Faith and Fidelity (32 page)

Between James and his run-in with Miranda, he was simply rung out and ready for a lightning bolt. Either one bringing death or one bringing revelation; at that point, he didn't much care. He realized that his life had stalled, had been stalled for years. He needed to do something, needed a shake-up to get him moving. Anywhere. Just someplace better than “here.” “Here” was waiting for his old job to come back (never gonna happen), waiting for Evan (Magic 8 Ball says “future is hazy"), waiting for his youth. He needed to stop waiting.

No pressure.

The NYU catalog, sitting there in complete innocence, was his thunderbolt. The conversation with Miranda? The catalog sitting there? The catalog he hadn't ordered?! Matt didn't believe in a lot of things but he did acknowledge when the universe was bitch slapping him with a message.

After registering for the spring semester's classes at NYU (Psychology, Intro to Business, American Literature I, and Spanish II— ‘cause he felt like showing off), Matt hightailed it over to the West Side to meet with the real estate agent. The tiny studio was scarcely a size improvement over his place on Staten Island but at least it was a change. He signed the lease, got the keys, and— relieved of a large portion of his bank account— headed back to his soon-to-be-former pad.

Matt had a million things to occupy his mind during the ferry ride home. He needed to get a new phone number, with an extra line for the computer. He needed to buy a computer. And something to put the computer on... It went on and on. The packing was nearly done seeing as there wasn't much outside of clothes and furniture in the apartment. And the couch and the chair wouldn't be a problem since the delivery men hadn't...

Ouch.

One second Matt was thinking about moving and the next it was all about his weekend with Evan.

Shit.

As he trudged into his apartment's vestibule, he noticed a yellow sticky note on his mailbox. After pulling out his mail (bill, bill, flyer, bill), he read the note. USPS had kindly informed him that his neighbor in 1A held his package.

Mrs. Crimene was about two hundred years old and the size of a lawn gnome. Matt was always afraid he would break her should they pass too closely in the hall. She blinked myopically at him for a few minutes then scurried away to retrieve his package. It took her several moments to return; the box wasn't large but it apparently weighed far more than her stick arms could manage. Matt reached into the apartment— not stepping over the door rubber because Mrs. Crimene had been quite adamant about him staying on his side.

“Thank you, Mrs. Crimene,” he practically shouted.

She nodded, blinked, and slammed the door without another word. Gee, Matt thought, she was really going to miss him, wasn't she?

Upstairs he dropped the box on the counter and tossed his jacket there as well. No messages on the machine, to match the boring mail in his box. Oh yes, Mr. Excitement. At least he'd gotten a package. He didn't recall ordering anything. One look at the return mailing label and he broke into a smile.

Washington.

He had no idea what James might be sending but the very reminder of his friend (lover? Nah, too weird.) brightened his mood as he tore off the paper.

Inside Matt found a neatly sealed box. A few quick swipes with his scissors and it was open. A small square of paper lay on the top.

In James's bold handwriting, he read:

Matt—

Here's a little research material. Have you called yet?

Don't be an idiot.

J.

Matt chuckled. He imagined the stern “tone” of James's voice as he wrote the words. Digging in, Matt pulled out three hardcover books and burst out laughing. “Research material” indeed—
The Gay Kama Sutra?

Snickering, he flipped open the cover and saw James's neat script in the corner.

Call him
was underlined several times, and beneath, in smaller letters, was written,
I recommend pages seventeen, thirty, and forty-one. Stretch first.

Matt laughed until his gut hurt. Goddamn but he was sorry James lived three thousand miles away! The books were great for a laugh, but they also expressed the kindness and encouragement that James wanted to give him.

Call Evan.

Call him.

You idiot.

Matt sighed. Yeah, he wanted to call Evan. He truly did. But not right now. Right now, he was going to call James and bust his chops for sending pornography through the USPS.

Matt grabbed his wallet from the jacket he'd flung over a pile of boxes, rummaging through until he found what he was looking for. James's business card. He checked his wall clock and did a little math. Eight thirty on the West Coast. James would probably be home.

On the third ring, the phone picked up.

“Hello?”

