Quick Fix

by Linda Grimes

  And it sure as hell hurt.

  I started walking again. No. It couldn’t be. That was a leftover-crush kiss, and besides, I’d never told Billy he was my one and only. Had I? No, definitely not.

  But he had told me that. Damn it all to fucking hell! He said I was the only one he wanted. And I’d believed him.

  What happened next was entirely Carrie Underwood’s fault. And the bourbon’s. Or maybe Mom’s fault, since she had been in charge of the playlist for the evening. Possibly even Auntie Mo’s … No, I couldn’t blame her. Billy’s cheating genes couldn’t have come from her. And Uncle Liam had never seemed inclined to stray, that I could see anyway. Ha. Like any man would dare cheat on Auntie Mo. She’d show him. She’d put him in his place. She’d hit him where it would hurt.

  Just like Carrie.

  Yup, good ol’ Carrie was one country singer who knew how to hit a man where it really hurt—right in his internal combustion engine.

  But all that would never have come to my mind if I hadn’t happened upon Billy’s car.

  There it was, on this little side street that actually had a tree, occupying Billy’s favorite on-street parking place in the neighborhood. Amazing how it was almost always free when he needed it. Or, more likely, how it became free when he called ahead and informed his paid placeholder he was on his way.

  Had I subconsciously walked this way, knowing it would be here? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it was a coincidence. All I knew for sure was, I was here and it was there, and just looking at it made me ache until I felt like I had to hit something or my heart would explode.

  And I had a big fucking stick in my hands.

  Fighting angry tears, growling along to the strains of “Before He Cheats” still echoing in my head, I set to work on the Chevy. Pulled the key to my parents’ house from my jeans pocket and dug it into the driver’s side door, leaving a two-foot-long groove. Smashed the window with the head of the cane. It took three tries—car windows are tougher than you’d think—and felt a thrill when I made it through.

  I switched the key for the penknife in my other pocket, careful not to cut myself when I opened it, and carved up his seat (not with my name—I was drunk, not an idiot). Sadly, it was vinyl, not leather. Still, it wouldn’t be cheap to replace. Not that money was any object to my scoundrel of a fake cousin, I thought, and then carved up the passenger side for good measure.

  Next, I staggered to the front of the car. I might not have had a Louisville Slugger, but Granddad’s walking stick would do just fine. I gripped it tightly (imagining it was Billy’s neck helped), warmed up with a few practice swings, and took out both headlights.

  Feeling pretty cocky, I played out the rest of the lyrics and slashed a hole in all four tires. Okay, more stabbed than slashed. Slashing isn’t quite as easy as it sounds. Vandalism takes a certain amount of strength. I was breathing hard by the time I was done but feeling pretty pleased with myself.

  Ha. Imagine that. Even an interlude with Billy’s car could leave me breathless and satisfied. I walked away, still humming. Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats.…

  *

  My sense of supreme satisfaction lasted, oh, about a block. Now that I’d vented my shock and anger, the reality of what I’d done washed over me like a cold rain down the back of my neck. No, wait—that was cold rain. Perfect. I ran back toward my parents’ house, eager not only because it was dry there, but also figuring I better put the walking stick back where it belonged before I got caught with the evidence.

  I was having a hard time remembering precisely if Billy’s lips had connected to Monica’s there at the end. Maybe he’d just been leaning down to tell her, quietly, that he was off the market. Gaaah. Maybe I had just demolished Billy’s baby for no good reason.

  Hold on. What was I doing? Was I turning into one of those pathetic women who make excuses for their asshole boyfriends? When had Billy’s lips ever not connected to a willing woman? No, he deserved what I did to his car, all right. I was (almost) sure of it.

  Almost.

  I stopped in front of my parents’ house. Stood in the middle of the sidewalk, each raindrop that pelted me driving home the message: hypocrite. Oh. My. God. I was a great big fucking hypocrite. If anybody had a right to be upset, it was Billy. If he’d seen me kissing Mark, would he have gone medieval on my beloved car? If I’d had a car, which I didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

  No, I really didn’t think he would have.

