The Wicked Collection

by Vivian Wood

  “Ain’t that a Facebook status option?” Mason said as he drowned his own slice in parm and peppers. “But for real. I’m pretty smart, you know. With the ladies and everything. I’m up for listening if you want to bounce some stuff off me.”

  Ryan hesitated. Mason was right. He had always been good with not just women, but the real meaty part of relationships. He acted like a badass, but when it came down to it there was a lot of sensitivity below the surface. He’d never tell him that, of course, but it was why he was so quick to befriend him. “I don’t know, man.”

  Mason shrugged. “What could it hurt?”

  Ryan looked at the other guys, who stuffed their faces with gusto and only popped their heads up occasionally to wash down bites of dough with beer. “I guess. Remember Poppy? My best friend since we were kids?”

  “You talked about her, yeah.”

  “I never thought about her in any other way, ever. Until now, since I got back. I don’t know, something’s different. Maybe she’s different, or me. I’m not sure.”

  “So, something going on then?”

  “No. Not exactly. There was this time, this moment I guess you’d say, at a pool party just last week. We almost kissed, but she bailed at the last second. Acted like nothing happened ever since.”

  “Doesn’t sound that complicated,” Mason said. “It was a party. People are drunk. She might not even remember that.”

  “It’s not just that. There’s also… she has this friend, Sarah. I never thought much of her. She’s kind of annoying, actually. But she’s hot, and we’ve been hanging out.”

  “What’s your definition of ‘hanging out’?” Mason asked.

  “Dating, I guess.”

  “You sleeping with her?”

  “No. It hasn’t got that far. But, you know, we’re ‘together.’ Maybe, I don’t even know if you’d say that.”

  “But while this is going on, you got feelings for your friend. Right?”

  “I don’t… yeah. I think so.”

  Mason finished a slice and grabbed a napkin. “All I know is, if you’ve got feelings for someone, it’s not kind to lead another girl on.”

  “I don’t even know if I have feelings for Poppy!” he said. The other guys glanced up, but went back to their pies. “I mean—”

  “Look, all I know is you’ve told me you’ve been friends with this girl your whole life. If you don’t see yourself ending that ‘friendship’ anytime soon, there’s probably more going on than you realize. Than you even admit to yourself.”

  Ryan sighed, and Mason clapped him on the shoulder as he stood up. “Maybe you’re right, man.”

  “See? I told you I was smart,” Mason said as he tapped his temple. “There’s another game starting soon, a group of guys from crossfit. You wanna join?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ryan said. He looked down at the empty steel plates and the oil-covered napkins.

  Do I have feelings for Poppy? Real ones? How did that ever happen?

  11

  Poppy

  Poppy dropped the shopping bags on her bed and slouched into the desk chair. It was like this every year. She never knew what to get her mom for her birthday.

  She’d walked around the mall for the past four hours. Nothing she saw seemed to scream at her, “Me! I’m what your mom wants.” Instead, she’d dropped a fortune on chocolates at Godiva, not even sure if her mom liked high-end chocolates. At the overpriced lotion and perfume store, she'd splurged on a sampler kit. Finally, she'd tied it all together with a collection of decorative, organic soaps in the shapes of various animals.

  Poppy tore the price tag off the woven basket she’d bought at the store where everything was imported from developing countries and each item was handmade. After lining the basket with tissue paper, complete with images of peonies so heavily in blossom they looked pregnant, she started arranging the gift basket. If nothing else, at least it would look pretty. Maybe her mom could even regift it.

  This is ridiculous. It shouldn’t be this hard, or this stressful to go see your mom for two hours for her birthday.

  As she put the finishing touches on the basket, she glanced at the clock and realized she only had thirty minutes before she needed to leave. Her heart thundered. It would be so much easier if I had a buffer. Some kind of safety net from Mom.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she scrolled through her phone and texted Ryan. Hey.

  Hey, Pops.

  Do you want to go on an adventure? she asked and waited. The ellipses told her he was typing.

