“So, Lillie,” she says, as if we’re friends. “What have you been doing these past five years? I hear you graduated from Northwestern with an MBA. Is that true?”
Be cordial, I remind myself. “That’s correct. With a dual concentration in finance and strategy,” I say. I envision strangling whoever is sharing personal details of my life with her.
Nick studies me, turning a beer bottle slowly in his hand. Annabelle and Wes are tellingly silent, and I wonder which one of them I’ll be murdering first.
“I imagine that was quite an accomplishment for you,” the harpy continues.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Nothing, really,” she says, tracing a manicured nail up and down Nick’s arm. “Just that you’ve spent the majority of your life in a diner, never challenging yourself. I would think that living in a new city while tackling the demands of graduate school would be a large mental hurdle for you to overcome.”
“Margaret, that’s enough,” Nick snaps. He shrugs her off and rakes his fingers through his hair.
For a second I gape at her, hating that her words have burrowed under my skin, but quickly recover. Squaring my shoulders, I say, “I’m sure it was no more difficult than when you completed the Texas dip without landing on your face at your debutante ball.”
Margaret glowers at me from across the table.
Wes slaps his knee and says, “Who needs a drink? I could sure go for a stiff one right about now.” He stands, looking at Annabelle for a lingering moment before stalking off to the bar.
“I should help him,” Nick says, then he’s gone, too, following after him.
At the other end of the table, the band is lost in a conversation of their own, abandoning Annabelle and me with the floozy. As I turn toward Annabelle, Margaret calls my name and leans forward so her cleavage is on full display. “There’s one last thing,” she says. “You’ll never get what it is that you came back here for.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Allow me to be direct, so that you don’t misunderstand. You had your time with Nick, but we’re together now.” Her voice is low and restrained, her tone steely. “He’s moved on. Forgotten you. I suggest you remember that.”
“Whoa, Margaret, that’s—” Annabelle starts.
I hold up a hand, quieting her. Because it’s my turn to talk, and I’ve had enough of Margaret Ann Floozy Stokes and her underhanded comments.
Rising from my chair, I match Margaret’s hard stare. “Listen, you self-righteous, Botox-crazed, armpit-licking hag,” I say, balling my hands into fists. “You’re obviously threatened by me. But I have news for you. I’m engaged to someone else. His name is Drew Harrington, and he’s amazing. So the next time you feel the need to fling your insecurities in my face, perhaps you should remember that.”
I drop back into my seat and inhale a breath. Annabelle kicks my shin and gives me a loaded look that says we need to talk later. Margaret opens her mouth to respond, but she’s cut off by a microphone squealing.
“All right, folks. It’s trivia time,” the emcee says from the stage set up near the bar. He has a stack of cards in one hand and a lager in the other. Servers deliver a bell to each table.
Nick and Wes return with another round of drinks. Passing a Shiner Bock to me and a glass of red wine to Margaret, Nick glimpses between us and frowns. Margaret is shooting daggers at me, her jaw clenched. I imagine she’s accustomed to having the final word. Too bad.
“The rules are simple,” the emcee continues. “I’ll read a question. The first person or team to ring the bell and answer correctly earns a point. Fifteen points wins the game. Anyone using a cell phone to cheat will be disqualified. Now y’all will be happy to know that Nick Preston is in attendance tonight. Let’s find out if he can remain victorious for another week.”
A collective groan erupts around the room. Nick waves, a smug expression on his face.
“It’s going to be such a shame when I destroy your streak, Preston,” I say.
Nick crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Those are some big words coming from someone who hasn’t played in an eternity.”
“Wait and see,” I say. He’s right, of course. College was the last time I participated in trivia night, but I won’t admit that to Nick. I once considered taking Drew to a bar that hosts various games, but our relationship doesn’t operate like that; it doesn’t feed off competition.
Nick dangles a scorecard in front of my face. “It’s not too late for you to back out. Save yourself the embarrassment.”
“You scared?” I say, swiping it from him and writing my name at the top.
