The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three)

by Aubrey Parker

  Maybe he’ll show up here, at the Nosh Pit, and we’ll greet each other like in a movie. I’ll look at him from across the floor, and he’ll look back at me. We’ll run forward. Hug. Kiss. And all will be forgiven.

  But other times, I feel agitated and angry when I think about our reunion. This is the man who abandoned me. Who ran out because he could only think of himself, not me and the child in my belly. In nearly ten years, we’ve only exchanged a few emails and a bunch of postcards from his travels. In my brighter moments, those postcards feel like a lifeline that proves he still cares — even about Mackenzie, who half of them are addressed to along with me. But in my darker moments, they’re something I’d use to hang him. Is this how he makes things right? Bland emails and postcards? It proves he never grew up. Never learned to be a man, and face what needs facing.

  Most troubling of all is how afraid I sometimes feel. At these times, I’m sure that Grady still loves me. I’m sure he wants to be with me. I’m even sure, when I get these spells, that he wants to rejoin our family and be the father Mackenzie never had. But instead of feeling good, I’m equally sure that when Grady comes home, he’ll learn things about me that I don’t want him to know. I’ve spent almost a decade planting bombs all over this town, and only dumb luck has kept them from exploding in my face. Grady could come home and see me for who I am. Who he made me, maybe, but still the girl I’ve been unable to escape.

  And then he’ll leave us heartbroken. Again.

  Maybe he won’t even get in touch. Maybe he’ll come into town, clear out, then move on again. Not because he’s avoiding me, but because I honestly never even occur to him.

  Still, nowhere in my emotional soup is there room for Chadd. I vowed, yet again, to swear off my wayward ways — for Mackenzie’s sake, yes, but also for the sake of my own self-respect. I deserve better than this. Every time I’ve slipped, I’ve told myself I’m getting what I need. Some women make do with vibrators and diligent fingers, but I’m better than that; I get real men. I’m not being used, I tell myself. I’m using them. But deep down, I know it’s all a farce. I go because I’m weak. I go because I know I’m worthless, and want to be treated as such.

  I won’t answer Chadd’s text.

  More: I’m not even tempted to answer.

  And I mean it, too. My mind is full. Getting my rocks off has moved to the very bottom of the barrel. There’s a Brownies informational meeting this week. I’m bound to attend. I’ve been spending a lot of time at my parents’ house because nothing puts a wet blanket on my lust like being around Mom and Dad. I’ve been truly present with Mackenzie. There’s plenty to keep me occupied, but Grady’s imminent arrival is on top of all of that, and he’s his own ball of confounding loose ends.

  No, I’m not interested in Chadd or his advances.

  I delete the text and his call history. I feel strong for once, as if this time I might make it.

  Hours pass. Carla is still out, but Jen has taken on more shifts and Ed seems to have wrangled some of the B Crew to fill in the blanks. The shift, compared to recent ones, is easy. Weekdays are always nice, and this Monday is no exception. In the morning, we’ll get businesspeople who want to eat alone and read the paper; around noon we get businesspeople on business lunches. They want their food hot and their coffee and water topped off. If you can do that, they’re usually happy.

  I get another text. I feel my phone vibrate, and in the minutes it takes me to sneak out of sight and check it, I convince myself it must be from Grady. He doesn’t know that I’m aware he’s coming back, and I don’t think he’d pop in on me. I’ll get some form of communication. Email is too casual, but a call is too personal. A text splits the difference. It tells me he went to the trouble of finding my number, but doesn’t commit him to more than pixels on a screen.

  But the new text isn’t from Grady. It’s from Chadd again: Someone here says hi.

  Beneath the text is a photo. I see Chadd sitting at a table, having lunch and a beer with someone else.

  Someone I recognize.

  Someone who, it seems, wants to say hi to me.

  It’s Tommy Finch.

  Tommy motherfucking Finch, with his beautiful blond hair and his razor-sharp blue eyes, piercing even in the small photo. Tommy with his big jock’s arms that now, even at age twenty-seven or twenty-eight, look as fine as they did in high school.

