Page 81 of Bronx

“Where’d you get the t-shirt?” I ask, distracting myself from my own dick. “It looks vintage, and you didn’t buy it from the boutique.”

“Ruby dropped off my things last night. You wouldn’t know because you weren’t here.”

“I didn’t realize you were here, either. I thought you’d still be dutifully sitting by the sickbed of your ex.”

She slams a wooden spoon on the counter.

“More like his deathbed.”

“To protect your thankless ass.”

“You almost killed him!”

“If I wanted him dead, then he’d be dead,” I say icily.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” she counters. “Am I supposed to be frightened of you?”

“If you were smart, you’d be terrified. I’m not a nice man, Karma. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

She wrings a tea towel in her hands, which I imagine in her head is my neck she’s twisting.

“I think I’m perfectly clear on how not nice you are.”

“Why are you so upset about his condition?” I ask her, stumped as to why she is giving that abuser a second thought. “He hit you, he threatened you, and he won’t stop unless someone puts an end to it.”

“Someone like you?” she challenges. “You think I need you to tell me anything about Ray? I realize who he is and what he is, which is why I went to the hospital to say my piece and to say goodbye.”

“So the visit to the hospital was your farewell tour, then?”

She sucks her teeth, annoyed with my rhetorical question, and moves the conversation forward.

“Have you gotten any closer to finding my brother?”

“I’m working on it.”

“He’s in trouble. I can feel it.”

“Try not to worry about things that are out of your control.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Your brother isn’t missing.”

“You mean the brother you barely know shit about?”

“Thanks for reminding me you can be an asshole. I don’t need to know everything about Lev’s personal life to know that he’s the only person on this planet who gives a damn about me. He looked out for me when I was basically tossed out of the system on my eighteenth birthday. I didn’t know my ass from my elbow. They put you in these life skills classes, but it’s totally different when you have to utilize those skills in real life. You can’t imagine what it feels like to be reminded that you are truly alone in the world when you abruptly have to make all the decisions for your care by yourself.”

Her voice always quivers when she talks about her time in foster care. It makes me want to ask her a thousand more questions about it and do a thousand things more to help her forget it.

Although I make a concerted effort to avoid my family, I’m crystal clear about the fact that it’s a luxury for me to even have that choice. There are so many people who have been rejected or have never known their families. I guess that’s something I need to remember. Growing up Masterson was never as hard as growing up alone in foster care was for Karma. I see that now. The two can’t compare.

“My bad,” is all I can say after she basically checks my ass. Who am I to judge the quality of her relationship with her brother when I’m terrible at maintaining the ones I have with mine. And compared to hers, my brothers are saints.

I take another sip of my drink and can feel Karma’s eyes on me as I do it, so I place the glass down.

“I get it. You have a problem with alcohol.”

“I have a problem with people who have a problem with alcohol, but that’s not why I’m staring at you. I’m looking at the tattoo on your middle finger. What made you get a knife?”

“Do I have to explain it?”