by Emma Chase
Three Musketeers’ reunion going on in Greenville that I wasn’t invited to?”
She stomps forward. Billy moves behind my chair, using me like a human shield.
“Or better yet—would anyone like to explain why my best friend took off from New York like a bat out of hell, leaving behind a shit storm that makes Sandy look like an April-fucking-shower—and I have no idea why?!”
She takes another step forward and drops her bags to the floor. Then she snaps her head to the right—in the direction of the perky blond teenager standing next to the lockers.
That’s Kimberly. She’s a waitress here. Works after school. She’s seems nice.
And at the moment—terrified.
“Hey, Gidget, how about you make yourself useful and get me a Diet Coke? Don’t scrimp on the ice.”
Kimberly flees the room.
Lucky girl.
Delores points at me and yells, like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men, “Well?! You can’t keep me out of the loop, Kate. I am the loop!”
My voice comes out meek. Repentant. If you’re ever in the attack range of an angry she-wolf, lay down and play dead. It’ll go easier that way.
“I didn’t want to ruin your vacation.”
Delores snorts, “If only Queen Bee-atch Alexandra had been so thoughtful. She called us twenty times at the hotel—freaking out about how we had to come home because Drew needed a suicide watch.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s exaggerating.”
“I thought so too. Until I saw the Dark Prince myself. Wasn’t pretty.”
I take the news like a newborn bird to a worm, greedy for more. “You saw Drew? What did he say? Did he ask about me?”
“He really wasn’t capable of coherent speech at the time. Mostly just mumbled like the village idiot he is. Jack was carrying him. Apparently Dickwad is making quite the dent in the bar scene these days, and Jack’s been watching his back. Which is frightening in and of itself, considering Jack is poised for the Slutman of the Year award.”
Drew has been going out. To the bars. With Jack O’Shay. You remember the last time Drew went out with Jack, don’t you? Taxi girl?
So this is how it feels to get stabbed with an ice pick—right in the heart.
Billy’s voice is sarcastic, drawing her fire away from me. “Hey, Delores, it’s good to see you too. I’m great, thanks for asking. The album? Doin’ awesome—triple platinum. California? Fabulous, couldn’t be happier. Again . . .” He cups his hands around his mouth, megaphone style, “. . . thanks for asking.”
Delores’s eyes zero in on him, looking him over head to toe. Not happy with what she sees. “It’s called a razor; you should get one. If ancient man could figure it out, you’ve got a slim chance. Oh—and Pearl Jam called. They want their flannel back.”
Billy’s brows go up. “You’re criticizing my style? Really, Cruella? How many puppies had to die so you could wear that coat?”
“Eat shit.”
“Cooking again, are you? I thought the health department banned you for life the last time you tried?”
Delores opens her mouth for a rebuttal, but nothing comes out. Her glossy lips stretch slowly into a smile. “I’ve missed you, Jackass.”
Billy winks. “Right back at you, cuz.”
He sits in the chair beside me and Delores collapses in the other one. “Okay, Lucy. Fuckin’ splain.”
I take a big breath. “I’m pregnant.”
At first, Delores doesn’t say a word. Then she makes the sign of the cross. “The Antichrist has spawned? For fuck’s sake, we have to hose you down with holy water or something. Have the Four Horsemen arrived yet?”
Kimberly comes back with a big glass of soda. She puts it down in front of Delores, then scurries away.
Delores takes a long sip. “So you’re unexpectedly knocked up—congratulations. Happens to the best of us. What’s the problem?”
I stare down at the table. “Drew doesn’t want the baby.”
As you already know, my best friend is not a fan of Drew’s. When it comes to him, she always assumes the worst. Always. So I expect her to be angry on my behalf. I expect her to go off on a magnificent tirade about man-whores and dogs and venereal diseases. I expect her to join me in another round of the naughty name-calling game.
But she doesn’t do any of those things.
Instead—she laughs.
“What are you talking about? Of course he wants the baby. Drew Evans not wanting a mini-him running around? That’s like saying Matthew doesn’t want a blow job when we’re stuck in traffic. Just ridiculous.”
Needless to say, I’m surprised. “Why do you think that?”
She shrugs. “A conversation we had once. Plus, he and Mackenzie—they’re like Master Blaster from Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Tell me exactly what he said to you. Sometimes guys talk out their asses, and you have to wade through the shit to figure out what they really mean.”
“Oh, he was pretty clear. His exact words were ‘End it.’ And of course the stripper he was making out with at the time really drove the point home,” I say bitterly.
Delores points at me. And now she looks pissed. “That, I believe. Fucking prick.” She holds her hands up. “But it’s okay. Don’t panic. I’ll take care of everything. We have this new fuel at the lab that’s ready for animal testing. He won’t know what hit him—I can slip it right through the vents.”
She turns to Billy. “You’re in charge of the garden hose and duct tape.” Then she looks at me. “I’ll need your keys and security code.”
I shake my head. “Delores, you can’t gas Drew to death.”
