Lucky in Love

by Brockmeyer, Kristen

  I didn't want him to go. I'd spent years alternately despising him and desperately missing him and now that he was right here with me, I didn't want him to go. I scrambled for something to say that would buy me another moment or two, but then he was going down the steps to get in the truck with Nate. Nate quickly backed out in the street, beeped once, and then sped down the block.

  And with that, Chance Atkins disappeared again.

  Chapter 9

  I closed the door on the grey, drizzly afternoon, and breathed out a sigh. No more crazy Candy and her crackhead cohorts. No more flirtatious cowboys or drunken wedding mishaps. No more Chance. Life could go on as usual.

  Without Chance.

  I plunked down on the couch, and Louie, who was usually less than friendly, seemed to sense my pensive mood. He hopped up on to my lap, and started kneading his paws into my stomach, like the world's weirdest ab exerciser. Absently rubbing Louie's fuzzy head while his rumbling purr echoed through the room, I contemplated my life.

  I had a job. Granted, it was just admin work at a local law office, but I was fortunate to have it, since the economy was such crap, and the lawyers, mostly members of the old boy's club, didn't seem to mind that my idea of business casual was to come into work dressed like a vintage pinup model.

  I had friends. Paralegals from work that I went to 5:00 Friday parties with. Smart, interesting and quirky people that I'd met through the swing dance class I belonged to, or the book club I was a member of. Addy, who hopefully would be a lot more fun to hang out with once she returned from her honeymoon with her sanity intact. Julian, who I watched soap operas and old movies with, and who had introduced me to the joys of Bingo.

  I went out and did things—I wasn't a hermit. I had a standing Saturday lunch date with my mom at Cracker Barrel. I went on thrift shop and estate sale bargain hunts. I even dated once in a while. Like Clive Lambert, a junior partner with the firm I worked for, just last month. Even though he talked about his mom incessantly and had a weird habit of pulling on his earlobes. Bad example, but he was a date, so he counted.

  Hm. There had to be more.

  Oh, wait! I had hobbies! I was forever tinkering with the Roadmaster. I made original, badly-sewn outfits with my sewing machine, rescued offbeat treasures from junk piles, hunted down vintage dresses from obscure designers and read trashy romances. I had a little potted herb garden on my balcony, and sometimes the plants in it even lived for a few months before they turned brown and croaked or I bumped them and they took accidental headers down to the pavement below. I had an actual exercise routine and walked a couple miles a week, usually taking the route that went right by Dairy Queen, because even athletes need sugar fixes sometimes.

  But that was about it.

  My life abruptly began to feel a lot more boring than it did the morning before, and it wasn't because hitting people with cars and getting my windows shot out was my idea of a good time. It was Chance's fault, I thought bitterly. He'd flicked that spark back just to yank it away again.

  There were times over the past decade that I'd convinced myself that I'd forgotten all about Chance. After all, for a lot of years, he was just my annoying brother's annoying friend that practically lived at our house. One of my earliest memories of Chance was when I was six years old. I punched him in the nose because he held me down while Jack stole my favorite Barbie, cut off all her hair, used a Sharpie to make her anatomically correct, and zip-tied her to the top of our Christmas tree. I got grounded to my room, while Chance got three chocolate chip cookies, a wad of gauze and lots of sympathy from my mom for his bloody, grotesquely-swollen nose. Mom said we had to be nice to him because he had a bad home life, but I was just mad because I had to miss Punky Brewster.

  After that, Chance made sure to keep a safe distance from me, and I disdainfully ignored him whenever I saw him, which was often. Then, when I was in third grade and he was in fifth, he offered to fix a flat tire on my bike. I gratefully agreed, revising my opinion of him as an annoying jerk, and he finished the job in no time.

  Moments later, I was riding to the store, happily clutching a fistful of change to buy some Peachy-Os. I popped an impulsive wheelie, and to my surprise, my front tire immediately parted ways with my bike. When gravity kicked in, the bike's forks hit the pavement and I flew headlong over the handlebars, breaking my fall with my chin and knocking myself out cold. When I came to, I stumbled home to my mom, covered with blood and looking like the victim of a zombie attack. I had to dump a glass of water on Mom to bring her out of her faint before she could drive me to the ER for stitches. Despite his protests that the bike incident was an accident, our temporary truce ended and Chance and I were back to war.