He cocks his head and smirks at me. “Do I need to remind you of the Wall of Champions?”
“Just how serious are you two about this sort of thing?” Jason pipes up from the other end of the table.
“Very,” Wes and Annabelle say at the same time. They both laugh before trailing off into silence.
Margaret only glares at me.
The emcee announces the game is officially beginning, and I sit up straighter. “Question number one,” he says. “What was Oscar the Grouch’s original color before Jim Henson decided on green?”
Blue? No. Red?
Crap. I’m rustier than I thought.
“By all means, ladies first.” Nick gestures to the bell. His eyes are full of challenge, and my stomach tightens. He knows I’m clueless about the answer. I could try to fake it, but that would only give him more ammunition if I’m wrong.
Nick reaches for the bell but someone at another table beats him to it. “Orange,” the person declares, which the emcee deems correct.
“You just cost me a point,” Nick says.
I shrug. “Every point you lose is still a point for me.”
The emcee calls out, “Famous singer-songwriter Carly Simon’s father cofounded which company?”
Nick rings the bell so fast I don’t have time to process the question. “Simon & Schuster,” he proclaims when prompted for the answer. More groaning fills the room.
“So much for destroying my winning streak, Turner,” he says, and puts a mark on his scorecard, that lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Sure you still want to keep going?”
Snatching away his beer, I take several long sips and say, “Worry about yourself. You and your fragile ego have enough to contend with.”
“Like what? Your oh-so-impressive knowledge of Backstreet Boys songs?” Nick seizes the bottle hovering inches away from my mouth and polishes it off.
Annabelle snorts. Wes chats with the band, none of them even attempting to play. Margaret mutters something about Nick and me behaving like playground enemies.
The emcee’s voice booms over the noise. “What happens to a jellyfish left in the sun too long?”
I steal the bell away from Nick and shake it. “They’ll evaporate,” I yell louder than necessary. Score one point for me. “What were you droning on about again, Preston?” I say with a smug smile of my own.
“Lucky guess.”
“Keep lying to yourself.”
Huffing in exasperation, Margaret slings her purse over her shoulder and marches toward the door. Nick doesn’t seem to notice her departure, his attention laser-focused on the game.
The next two questions stump us, but then we’re back on track in a cutthroat battle with each other. Nick earns the next three points, but I jump in, replying, “Forty,” when he falters on “What number has all its letters in alphabetical order?” Then I nail the answer on the only planet in our solar system that rotates clockwise (Venus).
The game continues on like a Ping-Pong match—Nick scores a point, then I score one right back. Occasionally, someone else slides in with a correct answer, but still no one comes close to catching us.
As our taunts grow heated, Wes takes on the role of sportscaster. “The mood is tense here at the Tipsy Teakettle as these two rivals vie for trivia dominance.” Annabelle remains firmly on my side, while the ban
d watches from the sidelines, offering neutral high fives and nods of support. It’s not long before Nick and I are tied with fourteen points, one answer away from winning.
We’re both on our feet and grabbing the bell when the emcee calls out, “What is the only U.S. state whose name is a single syllable?”
“Drop it,” I say, tightening my grip on the handle.
“Not a chance, Turner.”
“You know I had it first.”
Nick places a palm on the table and leans forward, his eyes blazing. “Bullshit.”
I mimic his stance. “You just can’t admit when you’re wrong.”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” he says, his voice dripping with innuendo.
“Hey, guys, take it down a level,” Wes says, placing a hand on both our shoulders. “It’s only a game.” We ignore him, staring at each other from across the table in a silent standoff, both unwilling to concede.
There’s a clanging sound on the other side of the bar, followed by someone shouting, “Maine.”
We release our hold on the bell, and it’s as if the atmosphere between us has shifted.
“All right, folks. This next one may end the game,” the emcee announces. “What is the only essential vitamin not found in the white potato?”
