Chapter 9
JULES
My dad is sitting in his raggedy green leather recliner in the living room, reading an actual printed newspaper like the utter Boomer he is. I’m on the love seat opposite him, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, happy to not be the focus of his attention for as long as I can manage. His trust in me is at an all-time low, as it should be. I’m keeping a sizable secret and I’ve been doing a lot of lying as of late to keep it. I wonder what the equivalency is: How many of the small white lies I’ve told throughout my life will it take to match one lie about the 5’7” gorgeous brunette mortal enemy I’m crazy about? And how long will it take for karma to catch up to me?
The front door flies open so hard that it smashes against the wall. If the glass weren’t double-paned, it would have shattered. “Slow—ow, fuck!”
My father bounds from his chair and the newspaper floats to the floor. I follow him into the foyer. First, I notice the blood trail, a stark contrast of red against the white tiles, like a diseased little river carving through snow-covered land. Then I see Gino, with a pale hand wrapped around his gushing right thigh and the other arm slung around Teague, the only thing keeping him upright. My father doesn’t get the chance to ask what happened; Teague spits, “The Monaghan bitch shot him!”
Oh, hey there, karma. Didn’t take you very long. That is the last coherent thought I have. I know what I should do—help. Control the bleeding, call for an ambulance. But it’s Gino, Teague’s oldest friend, and thereby one of mine, too. Gino, who’s a few years older than me, but whose shoes I always had to tie as a kid, who always covered his eyes at the scary parts of horror films, who used to chase the ice cream truck for Batman popsicles. Gino, who even as an adult greets me with unfunny knock-knock jokes, who wrangles Teague for me when he’s around and sees I need a break from being Juliet Calloway.
Do something. Before I can act, I watch my father hurry through the archway into the dining room. He jerks a chair from its neat spot tucked beneath the table. “Sit him down.” Teague helps Gino hobble over to the seat, and Gino collapses into it. “Go get a towel from the bathroom,” my father commands Teague. I have never witnessed my cousin move so fast. He’s back with a gray monogrammed guest towel faster than I can say “gray monogrammed guest towel.”
My father tells Gino to, “Let go.” Gino looks at him, confused. Once the directive clicks in his brain, he removes his hands from the wound. The blood flow increases. My dad ties the towel into a makeshift tourniquet. The silver C turns burgundy. In any other household I could pretend it was wine. Not here. This is not the first time the Calloway home has been turned into a bloody crime scene. I doubt it will be the last.
Gino’s skin is pasty and he’s sweating profusely. He might pass out at any moment. I’m no healthcare professional, but it doesn’t take a doctor to tell he has one foot in God’s waiting room. “He’s lost a lot of blood.” I bring up my phone’s dial pad. “I’m calling 911.”
“Do it,” my father replies, his blood-stained hands shaking as Gino slumps against the chairback.
The call connects. The operator asks, “What is your emergency?” and I tell her in no uncertain terms I am watching a man die in real time from a gunshot wound that seems dangerously close to the femoral artery. She hurries through all the standard questions, double-checks the address, and dispatches an ambulance. I end the call.
I lock eyes with my cousin and realize he’s shaking like my father, but not out of fear that Gino is about to expire—out of rage that Rowan may have stamped his best-by date. Defuse him. “I think this is the part where you tell us what happened, Teague.”
He seeks permission from my father, who grants it with a nod. The story he recounts is asinine. I cannot fathom how Patrick Calloway, Criminal Mastermind, could be so incredibly stupid. And reckless. And outright warmongering. “I swear I’m going to kill her,” Teague adds. He has a fire in his eyes. I know that expression. He means it.
Being hit hard by the initial shock of something is one thing, but panic is something else. It’s not something I do. I’m a numbers person. I stay collected, level-headed in moments when others find it impossible to be. I see situations, calculate odds, and figure out how to twist them to my advantage. But in this moment, both logic and my talent for manipulation fail me. All I have is panic, because all I can picture is losing Rowan… In the ghastliest, most barbaric way possible—piece by piece. Fingers being mailed to her father. Her ears, tongue. Teague jokes that the T in his name stands for torture. I happen to know it’s not a joke.
“So, let me get this straight. Dad, you sent these two miscreants to steal from the Monaghans, in the clear light of day on property they own, and now you”—I point at Teague—“have the audacity to blame Rowan Monaghan for protecting her family’s assets, property and people. Is that right?”
Both men stare at me, agape. This is not a version of me either of them has ever seen. Take a good look, this is the Juliet you’ve created. “Were you sending out an open declaration of war? What good did you think would come of this? Or did either of you think at all? Jesus Christ, thank God Mom isn’t here, she’d be packing her bags!”
