The Delivery (6 page)

Chapter 8

M
onday morning is bad. I’m a complete wack job.

Do you know how to ignore someone you have the total hots for? What if you had to see them everyday? Could you do it? I can help. Been there-done that. Just let me explain.

Here’s how…

One: deny eye contact. All eye contact must and will be denied. Look at the floor. Study the cracks in the linoleum and the stains on the carpet. Memorize the thick, yellowing varnish on the hardwood floors in the hall and try to come up with a number for how many times they’ve been sanded and sealed up again. There’s so much to see (on the floor) if you only look hard enough.

Two: sex—have a few one-night stands with dudes who are sufficiently attractive enough for you to get a lady boner going after a couple of drinks. (Does this, perhaps, sound kind of repulsive to you? Believe me, it can be if you don’t have the right attitude.) They’re of age, adults, consensual, informed, blah, blah, blah (but please, do note that those things
are
important). This stops your body from pleading with you for just one more kiss from the person you’re dying inside for and trying so desperately to avoid. It works; just make sure you use protection so you don’t end up with any diseases or a case of the babies. What? I’m gross you’re thinking? I’m telling you, releasing sexual tension is of utmost necessity.

Three: throw yourself at someone else. Do you have a Gunnar Anderson who frequents your office? Use it to your advantage. Peel your eyeballs off of the dotted ceiling board and flirt with him, ruthlessly, aimlessly until you’re giddy from so much stupidity, until your face fucking hurts from being such a ventriloquist’s dummy. Don’t sleep with your Gunnar. That would complicate things. This needs to remain fairly easy. We’re trying to get a job done here, aren’t we?

Four: drink. Not just get blasted on Fridays but every night of the torturous week. Drink wine out of a box on Wednesday while you binge on Chinese take-out and watch terrible TV. Then accidently let out your neighbor’s cat—the one you’re supposed to be feeding. Spend all day Thursday making missing cat fliers at the office in between puking sessions in the communal staff bathroom. Done!

Five: last but not least, stop trying. Look like shit. Don’t even wash your clothes. How can anyone be attracted to you when they are starting to suspect that secretly you’re homeless? You can bathe, but do it without enthusiasm. Leave a ton of conditioner in your hair, so it takes on that dull, greasy sheen that Daisy’s fur had when you finally found her after work one night, meowing outside the Lavateria six blocks from your house.

It’s effective. It works. It hurts like a bitch. Especially when you have to stare at the beautiful painting he made you every time you step foot in the office. You have to remember he thinks you’re an impenetrable prickly pear when all you want in the world is for it to be
him
who penetrates you. On (oh!) so many levels.

Then you decide to go home because you have to and because you can. It’s time to make one last ditch effort to save your family home and take a breather from Lana Finch. Because, let’s be honest here, that bitch is bringing you down. You can go be yourself, whoever that is, with you mom and dad and your extremely difficult younger brother. You can take a break from trying to save the world at large and concentrate on saving your world—the one you came from, and the one you couldn’t wait to escape. Detroit in February is a wonderful thing. Your family is devastated. Housing court is a cheery and rewarding place. Hey, you’re using up vacation days so try to enjoy it!

Then as luck would have it, one Wednesday night you stay late at the office, trying to work ahead into next week so no one will even notice you’re gone. You don’t want people to say you’re not pulling your part. It’s you who locks up and turns off all the lights. You’ve done this only once before because outstaying Amir and Pedro who work the front desk is nearly impossible. You take the bus home because you didn’t bring your car, and you press you head against the glass playing “who are you and where did you come from” with every random figure you see in the street.

There are so many people in Los Angeles that you’re suddenly overwhelmed with humanity and the weight of just being. People are like grains of sand. There are so many, almost too many people. The bus stop is only a few blocks from your house. You’re not afraid to walk them, but you always take out your keys and jingle them loudly as if to announce, “I live so close, I might just enter any of these. So don’t bother mugging me because the next pad will be mine.” I’ve got my keys out, my assertive walk—nothing can touch this.

