Split (12 page)

He pulled his shades off and winked. “O’Reilly. Mr. Gullible himself.”

Before I could return a clever reply, Boone had wrapped his arms around me and was squeezing me, lifting me an inch off the ground. “How you been? Jesus. How long has it been?” He released his powerful grip on me and cracked a smile.

Same smile. Same eyes. Same demeanor.

I raked an unsteady hand through my hair. “Seventeen years.”

His blue eyes clouded over. “Well, shit. That long, huh?” Boone’s gaze roamed for a moment, and then he laughed. “I wasn’t sure you were the same Derek O’Reilly, but when I saw that head full of red flames, I knew it had to be you. What’s up, man? Why you tearing down the street like a bat out of hell? Some girl piss you off?”

I laughed nervously. “Not rea-really,” I softly returned, knowing Boone has always had a clear view of the details that make up my composition.

His eyes moved over me. “No.” He watched me closely. “Don’t think so.” He tilted his head, studying my face. “More like
man trouble
, huh?”

Under the brilliant Montreal sky, with the indigo night shrouding us, I held Boone’s frank stare. “The second one,” I confessed against the urban noise.

Boone squeezed my shoulder and welcomed my simple but liberating statement with a generous smile. “Thought so,” he said. “Guess I always knew. Folks know?”

I nodded.

“Yikes. Bet you’ve been collecting Bibles ever since.”

My heart swelled with peace.

Boone. My wonderful Boone.

“I can’t believe they let you enter the police force,” I teased.

“Hey, watch it, O’Reilly. I’m still debating about the ticket.”

Right.

“How long have you been a cop?”

“Four years in November.”

“And how did that happen?”

Boone rubbed his brow, then chucked softly. “Blame it on Di Paglio.”

Officer Scott Di Paglio. I had forgotten about him.

“After my brother left, Di Paglio sort of lingered around us, you know? Like maybe he felt bad about the things he’d said about my brother back when all that shit went down.”

Yes,
that shit
.

I remembered my stay at the hospital, and Di Paglio’s warm brown eyes. The way he had courted Aunt Fran in a clumsy but sweet way. He could have been an uncle to me.

“After Nick left, I started acting out. You remember. By the next summer, I was well on my way to Juvy if Di Paglio hadn’t stepped in. He got me thinking and moving. He got me interested in the military. In training. Discipline. Those things just felt right to me. I guess they appealed to me. So, I joined up with the cadets and the rest is history.”

A question scorched my tongue, but I couldn’t even summon the courage to hear myself speak his name.

Nick.

Boone shrugged. “Anyways, what do you do?”

I smiled.

“Lemme guess. Accountant, right?”

I nodded. “Financial analyst,” I said with false arrogance.

He whistled, and bowed. “Well done, Red. Well done. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh man, I can’t wait to tell Lene about this. She’s gonna flip. We were just talking about you last week at my parents’. Wondering what you were up to.”

Lene. I remembered her toothless mouth. Our baby. The love notes. How old was she now? Twenty-seven years old. A woman.

“How is Lene?”

“She’s at Douglas. Since last June.”

Douglas.
The mental institution. The nut house.

“Oh God, Boone. I’m sorry—”

“It’s cool, man, I mean, I wouldn’t be able to cope, but she likes it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s good money too.”

“They pay her?”

“Yeah man, expect her to work for free?”

I shook my head, smiling. “She works at Douglas. She isn’t a patient.”

Boone exploded into laughter. “That’s too funny. Oh, she’s gonna love that.” He caught his breath. “Lene’s a shrink. A good one too.”

Of course. That makes perfect sense.

“So you got somebody?” Boone asked.

“Yes.”

“
Yes
. Okay. Well, what’s this guy’s name? What’s he do? How long have you been together? Is it serious?”

I chuckled, grateful that Boone’s curious nature hadn’t dwindled with the years. “His name is Nathan. He’s in sales. Pharmaceutical industry. It’s serious, yes.”

Boone whistled. “Pharmaceuticals, huh? So the guy’s loaded.”

I frowned, then shrugged. “It’s a comfortable living, yes.”

Boone’s eyes flickered for a moment, but he let it go.

We had covered everything important in less than three minutes.

Not
everything
, but I still couldn’t bring myself to ask about him.

“Listen,” said Boone, “I gotta jet. But hey, what are you and Nathan doing this coming Saturday?”

I thought about it.

Who cares.

“How ’bout you guys come for dinner? I think we should do that. Kenya is gonna fix you the best meal you’ve ever had, and we can catch—”

“Kenya? You married Kenya?”

Boone’s smile nearly knocked the air out of me. “I told you she was my soul mate.”

“Kids?”

“No, but we’re trying. We got a little house in Crawford Park, you know the neighborhood, right?”

“Of course. We used to ride our bikes up and down the Queen Elizabeth Park.”

“So, you wanna?”

“I’d be honored. We’ll be there, absolutely.”

“Here’s my card, and your ticket.”

I glanced down.

“Kidding,” said Boone. “I’ll see you Saturday, then?”

“Yes.”

“Derek O’Reilly,” he mumbled as he walked away. “I can’t believe it.”

I stood on the side of the road, inwardly cursing myself for being such a coward.

Seventeen years of wondering and hadn’t had the balls to ask.

