Chapter Eight

"Hard-headed, this one," said Alex, nodding to Roger, who was lurching over a garbage can. Passersby didn't even bother to glance over. They just followed the booming music and lure of alcohol into the club. There was no moon tonight so the sky cast less shadows than normal. The unusually warm breeze was lazy and somewhat discomforting. Mark licked his lips and cringed—it tasted of salt. His feet felt light and weightless, almost as if he was floating. He took a deep breath and felt the after sting from his headache. What a night.

His roommate was still bent over the trash can, regurgitating everything left inside him, which probably wasn't much. He figured Roger had been feeling pretty empty this past week.

"He was drinking," he stated to no one in particular. He felt like he had to say it. He knew Roger like the back of his hand.

"Did Mimi tell you anything?" asked Alex suddenly. Mark could never figure out how the guy who read playboy magazines and cereal boxes could be so omniscient.

"Are you a ninja, part time?" he asked curiously. There was no way he was going to call truce just because of this. There was something seething and hot creeping at the back of his neck, and a little bit of hatred poured out of his windowless, blue eyes.

Alex turned away. He probably wanted to answer his question, but sustained. "Roger had invited Mimi to see Maureen's performance tonight. She turned him down. But, you knew that, right Mark?"

The nerve of this guy. "What's it to you?" he shot back. Aside from keeping his mouth shut, Alex didn't know when to mind his own business.

In all honestly, Mimi never told him. Of course, he didn't really mention Maureen's performance until earlier that afternoon. He wasn't even planning on going at all until Snaps threatened him with a blender and two very sharp toothpicks. There was no convincing her that he just didn't feel right making amends just yet. Her response: "You can throw your relationship away for all I care, but one thing's for sure—you're never going to stop being her friend. So, go and support her, you numskull." She had an interesting way with words and an intimidating way of threatening people with household appliances. He figured it had to do with her Italian-mob instinct.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you home," said Alex, patting Roger's back. "The cats are going to have to eat out of that later." He grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him up. He brought Roger's arm over his shoulder and leaned his friend's weight against his own. Roger nodded and they began to walk. Mark watched as they grew smaller in the distance, setting adrift on the dark.

"Mark!" Familiar and sweet. The only voice that sounded reassuring this whole night was hers. "You disappeared. I was – I mean, are you…?" She paused to catch her breath. "Did Alex get Roger home?"

"They just turned the corner," he said finally looking at her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with a pale rose-color. "Are you okay? I mean is Snaps… she in there?"

"Yeah, she's still in there. It got really crowded so I thought I'd look for you guys outside," she said looking back at the doors. Even all that commotion didn't drive the customers away. In fact, it might have excited them because more and more continued to file in. She turned back to him and tilted her head. Studying his face closely, she took a step forward. "Shit, Mark, you're bleeding." Her palm was warm and smooth against his cheek, her fingers soft as they brushed over his lip. Nostalgia and everything he ever loved about her rushed back in two seconds.

He slipped his hand around her wrist and slowly pulled it away. "It's just a cut. It's nothing." His face felt empty without her touch. He was so bitter before. It must be the adrenaline, he decided. He glanced back to where Roger and Alex had walked off, any sort of reason to break his gaze with Maureen. "What did you think that was about?"

"I don't know, but if Roger screws up my chances for any more gigs here, I swear I'll…" her voice trailed off. That was strange. He figured she'd blow up, but she controlled herself. What was it about this night?

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked earnestly.

He hadn't been able to answer that question truthfully yet. The longer he ignored the problem, the harder it was to push it away. He hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms. "No. Not really… not until we work it out anyway." There, he said it. All that work trying to keep it inside and finding distractions meant nothing.

She laughed softly, almost as if she felt just as awkward about the situation as he did. "I'm not sure I know where to start."

"I'm sorry," he blurted. He wasn't exactly sure what he was sorry about; he couldn't pin any of his faults in this mess. But, it felt necessary. "I'm sorry for being stubborn, I guess."

