by Amy Faye
He got up to re-fill the drink, and settled back in, biting off a fry. He wasn't supposed to get fast food, of course. Rachel couldn't stand it; she said she could smell it on his breath like booze. But he wasn't seeing her tonight, and besides that, she didn't control his life, nor his diet. Who did she think he was, anyways?
A movement at the door made his eyes flick up automatically. And they flicked back down automatically, after taking in the mundane reality that it was just another customer.
And then, suddenly, his eyes flicked back up after all. There was a remarkable resemblance, really. But there was absolutely no world in which Amy had come back to Detroit, so it didn't make sense. Still, he reasoned with himself, he'd always had a thing for Amy, even if they were, technically, related by marriage. And this lady, who probably wasn't Amy, was better-looking than anything he'd run into in Detroit.
So since this woman looked a little like her, a woman attractive enough to hold his attention, wasn't watching out for him, he didn't particularly hide that he was looking at her. She stepped up to the counter and waited. It gave Brett plenty of time to stare. She was wearing comfortable clothes, the kind that people tend to wear when they're traveling. This close to I-94, there was no way she'd done much more than pull off and get out.
A girl as pretty as her ought to wear nicer clothes. Though, she probably did. They were traveling clothes, after all. A girl as pretty as her ought to have a boyfriend, notably absent from the picture. Still, her pants clung around the hips and gave a good impression of what her ass would look like without pants on. He smiled a little. Small favors after a long day.
Eventually, this would be an interesting story to talk about with Rachel. That time his 'sister' had showed up at a Burger King halfway home from a job site. Then she would turn, and in the light he'd realize that no, Amy had never really looked like that. And she was too short, or her hair—
Well, her hair was the wrong color. Sort-of, anyways. Amy never had her hair naturally-colored a day in her life, in the years they had lived together. Granted, that was a long time ago, and people did change, but this girl looked positively ordinary. No band t-shirt, though today would have been the day to wear it. No buckles, not even the normal number.
It seemed like she'd been waiting forever—he'd certainly been watching her forever, and it was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. He hadn't meant to be a creep. Just indulge himself for a few moments. Then it had turned into a couple of minutes varying between intense study and soft appreciation, and in that time it had gone a bit past 'weird.'
He took a breath and looked down at his tray, mostly empty now. He took a mouthful of soda and headed for the door. He didn't look up when he heard the guy behind the counter finally decide to do his job and say, "Can I help the next in line?"
It was cute, because there hadn't been a real line in some time, and there was only one person there now. "Yeah," she said. "I'll have a number one—"
Brett's blood went cold. There were coincidences and coincidences, and this was a step too far. She looked a lot like Amy, that was for sure. But that didn't sound a lot like Amy. That was Amy's voice, without a doubt.
Part of him wanted to turn around and say hello. It was the polite thing to do, never mind all the other thoughts running through his head. After all the stuff ten years ago, if she really was in town, then the funeral would certainly be… interesting. Things that hadn't been said before would get said, and not all of them were as positive as 'I always found you very attractive.'
She'd need someone on her side. Someone who wasn't ready to start a fight with her. And she'd need to know that, not just have someone in the shadows while she got fed to the lions. Was he even that person? Or was he letting his memories of her, memories of a completely different person, a person with shock-pink hair, get in the way of what his real feelings were going to be?
He let out a breath. She didn't call him, that was for sure. She didn't want to see him. If she did, then she'd have called, she'd have texted, she'd have sent him some kind of message. When the time came, she would see him, at the funeral, and then she'd go back to Colorado. When she wanted to talk, she'd seek him out. But he wasn't about to open old wounds that neither of them really wanted to have to close again.
2003
There was something to be said for leaving your electives until the end of school. Three years gone, and now Brett had a schedule full of nothing. It was glorious. Start the day with the only challenge that he'd have the entire school year, AP History, and then it was easy street.
Art, Aquatics—who called a 'swimming' class 'aquatics' anyhow—and then a damn computer class that anyone born after 1985 would be able to pass with their eyes closed. Government, Choir, where there should have been something to do but in reality everyone goofed off. Then he ended the day with a free hour, which usually meant ditching the school an hour early.
Not in Brett's case, of course. There was no reason to go anywhere for an hour when practice was after school every day, so he'd just bum around in the library, tooling around on the computers or whatever. There wasn't anywhere worth going anyways.
And after a month, it was all starting to feel pretty regular, all told. Nothing to really write home about. He'd settled in, knew who was going to be trouble and who wasn't. History, that would be trouble, for sure. And then there was aquatics, which had half the football team on it, so that would be trouble as well. For someone else.
Choir, he could skip if he felt like it. But there was no reason to; nobody took it seriously, so they barely had to do any singing, and when they did, he could just keep his mouth shut and look like he was working.
Today was no different than any other day. A lecture where he had to pay attention, and then back to sleep. That was what he figured, anyways. He settled into his seat and leaned back, the back of his chair tapping the wall where it rested. He watched the other students coming in, one by one. Most of them were freshmen, and the ones who weren't had to wade through a sea of freshmen to get to the room, because it was in the Freshmen hall anyways.
