Angel Colón: No Happy Endings

Fantine narrowed her eyes. “ Learn nothing. I told you I’m not in with this.”

“Can you stop a bullet? Maybe lock pick a gun?” Aleksei raised his eyebrows. “Because that will be what’s next for your father.”

Garbled English aside, the man was right. Still, Fantine wasn’t going to let him win easy. She knew Aleksei would at least recognize that after dealing with her mother for as long as he did. “Should I believe you? You fed me a line already.”

“I have bullets available to me, Miss Park. Having your father shot would not be very complicated. Bombs are not as easy—the authorities actually look out for those.” Aleksei stood up. “They will bring you back to your father.” He motioned to the twins. “I will be in touch.” He turned and walked towards the kitchen.

Fantine side-eyed the twins. “You guys alright with me taking a subway back? I’m not exactly into the idea of getting in a car with you again.” She forced a smile. “No offense.”

The twins looked at one another, then back to her. They nodded at the same time.

Fantine stood. She poured herself a shot of Aleksei’s vodka, slammed it down, and then poured another. She finished that one with equal fervor. “Okay—maybe that’ll help.” She wiped her mouth clean with a sleeve. The vodka burned—it was cheap. Fantine fought the impulse to wretch. She walked to the exit of the diner and rested her hands on the cross bar of the door. “Tell your boss to give a call next time. Tell him to leave my dad out of this, too.” She rushed outside and walked as fast as she could without breaking into a run. When she spied a small alley between a bodega and a shuttered insurance office, Fantine ducked in and vomited.

It took a minute to catch her breath. She spit and frowned at the taste of vodka and stomach acid coating her tongue. It was stupid to drink, but she wanted to make a point. What that point was; she didn’t have a clue.

“Yo.” Pete deadpanned as Fantine unlocked the door to their apartment. He was sprawled out on the couch playing yet another in the long line of cookie cutter gun games he obsessed about every year. “I thought you were getting back early.” Pete was dressed in a button-down and slacks. She seemed to remember something about a job interview today, but Fantine had a feeling that it didn’t pan out—like always. Seeing Pete so aloof set her off.

Fantine walked over to the TV and slapped at the power button until the screen went dark. “We have a big fucking problem.”

“Dude!” Pete sat up and reached for the remote. “This is a ranked match.”

Fantine unplugged the console from the wall. “I give no fucks. Not one.” She stood and stared at Pete, her fists clenched. “Why did you tell your father I was done with my probationary period? Hell, why did you even tell him I was living here?”

Pete’s eyes widened. He sat up and raised a hand as if to defend from a punch. “Whoa, hold on.”

“Your fucking father, like, kidnapped me today, Pete.” Fantine pointed at the door for some reason, as if Aleksei were waiting outside. Pete looked so much like his father, only softer—more like he was molded from biscuit dough than stone. It was enough to get her temperature up and Pete was an easier target for her ire. She knew she shouldn’t milk it, but she would. “Answer my question. Why did you tell him about me? About us living together? I mean, hell, man they cut my parole period short because my PO trusts me.” She felt sick. “Holy shit, does he think we’re an item?”

“Fan…” He stood up. “I haven’t spoken with that asshole in almost a year. I mean, I call my mom, but it’s not like he’s ever around.”

“You tell your mom about our whole living situation, then?”

“No. Besides, why the hell would she tell him?” He stared directly into her eyes.

Fantine stomped to the fridge and yanked a six pack of Miller Lite from the back. She uncoiled a can from the rest of its troop and pulled back the tab. A satisfying hiss emerged. This was wrong, but she didn’t know what to believe. Pete didn’t have a reason to lie to her. As far as she knew, he was right. He and his father had enough trouble admitting there was a biological connection between the two of them; a conversation about life and random goings on was far from the norm in their relationship.

Pete scrambled to his feet. “Hey, hey. Where did that come from?”

Fantine took a long pull from the can and then wiped her mouth. A small burp came from her—almost quaint. “It’s been back there for weeks.” She shook her head. “You’d have seen it if you did your share of the chores.” She pointed a thumb at the magnetic white board on the refrigerator listing off weekly chores. All of Fantine’s were checked off. Pete’s chores—garbage and fridge clean up—were left unaccounted for.

Pete sighed. “You already drank.”

Fantine sat on a barstool they kept by the counter. “Maybe.”

“Because of my dad?” There was a sincere sadness in his eyes.

“Absolutely because of your dad.”

Pete slipped his phone from his front pocket and then frowned. “Fuck, I can’t hold the parole officer over your head anymore.”

“Nope.” Fantine grunted, stood back up, and collected another beer from the fridge. She gave Pete a single-finger salute and walked to her room. She slammed the door shut, collapsed into her desk chair, and nudged her wireless mouse with the bottom of her beer to wake her computer from sleep mode. Swept an array of picks, screwdrivers, and locks bought at Home Depot off the desk with her forearm onto the floor to make room for her beer. She turned on her computer monitor and logged into her VPN for work. Fantine was stressed. She needed something to break. In her line of work, that meant breaking security protocols for her employers—a security solutions startup focused on home and business safes. Fantine wasn’t their best employee—she made sure of that—but she was in the top five. Her mother taught her to always show off enough to get praise, but never at the level that received unwanted attention.

So Fantine drank and worked. She typed and stared hard enough at her computer monitor to make her eyes go numb. When she logged out of her network client, it showed she’d been logged in for two hours. At least she was caught up—small victory. She didn’t feel drunk, but couldn’t remember when she finished off the rest of her beers.

“Damn,” Fantine whispered to herself and stood up. Her lower back was stiff and her vision blurry. She needed another beer, but she didn’t want to get ambushed by Pete. He meant well, but at this juncture, she couldn’t see him as anything more than a pain in her ass. Fantine could hear him in her head, You didn’t have to drink , Let’s give a call to your sponsor . That last one would be rough. Fantine never went to AA—she lied about it weekly to Pete on account he threatened to toss her out. It was his apartment after all.

They’d met each other as kids, back when her mother and his father did business together. They would play Galaga at Aleksei’s bar for hours, both completely ignorant of what their parents planned in the stock room. Fantine figured out how to get free credits in the game when Aleksei forbid Pete from taking quarters from the register. She’d always been good at getting things to open or work for her—like her mom. Even when their parents stopped working together, Fantine kept in touch with Pete. He was a good friend—now he was her only friend. This left her feeling especially betrayed. Pete was a confidant—the single person she entrusted so much of herself to and he seemed to barter it away so easily. And for what? Good faith from his father or something else?