“Hey, Art. What’s up?”
“Aidan? Aidan, I can barely—are you there?” A wave of static blasts down the phone, and then Arturo’s broken speech again. “—driving? Can—terrible. Sorry, I—” His words are scrambled, but there’s a tension in his tone that I can hear plainly down the distorted line. My father’s probably taking steps to cut me out of the will and good ol’ Art wants me to call home and make nice. When we were kids, Alex and I used to call the old guy Art the Fart. He’s one of those people who seem like they’ve been old forever and ever. He looks a little like a Jewish E.T. now.
Anyways. Nothing like a call from the family lawyer to make you lose your erection. It was Arturo, actually, who walked in on me in the pool house when I was fifteen and losing my virginity. The man certainly has a knack for these sorts of things. Boner killer extraordinaire. If he got a hard on himself, he’d likely have a heart attack, keel over and die. Also, Alex has always been his favorite, though I’m sure he’d deny it if you were to ask.
I sigh. “I didn’t hear a word of what you just said, man. Did Alex recruit you to convince me to come home? Let me just save us all some time, okay? It’s not gonna happen. The sun’s out. It’s eighty-three degrees today. I’m just coming off the beach, and I’m heading over to this girl’s house. I’m going to screw her brains out. You have taken a vow of celibacy, but trust me when I tell you that fucking in eighty-degree weather, no matter how sweaty your balls get, is far better than being stuck in Chicago in the dead of winter.”
“Aidan, now’s not the—”
“I know, I know. Now’s not the time to be talking about sweaty balls. Yours must be frozen solid. Whatever. The point is, I am not leaving Hawaii. Not for Alex. Not for you. Not for the Callahan Corporation or any other goddamn—”
“Aidan! Your parents—”
“And especially not for my parents. Dad hasn’t even bothered to call in three months. I’m glad he’s retiring now. Maybe that means he can drag his wrinkled ass around the golf course and remember what it’s like to actually move his body. Maybe, with all his new found free time, he could actually call his other son!”
“He’s dead, Aidan! Your parents, Alex… all three of them. They’re dead.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I grind my teeth together, pulling the Jeep off to the side of the road. This is a new one. I’ve heard, we’ll cut you off. I’ve heard, your mother misses you. Believe it or not, I’ve even had Alex tell me my ex girlfriend Hannah was home from her stint in Africa with Doctors Without Borders, and that she was willing to consider dating me again, so long as I agreed to take an executive position within the Callahan Corporation. Unbelievable, right? I am yet to hear the ‘they’re all dead’ bit.
Interesting.
“Listen, Art. I already told Alex the answer was no. The answer is still no, and will always be no. Pretending they died is definitely a ballsy change in tack, but it’s not going to make a difference
Arturo remains silent. At least I think he does. And then his voice rattles out of the speaker on my cell phone, all of a sudden crytsal clear. He says. “—not pretending! Your brother was driving your parents to the fundraiser last night. It was late. Alex was tired. They should have left hours earlier than they did. I should have driven them home. I’m—I’m so sorry.” The noise on the other end of the line no longer sound like static, but more like crying. Uncontrollable, soul-wrenchingly pained, distraught crying.
A cold chill runs from the crown of my head, down through my body, settling in the backs of my knees. What a bizarre sensation. “Art? Art, what—what do you mean?”
“I should have called them a cab or something. None of us were drunk, but still…it all just happened so quickly. The police think Alex fell asleep at the wheel. I was meant to meet your father this morning. I—”
Holy fuck, he’s not joking. My grip tightens on the phone, my vision suddenly dimming. How can he not be fucking joking? “Art? Art, slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.” My heart feels like it’s galloping in my chest, like it’s trying to flee the scene of the crime. This can’t be fucking real. It can’t be. I hold my breath, waiting for Art to start explaining so I can stop him a second later, telling him that none of it can be possible because my father, Jeremy August Callahan, the man who raised me would never have allowed himself such an arbitrary death. A car crash? No. The old man was always determined to go out skydiving or running a marathon or some shit. Not drooling on the backseat of his Mercedes Benz.
“I’m so, so sorry, Aidan.”
“So, Alex…this is Alex’s fault?” I’m having trouble even computing that. My brain just won’t comprehend it. Alex, the goddamn saint. Alex, next in line to the throne. Alex, the guy who’s been fucking perfect since we were kids. How can he be to blame for this?
“I’m afraid it’s looking like th—” The line breaks again. I press my chest against the steering wheel, holding the phone to my head, holding my breath, like these actions will somehow make the connection better. “That’s not all,” Art says. “The car crashed through the barrier into oncoming traffic. There…there was another car involved, too. A truck.”
