SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION

by ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA®

  Downstairs, he stepped onto his train headed downtown. “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

  HE DIDN’T SPEAK TO Wince again ‘til the hospital a month later.

  Jerome was helping teachers chaperone a field trip to Lincoln Center, mainly because his daughter had bullied Walton into visiting the theater. Ten a.m. on a Tuesday onstage at the Koch Theater. Trying to corral thirty kids, ages seven to fourteen, was no joke.

  “No pushing.”

  “Jerome.” A little boy voice about twenty feet away.

  He looked up, and Wince’s son was waving at him from a high wall gilded like marzipan. Flip was among the little ones. Wince hadn’t tagged along, which should have been a relief but wasn’t.

  The older teachers were struggling. “Linda, get down please.” A half hour in, the four other chaperons were already exhausted. “Linda? Don’t push.”

  The stage manager led them through the orchestra pit and the dressing rooms, finally bringing them up onto the stage to show off the curtain and lights. He called instructions to the union guys up in the booth.

  A few minutes later, Flip’s voice again. “Jerome. Hey, J’rome!”

  “Boys! Flip, no!”

  Before he could turn to look, shocked shouts drowned out the boy. Then he heard screaming, and he made for the noisy knot of kids staring at the floor.

  Flip lay at the base of the marzipan wall, stunned silent, his face gray, his arm at a wrong angle.

  Jerome crouched. “Breathe, buddy. Take a breath. Flip?” He didn’t move him, but he laid a hand on his ulna. Yep, broken. “Keep your eyes on me now. You’re okay, buddy. Huh? Just stay there.”

  Flip hiccupped and coughed but stayed still. “Hurts.” He was going into shock.

  “I bet it does. You’re okay, though. Promise.” Jerome ignored the fidgety, terrified third graders crowded around him.

  The stage manager (Jerry? Larry?) was already in motion.

  “His arm’s broken. He needs a doctor. I’m a friend of the family.” Sorta. Jerome looked up.

  “Dad?” Keisha appeared from the wings in her mouse costume.

  “A boy fell.” He turned to the chaperones. “Someone needs to run him to an emergency room. Someone needs to call his dad. Wendell Farley.” He wasn’t a practicing doctor, but he knew what to do. Back to Flip’s dilated eyes. “Flip? All good, buddy. We’re okay.” He took charge without meaning to.

  And somehow an hour later, Jerome found himself in the Mount Sinai West emergency room waiting for Wince. Keisha had ditched her first-act mouse head and steered them through the maze backstage, holding the costume’s tail in one fist. Wince’s office must’ve made a call to the hospital because no one said diddly about him carrying in some white kid with a busted arm. Flip stayed relatively calm, all things considered. The break looked clean, and the resident on duty had set his arm quickly. Watching doctors work always made Jerome feel lazy and lucky at the same time. He’d hated his ER rotation.

  Keisha hovered by the door, needing a task to calm her down. Like her mom. He gave her a twenty and sent her to the cafeteria.

  “J’rome.” Flip sounded groggy and hoarse on the gurney. “Is my dad here?”

  “Not yet, buddy.” Jerome flashed a smile he didn’t feel and glanced at his daughter’s retreat. “You’re okay.”

  Flip tried to smile. His cast looked comically huge: a hard white flipper in a sling.

  “It’s like a big hard Band-Aid.” Saying the word made him grin.

  Growing up, Jerome couldn’t ever figure out why bandages were beige. Why did all medical stuff come in that same neutral putty color? He didn’t put it together until he was older than Flip. He said as much one day studying for a trig midterm: they weren’t flesh-colored to him.

  Wince had laughed until milk came out of his nose, then put his tan arm over Jerome’s dark black. “Band-Aids are mutt-colored.” Their skin slid together, feeling a little too good to be safe. “Oughtta call ‘em Bland-Aids, f’sure. Bland-ages.”

  “What’s that about?” Jerome had taken his arm away before the nerves got to him, “Brown Band-Aids. Black Band-Aids. Man, we’d make a fortune.”

  “I’m so in. Fuck the blands.” Wince had laughed and shoved into him, unselfconscious and affectionate as a stray dog until Jerome stepped back because his best friend didn’t understand.

