Come Undone (The Kellys of Key West Book 2) Read online

Dean rolls over and glares up at me, his eyes wide. After another moment of shocked stillness, he jerks himself up, his pride forcing his frame to its full height. There, his head meets the five-foot-high sloped ceiling on the wall behind my bed. The sickening thud made me cringe the first time Dean had been in this room and whacked his head.

  This time, I sneer at his pain. He rubs the back of his head, and a slow, diabolical grin cuts across my face.

  What’s a little skull-crunching compared to a shattered heart?

  “Ha!” I clap my hand over my mouth, surprised by the cruel streak gripping me like a vise.

  Dean glares at me.

  He probably expected me to cry.

  I won’t give him the satisfaction. My lungs and heart shrivel inside my ribcage, but I suppress the waterworks and spit out between clenched teeth, “You should go.”

  He reaches for me. I’m not sure why. Death wish, much?

  I flinch and turn my back on him to stare out the window of the room at the shadows flickering across Southard Street in the early evening haze. “Fuck you, Dean.”

  He gets the message, grabbing his discarded T-shirt and walking out to the narrow landing. His heavy footfall recedes down the rickety staircase, echoing like an exploding cannon in my head.

  I slam the screen door behind him, the thwack of the aging wood smacking against the frame thundering in my bones.

  Signaling Dean’s departure from my life.

  Only when he’s gone for real do I allow the pain to seep into every nerve, ooze out of every pore.

  I collapse in a heap against the cool plastered wall, seeking relief from the streak of heat stabbing at my soul.

  I let out a single anguished wail, rattling the mirror, windows and even the walls of the old building—my home for a dozen of my nineteen years on this insane planet.

  The tears—real, hot, razor-sharp tears—course down my cheeks unchecked, like acid etching into my sensitive skin. I choke on the snot backed up in my throat and pouring from my nose as I ask one question, over and over and over.

  Why?

  Why?

  WHY?

  “I’m closed/Frightened/Won’t let anyone near/But you open the cover/See the demons, dark and swirling within.”—Lyrics from “Like a Book” by Mac Kelly

  I STARE AT TRINI for a second, processing what she said before I blurt, “Jesus, he was in bed with Greg’s cousin? Were they naked?” Trini’s eyes widen at my question, informing me I forgot to process my own words before speaking.

  She laughs. “No, they weren’t naked, Mac. They weren’t doing anything as far as I could tell. So I bought his story about comforting her. When he said something about me needing to lose weight, I remembered Greg’s ‘cousin’ was tall and slender, and … not like me.”

  Not like her? This I don’t get, because Trini is magnificent. Her light brown skin is beautiful, her dark hair thick and shiny, and those green eyes may be the most striking thing I’ve ever seen. Warm and welcoming and expressive. I want to tell her these things, but I don’t. I usually say whatever comes to mind, especially when something confuses me. Like Dean wanting someone else. But I hold back, out of fear she’ll reject me, or think I pity her. So instead, I follow her lead and attack Dean.

  “What a douche!” I’ve never hidden my disdain for the guy, sometimes to the detriment of my friendship with Trini. It’s a relief to say such things out loud without fear of her wrath. I fidget with the straw in my Coke and swivel on my barstool to face her.

  If I don’t do something with my hands, I’ll reach out and brush her wavy dark hair out of her bright green eyes before touching her face, pulling her lips to mine …

  She bursts out with a loud chuckle. “Ha, that’s what I thought, after I kicked him out of my bed. He stood up and hit his head on the low ceiling. I laughed.”

  I tip my glass in her direction before I take a sip and stare up at the ceiling. Sometimes the prolonged eye contact gets to be too much. I wish it didn’t muddle my brain, but I can’t concentrate on more than two sensory inputs at a time. “I’d have given up a week’s worth of tips to witness that.”

  I continue to play along with her jesting, but her bloodshot eyes and splotchy face contradict her words and tone. She’s hurting. Bad. I want nothing more than to comfort her now. Hold her tight and tell her she’s amazing and that Dean is, well, a douchebag.