Except for maybe a figure in black pants and a hoody, standing illuminated by a streetlight. Now there’s not an overwhelming infinite number, there is only
one
person. A human, not a grain of sand, and one wearing a backpack you easily recognize. If a client from work shows up on, or near your property, you should call the police just like you did for the guy with the knife. It wouldn’t be safe to approach them alone or allow them to engage you off site where there’s no supervision.

But what if you’re obsessed with him and you kind of, sort of, maybe—
accidentally,
once kissed him?

You walk faster and hold your bag tighter and straighten your spine.
Be a grown up! Say the right thing! Just ask him to leave!

“Hey, Lana, Can we talk?”

“Not outside of Pathways. It’s against procedure.”

“I just really need to talk to you. I could give a fuck about procedure.”

“Procedure is important. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” But it comes out in barely a whisper.
Where the fuck is my conviction? It disappears whenever it catches wind of this man.

“Do you want me to go home with you? To Detroit, I mean? Pedro told me you had to go this weekend. Sorry, I know you like to be private.”

I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out. I feel betrayed by my co-workers and staff. My loss isn’t something I want to share with everyone.

“I wanted to offer support. I want to help you.”

Can I please run into his arms and do the Dirty Dancing lift? Can we kiss under the streetlight in the most rapturous, epic, unforgettable kiss? Until the world crumbles around us and we rise to the heavens in an eternal embrace. (Maybe with rocket boosters and fireworks and philharmonic accompaniment?) Can I forget I’m a grown-up and just finally suck his face?

I stand there, staring at him with my chest heaving and my stomach bottoming out. This feels like a moment. The big one. But, it’s a moment I can’t have. One I absolutely must deny myself of.

“That is an incredibly generous offer, Mr. Cruz, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate. Neither is this—showing up at my place. I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen so you won’t get in trouble.” And with that I walk right past him.

I don’t look back to see his face.

Chapter 9

M
y brother, Alexei, picks me up at the airport. He wanders toward the baggage claim, looking forlorn and tucking his longish shock of black hair behind his ears. I see him before he sees me, and I wave, but he’s looking at the floor. Alexei has this strange way of walking where he over-crosses his feet, like he’s walking on an invisible tightrope or a catwalk. With his longish raven colored hair, his pale skin and his feminine walk—the whole effect is quite emo. My little brother has grown up.

I’m staring, but he still won’t look up. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand with a vigor that should be reserved for scratching elbows or knees not the delicate orbs through which we see. But this is Alexei with his utter inability to truly respect anything. He’s sloppy and lazy and a blind mole to consequences. But he is a lover and not a fighter and knows how to love hard. My heart softens toward him, and when he looks up and finally sees me, he smiles with sea foam green eyes that look just like mine.

Speeding up on his tightrope by swinging his arms, he bounds over to me, and a wide grin spreads across his face, a dimple sneaking out on each side. My baby brother, the sweetest and weirdest and most frustrating human I know.

“Hey, Lana,” he says, hugging me. He’s wearing a waffle knit sweater that’s way too big, a parka with the zipper open and sneakers with loose laces.

“Hey, Lexi, thanks for coming to get me!”

“Yeah, well, Mom made me. I’ve got a jacket for you in the car. It’s cold and starting to snow. Dad made stew to welcome you home. I tried it. It was pretty gross. We should probably stop to get something.”

“You look great!” I tell him.

“You look all LA. Since when do you wear a blazer?”

“How’s school?”

“It’s shit, but I’m making the best of it.”

The automatic doors open into curbside transportation, and the air is frigid. It’s the Midwest in February. I didn’t come prepared, and right away my teeth chatter. Lexi stops rolling the suitcase and offers me his parka.

“It’s okay. I’m wearing two sweaters.”

“You’re wracking up brother points. Watch out, pretty soon I’ll invite you out to visit.”