“It might not kill him. If I had to guess, I’d say the odds for survival are fifty-fifty.”
“Delores . . .”
“Okay, thirty-seventy. But still, that gives us plausible deniability.”
My mother and George walk into the room, interrupting the diabolical plan. My mom hugs Dee Dee tight. “Hi, honey! It’s so good to see you. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” She looks at George. “Hey George, how they hanging?”
I think George Reinhart is a little afraid of Delores.
Maybe more than a little.
He adjusts his glasses. “They’re . . . hanging well . . . thank you.”
My mother coos, “Look at the three of you. Here, all together again, just like old times.”
Delores grins. “Frightening, isn’t it?”
My mother takes George’s hand. “We’ll go cook you kids something for lunch.”
They leave, and Delores rubs her hands together like the mad scientist she is. “Now, back to the gas chamber . . .”
I cut her off. “Delores—I don’t think I’m going to have it.”
All traces of humor leave her face. She thinks for a moment. Looks thoughtful, but nonjudgmental. When she speaks, her voice is serious. But kind.
“I’ll support you a hundred and fifty percent, Kate; you know that. But because I know you, I’m gonna say this: If you decide to do this? Make sure it’s for you—because it’s what you want to do. If you’re doing it because you think it’s what Drew wants, or as some warped attempt to work things out with him? Don’t. You’ll just end up hating yourself for it—and resenting him.”
You can’t bullshit best friends. And sometimes that’s a double-edged sword—because it means they won’t let you bullshit yourself.
“I haven’t decided anything for sure. Not yet.”
Delores’s phone goes off in her purse, and the sound of Akon’s “Sexy Bitch” fills the air. While she digs into her bag, she asks Billy, “Could you bring my luggage up to Kate’s room? I’m gonna crash here tonight.”
“Do I look like a fucking bellboy?”
Delores doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you look like a homeless person. But I don’t have a windshield for you to spit on. So be a good little vagrant and take my bags upstairs—then maybe I’ll throw a dollar at you.”
With a grin, Billy goes to do it. Stil
l, he complains, “This was so much more fun when she wasn’t here.”
Delores looks at her phone. “Ugg—it’s Matthew. I swear, that boy can’t take a shit without calling to tell me what color it is.” She walks through the back door to take the call outside.
And Billy looks at me. “Okay, I’m a guy—and even I thought that was gross.”
Can’t say I disagree with him.
A few minutes later, Delores tears back into the room. Still on the phone and going off like a cherry bomb. “Of all the ignorant, balls-out shitty things to say . . . by the time I’m done with you, they’re going to have to reinstate your V card, buddy!”
She punches the OFF button on her cell much harder than necessary.
“Problem?”
“Yes. The problem is, people are what’s between your legs—which explains why my husband is behaving like a big, fat, uncircumcised dick!”
I cover my ears. “TMI Delores! T. M. I.” There are some things you just don’t want to know about your friend’s husband. “What happened?”
She huffs and sits down next to me. “Apparently, after I left for the airport this morning, Matthew went to check on Drew. The apartment was locked up like Fort Knox, but Matthew had that extra key. So he goes in and finds your ass-hat ex-boyfriend passed out wasted, on the bathroom floor. After he went all Left Eye Lopes, setting shit on fire in the bathtub.”
“What!?”
“Exactly. Matthew said if he hadn’t gone by when he did, the whole place could’ve gone up.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “What was he burning?”
Delores shrugs. “Matthew didn’t say.”
Yeah—but I bet it wasn’t any of Drew’s stuff going up in flames.
Bastard.
Delores goes on. “So Matthew got the pathetic excuse for a man sobered up. At first Drew didn’t want to talk, but Matthew kept at him. And eventually, he spilled like oil in the Gulf.”
My stomach clenches, “He . . . he . . . told Matthew about the baby?”
Delores nods. “Matthew said Drew told him everything that went down between you two.”
Okay. This is a good thing. If Drew is telling his family I’m pregnant, maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe all he needed was some time to get used to the idea. And Matthew’s a great person to talk to in this situation. Not as good as Steven or Alexandra, but still—he’s pretty levelheaded. At least compared to Drew.
“What did Matthew say?”
Delores grinds her teeth together. “He said he couldn’t believe you would do something like this to Drew.”
“What?”
Cue the music.
It’s the Twilight Zone.
In the end, I knew Team New York would take Drew’s side—I said they would. But I thought . . . maybe . . . they’d defend me. Or at the very least, be pissed off about his methods.
Delores puts her hand over mine. “Don’t let what Matthew said get to you. It’s only natural that he’d back Drew up—just like I’d help you bury the body, even if it was my own dear mother we were tossing into the ground.”
“Delores, that’s sick.”
“Oh, really? You weren’t the one who walked into the house and heard her mother knockin’ boots with Sheriff Mitchell!”
My mouth drops open.
Delores continues disgustedly, “And they were loud. Like surround-sound, IMAX-theater loud. I’m totally scarred for life.”
Let’s pause here a moment.
