Bunny tries to put her hand up Billy’s sweatshirt again and he flinches in pain. “Careful.” She lifts the shirt all the way up to reveal a white bandage under his heart.
“Oh my God, your dad’s gonna kill you.”
“He’d kill me if he knew a lot of things.” Billy moves his hand up Bunny’s pleated skirt.
She pushes it away. “Hold on, I’m not done talking yet.”
Billy takes his hand away, both hands up, not guilty.
“What is it?” Bunny asks of the tattoo, inching toward the windowsill.
“It’s a secret,” Billy says.
Bunny shoves open the window and climbs out. “Come on, tell me.”
“No!” Billy teases, following her.
Bunny strolls along the balcony, looks at the moon then back to Billy, her elbow propped next to a stone gargoyle. “Has your dad seen that?” She takes a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it.
“Are you insane?”
“I meant your sweatshirt.” Bunny exhales, pointing to the logo: NYU.
“Oh, not sure.”
“When do you hear back from the academy?”
“Don’t know.” Billy inches toward her; he wraps his hands around her waist, nuzzling his head into her chest. “Are we done talking now?”
Bunny gently moves him to the side, walks to the other end of the balcony. “Not yet,” she says, teasing him.
Billy sighs, leans over the windowsill, grabs his ukulele resting against the wall of his bedroom, and pulls it outside. He strums, completely avoidant of any discussion having to do with his father and the expectations coming for him after graduation.
Bunny notices and changes the subject. “Who was your dad talking to outside this late?”
“I don’t know, but my mom was being super weird in the kitchen.”
“William…” A voice is heard through his bedroom window.
“Shit, it’s my dad. Hide!”
Bunny stubs out her cigarette on the railing and crouches down in the corner as close to the side of the house as she can. Billy hops inside, slamming the window shut behind him, leaving Bunny out in the cold.
Billy stands in front of the large glass window, the ukulele dangling at his side.
“It’s late, Son, you should be in bed instead of playing that stupid-looking thing.”
Billy sets the ukulele down behind him, turns around, and stands up straight. “Yes, sir.”
“I need to talk to you about something very important. I’m speaking at the National Press Club tomorrow and I’d like you to come.”
“What about school?”
“I’ve already spoken with the school.”
“Okay. Copy that, sir,” Billy replies.
The general glances at his sweatshirt then turns to walk out of the bedroom, always brief, yet his presence powerful even with his back turned.
“Good night, Son.”
“Good night, Dad.”
Billy exhales—then tap tap tap; he has forgotten Bunny is still outside hiding. He turns around and bolts for the window.
“What was that about?” Bunny asks, climbing back inside.
“Nothing, he’s speaking at the Press Club tomorrow, wants me to go.”
Bunny wraps her arms around him, looks him in the eyes. She understands that Billy doesn’t want to talk about his father, that the general thinks his love of music is a waste of time, the expectations he has for and of his son—to go to West Point, the U.S. military academy, to follow in his father’s and older brother’s footsteps. What neither she nor Billy understands is how those expectations will inevitably tear them apart. Love, they will come to learn, will never be enough.
Bunny places Billy’s hand up her pleated skirt. He looks into her blue eyes and kisses the fair freckles on her nose as she exhales with innocence and pleasure. Billy smiles, backing her up to the foot of his bed. “Shhh,” he teases. “Be very, very quiet.”
CHAPTER SIX
Officer Gomez and Officer Nevins are parked outside the Wells Fargo bank in Cleveland Park typing up a police report before they begin their midnight shift. Nevins looks more like a teacher’s assistant at Georgetown University than a cop. White, average build, blond hair, and he wears wire glasses that slide down his nose, while Gomez, shorter, stockier, is Latino with a handsome jawline. They spend most shifts “chasing the radio” in the wealthy suburbs, rescuing old people who fall down a lot.
Officer Gomez is swiping through his Tinder app when an old white man—popped collar, silver hair—approaches the vehicle and taps on the window.
“Here we go,” Gomez quips, cracking the window just enough so the old white man can see his eyes clearly.
“There’s a homeless man sleeping inside the ATM area of the bank right now,” says the old white man, noticeably perturbed.
“Has he caused you any harm? Has he attacked anyone?”
“Well, no,” says the old white man, “but—”
Gomez cuts him off. “Sir, he’s in there because it’s cold outside.”
The old white man is now leaning toward Gomez’s window, gazing beyond him and into the eyes of Officer Nevins in the driver’s seat, obviously hoping for a different answer than the one he doesn’t like. There is a long and uncomfortable pause before the old white man responds, “So what are you gonna do about it?” He’s crossing his arms now.
“Sir, unless we get a call from the bank, we are not permitted to go inside and remove him without cause. He’s just sleeping.”
The old white man huffs and puffs. “Ridiculous!” he says, shaking his head. But he is the old white man who is a progressive! Who voted to help the homeless! To build shelters, not put them in prison! How can this be? Disgusting, he thinks, a homeless man sleeping in the ATM area of his bank.
“Have a good night, sir.” Gomez would