  A big one.

  “Speaking of tips, I gotta get back.” I nod at the small stage in my uncle’s pub, set up with a microphone and my acoustic guitar. “Can you stick around after the show? We can hang out when I’m done. Any requests?”

  She nods, a wicked grin spreading across her round face. Her upturned nose wrinkles in glee. “Gives You Hell.”

  “Ha, good one. The All-American Rejects it is. Anything for you.”

  I would do anything for her, if I don’t have to leave Key West. My schedule is set. I don’t like to deviate. When I do, my insides squirm and my brain hurts—a by-product of my autism.

  I wish she’d never left to go away to college. But there’s no film school here, and not everybody’s gonna be a “deadbeat loser” as Dean once called me, living at home with their parents and having no goals in life.

  For now, though, I’m happy for the few weeks she’s home between semesters.

  I head back to the stage and pause. I peer over my shoulder at her, my soul aching for the sadness in her face when she thinks no one is paying attention. “Hey.”

  She snaps her head up and plasters a fake smile on her lips. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, too. So stick around for the whole set, okay?”

  Her head bobs up and down enthusiastically, but I think she’s faking. “Sure thing, bestie! Oh, do you mind?”

  She points at the video camera she pulls out of her bag. “Can I film this? I need to submit my doc for the film festival before I come home for spring break.”

  My insides shrivel up a little. Performing for people is one thing, but being filmed, my tics and flaws captured for eternity, is different.

  “You promised!”

  My thoughts must be written on my face. Not literally, but showing up in my expression. I agreed to let her film me. I can’t go back on my promise.

  “Sure, no problem.” I hop on the stage and pop on the Santa hat my uncle has his staff wearing for the Christmas season. I had protested, saying the hat detracted from my “cool rock star” image. Paddy guffawed, and said if I wanted to play, I had to wear the hat. He walked away, shook his head, and muttered, “Rock star. Ha!”

  The insurance payment on my scooter is due in January, so I gave in.

  This growing up and paying bills sucks. At least Mom and Da weren’t making me pay rent—yet. That’s a matter of time.

  I slip onto the stool and adjust the mic. I’ve grown accustomed to, if not completely comfortable with, speaking in front of people. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”

  The decent-sized crowd raises their glasses, shouting out a round of “good” and “awesome” and “drunk.” I laugh, playing the crowd. One of my older brothers, Liam, taught me a few things about working people. He was the star high-school quarterback, one of the most popular guys in school, and he knows a thing or two about charming people.

  “Happy everyone’s having a fun night. A friend in the audience is having a rather crappy week.” At the bar, Trini nurses another Coke and smiles weakly. “Okay, a seriously crappy week. This one’s for her.”

  I close my eyes and strum the opening chords of “Gives You Hell,” letting the music suck me into a place of confidence. My heart races a little when the crowd sings along. They’re having fun, which means I’m doing something right.

  My music, combined with the alcohol my uncle’s pouring, is helping them enjoy their night. What a powerful feeling. Music is the one thing that feels right, the one place I’ve never been lost. When my lack of people skills bumps me down another rung on the social ladder, my music has always g
iven me confidence, because I have talent.

  I wind down the song, and the crowd cheers wildly. I play a few more requests from the bar customers. A guy drops a twenty dollar tip in my jar when I play the sappy song he requests for the girl climbing all over his skinny-jeans-clad lap. I tip my head at him. “Thanks, man.”

  He shakes my hand, and I grit my teeth against the unwelcome touch, remembering my brother’s advice about playing the crowd.

  I shift on my stool, preparing for the next song, one I wrote. I don’t like sharing my songs in public, or with anyone.

