Reckless Hearts (8 page)

When he got
home, Jake raided the fridge in search of something sweet. Food sometimes distracted him from his worries, especially if it had the added benefit of giving him a sugar rush. He rifled through the freezer first, hoping for ice cream, maybe a nice untouched pint of Phish Food or a box of Popsicles from which he might be able to hoard all the red ones. But the freezer was empty except for a tray of chicken cacciatore, some bags of Chinese dumplings, an unopened block of butter, and a nearly empty carton of fancy olive-oil-and-rosemary sorbet, just the thought of which turned his stomach. He wished Cameron's personal shopper would just buy the trashy food that people actually liked to eat rather than
all this healthy, locally sourced crap.

In the fridge, he found some cured meats and fancy cheese, none of which he'd ever heard of before. This would have to do. He cut a hunk off the baguette on the counter and began assembling a sandwich. The house was quieter than usual, which pleased him. Maybe no one was home, and for once, Nathaniel wouldn't be around to antagonize him. Jake looked forward to sitting out on the porch and picking at his guitar between bites of his sandwich, gazing out at the sea, letting the sadness crash over him.

He could feel Elena drifting away from him already, leaving him lost and disoriented. This afternoon at the beach, they'd managed to eventually have a good time, pretending that nothing had changed between them. But now that he was home, he couldn't help but dwell on the limits of their relationship. Harlow was real. He couldn't deny it anymore. And if he was everything Elena thought he was, he'd inevitably take her away from Jake. He felt like there was a howling wind echoing through his heart, a screaming sadness that nobody but him could hear.

As he carried his plate through the big open living area toward the porch, he realized he wasn't as alone as he'd thought. There were people upstairs hidden behind one of the closed bedroom doors. He could hear their voices but not make out what they were saying.

Freezing midstep, Jake tipped his head and listened. Two people. Both male. It must have been Cameron and Nathaniel. From their tone, he could tell that they were arguing.

One of them shouted, “Because I don't give a fuck!”

Definitely Nathaniel.

A dread crept through Jake as he remembered his mom's quiet concern when he'd told her about how Nathaniel had destroyed his Dave Matthews photo. If this was about that, he could just imagine the petty and passive-aggressive ways Nathaniel would get back at him later.

Carefully stepping heel to toe, heel to toe, so that his Cons didn't squeak on the polished wood floors, Jake snuck up the stairs until he reached the landing halfway to the second floor. He could hear more clearly here.

“You're going to have to give a fuck.” That was Cameron.

“Why?” Even without seeing the guy, Jake could hear the petulance dripping like syrup off Nathaniel's words.

Cameron made a noise. A chuckle maybe. Jake wasn't quite sure. “If you have to ask . . . ,” he said.

This was a side of Cameron Jake had never encountered before, a controlling coarseness that brooked no dissent.

“Why do you care anyway? It's not like you ever care when
my
shit gets destroyed.”

They were definitely talking about the Dave Matthews photo. Jake tried to block out all the ambient sounds in the house and focus.

“When your shit gets destroyed, it's usually you doing the destroying.”

“Yeah. Whatever. If you'd let me stay at school over break like I usually do, I wouldn't
be able
to fuck up your charity case's shit. I'd be far away and you could go on slumming it with your new white-trash wife like you want to and everybody would be happy.”

“That didn't happen, though, did it?”

“Clearly not.”

“And why do you think that is?”

They were speaking in code about some long-hidden conflict. The darkness Jake had noticed between them at that first dinner seemed to be close to bursting out into the open. But Nathaniel said nothing, or nothing Jake could hear.

As the silence grew, Jake fought the urge to flee. He prepared himself to make an excuse about why he was standing on the stairs like this.
I was just heading up to the sunroom. It occurred to me that I hadn't checked out the art up here yet. This sandwich? Oh, I'd forgotten I had it.

“Maybe,” said Cameron, “just maybe, you'd do better making a friend out of Jake. You might just learn something.”

“Ha.”

“That's not a suggestion, Nate. It's a demand. Get your shit together. Jake's a good kid. Polite. I've been told he's talented. He works hard and doesn't assume anybody's going to—”

“He's a hick, Cameron. He's clueless. If you weren't fucking his mother, you'd realize he's the kind of guy who, when they come stay at your hotels, you have reception hide them away in one of the back rooms so that they don't embarrass the other guests.”

Was that a slap? Jake didn't want to know.

“He's a hell of a lot less embarrassing than you.”

