“She’s real good to that little girl,” she says. “She’s been all alone, but she’s tough.”
Joe is looking from Bridget to me. He either doesn’t know Maya, or doesn’t know the story.
“We’re going to the park together Thursday.” I feel the need to emphasize this, to prove that I’m not being badgered by Bridget. I was already planning to be a good guy and see her, so there.
“Just you and her? Or is Mackenzie going too?”
“I don’t know.” Honestly, I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it. The answer is probably yes, and it’s giving me chills. I can only imagine how I’ll react. I can only imagine how I’ll feel when I see them together, and wonder what could have been. What probably should have been.
Bridget slaps me on the upper arm with her free hand, but this time it’s less chastising, more companionable. More like the slaps she gave us all when we hung out together as kids.
“Be nice to her.”
“I’m not going to be rude to a little kid, Bridget. Give me some credit.”
Bridget’s face becomes the unique strain of patronizing that women save for men who don’t get it — because they’re men and can’t help being a little stupid.
“Mackenzie doesn’t know you from Adam, Grady,” she says. “It’s Maya whose heart you’re dangerously close to breaking again.”
I start to say something, but my mouth just opens and closes.
“A lot of time has passed,” she adds. “Maybe it’s time for forgiveness.”
CHAPTER 18
Grady
I get a call from Joe the next afternoon, inviting me to shoot some pool at ten. Room With a Cue has cleaned up its act since we used to slum around as kids, but that’s fine; these days we’re both more refined. That hits us as absurd at the same time because we burst out laughing together.
I accept, grateful that Joe seems to be trying to make me welcome. I’ve had mixed reactions from everyone else — enough that the authority defier within me almost wants to yell at a few folks for not minding their own business. Almost none of the people looking at me with one raised eyebrow know the full story, but that doesn’t stop them from having an opinion. And while they’ve mostly been friendly, there’s still an unspoken something in the air. A something that says that I’m wrong and a bad person — only wrong, only bad, and the only one carrying any blame for events that happened nearly ten years ago and are clearly none of their business.
It’s barely three in the afternoon by the time I hang up. It’s a nice day, and I could use that time to explore, but something in me fights it for a long time. I was always a question mark in this town, and in true teenage-angst fashion, I only ever felt that Maya understood me. My parents, before they died, thought I was stepping on some wayward paths. Uncle Ernie saw me as a black sheep with nothing to offer. I was a problem at school. No wonder I left. It’s what everyone expected of someone like me.
But mostly, I keep thinking that as unlikely as it seems, I might run into Maya if I head out walking. There’s no reason that should bug me, but tomorrow’s park date has the feel of a sealed missive sent overseas in a bottle. Right now, our appointment is scheduled but hasn’t happened, and we’re in a curious limbo. I need that time to prepare. I need to decide what I’ll say to Maya, and perhaps more importantly what I’ll say (and won’t say) to Mackenzie. I’m not properly steeled to just run into her, and I doubt she’s ready to run into me.
If I don’t take time to carefully build my responses, I could react to Maya in any of the knee-jerk ways I’ve felt thinking of her over these past years. I might want to embrace her. I might want to shout at her. I might want to take hold of her and hang on, promising that everything will go back to how it always should have been. And at the same time, I just want to go. Get out of town, and go. I’ve signed most if not all of the papers requiring my signature, and the house is nearly composed and clean enough to auction. I don’t need to be present for that. I can hire the auctioneer now and arrange for payment later, assuming there’s anything left after Ernie’s debts are settled. Either way, it can be handled from afar. From Alaska, even.
I don’t know how I’ll react if I see Maya too early. I don’t want to find out. I’m sure that part of me longs to be with her. God knows I’ve lain on my back enough nights since I left, staring at the sky and seeing her in my mind. God knows I’ve wondered if I made a mistake — and, more often than not, feel sure I did. God knows I feel like a bastard more than I feel righteous. Yes, we caused each other pain. Yes, she hurt me while I was hurting her. Maybe that can vanish like water under a bridge. Or maybe too much has been done and said.