Someone he didn't recognize stepped through the door, then, which was the first thing that had changed since the semester had started. And it was the first thing that had changed in even longer that he liked.
The new girl's hair caught him first. It was bright pink, the sort of color that you don't see anywhere in the natural world. Offensively pink. And it jutted at angles. Detroit wasn't the kind of place for a girl like that, Brett thought. The kids who wanted to rebel against their parents sagged their pants low and listened to rap music.
So this girl was unusual at the outset. The rest of it just completed the package. She walked across the front of the room, her thin frame hunched over, her eyes darting around the room. She had an expression like she was going to threaten to stab anyone who looked at her the wrong way, which was probably the right way to start the school year if you're doing it a month late.
After the initial shock wore off, Brett took a minute to gauge the rest of her. At first he'd have called her thin. She wore a cotton jacket that fit tight around her arms, and black jeans that fit her like a second skin, all of it driving home her long, slender limbs.
She wore the jacket unzipped and it hung loose on her shoulders over a T-shirt for a band whose name he'd heard before, and guessed was probably particularly loud. It wasn't until the teacher pointed at him—well, near him—and the girl turned to walk over that he noticed her other defining features.
She was young, probably a freshman or a sophomore, but the size of her chest apparently hadn't decided to take her age into account. Once he noticed, Brett flicked his eyes away, knitted his hands behind his head, and fixed his vision on the middle-distance, looking through the corner of the room rather than at it.
"Excuse me," came a voice. It didn't sound like she'd said 'excuse me,' though, from the tone. It sounded like she'd threatened to kick his ass. Brett couldn't help but want to smile at that. He was three t
imes her size, at least, and could have tossed her like a javelin. But he couldn't deny the charm of a woman who was looking to pick a fight. His mother was the same way. Tough.
"Yeah?"
He looked her up and down not as a way to get another look at the way that her t-shirt stretched, though he did get a bit of a jolt of enjoyment out of it, but as a message—'who the hell do you think you are' spoken wordlessly.
"That's my seat," she said, gesturing with her head.
Brett raised his eyebrows. The one next to him? Well, he wasn't going to complain, was he? He shifted his broad shoulders and kicked them backward, sending the chair tipping forward again until the front legs finally reestablished contact with the floor. The girl dropped her bag off her shoulder and slipped it past in the space behind his chair, and then followed it through with her hips.
As she slipped into her seat, he stole one more glance over at her, adjusting his opinion just a little. She didn't just fill out a t-shirt well, after all. Her ass filled out her jeans well, too.
A fantasy of a relationship played out in his head, a whole 'what if' life playing out in the time it took to blink his eyes. He certainly looked good enough. He wouldn't say no to her, not even if there was money on the line. But there was something else on the line, something more valuable than money, and that was enough to shake that idea out of his head.
He wasn't getting into relationships right now. Not at all. He was going to get done with school, get into a college on a football scholarship, and head to the NFL. That was the path that he'd set out for himself, and that was the path he was going to take.
Brett Page was no saint, he reckoned, but he wasn't going to take some girl for a ride that was going to end in a year. He wasn't a saint, no, but he wasn't going to lead her—nor any other girl—on, either.
He wasn't going to end up the scumbag that his old man was.
3
Amy
Present Day
Amy woke late in the morning. The funeral wasn't until tomorrow afternoon, and she'd been in the car so long that she was more than willing to let herself sleep in. Shannon wouldn't be off work until two, and then wouldn't be home until three, so she had time to kill.
She did pull her phone out, though. At least she could tell Shannon she was in town. She clicked the messaging button, typed out her message. 'In town, text me whenever is good.'
Amy was surprised. She was expecting to wait a long time. Then she read the message, and her mood turned from surprise to frustration.
'Oh, I'm sorry. Should've told you.' That was all she said, though there were the three dots, right there, so maybe there would be some clarification.
They had stayed in touch, but Shannon had never really been all that close. And what closeness they'd experienced, Amy recalled, had been with a thick veneer of being absolutely unable to trust her friend. The years had changed Amy, at the very least. Ten years was a long time to grow up in.
But apparently, not everyone had changed much. Another message arrived.
Her boyfriend was staying, and they'd talked it over, and with the baby and her boyfriend, maybe it wasn't a good time after all. Maybe they could still get coffee, though?
Amy's jaw tightened in frustration. What the fuck was she supposed to do now? If she'd known in advance that she was staying at a hotel, that would be one thing. But she'd planned to stay with Shannon, and she'd budgeted accordingly.
Three more dots. Amy stared at her phone with frustration. She didn't have time to sit here and listen to excuses and apologies. She needed a god damn couch to ride for a week.
'I'm really sorry. Maybe you could talk to Brett?'
Amy's teeth clicked together. There was a mistake and a half. Talk to Brett? No. Not a chance. Besides, wouldn't he—Amy decided she'd rather just ask than suppose.
