Of Hustle and Heart (20 page)

Rocky and Bee and their dates wait for us in front of the entrance. The two of them grin and coo—Rocky more than Bee—when they notice how Shannon squeezes my hand. I smile, stepping around Shannon to Blanca and Rachel. They gush about how cute Shannon and I are together and how I’m lucky to be with him tonight, because Rocky knows of at least seven different girls who had asked him to go.

“He turned all of them down,” Rocky whispers into my ear, smiling at me. “It’s happening. You and the green-eyed monster.” She giggles and takes my arm, pulling me to our table for six as Bee trails behind us. I turn to look at her, wondering why she’s hanging back.

She’s eyeing me. I hadn’t realized until then that she notices the difference in me, that I’ve changed. She looks bothered. As if something is burning the lining of her stomach.

Bee and I sit alone at our table, as Rocky and her date, Bradley, remain on the dance floor most of the evening, and Shannon and Blanca’s date make a “quick” drink run. It’ll be at least twenty minutes before we see either of them again, so she takes the opportunity to dig her acrylics into my wounds.

“So what’s up with you? You’ve been MIA for days.” She sips her drink.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“So you’re cool? Because you haven’t been calling me. I haven’t talked to you in a week.”

“I’ve been texting you.”

She frowns. “Fuck texting. You’ve been texting me about the licks and the money and that’s it.”

I shrug. “What else is there?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Blow me off.” Her eyes water, the emotion in her voice bangs against the fragility of my heart. “It’s
me
. Fuck Rocky. Fuck Shannon. Forget everybody else.” Her lip quivers. “You can’t keep secrets from
me
.”

“I’m not keeping secrets. Don’t be mad.” I look at her. She sits back in her chair and crosses her bare arms over her cleavage. Her dress plunges in the front like mine never could.

“But you are keeping secrets.” She stares at me. “After all this. Why would you keep anything from
me
?”

I assure Blanca that Mr. Mercedes has nothing to do with my anything and that Alex and Andrew are dealing well with Bryan and Corey’s murder. She buys this but questions me about everything that could be possibly wrong.

“How’s your mom? She okay? You’re giving her the money? Does she know how you got it?”

“Yeah, I give her a whole paycheck’s worth. She doesn’t know how I get it. She thinks I work at Subway.”

“Is it Beatrice? Her fugazi-ass clique? Tell me if it is. I know her head exploded all over the third floor when she found out you and Shannon were together.”

I shake my head. “Shannon and I are not together. I’m alone.”

“No, you’re not. Stop that.”

“What?”

“You’ve never been alone, Zina. You’ve always had me, and Uncle Tony, and
your
family
and
mine. Is that what’s the matter? You think you’re alone?”

“No.”

“Then what, Zina?”

Her persistence nearly breaks me. “Please, Bee, just leave it alone.” I take a breath. “I can’t talk about it. I don’t want to talk.”

Blanca’s so mad she could spit. Her cheeks flush as her breasts rise slowly. She says nothing, though. She swallows it and leaves it alone.

To my absolute dismay, the hotel party turns out to be a birthday celebration for me. Teal and yellow balloons, cupcakes, streamers, glitter, and confetti bedazzle our after-prom suite. It is a small group—the six of us, like Blanca had promised, along with a few jocks, mostly basketball and baseball players the boys had invited. As Shannon unlocks the door with his room key and pulls me along, he stops, shutting the door behind him. I creep as everyone jumps out yelling, “Happy birthday!” I’m horrified as I glance around the room, looking for something familiar. Shannon pushes me from the foyer toward the crowd in front of us, but I twist away from him and dart toward the door.

“Wait. Don’t run. This is for you,” he says. He comes after me, catching me as I pull on the door latch. He laughs at the panic in my face, my hands trembling, and my heart pounding.

“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run,” I stammer. “I don’t know why I ran.” I run my hands along the skirt of my dress. He takes my hand from the latch, squeezes it, and shuts the door.

“All this makes me nervous. I can’t take it.”

“What makes you nervous?”

“The noise,” I say. I can’t stop fidgeting. “I don’t want to stay, Shannon. I want to go.” I resist as he tries to lead me into the room with everyone else. He looks at me, his smile subdued.

“Zina, this party is for you. Blanca and Rachel put a lot of effort into all this. You can’t leave. C’mon.”

