Chapter 8
EIGHT
HARPER
“How was school today, hon?” I ask Bruiser over the phone as I drive down the highway.
Bruiser makes a noncommittal noise. “Good. But Dad’s about to take me to laser tag, so that’s awesome.”
I smile wistfully as I keep my eyes on the road. Z is a good dad. I have to keep reminding myself of that sometimes.
“Is that your mom on the phone?” I hear Z’s voice over the speaker, a little distant, and then clearer on the line. “Harp?”
I swallow and then nod, which is ridiculous since he can’t see it.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound cheerier than I feel. It’s been… weird between us lately. But it’s bound to be weird between two separated parents just starting to think about making a go of it again.
I left his ass that night he cost me everything and said I couldn’t leave him because he was all I had left.
He’d miscalculated.
I had my son and I wasn’t going to be the kind of mother who showed Bruiser that the way Z treated us was acceptable.
I think Z was stunned by the boundaries I put between us that turned out to be more like concrete walls. But maybe it got through to him in a way my years of arguing hadn’t.
For the last two years Z’s been working his ass off—both on the job and in Narcotics Anonymous—to prove he can make the effort be steady enough to be back into our lives.
We went on our fresh “first date” a month ago.
I still don’t know what to think about it.
We were together almost eight years, and there was a lot of shit that went down I’m still not sure if I can let go of.
That last night wasn’t the only time Z showed up high off his ass, and sometimes the things he did when he wasn’t himself still haunt me.
But God knows nobody’s perfect in this life. How am I supposed to deal with someone like Zedekiah, who I’ve loved as long as I can remember and whose damage I understand so deeply? It’s like I’m starting to trust that gut place inside me that tells me where the line is.
It used to be: you can treat me like trash as long as you treat our kid great.
Now it’s: you gotta treat both our kid and me great.
Well, at least you've gotta treat me with respect. It’s not like I’m not a work in progress, too. And so is Z.
And he really is trying.
Am I supposed to punish him forever if he’s proving he can change?
I frown and stare hard at the road unspooling in front of me, trying to find something to say. “Kiddo just told me you guys are heading off to laser tag. That sounds fun.”
“Oh yeah, should be a blast.” Z sounds careful, like he always does when he talks to me these days. It’s weird, these stunted versions of ourselves when it used to be so natural to be around each other. “We’re gonna pick up Shawn and his dad. Should be a good time.”
I snicker. “You hate Shawn’s dad.”
“Yeah, but I get to run around blasting him with a fake gun and proving how much better I am than him.”
I roll my eyes. “That sounds more like the Z I know.”
“The Z you love,” he says, voice light and teasing.
I don’t say anything back, chest going a little tight.
“Hey, how’s the beach?” he changes the subject before making me answer, which I appreciate.
I watch one of the exits for Waco go by, along with a sign that says that it’s 95 miles to Dallas.
“It’s great. The Gulf is as brown as always, but I’m excited about the conference.”
Maybe I should be concerned about how easy it is to lie to him, but I’m not.
He lied first.
It shouldn’t even count as lying. I mean, we might be trying things again, but it doesn’t mean I owe him my whereabouts at all times.
We’re still in the beginning stages, too. We haven’t even slept together again yet. Plus, I don’t want to fight.
And during all the years we were together, Z got weird any time I brought up Dallas.
“Hey, can you hand me back to Bruiser?”
“Don’t let the jellyfish bite,” Z jokes, but something in his voice sounds off.
I frown as Bruiser comes back on the phone, talking a-mile-a-minute about the experiment they did in science class today.
He’s far less chatty than normal, though, because he’s impatient to go off with his dad.
He’s always like this when Z’s around. The kid still idolizes his dad.
It’s hard not to want to give the family I know Bruiser still dreams about a second chance. If Z is really willing to change and put in the work… well, didn’t my dad prove that real change is possible?
“Homework before screens,” I remind him.
“I know, I know,” Bruiser says. “Gotta go. Dad and I don’t wanna be late.”
He hangs up in the middle of me telling him I love him. Punk. But I’m still smiling, chest squeezing.
Bruiser’s really been a trooper during all the changes and disruptions of the past few years.
It hasn’t been easy, that’s for damn sure, but I’ve tried to shield him from the brunt of it.
Still, there was no getting around the fact that I was kicking his father out of the house.
