A Thousand Starry Nights Read online

  I realize a good private education can be costly, but I paid less last year for the house I’m leasing than I ponied up for tuition in the last six months alone. Although, I have no reason to complain. I jumped tax brackets like an Olympian clearing hurdles a few years back when Ford birthed his brainchild and pulled me in. Even as the zeros kept expanding in my bank account I haven’t forgotten the value of a dollar. I wasn’t fed with a golden spoon as a child unlike my ex-wife. I was fed with coins buried in sofa cushions while my mother stretched ground beef with corn flakes to feed all the hungry mouths she amassed. Then she left one day and never came back. On purpose—foul play? We were never sure. One thing I do know is she left a hole in my heart the shape of her smile, and I’ve been begging Aspen to fill it ever since. My stepfather raised us along with his own brood. He worked on the legal team for Sea Ridge Boarding School and managed to score scholarships for my brothers and me. He had three older daughters already married off and having babies of their own. He was done with his family. He wasn’t too interested in rearing a second brood, especially not alone. Can’t say I blame him. He’s a good guy though.

  Robyn scurries toward me, holding down her cardigan with the Valentine hearts stamped all over it. Whatever the season, Robyn has a sweater. I suppose that’s how she knew she was cut out for this line of work. All she had to do was look in her closet, and it forecast her future at the Montessori school efficiently as a roadmap. Robyn is slender-framed, her hair peppered with too much gray far too early and a soft doughy face that begs the world to love her through a dull, pained smile.

  “I’m sorry, but the office wanted me to bring to your attention that a third reference is necessary if Abby is going to participate in the field trip next month.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been meaning to get to that.”

  “Well, here you go.” She thrusts a pen in my face along with the release form. “You know you can always add Cheryl’s name. It’s not uncommon for ex’s to be primary contacts. It would make this all little smoother in the event of an actual emergency. Of course in an earth shattering emergency Cher would be notified anyway so it’s simply a formality, right?”

  Right. Except when it’s no earth shattering, and I don’t necessarily want my daughter picked up by my ex during my week. I’m not vindictive, just realistic. Cher has made it known she plans on eating into my time with our daughter leaving me with scraps and then one day nothing.

  “I got this.” I take the paper from her and lean it against Abby’s Louis Vuitton backpack. Nothing but the most extravagant carryall for our little girl’s cut and paste projects she carts home from school.

  I stare blankly at the office letterhead. For a moment, I consider writing down her name. Cher. She’s left nothing but a bitter taste in my mouth for years, but we’re mostly over the wishing one another would drown in the bathtub phase of our marital demise and onto the civilized chapter of our existence, mostly. I’ve never wished ill will on Cher, but it was evident from the way she mowed me over with her car that my life wasn’t too high on her priority list. In her defense, I refused to get out of the way when she threatened to leave with Abby and never come back. I can be stubborn to the point of my mortality, and I might have a small fear of people leaving and never coming back. I suppose that’s the one Freudian contention my mother blessed me with before she disappeared.

  My fingers cinch over the pen. I have Stevie and Ford down as contacts. Cash and Carson are the last two people who need to arrive on the scene should catastrophe strike. My stepsisters are all out of local range, and my stepfather hardly knows who Abby is. My hand whips over the form so fast, I can’t properly process what’s happened as I pass it back.

  “Aspen O’Tool?” she reads out loud and nods.

  “An old friend.”

  “That’s fine.” Her brows rise with disappointment. Robyn has tried her best not to take sides since the divorce was finalized last November, but, as evidenced by her tireless advocacy of my ex, I can see where her loyalties lie. We take off, and I secure Abby into her car seat.

  Cher made it a point to drag my name and reputation through pig vomit once I asked for a separation. People assumed I was having an affair, and Cher happily perpetuated the rumors. I believe the word “escorts” was tossed around liberally. But Cher knew the hard truth because I gave it to her. It’s impossible to keep something together that never should have been welded at the hip in the first place. I’m just happy to have escaped with joint custody. And that little miracle required an entire team of hungry sharks. I paid in spades to make sure Abby would know who I was for the duration of her childhood. That she would still be able to see my face in person for the next decade of her life.

