Sixteen
1993
Cora was waiting for Noah on the top step. Her hair hung around her shoulders, as vivid as the red leaves on the trees that warmed the hill behind The Three Amigos. When he’d flown in, the mountains below him had been alive with color. The mountains were alive, and his mother was dead.
Carole Stokes found her. Noah was grateful it hadn’t been Mer or Alma. He knew Mer checked in on her, but Shelly Andelin wasn’t an invalid. She was only thirty-eight years old. She didn’t want Mer stopping by, and Mer had respected that. But when Shelly hadn’t shown up for work two nights in a row, Carole had gone to the apartment to find her. Mer had let her in, but it was Carole who walked back into the bedroom and found Shelly huddled beneath the blankets, dead. She’d taken too many sleeping pills and they’d finally done their job. She’d gone to her eternal rest. Whatever that meant.
Noah had graduated from Basic Training at Lackland Air Force Base, lined up with hundreds of airmen all in blue with their perky flight caps. Everyone around him had someone there to congratulate him. Noah had no one, but at least his mother had waited for him to finish boot camp. He appreciated that. Perfect timing. She died in the one week he could handle the funeral arrangements and clear her belongings out of her apartment. Their belongings. Their apartment. He would have to find a storage unit. Something small, though they didn’t have much worth storing. And he would have to pay for her burial. Someone had suggested cremation, but Noah couldn’t do it. His mother had hardly existed. He needed to give her a stone, if only to prove she’d lived. Maybe he did it for himself, but Shelly Andelin deserved something more permanent than ash.
“You look different,” Cora said, smiling as he climbed the steps to the second-floor apartments. He’d climbed the steps thousands of times, but as he walked toward her, he found himself wishing he wouldn’t reach the top. He wasn’t ready.
“They fed us constantly. I exercised, and I ate. I gained twenty-five pounds.” He had muscles on his muscles. He hardly recognized himself.
“You have pecs and your hair is gone.”
Noah stopped on the step below her, and without hesitation, Cora wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.
He felt the grief rise, a sudden, surprising tsunami, taking him unaware. He should have known. The signs had all been there—he’d been drawing the tide into himself, quaking and rumbling, trying to come apart where no one would notice, where no one would see. But like an earthquake in the ocean, the waves had to hit landfall eventually. He’d expected Mer to be waiting. He’d wanted Mer. But Cora held him tight, her arms strong, her words soft, and when his tears threatened to wash him away, she kept him tethered to her, keeping him from drowning. When his tears slowed, she spoke again.
“Alma and Sadie cleaned the apartment. Everything is packed up and labeled. There’s not much left for you to do.”
“Where is she?”
“Sadie? She’s at work. I told her I’d call the salon when you showed up. Do you want to go inside?”
He didn’t. He wanted to walk back down the stairs. Or better yet, go find Abuela and put his head in her lap and let her tell him all about God and purpose and Heaven and Hell. All the things he didn’t believe but still found comfort in, because Abuela believed enough for all of them. If Abuela said his mother was in God’s arms, he wouldn’t argue.
Cora took his hand, leading him forward, and she waited as he fished out his key.
Just as she’d said, the rooms were immaculate, the boxes stacked, the furniture worn and terribly forlorn. It wasn’t worth saving. He walked on shaky limbs to his mother’s room and stood in the doorway. Her bed had been stripped. The mattress was missing—he didn’t want to contemplate why—and the box springs remained beside the nightstand where a little, wind-up alarm clock had once sat. His mother hadn’t ever decorated. The walls had always been bare, and the apartment didn’t feel much different than it had when she’d been in it.
He turned away from her room, unable to contemplate the emptiness a moment more. He walked toward his own room and stepped inside, feeling like a stranger in his own home. He’d left his room in good order, but he could see Mer had been there too. His sheets had been washed and his pillow plumped. The old carpet had been cleaned too. The ammo box he’d purchased a few years ago at an army surplus store remained on his dresser, but everything else was packed up. He walked to the ammo box and opened it. A few of his treasures remained inside. A valentine Mer made for him when he was nine years old, a dog-eared copy of Man’s Search for Meaning, a handful of pictures, and half of a geode from a rock mining expedition freshman year to Utah’s west desert. The geode didn’t look like much on the outside, but when he’d broken it in half, it was deep purple inside, and the coolest thing he’d ever seen. He’d had both halves once but had misplaced one somewhere.
The ammo box was the only thing Noah wanted from his room. Everything else was cleared out, as if Mer had known he would need a place to sleep, but had wanted to relieve him of everything else.