'Isn't he just going to be staying at a hotel? He's not living out here.'
That text came faster. Apparently Shannon had been looking for an excuse to move on, and this was going to provide it for her.
'Wtf are you talking about? He's not in Detroit, but Ann Arbor isn't exactly far.'
Amy's lips pinched together. Ann Arbor? He'd always seemed like he didn't want to ever come back to the city.
'You know how I can reach him?'
Amy had to wonder what exactly Shannon did that she could sit there and text. But if she was getting her plans screwed up, she wasn't about to feel bad about making her do it if she was going to.
'I don't have his number. Just Facebook him.'
'I can't.'
'You serious? That old shit still? Fucking—I'll give him your number. Jesus, you two.'
Amy waited a minute. It was old, but it wasn't like it was ancient history to her, nor to Dad. If they were all totally over it, why had nobody bothered to call? Why not a single message, in ten years, until they get a damn postcard that Helen had died? A postcard!
So no, it wasn't just her. It was Brett as much as anyone who was pushing this. Which was why he wasn't going to call her, no matter what Shannon seemed to think.
Her phone lit up. She didn't recognize the number, but it was local. Amy blinked. Really? She answered the call.
"Hello?"
"Amy? It's Brett." She didn't respond right away. What the hell kind of black magic had Shannon been getting into, that she could just snap her fingers and Brett would call, after ten years of solid radio silence? "Can you hear me? Sorry, I'll call back—"
"I can hear you," Amy cut in. "Sorry, I just didn't think you would call."
"Your friend said it was important," he said. Amy thought she heard a hint of frustration in his tone. She could have been imagining it, but she didn't think she was. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just. Look, it's not a big deal, so. I don't want to cause any trouble, and I'm sure you're busy." She could hear noise on the other side of the line. "Are you on a construction site or something?"
"Yes," he said, his voice flat. Brett was many things, but he wasn't deadpan. At least, he hadn't been in high school. "Are you sure it's not a big deal?"
"Shannon just flaked on me and thought she could pass me off on you. But I'm sure you've got stuff going on, and I'm not going to impose, so I'll just—"
"Don't be silly," he said. He had a peculiar way of being forcefully casual. It was something he'd been able to do way back when she'd known him, and apparently that much hadn't changed. Construction site? Was he really doing that kind of work? After his knee, sure, he wasn't playing football, but he was a smart guy. Was he really relegated to construction? "You're saying you need a place to stay?"
"Well like I said, I'm not going to impose, so…"
"I've got an extra room, it's not going to be an imposition."
Amy's fingers automatically found the bridge of her nose and rubbed. It would solve a lot of problems. "I really don't want to cause any trouble, and I don't want to start anything."
"I won't hear it," he said. How long could a construction worker take calls for, anyways? "I've got to go talk to some knuckleheads, but I'll text you my address. There's a key around back. In the green pot, by the garage. Okay?"
She pursed her lips. It would have to be okay, wouldn't it? Not like she had any other choice.
"I guess."
"See you tonight, I guess."
"See you."
"Oh, Amy. One more thing. Welcome back."
She faked a smile in spite of nobody being able to see. "Yeah, thanks."
2003
Amy wasn't really sure when the idea had occurred to her. At the beginning of the year, if someone had told her to choose, hard and fast, once and forever, whether or not she was going to go to the Homecoming dance, she'd have rolled her eyes. Of course she wasn't going to go. That was a stupid idea, and they would have been stupid for suggesting it.
Then Dad had shrugged one morning and asked if she was thinking about it, and she said no, and moved on with her life. Some time in the week that followed, tha
t much was clear, because that had happened a week ago, and now she was pretty much at the point where she had to decide for real whether or not she was going to keep going forward with this stupid idea.
The answer was obvious, to the Amy that had started the year, but after almost three weeks of time with that delicious-looking piece of shit next to her, asking around and hearing that he wasn't really dating anyone, the question was pretty much all she could think about.
He hadn't exactly blown her off. In fact, Amy was almost certain that he had decidedly not blown her off, rather than just humoring her. And of course, the way that he looked at her—well, maybe it was all in her head. But she wasn't going to make the mistake of assuming that must be the case.
She looked into the mirror. It was the same face that she always saw. Her eyeliner game had been on point lately, that was a plus. And the new foundation was doing wonders for her skin. But was it enough? After all, Brett Page was who he was, and she was who she was. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't get a second look from him. He was practically the star of the school, and if things were anything like they'd been in years past, then she was nobody at all.
Whatever she had to do to get his attention, though—that was what she'd do. Well, within limits. She wasn't going to bend over for him. Not for anyone. Dad was a strange sort of role-model, when it came to that sort of stuff. He was nothing if not committed, and even though he had been very clear from the get-go that they'd probably had kids too young, he'd been there through all of it, and that meant a thousand horror stories about how she needed to wait.
Well, she would wait. She wasn't going to make that sort of mistake. But within limits, she would turn heads however she had to, as long as it turned the one head that she was worried about.