Chapter 65. Brynn
brYNN
I storm out of Micah’s house and dash across the street toward Houston.
A taxi driver blasts me with his horn. I stumble over the metal curb and face-plant in front of Caffé Dante’s black awning.
I push myself back up to standing, ball up my scraped hands, and speed walk away, beating the sides of my legs as I go.
The passing faces blur through my tears.
Main suspect, my ass. I can’t believe Detective Simone called the agency—called Micah. Not cool. Somehow, she still thinks I orchestrated what went down that night. I don’t get it. Don’t those news articles prove Cody’s motivation? I could not have spelled it out any clearer for her.
I need to fix things with Micah. He wouldn’t look at me when I left.
He just needs time to cool off. I’ll explain it in a way he can understand.
I’d be an idiot to let him disappear again.
We’re so good together. It felt like coming home being back in his bed.
I’m done making up for my sins these past nine months.
I deserve to be happy and have someone like him. I love how much he wants me.
This too will pass. I know it.
Maybe I’ll suggest that we move in together; I can live in his stylish house and save money while finding another job. Or not.
My phone rings. I grin. Got to be him. 914 area code. Shoot.
“Miss Gallardo? Detective Clive Bodie.”
My stomach drops.
“You guys called my job—what the hell? Listen, this isn’t a great time—”
“One of the articles you said you found among Cody’s possessions? We researched the source, and, well, the reported incident took place after his death. Nice try, though.”
Heat crawls up my neck, burning my ears. “U-um, there’s got to be some kind of mix up. I found them in boxes of Cody’s things, dropped off at my apartment by someone from St. Ignatius.” My mind races. Oh shit. I bet Silas—or, more likely, Dahlia—put those in there.
“Our tech guy also restored a video on Cody’s phone, recorded that night with you saying, ‘Tonight, they won’t know what hit them.’ I’d call that premeditative.”
What is he talking about? Oh! “I meant the audience at Pete’s . . . stop twisting my words!”
“Brynn.” Simone clears her throat, surprising me she’s on the call. “Some questions have also arisen regarding the items the highway patrol found at the accident site.”
I stop walking.
A guy wearing a large headset grunts and steps around me.
I cup my other ear and move away from the Sixth Avenue traffic. The aroma of spicy red sauce fills my nose. A waiter comes out with a menu gesturing to a table with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth.
I turn my back to him. “What now?”
“The officers uncovered a small metal box. It got charred, but its contents survived.”
I sniffle, pinching my nostrils together. “They kept a cash box in the glove compartment for tolls and parking meters.”
“Inside, we found a photo of a baby with pink headphones.” Simone clicks her teeth. “Guitar picks, safety pins, floss.”
“Okay, so what?”
“And pill bottles prescribed to your father.”
I sigh. “For his ulcer.”
“No, these are cancer medications.”
The air rushes from my lungs, taking my legs out. I hear a crack.
“You still there, Brynn?”
“Um . . . I don’t understand. My dad had cancer? That can’t be right . . .”
Did Rhonda know? She handled all the outstanding bills and the selling of properties after the accident. Did some of that debt include medical bills? If so, she never let on.
No. My dad changed his diet. He was getting better. “If my dad had cancer, why didn’t my parents tell me?”
The waiter towers over me, his hands on his hips. “Miss, you can’t rest here.” He flicks his hand in a sweeping motion. “Move along.”
I wander around the Village, my tailbone sore, my heart split in two. The sides of my head feel squeezed in a vise, my eyes cloud with questions I’ll never get answered.
My dad had cancer? They didn’t think I needed to know?
My life could have been so different if they hadn’t treated me like a child.
Maybe I still am one, though. Look how I’ve botched everything up.
Even though they didn’t like Cody, or the idea of me going on tour, they still warmed up that potato-smelling, crusty old Monte Carlo and drove north.
White-knuckling it all the way, I’m sure. Why couldn’t I see their effort?
I head up Sullivan Street, not ready to go home.
The giddy screams and laughter of children in Washington Square Park draw me closer.
A sweltering August day and the large, circular fountain at its center sits dry.
The neighborhood kids play in it anyway like I used to, crisscrossing through it, using its center as base.
Under a tree nearby, a keyboardist wearing a wide-brimmed hat plays that Jewel song about saving souls. She smiles, singing to me.