  I haven’t seen Tommy in forever. I’ve avoided him, just like I avoid all of the men I hook up with. But most men don’t have our history. Most men don’t have the legitimate right to say hi, as if we’re old pals.

  Oh, how I pined for Tommy Finch. For years, I watched him in my classes. I watched him on the football field, even when I was at games with Grady. When I finally got a taste of him, it was every bit as good as I’d imagined. But of course, Tommy was the asshole I’d always known he was. He got his taste and lost all interest.

  And now of all times, he says hi.

  I’ve always known that Inferno Falls was small and that people liked to gossip. I knew, deep down, that every seed I sowed might one day take root and bite me. Just yesterday, I was contemplating the many ways I might get snared in my own web. But Chadd and Tommy Finch being buddies? That’s not something I ever saw coming.

  I lusted after Tommy for years before he finally looked my way, then for more years after he let me know I was nothing.

  I hate Tommy. He’s not just an asshole; he’s worse than horrible. I have every right to go after Tommy with all the intensity of a woman scorned, and I’ll bet I could do some damage if I tried. Only two things have stopped me: For one, Tommy has as much on me as I have on him. And for two, if he ever came back looking for seconds, the devil inside me would be very, very interested.

  I should delete the photo. Nothing here can possibly amount to anything good. Nothing proves my sexual misadventures are about a lack of self-worth than my continued infatuation with Tommy Finch. If I have reason to hate anyone, it’s him. If I should want to stay away from anyone, it’s him. If I should want nothing to do with anyone after all he’s done, I should want nothing to do with him. Not Tommy Finch. Not ever again.

  But instead of deleting the photo, I find myself staying in the back room too long, pinching in on Tommy, moving Chadd out of the way as if he’s worth nothing.

  Tommy still has that killer smile.

  He still looks cut as all hell. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt in the photo, and I can actually see the striations in his forearms. His shoulders have held their breadth, but his face and what I can see of his collarbones have kept their leanness. Post-glory years, most high school football players go to seed. Tommy’s still delicious.

  And oh, goddamn me, I’m getting wet just thinking about him.

  Remembering the way his hands felt on me.

  The way it all went too fast, after all of my buildup. I barely had time to enjoy myself because all I could think was, Tommy Finch is inside me.

  God help me, my body still wants him.

  His cocky smile. The way he’s looking at the camera, knowing the photo is meant for me, as if to say, I’ll fuck you and forget you again, but you want it anyway. The way I can tell, even via an image on-screen, that he’s sure he’s too good for me and that he did me a favor … but would, if I ask nicely, be willing to do me a favor again. The clear suggestion that he has better things to do, but would consider setting those things aside to do me instead … as an act of charity.

  Fuck him. Fuck Tommy.

  And fuck me, because as much as I feel hate brewing, lust is brewing, too.

  I wonder at the text. I wonder at the image. I can’t tell where this picture was taken, but it’s a good table in what looks like a decent restaurant. Both men are in collared shirts, no ties, with their sleeves rolled up. They look like high rollers taking a few minutes to relax from being kings of the world. What did Tommy end up doing after school, anyway? The Falls isn’t so small that I’ve been forced to keep tabs, but I could easily find out. I s
eem to remember he had ambitions in finance, so maybe he’s rich. Fucking Tommy, can’t even be a slob like he’s supposed to be.

  What were they talking about before this photo was taken?

  What made Chadd suggest taking the photo, then send it to me?

  Do they know? Do the two men know what they have in common? This little pic suggests they must. Because it’s not like Chadd and I are in a dating situation, where casual texts make sense. His first text was a prelude to a booty call, so what’s this? It can’t be a prelude to a threesome, can it?

  The thought embarrasses me more than I’d think possible. The idea that the two of them got to chatting, and Chadd told Tommy about this girl he fucked in a bathroom. Tommy would have said, Hey, I fucked her too.

  Maybe she’d be up for fucking us together.

  I want to smash my phone. I want to smash their faces. How dare they? How dare they talk; how dare they presume; how dare they propose something something so bold?

  You take the back, I can hear Tommy telling Chadd, and I’ll take the front.

