She squealed and kicked off her obscenely high, red sandals. Not waiting for socks, she shoved her feet into the Reeboks and proceeded to lace them, giggling as she went.
“Do they fit?”
“A little loose, but with socks, they’ll be perfect.”
“A little loose,” he muttered.
“We need a ball,” she said, jumping up. Her red dress was a fitted, sleeveless number that hit just above her knees, and the new sneakers—despite the red accents—were all wrong. Yet somehow, she made it look good.
“I bought one. But you’re going to have to fight Gia for it. I tried to take it from her, and she morphed from Gizmo into a Gremlin.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s inside with Alma. She kept chucking the ball out into the street. I convinced her to practice tossing it into the toy box. So far, so good. Although . . . she has been remarkably quiet. She’s probably doing something terrible in there.”
Mercedes scampered into the duplex and was back moments later, carrying the ball.
“Gia is eating frosting, and she didn’t even notice when I took it. Mami made me a birthday cake and tamales. You’re staying for dinner, right?”
“I am definitely staying for dinner. I plan on eating half of that cake by myself. You ate half of mine.”
“I made yours. I earned it.”
“True.”
“I think that’s it,” he said, tugging on the net just to make sure. He climbed down and moved the ladder out of the way. “Take a shot, birthday girl.”
“I have to get warmed up. It’s been at least five years since I shot a basketball. How did that happen?” she moaned. “What have I been doing with my life?” She dribbled around, hiking her dress on her thighs so she could get in a better stance.
Noah played some half-hearted defense, swiping the ball out of her hands and throwing up a fade-away jump shot that managed to find its way through the net.
Mercedes huffed and rebounded his shot. Her ponytail was coming loose, and Noah reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her small ear. She was so pretty. So precious to him, and the words just slipped out, even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t say anything.
“You got something going with Keegan Tate, Mer?” Noah asked, his voice gentle, his eyes pained.
She stiffened, her eyes flying to his. He’d stayed quiet about what he’d seen for two weeks, knowing Keegan Tate was no longer at Maven, knowing whatever he’d witnessed wasn’t his business, and probably wasn’t serious. But Mer was his business, and he wasn’t going to stand by while someone moved in on his girl. She was his girl. Whether they were both ready to admit it or not.
“No.” Mer shook her head, her face hardening. “Why?”
He bit his lip and studied her, noting her tight mouth and her wary gaze. “I saw you . . . kissing him . . . the other night. Outside of Maven.” He rubbed at his beard, clearly embarrassed. “I swung by, thinking I’d catch you closing up, thinking maybe you’d want to go through the McDonalds drive thru with me. Grab a Coke and a large fry, maybe an ice cream cone if we were feeling crazy. I couldn’t get Gia settled down, so I put her in her pajamas and thought I’d just drive around until she gave up. It was nine o’clock when I drove past the back lot. Neither of you even turned your heads as I slowed. I thought for a minute you were upset. But then he kissed you, and I kept driving, glad you hadn’t seen me.”
“You and Cuddy both got an eyeful, it seems.”
“Cuddy?”
She shook her head, and waved the question away. “I don’t like Keegan Tate, Noah. The kiss was not consensual. And now he’s gone, and I hope I never see him again.”
Noah felt a surge of rage. “What do you mean, not consensual?”
“I mean I didn’t want to kiss him. He got the message. He left. The end.”
Noah released his anger with a heavy exhale, and eyed his friend. He hadn’t been able to get the image out of his head—Keegan Tate bent over her, his hands on her shoulders, kissing her like she belonged to him. It had worn a hole in his gut, and he’d kept his distance for the last two weeks, noting at the same time that Mer seemed to be keeping hers, beyond Mondays and watching Gia. She’d been quiet. Subdued. And if he didn’t know better, she was worried about something.
“Is something wrong, Mer?”
She met his eyes steadily and passed him the ball, a neat bounce pass they’d performed a thousand times over the years. He did an easy lay-up and rebounded the ball before looking back at her.
