Chapter 33
Theo
I’m suspicious the moment I hear the knock on my apartment door.
The list of people who both know my home address in New York City and are likely to be awake before ten a.m. on a Sunday morning is a disquietingly small one.
I open the door to find Kenny standing in a crisp white button-down and navy jacket, holding a bouquet of orange daisies with the muddy roots still attached.
I grip the door. “Shit. What kind of trouble are you in?”
“What do you mean?”
I gesture at the daisies. “You’re dressed like you’re going to Sunday school and you brought me flowers. You must’ve done something awful.”
“You should really talk to someone about your paranoia problem, Suit.”
“You are my paranoia problem,” I mutter. “Also, how are you alive? I left you eight hours ago on your way to an after-after-party.”
“Oh yeah, that was wild.” Kenny yawns. “It was in an abandoned warehouse for some reason. Pretty sure we all need tetanus shots, but we can discuss that later. I’ve been instructed to corral you.”
I look down at my day-off uniform: ratty basketball shorts and a T-shirt. “Corral me where?” But Kenny’s already pushing me out the door, and I only have time to grab my keys before it shuts and locks behind us.
*
At the corner of Thirtieth and Madison, Ripper and Hannah peel off the side of a building, emerging from a shadowed alley.
Hannah’s wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses that cover half her face.
Ripper’s in his faux-tuxedo T-shirt and sunglasses as large as Hannah’s.
Their outfits, plus Kenny’s button-up . .
. this is the Saints’ version of dressing up. I’m immediately on high alert.
“The flowers are a nice touch, Ken,” Hannah says, in lieu of a greeting.
“Were you just hiding in the shadows?” I ask. “Somebody please tell me what’s going on.”
“We obviously can’t be seen together,” Ripper says, as if I’m the slowest boy in class. “The paparazzi will be all over us.” He scratches his bicep, and I realize it’s wrapped in gauze that looks suspiciously like—
“Did you get a tattoo last night?”
Rip looks down at his arm. “Looks like it.”
“Of what?”
He smiles. “I’m excited to find out.”
Hannah waves at us to keep walking. “Cool your jets, Suit. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Well, at least she, too, is alive and still talking to me after last night. I stuff my hands in my pockets and fall into step with her. “So. How was the rest of your night?”
“A shit show.” She taps her bucket hat. “The paparazzi went crazy once they saw this. Getting out of the restaurant was a nightmare.”
I keep my eyes locked on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get those guys to back off. Roger never should’ve brought you into it, Andy never should’ve put that buzzer in your hand, and I should’ve done more—”
She cuts me off. “You think me shaving my head was your fault?”
“I’m your manager. It’s my job to protect you. Even from your friends.”
She’s silent for a moment as we walk side by side. Then she says, “You didn’t have to leave the party in protest.”
“I did, actually.” I glance at her. “You didn’t have to stay.”
I turn my attention to Ripper and Kenny. “And I still don’t understand how any of you are upright.”
“Truthfully, I expect we’re all still a little bit drunk,” Kenny says, and Ripper nods.
Before I can react to that, someone shouts, “Hannah!” and we all turn to find a man standing at the corner, a telltale camera in his hand.
“Shit,” Ripper groans. “They’re everywhere.”
The man calls to someone and starts racing in our direction. A few seconds later, another guy with a camera rounds the corner.
“And they’re multiplying like zombies,” Kenny says. “Remember our nice Vegas paparazzo? He would never do this.”
“Time to hustle,” I mutter, and the four of us start speedwalking.
“Hannah, take off the hat!” the first man shouts. “Let’s see the hair! Did you shave it in protest of toxic beauty standards? The Catholic Church?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “This man thinks I’m Sinead O’Connor.”
“Is it true you’re having a mental breakdown?” the other man calls.
Ripper flips him off. The photographer snaps a mile a minute.
“Thank god we’re here,” Hannah says, and stops in front of a stately brick building with a gold plaque that reads “The Brunswick Hotel.” Security guards in black suits stand on either side of the revolving door. Through the glass, I see a peek of a beautiful cream and blush lobby.
Kenny shoves me forward. “Fast, dude. The zombies are coming.”
The four of us pile through the revolving door so fast we get stuck in it for a second, but eventually we burst into the lobby and turn to find the paparazzi barred by the buff security guards.
“Well.” I look around the elegant lobby. Distant harp music floats from the open door of the hotel restaurant. “This place is very
un-Saintlike. Are we robbing it?”
An unmistakable voice carries across the lobby. “Theodore!”
