Here for You (12 page)

“That’s all she does anymore,” Evie complained. “I can’t get a word in with her. Ah, well….” Evie brightened. “At least, her electronic crap gives me lots of time with Ted.”

“And Ted is?” Tomas asked.

“Let me guess,” Cole said, “must be a new boyfriend?”

“He took me to Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse,” Evie beamed. “I had prime rib. He’s a real good guy, too, nice to them.” She gestured to Amanda and Rachel. “Puts up with me and mine….”

“Why do I sense a but? So far Ted sounds great. He buys you meat, he hasn’t run screaming from your teenagers,” Cole said.

Evie leaned in, whispering despite her daughters’ oblivious faces. “Ted is bad in bed.”

“Ted, who is bad in bed?” Cole repeated. “Sounds like a terrible lyric to a song.”

“Yeah well, my life feels like bad poetry. He gets slot A and slot B all fumbled.”

“Well, maybe if you help him?” Tomas suggested. “Some guys need instruction, you know?”

“Oh, honey, I have helped.” Evie rested her chin on her hands. “And he
tries
, poor thing. But it’s so damn predictable. First he always asks me. Hours ahead he’ll ask, ‘Can we have sex later?’ And then he goes right for it. Two fast kisses and right for the left tit with his teeth.”

“Okay, we don’t need these details.” Tomas pulled a face.

“Why are you boys so squeamish about girly bits? Fine, let’s just say Ted never just grabs me and kisses me. There’s zero surprise with him. But, hell, there are worse things than faking some bad sex.” Evie stopped and stared earnestly at them, before adding, “And Ted’s got a good job.”

They all laughed at Evie’s priorities then. Laughed for the first time in days and days. Brendan would have loved this story. The thought sobered Cole. He abruptly stopped laughing.

C
OLE
THREW
himself into partying after his shift at the bar, getting high, acting stupid, staying up all night. Trying to drown out the one true thing in his head:
I miss you, Brendan, so much.

“You okay?” Sandy asked him.

Cole had pulled three night shifts in a row and partied until dawn afterward. This was his first regular day shift, from noon through dinner. What the hell would he even do after work? No good clubbing started until midnight or later.

“Fantastic.”

“’Cause you look a bit peaked.” Sandy began to wash out the shot glasses. “I’m sorry about Brendan. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a great guy, a good egg.”

“Jesus, Sandy,” Cole snapped. “Who under forty says ‘good egg’ anymore?” He turned his back, staring out the bar’s window, and then covered his face with his hands. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was mean of me.”

“That’s okay. I get it. I lost my parents in 9/11 when I was a kid. They were stockbrokers in Tower One, and I was in the school gym when the news spread. My coach came into the locker room in tears.”

Cole whirled around. “God, I’m sorry! Wow… I’m sorry. I never heard that before about you and your folks.”

“I don’t tell too many people about it. It changes how they look at you.”

“Yeah.” Cole understood that. Since Brendan’s death, he’d gotten those looks of pity mixed with a weird, uncomfortable quality. Nobody knew what to say to him, and they would mention Brendan quickly as if hoping to change the subject. He swallowed hard now, searching Sandy’s eyes. “How did you get through it?”

“Who says I have?” He shrugged. “At first, day by day, like a blur of time, and then later…. By remembering them and how they loved me. I hear so many sad stories in this bar about shitty families that I know I was lucky. I was loved.”

They fell silent.

“And I kept my sense of humor. That’s a big thing,” Sandy added.

Cole nodded. He thought of Sandy’s endless parade of corny jokes. They were truly awful, but maybe they carried Sandy through his day and occasionally made others half laugh and half groan at them.

He put his hand on Sandy’s shoulder. “You’re a good egg too.”

C
OLE
WENT
out after work. Since he’d worked the dinner shift, it was still early. Cole went to a bookstore and browsed aimlessly. He played a game in his head of which book Brendan would have liked. He held a couple of hardbacks to his chest.

The moment he returned to the house, however, he could nearly see Brendan, pedaling up their driveway, his eyes sparkling as he shouted that he was home. Sweet Brendan. How could he have been there one moment, gone the next? Cole wasn’t in the place Sandy had described—not yet—where he could remember the good times and feel Brendan’s love. His death still cut too much. Cole missed him too much.

