Page 11 of Brando

I’m losing my mind. I’m biting my perfectly manicured nails. I’m pulling at my hair. Then I walk away to a quiet little corner, bend over with my hands on my knees, and hurl all over the ground of the derelict carpark we’ve pulled into. Brando leans against his car with his arms folded against his chest, watching from a distance. Mason approaches and grabs me, taking me in his arms as I sob mournfully into his chest. He smooths down my hair, telling me everything’s going to be okay, and I cry harder. I don’t for one minute think I believe him.

Brando pushes off from the car and decides to walk around the perimeter, putting distance between himself and the emotional turmoil swirling around me. As I watch him move, my mind slips back to those summers that now seem likethey belonged to someone else's life. Brando and I had been inseparable - two halves of a whole, exploring the woods behind our neighborhood, building forts, and telling each other stories that only we believed. The world was magical then; it was ours and ours alone.

The rift between us didn't come suddenly or loudly. It crept in quietly, like mist rolling over a river at dawn. First, we migrated from childhood to early adolescence, and then entering high school, we each formed our own little group of friends. Our time together was relegated to those lazy weekends when we happened to run into each other, or as I like to remember it, how we went out of our way to run into each other, because it was something to look forward to. Then I became more and more fascinated with my books; all I ever wanted to do was sit under a tree and read, daydream and hang out with my friends at the mall. And all he wanted to do was play football and be like his father. Our time together outside of school grew less and less as more time passed. Until the most time we spent together at school was when we were thrown together to work on class projects, and the scent of what we once had been to each other threatened to smother me.

Now here we were, years later, thrown back together by circumstance, searching for my twin sisters who vanished earlier tonight. Despite the chasm between our past and present, an unspoken agreement hangs in the air, that he is here to help. Never mind that he once broke my heart; some things don’t get a perfect ending. Some things are just left to unravel, pushing forward into the unknown.

As Brando circles back to where Mason and I stand, I wipe my face with the back of my hand, trying to compose myself. Mason looks up and nods faintly at Brando, as if acknowledging his return from self-imposed exile.

“Are you sure you haven’t forgotten any place they could be?” he asks me. His voice sounds more forceful than it did before, as though he is slowly losing his patience as the night wears on, or maybe that’s his way of dealing with his own frustrations as we try to bridge the gulf that settles between us.

I pause for a moment before nodding slowly. “I can’t think to look anywhere else,” I whisper. “These are the usual places they come to.” My voice cracks slightly as I speak, wondering if I’ve possibly missed something.

“What about friends? Boyfriends?” he suggests, and I shake my head and tell him all their friends’ numbers are in my phone. When I tell him I left my phone back at the apartment we’d been staying in before we arrived at the safe house, he raises his eyebrows and turns to Mason for explanation. Mason shrugs at Brando sheepishly and tells him it was a security measure.

“Well, we’re going to need that phone,” he says, pointedly.

We pile silently into the car – Mason in the front passenger seat, while I sit in back staring blankly out the window. The ride is quiet except for the gravel crunching beneath the tires and my occasional sniffles as we move through the night.

Brando drives towards the address Mason punches into the navigator. My thoughts stray once again to the man sitting in the driver’s seat. His hand moves against the steering wheel, his arm flexing against the fabric of his shirt. It’s hard to reconcile this man with the innocent, broody boy who shared my childhood. Brando and I never really got a chance to “end” perfectly, and a part of me wonders if this shared crisis could repair what was lost between us long ago. We were friends, and then we were more like old acquaintances, until he up and moved away. But each glance at his downturned face reminds me that some stories don’t always get their perfect ending; sometimes they just struggle forward in search of closure or redemption—and perhaps that is exactly where we are headed.

7

MIA

“Check your phone,” he says, his eyes settling on me. He doesn’t smile at me like he used to - the crooked smile he had when he was fifteen—a little lopsided, completely disarming. Back then, I had thought it was perfect; now it looks like he hasn’t smiled in so long, he wouldn’t know how to.

I retrieve my phone from the kitchen counter where it’s been charging, then power it on. I’d hoped my sisters would have made their way back to the apartment after their disappearing act, but there’s no sign they’ve been here since we left.

I try to be as discreet as possible as I flick my eyes in Brando’s direction. He runs a hand through his hair the way he always did, and I’m surprised he still does that. My eyes are glued to him, mesmerized by every movement he makes.

Everything around us blurs into obscurity, his voice smooth like aged whiskey when he speaks again. It’s all I can do not to fall completely under his spell again—but this time I know better than to believe in fairy tales. Yet here I stand, like I’m fifteen again, staring up into the eyes of the boy I never thought I’d see again.

“What is it?” he asks, as I frown down at the phone when it comes alive.

“Five missed calls,” I gasp, looking up at him. I know my color changes because that’s what happens to me when nausea overtakes me. The scent of fear assails me as my fingers hesitate over the screen. My lips are a thin line, wavering as I try to steady my breath.

“Frank.” My voice trembles as if the name itself might shatter the air between us.

I hand the phone to Brando, and he sees it for himself: Frank Falcone's name glaring back from the screen like a bad omen in an SMS asking me to call him. He calls me princess. I feel like I’m about to hurl the contents of my stomach again. Brando looks like he could punch the wall with the rage simmering through him; he’s the last person either of us want or need to think about now, but for different reasons.

He hands the phone back to me, and I take it from his outstretched arm, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Why would he call you now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, running a shaky hand through my hair. “We haven’t spoken in years. Not since?—”

Not since we were in high school and…I want to finish, but I don’t.

I stop, falter, at a loss for words as Mason crowds me, demanding answers. He too, wants to know why the boy I dated in high school is calling me now.

My eyes dart around as if looking for an escape or perhaps bracing for an impact.

“What does he want?” I whisper, with a sudden urgency that tightens my stomach into knots. I shake my head slightly, unable to fathom why Frank Falcone, of all people, would choose this day to reach back into my life. “I don’t understand,” I continue, my brow furrowed in confusion. “Why now? Why today?”

Brando watches me closely, and I can feel a mix of protection and curiosity swelling within him. The mention of Frank Falcone washes over me like a bad omen; even though it was years ago, and we were just kids, I don’t like to think about the history we share, because I lived it. And I hated every damn minute of it.

“What are you going to do?” Mason asks, after watching my silent contemplation. He’s the only one that knows about my past. The only one I could trust to keep my secret. And for some reason, the one I trusted most when I needed it most.

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