“What, not even enough for an Amazon gift card?” I extract another French fry from the congealed cheese and pop it in my mouth.
“So he walked two days to the ocean,” she continues, undaunted, “and he picked up a simple seashell and carried it back two more days. His teacher was touched, but he was also puzzled. To walk such a long way, only for a single shell? And the child answered, ‘Teacher, the journey was the gift.’”
I look at her for a long moment, then pop another fry into my mouth. “You got that from Home Improvement. That was one of Wilson's monologues.”
Now it's her turn to blush a little. “Maybe. That doesn't make it a bad story, though.”
I lean back in my chair. “No, but I'm the one who's puzzled. What's it got to do with me?”
“Maybe reading to the kids ended up being...” She searches for the word, her nose crinkled up.
I take a whack at it. “A horrendous, humiliating fuck-up of intergalactic proportions?”
Her laugh does something to me. It's a lovely sound, throaty and full of life, something I find myself wanting to hear as often as possible. But only if I inspire it.
“Yes, that,” she concedes. “That sums it up. But you still overcame your fear of hospitals to do it, and I saw how difficult that was for you. A lot of people wouldn't have gone through with it. They would have gone for the more comfortable option, and that's the point. For you, the journey was the gift... the selfless act.”
I frown, thinking this over. It sounds nice, and I want to just accept it, but...
“But then isn't that still making this about me?” I ask. “I mean, this is supposed to be about the result, not how it makes me feel about myself, right?”
She almost smiles but not quite. “The rules for this stuff aren't always straightforward. It's a good place to start, though. It at least shows that you're genuinely willing to be selfless, even if you don't quite know how yet.”
“This all seems so confusing,” I admit, longing to close the gap and take her hand in mine. Instead, I take a sip of my water. “Just when I think I've got it; it feels like the goalposts keep moving. I hate that feeling. Like no matter what I do, I have no shot at success.”
She takes another bite of her sundae, examining me. Finally, she says, “May I ask you something?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Yes, I was actually going to read to them from Penthouse Forum. And under the circumstances, I kind of wish I had.”
She laughs again. Good. I could really get used to making her laugh. A pause. Then she asks, “Why are you so frightened of hospitals?”
I was hoping it wouldn't be that question. Dread flows over me and my initial instinct is to refuse to answer. After all, as questions go, that one's pretty personal. It's something I've never, ever talked about with anyone. The last thing I want to do is leave my tender underbelly exposed to someone I barely know. Like most men, I hate being vulnerable.
But some weird part of me knows it's the difficulty in sharing this that makes it so important. The journey is the gift. Her words drift back into my brain and land. There's a perverse joy in the idea that the more I tell her, the more I can find out about her. I haven't been interested enough in anyone to be curious about them for a long time, but there's something elusive about her, something that's affected me deeply.
Admittedly, along with certain other parts of my anatomy.
I put off answering by having a few more fries, carefully wording my response in my head. Still, when the words come, they sound foreign to me.
“My mom died when I was about four years old, and literally the only memories I have of her are from when she was in the hospital. My father was always working, but my nanny would take me to visit her every day. And then one day, when it was time for the visit, my dad stood there instead, and he told me there wouldn't be any more visits. So that's how I think of hospitals. Hospitals mean not being able to say goodbye.” I throw my hands up in the air between us. “One day someone's lying in bed there, and you can see them and talk to them, and the next day they're just... gone.”
Keeley puts her spoon down and places her hand over mine. “God, Shane, I’m so sorry.”
I shrug, trying to seem casual. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”
“But I can see how much it still upsets you. And losing a parent is something you never get over. Time might take a little of the edge off the grief, but it’s always there with you. Through my work, I’ve discovered that grief changes, maybe fades, but it never leaves.”
“What upsets me is that my father's using her memory to tout this stupid app.” My voice sounds thick in my throat, and I cough. “I was the one who visited her every day, not him. And now he's making me do this and saying it's all for her, when it's just so he can play up the stern widower with a heart of gold routine while making more money for his shareholders. He’s always cared about money more than people. I guess some of that rubbed off on me.”
“That's an extremely shitty publicity stunt,” she agrees, narrowing her eyes as she regards me. “And not fair to you at all.”
Suddenly, I realize I've shared a lot more than I meant to, and I feel embarrassed. I look at my cell phone's clock, trying to ignore the steadily climbing number of messages, missed calls, and app notifications after the hospital disaster streamed online.
“I should go,” I say quickly, standing up and tossing some cash onto the table. “This should cover lunch. I'll, um, text you about getting together for the next, you know... and I really appreciate the help and you giving me another chance nicebombing. I don’t get those very often.”
“Nicebombing?” She smiles at the absurdity of the word, but something lingers in her eyes that looks like pity, and it invites my anger back in—at her or myself, I don't know which. Either way, I need to get out of here fast.
I point to the app. “Yeah, that. Thanks again for today. Bye.”
As I leave, I feel her eyes following me, like a pair of fingertips pressing against my back.
When I get home, I plug my phone into an outlet in the spare room and close the door, pretending it doesn't exist. I can't deal with another parade of inane screen names making fun of me, to say nothing of the angry texts from my father and who knows what the hell else.