  What kind of adventure?

  Lunch, burgers, I’ll buy.

  I’m in.

  I’ll drive. Pick you up in 10.

  When she pulled up to Ryan’s condo, he was already waiting outside. She saw him from a block away, could recognize the slope of his shoulders from anywhere. I’ve never before realized I know him so completely, and at the same time it’s like I don’t know him at all.

  “Thanks for the invite,” he said as he climbed in. “You know I’d never turn down a burger. Or a chance to hang out with you,” he added.

  She bit her lip. “Do you mind actually getting a burger through a drive-through?”

  “Oh, uh, no. Why? In a rush?”

  “I have to go see my mom in Maryland. It’s her birthday.”

  “Whoa! Wait, are you kidnapping me?”

  “Ry, stop!” she said, and slapped his leg as she pulled away. “I could just use some backup, that’s all. It’s… awkward. Seeing my parents.”

  Ryan raised his brows. “And why isn’t Will being the sacrificial buffer?”

  She looked away and kept her eyes on the road. Still, she saw his eyes widen from her peripheral vision, and he twisted in the seat toward her.

  “Wait a minute. They don’t know about Will? How is that possible?”

  She shrugged. “Never mind. Let’s go get a burger, then I can drop you off back home. This was stupid, sorry.”

  “No! No, I’ll go. I don’t mind going. I’m just surprised is all. But on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” she asked as she directed the car toward their favorite old-fashioned drive-in.

  “You buy me a double,” he said.

  She laughed. “Yeah, you’re going to need some fortitude to face my dad.” She smiled at him weakly as she put the car in park. A young girl on roller skates drifted out of the small white shack.

  “Hey, y’all. You need a menu, or you know what you’d like?” Poppy loved the nostalgia of the place, even though it looked more rundown and dreary every time she came here.

  “We know. A double cheeseburger, a kids' hamburger, and waffle fries with both.”

  “And a large vanilla shake!” Ryan called from the passenger seat.

  “Large? Our large is thirty-two ounces—”

  “I know,” Ryan said.

  The waitress jotted down their order and skated back to the double doors.

  “I can’t believe this place is still here,” Ryan said. “I remember coming here all the time when you were in med school.”

  “The cookies,” Poppy said.

  “Huh?”

  “You used to bring me cookies from here in the middle of the night when I was studying.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ryan said. “It was the perfect arrangement. A cookie for you, a double with extra cheese for me.”

  “You know they sell antelope and bison meat here now,” she said.

  “No shit.”

  “Ryan!”

  “My bad, sorry. Sorry.”

  The waitress arrived, expertly balancing a tray even as she stopped and balanced herself with a single toe stop. “Your large shake,” she said as she handed the monstrous drink to Poppy, who had to hold it with both hands to pass it to Ryan. The lid came separate. On top of the thick shake, a mountain of chocolate-drenched berries threatened to avalanche over the side.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Ryan said. He tried to fit it in the cup holder. “What
the hell, Poppy? Are these holders miniature sized or something?”

  “Uh, no, they’re just not made for economy-size beverages.” The waitress gave her a knowing smile and skated away.

  “So,” Ryan said as he somehow managed to take a bite out of the mile-high burger. “Is there anything I should know before we get there? Conversational dos, don’ts, whatever?”

  “Oh, I wish I knew,” she said as she picked the rings of raw red onion out of her burger.

  “Why don’t you ask for no onions?”

  “I don’t want to make a fuss,” she said. “But really, I don’t know. I’m guessing they’ll be on their best behavior with you there.”

  Even though her burger was a quarter the size of his, they finished at the same time. “Ready?” he asked. He grabbed some wet wipes out of her glove box.

  “As I’m ever going to be.” She pulled the car out of the drive-through and headed toward the freeway.

  “Bumfuck, Maryland, here we come,” Ryan said as he began working on the shake.

  “Ryan, seriously! Come on.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “How come your parents never moved closer to you, anyway?”

