It was the call from Seth that unstitched me. Someone’s moved into the house, he said.
It wasn’t big news. Or it shouldn’t have been. But the words landed like a gut punch, knocking the air out of my lungs. It was so much easier to think of that place rotting and empty, falling to pieces. I’d been there so many times, walking those echoing halls, looking. It didn’t seem as if lives could be lived there anymore.
“Who?” I managed.
“The old man’s daughter, I think. She’s renovating the place,” he said. He paused a moment. I could feel him measuring his words. “There’s a blog.”
“A blog,” I repeated. “About the house?”
“About the renovation,” he said. “About her, you know, journey—or whatever.”
I couldn’t think of what to say.
“I know,” said Seth. “It’s weird.”
We were still back there, Seth and I, in our very different ways. I guess I didn’t think the house would be the first to move on.
“There’s something else,” he continued. He was used to long, protracted silences from me.
“What?”
“Beckham’s back,” Seth said. Something roared in my ears. “He was released a few months back. He’s been drifting around. Finally found his way home.”
A few months. He was supposed to be keeping tabs. This was important.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now,” he said. “Just—”
“Just?”
“Are you sure that this is what you want?”
It was too late for questions like that. I’d started something, flipped some kind of karmic switch. I had no choice but to keep going.
“Zoey.”
“I’m here.”
If he knew about Didion, he hadn’t said anything. Of course, he wouldn’t.
“I have to think,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He was saying something when I hung up. I didn’t hear.
? ? ?
“YOU OKAY?” THE VOICE SNAPPED me back into the moment.
I wiped up the coffee that I’d spilled on the service counter. I never make mistakes. Never. Almost never. So when I do, it’s like there’s a big neon arrow pointing right at me. Mistakes call attention—sympathy, judgment, annoyance. Preoccupation had made me careless, and I’d overfilled a mug. Sloppy, I heard Paul’s voice. Careless. Just like not noticing that camera. I thought I had a grip on the thing, the rage. Maybe not.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I’m Erik.” I didn’t want to look at him, but I did and found myself gazing into a pair of sea-glass green eyes. My pulse jumped a little; I don’t like eyes on me.
“Zoey,” I said, light, brisk, not rude but not inviting more talk.
I gave him a quick nod, then moved away swiftly with my tray of coffee cups, cursing myself. That’s what happens when you let yourself feel something; you send off sparks of energy that attract the attentions of others. I took my break in the bathroom and did a quick meditation where I focus on my breathing, imagining myself as small and invisible, a wraith, someone who is there but isn’t there. And the rest of my shift passed without incident—until I was getting ready to go home.
“Hey—Zoey?”
I turned to see Erik from earlier. He had a look, something going on beneath the surface smile. I stared at him longer than I should have, trying to figure out what it was. He looked down at his toes after holding my gaze a moment.
“So a bunch of us are going out for a drink.” He did a little rocking thing, up on his toes then back on his heels. “Would you like to join us maybe?”
I shouldered my hoodie, put my backpack on. I tried for a regretful smile.
“I can’t,” I said. “I have to be somewhere.”
He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched in a little. His blond hair was a careful mess as he gave an understanding nod. “Maybe another time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”
Definitely not.
I got out of there as fast as possible, didn’t stick around to see what kind of reaction he had to rejection. In my experience, men don’t do well with it. You’ll either see a flash of anger, maybe sadness, or maybe a mask will come down, something hard and protective. Few take it in stride.
With the ding of the little bell on the door, the light and noise of the restaurant was gone in the dark and cold of the street. Avenue A is always hopping, especially at night. I pulled my hood up and moved fast through the walkers, stumblers, shriekers, laughers. They didn’t see me. I was invisible again. I wasn’t lying to Erik of the green eyes. I did have someplace I needed to be.
? ? ?
MIKE WAS ALREADY WAITING FOR me when I walked through the door, my breath slightly labored from the six-floor walkup, which I took two stairs at a time. I was a little late, and I could see that he’d used the time to warm up. A hundred sit-ups, a hundred push-ups, a hundred jumping jacks. His forehead glowed, and he looked loose, ready.
“There’s an elevator, you know,” he said, as I bowed at the altar.
“What’s the point of working out if you’re just going to take the elevator?”
“To save your strength for the fight ahead.”
The wood floors bounced a little beneath my feet, and I avoided my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors as I headed into the locker room. I stowed my stuff and stripped down to tank and sports bra. I pulled on my black pants and wrapped the fabric black belt around my waist. Then I exited to find him waiting in the middle of the floor, legs spread apart, arms folded.
“Your energy is not right,” he said. “It’s wobbly.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you here?” he asked. “Are you all here? We bow at the door and leave our burdens at the altar. Have you done that?”
“Yes,” I lied. “I have.”
“We’ll see.”
We faced each other, put our hands in prayer to our chests and bowed. He was right; I was wobbly. I was going to get my ass kicked.
Mike Lopez was the man who taught me how to fight. I came to him a kitten, scared and skittish, hiding behind my uncle. He turned me into a dragon.
“Learn to fight and you’ll never be afraid again,” he told me that first night while my uncle watched. “Learn to fight and you’ll know yourself and understand your own power.”