Instead, I flop down on my couch, pull a blanket over my head, and peer out watching reality TV and infomercials. Every now and then, my eyes sting with tears. More than anything, I really want Keeley to think the best of me, even when it would be so easy for her to think the worst. I blink them away until I don't anymore, then fall asleep on a damp pillow.
Chapter Nine
Keeley
“So how are things going with that nice young man?” Pinky asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Lu sits across the table from me as we eat dinner together. She brought Chinese food, Pinky's favorite—completely ignoring his dietary restrictions and making my job more difficult. But just this once, I’ll let it slide. Life is all about balance, even in the later stages. Lucinda was always a people pleaser, even back in college.
Lu looks up from her food. “Oh? Are you dating someone now, Keeley? Is it serious? We should do lunch and catch up on girl talk.”
“Slow down, sweetie, it's nothing like that,” Pinky assures her by patting her on the back of the hand. “It's the fellow you both met outside the coffee shop. The one who brought me Flyer.”
“That guy?” Lucinda raises her eyebrows and nearly snorts out her kung pao chicken. “Seriously, Keels, he’s such a douche nozzle. What, he's still coming around? What does he want now? To baffle you with bullshit?”
I smile at the reference, thinking back to the kids in the pediatric ward of the hospital.
Pinky takes a stab of his sweet and sour pork. “He wants Keeley to help him do good things for people.”
“Well, Keeley's busy!” Lucinda squawks. “Nothing is more important than your care, Daddy. Rich bastards like him can just hire someone to do their good deeds for th
em. Or just give a cool mil to charity. That should assuage his guilt for being a first-class asshole.”
His fork halts in mid-air. “Darling, will you relax? I think it's a charming idea, so I told her to do it. In fact, I insisted.”
Something else bothers me—how quickly Pinky dismissed the idea that anything could be happening between me and Shane. I mean, nothing’s happening, but how does he know that it couldn't? And what if it did? Would that be some kind of problem for him?
Damn, why am I thinking about this? I do not want anything to happen between me and Shane. I’m helping him. That’s all. I do not notice the intensity of his eyes or the charm of his smile or the planes of his jawline.
Do. Not. Notice.
Lucinda purses her lips at me. “So what does that mean, you're helping him do good things for people? Sounds like some kind of scam to me.”
“He's basically beta-testing a new app called Nicebomber that encourages users to perform random acts of kindness and records them doing it so other users can see and be inspired,” I explain. “Maybe create a wave of people doing random acts of kindness. But the thing is, he terminally sucks at it, as you might have noticed when he tried to force a sandwich on Pinky.”
“Forgiven! Forgotten!” Pinky trumpets, waving a hand. “I’m coming to like that little pissant.”
Lucinda nods. “Despite Daddy’s forgiveness, he seems like a complete prick.”
“No latrine lip from you, young lady,” Pinky says. “Especially at the dinner table. You were raised better than that.”
Lucinda grunts distractedly by way of apology and hangs her head before staring at me again.
“He's a bit self-centered,” I admit, cringing inwardly at my own understatement. “But given his family background, actually, I'm a little surprised he's not worse. And the hell... excuse me, Pinky. The heck of it is that it seems like he really wants to be a better person. He just doesn't know how.”
“And you're the person to teach him?” Lucinda scoffs. “Can’t he consult with one of his rich friends on this?”
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore her misplaced anger toward Shane. All the man really did was try to give her dad a free sandwich. “This wasn't exactly my idea, Lucinda. Like Pinky said, he wanted me to do it.”
“Is it at least going well?” she asks with a hopeful look. “That would make all of this easier to digest.”
I wonder if I should start actually eating some of the food on my plate, just so I can choke on it and put an end to this miserable conversation.
“It's... off to a slow start,” I concede.
“Well, let's take a look and see if this guy’s redeemable,” she says, whipping out her smartphone. “You said the app's called Nicebomber?”
“Yeah, but there's no need to... I mean, we don't have to watch it at the table, not while we're all eating...” I stammer. I don’t want to add more fuel to Lucinda’s already blazing fire of dislike toward Shane. Sure, he doesn’t come off well at first, but on closer inspection, he improves.
You might even be starting to like him. Really like him.
Waving that thought away, a sick feeling settles in my stomach at the thought of Lucinda laughing at Shane and mocking him—not after what he told me earlier today. Unlike her, I understand his past and where he’s coming from. Showing this to her now feels like a betrayal. Why did I have to tell her the name of the app? Why did I tell her there were recordings? I've been too damn distracted by all of this lately. My head feels like it's screwed on backward.
“No, it's fine, let's see it,” Pinky says, leaning in. “I'm quite curious myself, actually. Oh, and feel free to turn the volume up as loud as you like... Flyer won't mind.” He titters and looks over at Flyer, who's curled up and snoring next to his food bowl.
Lucinda downloads the Nicebomber app and clicks the link to the most recent video. Part of me is surprised they kept the video up, but then again, what could they do after it went viral? Remove it after it first broadcast live? That would only mean worse publicity for them, I guess, like they have something to hide. This way, maybe they can at least get some buzz going from the comedy of it and find a way to turn it around later.