  “They never loved the city like I did,” she said. “Too loud and fast paced for them.”

  “Makes sense, I guess,” Ryan said. “At least they’re still together though, right? Your parents? That’s a rarity these days.”

  “I guess,” Poppy said. She couldn’t tell him her parents were likely still together because the idea of divorce was just wildly too foreign for their small-town, Southern minds.

  “For real, you don’t see it that often anymore,” Ryan said. “I think that would be cool. To be together that long.”

  “I don’t know,” Poppy said. “I think it’s hard to gauge a relationship from the outside. Being married forever doesn’t necessarily equate to happiness. I don’t think.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “All I know is my own mom. And, well, you’ve met her. Totally self-absorbed.”

  “I mean, I don’t know her that well, of course,” Poppy said. “But she never seemed self-absorbed to me. Kind of all over the place, sure. But maybe she’s just finding herself is all.”

  “Isn’t that what college is for? Or at least your twenties? Or even thirties?”

  Poppy shrugged. “I guess it takes different people different amounts of time.”

  “Maybe so,” Ryan said.

  “I mean, my mom? I don’t think she has a clue who she is. I’m not even sure she’s interested in finding out.”

  “But that’s not unusual for her generation. Everyone had assigned roles, and that’s what you did. Who you were.”

  “Assigned roles? Like housewife? That doesn’t make it right. Or mean that everyone, or even the majority, was happy with that arrangement.”

  “Do you think your mom’s unhappy?” The question cut right to the chase and took her breath away.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. She had a hunch, for sure. How could her mom be happy married to a man like her father? She'd never had a career, never had any real hobbies. All she remembered of her mom was her cleaning, cooking, and otherwise fulfilling the wholly stereotypical housewife role.

  An hour later, they pulled up in front of a rundown white stucco house. She killed the engine and took a deep breath. Is it too late to just turn around and go home? Every time she came here, although it wasn’t often, it was like the house was smaller. Dirtier. Did I really come from this?

  She felt a hand on hers. Ryan’s hand was huge, and easily consumed hers whole. His skin was warm and soft, even with the calluses from the years of lifting weights. How had she not noticed all of this before? Surely she’d touched his hand before. He felt electrifying.

  “It’s okay, Pops,” he said. “I’m here. I’ll be here every step of the way.”

  She let out a ragged breath and nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. It felt good, his hand. Too good.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Finally, she looked at him and nodded. They got out in silence, and Ryan came over to her side. He helped her navigate the gravel driveway in her heels. As she opened the little metal gate, it let out a squeak and groan. I know how you feel, she thought to the rusted entry.

  As they ascended the concrete steps, she tried not to look at the cobwebs flanking the doorframe. At the poorly stitched curtain in the awkward diamond window.

  Why did I bring Ryan here?

  12

  Ryan

  Fifteen years ago

  Just six more goddamned months, Ryan thought to himself as he pedaled his hybrid bike through the streets to Poppy’s house. He’d been working under the table gigs at Georgie’s and saved up for the past two years to buy a car. His mom had promised she’d cosign for a “reasonable sedan,” but that wasn't what he wanted—neither her help, nor a lame four-door car. He had his eyes on a Trans Am, and the day he turned sixteen he was going to buy one for himself. And someday, a motorcycle.

  As he pulled up outside Poppy’s house, he jumped off the bike and let it fall into the small patch of grass out front. He started to shrug off his backpack and get ready to knock when he heard it. The bloodcurdling scream from inside shot chills through him.

  The knob turned with ease. Thank you, God. Even as he rushed inside, he was aware it was adrenaline and fear that drove him forward. He raced through the little hallway, and glanced at the formal living room Poppy’s family used for storage and a makeshift office. It was empty.

  He ran into the kitchen and froze. Poppy’s father was standing menacingly over her as she was huddled in a corner. What is she doing? It looked like Poppy was covering someone, like she was a heroine in an action movie.

