The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(86)

And I was, too. I was tired of fighting with my mother and fearful of where things were going with Jeremy. I had found solace with him, even moments of joy I hadn’t known before, but we were so different that it was bound not to last, and the incident with Fierro had clarified for me just how much separated us. I couldn’t get the fixed stare at the cabin window out of my mind. Whenever I tried to interpret the expression in Fierro’s eyes, I couldn’t decide whether it was disgust or desire, but both made me feel like I was nothing more than a body, or even a commodity. And trailing the memory of Fierro’s stare was always another one: the way Jeremy had stood over his friend’s beaten body, his chest heaving, his knuckles red with blood, the hint of a smile on his lips. It was the first time I had seen that side of him. “I’m sorry,” he said when he came to see me the next day at the restaurant. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

He leaned in to kiss me, but I pulled away from him. “Your friend was staring right at me,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Don’t be scared. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Such bravado, I thought. A promise that could never be made, much less kept. We were standing under the awning of the Pantry. The busboy came out of the side door with a trash bag, which he swung into the dumpster. I waited until he had gone back inside before I spoke again. “I feel so violated.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Why did he follow you to the cabin?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned against the stucco wall, thinking for a long moment about the question. On his right eyebrow was a cut that was partially covered by a Band-Aid and along his left jaw was a bruise that was still raw and pink. “I think maybe he feels like I’ve moved on, or past him, somehow.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

All at once the story poured out of him. Fierro had been going through a nasty divorce, he’d threatened his wife, smashed up her car, and got arrested. But Jeremy had bailed him out of the West Valley Detention Center and found him an anger-management group, which had helped—until it didn’t.

“My God,” I said. “And you go shooting guns with him. Guns, Jeremy. Guns. What will he do next?”

A white-haired woman with a cane walked out of the Pantry and we both moved aside to let her pass, but she must have heard the word guns because she continued staring at us as she crossed the parking lot. What a picture we must make, I thought, me in the dress I’d worn for my father’s funeral and him in a police uniform and with his face beaten up. As I pushed a strand of hair away from my face, he suddenly noticed the bruise on my wrist.

“I didn’t realize I’d grabbed you so hard.” He put his hand on my waist, trying again to draw me closer, but I resisted. “I’m sorry, baby. I was just trying to protect you.”

“I never asked you to protect me. I never asked for any of this.”

The sun was high in the sky and, though we stood in the shade of the awning, the heat reached us, making us both uncomfortable. The radio transmitter on Jeremy’s uniform buzzed and he listened to the dispatcher for a minute before turning down the volume and looking at me again. “I know you’re scared, Nora, and I know you’re upset. But don’t do this. Don’t blame me for something I didn’t do. I have no control over him. I couldn’t have known he’d show up at your place.”

“You think ignorance and innocence are the same thing? You say you didn’t know this would happen, but you’re the one who bailed him out. He would never have shown up at my house if it weren’t for you. You can’t bring this violence all the way to my doorstep and not expect me to be repulsed.”

The word made him flinch. He was quiet, his eyes hardening. “All this talk of innocence,” he said. “And you messed around with a married guy for months. What does that make you?”

I couldn’t believe he was using this against me. I should never have opened up to him, I thought, I had been a fool to make myself vulnerable like this. Anger brimmed inside me, threatening to spill at any moment. “This isn’t really working,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice even.

“Don’t say that,” he said, his tone different now. “We’re good together. Let’s talk about it tonight. I have to go back to work now.”

But I didn’t want to talk anymore. It seemed to me then that my relationship with Jeremy had been part of the impulse, born out of grief, to hold on to the past at all cost. A week after my father’s death, a well-intentioned friend had posted on my Facebook page an article filled with advice for mourners: don’t drink too much, don’t make big financial decisions, don’t jump into a relationship. As if grief were a business deal that could be successfully negotiated if one followed a few simple rules. I hadn’t been able to do it, clearly.

Now, sitting at my dining table and holding the acceptance letter from Silverwood Music Festival in my hand, I was grateful to be back in Oakland. At least, I would always have my music. It was my consolation, my only hope, the answer to what I didn’t understand and what I couldn’t change.

I helped Margo pack up and move to Fremont and, because I couldn’t face the prospect of more change, stayed in the apartment alone. I woke up in a devastatingly empty place every morning, and every morning I tried to convince myself that I had been right to return to the city. Often I caught myself thinking about the tenderness with which Jeremy held me, how he had made me feel less alone, but each time I forced myself to push these memories aside. It was better to make a clean cut now, try to put my life back together the way it had been before.