The question breaks something open inside me. A memory rushes in of the time Nick and I received that exact question years ago, here at the Tipsy Teakettle, on a night much like this one. Only back then we’d played as a team. I remember how we huddled together, ticking off various nutrients as choices, when suddenly I recalled a fact I had researched about the starchy root vegetable for my newspaper column. That night had been the beginning of our streak as trivia champions.
My heart pushes painfully against my chest. We had loved each other beyond reason. How could we let ourselves stray so far from that? How could we start fighting against each other instead of for each other?
I peer at Nick, wondering if he’s remembering the same things. He makes no move for the bell in the center of the table, even though I’m certain he knows the answer. His eyes are steady on mine, imploring, as if he’s waiting for something. When he remains motionless, I pick up the bell and ring it.
“Vitamin A,” I declare, though it sounds hollow.
“We have a new winner!” the emcee hollers into the microphone in an awful Bob Barker impersonation. Cheers and applause pierce my ears. Annabelle hugs me. Wes claps me on the back. The band does . . . something. I drown it all out.
Nick let me win.
I look at him. There’s a stillness to him, but his gaze flickers with an emotion so fierce and raw a knot forms in my stomach.
I need air, some space from . . . all this.
Pushing through the crowd, I step outside. A light drizzle falls from the night sky, shrouding the area in a cool mist. The colors of the Tipsy Teakettle’s neon sign reflect onto the slick asphalt, bleeding together like food coloring in frosting.
When I get to my truck, I rest my forehead against the door and practice inhaling and exhaling.
“Lillie.”
My breath catches at the way Nick says my name—fast and certain and hoarse—the way he used to, the moment before he’d claim me as his. I turn to face him. He crosses the pavement and traps me between him and the truck. I can feel the cool metal through my shirt. He stares at me, consuming me with those blue eyes. My body is coiled as tight as an electrical wire.
Then he tugs me flush against him, and his mouth is on mine, hungry, desperate. It’s as if a charge has been set off inside me; my feet nearly come off the pavement. The kiss is deep, so strong, and I gasp. Oh, I missed this. My whole body is humming, telling me this is right.
He runs his hands along my sides, down the back of my thighs, lifting me slightly, destroying every rational thought in my mind. Everywhere he touches is fire.
Nick groans, his teeth nipping at my jaw, my neck, the exposed skin along my collarbone.
I dip my fingers under his shirt, sliding over his hard lines and corded muscles, even more defined than before. His skin is hot and so smooth. Some part of my brain knows this is stupid, irresponsible, but I can’t stop.
A moan escapes me as he wraps my legs around his waist and presses me into the truck. “Fuck, you feel good.” His voice is so low I have to strain to hear it, a hoarse whisper in my ear.
As I register his words, sobering reality washes over me. I jerk back and disentangle out of his grasp, nearly tripping as I step away from him and reach for the door handle. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, my chest heaving.
He catches my elbow. “Lillie, wait.”
“I need to go.”
“No. You don’t get to run away from me this time.”
Shaking my head, I say, “That kiss was a mistake, Nick. Something that never should have happened.”
For a moment, he stands there, studying me. Silence stretches between us, the sounds of traffic and the wind filling the void. Finally he drops my arm.
“I still jog the trail around Montgomery Park every morning, break of dawn,” he says. “It’d be nice to have a partner sometime.” Then he retreats back into the Tipsy Teakettle, and I’m all alone.
It feels too familiar.
FOURTEEN
LATE THE NEXT morning, I squint my eyes open, bleary from sleep, to see a figure hovering over me. I scream and fall backward out of bed, landing with a thud on the hardwood floor, my limbs tangled up in the sheets. My heart drums loudly in my chest. I know I should be racing to dial the police, but my head is hazy—probably from one too many drinks—so instead all I can do is curl up into a ball and hope the intruder disappears.
“Are the theatrics necessary, dear?”
Brushing hair out of my mouth, I look up to find Sullivan Grace peering down at me, arms crossed.
