Sweet Talk by Cara Bastone

Chapter Twenty-One

Jessie

Here’s the thing about me. Some people, when they’re incredibly sad, kind of lose their ambition. That’s not me. In the days after everything with Eliot explodes, I become a productivity monster. And when I say monster, I mean it. The couple in 3F almost scream when they open the door and see me standing there with my toolbox, ready to help them hang shelves.

“You got here . . . fast,” the man says.

I grunt. He’s surprised to see me, considering he called to ask about hanging the shelves no less than forty-five seconds ago. He doesn’t know that I absolutely refuse to be idle right now. He doesn’t know that idleness means thoughtfulness and my new life’s goal is to never think again. I hang the shelves perfectly, in under fifteen minutes, and then I stand with my hands on my hips in the middle of their living room.

“Got anything else that needs my attention?” I ask.

The couple stands with their arms around one another, their eyes wide. She’s about two inches taller than he is and they’re wearing T-shirts for the same band. There are framed editions of Rolling Stone on their walls. They’re really cute together. I hate them.

“Nope!” the woman chirps. “We’re all good. Thanks for the help.”

I don’t blame her for wanting to get me out of her house. I’m well aware that there’s a black cloud of rage and disappointment and sadness hanging out over my head. I take the hint and go. Luckily, 6B calls because their hardwood floors are rotting away in places and they’ve finally decided to do something about it.

I take my storm cloud and spend the day up there. But then, of course, nighttime comes. And suddenly the entire world is the same exact color as my storm cloud and I’m surrounded. Can’t see through it, can’t step through it, can’t get to the other side, nothing to do but just sit there and stew.

I know it sounds crazy, but before Eliot, I genuinely didn’t mind staying up late at night. It was soothing to me. Calm. Like everything just sort of slid into slow motion and nothing else was expected of me for the time being.

But since Eliot found out who I am, the nighttime has been when my thoughts have caught up to me. When I have to physically stop myself from going into our text strand and reading his last note to me. It’s when I ask myself, over and over, if I’m doing the right thing.

It means that I have to keep busy at night as well. I cleaned Pops’s apartment from top to bottom. But there was really only one thing to do after that. And tonight, I’m finally going to do it.

I start at the hardest place. His bedroom. It’s already been picked over because he took almost everything he cared about with him to the facility where he lives now. But there are still worn, familiar clothes of his to box up. There are bookshelves with knickknacks to sort through. There are photos of me and Jack that he placed around his room. Boxing and sorting everything takes me two hours. And then the room is bare.

I decide to rearrange the furniture.

By the time I’ve got everything moved around, my linens on the bed and my own clothes in the dresser, stacks of my to-be-read books lined up under the window, the room is barely recognizable as the one where Pops has lived for so many years.

A lump rises in my throat. This is my room now. I’m not living out of a suitcase anymore. I’m not sleeping on the couch anymore. I’m officially moving in, I guess. Because Pops is not going to move back in. This is my apartment because it’s not his anymore. This is my job because it’s not his anymore.

I pull out my phone. It’s the middle of the night, so I know he won’t answer, but that’s okay. I leave Pops a voicemail anyhow.

“Hey, Pops. Just thinking about ya. I hope you’re sleeping right now. Just finished moving my stuff into your room. I know, I know, I should have done it a long time ago. I guess I just wanted to let you know that . . . I like it here. Doing this job. Living here. You don’t have to worry that I don’t like it. It fits me . . . Okay, well. Talk to you tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

I hang up the phone. For the first time since I moved down here to take everything over, I want it. I want it all. I want this apartment. I want this job. I want to be here in this neighborhood, taking over for Pops, boxing with Raoul, occasionally, hopefully seeing Eliot every once in a while.

I fall face-first into the bed and sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, it’s past dawn, and I immediately check my phone. But of course, there’s nothing from Eliot. He’s not going to push me. He’s not going to invade my privacy. I almost wish that he would. If he was just a little bit of an asshole, then I might be able to see him and interact with him without having to make the tough decision to do it myself.

“Just bully me a little bit,” I say to my phone, pretending it’s Eliot’s face. “Just force me to hang out with you. I miss you, you sensitive, caring jerk.”

I jump when my phone rings in my hand. I know immediately who it is. I’m a night owl. He’s an early bird. There’s only one person on earth who would call me with no reservations at six in the morning.

“Morning, Pops.”

