A Little Too Much

Chapter Thirteen

IT’S MONDAY MORNING when I call Alessandro. Brett is coming home tomorrow for a few days, and now that I’ve got my nerve up to do this, I don’t want to leave it until after he’s gone.

“Hilary,” he says when he connects.

“Are you free for an hour this afternoon?”

“I’ve got lessons at the Y starting at two. Was there something you needed?”

No, but there’s something you need. “I had somewhere I wanted to take you.”

“I thought we were on for Friday. My turn.”

“We are. This is something else.”

“Something else . . .” he repeats, his voice wary. “Could we possibly do this ‘something else’ tomorrow?”

Damn. “No. My boyfriend’s flying in tomorrow, so . . .”

“Oh. I didn’t know he was gone,” he says, his voice tight. “Will Friday be okay, though . . . for our Thursday outing?”

“He’s flying to Chicago Friday morning for an evening performance.”

I wait through a long pause, not sure what else to say. “How soon can you be ready?” he finally asks.

I look at my clock. Ten thirty. “In an hour, maybe.”

“Tell me where to meet you. I’ll be there at noon.”

“Argo Tea,” I say, pulling myself out of bed. “See you in a few.”

I TAKE HIS hand and tow him from Argo Tea to the subway, but I don’t tell him where we’re going. As we jump on the D train, he’s got that playful look that he always has when he’s waiting to see where I’m taking him. He’s still into it when we change over at Broadway to the F train, but when I stand at the Second Avenue station and pull him up, his expression turns instantly wary.

“Where are we going?” he asks with a tinge of panic in his eyes. It’s the first time on all our trips that’s he’s wanted to know.

And I know why.

“I think you need to see it again, Alessandro.”

He stiffens, but I pull him forward before the doors close. I don’t let go of his hand as we climb the stairs to the street. I don’t let go as we move slowly along Houston Street and turn up First Avenue. Through the thin leather of my glove, I feel the heat of his palm, and I know he’s scared.

So am I.

We turn onto Second Street and his feet slow and stop as we pass a sign on the side of a building across the street for the Catholic Big Sisters and Big Brothers Center. As we stand here, two black kids push through the doors onto the sidewalk, talking trash.

“You should check it out,” I say, nudging Alessandro forward.

He’s watching after the boys with a distant look in his eye. I wish I could jump into his brain and know what he’s thinking. Finally, he drops his gaze. “I left the Church.”

“Just because you’re not a priest doesn’t mean they wouldn’t want your help,” I say with a wave of my hand at the door.

His expression darkens as his whole body tenses. “No. I left the Church.”

And now I understand. “You’ve . . . you haven’t gone back? At all?”

His face pinches as he lowers his gaze. “I can’t. I don’t belong there.”

“Alessandro,” I say, squeezing his hand.

He pulls it away, refusing to be comforted. Instead, he spins on his heel and stalks up the sidewalk in the direction we were going. I’m a little surprised he doesn’t head back toward the subway. I catch up as he moves purposefully toward the destination neither of us really wants to see, but both of us need to. I don’t try to hold his hand again, and he keeps a safe space between us.

We weave up Avenue A and turn the corner onto East Fourth without speaking, and Alessandro’s hurried pace finally slows as we reach the building.

Someone’s given it a face-lift, adding white stucco and blue trim to the first story of a building that was always just grungy brick. It still looks sad.

I’m staring at it, my guts in a knot, when I feel Alessandro’s fingers thread into mine. When I glance his direction, he’s staring at it too, the skin around his eyes pulled tight. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the emotion I feel forming as a lump in my own throat.

There’s no markings on the building to indicate it’s a group home, but there weren’t then either. I start across the street and Alessandro moves with me. It takes me a long time to lift my finger to the buzzer.

It’s a full minute later when a Latina girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, opens the door. “What?” she says, chomping on gum and planting one hand on her jutted hip.

“Um . . .” I swallow. “Is this still a group home?”

She spits out a bitter laugh. “You our new counselors?”

“No.” I glance back at Alessandro, whose expression is stone. “We used to live here . . . a long time ago.”

A cynical smile curves her lips. “Back to relive the best years of your life?”

My stomach clamps. “Is there a chance we could come in?”

Alessandro’s grip on my hand tightens to the point I’m afraid he’s going to break something, but I don’t shake him off.

She swings the door wide. “Knock yourselves out,” she says over her shoulder, already disappearing down the hall to the kitchen.

I breathe deeply to settle my nerves and notice the sickeningly familiar stench that hangs in the air—the unmistakable scent of hopelessness. “It hasn’t changed much.”

We step through the door into the hallway, and when my eyes focus in the dim light, and I see the hole in the wall near the door, I flash to Lorenzo putting his foot through the wall in nearly the same place one day when he was fighting with Ms. Jenkins.