I mean, we all got kicked out of the house—only house I ever lived in that felt mine, with a front and back yard and a white picket fence, the whole shebang. As in, we would’ve been evicted if we hadn’t moved first—we couldn’t afford the lease after suddenly being so deep in debt.
Now Bruiser and I are back to living in a trailer east of I-35 while I try to rebuild something out of the ruins.
I don’t know where Z’s been living for the last couple years, and I haven’t wanted to know. Probably in his long-haul truck, the one thing he managed not to gamble away. Yes, I’m still pissed.
Everything else was in my name, so my credit was destroyed. I couldn’t just up and start over. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to let Z back in again yet.
I’m only now making stable money renting a chair at a tattoo shop in East Austin, mostly taking walk-ins because I’m at the bottom of the totem pole again. But at least it’s a paycheck.
My phone lights up, and I almost don’t answer when I see Ximena’s name.
She and I have only been talking regularly again for the past few months.
Before that, it was a year and a half of her dodging my calls, keeping things surface-level when she did pick up, and making excuses about why she couldn’t meet for coffee.
And I got it.
I fucking got it.
When Z gambled away the shop, he didn’t just ruin my life. He threw a helluva wrench in hers too. And Gael’s, Ramiro’s, and Reina’s.
They’d all believed in me and turned down other stable positions to work at my shop. Then suddenly they were scrambling for whatever work they could find in a post-pandemic economy with rent in Austin climbing every Goddamn month.
Ximena had to move back in with her aunt for almost a year.
So yeah, I got why she needed space from my drama and bullshit. Why they all had.
I take a breath and answer. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Ximena’s voice is light, but there’s still that tiny edge of careful distance that wasn’t there before everything went to shit. “You on the road?”
“Yeah, headed to the conference.”
“The tattoo conference in Corpus, right?”
“That’s the one.” The lie tastes like ash, but I keep my voice steady.
“Cool, cool.” There’s a pause. “So, uh, Elio’s talking about expanding the shop. He wants me to come in as manager.”
“Ximena, that’s fucking amazing!” And I mean it. The relief that washes over me is genuine—she’s landing on her feet. They all are, slowly. “When do you start?”
“Probably next month. Better benefits, better pay. And I wouldn’t have to deal with Chad, the Walking HR Violation anymore.”
“Thank Christ. That dude’s a fucking bastard.”
“Right?” she laughs, and for a second it feels like before. Like we’re just two friends talking shit. “Ramiro’s been picking up steady work too. And Reina just got hired at that new shop on South Congress.”
“That’s great. Really great.” I mean it, but there’s a knot in my chest. They’re all moving forward. Without me. Which is what I wanted for them, but still.
“Yeah. We’re getting there.” Another pause. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
My stomach tightens. “What’s up?”
“I heard you’re seeing Z again.”
Fuck. “Who told you that?”
“Gael saw you guys at the park with Bruiser last week. He said it looked… cozy.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “We’re trying to figure things out. For Bruiser’s sake.”
“Harper—”
“He’s been clean for two years, Ximi. Two years. He shows up every week to see Bruiser, passes every drug test, and goes to his meetings—”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s been clean for ten years,” she bites out. And there it is. The anger I’ve been waiting for. The anger she has every right to. “That man didn’t just fuck you over. He fucked all of us over.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re about to let him do it again.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?” Her voice cracks just slightly.
“Harper, I spent a year avoiding you because I was so fucking angry I couldn’t see straight.
You know how hard that was? You’re my best friend.
But every time I looked at you, all I could think about was how I had to beg Dani to let me move back home without paying rent because your stupid fucking boyfriend gambled away our fucking jobs. ”
The words hit like a fist to the gut. “Ximena, I’m so sorry—”
“I know you are. I know.” She breathes out hard over the phone. “And I’ve forgiven you, mostly, because it wasn’t really your fault. You didn’t know about the gambling. You didn’t know about the meth—”
“Jesus, can we not—”
“No, we’re talking about this. Because Gael and Ramiro and Reina, they’ve forgiven you, too. We all have. But we’re not gonna sit back and watch you make the same mistake twice.”
I don’t say anything.
“We only just started hanging out again,” Ximena continues, quieter now.
“Like, really hanging out. Not just polite coffee dates where we both pretend everything’s fine.
And I missed you, Harper. I missed my friend.
But I can’t do this again. I can’t watch you let him back in just so he can destroy everything you’re trying to rebuild. ”