  But then I ask myself, “What would James Taylor do?” He’d tell the girl he loved her, at least in a song. He’s one of my favorite musicians, and I wonder how he’d react in certain situations in real life. I couldn’t know for sure, but I believe I understand him some. He suffered from depression and began writing songs when he was in a mental institution. In addition to my autism, depression hit me at a young age. I began writing songs in my early teens while under the care of a new psychiatrist who recommended the practice as part of my therapy. Now I plan to sing one of those songs in public for the first time.

  “This one …” I clear my throat to break down the lump of nerves forming and wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts. “This song is an original. It’s a slow song, so don’t any of you fall asleep.”

  I chuckle, but mentally chastise myself. Rule number one of playing a crowd: never talk negatively about yourself. How is the crowd going to like you when you’re down on yourself?

  I close my eyes again, positioning my fingers on the fretboard by touch. The words flow off my tongue—hours of practice coming to magical fruition. I’d never needed to sing a song more than this one tonight:

  Open up

  I see your heart

  No one else appreciates the part

  of you that makes you fall so quickly

  So deeply

  A long way up

  A spiral down

  My heart thuds, threatening to crack my sternum. Is she watching me? I open my eyes and sneak a peek.

  Yes!

  She’s not smiling, though. I’m not sure how to interpret her expression. My fingers slip on the strings, striking a sour note. I slide my fingers back into position and pray no one heard.

  But all the time

  No matter which way

  you fall—

  At me

  Away from me

  For someone else

  I can read you

  like a book

  You need me

  to look

  Your way

  You think you can live without me

  Give that a try and we’ll see

  Now she’s frowning. This may not be the best choice of original song. I finish, despite the doubts eating away at the fringes of my confidence.

  I’m closed

  Frightened

  Won’t let anyone near

  But you open the cover

  See the demons, dark and swirling within

  I hope she recognizes my appreciation here. She’s the only one outside my family who has stuck by me. Even when the demons pulled me down into the ocean, literally, when I tried to commit suicide at ten years old. When the demons of my disorder drove me to self-injurious behaviors, she was there. I loved no one in the world more than Trini. My family, they had to stick with me. Trini? She chose to stay by me, the way I stuck by her when she got help for her eating disorder. For years, I’d hoped she’d weathered the rough times with me because she reciprocates my love. I close my eyes tight again at the end of the song.

  Still

  You turn the pages and you see

  The light hiding in the shadows

  in the deepest part of me

  You read me like a book

  I need you to look

  My way

  See me

  See the way I need

  You

  Need you to read me

  See me

  Love me

  See me

  Love you

  I whisper the last four words and open my eyes. The crowd applauds politely as I hop off the stage, but I don’t care about them. Trini is the bright light at the end of a dark tunnel.

  My stomach sinks to the beer-stained, peanut-shell-covered floor. She’s crying. I stride over to her, apologies hanging on my tongue. I didn’t mean to hurt her any more than she’d already been hurt.

  She throws her arms around me and squeezes, pushing the air out of my lungs in a whoosh.

  She cranes her neck to read my face. She inhales deeply, releases me, and bounces up and down, clapping her hands together. “Oh Goon, how lovely.”

  She calls me “Goon.” It’s a name my brothers gave me because I was obsessed with The Goonies years ago. They meant it to be an insult, but as soon as Trini called me Goon, I was cool with the name.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you liked the song.” Because it’s about you.

  “Did you play the song for Jodie? Did she love it?”

  My balloon of optimism deflates.

  “We, um … Jodie and I split up a few days ago.”

  Honestly, I’m not heartbroken at all. Jodie didn’t get my passion for music, and her dream of leaving Key West for New York to work at her brother’s brokerage firm once she graduated from college did not mesh well with my own goals.

  Which are presently unmapped, but definitely do not include a place like New York City. Talk about sensory overload.

  “Oh, Mac. No. Why?”

  I fidget with the guitar picks I keep in my pocket. “We aren’t the same, you know? Best to end things now before anyone gets hurt.”

  All true. But I won’t tell Trini about the main reason behind the split. No way do I want to reveal all the gruesome details. Way too embarrassing.