  Our feud continued for another six years, but high school and my idiotic teen hormones changed everything. One day, I inexplicably quit seeing Chance as an extension of my demonic brother, and started noticing him for what he actually was: a friendly, attractive, athletic and totally crush-worthy guy. I wrote cheesy little sonnets in my diary about his green eyes, his flashing, devil-may-care smile, and his endearingly double-dimpled cheek. Instead of glaring daggers at him, I started staring at him moodily instead. Rather than holding up my end of our usual sarcastic banter, I'd clam up and blush whenever he was around.

  But Chance was totally dense and still didn't see me as anything more than Jack's sister. My demented, yet observant brother, however, immediately recognized my infatuation for what it was: the perfect opportunity for the biggest, awesomest, most humiliating sibling prank he had ever pulled.

  From the time that Addy and I walked into school that fateful morning, bitching to each other about an upcoming Biology test that neither of us had studied for, mean-spirited teenage mirth and spiteful snickering rippled down the halls at us in waves. No one would meet our eyes, and it seemed that even the teachers were having a hard time looking our way without laughing. Addy, who was captain of the cheerleading squad and the most beautiful, insecure girl at our school, was convinced it was because of her new haircut and bolted into one of the girl's bathrooms to cry and possibly throw up.

  I was following her in when Anthony, a sweet, soft-spoken senior who sometimes tutored me in math, came out of the boys' room holding a bright red flier. He frowned when he saw me, black eyebrows drawing together behind his glasses.

  I suddenly knew that no one was laughing at Addy.

  "What is it, Anthony? It's about me, isn't it?"

  He looked horribly uncomfortable, but held out the garishly-colored sheet of paper. I looked down at it with a feeling of dread in my gut.

  Dear Diary,

  Today, I got my period. It was weird, and gross, and—

  Jack. I was absolutely going to kill him this time. I could make it look like an accident—I had already read a bunch of Agatha Christie books and planned the whole thing out. The only reason I hadn't actually murdered him yet was because it probably would have made Mom sad, but this was the last and final straw. She'd understand after I told her what he did.

  But if this was it—just the period thing—I could deal with it. Hope rose in me. Maybe he just picked the page he thought would embarrass me the most…

  A couple of the football players walked by at that moment, reading aloud and guffawing at a purple piece of paper. "Dimples deeply score his cheeks, been dreaming of my Chance for weeks."

  Oh, Jack was so dead. That was my lamest poem, written while I was sick with a cold and high on cough medicine a couple of months before.

  I ducked into the girls' room, while Anthony averted his eyes in pity. I burst into the last stall where Addy sat sobbing. Shocked out of her tears by my narrowed eyes and bared teeth, Addy cringed away from me.

  "Wh-what is it, Lucky?"

  "Jack," I hissed. I missed the slightly dreamy expression that came over her face at my brother's name, since I was staring at another Xeroxed page of my diary that was taped to the bathroom wall. This one didn't have any words—just a very badly-drawn, but clearly labele
d picture of Chance. And I'd signed it, for Pete's sake.

  I racked my brain to remember what class Jack was in at the moment.

  Gym.

  Fists clenched, I headed out of the bathroom at a dead run, dodging two freshman girls who giggled but fell back quickly when they saw the expression on my face. Addy, once she realized what was on the paper that I'd been staring at, raced down the hall behind me, yelling for me to stop. I couldn't. I had a premeditated murder to commit.

  I threw open the metal doors to the gym so hard that they banged off the painted cinderblock walls and scanned the crowd. Teen chatter, deafening over the echoing thud of basketballs, stopped short as all eyes turned toward me.

  "Jack!" I hollered, heedless of the gym teacher goggling at me. "Where the fuck are you, you slimy little rat bastard?"