  “Flip?” Without warning Wince pushed through the ER curtain like a hurricane. “Oh buddy. You scared the … crap out of me.” He turned. “Jug, thank you so much.”

  “I just stayed with him.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.” Wince looked about ready to faint. He hugged Flip, kissed his head, and then let go abruptly. “Is that—? Did I hurt you?”

  “Nope. I’m cool.” The boy glanced at Jerome, exhausted and brave, and shifted the cast. “Big hard Band-Aid.”

  Jerome nodded at them. “Brave.”

  Wince sat on the edge of the bed, eyes shining at his son. “Life saver. I mean it. You being there.” He wiped his mouth shakily. “Thank you.”

  “Me? Wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Bullshit.” Wince frowned and glanced at his son. “Sorry, boss.” He kissed Flip’s head again and squeezed him.

  Jerome held in a smile. “He’s had a rocky day.”

  Flip sighed, quiet against his father’s chest.

  “Conked out.” Wince peered at his son. “And I’m gonna freak the fuck out if I stick around here much longer. Whatsay we jam? Dinner maybe. I’m buying.”

  “Umm.” We? “Keisha’s in the cafeteria killing time. I uh … and I gotta run her over to rehearsal in a bit. Lemme text her.”

  “Oh.” Wince’s face slipped, a ripple of disappointment vanishing under a practiced smile. “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “No. Maybe after or something? I didn’t know how long it would take you.” Jeez. Everything they said to each other meant all this other crazy shit. “Sorry.”

  Wince shook his head and squeezed his kid, voice raw. “Sorry, nothing. No way I coulda got there fast enough. I owe you, Jug.”

  “No, man. You know that.” Jerome knew he knew.

  “I remember.”

  First week freshman year in the cafeteria, Jerome had been pouring himself fruit punch from a plastic jug when kids behind him shoved him, and he stumbled forward. “Hey!” Punch sloshed onto the floor and his new Nikes.

  He straightened just as Thad Plasky said, “Nigger!” hissing the word at him like an ugly prayer. For real? The jug clamped in his wet fingers.

  The kids in line froze around them, rubbernecking. But before Jerome could do or say anything, Wince Farley, class criminal, had shouldered through the ring of bodies holding his empty lunch tray. “Wha’d you say to him, Plasky?” Everyone had already heard he was a pitiless psycho with junkie parents; a week in, kids were warning each other about him.

  Thad squared his shoulders without turning to look, “I said nig—”

  Whap!

  Wince swung that tray and knocked Thad clean off his feet, like … his shoes actually came off the floor a second. Food everywhere and the room shouting. Pandemonium. Jerome froze holding the jug with dripping fingers. Thad collapsed into the counter and slid to the floor, nose crooked and the side of his face salmon pink.

  Cafeteria mayhem and everyone pushed closer, hemming them in, egging them on. Whimpering through bloody snot bubbles, Thad scrabbled back from the class lunatic. Wince simply ignored him, turning to face Jerome. He hadn’t even turned until that moment.

  “Easy, Jug.” He touched Jerome’s arm, above the hand holding the punch.

  When their eyes met, Jerome gave him a wary, grateful nod. Wince winked in reply and elbow bumped him. Instant friends, almost like they’d been looking for each other all this time.

  Thanks, man.

  Shared
smiles, right before the gabbling teachers pushed through the mob.

  No sweat.

  Both Thad and Wince got suspended for three days, but Jerome had met his best friend. Fair trade. They were a perfect match.

  First time they hung out, he discovered Wince loaded up on cafeteria food because it was the one meal he could count on. He attended Walton Academy under Prep for Prep, a charity program that paid for poor kids to go to private school in New York City. Tuition, books, everything, but you had to keep your nose clean, something Wince didn’t do well. Jerome did it for him so he could survive.

  Jerome’s parents were wealthy, but Wince lived “at risk” in the Gompers Projects with absent addict parents and anger to spare. He’d grown up a great bullshitter who hit things hard and first, with no respect for authority. He got his nickname ‘cause even the seniors flinched when he moved. Even now, even as a grown man with a kid of his own, he came at things like a groggy cage fighter.

