"No, I don't still feel that way." In fact, in the last few days, my feelings for my ex-kindergarten husband have changed dramatically.
* * *
Steven heads back inside, and it's time Michael and I talk.
He hears my footsteps and turns toward the sound when I'm halfway at his side. He starts to turn his back to me again but must think otherwise, and I get his profile.
When I'm a foot away, he asks, "So you're on Kevin's side now? He treated Hilary awful."
"I'm not on anyone's side."
He faces me, and I get the full-on frown and disgusted expression. "Why not? She was your friend."
Has he hit his head and forgotten the last decade? Do I really need to remind him?
"Was is the operative word, Michael."
He clicks his tongue and looks off. "You're being petty."
I am so sick and tired of people telling me how I am or how I should feel. "Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that she and I hadn't been speaking, let alone close, in a decade. I don't owe my loyalty to either of them."
"What about to me?" he asks.
"I thought so, but apparently you've been having an affair with a married woman. Guess I don't know you either."
My stomach sinks. This isn't how our friendship is supposed to go. I can't say I have a detailed outline of how we should be, but I don't like this tension. Thing is, while I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, I obviously don't know him like I thought I did.
"It's not right for you to judge us. You don't know the circumstances."
He's right. I don't. If they're all telling the truth and Kevin didn't love her, maybe she and Michael felt justified. Regardless of how I feel, I've never been married, and I don't know what it takes to make one work. I do know, however, that cheating on your husband and having false feelings for your wife is not the foundation of a solid relationship.
"Is that it though?" Michael asks. "Is our affair all that's troubling you?"
It's not, and he knows it.
"Her neighbor heard the two of you arguing. You called her selfish," I say.
Michael looks off again. "She was. She wanted me around because she knew it would hurt Kevin, even though she never told him about us, which didn't make a lot of sense to me. And she enjoyed the attention I gave her, but she never considered my feelings."
"Which were?" I ask.
He stares at me hard. "Are. My feelings are that I love her. That doesn't change with death."
It's as if he just slapped me across the face. The icy sting leaves an imprint on my heart that I don't like. Gosh, how can I feel jealous over someone I no longer want? It's been so long. It's not like Julian's been the only guy I've been involved with since pining over Michael. There were many others. Okay, not that many, but a few.
"You think I killed her?" he asks in a low, gravelly tone. His expression is a mixture of hurt and angry.
I shake my head. "I didn't say that."
"So you don't?"
Actually, I'm not sure what I think.
"I didn't say that either."
He grabs my arm and jerks me closer to him. "How dare you."
I stare at his hardened eyes and a drop of spittle in the corner of his mouth, and I can't believe I once thought he was hot. Everything about him right now, the anger on his face and in his grip, is so different from the man I've chatted with these last months. Is this all about Hilary?
"I had the biggest crush on you in high school. I was your friend since kindergarten, even when we drifted apart from grade school until high school. We may not have been hanging out, but when classmates made wisecracks about how you stank at dodge ball, I had your back. What happened to you? Or have I always been this blind?"
I'm starting to think I'm a terrible judge of people.
He must realize he's holding me hard and lets go, looking a bit dazed. He starts to say something but instead opens his car door and gets behind the wheel.
I rub my arm, take a step back, and watch him drive off.
* * *
My parents and I stay a few more hours at Mrs. Porter's apartment. Ma wants to help, which means waiting for the guests to leave and cleaning up. She ropes in Pop and me too. Putting away food, throwing away a ton of paper plates, plastic cups, and disposable cutlery, and wiping down practically every surface.
Tanya and Steven help some, but then Mrs. Porter needs to lie down, and they tend to her. We leave behind a note stating to call if they need anything, and my parents drop me off at my apartment.
I climb my stairs and think about how Hilary didn't show up at her mother's after the funeral. I wonder if she watched from afar and that I simply couldn't see her. I hope so. Despite my feelings, she deserves time with her family.