“It hasn’t changed at all,” I amend, closing the door behind us.

Halfway up on the right, I see the door to the basement. Alessandro follows me as I pull it open and start down the stairs. The deeper we descend, the more it smells like mildew, dirty laundry, and stale cigarette smoke. When we get to the bottom and flick on the rec-room light, I swear it’s the same furniture—the saggy brown couch and sticky blue chair.

Alessandro is frozen next to me, his eyes locked on a brown stain on the filthy carpet next to the couch. His olive completion has gone gray, and he looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Breathe, Alessandro,” I say softly.

His eyes flick to me, as if I’ve broken whatever spell had him locked there. He hauls a deep breath, holding it for a second, before exhaling slowly through pursed lips.

I squeeze his hand. “Are you okay?”

He nods, but his expression says otherwise. “A lot happened in this room.”

My eyes slide to the couch and I see the clear image of a scrawny girl with reddish black kinks draped over a long, lean boy in dirty jeans, with messy black hair. I shake the image away as tears pool in my eyes. “Yeah.”

He lets go of my hand and moves slowly around the room, stopping once near the corner where he always sat with his sketch pad, noticing too much. He moves to the couch and looks down at it a long moment with moist eyes. “I really believed I loved you.” His eyes lift to mine. “I never would have done . . .” His face pinches as he trails off. He turns and drops onto the couch with his forehead in his hand.

I move to sit next to him, my insides clamped tight. “What happened was as much my fault as yours. I was scared, and alone, and I just needed to feel something.”

He hauls a deep breath and lifts his head, gazing at me with pleading eyes. “I’m so sorry, Hilary. For Lorenzo. For me. For everything.”

“I know. Me too.”

He loops his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. And I hope this time, he doesn’t see my tears.

ON THE WAY back to the subway, I steer him down Second Street, past the Catholic youth center. I walk him right up to the door and open it, then nudge him through. “Talk to them.”

He catches a corner of his lower lip between his teeth and fixes me in his anguished gaze. But then he turns and moves deeper into the room, to a nun who’s tacking a paper to a corkboard near the door. “Hello,” he says in a slightly unsteady voice. “I was wondering if you were in need of volunteers.”

I step back onto the sidewalk and wait. Fifteen minutes later, he comes out. He presses his lips into a line and nods, like some really difficult task is done. When he slips his arm around my shoulder and guides me up the sidewalk, I lean into him.

He squeezes my shoulder, and kisses the top of my head, and that, more than anything else today, is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“DO YOU NEED anything, Brett? More turkey? Or stuffing?” Mallory is all over him like white on rice. He almost never comes here, but when he does, she waits on him like he’s the freaking maharaja or something. I think she thinks she’s making up for me. Like, if she’s uber-nice it will make up for my bitchiness and he’ll see that he really wants to sweep me off my feet and into a three-bedroom, two-bath Cape with a picket fence in a random New Jersey suburb, where we can have a life like hers and Jeff’s.

The thought makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

I mean, I get it. I do. She wants to be everything our mother wasn’t and she’s terrified I’m treading Mom’s path. But her lifestyle isn’t for everyone, and it’s definitely not for me.

“So tell us about your show, Brett,” she says.

His eyes shoot to me before he looks at Mallory and shrugs. “It’s just about five college guys trying to figure shit out.”

Her eyes widen for an instant and flick to Henri and Max. Max is intensely focused on making his mound of mashed potatoes into an igloo around the puddle of gravy in the middle, but Henri is looking at Brett and grinning widely.

“Oh,” Mallory says, gaining back her composure. “How is it being received?”

Brett’s mouth tightens as he lifts his eyes from his plate again, annoyed at the string of questions. “So far we’re selling out and the reviews are good.”

“There’s a scene where Brett strips,” I say through a mouthful of green-bean casserole. “The reviewers love it. It’s totally hot.”

Mallory asks about the tour, and conversation for the rest of dinner is just as awkward. When we’re done, Mallory brings out the apple pie and vanilla ice cream. She serves it up and we eat in front of the football game in the family room.

“So, what do you think of the Jets’ big trade?” Jeff asks Brett.

Brett scratches his chin and looks at Jeff for a second before saying, “Um . . . I don’t really follow the Jets.”

Jeff cracks a smile. “You’re a Giants guy, huh?”

“Not really,” Brett answers with a shrug.

“So . . . basketball?” Jeff tries.

Brett gives another shrug, and this time he almost pulls off apologetic.

Finally Jeff goes back to watching the game. We eat our pie and the only sound other than the game on the TV is the clink of forks on plates.

It’s painful.

And the whole time I’m thinking about Alessandro and resenting Brett. It’s Thursday. This is our day. We should be out somewhere, exploring undiscovered corners of the city. Alessandro and I have a past that should make being together hard. So, how is it that being with Brett seems like so much more work?