Eventually, I convince myself I’m being an idiot — and, most importantly, acting like Ernie, who holed up in this stupid house for most of the little life I knew him to have. I head out, and I walk. Through Old Town then over to Tiny Amsterdam.
I used to know a lot of people on this side of town, even though I was young. I know the shithole Regency, which Brandon lived in with a foster family once, before moving there to live on his own. I know the little porno shops, strip clubs, and slightly classier (but still tantalizingly filthy) adult stores and erotic bakeries. The whole area has a fresh coat of paint and could almost pass for respectable. And, peeking in without going in, I even see people I think I know: girls I went to school with now maybe running these dirty businesses that went legit in Inferno’s gentrification.
I stroll to the lip of Edison Park — the exact opposite of Dalton Park, where I’ll meet Maya tomorrow. Edison is proof that while even Inferno’s borderline areas and sex district Falls have turned legit, there’s still an underbelly just under the surface. I could go into Edison. I almost want to. But I don’t want to get knifed just to see what’s there, and even in my day, you were as likely to leave Edison with a wound as a fake ID or a baggie of drugs.
By the time I’m done with my meandering, it’s late enough that I might as well stay out. It’s better than taking an Uber to Ernie’s or hoofing it all the way there just to come back later. I eat alone at the Friendly Whale instead, blessedly seeing no one I recognize. It’s possible — likely, even — that there are folks in here I know, but nine and a half years leaves plenty of time for change.
I’m not used to eating by myself, so I calm my nerves with a few beers. They do the job; by the time I arrive at Room With a Cue, I’m nowhere near drunk but definitely care less what anyone might think of me.
I find Joe at a table.
“You started without me,” I say.
“It’s a good idea to grab a table when you can get one.” He sniffs. “Besides, it smells like you started without me, too.”
“Two beers,” I lie.
But Joe must take this as an order, because he raises his tree-trunk fireman’s arm with two extended fingers at the end. A minute later, a young man with gigantic holes in his ears comes over carrying a pitcher and two glasses. Joe picks one up, nods to the other, and clinks our mugs once I’m in position.
“To new beginnings,” he says.
“Maybe this is just a pit stop.” I don’t think I mean it, but I’ve never been great at presumption. The surest way to make me avoid something has always been for someone to start anticipating that I’m planning to do it anyway.
“Okay. Then: ‘To pit stops.’” Another clink. The glasses are heavy as hell, their bottoms thick enough to do damage in a fight. When we came here as kids, my fake ID was decent enough for Ray, who ran the bar, to pretend he believed it was real. The beers we got then were served in cheap plastic steins with mismatched sports team logos. Just another sign that everything in Inferno improved when I left, almost like cause and effect.
Joe racks the balls. He invites me to break. I do then down half of my beer waiting for him to line up a shot that he eventually misses. I make fun of him about this, but suspect my mockery isn’t as funny as I think. Probably because everyone is looking at me, judging me for what I did.
“Y
our shot,” Joe says.
I take it. I make it. Then I make two more before missing. I was always the better pool player.
My beer almost vanishes while waiting for Joe’s next shot. He’s so precise, it’s almost like he’s doing calculus. If it worked, I’d give him props, but it doesn’t. He misses again, and I laugh slightly too loud.
The game proceeds until it’s over, with only three of Joe’s balls pocketed when I drop the eight into the far corner. I go to pour another beer, but the pitcher seems to be empty. I don’t remember that happening.
“You want to play again?” Joe asks, already pulling balls from the pockets.
I do. This feels normal, so I definitely want to keep doing it. I’ve been at Room With a Cue many times before; I’ve been here with Joe before; I’ve had beers and felt just the right amount of out of place before. It’s easy, while we keep shooting, to forget what I’ll face tomorrow. And that’s good because during the day I’ve started to wonder if making that date — not just with Maya, but with that adorable little girl, too — was all that intelligent. I could probably have hired someone to handle Ernie’s affairs then signed documents via FedEx. Even fax or scan. I didn’t need to come back.
