“You’ll figure it out one day,” Izzie says, trying to be reassuring.
I think it bothers my family more than me that I’m not working toward some specific career. I don’t mind waffling in the wind. I can figure it out later.
“If nothing pans out, I have a future in sandwich inventing.”
Izzie laughs. She either fondly remembers my BLT abilities, or she’s starting to loosen up. And a loose Izzie means some hip-thrusting action is near. I love dancing, letting go and feeling free. In the last year I’ve only danced once, not counting the twerking and chicken dancing in Douche Nozzle’s apartment when he wasn’t home. Other than at my Cousin Claudia’s wedding, he and I never went out dancing. His job as an investigator for a law firm kept him busy most of the time.
The door opens, and several people walk in. First a tall, slender, tanned couple who look like they stepped off the New York Fashion Week runway. Behind them are a couple of middle-aged guys dressed in skinny jeans, V-neck tops, and loafers. This place is not only dead, but there’s no one to flirt with either.
The final person is a single guy. He’s looking down at his phone, so I can’t see his face. Instead I check out the bod. Dark jeans, a light gray tee, and a black leather jacket. There’s something familiar about him. I know that jacket.
He looks up, and our gazes lock.
Crap. My entire body tenses.
Douche Nozzle.
CHAPTER THREE
It feels like I’ve been staring at him for an eternity. My brain is stuck in reverse, and all I keep thinking about is how he said he needed space. Yet here he is, in my bar, in my hometown. Why?
I grab my drink and down the rest of it in one choking gulp, and when I glance back, he’s already by our side. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, still a bit shell-shocked.
Izzie looks at me in question then notices him, and her eyes widen even more.
Douche Nozzle glances to her and smiles in that deliciously charming way of his. “Hello, Izzie.”
“Hi,” she says, all full of sunshine and rainbows. The hypocrite. What happened to the sister rule?
Julian glances around. “I thought this place would be jumping. You always spoke so highly of it.”
My chest tightens at the memories of spooning with him in bed while watching the moon and stars through the large paned windows of his apartment. We’d talk about our pasts and share our dreams. There was something so magical about those moments. No matter what the next day brought, the harsh realities, the annoyances of bumper-to-bumper traffic, spilled coffee on a white blouse, it was all easier knowing we would curl up again that night.
He stares at me. I hate his face. His chiseled chin, scruffiness of a ten o’clock shadow, his tanned complexion, tousled dark hair, and those chameleon eyes that lighten or deepen from icy to charcoal, depending on his emotion. Okay, so maybe ‘hate’ is too strong of a word. How about I wish it didn’t remind me of laughing at episodes of Modern Family while eating Chinese food every Wednesday night? When his job didn’t call him away.
I can’t believe this is happening. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t look so calm and beautiful. He also shouldn’t smell like coconut and musk. And he certainly shouldn’t look so unaffected, just standing here as if I hadn’t crushed his heart and soul when I walked out on us two short weeks ago.
The nerve of him. Is he made of steel?
“I just moved here.”
His words are like a bucket of ice cold water dumped on my head. What? My body starts to convulse. At least that’s how it feels as my mind races with this information.
“Excuse me?” Maybe I didn’t hear him correctly. The music is loud, plus tunnel vision sets in.
“Since when?” Izzie places a hand on my arm.
He runs a hand along the top of his hair. “I arrived yesterday. A new job. I start on Monday.” His words aren’t coming out as smoothly as usual.
His nervousness makes my stomach spasm. If I could be honest with myself right now, I think I’d admit I’m far from over him. I didn’t want to break up, but when I left his apartment and stayed with my cousin, he never called or visited. For an entire week he stayed away. It took us a week to fall in love and a week to fall out. Except I’m still very much someplace in the middle.
I suddenly can’t sit here any longer. I toss several bills on the bar, not really caring if I’m giving a five- or a fifty-dollar tip, and say to Izzie, “Let’s go.”