Jake didn't want to hear any more. He shouldn't have been listening to begin with. But he couldn't stop. He wasn't sure how he felt about the way that Cameron was praising him. It was flattering, but also, this was
his son
he was talking to. If he treated his own flesh and blood this way, wasn't it possible that he'd one day turn on Jake and his mom, too? Maybe, maybe not. Jake didn't know nearly enough about the fraught history between his stepfather (and how weird it felt to call Cameron this) and Nathaniel to fully comprehend why they spoke to each other this way. The one thing
he did know was that the two of them were creeping him out. He didn't want to be held up as an example of anything. Not if it meant being sucked into their toxic relationship.

“One call to my lawyer, Nate,” Cameron said. “One call. And you'd realize how much less embarrassing Jake is than you.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“I would and I will, if you don't wise up and stop acting like an ungrateful little bastard.”

What were they talking about? Jake wasn't sure.

“You really want to get into this?” Nathaniel was shouting again. “You really want to do this? That's my money. You owe me that money. That's blood money.”

Were they talking about Nathaniel's trust fund? Jake definitely shouldn't have been listening to this. It was intrusive. It was just wrong. He wished he hadn't heard as much as he had, and he hoped that it didn't mess with his head.

Tiptoeing back down the stairs, he decided not to carry out his porch-sitting, guitar-playing plan. Better for them not to know he was home. He locked himself in his room. The fact that it had once been Nathaniel's seemed more significant now. It made him uncomfortable, like he'd done something wrong without even knowing it.

He wasn't hungry for the sandwich. He didn't even know, anymore, why he'd made it. Leaving it on the desk, he lay down on the bed and tried to clear his head.

He longed to talk to Elena, to tell her about the craziness he'd just witnessed. What if she were here right now? He'd feel better. He could just see her on the edge of the bed with her chin in her knees, eyes wide in disbelief. He could hear her saying,
Wow. These are definitely rich people's problems.

She'd be wearing that bright blue bikini she'd had on today, totally unself-conscious about how it clashed with her Doc Martens or how exposed her body was. And Jake wouldn't be able to stop himself from noticing the smoothness of her thighs, the way her strawberry mark peeked out of the lip of her bikini bottoms like it was teasing him, urging him to imagine everything else hidden there.

She'd been so beautiful today. She'd glowed. Maybe it was because she was falling in love. But why couldn't she be falling in love with him?

He imagined her leaning in and kissing his neck. He'd be unable to resist peeking down her top and she'd notice but she wouldn't make a scornful face. She'd ask him, “Do you want to see what's under there?”

And he'd nod, so full of aching desire that he wouldn't even be able to talk. She'd stare into his eyes and as she held his gaze, she'd reach behind her to untie her top.

It would be like there was a chain of energy connecting them to each other.

They'd fall into each other. They'd fall together. And they'd never hit the ground.

Nina and Matty
had apparently made up. Elena hadn't been sure what they'd been fighting about this time, but clearly, whatever it was, they'd forgotten, because here Matty was, acting like a big man, barking at the basketball game on the television, running his hand like a comb over his faux hawk. Waving his arms and yelling for Nina to shut up every time her chatter threatened to interrupt his focus on a possibly killer play. Nina yelled right back. Yelling was their default mode. That and blasting speed metal so they had to shout every single thing they said even louder, like they thought they were in a dark, trashy bar when actually they were camped out in the living room.

Just another Monday night in Chez Rios, thought Elena as she slinked through to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

When she returned to the living room, Matty had a shot of vodka in his hand. He held it to his lips, and extended his other arm straight out like he was preparing to brace himself for a fall. Then in one swift motion he tipped his head back, swallowed the shot, and squished up his tight, angry rodent face.

Nina drank from a tall tumbler of orange juice that Elena knew from the quickly dwindling bottle of Grey Goose was spiked with vodka.

“Nina—” Elena said. She had to yell to be heard over the music.

But before she could articulate her warning, her sister barked back at her, “What? It's just juice.” She stared at Elena, daring her to call her bluff, and then went on, “Anyway, we're celebrating.”

“Oh?” said Elena. “What are you celebrating?”

“That it's Monday,” Matty said.

“And Matty just got paid,” added Nina.

Elena didn't even want to know how that had happened. She was pretty sure that they were partying—where Matty went, cocaine always followed, especially after he'd somehow landed a wad of cash, and she'd seen the telltale dust on the hub of his thumb.

“Can you at least turn the music down?” she said.

Matty shot her a shit-eating grin. “That would defeat the purpose,” he said.

Back in her room, she gazed at the
Cowboy Bebop
poster. It swayed to the shaking of the wall behind it. That's how loud Matty had turned the thrash.

But what was she going to do? Get into it with Nina about how she was pregnant and should think of the child and didn't that mean anything to her? She was sick of pointing out obvious stuff, like that when things were good with Matty they started going very bad in every other way.