  My nemesis climbed slowly out from under the bleachers, followed by a distinctly mussed-looking, large-breasted blonde who sat behind me in my remedial math class. That was my brother—ever the ladies' man. Addy gasped behind me, but I was too caught up in my rage to note it.

  "'Sup, Lucky?" He swaggered out into the middle of the basketball court.

  Then he winked.

  It was that wink that put me over the edge. His eyes widened sharply a fraction of a second before I tackled him, sending him sprawling. I straddled his chest, effectively pinning his arms to his sides, and like Ralphie in The Christmas Story, I proceeded to beat the smug, shit-eating grin right off his face.

  Everything was a furious blur for a few minutes after that, until big hands grasped me under my arms and pulled me off of my brother. I swung around, still fired up from the heat of battle, my fist connecting with Chance's cheekbone before I could stop myself. I glanced back at Jack, whose perfect aquiline nose was now bleeding profusely and canted slightly to the right. For the first time in his life, Jack was eying me with wary respect mingled with a healthy dose of fear. Around us, dozens of gaping students, eight flabbergasted teachers, three stunned teachers' aides and one incredulous principal all avidly watched and waited for further drama to unfold.

  I was suddenly and completely mortified and my eyes filled with tears. I turned to run out of the gym, but Chance grabbed my arm.

  I didn't want to look up at him, keeping my eyes on his burgundy and gold Panthers football sweatshirt, but when I did, he was smiling that devastating smile and looking down at me. I mean, really looking at me. Like he was seeing something new. Leaning in close, he murmured in my ear.

  "Let's make sure they all have plenty to talk about while you're out of school on indefinite suspension."

  And then, despite his already swelling cheek, he kissed me. Yanked me right up against him, hip to hip and chest to breasts—in front of God and everybody—and kissed me brainless. His breath smelled like peppermint and his mouth tasted like glory. It felt like every dream and wish I'd ever had all came true in that one explosive moment, and all I could think was, I'm in so love with him.

  Chapter 10

  Louie, bored with my mental retrospection, had fallen asleep on my lap, and the rain pattering against my windows was the only sound in my otherwise silent apartment. A chilly breeze teased the back of my neck, reminding me that the hole in my window was still gaping, and my kitchen floor covered with window and chandelier shrapnel. I carefully transferred my sleeping cat to his favorite afghan, and went to the kitchen. I tried to shake off my now-morose mood enough to wonder if I had renewed my renters insurance and how much an Art Deco chandelier that had been picked up off the curb was worth, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

  Once the counters were wiped clean of rainwater and glass, and the view from my window of the vigilant Fisher in his blue sedan had been obstructed by a giant piece of duct-taped cardboard from the basement storage room, I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to decide what to do next.

  It was only Monday afternoon and I didn't need to go to work until Wednesday. Addy was on her honeymoon, so I couldn't call her and invite her out. Julian had already gotten his Y&R fix and was probably back at the old folks' home contemplating the delicious salisbury steak dinner he'd be experiencing at 4:00. I probably wouldn't see him again for a couple days.

  I was suddenly depressed. My life, which had been bumping along just fine, felt like a whirlwind had torn through, ripping off that big old Band-Aid I had on my heart, covering the hole where Chance used to be. And everyone knows it's impossible to restick a Band-Aid that's been ripped off.

  I could feel myself rapidly descending into a stupid case of the mopes. I decided I would check my email and see if Addy had dropped me a line to let me know she'd made it to her hotel (or sent any death threats after the wedding reception debacle) and then I'd get dressed up and take myself out to dinner. Dressing up and eating food always made me feel better. Doing both at the same time was a surefire mood lifter.

  No email from Addie. I would have preferred a blistering message from my irate best friend to the sad little wave of self-pity and loneliness that washed over me.

  Distraction, I told myself. You need a distraction.

  My eyes wandered around the kitchen and landed on my purse—the Quick Pick ticket. I clicked on my Massive Millions site bookmark and pulled it up.

  14-16-26-43-52 and the Big Money Ball… 18!

  My distraction worked. I pulled the Quick Pick ticket out of my purse, scanned the numbers and immediately forgot all about Chance.

