Until It Fades

by K. A. Tucker

  “So you won a big prize?”

  How do I answer this? “I think that boy meant we were lucky that we met Brett, because he’s such a nice guy.” I’m hoping that focusing on Brett will steer her away from her other question.

  “Oh.” I can see her pondering that. “Will he come back soon to visit us?”

  I force a smile. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  The words are meant to appease her, but I realize that I’m speaking the truth.

  Chapter 18

  I push through the back door of Diamonds on Wednesday night with a sigh of relief. I’m unsupervised for the first time since returning to work. Hawk agreed to stay at my house with Brenna and her sixteen-year-old babysitter.

  That relief is short-lived, though, when I discover Misty hovering inside, waiting to pounce. “Has he called you?”

  I force a casual tone.“Not since last Friday. He’s with his family. He’s moving on.”

  “And have you texted him?”

  She glares at me with exasperation when I don’t answer.

  “What! If he really wanted to talk to me, he would have reached out.” I don’t want it to look like I’m expecting something. Like I’m sitting here waiting, pining for Brett. I made a vow years ago that I’d never let myself look that pathetic again, and I intend to keep it.

  Misty’s on my heels as I skirt past her and toss my purse on the shelf by Lou’s office. “Just send him a message to say good luck with the game tonight. Simple, easy. It’s what a normal person would do.”

  “So now I’m not normal?”

  She gives me a pointed stare. “If my life depended on your skill with flirting, then hand me a shovel because I may as well dig my own grave.”

  I sigh, equally frustrated with Misty and with myself. I wasn’t always like this. I remember a time when I had no problems walking up to a guy at a party and in no uncertain terms letting him know that I wanted him.

  Clearly, the scars Scott left me with run much deeper than I’d like to admit.

  “Come on, please? Just do it and see where it leads. Give me at least a shred of hope before I start dropping cats off on your doorstep.”

  Misty can be as relentless as a gnat and, though she worked the day shift and is only here for another hour, she’ll bug the hell out of me until Lou catches wind and tears her a new one. Besides, truth be told, I’ve been thinking that tonight’s game is as good an excuse to reach out to Brett as I’m going to get.

  She’s right. It’s harmless and innocent. Unpresumptuous. Right?

  “Fine.” Steeling my nerve, I pull my phone from my pocket and punch out a quick message, my stomach swirling with each word:

  Good luck tonight.

  Then shove my phone into my pocket. “There. Happy now?”

  “Happy about what?” Leroy asks, his deep voice startling me from behind as he steps out of the walk-in fridge.

  “Nothing!” we chirp in unison.

  “Uh-huh.” He chuckles, shuffling past with a tray of freshly made burger patties, his eyes on Misty. “Don’t think I wanna know what that Cheshire Cat’s grin is all about, but it’s too busy out there to be fawning over hockey players.”

  Misty huffs and takes two steps toward the door before stopping. “Do you know how many people want you two to get together? You should see all the stuff online.”

  “No, thanks.” I fumble with the apron ties around my waist. “Why do people even care? They don’t know us. What happens between us has no impact on them.”

  “Because it’s like a fairy tale!”

  A fairy tale.

  The poor, lonely waitress with a past, the jaded single mother with scars, who scrubs ketchup off tables and serves fries to truck drivers, ensnares the rich, gorgeous, kind prince. I guess it’s kind of like Cinderella. Though Cinderella got herself beautiful glass slippers on her night of magic. Mine involved shabby black heels, which were left for dead in a ditch.

  I open my mouth to warn Misty that we need to get out front when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I smother the excitement. “Who else is working tonight?”

  “Rose and Caitlyn.”

  Two thirty-something-year-old ladies who know how to manage their sections. Good.

  “You should get out there before Lou finds you. I’ll be another second.” I wait until the door to the diner stops swinging behind her before I pull out my phone, my heart pounding against my bones.

  Can I call you?

  I exhale and try to calm my racing heart. Maybe Misty was right, all I needed to do was reach out.

  I’m just starting my shift now. After?