Ah. The infamous roommate.

“Hi. Is James there?”

“James??” The voice sounded surprised. “Do you mean Jim?”

“Yeah.” Matt smiled a little. The roommate seemed a bit off balance.

“Is he home?”

“No, he's... out. Running. Can I take a message?”

“Sure.” In a burst of sudden inspiration, Matt decided to have a little fun. “You can tell him that Matt called. He'll know who it is. I just wanted to thank him for... everything.”

“Uh... huh. Anything else— a number?’

Laughing, Matt dropped the pitch of his voice the tiniest bit.

“Oh, he has my number.”

He could almost hear the imaginary rim shot.

“Riiiight.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” With that, Matt hung up the phone. He wanted James's roommate to be boiling over with questions— and maybe a little jealousy— when James got home from his run.

A shower relaxed Matt after his busy day; he needed to do a bit more packing before the weekend. He had just finished changing into some sweats when the phone rang. Grinning, he picked up the receiver, expecting to hear James's rich voice on the other end. “Hello!” he boomed out. There was silence on the other end.

Okay— not James. “Hello?” Matt asked, quieter this time. He could hear breathing.

“Um... Matt? Hi. It's... it's Miranda. Miranda Cerelli.”

Something broke in the center of Matt's chest.

“Hi, Miranda. Is everything all right?”

She made a shuddering sound into the phone and the fist tightened around Matt's heart.

“I'm... I'm in jail Matt,” she blurted out, sobs taking over. “Please... please can you help me?”

Matt got dressed, grabbed his keys and wallet, and ran out of his building in a breathless panic. He was already on the bridge into Manhattan before he realized he was fucking panicking and took a deep breath.

The traffic was moderate and he sailed downtown, parking in a lot near the police station. Before he ran into the building Matt stopped, running his hands through his hair and cursing out a stream of blue that would make a marine blush. This was like a fucking minefield— him rushing down to help Evan's daughter without calling Evan. Part of it, hell a
lot
of it felt deceptive, and he just didn't want this to mushroom cloud into his face, like Evan thinking he'd use Miranda's situation to try and...

Something.

Faking calm, Matt headed into the precinct, ducking around boys in blue and their suspects/victims/witnesses to find the desk sergeant. He didn't recognize him, but the guy was clearly a vet with enough worry lines under his eyes to make Matt think healso had a mess of kids somewhere over the Queenborough Bridge.

“Hey, Matt Haight,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “Retired NYPD,” he fibbed casually. “I got a call from the daughter of a family friend— she's being held down here.”

The desk sergeant— his name tag identifying him as Sgt. Pollock— nodded cautiously and shook Matt's hand. “Name?”

“Miranda Cerelli,” Matt said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Picked up with some kids— vandalism or something.” He tried to play it casual. “Her dad's out on a case right now so she called me.”

Sgt. Pollock glanced up and then went back to his clipboard. “You have some ID?”

“Absolutely.” He opened his wallet and leaned against the large desk. “You need some more backup you can call Captain Wolkowski up at Vice.” Matt slid his wallet into his back pocket.

More nodding and Sgt. Pollock gave Matt a long hard look, using a cop bullshit detector with the laser beams coming directly out of his eyes.

There was a painful pause, lingering until a trickle of sweat ran between Matt's shoulder blades.

Then the sergeant picked up the phone and dialed down to holding.

Matt said a few prayers of gratitude on the way to the room where they'd stashed Miranda. He bumped into a detective outside the door, Joe Banyon, whom he knew in a very distant, very casual way. A tremor of panic but Detective Banyon clearly didn't remember old news like Matt Haight and he bought the line of bullshit with a weary nod.

“She was with some kids. The boys got mouthy with a shop owner, there was yelling and they threw a garbage can at the front window of the store. We picked up the girls as they were running away.” The man shrugged and indicated the room with a tilt of his head. “She's clean, right? You know the family?”

“Her mom died last year,” Matt said quietly, leaning forward a bit. “She's a great kid though, no problems. Dad's a detective up at Vice— it's all just peer pressure shit, I'm sure.”