Lexi smiles and puts his arm around me. God, I’d almost forgotten how much I adore my brother. I used to think he was gay and too shy to come out, but unfortunately, its much more complicated than that. Lexi is awkward, and there is something unsettling about him. He laughs at things no one else laughs at and can’t ever seem to make friends. I’d chock it up to cultural differences, but my paternal grandparents emigrated from Russia and my mother’s family came over when she was sixteen. Our roots have been growing here long enough to be culturally assimilated. In school growing up, his weirdo status never seemed to bother him. It bothered
me
more. I was always hysterically protective of him. He got made fun of, and worse, he was shunned. Lex, shrugged it all off while I was constantly throwing down in the school yard and ready to fight.

He’s brought his junker—a rust eaten 91’ Ford escort— the most boring of cars.

“Do you want to drive through downtown just since it’s been a while?”

“That sounds good, Lex. The snow is beautiful. Hey, are you seeing anyone at school?”

He removes one hand from the steering wheel and scratches his mop, pushing strands back behind his big ears.

“Same question back at you, Dr. Ruth. Nice lead in. You know Mom and Dad will want to hear this one.”

“Truce. And the answer is only when I’m drunk and I know I won’t fall for him.”

I look out at the dark street and draw a circle in the wet fog on the window. I press the button to roll the window down all the way. When it goes back up again the moisture is gone and I can see the street better. I wish I were seeing someone. I wish I were seeing you-know-who.

“Should we stop for coffee or something to eat? Mom and Dad will be asleep by the time we get home.”

“Do you drink coffee at midnight?”

“I do it all the time. I like to go to the Greyhound bus station. We’re coming right up on it. The coffee is bad, but they’re open twenty-four hours and they give away the day-old Danish when the shifts change.”

We grew up in Oak Park, to the north of the city. A lot of families later moved to West Bloomfield when they could afford the real estate. But we stayed in the same house we’ve always been in. It’s not surprising considering my mom doesn’t even know her way around downtown Detroit.

The streetlights all have rainbow orbs through the wet car window. I’d think we were in a winter wonderland if I didn’t already know what a dump it is under the snow.

“You go there ‘cause you’re strapped for cash? Aren’t you doing work-study?”

“What? Oh yeah. No, I just like stuff better when it’s free.”

He’s pulling into the bus station parking lot as he says it. I want to make an excuse about Mom and Dad waiting up for us but he’s right, they’re probably sound asleep. Who am I to diss his hangout? My Friday night sports bar may serve fresher food but his joint is probably more poetic—or at least better for people watching. Not as many drunks.

We trudge through the parking lot in the slushy, dirty snow. Lex holds the door open for me and bows as he does it, and I grin at his show. This is what I mean by weird. No one should come here voluntarily, let alone enjoy it.
The bus station. The second most terrible place in the world, coming in at number two, right after the post office.

We sit at the bar, which faces the wall. Two steaming cups of black coffee with oil streaks on top. Two bruised and bent day-old Danish, mine has orange jelly, his red. I take a bite and swivel in my chair to watch the action as Lex sighs into his cup.

“What do you do? Make up stories in your head about the different people you see? Or do you bring your homework? Tell me again why the hell you come here? Do they have Wi-Fi at least?”

I dunk my Danish into the coffee and take another bite of the rubbery thing.

“This is disgusting,” I say with my mouth full. “What are we doing here?”

“Wait, watch the gate. A bus just pulled in.”

Almost everyone in the large open space is either sleeping or squatting. The air smells like hotdogs and canned heat, flat soda and popcorn. Everyone in here needs a change of clothes and a bath either from homelessness or weeklong bus rides. It’s hard to tell the difference. What I can tell is how depressing it is and it’s making me glad I left Detroit and the entire Midwest.

“Here they come. Get a load of this!”

He’s excited. This is pathetic. I think I might need a drink.

“Bus originated in LA. Maybe you’ll see someone you know.”

“Pfft. Yeah right. I have one friend, and I know where she is. She’s in the office picking up all of my slack as we speak.” But I guess juvenile delinquents do often travel by bus. And I know me some juvies, I know them by the busload.