“What now?” Cora said, sitting on his bed. Noah sat down beside her, the geode clutched in his hand. The edges were jagged and bit into his palm.
What now indeed.
“I go to New Mexico for Tech School. I’m on emergency leave right now. Maybe I’ll be deployed. There’s talk. The rent is paid through the end of the month. I’ll stay here until after the funeral, and then I’ll go.” Carole Stokes had promised to handle the service itself, which was a relief to him. It would be a grave-side service—prayer, a few words, a song. He wondered if he could play the theme song to Night Court on his guitar. It was a little too funky. And it needed horns. He laughed at the ridiculous train of his thoughts, but the laugh broke on a choked sob, and he ran a hand over his face. He wasn’t going to cry again.
“There’s nothing holding me here anymore. I guess I can go wherever I want,” he whispered.
“You’ll always have me . . . and Sadie. We love you. My mom, Alma, and Abuela love you too. We’re your home. We’ll always be home, whenever you need us,” Cora said, and her voice was choked too. “Just . . . please . . . don’t leave and never come back. Please don’t do that.”
He didn’t know if he could promise to leave and never come back. At the moment, it was all he wanted to do. So he sat in silence for far too long, considering her request. When he finally spoke, he offered the only guarantee he could.
“I love your letters, Cora. Don’t stop writing, okay? If you write, I’ll always write back, and we’ll stay connected. I look forward to your letters. You . . . surprise me.”
“I do? Why?”
“You’re different in your letters.”
“Nah. I’m just me without restraints,” she replied.
“You without restraints. What does that mean?”
“Words are like souls. Soundless, even shapeless. But full of substance. You are getting all substance and none of the distraction in a letter.”
“See? That surprises me,” he murmured. Her letters had been like that. Insightful. Illuminating. Even intoxicating.
She smiled at him, and he noticed again how pretty she was.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
“I am?” he asked, his voice wry. “How do you figure?”
“When my dad died, I wanted to move. I didn’t want to stay in the apartment where he died. We left for a week, remember? The apartment was painted and recarpeted. Mom bought a new couch to make it feel like a different place. Dad’s wheelchair was taken away, and all his things were cleared out. But it was hard living there, seeing him, even though I knew he was gone. You won’t have to stay in this apartment, seeing your mother whenever you close your eyes. It will be good to leave it behind. I’ve never been able to leave my dad behind.”
“I’m sorry, Cora.” He’d never considered how hard it must have been for her to live where her father had died.
She sighed. “I’ve made this about me. I’m good at that. I’m sorry.” She reached up and touched his face.
“What I’m trying to say is, I’m glad you can leave this apartment behind. But don’t leave us behind. Okay? Don’t leave . . . me . . . behind.”
He stared at her too long, the deep red of her lips, the clear blue of her eyes. Cora was all contrast while Mer was a warm blend. Then Cora leaned forward and placed her mouth on his, and all comparisons slid away for another time.
He didn’t hear Mercedes slip quietly out of the apartment, as silently as she’d entered, leaving her two best friends sitting side by side on Noah’s bed, her chest aching, her eyes wide open, her path set.
* * *
Mercedes avoided Noah all week. She didn’t return his calls. Didn’t respond to his messages. Didn’t reach out at all. If he had done the same to her, she would have hunted him down and sliced off his fingers. She wouldn’t have let him get away with it, and she knew eventually he would come looking for her. But by then he would realize what she was trying to tell him, and she wouldn’t have to say the words.
She was ashamed of her cowardice. She cursed herself and called herself ugly names in both Spanish and English. But she didn’t know what to do. At times, she would find herself lost in daydreams of wedding bells and cohabitation, only to shudder and cross herself for thinking it could work. And if it couldn’t work, she wouldn’t risk it. She needed to find her way back to the way it was before, to the Mer that Noah loved but didn’t make love to, to the Mer that he needed, but didn’t need too much. She wanted to be the Mer that would grow old beside him, platonic and persistent, the kind of friend he never outgrew.
He caught her between appointments at lunchtime on Friday, walking up to the counter at Maven, terse and tight-lipped, his timing impeccable. Grim face notwithstanding, he looked good. His pale blue dress shirt was tucked into fitted grey slacks, and he’d rolled the sleeves to his elbows and pulled off his tie. The color lightened his blue-black eyes and contrasted with his dark hair. The counter separated them, but she could smell him, clean and warm, like pine cones and peppermints—and her thoughts tiptoed back to the way he kissed and the way he felt and the way he made her feel, even when she was afraid. Remorse for avoiding him grew in her chest and climbed in her throat.