Sure enough, Shane appears on the screen, being introduced to the hospital kids.
“Oh, he's going to read to them!” Pinky exclaims. “That's outstanding. What a guy. Which story did he choose?”
I clear my throat. “Well, um, he tried to read Little Red Riding Hood, but as you'll see, they didn't really let him get that far...”
Pinky guffaws and slaps his good knee. “They wanted to know why the wolf didn't just eat her in the forest right away instead of going to Grandma's house, didn't they? Kids are sharp as tacks. Smart as whips. God, I miss those little gems.”
I blink, amazed. “Yes, that's right.”
Pinky shakes his head. “I never understood that either. Now The Three Billy Goats Gruff, that was a good story. No plot holes there.” He takes another look at the screen and turns to me, winking. “He's not a bad-looking guy, is he, Keeley?”
Lucinda peers at the screen, squinting. “I didn't get that good a look at him outside the coffee shop. Now that I can see him clearly, he's...” Her eyes widen, and she sits up, staring at me in disbelief. “Jesus, Keeley! Why didn't you mention this guy was Shane Kleinfeld? I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him that day!”
“Lucinda, I won't tell you about the language again!” Pinky scolds, wagging his pointer finger in his daughter’s face.
I shrug. “What, you know him?”
Her inhale turns her already pale skin even whiter. “'Do I know him? Are you kidding me? Everyone knows Shane Kleinfeld! He’s famous in Chicago. Or should I say, infamous.”
“Well, I didn’t before I met him in person,” I answer simply. “So clearly, not everyone. Why, who is he?”
“Seriously? He was on The Fiancé!”
My mind races, trying to remember any online footage. I’m more of a Schitt’s Creek or Modern Family kind of gal. My day job can be a downer, I don’t want my mindless entertainment to depress me. “I don't watch The Fiancé. Reality TV is so fake.”
Lucinda slaps a palm down on the table. “Sure you do! Everyone does! Keeley Louise, you’re about to lose your chick card!”
I scoff and roll my eyes, defying the fake as shit Gods of reality TV. “Again, clearly not. Besides, aren't lots of people on those shows? What's the big deal with him?” I almost don't want to ask—I don't want to seem like I care about this at all, if only to stop the feeding of Lucinda’s inappropriate obsession with all things romantic fantasy. But I can't help it. If there's something important about him and I'm the only one who doesn't know it, that's probably not a good thing. Since we’re getting close.
Too close for comfort.
She heaves a sigh as if I’m the biggest idiot in Chicago. “Okay, since you seem to have lived on a desert island for the past couple years, I'll fill you in. So there's a show on cable called The Fiancé, and on it, twenty-five guys compete for the chance to propose to this amazing woman. By the end, it's down to two male suitors. Are you with me so far?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like complicated stuff, but I think I can keep up.”
“Good. So he was a contestant on the show two seasons ago, and he got all the way to the end, and Kendall—that was the name of the possible fiancée that season—well, she was just totally in love with him, right? Because he was all rich and handsome, and he had that bad boy thing going for him. That romantic charm with the slight edge that makes every woman’s panties wet. Everyone wanted them to end up together.”
“I’ll ignore the part about the panties,” Pinky says, stabbing a water chestnut with his fork.
So far, I'm not liking the sound of this. “Go on.”
“But when it was time for him to propose—huge rock in hand and everything—he dropped to one knee. But then he paused. Paused! And he said… he couldn't propose because he didn’t believe in love!
Can you imagine saying that out loud? He totally broke poor Kendall’s heart in front of millions of people! Her public humiliation blew up online and she went into hiding for months.”
Maybe poor Kendall shouldn't have set herself up to be heartbroken in front of millions of people. Maybe the idea of a reality show that ends with a marriage proposal is tacky and gross, to say the least. Maybe the whole format begs for disasters. Like the one they all ended up with.
Despite my internal pep talk, this news leaves me uneasy. A lack of empathy is one thing, but holy smokes—a guy who would play out that whole awful charade, just to publicly disappoint someone who'd come to care about him? And to say he doesn’t even believe that love exists. That took major balls along with a distinct lack of empathy. That might be the biggest relationship red flag I've ever heard of in my life.
And I truly wonder if hope exists for Shane Kleinfeld even with my help. Because I’ve never really been in love either. But I know that I believe in it.
“Well, I don't understand anything you just said,” Pinky tells his daughter. “But he seems like a decent enough person to me, and I think Keeley should keep helping him. Perhaps some of her goodness will rub off on him.”
“Fine,” Lucinda says. “Just don't come crying when it turns out that he's a total sociopath and he breaks your heart into a million pieces with his fake smile. And don’t believe a word the man says to try to get in your pants!”
I go back to pushing my food around my plate, thinking it over quietly until Lucinda leaves and it's time to clear the table.
And I'm still thinking about it long after Pinky has gone to bed.
Chapter Ten
Shane
The next day, I go right on ignoring the comments on the website, and I delete almost all of my texts, emails, and voicemails without checking them. While I do, I find myself keeping an eye out for messages from Keeley so I can save those.
I want to hear from her.
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