Beautiful Graves, page 16
“Babe Ruth killed my soul before I was even born. How is that fair?” Dom jokes.
“An eighty-six-year championship drought, man. Should’ve been born in New York.”
They both look at each other and grin. “Nah,” they say in unison.
“So . . . were the Yankees to blame for the Red Sox drought?” I ask from the back seat, offering my important contribution to this conversation.
Joe shakes his head. “Not really. But Bostonians never forget.”
“Also, I would like to note that we invented the wave. Legend has it the wave owes its existence to Fenway Park—because the seats are so close together, whenever a fan has to stand up, everyone else in the row has to stand too. And then the people behind them get pissed because they can’t see anything, so they get up too. And that creates the human wave,” Dom explains, eyes sparkling.
“Fun fact,” Joe notes.
“From a not-so-fun stadium,” Dom delivers the punch line, and they both burst out laughing again.
This is my important reminder that they are attached at the hip, that they moved to the same town together, the same building. I’m the outsider here.
The conversation bleeds into what Dom and I are going to do in Puerto Rico.
“Eat, dance, take pictures . . . and, you know.” Dom lets out a chuckle, and my stomach rolls with nausea. “What about you? Are you still seeing that chick? Stacey? Tracy?”
Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. I was not expecting this gut-wrenching reaction to hearing that Joe is seeing someone. Now I cannot help but envision him having hot, sweaty sex with a faceless woman. In my bedroom, for a reason beyond my grasp. Slowly smiling at me, his half-moon smirk, while pounding into her. It is so his style.
“Presley,” Joe corrects in his easy, dispassionate tone.
“I was close, wasn’t I, Lynne?” Dom meets my stare in the rearview mirror.
“Hmm-mmm.”
“How’s she doing?” Dom asks.
Joe shrugs. “Dunno. Ask her.”
Now our gazes meet in the rearview mirror. I know what he thinks.
I’m not giving you the pleasure of knowing what’s going on in my love life. Choke on the unknown, baby. We both know it hurts more than any naked truth.
“She sounds like a great girl,” Dom marvels. “Funny, nice, into you, got a great job.” There’s a comical beat before he adds, “Hot. Sorry, babe, it had to be said. The girl looks like a fashion model or something.”
Knife, meet heart.
Joe smiles idly but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if it would hurt as much if I heard something similar about Dom, but then I remember that I found a necklace in his bedroom, and although I was a little annoyed, it didn’t feel like I’d been chopped to tiny pieces and fed to the gators.
I know I have no business being jealous. Not when Dom all but stated we’d be spending our weekend rolling in bed together. But the thing about feelings is, they care little about logic.
“Give it a chance, bro. Seriously. Just . . . take her out.” Dom beams, all positive energy. So much positive energy. Must he always be so optimistic?
“Yeah. Maybe.” Joe throws his old Jeep Cherokee into park. I realize we’re at our gate at the airport. Joe slides out of the driver’s seat and pulls out our suitcases for us. I watch his arm muscles bunching under his tee and remember what they felt like when I clutched them while he drove into me. When we had sex on the beach. He and Dom give each other a brotherly hug, slapping each other’s backs.
“Safe travels, bro,” Joe says.
“Thanks for the ride, man.”
Then Joe moves toward me while Dom fumbles with his backpack for our passports. He presses his hand to the small of my back in a quiet yet possessive half hug. His lips disappear in my mane of ginger hair.
“Offer still stands,” he whispers. “No funny business. Just art.”
“Enjoy Presley,” I hiss back, unable to help myself.
“You’re a sweetheart for caring.” He kisses my cheek quickly, feigning innocence. “And I fully intend to.”
Before I can say anything, before I can kick and scream How dare he, he drives off into the distance.
Dom wraps an arm over my shoulder. “Shall we, babe?”
Manufactured bliss.
