Old Habits, Page 3

Business was slow, and by that, I mean no one was surfing in Behler, California because it had been raining for thirteen straight days, something I hadn’t even thought possible until I witnessed it for myself. Having grown up in the Midwest, I was taught California didn’t actually get weather, at least not in the sense we were used to back in Hastings, Indiana.

  Of course, I was no longer in Hastings, so it was probably about time I stopped comparing everything in my new life to everything in my old life, as I had spent the past fourteen months pretending I had never even been farther east than Nevada. I had created an entirely new life for myself, one I had jotted down in a notebook and studied each and every sleepless night until I finally got a doctor to prescribe me Ambien.

  In my made-up life, I was Airic, an only child whose parents had perished in a car accident while skiing in the Canadian Rockies when I was only twelve-years-old. Afterwards, I had been raised by my mentally unstable aunt who kicked me out the door the second I turned eighteen, as she thought I was more of a burden than anything, but had dutifully agreed to adopt me in the event of my parent’s untimely death simply for the fact she thought it would never happen. This story was elaborate and a little farfetched, but covered up the fact I had no ties to anyone in my past, including my relatives. In my story, I didn’t associate with relatives because they were all either dead or insane.

  The truth, of course, was I had cut off all ties to my friends and family in the Midwest because I was wanted by the police for murder. I didn’t actually kill anyone, but the way my partner in crime, Gabe, and I had left things, it definitely looked like I did. And even if the authorities had figured out by now I hadn’t actually murdered anyone, I was still an accomplice who had fled town with the actual killer when I could have just as easily turned myself in, told the truth, and maybe (probably) gotten away with just a slap on the wrist.

  But when you’re surrounded by dead bodies and your life is in ruins, sometimes it’s just easier to leave it all behind. But then again, sometimes it’s not.

  The tropical storm, Angelica, was moving up the coast and keeping every surfer locked up inside their hotel room, and was raging full-force when the bell hanging above the entrance to my and Gabe’s surf shop startled me out of a mid-afternoon nap. I was so shocked by it, I rolled off the couch in the back room and nearly busted my head open on the cheap, IKEA coffee table I had found for ten dollars at Goodwill.

  I stood up and tried to look like someone who worked/owned a surf shop, half-expecting to see a tourist or two who had ducked into the shop to hide out from the rain, but relaxed when I realized it was just Eileen, the mailwoman.

  I strolled onto the sales floor and flashed Eileen my bright, white smile. She was in her mid-fifties and had been delivering mail in Behler since before I was born. “Eileen, make it stop raining!” I urged as she pulled several envelopes out of her bag. I was expecting a letter, but decided to make small talk so I didn’t look too anxious.

  “You’re not the one walking around delivering mail in it, Airic. Trade me places for a little bit, and I’ll see what I can do,” she scoffed. She wore a postal service-issued hooded jacket that had protected her, for the most part, from the rain. But still, she looked somewhat miserable.

  “I think I’ll pass,” I laughed.

  She shook her head at me and handed me the shop’s mail. I searched through the envelopes, one by one, seeing the messy handwriting on the front of one that stood out to me immediately. It was written in blue ink, as it had been every time for the past six months, and there was no return address.

  “The shop’s pretty dead today,” Eileen observed, looking around and realizing we were the only two people in the building.

  “Yeah, rain,” I said, pointing out the front window as a rumble of thunder banged in the distance. Two girls ran past the window hiding under a shared umbrella. In Behler, you knew the weather was bad when people actually bothered to carry umbrellas with them.

  “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Eileen began. “You’ve been here, what, a year or so?”

  “Yeah, just a little over a year,” I answered.

  “Well, how exactly did you stumble into owning a surf shop?”

  The question was simple, and there was nothing accusing in Eileen’s voice, but I froze nonetheless. Gabe and I had kept to ourselves since we’d settled in Behler, and we’d even created elaborate stories to cover up we were on the run. I knew I’d come up with a reason for owning the surf shop at the ripe, young age of nineteen, but it was lost in my mind as I began to panic. I’d written it down, practiced it repeatedly, but no one had really ever asked how I came to own the shop.

  Eileen stood, waiting for me to reply as I contemplated how long had passed since she initially asked the question. If I waited too long, she’d know something was wrong.

  “My parents…” I began, trailing off and furrowing my brow, trying desperately to remember the lie I’d so easily concocted. Eileen gave me a confused look. “My parents left me a lot of money when they died.” Yes, it was coming back to me. “It was put into an account for me to have when I turned eighteen, and since owning a surf shop was something I always wanted to do…” I trailed off again, letting the rest of the story tell itself.

