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  Just then Monica walked into the front room. Even though he hadn’t seen her in several weeks, he greeted her with, “C’mon, we’re going to be late for the concert.”

  “Sorry. I got off work late.”

  “Why? Someone croak?”

  Monica glanced furtively at me as if she were embarrassed. “Good night, Charles.”

  “See you,” I said.

  Josh glanced at me but said nothing as he left the house.

  “What a dirtbag,” I said to myself.

  I wrapped a couple of burritos in a paper towel and put them in the microwave, set it for three minutes, then went and showered. The water and dirt coming off me gathered at my feet like mud. The whole time I thought about Josh. How can someone be shorter than you and still look down on you? Why am I so upset?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  To the narcissist, all the world’s a stage, and everyone else is either a supporting actor or a stagehand.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  The Josh thing just got worse. He came by almost every day. He was always dismissive. After a week I asked Monica when Josh would be leaving again.

  She gave me a funny look. “Why?”

  “So we can do things.”

  “If you’re lonely, give Carly a call.”

  “That wasn’t what I had in mind,” I said.

  Josh rarely came up to the house anymore, at least when I was around. I don’t know if I scared him or he just thought I was beneath him, but he went out of his way to avoid me. If I was out in the yard when he came, he would just walk past me without saying anything.

  Still, even more disturbing than how he treated me was how he treated Monica. Their relationship was as one-sided as a pizza. Even with as little as I saw them together, it was obvious. Josh blamed Monica for everything, including his own junk—like if he forgot something, it was her fault for not reminding him. He talked about himself constantly and interrupted Monica if she talked about her own things. Basically he treated people like supporting actors in the Josh show. It was all I could do to not punch him out.

  One night I decided to confront Monica about him. She had been out with him and didn’t get in until after one. I was waiting on the couch as she walked in.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She looked over at me. “You’re still up?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Of course. Don’t you have work in the morning?”

  “Yes. I needed to talk to you.”

  She suddenly looked concerned. She came over and sat down on the couch next to me. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Josh.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been reading about people like him.”

  Her brow fell. “What do you mean, ‘people like him’?”

  “He’s a narcissist.”

  “You don’t even know what that means.”

  “Yeah, I do. And he fits the description perfectly.”

  “He’s just confident.”

  “It’s not confidence if he thinks he’s better than everyone, it’s narcissism.”

  “You’re making too much of it.”

  “Does he ever ask you what you want to do?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What if you say something he doesn’t want to do?”

  She just looked at me. “He’s not a narcissist. He just has a strong personality.” She looked at me intensely. “You really stayed up this late to tell me this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy. I think maybe it’s you who has the problem. Good night.” She got up and walked to her room. I felt like my heart would break.

  After that I never brought Josh up again. There was no point. But things changed for the worse between Monica and me. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it. After three more weeks things were coming to a head. In part because Monica was gone all the time and I felt like a squatter in her house. But most of all, the jealousy was killing me. I’d never been so in love, so I’d never been so tormented. I couldn’t stand seeing them together and I couldn’t get her out of my head.

  I finally faced the reality that the only way out of pain was through the front door. I had to leave. I told my yard crew, and Alejandro said I could move in with them for a while. Just another body, I guess. It wasn’t the Ritz, it wasn’t even the Best Western, but it would still be less painful than seeing them together.

  I waited until Saturday night to tell her. As usual, Monica was going out with him. She always told me now. She was just trying to be helpful, but it always felt like she was rubbing salt in my heart’s wound.

  That evening she walked out in a low-cut sundress that perfectly accentuated the curves of her body. She looked achingly beautiful. She struck a pose.

  “How do I look?”

  I tried not to reveal how much she really affected me. “You look good.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Just good?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you look really good. Beautiful. Stunning.”

  “I’ll take stunning,” she said. “Josh bought this for me in Beverly Hills. He likes to show me off.”

  Check that box on the narcissist test. “Isn’t it a little chilly for that?”

  “Oh, you’re right. I better get a sweater.” She ran into the other room and came out wearing a sweater. We heard the familiar honk. “There he is.”

  “Why doesn’t he come to the door?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek and walked to the door. “Have a good night.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Planning a big party. Probably a hundred women . . .”

  “Have fun.” She was gone. My heart ached.

  After she left, I packed my things—there were considerably more than when I’d arrived—then drove to El Rancho and bought a large bottle of cream soda, some tortilla chips, refried beans, tomatoes, diced green chilies, and a block of cheddar cheese, then came back and made a huge plate of nachos.

  I lay back on the couch and watched television. Try as I might, I couldn’t get Monica off my mind. What did she see in him? Why couldn’t she see what a jerk he was? I guess what I was really thinking was, Why would she choose him over me? It made me angry that I was poor and couldn’t compete. Then it made me even more angry that I had to compete. Why couldn’t she see that I loved her? Maybe she did. Maybe she just didn’t love me.