"I'm sorry for not telling you." This time it sounded like she meant it; this time in lieu of the selfishness in her tone, he could hear sincerity and exhaustion of fighting. She reached for his hand and he let her fingers intertwine with his. "I just… I never thought I'd have to face that night again."

"I'm worried that… that you'll still have feelings for him and I can't… compete." He practically had to drag those words out of his mouth.

"That's what it's all about? Mark…" – her laughter was a bit stronger this time – "I've never had feelings for him. I never will. How can you even...?" She shook her head as if the very thought was incredulous. He didn't find anything inane about it.

"It's not just that. It's losing you to him, it's you lying to me; it's not being able to trust you; fearing that we're going to be in this perpetual cycle of break-ups because you have been with a lot of people, Maureen, and who knows who else will pop up." He wasn't angry anymore. He was more desperate, worried.

Her expression turned serious. "You know we can never escape the past, right? There'll always be another Alex or another Joanne or someone else. But that's what it is, the past, and if we let it bother us every time it resurfaces then we'll never last!" He felt her squeeze his hand, her eyes locked with his. "There's no competition. I promise."

She promised. Where had he heard that before? He let go of her hand and stared at her closely. For a minute, he just wanted to throw his hands up and give in. "You invited him to the show?"

She rolled her eyes a bit and rubbed her temples. "Please don't tell me you're jealous. He's just trying to make amends, I guess." Yes because that was very Alex-like.

"Don't tell me not to be jealous, Maureen," he said in disbelief. If there were other Alexes out there, he would always feel inferior.

"He feels guilty too, you know."

"Alex had never betrayed anyone before, not like this."

"I don't think that's true. Or did you forget how he disappeared when April killed herself?"

He looked down. That was a huge coincidence, he knew that. He was sure Alex didn't run away because April committed suicide. He had a son to prove it. But still, all those years and he chose now to return. "He never came back," he thought aloud. "He didn't even attend the funeral. Roger forgave him, though. He came back and set it straight with him. You… both… everyone… No one was going to tell me. I don't want that to be a habit. I don't want anyone to think they have to keep something from me so they can spare my feelings."

"I don't think Alex ever told Roger the truth about the night April died and still he forgave him." Mark took a step back. It was strange that she knew just as much about Roger and Alex as he did. "Can't you try to do the same? If it makes you feel better, I'll tell you everything. Mark… please?"

"I don't want to know," he said shaking his head. He wasn't going to revisit that memory again. "Snaps sort of pointed me in the right direction. I don't want to talk about it." He was caught in between peace and confusion. He placed a hand on the side of her cheek and looked at her intently. "Are you sure there is absolutely nothing going on?"

She held his gaze. "There's absolutely nothing going on." Hearing it from her, it felt honest, her eyes set unyielding, unabashed and real. He nodded.

"Okay. Let me walk you home?"

She smiled. "Sure." He laid his hand on her back, letting her take the first step. That awkwardness was slowly ebbing and he felt his carriage grow with aplomb, every stride relaxed and reassuring. He focused on the glow from the streetlamps for comfort as they resembled guiding lights inside the Holland Tunnel.

"So, umm…" said Maureen casually. "This Snaps girl. You two seem rather friendly."

"Yeah, she's helped me a lot." He froze. He completely forgot. "Wait, is she back there? We need to go back and – "

"Hey, hey it's okay," she took his arm, "I took care of it."

"You sure?" He was kind of worried; he was never really the type to just leave a friend behind. He didn't want Snaps to feel he just left and forgot about her. "She's in safe hands?"

"Yes. I asked Lee to take her home. He came with a car. He said it was cool, she even gave me her phone number so I can check up on her when I get home. See?" She flashed him the back of her hand with Snaps' number on it. He nodded and they continued to walk. "So, she helped you a lot, huh?" Her tone almost seemed too uninterested. He decided to have just a little fun with her.