I step off my stool and my knees feel like jelly. I step around D.N. He doesn’t seem to notice my wobbling.
He moves in front of me and tries to prevent me from walking away. I can’t allow my hurt feelings to take over again. That week-long self-pity party I had at my cousin’s was enough. He had a chance to make things right. He had a chance to say something, but he ignored me.
The pain ignites anger, and I glare. I can’t say I glared much in our ten months together. I’m a talker. Had a bad day at the evil day job? Rant about it with friends. Pissed Douche Nozzle left the toilet seat up for the eighteenth time in a week? Leave neon Post-it notes with instructions written in black Sharpie. Writing…talking, it’s all still words.
My glare must work, though, because he takes a step back. “Can we talk in private?”
I scoff. Too late, buddy. “No!” I stomp to my car.
Before I can open the driver’s side door, Izzie slides up to me and yanks the keys from my hand.
“Let me drive.”
She has more alcohol in her system than I do, but I’d bet her heartbeat isn’t in her ears and throat simultaneously.
As she pulls from the parking lot, I try my damnedest not to watch him in the side mirror. My feelings keep jumping from wanting to cry to wanting to lash out at something.
“Figlio di puttana!” I yell.
Izzie giggles at my colorful choice of Italian swears. I haven’t used one in a long time. Not that I don’t curse. Oh boy do I, but I usually do it in English. When we were teens— heck, we were actually kids—we’d want to curse, but there was no way Ma and Pop would allow it. So Izzie taught Enzo and me Italian swears. We still couldn’t say them in front of our parents, but strangers and classmates had no clue. I think some of them thought we made up our own language and were being silly. Figlio di puttana, or son of a whore, is one of our favorites. Sometimes the Italian ones are more appropriate.
“How can he be here? How can he have a job here? It doesn’t make sense. Is he following me around? Stalking me?”
Izzie’s been circling the same four-block rectangle for ten minutes.
“Where the hell are we going?” I finally ask.
“I figure you need to blow off steam, so we’re doing that.”
I punch the door. “I mean, what right does he have to show up out of nowhere? This town isn’t big enough for the both of us.” Yeah, I heard what I said.
Izzie stifles that giggle. “Maybe he misses you and wants you back.”
I cross my arms over my chest and huff. “Well, he should’ve thought about that while I was still in Connecticut, not after I leave. He had plenty of time to ask me to stay, to talk things through.”
Izzie scrunches up her face in that weird annoying way of hers. She obviously doesn’t agree with something I said.
“What?” I ask.
Unlike me, she holds everything in. It’s like her mouth is constipated. It’s no surprise she and Paulie are having problems.
“First, you didn’t give him much time. A week isn’t very long. And second, you have a habit of walking away when things get too tough. Actually, you run.”
Wow, she blurted that out easily. Has she wanted to say it for a long time, or has she changed while I’ve been gone? Either way… “That’s not true.”
“Um, what about when Craig died? That’s the reason you hightailed it out of here and moved to Connecticut.”
I shake my head and press my lips firmly together. She’s wrong. I think.
I met Craig Nix
on at Lindy’s after I graduated college. We hit it off immediately, dated for a while, and fell in love. He didn’t care that I hid parts of myself from him. He never asked why he’d sometimes catch me talking to the air. Five months into our relationship his car broke down on the way home after work. I was at his place cooking us dinner. He chose to walk the seven blocks and was hit by a car. The driver was high on coke. Craig was killed instantly, but I didn’t realize it when he arrived home. Told him he had enough time to shower before the chicken Marsala was ready. That’s when he learned my secret. And I learned he was dead.
Izzie pulls into the parking lot of Mitch’s Tavern.
“Why here? I thought you hated this place,” I say.
“I didn’t say ‘hate.’ I said it’s a dive, and Paulie likes it here.”
She circles the parking lot looking for an empty space. At least they’re packed. Maybe I can drown myself in a pitcher of margaritas and not care that I’m sitting on cracked barstools or that the guy next to me smells like a distillery. Screw designated driver, too. We can call a cab.
