Even the Moon Has Scars (9 page)

“I’m not finished,” Lena says, motioning to her half-eaten piece of pie.

“I’m ready to go,” I say.

“Oh, because I asked you a question you don’t want to answer now?” she demands.

Exactly that.

“No, Lena. I’m just ready to go.”

“Liar,” she mumbles under her breath. I thought I liked the sassy version of Lena, but right now I just want her to quit.

I pull out my wallet as soon as our check arrives and hand over my debit card.

“I’m not a liar, Lena. It’s just—being in love doesn’t define you. It doesn’t go to the most deserving. It’s not something you collect, like, the more the better. It isn’t a trinket passed down. It’s a wound left behind. It changes you, but not always in a good way. It’s a goddamn scar.”

Lena pulls back and we both sit in silence for far too long to be comfortable, and well past the awkward-silence stage.

“I understand. I mean, I guess I don’t, I’ve never been there—in love, but I get that it’s not something I can comprehend so…I’m sorry...” her voice trails off and I feel like a prick for getting so riled up.

“Shit happens,” I say with a shrug.

“Some people would say that everything happens for a reason,” she says.

I nod. “And are you one of those people?”

She pauses before answering, like she’s weighing her answer. “Not really.”

“That’s what I thought,” I say. So she’s not as dreamy as she comes off.

I scribble the total and my signature on the receipt, then slump back into the stool.

“Do you want to finish that?” I ask, pointing to her half-eaten slice of pie. I guess I can wait.

“Wait,” she says, “I changed my mind.”

“About the pie?”

Lena shakes her head. “No, about the other thing—about things happening for a reason.”

“That was quick.”

“So, I had this heart defect, right?”

I’m surprised she brought it back up. She couldn’t wait to change the subject back at Harvard.

“But I also had this secondary defect, so I guess I was even more flawed than they originally thought—”

I sigh, “I’d hardly say you were flawed, Lena.”

“No, I was. I am. But the secondary defect, the atrial septal defect—” she pauses and blinks a few times, realizing she’s not speaking English as far as I’m concerned. “The hole in my heart—it allowed tiny amounts of good blood to get from one side of my heart to the other. Because of that secondary defect, I survived until they diagnosed me. The thing that they weren’t looking for, the thing no one expected after this massively bad thing happened, was actually the one thing that saved me.”

I push the salt shaker back and forth on the slick counter between my palms.

How am I going to argue with a girl who wouldn’t be alive without some shitty luck that turned out to be a silver lining?

I could have explained. I could have told her the truth about what happened that night. How I was hauled off in cuffs, how it was all Jemma’s fault—but also mine for continuing to fall into her stupid games. But telling Lena the truth about what a dirtbag I am means this night of being able to just feel free from all of that would be over.

“Anything else you want to check out before we pick up the valve cover?” I ask.

“That’s okay,” Lena shrugs. “I think we should just grab it and get home. Who knows what time my sister will be back and—well, it’s probably just better we get back.”

“Okay,” I nod.

Somehow, I managed to screw it all up anyhow.

Even though it’s a pretty good hike from the diner to the shop, we walk the rest of the way in silence.

Before we go into the shop I say, “Harvard. It’s just that it’s all wrapped up in this story about my ex I really don’t want to get into. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says. I’m not an idiot.
Fine
never
means
fine. “I’m just gonna wait out here this time if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure, I understand.” I pull open the door. It’s probably a better idea. Dreak round two feels like the worst thing that could happen to our night at this point. “I’ll be right back.”

I pull open the door and am relieved to see the dirtbag from before isn’t behind the counter this time.

“Caught me just as I’m about to close up, son, what can I help you with?” he asks.

“Are you Paul?” I ask.

“Sure am, what can I do for you?” This guy looks upstanding. I wonder if he knows what a creep his employee is.

“I’m Gabe, here to pick up that valve cover.”