That was what my mother called the suburban lifestyle. That is why she insisted that we stay in San Francisco, even when all my parents’ friends had drifted to the small towns that bracketed it. Lafayette and Orinda and Tiburon. Even Sunnyvale. She called it the happiness lie. People think their life will be better if they live in a bigger house, drive a bigger car, grow a vegetable garden. But wealth doesn’t equal happiness, necessarily. The city offers you struggle, and struggle keeps you hungry and in survival mode.
Right now, I am feeling pretty suburban.
“Doesn’t this tree look like Chewbacca?” I point at a tree in Old San Juan the day after Joe dropped us off, leaving with my soul in his pocket.
Dom and I have just finished eating the most delicious coconut candy and crab empanada, and now we’re taking a romantic stroll among the narrow cobbled streets. The historic buildings are a kaleidoscope of pastel colors, and my boyfriend has never been more gorgeous and attentive.
“A what?” Dom slants his head sideways, staring at the Spanish moss tree.
“Chewbacca!” I exclaim.
“Don’t laugh, but this cultural reference just flew past me at the speed of light.” Dom chuckles.
“You’ve never watched Star Wars? You know, The Phantom Menace? The Clone Wars?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, my God, Dom! How?”
“I don’t know!” He throws his arms in the air, laughing. “I just . . . I think I was busy doing chemo when it was big with all the kids my age?”
My smile immediately falls, and I feel like an idiot for not thinking about it. Dom notices and rushes to hug me.
“No, babe. Don’t feel bad about it. Change it. Change me.” He kisses my lips. I melt in his arms. He smells so good. He feels so good. What’s wrong with suburbia? I think. It is so popular for a reason. “Show me your ways. Teach me the magic of Chewbanka.”
“Chewbacca.”
“Yup. Her.”
“Him.” I laugh, pulling him back to the hotel. “Come on, we have a history lesson to teach you.”
“While we’re at it, I also failed anatomy in school. Just saying . . .”
I swat his chest, feeling light and happy all of a sudden. Nora is right. He is the one. He makes me laugh. He gives me joy. He is not hard and callous and difficult like his baby brother. He is not San Francisco. Filthy and hilly, with a subway—one of the worst inventions in human history (there is absolutely no freaking way I’m ever getting on a subway).
“I’ll teach you biology too,” I promise.
“Thanks, Teach.”
For the next couple of days, Dom and I eat mofongo, hit the casinos, and have lots and lots of sex. By the time we get on the plane home, I feel more connected to him. More sure of our relationship. Yes, Joe was a plot twist. A bitter reminder of what could have been. Of the past. I’d lost my footing when we reconnected, but I’m back on the horse. I’m not going to let Joe mess with my happiness again. Next time we talk, I’ll be the one encouraging him to date Presley. Maybe we could even double date. Nip all the doubts in the bud.
The universe provides, and after we land back home, we catch a cab instead of having Joe pick us up. I don’t ask why Joe hasn’t arrived to collect us. Dom explains, anyway.
“It’s Mom’s birthday tomorrow. The big six-oh. Joe’s in Dover for the long weekend. I know I’m springing this on you last minute, but would you mind very much if we head over there tomorrow evening for dinner? I know it’ll mean a lot to her.”
“Of course!” I beam at him.
“Thanks.” He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles.
When we get to Salem, I ask the driver to drop me off first. I need to make sure Loki is okay. In the apartment, I find a note on the fridge from Nora.
Sleeping @ Colt’s
Hope you had fun in PR.
Love you xoxo
I pluck it and throw it in the trash on my way to find Loki. Nora has been feeling a lot less guilty about spending time with Colt. I’m happy for them. To be honest, I no longer feel like I’m drowning. It would probably be okay if she moved out at the end of the month. I make a mental note to actively encourage her to do so.
I find Loki sprawled in my bed. He stares at me with great enthusiasm, which for a cat means he blinks at me once, to acknowledge my presence in the room. When I reach to stroke him, he gives me his belly and tilts his chins up so I can rub his throat the way he likes.
