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“I’m sorry, what?” My mouth falls agape out of reflex. Even when I was an actual teenager, he never took my phone away—because he could use it to keep tabs on me at all times. It’s not an ankle monitor, though it may as well be. He doesn’t need it to act as one while he has me sequestered. What a power move. I could pitch a tantrum like a petulant child. However, the man is tech incompetent and doesn’t realize my iPad and iPhone share the same communication capabilities. I should play it up like I’m upset.
“This is a whole new level of tyrannical and it’s not a good look for you. I hate it.”
“I know you do, but?—”
“It’s for my own good, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I’m not giving you the passcode.”
“I don’t need it.” He’s not interested in the content of my conversations, only in keeping me from responding to or initiating contact with Rowan. He’s smart. I’m smarter.
“Fine.” I turn the phone off, then toss it at him with more ferocity than I mean to. He fumbles and it hits the chair’s armrest. He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more.
I think best in the shower. Maybe it’s the heat loosening my muscles, or the absolute solitude that centers me. I appreciate the tranquility of nothing and no one requiring my attention or help, or of having to scheme, to avoid, or to twist someone to my will.
I scrub shampoo into my scalp, rinse it out, repeat the process with conditioner.
This is the part where I often imagine myself a droplet of water in the cascade. Unfeeling, unknowing, unaffected by manmade turmoil, with one singular purpose: To wash away dirt and stress. I envision soap suds dissolving as I make contact with them, then trickling down the drain enveloped by me. Of course, I end up in a sewer and the grossness of that visual always ruins my serenity. Funny how everything under the sun, living or inanimate, has the same cycle—clean to dirty, fresh to decaying, useful to useless. It’s all connected.
Connected. A connected man is brought in for odd jobs and vouched for by a made man, a recognized member of the organization. A made man reports to his captains, his captains report to their boss. My dad is their boss. That’s the structure of the Irish mob, regardless of the family. Gino was connected. Teague is made, and a captain, though I don’t know that he’ll be a captain come tomorrow.
Made man. The phrasing is archaic. Not gender neutral, because historically women weren’t included in the hierarchy, but Rowan’s father only has one child, a daughter, and he molded her in his image because he recognized her talent and strength. She’s made, and a captain. Alistair was also a captain under Monaghan… What is he to my father? Connected or made? Certainly not a captain, he’s too green. But my father trusts him enough to have let him play both sides.
How any of this is useful information, I’m not sure. They’re facts, not necessarily relevant to fixing the mess I’m in. It’s a rare occasion that I struggle to find clarity; however, the hole I’ve dug is too deep to climb out of and I’m spiraling.
The truth is, buying myself a new identity isn’t the answer to the dilemma. It could work for Rowan, but for me it’s complex in a way that creates a different set of problems. Say I were to finish my degree. I couldn’t use it. The credentials would be Juliet Calloway’s, not Whoever Whatever’s. I’d have the knowledge but not the hundred-thousand-dollar piece of parchment paper with my name on it as a testament to that. I’m not walking onto Wall Street or into an accounting firm without it. And if I can’t work, I can’t live. The point of getting an education was to get out from under my father’s thumb and make my own way in the world.
We have to scrap that idea and start from scratch.
Right now, I don’t even know where Rowan is, or what her immediate plans are. That’s stressing me out above all else. I turn the chrome shower handle to the left and the waterfall above me transforms to dewdrops.
I forgo drying my hair or getting dressed in favor of quelling my anxiety; I need to see Rowan’s face. I’m loosely wrapped in my fluffy pink bathrobe, sitting on my bed with my iPad in hand, EarPods in, waiting for her to answer my FaceTime call. On the fourth ring, she picks up.
I’m greeted by a backward baseball cap atop short, dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes, and chin stubble. “Hello, Juliet, nice robe.”
I pull the robe tighter around my cleavage. “Merrick? What are you doing with Rowan’s phone? Is she okay?”
He flips the camera toward Rowan, who’s behind the steering wheel of what must be his car. She takes her eyes off the road for a second and locks them on me. “Chill, Jules. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Are you okay?”
“Physically, yes. Mentally, not really. I was in my first shootout this morning, my father wants revenge, and when we got home from the cemetery, he forbade me to see or speak to you ever again. He even went so far as to take my phone away.”
She laughs. Fully laughs. It’s the least expected and most inappropriate reaction to me expressing my agitation. “And yet, here you are, seeing and speaking to me. He can forbid you all he wants. We’ve got our hearts set on each other—he’s fucked. At this point it’s just a matter of how we deal with our fathers, that’s all. Hell, let them hash it out and see who’s left standing afterward, if it’s either of them.”
She hasn’t seen me in a tailspin before, yet somehow manages to effortlessly pull me out of it. If there was ever any doubt that she’s the one, it’s squashed now. She knows how to handle me, while my own family doesn’t.
“There’s something else…” I tell her about my skepticism over becoming someone else, how it’s even more impractical than a Calloway and a Monaghan falling for each other to begin with. She listens, patient yet intense. Strange how a person can be both of those things at the same time, but that’s quintessential Rowan.
“Okay, so we scrap the idea. It was desperate and convoluted anyway. You’ve never broken a law and I’ve never been caught breaking one. Our names might carry guilt by association, but that’s not a big deal. Maybe operating within the law, using it to our advantage, is the way to go.”
“Something’s cooking in that brilliant brain?”
“The first draft of something, yeah. But there are plot holes to fill in. We’re on our way back to Chandler House. We’re gonna call it home base for a while, I think. And I’ll make sure to get your luggage and all your stuff back to you. Merrick can give it to Rose or something.”
We’re knee-deep in turmoil, yet she’s still so thoughtful. “Thank you, you’re sweet. And yeah, there are plot holes here, too. My mom has something she wants to talk to me about. I should get that out of the way.”
“Good. We need to take stock of our assets and allies. Talk to her and get back to me, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good. Bye. Love you.”
