Quit Me If You Can

28. Cade

28

CADE

W hen I arrive at the office, Kennedy is already immersed in her work. The day flies by, bustling with the usual client calls and paperwork, allowing for little more than shared smiles between us. Later in the afternoon, my secretary reminds me about my upcoming meeting. I get up and grab my helmet.

“I have to head out for a meeting with Soren,” I tell Kennedy.

“That’s fine. Have a nice evening,” she says casually.

“Do you want to come along?”

I watch her expression brighten. “I’d love to, but I need to finish up these papers. Thanks for asking though.”

“Your loss. Meetings with Soren are a good time.”

“They are? Well, good luck with that,” she replies, returning my smile and giving me a little wave. “Good night.”

Oh no, you’re not getting off that easily . “I was hoping to meet up with you afterward.” I lean over her desk, noticing her pulse beating in the small dip between her collarbones. “Unless you have plans.”

“I do, I’m meeting up with Gary. Why… what’s on your mind?”

I chuckle. Gary, hm? “Sounds excellent,” I rumble. “Maybe we could do dinner and a movie.”

“Maybe we could.”

I give a satisfied nod. “I’ll pick you up.”

I wanted to kiss her and whisper how much I’m looking forward to our evening together, but we’re still at the office, and it’s nowhere near the end of the day. Everyone is still here. We’ve agreed to keep our flirtations low-key, to keep office speculation to a minimum. I’m on board with her wish. My first concern is ensuring Kennedy feels comfortable and isn’t caught in any tricky situations.

So, I just wave goodbye and head to meet Soren at Swayze’s, an upscale bar not far from here.

Soren is already there. If he were Queen Victoria, I’d say he’s “not amused.” His expression makes that clear.

“How the fuck did this happen?”

“It’s on me,” I tell him.

Unlike Humphries, he’s not buying into the love argument, which is not of critical importance because first, I’m the boss, and second—well, I’m the boss. Soren grumbles a bit, mainly because he’s wary of office drama, but I counter those concerns easily. Kennedy herself doesn’t want any special treatment, which eventually works to soften Soren. By the time I leave, we’re on good terms again. Yes, I’m the one with the title (and the bragging rights, and okay, yes, the occasional big head), but Soren is my right-hand man for a reason. His opinion carries weight, so I’d be foolish not to take his counsel under consideration.

I arrive home in the late afternoon. Before picking Kennedy up, I have plenty of time for a shower and, more importantly, to call my brother. I’m looking forward to catching up with Joey. It’s been too long since we last spoke.

The breeze from the penthouse balcony offers a refreshing break on this warm NYC day. After taking off my shirt, I grab a cold Coke from the fridge, step outside barefoot in just my jeans, and soak in the city skyline. This favorite spot of mine may not be the garden retreat I once dreamed of, but it’s not half bad. From here, it’s only a short ride down to my office in the heart of Manhattan.

For me, Friday or Saturday hits the sweet spot for reaching out to Joey, who’s stationed over thirteen hours ahead at Yokota Air Base near Tokyo. Checking my phone, it’s 5:42 p.m. here, so it’s a bright and early 6:42 a.m. over there. I wouldn’t blame Joey for getting a little extra shut-eye this weekend. But let’s be real, he’s probably up with the sunrise, doing push-ups.

Settling in my hammock, I dial his number.

After a few rings, Joey picks up, his voice alert and slightly surprised. “Yo, ’sup, bro. Everything chill back home?”

“Yeah, all good. Sorry to catch you so early. I thought I’d give it a shot. How’s Japan treating you?”

Joey launches into a rapid-fire update—the camaraderie among his fellow servicemen, his encounters with locals, and the challenges of learning the language. “Anyhow, Japan’s Japan, man. Other than that, can’t complain. How’s the Big Apple treating you?”

I dive right in. “Guess who’s back in my life?”

Joey’s voice perks up with curiosity. “Who?”

“Kennedy.”

“Shut! Up!”

I laugh at his reaction, letting the city sounds fill the brief silence. “I’m serious,” I say, and take a sip of my Coke.

Joey whistles low through the phone. “Damn, bro. That’s… unexpected. Last I heard, you two weren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

“Yeah, well, things change,” I say, thinking about the emotional heavy lifting still ahead for Kennedy and me. Well, to be fair, mostly for me.

“Some things never change.” Joey chuckles. “You two were always meant to be together. Honestly, I never understood why?—”

“Remember the first time you met her?” I cut in, knowing Joey doesn’t have a clue about the real reason behind my sudden split with Kennedy.