"Yeah, I wouldn't know what to do without her." He smirked, but kept his eyes ahead. "She's a good friend."

"Oh." There was a strange pause and he knew she was trying to make sense of his vagueness, but eventually she gave up. "So how are things with you and Roger these days?"

He shrugged. "It's like living with an apathetic teenager. That's why I try to find every reason to be out of the house."

"I wish he wasn't so stubborn."

"Or high-tempered," he said automatically. "Or Unreasonable."

"Well, if you need to crash some place for the night, my door is always open." She stopped and retracted her statement. "I'm sorry. I don't… is that too fast?"

Before, it was he who would stumble all over his words. But, he felt calm and it was almost as if he expected her to say something like that. He knew her better now. "Thanks Maureen. I can manage." He tried to think of another question in order to evade some sort of objection on her side. "You, um, have any tips for dealing with Roger?"

"He's like a storm. Just wait it out. I'll try to talk to him, if you think that will help."

He raised his brow. He couldn't believe they had gotten so chummy so fast. "Will it help?"

"It might." Their footsteps halted. They were in front of her building. She looked up at her fire escape as if she was expecting someone to draw the blinds to her window. "Do you want to come up?"

"No, it's okay. I'll talk to you later." He took her hand and kissed it softly. As he leaned over, he caught a hint of disappointment in her eyes. He pulled her arm around him and drew her close. There was a slight hesitation, a wishful, hopeful one, but it melted as he kissed her gently on the side of the lips. It felt more like a memory than it did anything else. Remembering the feeling wasn't quite the same as the experience. He slowly let go of her and for some reason it felt like he was letting go more than sought.

"Hopefully, we can find out what was going on between those two," he said.

"I'll leave it to you, detective." She ruffled his hair and smiled. "Good night."

xoxoxo

The next couple of days Mark found himself mapping out his next documentary: Bohemia, the struggle and the art. It was a working title, but he liked the concept and he already had a few personalities lined up. It was a nice change of pace and the inspiration to work again was partly due to clearing the air with Maureen. Still, he had an inkling their relationship wouldn't be quite the same again. He used to picture them on their wedding day, but now he couldn't even see farther than next week.

He had been checking up on Mimi every night before she went to work. He would walk down the creaky stairs in his pajamas, feeling the walls directing him through the dark and would wonder how Roger could stand doing this. Mimi would be in her costume when she answered the door. The smile on her face strained more and more every time. But, he would always find a way to get her hopes back up. He dreaded the day he would run out of ways.

"The least you can do is look like you want to be here," said Snaps. They were sitting in Life café, waiting. "I do have better things to do than help you and your petty problems."

It wasn't impatience or anger in her voice because everything that came out of her mouth always seemed so playful. But, something was bothering her. "What do you have to do?" he asked.

"Wedding stuff," she answered. Most brides would be in complete hysteria, PMS-central 24-hours a day, ready to slice your head with a hatchet they kept in their purse for such occasions. They were the panic-stricken women at the gym trying to sweat the weight off so they could fit in their gowns. Not that Snaps needed to lose any weight, she had a great figure—or so he's been told. It wasn't as if he was looking. Anyway, she acted as if she was planning a day at the beach let alone a wedding.

"You didn't have to do this if you had other plans, Snaps, especially if it involves your wedding," he said. It was funny, he was saying this to a girl who've always had her priorities straight. Maybe he shouldn't doubt her.

She smiled and scratched the back of her ear then absent-mindedly toyed with her earring. "He's supposed to come down here and help me."

"Where is he?"

"Connecticut. He's finishing up some grad school stuff, unimportant, boring," she said, waving her hand as if swiping the thought away. For some reason, he was getting the feeling that it was important to her but she didn't want to share it.

"What does he do?" he pressed on. He couldn't help being a little curious. Aside from Benny, she was the first to be tied down and so soon. They would have never figured her to be the homemaker type.

