by Rose, Kristi
“If only it were that easy. I need a criminal attorney. Unless you think you might be able to handle it.” I look away. I despise asking for help on big-ticket items. Reminds me of how independent I’m not.
Josie was grabbing menus when I dropped the bomb. She slaps them on the counter and faces me. “Spill. Just know that everything you tell me now is considered client-attorney privileges, so if you killed Justin —”
“I need my record expunged. Something stupid I did in college.”
She looks slightly disappointed, and gestures for me to continue.
I tell her the sunbathing sorority sister story. I was sick of it. “They dropped the charges and all thirteen of us paid a fine, so I’m surprised I have a record.”
“Because you were arrested, you have a record.”
I nod. “Is it possible to have my record expunged?”
She does a slight side nod. “Anything's possible.”
“Is it possible to have it expunged by Tuesday?”
Josie lets out a low whistle. “I’m not going to say yes or no. Let me do some research, and I’ll know for sure first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t panic.”
“Easy for you to say. Expunging starts at a grand. Which I’ll reimburse.” I take the plates off the counter as I prepare to deliver them. She grabs the extra plates and follows me.
“I won’t take it, and if we need to get outside help, I can cover that.”
“I won’t take a handout.” We pause our conversation while we deliver the plates and ask if the patrons need anything else.
On our way back to the counter, Josie says, “It’s not a handout. It’s a loan.”
I shake my head. “I can take care of myself. I have it in savings.”
“I know you can. You’re awesome at it. And that money in savings is to cover living expenses while you do your student teaching. You can't survive on love and air.”
“But if it takes time to clear the record, then I might be able to save up the money again while I wait for the next round of student teaching assignments.”
Josie says, “My offer is always on the table. I know you have other things going on, like your dishwasher being out. I don't want you to be spread too thin. We’ve all been there.”
Only, she really hasn’t. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and married a man who became a self-made millionaire. Josie’s always had a safety net.
“Thanks, but like I said, I pay my debts.”
She shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She kisses me on the forehead. “Now, go fix your face because you have red lips on your forehead.”
I groan and walk into the RV to use the chrome-plated microwave as a mirror to do as she says. Afterward, the afternoon moves into the evening in a blur. The pop-up restaurant is a hit with steady business. I let myself forget about my problems and enjoy my time with my friends.
There’s an hour left to my shift when Jayne comes up to me at the serving counter.
She says, “I just sat four hot guys in your section. Go over there and dazzle them into buying lots of appetizers and drinks. Not alcoholic, mind you, they're on bikes, but let's make some last money for epilepsy and go out with a bang.”
I give her two thumbs up. “You got it.” I freshen my lipstick, but mostly because my lips are chapped. I like that colored Chapstick that makes you feel like you're not wearing lipstick but gives just the right pop of color. I pull my ponytail tighter, grab four menus from the counter, and stroll over to the table.
Two of the guys are facing me and two have their backs to me. They’re broad, solid men, built like lumberjacks but without the beards. Two are African American, one with dreads, and two are white, one sporting a sleeve of tattoos on both arms. They’re dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and carrying leather jackets or vests.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I say as I deal out the menus like a deck of cards. “Welcome to the Fox and Hound. Your choosing to dine with us is a big deal because fifty percent of your tab will be donated to the Epilepsy Fund for Families at Orlando Children’s Hospital. This fund helps offset medical costs not covered by insurance. The last thing parents need to worry about is whether their child’s treatment will be covered. Everything you eat and drink tonight is for a good cause. This is not the time to be on a diet. This is the time to indulge, because why not? You’re helping families of kids with epilepsy.” I make a point of smiling at each one of them.
Until I get to the fourth guy. My heart stutters in my chest, causing shortness of breath, making me cough as I try to take in air. This sensation is a familiar one. It’s the first sign of a panic attack. My heart races, and I feel light-headed. I didn’t recognize him earlier because his back was to me. And I wasn’t expecting to see him again, ever.
“Heather?” he says with his green eyes shining. His smile is wide and welcoming. “It’s been years.”
Nine years to be exact. I’m reminded of this every March when conversations and news outlets start talking about the NFL draft. The draft is, after all, the reason why I broke up with Dax Griffin.
No one wants to be the girl left behind when the guy she’s been dating gets drafted and moves on to bigger and better things. And what guy would keep the unremarkable small-town girl they'd only been dating for six months when supermodels and the like were about to become part of his lifestyle? I was determined to be the dumper and not the dumpee.
Chapter 4
Friday
I’m speechless. I breathe in deeply through my nose, grappling for control, trying not to have a freak-out panic attack in front of Dax Griffin. Holy Lord.
He’s as gorgeous today as he was back then. Still boyishly handsome with light brown sun-streaked hair cut close and the one dimple in his right cheek. A scar runs from the corner of his left eye to his temple, created by a cleat and a collision on the field his senior year. I was there.
Sweet Jesus, I had it bad for him. And, for a while, I did have him. He was mine, and I was his, and it was beautiful and easy and everything you imagine a relationship to be. There was fun and laughter. He was a friend and a lover. Our brief time together was oh-so-good.