“If we’re referring to the Kennedy who wore those green cotton dachshund panties that time she was making coffee in the kitchen. Hell yeah!” He barks out a laugh. “I’ll never forget those panties. Or her banshee scream.”

“Tell me about it! I’ve never gone from a deep sleep to wide awake so quickly in my life.”

I vividly remember rushing into the kitchen, naked and dick swinging, thinking Kennedy had encountered an intruder. We were living in a rundown apartment in a sketchy neighborhood, and while there wasn’t anything worth stealing, potential intruders weren’t out of the question.

But rather than a burglar, I found Joey doubled over on the floor, howling with laughter at Kennedy’s dachshund-patterned underwear. Kennedy stood next to the kitchen counter in a T-shirt and said panties, hands on hips, looking both adorable and fierce. She was glaring at Joey, or at least trying to, but failing spectacularly .

“You see those way-elongated dachshunds, bro? They look like…” Joey wheezed, barely able to speak through his laughter, “like a bunch of little?—”

“Yeah, yeah, stop it!” Kennedy shrieked.

I raised an eyebrow, finally catching on. “Wait, are you saying the dachshunds look like…”

“Exactly! Like a bunch of little?—”

“Okay, okay!” Kennedy groaned. “So my underpants looks like a parade of dog-shaped… you-know-whats. Big deal. You should see the matching bra!”

That did it. I don’t think Kennedy meant it as a joke, but even she couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. The three of us collapsed into laughter, tears streaming down our faces, with Joey still wheezing for air.

Not all of my memories of Kennedy are about hot sex. But they’re generally all quite memorable. We felt like a tight-knit unit. We felt like a family.

“That place was a dump ,” Joey says, pulling me out of my memories, “but man, did we have some good times.” His chuckling voice sounds a bit nostalgic.

Sipping my Coke, I say, “You keep telling yourself that.”

“So you haven’t seen her since… that night ?”

I put my drink down.

That damn fucking night. We never bring it up. We both swore to take it to the grave. He knows we split around then, but that’s about it. For weeks after “that night,” my life became a constant struggle, each day without her more agonizing than the last. I desperately tried to erase her from my mind, to convince myself she never existed.

“Yeah, anyhow, she recently surfaced out of the blue,” I explain, swaying gently in my hammock. “Just waltzed into my office one day and dropped off her resume.”

“And? You hired her?”

She would have haunted my dreams if I hadn’t. “Of course,” I tell him.

Joey lets out a low whistle over the phone. “So, how’s it working out?”

“Let’s just say, life is never boring with her around.”

“Guess she’s got you wrapped around her little finger. Better watch your back. Soon she’ll be running the show and calling the shots.”

“Hey now, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve too. But she’s definitely got my attention.”

“Careful, bro. Sounds like you’re in deep.”

I shake my head. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I don’t. I’m chill as a cucumber.”

“Yeah, well, remember when you used to fly off the handle over every little thing?”

“Hey, that was me being passionate,” he protests.

“More like a hotheaded volcano ready to erupt.”

“Hey, I’ve matured since then. Unlike some people I know.”

I grin at his jab. He’s definitely come a long way from those days when he didn’t know how to handle his anger and the raw, palpable resentment he harbored inside.

You ever look at someone and instantly hate them? For my brother, that someone was Rafael Herron. A small punk who despised Joey’s face equally as much, starting in our teenage years.

Joey was thirteen or fourteen and swinging on that old, rusted swing set in our backyard, a pack of cigarettes clutched tightly in his hand. When I stepped outside looking for him, I found Herron there, too, intent on getting his smokes back.

As I sprinted closer, Herron was muttering, “Yeah, well, your mother’s a whore.”

Joey leapt off the swing, his eyes flashing rage, the cigarettes clutched tightly in his fist. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me, you pathetic piece of?—”

I stepped between them, putting a hand on Joey’s chest to hold him back. “Whoa, easy there, bro. Let’s all just take a breath, all right?” I knew it would be tough to keep Herron in check, and I also knew that my brother wouldn’t be swayed by reason. But that didn’t stop me from trying, if only for Joey’s sake.

Joey glared at me. “You gonna let him talk about Mom like that?”

“Come on, man. He’s not worth it.” I shot a warning glare at Herron. “Why don’t you get lost before things get ugly?”

Herron let out a mocking laugh. At that moment, I understood why Joey hated him. “Aw, look at the nice big brother trying to play protector. How sweet .” He took a step closer to us, his eyes narrowed. “Your mom’s a whore, and both of you are spineless cowards.”