He missed Ian too. God, did that make him a terrible person? Cole didn’t want to, but he did. He longed to pick up the phone and talk to Ian. Go over there, back into his arms.

That one night had been unforgettable. But it wasn’t about the sex, not completely. He wanted to look into Ian’s eyes again and feel safe. But if he saw Ian even once more, he’d be powerless to resist, and it came down to one thing for Cole.

Brendan had loved Ian first.

T
HEIR
HOUSE
broke into pieces.

River was gone. Marc was drinking heavily and picking fights, hyped up on the hard edge of grief and alcohol. Cole attempted to reason with him, but his heart wasn’t in it, and for once, Tomas seemed to turn his back. Whatever had gone on between them the night of Brendan’s funeral, it was over. Tomas went down to Miami most weekends with the excuse of seeing his elderly grandfather.

Trying to help Marc curb his drinking only led to shouting matches.

“I’m upset, okay? So what?”

“So does all this drinking yourself sick make it better?” Cole asked.

“I don’t drive.”

“No, but you’re getting into fights. I heard you got into it with a guy at Applebee’s. Marc, really? Fucking Applebee’s?”

“Go to hell. It’s better than feeling nothing, like you.”

They turned on each other, but Cole was too tired to deal with Marc. He’d stopped partying to numb himself, and Marc, too, would soon realize it didn’t work.

Cole picked up his journal a few times, but he put it right back down again. Marc seemed to have lost all desire to eat, but Cole often drifted into the kitchen and stood at the refrigerator. He ordered food for four—pizza or Thai—or picked up pantry goods like refried beans, Uncle Ben’s brown rice, and canned peaches. He bought in big quantities even though he was alone to eat it all and ate the meals without tasting them. No matter. When you’d been hungry in your life, food became important. He stuffed himself until his stomach hurt, and then trudged back to his bed.

Cole called Sandy to cover his shift, once or twice, and slept the day away, empty inside. His manager, Paula, understood the first few times, but then sounded irritated on the phone.

“You’re lucky we’re not as busy,” Paula said. “Even so, Sandy can’t do all your shifts. I need you here too.”

“Whatever.”

“
Whatever
?” Paula repeated. She took an audible breath. “Look… you’re a good worker, honest, and the customers’ favorite. But you’re replaceable, okay? We all are. Get your shit together and come to work for your next shift.”

“We’re not.”

“Huh? Not what?”

“All replaceable.”

Cole hung up. He turned over onto his stomach and buried his head in his pillow. He knew he was this close to being fired, but found he simply didn’t care.

Sandy phoned shortly afterward, leaving a voice message. “Don’t worry about it. I can cover you. And Paula adores you normally, so I think she’ll be cool a little longer with it. It’s not Season, right? Mid-June is always slow without the snowbirds.”

I
AN
LEFT
quick voice messages too. Nothing overly emotional. Not even anything personal in nature. Things like “Hey, Cole, just checking in,” or “It’s nice out today, isn’t it? Hope you’re at the beach and not sitting around on your ass,” or “Went past the bar tonight. Don’t you work Thursdays?”

Yet, every time, Cole’s heart jumped to his throat at the sound of Ian’s steady voice. He closed his eyes and would listen to it, Ian’s voice centering him.

Tomas returned for his job on the weekdays and occasional weekend. He avoided Marc, although he spotted him leaving once and frowned, commenting to Cole, “He looks like his skin is stretched over his bones.”

“Yeah. And he reeks too.”

Tomas regarded him. “You don’t exactly look yourself either. You need a shave and a haircut.”

Cole shrugged. “I’ll do it next week.”

“We do need to get ahold of Marc at work and figure out our money problems. We need River’s room rented.”

“I know.”

But as soon as his shift at Swanky’s ended, his nursing classes on hiatus for the summer, Tomas took off for Miami again. At least he had a loving grandparent and a mother, Cole thought.

“I’m going to be here for a while,” Tomas phoned. “At least a week.”

“Why? You’re not leaving the house, are you?” A flare of panic swamped Cole. “You’re not moving away?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. My grandfather needs me, that’s all. Some health stuff.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He’s doing okay. Just old, you know?”