"He's a…" a smile snuck its way on her lips. "He's a photographer." She looked up at him, grinning. "A sports photographer for the New York Times."

It was difficult to restrain his laughter. It wasn't necessarily his occupation that was funny, but who he worked for. He remembered Roger's band mates would always point out to Mark openings in the paper for photographers. "You could do freelance," he remembered Ashley saying. And every time, Mark would respond "I'm better than that." The only time he was ever so confident was with his art form.

"There he is," whispered Snaps, eyeing the man who just walked in. Mark looked up and almost choked on his drink. The guy was wearing a long, beige overcoat even though the sun was blazing outside. A deerstalker was pulled over his eyes. He was hunched over, his head bowed.

"We're right here, why doesn't he see us?" he asked. Snaps whistled and his overcoat swung in their direction. He rushed over, hands in his pocket, and sat next to her. He slowly looked up and met Mark's gaze.

"Alex, why the Picasso are you dressed as Sherlock Holmes?" she hissed. She was embarrassed for him.

"I can't show my face in here, you of all people should know that," he hissed back. He turned to Mark. "I'm—"

He put a hand up. "Save it. I don't want to hear your apology."

"Then why am I here?"

"This looks expensive, who did you mug?" She examined his sleeves by stroking the material and tugging at the pockets. "Where's your pipe, Holmes?"

"My syringe," he corrected. He lifted his hat so he could see Mark better. "Truce?"

Mark looked at him and gave him his approval. Alex took this opportunity to let it all out. He didn't really have a brain filter so what came out of his mouth was exactly what he was thinking. Mark knew Alex's sensitivity didn't apply to him or Roger – he reserved that for the women he dated. "Look, this doesn't come to a surprise to you." He lowered his voice. "Hell, I've fucked Benny and Roger's ex-girlfriends and they laughed about it afterward. I know, I realize—"

"I'm not Benny or Roger," he finished for him.

"Right. And that's why I kept it from you. I—"

"You don't read!" Snaps pinched Alex's arm and he yelled out. She glared at him as if she was expecting some sort of explanation. "Where the Falk did you learn Sherlock was a cocaine addict?"

He rubbed the part where it was sore and turned to her haughtily, chin up and eyes looking down at her. "Elementary, my dear Watson… which was never actually uttered by Holmes himself until actors William Gillette coined the phrase and Clive Brook popularized it."

She rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air. "Oh, beam me up, Scotty, wherever you are."

"Mark, I could care less if you never associate with me again. That's your choice. I know I made the mistake by not telling you, but you can't deny I had good intentions. It wasn't an easy choice to make." Mark knew all about hard choices and he couldn't say he that every decision he's made has been right. Sometimes, people act on instinct or panic, like when Maureen's equipment broke down… like when he had to choose between her and Roger.

"I'm not mad at you," he said finally.

"What?" said Alex a bit perplexed. "You're not upset?"

"No, I'm upset." He sighed and picked up a napkin. He began to tear the edges off because he couldn't look at Alex just yet—especially in that outfit. "I just don't blame you, I guess." This was awkward. A part of him wanted to have that friend he could always count on back in his life, but he just didn't feel comfortable around him anymore.

"Snaps, will you excuse us?" asked Alex sweetly.

"Sure," she said sipping her coffee. She waited, felt his eyes on her and looked up.

"Leave," he instructed.

"What?! I have to leave? This was my idea, bringing you over here."

"And I'll thank you for it later," he said and Mark saw his hands disappear under the table where Snaps' legs were. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear. "Ow!" Ah, there it was. He was waiting for her to kick him.

"What happened to 'power to the people' and all that?" he asked rubbing his shins.

"I've temporarily deserted the hippies to kick your ass," she said plainly.

"Can you spank it, too? I feel really naughty."

She kicked him again and he cried out in pain. She sniggered. "Old queef."

"What?"

"I meant O'Keeffe."

