Finding peace, p.5
Finding Peace, page 5
He looks up at me, his eyebrows drawing together. He holds his hands out, palms up. “Do you know how men come out of Hancock State Prison?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“They come out three different ways. Better, worse. Or not at all.”
I swallow. “Clever. Since you’re here, why don’t you tell me how you’re coming out.”
“I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything at all. You’re all grown up, no thanks to me. But I think you’ll agree I had no way to go but up when I was locked away. I was about as bad a person as they get.”
I can’t argue with him there. “If you think I’ll forgive you—”
His laugh is bitter. “I don’t expect miracles, son.”
I flinch. “Stop calling me that. I am not your son. You are not my father. I have a father, a legal father, and it’s not you.”
When I look up at him, his hands are trembling and his lip wobbles. “Okay.”
“I want you to promise me that you won’t attempt to contact Adriana.”
His face falls, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I promise.”
Good. “For whatever your word is worth.”
“My word is all I have,” he says. “I won’t try to contact her, but I also won’t turn her away if she finds me.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, and a familiar feeling rushes through me. An overwhelming urge to hit something. To crush, and destroy, and shred. My heart thunders in my ears, and my breathing become shallower. I haven’t suffered from a fit of uncontrollable rage in a very long time, but I remember what to do. I don’t get in my car. That much speed is too dangerous right now.
No, I take off down the street that runs alongside the prison at a jog.
Phillip calls after me, but I ignore him. I run past the battered silver bus that will carry him to whatever crap hole they lined up for him. I run past the miles of sweet corn, and cotton, and wheat fields, almost ready to be harvested. I run past a small gas station, and then I keep running. I run until a blister rises on my heel, and sweat circles form under my arms, and finally, finally my heart rate steadies and my fury is contained.
By the time I finally turn around and head back toward my car, my anger is all but gone. I’m worried that if Adriana doesn’t keep her distance from Phillip, it’ll return, maybe even stronger. Or maybe in a place where I can’t simply run away.
Which means I have to talk to her, but not today.
After I drive home and shower, I throw myself into repairing the mess at the Riviera Grand. The next day, I keep on working. I should call Adriana and explain that Phillip has already been released and beg her to stay away, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I have another day before I really have to call her.
I’m reviewing the updated marketing plan when a ridiculous looking man with a huge fluff of blonde hair on top of his head knocks on my door.
“Yes?” I shouldn’t scowl, given how terrified he already looks.
“Sir, um, there’s a woman in the restaurant complaining. Loudly. She’d really like to talk to you.”
“To me?” I can’t help my frown. “How does she even know who I am?”
“Well.” When he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs prominently. “I might have mentioned—”
Never mind. I stand up. I’d like to set someone down, as it happens. Might as well be this woman, demanding to talk to the manager for some idiotic insufficiency. “It’s fine. Show me to her.”
The idiotic looking waiter bobs his head. “Right this way.”
I run through a list in my head of the things a dissatisfied customer might complain about as we approach, and I dig deep for a little extra patience. I really shouldn’t spend my third day in a new place screaming at a customer. I’ll apologize, no matter what she’s angry about, but I’m not comping her meal unless we’ve actually done something wrong.
And the manager of the restaurant is going to get a piece of my mind about his wait staff hunting me down and paging me like I’m some kind of runner-monkey. What’s the point of even having a restaurant management team on site if they don’t handle this sort of thing? We approach a table with three seated women. A very attractive blonde, a remarkably cute brunette, and a shining black haired woman whose back is to me. They’re all very nicely dressed, which means the odds of the upset woman being an entitled whiner just doubled. I try not to groan preemptively.
I clear my throat instead. “I hear one of you wanted to talk to me?”
The blonde meets my eyes, and then ducks her head immediately. Not her, then. The brunette smiles broadly, but she doesn’t reply.
“I’m very, very unhappy with the service we received today,” the dark haired woman says without turning. “I demand you fire the chef, the wait staff, and the hostess. I’m not sure that you should retain your job, frankly, if what I’ve seen so far is any indication of your skill level.”
The brunette bites her lip and looks down at her feet.
The blonde looks like a deer about to be hit by a car. A very large, very horrifying truck.
Who is this woman who shouts at me without even facing me?
“Ma’am, if you could turn around, it might be easier for you to tell me why you want me to fire my entire staff and hand in my own resignation. What exactly did any of them do wrong?”
The woman stands up melodramatically, squares her shoulders, and then spins around with a smile on her stunning face. The laugh starts in my belly and then moves upward. I don’t even realize how badly I need a comedic break until this very second. “Done,” I say. “I’ll fire them immediately, and once I get things in order, I promise that I’ll quit too.”
“Was that so hard?” Geo asks.
“Actually, I’ve been looking for a reason. We’re cutting lunch next week, so I won’t need as many servers, chefs, or hosts.”
Geo puts a hand on her hip. “And now you’ve hit on what we need to discuss. How can you cut lunch when I’ve only just found this restaurant? I love it, you big dope. Don’t eliminate it.”
“What?”
“Sit down here with us so we can convince you to change your mind.” Geo sits and points at the chair next to the blond, who still won’t meet my eye.
