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She faced me, tracing the scar on my abdomen. “Seeing that this is sharing hour, care to explain this?”
“I—uh, well.” Istalled, throwing the towel from my right hand to my left. “Thomas used to be my Olivia, in asense, when we were kids.”
“Seriously? He looks so…” Laura left the words lingering in the air.
“Tall, dark, and scary?” She nodded when Ihad completed her sentence. “Yeah, and that was apart of it. When we were young the other kids hated him. They never picked on him, but it didn’tstop them from talking shit behind his back. They didn’tsee him as an art prodigy; for them he was afreak who didn’ttalk to anyone.”
The ugly memories weighed me down, memories Ididn’teven share with Thomas. Iremembered all the names they’dcalled him behind his back, the deep-rooted jealousy of the attention the teachers showered on him. Had they only known he’dhave swapped his life with theirs in aheartbeat for asecond of awarm and loving family.
“Oh yeah, Iknow kids.”
Her soft tone and the kindness from her eyes made the ugly feel less like aburden. They made honesty easy.
“So you already know that this weirdo”—Ipointed at myself, managing asmile thanks to her—“was the one person who did like him. Beyond the superficial level of having our parents as friends. He was cool, not interested in stupid playground games or high school gossip or comparing who had the biggest house, biggest car. He was above that, ‘specially when he painted. And lucky for me, he liked me.”
She held my hand and put it to her heart. Ikept talking, the best coping mechanism against the voices in my head telling me her touch meant something other than asimple comfort.
“There were days where Isat next to him in the studio, or paced back and forth next to him telling stupid jokes, sometimes for hours until he answered. Iguess he realized Iwasn’tgoing anywhere and we became friends. This”—Ipulled our entangled hands from her chest to my scar—“is from when we were older, in junior high. Ihung out with other kids one day. They started talking about how they hated his long hair, or some crap like that. Idiots. They wouldn’tstop when Iasked them to, so Ihad to beat them up. All four or five of them. Ikept telling them what fuckers they were the more they kicked me until Ifainted. One of the school teachers found me on the ground and called 911. Ihad internal bleeding and they had to operate, thus the scar.”
The tears that streamed down her face rolled down in silence. “You did that for Thomas?”
“Duh.” Iran my thumb over her palm. “He’slike abrother to me. More than my own brother.”
It saddened me to see her sad, and Iturned around to the vanity. “Like you said, I’mnot looking to complain. It’sbeen over twenty years.”
Laura nodded, wiping her eyes. She examined me in the mirror when Isprayed my deodorant on. “Why the act then?”
“What act?”
“Like everything that isn’twork related is ajoke.” Our gazes met in the mirror and then locked on one another. “You care.”
Fuck yeah, Idid. Icared for Thomas and Erin and their two little ones. Icared for my nephew and niece. Icared for Joel and Icared for our firm. And lately, the person Icared for the most was her.
“Idon’tcare for the entire world. Afew people matter, and they know who they are.”
She took my deodorant and sprayed herself without following with another question. She knew, on some level, that Icared for her. No need to repeat the earlier awkwardness.
“Story time’sup and you, my lady, need to eat. Pronto.”
Iintertwined our fingers and dragged her to the bedroom, where we ate, fucked, and went to bed early, both surrendering to astress-free sleep that had evaded us for far too long.
Another thing Ihappily avoided while working the Powell case for an entire month was seeing my parents and brother. Admittedly, it’dbeen that one monthly Sunday brunch, but still. What aload off my back that had been.
Until now.
Istifled agroan when Iparked the car outside their home, thinking how much more amusing the work on Pete’scontracts was in comparison to spending two hours of my early morning with them. Iwould’ve exchanged all my associates’ work to not have to do this.
George, their housekeeper, let me into the cold and impersonal house and went to call my father to meet me in the foyer. Iglanced up the black and white spiral staircase, guessing my father was in his study on the second of four floors while trying to avoid my mother. They were cold to each other, the freaking house was cold, and Iseriously contemplated leaving before any of them would make it down the stairs.
“At least you’re not late, when you do decide to show up,” my father said without apreamble. He had given up using his manners with me since Ihad quit his firm and Ipretended to not notice. Most days.
Not that day. That day, after spending twenty-four hours with Laura, emotionally raw and treading on afine line between elated and thoroughly down and out, that day ignoring him cost me.
“Iskipped one brunch, Arthur.” AJ, my brother, and Istopped calling him father when we started working for him, though he had stopped being afather to us years before that, if at all.
“And for what? For your small-time clients?” He supported himself on the handrail, eyebrow cocked up in an invitation for an argument.
Being pissed off at your father wouldn’tstand in court as ajustifiable reason to beat the shit out of him.The repetition of that mantra whenever Ivisited these people reminded me to use my mouth to reiterate.