“Hey,” she said weakly.
“Hey.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scold. Not yet.
“I have an appointment at one o’clock. I don’t have much time,” she said.
“I’m your appointment.”
Mercedes scowled down at the ledger, looking for his name.
“We can talk in the back, or we can talk with me in your chair, but we’re going to talk, Mer,” he murmured.
“Your name isn’t on the schedule,” she argued, still evading him.
“I was afraid if I used my name, I’d be pawned off to another stylist, and you wouldn’t be here.” She deserved that, but she shot him a glare anyway.
He regarded her patiently. “Are we going to do this here?”
“Let’s go in the back,” she relented, the knot factory in her stomach going into overdrive. She didn’t want to talk to him on the open floor with ten stylists and their clients pretending they weren’t listening in. He followed her at a comfortable distance, but she could feel his eyes on her back and his mouth in her memory, and she wondered if she could kiss him once more before she told him they should never kiss again.
But when they walked into the employee changing room, he didn’t crowd her or try to take her in his arms. He sat down on the long bench and met her gaze.
Mercedes didn’t sit. She was too unnerved. And disappointed.
“Do I need to find someone else to watch Gia on Mondays?” Noah asked. His voice was level and kind, and Mercedes imagined it was the voice he used with his patients, never getting ruffled, never losing his cool. She knew his patients yelled and screamed sometimes. She knew they cried, and she could picture Noah sitting with them, his face compassionate, his hands folded, looking at them the way he was looking at her.
“What? Why?” Mercedes said, remembering suddenly that he’d asked her a question.
“Because you’re obviously avoiding me. You won’t be able to continue to avoid me if you watch Gia on Mondays.”
“Are you threatening me?” she asked, desperate to turn the conversation away from her own crappy behavior.
“Mer.” He sighed. “Seriously?”
She began to pace. “Don’t you get it? This—right here—is the reason why s-sleeping together was a t-terrible idea. Now you want to replace me! It’s awkward, and you want a new babysitter. I knew this would happen. It’s the reason I fought you so hard.”
“You fought me so hard?” his voice rose mildly.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Noah Andelin. I see right through you. So calm and kind. Well, I’m not falling for it.”
“Falling for what, Mer?” No anger. No mockery.
“Falling for you!”
He stared up at her, eyes gentle, face calm. “It’s too late. Isn’t that what this is about? We’ve fallen for each other. And you don’t know if that’s what you want . . . if I’m what you want. And you don’t know how to tell me.”
Mercedes wanted him. She did. She wanted him so much. She folded her arms and unfolded them. She sat down and rose again, and he watched her, clearly waiting for her to confirm or counter his point. He sat with his legs slightly spread, elbows to knees, his chin resting on his clasped hands. Where did he find the confidence to just lay it all out there like that? Where did he find the courage?
“Remember when you had a few bad days? I came over and bossed you around. And you told me that . . . showering . . . was not what you needed?” Mercedes asked, grasping, trying to find the right thing to say to make him understand. The shower scene was a tricky one to navigate.
“Yes. And you informed me it was exactly what I needed. You were right.”
“I was wrong,” she argued.
“No, you weren’t. I stunk. I hadn’t showered or eaten in three days, and I was depressed. You were right.”
“I was wrong because I didn’t respect your boundaries,” she countered, wagging her finger at him even though she was criticizing herself.
“My boundaries?”
“Yes,” she said, firm.
“What boundaries? We’ve been best friends since we were eight years old. There are no boundaries. You just wanted what was best for me.”
“But that’s just it, Noah. Nobody gets to decide what’s best for you, but you,” Mercedes said, enunciating each word, loud and clear. “I decide what’s best for me, you decide what’s best for you, and if we don’t respect that, then we have no relationship at all.”
“You’re so full of shit, Mer,” he said quietly. If he’d snapped at her, the way she’d snapped at him, it would have been easier to take, but he said the words with such authority, such soft assurance, that it stung more than it otherwise would have.
“I have boundaries,” Mercedes hissed. “You didn’t respect them last week.”
“You wanted to have sex with me, and I wanted to make love to you. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yes! You make love to a girlfriend . . . or your wife. I’m not your wife!”
“I don’t have a wife, Mer. I’ve come to terms with that. Have you?” He hadn’t raised his voice, but his eyes gleamed.
“Yes. I have. But it’s irrelevant. I am not your wife. Gia is not my daughter. And that is not our relationship. I need you to respect my boundaries, okay?”