I comply. “Who are your friends?”
“My friend Trudy.” Geo gestures at the brunette. “She’s a computer whiz, in case you need some freelance—”
“I have zero time for extra work,” Trudy says. “If I even tried to take on another client, Paul would never talk to you again, G, but thanks for the attempted referral.”
“The best ones are always already taken,” I say.
“There are exceptions to every rule,” Geo says. “And on that note, let me introduce Anica. She’s a single, New York Times bestselling novelist, and she agrees with me. You shouldn’t get rid of the lunch here.”
“The burger was great,” Anica says.
“And the strawberry salad is the best I’ve ever had,” Geo says. “It would be practically criminal to limit it to dinner alone.”
“I do want to stay out of prison.” I can’t quite help making a reference no one else will understand. “And I love keeping beautiful ladies happy.” Even if there’s no way I want to get involved with anyone in Atlanta. I’m getting this mess sorted and flying back to Hawaii ASAP.
“Actually maybe you should shut it down,” Geo says. “Anica said she’s been dealing with some writer’s block on her current novel.”
“How are those two things related?” I glance around to see whether Geo’s been downing a lot of wine with lunch.
The blonde blushes in an adorable way. I doubt most bestselling novelists get embarrassed about writer’s block. I think it’s probably a pretty common thing. I would have expected her to be an insufferable snob, not a nervous, blushing lady.
“Well, if you insist on shutting down lunch, the terrible decision could inspire her. She might even write you into her next bestseller. I can see it now. The villain will be a handsome, blonde, corporate suit who fires a bunch of people to finance his second Porsche, leaving the waiters and hosts and chefs unable to make rent.”
I try not to cringe over the Porsche stereotype I now fit, thanks to Dad. They have no way of knowing about that. “You really are a novelist?” I ask. “What kinds of books do you write?”
Anica blushes again and knots the napkin in her hand. “I’m working on a general fiction novel right now about surviving loss and grief. I’m not sure I’d be able to work corporate greed into the plot without overbalancing the narrative pretty badly.”
“Wow, deep stuff,” I say. “Well, I’d hate to inspire another novel in which I’m the villain. I can hear the reveal you’d make now, from a couch across from Oprah, that I’m the inspiration for your modern day Jean Valjean. Then instead of just hating myself, the whole world would hate me, too.” I shake my head in what I hope is a very self-effacing way. “What if you ladies give me some suggestions for how to draw a larger lunch crowd, and in exchange I’ll keep lunch around for another month while I try implementing them?”
“I’ll accept that.” Geo stands up. “But we’ve got to head out right now. If you want our thoughts, maybe you can set something up with Anica. We’ll pass all our ideas along to her, and you can pry them out of her over lunch. She did say she’ll need more strawberry salad very soon.”
Geo couldn’t be more obvious, but I don’t mind being set up, even if it’s highly unlikely to go anywhere with me moving back to Hawaii. “I think I could do that.” Anica still isn’t looking at me. “If she wants to meet me for lunch, that is.”
She finally looks up, her cornflower blue eyes widening when they meet mine. “Sure, if you’re not too busy.”
“Never too busy to spend an hour listening to ideas on how to improve my business.” I wink. “How about Wednesday?”
She nods, and as if I’ve missed some secret signal, Trudy and Anica stand up in unison.
“We won’t keep you any longer,” Geo says. “I’m sure you’re very busy.” She leans closer. “I’m proud of you, Ethan. You look as if you’ve finally grown up.”
Hiding from my sister, threatening my father, and going for a five-mile jog to keep from beating him to a pulp. . . I wish she was right, but I’m fairly certain she’s dead wrong. I wave as they walk out. “See you Wednesday,” I say.
When she turns back to return the gesture, Anica’s eyelashes flutter and she half smiles. I’ve taken out women who seemed less excited to spend time with me, but not many.
I’m almost back to my office when I hear a voice I’ve been dreading. “How long have you been in town? Dad didn’t say a word.”
Adriana.
So much for having one more drama-free day.
5
Ethan
“Hey, there,” I say.
My little sister pounces immediately, hugging me with all the excitement of a new college grad. She really does act her part perfectly: the fresh-faced college graduate with her entire life spreading out before her. “You should have texted me. I’d have met your plane.”
“How did you even know I’m here?” Phillip better not have called her. I walk into my office and she follows.
“Dad.” She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”
I blink. “You said Dad didn’t say a word.”
“About you coming early, I mean. He let it slip today that you had a meeting with him at three, so obviously. . . ”
“Ah, right.” I forgot how Ana skips from topic to topic like a bumblebee in the spring. They used to think she suffered from a learning delay, but she aced all the tests. She just thinks faster than she talks, which leads to some disconnects for the mere mortals around her.
“So why’d you come in early? And why didn’t you tell me?” She puts one hand on her hip and arches an eyebrow imperiously. “Confess.”
I should just rip the Band-Aid off, but I’m worried about how she’ll react. I sit down, but not in my desk chair—I collapse into one of the heavy leather wing chairs facing my desk and point for her to take the other one.
“Oh, no. This is one of those sit down kind of discussions?” She sighs heavily and plops into the chair. “Spill already.”