  “Jug.” And that was Wince, seventeen years later like no time had passed, looking at him with bright eyes and a loose heart. “Thank you.”

  “You’re so welcome.” A real smile passed between them and knotted itself firmly. Long time no see.

  An alarm beeped nearby, yanking Jerome into the present. The curtain skittered open.

  “Dad?” Keisha stood over him with raised eyebrows. “Are we gonna go, like, ever?”

  The quiet bubble around them melted, and they were sitting in an emergency room again looking at his impatient daughter.

  “Soon.” Sheesh.

  She gestured at her fuzzy gray rig. “Wardrobe flippin’ out.”

  “Sorry. Uhh, yeah. Sorry hon.”

  “Cool costume.” Wince probably wanted to split, too.

  Keisha twisted her braids into a thick coil and smoothed it over her collarbone. Her mother’s gesture, her mother’s bones. “Is he dead or what?” She eyed Flip.

  Wince grinned. “Not yet. They did a brain transplant.”

  Keisha raised her eyebrows like that was a fine idea. “Dad, it’s three and I’m still a mouse, mostly?”

  To Wince. “S’my daughter. Keisha.”

  “I had a hunch.” Wince’s smile did that thing where it stopped joking and shone on her gently. He extended his hand. “Wince.” They shook. “Farley.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Keisha’s brow creased. “Are you his friend?” Like he had only one. Well, back in the day, true enough.

  “Jug and I went to Walton together, back when dinos roamed the earth.” Wince’s voice turned polite and got very sitcom-dad square. “Thanks for rescuing my kid.”

  She shrugged. “That was all my dad. I was putting on my mouse getup for the third graders.” She turned and lowered her voice. “I’m gonna be late for rehearsal. Forty minutes?”

  Wince squinted at Jerome.

  “Nutcracker.”

  Keisha was having none of that. “We refer to it as The Ball-buster.”

  Jerome grimaced. “She’s dancing at Lincoln Center.”

  “That’s so groovy. I never seen a ballet.” Wince bobbed his head.

  Keisha set the bait. “It’s pretty dippy an’ all. But I’m in two parts this year. Mice and Polichinelles.” She glanced back with her mom’s ruthless, elegant aim. “We can bring guests to the dress rehearsal, Mr. Farley. You should come.”

  What? Jerome tried to read her eyes.

  Wince lit up at the invite. “Sure!”

  Keisha approved. “He’s cool.” A peek at her dad.

  Jerome shook his head. “You don’t have to. Don’t blackmail him. Not everyone likes Tchaikovsky.”

  “Butts in seats, yo. Dancers are athletes.” She looked at Wince. “I think you should. Nuts will be cracked. Bring Flip. After his brain transplant heals.” She motioned to Jerome, looked at her watch. “I gotta go.”

  “We’ll be there.” Wince nodded and stood.

  Keisha didn’t wait another second. Like Olivia. She hated being late, breaking the rules, disappointing anyone. Over her shoulder, she said, “Whole hospital smells like that stupid pig.”

  Wince crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Great kid.”

  “She is.” Jerome stared after her. “So much like her mother.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “She was a soap actress. Her mom was …” And then he flat ran out of the words.

  Wince watched him for a moment before he asked. “She died?”

  Meaning Olivia. Meaning that whole other life and wife Wince had missed. Meaning Wince’s forked path through exes and overdoses. Jerome nodded. Embarrassed at these feelings. Embarrassed to be embarrassed with Wince. Olivia would’ve made fun of him for not speaking up, not introducing her to his oldest friend with some panache. “Bone cancer.”

  Around them the hallway had emptied, a row of curtained areas to hide the people in pain from each other.

  “Sucks. Sorry.” Wince looked at the linoleum floor, fiddling with his watchband. “Flip’s mom ditched us when he was three. She had … problems.”

  Jerome gave a tight frown. “You got burned, too.”

  “Not really. I got Flip. Fun job. Travel. Cool digs.” He looked so tired. Beaten. “I made out great.” He held up his fist.

  Jerome did the same and bumped their knuckles together. “Sorry.”

  “For what? We both got burned doing what we loved. That’s the deal. Live. Burn.” He scooped Flip up, still fast asleep.

