Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  Big Daddy’s is slammed. I suspect it has something to do with the big hockey game tomorrow between Hardwick and Boston College. My first clue is the array of maroon and gold Eagle hoodies belonging to Boston College. There’s a scattering of the black and red hoodies belonging to the Hardwick Warriors as well.

  The table section is packed. Max, the owner, and I are working the bar. I came on at seven and work until close, which is midnight. Tomorrow will be worse if Hardwick wins because post-game partying is intense around here.

  “Need a pitcher of Coors and two Margaritas, Peyton,” Cassie calls out from the server station.

  “Coming right up,” I call out, putting a pitcher underneath the Coors tap. Once it is full, I place it on the tray and start making the Margaritas. So lame. So predictable. Why don’t these people order something new?

  Like an ‘Adios Mother Fucker?’ That’s become my cocktail of choice since Stuart’s departure. I’ve made them at home, but Eva says they are entirely too lethal for her. She’s a lightweight when it comes to drinking, unlike me.

  That’s not to say I drink a lot but, when I do, I sure as hell put my mind to it. I do it right.

  I finish up the Margaritas and place them on the tray. Cassie is right there to take them to her table. I turn to check the few customers who have been sitting at the bar for refills, when I notice someone has taken a seat.

  Oh. Fuck.

  It’s Weston Matthews, looking disheveled and maybe already two sheets to the wind at this early hour. He was a no-show at his tutoring session this afternoon. I had waited a good thirty minutes before packing up and leaving, determined that I would rip him a new one next Tuesday if he showed then.

  “What can I get you?” I ask, tossing a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him.

  “You can give me two fucking minutes of your time, Peyton,” he says, his tone serious and his eyes perusing me as if I’ve just mowed down his puppy in the street. What the hell is up with that?

  “Look, I’m busy. Are you going to order or not?” I snap impatiently.

  “Michelob,” he replies, “and then a minute of your precious time, doll.”

  I pull a bottle of Michelob from the cooler, grab a clean glass and set it down in front of him.

  “Are you running a tab?” I ask impatiently.

  “No. This is it.”

  “Seven bucks,” I say.

  He tosses a ten down. “Keep the change and now listen up. I’m only going to say this once.”

  What the hell? Has he figured out that I’m…Penny? My mind suddenly goes into overdrive. Bits and pieces of the last few weeks play out like a slideshow in fast forward mode, but there is nothing I can put my finger on that might have clued him in to that fact.

  “I know you’re seeing Stuart. I’m not sure of his last name, but I saw him here with you last weekend. You were kissing him at the bar. Like maybe you two have some hot and heavy thing going on.”

  My breath leaves my body like a thief in the night. Where the hell is this coming from?

  “So…what’s it to you?” I ask, and I can hear the nervous lilt in my own voice. Declaring myself guilty – but not of what Weston obviously thinks I’m guilty of doing.

  “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck, doll. But it just so happens – and I don’t think this will come as a shock to you if I’m reading your body language and defensiveness correctly, which I’m sure I am, he happens to be seeing a friend of mine. Actually, they’re supposed to be exclusive. So, what exactly is your deal?”

  I stall and stutter, caught totally off guard by Weston’s words.

  Friends? Who the fuck is he talking about?

  “What friend?” I ask, as I continue to stall for time.

  “That’s very good,” he replies, giving me a smirk. “It almost looks as if you are in disbelief.”

  No lie there.

  “Her name is Penny Lane. I don’t think she knows about you. I’d like to keep it that way. She’s not like…you.”

  “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snap, now totally offended.

  “It means, doll, that there are plenty of horny fish in the sea for you. Penny’s different. She doesn’t deserve some cheating douchebag like Stuart. You, on the other hand, well…let’s just say that I envision you bouncing back a lot quicker than she ever could. Catch my drift?”

  I nod because I need time to process all of this shit. Weston has reacted to some unforeseen and definitely unplanned stimuli out of profile---I mean, out of character. I need to absorb this before reacting.

  “Thanks for letting me know, Weston. You and I may not be friends, but I’m thinking you must be a good friend to this…Penny is it?”

  “Yeah, it’s Penny,” he replies. “Penny Lane. Like the Beatles’ tune.”

  “I know the song,” I retort, now at a loss to say anything else.

  “I guess we’re good then, right?” He asks, quirking a brow.

  “Totally,” I say nodding. “You’re right, Stuart is a complete douche. I never want to see him again, and I’ll make sure he gets that message.”

  “Then I guess my business is finished here,” he says, taking a quick swig of his beer before walking out.

  I stare after him. Despite my reluctance to enjoy watching his backside as he saunters towards the exit door, I just can’t freaking help it.

  Love the swagger. It’s got some fucking attitude going on.

  Big time.

  Note to self: Unwrap “All American Whopper Dong” tonight after work.

  Chapter 17

  Weston had no sooner gotten into his car and started it up when his cell phone went off.

  It was his mother.

  He didn’t talk to his parents all that much and he liked it that way. They didn’t totally get him but, then again, that might be normal with families. How the hell would he know?