I peek around him into the living area. “Don’t care. I wanna leave.” His face drops, so I feel the need to explain. “I know they did a lot…b…but, I…I…”

“You what? What’s wrong with you? Why are you so nervous?”

A confession sits on the tip of my tongue. My throat dry, I wonder if I can talk to him, leave the burden somewhere else so it wouldn’t be so heavy. I consider making something up, telling him I don’t feel well, that I’m nauseous. I’d ask him to tell everyone we need to leave so I can lie down. He puts his hand on my stomach and pushes me into a corner, out of everyone’s view.

“No.” I hold my hands out, shoving him away. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He stands over me; his face cold, solemn like I’ve never seen in him. “What is up with you?” he whispers.

My assault is like a snake bite, poisonous, slowing killing my cells, stealing my life. It’ll be this way until the poison is miraculously syphoned from my body. And so I begin.

“Umm…w…well, there was this thing that h…happened about, maybe, a week ago.” I tug at my dress as if I can’t stand to wear it anymore. I can’t read the intensity behind Shannon’s radiant eyes. This scares me too.

“Zina?” He stands over me.

“What?” I ask before Rachel interrupts. Stunning in her purple-and-blue peacock-themed dress, her face expertly contoured, she smells like the entire bottle of
Juicy Couture
as she pushes her way between us. She throws her arms around my neck. I lower my head to her shoulder.

“Happy eighteenth,” she says, squeezing me.

“Thanks, Rock.” I squeeze harder, wrapping my arms around her body. As she pulls away, our eyes meet, her smile fading into gritty concern.

“Are you all right?”

I nod as Shannon hovers over me impatiently. She threads her arm through mine. “Come, my love,” she says, leading me into the party.

CHAPTER 36

ZACARIAS

I
’ve lost sight of what I am, and I’m unable to recognize who I’ve become. A man ready to take a child from his or her mother and addicted to his teenage victim. I never would’ve fathomed guilt like this could exist.

I remember everything about Zina and the night we were together: Her yellow lacy panties and how she smelled like baby lotion and coconut shampoo. The way her course hair blew softly in the wind. I remember how nervous she was, how we kissed and I voraciously devoured each press of her lips. I remember her hands against my chest, pushing me away. I remember the words she spoke.

No…I can’t,
she had said.
Stop!
Her voice fragile and full of apprehension. I refused to turn her loose, in love with the girl lashing out and struggling underneath me.

I’ve told Whitney that our living together would no longer work, and though she angrily agrees, she continues to leave things at the apartment so she’ll have some reason to return. She always shows up, her plan devious and cunning like the woman herself. Her goal: to gain information about the girl I cheated with.

“We’re over because of a one-night stand or was there more?” she asks over and over as an attempt to goad me into giving her information. Throughout the days since my confession, she pries with an ice pick and searches the apartment when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She wants anything—any evidence, any trace that will lead her to Zina. But I never say a word about her, which must infuriate Whitney beyond reason. But whatever, what’s done is done. And she never misses the opportunity to throw my infidelity in my face, bringing it up constantly, using my addiction as a weapon against me.

I spend Saturday packing Whitney’s things and loading them into the back of a U-Haul I’ve rented. After three hours on the phone last night, she agreed to move all her things out of the apartment and into her dad’s house, which is the best place for her and the baby right now. I load heavy boxes of shoes and clothing, along with Whitney’s armoire, into the truck at an urgent speed, while she stands next to the truck, watching me, dark sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose, her arms folded.

“So. I’m a single mother now?” she asks as I stack boxes in the back of the truck. I walk over to her and take her hand in mine, but she snatches it away. I look at her.

“You’re not a single mother. You have me. We’re just not
together
.”

“That’s what a single mother is, Zack.” She walks around to the other side of the truck.

“We can’t do this anymore, Whitney,” I say as I walk around to meet her. I go for her hand again. She lets me take it this time. “We can’t even stand each other anymore.” I search her eyes, wanting her to agree.

“Sometimes, maybe,” she whispers. “But we’re not supposed to be perfect. We’re just supposed to be together.”

I hold her hand as I walk her to the bed of the truck. I go to sit in the driver’s seat, pulling her against me. She stands between my legs.

“But don’t you want to be with someone you love?” I ask.

“I am,” she says, her lips quivering. “I love
you,
Zack. So much.”

Her declaration makes me uneasy, so I let go of her hand.

