Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Leo
Going home to Detroit is like coming full circle for me. The neighborhood is different from the one I grew up in, but the dynamics in my parents’ house haven’t changed much.
I drop in to see them before I go to Caitlin’s place and find my mother is sober today, which is good. My father greets me with a nod and not much else. He’s sitting in front of the game, drinking a few beers, one hand on the armrest of the recliner that has a permanent indent in the shape of him.
He’s mellowed over the years, going from the angry, unpredictable force of my childhood to something slower and duller. Not kind. Just…spent. Like a storm that ran out of wind and left behind the silence you can never quite trust.
They don’t ask much about my life. None of us talks about the fact that Tommy’s in rehab again.
It’s not perfect. It’s not even close. But I’ve stopped needing it to be.
Caitlin lives just down the street from my parents. She looks tired, but she’s happy to see me, and that’s enough.
“So, I’m making up a whole lot of party bags to give away.” She leads me into her living room and gestures to a bunch of bags on a side table. “I know it seems ridiculous to give a whole lot of plastic crap, but it seems to be what all the parents at Kimmy’s school do.”
“Party bags definitely seem to be the trend in the children’s party industry at the moment,” I reply.
Her eyebrows fly up. “Since when do you have such an in-depth knowledge of children’s parties?”
And just like that, the pain is back.
It isn’t lessening like I expected.
Instead, it seems to be sharpening. Every day I don’t spend in Archie’s company is like a skipped meal and my body has now stopped pretending it isn’t starving.
I know Andrew is worried about me. He’s checking in with me constantly from London, and I’ve stopped pretending I don’t need his support through this.
I’ve never had to repair my heart before, and it turns out it’s a painful process.
I swallow hard. “You’d be surprised by how much I know about the children’s entertainment industry,” I manage to say.
Caitlin’s forehead wrinkles, but luckily, before she can say anything, Kimmy comes up to me to show me the card she made for me.
It’s got a large pink flower on the front with uneven petals and the words UNCLE LEO spelled out in block letters that got progressively smaller as she ran out of space.
“It’s your birthday. You’re supposed to be the one getting cards,” I say.
“It’s a card to say thank you for coming,” she replies.
I take it carefully from her.
“Thank you. I’ll treasure this,” I say.
Maybe this is enough? Maybe I can fill the gap Archie has left behind in my life with my family instead? Be present at more events. Stop being the uncle who sends gifts and start being the uncle who’s actually there.
But it turns out a children’s party isn’t the best event to attend when I’m focused on trying to forget Archie.
I can’t prevent all the memories from flooding back.
Archie’s top hat catching the light as he pulls scarves from nowhere.
The way he’d drop to one knee to talk to a shy kid at eye level.
The running commentary during balloon animals that made the parents laugh as much as the children.
The way he’d catch my eye across a room full of chaos and grin, like I was the only person in on the joke.
I don’t know what a therapist would say if I told them that children’s birthday parties trigger me. It’s not exactly a standard trauma category. Where does it hurt, Mr. Brennan? Right in my heart, doctor, every time I hear a balloon pop.
As a distraction, I throw myself into making balloon animals.
I make a dog. A sword. A giraffe that comes out slightly mutant-looking.
“So, how do you know how to make balloon animals?” Caitlin asks me as she watches me twist and wrestle a particularly resistant piece of latex into something that could be a butterfly if you had a generous imagination and low standards.
“They teach you at Stanford,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Someone taught me,” I relent.
“Who?”
“Just someone.”
Fuck. I don’t think I’ve managed to hide the grief in my voice.
Caitlin’s gaze flies to mine, and I can see her debating whether to ask me more or leave it.
Luckily, she chooses to leave it.
The party is taking place in Caitlin’s living room because it’s Detroit in March, and outside, it’s the kind of cold that hurts your teeth. Caitlin has pushed the furniture against the walls, hung streamers from the light fixtures, and put up a banner that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIMMY.
“This is slightly different from the birthday parties we used to have,” Caitlin says sarcastically, and I snort.
We never had birthday parties. There was no one to bake a cake, to write invitations.
My birthdays were a card from the gas station if my mother remembered.
Caitlin’s were the same, except I’d usually managed to scrape together enough for a cupcake from the grocery store.
I’d stick a candle in it and tell her to make a wish.