He shook his head, incredulous, and unclasped his hands so he could stroke his beard the way he always did when he needed time to regroup or a moment to think. He stood abruptly, and for a minute she thought he was going to walk out. He didn’t. He just stood with his back to her, his head down, his hands in his pockets.
His silence was so loud Mercedes wanted to scream at him to shut up. Her heart was pounding, and her palms were damp. She rubbed them on her skirt and headed for the door, desperate to move, to keep up with her pulse.
“I’ll be at your house Monday morning. Early. As usual. No more Sunday sleepovers unless it’s a double shift and you’re gone. Also, your hair is getting long, and your beard needs a trim,” she ordered, desperate to find her equilibrium and to help him find his. “We won’t have time today. Text me, and I’ll squeeze you in on Wednesday. And bring Gia. Her bangs are starting to fall in her eyes.”
“So this is how it has to be?” he murmured, turning back toward her. The gleam was gone.
“Yes. This is how it has to be.” She would re-establish Noah and Mer if it killed her.
He nodded slowly. “And if I’m not on board?”
“What does that mean?”
“What if I don’t agree? What then? We do it your way or no way at all?”
Mercedes shrugged helplessly. “But . . . it’ll be the way it’s always been, like it was before.” She heard the pleading in her voice and hated it. She shouldn’t have to beg him to be her friend.
He nodded again, but he wasn’t agreeing with her. He was nodding to let her know he heard. “The way it was before. Got it,” he said, monotone.
“So we’re good?” she asked, tentative.
He sighed and shook his head, resisting, but he said the words she wanted to hear, and she ignored the mixed message. “We’re good, Mer.”
“Yeah?” She felt a shiver of relief.
“Yeah.” He didn’t smile, and his eyes were bleak, but they weren’t arguing, and he wasn’t threatening to walk out of her life and take Gia with him. Mercedes could work with an unhappy Noah. It was no Noah at all that she couldn’t bear. He would see. In the end, they would both be better off. Everything would be all right. She would make it all right.
* * *
Mercedes didn’t have any early appointments on Wednesday, and Gloria was opening—she’d been opening since Keegan had left two months before. Mercedes walked into Maven at noon and was greeted by a beaming Gloria.
“He’s back, Mercedes. He’s back!”
Mercedes could only stare, her face blank, her breath trapped.
“What?”
“Keegan didn’t like LA, and until he has something substantial lined up, he’s promised to stay. This place has been buzzing all day. Word has spread, and we’ve had an endless stream of walk-ins and phone calls, all hoping to get on his schedule.”
Mercedes began to cough on her rising dismay.
Gloria made a concerned face and patted her back. “Are you okay?”
Mercedes nodded and smiled numbly before rounding the reception area and walking back to the long row of gleaming stations. The place was packed, and Keegan was in her spot. His old spot had been absorbed in a new layout, and she’d been the only stylist not working that morning. It made sense that Gloria would put him in her station temporarily.
He was smiling and making suggestions, turning his client this way and that, but when he saw Mercedes, his smile slipped a fraction and he winked at the woman in his chair—in Mer’s chair—and excused himself, snapping his fingers at one of the trainees and asking her to wash his client’s hair and bring her back when she was done.
Mercedes strode past him and felt him fall in behind her. She was breathing, but not deeply enough, because her lungs were burning and her exhalations were hot.
“You’re back,” she said, pushing her way into the locker room.
“I am.”
“That’s not what you agreed to.”
“Well, I have to make a living.”
When she stared at him, dumbfounded, he ran his hands through his hair and tried again. “Look, Mercedes. I just . . . can’t . . . I just . . . I don’t want to go. My life is here. I’m happy here. People like me. I have clients and I make damn good money.”
“Yeah . . . okay. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You took twenty thousand dollars from me. Are you going to give it back?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s gone. I told you . . . I had a problem only money could fix.”
“And Gia?”
He stared at her blankly for a heartbeat before his expression cleared. He hadn’t known who she was talking about.
“I haven’t decided,” he lied.
“I see. And when will you decide?” She was so angry her voice was trembling, but she kept her eyes steady on his.
“I don’t know, Mercedes. And it’s really not any of your business. You inserted yourself into this, and I’m not going to be run out of town by you or anyone else,” he snapped, as if she had done him wrong and not the other way around. “You want to talk terms, I’m all ears. But unless you’re willing to part with some serious cash and some side benefits, I think I’ll keep my options open.”