  I ducked behind a tall potted shrub as the door opened and Aunt Helen emerged, supported by Uncle Foster, who looked in need of a prop of his own. Mom and Dad said their good-byes as they walked my wobbly relatives to a waiting cab. Once my parents were back inside, I crept up onto the stoop and peeked in one of the sidelights. The hall was clear, so I slipped in and put the walking stick back in its usual spot, hoping the additional nicks and dings would go unnoticed.

  From the library-slash-music room, Uncle Liam’s beautiful tenor voice filled a lull in the playlist, a sharp reminder that the car I’d just trashed had been his pride and joy before he’d passed it along to Billy. My breath stopped, waylaid by the lump of shame in my throat. Shit. What had I been thinking?

  I had to get out of the house. Right then. As in immediately.

  I turned back to the front door, but more guests had emerged from the living room, blocking the way. I didn’t want to get caught in the undertow, so I slipped through the dining room and continued out the French doors to the backyard. The rain was coming down harder, but I didn’t care. I didn’t deserve to be dry and warm. I was a stupid, jealous idiot. All I wanted to do was crawl into a cave and wallow in my shame. The grotto would be the perfect place, if it weren’t likely to be occupied by the very person I was running from.

  Damn it. Running? Running was the act of a coward. I might have been a stupid, jealous idiot, but I refused to add coward to the list of my shortcomings. I would go to the cave, and if Billy and Monica were still there, I would deal.

  Stumbling down the path, past the shrub-outlined koi pond, I forced myself to the grotto, determined to tell Billy what had happened to his car. I wouldn’t sugarcoat it, either. I’d flat out tell him that I … that I …

  I swallowed hard, holding back the bile that filled my throat. I’d tell him I caught somebody vandalizing it as I walked by. Because, Jesus, he would kill me if he ever found out the truth, and remorseful or not, I had no wish to die.

  Billy wasn’t there.

  But Monica was.

  Lying on the ground, she was half-in, half-out of the grotto, her head hidden in the shadow. I knew it was her by the dress she was wearing. The lovely ivory silk dress I’d last seen pressed up against Billy now had a large bloodstain right in the middle of it.

  Crap. I dropped to my knees beside her. “Monica? Monica, are you all right?” I bit my lip. Are you all right? Jesus, Ciel, what kind of idiot are you?

  She didn’t respond. Long, wavy hair the color of licorice, adorned by a single lavender orchid, lay scattered over her shoulders, encroached upon by the growing stain on her chest. An image of Laura superimposed itself over the woman in front of me. Had Monica been shot, like Laura? It sure looked like it to me, blurry though my vision was. Not surprising that no one heard a shot, with all the noise from the party.

  “Ciel? Is that you?”

  I jumped up and twirled. Found myself caught in Billy’s strong grip, so my body stopped midspin, but my brain didn’t. It kept going … and going … and going. Until I was dizzy-sick with the horror, and the booze, and the blood. I did the only logical thing I could, under the circumstances.

  I hurled.

  Billy jumped back a step, for all the good it did him. There’s a reason they call it projectile vomiting.

  To his credit, he hadn’t let me go. “My God, cuz, are you all right?”

  “N-n-no-o-o,” I wailed. “I feel sick.”

  “Obviously. Drinking sick, or has somebody poisoned you? I only ask because it will
have a bearing on what I do next.”

  “Dri-drinking. I think,” I said, mentally doing a Manhattan tally. When my brain couldn’t keep up, I tried counting on my fingers. But there appeared to be more of them than usual, so I gave up. “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Never mind. Come with me,” Billy said, and hurried me down the path back toward the house. He sat me on a crescent-shaped cement bench my father had lovingly placed next to his favorite crab apple tree. “You stay right here. I have to take care of things. Got that? Right here.”

  “Okily-dokily,” I said, and started to giggle, only then I remembered Monica and grabbed Billy by his puked-spattered dress. “Oh, God. Monica is dead.”

  “Looks that way. Now, let me go so I can get help.”

  “But you … why did you … hey, why did you put the dress back on?” Because he was, I belatedly noticed, wearing Meryl’s dress. And he most definitely had not been when he’d been in the lip-lock with Monica that had precipitated my ill-advised walk.