Izzie strikes the steering wheel with her palm.
“What?” I follow her gaze straight ahead. Parked two spaces ahead is Paulie’s black truck.
“I am not going in there if he’s here.”
What the heck is going on tonight? It’s the night of the exes. I’m not too sure that’s better than the living dead.
“We could go to that place on Vermont Avenue.” Her tone is hopeful, so I hate to shatter it, but I suddenly want today to end.
I lay my head in my hand. “I’d rather go home. It’s been a long day. And I’m not willing to risk running into another jerk from our pasts.”
“Yeah, but how many times do we get to hang out?”
I wish she wouldn’t push. “I’m back in town now. We can hang out any time we want.”
“But I’m a mom. And I don’t have time for myself,” she whines.
I don’t point out that Alice is thirteen and no longer in need of her constant attention.
“What is that?” she asks.
I look up and see movement in the front seat of Paulie’s truck. She inches my car closer and puts on the brights. It’s hard to make out, but it almost looks like something neon blue weaving and bobbing. She puts the car into park, opens her door, and steps out.
For reasons I’m not sure of, I follow her. My stomach is in knots. I’m not sure if it’s from my encounter with D.N. or whatever is going on in the truck, but I have a really bad feeling.
As we reach the driver’s side window, I realize Paulie’s in there. His seat is all the way back, and his face is contorted in a look I never wanted to see, but I’m sure Izzie knows intimately. And the movement is some woman’s face in his lap.
Izzie gasps and covers her mouth with her hand.
With all of today’s activity, including seeing D.N., I do the only thing a sister can. I curl my hand into a fist, bang on the window, and shout, “Hey.”
The woman—at least I think it’s a woman in a neon blue wig or oddly shaped hat—looks up as Paulie opens his eyes.
Merda! I stagger back.
Her face is covered in white paint with pink, round circles on her cheeks, drawn-on long lashes, and a painted mouth even bigger than Dolly’s.
Paulie’s getting blown by a clown.
CHAPTER FOUR
It takes a second for our mental hamsters to pick up their slack jaws and jump back onto their wheels.
A clown? Balloon animals, teeny car, squirting flower clown? Seriously? I’m momentarily struck with how hilarious this is, but if I laugh, Izzie’s sure to slug me. Plus, I’m not insensitive. Usually.
Paulie’s the first to move, swatting at the clown to get up. His windows are rolled up, and a drum solo in the bar makes it impossible to hear him, but he mouths “wife” to the clown, who wobbles on her knees. You’d think she’d bolt out the door and make her escape, but she just kneels there. She must be drunk off her ass.
Izzie moves next. But instead of ripping open the door with super human strength and wrenching each of them from the vinyl interior, she steps around me and climbs up into the bed of the truck. When she jumps out, she’s holding an aluminum baseball bat.
Oh shit.
This time English is necessary.
Paulie jerks open his door and stumbles out, zippering up his pants. Dude, can’t you do that in the truck? Make it less in her face?
Something falls off his pants and rolls toward my feet. It’s round and red. I pick it up and realize it’s the clown’s nose. Oh no! I shove it into my purse before Izzy can see it.
“I can explain,” is the first idiotic thing out of Paulie’s mouth. “Just listen,” is the second. And with each syllable, Izzie tightens her grip on the bat.
I step in between them. Maybe not the brightest move, but I won’t spend the night at the police station waiting for Pop to bring bail. Plus, under normal circumstances I like Paulie, and he has a nice face. That won’t last once a bat messes it up.
“I’d stay out of her way,” I say as a warning.
Two couples leave the bar and turn our way to get to their cars. I’m pretty certain catching a crazed woman growl in the headlights of a truck is pretty shocking. They stop and watch because an audience is exactly what we need right now.
