“Me who?” He asked, playing along.
“Apparently...your wife.”
Silence.
I cleared my throat. “Those papers I left for you?” I started, “The documents you wanted to use to get guardianship of King’s daughter? Those were just meant for show for the lawyers and the judge, but very recently, like VERY recently, I learned that you filed the marriage license. So in the eyes of the county clerk’s office...well, in the eyes of the State of Florida as a whole...”
“We’re married,” Preppy finished, not sounding the least bit surprised.
“Yeah,” I replied. “We’re married.”
“Guess I just got confused,” he said, shifting his position although I couldn’t see exactly how I heard the scraping of metal against the platform which I assumed must have been a button on his pants. “All that shit with Max was over my head. Probably thought I was supposed to file them.” He explained in a manner that had me thinking there was more to what he was saying that he wasn’t letting on.
He loves you, you fucking idiot. He sent you that letter. He told you he loved you. He filed them because HE LOVES YOU.
“Why are you back, Doc? Here? In Logan’s Beach?”
“When I went home my dad sent me to rehab. The best in New York. My dad’s business had always done alright so I didn’t question him when I asked where the money was coming from to pay for it and he lied to me and told me his insurance was paying for it.” I took a deep breath and remembered the reassuring look on his face when he tried to convince me it would all be okay.
“But it wasn’t.”
“No, it wasn’t insurance. There was no insurance. It was all him. He took out all these loans. First to send me to rehab and then back to school,” I cringed because I hated the fact that my father sacrificed so much because of all my mistakes. “Long story short, his business is failing. Or, according to the past due notices and demands for payment I’ve found, it’s already failed.”
“And?”
“And he’s losing his house,” I replied. “Because of me.”
“That’s not your fault,” Preppy said, sounding a lot like Brandon.
“I know,” I agreed, although it was a lie. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to try and do my damnedest to help him.”
“You’re selling the house?” Preppy guessed.
“Yeah, I’m selling the house. How did you know?”
“Either I could see where your story was going... or maybe it was that big ass for sale sign in Mirna’s front yard might have tipped me off,” he said. “I mean; the stalker might have seen it when he stalked by.”
“I see,” I said, my lips turning up into a smile.
“You know those letters I told you I wrote in case of my untimely death?” Preppy asked.
“Yeah?” I froze.
“Well I kept them up and I left instructions for Doe...I mean Ray, King’s girl, to send them out for me after...” I heard him shift and he stretched out his legs, his black boots were now visible in the light.
“Ray came to see me today. I like her,” I admitted.
“She did?” Preppy asked.
“Yeah, just wanted to say hi,” I said, “So what happened, with the letters?”
“Well...I wrote you one,” Preppy said, lighting another cigarette. “But I guess I only wrote DRE on the outside of the envelope,” he chuckled. “No address.”
“Why is that funny?” I asked.
“It’s funny because Doe didn’t want to open it and invade my privacy. When she cleaned out my music collection, like my old CD’s and shit, she noticed I had a lot of NWA stuff and old school Dre and Snoop.”
“Okay?” I asked, confused as to where he was going and how on earth west coast rappers played a part in the story.
“She told me she held my letter up to the light to see if it had an address inside, but all she could make out was the first line, which said Doc.”
Suddenly, I understood where he was going. “No, she didn’t,” I exclaimed with a squeal, covering my mouth with my hand.
“Oh yes she did. She sent my letter to Dr. Dre, the rapper, via the Dr. Dre fan club.”
“Holy shit!” I bent over, holding my stomach so the laughter wouldn’t split me in two.
“No, Doc, wait. That’s not the holy shit part. The holy shit part...is what they sent back.”
“Do I want to know?” I asked, leaning in toward him.
“They send back an autographed headshot of Dr. Dre and...”
“And?” I egged him on, eager to hear the rest.
“And...a restraining order,” he finished.
We both burst out into a fit of laughter. After calming down I remembered that when I received the letter from Preppy it was delivered by a courier service out of L.A. I thought it was odd at the time, but had more pressing matters at hand. Like a letter from PREPPY. I could recite every word from that letter. I could describe how he slants his letters to the left and how his y’s dip so low below the line they run into the sentence below. So of course I remembered that my address WAS on the inside. Whoever must have opened it at the fan club must have had it forwarded it to me.
He thinks I never received it.
“What did the letter say?” I asked tentatively after our laughter had died down. I immediately regretted it. It wasn’t like he was really going to tell me.
I was right.
Preppy paused. “Nothing important. You know. This and that. Probably just some stuff about the weather.”
After a comfortable beat of silence Preppy was the one who spoke first, “Did you see what they did to this thing?” he asked, followed by a rap of his knuckles against the side of the metal tower.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The paint? I guess they finally splurged on something that was able to cover the big black dick I spray painted way back when. They killed my fucking masterpiece.” He said, and with the new shift in topic I immediately felt lighter. “Bastards.”
“The shame,” I said, feigning shock. “Although they only covered it in the last week or two, because I saw it from the plane when I landed.”
“You saw it from the plane?” He asked with amazement in his voice. “And they had to go and cover it up. It was like a fucking landmark. Greatest thing to happen to this town since the tourists realized our little slum had a white sandy beach attached to it.” He laughed softly. “It was always good for a chuckle or two when I could see the faint outline of it on the postcards they sell at those little tourist trap shops.”