Book II – Chapter 20: Truth

Posted On June 4, 2016

Seamus still hadn’t come home. Nearly a day had passed without a trace of him and Ferris had been left alone to chafe in the living room. He sat slumped on the sofa, still wearing the ruined dress shirt, still dabbing blood from his lip. His nose had refused to stop bleeding through the night. He was fairly certain the sun had risen, but was too weary to open the windows.

Ferris tossed the red-stained tissue toward the wastebasket, missing by a mile.

“Fuck.” He dragged a hand down his face. Last night had started so well. How could it have ended like this?

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen glowing with a single text message.

Seamus Aston – 1:33am: ran into some old m8s in town be home tomoro prbly ill miss u

Well, at least Seamus had had a nice evening. Where Ferris normally would have been glad to have him out of the house, it had been oddly quiet without him. It was probably for the best — Ferris didn’t want anyone to see him in such a frightfully pathetic state.

Just as he moved to set the phone down, it hummed once more, the ringtone loud enough to startle him into a higher state of consciousness. He blinked hard, staring at the name on the screen. It was Alex.

He tapped to answer, his throat dry as he spoke. “Hello?”

“Hi, Ferris.” It really was her. Her tone, however, was unusually curt. In the background he could hear the faint hum of voices and flatware. She must have been out somewhere.

“Alex.” He sat upright, attempting to shake the grogginess from his voice. “I— I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.”

“I didn’t,” she said, then paused. “I’m mad. But as mad as I am, I want to give you a chance to explain yourself.”

Ferris opened his mouth, then held it. This was it, wasn’t it? This was where he was supposed to tell the truth. This was the moment he’d be honest with her, explaining that he truly had known Aldo, that he’d thrown him onto a table in the back of a butcher shop — that the man blamed him and Demos for the death of his brother.

That Ferris had helped bury the body somewhere upstate.

Ferris closed his mouth, then swallowed. He couldn’t tell her, not the truth — not that truth. Alex was a good person, a normal person. She would never look at him the same way, if ever again. Their relationship would end faster than she could hit ‘end’ on the call.

“I took a self defense class a few years ago.” The words tasted sour on his tongue. “When he pulled that knife on you, I just — I went crazy, I guess. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The line fell silent for a weighted moment. “Self defense class?”

Ferris’ fingers dug into the back of his skull. “Yeah, I got picked on in high school. I thought I should learn.”

His lie was poor at best. Demos would have been able to think of a better one.

“That wasn’t you on the ground.” Alex’s voice was soft and low, a lingering fog across the line. “That was someone else — someone I didn’t like.”

“No.” Ferris stared at the wood floor, his eyes tracing over the thin grain. “That was me.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Ferris forced a laugh.

“And who— or what, is Fishbones?” Alex said.

“I really don’t know. He said all kinds of weird stuff. Maybe he was drunk.”

“You swear you’ve never met him before?”

“I swear.” Each syllable stung, two shots in his hollow chest. The skin over his palms prickled — hot, as if he’d grabbed a handful of white desert sand. As tempting as it was to ask “So, did you buy my lie?,” Ferris had to salvage the conversation.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he said.

She sighed, her breath fuzzy through the receiver. “Actually, you— well, it was one of the best nights I’ve ever had. I’m sorry I stormed off.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Just let me be sorry, okay?”

He smiled, closing his eyes. “Of course. So we’re cool, right?”

“I’m cool. I don’t know what you are.” It seemed she was back to her usual self.

Ferris shifted on the sofa, gathering whatever courage he had in the pit of his stomach. “Did you— did you still want to spend your birthday with me? Tomorrow?”

She didn’t answer immediately, leaving only the sound of pouring coffee and muffled conversation. “Actually, I was thinking tonight. I’m at the diner near your place.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Is that invitation still open?”

His eyes drifted up, bleary as he scanned the room. Bloody tissues littered the floor and it seemed he had consumed a drink or two the previous night. He had neglected showering, his hands still covered in scuffs, stale clothing clinging to his frame. His vision finally focused, falling on a framed photo on the bureau — it was of him and Demos from a day trip to Rawson Beach. Another one caught his eye from the refrigerator, a shot of the same pasty Italian tacked on with a magnet.

The Ghost had left traces of himself all over the apartment — pictures, hair products, abandoned issues of Vogue Italia. Knives.

Ferris swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Yes.”

“Okay.” He swore he could hear her smile. “Be there in a few.”

The moment the call ended, Ferris sprung from the sofa. He staggered, fumbling to unbutton the red-stained shirt and nearly tripping on a bottle that had been discarded on the floor. The diner was only a few blocks away, giving him a grand total of ten minutes before Alex rolled in to the national disaster his apartment had become. It was probably for the best she hadn’t come last night; he’d been too preoccupied with the gala to think of un-Demosing his flat.

Trash was thrown into appropriate bins and photos were stuffed into the bottom of a drawer. His shower was three minutes long, just enough to rinse the blood and sweat from his skin.  A fresh shirt was buttoned up, crooked, then buttoned once more. This had to go well. She was giving him a chance, one that might not come again.