  I should be home and settled before ten.

  Sure. Let me know when you’re free.

  The kitchen door flies open. “Is Cath here—oh, thank heavens.” Lou’s face is flushed. “I don’t know where these people keep crawlin’ in from, but they’re all asking if you’re workin’ tonight. It’s gonna be another busy one.” She frowns. “Where’s your security guy?”

  I tuck my phone into my pocket. “At home, with Brenna.”

  Lou’s brows raise.

  “I’m fine. Leroy’ll protect me.”

  His face splits into a wide grin as he deftly swings his cast iron frying pan by the handle. “Are you tellin’ me I get to deliver an ass whoppin’ tonight?”

  “The only ass gettin’ whopped around here will be yours if you don’t get Table Twenty-nine’s food up in the next three minutes!” Lou scolds.

  Loading my arms with a rack of clean glasses, I march out onto the floor, my spirits soaring as I count down the hours until I hear Brett’s voice again.

  July 2010

  I pedal languidly in the early-morning heat, just fast enough to keep my bike upright as I coast down quiet Main Street, eyeing the strip of colorful storefronts and cafés. Places where owners greet tourists with wide smiles and welcoming gestures.

  Owners whose eyes flashed with surprise when they saw my name at the top of my résumé, who forced polite smiles and “We’ll let you know” about jobs they immediately decided they would never consider me for. I never got so much as a phone call from anyone.

  I don’t even try to push aside the bitterness that edges my thoughts lately. It’s going to be a long-ass summer of killing days at the park, at the library, at Jasper’s public beach. Anywhere but home. But at least it’s summer.

  At last I’m away from the whispers and sneers that trail me through the claustrophobic halls and classrooms of Balsam High. I wonder if people will be bored of talking about me and Scott by the time I have to go back.

  I stop to avoid the car door that’s thrown ahead of me, an elderly man stepping out without bothering to check his side view mirror. A small part of me wonders what would have happened if I’d been pedaling a little faster, if I’d been knocked to the left, into the traffic that coasts past. Would anyone truly care? How fast would they come running?

  I’m still waiting for the man to move when the door to Balsam’s little French café—aptly named Le Petit Café—opens.

  My breath catches in my chest as Scott steps out, a brown paper bag in one hand, a tray holding two paper coffee cups in the other, a smile on his face. He uses his foot to hold the door open for a blonde woman.

  She’s pretty. She’s older. She’s polished.

  She’s his ex-girlfriend.

  And when she offers to take the tray of coffees from him, it frees his hand to take hers.

  My stomach plummets as I watch them walking side by side, hand in hand, away from me.

  “Hey, Cath! Your guy’s at the game!” Chip calls out from his barstool, pointing the remote at the flat-screen as he turns up the volume. The arena is filled with a sea of white and blue as thousands of Maple Leaf fans pour into their seats. The place isn’t without a healthy smattering of orange-and-black jerseys, though.

  “He’s not my guy,” I correct him, even as my heart skips a beat and my eyes glue themselves to the TV screen, waiting for a glimpse of Bre
tt’s handsome face. I guess the doctor’s orders of rest don’t apply to game seven.

  Ever aware of the prying eyes around me, I try to hide my smile as the TV cameras zoom in on him in the box, looking sharp in a charcoal suit and tie, his navy shirt drawing out his piercing eyes, talking to another man. The bruises are nothing more than faded yellow-tinged marks now, and his hair is styled in that tousled sexy way that I love.

  Brett glances up and, realizing that he’s on camera, offers a small, reserved wave to the crowd. A loud roar of cheers and hollers erupts and I can’t contain my grin.

  However, I can’t miss the low undercurrent of jeers as well. Nor do I miss the flash to the crowd, to see that it’s not fans wearing Leaf jerseys doing it.

  “Are Flyers fans booing him?”

  “Yup,” Chip confirms through a sip of his Coke.

  “Why?”

  “Because we were pretty much guaranteed the Cup and now it’s a crap shoot.”

  “But they’ve made it to game seven!”

