“Yeah,” he nodded fervently.
“And Mickey loves that you don’t have to leave,” I added pointedly.
"Mickey is my dog," Jake told Miss Thomas. "He's a Golden Retriever. Blake doesn’t let him come over like me because he says he’ll shit all over the house."
Miss Thomas snorted as I patted his shoulder and led him to the door. "What'd I tell you about filters, buddy?"
"Enjoy your weekend, guys," she called after us.
I knew Jake would enjoy the weekend with his dog and our parents. He always had a good time with the Lego sets our father picked up for him. He loved going on walks with Mom and Mickey. And I knew he especially enjoyed not waking up in the morning. But I was convinced nobody enjoyed the weekends more than me, when I was granted the sanctity of silence for a little over twenty-four hours. When I could kick my feet up, relax, and pretend my life wasn't controlled by the needs of my twin brother.
And sometimes, I even allowed myself to not feel guilty about it.
Chapter Three
IT WAS TOO EARLY to hit up the poetry club I frequented on the weekend. So, I spent that time babying my bike, giving the Harley the attention I wished I could give it during the week. With Nine Inch Nails filling the garage, I gave it a bath, polished the chrome, and wiped down the leather seat. I remembered when I bought the old girl, nearly ten years ago, with the promise that I'd get the chance to ride on a regular basis. That was before I accepted the realities of my life and before I really understood the responsibilities I'd always be saddled with.
After the bike was clean, and with some time left, I pulled out my phone to call Celia. She also got the weekends off and answered on the first ring.
"Hey, it's not really a good time," she said in a harsh whisper.
"What do you mean, not a good time?” I scoffed lightheartedly. “A good time for what? You don't even know why the hell I'm calling."
Cee snorted. "Well, I have a feeling it has something to do with an extracurricular activity you only get to partake in when you don’t have your brother to deal with.”
I laughed, pushing my dark hair back with a hand. "Guilty."
"Yeah, see I know you, Blake. You're predictable as fuck." She laughed again but I heard the regret in her voice, and I wished I hadn't called. "Seriously, I’d invite you over, but I have the kids tonight.”
“I thought it was your ex’s weekend.” I seemed to recall a conversation from earlier in the week.
“It was, but he’s got something to do for work, so he asked if I’d trade weekends.” She sighed into the phone and said, “You know what? If you really wanted to do something, you could come by later—"
"Nah, it's cool,” I quickly replied, not wanting to impose or put myself in an awkward position.
“You sure? ‘Cause once the kids are in bed, I wouldn’t turn away some company. As long as you kept that mouth of yours shut.”
I considered the possibility. I’d never been to Cee’s place while her kids were around. At six and four, she didn’t want to complicate things by having her friend with occasional benefits around while they were, and I didn’t blame her. I had too much on my plate as it was. The last thing I needed was to confuse a couple of kids who would never have a chance of calling me Step Daddy.
But still, it had been a while since I’d gotten laid, maybe two or three months, and those had been a few long months of unrelenting responsibilities and unending self-love before I passed out for the night. The company of another body sounded more like a necessity and less like a simple human pleasure, so I nodded thoughtfully and replied, “Yeah. Okay. Text me when they’re asleep and I’ll come by.”
***
The highway wind whipped around me on the way to the club. Dusk had settled over Massachusetts in streaks of orange and pink, with dark clouds laying across the sky in silhouettes of black and shadow. I pulled into the parking lot and parked the bike into a spot. Judging from the amount of cars, there was a good turnout tonight. Good for the club, not so good for me. I didn't like the place too crowded. Didn’t like the potential for attention. But this was more fruitful than any therapy session I’d had so far.
I took the stairs to the basement and was greeted by the bouncer, a big guy I never bothered to learn the name of. He nodded a familiar greeting at the sight of me and I offered one in return. Dim lights and the smell of nag champa greeted me in a calming embrace and I inhaled, breathing it in before heading over to the bar. I would only ever indulge in one drink—I was driving, after all—but I needed it tonight. Just one would be enough.
With an IPA in hand, I wandered to a darker corner of the already dark club and slumped into a chair wedged against the wall. In my black leather jacket and jeans, I was instantly submerged in the shadows, becoming a part of the darkness and not an obstacle inside of it. I could hide here for the night if I wanted, listening and deciding, and nobody would know I was there. It felt safe.
"Good evening, everyone," the club owner said, standing underneath the spotlight. "So glad to see such a crowd here tonight. We welcome all readings, as long as the work is original. Just put your name on the list and no cutting in line. The first poem of the night will be read by yours truly ..."
I tapped my fingers soundlessly on the table as she read her work. I always tried to keep my personal opinions at bay—it never felt like the place—but it was difficult to not scoff at the stereotypical prose of blackened tears and black-winged birds carrying the soul off to whatever afterworld there may or may not be. It was uninspired and lacking, and I was bored.
Luckily, the readings improved. I enjoyed a beautifully written sonnet about a tree, and another about a first love gone astray. I marveled at the talent of a young man with a broken heart clearly displayed on the sleeve of his shirt. And then, just when I thought I might put my own name on the list, the next reader stole my breath and dried my tongue.
"Hi everyone," she spoke into the mic. "This is my first time coming, but a couple of my cousins convinced me, so ... here I am. My name is Audrey and this poem is called Windswept."
As she read a short poem, about the dusty petals of a dandelion floating without control, I wondered if it was at all possible that it wasn't her, the woman I'd met a few days ago at the shop. Audrey wasn't an unpopular name, and this woman could've just looked similar. But I was fooling myself. The tattoo, faintly pink around the edges and beginning to scab, was displayed proudly on her chest. It was crisp and unmistakable, and I was desperate to hide from it, to sink into the wall behind me and disappear entirely.
She left the stage and headed in my direction, and my heart pumped noisily in my throat. There was no way she could see me—right? I was shadowed, lurking in the dark like a creep, but it was possible she'd seen me walk in—right? She could've noticed me sit down. She could've mustered the courage to approach me, once the adrenaline from being on stage took control. Did I want her to speak to me? The clamminess of my palms told me no, absolutely not, but the hopeful pitter-patter of my heart resounded with absolution and I held my breath. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading. Needing. This was my chance to find out about that tattoo, what it’s story was, what brought her here to my little underground hideout.