Joey’s face twisted in rage. With a furious yell, he lunged forward, and I just managed to grab his shirt. The threadbare fabric strained, then tore with a sharp rip as I struggled to hold him back. “Joey, stop! He’s not worth it!”

Herron danced back, grinning triumphantly. “That’s right, hold your little bitch back. Wouldn’t want him to get his ass kicked again, would we?”

I clenched my jaw, and every muscle in my body tensed. “Get the fuck out of here, before I lose control. Now!”

Herron sneered and turned to leave, tossing one last insult over his shoulder. “See you around, cowards. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

As soon as he was gone, Joey ripped himself away from me, his face flushed with anger and humiliation. “I hate that guy! Someday I’m gonna?—”

I cut him off. “Calm down, all right? You’re better than this. Don’t give him what he wants. He’s not worth it, and you know it. Let’s just forget about him, yeah?”

Joey let out a frustrated huff and nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But if I see that bastard’s face again…”

“I know, I know. But for now, let’s focus on more important things.”

Joey took a deep breath, calming down as he patted his pockets. “Right. Like finding a damn lighter.”

Our parents taught us that backing down from a fight is one thing, and knowing when to stand your ground is another. But when is a fight worth it? When is it time to step up?

When do you risk it all?

Back then, I didn’t have a clue. I was just too damn young.

At that point, I still believed we could resolve things with words.

But to this day, I wonder if Joey was right back then. Should I have let him handle Herron his way? Would it have made any difference if the two of us had given Herron the beating of his life? Deep down, I know the answer: Nothing short of killing Herron would have stopped that bastard from coming for his revenge.

Just as we lit up the cigarettes (a regrettable relic of my less responsible days), our parents drove up in their beat-up old Dodge Neon. The timing couldn’t have been any shittier.

They, well, Dad , grounded us. Not for the cigarettes we tossed into the bushes after quickly stubbing them out on the ground, but for getting into a “pointless fight,” and for me not keeping my brother out of trouble. The torn shirt was more than enough evidence.

That was the beginning of the downward spiral.

When Joey ran into Herron again, it turned ugly fast. Herron pulled a knife. While luck kept everyone safe, it was a moment that lit a fire under Joey, and things just kept getting worse.

Ultimately, Joey made one enemy too many.

The military was good for him. The structured life and the enforced discipline offered him a way back to himself, to his inner strength and purpose.

I had borrowed a car from a buddy because I couldn’t take him to the airport on my new motorbike. I still remember how he fidgeted in the passenger seat as we drove to JFK. Joey had a ticket for a flight to South Carolina, where he was assigned for basic training. He was just twenty-one, and his palms were damp with nerves. Mine weren’t far behind. I still remember how hard I gripped the steering wheel because of it… yeah, nearly a decade has passed, but it feels like it happened just yesterday. Joey has come home countless times since then, and I’ve dropped him off at the airport just as many times. But that first time will be etched in my memory forever.

“Bro, thanks for bringing me,” Joey said, breaking the silence in the car.

“Hey, family first, little bro.”

In the terminal, we checked his bags, exchanged a few last-minute words, and then it was time. Standing at the security gate, I grasped my little brother’s shoulder, searching for the right words that refused to come.

He gave me a tight smile and gripped my hand. “I’ll make you proud, Cade.”

I managed a nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “I know you will, Joey. Just… stay safe out there.”

He stepped through the gate and disappeared into the crowd of travelers. I lingered, watching until he was out of sight. In the chaos of the busy airport, I just stood there feeling hollow and worried, but also proud. Mostly, though, it felt like a part of me, my own flesh and blood, had been torn away.

“But seriously, good call on hiring her.” Joey interrupts my thoughts, his happy teasing voice jolting me right back to the present.

“Thanks, little brother. All right,” I say, taking a deep breath. My voice comes out gruffer than I intend, dark emotions still pressing on my chest like a ton. I swallow hard, adjusting my voice to sound upbeat. He’s out there, far from home. Worry is the last thing he needs. “I’ll let you get to it. Go fill your tummy with some breakfast. I’ll call you next week. Stay safe.”

“Thanks, bro,” Joey says.” Take care of yourself. Out.”

He hangs up.

I finish the last of my Coke and set the empty can down with a clink on the side table next to my hammock. Pushing myself up, I take a minute to do a little stretching before padding barefoot down the hallway toward the bathroom. Time for a shower.

With a sigh, I step into the bathroom and switch on the music. Ella Fitzgerald’s pure, warm tones fill the room with “Someone To Watch Over Me.” The tiles under my feet feel pleasantly cool as the hot water cascades over me, washing away not just the past but also the nostalgia that had grabbed a hold on me.