  “This series should’ve been done three games ago. People are blaming Madden and Grabner for it.”

  “They’re blaming a dead guy? Are you kidding me?”

  He shrugs. “They’re blaming the guy who was driving his Corvette too fast down a winding road in the fog. That accident was completely avoidable. And because they were on their way to a “work function,” we’re gonna be paying out Madden’s monstrous contract as if he got hurt on the ice, even if he never puts on skates again.”

  I’ve always liked Chip, a simple, easygoing twenty-nine-year-old who works at the same paint factory that my father used to work at and comes here several times a week for dinner. But now I glare at him.

  He lifts his hands up. “Hey! Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling it like it is.” He nods at the TV. The camera keeps panning back and forth between the ice and Brett, sitting quietly, waiting for the game to begin. My heart skips every single time I catch a glimpse of him. “Grabner was rated one of the top right-wingers in the world. And Madden is a god on the ice. He leads the league in points this year by a wide margin. Losing the two of them crippled us, accident or not.”

  I shake my head. “People are assholes.”

  Chip lifts his bottle of Bud in a mock cheer. “Here, here.”

  “What time does the game start?”

  He glances at his watch. “About twenty minutes?”

  I’m here until at least eight thirty. Maybe I can catch the end of it at home. That’d give me a chance to admire Brett in private . . .

  My fingers fly over the monitor to punch in orders, my attention pulling too frequently to the TV.

  I freeze as a tall blonde bombshell with tanned skin appears in the box next to Brett, the fitted T-shirt she’s wearing accentuating her incredible fit body and her perfect round breasts.

  I don’t need anyone to tell me that that’s Courtney Woods. I’ve seen enough pictures of her, and of them together.

  I take a deep breath.

  Okay . . . they dated. They’re obviously still friends. She’s there for moral support. It is a huge night for him.

  She slides into the seat next to Brett and sets a pint down in front of him with a smile.

  And then she presses into his side and reaches for his hand, weaving her fingers through his.

  My stomach drops as he turns to look at her for a long moment. He leans in toward her, and I’m saved from having to watch them kiss as the camera flips over to the commentators.

  I learned how to steel my expression long ago. I do it now, focusing on the screen in front of me, feeling the curious eyes piercing me from every direction.

  I guess I know what Brett wanted to talk to me about.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s how you greet your favorite brother?” Jack is sprawled out on my love seat, can of beer in hand, Brenna tucked under his arm. Brenna, who should be in bed.

  “You’re her favorite brother?” Brenna chirps.

  “Of course I am.” He scoffs.

  Her face scrunches up. “Mommy has other brothers?”

  “Where’s Victoria?” I interrupt, Jack’s humor lost on her.

  “I sent her home. Figured I’d save you some money.”

  “And she just left?” She’s normally more responsible than that.

  “I don’t think she wanted to.” Jack grins, the kind of grin that tells me my sixteen-year-old babysitter was blushing furiously when he strolled in. Probably explains the poor judgment. Still, I’ll need to talk to her about leaving without calling me to check in.

  And none of this explains why Jack is sitting on my couch. “Why aren’t you watching the game with your friends?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly. “Didn’t feel like it.” That’s bullshit. Jack always feels like hanging out with his friends, and on a do-or-die hockey night like tonight especially.

  “We saw Brett on TV!” Brenna exclaims.

  I nearly flinch as my eyes drift to the screen. I have no desire to catch another glimpse of him with his face in her ear. Or worse. “How bad is it?” Toronto was up by three points when I left Diamonds.

  “Five–one. We’re done for,” Jack complains bitterly. Though I’m beginning to think that wary look he’s giving me right now has nothing to do with the score of the game.

  I sigh, in no mood to talk about Brett and Courtney with anyone. It was all I could do to finish my shift, taking orders and smiling at customers and answering their curious “Did you know?” questions with “Of course I did,” before I could escape to Lou’s office to do my closing. Wishing more than ever before that Diamonds was smaller and the process was simpler, that we all just used one register and weren’t responsible for balancing cash and card receipts. Because a basic thing like counting money suddenly seemed an impossible feat, my head already swimming with disappointment.

