The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(28)

“Well, you’ve got that in common, at least. Shitty fathers, strong maternal figures hanging out at the hospital. There’s hours of conversation right there. You’re like two peas.”

“Look,” I said, sitting next to him on the edge of his bed, “these are the last texts Jack sent me. Don’t scroll up past here.”

“Why? Are you sending each other dirty photos?”

“We’re not all you, Heath.” And no, that self-portrait on Body-O-Rama didn’t count.

He read the texts and handed my phone back. “Sounds bad.”

“I know, so what do I do? ‘Believe me, it’s better this way.’ What does that mean?”

“Sounds like he doesn’t want to drag you into his messy family life. That’s how I’d feel if it was Noah, especially if it was my fault that a cop showed up at his door.”

Heath hadn’t been going out to clubs this week. He hadn’t been going out, period. “Are you and Noah—”

“We aren’t talking about me and Noah. But if we were, I’d be telling you he’s coming for family dinner tomorrow night.”

I smiled. “We finally get to meet Saint Noah? That’s a bigger sign of the apocalypse than the fall of the brimstone wall.”

“It’s no big deal,” his mouth said while the anxious foot rocking over his crossed legs shouted Biggest Deal Ever! “Anyway, back to your crisis. By the way, I hope this Jack looks better in person than he does in that photo on the ID.”

“He does, and you’re an ass.”

“Lighten up, silly rabbit.”

Ugh. He used to call me that when we were kids, because of the Trix breakfast-cereal TV commercials. That’s about the time I decided I never wanted to be called Trix or Trixie (but if I ever decided to ask Dad for a job at his new wife’s strip club, at least I had a backup name).

I fell onto the bed with a groan and threw one arm over my face to block out light from the fluorescent workshop lamp hanging from the ceiling. “If you were struggling with something or going through a bad time, and you told Noah to stay away, would he?”

“Are you kidding? Noah’s a better person than both of us put together. If he thought I needed help, he’d just show up. And even if I didn’t realize it, not only would he know what was wrong but he’d just”—Heath spread his hands like a stage magician—“make everything better.”

I lifted my elbow for a moment to peek up at him. “Oh, really?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Mmm-hmm. You’re a lucky guy.”

“I am, indeed. But as far as your little vandal boy, I don’t know what to tell you. He’s in some serious trouble if he gets busted, Bex. And God only knows what’s going on with him now. Do you really want to put yourself in the middle of all his garbage? I know I tease you a lot about being bad, but this guy sounds like trouble you don’t need. Maybe it’s better for both of you if you just back away and let him go.”

Mom says you should never ask for advice you aren’t willing to take. I wasn’t sure I agreed. Having an unbiased pair of eyes point out a sensible solution was helpful. But sometimes the sensible thing and the right thing weren’t always the same choice, and no one but you could truly understand the difference.

13

The Zen Center is an old brick building in Hayes Valley. I’d probably passed it a million times and never really paid much attention to it. A week and a half after I ran into Jack and his father, I went in search of both the building and Jack.

To the left of the main entrance and up a wheelchair ramp, a hand-painted sign quietly announced the bookstore. I gathered my courage and marched up the ramp in a pair of gladiator sandals that wrapped around my toes and crisscrossed up my ankles. I’d even painted my toenails. It was practically an event.

Doubts flipped through my head like last-minute flash cards before an exam: You should’ve followed Heath’s advice. You should’ve texted first. You should’ve called the bookstore beforehand to see whether he was still working the same schedule. You should’ve, should’ve, should’ve …

But I didn’t. And it was too late to chicken out now. When had the weather gotten so warm? It might’ve been all that walking or the fact that it was way sunnier here than it was in my neighborhood, but this absolutely wasn’t nervous sweat. I wasn’t nervous. Why should I be nervous, for the love of Pete? I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it on top of my purse. Wiped my hands on my jeans. Then I took a calming breath and walked inside.

The bookstore looked pretty much how I’d imagined, cozy and quiet and very, very tidy. A couple of people browsed wooden bookshelves lined with rows of titles about dharma and Buddha and Dogen and mindfulness. A few mats and cushions—presumably for meditation—were for sale, as well as a lot of Buddha statues and bells. The whole place smelled faintly of smoky spice, which I assumed was the handmade incense for sale.

Apart from the traditional Japanese music playing, it was just so quiet. I lost my nerve and decided to blend in with everyone else and pretend like I was browsing. Could anyone tell I didn’t belong here? Did my aura have a big sooty X on it that marked me as OTHER? Could they sense I wasn’t on the Middle Path?

I looked around for Jack but didn’t spy anyone who appeared to work there—no bald monks dressed in long robes, no one with a name badge. Since there was only so long I could stare at book spines, I meandered to a display of mala beads, like the ones around Jack’s wrist, all different styles and lengths. I fingered a long strand that was meant to be worn as a necklace.