I close my eyes and let Ella’s voice be the only thing I hear.

I wonder what Kennedy will think of my apartment. The contrast to the dump Joey and I used to live in couldn’t be starker.

Gray towel around my waist, I step into the living room. Sunlight pours through the large, unobstructed windows and onto exposed brick walls that lend an industrial charm and a roughness I appreciate. There are no posters haphazardly pinned up, no mismatched furniture, no old pizza boxes stacked in the corner. But I haven’t completely outgrown my former tendencies. The walls are still lined with several beauties: The centerpiece is, of course, a 20 x 24 photo of the vintage Vincent Black Shadow, once (in the 1950s, that is) regarded as the fastest production motorcycle in the world. Every detail is meticulously captured in high resolution: the sharp angles of the frame, the smooth curve of the tank, the gleaming mechanical parts. Barely containable power, that’s what I see. The Vincent Black Shadow is a symbol of unbridled speed, daring anyone—especially me—to tame its wild, wild heart. Flanking the Shadow are two more photographs: On the right is the Triumph Bonneville, also from the 1950s, and the Harley-Davidson Hydra-Glide, celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary this year.

Then there are the black floating bookshelves near the walnut coffee table. They’re suspended by cables, making them look almost weightless. Pretty neat for a piece of furniture that’s packed with hundreds of books. Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer is one of those books that doesn’t let you go. It’s about more than just a man’s journey into the Alaskan wilderness; it’s about the pull of freedom and the price of abandoning everything to find something real. It’s impossible not to think about what it takes to walk away from everything and live life on your own terms. Another go-to is The Obstacle Is the Way by Ryan Holiday. It’s a book that’s helped me reshape the way I approach problems: by seeing obstacles as opportunities, not setbacks. Holiday takes ancient Stoic philosophy and shows how the people who have faced the toughest circumstances often come out on top, not because they avoided obstacles, but because they embraced them. The rest of the books are mostly biographies and other nonfiction, with a smattering of travel books about destinations I hope to visit someday. The prospect of exploring the world with Kennedy makes that fantasy even more enticing.

I pause at a shelf that displays some framed photos: my parents, Joey, friends. There we are, on motorcycles. Miles looking clueless. Joey, even more so. Not that I knew what I was doing back then. I was just better at hiding it.

My gaze settles on the only photo that’s not encased in a black or silver metallic frame. An old Polaroid. I grab it. This time, my heart keeps a steady pace. For once, nothing rattles me.

It’s like the picture finally makes sense again.

The cabin in the photograph is small and cozy, surrounded by tall pines under a sky so clear it feels almost unreal, with not a single cloud in sight.

Joey and I first stumbled across this hideaway on one of our motorcycle trips. Time after time we kept cruising past it until one day we noticed the “For Sale” sign out front. The moment I spotted it, I knew I wanted to bring Kennedy here, to love her under that star-studded sky. So I called the seller, and he told us to meet him at this biker joint.

We rolled up, and who did we find? Not just the seller, but another interested party too. Some guy who looked like his trust fund was bigger than my net worth and any twenty of my friends. Joey put it more bluntly: “That guy is drippin’ with money.”

It was the first time I ever laid eyes on Oliver Humphries, yeah, the same guy who’s now my do-or-die buddy. The crafty bastard managed to snatch the cabin right out from under me. Despite my objections (not that I had much of a shot anyway), the ownership papers changed hands faster than I could say “contract dispute.” Even so, and despite our starkly different backgrounds, we bonded over our bikes. He handed me his number, and before I knew it, he was letting me use the cabin whenever I wanted.

Kennedy was the only woman I ever brought there.

I smile at Kennedy’s mischievous grin. The photo captures her mid-laugh, her hair still flattened and messed up from the helmet, but her eyes are shining. That weekend was a world away from reality. Time didn’t matter, and it was just her and me, nothing and no one else.

Scribbled underneath the photo it says “Do you love me?” in Kennedy’s handwriting.

When she wrote that question on the photo and handed it to me, I pulled her close and told her my answer, over and over, a million times, thrilling in the way her eyes lit up—those passionate, beautiful eyes staring at me in pure astonishment. It was as if she couldn’t quite believe how lucky we were to have found each other. And trust me, I was still wrapping my head around it myself.

So, to make the moment legally binding, I snapped another Polaroid, and used her pen to jot down two words I wanted her to remember. Because if it’s not documented, it might as well be a figment of our imagination.

I handed it to her and said, “So you’ll never forget. So that there’s not even of a shred of doubt.”