“You’re not yourself. You seem . . . off. You’ve been off for a while,” he pressed.
“Maybe it’s just turning thirty.” She shrugged. “I’m not where I wanted to be in my life.”
“No? Where did you want to be?” he asked quietly, closing the distance between them. She sighed gustily and looked down at her tiny feet in her new Reeboks. Noah wound his hand around her smooth pony tail and tugged gently, forcing her to look up at him. When she spoke, her voice was soft, her eyes shadowed.
“I wanted a place of my own, and I rent. I wanted a business of my own, and I’m still working for someone else, with no end in sight. I wanted a family of my own—a big family—and it’s just me and Mami now. I’m getting older . . . and I’m no closer to my dreams than I was when I started. I might even be further away.”
He didn’t know what to say. Mer had always been as driven as he was. In the last year, his drive had been channeled into daily survival, but he realized he hadn’t even thought about what Mercedes’s plans were. He’d taken her for granted. Maybe that’s why seeing her kissing slimy Keegan Tate was such a shock.
“You look so tired.” He rubbed at the crease between her brows. “I’ve been worried about you,” he murmured.
Mer gasped, slapping his hand away. “You never say that to a thirty-year-old woman, Noah Andelin.”
“What? I didn’t say you looked old. I didn’t say you looked ugly. I said you looked tired.”
She scowled at him.
“Mer, come on. You always look amazing. Even when you’re tired.”
“I need specifics, Noah. Or I won’t believe you.”
“Every part of you is beautiful. The arch of your foot. Your toes. Even your knees are pretty. Your elbows. Your freaking armpits are pretty. Who has pretty armpits? Nobody.” He pointed at Mercedes. “But you do, Mercedes Lopez. Even your damn armpits are pretty.”
She giggled and raised her right arm, peering at her armpit, her sleeveless red sheath leaving them bare to her view. “They are kind of nice,” she agreed.
Noah put the ball in her hands, and Mercedes dribbled past him, squared up, and took a shot. The ball swished, and she wiggled her hips, triumphant. “I’ve still got it. Thirty years old, and I’ve still got it.” She began doing the moonwalk across her driveway, and Noah snagged the ball before it rolled into the street.
“Tell me more nice things,” she demanded. “I still haven’t forgiven you. Pretty armpits aren’t going to cut it. You’re in trouble.”
Noah took a shot. “Hmm. Nice things. Okay. You always smell good, and I’ve never seen you look less than perfect. I remember when you told me you wanted to make people look beautiful, I thought to myself, ‘that’s because she’s beautiful. If anyone knows how to make something beautiful, it’s Mer.’ You are this little package of perfect. So perfect that sometimes it’s intimidating. Cora used to ask me if she was as pretty as you are.”
“Cora was beautiful,” Mercedes defended, trying to steal the ball as Noah dribbled past.
“Yeah. She was. But she wasn’t as good at the presentation. And she knew it.”
“She didn’t have to be. She was naturally stunning. Hair. Skin. Body. Eyes. It was all just there. I had a mustache when I was nine. It took a little more work for me. I have hips and boobs, and I’m short. I don’t have anywhere to store anything extra. Lucky for me, my blood is pure vinegar. It makes for a great metabolism.”
Noah laughed. ??
?You never had a mustache. I was there when you were nine, remember? And you have a great metabolism because you never stop moving.”
“Will you put that on my headstone?” she asked.
“What?” Noah frowned.
“Here lies a little package of perfect.”
“All right. If you promise me one thing.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t talk about your headstone ever again.” His voice was pained, and he tossed the ball onto the grass.
“Okay, Boozer. Never again.”
He walked to her and scooped her up, red dress, Reeboks, and all, and hugged her tight. She squealed, surprised, but let him hold her, her feet dangling off the ground, his cheek resting against her head.
“You may not be where you want to be in your life, Mer. But I’m so glad you’re in my life. Your birthday is one of my favorite days, because it means you exist, and I’m so grateful for that,” he murmured.