  Suddenly, he understood what was happening. Poppy was crouched over her mother. Her father’s back was to Ryan, and her mom seemed to be unconscious, sprawled across the linoleum.

  Poppy was sobbing, and a few words blubbered out of her. “Why? How could you?” She repeated the phrase over and over again. Poppy grabbed a tea towel from the stove’s handle and tried to tuck it under her mom’s head. When she wiped at her own nose, it brought on a fresh new flow of bright red blood. Poppy’s light blue shirt was drenched in what looked like red rust, and her face was smeared in it.

  Ryan couldn’t move.

  “You’re both whores!” her father growled. He’d never heard Mr. Baker sound like that before.

  “You didn’t have to hit her!” Poppy cried through tears and blood.

  “You’re both—both you crazy bitches bring it on yourselves,” Mr. Baker said. He staggered slightly and clutched a kitchen chair for support. Was he drunk?

  “Stop it!” Poppy said, and held up a forearm. It was a warning. He’d only seen Poppy act like that on the day they first met, but he knew it instinctively.

  “And you! You’re worse than her,” Mr. Baker said. “Fucking piece of shit whore, I see the way you look at men.” He started toward Poppy, and lifted up a hand that Ryan didn’t realize until then was holding a belt with a giant metal buckle at the end.

  “Stop.” Fuck, was that me? The voice that poured out of his throat was deep, calm and commanding.

  Mr. Baker and Poppy both looked at him for the first time. “You mind your own business,” Mr. Baker said. “And get the fuck out of my house.”

  “Ryan,” Poppy said, her eyes big.

  He didn’t realize he'd closed the gap between him and Mr. Baker. All he knew was that he was suddenly on top of him. Straddled over the middle-aged man’s paunch, Ryan landed punches wherever he could.

  “Motherfucker,” Mr. Baker grunted, and shoved Ryan off of him with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible.

  Ryan’s head hit the floor, and Mr. Baker’s fist landed squarely on Ryan’s jaw. The shock stung more than the actual punch. Her dad must have had forty pounds on him, and Ryan had never been in a fight before. Still, his youth and sheer anger were on
his side. After he took two more punches to the face, he kicked his way backward and out of Mr. Baker’s reach.

  Ryan stood up and caught him by surprise. Right as Mr. Baker looked up, Ryan landed a hit squarely on his nose. As Mr. Baker reached up to protect his face, Ryan sent an uppercut into his throat and followed with a hit to the temple. With his breath knocked out and windpipe temporarily closed, Mr. Baker hit the floor with a solid thud. He was out.

  He heard Mrs. Baker sobbing softly on the floor. When did she wake up? Did she see everything? He didn’t know if he should be worried or proud. Poppy seemed to be in shock. Ryan grabbed Poppy’s hand and helped her up. Easily, he lifted her mother over his shoulder. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds—a tiny little thing.

  After he sat Mrs. Baker on the sofa, she was still moaning gently, not quite fully alert. Poppy looked through the doorway to her father’s unmoving body, unconscious on the kitchen floor. The floodgates opened, and she started crying nonstop.

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he told her. How the fuck do you know it’s okay? “Should I—do you want me to call my mom? I can—”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Baker reached over and patted Ryan gently on the arm. She was still groggy, and her voice was slurred. “Nobody’s going anywhere,” she told him with a sad smile.

  “Mrs. Baker, I’m sorry, but I think you need—I mean, some medical attention might—”

  “Sweetie, you couldn’t understand,” she said.

  Poppy grabbed his hand and shook her head vigorously. He knew better than to argue.

  Mr. Baker began to groan in the next room. Ryan couldn’t see him on the floor anymore, but he rumbled about in the kitchen and sounded like a wild animal. “Poppy, let’s go,” he said. Mrs. Baker leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes.

  Without a word, Poppy let him lead her out the back door. They didn't exchange a word until they reached their special Mitchell Park bench. It was their unspoken secret place, even though it was out in the open. Somehow, even with the rolling lawn and joggers passing by, it always seemed like they were alone here.