Banyon nodded. “Yeah, that was my gut. The girls seemed more scared than anything. You gonna take her home? The guy's not pressing charges against her or the other one. They might have to testify though.”

Matt paused then reached into his pocket for his keys. “I'll drive her home. You need me to sign some stuff... ”

“Yeah, I'll go get the file off my desk.” Banyon shook his hand and wandered off, stopping at the coffee machine before he went any further.

Weak kneed at the level of bullshit he was fertilizing this place with, Matt ducked into the room.

Miranda had her head down on the desk, sniffling and shaking. She had to pee
so bad
and she wanted to take a shower because God, it was
so
disgusting down there in that room. She hadn't seen her friends since they were put in the squad car, and God, her father was going to kill her. What if he didn't let her go to college now?!

The panic flared in her chest as the door opened and she sat up, turned around, and there was... Matt.

And then she ran to him and cried all at the same time, throwing her arms around his middle because he was an adult and he would make things better and he wasn't her father.

“Hey, it's okay,” Matt said, swallowing around a lump in his throat as he rubbed her back. “I'm springing you right now okay? We're going to get you home.”

“No, no— can I go to your p-place? My f-father's going to kill me!” She wept, looking up at him imploringly.

“Miranda, come on. Your dad's a reasonable person. You just tell him the truth.” Matt tried to look stern but failed miserably. “You're going to get grounded, we
both
know that. But your dad loves you more than anything in the world... ”

“I swear, I didn't do anything. We were just standing there! I told the police that!”

“And they believe you, which is why you're getting out of here now, with me.” He looked around and spotted a small box of tissues in the corner. “Here— wipe your eyes, okay? We'll stop somewhere so you can wash your face and... you need something to drink?” Matt untangled himself from Miranda's tightly held arms and grabbed the box. “I just have to sign some papers then I'll drive you home.” Home, where he would have to explain to Evan why he brought his daughter home from jail...

As Miranda wiped her face, her expression of trepidation matched the one on Matt's face perfectly.

The drive to Queens was quiet, punctuated by a few sniffles and slurps on her Big Gulp from Miranda in the passenger seat. She got her bag back, washed her face, and combed her hair, and the caffeine seemed to be calming her down a bit. Matt tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he practiced what he was going to say to Evan, how he was going to look at Evan, and whether this could all be done on the front steps, because walking into that house was going to make him throw the fuck up.

Fortunately, there was a truck breakdown before the tolls and Matt leaned back in his seat, glancing over at Miranda. She was lost in thought but eventually turned her head his way.

“Thanks, Matt. Sincerely. Just... I made such a stupid mistake and I didn't know who to call and I just couldn't call my dad, you know? And you were always so nice... ” Her voice trailed off into a watery little sigh. “I don't understand why you don't come around anymore.”

Suddenly the traffic was more nightmare than reprieve and Matt turned to stare out the windshield again. “Miranda,” he began, his innards twisting up into knots. “I really can't go into this. It's... it's between your dad and me. But... just so you know— I really loved being around you kids.” His throat hurt and he rolled down the window for some musty hot air to gulp into his lungs.

Miranda sniffled again and turned to look back out the passenger window. The traffic lurched ahead and Matt followed, every positive and rational thought he'd had about what happened shrinking into that same confused anger as the day Evan suddenly decided it was over.

Evan was caught in traffic himself, listening to the oldies station and absently humming here and there. Early day as Wolkowski was still keeping him on a light caseload and a close leash. A few cases were thrown his way and every week he had to sit down with Wolkowski and discuss his ongoing therapy. Sometimes it burned, sometimes he punched a wall or kicked a garbage can in fucking frustration, because Jesus, he didn't have much left in his life aside from his kids and his career.

Not that that was anyone's fault but his own, of course.

It was the highlight— and that was sarcasm— of therapy. Evan Cerelli's Guilt Complex. Guilt for Sherri's life and death. Guilt for Matt. Guilt for ending things with Matt. Guilt for starting things with Matt. Guilt for being happy. Guilt for World War Fucking II at this point— the list went on and on. And when the shrink asked him why he thought everything was his fault he didn't have an answer, not even a flippant one.