Then he was marked for a high draft pick. More importantly, Dax knew he had the attention of several professional teams and was likely going to a team across the country. I know this because my brother explained how the draft worked, and the first three teams up were west coast teams. Followed by two northern teams.
I asked Dax once what he thought would happen, and he'd said we'd know on draft day. I got that; I did. What I didn’t get was how we never even had a hypothetical conversation. All this let me think our six months together meant more to me than him. Pair that with his over-the-top excitement about his future and no mention of my place in it and, well, I just did the expected.
“Dax,” I say in a strangled whisper. “Wow, what are the odds of running into you after all these years?”
Not that it mattered because the unthinkable had just happened.
He pushes from his chair and comes around the table to embrace me in a hug.
Never in a million years did I ever imagine seeing Dax again. Some people dream about running into a former boyfriend. I never did. I imagined it would feel humiliating.
I imagined correctly.
But seriously, what are the odds? I suppose I could ask Jayne’s man Stacy. He’s a math genius and would know the odds in a second.
“Who cares?” Dax says after stepping back slightly. “It’s fantastic running into you. You look great.”
Nine years in the league, one too many concussions, and he retired. I had hoped he’d stayed on the west coast. And yeah, I checked his Instagram occasionally. There wasn’t any mention of an east coast visit. His parents were in Tampa since his dad was the head coach for the pro team there. Which is why I avoid Tampa.
Today, I think I’d be justified in saying the universe has been quite the dick to me. Seriously. First my school and so-called criminal record, and now my
old flame from college shows up. The one I never really got over.
“You look great, too.” I nod to emphasize my point while I scan for an escape. Man, I was so head-over-heels for him. Probably why I was overly sensitive to his sudden fame. Who could compete with that?
Ending things made my heart feel as if it had been stomped on by Dax’s stupid football cleats. And that old ache revisits me now. I don’t really want to stand here and make small talk.
He says, “I heard you married and had a kid. You have just the one, or more? I’m assuming you stayed in town close to your folks.”
I grew up in Daytona. He grew up everywhere, since his dad worked for whatever team hired him. He attended the University of Central Florida on a full football scholarship. I attended it on the student loan plan.
“Just the one.” Then a lie slips off my tongue like melted butter. “I have a house over on the beach.” I point in the direction of Josie’s place. Not that we could see it from here on Main Street.
Dax left college and, if his Instagram account is an accurate storyteller, has a fabulous life, including nice homes, vacations, and expensive cars. I’ll be damned if I would be someone he pities because my life has turned out the polar opposite of his.
“Wow, the beach. Nice. I like the sound of the ocean as white noise. I had a place near water in Cali, too.” His attempt to connect fell flat. “Sounds like you and your husband are doing well.” He glances at my ring finger. My bare ring finger. I hocked the diamond to pay for auto repairs.
I shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t have any complaints.”
“Did you end up getting your psych degree?”
Clearly, he didn’t track me to the same degree I had him.
I choke on air. “Would you believe I went into fashion? I co-own a shop in town. A high-end boutique. We have a big online presence.” Another lie. I work for Jayne, not with her, but maybe she’d pretend otherwise in case he asks.
He gives both of my shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “I knew you’d do great things. You’re just that sort of person.”
Humiliation sets in. I can feel the red heat creeping up my neck, and Dax knows this is my tell. He used to dog me about it. There’s a chance he could’ve forgotten, but not likely, the way my luck is going today.
“Thanks. So how about I give you guys time to look at the menu and think about what you want to order?”
But Dax is relentless as ever. “I don’t want to lose touch. I miss our friendship. If your husband’s good with it, how about I give you guys some tickets to a few of the games in Tampa? I know the coach.” He elbows me in that ha-ha, I’m kidding way. “Is your husband a football fan?”
I shake my head. “Not really, Golf.” Golf was Justin’s mistress during our marriage. But he’d sell his mom for football tickets. Tyler would be over the moon excited as well.
I step back. “Have a seat. Look at the menu. Spend lots of money.” Then I take a second step backward. I need to get away before Dax sees my embarrassment. It’s not like I can say it was a sudden sunburn.
“I’ll check back with you all in a bit,” I say, picking up my backward pace. My white T-shirt will only highlight my new splotchiness. In my haste, I narrowly avoid colliding with Paisley and knocking the tray from her hands.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I scurry to the kitchen. I hide out of sight and begin the litany of self-talk I use to calm myself when Tyler’s hospitalized. If it worked then, it can work now.
Jayne finds me, her brow furrowed in concern. “What has you bothered?”
I alternate between fanning myself with my hand and tugging my shirt back and forth to cool my neck.
“Oh, my Lord, Jayne. In college, I dated one of the guys at my corner table.”
Her brows shoot up. “Oh, is that good or bad? Can we pick good?”
I groan. “No, it’s not good. He went on to fulfill his life’s dream. He’s since dated supermodels.”
Jayne’s shoulders straighten. “What’s this bloke’s name? Remember when you got drunk at Josie’s wedding and called out a name?”
I glare at her. “No, I don’t remember. I was drunk.”
