I walk into the living room and pick up the picture of Oscar’s mom off the fireplace mantle. Oscar looks like her around the eyes and mouth. In the picture, Chloe’s lips are curved up in a mischievous grin.
She used to smile a lot when I first met her, but after everything that happened she lost her spark, not that I blame her. Eleven years and I still feel dead inside. A victim because she was and I couldn’t fix her no matter what I did. It took me a long time to stop blaming myself. To realize no one could’ve made her whole again.
I slump onto my well-worn teal green leather couch, my beer in one hand, her picture in the other.
The couch needs replacing, she whispers. Everything does. Oscar needs a place of peace where he can thrive. Not somewhere that he’s ashamed of.
When she was alive, our house was that refuge. Her soft smile, quiet steps, easy temperament. Home wasn’t this house. It was her. We could’ve been anywhere as long as we were holding hands, sharing jokes, making love.
I’m trying, Chloe, I promise. Oscar and I’ll go shopping, get a new couch. A set of dishes without chips and cracks. Blinds for the windows to replace curtains no longer fit to be used for rags.
She smiles at me from the picture, that sweet one, frozen in time. Sure you will, Nathan.
I know, baby. I’m a liar.
I swallow the sadness as I place the picture on the end table. I’m in love with a ghost.
The worst is knowing we weren’t together long enough to find out if we’d grow tired of each other. I would’ve liked to find out if we would’ve started to take each other for granted. For the ‘I love yous’ to shift from every day, to once a week, then once a month. And maybe it would’ve been okay if that happened. Maybe we’d have grown closer as we grew up. Or maybe not. Either way, that’s what I miss the most. The chance to know what could’ve been.
I don’t know if Oscar misses Chloe. He was a baby when she died. He never talks about her. I think he wishes he had a mom, but he’s pragmatic. Most of the kids he knows are raised by single parents. He’s no different.
That turns my thoughts to Fleming. Single mom, difficult woman, a raging tornado who seems to hate men.
She made me talk though. Her kid too. Only defense against their verbal assault. No wonder Oscar reacts. So did I, which pisses me off all over again. I’m better at controlling my emotions. Shutting people out. They might try to talk shit but they don’t get far. I don’t have to shut them down with words. My cold, dead eyes get across the message better than anything I could say.
Except my gaze was anything but cold today. The fire blazed through me when she opened her mouth, talking shit about Oscar. I reacted like a real dad would. Stood up for my boy. Probably confused him, but I’ve never seen him act like that either. Taking Henri’s shit and throwing it back at her.
But he’s pissed now. At me, at Henri, at the world.
I take my cell out and check for messages. None. No emergency to rescue me from having to deal with Oscar’s mess. No church. Not even a shift at Hook’s, the Jury-owned strip joint that I manage with my club brother, Reaper.
I take another swallow of beer, then set it next to Chloe’s picture. “Time to make a difference,” I mutter.
Oscar doesn’t immediately respond to my knock, so I open his door. He’s stretched out on his bed, on his stomach, wearing noise-cancelling earphones. He glances up when I enter but doesn’t stop playing his video game. Streetfighter 6. I play with him when I can, sometimes even beat him. Those father and son moments are the epitome of who we are. No talking, always parallel. Can’t seem to find the bridge.
“Take them off,” I say motioning towards the earphones.
He gets my drift, pauses his game and sits up. He drops the headphones down around his neck, then stares at me unblinking, waiting for me to speak.
I sit down on the edge of the bed. “What’re we gonna do?” I’m hoping he’s come up with a solution.
He shrugs. “I thought I’d talk to Max, see if he has an idea.”
Max. I can’t decide if I like him or hate him. The prez’s kid is full of the same swagger as his dad. He and Oscar are best friends and Max would do anything for Oscar. Still, Max is not exactly Mensa material.
“Yeah, there’s a solid plan,” I reply with sarcasm.
“I don’t hear you comin’ up with anything.”
He’s right. “You could call her up, apologize and tell her that you’ll leave her alone if she leaves you alone.”
“Lame,” Oscar replies. “Besides, I’ve tried that. Doesn’t work. She’s a total bit…” He looks sideways at me, contemplating how he should finish the sentence.
“Witch,” I say, helping him out. “Like her mom.”
Oscar scrunches his face. “Just like her mom. No wonder Henri’s such a… a… witch.”
I want to tell him to let loose and call her what he really wants to, but Chloe taps me on the shoulder and shakes her head. They like each other, she says. It’s obvious.
