Crazy Thing Called Love

by Molly O'Keefe

  “Really.”

  He whooped, picked her up, and spun her, her feet clanging into the garbage can that her father emptied every night.

  “But—” she said and he stopped. “We have to talk to my parents.”

  He set her down, the first storm clouds entering those brown eyes. “After we elope?”

  “Why are we eloping?” she asked, dropping her arms from around his neck. It was getting cooler in the arena.

  “You want my family at your wedding?”

  No. She didn’t. But she didn’t want to lose the white dress and her dad walking her down the aisle either. “I want to tell my parents about this. I can’t just surprise them with it.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because my family is important to me.”

  “They won’t like it, Maddy. They don’t like me.”

  “That’s not true, Billy. They don’t know you. You don’t let them.” He groaned and stepped away. Now it was freezing. She grabbed her coat and shrugged into it.

  “I don’t want to fight,” she said, pushing her hands into her mittens.

  “Me neither,” he said, like it was all her fault. She reached out and stroked his back while he zipped up his jeans.

  “It means a lot to me,” she said and he sighed. “That you would try to get to know them better. Not every family is like yours. And not every dad—”

  “I get it, Maddy.”

  She nodded and backed off, knowing it was such a sore subject for him. They could never talk about his family without getting into a fight.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, changing the subject for everyone’s sake. Because he would just stew and get moodier and the night would be ruined.

  “Starved!”

  “Primanti Brothers?”

  “Oh my God. Yes!” he groaned and they both collected his things. When they stepped out into the cold night, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed into her hair. His breath fogging the air in front of her, obscuring her world.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  And really, what more did she need? As long as he loved her, they could make anything work.

  After Maddy had divorced him and moved down to Florida with her mother, Billy had been unable to stay in that big house he’d bought. So he went back home to his mother. To his sisters.

  They weren’t the family he hungered for but they were what he had. And at that moment, it had been enough.

  Their vileness, their small hearts, their cruelty. It had fed the poisonous weeds growing in the place where all his love had been.

  They drank together. Cursed Maddy. Cursed their lives. And when he woke up one morning and decided that he’d had enough, they’d held on. For money. For fame.

  They sold information to any gossip magazine. Ugly details about his childhood, his marriage. And if the tabloids didn’t want the truth, his sisters made up terrible lies. It had been embarrassing, angering, frustrating, until finally he just shut and locked the door between him and them. Effectively ending his relationship with the only family he had left.

  However, Tuesday night Billy sat in his dark kitchen thinking about opening that door again, even though he was certain nothing good would come of it.

  The shadows lay like cats over the furniture, over the bare skin of his arms and chest. And he was cold—no warmth was to be leeched from the shadows, from his empty house.

  On the table, his cell phone sat in a bright puddle of moonlight beaming in from the window behind him.

  You said you would do it, he told himself, and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.

  The number to that black home where he’d grown up.

  “The number you have dialed,” a robotic woman’s voice repeated the familiar digits, “is no longer in service. Please check your number and try again.”

  He hung his head, the phone clasped between his praying hands. “Thank God,” he murmured. He’d tried. He had no other number for his sisters, there wasn’t much more he could do.

  Bullshit, a voice inside of him said.

  Out from under the locked door slipped the memory of that three-year-old girl at the funeral. Wide-eyed and stoic. A bright red ribbon in her hair.

  Swearing, he pushed the speed dial button for his lawyer’s office. He wasn’t sure if Ted was the right guy to call; he probably needed a private investigator, but at least it was a start.

  After the voicemail beep he explained the situation with his sisters and asked for help tracking them down.

  When he hung up he felt sick, pursued.

  He hoped that the poison of his past wasn’t going to ruin his future.

  “I’ve got the world on a string,” Billy sang under his breath as he walked into the glittering red and gold ballroom at the Four Seasons.

  He wasn’t a huge Sinatra fan, but when a guy looked this good in a tux, Springsteen just didn’t cut it.

  It was Saturday night and Billy had put in a little extra effort getting ready for the New School fund-raiser. He’d moisturized, for crying out loud. Underneath his new tux, he was soft as a baby.

  But it was all working for him. Women were giving him second looks as he walked by, and the men he passed smiled, nodding their heads, like putting on a tux and slicking back his hair elevated Billy into a certain club.

  Hell, maybe it did. It’s not like he’d ever done this shit before.

  As a rule Billy avoided these black-tie charity functions like the plague. He donated plenty of money, so he got invited to a lot of them, but he never went.

  He was breaking that rule tonight—in a big way. Tonight, he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

  Maddy was going to die when she saw him.

  In a good way, he hoped. Die in a good way.

  Thanks to the stupid bow tie, he was a little later than he’d expected and wasn’t sure if he was still able to get to the hotel before her.

  Scanning the room, he saw plenty of black ties and sequins, and the requisite ice sculpture in the corner—an open book, how fitting. Under the crystal chandeliers, waiters with trays circulated among the crowd, but no Maddy.

  Thank God. He blew out the breath he’d been holding. He needed a few minutes to find something to eat and get his skates under him. Across the room, Luc—looking dapper as always—waved him over to join the small crowd of people he was entertaining. Billy swore to himself.