  “Daddy, who is Aspen?” Abby’s voice floats through the air like it’s own personal springtime, warm and blooming with promise.

  “Just a friend.” Saying anything around Abby is like imprinting words to a parrot. I suppose it’s just a matter of time before she starts singing the words Mommy thinks Aspen is a bitch—actually bitch isn’t Cher’s favorite descriptive when it comes to Aspen. It’s a more localized part of the female anatomy that I pray she never lets fly in front of my sweet baby girl. Cheryl has been known to let an expletive or two go around our baby. She’s got a temper, but, then, I’ve always known that about her.

  “Just a friend!” Abby chirps. “Daddy has just a friend!” she trills as we hop on the freeway.

  Instead of heading toward home, I cruise by Hamlin Avenue the main thoroughfare that intersects the condo where Aspen and Henry live. Now that she’s fully saturated my brain, now that Abby is singing her name from the backseat like a Christmas carol, the rest of me is simply on overdrive.

  I’ve been past her home a time or two but usually it’s late, late at night when even the neighborhood watch has said fuck this shit and called it. But this drive-by that’s in the process of commencing in broad daylight feels something just this side of a felony waiting to happen. Lines are being crossed, boundaries ignored, as I take the left that leads to Lockland Street. No sooner did Aspen enter into her marriage than I exited mine. Abby had just turned one, and, at that point, both Cher and I knew the farce was over. It didn’t stop Cher from wrapping her body around my leg like a toddler and begging me not to go. But she had used her fair share of trickery to land me in the marriage in the first place. It’s true no one put a gun to my head, but when my stepfather suggested I man up, I figured it might be the right thing to do. I guess back in his day manning-up equaled a lifetime of happiness or in the least a stiff upper lip that lasted a good fifty years, but everything about my short-lived marriage was eroding me from the inside. Then the invitation came in the mail. To Mr. and Mrs. Carter Cannon. It gutted me to see her impeccable penmanship as familiar as her beautiful face. Aspen took the time to write that herself—each loop, each flowery curve of our joint name. It was a bullet to the heart and more so what waited for me inside.

  Aspen’s condo is situated on the first floor with a balcony both in the front and the back. I know the layout, the square footage, I know the landlord’s first and last name and that he’s enjoying a very strict tax lien against this place that might put it to auction in a few short months. I know that tiny, boxy casket from the inside out thanks to both realtor.com and Google maps—the starter kit for stalkers. A freshly staked sign, or a box of some sort, sits on the tiny patch of grass just shy of their steps. For a moment my adrenaline spikes and I’m hopeful to see a screaming red for rent sign. The first thing Cher and I did when we parted ways was dissolve all our worldly assets in a blender before gifting them to our attorneys to guzzle down at their leisure. Maybe Aspen and Henry are finally throwing in the towel. Sadly the thought elevates my mood far higher than I ever thought it could.

  Another heart-stopping thought comes to mind. Maybe they’re simply moving to some undisclosed locale? My worst case scenario right there. But I don’t have too much to worry about. If I wanted to pry, Stevie w
ould giftwrap a map to Aspen’s new home for me. I’ve got every stalkers dream right in my back pocket, my soon-to-be sister-in-law. But I’m no stalker. I’m the man that should have married Aspen to begin with. I glance back at Abby with a dull smile. Destiny simply chose a detour and handed me an immeasurable blessing bundled in pink. I’m hoping destiny is all done with the waylay and that Aspen and I can one day find our way back together. It seems an awfully dismal hope, considering she’s still in the throes of marital bliss. Not that I’ve heard she’s particularly blissful, in fact, Stevie reports quite the opposite. She’s all but equated him to a wife beater. And, in some strange way, I’ve justified my snooping into Aspen’s life, her neighborhood, with this terrible revelation. But I’d like to think Aspen is too strong of a woman to put up with that shit. That she would stomp Henry out with the back of her heel like a spider if he ever thought to lay an aggressive hand on her. A part of me insists Stevie is exaggerating, but a very sick part of me is hoping there’s a modicum of truth because in a twisted way it gives me hope that she just might leave him.