I wonder what Alessandro’s doing today. Does he have anywhere to go?

“Auntie! Come help me,” Henri says, shaking me out of my thoughts. He grabs my hand and pulls me off the couch. I set my plate on the coffee table and let him tow me to his and Max’s room. He hands me a Lord of the Rings Lego box. “Carry that,” he says as he grabs a big tub of loose Legos. We bring them back to the family room and within minutes the awkwardness is gone and every adult in the room except Mallory, who’s gone to clean up the kitchen, is on the floor building Helms Deep.

Henri to the rescue.

It takes us almost two hours to finish it, and by that time Mallory already has Max in bed and Henri is yawning.

“C’mon, buddy,” I say, standing from the floor and pulling him up by the hand. He holds my hand tight in his sweaty little one as we walk together to the bathroom. At seven, modesty obviously hasn’t kicked in yet, because he drops his pants and pees with me standing right here. I turn my back while he finishes up, even though he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wash your hands and brush your teeth,” I tell him when he flushes. He does, then he takes my hand and tows me to his and Max’s room and pushes the door open.

The room is small, with just enough room for twin beds and a dresser between. There are Transformer prints on the dark blue walls and pencil marks on the white door frame where Mallory has ticked off their height over the years, Henri on the right and Max on the left.

“Shh,” I say as he steps into the room. “Max is asleep.”

He tiptoes all exaggerated into the room and grins at me. I stifle a giggle and follow him in. He finds his pj’s in his dresser, changes, then clamors into bed.

“ ’Night, buddy,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and kissing his forehead. “Sleep tight.”

His eyebrows press together. “What does that mean, Auntie?”

“Sleep tight?” I think about that for a second and realize it’s what Mom always used to say when I was little. No, “I love you.” No, “pleasant dreams.” Just, “sleep tight.” “I have no idea,” I tell him with a shrug.

He grins like he always does when he realizes he’s pretty damn smart.

I kiss his forehead again. “Love you.”

He rolls over and curls up on his side, facing the wall. I watch him for a minute, then stand and give Max a kiss on his sweaty little forehead before heading back to the family room.

When I walk into the room, Mallory is sitting next to Brett on the couch scanning through pictures on her iPhone, probably of the boys. He looks up at me with pleading eyes.

“So, I guess we should probably head back,” I say to Mallory, and Brett is off the couch like a shot.

“It’s been great, guys,” he says, lifting a hand, clearly relieved now that the torture is over.

We shrug on our jackets and spill out the door. It’s cold, but not cold, so the walk to the bus isn’t bad.

“You really shouldn’t come to these family things, you know,” I tell Brett as we walk.

“Cut me a little slack here, Hilary. I came all the way back to spend Thanksgiving with you.”

My feet slow and I turn to him. “Sorry.” The truth is, things have been a little strained since he got back on Tuesday. He’s been out partying with his friends, and last night he came home drunk enough that he passed out before he could get his pants off. I sat and stared at him for a long time, trying to convince myself that what we have is still working. But it’s not. Something’s changed.

He blows a long white jet stream behind him and looks at me. “Listen, let’s just go home and get naked and forget the whole thing.”

My stomach twists at the thought.

I only realize I’ve stopped walking when Brett says, “What’s going on with you? You’ve been weird ever since I got home.”

I start walking again. “I’m not being weird. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“That guy?” His tone is measured, and when I look at him, his mouth is pulled into a line.

I never should have told Brett about Alessandro, but everything that happened Monday was still so fresh when he got home on Tuesday that I needed to talk about it, so I told him about our trip to the group home. It was the first Brett even knew about me being in a home. I’ve never really shared much of my past with him . . . or anyone else, for that matter. “He’s just someone I knew a long time ago.”

“Someone who’s back,” he says in that same tone.

“He’s leaving as soon as he sorts his shit out.”

“And you don’t want to screw around with him?” he asks, a cynical edge to his voice. “For old times’ sake.”

“No!” I stop and glare at him, wrapping my arms around my middle. “Christ, Brett.”

He glares back at me a second before pulling his phone from his pocket and answering it. “Yeah.”

I start walking again, but not before I hear a woman’s voice shrieking out of the phone.

“Yeah, sounds good. See you in a few.” He jogs to catch up with me. “So, that was Rob. He’s getting some guys together for poker tonight.”

Unless he’s started some serious hormone therapy, there’s no way that was Rob. “Fine.”

“So, I’ll probably just head straight over there.”

“ ’Kay.” I have no clue why I don’t call him on his lie, except that something about the direction we seem to be going scares me, and it’s more than just losing my Broadway in. Maybe if I ignore it, we can just be how we’ve always been.

Because Brett’s safe. And the alternative isn’t.