Mercedes turned and strode from the room. Someone said her name, but she kept walking, her heels clacking, her stride long. She stopped in front of Gloria, who looked at her in surprise. There must have been something in her face, something in her eyes, because Gloria’s face paled before she even began to speak.
“I’ve worked here since I was fourteen years old,” Mercedes said quietly. “I’ve given Maven my heart and soul. I’ve given you my loyalty and my energy, Gloria, and you’ve always treated me well and made me believe I had a future here. But I won’t work here with Keegan Tate. Either he goes, or I go.”
“Mercedes,” Gloria said, stunned. “Why?”
“He’s a snake. He’s a cheat. He’s a liar.”
“Oh, no. Did you sleep with him, honey?” Gloria whispered, reaching for her hand. Mercedes stepped back. “No. I have more self-respect than that. I’m smarter than that too. But I did trust him, and I paid pretty dearly for that trust. It won’t happen again.”
“Mercedes, come on.” Keegan was standing in the arched opening between the style floor and reception. He’d apparently heard most of what she’d said.
“Keegan? What’s this about?” Gloria said to him, her eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“Mercedes is the one with the issue. I’m just here to work and glad to be back,” he answered mildly, folding his arms.
“Mercedes? Can you be more specific?”
Mercedes considered spilling the whole sordid story for all of five seconds, long enough for Keegan to pale and her protective instincts to kick in. She wouldn’t be telling a single soul that Keegan Tate might be Gia’s biological father.
“I don’t think Keegan would appreciate specifics, Gloria. He knows what he did. I know what he did. That will have to be enough.”
“Mercedes, I-I can’t just fire Keegan because you say so,” Gloria stammered.
“All right. Then consider this my two-weeks’ notice, Gloria,” Mercedes said flatly. She turned and brushed past Keegan, who was smart enough to step out of her way.
“Oh, and I’ve got an appointment in five minutes, and I need Keegan out of my work station and as far away from me as possible. Otherwise, today will be my last, and don’t think I won’t tell all my clients that he’s the reason I’m leaving.”
* * *
For several days Mercedes swam in an eddy of outrage and despair only to find herself at outrage again. By the following Friday, four days from her final shift at Maven, she’d escaped the whirlpool only to be thrust headlong into quicksand. Her fear was a soul-sucking hole that worsened every time she made a move. And worst of all, she couldn’t call for help. She hadn’t told anyone what had happened. Her coworkers knew she was leaving, but none of them knew why. Her clients knew she was leaving—they’d all been given a card, and she had their contact information—but she hadn’t filled them in either.
She’d quit her job. Her savings were severely depleted, and she had no immediate prospects. She’d never worked anywhere else but Maven, and she’d always had a plan. She didn’t anymore. For the first time in her life, she had no idea what she was going to do.
She didn’t want to work for someone else. She wanted to open her own place. Her clientele was huge, but many would not follow her to a new salon, simply because humans are creatures of habit. Many of her ladies would continue their patronage of Maven simply because it was what they’d always done. And if Mercedes didn’t have a place to bring them, one that was comfortable and accommodating, she would lose even more. She couldn’t take months to resettle. It had to be immediate. Seamless. And she had no prospects.
She’d been looking at retail spaces, crunching numbers, and making calls, but even amid her fears for her future, her thoughts had been filled with Noah. She missed him terribly, and for the first time in her life, she couldn’t confide in him. She didn’t know how. The story involved too many moving parts, too many secret pieces, and too much pain. Her story would cause him pain, and she couldn’t tell it, not even to save herself.
Noah had said they were good, but they weren’t good. She’d done what she’d promised herself she’d never do, she’d done what she’d intuitively known not to do. She’d slept with him, and she’d lost him. Maybe not forever. Maybe not completely. But their relationship was battered and bent, and at the moment, she didn’t have the focus or the fortitude to smooth it out.
Her life was a mess, and opening the salon on Friday morning and seeing Cuddy hovering at the back entrance, waiting for her, just added another layer of chaos. She cried out, startled to see him, and immediately raised her hand in warning.
“I don’t think you should come here anymore, Cuddy,” she said, knowing she should run inside and lock the door behind her. But even as she considered it, her eyes traveled over his gangly form and his battered clothing, lingering on his grey head and his sorrowful blue eyes, and she couldn’t find it in herself to be afraid.
“W-why not?” he stammered. “Aren’t we friends anymore, Miss Lopez?”
“I’m not going to be working here much longer, Cuddy. Next Wednesday is my last day at Maven.”