Boone plucked the car door opened. “By the way,” he said, leaning on the door. “In case you’re wondering.” He winked. “Nico disappeared for more than a decade. The son of a gun traveled the world. Nico worked on cruise ships and beach resorts, bartending and cooking his way to a small fortune. We’d get postcards from every fucking continent. One month he was pushing booze at a Club Med in Saint Lucia, the next he was writing from a boat somewhere off the Alaskan coast.” Boone smiled, and then his eyes locked themselves to mine. “We didn’t hear from Nico for a whole year, and one morning, just like that, he came back. That was five years ago. He opened a little bistro restaurant in the old port. A place called Split. He’s doing well too. Got some fantastic reviews lately. But I don’t see much of him. There’s still some bad blood between him and my mom. Plus, he’s busy. Him being a big-shot chef and all.”

A chef.

A jolt of energy shook my insides.

I remembered that thick hardcover book on Nick’s nightstand.

Boone laughed. “You should see your face right now. You still have a thing for him, don’t you?”

My cheeks filled with heat. “No I do-don’t.”

“Right. Of course you don’t. Then it doesn’t matter if I tell you that Nico swings both ways. I mean, I’m just saying.”

Swings both ways.

My cock jumped.

I remembered a certain winter night. Private words whispered behind closed doors.

“I’ll see you Saturday,” Boone shot back before shutting the car door.

I watched him drive away and the silver moonlight engulfed my vibrating soul.

Swings both ways.

A chef.

Oh, God help me.

*

Dear Bump,

I have an oral presentation due next week.

Do you know what that means? Do you?

It means I’m going to have to stand in front of the whole class and faint.

“I’ll do all the talking, you just hold the chart,” says Boone.

We’re allowed to team up, but that doesn’t help much. Mrs. Saint-Amour counts the words. Everyone has to speak equally, or she knocks points off.

“You write it and I’ll draw the chart,” says Boone.

Please
. I know. It’s the same every year.

“We’ll do it on Doc Brown.”

“Boone. Doc Brown isn’t a real per-person.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

This presentation makes my skin itch. Boone doesn’t understand the concept of research. Reality doesn’t seem to visit him much.

“We’ll say he’s from out of town.”

We have one week. One week to find someone we admire and interview this person.

I suggested Mrs. Bebelski.

I like Mrs. Bebelski. She lives two doors down from us. She sits on her porch all day and knits. She has a pair of slippers for every day of the week. She has a number tattooed on her arm. On account of her being a survivor of some war called the
hollow cost.

But Boone grimaced. “Nope. She always makes me eat those dry bananas.”

Boone’s suggestions don’t take us anywhere. Unless we can track down the Terminator and ask him a few personal questions. Oh, and since he got back from Florida, Boone is making everyone call him Maverick. Says he’s going to be a pilot when he grows up. Says he’s going to fly jets.

I’ve been thinking about what Mrs. Saint-Amour said.

“Anyone who you feel has done something of significance around you. May it be grandiose, or small. It doesn’t matter. This is your chance to sit down and talk with this person. Get to know this person more deeply.”

More deeply.

There is only one person like that around me.

But it would be easier to sit down with Indiana Jones.

*

Dear Bump,

So, we were discussing the presentation over a bowl of tapioca, in Boone’s basement.

“We could ask your aunt some questions.” Boone flicked a crumb off the coffee table. “Make it look like she’s some big shot.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t wanna ask m-my aunt per-personal questions.”

“Why not?”

I puzzled over his question for a moment. “Because, then she’ll ask them all right buh-buh-back.”

Boone skimmed his tapioca. He always carefully removes the first layer because he doesn’t like the cinnamon Mrs. Lund sprinkles on top. “We could ask Coach Angelos. He’s in the
Club Optimist
. They do charity work and stuff.”

Boring. “No.”

Boone sighed impatiently. “You keep saying no to everything. What’s wrong with you, anyway? You’re acting like a prissy boy.”

My eyes darted up.

Boone sank back into the couch and folded his arms over himself. “You haven’t said a word to me since I got back.”

“What? I’m talking to you-you right now.”

“Not really, no.” His blue eyes fastened themselves to mine. “You’re different. You walk different. And you never smile anymore.”

Boone’s words poked at something raw inside me. I dug the spoon into the pudding, and then stuffed it in my mouth.

He shook his head. “Fine. Be like that.”

I didn’t want to be “like that.” I wanted to be at the opposite side of “like that.” I wanted to tell him about Mom’s yellow breath and Dad’s empty promises.

And how his brother’s smile makes me want to take my pants off.

See if Boone ever heard of something like that.

“We could ask your duh-dad,” I finally said.

Boone fiddled with a couch pillow. His eyes kept swooping the room, as if maybe, if he looked hard enough, the person would magically appear before us. “Not my dad. Too busy.” He slapped his thigh. “What about Jesse Chao’s dad? He writes for a paper. He went to Iraq last year.”

“I thought he was a cow-cowboy.”

Boone rolled his eyes, and picked up his cup again. “So? Should we call Jesse and ask him if his father would wanna do it?”

The very thought of asking Jesse Chao for anything makes me angry. “No-no way. Nope.”

“You’re just mad ’cause he’s been winning every chess game since we got back from the holidays.”

It’s true. I don’t know why, though. I can’t think straight anymore. My head is filled with fog. I keep forgetting Johan’s strategies. Like something has sucked the normal thoughts out of my head and replaced them with fragments of someone else’s mind.

It’s been like that since the Lunds came back from Florida.

Finally, Boone set his empty cup down and threw the pillow on the ground. “Forget it. We don’t have anyone. It’s a stupid idea anyway. Why couldn’t she do like Mrs. Jenkins and ask us to pick our favorite animal?”