  The real story behind the surf shop was when Gabe and I fled Hastings, we’d left in a vehicle that had a suitcase with over two hundred thousand dollars in it. We came up with the plan to buy some kind of business as we traveled from state to state. When we arrived in California and found this shop, it seemed almost too perfect to be true.

  We feared the legalities of buying the shop would be complicated, but we soon found out that when you present a briefcase full of cash to a retired, bankrupt beach hippie, the typical paperwork doesn’t apply. As far as I knew, the building itself was still “owned” by Smitty Daniels, but he was one hundred thousand dollars richer, and never to be heard from again. For all I knew, he was living out his life’s dream of sailing around the world on a small houseboat with his long-time girlfriend, Harlequin (yes, that was her real name).

  Eileen processed the story in her mind momentarily and I knew she was about to call me out on some fragment of the lie I’d messed up on. I had this gut feeling she was seconds away from telling me I was full of shit, and she’d seen my face on the news the night before. The police were probably already on their way.

  She put her hand on her hip and gave me a wide smile. “That is the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you had the guts to follow your dreams. Do you think I had plans of being a postal worker for the rest of my life when I was your age?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  “Damn right, probably not. I wanted to be a pageant queen! But three kids and two cesarean sections later, that is just not going to happen.”

  I nodded my understanding at her and tried to keep from imagining short, plump, salt-and-pepper haired Eileen in a sequined evening gown, holding a bouquet of roses in one arm, a pageant sash on the other, with a glittering tiara on her head. Sometimes my imagination was too vivid for my own good.

  From out of nowhere, the door to the shop burst open, and Gabe came rushing onto the sales floor. He was soaked and carried no umbrella, though it had to have been raining when he left earlier in the morning. He, as usual, seemed extremely frustrated.

  “Hi, Kevin,” Eileen said cautiously. She was a friendly woman, but there was obviously something about Gabe that made her distance herself from him. His facial expression was almost always intimidating, and though I could tell Eileen wanted to put him in his place, she always chose not to, finding a reason to leave any time he arrived.

  “Hey,” he said, marching into the back room and grabbing a towel from the small closet we used to hold almost everything that needed stored. It was a ridiculously small apartment attached to the shop, but we had gotten used to living in such closed quarters.

  Eileen glanced to me as
if to ask what his problem was, but I simply shrugged my shoulders innocently. Gabe, or Kevin, as he was now going by, had been noticeably discontent for the past couple of months, finding any reason to complain about anything. He wasn’t happy in Behler.

  “I’m going to head out and deliver the rest of this mail. Good luck with that one,” she said, rolling her eyes towards Gabe, who currently had a towel covering his entire head. She then turned and walked out the door, pulling her hood up and rounding the corner onto the next street.

  I took a moment to slide the hand-addressed letter under a book sitting on the counter, and walked into the apartment, prepared to confront Gabe about his attitude and get to the bottom of what was actually bothering him. I was pretty sure I knew the answer would revolve around everything we had hoped, and failed, to accomplish in the past year.

  He was still drying his hair with the towel and working on slipping his sopping shoes off his feet when I sat down on the couch across from him. “What’s wrong?” I asked with a concerned tone. I was genuinely concerned; an unhappy Gabe meant life would be miserable for everyone.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he grumbled, finally getting his left shoe off.

  “Hello, we’re business partners. Is your anger business-related or business-related?” I urged, wondering if he was mad about something involving the surf shop or our weed-buying customers.

  He dropped the towel on the floor and glared up at me. “All of it,” he answered. “But mostly business-related. You’d think pot would sell better in a surf-town. You’d think since I’m an experienced grower, I’d be able to actually grow here, but I can’t. And don’t even get me started on those jackasses we’ve been buying from recently. Their pot is complete ditch, and they raised their prices again, which means we have to raise our prices again.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” I offered, not able to think of anything more encouraging. In all honesty, I’d reverted to running the surf shop, and Gabe had been dealing with most of the marijuana business. Not to mention, I generally had never been good at comforting people in bad situations.

  “It’s that bad. We’re floundering.”

  “We’re not floundering…” I began.

  “How much of Harrison’s money do we have left?”

  I wasn’t sure, but I knew we had gone through a lot of the cash, spending nearly half of it on the surf shop and another large chunk towards storing Harrison’s stolen van in a garage for the time being. “We have plenty,” I simply answered.

