“I’ll sleep tonight.”
“Something’s gotta give, Boozer.”
He smiled at her, as though they were just Stockton and Malone again, playing on the cracked square of concrete at the Three Amigos.
“I’m okay, Stock.”
“Last weekend you hit a wall, remember?” she scolded.
“Yes. Uh. In more ways than one. Actually, it was you who hit . . . a wall.” He waggled his brows, trying to tease her the way he’d done in her kitchen, making her laugh, restoring the old give and take. But her cheeks pinked, and she turned away, snatching up the conditioner even though she hadn’t yet rinsed out the shampoo. Flustered, she set the conditioner down and turned the water on. But the nozzle was facing outward, and she soaked her shirt and missed his head completely.
“Son of a—,” she hissed. She adjusted the temperature and rinsed his hair, not meeting his gaze. “Lately, I tend to get wet when you’re around.” Her eyelids fluttered like she couldn’t believe she’d just said what she said, and an expression of complete humiliation crossed her face.
“Mer?”
“Hmm?” She didn’t look up.
“I’m sorry. I thought you would laugh.”
“I’m going to go change. I have another shirt in the back. Can you hang tight right here? You can close your eyes for another minute.” She turned and practically ran through the door that led to the employee break room and the massage rooms beyond. He and Cora had helped Mercedes paint the whole area one spring.
“Well, damn,” Noah whispered. His hair was dripping, and his arms were full of sleeping child, but he eased himself up and followed Mercedes through the door marked “Employees Only.” He didn’t think anyone would stop him.
He should have waited a few minutes. The door to the employee locker room had caught and not completely closed, and he pushed it open with his shoulder. Mercedes was standing near an open locker, her back to him, her wet shirt removed. A pale pink bra strap crisscrossed her caramel skin, and she threw an outraged glance over her shoulder.
He glared back. “The door was open, Mer. Anyone could have just walked in. Keegan could have walked in!” He still hadn’t forgiven Keegan for being straight. Noah was the straight best friend. Keegan was going to have to find someone else.
Mer yanked a black T-shirt with Maven written across the front from inside the locker and eased it over her head, careful not to mess her sleek ponytail. She tucked the T-shirt into her skirt, and Noah marveled again at the ease in which she made everything look good, the way she made everything work.
“I thought we were going to laugh about Sunday,” he said gently.
“We are.” She shot him a bright, fake smile and a cheesy, “Ha ha ha!”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m having a bad day, Noah. That’s all. Homeless Cuddy stopped by this morning. That’s twice in the last month. He keeps asking about Cora, and I keep trying to explain. I guess I just don’t feel like laughing today.”
Noah had never met Homeless Cuddy. Mer and Cora had talked about him often. The name wasn’t meant to be derisive. In the beginning, it was simply a way of identifying him, and the name stuck. He’d seen Cuddy lurking from a distance, but he’d never made use of Noah’s services. Cuddy had adored Cora, and he got regular haircuts from Mer, but he steered clear of Noah.
“What if . . . we never talk about the shower scene again? Not even jokes,” he suggested.
She nodded, swallowing. She wasn’t acting like Mer.
“But what if . . . I want . . . to do it again?” she whispered.
She was joking. He was sure she was joking. Almost. He looked for her tell. She turned her head, so he couldn’t see her face.
“Do you?” Noah asked.
“Yes. And so . . . it’s not actually funny to me.”
“You want to have sex in the shower?” His voice sounded a little hoarse.
“Yes. Or on a bed. Or maybe on the kitchen table. Or in front of the TV. Or maybe we could try out the front seat of the Corolla. It’s surprisingly spacious.”
Noah started feeling lightheaded and looked for a place to sit down. His arms were cramping from being in the same position for the last half hour. He sank down on the long bench centered between the walls of lockers
“I’m kidding, Noah.” Mercedes began to cackle and dance around, shooting the air like she was totally killing it. He’d known it. He’d called it. So why couldn’t he catch his breath?
“You aren’t a nice woman, Mer,” he grumbled.
“You should have seen your face. You looked like you were going to faint.”
“It was the Corolla that scared me. I don’t think it’s spacious enough. You know I’m claustrophobic.”
“You are not.”
“But I am a germaphobe. The kitchen table is an absolute no.”
Mer laughed and sank down beside him, smoothing a hand over his wet hair. He still needed that haircut. He wondered if he would actually get one today. She pulled her hand away and sighed.
“All kidding aside, I feel very guilty,” she muttered, and rubbed the space between her brows. “I keep dreaming of Cora. I don’t dream, Noah. You know this. I sleep like the dead.” She grimaced. “But I keep dreaming of her. In my dreams, she’s alive, but Sunday still happened. And I wake up feeling terrible. I haven’t been able to shake that feeling all week. Do you feel guilty?”