  It was almost two in the morning when Monica returned. I had dozed off but woke at the sound of the door opening. I sat up on the couch, rubbing my eyes.

  “Oh, you scared me,” she said. “Fall asleep on the couch?”

  “Yeah.”

  She locked the door and walked into the front room. “What did you do tonight?”

  “The usual party. A hundred women. At least. I kicked them out before you got back.”

  She grinned. “Thank you for cleaning up after.”

  “You’re welcome. How was your night?”

  “It was okay.” As she started to pull off her sweater I caught a glimpse of a large bruise on her arm. She saw me looking at it and quickly turned away.

  “You got a bruise,” I said.

  “It’s nothing,” she said softly. “I must have got it at work.”

  “You didn’t have it when you left.”

  Monica looked at me anxiously. “It must have happened when I ran into the door at the restaurant.”

  “That’s not from a door,” I said. “I know bruises. That’s from a fist.” I walked over to her. “Let me see it.”

  She held her arm away from me, covering it with her sweater.

  “Did Josh hit you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Monica.”

  “Just on the arm. It’s not like my face or anything.”

  Rage rose up inside me. “Why did he hit you?”

  She turned away from me.

  “Tell me.”

&
nbsp; When she looked back, her eyes were filled with tears. She wiped them and said, “He was mad that you’re still here. He told me that I had to kick you out.”

  I was speechless. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said no. That’s when he hit me.”

  I stood up and got my keys.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to bash his face in.”

  “No. Don’t do anything. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal.”

  “Please. Just let it be.”

  I turned to her angrily. I said, “I’m not going to be the cause of him hitting you. Either I confront him or I leave. Those are your options.”

  “If you leave me, you’ll hurt me more than he did.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Finally I said, “Two options.” When she didn’t speak, I started toward my room to get my bag.

  “There’s a third,” she said.

  I turned back.

  “I could leave him.”

  I just looked at her. She looked frightened and vulnerable. Then she said, “If I left him, would you want me?”

  It might have been the most beautiful thing I’d heard in my entire life.

  “I’ve wanted you since I met you,” I said. “Do you want me?”

  She nodded. “Yes. So much.”

  “More than Josh.”

  “Yes.”

  I walked up to her, took her face in my hands, and for the first time pressed my lips against hers. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever felt. It was bliss. After we kissed for a while I said, “I was going to leave tonight. Seeing you with him . . . the jealousy was driving me crazy.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she said.

  “I tried. You didn’t hear me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll break it off with him tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It is that to which we cling that drags us to the bottom of the abyss. There is real power in having nothing to lose.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  I should have known that there was no way that Josh would let Monica go easily. Narcissists don’t give up easily. Failure is too much of an affront to their insecure psyches. Over the next two days he called and texted Monica repeatedly until she finally blocked his calls.

  Early the next Saturday morning Josh got brave and came to the house. As usual, he pounded on the door. We were both still in bed. I got up and pulled on some shorts and walked out of my room. Monica was already standing outside the door to her room. “I think it’s Josh.”

  “I’ll take care of this,” I said.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “Be careful of Josh? That’s like worrying about a Care Bear.” I walked over to the door and jerked it open, interrupting his assault on it and causing him to fall forward. It was the first time I’d seen him not all prettied up. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

  “Quit pounding on our door,” I said.

  “Where’s Monica?”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t care what she wants.”

  “I know. That’s why she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  He looked at me as if sizing me up and then, to my surprise, he suddenly stepped forward as if to engage me.

  “I see what’s going on. The yard boy thinks he has a chance with Monica.” He laughed. “If that’s really what you’re thinking, you’re even stupider than I gave you credit for. Do you have any idea who I am and who I know? My father’s a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army. He golfs with senators and congressmen. I work for Franz Krauss Deutsche, one of the largest manufacturing companies in the world. Do you have any idea how many people answer to me?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “More than a hundred. I hold their lives in my hands. While you . . .” He looked at me with disgust. “You’re nothing. You’re absolutely nothing. I could buy and sell you a hundred times over.”

  As I looked at him, a slow, sure smile spread over my face. “You’re right. I am nothing. My father was an abusive drunk. I ran away from home at seventeen. I work with undocumented immigrants pulling weeds and mowing lawns and I drive a borrowed truck: I’m not important like you.” I leaned forward. “It’s just like you said, I’m absolutely nothing.” I lowered my voice threateningly. “And that should really scare you. Because that means I have absolutely nothing to lose.”

  He suddenly swallowed.

  “It’s like my boys in the Sureños gang. They don’t care if they’re in or out of prison. It’s the same violent life either way, except prison gives them free meals and a place to sleep. So before you threaten me, consider what exactly you’re threatening. What do you think you’re going to do to me? And then consider how much you have to lose, pretty boy.”