  “I haven’t had a chance to change yet—Ciel, I have to go.” He peeled my hand from his arm and put it beside me on the bench. “You hold on right here, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

  I swayed. He steadied me.

  “Sh-sure you have. You had on pants when you were kissing Monica in the cave. And my shirt. I mean, your shirt—”

  “When I was what?”

  “When you were kissing Monica. Are you even listening to me?”

  “Ciel, I haven’t taken this dress off all evening.”

  “But I saw you— Oh, shit!” I looked at his face. “That wasn’t you?” The implications did nothing to settle my stomach. Or my conscience.

  It was totally stupid to be worried about what I’d done to Billy’s car—apparently for no reason at all—when Monica was in the cave. Dead. But frankly, I kinda wanted to crawl in and join her. That would be easier than explaining to Billy. God, Monica was dead. Why could I not focus on that?

  Because if I did, I’d hurl again, and again, and never stop.

  “Did you get a close look at the guy’s face?” he said, speaking urgently.

  I must’ve looked confused. God knew, I felt confused.

  “Think, Ciel. His face. Did you see it clearly?”

  “Yes … no … I don’t know! The important thing is, I thought it was you. Honest.”

  “No, the important thing is, we need to know if it was some random guy who looks like me, or if it’s an adaptor pretending to be me. One could be a coincidence, the other is most definitely not.”

  “I … I never saw his whole face, I don’t think.” How could I when it was plastered by the lips to Monica’s? “But his hair … his build … his shirt—they were your clothes, Billy. I was just so sure it was you.”

  “Okay, okay. We’ve established you thought it was me. You sit here. If it looks like anyone is heading to the grotto, stall them. I need to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  Chapter 18

  Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

  I grabbed my face, digging the heels of my hands into my eyeballs, trying to keep them from popping out of my head. It wasn’t helping.

  Where was I? Afraid to open both eyes at once, I lifted one hand and tentatively slit a lid. Light trickled in, thankfully dim enough not to jar my brain. The surface beneath me wobbled, sending my whole body into a one-person equivalent of the stadium wave. The waterbed in Billy’s childhood bedroom. How the hell had I gotten here? Last thing I remembered, Billy was helping me to the bench, and then he was going to—

  Shit! Before I could contemplate the particulars, my stomach decided on a little wave action of its own. I sat up quickly, hoping to make it to the bathroom before I spewed. A tin wastebasket appeared magically beneath my chin.

  “Go ahead. Get rid of it,” Auntie Mo said, her voice a mixture of censure and amusement. “I swear, Ciel Halligan, I can’t believe you made it through college without learning your limits. How many Manhattans did you have, exactly?”

  Too busy following her instructions to answer right away, I held up three fingers. Thought a second, and changed it to four. “That I can remember,” I said, in the interest of honesty, when I finished.

  She wiped my face with a damp washcloth and handed me a glass of water. “Here. Drink. Or if you can’t abide the notion of adding anything to your stomach, just rinse and spit.”

  Disgusting as that last suggestion was, I did it. No way was my stomach accepting anything just yet. When Auntie Mo removed the wastebasket, I lowered my head onto my hands, my elbows resting on my knees, and gave voice to my biggest fear. “Does Mom know I’m here?”

  “Not yet. She has enough to do supervising the party cleanup. I thought you and I might have a little chat and settle this ourselves. No need to worry Ro if it’s only a stupid one-time thing.” She arched a brow.

  “Oh, it is definitely an aberration, Auntie Mo. I swear to God I never want to feel like this again.”

  I guess I sounded sincere, because she gave a satisfied nod.

  “And am I right in assuming my daughter is safely with James? That you at least saw to that before you went off on your little bender?”

  “Uh, that’s right. Molly is with James.” True enough. Which was good, because nobody could sniff out a lie like Auntie Mo, except maybe Mom. No need to elaborate on any of the petty details, like whether or not Molly was still an ape. I mean, why upset Auntie Mo when it could very well be that Molly had succeeded in morphing back to herself? That would be needlessly cruel. Not to mention masochistic in the extreme, and present condition notwithstanding, I was no masochist.

