Tasting, Finding, Keeping: The Story of Never (40 page)

A few hours later, Ty walks out of the tattoo parlor with
Never say Never
tattooed across the back of his neck. He says it didn't hurt, but I don't believe him. I'm getting good at reading McCabe's body language, identifying the slight muscle twitches in his face, the curl of his ringed fingers, the pacing of his breath. It hurt like a bitch, but he did it for me.

“I would've put
Property of Never Regali-Ross-McCabe
or whatever the hell else you might've wanted. It didn't have to be so subtle,” he tells me, but already, I'm shaking my head. I didn't have him get a more specific tattoo not because I was afraid we might break up one day or because I was afraid it was too personal or anything that stupid and shallow. I had him get that tattoo because it's like an inside joke between us, something that others will see but few will understand. For Ty and myself, there is no breaking up or separating. We are not just engaged; we are entangled. And now we're starting to develop our own language, a language spoken in cryptic phrases and subtle shoulder rolls. Like any good couple, we're developing. This tattoo is just a part of a larger picture.

“I know,” I tell him. “And that's one of the reasons that I love you so much.” Ty sighs and puts a hand over his heart, batting his long, dark eyelashes at me.

“Say it again,” he tells me as we pass through crowds of people who are so similar in their actions that it's eerie, almost as if they're extras in a movie, following the director's shouted orders. They have two choices: stare straight ahead with eyes wide and faces tense, pretend they're not interested in anything when what's really happening is that they're dying for
something,
and the others, well, they walk with their faces buried in their devices, glowing screens highlighting their tired, overworked faces.
Welcome to New York.

“I love you,” I say simply and am pleased at the reaction on Ty's face, the warm, fuzzy look that makes him shiver and press my knuckles to his lips. My bracelets, the ones that Ty gave me this morning, ring like bells. They're silver with purple stripes and they match my shirt so perfectly that I'm sure that Ty's had this planned for awhile. We match, just enough that we look like we belong together; not so much that we look related. It's a nice place to be. “I want a butterfly tattoo,” I admit to him as we walk down the street, hand in hand, towards the place where Ty says the story of his life as a street worker really begins. “Something big, something bright.” I pause and see that Ty's smile is slipping and not because of me. He's trying to look at me, to pay attention, but in the last few seconds, something else has caught his eye. It takes me awhile to figure out what it is, but as we cross the street, I finally realize. It's an apartment building.

It towers above us, a cheerless rectangle of red-brown stucco and glass with balconies galore, most of them filled to the brim with potted plants, BBQs and bistro tables. There's nothing special about it, at least not to me. It's a fairly new building, not too high end but certainly not anything you might call questionable. People come and go in droves, leading children by the hands and dogs by leashes as they move from cabs to revolving glass doors and back again.

“Here,” Ty tells me as he stops next to a coffee shop that sits smashed between a small boutique and a shoe store. It looks small but cozy, intimate, like the coffee they sell just has to be good because the place is so damn cute. “I want to stop here and tell you my story.”

I was such a naïve, little fuck. I really, truly believed that my mother would dump the douche and come looking for me, take me into her arms and tell me she was sorry for everything. Sorry that she'd killed my one and only friend in the world, that she'd been distracted with devils but was now singing choir with fucking angels.

What a load of shit.

I survived for awhile by dumpster diving and hanging out at the library. Sometimes I went to school; mostly I didn't.

Then I met Hannah.

Let me tell you about Hannah first because you're going to judge her which is fine because to be honest, she has problems, lots of them. She likes young boys. Not like little kid young, but too young, thirteen, fourteen. When I met her I told her I was fifteen; she knew I was lying.

Hannah felt sorry for me because I was dirty and unwashed, my clothes stank, and I was getting skinny as hell. I was not the type of twelve-just-turned-thirteen year old that they write adventure books about, that survive in the wilderness with nothing but a fuckin' hatchet. I had no life skills of which to speak, and a terrible desperation to be rescued. That's why I fell for Hannah.

The first time she met me, she bought me food and clothes and gave me her phone number. The second time she met me, she took me up to her apartment and let me stay the night on her couch. I snuck out before she woke up and remembered I was there. The third time I met Hannah, she gave me a hundred dollars to go into her bedroom and have sex with her. I had my first time right up there on the twenty-second floor with a woman ten years my senior with psychological problems galore and a very deep connection with the local sex scene.

I spent fifty of that hundred bucks at the arcade and used the rest to buy shitty fuck food from the store. It had been fun, Hannah was chill, and needless to say, I was hooked.

