Sharing Space (The Complete Series) (35 page)

We were all silent. Finally, Max spoke. “Damn it, Patrick. I’m sorry. As usual, I wasn’t thinking.”

I shook my head and took a long drink. “Ah. Don’t worry about it. Charlotte did meth, not coke.” Paul and Max exchanged glances. “Oh, come on! I think I’m allowed to make a few dead junkie jokes, right? It’s like mama jokes. You can make them about your mother, but no one else can.”

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” Paul said.

“Why?” I asked. “Because I’m drunk? So Max is the only one who can get drunk and make an ass of himself?”

“Hey,” Max said, looking offended. “Paul and I made up. Life’s too short for bullshit. I wanted to call you, too, but—”

“But my sister died. There she goes. Still bringing people together.” I took another drink, finishing off the bottle. I reached for another.

“Patrick,” Paul said carefully. “We thought you could use some time out of the house, but you know getting drunk isn’t going to make you feel better, right?”

“I know. But fuck it.” I shrugged and leaned back a little too far. I almost fell into the gap between the row of seats I was sitting on with Paul and the row above us where Max was sitting, but caught myself in time. “Max, remember you asked me how it felt to be the one everyone always turns to? Well, it fucking blows.”

“Man, I was being stupid.”

“Maybe. But still a good question.
Patrick, look out for your sister
. So I tried. And when I tried to tell them that she was in trouble, into something bigger than I could handle on my own, it’s too late. She gets herself blown up.”

Paul cringed, but I kept going. “And now, because I don’t have a wife and kids or a failing marriage that everyone knows is failing but no one wants to talk about it, it’s automatically assumed that I should be the one to stay in that house and deal with the ghosts and the grief. I can’t possibly be dealing with my own grief or my own shit. Like, telling my girlfriend I love her and have her look at me like,
That’s cute
.”

“Wait. You’re in love?” Max looked amazed, like I’d just announced plans for space travel.

“Way to focus on the wrong thing, Max.” Paul shook his head and turned to me. “What do you mean? She didn’t say it back?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“Nothing. And then my father interrupted us so—”

“Hold up,” Max said, holding up one hand. “Where did this happen?”

“At my parent’s, the day of the funeral.” I said.

“Aw, man. Even I could tell you that wasn’t going to go well and I don’t know shit about women.” Max shook his head and took a drink.

“I hate to say it, but he’s right, Patrick. You just buried your sister. It wasn’t exactly the ideal occasion a woman wants to hear those words for the first time. She’s not going to think you meant it.”

“Did you mean it?” Max asked.

“Yes. I think so. I felt it. I said it. Like when you’re hungry and you announce you want something to eat.”

“Shit, man. Do yourself a favor and don’t ever explain it that way to her. Ever.”

Paul nodded in agreement. I was getting pissed at the both of them and a part of me knew it was irrational, but I’d had too much to drink to care.

“You guys can go to hell.”

I stood up to leave and everything went black.

*** 

“Where am I?”

I tried to sit up but the pounding in my temples told me that wasn’t a good idea. Paul appeared over me and, even though the lights were low, it still felt easier to look at him with one eye open.

“My couch,” he said and handed me a glass of water and two white pills. “Take these and drink it all.”

I did as I was told and gave him the empty glass. I lay back on the sofa cushions and closed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“Late. I called your parents.
Cate’s going to stay over. You can crash here for the night.”

“I can’t believe I passed out.” Even after the water my mouth felt dry and my tongue felt like one giant slab of cotton.

“If I tell you something, do you think you’ll remember it tomorrow?”

I opened my eyes. Paul was seated in the recliner across from me. His expression was pained.

“I’m not going to like it, am I?”

“Oh, you don’t have to like it. You just have to hear it. I know your family is hurting, but this can’t be one of those times where you worry about taking care of them and neglect yourself. Now, I gave you a break tonight because it’s so… soon, but… You have a lot of good things in your life now, Patrick.”

“Paul, I know. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to have a drinking problem if that’s what you’re getting at. I just needed to not be in that house anymore. And I’m trying to forget.”

“You’re never going to forget Charlotte or what happened to her.”

“That’s not what I meant. I … I don’t know exactly what I meant. I just want to feel differently. I want to feel like I’m supposed to feel when someone loses a sister. Because Paul, as awful as this is going to sound, as sad as I am for her and everyone else, I mainly feel relief.” I ran a hand over my face and tried to look anywhere but at Paul.

“What do you mean by relief?”

“For the past few months I knew this shit with Charlotte was going to lead to something big. The family was going to find out and we’d have to confront it and get her through it together. Or we’d fail and she’d end up in jail or dead. And when I saw her in that hospital bed I knew she was going to die. Just the thought of it… Paul, I thought,
Okay. It will be over.
We won’t have to watch her get any worse because watching her there I knew she’d never get any better. Even if she lived. So now we can mourn her. Which is what we were doing anyway. It was just taking longer.”

