Chapter Nineteen
Brady
When I see the lights of New York from the plane, the feeling of dread and anxiety that’s been building up inside me since leaving Angie’s place the night before intensifies.
Unlike her, I wasn’t born to keep secrets.
I’m close to my family, and I’m an open book with everyone.
None of this cloak-and-dagger shit comes naturally to me.
I hope it’s Mikey picking me up. I won’t have to worry about anything slipping out with him. We’ll just talk about the Giants and video games and whatever girls he thinks are hot in his classes at NYU.
But, of course, no such luck.
I’m in the cell phone lot. Let me know when you’re here.
My dad’s text pops up on my screen as soon as I turn off airplane mode. Damn it.
I’m here , I text back. It’s late enough that it will probably take us only about half an hour to get to our house. I hope I can hold off any talk about Angie.
I head down to baggage claim and out to ground transportation. My dad pulls around soon enough and hops out before I can even get the door open.
“Hey, kid,” he says, wrapping his strong arms around me and slapping me on the back.
“How you doing?” My dad is tall and strong and in damn good shape for a guy his age.
He has salt-and-pepper hair, sun-browned skin, and dark eyes that always crinkle with laughter despite the demons that plague him.
He was a firefighter before being injured about a week before 9/11.
Angie Pines thought I’d be weirded out by anxiety and depression?
My dad spent years in therapy trying to get over the guilt.
He never went back to being a firefighter.
He mostly lays floors and does drywall for home remodelers.
Making documents for people trying to provide for their families is the only thing that makes him feel like a hero again.
“I’m good, Dad,” I say, hugging and slapping him back.
“Let’s get out of here.” He heads back around to the driver’s side. “Your ma’s climbing the walls.”
I smile and shake my head as I throw my bag in the backseat. I’ve been away only about a month, but it’s the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing my parents.
“So, how are things?” he asks as he pulls out into traffic.
“Good. Lots of work, but I manage to have some fun.”
“You always do.”
We talk about the Giants for a while, and I start to relax. But I should have known it wouldn’t last. My dad and I won’t have much alone time this weekend.
“How are things with our girl?” he asks. I blanch at his choice of words.
“They’re okay, I guess.”
“Do you have to talk to her or anything?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, uh, I talk to her.”
My dad glances at me sharply and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “She’s a beautiful girl, from what I remember. Tall, right?”
I shrug. “I guess. And yeah, she’s tall.”
“You guess, huh?” he says drily.
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s in your class?”
“Yeah.”
“You must see her all the time, then.”
“She’s part-time, so she’s in only three of my classes.” I clear my throat again. “But yeah, I see her.”
“What’s she like?” he asks casually. He glances at me as he checks the passenger side mirror and changes lanes, his expression unreadable.
“She’s smart.” That’s objective enough, I guess.
“Pretty quiet, keeps a low profile. Works at a bar near school, rides her bike everywhere.” Kisses like an angel, has the body of a goddess, and gives head like a pro.
I’m glad it’s dark so my dad can’t see my face turn red thinking about the things I know about Angela Pines.
“From what I remember, she seemed quiet and polite, all business,” says my dad. “I didn’t really spend much time with her, though.”
“Right.” I search my brain for something else to talk about, but my gift of gab is totally failing me. Fortunately, my dad turns the conversation to a house he’s working on, and we spend the last few minutes of the drive talking about water damage and drywall problems.
We park in the driveway of our yellow two-story house. It’s close to eleven, but a couple of neighbors are still sitting outside on their porches in the mild September air. They wave and call hello when they see us.
“Brady!” My mom pulls me inside and gives me a bone-crushing hug as soon as my dad puts his key in the door. “How’s my boy? Oh, God, I missed you, hon.”
“Missed you, too, Ma,” I say, squeezing her tightly. My mom, Deirdre, has copper hair that used to be red; blond highlights hide the gray. Her eyes are deep blue and framed by long, dark lashes. I look over her head at her dark-eyed, younger version, my sister Siobhan.
“Hey, jerkface,” she says.
“Hey, McNugget.”
My mom reluctantly lets me go so that Siobhan can give me a hug. She’s at least three inches taller than my mom, her long, straight red hair falling over her shoulders and framing a pale, freckled face that blushes easily.
“Getting tall there, Shiv,” I say.
“Getting fat, you mean,” says a voice from the hallway.
Siobhan whirls to face our brother. “Eat shit, Mikey.”
“Mikey, I don’t want to hear that come out of your mouth again,” scolds my mom.