He eyed his watch for the fifth time; she would be at his door within seconds. There was one last thing he had to hide. Ferris turned the dinosaur tooth over in his hands, ensuring the silver wrapping was perfectly creased and taped. If anything could distract her from the fact that he’d pummeled a guy into turkey stuffing on the street, it was this — her birthday gift. Just as he slipped it into his pocket, there was a sound at the door. Knocking.

Ferris took in a hard breath, held it, then opened the door.

“Alex.” He exhaled. “Hi.”

Her smile faltered at the sight of him. “Are you out of breath?”

“What? No. I mean, maybe. Just— just chasing the dog. I had to chase him out of the, uh, the kitchen.”

“Oh yeah, Stanley.”

“Yes.” Ferris managed a tight laugh. “Stan.”

They stood in the doorway for a moment before Alex lifted her brow.

“You do have an apartment in there, right?”

“An apart— oh, yes. Right. Of course.”

He held the door open, allowing her to step inside. She couldn’t smell the alcohol, could she? He’d only had a couple. Maybe she’d notice the scent of bloody tissues, or that unwashed shirt — or self-pity. Did self-pity have a smell?

Ferris rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if—“

Her hands were on his collar before he could finish his sentence, dragging him down into a kiss. All thoughts of lies, miscellaneous smells, and his wretched apartment vanished as he closed his eyes. His hands found her waist, then her back, fingers curling in the soft fabric of her blouse. Just as he began to tilt his head, she paused.

He blinked. “What’s—“

“You have a piano.” Alex was staring over his shoulder.

“I do.”

“You play violin and piano?”

He glanced back at the instrument in question, wishing it had been small enough to hide. “No.”

“Then why do you—“

“It came with the apartment.”

Alex peered at him, then back at the gleaming black monstrosity. “I don’t think that’s—“

“Oh, I promised I’d play for you, didn’t I? Violin.”

His distraction worked magnificently. All thoughts of the piano seemed to vanish from her mind. Her expression brightened, eyes fastened to his own.

“Yes. Yes, you definitely did.”

“All right,” he said, leading her toward the bedroom with both hands. “I’ll play. Then we can make out some more.”

Alex scoffed. “Only if you play well. If you suck it’ll ruin the mood.”

“What if I’m mediocre? Or just so-so.”

“I guess we could make out. But I won’t be into it.”

“Fair enough.”

The bedroom door closed with a click. It seemed he had successfully drawn her attention away from the living room, from the accursed piano, and that their plans were finally coming together. They were alone.

“Oh, there’s Stanley! Aw, were you sleeping on the bed, buddy? Did we wake you up?”

Ferris sighed. “Great.”

#

The bed was warm. Ferris came to slowly, images from his dreams ebbing, mingling with the waking world. Visions of planets, pavement, all red — vivid, then gone. The room was still dark, with only a faint electronic glow in the corner of his eye. His arm shifted, tingling, still asleep as he felt over the covers. There was no one beside him.

It was only when he pushed himself onto his elbows that he noticed Alex. All he could see was her back, a silhouette sitting on the edge of the bed. A glare illuminated her edges — the phone screen. She was holding a phone.

His phone.

“Alex.”

She didn’t respond to his voice. Her figure remained hunched, perfectly still as she stared at the device in her hand. Ferris couldn’t bring himself to move either, trying to ignore the sickness that had crept up through his bones. Something wasn’t right.

The bed was no longer warm.

“So.” She was whispering. “You don’t know who Fishbones is?”

She tossed the phone to the rumpled sheets, its glow blinding him in the black room. Ferris’ eyes stung, slowly adjusting to the light. He clutched the cell phone. There were texts on the screen — five of them.

Demos Giorgetti – 1:14am: you okay?

Demos Giorgetti – 1:53am: fish come on

Demos Giorgetti – 1:53am: god i find out you beat the shit out of aldo and then you dont text me all day

Demos Giorgetti – 3:01am: CALL ME

Demos Giorgetti – 5:48am: WAKE UP

The words burned into his vision. He forgot to take in his next breath, frozen in place as he stared at the plain, damning lines in his own hand. No — not now, not like this.

“You swear?” She was speaking again — another question she knew the answer to. She had always known.

There was nothing he could say, not even her name. He lay mute, mouth dry, unable to think of a single word he could respond with. He couldn’t distract her this time. He couldn’t lie.

She spoke again, her expression hidden in the darkness of the room. “You really do think I’m stupid.”

“No.” He stared down at the sheets, a child caught redhanded.

“I gave you so many chances, Ferris. More than—“

“More than I deserved.”

Her voice hadn’t risen. She remained just above a whisper, simmering. Somehow, Ferris would have preferred yelling. Yelling would be easy to read — it would suit what he had done. This, this soft tone, was more than he could bear. Why was she still sitting there? Why hadn’t she left?

