Sweet Talk by Cara Bastone
Chapter Sixteen
Jessie
The next morning I find myself looking at Eliot’s selfie for probably the nine hundredth time. It’s blurry and unflattering and the lighting is terrible. He’s on his back, tucked into what looks like a couch, giving me a crooked thumbs-up. I couldn’t love it more.
The tone of his voice last night sits in my memory like a cactus, pricking me from every side. He was so upset. And he wanted comfort. From his friend. Who he’s obviously come to care about.
He wants more. With me.
And I can’t give it. I can never be the person who walks into the bar and gives him that feeling. I can’t even tell him that he doesn’t have to explain why he was triggered last night.
It’s been a hell of a few days at work so I ask Pops’s friend Carl if he could be on call for me. He agrees immediately and I’m relieved. If anybody needs anything for the next couple of hours, I’ll just pass the message on to Carl. With that said and done I grab my helmet and get on my bike. It’s just a touch too warm for my leather jacket and pants, but when I built the motorcycle, Pops made me promise that I’d never ride it without leather. In case of an accident, leather is the safest protection that anyone could be wearing, and it was an easy promise to make. Once I start riding, the breeze cools me down anyhow.
I have to fight traffic until I get out toward the ocean, but then it’s smooth sailing. I cruise the last stretch of Flatbush until it turns into the Marine Parkway Bridge and then I’m hit full in the face with fresh, salty air. The sun is diamond-bright against the water and I’m glad I wore my helmet with the sun-visor.
Far Rockaway is by far my favorite part of New York City. Especially at this time of year, when the sun is warm but the summer crowds haven’t descended yet. I wind through Fort Tilden and park my bike in a shady little lot next to a sandy road that leads to the beach. There’s golden grass as tall as I am on one side of me, and if it weren’t for the almost-constant low-flying planes on their way to or from JFK, you could almost forget you were within the city limits.
I make it out to the beach and, as expected, the water is rough with whitecaps. Like most things in New York City, the beaches on Far Rockaway are not for the weak. This is the kind of beach that knocks you on your ass and gets sand up your bathing suit. In fact, one of my earliest memories is getting knocked over by an unexpected wave, salt water up my nose and sand burn on my cheek. And then there was Pops, lifting me out of the ocean with one big hand, throwing me on his back and making me howl with laughter as he showed me how hard it is to run forward when the waves are heading back out to sea.
It’s in that moment, with the April sun bright on the top of my head and the shiny silver ocean tossing itself against the sand, that I’m absolutely socked in the face with emotion. My vision blurs with tears and I gasp for breath as I crouch down. I don’t know how else to explain it. I miss my dad. Which is ridiculous, because I saw him two days ago and I talked to him on the phone just this morning. But it is what it is.
He’s dying. It’s slow and terrible, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it but help him get his affairs in order.
I’ve tried so hard not to bother him with all of my problems because in the face of his diagnosis, everything else just seemed so trivial. But the thing is, that means I just haven’t been dealing with anything that’s happened to me this year. I haven’t been turning to Pops. So I haven’t been turning to anybody.
I’m sitting in the sand and crying like a nine-year-old so I decide to fully engage with that feeling. I need my dad right now.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and call him.
“Hey, kid,” he answers.
“Dad.”
“What happened?”
“How do you know something’s wrong?” I demand.
“You only ever call me ‘Dad’ when you’re really upset. Where are you? It sounds windy.” His voice is slightly gravelly, like he’s been sleeping, and I wonder guiltily if I woke him. He needs all the sleep he can get right now.
“I’m at Fort Tilden.”
“You’re not staring out at the ocean and contemplating my mortality, are you? That would be super lame, kid.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss me? We talked this morning.”
“No, I mean I miss you . . . preemptively.” I wince at how that ends up sounding.
“Kid . . .”
“I know. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. You’re right there and I can drive up and see you whenever I want, but . . . everything is just so . . .”
“It’s so what?”
“So different than how it used to be.”
“Look. I know it wasn’t an easy decision for you to take over my job—” I hear the worry and regret laced into his tone and I want to squash it from existence.
“No! No, that’s not it. I’m actually starting to like it. It’s good work. And you took such good care of everything for so long that there’s barely any work for me to do.”
“You’ve always been a shitty liar.”
“Well, it’s a hard job. You know that better than anyone.”
“So, it’s not the work. What is it? . . . Your brother?” he guesses.
“. . .”