At least he got to be old
, Cole thought bitterly. Then shame colored his cheeks.

“He needs me to do some errands and things. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Do you want to speak to Marc?”

“No,” Tomas said quietly. “He’s not a big fan of my grandfather.”

Usually that would make Cole push for some answers about the mystery surrounding the on-and-off-again saga of Tomas and Marc, and he knew that Tomas was proud of his Brazilian roots while Marc barely discussed his heritage, but today he was simply too depleted.

He worked another shift. Sandy had called and asked him if he minded. Cole didn’t. He was glad to go, actually, and not think about anything more than martinis and piña coladas.

“Sorry to ask,” Sandy said. “I know things are hard.”

“No problem. Why do you need me to take your shift?”

“My stupid apartment. The building has palmetto bugs the size of my fist. And now my plumbing’s having issues. Don’t ask.”

“Okay, well, I’ll cover you. Not a problem.”

“What do you call a palmetto bug?” Before Cole could even answer, Sandy joked, “What do you get when you cross an ant and a tic? All sorts of antics. Get it? Ant-tics.”

“I get it.”

“Thanks again.”

Cole sighed and hung up. Every time he tried to like Sandy, Sandy had to go and ruin it.

F
OURTH
OF
July, the first holiday without Brendan, came and went.

Cole had managed to show at his job that week—as if he had a choice since Paula threatened to fire him. He served lots of cold American beers and some red, white, and blue Jell-O shots, but he’d done nothing on the actual holiday.

He sat on his bed that afternoon, listening to the neighborhood kids set off firecrackers.

Cole couldn’t help remembering last year. They’d had one hell of a party.

Marc had made them a giant list of food items to buy, and he had planned a mouthwatering menu: watermelon, corn on the cob, bacon and blue cheese burgers, shrimp- and crab-stuffed mushrooms, homemade caramel apple pie. The whole shebang.

Tomas and Cole had gone to the supermercado, where the prices were cheap and produce fresh. Cole had flirted with the deli man—a cute young thing with dark hair and brown eyes—but floundered when he tried to order the meat or shrimp.

Tomas had come up behind him and ordered for him in rapid Spanish. The clerk grinned and nodded, scooping up a huge plastic bag of tiger shrimp.

“You live in South Florida, man. You really need to learn Spanish.”

“I know. But the only Spanish I’ve mastered is ‘hello,’ ‘good-bye,’ ‘I love you,’ and ‘will you suck my cock?’”

Tomas had laughed. He spoke at least three languages beside English. His mother was German and had immigrated to Brazil when she was younger. In Brazil, he’d grown up speaking Portuguese and a little German too. When they’d moved to Miami, he’d picked up Spanish.

“Look at these shrimp.” Cole took the bag and put them into their cart. “They have eyes.”

“What do you think? They live in the sea all pink and eyeless? These are ocean fresh, brother. The real deal.”

A young girl in pigtails ran past them, Band-Aids on her elbows.

“Let’s grab the beer.”

The party had been huge, people streaming in and out of the house. Brendan had flipped the burgers, wearing a bandanna tied around his neck like Bruce Springsteen. Marc made the rest. Cole handed out beers and bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. There were hot guys in tiny bathing suits, kids with sparklers running around. Evie had shown up with her brood, her arms around her short-lasting boyfriend.

The fireworks, seen from the Ocean Vista beach, were excellent that year. People stood on their chairs, singing American songs, clapping as they went off and lit up the night sky. Cole lip-locked with some redhead. River had given rides around the block on his motorcycle, dropping people at the beach if they preferred to see the fireworks from there. Marc and Tomas sat together by the grill, Tomas’s chin hovering just above Marc’s head, their bodies pressed close. Brendan roared with laughter at somebody’s joke.

They’d all bitched about the mess. It was three or so in the morning, the others gone, and Brendan hadn’t wanted to leave it all for later, so he’d handed out trash bags.

“I’m not doing this now,” Marc said, downing his beer. “I cooked all day.”

“Oh, come on,” Brendan cajoled. “If we all do it, it won’t take long.”

River was the first to listen, gathering up cups and plastic utensils.