“I do. When Doug carted you off, you said something about a Max or—" She taps her temple in thought. “What was the name?”
“Dax?” I say with hesitation. Had I really said his name?
She points at me. “That’s it.”
I point at the table. “That’s him.”
Jayne’s eyes go wide. “Bugger.” She purses her lips in brief thought then says, “You need to get out there and show him how fabulous you are.” She drags me to the bar. “Here, take some frosted mugs and a pitcher to them and tell them it’s on the house.”
I shake my head. “You take it.” I point to my red rashy-looking chest.
Jayne puts the pitcher of beer she’d just filled on the counter. “Heather, listen to me, love. You’re more than the girl he loved and left. You’re a fabulous mum. You’re a fighter. You’re brave and strong and independent. We all see that. Why can’t you?”
Because I’m not any of those things yet, I want to say. Because I’m trying to be, but when I think I’ve found my strength in one, I’m reminded by life how I’m failing in another.
“I’ll give you ten dollars to take my table,” I propose.
She takes my tray then loads it with the pitcher of beer and four mugs. “Is he dating anyone?”
I shake my head. “Last I saw, he and his model girlfriend broke up. Not that they dated all that long. Maybe six weeks of Instagram posts, and then I noticed she stopped following him.”
A smile plays at the corner of Jayne’s mouth. “Is that so? Well, then go out there and make him wonder why he ever let you go.”
I slide the tray onto my hand, balancing it. “And how am I supposed to do that in the few seconds we interact?”
“By being your magnificent self.” She cocks her head as a way to tell me to move.
I count to twenty and get control of my breathing before I square my shoulders and decide she's right. I glide over to the table, digging deep for confidence. I once read a book that talked about adopting an alter ego as a means to get through challenging situations. If I had to pick one for tonight, it would be Wonder Woman. Though a sex kitten type was likely what most people would pick, I would never be comfortable enough to pull that off.
“Hey guys,” I say as I lower the tray to the table. “Beer is on the house while you look at the menu. I’m guessing y’all are on bikes so you’ll notice our frosty mugs are smaller than typical. We encourage the one drink maximum for your safety.” Part of the tray is resting against the side of my hip as I unload the mugs, the other part against the table. Dax is to my right so I position myself to be facing him.
Jayne’s right. I can totally pull this off. If I keep my interactions to short bursts, I can be funny and flirty and totally a badass like Wonder Woman. I don’t have to be down-on-her-luck Heather.
I reach across my body to deliver the next mug to Dax and pair it with a bright smile. With a cute flick of my hand, I send the mug sliding the remaining distance toward Dax. It’s a trick Josie taught me.
Dax smiles back, staring into my eyes, and leans across the table to catch the mug while I reach for another mug for his friend. This offsets the table’s balance and pops my side of the table up as his weight pushes his side down.
The table see-sawing while I hand off a mug means I can't grab my tray in time to stabilize it. And, in what feels like slow motion, the pitcher of beer is bucked toward me, sending it colliding with my chest, spilling its contents down my front. The tray and pitcher clatter to the floor.
Gasping in surprise from the cold brew, I jump back and collide with the person at the table beside Dax’s, who just happens to be standing up at the same time. The impact of our collision bounces me sideways.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I attempt to pull the clingy white T-shirt from my chest. Reflex has me looking down at my cl
othes to assess the damage. At that moment, my feet get tangled, I twist, and lose my balance. As I fall, I windmill my arms hoping the action will magically help me regain my balance. As if.
But momentum has control and tosses me backward into the straps connecting the stanchions that are our restaurant’s perimeter. Beyond the barricade is the sidewalk, crowds of people, and motorcycles and occasional cars going up and down the street. As is common during Bike Week, bikers, many of who are patrons of the pop-up restaurants, have parked their motorcycles on the sidewalk to keep them out of the road.
The trajectory of my fall has me landing on a blood-red Harley Davidson Sportster with a tank painted with black skulls and crossbones.
The momentum from my impact pushes the skull and crossbones bike into the one next to it, and like a series of dominoes, four bikes parked in the row drop to their sides, one onto the other in a cacophony of metal colliding with metal.
I land with a yelp and roll to my side, horrified. Sharp pain shoots through my upper leg where the motorcycle's chrome foot peg jammed into my hip. I swear it touched bone. My first thought? Odds were good that one of the four owners of the knocked down bikes was going to kill me. So now would be a perfect time to die from embarrassment.
Chapter 5
Friday
Call me chicken, but with the way my day was going, I didn’t want to stick around and get my ass handed to me by a biker.
Wincing but pushing back the pain, I spring up and scan the crowd. Sure enough, Josie’s running interference. She’s in front of a group of bikers with long hair and nothing but leather clothes kept together with chains. A hulk-sized one with tattoos running up both arms is pointing a finger at me like a person might point a knife. I could be exaggerating that, but I’m not mistaking the angry look on his face. Dax has jumped into the conversation with Josie and the bikers.
Because I landed outside the stanchions, I can easily be absorbed into the crowd. I pull myself up and eye my escape route, the quickest path to my van, which now feels like I’ve parked it one million miles away.