Ty sips his black coffee, savoring the taste in his mouth, eyes closed, lips pursed. I ignore mine and peel my eyes away from him, so that I'm staring into the steaming mug and not at the memories on his face. If Ty were a mirror, I would be seeing my own reflection of shame and mistakes and missteps. He is just like me, and I think that's why this hurts so much. I know
exactly
what he's going through, what he went through, and how those memories can sometimes feel like a noose around your neck.

“Whatever happened to Hannah?” I ask as Ty's dark eyes are revealed ever so slowly as his lids draw apart and his face goes white-as-fuck. He even drops his cup and hot, scalding coffee goes everywhere. He stands and curses, but he doesn't take his eyes off of the space behind my head. When I turn, I feel as if I'm moving in slow motion, stuck in the time warp that is Ty's memory and frozen there with shackles of pain on my wrists and ankles.

There is a woman standing in the doorway with pretty, honey colored curls that frame her pale face. She has long, thin lips that would look out of place on most people but which fit her pointy chin and dangerously sharp cheekbones. She's older than Ty and me, but she isn't
old,
not really. I'm guessing that she's in her early thirties. That she lives on the twenty-second floor of the apartment building that Ty could not stop staring at. That her name is Hannah.

She recognizes him right away, I can tell. Her pastel green eyes find his dark ones and get stuck there the same way that his are stuck on hers. My baby goes crazy, pushing bile into my throat and making me feel like I'm going to pass out from dizziness. He's only a month old and the little fuck is trying to tear me down. I stand up suddenly and stumble. Ty is there, of course. Not even the sight of his first trick can make him forget me. I know that and yet, I want to fucking kill Hannah. I want to murder her in the middle of the quaint little coffee shop on the West-East-Whatever Side of Who-the-Fuck-Cares New York district. I want to pick up the knife that the lady sitting nearest to me is using to butter her croissant, and I want to stab Hannah between the eyes.

Is it jealousy? Maybe. Is it disgust? Oh fuck yeah, it's that, too.

You corrupted him,
I think, knowing there are worse ways to be corrupted.
You pushed him down a hill that it's taken years to climb back up. He doesn't love you, and he never will. When he moved inside you, it was without thought, a simple, primal function that he could not understand because he wasn't old enough, you cow.

“Hannah,” Ty says as he lifts me up and tucks me under his chin, soaking my shirt and skirt with coffee. One of the baristas is handing Ty a wet cloth with one hand and mopping up his mess with the other. I feel sorry for her.

“Tyson,” she says, giving me the distinct impression that Ty took on his nickname later in life. I can see why he dislikes being called Tyson. It reminds him of
this.
“Funny seeing you here,” she says nonchalantly, like she didn't devirginize a freaking
child.
I want Ty to scream at her, to beat her up, to call her out on her dirty deeds. Instead, he smiles. It's dimple free, but it's still a smile. “I heard you'd moved to California?”

“I did,” he says simply, and since he isn't paying any attention to the barista, I'm the one that has to take the wet cloth and clean us up. “But I'm thinking of moving back.” I press the cloth pretty forcefully against his chest. In a city this large, we just happened to stumble upon this bitch? I find that pretty hard to believe.
Say something, Never.

I spin around and manage to grab Hannah's eyes. In her, I see pain reflected back at me. She is the way she is because something – or more likely
someone –
made her that way. The thought makes me sick, but I can't feel sympathetic towards someone that would fuck a thirteen year old homeless kid. It just isn't happening. I hold Hannah's eyes with a fiery gaze, lock her into my orbit until she starts to fidget and look around the room, trying to find something other than me to focus on. She stares at the oversized, burgundy velvet armchairs in the corner next to planter boxes filled with bamboo. She marvels at the floor to ceiling shelves of coffee in bags and cans and cups. She enjoys the local artwork on the wall, the framed bits of paper that look like scribbles but have four digit price tags. Hannah looks at anything but Ty and me.

“I guess we better be going,” Ty says from behind me, and as soon as I hear his voice, I snap out of my death glare and turn to him, wanting to throw myself in his arms and claim him. The only thing that keeps me calm is the tattoo. Knowing that he's marked permanently with ink makes me feel better. Still, my behavior is a bit alarming, and I'm forced to blame it on the pregnancy to avoid guilt. I have a feeling I'll be doing that a lot for the next few months. Could be my lack of nicotine though. Actually, there's a very, very good chance that it may be that.

Hannah steps out of the way, a vision in her chiffon sun dress that is so inappropriate for the weather I can't even begin to tell you, and reaches into her purse.