“Kid, if there’s something wrong with Jack, you gotta tell me.”
“He’s fine. He’s safe. He just did some more dumb shit and now . . .”
“Now you’ve gotta clean it up?”
“Something like that. Honestly, Pops, the less you know about this one the better.”
“. . .”
“Pops?”
“That’s not it,” he says after a moment.
“Huh?”
“I can hear it in your voice. There’s something more. It’s not just about Jack. What is it?”
“Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass to be so easy to read. I end up having to tell you everything.”
“Isn’t that why you called me? To tell me everything?”
“Good point.”
“So. Tell me.”
“. . . I think I’m falling in love?” Even though he can’t see me, I cover my face with one hand.
“Oh, boy.”
“What’s with that tone?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Pops, don’t be a dick.”
“What, you want me to click my heels for you?”
“Well, you don’t have to be a total downer about it.”
“The words ‘I’m in love’ haven’t exactly ever been good news for our family, kid,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The last person Jack loved was that Melody person who stole his car. The last person you loved was Trent, who, God love him, is a total asshole. And the last person I loved was your mother and I don’t even need to explain—”
“Can we not? Can we just not talk about her? Or compare what I’m feeling to what you and her had together? Okay? This is completely different than that. And it’s not like I’m a total goner for this guy or anything. I’m at, like, the very, very beginning of falling in love. With someone who is totally different than anyone I’ve ever been into before. Like, pretty much the opposite.”
“The opposite of someone you’ve been with before . . . so, he’s not a meathead. He’s a good listener. And he’s a dork?”
“Thanks for that, Pops. I’m pretty sure you’re roasting me right now, aren’t you?”
“Am I wrong?” he asks in that know-it-all tone of his that I’ve always pretended to hate but secretly love.
“No. Except for the dork part. I mean he is kind of a dork, but in a good way. A cute way.”
“So, what’s the problem, then?”
“Jack.”
“. . . Jack doesn’t like him or something?” he asks.
“No. It’s not that. Jack doesn’t even know him. But Eliot knows Jack. And if he found out he was my brother he would . . . probably never want to speak to me again.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I can’t explain it more than that, Pops.”
He pauses for a long moment, and I think he’s going to demand more information, but instead, he surprises me. “Well, if it were me, and I was really in love with someone, I probably wouldn’t give a damn who her dumbass brother is.”
“I mean, it might not make him hate me. But he’s definitely not going to want to come around for Christmas. It’s a nonstarter. There’s no way we could have a real relationship if he couldn’t be around Jack at all.”
“So . . . this is about loyalty to Jack?”
“You sound surprised. He’s my brother, Pops. I’m not going to cut him out of my life, no matter how much of a cut-up he’s been.”
“Have you talked to Jack about it?”
“No.”
“Does he know you love this guy?”
“No,” I say.
“Talk to him. He might surprise you. I don’t know the situation, but there might be something he could do about it?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Kid, there’s something I’ve been thinking I should probably explain about your mom.”
“Pops, I already know everything.”
“What makes you so sure about that?”
“I was there, remember? It’s not like you and Mom used to leave the room to fight with each other. I know why she left.”
“. . .”
“Pops? You still there?”
“You take your bike out to the ocean?” Again, he surprises me by letting the topic drop.
“Huh? Oh. Yup.”
“Ugh. I shouldn’t have asked. Don’t tell me any more. You’re wearing your helmet? Your leather?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to tell you any more.”
“Kid . . .”
“Yes. Just like I promised.”
“You’re a good kid. You know that, right?” he asks. And there’s something in his tone that tells me he’s actually asking. He really wants to make sure I know.
“I’m painfully aware. I think my life would be a lot easier if I were rotten.”
“You couldn’t be rotten if you tried. Now, get off the beach before you catch cold. Go home. Do your job. Call your brother. Eat a good dinner. Go to bed at a reasonable hour. There. Did I do it right? Did I say everything a good dad is supposed to say?”
“Did you pull a muscle?”
“Shaddap,” he says with a laugh.
“Love you, Pops.”
“Love you, too, kid.”
Instead of calling Jack or heading back to the house, I ride my bike straight to Geddy’s gym. I park my bike and head in. It’s afternoon so the gym is much more crowded than I usually see it when I come in the early morning. Raoul’s eyes widen when he sees me.
“Not your usual workout time,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head.
“I’m not here to work out. I actually had a question for you.”