“I haven’t loved you in a while, Whit. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

She cries softly as I get up and load the remaining boxes into the U-Haul.

I consider telling someone, reporting myself to the police. I wonder why she hasn’t already. I waited all week, expecting arresting officers to come for me. I envisioned it clearly: “Zacarias Moreno, under arrest for the sexual assault or rape of a minor.” But it hasn’t happened.

As Whitney rides next to me in the cab of the U-Haul, I can feel Whitney’s anger. I doubt she will ever forgive me. The drive to her dad’s house is miserable as Whitney throws question after question at me. She wants answers and asks if I cheated on her because she got pregnant. My not loving her isn’t good enough. She needs a picture painted; she needs to understand.

“Were you drunk?” she asks.

“No.”

“Was she?”

“No.”

She stares out the window. “You had a few drinks that night,” she says.

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Is she pretty?”

The question lingers between us for a moment.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s a goddamn slut!” Whitney snorts.

I drop Whitney at her father’s six-bedroom, three-story gated home and unload the U-Haul by myself. I move boxes and furniture to various rooms under my ex-girlfriend’s direction. Her dad watches, sneering at me as if I’m the deceitful lowlife who impregnated his unwed daughter. I leave almost three hours later after promising to call Whitney tomorrow after church. I return the rental and take a cab home.

Around midnight, John comes home and finds me on the balcony finishing off a six-pack of beer. He opens the patio door slowly, peering at me. He lets out a slow whistle.

“She’s gone?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“So all her stuff…gone too?”

“Yeah. I packed it. Moved it myself.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Her dad’s.”

He goes back inside but leaves the door open. A few minutes later, he returns with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a glass and sits down next to me.

“The glass is for you,” he says, handing it to me. “So I looked around. She’s really out of here, huh?” He sits back in his chair, twisting the cap off the bottle.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “You think I was bullshitting?”

“Mmm hmm. Too good to be true.” He shrugs as he holds the bottle out and fills my glass.

“So. This girl you cheated with…she moving in next? Did you get her pregnant too?” He smirks.

I down my whiskey and let the burn stick in my throat. “Fuck. Don’t make jokes about it. Don’t make jokes about her.”

“Sorry,” he says as he drinks from the whiskey bottle. I hold my glass up for a refill.

“Which girl’s got you in such a fucked-up mood?”

“The one I hurt.”

His eyes narrow. “What, Whitney? You gotta get over her. She’s not some delicate flower—”

“Not Whitney.”

“The new girl? Already? What did you do?”

“I raped her.” I can’t believe I said it.

“Y…you…”

“I know I should regret it. I know I’m supposed to be sorry or punished for it.” I run off at the mouth. “But I don’t regret it. And I want her to forgive me, because I want to move on with her.”

“Did…did…What you’re saying is fucking insane.” He frowns as the weight of my confession falls on him. He sits back in his chair, confusion and disdain mingling on his face. “You raped someone?” He pauses, shaking his head. “Nah. You didn’t.”

“She came on her own, to the party…to the barn.”

“The barn? What barn?” He gets to his feet.

“At the party last week. Clifton’s ranch. My birthday.” I reach for the bottle of whiskey.

“Goddamn, Zack, you really are a sad piece of shit.”

“I know.”

“Did Whitney find out? Is that why y’all broke up?”

“No, she doesn’t know the details. I broke up with her because I have feelings for this girl.”

He walks over to the balcony and looks over the edge. ”You have feelings for this girl?” He walks toward me and smacks me across the side of the head. “You stay the fuck away from this girl,” he says. “You forced yourself on her, right?” He smacks me again. I hold my hands out to block his blows. “Right?” John grabs a handful of my hair and jerks my head back so I can see his face. “That’s what you said. You said you raped her.” He jerks my head back again. I almost fall from my chair.

“I didn’t mean to.” He clutches my hair so tight that my scalp hurts.

“The fuck you mean?” he says and smacks me across my left cheek, his saliva spewing across the side of my face. “She don’t want you, bro. You understand? If she did, you wouldn’t have to…” He cocks me in the face one more time. “You stay the fuck away, you got me?”

“I
can’t
stay away, John. Why
should I?”

He snatches me from my chair, and I fall forward on the ground.

“Don’t be so goddamn stupid, Zack. Get the
fuck
up. And pull yourself together.”