  He stood there, speechless. I noticed his knees were trembling. “I’m going to go . . . ,” he said. He started stepping back.

  “I didn’t tell you you could go.”

  He froze.

  “I’m not done talking.” I stepped forward, narrowing the space between us. “Let me tell you how this works. Me and my buddies in the gang may be lowlifes, but even we know that you don’t hit girls.

  “You may have friends in high places, but they have to play by the rules or they fall. I have friends in low places. There are no rules. There’s no place to fall at the bottom.” I poked him in the chest. “Next time you want to harass Monica, next time you come to this house, you remember that. You remember that I’m no one and I have nothing to lose. Then you’ll know why you should be very afraid.”

  He swallowed, too scared to move.

  “Now run away, little man.”

  He took a few steps back and then, when he was out of my reach, said in the strongest trembling voice he could muster, “You think I want her? She’s nothing to me. I’ve got girls all over the world. I was just using her.”

  “Get out of here,” I said. I started walking toward him and he turned and ran to his car. He jumped in and sped off as fast as he could.

  “Coward.”

  Monica walked up behind me. “What did you say?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  I wasn’t surprised that neither Monica nor I ever heard from him again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Monica is my pearl of great price.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  Life post-Josh was greatly improved. Monica and I got into a routine, almost like a married couple. Monica worked from ten to six at the Beverly Manor retirement home in Pasadena. I’d get home from work a couple of hours before she did, shower, and clean up. When she got home, we’d make dinner together, then go grocery shopping or watch television until about ten, when I went to bed. I always went to bed before she did because I had to get up so early. Also, with the physical nature of my work, I was always tired by bedtime.

  Susan, Monica’s mother, showed up only occasionally—usually when she and her boyfriend were in a fight, which happened like clockwork about every other week. She was usually drunk when she came. I don’t think I ever saw her happy.

  Still, at least she came by. I still hadn’t heard from my family even once since I’d left. I told myself it didn’t matter, but it did. I couldn’t understand how my mother could not care for me anymore.

  One evening at dinner I asked Monica, “Why did your parents divorce? Was it because she drinks so much?”

  “No. She didn’t drink this much until after the divorce,” she said. She looked up at me thoughtfully. “I guess it was a lot of things, but in the end it’s always the same thing. They forgot they were each other’s pearl.”

  “Their pearl?”

  “It’s in the Bible. A merchant was seeking pearls, and when he had found the one pearl of great price, he went and sold all he had to buy it.”

  “Matthew thirteen forty-five and forty-six,” I said.

  She looked
a little surprised that I knew the verse. “So you know what I mean. When you’ve found the one, you cherish them so much you’re willing to give up everyone and everything else to love them.”

  “The pearl,” I said.

  “The pearl.”

  “You’re my pearl,” I said. “You always will be.”

  “And you’re mine.”

  Those were the best of days. I heard someone call seasons of joy “halcyon days”—kind of an endless summer. Even though my day job was exhausting, I was the most peaceful and happy I’d ever been. There was no one who wanted to hurt or control me. Even my boss was reasonably democratic. Most of all, I was in love, which was magical all in itself. There couldn’t have been anyone better to navigate the currents of love with than Monica. She was beautiful inside and out.

  And I was driven. As I daily worked the yards of the rich and famous, my ambition continued to grow.

  I once read that it takes two things to be happy. Someone to love and something to live for. I had both those things—a beautiful woman who loved me and a dream of success that obsessed me. I was too young then to realize that, in my case, those two things were on a collision course. In the end only one of them would survive.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nothing drives us like hunger.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  I had been in California a little more than three years when I turned twenty-one. The night of my birthday, Monica and I discussed marriage. Marriage and family. She wanted a family. Maybe it was because she was an only child but she wanted a big family. She dreamed of having five children.

  It wasn’t the first time we’d discussed marriage. It was just the most serious discussion we’d had up to that time. In spite of our youth, she was for it. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t against it, I was just indifferent. I didn’t see the urgency or even the need, as to me it was just a formality. We already acted the part. We loved each other. We were exclusive. We were already playing house. And neither of us were earning enough to take care of a family. Especially a large one. As usual, nothing was resolved.

  Still, I knew things couldn’t go on this way forever. If life had taught me anything it was that nothing stays the same. Susan was now talking about marrying her boyfriend. If she did he’d probably sell the house, meaning we’d have rent to pay somewhere else. Without paying rent, Monica and I had managed to build a significant nest egg of more than fifteen thousand dollars. I was a stickler about saving. I knew I wouldn’t be doing landscaping my whole life—if for no other reason than to not be my father—but I needed work. And until the right opportunity presented itself, I wasn’t going to jump. That opportunity came just a month after my twenty-first birthday.