  He was going to have to mingle and shit. In his excitement to see Maddy, he’d managed to forget that small detail.

  Maybe he’d just grab something to eat before heading over there. He tried to catch the eye of one of the waiters who was carrying a tray of appetizers, only to catch the eye of Coach Hornsby instead.

  “Hey, Coach,” he said, trying to be polite. Friendly, even. Coach Hornsby was big on charity, and he’d probably open his wallet pretty wide tonight.

  “Billy.” They quickly shook hands as if it were a chore. “Luc was telling me that this school was actually your idea?” Coach said it like he couldn’t quite believe it, and Billy laughed.

  “Sounds crazy, huh?”

  “Uh …”

  “It’s okay, Coach. Actually, it was an idea I’ve had for a long time and last summer I ran it by Tara Jean and Luc, who had started up their foundation to help kids. The next thing I knew they were getting this whole thing organized. So I can’t claim much more than the idea. The rest is all them.”

  “Well, no matter what, I’m pretty impressed.”

  And that, Billy thought, is because I have set the bar so low. God, this bow tie was too tight. He lifted his chin, stretching his neck.

  “You know, I’ve also been impressed with you on that show,” Coach Hornsby said. “That morning makeover thing.”

  Oh, this was getting out of hand. He could feel his whole body flushing. “Yeah?”

  “You’re
doing great. Front office has had a lot of calls about you.”

  So was Billy’s agent. A men’s soap company wanted to talk to him about doing an ad. With leprechauns. It was ridiculous.

  “What kind of calls?”

  “Good ones.” Hornsby grinned at him like a proud father and it rankled so hard, so suddenly, Billy had to take a step back. It was a knee jerk reaction, he knew that, one he’d been having with people all his life.

  Don’t get close. I’ll only fail you.

  No other coach had expected this much from him. Billy did his job on the ice and they were happy. There was none of this heart-to-heart, I’m-proud-of-you nonsense.

  “I’m impressed, Billy. I’m impressed by how honest you are on that show. None of the bullshit I usually see.”

  “It’s only clothes,” he snapped, even though that hadn’t been his intention. Hornsby blinked, surprised, like the friendly dog he’d been patting had just snapped at him.

  And whatever normalcy there had been between them was ruined. Another one of Billy’s special skills. “I need to … ah …” He pointed vaguely toward Luc.

  “Sure. Nice talking to you.” Hornsby walked away, probably grateful for the escape.

  I’m no good at this, Billy thought, watching the guy go.

  Luc approached with a plate full of appetizers and Billy’s stomach growled in welcome.

  “Hey, buddy.” He pulled two shrimp off Luc’s plate.

  “Here,” Luc handed him the plate. “You look good, man.”

  “Thanks. Took me forever to tie this stupid tie.”

  “They’re tricky.”

  “So … you think it’s going well?” Billy asked, dipping a crab cake into some spicy white sauce. Awesome.

  Luc nodded. “Yeah, I do. Tara Jean is excited because the consultant we hired says the fund-raiser is better attended than expected. We’ve got the education commissioner here and she seems pretty fired up about the whole thing, talking about a citywide program. I think you’ve really started something.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Billy said, catching sight of Tara Jean walking toward them. “It was your girlfriend.”

  Luc and Billy watched as TJ approached, glimmering like a disco ball.

  “She is something, isn’t she?” Luc murmured, a private smile that spoke volumes on his face. Billy focused on another crab cake.

  When she finally reached them, Tara Jean kissed Luc and gave Billy a hug.

  “You ready to say a few words?” she asked.

  “Who? Me?” Billy pointed to himself.

  “Yes, you.”

  He looked to Luc for help, but his friend only shrugged.

  “She said you promised.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Let me eat and have a drink. Loosen up.”

  Billy pinched a broken crab cake between his fingers and tipped back his head to drop the crumbs into his mouth. Tara and Luc stared at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you just lick the plate?” Tara asked.

  “Very funny.”

  “When is your manners makeover?” Luc asked.

  “Friday,” he said, and caught a piece of crab cake in his hand as it fell out of his mouth.

  “Not soon enough,” Tara muttered.

  “Come on, it’s enough that I get harassment from Maddy.”

  “Maddy …” Tara drew the name out like a five syllable word.

  To counteract the blush roaring up his neck Billy took a bite of a spring roll.

  “You guys are so good together on that show,” Tara said.

  Oh honey, he thought with an internal grin, not unlike Luc’s external one a second ago, you don’t know the half of it.

  What happened in the office Friday was like a dream he kept getting lost in. The memory of her touch was so immediate it was as if she were right there, at his shoulder, her palm against his cheek.

  He couldn’t help but smile. Was it ideal? No. But it was better than nothing.

  “So … I take it things are going well?” Tara Jean and Luc exchanged slightly baffled looks.

  There were things on the tip of his tongue that he didn’t even realize he wanted to say, but suddenly now in this moment, in a tux with crab on the jacket, he needed to get them off his chest.