My apartment is hot and thick with humidity. There isn't any central air, so the temperature just rises while I'm gone. I practically run to the two front windows and turn on the A/C unit that occupies one of them. The icy breeze hits my chest, and I stand still as a statue, not wanting to move until I'm properly cooled down.
I also want to change though, so I kick off my shoes, slip out of my dress, throw on pastel pink and white striped pajama shorts and a solid pink T-shirt, and fall backwards on my bed, arms outstretched like I'm about to make a snow angel. Oh, how I wish it were cold enough to do that. I may have grown up in a beach town, but I detest being hot.
There's another window A/C in my room but smaller, so I turn it and an oscillating fan on and continue my Frozen routine.
Then my phone chirps. It's muted, still inside my purse, but I can hear it, which means I shouldn't ignore it. I'm on high alert for the day Izzie texts and it's not Braxton Hicks.
I step back into the living room-slash-kitchen and pull out my phone. I frown when I read:
It's me. Kevin. I'm downstairs.
Why the heck is he here?
My first thoughts are that he wants to talk about me at the tree earlier. At some point last fall, Hilary told him I can see ghosts. After learning that, he came here demanding an answer, wanting to know if it was true. There were two ghosts here and when he grabbed me, they scared him by knocking over a stool and possessing the TV. Basically, they haunted my apartment, and he never brought it up again. I assume he forgot about it or explained it to himself in a way that made sense since he was so drunk that night.
But still… I hesitate on whether or not I want to respond.
Before I decide, my phone vibrates and chirps again.
Your car is here. If you have a few minutes, can we talk?
Why does he pick me to talk to?
Please.
I heavily sigh, set down my phone on the coffee table, and walk to my door. Okay, so I really don't want to be bothered, but at the same time, I have to admit I'm curious and that "please" definitely makes me cave.
I run downstairs and unlock the door. I plan to peek my head out, let him talk, and then go back upstairs. But the heat is overwhelming. It doesn't matter that I was just in it fifteen minutes ago. It feels more oppressive now than before.
Footsteps sound on the gravel, and Kevin comes into view. He's still in his funeral clothes, but he's removed his tie and jacket. He glances down at my attire and gently grins.
"Sorry to bother you," he says, and I admit I'm taken aback. Since when does he apologize?
"Is something wrong?" I ask. "You know, more wrong?"
He lets out one hard laugh. "More wrong. That seems to be my life."
A wave of sympathy hits me, and I'm almost doubled over by the fact that I suddenly care so much. Or at all.
"So what's up?" I ask, desperately wanting to get back upstairs to my air conditioner. A line of sweat forms on my forehead, and it won't be long until my shirt is sticking to my back.
He shrugs. "I just want to chat, but if you're busy…"
So he's not here to say some quick thing. Nothing planned? He wants to hang out?
"Um…" We could sit in his car, and he can crank th
e A/C, but I must run to the restroom first, and I kinda want something to drink and… My stomach growls, and it's so loud that one corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile.
I take a step back. "Just come on up."
His eyes widen. "Are you sure? The last time I was here—"
"Oh, you remember that, huh?"
He looks a bit startled and steps inside. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I should have apologized before now."
I stare at him in disbelief. Who is this man, and what has he done with the real Kevin Burton? Is it possible that this is who he's been all along and that the previous guy, the one I've known most of my life, was the impostor? It can't be. But now I'm even more curious to find out what he wants to chat about.
"Thank you," I say.
He nods, shuts the downstairs door behind him, and we head up.
I tell him to make himself comfortable while I use the bathroom, and when I return, he's standing in the kitchen, looking in my fridge. He had set his phone and keys on the breakfast bar.
"Did you come here to eat?" I ask with a chuckle.
"I didn't, but my stomach started growling. I think it's like yawning. I heard yours and suddenly realized I'm hungry." He shuts the door and grins. "You said to make myself comfortable."