“You headed to the gym?”

“Not this morning.”

“You were up late last night.”

“Yeah.”

He pauses for a moment. “What’s with the sad little voicemail you left me?”

“It wasn’t sad! It was . . . triumphant. Or, it was supposed to be at least. I finally moved you out and took over your room.”

The lump that showed up in my throat last night unexpectedly re-emerges, and I sit up in bed, trying to swallow through it. But this time, the tears win. I cover my mouth with one hand as hard, wrenching sobs suddenly make their way out of me.

“Come on, kid. Come on, Jess. It had to happen sometime.”

I open my eyes just enough to see tears drip-drip-drop onto the blankets that I’m leaned over.

“Kid!”

“Pops. I gotta call you back.”

“No! Don’t hang up. Look, you’re obviously torn up about something. That guy you told me about? I don’t know. But I can hear it in your voice. I’ve been hearing it all week. I’m calling because I’ve got something to say to you. You didn’t let me say it when you were on the beach. But now you’re leaving me voicemails where you sound like your dog just died and now you’re crying your eyes out and I really have to make sure you hear it this time, okay?”

I don’t say anything, but I don’t hang up either and Pops knows me well enough to know that I’m listening.

“Okay. Jessie, I know I’ve been a good dad to you. I worked hard. I love you. I’m proud of it. But I also know that when your mom left, she took a part of you with her and . . .”

“Pops.”

“No. Listen. I think her leaving probably taught you the opposite of what she would have wanted you to learn. Jessie, would you describe me as loyal?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the most loyal.”

“Would you describe yourself as loyal?”

“Well . . . yeah. I learned it from you.”

“Okay. Great. That’s a good thing to be. It really is. But I want you to know that it was a part of why your mom left.”

“Mom left because you were too loyal to her?”

He laughs because he can hear the cardboard sarcasm in my tone.

“She left because I wasn’t taking care of myself. I did everything for her. For you. For everyone in the neighborhood. I ran myself ragged in the name of loyalty and I wasted myself away. I changed. I wasn’t the man she married.”

“Pops.”

“She begged me to learn how to take care of myself. But I thought it was selfish. I just kept seeing it as selfish. So, I doubled down and tried like hell to do everything for her. Any little thing I thought she might need. I pushed and pushed. But here’s the thing. If you don’t take care of yourself, you can’t know yourself, Jess. And if I didn’t know myself, do you think I had a chance in hell of knowing her?”

“What . . . are you saying, exactly?”

“To an outsider, it would probably look like your mother just up and left her caring husband who did everything for her. Changed her oil, did the grocery shopping. Brought home presents. But the truth is, your mom didn’t want any of that. She wouldn’t have cared if her car broke down. Or if we didn’t have all the right ingredients in the fridge. She wanted me to know her. To sit and listen to her. To talk. She wanted me to recognize that she was unhappy. That she needed help, probably from a shrink or a doctor or something. But I didn’t pay attention to any of that. If she wasn’t doing well, I took it to mean that I wasn’t doing enough for her as her husband. I pushed and pushed and called it giving. But . . . that kind of giving, it’s the same as taking. There was no space for her in our relationship. In our home. And to top it all off, she always came off as the bad guy to you kids. I was the good dad who showed up with presents and tucked you in at night, and she was the bad mom who cried in the bedroom and disappeared at all hours to God knows where.”

“Pops, you’re making it too black-and-white. It wasn’t like that.”

“I’m making it black-and-white because I need you to see this side of the story, kid. You’ve only seen one side for so long, and I need to make sure that you see parts of your mom’s side, because I think you could really benefit from it right now.”

“You think I’m doing the same thing you were doing?”

“Yes. I do. To Jack. You’re giving him too much leeway in the name of loyalty.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t wind up—”

“Taking responsibility for his own actions? Jess. If he deserves to wind up somewhere, then maybe you should let him wind up there.”

“Pops.”

“Loyalty doesn’t mean making it so nothing bad ever happens to the person you love. And it definitely doesn’t mean sacrificing yourself in the process. Because trust me, kid. If that’s the way you show your loyalty to Jack, you’re going to end up losing him anyhow. Just like we lost your mom.”

“I . . . ugh.” I collapse back on the bed in a heap. My eyes are scratchy from sleep and crying. I pull the blankets over my head. The weight of my forthcoming life lies down on top of me. “I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing or not.”

