“Me?” Travis said. He shrugged. “Not much to tell.”
Which was the truth. But he told her about how he was working on his own graphic novel, which she found pretty interesting, or at least pretended to find pretty interesting. Either way, Travis was okay with it. After about five minutes of talking about his interests, she was back to talking about herself.
God, who cares? She’s so hot.
The entire time they’d been sitting together, Travis had been thinking about one thing. Well, two. The first was, he needed to get some control over how aroused he was. When they finished their coffees and got up, Travis did not want people to think he was smuggling a fire extinguisher in his pants. But the main thing he was thinking was, if he were to ask her out, would she say yes? Maybe to go to the multiplex? And not to see some stupid Marvel or DC or Star Wars or James Bond thing, but a nonfranchise, original, not-based-on-something-else film. She struck him as a girl who’d be into an indie.
But Travis had never asked a girl out before. What did you say? Something along the lines of Would you like to go on a date with me? No, that sounded overly formal, outdated, nerdish. Maybe something more casual, off the cuff, like Hey, wanna hang out tomorrow night? Like, see a movie or something? Yeah, something like that.
And then Sandy said, “What are you doing this weekend?”
So here they were, on a Saturday afternoon, at—get this—a bowling alley. Travis hadn’t been to a bowling alley since attending a friend’s seventh birthday party. He didn’t even know there still were bowling alleys. Aside from going to the batting cages occasionally, Travis had never been particularly sports minded. All through school, he was the one who always got picked last when teams were being assembled. Even baseball, as obvious a team sport if there ever was one, was something Travis basically played alone.
This outing to the bowling alley wasn’t even their second get-together, but their fourth. The day after they had coffee, they met up for lunch at a local McDonald’s (Travis felt somewhat uncomfortable about having ordered a Big Mac when Sandy then went for a more sensible salad, but seriously, who even stepped foot into a McDonald’s to order a salad?), and it was over lunch that Sandy had said she wanted to make what she knew was an inappropriate proposal.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod, Travis had thought.
She had said, “You know your glasses?”
And he’d said, “Huh?”
“Your glasses are really—I don’t know how to say this without sounding all judgy and everything, but your glasses are kind of nerdy.”
“What?”
“I mean, just because some of your interests are nerdy—and I have no problem with that, because I think comics and graphic novels are a true art form and you have nothing to be ashamed about—but just because your interests are a bit, you know, like that, you don’t have to look like that. And your glasses … is there some reason why the frames are so thick and the lenses so oversized?”
Travis’s face had flushed with embarrassment.
“Oh, shit, shit, I’m sorry,” Sandy had said. “I really overstepped, didn’t I?”
“No, no, it’s okay,” he’d said. “I guess, they’re just what I’ve always worn. I asked my parents once for some nicer ones and they said these were fine. But, yeah, maybe they’re a bit on the geeky side. I look like a professor in one of those sixties puppet adventure shows like Thunderbirds.”
Sandy had looked at him blankly, not getting the reference.
“Anyway, yeah. I’ve thought about getting different ones, but anytime I have some money, I spend it on something else.”
“Let’s get you some new glasses. We’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Gee, I don’t know. They could be expensive and—”
“They could be my treat,” she’d said. “And after that, we could, you know, and tell me if I’m way over the line here again, go to the Gap or something and get you some clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“No offense, but you could use a slight upgrade in the wardrobe department.”
“Oh.”
Sandy had given him a light kick under the table. “Listen to me, you idiot. I don’t think you have any idea, but right under the surface here”—and she’d spun her index finger in the air in front of his face—“is a sexy guy waiting to burst out.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
The thing was, Travis actually did have some money saved up—pretty close to a thousand dollars—so the next day he went to the ATM and took out a couple hundred in cash and allowed Sandy to take him to the mall for a minimakeover. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it went pretty far at the Gap. Sandy picked out some shirts that were on sale, and a pair of stylish jeans. It was when she suggested Travis get some new boxers that he nearly lost his mind.
They’d only known each other a couple of days, and they hadn’t done anything but kissed a few times—that’s right, Travis had finally put his lips on a girl’s in a circumstance that was not a family funeral or under duress—but Travis couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that even better things were coming. The fact that Sandy would actually have a suggestion about an item of apparel that touched his boys was pretty much the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life.
The trip to the Gap didn’t leave Travis any money for new glasses, but Sandy insisted that she would help him with that. He could always pay her back later. So they went to the eyeglass place in the mall and found an over-the-counter pair that were every bit as good as the prescription ones he’d been wearing for years and didn’t even cost very much.