The passengers straggle off, and I immediately see what he’s taking about. They’re excited to have finally arrived. You can feel it in the air. One frazzled looking young mother is greeted warmly by her parents as their grandkids jump ecstatically and shove each other out of the way, both vying for hugs. Mom looks run through the ringer but I can see the relief in her face.

Next an overweight man who uses a cane, totters down the stairs right into the embrace of a younger man, who can only be his son. They are opposite extremes of the same person. Dad is fat and bald, and son is skinny and hairy, but they share the same face. They hug then step back and look at each other then rush in again for another one. Both of their faces turning red.

“I totally get it. This is awesome. But now I feel like we should redo our reunion from the airport. Ours was too boring.”

“Right? It’s so depressing and then suddenly it’s beautiful. Wait until you see a departure.”

I get my brother. I really do. And I might be the only person on the planet who does. But now it’s sad again. That he does this alone, like he has to feed off of other people’s emotions.

The bus driver flips the signs, they spin inside the lit-up screen, Chicago and Philadelphia get passed over, finally settling on New York. There’s a lull in the exodus, so the bus must be nearly empty. But then I see the shadow of someone exiting through the bus’ windshield, carrying way too many things. He ambles down the steps with a large, framed backpack and a guitar. He’s dressed in black and looking down, but when he raises his face up I can tell it’s Mozey Cruz.

“Oh shit,” I say, swiveling my chair around, my face just inches from the wall. I grab my coffee and gulp it, the bitter badness of it racing down. My throat is burned, and I cough like a mad woman, my eyes tearing up at the same time.

I swivel back again and squint my eyes at him. I took my contacts out on the plane. My glasses are in my luggage. But I can sense this guy better than I can see.

“
That
. Is. Fucking. Impossible!”

“Even when they arrive alone, they’re still happy to get off the bus,” Lexi says, glossing over my reaction.

“No. I
know
that guy!” I say, slapping his arm.
Not to mention I’m attracted to him.

“Wow, really? That is so cool! Go act like you’re excited to see him, it looks like he arrived alone.”

I swivel back around and gobble the Danish, self-conscious of my own existence.
Why the hell are we in the same place? I’m here for housing court. It’s not like we’re both traveling home for Christmas! Act normal. Act normal! Stop devouring day old baked goods. Do I acknowledge him? No, I pretend I didn’t see him. I explicitly told him he could not come! He obviously didn’t listen to me.

But I don’t have to worry about what to do next because my asshole brother stands and gestures frantically to him.

“Get down!” I say, yanking on his arm and trying to pull him into his seat.

Ohmygodohmygodohmyf-u-c-k-inggod! This may very well indeed be my worst moment.

Mozey strides over toward Lexi, looking confused but then breaks into a smile when he sees me. He waves, and I salute him, feeling suddenly nauseous.

“Finch! I thought that was you. Shit, I’m so glad I found you! I thought I’d have to do a lot more looking than this. I didn’t expect you to pick me up at the station. Especially without knowing I was coming!”

He’s confident and flippant. How else would I expect him to be? He’s a chronic rule breaker—that happens to be how I know him. Delinquent to social worker. We are not friends.

I sip more coffee and wipe the sticky Danish from my lips while I nod at him like I’m crazy.

“How do you know each other?” Lexi asks, his head rotating back and forth between us.

“Work,” I say, looking at Mozey. “This is my brother, Lex.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mozey says, moving his backpack to the other shoulder while he pumps Lexi’s hand.

Lexi is dumbfounded, and I’m speechless. Not to mention I also feel like I might pee my pants from excitement.

“What are you doing in Michigan?” I ask him, suspicious of his presence. Like he’s following me because he’s a secret agent or a government spy sent to evaluate me and my program. We’ve already touched on the undercover thing, and he swore that he wasn’t. But what spy says he’s a spy? Aren’t they supposed to deny it forever?