Ty moves us forward, eyes still locked on his first client in a way that disturbs the shit out of me, and as we pass, Hannah reaches out and takes his hand. I nearly slit her throat right then and there.

“Hands off,” I snap as she scribbles some lines on the back of Ty's beautiful, butterfly hand. When she sees the tattoos, she smiles, and I'm forced to shove her back and draw the attention of the entire coffee shop. Silence descends.

“My number,” she says as I resist the urge for violence and push my way out the door and onto the street with Ty stumbling behind me. As soon as we hit pavement, I slap him. Hard.

“Wipe it off,” I snap.

“Never,” he begins as he tries to reach out for me. I move away.

“Wipe it off.”

“I didn't expect to see her here, honestly. It was a one in a million chance. I just wanted to show you where it happened.”

I step forward, get into Ty's personal space and steal a cigarette. When he tries to stop me, I move back and grab a lighter out of my purse.

“Never, don't,” Ty pleads, and his voice is so soft and broken that I know I should comfort him. This is hard for me; it must be agony to him. Unless he wants to talk to Hannah, to see her. Maybe he has Stockholm syndrome or some shit? I turn away and light up. “Please.” That one word stops me in my tracks and turns my head around. Ty doesn't wipe off the number whether because he's frozen, stuck in rotten memories and beleaguering agony, or because he doesn't want to, I don't know. I drop the cigarette where it joins a whole host of others on the ground. I feel bad for doing it, but right now, I just don't care.

“I want to kill her,” I tell him honestly. Nobody stops and stares or even seems to hear my violent words. This is the big city after all; they've heard worse.

“Me, too,” Ty says, and then he smiles, dimples and all. “But she's just the tip of the iceberg, Never. There is so much worse I could tell you.” I look at Ty, and I want to put my hands over my ears, lock him out, forget this ever happened, but I can't because he needs to tell me. He needs to spill his secrets, so that I can carry half of them. I love him enough to know that he needs me and take a big breath.
Is this what a mother does for her child? Loves unconditionally and without judgment? My mom didn't make it look so easy, but if your heart is there, then it is. It really, truly is.

“Tell me then,” I say to Ty. “Take me somewhere and tell me everything.”

Hannah introduces me to a man named Dick Prick, fakest fucking pseudonym ever. Sounds kind of funny at first, but then you meet the guy and learn that he deals in underage teens. Essentially, he's a fucking pimp. Hannah tells Dick Prick about me and buys me a nice dress shirt. She has me fuck her from behind in a dressing room at the place and then leaves, passing Dick two hundred bucks as she goes. I get twenty of it. Dick says he has the customers, and I've got the goods, and so he's going to take a percentage and if I'm good and check in with him when I'm supposed to, I'll get bonuses. What Dick doesn't tell me is that during these check-ins, I have to suck his dick.

The first time it happens, I'm pretty shocked, but then Dick tells me that it's all a part of survival of the fittest or some shit. If that fucker wasn't already dead, baby, I'd kill him, too. He OD'd right after I left for California. Anyway, Nev, that was just the beginning of a three year stint where I ran tricks for Dick Prick and blew my money on pot, cigarettes, and alcohol. I didn't touch the harder stuff though I had plenty of opportunities to. Something told me that there was an invisible line between Hell and oblivion and as long as I stayed on the infernal side, I was fixable. I could end it someday. If I crossed over, I was going to end up dead in a gutter, a useless, broken, doll, a shell of a fucking person.

I did men mostly at first, but soon, I had transitioned over to female clients exclusively. The perverts had finally come out of the woodwork and showed me that the opposite sex can be just as cruel. I did whatever they told me to, no matter what it was, no matter how depraved or sick or fucked up. I did it until it changed from hurting myself to hurting others.

There was this couple, okay? And they had a third person with them, a woman. She was bound and gagged, spread open on a bed. I'd seen plenty of bondage before, so that was nothing new, but then … I saw her face, her eyes. I'd seen her on the news a few weeks prior. She'd gone missing on her way home from the gym. I looked her right in the face, and I left. I ran, and I took all the money I had and booked a one way ticket to San Fran.

I left her there, Never. I left her there and I didn't tell anybody because I was afraid. Afraid of Dick Prick and the couple and even the cops if they were to find out that I was a runaway, a whore, an alcoholic. Two weeks later, they found her body. I'm responsible, baby. Me. I am. I could've saved her, and I didn't. I have her blood on my hands. Do you still love me? Do you still want me? How the fuck could you? And even if you do, you have to know that one day, I will go to Hell for all the things I have done. I will burn forever, and there is nobody that can save me.