He waves me over to the side of the gym so that we’re well away from the two teenagers messily sparring with one another. Raoul’s got one eye on them and one on me. His expression tightens and he takes a step toward the kids when one of them yelps, but another one of his trainers catches the mistake and steps in. Raoul relaxes and leans against the wall, focusing on me.
“Shoot.”
“Well, I was wondering if you’ve ever dealt with clients who’ve gone through . . . traumatic stuff before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s someone I know who I want to come work out here. But he’s not really a fighter, you know? I think he’s been going through a hard time. I thought getting stronger, maybe some self-defense kind of stuff, would help ease his mind a little bit. I recommended he come here, but then I was wondering if a boxing gym was the best place for somebody who . . . doesn’t like to fight.”
“Ah. Yeah. I get it. Sure. A lot of guys come here just for the exercise. The camaraderie. But it’s good for the soul, too. Boxing. It’s helped a lot of my guys get through hard times.”
“You’ve dealt with that before? Trauma?”
“Sure. Not everybody likes to hit or get hit. Some people like it too much. I’ve been doing this a long time. I can usually tell what somebody needs or doesn’t need.”
“All right. That’s good to know. I think he’ll come by in the next month or so. He wants to quit his other gym.”
“Why don’t you bring him around next time you come? Introduce me.”
I shift uncomfortably. I haven’t had to say this part out loud to anyone yet and I highly doubt Raoul will understand. Anonymous chatting might be a bit of a question mark for him.
“Um. Well. I don’t actually know him.”
He raises one eyebrow that does all the talking for him.
“Well, to be exact,” I stutter, wondering if I’m in the process of losing all my cred with Raoul, “he doesn’t know who I am. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Keep what what way?”
“Ah. Look. It’s complicated but he’s a good guy. Eliot Hoffman. Treat him well when he comes in. But just don’t mention me. At all. Even if he asks. Which he probably won’t. He’s respectful of our . . . situation. But just don’t tell him anything about me. I just wanted to check and make sure that this was gonna be a good fit for him, since I told him to come. But it looks like it’s gonna work out. So just, yeah. Train him or whatever, but keep me out of it.”
Throughout the course of my speech, Raoul’s face gets tighter and tighter and by the end, I can barely see his lips anymore, they’re pressed so tight together.
“Girl, I do not understand this situation.”
“He and I are anonymously chatting, okay? And I really like him, but I’m not ready for him to find out my identity.”
“Oh, lord.” Raoul covers his face with one leathery paw. “Don’t tell me this is some internet sex thing, is it? Not you. Not Lou’s girl. What am I going to tell Lou?”
I’m sure my face is tomato-red right now. This is not a conversation I ever wanted to have with Raoul. But especially not in person. “Oh, my God! No! It’s not that, and my dad already knows about this whole thing, okay? Just—”
“Dad, don’t jump to conclusions.”
I startle a little, because I didn’t realize that Ronnie was standing right behind me. Which means that he’s heard this conversation as well. Lovely.
Ronnie is sweaty from a workout and looking highly embarrassed, but not judgmental. He glances down at me. “He always jumps to the worst conclusions. Too much Dateline.”
I laugh, a little surprised. It’s the closest thing to a joke Ronnie has ever said in front of me.
“Send your guy our way,” Ronnie continues. “We’ll take care of him.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Raoul gives me one last suspicious look before the sparring kids catch his attention again and he jogs off to reprimand them. I’m left standing beside a sweaty Ronnie, embarrassed, grateful, and awkward.
“Is it, like, an online dating thing?” Ronnie asks after a second, brushing imaginary dust off his shorts.
“Oh. No. Actually it’s more of a wrong-number situation. We got to talking and kind of hit it off.”
“You’re kidding.” His eyes sparkle, and I suddenly realize that I’ve never really looked Ronnie full in the face before. He’s got tawny skin like his dad, and lots of black curly hair tied into a knot on the top of his head. He’s nice-looking when he’s not staring at the floor. “That’s so . . . cute.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess it’s cute. For now or whatever. We don’t really have a future or anything. I’m not gonna tell him who I really am.”
“Oh.” Ronnie looks disappointed. “Well, you never know, I guess.”
Silence descends, and I try to figure out a way to non-awkwardly extricate myself from this conversation and this gym.
“I’m glad . . . either way, though,” Ronnie says after a minute. “That you brought that up to my dad.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Well, now he’ll think you’re involved with someone and he’ll stop trying to get me to propose marriage to you with every spare minute he has.”