  “Thank God you had that much sense. So, are you going to tell me what set you off?”

  “Uh…”

  Billy’s voice cut in. “Come on, Mommo. It was the party. What other reason does she need?”

  Oh, God. My eyes flew to his face. His expression was bland. Didn’t he remember anything? How could he be so blasé?

  “No, that would be you or her brothers you’re thinking of. Ciel has never before used a simple family function—”

  Billy snorted. “Simple? Ha.”

  “—as an excuse to let go of all common sense. Something must be on her mind.” She skewered her son with her eyes. “And I will find out what.”

  “Really, Auntie Mo, it’s nothing,” I said, my voice a little thready. I cleared my throat. “I just, uh, had a little too much fun, is all.”

  “It’s Mark, isn’t it?” she said baldly.

  I could feel confusion lay itself over my face. “Huh?”

  “No need to pretend with me, Ciel. I know how you feel about him. It’s been obvious since you were a child. Did he at least try to let you down gently, sweetheart?”

  “What?”

  She grabbed me into a hug, pressing my face into her ample bosom. “Oh, my poor dear. Never you mind. It’s just not the same for men, especially not men like Mark. He’s a wonderful person but not the type to let a woman—any woman, not just you, dear—interfere with his work. But you will get over him, I promise. Tell her, Billy. Tell her there’s somebody better suited for her out there, just waiting to snatch her up.”

  I tried to breathe. Looked desperately at Billy, whose eyes were dancing a jig in his head.

  “Mommo’s right, cuz. Mark’s not the right guy for you. Now, come on. We have to go.”

  “Don’t be silly. Ciel needs to rest. You should know that. You’ve recovered from your fair share of heartbreaks right here in this bed, young man, in much the same condition as your poor cousin.”

  Huh? That was news to me. Billy was the designated heartbreaker, never the breakee. I screwed up my brow at him.

  He shrugged it off. “We promised to help James with Molly this morning, and we can’t back out now. Right, Ciel?”

  “Um, that’s right. Now I remember. Really, Auntie Mo, I’m feeling much better,” I lied. “I’ll just wash my face and brush my teeth—do you have a spare toothbrush?”

  “You know
I do. But—”

  Billy took me by the elbow and led me to the bathroom right outside his bedroom door, fast-talking his mother the whole time. “Listen, Mommo, you know better than most how much experience I have with mornings after. Let me see to Ciel. Don’t you have enough to do with party cleanup? You’re not going to leave Auntie Ro to do it all by herself, are you?”

  Auntie Mo looked torn. I could tell she wasn’t done with me, but she really couldn’t let my mother down, either. “All right then. You’ll see to getting Molly home after?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get her back here,” he said, adding “eventually” only after turning his back on his mother, who had already begun fluffing the pillows and straightening the covers on Billy’s bed. Auntie Mo liked to keep her hands busy.

  Billy shoved me into the immaculate bathroom. The toilet looked damned inviting, though I wasn’t sure whether to sit on it or hang my head over it.

  “Five minutes,” he said under his breath, “or I’m coming in after you.”

  “Why did you have to bring me here? You know Auntie Mo will let it slip to Mom somehow,” I said, keeping my voice as low as his. It’s possible I sounded a bit whiny. The pounding in my head made it difficult for me to tell.

  “This was close and I had access. Count yourself lucky you were breathing normally and had a strong pulse, or I would have taken you straight to the hospital to have your stomach pumped.”

  He closed the door in my face, and I heard him continuing to talk to his mother. I avoided the toilet decision and went first for the sink. Splashed handful after handful of cold water on my face, and ran damp fingers through my short, wavy hair. Brushed my teeth with the tiniest useful bit of toothpaste I could manage. Finally snuck a peek at myself in the mirror. Not too bad if I adapted away the cracked-egg eyeballs and puffy bags. If I didn’t make any sudden moves, I might even get away with not having to barf again.

  Billy was alone when I came back out. Not surprising. Mo was a bloodhound, but if anybody could throw her off the scent of trouble, Billy could. He’d had years of practice.