  “Mac, I’m such a selfish dolt. You’ve been listening to me go on about Dean while hiding your own pain.”

  She links her arm in mine and leans over the bar to signal my uncle.

  “Paddy, could we trouble you for an order of potato skins? We’ll take them over there.” She points to the booth in a dark, quiet corner of the pub, where I almost kissed her in the summer.

  Jeez. This moment is not going as planned when I decided to sing “Like a Book.”

  Paddy pinches Trini’s full cheek. “Anything for ye, me wee lassie.”

  We walk to the booth, and she continues her monologue about my breakup with Jodie. “How terrible Mac. You guys were so cute together. You never played the song for her?”

  I shake my head. My tongue is paralyzed.

  Trini keeps chattering. “So sad she never got to hear the song you wrote about her. It’s good, Mac. No, excellent. So suited to your voice. I love your voice.”

  She’s missed the point of the song, but I’m at least happy the song—and my dissolved relationship—distracted her from Dean. Paddy arrives with the skins before Trini can formulate more questions I can’t answer. Like the question that’s burned in my mind for a dozen years.

  How do I make Trini love me?

  “Key West is literally the start of the road, as noted by ‘Mile Marker 0’ for U.S. Route 1 at the corner of Fleming and Whitehead Streets. For many on the island, though, Key West is the end—the last place they stop after a long run from their demons.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  MY HEART IS IN MY throat, threatening to choke me. I fling open the door to my mom’s store, where’s she’s been selling homemade soaps, lotions, and candles for about a decade. This has never happened.

  The store was robbed.

  I was away from the house, doing an interview for my documentary. While I normally don’t answer my phone while filming, the relentless buzz in my pocket told me something was wrong. Mom had been calling, and when I called back, she told me in a cool, collected voice that she’d been robbed when she was closing up the store tonight.

  Fuck. What makes you threaten someone’s life on Christmas Eve?

&nb
sp; Mom leans on the counter, calmly talking to one of the police officers who’d come into the store after she called them.

  She laughs. Only Elena Díáz would laugh ten minutes after she’d stared into the face of death.

  “Mom!” I run to her, throw my arms around her waist and bury my head in her shoulder. I inhale, taking in her “mom” scent—her soft, powdery, and never overpowering essence. It’s always comforted me.

  “Oh, honey. I’m fine.” She pulls away from me, holds her arms out and spins so I can see she is okay. She faces the police officers. “Do you need anything else from me, gentlemen?”

  The burly officer tucks his pen and notepad back in his pocket before tipping his head at us. “No, ma’am. We’ll call if we need anything else. Merry Christmas, ladies.”

  The other officer, a tall, slender man, stops and examines the gift baskets Mom created for the holidays.

  Mom smiles. “Officer Stanton, did you forget to buy your wife a gift again?”

  The man blushes a deep red and shuffles his feet on the floor. “Um, yes, ma’am.”

  “We certainly don’t want you getting in trouble at Christmas.” Mom bustles over to him and pulls a basket off the shelf. “This one is perfect. The peaches and cream is her favorite, if I remember correctly. Take this. On the house for the exceptional service you provide for the people of Key West.”

  He glances at Mom and then at his partner, who shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I can’t take a gift. I insist on paying.”

  “No can do, officer,” Mom chirps. “I’ve closed out the books for the day.”

  He takes the basket, but tells her, “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to pay. Thanks for saving my butt, Ms. Díáz. Nothing like an angry, pregnant wife at Christmastime.”

  Mom opens the shop door and shoos the officers away. “Merry Christmas, officers!”

  She locks the door behind the police and turns to me. I run back into her arms and allow myself to sob. She squeezes me tight and leads me through the storeroom to the back of the building, where two rooms serve as her living space. It was the space we’d shared for years until Mom had the upstairs storage room renovated into a bedroom and bath for me. When I entered high school, she’d decided I was too grown up to share a space with my mother.