“I’m not trying to tell you to be less loyal to your brother. I’m just trying to say that I hope you’re taking care of yourself. And putting yourself first every once in a while. If I’d actually put myself first sometimes, then maybe we would have had a healthier lifestyle at home. Maybe I would have seen that your mom needed serious help. And not just all the little stuff I was doing for her . . . Ah. Anyway. Coulda woulda shoulda. I hope you’re good to yourself, kid.”

“I’m not . . . bad to myself.”

“But you’re suffering.”

“I’m sad.”

“Your whole life is changing.”

“My whole life is changing.”

“Treat yourself the way you treat me, yeah? Fight to the death for yourself, kid. Just once. At least. Your brother will land on his feet.”

When Pops and I hang up a few minutes later, I get up and grab a pen and paper from the kitchen. On the paper I usually use to make my grocery lists, I write down everything I can remember from my conversation with Pops just now. It takes up two sheets of the long, skinny paper, and I put them both under magnets on the fridge when I’m done.

My phone dings and it’s one of the tenants needing my attention. That’s okay with me. I’m grateful for the stuff to do. I get ready for work and spend half the day up in 6D again, finishing their floors. The rest of the day I’m running errands for the building, picking up potted plants for our front steps and rodent traps for the alley out back.

I don’t stop thinking about my conversation with Pops the entire time. He’s right, I think. I’ve spent so much time taking care of other people that I have absolutely no idea how to take care of myself.

Eliot was good for me. But anything good for me feels selfish. And how screwed-up is that? Anything that’s good for me feels selfish.

The happiest I’ve been in years was talking to Eliot on the phone and I wasn’t even showing him who I am. I couldn’t even give myself the gift of telling him my name.

After work, I shower off, pull on some sweats, put my hair in a wet bun, and sit down with a sandwich. I get a notification on my phone, and my heart swoops when I realize that it’s telling me that Eliot’s webcomic has updated. The last one was just a few days after he found out who I was, and it was the most wonderful torture to get a peek inside his mind, his world, his art. I wanted nothing more than to talk to him about the turn the characters had taken. But, of course, I didn’t give myself that gift.

I’m starting to sense a pattern here.

I open up the app and start in on the next chapter in the webcomic. His story is generally dramatic and thrilling, sometimes creepy or romantic, but it doesn’t really matter what’s happening on the screen, because whenever I read it, I’m grinning the whole time. There’s just something about seeing Eliot’s imagination laid out like this that absolutely lights me up on the inside.

I’m halfway through the new chapter when I see something that makes my heart stop beating. Like, straight up, the blood no longer moves through my veins. A bite of my sandwich plops onto the plate. My eyes are probably bugging out of my head Bugs Bunny style. I put my phone face-down on the countertop and stare at nothing. I pick up my phone and check. Yup. It’s still there.

I keep scrolling, see more, and I drop my sandwich completely.

The next few minutes are a blur. Only when I’m straddling my motorcycle, helmet strapped over my wet hair, do I even realize what I’m doing.

There I go, zipping toward stoplights, weaving my way through Brooklyn and into Queens.

Trent is the one who answers the door.

“Jess. Whoa!” He stumbles as I push past him.

“Jack! Jack!”

“Jessie, he’s got a girl back there, I wouldn’t—”

I don’t give a shit. I stride right up to Jack’s bedroom door and bang on it with the side of a closed fist.

“What the—Jessie?” There’s my dear brother, standing in his open door, his look of confused anger giving way to confused chagrin when he recognizes me. There is, in fact, a girl sitting on his bed. But she’s fully clothed and I thank God for small miracles. “What are you doing here?” Jack glances behind him at the girl on the bed. “My sister,” he tells her.

I lean around him. “His very pissed-off sister.”

Jack closes the bedroom door behind him and leads me into the living room. Trent stands in the kitchen, nosy as ever. I don’t care. Let them all hear what I have to say.

I dig in my pocket and pull out my phone. I pull up Eliot’s webcomic and shove the whole thing into Jack’s hand. “Look. Look at this.”

His brow furrows for a moment, but as soon as he registers what’s on the screen, his expression clears into amused surprise. “Is this you?”

“Yes.” I point at the screen. “This webcomic has tens of thousands of subscribers. It’s like, really high on the download charts. People are rabid for this thing.”

“Okay . . .”