“You can stop saying nice things now. Okay?” There was a tremor in her voice that made Noah swallow his own emotion back. “I forgive you for saying I look tired. I need you to stop being so sweet or I’m going to cry, and then my makeup will come off, and I really will look old.”
“I meant every word.”
“Even about my armpits?”
He began walking toward her front door, still holding her, her legs still dangling. “Especially about your armpits.”
***
Fourteen
1990
The man was walking along the side of the road when Noah went to pick up his mother at the end of her shift. There was something familiar about the stoop of his thin back and the way he scurried. It was still dark—December mornings were always dark—and hard to make out much, but the man wasn’t dressed for the weather. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants, and his beard was frosted with ice. It was hard to see his feet, but Noah didn’t think he wore shoes.
He was still walking when Noah returned. Noah hadn’t stopped the first time, but he couldn’t pass him by twice. As he slowed, pulling up behind the bedraggled character staggering along the road, his mother’s eyes snapped to his face and her hand tightened on the door.
“Don’t stop, Noah. Don’t you do it. He isn’t safe,” she said, her voice rising in rare passion.
“He’s going to die if someone doesn’t stop, Mom. Someone has to stop. Might as well be me. Stay here.” Noah stopped and threw the car into park, leaving his hazard lights on. He wasn’t worried about being pulled over or caught behind the wheel. He finally had a driver’s license. He’d been driving for years without one, but now he was legal. If he attracted the attention of the police, all the better. Maybe they would be able to help.
“Hey!” Noah called, running to catch the man who had only increased his speed when Noah stopped. “Wait up. You’re going to freeze to death. Let me give you a ride.”
The man stopped and turned, shaking his head, snowflakes falling from his beard and collecting in the hair on his arms. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Take my coat.” Noah unzipped his jacket, the one Mer had given him two Christmases before. He loved the coat, but it was too short in the arms now anyway. Mer would understand.
The man stammered, his eyes on the garment. “No. I can’t do that. You need your coat.” Noah ignored him and slung it over the man’s shoulders.
“I don’t need it as much as you do. I have a warm car to climb back into.” Noah was wearing a sweatshirt, and the T-shirt he wore beneath it rode up on his stomach as he shrugged the sweatshirt over his head. “Here. Put this on first. Then the coat.”
The man let himself be coaxed into the sweatshirt and coat, shaking so hard Noah had to help him. His arms were long and his shoulders broad, but he was thin to the point of emaciation, and though the sleeves rode up on his wrists, the sweatshirt and coat were roomy on him. Noah zipped up the coat and pulled the hood of the sweatshirt tight over the man’s head.
“What size are your feet?” Noah asked.
“Uh. I-I don’t know. Big?” the man stammered.
Noah eyed the man’s feet. “We’re probably close to the same size. You can have these. I have another pair at home.” It was a lie. He didn’t have another pair at home, but he could get some. He’d just gotten paid. He started toeing off his sneakers and pulled off his socks one at a time, balancing like a stork, before placing his bare feet on the road. Damn, that was cold. He handed his socks to the man, who seemed dumbfounded at the offering.
“Do you want to come sit in the car, just so you can put these on?” Noah urged.
“No. No. She wouldn’t like that.”
“Who? My mom?” Noah glanced back at the car. His mom was watching them, her eyes wide, her hands on her cheeks like she wanted to hide.
“Andy,” he muttered.
“Who’s Andy?’ Noah asked.
The man was staring at him. “You’re Andy’s boy,” he whispered.
“I don’t know anybody named Andy. But you should let me take you to the shelter. Let me take you somewhere. It’s snowing. And your feet look bad.”
Noah pulled off his T-shirt. He was now standing on the side of the road in nothing but a pair of old Levi’s. The frigid air on his skin felt like a thousand needles. “Put your hands on my shoulders, and I’ll help you balance while we get your feet dry and warm.” He used his shirt to dry the man’s feet one at a time, pulling on a sock and shoving his foot into a sneaker before moving to the other, so the man’s feet wouldn’t get wet again. When he’d finished, Noah rose, trying not to shiver. He didn’t want the man to know he was cold.