  “Yeah, Mom,” he says, hitting the button on his console to put it on speaker.

  “Weston,” she said, her voice trembling, and suddenly his demeanor changed. He went on high alert. Something is wrong. This can be nothing other than bad news.

  He was braced, ready as he could be with whatever bad or tragic news was to follow. At least he thought he was.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” he asked, his adrenaline pumping hard.

  “It’s Carson. She’s been in a horrible accident. Can you come home? It’s…bad.”

  “Where are you?” he asked. It wasn’t a stupid question. His family had homes in D.C., New York, London, San Francisco, Denver, and San Diego. Since Carson was a freshman at Juilliard, he was betting New York.

  “We’re at the condo.”

  Right.

  New York.

  Park Avenue.

  “But come to Mount Sinai. She’s in intensive care.”

  Fuck!

  This wasn’t happening. Not with his little sister. Not the sister that had grown up hanging onto his every word; following him around like he was some fucking hero, which clearly, he was not. The one that had snuck into his room when the clapping of thunder and pounding of rain awakened her. And she found him first, creeping into his room, her thumb planted firmly in her mouth. She pleaded with him to let her sleep at the foot of his bed. He wasn’t all that much older than she was, yet it was him that she sought out for protection against the storms that assaulted the tender senses of a little girl.

  The brown tousled curls and those beautiful chocolate brown eyes that had flecks of gold dancing through them. Carson was a perfect recreation of their mother. And she was undeniably his father’s pride.

  She was the one that never disappointed his father, no matter what she did or what she failed to do. It had always been acceptable at least, and perfect at best. Carson was his father’s angel. The irony was that although his sister was a golden version of his mother, her personality and temperament matched that of Easton Matthews.

  Carson was stubborn, and spoiled, and hell bent on doing things
her way; she wanted to control every situation. As a result, she hadn’t cultivated friendships or belonged to social cliques during their private school educations.

  She was a loner, and few got close to her with the exception of some superficial relationships she maintained for small periods of time with guys. The only person she halfway confided in was himself, and now Weston was flooded with guilt for all of the times he had only half-listened to her prattle on about this or that.

  He had taken most of her stories with a grain of salt, not concerned with the dark abyss her life seemed to be taking if those tales had one iota of truth to them, which he was certain they did not. Carson was doing it for attention or shock value he had thought. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of either.

  He realized he was still in his car. He hadn’t moved from the parking space. He was still trying to articulate in his mind what had happened. Why hadn’t he asked questions? Why hadn’t he pressed for details?

  He knew why. It was his mother’s voice. So different. So soaked with fear and uncertainty. So vulnerable which, for anyone who knew Darcy Matthews, would attest was so not like her.

  A fragile individual she most certainly was not. How could she have been and held her own against Easton Matthews? But held her own she always had from Weston’s first memories as a child.

  It had never been about his parents fighting, because aside from a few spats here and there during his youth, there was nothing to ever indicate they didn’t love one another with everything they had. And, for the most part, they had always presented a united front, not allowing their children to play one against the other. Still, there had been times when Weston’s mother took a position in favor of her oldest child and stood her ground with quiet grace. His father eventually surrendered and all was right with the world again.

  But why had she been the one to call him and not his father? Weston knew the answer to that before the question had completely formed in his mind. His father was in Paris, London, Tel Aviv, Istanbul, Karachi---anywhere but where he was supposed to be.

  The story of Weston’s life.

  He put his car in reverse, backing out swiftly, and then his tires screeched out onto the main drag with rubber leaving its mark on the pavement behind him.

  Her room was eerily dark and quiet. Only the sounds of the equipment, a mixture of beeps and blips broke the shroud of silence in the room. Lights blinking and digital numbers flashing on screens. The sound of the blood pressure monitor filling with pumped air every ten minutes and then the soft whoosh of the deflation once her numbers had been recorded.

  He studied her face, and saw that a little tube was bringing oxygen to her through her nose. Her cheeks had bruising all over them. A broken left eye socket; a punctured lung due to two fractured ribs, and her collarbone was fractured as well. But the main concern was the swelling of her brain due to blunt trauma to the back of her skull. The doctors had put her into a medically induced coma in hopes the swelling would start to dissipate without permanent brain damage.

  Weston took his mother’s hand and nodded toward the hallway. They needed to talk. He needed to know what happened, and how it happened, and what the fuck had his sister done to end up here, fighting for her life before she had a chance to really live it. She was only nineteen for Chrissake!

  His mother followed him out into the brightly lit hallway. “Your father is on his way in from London. He should be here before long. Thanks for coming, Weston. I felt so alone and…“

  “Mom,” he said, his irritation evident, “Of course I would be here. She’s my sister. You’re my mother. I love you both like crazy, but I need to know what the fuck happened. How did she end up…like this?”

  His mother looked like he had never seen her look. At forty-five, she was still so beautiful – even now with her energy and spirit zapped by this tragedy – her face was hauntingly lovely.