  I can imagine their high-five.

  I’m shaking. I can barely see the phone because my emotions are gripping my throat. This isn’t fair. Not ten minutes ago, I’d been feeling good. No matter how Grady came to town, he was coming. No matter how things turned out, they would turn out. I’ve been crying over Grady — even though he was awful to me, too — for years. I can only handle one self-destructive obsession at a time. But now I’m supposed to face the man who left me and two men who assume I’ll be up for anything, whenever they deign to ask?

  I’m shaking so hard I can barely think. Shaking because I’m furious. Shaking because it’s unfair and I’ve been through far too much. Shaking because I deserve better. Shaking because somewhere deep down, I very much want to do what this photo implies.

  With Herculean effort, I delete the photo, then the text history. My thumb, as I touch the screen to confirm, weighs ten thousand pounds.

  Someone rounds the corner behind me. I’m so keyed up, God help him if it’s Ed coming to order me back to work. He might find a fist in his mouth. A foot in his balls. A knife, from the counter beside me, in his fat fucking gut.

  But it’s not Ed, or Roxanne. It’s Jen, looking at me in a way that proves I must look as horrid as I feel.

  “Maya, are you … what’s going on?”

  My phone buzzes again.

  The screen reads, It’s Grady. I’m in town. I don’t know if you’re willing to see me, but I’d like to see you.

  CHAPTER 14

  Grady

  I know from talking to Arthur that Maya works at the Nosh Pit — a diner that didn’t exist when I left town. So much has changed. I’ve heard chatter about Inferno Falls quite a lot, for a place I’ve mostly tried to forget. It keeps making Top This lists: Top 10 Fast Foods Made Hip, Top 100 Places to Start a Business. And now that I’m here, I see why. The town has blossomed. I’d almost want to settle here, if I wasn’t a wanderer at heart, and if it didn’t carry so much history.

  But in the same breath that Arthur told me about the Nosh Pit, he shambled on in his rat-a-tat way to tell me that meeting his daughter there, of all places, wasn’t a great idea. “She’s been all keyed up these past days, Grady. Probably on account of that snippy woman.”

  I could have asked Arthur to elaborate, but he’d already moved on. Classic Arthur Holland. I swear, it’s like no time has passed. I used to sit on this man’s couch when I visited Maya, and he always talked this way: like I knew all he knew, and nothing required explanation.

  I guess it doesn’t matter who “the snippy woman” is, or what has Maya all “keyed up.” All that mattered was that I hung up learning two things I needed to know: Maya’s phone number and that of all the places to meet in Inferno Falls, the Nosh Pit is my worst bet.

  I didn’t bother going further until Maya returned my text. I sent it with shaking fingers then had to endure an hour before she finally responded. During that time, I was certain I’d made a mistake. Of course she still hates me. How could she not? I almost wanted the interlude to last forever because the more time passed, the surer I became that she’d received it fine and was composing the perfect vitriolic response. I was afraid to look at my phone from that point on, sure that I’d find something more than a simple answer on my screen. The way Maya must feel about me — anger from long ago, stoked and simmering for years to today’s eruption — would result in something alive. Something that might reach through the phone with digital hands, giving me the throttling I so deserve.

  I can’t say how sorry I am now, over text. I kept hoping she’d give me the opportunity to apologize in person. Because I am sorry. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that I was wrong. It’s obvious. It’s horribly, in-my-stupid-face obvious that I was nothing more than an irresponsible, selfish prick. A man doesn’t abandon his responsibilities. I know that now, but I didn’t get it then; I was a dumb kid. Angry and scared. I’ve never liked being tied down or boxed in, and to me that was Inferno Falls.

  There was school. There was my deadbeat uncle. And then there was Maya. I couldn’t handle a baby. I just couldn’t. It was one responsibility too many, so I ran, like a coward. I ran from the diapers. I ran from the late-night feedings. I ran from the feeling of being tethered, of having something to take care of and feel responsible for. I didn’t know how to be a father. My dad was barely a parent, and my uncle definitely wasn’t.