“Oh, God.” I immediately cover the bottom half of my face with one hand. I don’t want him to see the half bemused, half mortified expression I’m sure I’m wearing.
“I can see from your reaction that he’s been pushing this on you, too?”
I let the hand drop and glance up at Ronnie. “Well, he’s not exactly subtle.”
“I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I kept telling him, Dad, she’s the only female member you have, you can’t keep trying to set us up.”
“I’m just glad that it’s . . .”
“Over?” he supplies with a little half-smile on his face. “Don’t worry. I just started dating somebody, too. It’s, um, really new. And I really wasn’t sure it was going to work out. But yeah.” He gets a sheepish look on his face. “It’s, uh, working out. Once I bring them home to meet him, I’m pretty sure Dad won’t bother you again.”
“Oh. Well, congrats on that.” I give him an awkward wave. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Just one more thing.”
I turn back to look at him. “Yeah?”
“My dad is too nosy. Too pushy. But he’s also a really excellent judge of character. And if even half of what he’s told me about you is true, then you sound like a really amazing person. Really loyal. Plus you’re cute. I just . . . this is out of line, but I just made things work with my person and I’m all hopped up on pheromones and whatever and I know it’s not my business but I just wanted to say that I hope that if you’ve really decided not to meet this guy . . . I just hope you’re seeing yourself clearly, is all.”
“Oh. Thanks, Ronnie. I’ll keep that in mind.” I start to walk away and then stop and turn back to him one more time. I gesture at my motorcycle jacket and leather pants. “Cute?”
He shrugs. “Badass?”
“Much better.”
He smiles. I smile. I walk out of the gym feeling significantly better than I did when I woke up this morning.
And I know exactly the reason.
Because I got to do something for Eliot. Maybe it wasn’t a lot, talking to Raoul, making sure the gym was the right place for Eliot. But still. It was something. Someone I care about is hurting and I was able to do something that would hopefully help.
See, that’s the thing about this whole anonymous, ultimately doomed relationship. You’d think that the tough part would be never getting to go out on a date with Eliot. Or kiss him goodnight. Or wake up next to him. All the fun stuff. But the even worse part is that it robs me, him, us, of the hard stuff, too.
If I never tell him who I am, I’m never going to take care of him when he’s sick. I’m never going to drive across the city to pick him up if his car breaks down. I’m never going to console him if he loses a job. I’m never going to get up early to take his trash out because he forgot to do it the night before.
I park the bike outside of my building, but I don’t get off. For a long breath, I just sit there. My gut is filled with clown balloons. Because I’ve just realized how good it feels to do something for Eliot.
When Ronnie was describing me, he said “loyal,” and he wasn’t wrong. Because maybe, just maybe, in this particular situation, my brother isn’t the only one who deserves my loyalty.
Is it possible to do right by one of them without betraying the other? I’ve been thinking of Eliot and Jack as standing on opposite sides of the road, with me in the middle. To walk toward one of them is to turn my back on the other one. But maybe there’s a way? Maybe there’s a way with both of them by my side?
I take off my helmet and tuck it under my arm. I call my brother. I’m striding away from the building because I don’t want anyone I know to overhear this conversation. An absurd amount of disappointment swamps me when I get his voicemail. I really thought that maybe if he answered, I’d magically be able to say something to him like I’d just said to Raoul. There’s this man named Eliot, I’d tell him. He’s gotten banged up, but help me treat him right. Help me fix this, Jack.
The thought of saying those words aloud to Jack turns my blood into water, puts sweat down my back. But it’s the only way out of this, isn’t it? The only way I can ever hear Eliot say my name, my real name, and know who I am, is if I’m locked and loaded with Jack’s blessing.
I try Jack one more time, but he doesn’t answer then either. I send him a quick text telling him to call me when he gets a chance, but there’s a very high probability that a return call will never happen. If I really want to talk with him in the next few days, I might have to track him down.
I sigh and tuck my phone away.
Patience, I remind myself. Patience. But now that I see a potential solution, I want to sprint. Every moment I spend in limbo makes me feel like Eliot is slipping away.
The evening light is starting to change, but it’s still warm, and I know that when I get back home, I’m going to take over for Carl and my quasi-day off will be completely over. I want to prolong this feeling for just a little bit longer. So, I turn away from my apartment building, deciding to take a stroll around the neighborhood, and—I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise—I call Eliot.