“Missed me?” I ask tiredly. He rolls his eyes, stands up, and exits the room.
I grab a shower, do my laundry, try to call Dad (and get his voice mail. Again), and enjoy a balanced meal of Reese’s Puffs. There are still grave sketches hanging on my pinboard from the week after I met Joe. I glance at them, and something inside me wilts, because Joe was right. When we don’t see each other, we don’t create. And when I don’t create, I feel underwater.
It is only when I go back to the living room to turn off all the lights before I slip into bed that I see there is something I missed all along. A batch of A4 papers that’s been shoved through the crack under the door. One of them is even stamped with my boot print. I fall to my knees and collect them. I don’t need to guess what they are. What they mean. I know.
I grab the scattered pages. They’re out of order. Of course Joe wouldn’t bother with a stapler. It’s all handwritten, a violent cyclone of blue and black ink. He must’ve gone through several pens.
After picking up the pages with shaky hands, I start reading snippets.
. . . it was Kerouac’s fault, of course. He was the one who said that writers needed new experiences like flowers need the sun. He was the one who made young Jack hit the road and drive past state limits, past cornfields and skyscrapers. Past horizons. And so, inevitably, he was the one who pushed Jack to meet her.
. . . some nights, after Jack lost his car and had to hitchhike his way, he’d lay on a patch of grass, staring into the sky. He dreamed of ripping a hole in it. Slipping through it. Disappearing into another, better universe. One where people who should be together stay together. He’d bathed in dirty ponds and ate from trash cans. And yet, his most desperate moment had occurred under the night sky. So clear and pure and full of stars. He closed his eyes and saw her. A girl. Or maybe she was a woman at this point. Whoever she was, he belonged to her. But she no longer belonged to him.
And then I find it. The first page. It has a yellow Post-it Note attached to it. There is only one word on it, written in a red Sharpie.
PLEASE.
The word feels like a sword has been dipped in my chest. I want to pick up the phone and fight with him, but I don’t have his number. I want to find his social media accounts and message him, but he doesn’t have any—I checked. I want to . . . I want to go to his building, to his apartment, and give him a piece of my mind, but he is in Dover right now, at his parents’.
A part of me wants to help Joe, but a bigger part of me is scared of what it would mean.
I flip over the Post-it Note and notice that Joe scribbled his phone number on the back of it. Once again, he anticipated my reaction. I type him a message.
Ever: What would it look like? Us helping each other.
His response is immediate.
Joe: I don’t know yet.
Ever: It’s going to hurt.
Joe: We’re no strangers to pain.
I’m lying on the cold floor, staring up at the screen. This feels wrong. Like cheating. But also right. Like maybe Joe is the one I’ve been cheating on. I’m just so confused.
Ever: It’s not fair. I thought I’d never meet you again. I couldn’t have known you’re so close by.
A few seconds pass before he answers.
Joe: Why are you here, Ever? In my state. In my territory.
Ever: I don’t know.
Joe: What do you know?
Ever: That I don’t want you to be with Presley.
He types, then deletes. Types, then deletes. My heart is in my throat.
Joe: I don’t want to be with Presley, either.
Ever: We should delete this conversation.
Joe: You can do whatever you want. I’ve got nothing to hide.
I notice he doesn’t tell me he doesn’t want me to be with Dom.
Ever: How can you say that, when you were the one who told me not to tell Dom?
Joe: This is not hiding. It’s omitting. I’ll own up to it if he finds out.
Joe: Look, I love my brother. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have you. He can have your outside. I can have your inside.
Ever: Do you think that’d be enough for him?
Joe: I think he doesn’t get you, so it’s not going to matter to him, no.
Ever: And you do?
Joe: You know I do.
I close my eyes, taking a breath. I do. I do, I do, I do.
Ever: And what would I be left with? If he takes my body and you take my . . . everything else?
Joe: Simple. You’ll get both of us.