Immediately, my limbs lock, the result of my body’s fight-or-flight response. It can’t be. It makes no sense.
I’m so still Ripper takes my shoulders and turns me himself. “Look who it is.”
Exactly who I thought: my mother, arm in arm with Bruce.
*
“These daisies are very thoughtful, Ken,” my mother says, as soon as we’ve finished putting in our coffee orders.
Lying flat on the restaurant’s tablecloth, the flowers look rather worse for wear after our mad dash from the paparazzi, all broken stems and drooping petals.
But you’d never know it the way my mother’s smiling.
“It’s Kenny,” I correct. I’m feeling about a thousand different emotions sitting at this table, stuck in the most surreal scene of all time, where my mother and Bruce have somehow materialized in New York City, hundreds of miles from Virginia, to attend a fancy hotel brunch with my hungover rock band.
Kenny sits up straight and smooths his collar. “Actually, it’s Kenneth. Kenneth Nathaniel Lovins. Nice to meet you, Mama and Papa Suit.”
“Bruce isn’t my papa—uh, my dad,” I say quickly.
“He’s your stepfather,” my mom corrects.
“Right. Your husband.”
“And thank god for that!” Bruce says jovially. He’s a sweet guy, one of those retired men who believes in the slow life: fishing and gardening and whittling sticks into statues—I presume. I don’t visit very often.
Ripper snorts. “Kenneth definitely pulled those daisies out of the hotel flower bed.”
“Well, I’m charmed nonetheless.” My mother turns her warm smile on Hannah.
She’s so much softer these days. Quicker to laugh too.
But the years of stress and heartache from being a single mother still show in the lines on her face.
Her hair, originally the same dark color as mine, is going gray at the roots.
It’s strange to witness my mother aging.
In my mind, she’ll always be the young woman who held me for almost an hour after telling me my dad wasn’t coming back.
“I love your hat,” my mom says to Hannah. “It’s darling.”
Hannah eyes the waiter on the other side of the room. “I think you’re the only one.”
The waiter’s motioning at her to remove it. I guess the Brunswick Hotel’s Michelin-star restaurant has a no-hat policy. Hannah sighs and drops it on the floor, then slides off her sunglasses and places them on the table.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bruce blurts, before my mom elbows him in the ribs.
In the sober light of day—at least, semisober—Hannah’s half-shaved head looks less punk rock and more like a little girl who got bored and quit cutting her Barbie’s hair halfway through.
Black mascara and eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, making her look like a raccoon.
The faint trace of a tear running through makeup is etched on her face.
“What?” she asks, touching her temple. “Is it that bad?”
“All the eye gunk you were wearing is down here now.” Ripper lifts his sunglasses and points to his cheeks.
“Dear god,” Bruce cries, and there’s a collective gasp around the table as we all behold Ripper’s massive black eye.
“What did you guys do last night?” I demand.
But our waiter arrives with a silver tray full of coffees and creamers. Once he’s done sliding the cups and saucers in front of us, Ripper turns to me. “After you left, I might’ve gotten into a bit of a fracas with some people who were talking shit to Hannah.”
I take a deep breath. “And were those people holding cameras?”
His eyes wander to the ceiling. “They might’ve been.”
I wince. “Great. Now I need to call Roger before pictures of you fistfighting paparazzi hit the internet.”
Ripper touches his bruise and grimaces. “I didn’t expect them to be such scrappers.”
“Honey, you can save that for later.” My mom’s hand on my shoulder stops me from rising from the table. “Bruce and I flew all the way here just to see you. I’m sure work can wait.”
“Yeah, maybe Roger can handle something himself for once,” Hannah says, plucking a petal off the peonies in the table’s center vase.
“Sorry.” I sigh, settling back in my seat. “You’re right.” I glance at my mom. “And this is a great surprise, don’t get me wrong, but how exactly did you guys come to be here?”
“Hannah called and invited us to be their guests at Saturday Night Live last night,” says my mother, and my head whips to Hannah.
Hannah shrugs, dumping a handful of sugar cubes into her coffee. “Your mom is listed as your emergency contact on your employment paperwork. Roger’s secretary gave me her phone number. You should probably talk to her about violating your privacy.”
My mom takes a delicate sip of her water. “We would’ve come to the show yesterday, but it was Bruce’s goddaughter’s wedding and we couldn’t miss it. Your friends were kind enough to fly us here and put us up so we could at least have today with you before you head back west.”
I turn to the Saints, unable to decide if what they’ve done is an invasion of space or a ridiculously sweet gesture. Kenny in particular is grinning at me beatifically. “And why would my ‘friends’ do this?”