I have nothing left to say, and am uninterested in whatever retort either of them has to offer. I’m thankful for the blaring sirens of the ambulance. They grow louder as it approaches, until finally they go dead silent. Two paramedics charge in through the open front door, one with a large, bright yellow trauma bag in tow, and get to work on Gino. The taller, dark-haired man takes his blood pressure, while the shorter of the pair undoes the towel and examines the wound. I can tell by their expressions that Gino’s situation is dire. Paramedic number two makes a splint above the wound to curb the blood flow. Paramedic number one asks my father questions. He’s unhelpful throughout, answering with a steady stream of, “I’m not sure. I can’t say. I don’t know.” I know better than to jump in and answer with the truth, but I have to force myself to keep it in. My dad’s lies are never white, or even gray; they’re black as death.
Once they’ve heard enough, they leave to retrieve a gurney, return and load Gino onto it with a synchronized three-count: “One, two, three.” For some reason the taller paramedic speaks to me on their way out. “We’re taking him to Mass General.” He combs over my father and cousin. “In case someone wants to follow us.”
“Thank you. I’ll let his family know where he is.”
I follow them out. They lift Gino into the ambulance, slam the doors, and start on their way. I watch from the doorway as the flashing red and blue lights disappear into the distance. When they’re out of sight I head back inside and close the door behind me. Teague looks like he has something to say, but I speak first. “Save it. I don’t care. If he dies, that’s not just on Rowan, it’s on you, too. Both of you. Now which one of you wants to call his mom? That’s not my job and I won’t be doing it.”
“I will,” my father says. “Will you help Teague get this place cleaned up?”
“No. It’s his mess; he can clean it. I’m going to my room.”
All Dad does is shake his head in acknowledgment.
The only thought I have as I ascend the stairs is I am so done with this family. I close the door to my bedroom and take everything in—the soft pink walls, the white wicker furniture, the stuffed animals in their hammock suspended from the ceiling above my bed. Nothing about this room has changed since I was eight years old. That’s how my father likes it, and how he thinks of me: As a child who’ll go along with whatever I’m told to do or say. He doesn’t know me at all. He doesn’t want to. I don’t want him to, either. What I want is to give up my name, this prison disguised as a home, my father’s dirty money, and all the things it bought me that he convinced himself would make me happy. Nothing about this life makes me happy. I’m happiest when I’m three thousand miles away from it. And I’m happy when I’m with… Oh God, Rowan! I know she’s okay, Teague essentially said as much, but I slide into her contact and hit call anyway. The line rings and rings and rings. I’m sure it’s about to go to voicemail when: “Was it Teague? Did I shoot Teague? Is he alive?” The trepidation in her voice is palpable. I can picture her, racked with dread.
“No. It was a man named Gino. He was alive in the ambulance, but not looking too hot. I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
Her outbreath is hard. “Shit. I’m so sorry, Juliet. When I saw them holding a gun to a guy’s head, I panicked. Now I realize I should have shot into the air or something. That might have been enough to scare them away.”
“They were stealing from you.”
“I couldn’t give a shit about that if I tried. It’s just stuff. Merchandise. Nothing is worth a person’s life, not even the fucking Crown Jewels.”
“They had their guns drawn and aimed at someone, Rowan. You did what you had to do.”
“Don’t say that. My father said the same thing, word for word. It’s not true. I could have done something, anything else.”
Whether Gino survives or not, she’s going to carry this guilt with her for the rest of her life. I know there’s nothing I can say to quell that, though I still want to try. I sit down on the edge of my bed, take a breath, conjure the memory of our first meeting at Sammy’s birthday party back in May. How, after Merrick explained the costume-party part he’d left out, and they’d finished the ballon arch, she disappeared for a while. When she returned, she was wearing a knight’s plated armor—steel, not the cheap plastic imitation from a party store. That was the moment I knew I had to talk to her, but she was so pretty and so standoffish that it took me another hour to get up the nerve. I learned that the costume was from a suit of armor that stood outside her father’s study. And I learned who she was—I knew her name, her family’s name, but that was the first time I saw who she is.
“Rowan, please stop blaming yourself for a situation you didn’t create. You responded to it, that’s all. Your protective instinct kicked in and reflexes took over. And you know what? I’ve known since the first time we spoke that you had it in you. That’s why I’ve never once felt unsafe with you. You’re caring and compassionate, and as much as your father may have tried to condition it out of you, he couldn’t. I love you for that.”
“Yeah?” It’s a single, simple word, but I hear the astonishment in it, tinged with disbelief.
“Yes.”
She sighs into the receiver. “Everything’s fucked. This is the spark my dad’s been waiting for. There’s an inferno coming and it’s going to be bad.”
“I know.” But how do we get out of the way of the flames? I’m not sure it’s even possible. We’d have to disappear, and we need our own resources to do that, completely independent of and untraceable by our families.
“I gotta go. I think my dad’s back from wherever the fuck he went. Keep me updated on Gino, okay?”
“I will.”
She disconnects before I can say goodbye.
I don’t want to be here but my desire to avoid running into my dad and Teague is stronger than my desire to flee. I grab a book from the to-be-read shelf of my bookcase and flop backward onto my bed, hoping to find relief in its as yet uncharted pages.