He didn’t feel guilty at all. Not one whit. But he wondered, in the far recesses of his mind, if he would feel guiltier had he not been so angry with Cora. He was going to have to do something about that anger, something that wouldn’t backfire on his best friend.
“Surprisingly . . . no. I don’t. I found comfort in a friend, someone I trust. Someone I love. It didn’t feel cheap or tawdry,” he said.
“It didn’t?”
“No, Mercedes. It didn’t.”
“Good. That’s something.” She exhaled heavily.
“But I have been worried about you. About us. I need you, Mer. It’s obvious, isn’t it? I don’t want you thinking that I . . . expect . . . what happened last weekend to happen again.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I don’t expect it to happen again.” He hoped it would. But he didn’t expect it to.
“Huh.” Mer bit her lip.
Gia arched her back and came awake in Noah’s arms, opening her big, blue eyes and staring up at him blearily.
Noah shifted her again, trying to ease the ache in his biceps, and Gia spotted Mercedes.
“Meh,” Gia greeted sleepily.
Mercedes smiled and leaned in to nuzzle Gia’s cheek, whispering hello into her soft ear. Noah caught a whiff of roses and bergamot, and his legs went weak, and the back of his neck got hot. He really hoped it happened again.
Twelve
1989
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Cora whispered. She and Mercedes were lying in a mound of pillows and blankets on Cora’s bedroom floor. They were having a sleepover for the first time in a while, and they’d made themselves sick on Oreos and Mountain Dew. They’d watched St. Elmo’s Fire and then danced to every music video on MTV for hours, but it was midnight and Mercedes had a pounding headache and a roiling stomach. She thought longingly of her own bed only three doors down, and was jealous of Noah who’d just gone home, Papi’s guitar in tow. Alma had given it to him with Mercedes’s blessing, and he was teaching himself to play. He wasn’t very good—he probably never would be—but he tried hard. He’d danced around with it while the girls sang, all of them pretending they were the Three Amigos version of Tears for Fears, their current favorite.
Alma and Heather had agreed that now that Mercedes, Cora, and Noah were all in high school, Noah couldn’t sleep over. No boys allowed. Mercedes wanted to leave too, but she knew Cora would be disappointed if she did, so she laid back against the pillows and closed her eyes, listening to Cora prattle and responding only when she needed to. Cora’s last question had her opening one eye blearily and staring at her friend.
“No. I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?” Mercedes asked.
“Yes. My mom says there are no such thing as ghosts . . . only angels, but I don’t think that’s true.”
“Abuela says Papi’s an angel. I like to think of him that way. Maybe he sells shoes to all the little angels at the gates of heaven. Like the song,” Mercedes said.
“Will you sing it to me?” Cora asked. “I love that song, but I can’t ever remember the Spanish words. Maybe Noah can learn it on his guitar.”
Mercedes, her eyes closed, sang “A la Puerta del Cielo” all the way through, singing the story of the barefoot angels and begging them to sleep. She hoped Cora would sleep too. “Duérmete niño, duérmete niño, duérmete niño, arrú arrú.”
“Duérmete niño, duérmete niño, duérmete niño, arrú arrú,” Cora repeated softly, her accent bad but her voice lovely. “What’s the verse about the mothers who watch?”
“The children who sleep, God bless them. The mothers who watch, God helps them,” Mercedes sang in English. “Maybe we should change the words to ‘the fathers who watch.’ We both have fathers who watch over us, don’t we?”
“None of us have fathers. Not me. Not you. Not Noah. We should form a club,” Cora answered, her tone bitter. For a long moment, she was quiet, and Mercedes started to drift off, imagining her father smiling while he sold shoes to the angels. Papi would like that. Mercedes may not have a father on earth, but she still had a father.
“Do you think people who kill themselves go to hell?” Cora asked abruptly.
Mercedes jerked and sat up, alarmed.
“Geez, Corey. Why would you say something like that?”
“That girl—Brittney—in history class? She says suicide is a sin. Like murder. And murderers go to Hell.”
“Remind me to punch Brittney when I see her again,” Mercedes grumbled, lying back down.
“If you believe in God, you have to believe in Hell, don’t you?” Cora asked. Her eyes were troubled, and Mercedes groaned. Her belly hurt, and she didn’t want to talk about Hell or ghosts or obnoxious Brittney who wouldn’t know Hell from a hot tub.
“I don’t HAVE to believe anything. I believe in God because Abuela believes in God. And the God Abuela believes in is kind, and He loves all of His children. Especially the ones who need Him the most. Especially the ones who are sad enough that they want to die. He isn’t going to send them away to hell or anywhere else. That’s what I believe.”
“That’s a good thing to believe.” Cora sighed. “Let’s beat up Brittney together.”