I roll my eyes and keep in a chuckle. "I did, and I could eat."
He raises his arm and thumbs toward my fridge. "You don't have much. Do you normally not cook?"
This time I do laugh. "Funds aren't high. I usually eat at my folks' or downstairs."
He nods. "We could order something. I'll pay."
It's sweet of him, and I stare at his face. His bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, and there are dark circles beneath his baby blues. I hadn't noticed this afternoon at the funeral, but he'd shaved since the night at his motel.
"What would you like?" he asks. "Pizza? Chinese? Mexican?"
Normally I'd say yes to any of those choices, but since Mrs. Porter's place, I've actually been craving lasagna. There had been some there, but the sauce was watered down, and whoever made it hadn't added nearly enough cheese. Ma's is the best.
"Or we can go downstairs and find some lasagna. My treat."
Lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "Your mother's?"
Wait, he's excited about this?
"You remember that?" I'm quite stunned. He hasn't eaten with us in well over a decade.
"How can I not? I used to hope Izzie would invite Alice's father over just so I could tag along. Her lasagna, the meatballs, and even that eggplant parm was amazing. And I'm not a big vegetable fan."
Ma would be so proud if she heard this. I am proud for her.
"Then it's settled. I'll run down, grab one, and heat it up." I grab my keys and stop. If there isn't one already in the walk-in-cooler, I'll have to grab a frozen one, and that means a longer baking time, which means heating up my apartment.
"Is something wrong?" he asks.
"No, but let's cook it down there. Come on."
He follows me to my door with a huge grin on his face.
I don't take the time to think about what we're doing because I'm normally pretty smart. I'd never go into an abandoned building alone, nor would I run into the attic or basement if a killer is chasing me, but I plan on eating with an enemy.
Should I really still call him that though?
I slip into a pair of flip-flops I keep near the door and hurry downstairs. As I unlock the deli, I wonder if I should've changed into a tank top, especially if we'll be heating the kitchen.
I flip on the overhead lights and step farther in, allowing Kevin room to enter. His eyes are alight with amazement, and his entire face looks delighted.
It's a kitchen, dude, not Disneyland.
Just the same, I smile and can't help but feel elated to share something that's putting a moment of excitement in his otherwise sad day.
"I've never been in the deli's kitchen before," he says and walks around looking at the stainless steel tables for prep work, double sinks, dishwasher, the stoves and range. He even gingerly touches a set of ladles.
I push a stool against the door so that it doesn't shut on its own. It likes to do that. Even though it's hot outside, we're about to make the kitchen an inferno, so it's better if some heat escapes. Ma will kill me if I crank up the A/C after business hours. Electricity is expensive, and they can be frugal. It's how they've stayed in business my whole life.
"I'll check the cooler, and if there isn't one in there already, I can get one from the freezer. It'll take longer to heat through though." I hope Ma is okay with my heating an entire lasagna. It's not like I can cut through a solid noodle and cheese rock to take out a couple of portions. I'll just pay for it.
"That's fine," Kevin says. "I have no place to be, and to be honest, I'd wait hours for another taste of Ma's cooking."
I stop short and stare at him. Ma?
He seems to have realized what he said too because his eyes are wider, and he's staring at me. "Sorry. It's been forever. It just slipped out."
That's right. He and Alice's father used to call her Ma. They only referred to Pop as Mr. Mancini. Ma must've approved it and made an impression on them.
I point to the cooler and pull open the door. A blast of chilled air meets my skin and makes me happily sigh.
Much like in the freezer, there is stainless steel shelving in here from floor to ceiling and along most of the three walls. I step onto the tile, glad I wore my flip-flops and didn't come down here barefooted. Ma would have a bigger issue with that than eating her food. It's a liability, and I know better.
I head to the right where they keep items that are already defrosted or recently prepared and not made it to the freezer yet. Ma likes to have a well-stocked kitchen. No getting requests for something not available.