Screams rip up the stairs and down the long hallway, so loud and angry that they seep through my mahogany bedroom door and ring in my ears. I look up from my book for what must be the first time in hours—the sun outside my window is kissing the horizon with its fiery lips and the moon is creeping into the burgeoning night sky. I’d know that voice anywhere, though I rarely hear it this heated. The words are unintelligible, but my mother is losing her absolute shit. I run to my door, fling it open, and hurtle downstairs.
I reach the landing to find my mother in the foyer, holding the ensanguined guest towel so tightly in her left palm that her knuckles are white. My father is standing agog, no doubt wondering what the hell is happening with the women in his life. At the outset, I think she’s pissed that her Very Expensive Towel from Saks Fifth Avenue is ruined. That’s not it at all. The blood itself is inconsequential to her. She is demanding to know who it came from and why it is no longer in their body.
My father is, in a word, fucked. And he understands this perfectly. He stutters through the tale as he recounts it, shrinking with every word. My mother, on the other hand, seems to be getting larger and larger, until it’s Attack of the 50 Foot Woman live from the Calloway Household Theater. “Patrick Calloway, have you lost your ever-loving mind?”
Up to now neither of my parental units have noticed my presence. “I asked him the same fucking thing,” falls from my mouth before I can stop it.
My mother’s eyes bulge as she acknowledges me. She doesn’t normally take kindly to me swearing, but at the moment she’s too incensed to care. “You’ve involved our daughter in this!”
“She was here when Teague and Gino arrived.”
“It’s not a secret, Mom. Dad’s a gangster. Next question.”
Neither of them is amused. “Juliet, go back upstairs. You don’t need to hear this,” my father says.
“I don’t need to, I want to.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Go on, Mom.”
My mother takes a breath before refocusing her fury on my dad. “And where, pray tell, is your anger-issues-laden nephew? So help me, Saint Michael, if he goes after the Monaghan girl for this?—”
“I sent him home to cool off.”
I laugh. It’s sardonic and biting and I can’t help how it comes across exactly as I mean it to. “Cool off? He has no chill.”
I’ve never seen a person hold a grudge like Teague. He could teach a masterclass on how to be irrational. How does my dad not know that? It’s like he has no awareness of anyone or anything but himself and his own desires. He obviously doesn’t ever take anyone else into consideration. Selfish prick. “Your dog needs a tighter leash.” I decide that very second that I don’t want to waste any more time or energy standing here, spitting into the wind. I turn to head back up to my room, then stop and face him again. His posture is that of a defeated man. My father being so impotent against the ire of his wife and daughter is a rare sight, indeed. I can use it to my benefit. And I’m going to. “I’m going away this weekend. I don’t want to see Teague or any of your goons. I don’t want you to call me a hundred times to check up on me. I want a quiet, calm weekend away from all of this.”
He opens his mouth to speak. My mother’s eyebrows narrow, and her mouth goes taut. She’s daring him to argue in her Imposing Italian Woman way. “All I ask is you check in with your mother once in a while,” he says.
“Fine.”
Mom gives me a discreet wink. I grin to myself as I ascend the stairs.
I return to my book, trying to drown out my mom’s hollering. It goes on for a bit longer. Then there’s a sudden silence. She’s run out of words or figured he’s not going to listen to them anyway and given up. It’s unfair that Gino is dying, and my father gets to continue risking other people’s lives with little more than a stern talking to as punishment. For his henchmen it’s fear, but for my mom and I it’s love that keeps us loyal. He’s a bad person. As an adult, I see that. But that doesn’t erase two decades of him being a pretty good father, as far as fathers go. I never wanted for anything. I never felt unloved. I never wondered when I would see him again; he was always present. Still, I can’t divorce who he is to the world from who is to me.
There’s a knock at my door, followed by my mom saying my name.
I close the book, sit up straight. “Come in.”
She starts with, “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Ma.”
She shakes her head and sits down beside me on the bed. “I’m sorry that this is your life. I fell in love with your father even though I knew what my life with him would look like. I chose him. You never had a choice.”
“You can’t choose who you fall in love with, right? It just happens.”
Her eyes lock on mine. “The woman who makes you so happy… it’s the Monaghan girl, isn’t it?”
Lying. I can’t do it anymore. There’s no point. “Her name is Rowan. And yes, it is.”
She rubs her forehead. “Oh, you are your mother’s daughter. In a city of a million people, you fell for the one person you shouldn’t have.”
“It can’t work, can it? It’s too hard. I should go back to Washington early, get ready for the new semester, try to forget her.” My heart aches at the mere thought.
She knits her brow. “Yes, that is what you should do, but is it what you want to do?”
“No.” What I want is to run away with her, not from her.
“Go away with her like you planned, if you still can after today. Talk to her. See if what you want is the same as what she wants. Whatever you decide, I’ll support you, and I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“You can’t help me, Mom.”
“Where do you think you got that big, cunning brain from, Juliet? Certainly not your father.” She sneers and pats my thigh. “Well, it has been a day. I’m going to retire to the boudoir. Good night.” She kisses my cheek.
“Good night.”