  And an odd sense of humiliation, as if Brett had somehow publicly slighted me, even though he’s done nothing wrong.

  Misty has sent five texts, begging me to call her. Thankfully, she left at six, because dealing with her reaction in front of everyone would have made it ten times worse.

  “Come on, Brenna. You should already be in bed.”

  Jack leans in to whisper something in her ear. I have no idea what it is, but, miraculously, she doesn’t put up a fight. Nor does she plague me with her usual twenty-questions routine. In fact, she doesn’t say a word as she gives him a big hug and then trails me to her room and crawls under her blankets.

  “Mommy?”

  My hand stalls on her lamp switch. So close to getting away without interrogation. “Yes?”

  “Why are you sad?”

  I force a smile, to hide the fact that I am. “Who says I’m sad?”

  “Uncle Jack.” She pauses to study my face with a small frown. “And your eyes.”

  “My eyes?”

  “Yeah. You have sad eyes.”

  “It’s just been a bad day.”

  “Oh . . .” She pauses. “But then why do you have sad eyes so much?”

  The observation is a razor-sharp prick, coming from my child. I can’t even hold my fake smile. “Why do you say that?”

  “That’s what Grandpa said.”

  I frown. “When did he say that?” It’s not like my dad to say things like that.

  “When I was at their house. He was showing me pictures of you when you were little and I said that your eyes looked really bright back then, and they don’t anymore, and he said it’s because you have sad eyes now.”

  “He actually called them that?” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. I can’t deny that I haven’t heard a comment here or there, mostly from the Gord Mayberrys of the world—insensitive customers with cheesy “Why so glum?” lines.

  Her head bobs. “He said they’re always like that now, and I said not always because they looked different when you were on TV that day. And when you laugh.”

  Which isn’t often enough, probabl
y.

  The knot in my throat swells by double, pricking me, making it hard to swallow.

  I shut the light off before she can see the tears. Sensing her little arms in the air, I bend down to let her wrap them around my neck, the feel of her muscles tightening, her way of trying to console me, offering a moment’s reprieve.

  “I’m sorry you had a bad day.”

  “It’s okay. Everyone has bad days, but tomorrow will be better.” I have to believe that. “Night, babe. I love you.”

  Thankfully, Jack is cursing the TV when I emerge and I use the chance to duck into my room to change.

  But I don’t change. Instead, I crawl onto my bed and pull out my phone. Jack always leaves his hotspot open for me. He has no issues spending a hundred bucks a month on a data plan.

  I click on the link Misty texted me.

  Brett Madden reunites with MMA fighter Courtney Woods.

  I read the article, my heart sinking with each word. According to ESPN, Courtney arrived in Toronto this afternoon and was seen pulling up to the gates of the Madden family residence in King City, a rural community north of the city known for its rolling hills, prestigious horse farms, and wealthy estates. Paparazzi snapped a shot of the tall blonde at the airport, and an inside source has confirmed that they’ve reconciled after breaking up last fall, after a nearly year-long relationship. His recent near-death accident sparked the reunion.

  And there, at the very bottom of the article, I’m mentioned. Specifically, that despite wishful rumors of Brett and me being linked romantically, we remain nothing more than friends who shared a traumatic event.

  I frown at the number of comments to the article below. That many people have something to say about this reunion?

  What exactly are they saying?

  Despite my promise to Simone and my better judgment—my day can’t possibly get any worse—my curiosity finally gets the better of me.

  “Cath?”

  I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to smother my sobs. After a moment, I manage to call out, “I’ll be out in a sec.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  The door to my bedroom, where I’ve been hiding out for the past half hour, creaks open and Jack pokes his head in. I turn away from him, but it’s too late to hide my tear-streaked cheeks and my puffy red eyes. Pushing the door shut behind him, he quietly sits down beside me, my bed creaking under our combined weight. “What’s going on?”