Chapter Thirty-Seven
Angela
I ratted out my dad. I’m officially a snitch. I should be constantly looking over my shoulder. I’m waiting for a locked doorknob to turn or a stranger to show up, someone watching me who doesn’t belong. But Agent Rivera was right—somewhere deep inside, I know my father wouldn’t hurt me.
The news updates on my phone tell me very little, only that my father was arrested and managed to get himself out on bail after just a few weeks, thanks to his high-priced lawyers and some technicality in the arrest warrant.
Occasionally I get a frantic email from my mom ordering me to come home, to which I respond that the roads are impassable in the mountains of Tibet.
Eventually I have to tell her what I did and where I’ve been, but I’m not ready for that yet.
At the end of the day, I’ve given up my family to save another family.
It was the right thing to do, but it doesn’t ease the pain of being alone in the world.
School is the only place I feel grounded.
I can lose myself in my classes and forget what I’ve done and what it means for me.
I can pretend that one day I’m going to have a normal life, one with a husband and kids and a mortgage and trips to the beach and hectic mornings trying to get everyone to work and school on time.
I tell myself it’s more than a cute little daydream—it’s a goal, and I’m going to achieve it.
Of course, the one person I want to achieve it with got me into this terrifying situation in the first place.
I’m so angry with him and so miserable without him and so in love with him that I don’t know where my anger ends and my love begins.
Yes, he betrayed me and spied on me. But he also encouraged me and challenged me.
He saw through me, not just because he knew who I was on a surface level, but because he took the time to scale the emotional walls I built around my heart.
His optimism and honesty were flares of light, pulling me out of my cave of cynicism and giving me a glimpse of a brighter future, a future with a man who loves me so much that he’d put my needs and feelings above all else.
It’s just a giant swamp of messy feelings that surface at unexpected and inconvenient times, like if I see a guy in a Yankees cap at the coffee shop, or if someone orders a Guinness at work.
I have to close my eyes and take a breath and remember that his family always meant more to him than I did.
I direct my thoughts away from loneliness and betrayal as I sit in my Civil Procedure II class and listen to someone completely bungle a question about summary judgment.
I scroll through my notes, ready to answer in case I get called on.
Professor Camacho is on a tear today, intent on getting us to understand the difference between summary judgment and failure to state a claim.
Unfortunately, she forgot to brighten the lights after her PowerPoint presentation, and the dimness is making me drowsy.
To wake myself up, I pull up Brady’s old screen name and instant message him. I know I’ll get nothing more than a blinking cursor in reply, but it’s entertaining in a sick sort of way. It’s one of the little ways I torture myself.
Seems kind of obvious to me, right? Failure to state a claim rests on the sufficiency of the complaint. Summary judgment rests on evidence produced during discovery.
I hit return and get the blinking cursor.
Snore. I’m bored, McDaniels. Don’t you have some outrageous and vaguely sexist commentary about my outfit today?
More blinking. I rub my eyes. God, this sucks.
I miss you, you infuriating pain in the ass.
I miss being in class with you. I miss your cooking.
I miss having sex with you. I miss you unbraiding my hair.
I miss your stupid jokes just as much as I miss the ones that are actually funny.
I miss having to repeat myself multiple times when you’re watching football.
I miss feeling safe, Brady. I miss loving you.
I close my eyes. I can’t cry in class. Surely the karma gods are pointing Camacho in my direction at this very moment. I press my fingers to my eyes and will myself to get a grip. When the feeling of imminent waterworks subsides, I look down at my screen.
You miss having sex with me?
I startle so violently I knock my water bottle over. The metal carafe makes a loud clanging sound as it hits the desk before tumbling onto the floor. Everyone turns to look at me.
“Sorry,” I choke out as I dive under the desk and grab the bottle before it rolls down to the bottom of the classroom.
I scramble back into my seat, face flaming and hands shaking.
I scroll back up to the beginning of the message train, certain I’ve accidentally messaged someone else. Another message pops up.
Smooth, Pines. What are you going to do for your next trick?
I swing my head around, looking for him in the dim, cavernous classroom.
Back row, left corner. I crane my neck, but all I can see is the girl who always sits back there.
Your other left. I choke back a hysterical laugh and cover my mouth, but not before several people turn to look at me.
I take a deep breath and turn my head to the other side of the classroom.
And there he is, sprawled out in his chair, Yankees cap pulled down low, face lit by his laptop, smile on his face.
He shakes his head slowly, then looks down at his laptop and types something.
Looking good, Pines. Disappointed not to see you in a halter top, though. If that’s sexist, I’ll make it up to you by cooking you dinner and telling you stupid jokes. But back to that sex thing…
I shut my laptop. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My heart is bursting and my eyes are flooded with tears. I have no idea what to do. I have to get out of here.
I slide my laptop into my bag and grab my water bottle.
Without looking back at him, I steal out of the classroom through the back door on the opposite side of the room.
I know he’ll follow me. I know I can’t outrun him.
But I try anyway, speed walking through the hallways toward the ladies’ room.
I push open the door and lean against the counter with relief as it swishes shut behind me.
Two second-year girls I know through Brady (of course) say hi to me and go back to chatting and applying makeup.
And then the door flies open. I meet Brady’s eyes in the mirror before turning around to face him. The two girls stop dead and stare at Brady.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he says with his boy-next-door smile. “I need to have a word with Ms. Pines here.”