“I have a pair of gloves in the car. Wait just a second.” Noah ran to the car and got the gloves he kept in the jockey box for the mornings he had to scrape ice from the windows. He grabbed a ten-dollar bill from his wallet as well and returned to the man, who looked considerably warmer than he had minutes before.
“Here. Put these on. And here’s some money for a hot breakfast. McDonald’s is open. It’s on the corner, about a half a mile down the road. Get some coffee in you. There’s a homeless shelter downtown on Rio Grande. Do you know where that is?”
The man nodded.
“I’d be glad to take you there,” Noah pressed again.
The man took the money and the gloves and shook his head. He stared at Noah with wet eyes.
“I’m no good, Noah. You should go now.”
Noah gaped. “How do you know my name?”
“I met you once before. Remember? I asked you when the flood was coming, and you told me I was safe.”
Noah stared and then took a step back, afraid. He remembered now. The man looked so different with a beard, and his eyes weren’t nearly as wild. Now his eyes were just old and tired. Sad.
“Thank you, Noah,” John Davis Cutler whispered. “Now go. You’re going to freeze to death, and Andy will be all alone.”
* * *
The downpour came on suddenly, pounding the streets and the roofs with pent-up fury. Normally Mercedes would have loved it, maybe even danced in it. A good rainstorm in dry Utah was usually celebrated. But Gia was asleep in her car seat, and Mercedes needed gas. The fuel light in her Corolla had been on for too long. Mercedes was frugal, but she wasn’t foolish. She never would have let it get so low, but somehow, she always managed to need gas when she had Gia, and errands with a two-year-old were significantly harder than errands without a two-year-old. She rolled to a stop at the pumps just across the street from the salon and eyed the skies impatiently.
After ten minutes beneath the paltry overhang, eyeing her watch, Mercedes cursed and braced herself to get drenched. The rain wasn’t letting up, Noah would be home from work by now, waiting at the house, and she was just sitting there, afraid of getting wet. Grabbing her wallet from her purse, she stepped out of the Corolla and rounded her car at a run. She was soaked before she stopped in front of the pump. Clutching her wallet to her chest, she tried to use her card, only to have it
decline and the pump ask her to “see attendant.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she cried. She tried the card again. No luck. She pushed the button to call the attendant, and he confirmed that she would need to bring her card inside.
Mercedes swore beneath her breath and swiped at her wet face. She wasn’t going to get Gia out of the car in this rain just to run inside for ten seconds. There wasn’t another car in the lot and she could see her car from inside the store. She would just run in, have the attendant swipe her card for preapproval, and run back out. Her decision made, she raced, wallet in hand, for the gas station. Her clothes were completely soaked, her hair plastered to her neck, and when she yanked open the door and stepped inside, she glanced back at the Corolla, just to make sure it hadn’t floated away. Reassured, she stepped inside and handed her card to the attendant, a kid who didn’t look old enough to pop his own zits, let alone sell alcohol.
“Twenty bucks on pump two,” she said, shivering.
“Sorry about that. They get glitchy in the rain.” He pushed a few buttons and ran her card. “Uh, pump two?” he asked, looking over her head out the window.
“Yes.”
“You sure? Looks like your car has other ideas.”
Mercedes flipped around, only to see the Corolla pulling away from the pump.
“Call the police!” she shrieked, racing for the door. “Call 911. There’s a baby in that car!”
“You want your card?” he called behind her, as she threw herself through the doors.
“Call the police!”
She felt the strap on her flip flop snap and felt a moment’s gratitude that she wasn’t in heels. She ran, sliding and careening through the wet lot and out onto the street, doing her best to keep the car in sight. Someone blared at her, someone else honked, and she ran, screaming for help, eyes clinging to the brake lights that flickered on as the Corolla careened around a corner and out of sight.