“Sorry, Ma,” says Mikey. He grasps my hand and pulls me into a one-armed, back-slapping hug. “What’s up, man?”
“What about my apology, you sexist, acne-infested pig?” snaps Siobhan.
“So good to be home,” I say. I give Mikey a shove. “Seriously, man, don’t say that shit to a girl.”
“She’s not a girl. She’s our sister.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” says my dad. “Is the pizza here?”
“Just got here,” my mom replies.
We all head into the kitchen and sit at our usual places around the table.
I’ve lived here since I was nine years old.
We moved right after Siobhan was born. Everything about it is as familiar to me as the back of my hand, from the floors my dad laid to the chips in the molding that Mikey put there riding around in his toy race car.
My mom passes around the pizza on paper plates while my dad pours sodas for Mikey and Siobhan and opens beers for him and my mom and me.
We’re talking over each other like we usually do, Mikey and Siobhan bickering and my mom telling them to shut up.
It’s during a brief lull that Siobhan decides to pipe up.
“How’s your girl, Brady?”
All eyes turn to me.
“Your what ?” says Mikey mid-bite, a string of mozzarella suspended between his mouth and his pizza.
My mom stares at me with wide eyes and a tentative smile. My dad puts his pizza down and swallows.
“She’s not my girl,” I mumble, taking a bite of pizza. “And shut up, Siobhan.”
“Why?” she whines. “I think it’s cute. And it’s about time.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, gulping beer. “Can I have another slice of sausage, Ma?”
“She’s tall,” announces Siobhan.
Oh fuck.
“Tall, huh?” says my dad in a quiet voice. I can’t meet his eyes.
“But she won’t give Brady the time of day.”
“That’s enough, Shiv,” I say, shooting her a warning glare.
“Fine,” she mumbles. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“What’s her name?” asks my mom.
“It doesn’t matter, Ma,” I say. “She’s not my girl. She’s a girl. And Siobhan’s right. She doesn’t have anything to do with me, and I don’t have anything to do with her. I just think she’s pretty, that’s all. All the guys do.”
“Why’s your face red as a beet, then?” asks Mikey.
“All right, leave him alone,” says my dad. He goes back to eating his pizza.
I just shake my head and focus on my food.
“Your dad and I were just talking about my fiftieth birthday, Brady,” says my mom.
“Jesus, you’re old,” says Mike.
“Stop talking with your mouth full, Mikey,” says my mom.
“Just stop talking, period,” suggests Siobhan.
“Anyway,” my mom continues, “I was thinking we could all take a trip together. Nowhere expensive, not like Europe or anything, but I was thinking maybe a week at the Jersey Shore?”
“We do that every summer,” says Siobhan.
“Well, yeah, but my birthday’s in May. I just thought it’d be nice to get away together, out of the city, before the shore gets crowded. What do you think, Brady? You’ll be back from California in a few months, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at my dad for cues. The truth is, we might not all be together in May.
“We’ve still got a while to plan,” says my dad evasively. “But yeah, baby, whatever you want,” he adds when my mom doesn’t say anything.
“Well, I don’t want to do anything that no one else wants to do,” says my mom, looking bummed out at our lack of enthusiasm.
“I think it’s a great idea, Ma,” I say.
After dinner I meet up with some of my buddies from the firehouse and their wives and girlfriends at our local bar, then I go home and go to bed.
It’s good to breathe the air I’m used to and hear the sounds I grew up with—my parents watching television in their room, cars whooshing by on the main street, the occasional airplane overhead.
Every now and then, I hear Siobhan cackle as she FaceTimes with her friends.
I hear my mom laugh and say something to my dad, and the low rumble of his voice answer back.
This is what I’m protecting. My home. My family. No girl is worth putting this at risk.
I pick up my phone. She works at Legal Aid every Wednesday , I text. She does human trafficking cases.
I should feel good, or at least like I’m doing the right thing. But I feel like shit.
My phone buzzes with a text. Lou acknowledging receipt, I assume. I glance at it indifferently, then abruptly sit up.
An uptick in female pheromones was just recorded on the East Coast. You must have made it to NY.
I snort a laugh. I care about only one girl’s pheromones, I text back. She’s got purple hair and smells like coconut.
Glad you’re OK.
I’m so not okay, Angela. I am completely fucked.
I miss my benefits , I text.
I miss my friend , she texts back.
Aargh. Stab right to the gut. I run my hand through my hair. Another text flashes before I can think of anything to say back. I meant Kelsey. She’s not at work tonight.