  The street is dim as the sun sets over my shoulders. The figure of a man steps out of the shadows and onto the balcony, and my body bites with heat at the sight. Henry. My teeth grind just inspecting his ghostly frame. He steps in closer to the rails, holding a long thin blade, and, for a moment, I envision him propping Aspen’s severed head over the balcony. But in the other hand he holds a glass platter, most likely ready to fill with a juicy cut of rib eye. He lifts the lid on the barbeque and a trail of smoke leads to the sky, letting the world know he’s burning dinner.

  I drive by slower than anticipated past their white picket fence, mocking me with its poppy-lined boarder. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get one good look at that sign. I slip in close and inspect it, but it’s not a sign at all. It’s a clear plexi-glass box with a glued on thatched roof—the words “Lending Library” sprawled out in bold letters across the front.

  A pair of beautiful bare legs kick into view from the balcony, Aspen’s legs, as I smoothly drive by as if I belonged in the neighborhood.

  Lending library. A dull smile rides on my lips. That’s an Aspen thing to do if ever there was one. She’s a bookworm, a hoarder of all things intellectual, a storehouse of knowledge that could take any set of encyclopedias to task. A smile warms my face. A library. I shake my head. Just when I didn’t think I could love her any more.

  I drive home, make my own dinner, which incidentally I don’t burn—bathe and tuck Abby into bed before staring at my phone as if it were Aspen herself. I’ve had her number on my contact list since last December when the Lionhearts mobilized and jumped my brothers and me from behind. It was an excuse as good as any to take one cyber step closer to the only woman my heart will ever belong to. I suppose I was the only one in the room who didn’t mind the corporate coup. I knew Aspen was tethered to the deal, and I would have gladly traded all of my monetary wealth, everything my brothers and I worked so hard for, just to step an inch closer to her.

  The whiskey flows freely for about an hour straight as I dare myself to call her and say something self-effacing like I was just a stupid kid back in school.

  Anything would be better than the great wall of silence she erected so long ago. Any response would be the greatest high. Instead, I go with something a little less complex and fire off a text.

  Goodnight Juliet.

  A half hour later my phone buzzes, and I get the jolt of a lifetime as I flip it over.

  Goodnight Romeo.

  A Wishing Moon

  Aspen

  Anne of Cleves was a German Princess and the fourth wife of King Henry VIII. It is rumored that they neither consummated their union nor enjoyed each other’s company. Prior to their first meeting, Henry commissioned an artist to stain her likeness onto a canvas and, once the King took a gander, he was smitten and sold. But, as fate would have it, the artist took a few liberties with Anne’s portrait, and the King was displeased at how far her canvassed beauty stretched from reality. Word on the cobbled street is that he referred to her as “a fat Flanders mare.” He didn’t love her. An unloved wife is a very tragic thing.

  The week drifts by in a sweep. It’s more of the same but on steroids. Avoiding Carter has become an expert challenge. Friday morning, after I shower and dress, I make Henry and myself coffee, decaf with extra cream. I don’t like the jitters, and Henry doesn’t need them. Afterwards, I engage in my early morning ritual of skimming the news and scrolling through emails.

  Only it’s Henry’s inbox I’ve stumbled into. I see the words Sonic Glass and freeze as if met with a gun to my face. It feels surreal as if I’m having some out of body experience. An oily tickle runs up the back of my throat. There are hardly any words in the human lexicon that can easily put the fear of God into me, but the words Sonic Glass used in consecutive order are two of them. Sonic Glass is a front used by the local loan sharks who do most of their dealings locked in seedy alleyways somewhere near the docks. I don’t know the specifics, don’t want to. All I do know is that Henry has paid one too many visits to our nefarious, completely illegal little friends.