  Disbelieving, I read the numbers on the ticket again, holding them up next to the numbers on my screen. 14. 16. 26. 43. 52. 18.

  I triple and quadruple checked, but the numbers on the little orange square of paper and my computer screen both stayed the same. Exactly the same.

  Holding my breath, I scrolled back up the page to where the jackpot amount was listed.

  Holy shit. I had just won 176 million. Freaking. Dollars.

  Rather than dance about my kitchen wildly, screaming "I'm going to Disney World!" my palms went clammy, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I hit the kitchen floor hard in a dead faint.

  When I opened my eyes, I gasped for breath. Not because I immediately remembered that I'd won the lottery, but because Louie was sitting on my chest, washing his privates and squashing the air out of me.

  I turned my head away in disgust, and there on the floor next to me was the lottery ticket.

  I sat up so fast that Louie rolled ass-over-teakettle to the floor, puffed up like a blowfish and scrambled into the living room hissing. Ignoring him, I grabbed the ticket and compared the numbers again.

  For Pete's sake.

  My fingers flew over the keyboard as I typed in "how to claim lottery winnings," and within seconds, I was dialing the number for the state lottery office.

  "Please direct me to the person that can give me 176 million dollars," I replied breathlessly when my call was answered by a monotone receptionist. "I won the freaking lottery."

  "I'll forward you to the Prize Disbursement Center," she replied mechanically. "Hold please."

  I stared at the phone incredulously. How often did she hear that kind of thing? Ten times a day?

  I tapped my nails on the countertop, glancing at the clock. 3:30.

  "Prize Disbursement, how may I help you?" The man that answered sounded bored.

  "I won the lottery," I said in a rush. "I need to come claim my winnings before something awful happens and it turns out to be a mistake."

  "Well, ma'am, it depends on the size of your winnings," he said, unperturbed. "Typically, we'll set up an appointment for you—."

  "No!" I hollered. "You don't understand. I'm the unluckiest person ever, and this has got to be some huge, colossal mistake. If I don't come claim it now, something rotten will happen."

  "How much—."

  "The jackpot," I blurted. "The whole fricking shebang."

  "Well, technically, you don't need an appointment for anything over 50 thousand. Where are you located?"

  "I'm an hour away, but I can be there in 4
5 minutes."

  "We only accept claims until 4:30," he said cautiously, probably sensing the imminent hysteria in my voice. "It would probably be better if you came in first thing in the—"

  "No!" I interrupted again and then took a deep breath. "What's your name?" I asked sweetly.

  "James… Smith," he answered hesitantly. From his tone, I figured it was a fake name and I sounded so unpredictable, he was afraid to give me his real one.

  "Well, James, I swear I'm not crazy. Work with me here. Let me tell you my ticket numbers and then you tell me if they're right. "

  I rattled them off and after an interminable two seconds, he agreed that they were in fact the winning numbers—the only winning numbers for that drawing—and his voice sounded marginally more interested

  "Then, James, I need you to tell me how the hell to get to your office."

  I grabbed my purse, pulled on my shoes, locked the door and clattered down the steps. The blue car was still parked across the street. I sprinted to the driver's side window. Fisher, a slim-looking brown-haired guy in jeans and a black t-shirt shirt rolled his window down quickly.

  "What's wrong?" He asked, concerned. He reached for the door handle.

  "Nothing," I said breathlessly. "I just have to go. You can leave now. Thanks!"

  I left him staring after me, reaching for his phone, and ran back across the street. Let him tattle to the FBI, I thought. I had things to do. My car was parked in the driveway. Luckily, my neighbors all had afternoon classes, so I wasn't blocked in, because I sure would have driven my Buick over their cars like a Sherman tank.

  I made the hour-long drive to the lottery headquarters in 36 minutes, losing Fisher shortly after I got on I-69 heading to Lansing. A half-hour later, James Smith was photographing me with a gigantic check. Since I was there alone, someone else from the lottery office had to hold up the other end of it. Soon after that I was sitting in the Roadmaster, the engine still ticking from my insane drive there, in a daze.