Oh god. It feels like there are razor blades grinding against the bone of my ribs. Fuck. “And the other driver? How many people were in the other car?” I can imagine two angelic, curly haired children sleeping, feeling the impact, waking, screaming…
“Just the driver. He was the only person in the truck at the time. He was badly injured on the scene. It looked like he might make it for a moment, apparently, but his injuries were just…”
“Fatal.”
“Yes.”
I think I’m going to throw up. “What…what am I supposed to do?”
“Come home, Aidan. Please. Come home.”
The line goes dead.
I kill the Jeep’s engine and climb out of the car. Above me the sky is a deep blue, the breeze warm. The sun carries on blazing regardless, completely oblivious to the fact that my life just ended. The air smells sweet, like coconuts. A car, a red convertible, zooms past me, the laughter of the girls inside it washing over me. Happy people, going about their business. Just a few moments ago, I was one of them. But now this.
Now, I don’t think I’ll be happy ever again.
FIVE
ESSIE
The hole of depression I fall into is endless. I keep expecting Vaughn to show up. I keep expecting to hear his voice, or to get a text message from him, but nothing. He’s gone. I can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing. It’s like my brain’s been hot-wired and the only thing it’s now capable of registering is pain.
Pain comes in a dizzying array of disguises. There’s the physical pain of it—my throat scraped and raw, my eyes swollen, tear ducts incapable of producing any more tears. My body, completely exhausted but unable to sleep. Then there’s the mental anguish. My thoughts run on this endless vicious loop. Why him? Why us? Why now, when things were finally looking up?
Those missed calls on my phone plague me. Why didn’t I pick up? Why did I ignore it, thinking that I’d have time to talk to him later? That he could wait? The one thought that cycles through me over and over, refusing to give me peace or rest is this: Was he calling when he was dying? Was he calling me to say goodbye, and I fucking screened him because I didn’t want to get into trouble at work?
Max goes with me to the funeral home. His eyes are red and it looks like he hasn’t slept. We both walk in, stunned expressions on our faces. It’s a cruel fucking trick to be expected to organize a funeral when you feel like this. When you wake up and can’t believe that you’re actually awake, that you’re not still asleep, still dreaming, still having this nightmare that you know can’t actually be true.
But it is.
The director says he is very sorry for my loss, and then starts showing me caskets to choose from. Tears sting my eyes as I realize even the cheapest one is far more than I can afford. So what happens now? What happens when you can’t afford a casket, the most simple of pine boxes? I can’t help but think of Vaughn’s body, cold in the morgue. What are they going to do with it? What are they going to do with him if I can’t afford to bury him?
I’ve failed. There’s no other way around it. I have failed in every possible way. If it were the other way around, if it were me who was dead and Vaughn was trying to figure out a way to pay for the funeral, he’d do it, somehow. That’s just how he is. Was. Jesus, I can’t get used to using the past tense. He was always able to figure things out, always able to make sure that we got through okay. And now I can’t even do this one simple, important thing for him. My throat aches.
“I can’t be here right now.” I rush out of the place, barely able to make my legs work properly. It’s too much. This was not what was supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to be picking out a casket for my brother. I’m supposed to be watching the surprise on his face when he opens his Christmas present. We’re supposed to be watching movies and hanging out in our apartment, being grateful that, despite everything we’ve been through, life is finally working out.
Except it’s not, because everything is completely ruined, nothing is ever going to be okay again, and I can’t even afford to give my brother the memorial service that he deserves.
I go back to the apartment. I’ve spent the past few days with Max, but I need to be by myself. There’s part of me that knows, without even having to do the math, that there is no way I’m going to be able to continue paying rent here. I might be able to scrape together enough for another month, but with all the utilities, too? No way. It’s impossible.
I’m lying on the couch, staring off into space. I don’t know how long I’ve been like this—could be a few minutes, maybe a few hours. The phone is ringing. Perhaps it’s been ringing for a while or perhaps it just started. I pick it up and look at the screen, expecting it to be Max wondering how I am, wanting to know if he should come over, but it’s not Max. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I pick it up because I am suddenly certain that it’s Vaughn, that there’s been some sort of mistake, that he’s not dead, that there was a horrible mix up and he lost his phone and he’s calling me now from this unknown number.
“Hello?” My voice is little more than a whisper in my throat. “Vaughn?”
There’s a pause, and then the person on the other end clears their throat. “No,” the voice says. “Is this Essie Floyd?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Arturo Mendel.” There’s another pause. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, so I do instead.
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“I sincerely wish I did, my dear, but I’m afraid I don’t. I’m contacting you about your brother.”