I managed to be away from Maya and this little bundle of reluctant responsibility for over nine years. I was free. I’d dodged a dangerous bullet in more ways than one, and saved myself a lifetime of being tethered to one place, and to a woman who’d gone out of her way to torment me once upon a time — or at least, that’s how it seems the more I think of it. So why am I here? Why did I come back at all?
“Rack ‘em,” I tell Joe.
But instead of racking, Joe’s watching me as I scan the room. “What, Grady?”
“I was just thinking: What’s with this town? Was it always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Everyone with their noses in everyone else’s business.”
Joe looks around and, I suspect, is about to laugh at me, clap me on the back, and tell me I’m drunk. But he must see my eyes harden as I notice someone across the room because his head ticks hard sideways. And then his hand is on my arm as if I might bolt.
“Now there’s a familiar face,” I say.
“Come on, Grady. Let’s play pool.”
But my eyes are fixed three tables down. Blond hair, every bit in place, perfect as if styled by a professional. Arms as big as Grady’s. And even though I can’t see it right now, there’s definitely a cocksure look on an asshole face.
“It would be impolite to not go over and say hello,” I say, already moving.
“Forget it. It’s been forever.”
I give Joe a look. “What do you think I’m going to do? Break one of those mugs over his head?” I glare at Joe for two seconds then laugh too heartily to show it was a joke. But a few people look over, including the blond giant. And yes, now that he’s turning, I can see his face. That smug, superhero’s face. That smile that’s too good for everyone.
Tommy Fucking Finch. Here, in the flesh.
Now he’s coming toward me. How nice. I don’t even need to go to him.
But he doesn’t get it. Somehow, he doesn’t see how much I hate him. Instead of confrontation, I see amity. It’s self-assured amity, but amity nonetheless. He extends his hand. The hand is enormous, still perfect for throwing footballs. When he smiles, his teeth are like tombstones. His eyes are so goddamn blue, it’s like he’s trying to prove how much better than me he is — me with my plain, skinny-shanks brown.
My hand must have come up because Tommy grips it. Then, incredibly, he pulls me into a hug.
“Seriously? Grady Dade? Where did you come from, Bud?”
Bud. I want to break his face. I want to ruin him.
When I don’t answer, Joe jumps in. Thankfully, Joe is nearly as large as Tommy. Between their faces and physiques, I feel like an example of what not to do.
“Ernie was his uncle,” Joe says.
“Really? Ah, man, I’m sorry to hear that,” Tommy says.
“Sorry to hear he was my uncle?” I ask.
Tommy smiles again. “How long has it been since you were around here, man?”
As if we’re buddies. As if we hung out. As if I want anything to do with him, or he ever wanted anything to do with me.
“Almost ten years.”
Something skitters across Tommy’s features, and he almost chortles as something dawns on him. Then his hand moves halfway toward his mouth, and there’s this full-body Oh-no-he-didn’t gesture that’s half laughing and half devil-may-care. When he speaks again, it’s partially buried in a laugh.
“Oh, shit. Yeah, I guess it would be about ten years.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Bro. I was just thinking of … wow, takes me back.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Tommy?”
He must finally see my anger because he sort of rolls his eyes. There’s this moment of resetting, and he speaks like a peacemaker, as if this is all over and now we can have a good laugh.
“Look, no big deal. We were all just kids.” A small pause. “So how have you been?”
“Ten years, Tommy. Why is that relevant?”
“Ease up, Grady. Okay?”
Joe puts his hand on my chest and kind of pushes me back. He says quietly, “Let’s go.”
“No. I want to have a chat with my old buddy Tommy. Do you still go by Tommy, like a punk?”
That drops most of the remaining mirth from his face.
“I go by Tom.”
“So how’s kicks, Tom? Having a good time while I’ve been gone? Carefree? Anyone in the dark about anything I could help them understand about you?”