So by the time they got to the bowling alley, Travis felt like a new man. Sandy had remade him, and all it took was a pair of glasses and a new outfit. Oh sure, Travis still had something of a nerd vibe going on, and he knew it, but Sandy didn’t seem to mind. He guessed it went back to what she’d said about her former boyfriend, the jock, a subject she had expanded on in subsequent conversations. She didn’t like guys who were full of themselves, who thought they were hot shit, who were narcissistic assholes who believed the world revolved around them.
Hey, Travis thought, if Sandy’s tastes now ran to guys with low self-esteem who couldn’t throw a football if their lives depended on it, she had found her perfect man.
After their game—Travis shot an astonishingly bad score of 80, but Sandy wasn’t much better at 95—they went for a burger, and for a change Sandy didn’t talk exclusively about herself.
“No offense,” she said jokingly, “but you are not the best bowler I ever saw.”
“Right back atya,” he said. “Bowling’s not really my game.”
“What is your game?”
He rolled his eyes. “Not really anything. I take my little Louisville Slugger to those batting cages once in a while, but that’s about it.”
“I used to do that,” Sandy said.
“Do what?”
“I was on a girls’ softball team.” She smiled proudly. “I wasn’t half bad, either. Next time, we’ll do the cages thing.”
“Sure.”
“So,” she said, easing into a different subject, “tell me more about your parents.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re just normal, I guess.” He paused, looked down. “They don’t really think much of me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“They’re always telling me how to change my life. Get out more, meet people, stop being so wrapped up in my own world.”
Sandy smiled. “Aren’t you kinda doing that?”
He looked up and met her gaze. “Seems like it. I guess they want the best for me, but it always feels like they’re putting me down.”
“Do you have a picture of them?” she asked.
“On my phone.”
“Let me see.”
He got out his phone and opened the photo app. “I don’t have that many of them. Oh, wait. Here’s one. It’s from my mom’s birthday, like, last year, I
think.”
He handed the phone to her and she studied the shot. Travis’s parents had their arms around each other, both wearing paper party hats and looking cheerful or a little drunk, or both. The woman had pale, white skin and graying hair, while her husband was darker, but not from a tan.
“Your dad, he looks … what’s the word? Swarthy? That’s not a racist word or anything, is it?”
“I don’t think so. My dad’s roots, they go back to Armenia or something.”
“So, Roben is an Armenian name?”
“Yeah, but my first name comes from the detective.”
“Detective?”
“Travis McGee. My dad, when he was younger, was a big John D. MacDonald fan.”
Sandy did not know who that was. She took one last look at the picture and handed Travis back his phone. “He’s really handsome. But you look more like your mom. She’s pretty. You’ve kind of got her eyes and cheekbones and stuff.”
“Yeah, well, no surprise there,” he said.
Sandy blinked. “What’s that mean?”
He shrugged again. “It’s not something I really talk about.”
Sandy’s face softened. “I don’t understand.” Then, as if a light bulb went off, her eyes widened and she said, “Oh, I get it. So, like your mom was married before? Another guy is your real dad?”
“You’re half right,” he said. “The first part, you’re wrong. My mom’s always been married to him. They’ve been married for thirty years, and they really love each other and all.” He winced. “No offense, like, about your own parents, splitting up and all.”
“That’s okay. But what about him not being your real dad? What did you mean by that? Oh my God, did your mom have an affair?” She put her hand to her mouth.
Travis laughed. “No. God, your mind.”
“Sorry.”
“When I got to be around thirteen, my parents sat me down and said they had something to tell me, that I was entitled to know the truth, about who I was and everything. My parents—well, my dad—couldn’t have kids. Like, the natural way? They’d tried for a long time. So they ended up going to this place, like, near New York, because they used to live in Newark, so it wasn’t that far. A clinic, you know?”
“Like a fertility clinic?”
“Yeah, like that. So, they had this stuff from another guy—”
“Stuff?”
Travis’s face went red. “Sperm.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Sandy said casually. “You can stop right there. Your dad had a low sperm count, so your mom used a donor. And you’re the kid from that donation.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool,” Sandy said.
“I don’t know if I’d call it that.”
“No, I think that’s really amazing. So, do you know who your biological father is?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Have you tried to find out?”
“Nope.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Nope.”
She shook her head in wonder. “If it was me, that would drive me crazy. That’d be something I’d have to know. You haven’t done one of those tests? I see the ads on TV all the time.”
“No.”
“You should,” she said. “You should find out.”
For the first time, Travis bristled at Sandy’s interference. “I think that’s a pretty personal decision.”
Sandy said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“It’s okay.”
“Well, here’s another question, and it’s not super personal.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“I’m gonna say something, but don’t look. Not until I say.”
“What are you talking about?” Travis said.