Maybe he’s supernatural, he’s some kind of an alien wearing human skin, and when he kissed me, he implanted a homing device. I pass him my coffee, with my head cocked, thoroughly examining him. He takes it from me, looking confused.

“Drink it!” I say.

And he takes a tentative sip while Lexi and I stare at him. I don’t know what I’m expecting to accomplish with this. Maybe he’ll melt away at the contact of the hot liquid or change color or turn to stone—somehow reveal himself to me. He’s an enigma this man—I can’t believe he’s standing right in front of me. But he just licks his beautiful lips and smiles…

“God, Lana, that tastes really, really awful.”

I take the cup from him and chug the rest still waiting for some kind of revelation to help this surreal encounter make sense. His English is perfect. He’s so smart and articulate. He’s a phenomenal artist and has a wrestlers body. I’ve never met anyone like him in the real world before, let alone the line-up of messed up kids paraded through my office. NEVER anyone like him. Never anyone like Mozey—not even remotely.

“Did you set this up?” I ask, turning to Lexi and narrowing my eyes at him.
Is this a prank show? Is someone fucking with me?

“Answer me, Cruz. Why are you in Michigan?”

“Remember when we talked the day before yesterday and you said I couldn’t come?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I didn’t think you could do it alone. So I just didn’t listen to you. I got on a bus that night. Been riding for three days.”

“I have my family to help me. If we have to vacate, we’ll hire movers,” I say, eyeing him incredulously. But what I’m really thinking is—what the hell? Someone put you up to this?

“Okay, sure, but now you’ve got me too.”

And I want him. I want him. I really, really want him. But I don’t want him to know it. Not to mention I’ll get fired for this. I’ll lose my fucking job—the only one in my family.

“You came all the way to Michigan? How were you going to find me?”

“How many Lana Finch’s can there be?”

Gulp. Because that’s not really my name. It’s my legal name at least, but not what I’m known by to my family and friends. He never would have found me.

Lexi stares on completely enraptured by our exchange.

“Do you have a place to stay? Did you let your probation officer know?”

“No and yes,” he says, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “He signed off on a week. I told him it was for community service. So that makes you a community, and I came to Michigan to service you.” His smile is ridiculous, both gorgeous and flirty. He adjusts his pack again and groans. That thing looks really heavy.

“I’ll just stay in a shelter or something. I’m used to finding a place to sleep on the lam. It’s only fair that I help you, Lana. You’ve already helped me so much.”

I feel woozy at his words, and my heart swells like a Pillsbury oven time lapse sequence with something that feels like pride.

“Mozey, I get
paid
to help you. That’s what I do at my job.”

He looks down at the floor and shifts his feet. He nods his head and pulls the beanie off, and his hair cascades over his face. I look up in time to see Lexi’s reaction. He’s impressed with the hair; I knew he would be. Lex and I used to listen to some hair bands way back in the day. We pretended to shake it even though we never had quite the right hair or attitude to shake.

“You can stay with us. For as long as we have the house, which might not be much longer. We’re fighting the bank at this point, and they just want us out,” Lex says out of the blue all on his own. My brother who never has a voice, who I’ve spent my whole life trying to wrangle words from. Who feeds me his empty shrugs and vacant stares in response, has a whole goddamned sentence for Mozey. Not to mention, an impressive one.

Fuck! Thank you, asshole brother. But at the same time, THANK YOU. I would have never had the nerve to invite him myself.

I’m wearing my grandmother’s jacket, which is decidedly dowdy, and I’m gross from flying and a late night of packing. But somehow with Mozey, I don’t feel self-conscious about my looks, about my weirdo brother, his junker car or my crazy parents and arriving at their run-down house. I’m sure he’s seen worse, and he’s probably seen better, but for the first time in my fucked up life, I feel like I can let my guard down around a man. Maybe it’s something about his ease with Lex or maybe it’s the fact he practically crossed the whole country in defiance to stand by my side. Or maybe it’s because he’s so hot that if I tried to keep my guard up, the stress from his hotness might make me pop a damn hormone.