  She looked up at him. “I’m not sure,” she replied, her eyes misted with tears and flooded with confusion. “The police found her on the Upper East Side. She was dumped there like a…piece of garbage in a parking lot,” she wailed, the tears flowing freely now. “She was unconscious, so we have no information. The detectives are trying to pull film from security cameras in the area. But…” her voice cracked and she sobbed loudly, “the doctor who assessed her in the ER said she’d been sexually assaulted, Weston!”

  Weston pulled his mother to him, wrapping his arms around her for comfort. “Don’t cry, Mom,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Carson’s a strong girl. She’s gonna pull through. We have to believe that, right? We need good vibes now and to just focus on that. I’m here with you and I’ll stay until we know that everything’s going to be alright with her, okay?”

  His mother nodded against his chest, the sobs softening, replaced by sniffles.

  “Darcy,” his father’s voice was now beside Weston, and his mother looked up seeing him there beside her son.

  “Easton,” she said, her relief was evident. “Thank God you’re here!” She moved to his arms. Weston watched as his father took over comforting detail as if he were invisible.

  “Weston,” Easton greeted, briefly acknowledging his son. “Glad you’re here.” His father turned back to his mother. “Any changes?”

  “She’s stable, which the doctor says is good. It’s just a waiting game now. Come, Easton, let her know that you’re here.”

  They both walked back towards Carson’s room. “Weston? Are you coming with us?” his mother asked as she turned back to look at him.

  “In a minute,” Weston replied, “I’ll give you and Dad some time alone with her.”

  She nodded and turned back to her husband as they left Weston standing alone in the hall, wondering how the fuck Carson had ended up here. What had she been into? Why hadn’t he kept in touch with her more frequently? Maybe if he had, his sorry ass wouldn’t be so clueless or helpless at the moment. Maybe he would know why she ended up tossed like trash in some random parking lot. Maybe he would know who she’d been hanging with and what got her here.

  But he had no answers.

  He knew that none of them would unless Carson woke up.

  Weston walked down the hall past the nurse’s triage, and found the chapel. He knew there would be one in the ICU.

  And there he did something he hadn’t done in forever.

  He prayed.

  Chapter 18

  Weston is a no-show once again for our tutoring session on Tuesday afternoon. First it was last Friday, the same Friday he had shown up at Big Daddy’s to warn Peyton to stay away from Penny’s man, which, in a twisted way, was actually kind of amazing.

  And kind of sweet from Penny’s perspective. From Peyton’s perspective, the jury is still out. I haven’t been able to fully process his motivation on that one. Part of me still considers that it could be a ploy to make sure I’m unencumbered by a relationship so he can give me a toss, but even I know how that sounds, and I pride myself on keeping it real.

  Weston Matthews can have any female he wants, on or off campus, so come on, I am not about to think I’m special. And if I am special? Well, that’s only because I haven’t hidden my disinterest in him at all.

  But at the moment, I’m somewhere between irritated and concerned. I’ve been here for more than thirty minutes. He’s never been more than ten minutes late for our sessions.

  I grab my cell and pull up Professor Lindquist’s number. He answers and I can tell he’s on the road heading home. I’m on speaker.

  “Professor, this is Penny Lane. I’m sorry to bother you but Weston Matthews has missed our last two sessions. Has he dropped your class or anything? He’s not left a message for me and I’m puzzled.”

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Lane. He was in class Friday. Did well on his quiz, as a matter of fact. You’re making great progress with him. He wasn’t in class on Monday. His friend that lives at the fraternity stopped by to tell me that there’s some sort of a family emergency. He’s not sur
e when Mr. Matthews will be back.”

  I remain silent. I’m not sure what to say. I want to ask for details, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. Lindquist probably doesn’t know any more than what he’s just told me anyway.

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “I don’t have any details. Just what I’ve told you.”

  I knew it. “Well, if you hear anything further as to his student status with the university, will you please let me know?”

  “I certainly will, Ms. Lane. I expect if he’s going to be taking an extended leave, the university will know something within the next day or so.”

  “Right. Okay, have a good evening, Professor.”

  “You do the same.”

  I pack up my briefcase, still distracted by the news that Weston has encountered some family emergency that is severe enough he’s missing classes. By definition, family emergency can mean so many things. None of them good, and some can even be major catastrophes. My hope is that Weston’s isn’t too serious.

  Maybe Eva knows something, though God knows I am clueless as to how to approach her. As far as she knows, Weston Matthews is not one of my favorite people, though I wish no harm to him or his family.

  All she’s been concerning herself with these past few days is that stupid Halloween Ball coming up this weekend. As if that’s more important than her boyfriend’s best friend going through a family emergency.

  Oh shit. Here I go.

  Getting pissed at Eva because I’m curious about Weston’s absence when, in fact, she has no reason to share these types of things with me. My disinterest in that whole crowd has done its best to minimize her conversations about them lately.

  It’s my own damn fault I think to myself as I head out of the school towards my car. And, for whatever reason, I’m feeling compassion for Weston. My hope is that he will return soon.

  Later, at home, the perfect opportunity presents itself when Eva gets off her phone with Marcus after they’ve been kicking around costume ideas for said ball. Eva has gotten hers, but apparently Marcus is dragging ass so she sort of got bitchy with him.