(let's get ready to crumble)
She starts sending him more postcards.
From California. Providence. Winnipeg. Cleveland. Detroit. San Francisco. Vancouver. Halifax. London. Paris. Nice. Milan. Prague. Brisbane.
One, two, three a day. Every tour stop, every rest stop.
Glossy postcards illustrating the splendor of a landscape. Glorious buildings and vistas. Smiling nameless faces with cotton candy and yellow raincoats. Her flowing script etched on the back of each image:
Cut-outs from her agenda (Call mom and dad. Make a reservation at hotel.)
Fragments about her day (Drank too much. Ate five chocolate bars. Mars. Didn't tell personal trainer).
Lyrics ("If I don't go crazy, I'll lose my mind/I saw a life before me but now I'm blind/I wanna go to heaven, never been there before")
Signed, sealed, delivered,
He reads and rereads the text until his fingers are stained with the pencil or the ink, until he can recite the words by heart, until all he hears is the echo of her words in his head.
She doesn't call the first time she comes over to visit.
It's raining outside, and he's in the kitchen, eating leftover pizza while typing up a short blurb on yet another steroid scandal on his laptop when she knocks. This is his life now, he thinks bitterly, a life reduced to writing blurbs about other peoples' successes while his own eluded him.
He doesn't show his surprise when he sees her face at his door, looking nothing like the flawless face on CD covers and Instyle magazine. Her hair is dripping wet, streaks of mascara down her cheeks, a black duffle bag slung over her left shoulder.
"I was passing through Boston," she tells him as an explanation.
He knows this is a lie. He looked up her concert schedule on her website (haley james scott dot com – she didn't change her name, much too Nathan's dismay), knows that her previous concert was in Vancouver, her next one Seattle.
But he doesn't say anything. He just lets her in.
As she's slipping off her faded ballet flats, she comments, "Your place is freakishly clean."
He smiles at her blunt, classic-Haley comment. Shrugging, he responds, "Maria just finished cleaning the house this afternoon."
She raises an eyebrow in wonder, setting her ovation guitar on his carpeted floor. "Your girlfriend must be whipped to clean the house for you."
He shakes his head, smirks at image of dating the sweet, grandmotherly sixty-year-old. "Um, no. Actually, Maria's my cleaning lady."
She grins (wide, genuine) at this comment. He realizes that he hasn't seen her smile like that in years. "You have a cleaning lady?" She shakes her head, "I don't even have a cleaning lady. Too expensive."
He laughs, "Hey, if Jennifer wasn't taking care of the bill, I wouldn't have one either." As soon as he utters his sister-in-law's name, he regrets it.
"Jennifer?" she asks, idly walking into his living room.
He swallows before clarifying, "Nathan's wife."
Her face changes, eyes grow cold, dull. "Oh."
"Haley…" Words fail him, so he reaches out to touch her.
She moves away as his fingers touch the soft cashmere of her sweater, "Don't." Her voice hoarse.
He pulls away, taps his knuckles on the wall to calm his nerves. "Do you want a drink?"
She stays silent. He sighs, touches her shoulder, maneuvers her body so he can meet her eyes. "Hales," he says again. "You okay?"
She shrugs wordlessly, and smiles. A bitter, faint smile. "I'm just tired," she whispers, leaning over to press her forehead against his shoulder. "I'll be okay."
But the problem is, he realizes as he holds her, he's not sure if either of them will ever be.
She falls asleep twenty minutes after she arrives. He finds her curled up on his couch – the one he found at Salvation Army for twenty bucks – when he returns to her, carefully carrying a cup of coffee. Her head is on the armrest, her wet hair casting water stains on the worn forest green material.
He sets the steaming cup of French Vanilla on the dining room table. Stretching his back, he winces when he hears his spine pop. He rubs his neck and watches her. Studies the delicate curve of her neck, the way her fingers are curled into fists, the paleness of her skin. And his stomach clenches – suddenly, tightly. And he doesn't know why.
The shuddering sound of thunder reminds him that she's soaking wet, and that she has a concert in Seattle in a few days. He's heard Haley sing with a cold and even his musically untrained ear remembers the notes that slid painfully out of tune.
Sighing, his eyes scan the room for the duffle bag. Finding it sitting haphazardly near the door, he picks the bag up and unzips it, searching for a pair of dry pants and a shirt. He pulls out pair of grey sweatpants and a hideous green shirt. His lips curve into a small smile. It comforts him that Haley's eclectic taste in clothing hasn't changed much.
He tucks the garments under his arm, sets the bag on the floor. He curses softly when it tips over and a few items spill onto the shiny floorboards. Bending down, he grabs the stick of deodorant, the Massive Attack CD, and the pack of cheap bics from the ground, his fingers brushing against the cold maple. He slips the things into her bag. He's about to slide the zipper closed when his eye catches a crinkled photograph, tucked haphazardly between a brightly striped scarf and a silk camisole. Curiosity overtakes him, and he finds himself reaching in and picking the photograph up.
A snapshot of the Scott brothers in victory:
He's smiling, laughing. Sweat pouring down his face, holding a basketball under his left arm. His right hand is curled into a fist, thrusting into the air in triumph and pride. Nathan's arm is slung around his shoulders, his head turned to one side, hollering with glee.
He remembers the moment. Vivid and bright. The picture was taken right after the Ravens won the basketball match against the Charleston Hornets. He had taken a shot from the foul line, right before the buzzer sounded, breaking the tie. He remembers the way Nathan leaped onto him, embracing him tightly and laughing.
He turns his head, let's his gaze falls on Haley's sleeping form. And when his eyes settle back to the still image of Nathan, a tableau of brotherly pride, his heart lurches painfully, heavy with guilt.
Heavy with betrayal.