  “I love her.” The feeling exploded in his body, blowing him wide open. He pretended to wipe off his hands in an effort to expel the energy that rippled through him, nervous and wild.

  It wasn’t a revelation to him. He’d loved Maddy since he was fifteen. Divorce hadn’t changed that. Fourteen years apart, her anger and resentment, even as she had sex with him—all of those obstacles were minuscule compared to his feelings.

  And those feelings had been in storage for a long time. It felt good to dust them off and set them up in the sunlight, where things like love belonged.

  “Does … does she love you back?” Luc asked. “Are you getting back together?”

  “No,” he laughed. “Not … not anytime soon.”

  “Why are you laughing?” Luc asked.

  “Because two weeks ago, I would have said ‘never.’ So, you know … progress.”

  Someone stopped at Tara’s shoulder, distracting her, and Billy felt Luc’s eyes on him.

  “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “Dressed up?”

  “Happy.” Luc clapped him on the back. “Looks good on you.”

  “Hey, Billy?” Tara asked, turning around. “Now’s the time, they’re setting up the microphone.”

  His stomach erupted with butterflies, battling it out with the crab cakes. “You sure it’s necessary?”

  “Just say what you said to us that day on the patio.” Luc pushed Billy toward a little stage.

  “Fine. Fine. Stop pushing.” He shrugged off Luc’s hands and jerked his jacket straight.

  Always composed in front of a crowd, Luc stepped up to the microphone like it was no big deal.

  Billy could feel the sweat beading in the small of his back and at his hairline.

  “If I can have your attention, please,” Luc said. “I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight, and for giving so generously to the New School. Ever since Hurricane Katrina, our city’s public schools have been running at capacity and the needs of many of these students—who were already behind educationally and who have suffered astonishing trauma—have not been met. The New School, in its efforts to educate students by integrating sports into standard curriculum”—Luc held a hand to his chest—“is, I think, a step in the right direction. Now, before we begin the silent auction, I would like to invite a friend to say a few words. Most of you know Billy Wilkins from his reserved seat in the penalty box—”

  There was a chorus of laughs and Billy shook his head, taking the teasing good-naturedly.

  “But the idea for the New School was actually his. Billy?”

  Billy stepped to the podium and shifted the microphone with hands that ran with sweat. He almost lifted his arm to wipe his forehead with his sleeve but he remembered Maddy giving him a hard time about that and he stopped.

  “I … uh …” The microphone buzzed and squealed and Billy pulled it away from his face. What the hell?

  “Step away from the stand,” Luc whispered and Billy backed up and tried again, his confidence totally shaken.

  “I grew up in a pretty tough neighborhood,” Billy began, “under … well, some pretty tough conditions.” A nervous tic, he touched the side of his mouth, the scar, and then dropped his hand, hoping no one would take too much note of it. “I went to school in the days before everyone understood, much less diagnosed, ADHD or post-traumatic stress disorder, but there’s no question that I had it. Sitting at a desk all day didn’t make sense for me. I honestly couldn’t keep my body still, or stay focused for long enough to absorb what my teachers were saying. But once I got on the ice, things made sense. And not just hockey. Math made sense, geometry. Science. I could think when my body was moving. Sitting still, I �
� I was lost. And I’ve known a lot of athletes over the years, not just hockey players, but across every sport, who had the same experience growing up.”

  Everyone was staring at him and he tried to pretend they were in their underwear, but that made the butterflies even more restless. So he was staring over their heads, toward the back door, when a tall, beautiful woman in a purple dress walked in.

  His brain was such a mess, it took him a moment to recognize her.

  And when he did his heart filled his chest to capacity, and his lungs collapsed with pleasure and delight.

  Maddy.

  Maddy winced and slipped in along the side of the room. She’d come in during a speech and she didn’t want to distract the audience or the speaker.

  “I … ah … I heard about this school in New York City using art to teach kids who had … special needs, I guess is what they call it,” the speaker said and her head snapped up at the sound of his voice.

  Billy?

  Quickly she crossed the empty space near the door, joining the small crowd around the stage.

  It was. It was Billy up there. Speaking. In a tux.

  The first time she saw him skate, she’d been ten or something. She’d gone to the arena after school to meet her father, and Billy had been on the ice, working drills with his team.

  Skating in and around pucks and then sprinting up and down the length of the ice.

  She’d sat in the stands, breathless with surprise. Awed by his talent. He was faster than everyone, more clever, quicker. The sound of the puck coming off his stick was like a gunshot. He’d been awesome in her eyes.

  This moment was not all that different.

  “And I wondered,” he continued, “if there wasn’t a way to use sports in the same way. Kids in parts of the city live through trauma every day. Trauma many of us in this room can’t even imagine. And if the kids can’t deal with it, they get stuck. Lost. Like I was. I shared this idea I’d had running around in my mind for a few years with Luc Baker and Tara Jean Sweet, and they’ve found the people who can put the whole thing together so we can reach those kids. And …” He chewed on his lip, looking so uncomfortable but so earnest at the same time that the effect he had on the crowd, on her, was magical. She was so spellbound by him she couldn’t breathe. “I believe it can work. With the right help—and by help, I mean money.”