  Gabe snarled at me unsympathetically. “The last time I checked, ‘plenty’ meant ‘hardly any.’” He pulled his other shoe off and tossed them into the corner. The hardest part of being on the run was sharing a small apartment with a complete slob.

  “We’ve had expenses, Gabe,” I said, trying as hard as I could to get an attitude with him. I wasn’t the best at defending myself, which was part of why we had gotten into this situation in the first place. “We bought the surf shop, we’re renting the garage, and we’ve had to restock on weed every couple of weeks. Not to mention the fact the shop has expenses, too.”

  “Is this what you want to be doing, running a meager shop across the street from the ocean, striving to make it month to month, when we could be the biggest drug-dealers in the tri-state area?” Gabe’s tone was more serious now. His true frustration was coming to light. Even before we left Hastings, Gabe’s master plan had been to become a Midwestern equivalent to a drug lord. He knew what he was doing, but simply didn’t have the patience to wait it out until he made it to the top. Selling weed in Indiana was one thing, but the ballgame was entirely different on the west coast; there was bigger, more experienced competition to deal with.

  “We’re laying low!” I argued. “We can’t make a name for ourselves when the police are looking for us in every state between here and Indiana! Do you want to go to jail for murder? Do you want to spend the rest of your life behind bars? At least this is something.”

  My last question caught Gabe off guard, and he narrowed his eyes at me in hatred. We’d had several arguments since we’d arrived in Behler, but this was going to take the cake. I knew now that he was angry because instead of rising to drug-dealing stardom, we had reverted to running a cover business and buying our supply from amateur growers upstate.

  “I grow grade-A marijuana and sell it to a loyal customer base! I don’t buy from ditch-growers who double the price just because they can!” He was practically screaming now.

  I could feel my cheeks turning red with anger. Only a few short months ago, I would have held back this anger, choosing not to respond and risk throwing Gabe into another fit of rage. However, times had changed dramatically.

  “You grew grade-A marijuana. If you hate it here so much, you should just leave!” I shouted. The words came so ferociously I could see a spray of saliva leave my mouth as I yelled them.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Gabe said, narrowing his eyes at me bitterly. “Jamie,” he added coldly.

  I opened my mouth before having actually thought of a response, but didn’t have to worry about making something up off the top of my head. Our argument was interrupted by a tall, shaggy-haired teenager standing in the doorway to the shop, staring at both of us. His skin was tan and his hair had the kind of sun-crisped texture to it was that was a dead giveaway he was someone who spent the majority of his time in the ocean. His board shorts and loose-hanging hooded sweatshirt, along with the fact he wore no shoes, practically confirmed he was a surfer.

  “Is everything okay in here, guys?” Ford asked, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms over his chest. He was only sixteen but appeared more mature than both Gabe and myself at the moment. He was a runaway become local, much like us, and a surf enthusiast who we paid under the table to work in our shop. It was true I enjoyed running the shop, but since Gabe showed no interest whatsoever, hiring a part time assistant who actually knew a lot about the business had been the smartest thing we had done since settling in Behler. Ford also knew about the pot business, but stayed out of it for the most part.

  Gabe threw himself into the armchair across from me and let out a low growl, “We’re fine.”

  “It’s just a little business-related disagreement,” I agreed, glaring at Gabe. “It’s over now.”

  “No, it’s not,” Gabe urged with wide eyes.

  I held up my index finger to Ford, as if telling him to hold on a minute while I finished my conversation with Gabe. And I did intend to finish it. His attitude had to change, or else things were going to fall apart for us. “Gabe, let’s just talk about it later; not in front of the kid,” I said in a hushed tone.

  Gabe didn’t speak, but only glared at me and then at Ford. The two of them had never particularly gotten along, though Ford had never done anything to make an enemy of Gabe. Ford was a product of us buying the shop, and thus hated by Gabe for that simple fact.

  As Gabe continued to sulk in his chair, I slid the curtain dividing the surf shop and our apartment closed, leaving him to stew in his own anger and resentment. As I walked back towards the cash register and the letter I had left hidden there, Ford eyed me sympathetically.

  “He’s a little more pissed than usual today,” he stated, not bothering to choose his words wisely. He knew he could speak freely around me.

  I paused before answering him. “I would venture to guess he isn’t very happy here.” Ford simply nodded his agreement; there was nothing else to be said about it. “But don’t worry about it. He may not be committed, but I am. I love this shop, and nothing is going to bring it down.” I paused again. “Even if he decides he doesn’t belong here anymore.”