You’ve never met the good sheriff, so I’ll explain. Growing up, Sheriff Ben Mitchell was the thorn in our sides, the rock in our shoes, the pain in our asses. He had nothing better to do than follow us around—breaking up our beer bashes, pulling Billy’s car over and searching it for weed.
He always thought we were up to something . . . and . . . well . . . he was right.
But that’s beside the point.
Even though Sheriff Mitchell was about the same age as our parents, to us, he always seemed older—like that grumpy neighbor with a cane who never lets you get the baseball that accidentally lands in his yard. Mitchell was never married and didn’t date as far as we knew, so it was always assumed that his wrinkly face and piss-poor attitude came from his extreme inability to get laid.
Amelia Warren is the opposite of Mitchell in every way. She’s a free spirit. An official card-carrying member of the Healing Power of Crystals Club. A flower child for the modern age.
The very idea of them getting it on is equal parts horrifying and peculiar.
I shudder. “You’re right. That is sick.”
Billy hops down the stairs. “What’s sick?”
Delores drops the bomb. “Amelia and Old Man Mitchell screwing—on the kitchen table.”
Billy grimaces. And whines, “Aw, man . . . I ate on that table this morning.”
I turn to him. “Did you know about this?”
“I had my suspicions. But I was hoping I was wrong.”
Delores agrees, “Weren’t we all. I don’t know what was worse—having to listen to my mother moaning in ecstasy, or hearing him beg for more and having to visualize what the fuck she was doing to him.”
I cover my mouth.
And laugh.
We all do. It starts off small, and then builds—to a table-smacking, eye-tearing, bent-over-at-the-waist crescendo.
“Oh . . . my . . . God!”
And even though Delores is cackling, she insists, “It’s not funny! I think my girl parts are broken. Every time I think about it, my vagina clamps down like a littleneck clam fighting to stay closed.”
We howl louder. And it’s the first real, genuine laughter I’ve had since this all began. My cheeks hurt and my sides ache—and it feels wonderful.
You know, sometimes I try and picture what my life would be like if Dee Dee wasn’t in it. And then I stop.
Because I just really can’t imagine it.
Chapter 13
After we got Delores settled in my room, Billy put a call in to his manager. He planned to do a show here at a little bar called Sam’s Place, where he used to play in high school. He wanted to honor the place where he came from—give something back to the locals, like Bruce Springsteen always does at the Stone Pony.
And Sam’s Place is where we are right now.
It’s packed—standing room only. Delores and I are in front, our arms bumping against each other as we dance and sing. Billy’s up on stage, a few songs into his first set. He looks fantastic. Dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, and a clean-shaven chin.
He knows just how to work the crowd—when to get them fired up with a guitar-screaming riff or settle them down with soft ballad.
I’ve never been more proud of him.
The song ends and someone in the back yells that they love him. Billy looks down and laughs, a little bashful. Then he brings his mouth to the microphone. “I love you guys too. So this next song is new. I haven’t played it for any of the suits yet, but I wanted to play it for you tonight. It’s for someone . . . who believed in me . . . even when there wasn’t much of a reason to. And I want her to know that I’ll always have her back, that she’ll always be in my heart, and she’ll never be alone.”
His eyes find mine in the crowd. And he winks. I nod, message received. Then he starts to sing.
Years feel like yesterday
And I can’t believe how fast time flies
Don’t want to let another second go
Without letting you know
What you always should have known
I’ll catch you if you stumble
Pick you up if you fall
Hold you when you’re hurting
But baby, most of all,
I’ll be there . . . so you’ll never be alone
Don’t ever feel alone
The beat pulses in my stomach. And I listen to the words. And I think about how lucky I am to have all the things I do. Priceless, precious blessings. I have a family that loves me. Friends who would kill for me. L
iterally.
And I think about who I am. I survived my father’s death with my soul intact. I graduated Wharton School at the top of my class. Remember when I first started working at the firm? And Drew Evans was the golden boy? And I put him right in his place—kicked his ass from one end of the office to the other.
I did that.
Because I was stubborn. And smart. And because I believed I was capable. Drew once told me you can change the color of the walls, but the room would still be the same.
And he was right.
I was all those things before him—and I’m still all those things now.
Without him.
From now on, each day that goes by
Gonna give it my best try
To show you what you mean to me
’Cause if I don’t have you on my side
None of this means anything
Don’t want to let another second go
Without letting you know
What you always should have known
Have you ever lost your keys? And you check all your pockets and pull the cushions off the couch. And then—after searching for ten minutes—you turn around and there they are. On the table. Right in front of you the whole time.
Almost . . . like the answer was too easy to see right away.
That’s what this feels like.
Because suddenly I know what I want. I’m confident. Certain. And I know what I’m capable of. It won’t be easy—the greatest achievements in life never are. Things like climbing Everest, or becoming the president? They’re difficult. But so worth it.
I’ll catch you if you stumble
Pick you up if you fall
Hold you when you’re hurting
But baby, most of all
I’ll be there . . . so you’ll never be alone