“And the creator of it drew me into it. He created a character out of me. Me! And look. She’s totally badass.” To my dismay, this morning’s tears are creeping up my throat again. I scroll further down to show where the character, named JB in the comic, shows up out of nowhere to karate chop this dumbass character who I, coincidentally in real life, have been wanting to karate-chop for about the last sixteen chapters. And there I am. Drawn into the comic. Nose piercing, tattoos, sloppy bun, work boots and all. In all my glory. I’m a new character.

“Jess, this is cool. But you’ve kind of lost me.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with the creator of this comic. Like actually.” Trent makes a noise behind me, but I don’t care or pay attention. “He’s a friend of mine. Someone who I . . . And he drew me into this world. This private world he hasn’t told anyone about and he . . . What does this tell you, Jack? That he created a character after me?”

Jack looks lost, but he’s not a dummy. “Um . . . probably that he loves you back?”

“Probably! Probably, right? I’m in stupid love with this wonderful, gentle, creative, hilarious, kind person, and it sure as hell looks like he’s interested.” I take the phone and waggle it aggressively. “But I can’t do anything about that, Jack. I can’t do a fucking thing about that, and you want to know why?”

He grabs the back of his neck and looks apprehensive. “Um. Sure?”

I drop down so that I’m sitting on the coffee table in front of Jack. Our knees hit together and I lean forward and shove at his shoulder so hard, his hand comes up to rub where I hit him.

“I can’t do anything about how I feel about him, because you held a fucking gun to his face two months ago.”

All the color leaves Jack’s face at once.

“I can’t even tell this guy how I feel about him because my jerk brother tried to rob his house, put a gun in his face, and fucking traumatized him. What kind of problems are these, Jack? Why the hell are these my problems?”

“Jess . . . I . . .”

I know why he’s at a loss for words. Because he didn’t even know that I knew the burglar was him.

“He described you to the police, Jack. All the way down to your tattoos. It was my second night as that building’s super and you thought it would be a good idea to try and rob one of Pops’s tenants? What the hell, Jack? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I . . . I thought it would be victimless, Jess. When I was there helping Pops move out, I heard some guy talking about how he was going to be out of town and . . . I needed some extra cash. And I must have gotten the apartment number wrong or something . . . I didn’t think it was going to be that big of a deal. I didn’t want to hurt the guy.”

“So, you just broke into his house at night, wanted to steal a couple thousand dollars of his equipment, no big deal. And now this perfectly wonderful person can’t sleep at night because someone came into his home and put a gun in his face and you just get to sit there like a total asshole and tell me you thought it was going to be victimless?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone! You know I’d never hurt anyone in reality. The gun wasn’t even loaded.”

“Jack, you’re such an asshole. Pops’s insurance relies on your job. You shouldn’t be doing anything but waking up in the morning, going to work, coming home, and going to bed. That’s it. But you chose to take the opportunity to try and rob one of his tenants? Which, if you’d gotten caught, could have not only gotten you thrown in jail, but could have lost you your job and my job, and potentially gotten me and Pops tied up as your accomplices? How dumb can you be?”

“We’re not exactly rolling in money, Jess. I—don’t say anything. I know it was stupid. I know it was stupid. I don’t even know what I was thinking.” He drops his head into his hands and tears at his hair. “I didn’t know you were going to fall in love with the guy!”

“Does that even matter, Jack? Does it even matter who loves him? He’s a person. Who didn’t deserve that shit. You used to be decent. When did that change?”

He’s white as a sheet right now and I know exactly why. I’ve never spoken to him like this before. I’ve always been his loyal little sister, on his side when he got into scuffles around the neighborhood, helping him move when he got into it with his landlord, leaving a couple hundred bucks around his house so he’d be able to make rent, making him dinner even when he treats me like shit. But right now I’m dragging him by the ear to the principal’s office. Poor guy probably has whiplash.

“Nothing’s changed, Jess. I’m still me. I just made a mistake.” He sees my face and winces. “A really bad mistake.”

“And now I’m paying the price. And if you get found out, so does Pops. I hope you’re happy now that you’ve made my life so much worse than it had to be.”

“Jessie.” He grabs my hand and I let him. I’m red-hot angry with him, but I don’t want to be cruel. I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“You’re not forgiven. I’m mad as hell, Jack. And I will be for a long time. I love you. But you really screwed up my life.”