“There’s this couple, over past where we got the bowling shoes? A man and a woman, like in their forties? They’re not bowling or getting something to eat. They’re just hanging around, and they keep looking this way.”
“Can I look?”
“Okay, but be casual like?”
He stood, stretched, slowly turned around, like he was taking in things, not looking at anything in particular.
“Oh, smooth,” Sandy whispered.
Travis saw them. Standing right where Sandy said, but they were looking the other way now. He sat back down.
“Maybe they’re waiting for somebody,” he said.
“I bet they’re cops,” Sandy said. “Maybe there’s been some drug dealing or something here.”
“At the bowling alley?”
Sandy shrugged.
“So what now?” Travis asked.
Sandy smiled. “You wanna do it?”
Thirty-Six
New Haven, CT
Miles agreed with Chloe that, whatever was going on with her other half brothers and sisters—if there was actually anything going on at all—it made sense that she come back with him to New Haven. But he did not want to ride all the way in her dilapidated Pacer, nor did he want to take the time for her to return the car to her home in Providence. He persuaded her to leave the car in Springfield—promising to have it brought back to her, one way or another, as soon as possible—and head to his place in the limo.
Chloe had called her mother and told her not to expect her back because she was staying over at Todd’s place. A lie, of course, but Chloe was not yet ready to tell her the father of her child had wandered into the diner and turned her life upside down.
It was dark by the time they got to his place, a modern, stunning architectural wonder on a wooded lot just outside of New Haven. As the limo rounded the last corner of the long, paved drive, the house came into view. It was a broad, one-story structure with walls of glass, interrupted at regular intervals with rust-colored steel beams, giving it a high-tech yet industrial look.
“Whoa,” said Chloe. “This is a house? It’s not, like, some secret military installation?”
“I’ve got a guest room, with its own bathroom,” Miles said. “It’s fully stocked. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, whatever you need.”
“Tampons?” she asked.
Miles shot her an awkward look.
“Just messin’ with ya,” she said.
“I can send Dorian out first thing in the morning to get anything else you might need, including some fresh clothes. And there’s a housekeeper if you want to wash your things.”
“Yeah, well, with all those glass walls, I hope you’ve got an extra bathrobe.”
“The glass can be tinted dark enough to afford complete privacy. No need for curtains or blinds.”
“Get out.”
“Really.”
As they got out of the limo, Miles asked Charise to be on call for the following day. At the front door, Miles touched his thumb to a pad. The security system read the print, turned back the deadbolt, and this was followed by a beep inside the house, indicating the alarm system had been disengaged.
“Come on in,” Miles said.
Chloe was agog as she crossed the threshold. The spacious entryway was decorated with leafy shrubs growing from planters built into the walls. A rock formation along one side of the room featured a waterfall that lent a sense of tranquility to the surroundings.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Chloe said.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Miles said.
As Chloe followed Miles, her head moved from side to side, taking the place in. “What’d it cost you to buy this joint?” she asked.
“I had it built,” Miles said as they reached the kitchen. He pulled on a handle that appeared to be attached to a panel in the wall, but it was actually the door to a massive refrigerator.
“I could park my Pacer in there,” Chloe said.
Miles grabbed two bottles of water and handed one to Chloe.
“So what did it cost you to build this place?”
“Just under eleven million,” he said.
Chloe put her water
bottle on the counter and walked into an adjoining room. “Fuck me,” she said.
Miles followed to see what she was looking at. She was standing in the media room, looking at a screen that covered one entire wall.
“You can watch something if you want,” Miles said. “I’m probably gonna pack it in soon. It’s been a long day. Remote’s right there. It does everything.”
“You got some beer in that fridge?” she asked, looking at him.
“Uh, yeah.”
Chloe went back to the kitchen, used both hands on the refrigerator handle and pulled it open as though it were a bank vault. She peered inside, grabbed a can.
“Bud Light? Seriously? You got an eleven-million-dollar house and the fridge is full of Bud Light? I thought you’d have some fancy-shmancy craft beer or something.”
Miles shrugged. “I like it. But if you look in the back I think I have some of the fancy-shmancy stuff.”
“No, no. I like this. I’m just surprised.”
Miles set down his water bottle. “Grab me one.”
She reached into the fridge for another one and tossed it his way, but the can bounced off his chest, hit the floor, and rolled under the edge of the counter.
“Sorry!” Chloe said.
“Shit,” Miles said. “Shit shit shit.”
She bent over to retrieve the can and set it on the counter. “Better not open that one for a while. What happened?”
“I don’t have the coordination I once did,” he said. “I saw the can coming, but my arms didn’t get the message from my brain fast enough to catch it.” But he was moving his arms now, looking at them with a mix of wonder, bafflement, and disappointment. “Jesus.”
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