I tie up my long hair and lower myself onto the fountain’s concrete steps. The last time I was here, Micah and I stopped under the arch after the gym, then cut through the park. Years back, Rikki and I used to practice our 1D dance moves right where I’m sitting.
Why couldn’t I appreciate my parents the way Rikki and Tess did? I got caught up with everything—Cody, the tour. I didn’t even notice my own father’s suffering. Oh, Daddy.
Wait . . . why did Micah ask if he was sick? How did he know about that?
I text him.
We need to talk
I can explain
I clench my toes in my sandals, trying not to make a sound, as I walk down the hallway to my door.
I’m in no mood for Debra’s girl talk. I need to look amazing when I meet Micah.
Prepare what I’m going to tell him. He’s got to believe that I’m innocent, had nothing to do with what happened to my parents. I wasn’t even there.
“Oh good!” Debra leans outside her door, her smokey blue eyes dancing as she licks her index finger. “I hoped you’d be home soon. Come meet my granddaughter, Gina. It’s her first time baking chocolate chip cookies from scratch.”
“I’m kind of in a rush.” I dig for my key. “Can I stop by later?”
“She’s only here for another hour. I’d love for you to meet her—”
“I can’t . . .” Why isn’t my key working? Dammit. “I’m sorry, Debra, but I’m bugging out. I just learned something about my parents, and—”
“Is it about your father?”
My neck stiffens. “You knew? Why didn’t you say something?”
“That night we met, you looked so raw. I didn’t want to aggravate your pain more. We cried so many times about your dad’s cancer. The terrible timing of it.” She grimaces.
“We?”
She leans her shoulder into the wall near me, crossing her arms. “Remember, I knew your parents when they lived here. After they began renting the apartment out, Katia would come by to check on it now and then. When she did, we’d catch up over cups of tea.”
“Why would they keep this from me?”
“Your mom saw you doing so well at LaGuardia, and they hoped they could turn the club around in time so you could go to college and study music. When your dad’s ulcer worsened, your mom pushed him to see a doctor.
He didn’t tell her for three weeks about his diagnosis.
During that time, he kept leaving home at odd hours.
She thought he was sleeping with someone”—she shakes her head—“but then he confessed. He was seeing a homeopath because he knew their insurance would not be enough to cover his medication and treatment.”
A sharp hook sticks in my throat. “I gave them hell for blowing my college fund.”
Her skinny arched brows draw together. “Your mom told me the Flaming Flamingo was your college fund. They worked hard, bled everything they had into that place, so you could fulfill your dream. That club was for you.”
“What?” Oh my god, oh my god. “I-I hurt them, Deb—”
Her fingers curl around my shoulder. “Like I told you, baby girl, our kids can break our hearts, yet we continue to love them. Your parents never stopped loving you. Haven’t stopped even now.”
Light bounces off the gold cross around her neck.
“I wish I shared some of your faith.” I try my key again. The lock turns with ease.
She frowns. “You need time to process.” She steps toward her apartment.
“Deb?” Her big, soulful eyes turn back to me. “I’m glad you’re getting a chance to be with your granddaughter. She’s one lucky girl.”
I close the door behind me and sink to the floor, wincing.
I crawl to my mattress. Short, sharp outbreaths pull out of my chest, robbing me of air.
I gasp between ragged inhalations, my diaphragm seizing like a train I can’t stop.
I press my fists to my chest, pushing harder. It won’t quit. I punch and punch.
The Flaming Flamingo. My college fund. My future. My dream. The club was for me. They sold their souls to that place . . . for me.
I look to the peeling paint overhead. “Mom, Dad, I didn’t know!”
My eyes strain in the darkness to see their faces. Hear their voices. Can they ever forgive their daughter who ate jealousy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—when they’d built the Flaming Flamingo for the baby in the pink headphones wrapped against her mother’s chest?
I lower my head between my knees, choking for air.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The staccato drips in the kitchen sink wake me.
I rub the sides of my face and drag myself up to sitting.
My head’s woozy, waterlogged. My sternum’s left bruised from all my punching.
The afternoon sun tracks through the blinds, illuminating the temperamental half fridge .
. . the broken burners beside it . . . the orange countertop the size of printer paper.
I fold my knees into my chest and cover my mouth, unable to cry.
I’m dried out. I’m going to lose this place, my last connection to my parents.
So in love when they found it, they made me here.
And I crapped all over it.
Where am I going to go now, a shelter?
My phone pings.
Corner of Bleecker and MacDougal, one hour