I walk out of the house and straight to my bike. I ride away before Jack can come out and say anything else to me. I need the last word on this one. I really need the last word. I’m floating, I’m churning, I’m dizzy from a sudden loss of weight on my back. I said things I didn’t know I needed to say. Half of me immediately wants to take them back. The other half of me wants to engrave them in stone so that I can read them every day. I’m angry and relieved and exhilarated all at once. I’m glad that I have a helmet that covers my face because anyone who saw my face right now would probably think the aliens had officially landed.

I take the long way home, driving through the residential areas instead of down the BQE. By the time I’m parking my bike, the adrenaline from my conversation with Jack has faded and it’s replaced with a strange mixture of triumph and resignation. I’ve done something commendable. I’ve turned over a new leaf. I won’t let my brother’s mistakes run my life anymore. And that’s a disorientingly freeing feeling. But it also doesn’t help my situation with Eliot one bit.

I probably look like that sad Linus meme as I clomp up the stairs to my apartment. I swing open the door and freeze. My fists come up in front of me as I pivot to one side. There’s a man in my apartment and in two quick steps I’ve got him in a headlock.

“Psycho,” he gasps. “It’s me.”

“Oh.” I release my brother from the headlock, kick my apartment door closed, and he falls to all fours, coughing and glaring at me. “How did you beat me here?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Must’ve taken different routes.”

“You still have your key to the apartment?”

“Yeah. I haven’t used it, obviously, in a couple months.” He drags himself up to a stand.

“You mean because you didn’t want to get caught at the scene of the crime?”

Now we’re both giving each other the stink-eye. He breaks first, choosing instead to look around the apartment. “You changed things.”

“It’s my place now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess he’s really not going to come back here, is he?”

“No.”

We flop onto opposite ends of the couch, and for just a moment, I feel a camaraderie with him. He’s 90 percent jerk and makes terrible decisions, but he’s also the only other person on earth who knows what it feels like to love Pops the way I do.

“Jess,” he says, playing with some of the white strings hanging off the knee of his jeans, “just tell him.”

“Tell him what?” I’m still thinking of Pops so I don’t understand what Jack is saying at first.

“Your guy. Mr. Baseball Bat. The one you’re cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs over. Tell him it was me.”

I blink. Jack blinks. The world blinks. I blink again.

Jack throws his hands in the air. “Don’t give me that look!”

“Have you lost your marbles? I can’t tell him what you did. If you lose your job—”

“There’s something else I have to tell you.”

“What?” Dread trickles down my spine.

“I’ve been talking to Sherry.”

“Who is Sh—you’ve been talking to Mom?”

He winces and goes a little pale. That’s been happening a lot for him tonight. “Yeah. I found her about a year ago.”

“How?”

He grimaces. “Facebook.”

I blink. He blinks. This time we laugh. “Wow.”

“I know. We’ve been talking a little bit. That’s . . . that’s what was going on the other night when you came over and I was such a dick. I’d just gotten off the phone with her. She’s been helping me a lot, actually. I kind of hit rock-bottom a couple months ago . . . as you obviously know. And she’s been there for me. But sometimes it’s still hard to talk to her. Sometimes it still catches up to me. What she did. Leaving us. It’s been a lot.”

“Wow.”

“I know. So . . .” He’s playing with the jean strings again. “Any chance you knew that she and Pops are still technically married?”

Thirty seconds later the static fuzz is starting to clear from my vision, and I can see Jack leaning toward me, snapping his fingers.

“Earth to Jess. Are you astro-planing or whatever they call that?”

“I . . . what did you just say to me?”

“Sherry and Pops are still married. And she’s kind of rich now, I guess. She’s a real estate agent upstate. She said that if Pops needed it she’d get him on her insurance.”

“Insurance. Upstate. Married.”

“Yeah. So, anyway. Tell your boyfriend who I am. I’m . . . really betting the farm on the fact that he won’t want to press charges against me, because he’s gaga for you. But . . . if he does, I’ll get a lawyer. And if I lose my job, we’ll call Sherry, and hopefully Pops won’t be up the river.”

“What are the words that you’re saying? Literally none of this makes sense.”

Jack stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. “It will. Just give it a little time to sink in.”

He gets a soda from the fridge and comes back with one for me as well. At least ten minutes pass in silence as we both slowly drink our sodas, staring at nothing.

Finally, I ask a question the only way I can think to ask it. “Why, Jack?”

He shrugs. “Cuz I figure one of us should probably take a crack at being happy.”