Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [1]
I laugh, because Tony is twice my age and then some. He’s a former neighbor but feels like my uncle, and these days is my only genuine friend. “It’s not you I’m embarrassed about.”
I step over a cracked piece of sidewalk without having to look. If they ever fix it, I’ll probably fall and break my neck.
“How great can this guy be if he expects you never to have made a mistake in your life?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Ain’t it always.”
“Whatever. What’s up with you, Tony?”
“Five hundred days sober today.”
“You get a cake for that?”
“Come to AA with me, and I’ll make you a double chocolate layer cake.”
“Congratulations, anyway.”
“C’mon, come with me. I promise to bake you a cake, or whatever you want. Name your price.”
“I can’t be bought with dessert.”
“How very high-minded.”
“I’m not going to stand there in some dreary church basement confessing to my past drunken sins, which, by the way, are two years old now. I’m doing just fine.”
My voice startles me with its volume. An early-morning dog walker passing on the other side of the street jerks his head in my direction. It’s Tom with his floppy-haired dog, Ted—named for the late senator Kennedy—and he gives me an uncertain wave.
“You sure sound fine.”
I toss my cigarette down and stamp it with my boot heel. “Did you call just to hassle me?”
“Well, not just.” Tony rattles off a cough and spits. “Talking to you is the highlight of my day. I wouldn’t get up this early for anyone else.”
“Then you have some sad days, my friend.”
I’m already rounding the corner back to the house. Claustrophobic city blocks are like that, and I’ve unwittingly sped up my walk. My ego wants more time alone, my id wants out of the cold. The bare November trees lean over me, and I wish I could climb one and hide in its old branches.
The house’s pitched roof and twin top-story windows create an air of surprise that I’ve returned.
“You there?” Tony asks.
“Yeah.”
“You going to make it today, kid?”
I exhale a plume of white winter breath, considering. “I think so.”
“Think?” His voice bears the strain of concern. He knows what stupidity I’ve survived. He knows about my old job, which I used to love—the only place I’ve ever excelled in spite of myself—the people I once considered friends, how I never see my family anymore because all of it comes braided together with booze.
“Okay. I will.”
“That’s my girl. Stay strong.”
It’s too corny for me, but I’m glad he says it all the same.
“Some days, I just—”
I have my hand on the rear storm door when the inside door jerks open. I yank the phone away from my head and hang up.
“Who was that?” asks Michael, rubbing his eyes, then his bare arms. He’s still wearing what he wore to bed.
“My mother.” I step into the kitchen’s harsh yellow light and shrug out of my parka.
“She called early. And you hung up on her?”
The phone is buzzing in my hand with Tony’s number showing on the display. I turn my phone over, his number toward my palm. I nod.
“You’ll hear about that later.”
“I expect I will. I thought you were at the gym.”
“Headache.”
“I’m sorry.”
My phone chimes again, one brief tone, and I stuff it in my pocket. “Angel is up, I noticed. You talk to her yet?”
“Before her ladyship has come down the stairs? Heaven forbid.”
I don’t rise to this. I once joined in with his half-larky, half-serious use of this title for Angel, and the conversation fell to silence like a rock off a cliff.
“Going up to shave,” he says, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on my forehead. I would usually seize up and treasure this small affection. Today, it stings.
When I’ve heard his steps go all the way up the stairs, I check my phone.
Tony didn’t leave a voice mail. His text reads: Caught by surprise?
I send back one word—sorry—and delete both messages.
So Michael hasn’t seen Angel. He doesn’t know yet. Maybe she won’t tell him at all, or maybe she’s waiting. She’s smart like that, knowing how to hold her cards until just the right