99 Percent Mine(9)

It wasn’t just me as the female twin. Tom has tugged Jamie by the collar out of fistfights, bars, and beds. And in every city I’ve ever traveled to, when I’ve turned the corner into a dark scary alley by mistake, I’ve mentally summoned Valeska to walk the rest of the way with me.

And that’s weird, I guess. But it’s the truth.

So, to recap, my life sucks, and Tom Valeska is on my porch. He’s lit by streetlight, moonlight, and starlight. I’ve got a zipper in my stomach and I’ve been in a crevasse so long I can’t feel my legs.

I get out of the car. “Patty!” Thank fuck for small animals and the way they cut the awkwardness. Tom sets her down and Peppermint Patty taps stiffly up the drive to me. I’ve got one eye focused on the black porch behind Tom. When no elegant brunettes step out into the light, I get down on my knees and say a silent prayer.

Patty is a shiny shorthaired black and tan Chihuahua, with a big apple dome head. She’s got a judgmental narrowing to her eyes. I don’t take it personally anymore, but sheesh, this dog looks at you like you’re a steaming turd. It’s just her face. She remembers me. What an honor to be stamped permanently in her tiny walnut brain. I pick her up and kiss her cheeks.

“What are you doing here so late, Tom Valeska, world’s most perfect man?” Sometimes it’s a relief to hide your most honest thoughts right out in plain view.

“I’m not the perfect man,” he replies in kind. “And I’m here because I’m starting on your house tomorrow. You didn’t get my voicemails?”

“My phone is in a bar toilet. Right where it always belonged.”

He wrinkles his nose, probably glad he wasn’t summoned to retrieve it.

“Well, everyone knows you don’t answer your phone anyway. Approvals came through already, so we’re starting … well, now.”

“Aldo kept pushing us back for the most bullshit reasons. And now it’s two months early? That’s … unexpected.” Nerves light up inside me. Things aren’t ready. More specifically, me. “If I knew you were coming, I would have stocked up on Kwench.”

“They discontinued Kwench.” He smiles and my stomach zips, silver strong, all the way up to my heart. In a confiding tone, he adds, “Don’t worry. I’ve got a wine cellar full of it.”

“Ugh, that stuff is just black plastic water.” I feel my face go weird; I put my hand on my cheek and I’m smiling. If I’d known he was coming I would have perfectly folded a bath towel and stocked the fridge with cheese and lettuce. I would have stood at the front window to watch for his car.

If I’d known he was coming, I would have gotten my shit together a little.

I walk along the edge of the path, feeling the bricks wobble. “You should only drink it on special occasions. You could have a glass of Kwench with your cheese-and-lettuce sandwiches on your eightieth birthday. That’s still your lunch, right?”

“It is.” He looks away, defensive and embarrassed. “I guess I haven’t changed. What’s your lunch?”

“Depends what country I’m in. And I drink something a little stronger than off-brand cola.”

“Well, then you haven’t changed either.” He still never gives me more than a one-second look before blinking away. But that’s okay. One second always feels like a long time when I’m with him.

I talk to Patty. “You got my Christmas present, little girl.” I mean her sweater.

“Thank you, it fits her great. Mine does, too.” The vintage St. Patty’s Day T-shirt he’s wearing, probably out of politeness, is stretched wafer thin, trying to cope. If it were a person, it would be an exhausted wraith, gasping, Please, help me. It fits like a dream.

The kind of dream you wake up from, all sweaty and ashamed.

“I knew you wouldn’t be too cool to wear a Patty T-shirt.” I found that T-shirt in a thrift store in Belfast, and in that moment, I’d found Tom again.

I hadn’t talked to him in a couple of years, probably, but I felt lit up on the inside. It was the perfect gift for him. I sent an airmail parcel containing the two garments addressed to “Thomas and Patricia Valeska,” laughed for ages, then realized his girlfriend would probably sign for it. I’d completely forgotten about Megan. I didn’t even slip a key ring in the package for her.

I check his left hand—still bare. Thank fuck. But I’ve got to start remembering Megan’s existence. Right after I say this next thing.

“So, good T-shirts can die and go to heaven.” I grin at his expression: dismayed, surprised, and flattered. All erased in one blink. I’m addicted.

“You’re still a teenage dirtbag.” Prim with disapproval, he looks at his watch.

“And you’re still a hot grandpa.” I press that old button and his eyes glow in irritation. “Had any fun lately?”

“I’d ask you to define fun, but I don’t think I can handle the answer.” He lets out a grumbly sigh and taps his boot on the dilapidated stairs. “Want me to fix this or not, smart-ass?”

“Yes please. While Daddy stays serious, we’ll have fun, won’t we, Patty?” I bounce her gently like a baby. Her eyes have a milky blue tinge. “I can’t believe how much she’s aged.”

“Time passing generally does have that effect,” Tom says dryly, but he softens when I look up. “She’s thirteen now. Seems like only yesterday that you named her for me.” He folds down to sit on the top step, his eyes on the street. “Why’d you drive past just now?”