“Oh, no!” Cuddy cried. “Why? Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Can you still give me a haircut?” he pleaded.
“Not today, Cuddy. It’s only been a month since your last cut, and you and I need to talk.” She pointed at the low wall that edged the rear parking lot, and motioned for him to sit. She perched beside him and took a deep breath, ready to begin her interrogation, but Cuddy spoke first.
“I’m worried about you, Miss Lopez.”
“W-Why?” she stammered, surprised.
“Because . . . because Miss Cora is worried about you. That’s why I . . .” his voice faltered.
“That’s why you took my car?” she asked softly. He scrubbed at his cheeks and blinked rapidly several times before nodding, his shoulders drooping with his confession.
“But I didn’t really take it. I was just . . . moving it.”
“Cora’s little girl was inside. You drove away and scared me to death. I was so scared, Cuddy. What you did was very wrong.”
“It didn’t feel wrong,” he whispered. “It felt scary. But not wrong.”
Mercedes shook her head. “Why did you do that, Cuddy?”
“I keep seeing her. I keep seeing Miss Cora. She’s afraid for her daughter. She’s afraid for you and Noah. I thought she wanted me to.”
“Why did you leave the rocks? You had to know I would think of you.”
“I wanted to tell you I was sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you or the little girl. Sometimes I don’t know what to do. I try . . . but I make the wrong choice.”
“It was definitely the wrong choice.”
“It didn’t feel wrong,” he whispered again. “And I left you my best rocks. One for you, one for Gia, and one for Noah. I’m sorry for Noah, most of all.”
“Have you been following me, Cuddy?”
“No . . . not really. You’ve got a car. I’ve only got my two feet.” He held up one of his boots, the soles held on with duct tape, and Mercedes sighed.
“We need to get you a new pair of shoes, Cuddy. Those ones are dead.”
“Yep. They done give up the ghost,” Cuddy agreed. “Noah gave me his shoes once. Did you know that, Miss Lopez?”
“He told me,” Mercedes said. “Noah doesn’t like to see people suffer.”
“Noah is a good boy. A good man,” Cuddy corrected himself. “He gave me his sweatshirt and his socks and shoes. He gave me his coat. He even gave me my first rock. After that . . . I started collecting them because they made me feel safe. Kept me from floating . . . you know.”
“He gave you your first rock?” Mercedes couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes Cuddy was so child-like, and something about him pulled at her. It always had.
“Yeah. It was in his coat pocket. I’ve kept it ever since.” Cuddy dug into the pocket of his worn jeans and pulled out half of a broken geode, it’s purple crystals peeking out like a tiny fairy castle encased in a globe of stone.
“I was there when he found that,” Mercedes said, oddly moved. “It looked like a regular grey rock. Then he hit it with the pick, and it cracked open. Noah was thrilled.”
“Should I give it back to him?” Cuddy held out his hand, the geode sitting on his palm. “Maybe he didn’t mean to give it to me.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He knows who you are,” Mercedes said. “He knows your real name.”
“He does?” Cuddy stammered. “I always s-stayed away from him because I thought it would scare him if he recognized me. People said I did some bad things.”
“Taking my car was a bad thing. The police told me to call them if you came back here.”
Cuddy nodded slowly, but he stood and began to inch away, as if preparing to run. “I understand.”
“I’m not going to do that, Cuddy. I’m not going to call the police.”
He stopped short. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m not. But I need you to promise me you won’t do something like that again. It might not feel wrong, but it is wrong. Do you understand why?”
“I scared you.”
“It was the worst moment of my life.”
“Worse than when Miss Cora died?”
“Worse than that, Cuddy.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lopez. See . . . I’ve been staying close to the salon because Miss Cora wants me to. I saw you pull into the gas station across the street.” His mouth twisted with emotion, and he rubbed his face again, clearly anxious. “He was watching you too. He was sitting in his car in front of the salon, watching you. I was afraid he was going to take the baby.”
“Who?” Mercedes asked, flummoxed.
“Keegan.”
“Keegan was watching me?”
“Yeah. He was watching you . . . and I was watching him. He’s weak, Miss Lopez. He’s weak like I am.”
“What do you mean, Cuddy?” Mercedes was reeling, trying to keep up with Cuddy’s train of thought while processing his revelations.
“People like Keegan . . . people like me . . . we don’t know how to handle our shit.” He grimaced. “Sorry, Miss Lopez. We take pills to forget and pills to hide and pills to feel better. I don’t take them anymore. But he does,” Cuddy accused. “Keegan does. And he sells them too.”