“I want to know,” she said, “how close you are.”

He glanced back up. “What?”

“You and him.” Alex gestured to the phone.

“We’re best friends. We’ve— we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Were you ever more than friends?”

“What? No.”

“Have you ever wanted to be?”

Ferris swallowed. His throat was swollen, raw. The chill in the air was overwhelming, drawing a wave of goosebumps up his arms. “Why are you asking me this?”

She looked away, toward the window. The sun was starting to rise. Hints of light leaked in through the window blinds, faint bars of gold and black.

“I saw his photo in the newspaper,” Alex said. “You were never very good at lying, but I believed you. I believed you because I wanted to, because I liked you. With you I— I was happy, and I didn’t want to lose that. So I lied to myself, the same way you lied to me.”

Ferris closed his eyes, swallowing the apology in his throat. Sorry had no meaning here.

“And the same way you’re lying to yourself,” she said.

He blinked. “To myself?”

“You’ll figure it out. But right now, this can go two ways.” She set the phone on the nightstand, out of view. “I can leave, or I can finally hear the truth.”

Ferris watched her face, the wary crease in her eyes and slight part of her mouth as she breathed. The truth — it was buried in him, an old wooden chest filled to the brim with faded pictures and nightmares, blood-stained, rotting. It was wrapped in chains, coiled with a thousand rusted locks. Its weight made him sick, made every step heavy and his breath weak. Still, he kept it down, right there beneath his bones. He didn’t want to bring it forth, to acknowledge it, but—

Even more, he didn’t want her to leave.

“It’s up to you,” she said.

“All right.” He opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the dim light. “I’ll tell you.”

The bed shifted, and for a moment he feared she would go. When he glanced up, he realized she had only straightened herself, her eyes set straight on his own.

“What’s your relationship with the Giorgettis?”

Ferris pushed himself up, the sheets draping from his sides. “I am involved with them — with their business.”

“What kind of business do—“

“You know I can’t say.”

Luckily, she let the question go. They both knew the answer, whether they liked it or not.

“Just how involved are you?”

“More than you’d like.”

“Have you—“ She paused, twisting one hand in the other. “Have you ever killed someone?”

“No.” For the first time that morning, there was a lightness in his chest. No. It was the truth; he had never killed someone. It was only thanks to Demos he could say so. Alex seemed relieved as well, the tense lock in her fingers relaxing.

“This isn’t you, Ferris. There’s a lot I don’t know about you, but— but I know you’re a good person. You got caught up in all of this, somehow, but it isn’t where you belong.”

Her hand found his arm, warm against his skin. She held him, fingers squeezing, showing just how much she believed her own words to be true. It was painful, the way she looked at him — with hope, with faith. She couldn’t possibly know how wrong she was, how he’d never felt more satisfied, more at home than when he was at Demos’ side.

“No, Alex.” Ferris shook his head. “It is me. And it is where I belong.”

His answer seemed to cut her, yet Alex hand held even tighter.

“It’s not too late to end this. You can leave.”

Leave. The word brought a tide of images, of that morning on the train, the years that followed — the hole in his chest, the perpetual, constant state of emptiness, of hunger. He remembered when spring came, that warm, wet spring. How he’d run to the church, how his entire body had felt as if it were on fire when Demos was finally in his arms — how he’d said his name, Fishbones.

“I tried that once.” Ferris struggled to keep his voice steady. “I can’t ever do it again.”

The room was quiet for a while. They both knew what was coming and held to the silence, keeping it for as long as they could. Finally, she spoke.

“Well, I can.” Her fingers lowered, linking with his. “I like you so much. I almost loved you, but— but I can’t. I can’t do this.”

The rims of her eyes were wet, reddened as she held his hand.

“I’m sorry, Ferris.”

“Alex, I—“

A bulk of words had caught in his throat. He struggled to keep it in, the begging, the pleading. It would be so easy to fight this, to say anything he could to keep her there. I need you. I don’t want you to go. Please don’t go. Ferris’ teeth clenched. There was a difference, there always had been — a difference between what he wanted to say and what he should.

For once, he would say the right thing.

“I understand.”

He didn’t watch what happened next, only feeling her hand slip from his. She kissed the corner of his mouth. Her weight left the bed and then, seconds later, he heard the door click. He could no longer hear her breathe, nor could he feel the warmth of her body. There wasn’t a sound in the room, only the indifferent hum of the air conditioner. He was alone.

It took a while for him to place his feet on the floor. His legs felt heavier, lagging as he made his way across the bedroom. It was only a sharp poke at the bottom of his heel that gave him pause — it was his jeans, the ones he had worn yesterday. Ferris crouched, fishing a small, wrapped box from the rumpled pocket. The silver wrapping had been scuffed by his foot, the tape peeling from the fold.

He slumped to the floor, his back dipping against the unmade bed. Ferris cradled his forehead in his hand, staring at the box with weary eyes.

It was her birthday, wasn’t it?

“Shit.”