My breath catches in my throat. I sit up quickly, body protesting at the sudden movement, but I ignore it. This Arturo Mendel suddenly has my full attention. “What? What did you say?”
“I’m calling on behalf of Aidan Callahan.”
Through the haze that’s permanently been clouding my mind, something sparks and catches. Some spark of recognition.
“Mr. Callahan asked me to offer his most sincere condolences to you in light of this tragic accident,” Mendel continues. Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve swallowed a wasp and it’s stinging me repeatedly in the throat. “Aidan would like to help you, Ms. Floyd. We’re aware that…” he trails off awkwardly. “We’re aware that your brother’s body is still at the county morgue.”
“That’s none of your damn business,” I whisper.
“We know how…expensive these things are.” He says these things like it would be impolite to say the word funeral. Like it’s a dirty word. “It’s Mr. Callahan’s most sincere wish that you would allow us to cover the costs of your brother’s funeral.”
I clench the phone so hard my hand starts to shake. A buzzing fills my head, like static electricity.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Mr. Callahan’s brother was the one responsible for killing my brother, wasn’t he?”
“Alex and both his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Callahan were in the car, yes. Aidan knows that no amount of money is going to bring your brother back. No amount of money will ease your pain. His thinking is merely that a little assistance in this terrible time would perhaps ease your—”
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” I cut him off mid-sentence, pure rage rising inside me like a tidal wave, consuming me from head to foot. “No! Absolutely not. I’m not taking shit from Mr. Callahan. My brother is dead. He is fucking dead because of the Callahan family. I don’t want anything from you. From him. I don’t—I can’t—” I’m hyperventilating, my breath growing shorter and shorter with each passing second.
“I understand this is a very difficult time for you, Ms. Floyd,” Mendel says softly. “That’s why you shouldn’t have the added stress of worrying about your finances right now. The funeral service, the coffin… let us take care of it. You want to honor your brother, don’t you?”
“Do you know me? Have we ever met before?”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
“Then how the fuck would you have any idea what my finances are like? And yes, my brother deserves the best and most beautiful memorial service in the entire fucking world. He was an amazing person who sure as shit didn’t deserve to die in a fucking wreck because some asshole fell asleep at the wheel, but I am not taking money from you. No fucking way. Do not call me again.”
I hang up the phone and fling it across the room, where it impacts with the wall and falls to the ground with a cracking sound. It’s undoubtedly broken. I don’t have the money to have it fixed or get a new one, but I honestly don’t give a shit. Not having a phone means Arturo Mendel can never call me back again, and right now that’s the only thing keeping me sane.
******
I don’t get up off the couch for the rest of the day. I lie awake all night, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but think about my brother, think about the fact that I’m never going to see him again. I watch through the window as the sky begins to lighten, as the sun begins to rise.
There’s no ceasing the incessant barrage of thoughts hitting me one after the other. What am I going to do? How am I going to get the money together for Vaughn’s memorial service? I finally force myself up to retrieve my phone off the floor. By some miracle, the screen hasn’t cracked after all. It’s still functioning. Well, I guess that’s one tiny thing I should be grateful for, though mustering up gratitude isn’t something I’ll be realistically able to do any time soon. I call the funeral home.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Floyd, but we can’t come down in cost anymore than that,” the director tells me. I’ve pled my case, and it’s fallen on deaf ears. He must hear this sort of thing all the time. He’s sympathetic, but he’s also running a business. With bizarre detachment, I find myself wondering how he sleeps, making a profit of the pain and suffering and loss of others. Probably on a mattress stuffed with hundred dollar bills.
His final figure is still way more than I will be able to afford.
“So are you seriously telling me that everyone else can afford a funeral? I am the only person in the world who can’t?”
“I’m not saying that at all. Many people have trouble paying for funeral costs. Many people don’t realize how expensive funerals can be. You’re not alone.”
“Oh, I feel so much better.”
“You don’t have any relatives that could help you out?”
“No. The only relative I had left was my brother, and now he’s dead. And all I want to do is be able to bury him, and you’re telling me that I can’t do that because I don’t have enough money.”
“We do take all major credit cards.”
“Which doesn’t help me because I don’t have any credit cards.”
There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Floyd. I’m not sure what to tell you.”
I hang up the phone. I feel nothing, and at the same time, I feel everything. I feel worse than I have ever felt, yet nothing I do will change that. My brain buzzes. Everything seems so goddamn surreal. I’m devastated, so completely hollow, that when Arturo Mendel calls back later that day to try to convince me to change my mind, I accept his offer. I mean, what other choice do I have?
I want to climb into Vaughn’s Callahan-bought coffin and be buried right alongside him.