He threw Mark an irritated look. Mark tried to stifle a laugh with little success. Those two were a riot when they were together and they always knew how to break the ice. Alex unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it off. He pulled his deerstalker off and placed it on Snaps' head like she was some sort of hat rack.

"You can probably guess why I left in the first place," he said folding his hands. He was like an eight-year-old confessing to his third grade teacher that it was he who let the hamsters out. "He was an unexpected blessing. I had to take care of things and be responsible. I didn't find out about April until later and, um… it was one of those not-so-easy choices."

"He's your son," said Mark. He had always wanted an explanation for why he left, maybe a public apology, and something more, chores for a week or whatever. But, he had never thought to put himself in Alex's shoes. He could never before so he didn't think to do so when he left or when he came back.

"Yeah, but that's not what it's about," he said. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you guys when April died. I'm sorry I've betrayed you so much, Mark."

He knew that was genuine. He had seen this guy lie to drug dealers when Roger couldn't pay a debt and furthermore paid off what his friend owed a day or two later just to get The Man off his back. He had taken the fall for Benny more times he could count (there were about 134 slaps in the face from women that actually belonged to the Benny). There was even once when, at a party, he and Roger took two guys who were hitting on Snaps out in the hallway and… well, he wasn't there to witness that part.

"When did you find out about April?" Mark asked.

"A week after the fact. I saw Chuck at the, um, emergency room. He got into some barroom brawl and he got in my face and just sort of blurted it out." He looked down. Mark wished someone else had told him. He remembered April liking him a lot. She often mentioned him as her brother from another mother. "I loved April. I could never forgive myself for missing her funeral. I kept thinking maybe if her big brother was there for her, she wouldn't have killed herself."

"We can't blame ourselves," said Mark quietly.

"I know." Alex was one of the few who looked you straight in the eye every single time. He didn't hide his thoughts by looking away; he didn't try to conceal what he was feeling by gluing his eyes to the ground. He was guilty of making a mistake, as they all were guilty of making every now and again. Mark could trust him; he knew that.

A few minutes later they snuck out the best they could, Alex still afraid of being recognized. For the longest time, a picture of him was posted under "Meatless Balls" after that incident of Snaps kicking him in the private parts. On the surface they seem like they hated each other. But, he kept trying with her and she continued to tolerate him. Underneath, Mark knew it was all an act. They all began to walk to Mark's loft. Jacob was at his guitar lesson with Roger and Snaps said it was on her way to the bus stop. The two of them couldn't stop bickering and Mark enjoyed the show from behind.

"Man, that scar is sick," said Alex, wiping a strand of her hair from her forehead. She slapped his hand away. "You must have gotten that from the fall the other night."

"No shit, Sherlock," she said sarcastically.

He looked affronted. "Fuck you, Watson." Sometimes it felt as if Snaps was not just a girl he was trying to trap, almost as if she was in another category on her own, which permitted him to insult her in a way he never would with any other chick. It also allowed him to be humiliated by her time after time even though he wouldn't give any other girl who embarrassed him a chance. Mark believed it was the mystery of trying to attain the unattainable.

"You know I can fix that for you," he said indicating her scar.

"What are you, a doctor now?" she asked.

"A mechanic," he answered proudly. "And if you want I can change that oil on your face and take you out for a test drive."

She laughed. "That was not romantic. And I think you insulted my face."

"I meant oil…paintings." There was a slight pause. Mark grinned, waiting for it. "Your father must have been a mechanic."

"Why else would I have such a finely tuned body?" she replied, smirking.

His expression remained serious. "Let me do my job, woman."

"I would if you were any good at it." She enjoyed it just as much as Alex did. She had asked everyone once why, if Alex wanted her so badly, he didn't dig out his best material for her. She couldn't understand it because she had seen him so much more romantic with other women. She said that he was probably pulling her leg. Unbeknownst, Roger accidentally let it slip that Alex was intimidated by her and that was why he fumbled every time. And since then she always took that to her advantage.