“Right, for the Corvair,” Paul says. He scribbles on a piece of carbon paper. “So, that’s the car from
Mr. Holland’s Opus
, right?”

“Right,” I nod.

“Don’t see too many of those. Don’t order parts for many, that’s for sure. You restoring it?”

“Yeah,” I say. I glance at the total on the handwritten receipt he’s pushed my direction and pull out the wad of cash I grabbed from the apartment. I could pay with my debit card, but that’s linked to Mom’s account and then she’ll see that I plunked down a good bit of money on something she doesn’t understand. Cash is easier.

“Doing it on your own?”

“Partially,” I say. “My dad and grandfather worked on it for a while. Guess it’s my turn to put in the work.”

Guess I don’t have any other choice. If I don’t do it, the car is just going to sit there untouched. I can’t let that happen.

Plus, I have this stupid idea in the back of my brain that once I get it finished, that if my dad ever comes back to town, that he’d be so damn proud of me. That maybe he’d see all the hard work and want to stick around.

That maybe he’d decide I was worth it.

Paul counts out the money, then shoves it into the register. “Well, you get tired of putting in the work, give me a call. I’ve got a few collectors who would probably jump at the chance to own one of those. Number is on the receipt.”

“Thanks,” I say, shoving the paper deep into my pocket. It’s not my car to sell, and even if it were, I’d never do it.

Paul disappears to the back, then reappears with a box. “Didn’t have the Styrofoam packing with it, so be careful with it on the way home. Hope you have your own car.”

I peer inside and the valve cover is loose in the box. “Great,” I mumble. There’s no freaking way I’m lugging this thing on the T.

“Make sure to give me a ring if you decide to sell. Even partially restored, you could make a mint on that beast,” Paul says.

Outside, Lena is staring into the window of the shop next door. There are glass figurines, crystals, and some scrolls that are probably historic knock off stuff.

“Do you want to go inside?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Looks like they’re closed. Besides, we need to get home anyway.”

Rad, looks like the mood is still chilly.

“So, about that. We need to make a stop at my apartment to drop this.” I hold out the cumbersome box.

“What?” Lena stops walking. Which is good, because if she were headed to the T, or my apartment, she was headed the wrong direction.

“We need to drop the valve cover off at my place.”

“Are you telling me you kept me locked out of my house all of this time, we came all the way out here...” she yelps. “We raced back over here to get that part and now we’re just going to leave it in the city? That makes no sense, Gabe.
You
. Make. No. Sense.”

She throws her hands up, and I try to stifle the laugh bubbling up,

“Right, but the thing that really makes no sense is how this guy charged me what he did and then couldn’t even package it correctly.”

Lena stands on her tip-toes, her long brown ponytail swaying back and forth over her shoulder while she tries to balance.

“It’s metal, it’ll be fine. Let’s go.” She turns to walk away.

“Alright bossy. One, that’s the wrong way. For
everything
. Two, it’s aluminum. The surface that connects to the engine is very precise to keep it from leaking. It’s easy as hell to scratch this up. No chance I’m taking it on the T. Not after what I paid for it and how long it took me to track down. We’re gonna drop it at my place then we can head back to Gloucester. I’ll come back tomorrow and pack it up right and bring it back with me then.”

Lena presses her hand to her hip and shakes her head.

“One more stop. Then we’ll be on the train and, before you know it, you’ll be back in your protective fortress. Don’t worry,” I say, rolling my eyes at her dramatics.

“Fine.”

“Cool,” I say. “Let’s go this way then.”

I nudge Lena in the direction of the apartment.

This night could have gone one hundred different ways:  I could have said to hell with the part, showed Lena a good time. I could have not answered that call from Jemma while Lena waited on the bench—then my mood wouldn’t have gone to shit. I could have spilled the truth to her at Harvard, told her how I feel like I’m this punk kid no one believes in. Told her that I didn’t want to tell her the truth because I like the way she smiles at me and the way she pokes me in the ribs like we’re old friends, the way she fixes my collar without a second thought. I could have told her all of that.

