You fail all of the time. But you aren’t a failure until you start blaming someone else.
–Bum Phillips
Bethany
Two hours later, we’re still talking to the police—who didn’t shoot Steven, incidentally—but there was lots of shouting and gun pointing and mass confusion until someone recognized Brent as the tight end for the Sharks.
Then things immediately calmed. It’s amazing what celebrity status can do.
It took a while for them to figure out what happened, but the video from the front door helps verify our story.
They still give Steven suspicious looks and I can’t blame them. I mean, that mustache.
The weird oo-eek sound was a birdcall, which Steven used to distract Natalie. Apparently he’s also been in a gun club, which is how he knew how to disarm the weapon.
Over the course of the police’s questioning, we put together the rest of the story and pieces from the past couple of months.
Natalie’s mobbed-up uncle had left his stash somewhere in the apartment building. He’d also left some debts to some real bad people and Natalie needed to pay them off or they would break her thumbs or do whatever it is mobsters do to people who don’t pay up.
Natalie had obviously been using the dumbwaiter entrance for access to my apartment. She’d also been using Steven for access to the building. She’d originally thought the loot was stashed at Martha’s but then realized it may have actually been in the neighbor’s. A.k.a., mine.
The other night when I ran into them coming off the elevator and they left to stay at Natalie’s, she waited until Steven was sleeping to sneak back and break in, knowing I was here alone and knowing Steven sleeps like the dead. The goal was to scare me away so she could have more time to search in my apartment without me present and calling the cops.
She was in the walls and heard Brent and I talking—she even recorded bits of the conversation. She was getting more and more desperate for money ever since the super had blocked off the dumbwaiter entrance and I had a camera installed.
She used her recording to get money from Stylz, enough to hold off the people after her, but it wasn’t enough to keep them away for good.
Desperation made her a bit crazy. She tied up Martha, conked Steven over the head, and left them in Martha’s apartment before coming over and tying me up.
The cops do a thorough search of my closet and walls where Natalie was digging, but there’s nothing.
It could have been cleared out by a maintenance man or former tenant at any point over the last forty years. Who knows?
By the time the dust clears, it’s only Brent, Steven, and myself left in the chaos of the apartment. The door is broken, the closet is busted, and there are bits of wall and drywall dust everywhere.
“Steven. Thank you for everything,” Brent says, shaking his hand.
“I should have known better than to date someone I met online,” he says. “I have to check on Grandma Martha. Bethany, if you need anything, we’ll be right next door.”
“Thanks, Steven.”
He leaves and then it’s just me and Brent.
“You can’t stay here.” He’s eyeing the front door, which is not only busted without a lock, it’s also covered in police tape.
“I know.”
He helps me pack a bag. We need to talk, but I don’t know where to start.
He must feel the same because we leave the apartment in silence and drive over to his building.
Once we’re there, Brent makes tea. The adrenaline rush has dissipated and now I’m brimming with exhausted confusion.
We sit at the dining table, tea in hands, unspoken words hanging in the air between us like a lingering rain cloud. Where do we begin?
Finally, he places his mug on the table with a quiet clunk and shifts his knees in my direction. “I’m so sorry.”
“No.” I shake my head and put my mug next to his. “I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have questioned you. I knew better. I did. I do.”
“You had every right to ask.” I clasp my hands in my lap. I want to reach for him, but I don’t want to make the first move. Why did he wait so long to apologize? Did he change his mind about me? About us?
His hands move and for a flickering heartbeat of a second I think he’s reaching for me, but instead he picks up his mug from the table.
“I want you to know, I’m pissed at Dad for everything he did. Not just to you, but how he’s treated me and Marc. I’m not talking to him anymore. Also . . . I’m having surgery in two weeks.” His words are rushed, like he needs to push them out as quickly as possible.
“That’s good, Brent. I’m really proud of you.” Does he want me to be there? Does he need my support? I search his eyes, but he shifts them down to his lap.
The questions simmer on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too scared to spit them out. What if he says no? He didn’t come over tonight to start things back up, he came over to save me from a psychopath. Would he have come if not for Natalie?
I want to go to him. Lean on him. Tell him all about how I’m looking for jobs, unload the stress of getting Mom into rehab. And I want to comfort him, too. Support him during his dark time.
He glances at me and then away. He fidgets with his mug, picking it up, putting it down again. Then he takes a sip. He doesn’t speak. There’s no real indication he would welcome anything more from me.
And that’s fine.
Maybe I need time to think over whether we’re really good for each other or if we were leaning on each other for unhealthy reasons. Because of his heart, because of my mom.
Maybe it would be a good thing, just for a little bit, to see if we can stand on our own.