Kimmy will have memories that we didn’t have.
That’s a good thing.
Caitlin bites her lip. “So, um…I’ve hired a guy to come entertain the kids. He should be arriving soon. I showed Kimmy some videos of him last night, and she’s really excited about the idea of a magic show.”
Why is Caitlin looking nervous? Does she think I’ll judge her for spending money on this kind of stuff?
I cover most of Caitlin’s living costs, and it creates a complicated undercurrent to every conversation about spending.
She’s never once asked me for money. I send it, she accepts it, and we both act like it’s as normal as the weather.
But I’ve caught the way she hesitates before telling me she’s bought something, the slight defiance in her chin like she’s daring me to comment.
“I think that’s a great idea. Kimmy deserves the best,” I say. “And kids love magic shows.”
And just like that, my brain serves up an image I didn’t ask for. A gorgeous man in a top hat and cape who can make every child believe in magic.
My eyes blur and I manage to overinflate and pop the balloon.
It’s an amateur mistake.
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll just get that,” Caitlin says.
I bend to gather up the pieces of the broken balloon.
From the hallway, I hear Caitlin’s voice, and then another voice, lower, responding, and something in my body recognizes the voice before my brain catches up.
That voice.
My hands go still on the balloon pieces. I straighten.
No.
It can’t be.
“Who believes in magic?”
The voice cuts through the party noise and every muscle in my body locks.
For a second, I think my brain has finally cracked. That the smell of frosting and the slightly burned cheese from the party food has caused my mind to short-circuit, and I’m now experiencing an auditory hallucination.
Because that voice—that bright, theatrical, larger-than-life voice—is a voice I know better than my own.
I whirl around.
Archie is standing in the doorway to my sister’s living room.
He’s in the full Captain Giggles costume that’s so familiar to me. But his walking boot is gone and he’s in actual shoes. He’s got a bag of props over one shoulder, a portable speaker under his arm, and a grin on his face that could light up a city.
Archie’s here.
He’s here.
In Detroit.
In my sister’s living room.
I’m shaking. Actually shaking so much that I’m not sure if my legs can hold me. And my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
The children are already swarming around him. Kimmy is screaming at a frequency that could shatter windows. “It’s him! It’s Captain Giggles! Mommy, he’s really here!”
“That’s right! I’m Captain Giggles, and I have traveled all the way from London, England, to be here for a very special birthday girl. Where is the birthday girl?”
Kimmy’s hand shoots up so fast she nearly takes out the kid next to her.
“Ah ha! You must be Kimmy. Happy birthday, Kimmy!” He drops to one knee and shakes her hand with theatrical solemnity. “Now, Kimmy, I need to be honest with you about something.”
Kimmy’s eyes go wide.
“Captain Giggles has a secret. A very important secret. Do you want to know what it is?”
Ten children lean forward as one.
“Captain Giggles tries hard, but he just isn’t very good without his sidekick.”
He stares straight at me. Behind the performer smile, behind the cape and the top hat and the showmanship, those hazel eyes meet mine.
I can’t move. I’m standing in my sister’s living room holding pieces of a balloon, and the man I’m in love with is crouched six feet away from me, dressed as a children’s entertainer, and I have no idea how to process what is happening.
“So I need a volunteer to be my special sidekick,” he says as he straightens up. “It needs to be a grown-up,” he quickly adds when a dozen children’s hands fly up.
“It needs to be someone brave and trustworthy. Someone who’s very, very good at following instructions, even silly ones. And someone who knows that the most important magic isn’t pulling rabbits out of hats.” He locks eyes with me. “It’s what happens when you really get to know someone.”
My throat is tight. My eyes are burning. I’m in real danger of falling apart in front of a bunch of eight-year-olds.
“Any volunteers?” Archie asks. But he’s still only staring at me.
I have to clear my throat twice before I can speak.
“I volunteer,” I say.
Every face whips around to stare at me.
Archie’s face splits into a wide grin. It devastates me because it’s the grin I’ve been seeing every time I close my eyes for the past three weeks. The one that makes his whole face rearrange itself.
“I’m so glad to have such a competent-looking sidekick,” he says shakily. “Now we just have to get you dressed properly for the job.”
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a folded bundle of pink and white fabric.
Sparkle McHornface’s costume.
He brought it from London. He brought it across an ocean.