Instead, I’m going back to Gloucester tonight. Without the part. Without getting to know Lena. I’m back where I started this morning, not moving forward in any way at all. Which I guess is the theme of my life right now.

When we get to the building, I wave hello to Bruce, and he tips his cap like always and asks, “Back again, young Gabriel?”

“Yep,” I say. “Just got to run this upstairs.”

“Your mother is in,” he says. He twirls the end of his red mustache.

I freeze. “She is?”

“Yes. Said she has to make an appearance at an event tonight. Will you and your friend be going along?”

“No,” I rub the back of my neck. “Definitely not.”

I press the button for the elevator, but Lena hangs back when the doors open.

“We can just try to carry it on the train,” Lena offers. “I can help.”

Don’t think that thought didn’t occur to me the second Bruce mentioned Mom.

But I can’t. This part will never survive the T ride home packed like it will be at this hour with all of the people pushing and shoving their way to find an empty patch of air.

“I can’t,” I say. “I’d at least have to go up and find some way to pack it better.”

“You sure?” she asks. Her lips press together in a slight grimace.

“I’m sure.” But Lena doesn’t move. “You coming up?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says. “I’m wearing her clothes, and—”

“I’m telling you, she won’t even notice. Come on up,” I say.

I hold the door open while Lena weighs her options.

“Are you sure?” She pulls her brows in and puckers her mouth a little. I reach out for one of her hands, but she’s too busy wringing them in nervousness to notice.

“Lena, it’s fine. She’s probably already left anyway. Bruce doesn’t see everything.”

That’s sort of a lie.

I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve never slipped out without Bruce seeing me. Even that time when there was a lobby full of moving boxes that I couldn’t even see over, and I tried to sneak out the front to go to the pharmacy next door to buy some ice cream because Mom and Dad were fighting, and ice cream alone felt like the better alternative than listening to them anymore.

But I can’t tell Lena that, because I really don’t want to go up without her.

“Besides,” I say. “I’m just dropping it inside, then we can bail.”

At least I hope. Best case scenario is that Mom is in a hurry and won’t have time to grill me about the last few weeks. That she won’t plunk down the progress reports they’ve undoubtedly been sending from school about the projects I’ve missed.

Lena tilts her head to the side as the doors start to close. I reach out and hold them open.

“Gabe,” she asks sweetly.

“Yes?”

“Are you hoping to use me as a buffer?” She flashes the first smile since the entire mood shifted when we left Harvard.

“Your cynicism is adorable, but, no. I just don’t see the point in you waiting downstairs. My mom will be happy to meet you.”

And maybe I’m hoping Lena will be a
little bit
of a buffer.

Lena concedes and steps into the elevator.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Show me your lock picking skills when we get back, and that’ll be all the thanks I need.”

“You’ve got it.”

Inside the apartment it’s dark, apart from the light shining from upstairs in Mom’s bedroom. I mentally weigh the odds of whether or not I can make it up to my room to drop the part and slip back out of the apartment without Mom noticing.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. I flip on a couple of lights in the living room before heading for the stairs. The chandelier above the dining table brightens the space enough that I can see the worry in Lena’s eyes. “Hey, buffers can’t—-”

“Gabriel?” Mom calls from her room.

Shit.

I can’t be sure, but I swear I just saw Lena make the sign of the cross. She backs up toward the door, maybe she’s thinking about making a run for it, but Mom appears—saving me from Lena saving herself.

“¿Qué haces aquí , hijo?”
she asks. Ah, crap, she’s busted out the Spanish, which means she’s about to lay into me—then she sees Lena.

She straightens her posture and shakes her head slightly so her hair falls back behind her shoulders.

Mom’s wearing a black dress, some kind of animal fur wrap-thing, and her signature toothy grin.

The fur is real.

Her smile is fake.