  “Henry?” I try to bury the agitation in my voice. Henry’s temper is an unstable house of cards. Any gentle sway of the wind sends his sanity toppling and does so at least six times a day. I’m an expert at avoiding Henry as well. He stays up in the living room watching movies all night while I hit the sack by ten. The only intimate time we share is when he takes me by surprise, usually when I’m in a dead sleep. He takes me hard, unlubricated, instantly enlivening me with pain as if it were required penance for marrying him in the first place.

  For the most part, neither of us are getting any, and, with his temper on the rise, with the way he looks at me with contempt, with that I-asshole-you-my-cave-cunt attitude I couldn’t care less to give it to him. I do quite nicely all by myself in the shower. Carter helps on that end, but there are some secrets I’ll be taking to the grave, thank you very much, and that is one of them. “Henry!” I let it out in one frustrated shrill that rides up my throat like a fire alarm. Screw his temper. The longer I stare at the words Sonic Glass, the hotter mine gets.

  “What the fuck?” He stumbles into the room, red-faced with sleep still gluing his eyes shut. “Shit.” He kicks the wastebasket next to the makeshift office in the dining room, sending wadded up balls of paper rocketing across the room.

  “Sonic Glass sent you an email. What the hell is this about?” They’ve sent them before. Henry showed them to me last time in a fevered rush while convincing me we needed to fleece my mother. Of course they speak in code, demanding payment for services rendered, the installation of non-tempered glass that they will gladly break and cut you with.

  “You bitch.” He slams the laptop closed so fast he nearly clips my fingertips. “Are you going through my shit?”

  “It’s my shit, too. And no, to answer your question, you left your mailbox open. If you want to keep a girlfriend on the side, log out once in a while.”

  His eyes widen as if he were caught red handed, and, suddenly, words I spoke in jest, fly around the room like a coven of rabid bats.

  Henry wouldn’t have an affair. He couldn’t. He can hardly get it up for his wife most nights. He’s too shit-faced after his Jim Beam worship.

  “Sonic Glass. Are you doing business with them?” The last time Henry did “business” with these mob wannabes, I ended up on my knees before my mother begging her to pull a hundred grand out of her 401K, and she did so, penalties and all.

  Henry’s stepfather runs a multimillion dollar construction company in Northern California and has tried for years to get Henry to move up and join him, but Henry has too many get-rich-quick schemes running to be bothered with an honest days work. And apparently landing himself on a hit list with a band of brutal bastards that are known for far more creative endeavors than the traditionally broken leg is one of them. They can make any death look like a suicide, create a twelve-car
pileup with the uncanny ability to land their intended victim in a casket. I heard once they decapitated a man with a thin sheet of glass that “accidentally” slid out of the back of their truck on the Grapevine.

  The last time we dealt with these idiots, I made the mistake of going with him, and the dick in charge ran his fingers down my ponytail—said he liked it when a girl gave him something to pull on.

  A mean shiver runs through me at the memory. Swear to God, if I get fucked sideways by a bunch of money-hungry assholes, I’m going to kill Henry myself.

  “What’s the damage?” I don’t need to ask if this is a sure thing anymore. Judging by the sudden cognizant look on his face, I know it is.

  “Nothing big.” He smooths his hand over the back of his neck with a sense of restrained calm as if trying to pull me down from a ledge. Me. Down from a ledge. I almost want to laugh. “We can cover this in a week.”

  “What’s the total, and when is it due?” A viral panic grips me. Henry is a toss off, a do-nothing. What he means is that with my salary we could cover this in a week. And since Henry has no concept of money, I very much doubt I can cover this in a week.

  Henry sits across from me at the table, lands his hands in a praying position as he closes his eyes for a moment. His hair is disheveled, his face punch-red with enough broken blood vessels covering his nose to qualify him as the town drunk based off aesthetics alone.

  “Three fifty.”

  My heart lets out one fitting sonic boom.

  “What the hell do you need that kind of money for?” The words come out in a near whisper as I try to lure the truth from him one syllable at a time. Henry is lousy at sharing and caring. The only thing he ever thinks about is the almighty “I.” Nope, I’m willing to bet every defunct dollar I owe that whatever he pulled the loan out for had everything to do with coddling his pleasures.