“You’re relieved her suffering is over.”

“What I’m saying is I’m relieved all of our suffering is over.”

Chapter Eight

A Lot Like Love

Chloe

I never liked going out on New Year’s Eve. My mother used to say people in New York City who went out that night were jockeying to be the first homicide of the year. I guess that stuck with me because a night of old movies, wine, and popcorn always seemed like the perfect way to ring in the New Year, which is why I needed to call Myra for assistance.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom and used my iPhone to snap a picture of my feet. Each foot rocked a different stiletto: on the left foot I wore a sparkly silver shoe and on the right a black peep-toe. I sent the picture to Myra’s phone via text then put the phone back to my ear.

After a moment she said, “Oh, the silver ones. Definitely.”

“You don’t think it’s too much silver?” I asked, doing a half turn so I could view my full body and the silver shoe. The dress I wore was super short, strapless, silver, and covered with faux diamonds that were almost blinding.

“Girl, it’s New Year’s Eve. There’s no such thing as too much silver. I’m just proud of you for going out like a grown-up. Even though I still can’t believe they’re having a launch party for some damn lipsticks.”

“They’re not just any damn lipsticks. They’re
Raven Cosmetics’
signature line of social media-inspired colors. Did you get the samples they sent?”

Myra sighed. “Yes. I’m wearing
Tweet Me
. It’s a bit pinker than I normally wear, but it’s cute. What about you?”

“I’m going with
WTF.
It’s a bright red. I figure if I’m already dressed like a hooker—”

“What-the-hell-ever. I picked out that dress. You do not look like a hooker. If Patrick has any sense, he’s going to love you in that dress.”

My stomach flipped at the sound of his name. We’d only exchanged a few texts over the last few days. He went out with Max and Paul the night before and, even though I was glad he’d gotten out of the house and that things between his friends seemed to be getting back to normal, I was a little worried that he hadn’t called or texted me since. I just kept telling myself that he promised he’d be here.

I put Myra on speakerphone while I peeled myself out of the dress and slipped on a tee shirt and shorts. In the time it took her to tell me all the things wrong with the current guy she was seeing, I had applied two coats of OPI’s
An Affair in Red Square
to my nails. They were just about dry when there was a knock at the door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. If it was Patrick, he was early. He’d also forgotten his key. I told Myra I’d see her at the party and went to the door.

I checked the peephole before answering, then checked again to be sure I’d seen what I thought I saw. Then I opened the door and let Patrick’s mother inside.

***

She refused any offer of something to drink and wouldn’t even remove her coat. We sat at opposite ends of the sofa in an awkward silence until she was ready to get down to business.

“Patrick doesn’t know I’m here. No one does.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly.

Her red hair was tied in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. A white scarf was knotted at her neck and tucked into her black wool coat. She sat with her glove-covered hands folded in her lap.

“He should be home soon if you want to see him, but I thought he was at your house.”

“He stayed at Paul’s house last night. They had too much to drink. They don’t think I know, but I always know.”

“Do you want to wait here for him?”

“No. I actually came to see you.” She reached into her coat pocket and handed me a small white box. “They gave us Charlotte’s belongings at the hospital. I still haven’t been able to get the things from her dorm room, but … anyway… those belong to you.”

I removed the lid from the box and placed it on the coffee table. When I saw what was inside the box, I gasped. Resting on a white tissue paper were the diamond earrings my mother had given me. The ones I thought I lost at Thanksgiving.

“How did you—
”

“We think Charlotte must have… stolen them from you when she was here. She tried to sell them the night she got hurt.”

Mrs. Murphy’s face was covered in pain and shame. She reached into her pocket again, retrieved a tissue, and dabbed at her nose.

“Mrs. Murphy, I am so sorry. I didn’t know. If there’s anything I can do, just tell me.”

She looked me in the face for the first time since arriving. “You can leave my son alone.”

I’d heard her just fine, but in the interest of giving my brain time to process it and formulate an appropriate response I asked, “Excuse me?”

“Patrick,” she said, like I was dating more than one of the Murphy boys. “You can leave him alone. That’s how you can help me. Help my family.”

“I’m not trying to be rude, but not only are we dating, but we live together.”

“He’ll come home.” She nodded confidently. “If you break up with him. He’ll come home where he belongs.”

“Mrs. Murphy, your son is a grown man. If he wants to move back home, that’s fine, but I’m not going to break up with him because you have a problem with the fact that I’m black.”

She blinked twice and her mouth opened and closed before she finally found the words. “I don’t have a problem with black people.”