  On the other side of the curtain, raised voices speaking Spanish as a gurney wheeled past.

  “We okay to go, y’think?” Wince looked to Jerome. “I’d like to get this guy home.”

  Jerome scanned the room, plucking his bag and coat off the stool.

  “I gave them everything, talked to the doc before I came in.” Wince shifted his weight, itchy to flee.

  Of course, Wince hated emergency rooms: How many times had he watched his parents bleeding and screaming in these places? How many times had he had his stomach pumped and worse? And how much did Wince remember of the last night they saw each other? The only time they ever kissed, both drunk enough to pretend they hadn’t. Wasted and wasting everything they had because they didn’t know better, what mattered, what didn’t.

  Wince’s teenaged voice in his head: What am I good for, Jug?

  Me.

  And then kissing him, terrified and triumphant. So close to perfect, best friends for three years and they’d blown it in one horrible night, joyriding in the rain. Reckless and wrecked. The car Wince had stolen ‘cause he knew how. The Lincoln they’d totaled. Blood in both their eyes from the dashboard. The taste of Wince and shit whiskey in his mouth while he confessed to cops and parents.

  After that night, Jerome’s parents forbade him to speak to his best friend, his only friend. Wince got expelled, vanished into juvie then worse. No goodbye, no contact. Jerome trudged back to his regularly scheduled life—prep school, undergrad, med school, wife—until that life vanished, too.

  No one had died that night, but everything had ended in a white room just like this one; seventeen years burned-burned-burned to ash. Leaving them alone where they belonged.

  Jerome trailed through the ER hanging a little behind father and son, afraid of making things worse. Up ahead, he could see Keisha’s red coat by the exit, the mouse tail peeking out below.

  Gotta go. Irrationally he caught himself wasting time, walking slowly. What if he never got to talk to Wince again like this? They had half an hour, and it was only seven blocks to Lincoln Center.

  “What was Keisha’s pig deal?” Wince glanced sideways at him. “Does The Nutcracker have pigs?”

  Jerome chuckled and sighed. “Eighth-grade biology. Fetal pig dissection. I dunno.” He slid his fingers together and crossed his arms. “Somehow dissecting this pig became a huge crisis.”


  “Well, her mom died,” Wince spoke softly, but the words fell like a hammer.

  Jerome’d never thought of that. “You think that’s why?” They were almost to the door.

  “I think she’s a kid who’s already had to hug death close, and that might make Porky Jr. a real drag.” He sniffed and regarded his son gently. “When Flip’s mom left, it took a year to be real to him, her bailing on us so easy. He still talks to her sometimes. Pretends. Y’know. Hurts to watch.” His eyes did that thing where they softened without moving. Laugh lines. When had he gotten so grown up?

  We’re old, yo.

  Maybe regret wasn’t so bad. Maybe that was something you learned to live with. An inch at a time, like sliding into warm water over a fire until you could tolerate being boiled alive.

  “Daddy.” Flip’s voice broke the spell. He squirmed against Wince’s chest.

  Wince blinked and looked down. “Oh lord. What now?” His warm tone made the words into an old joke.

  The boy sighed. “Never mind.” His cast was strapped against him like an oversized fiberglass fossil.

  “Okay.” Wince hefted him closer. “We’re going home, mister.” The automatic doors shushed open for them.

  Keisha glowered at him through the glass, the mouse tail draped over her arm like a rubbery pink stole.

  Before stepping out into the frosty air, Jerome wrapped his scarf around his neck and zipped his coat. “Keesh, we got ages still.”

  Keisha herded him toward the curb. “They’re rehearsing Coffee with the new Russian couple. Chumakov and Petrachenko. I wanna watch. Legit.”

  Jerome laughed. “Okay. Okay. Legit.”

  She trotted to the crosswalk and glared at him to hurry up already.

  Wince smiled beside him. “Coffee?”

  “The Arabian variation. Nutcracker.” Jeez. Not what he wanted to talk about at all. “The Coffee bit in Act Two, but she’s too young.” Jerome exhaled roughly. “Sorry, I hear about this stuff so much, I forget most people have no idea—”

  “Doesn’t matter. I get it. Good for her.” Wince exhaled with a smile. “You’re a great dad, better than yours was.”