Four disposable, aluminum pans are stacked two-by-two, and each has Ma's chicken scratch handwriting in black marker on the top. Sausage and peppers, eggplant parm, seafood tortellini salad, and lasagna.
Score!
No overheating the place.
"I found it," I shout and pick up a salad container.
"I'm ready," says a voice behind me.
I look over my shoulder and see Kevin in the doorway, holding a fork in each hand and a big cheesy smile. I chuckle and almost drop the salad. It's heavier than I thought it would be, which means it's full.
There's no empty space to place it in the immediate area. Ma and Pop can never claim they've run out of food. The cooler isn't huge, but behind me are fresh veggies and a few fruits, their homemade salad dressings, enough mayonnaise to feed a small country, and let's not forget all of that deli meat and cheeses.
Kevin rushes forward and lays the forks on the edge of the top shelf. "Here. Let me help."
He grabs the tray from me, and I reach for the lasagna, when a bang rattles the metal box and we both flinch. We look over and see the cooler door shut.
That's odd. It never closes by itself.
I walk over and push on the handle, but it doesn't budge.
A faint sound on the other side of the door makes me put my ear to the cool metal and listen.
"What is it?" Kevin asks.
I hush him and listen harder. I hear something that sounds like scraping and another bang. What was that? I try the handle again, but it doesn't move at all, as if something is blocking it. And that second bang? That could've been the back door. Did the stool slip out of the way? Possible, but that doesn't explain this one.
Kevin placed the salad tray back on the shelf and is by my side, yanking on the handle as if I haven't been opening this door since I was a small child and have suddenly forgotten how.
I bang on it and shout, "Is anyone out there?"
It's foolish. Why would anyone lock us inside?
My thoughts, however, immediately spring to Hilary. She would do this because she's mad at Kevin—and me by association.
Kevin raises a brow. "I think we're stuck."
&nbs
p; CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Oh no!
I raise my hand and bang again on the door.
Kevin steps away and chuckles. "You know no one can hear you, right?"
Yes, I'm aware, but panic is setting in, and it's better than crying.
I turn to him and watch him walk around the space, glancing at the food. It looks more like his mind is on our predicament and not on the tomatoes and onions.
"Let me use your phone, and I'll call my parents." I don't want to bother them, especially since being stuck in the deli cooler with Kevin Burton may shock them, but it's better than doing nothing. And while each of us has a spare key in case of an emergency, Izzie is too pregnant to come over, and Enzo isn't a Kevin fan. I think the surprise will be less explosive with my folks.
Kevin pats his trouser pockets and looks at me. "I left it upstairs in your apartment."
That's right. On the breakfast bar. And mine is still on the coffee table.
Great! Now what?
"What time do your parents open up?" he asks.
I gasp. "We can't wait until then. That's around seven hours. We'll be human popsicles. And what about sleep?" And a bathroom.
He points to an area behind me.
I turn and see a dark pink sweater hanging on a hook. Izzie must've left it behind when she was working here. Oh, thank goodness. I grab it and put it on. I'm not freezing yet, but the cold is seeping into my legs. Now I am even more grateful I didn't come in barefoot.
"And now what?" I ask.
He looks to the pans of food and back to me. He shrugs and says, "You think it's worse than cold pizza?"
I shake my head at his one-track mind and then nod. "Let's eat."
To be honest, I've been looking forward to it as much as him. I'm just not wearing my joy on my face.
I grab three plastic crates and meet Kevin at the trays. I turn them upside down to act as a table and two chairs.
He picks up the salad pan. I grab the lasagna, and before we know it, we're each digging into the meaty, saucy, cheesy delight. Would it be better if the mozzarella was hot, gooey, and stretchy? Yes. Does the cold take away from the deliciousness? Not at all. There's so much flavor in the sauce alone—onions, garlic, the tomatoes, oregano, basil, salt, black pepper, and some aged Parmesan—that it doesn't matter.
Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Page 12