She just didn't have the energy tonight, and anyway, it's not like Nina would listen to her. Elena kept telling herself that being here was somehow keeping her family from falling apart, but lately, she was beginning to realize that she might be lying to herself. Did staying at home change anything or anyone? Was she just trying to live up to some expectation that her mother had? Was it all a waste of time?

There was only one thing to do. Flee. Leave the chaos behind her for her father to find when he got home at three in the morning from the Laundromat.

So that's what Elena did. She threw on her black hoodie and slung her backpack over her shoulder and slipped out the door.

Outside, the air was brisk. A little chilly. She huddled in her sweatshirt and gazed down Greenvale Street at
the identical bungalows, differentiated only by the scale of Christmas decoration in their front yards. She wasn't really thinking about where she would go; instead she just let her legs take her somewhere, anywhere.

Old habits died hard. Not two minutes later, she found herself knocking on the door of the empty house where Jake used to live, waiting for him to open up and bug his eyes and say, “Nina again?” But he didn't. He wasn't there. The windows were all dark. The porch light was not only off, but it didn't even have a bulb in it anymore. And she'd have to find new ways to cope with her life.

At least she could call him now that they'd come to a tentative truce this afternoon. Jake on the phone was better than no Jake at all. He'd still be able to laugh at the absurdity of her life with her.

Digging through her backpack, she pulled out her cell. And just as she was about to dial Jake's number, it rang and it wasn't Jake. She didn't know who it was, actually.

For a second she thought maybe she shouldn't answer. But she couldn't resist. It might be Harlow.

“Hello?” she said. “Who's this?”

“Who do you think?” said a voice. It was male. She noticed that it had a tone to it, a confidence, a power.

“Harlow?”

“Hope you're not too disappointed.”

Elena grinned despite her bad mood. Now that she was actually talking to him, she didn't quite know what to say.

“Am I calling at a bad time or something?” he asked.

“No, not at all. I'm just . . .” She caught herself before she foolishly launched into a harangue about Nina and Matty. She was a little intimidated by him—by actually hearing his voice. It was one thing to flirt with someone online. Talking to them for real was a whole other ball game. She didn't want him to hear her upset like this, not if it might lead him to like her less. “Hanging out,” she finally said. “What's up with you?”

“Oh, you know. Just sitting here twiddling my thumbs and thinking about my favorite anime girl. You gonna tell me what's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing's wrong. What do you mean?”

“You sound . . . edgy. Like something's going on.”

Was it that obvious? She took off, speed-walking across Jake's old lawn and down the block hoping that the movement would burn off the frustration that even talking to Harlow hadn't displaced.

“Nothing's going on. Well, something's going on, but it doesn't matter. I'm fine,” she said.

“You're fine. Okay. I'll believe that, like, never.”

“It's stupid. I mean, it's not stupid. It's horrible and depressing and it's my life but—or, you know what, it
is
stupid. I don't want to bother you with it.”

What was she doing? Babbling, that's what. She chastised herself.
Get it together, Elena.

“That's too bad,” he said, graciously overlooking the gibberish dripping out of her mouth. “I love being bothered. Other people's problems are so much more interesting than my own.”

Elena hedged. She was walking quickly, not anywhere specific, just walking. As though walking fast enough would allow her to outrun her life.

“Or don't,” said Harlow. “Be that kind of person.”

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd said, “My sister's pregnant.”

“Is she twelve?” Harlow asked.

Elena laughed despite herself. “No. She—”

“Then what's the problem?”

“I thought you wanted to listen to this.”

“Sorry. Bad joke. I'll listen.”

He waited, silently, as she tried to formulate how to say what she meant. It was hard to decide where to begin. While she was thinking, she tripped over a lip of sidewalk. She caught herself before she fell, and, looking around, she realized that she was near the boundary of her neighborhood. The bungalows were beginning to give way to more modern ranch-style houses. She headed uphill along Sunrise toward Seminole Park.

“She's twenty,” Elena finally said. “Nina. That's her name. And I don't know. She's, like . . . really overweight.
Like, obese. I'm not trying to be judgey. It's just true. And so, fine. Whatever. She's always been big. She can't really help that. But so, she's got all these complications with the pregnancy and . . .” What was she doing? She wasn't being articulate in any way. Harlow must have been thinking she was a half-wit. “This isn't making sense,” she said. “Let me start over.”

“It's making sense. Just—what's that they say?—use your words,” he said.

“She's got this boyfriend. Matty,” she went on, anger building inside her. “He's a total shitbag. I mean, at least he's around. He didn't jump and run as soon as he found out she was pregnant, but . . . he's a fucking cokehead, and she's, like . . . I worry about her. And tonight, they were . . . Matty. He reels her in and gets her to do things that . . .”

She was crying. She felt like a total fool.