“Ms. Hasell!” I scramble to my feet only to realize I’m standing in the middle of my childhood room dressed in nothing but a tank top and lace underwear. Snatching a pillow off the bed, I use it to shield myself. “You scared me.”
“Yes, well, that much is obvious.” Eyeing me up and down, Sullivan Grace clears her throat and says, “Now, please make yourself presentable and meet me downstairs. We need to have a chat.” Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
How did she even get in here? A horrible, disgusting thought enters my mind: What if my father gave Sullivan Grace a key to the house because she spends the night often? I groan, burying my face into the pillow.
Twenty minutes later I stroll into the kitchen, where Sullivan Grace sits at the table, preparing a cup of Earl Grey tea as though she’s at a royal palace. She adds a dash of milk, stirring in small arches back and forth, never allowing the teaspoon to touch the sides or rim of the cup. She removes the spoon and gently places it on the saucer. Her lips purse when she notices me, no doubt judging my simple dress and damp hair. What does she expect after barging in on me like that? She didn’t exactly give me much time or warning. I’m sure any moment now she’ll flatter me with one of her backhanded compliments.
Sure enough, lifting the teacup to her mouth, she takes a small sip and says, “Lillie, I have always admired secure women like yourself who can flutter about town without giving a second thought to their appearance. Such a lovely trait.” Bless my heart.
Ignoring her, I open the fridge and reach for the eggs, but stop short when I recognize the baking dish crowding the top shelf, one of many that should contain my mother’s peach cobbler but instead is filled with the deconstructed strudel I created yesterday. I wonder why my father brought it home.
“I guess someone discovered my version of today’s Blue Plate Special,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Sullivan Grace.
“Have a seat, dear,” she says, tapping a chair like she’s patting out dough for scones.
I roll my eyes, grab a yogurt, and kick the fridge door closed before dropping into the spot next to her.
“So, how angry is he?” I say,
peeling back the foil lid, careful not to tear it. I mold it into a U-shape, creating a makeshift spoon. It’s easier than dirtying a utensil. Plus it’s economical. And maybe there’s a teeny-tiny part of me that wants to goad Sullivan Grace with my poor table manners.
“What were you thinking, Lillie?” she says, adjusting the Rolex adorning her slender wrist. “Jackson is beside himself. I haven’t seen him this upset since—” She cuts herself off, the words she didn’t say—since your mother left—floating between us.
Stifling a grin, I imagine my father huffing around the diner, the vein popping out of his forehead, hollering about how I’m grounded to a month of potato-peeling duty for this stunt. “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal. It’s still a dessert with peaches in it,” I say, then scoop some yogurt into my mouth.
Sullivan Grace presses her lips in a thin line and tugs at her pearl necklace as she watches me slurp down my breakfast. Even when she’s angry, she’s still a picture of poise and grace. “That isn’t what this is about, dear. You know how particular Jackson is about his Blue Plate Specials. You can’t change something that important without discussing it with him first. The regulars plan their week around those dishes. Several patrons even walked out this morning when they discovered there wasn’t any cobbler.”
“Did anyone even taste the strudel? People may like it better,” I ask, licking off a strawberry chunk stuck to the foil spoon.
Sighing, Sullivan Grace shakes her head, her expertly blown-out hair swishing with the movement. “I understand you have some . . . reservations about the diner and the Upper Crust,” she says, crossing her legs at the ankle, “but I think it would be in everyone’s best interest to resolve those lingering issues as soon as possible. Your disrespectful behavior simply won’t suit. All this added stress is bad for Jackson’s well-being.”
My chest tightens. “I would never intentionally hurt my father or do anything that would threaten his health. Never. I’m aware that he’s getting older, that he’s sick,” I say, recalling the harsh sound of his cough, his run-down appearance, the limp in his step. “But you know what my mother did, how she just tossed aside her family as if we were nothing. Why would you or my father want me to compete with her peach cobbler recipe? How could you both be so cruel as to expect that? Because it doesn’t make sense to me.” There it is—the crux of the issue. What I desperately need explained.
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