  She had nobody else, but I chose me anyway. I left. All this time, I suppose I’ve always meant to return, but I couldn’t face it — the responsibility, of course, but now there was the guilt as well. And the more time passed, the worse that guilt became.

  I want to tell her how sorry I am for everything. Maybe there’s a way to make it right between us. I’d like that. If she can forgive me, and let me back in.

  So I waited. And sweated. I’d told myself before contacting Maya that I was detached from it all. If she wanted me in her and Mackenzie’s life, then maybe I could be. If she didn’t, no big deal. I’ve lived this long on my own; rejection would be fine. And perhaps for the best.

  But the more time passed between my text and her response, the more I realized that I couldn’t take a no. I couldn’t take her anger and rejection, even though I deserved it.

  When the response came, it was simpler than I’d imagined.

  There was no anger. No joy. No emotion. There wasn’t even surprise. I’ve never texted Maya, and I’ve never, ever approached Inferno since I left. But here I was getting intimately in touch, letting her know I’m nearby, and going as far as to expose my throat by saying, I don’t know if you’re willing to see me, but I’d like to see you. And all she says is, 8:30 tonight. Where?

  No shock.

  No elation.

  No remonstration.

  No wishing in return. For all I know, she took my desire to see her as pathetic. She might be holding her emotions like a knife, waiting to come here and cut me. Oh, you’d like to see me, Grady? Well, I’m not willing, so go fuck yourself. The message delivered in person so she can look me in the eye for the personal touch.

  But it was all I had. So I focused on finding the right place. A place that sent a neutral message — nothing too committed. That ruled out all our old spots, which carried emotional baggage, and I also ruled out all of the unknown spots that might harbor potential land mines. Eventually, I settled on somewhere so bland, my decision to meet there could mean anything: the Hungry Bear — a dingy little diner where I used to occasionally eat with my old man.

  I’m sitting in a booth when this little portly guy with all-white hair, a white goatee, and a tweed-looking cabbie hat slides into the seat opposite me.

  “Well, well,” he says. “Ain’t this a crazy sight?”

  I’m about to respond, but he cuts me off.

  “Grady Dade. Fancy seeing you here. How long has it been? You know who was in here the other day? Brandon Grant. Got himself a real pretty girl
on his arm. You been keeping up with Brandon? Holy shit. I think something is burning in the kitchen. Got a new cook. Can you hang on just a second?”

  The old guy stands up and bustles off toward the kitchen like an agitated wind-up toy before I can respond. Then he’s back a few seconds later. There’s no way he did more in the kitchen but enter, revolve once, and come right out again. He’s sliding into the booth for the second time and starts apologizing for leaving, as if I invited him to sit in the first place.

  “New cook,” he explains. Then he sticks a hand toward me, palm up. I intuit that I’m probably supposed to shake it, so I do. This must be correct because he shakes back and diverts entirely from the cook and whatever may or may not be going wrong in the kitchen.

  “I guess I knew you talked to Brandon,” he says, as if I’d answered him earlier, which I haven’t. I haven’t even been able to confirm my identity. I know this guy; he’s Vincent Brush, the Hungry Bear’s owner. But he hasn’t seen me in forever, and there must be other people who look a little like me. For all he knows, he’s talking to someone who has no idea what’s going on.

  Knowing Vincent and his propensity for talk, it’s entirely possible that’s happened to him before. It’s impossible to get a word in if he doesn’t allow it, so there’s probably more than one person in his past who’s walked away and said to a companion, “Who the hell was that?”

  “I asked him about you,” Vincent says, his fluffy goatee bobbing along with his hat. “Your old man’s dead, right?”

  “Um … ” It would be indelicate coming from anyone else, but I can only stammer.

  “Say, did I ever tell you about my buddy Stinky Peet who died at a bowling alley?”

  “Um … ”

  “Yeah. Swear to God. He got his hand caught in that ball return thing. That’s not how he died; I’m just mentioning it because, so, you know, because, well, that’s not really part of the story, but he did, up to the shoulder because his jacket got caught there, and the ball shot up and broke his hand.”