“. . . and I think about that baby and . . .”

She should just shut up. Just stop now before she lost all dignity.

“So you're worried about her,” said Harlow.

“Yeah,” said Elena. Then she blurted out, “But she's so fucking clueless. And, like, self-destructive sometimes.”

“But still. You love her.”

“Of course I do. She's my sister.”

“That's what makes life so hard,” Harlow said.
“Sometimes you don't even like the people you love, but whether you like them or not doesn't really matter. You're connected to them. You can't help but want to do absolutely anything to protect them. To make their lives better. I think about the people I've loved in my life, and I don't know, I wish I'd been nicer to them. You don't realize it right now, maybe, but you're lucky to have Nina. Even if she makes you cringe most of the time.”

Listening to Harlow talk about Nina, Elena felt as though he understood exactly what she was feeling. Like if she just clung to his voice, he'd carry her through to some new, more hopeful place.

She didn't want him to ever stop talking. “Maybe I should feel lucky, but I don't,” she said.

She'd reached the edge of the park. It rose up in front of her, a small man-made hill, lush with grass and trees like night sentries in the darkness.

“Harlow? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I'm just thinking about this kid I used to know. Or, okay. He was more than a kid I used to know. He was my best friend. Corey. His name was Corey. He was a little . . . off, if you know what I mean. Like, scared of the world. He had a stutter. And he was always having panic attacks. People were horrible to him. I sort of protected him. A little bit. Not as much as I should have. It was like with you and Nina. No matter how much I secretly cared about him, when we were in public, in front of the
other kids in our class, I was embarrassed by him.”

Something in Harlow's voice told Elena that this story wasn't something he'd revealed to very many people. She was flattered, honored, that he'd decided to tell her. As she listened, she wandered into the park and up the steps, past the rubberized children's area where she and Jake used to play when they were kids. She was headed toward the top of the hill, thinking it might be nice to sit on the bench under the granite obelisk there. The silence and peacefulness that always surrounded that particular spot would help her focus and really hear what Harlow was saying.

“We must have been, maybe, nine. Still little kids, and . . . one day we were playing, I don't know, some stupid game. Superheroes. I was Batman and he was Spider-Man. We'd snuck up to the top of the apartment complex where he lived with his mom. And he kept saying we shouldn't be there. Getting really upset about how we were breaking the rules. I teased him. I told him he was just scared and that if we were really superheroes, we had to hang out on top of buildings, otherwise we wouldn't be able to see where the villains were hiding below us.

“I could tell he was conflicted. He wanted to impress me, wanted me to see him as something more than a charity case. But also, he was terrified. And I pushed him. I told him that we had to get right up to the edge of the building and perch there. We were eight stories
up. He was afraid of heights. But he did it. He squatted on top of the safety wall at the edge of the building—it was, like, a foot wide; it was crazy what we were doing—and he looked around for the bad guys, pretending he wasn't scared, hoping I wouldn't see how his whole body was shaking with fear. And then he looked down. Like straight down. And it was like he was hypnotized and . . .”

Harlow's voice cracked and he stopped talking. Was he crying? Elena wasn't sure.

“I saw what was going to happen and I tried to . . . but I couldn't . . . I . . . I couldn't . . .”

He was definitely crying. Elena didn't know what to say.

“Sorry,” he said. He let out a little sob.

She stopped climbing and stood still at the top of the hill, looking out at the grid of lights mapping the layout of the town below her, wondering where in that tangle of people he might be.

“Don't be sorry,” she said. “It's okay.”

She could hear his breath heaving and lurching.

“I wish you were here with me right now,” she said. “So I could comfort you. And give you a hug.”

The sounds he was making stopped so abruptly that Elena thought the line had been disconnected.

“Did I lose you?” she said.

Nothing. She could see the headlights of cars meandering through the streets. The Christmas lights strung
through the palms along Flamingo Drive. The darkness of the water far off at the edge where the city met the beach. There was something so lonely about Christmastime in the tropics.

“Harlow?”

“I'm still here,” he said. His voice was flat and solid. It was like he hadn't been crying after all.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? You were so upset.”

“I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have unloaded all that on you.”

“It's okay.”

“It's not okay.” His voice rose slightly. She sensed anger lurking inside it. “I vowed not to let myself feel things like that anymore. Feelings don't do any good. They just get you in trouble.”

Her heart ached for him. Was his life so unsafe that he could never, under any circumstances, take off his armor? “Don't say that,” she said. “You can feel things. With me you can.”

“I've got to go,” he said quickly.

“No. Wait.” She'd pushed him too hard. She squeezed her eyes shut, cursing herself. Then, impulsively, she said, “I want to see you. In person. Can I see you?”