  Ford bit his lip awkwardly, not sure what to add to the conversation as I subconsciously slid my hand towards the book I had hidden the letter beneath a few minutes before. I knew who it was from and could feel the need to open and read it tearing at me from the inside. But I couldn’t, not until Ford walked awa
y, and I was sure I was alone. Though the contents of the letter were sure to not be dangerous, it couldn’t be opened until the room was clear.

  As if on cue, the bell above the entrance clanged and two girls walked through the door, soaking wet and oblivious to the fact when it rains in California, bikini tops are generally replaced with t-shirts and jackets. They were cold and dripping water all over the floor.

  I saw a hint of a grin appear on Ford’s face and decided to take the opportunity to sneak out and open the letter. “I’m stepping out. You can handle the shop?” I asked, nodding my head subtly towards the two new customers.

  Ford nodded in agreement and happily answered, “That, I can.”

  “Good,” I said, casually sliding the letter from underneath the book and holding it tightly in my hand as I made my way for the door. If Ford had noticed the letter or thought it odd, he didn’t speak up, but instead immediately addressed the two new, scantily clad customers; I had already been forgotten, just the way I wanted it.

  Once outside, I positioned myself beneath the shop’s awning, shielding myself from the rain, and still acquiring at least a sense of privacy. Without hesitation, I tore the envelope open, pulled the single piece of notebook paper from inside, unfolded it, and began reading.

  Jamie,

  Sorry it’s been so long since my last letter. Do you ever get the feeling someone’s watching you? I guess that’s a stupid question, but here lately, I’ve just been really nervous about it. Each time I write a letter and walk to the mailbox to send it, something makes me change my mind. I can’t exactly say what. I even mailed this one from school instead of from home. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  For the most part, everything is going pretty well here. May was a little tough, since the town held a candlelight vigil for the one-year anniversary of what happened. School was tough that day, and I felt more like an outsider than ever before, even more than right after it happened. I have good friends though, and all of them stood up for me. None of them know the whole truth of what happened; I never told anyone, just like you said. I did almost talk to Harper about it (I guess we’re officially dating now?), but I decided the time wasn’t right. It may never be.

  I also wanted to tell you that Mom and Dad are living together again. I told you last time they’ve been talking and even went on a “date.” Well, three weeks ago, Mom broke the lease on her apartment and moved back in. It’s weird, but good-weird, you know? I kind of found myself wondering if it would have happened the same way if you were still here. I know that sounds harsh, but I think you know what I mean. Would they have gotten back together had all the bad stuff not happened?

  I don’t know if I should tell you this part of not, but I guess I will. I saw Riley the other day. She picked me up and took me to lunch. She said she wanted to check up on me before she headed back to Bierce for the fall. I guess it was really nice of her to do that, even though it was a little awkward for both of us. She asked if I’d heard from you, so I lied, of course. She cried when she hugged me goodbye, and told me that I was starting to look a lot like you. I don’t think so, though.

  Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you that I went to a Track & Field camp this summer and that the coach signed me up for the cross country team. I didn’t even have to try out; he said I was that good.

  How are things going? How is the shop? Is ‘business’ good? Is Gabe still around?

  Write back soon,

  Kip

  My heart ached.

  My little brother and I had been sending letters back and forth to each other for a little more than nine months, being extra careful not to include too much information and never leaving a return address. I had sent the first letter after thinking I might go insane with feelings of guilt after running away from Hastings, and truth be told, I never expected to get a response.

  Less than two weeks later, Kip’s first message had arrived in the surf shop’s mail, and we had been writing consistently ever since, me making an extra effort to not let Ford or Gabe know it was going on. Ford would likely understand, but Gabe’s wrath would be far worse than anything I had seen out of him before.

  I read and re-read the letter multiple times, breathing heavily and fighting back any visible emotions that might cause Gabe and Ford to begin asking questions I didn’t want to answer. I only glanced up upon seeing the sleek, black Lexus pull to a stop at the curb, the engine still running as a tall, blonde woman in eye-catching clothes got out from the back, walked around to the other side, carrying an umbrella, and opened the other door. A tall, dark-complected man in his mid-twenties stood from the car and walked heavily towards the surf shop as the woman held the umbrella above both their heads.

  “Can I help you?” I asked inquisitively as he completely ignored me and entered the shop.

  A shocking thought entered my mind seconds later: this man was definitely a Malvado.

  (…With Interest)