The clown manages to stumble out of the car. She falls onto her knees, and I pray Izzie isn’t paying attention. I consider doing my twerk-slash-chicken dance. No one can stay mad watching me make a fool out of myself. But it needs some serious work before I perform it in public. I figure it’ll be ready in never.
Instead I shout, “Izzie, don’t do this.”
She either doesn’t hear me with the music blaring or just doesn’t give a crap. I’m laying bets on the latter. She grips the bat with both hands, swings high, and shatters Paulie’s left taillight.
Paulie backs away, pressing into the chain-link fence that separates this parking lot from Golden Express, the Chinese place next door. Who, B.T.W., makes the best pot stickers in the entire world.
“For three years I’ve cooked and cleaned and have given him a great home,” Izzie shouts.
I stand a couple of feet from her, not wanting to get hit by flying plastic shards. I should do the sisterly thing and stop her. Somehow. But I figure letting her kill her husband’s car rather than her husband is the sisterly thing.
She aims for the right taillight and glances at me, bat way above her head. “Do you know the things I’ve done for him because he enjoyed it?”
Oh God, I don’t want to hear this.
“Foot massages. He spends eight-hour work shifts in thick socks. Oral sex. You know how strong my gag reflex is.”
Yep. In sixth grade her class went on a field trip to a museum, and when she reached into her mouth to unstick a piece of taffy from a back tooth, she touched the roof and puked all over the kid seated next to her. The other kids called her Pukey for a long time.
“And the icing on the cake,” she says, “I applied the ointment when he had anal fissures.”
I frown, unsure what she’s talking about, although anything that has the word anal it in should be a telltale sign that I don’t want to know. Just the same, I say, “Huh?”
“Hemorrhoids.”
Oh crap. No pun intended. In that case I take a step back and allow her to swing to her heart’s content.
And she does. The right taillight pops out, and Paulie’s groan is unmistakable.
From the corner of my eye, I see the clown stagger off farther into the back of the parking lot. There’s no way to get out by car, but if Mr. Wong hasn’t fixed the fence, she may be able to squeeze through the broken part.
I’m grateful the clown is gone. Izzie loves Paulie, so while she may smack him or want to, I know deep down she doesn’t want to hurt him. I can’t say the same for the woman doing the one thing Izzie only performs out of duty.
“And how does he repay me? By screwing a clown?”
“Lots of men cheat. I know this. But usually it’s with the temptress secretary or friendly co-worker. Sometimes it’s even more scandalous and with the wife’s best friend or sister.”
I raise a brow, waiting for her to glance my way, but she doesn’t. She better not. That would be gross. He’s practically my brother.
“But no. He had to pick It‘s sister.”
I smirk. I can’t help it. At least I’m not chuckling. That would be totally inappropriate.
She swings again but this time striking his back window. It’s one thing to break a couple of taillights. It’s another to try to shatter an entire window.
“Whoa, Iz. That’s enough.”
She looks into my eyes, and fear strikes me. To say she looks crazy is an understatement, and for a second I wonder if she’ll come after me with the bat. But I remind myself this is Izzie—the girl who threatened to kick Alfred Shaw in the balls when he called me a dyke ‘cause Ma cut my hair really short in middle school. And Izzie’s the one who virtually held my hand and let me cry in her ear for two hours when I walked out on Douche Nozzle. Just because I did the breaking up doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like bacon grease splattering on bare skin.
Izzie beats the back panel, causing it to dent some. Paulie’s going to have one heck of a bill when she’s done. It’s not like he can file an insurance claim.
“Tell me, Paulie, what attracted you to her the most? Was it the big mouth? Do I not wear enough makeup for you?”
I bite my lip and suppress a snort on that one. She has a point. How could he look past the costume, or does he have a clown fetish no one knows about? Is that even a thing?
“I knew it. I knew it. I knew it,” she says through clenched teeth. “Oh, not that you’d humiliate me with Chuckles, but that you’re a coward and a bastard.”
Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam Page 3