I shake my head in annoyance as the girls giggle and run out. Jesus, and they’re going to be lawyers in a year?
“Do all women revert to giggling teeny-boppers when you’re around?” I ask.
“What the hell were you thinking, Angela?” he demands. The smile is gone.
I blink at him, surprised by the sudden seismic shift in attitude. “What are you talking about?”
“My dad. Your dad. The FBI. Ring any bells?”
I swallow. “What about it?”
“What about it? How about I told you not to do it? I believe my exact words were ‘No way in hell.’”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Look, Brady, you’re cute and all when you put your foot down, but let’s face it. It wasn’t your call.”
“It wasn’t my call.”
Wow. He actually looks and sounds pissed off. That pisses me off. “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t. It’s my life, my dad, and my decision. And it’s over now. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes softening. He takes off his Yankees cap and runs his fingers through his hair before replacing the cap backward. “I mean it. Thank you.”
“What are you worried about anyway?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You, Angela. I’m worried about you.” His eyes are luminous. Big, moss green, and looking at me with bemused wonderment, like I’m one of those images of the Virgin Mary that someone sees on their waffle.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, shifting my weight and examining my toes.
The door flies open and one of the librarians walks in. “Oh, uh—”
“We were just leaving,” says Brady. “Sorry. You ready, Pines?”
I grab my things, and he holds the door open for me.
I start walking toward the library, head down, not looking at him, searching in vain for my next escape. I take a left and head out to a small courtyard at the back of the building.
“Angela.”
I stop. Every molecule in my body wants to run toward him, not away from him. But I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself, sealing off the feelings I’m not supposed to have. “How can I trust you, Brady?”
His voice is quiet but shaking slightly when he answers.
“I never lied to you. I told you as much as I could. I even told you that what I was hiding would hurt you, that it would end us. I left when you told me to leave. I let you go when you told me to let you go. I would lay down my life for you, Angela. How can you not trust me?”
My shoulders slump. I try clutching myself tighter, but it’s no use. He’s right. He hadn’t known me when this all started. By the time he did, he didn’t want me anywhere near the feds. He protected his secret, but he protected me, too.
He tilts my face up with his thumb.
“I know better than most people that life can be really short. I love you, Angela. I miss you like crazy. It sure sounded like you miss me, too.”
“You weren’t supposed to read that message,” I grumble.
“I’m keeping that message for the rest of my life. I’m doing the same with you, by the way.”
“I think your life and my life might have different expiration dates,” I say softly.
“That’s usually how it works, princess. But my hope for you is that after I kick the bucket at around the age of ninety-five, you get yourself an eighty-year-old boyfriend and live to a hundred and ten.”
It would be safer—for both of us—to hold on to my anger. But it’s impossible in the face of his sunshine and light.
“This isn’t funny, Brady,” I say, my mouth twitching with an unwelcome grin.
I force myself to picture my dad. I remember the boyfriend of the seamstress.
That has the desired effect of sobering me up.
“My father isn’t a joke. He’s a dangerous man, and if he doesn’t already know I crossed him, he will soon. I can’t let you be around for that.”
“He has a pretty good idea, and he’s not going to do anything to us. He just doesn’t want to see you for a while. Probably until he pays off or intimidates the jury and gets a not-guilty verdict.”
“What are you talking about, Brady?” I say, my knees suddenly feeling weak. “How could you possibly know that?” Brady looks uncomfortable for a moment before straightening up and looking me in the eye.
“I talked to your dad.”
And there go my knees. Brady catches me by the upper arms and holds me upright.
“Oh my God,” I say, my voice coming out as a whimper.
“Oh my God, Brady. What were you thinking?” I shove him as hard as I can, which isn’t very hard, since he’s holding onto me and I’m a puddle of shaking limbs.
“Where? How? What the hell did you say to him?”
“Metro Detention Center in Brooklyn. Lou set it up. I asked him to leave you alone.”
“Oh my God. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You’re going to be fine. Let’s sit down.
” He grabs my stuff and leads me over to a bench.
I sit down and lean over with my head in my hands.
Brady rubs my back. “Everything’s okay, Ange.
I’m pretty sure if he wanted me dead I’d be dead right now.
Anyway, he was pretty pissed when I suggested he might have it out for you.
And, uh, he’s known where you’ve been the whole time. ”
“Oh my God.” I can’t form a single coherent thought.
“You know what his biggest concern was, though?” I make some kind of whimpering noise. “That you were happy.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel Brady’s arms around me and feel his warm breath against my neck. He’s telling me everything’s going to be okay. And I desperately want to believe him.
“You ran into a burning building for me,” I say when I can talk again.
“Did you ever doubt that I would?”
“I never want you doing anything like that again.”
“You’re cute when you put your foot down, Ange.”
I make a noise somewhere between a growl and a resigned sigh.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Columbia?”
“I’m fully prepared to drop out and re-enroll here.”
My mouth drops open. “Why would you do that?” I demand.
“You did something most people would consider impossible, Ange. You left a life of luxury and started a new life all on your own. That took a lot of work and a lot of courage. This is where you belong.”
Where I belong. He’s right, I realize with surprise. I do belong here. I never thought I’d fit in anywhere, but I created a home for myself. And I want Brady to be part of that.
“We’ve got to get out of here, though,” he adds.
I look at him and am instantly on guard at the sight of the mischievous grin on his face. I arch a “Why the hell is that?” eyebrow at him.
“My family’s at Finnegan’s. They’re waiting to meet you.”