I’ve thought of a dozen lies, some of them fairly convincing, but I can’t do it. After what we’ve endured, I can’t lie to her. “Dad got Phillip released early.”
Her brow furrows. “Wait, when? Today? Is that the meeting at three? Why?”
I hold up one hand. “Slow down, officer.”
“How about you speed up, tortoise.” She leans toward me. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t know Phillip,” I say. “Not like I do, and not like Dad does.”
“Dad doesn’t know him at all. Dad cut Mom off when she married Phillip. Did you know that? Dad’s not the nice, perfect guy he wants us to think he is.”
“You know, we may be the only people in America with our mom and her brother on our birth certificates.” When I realized that adoption by Dad changed the name of the father on our birth certificate, I looked at mine. It’s true. Mother, Juliette Trainor. Father, William Trainor. Kind of gross, honestly, even though I know that biologically we’re not Dad’s kids.
“What are you even talking about? Stop blathering and tell me what’s going on with Phillip.” She stands up and begins to pace. “And don’t try to pre-explain or justify what you’ve done. Just tell me what it is and let me decide what I think.”
“It’s not an explanation of what I did,” I say. “It’s history, plain and simple. Phillip beat us—not once or twice, but regularly. He killed mom, Ana. And he’d have done the same to you and me if Dad hadn’t gotten us out of there.”
“Dad’s not perfect either.”
My laugh sounds more like a bark. “Do you think I don’t know that?” I stand up, too. “But he convinced the warden to let Phillip out early so I could talk to him alone.”
“You had no right to do that. You don’t know him at all, not anymore. Do you honestly think that eighteen years in prison wouldn’t completely transform him?” Her eyes flash. “Inmates only come out of prison three ways. Better, worse—”
“Or not at all?”
Ana splutters. “What—look—”
“He fed me that corny line too, okay? Listen, he’s always been charming. Why do you think Mom married him? He was the life of every party, but he had a temper then, and that kind of thing doesn’t just disappear. He’s not safe, and you need to promise me not to see him or talk to him.”
She folds her arms. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Dad took him away from me when I was little, but I’ve been writing him for years, and I know him, and he’s changed and you’ve ignored it. Fine, that’s your choice. But I don’t have to do what you say.” She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m twenty-two, and I have my first real job and you’re not my boss or my dad. Actually, Dad isn’t either, for that matter.”
“He is, in every way that matters.”
“You’re worse than he is,” Ana says.
“Which he?” My nostrils flare.
“Take your pick.”
“I’m nothing like any of our parents.” But as I say the words, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve got Phillip’s anger, Dad’s manipulation, and Mom’s avoidance issues. What if I’m the worst of all of them?
“I know you love me, Ethan, but you can’t control me. I’ll call the warden and find out where Dad is, and I’ll go see him myself, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening.”
“I’ll kill him myself to keep you safe if that’s what it takes,” I say. “And there’s not a man in America who would convict me.” I was bluffing, but as I say the words, I realize that part of me is entirely serious.
Ana steps toward me and grabs my forearm with her small hand. “You’ll do nothing of the sort, and furthermore, you don’t need to. Phillip isn’t a threat to me, I promise.”
She can’t know that—he turns on the flip of a coin. Happy, exciting, and fun, and then a split second later, angry. Terrifying. Always predictable in only one way: his unpredictability. “Ana, I know you think—”
“I’m done talking about this.” She crosses her arms.
She’s right that if I don’t respect her wishes, I’m as bad as our dad. And if I try and stop her physically or by threatening or attacking Phillip, I’m as bad as our sperm donor.
After I saw Phillip, I literally shook with rage. But now, knowing that Adriana is giving him a second chance he doesn’t deserve, I practically quiver with it. I need to surf, badly. I need the perfection of a long, calming tunnel. I need the peace of the ocean and surf and sun. But there’s no way to find that, not here. A run doesn’t feel like it will be enough, not by a long shot, but I don’t have any better ideas. After Ana finally leaves, I change into my gym clothes and head out the front door of the Riviera Grand.
About two miles from the hotel, I realize I’ve turned down a street I knew well eight years ago. Too well.
Even so, the sight of the dark red brick facade—the same bright golden letters across the front window—the sweaty guys streaming in and out, it stops me dead in my tracks. I spent every afternoon here while I was attending Emory. Before I have time to rethink, my feet carry me inside.
The smells crash over me, each of them attached to a memory. Sweat. The speed bag. Leather. A glove connecting with my jaw. Blood. Spit from my mouth on the mat. Dirt. Under my nails, on the side of my face, and clinging to every part of my body. Spit. Never on the mat, or Harrison would gut us, but outside, or on an opponent’s face if no one is watching. And on the heels of all that, my worst failure since that night.
I turn to leave as quickly as I entered.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a scratchy voice says. I scan the room, my eyes sliding past the same four rings I knew, the same aluminum ductwork ceiling, the same huge fans overhead, and finally I spot the guy who spoke. He’s clean-shaven, bald, and lean—obviously a fighter, which makes sense given my location. He’s probably middleweight, maybe a hundred and eighty pounds.