Joe: It’s all you want in the first place, isn’t it? Both brothers.
He’s hit too close to home, and he knows it. Dom is the smart choice. The safe choice. He is also, at present, my only choice. Joe . . . he is not even up for offer. Even if he were, it would be too messy, too painful . . .
Ever: Dom gets all. You get hang-outs. Last offer.
I cave. Because I can. Because, at least on paper, it is innocent. Because I radiate, and I never radiate, and I want to radiate whenever Joe and I talk. I want to exist in color. I want to listen to old Smiths records on Joe’s floor while I draw, while he writes. I want the city’s filth, then to come back to the suburbs for the night. Even though I know this arrangement won’t have a happy ending.
Joe: Lucky Dom.
Ever: This is strictly work.
Joe: In that case, I’ll set up a workroom for us.
Ever: I’ll make playlists.
Joe: No Blur.
Ever: I’m no heathen.
Joe:
My heart hiccups, because Joe is not an emoji person. I can tell without even texting him much.
Ever: Oh, and we’re telling Dom.
There’s a beat before he answers this time.
Joe: Your funeral.
Ever: God. I’m already regretting this.
Joe: Regrets make good stories.
SEVENTEEN
On the drive to Dover, Dom is fidgety and out of focus. When I ask him about it, he tells me that he’s been pulling double shifts to make up for the long weekend he took off, but that he’s still keeping up with all his other commitments.
“When was the last time you slept?” I demand. “Like, really slept. Not just catnaps.”
Now that I’m taking a better look at him, he looks shattered. Like he hasn’t slept the better half of this century.
Dom frowns, giving it some thought. “Two days ago. And on the flight back too. From San Juan.”
“Sleep is not Pilates. Doing it three times a week is not sufficient,” I chide him.
“I’ll get better about it,” he soothes, rubbing at my back. It’s all empty words. I know he won’t. Dom is incapable of slowing down. He wants to make sure he takes big, juicy bites of the world. Every day is a greasy burger. He doesn’t have salad days in between.
“No, you won’t.” I shake my head. “You need to clear your schedule a little. CrossFit. Book club. The movies. Something’s gotta go.”
“It’s easy for you to say. You don’t know what it feels like. To look your mortality in the eye every day. I do. It’s hard for me to pass on things.”
This time, I don’t take the bait. “First of all, you don’t own exclusivity rights on death, mister. I’m going to expire one day too. Second, you still have a lot of time to do them.”
He flashes me a look. “You don’t know that, babe. I’m sorry, you just don’t.”
“You’re being weird.” I nibble on the side of my thumbnail.
“Sorry. I don’t want to fight. It’s just . . . I’ve got it under control.” Dom darts his gaze from the road, throwing me a reassuring smile. Our car drifts into the opposite lane, causing the truck in front of us to honk loudly and veer to the side. Dom screams Shit, then takes a sharp turn back to our lane. I let out a gasp, clutching the edge of the passenger door.
“Sorry, sorry,” Dom mutters, sounding genuinely sincere. “Oh, hell. That was close.”
“What the hell, dude?” My voice is shrill. My hands are balled into fists. I’m shaking all over.
“I wasn’t paying attention. I said I’m sorry.”
“And that makes it okay?”
“Get off my back, all right?”
Something is up with him, and I don’t know what it is.
If we move in together, I could monitor him more closely. I don’t actually feel ready to make this step with Dom. Especially with the entire Joe mess. But I’m desperate to save him the way he saved me. And right now . . . he looks like he could use a helping hand.
We pull up in front of his parents’ house a few minutes later. Dom opens the door and bows a little. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I say stiffly.
He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “This is me. Your ninety-nine-percent-chance-to-marry guy. I’m sorry about what happened. You’re right. I won’t get behind the wheel before I get more sleep. Crack a smile, will ya?”
He is back to being playful, sweet Dom. But I’m still worried. I’m going to be the one driving on our way back. The thought of having him behind the wheel scares me now.