Several bad car puns and euphemisms later, they arrived at Mark's apartment buildings. They waved goodbye to Snaps and headed up the long stairs in an uncomfortable silence. Mark didn't think they'd ever reach the top of the stairs. When they entered the loft, the smell of grilled-cheese sandwiches greeted them.

"Roger's cooking?" exclaimed Alex. "I don't know whether to call the fire department or Ripley's Believe It or Not." Jacob ran to his dad's arms, chatting lively, already telling him about his day. Roger threw Mark a few side glances before turning off the stove and grabbing a plate from the cabinet above him. Alex carried his son over the table while Roger served.

"Careful, wait a few minutes because it's still hot," Alex warned his son. "Mark, come over here." Was he crazy? Before Mark could comprehend why he would asked such a thing (because it was clear Alex was definitely crazy), he walked to the kitchen and took a seat next to Jacob.

This was weird. No one said a thing and all that was heard was the clanking and rustling of plates and cups. Roger shook his head as he closed the refrigerator door. He sensed that something was up so he set the glass of milk loudly in front of Jacob's plate. "Hey, not in front my kid." Alex looked at him sternly and Roger turned away. "Jacob, share with Roger, huh?"

His little boy nodded his head vigorously. He ripped the sandwich apart and stretched his arm out, his tiny fingers gripping one half of his grilled cheese. "Here, Uncle Roger. Careful, it's still hot, you have to wait a few minutes," he mimicked his dad. Mark watched as his roommate reluctantly submitted to the four-year-old's request and sat down across from his, taking the sandwich.

"Now isn't this pleasant?" said Alex, smiling. He was clearly amused by how much authority he had. "Jacob, why don't you tell your uncles what you were telling me last night?"

"Why you not talking to Uncle Mark anymore, Uncle Roger?" he asked with his mouth full. Mark's head turned to Alex. He should have figured he'd play dirty.

"You're using your kid as bait!" accused Roger.

"Your point?" asked Alex. "And I'd appreciate it if you lower your tone. Answer him." Mark looked at his roommate carefully. This time he couldn't escape it. It was almost brilliant, his plan, because the only way Roger was going to ever talk was if he was forced to. This was almost better than torture.

"I thought he had my back," he answered finally. He snapped his head as if he was puzzled at his own statement; it was as if someone else had uttered those words. Mark was familiar with that feeling—the feeling of bewilderment after the anger had died out. Any person can get so mad and so caught up with the excitement that he misplaces those feelings; he misattributes them and allocates them to other people. Like a person can get so mad at his girlfriend that anyone who challenges him next will take the heat.

"Just because we disagree doesn't mean I'm not on your side," said Mark.

Roger's eyes stayed on the table. He shook his head. "It's not just that." What else could it be? He wanted to just ask him, hassle him about it if he had to, but he didn't want to set a bad example for the kid. Alex nudged Jacob softly and the kid spoke up.

"Just say you're sorry already, you're acting like a bunch of four-year-olds," he said slapping his forehead. Alex smiled smugly and tousled his son's hair. Mark refrained from rolling his eyes. He must have used his son for everything—picking up girls, forcing friends to apologize to one another. And he wasn't even ashamed of it.

"I'm sorry," said Mark. He just wanted to get this over with.

"Yeah," Roger replied, but Alex cleared his throat and he added quietly, "Me too." He excused himself and vanished into his room. Mark looked at Alex as if to say, this didn't work at all. He wasn't sure how or why Alex had so much faith in this friendship, almost beyond optimism. Roger was still upset with him, about something, but he couldn't point his finger at it. He hoped for closure, but this mess had only changed his relationships to something inauthentic. It was resolution with a glass barrier in between. Everyone had their guard up; no one was willing to back down. Not even Mark had the heart to trust fate. What hurt him slightly more was that if he had lost strength, how could he possibly be there for Mimi?