His teeth show, but it’s no longer a grin. “Maybe Joe is right. Maybe it’s time for you to go.”
“Maybe I want to play more pool. Or maybe I want to make a little speech. A little PSA, in the name of clearing the air.”
I watch something interesting happen on Tommy’s face. If I had to describe what it looks like, I’d say that it’s teen Tommy warring with adult Tom. Right now, he’s wearing a collared shirt like an office drone. His sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled high, and he might be able to fool people into believing he was just another responsible and rather droll man if he didn’t have that big, stupid tattoo on his forearm. It gives him away. It makes him look like the frat boy he’s always been and always will be.
Old Tommy would leap at me. And because he’s twice my size, he’d beat me nearly to death and look fabulous doing it. But this man, I can tell he’s trying to look like the pro he’ll never, ever be. He’s trying to be a Tom or perhaps even a Thomas rather than the hothead Tommy who I left town hating. Right here and now, facing the drunk prodigal son, he’s trying to be the bigger man and let it all go — to let bygones be bygones.
Beside him, two guys who could go either way — office types like Tommy is trying to be or fraternity types like Tommy truly is — are glancing between us. If I had to guess, I’d say they want this to happen. If you don’t know the whole story, I’m sure I look like the asshole. Tommy’s a good guy trying to make nice, and I’m the intoxicated dickhead.
Tommy’s jaw works. Subtly and possibly without permission, his fists clench, and I can see the sinews and tendons moving in his arms like cables.
“You’re drunk,” he finally says. “Go home, and sleep it off.”
Then he turns. He makes it five steps before I wrestle one arm from Joe and grab one of the heavy glass steins, which I wing at the back of Tommy’s head. I miss, but just by a little. The empty thing glances off of his shoulder, hits the floor, and breaks.
Tommy turns. This time, he’s not going to be so nice and understanding. The people on the floor back away, giving us room to rumble.
But Joe steps between us and pushes me forcibly backward. Ten seconds later, we’re all in the parking lot. Tommy’s big frame fills the pool hall’s doorway immediately after, only standing, his jaw hard, his fist
s like giant hammers meant for crushing.
Joe drags me back, and Tommy just watches, his brow set.
It’s possible that Joe just saved my life. But the way I’m yelling at him as he pulls me toward his truck and away from one of the stupidest mistakes I could make, you’d never see me as grateful.
CHAPTER 19
Maya
Thank God I don’t work Thursday. I worked every other day this week, and ever since Chadd sent me that photo of himself and Tommy Finch, it’s like he knows there are two Maya Hollands, and just where to insert the crowbar between them. Now that Grady is back, there’s no damned way I’ll respond to Chadd’s advances. But the animal part of me — especially given all this fresh stress, and absent the way I normally deal — doesn’t like the temptation.
I’m ashamed to say it, but my showerhead gets quite the workout these days. My Internet history could be cleaner. And through it all, I’m convinced Mackenzie is somehow going to catch on. Somewhere, somehow, I’m going to get caught or leave evidence. I’m going to forget to latch the bathroom door, and she’s going to come in, half sleepwalking. I’m going to leave my vibrator where she can see it; maybe she’ll go rummaging for crayons or something and find it. She’ll decide to use my computer and see where I’ve gone. She’ll pick up my Kindle because we talk about reading a lot, and she’ll see that lately I’ve preferred erotica to literature. And I’ll get questions if I’m lucky and she’s still innocent, or silence if I’m not, and she’s learned more from TV and her friends than I’d like to admit.
But it’s kept me honest. I’ve deleted all incoming texts without undue deliberation. There was even a time that Chadd came in to the Pit and I handed him to Jen. As happened that one fateful time, he must have taken my handoff as some sort of a hard-to-get maneuver — only this time, he seemed emboldened by the fact that he knows I’m not hard to get. He passed me twice while I was waiting on customers, informing me just-FYI that he was headed to the restroom. Once, he touched my ass as he passed, and I was disgusted with myself that it turned me on.
The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) Page 11