The Boy Most Likely To

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  Gross. I flinch, yeah, I’m a dick. She had a baby, labor and all that, which probably involved some serious mess, and I can’t even handle vaguely hearing about the minor details.

  “So. When I saw his . . . when I knew, I was trying to figure out how to find you. I asked around and . . . heard that you were, well, better—”

  “Sober,” I clarify.

  Hester turns pink again. “Yes. Like I said, Grand told me that you deserved a chance. So . . . here I am.”

  My temples are throbbing.

  I need a smoke. Or a drink. Or a handy firing squad to end me.

  “Right. Sure. What does ‘a chance’ look like to you?”

  Her voice drops low and she adjusts Calvin’s little sweaty shirt. “I’m hoping—I want—to go back to work next week. This school-slash-camp place where I’ve worked summers and vacations for the last few years. They know me, and they were happy to have me back. Even before he was born. But the day care doesn’t have a space for him yet. Like I said, I put off college, but I can’t just . . . tread water. This baby . . . derailed me. Grand could watch him some. He said he would, just so I know about the choices I’m making. But—” Her eyes are pleading, big and blue.

  Fucketty fuck.

  “He can’t do it all the time, he has to be with my grandmother—she’s got Alzheimer’s, she’s at a home, but she needs him—and he’s got his hospital work, and I have to get back to normal. I thought if you knew and all, you might want to take him for an afternoon or a day or, even, more than that. Get to know your son. See if you’re all fine with him. I mean, obviously I’m planning on giving him away.”

  Christ. Wait? What? To me? I can’t do this.

  “You mean, like, getting adopted?” Please almighty God, mean that.

  “Of course,” Hester says in that calm, smart-girl voice I dimly remember from class, like there’s only one right answer and she’s got it. She’s concentrating on detaching another bit of pepperoni from her slice, not even eating any of it, just making a dried-out stack on one side of the plate. Something about the tidy little pile just pisses me off.

  “Why am I in here, Hes, if that’s the choice you’ve already made?” The kid’s turned his head to the side, eyelids drooping, but still looking as if he’s watching me. I lower my voice, like he already knows how to listen to things he should never hear. “Are you some kind of sadist? Why should I even have to know about this if it’s all decided?”

  “My grandfather told me you should,” she repeats again. “That it’s the right thing to do.”

  Right. Be a man. “Sure. No problem. I’ll do it.” Accept the things you cannot change, right? Damn it.

  She grins suddenly, and I get what I hadn’t seen before. Rumpled, stained clothes, extra ten pounds, milk-pale skin aside, she’s really pretty when she smiles.

  “You will? That’s great, Tim.” She holds her hand out, bargain-style, and I reach out over the kid, grab hold, and shake it. “I was thinking—maybe—we could meet—for lunch tomorrow? That way you’ll have time to let this—sink in.”

  Sure, I’ll absolutely have my head wrapped around it by then.

  “Okay. That’d be . . . . good. Fine. Yeah. Fine.”

  She looks grateful, the way she’s been thankful for the crappy pizza and the fact that I didn’t yell at her.

  “Is there any place you’d like to go?” she asks, as if this is a date.

  I try to think of a good meeting place. I never took girls anywhere, other than, say, whatever room was unoccupied at whichever party. Sweat beads on my forehead.

  “There’s this restaurant, Chez Nous, in Riverton,” Hester continues. “It’s really little and nice. They have great tarte Tatin. We can meet there and go over all the details.”

  Details? I can’t even wrap myself around the big picture.

  I swallow, nod.

  Then, total autopilot, I open the door, gesture for her to go out first, lock up, trail her down to the car, watch Hester strap Calvin into the car seat, shove the diaper bag into the front passenger seat, smile and nod and knock once against the top of the car to say good-bye, because my voice has completely failed me.

  I climb the steps, collapse on the top one, dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, like it’ll relieve the pressure detonating in my brain.

  Through the fog of panic and nausea, two things are crystal clear. I’ve found my way into a nightmare.

  Also?

  I’ve just stood up my dream girl.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ALICE

  First thing I see when I pull in is Tim leaning in the driver’s-side window of a little silver sedan. So much for my theory/excuse/delusion that he didn’t meet me because he was run over by a truck or called away to the zombie apocalypse or some awful, urgent, no-way-around-it disaster.

  I could strangle the part of me that’s relieved he’s here, with his baggy school shorts and hair that needs cutting, flopping over his ears and forehead. But apparently just fine. The asshole.

  He straightens up to give the top of the car a fist-knock, all calm, pulled together, holding up a hand in a casual farewell as it backs down the driveway.

  That same car. That same girl.

  The moment the car jerks back onto the main road, he folds down on the steps, pats his chest where a pocket would be if his shirt had one. Then he rubs the shoulder where I put the nic patch, drops his head, and spreads one palm across his forehead as if he’s taking his own temperature.

  I slam the door of the Bug hard, and it pops right back open, because it’s ancient and doesn’t latch unless you prop it while closing. Slam again, louder this time.

  Tim doesn’t react at all, just keeps rubbing the patch.

  “Just rip it off,” I say, walking close, jangling my car keys in one palm. “Might as well admit it’s no use.”

  Now he looks up, but almost through me, his eyes hazy and confused. Sighs. Doesn’t say anything for a second, then, “Huh?”

  “Tim. Where were you?”

  He shudders like he has a fever, and he’s staring into the distance, two streaks of color high on his cheekbones, the rest of his face pale.

  “Tim.”

  Nothing.

  As if he doesn’t even know I’m here.

  “You’re drunk? Perfect. Good job, Tim.”

  He shakes his head, hunches his shoulders, doesn’t look at me. Unbelievable.

  I stand over him, for once taller. “Or is it weed? Or pills? God. Who was the girl? Your dealer? She was essential enough to blow me off? Fine.”

  I start to leave, brush past him, but he puts his hand on my leg, right above my knee. “It—it’s not like that. I swear.”

  Clench my thumbs inside my curled fingers. “How many times have you ‘sworn’ about that one?”

  “I didn’t . . . bag on you on purpose, I mean. Something . . . came up.”

  I stare pointedly down at his hand until he curses under his breath, tucks it under him, then pulls it back out, picking at a hole in his shorts instead.

  “So what made you do it? What was that bad? You were doing better!”

  “Yeah, well, now I’ve done worse.” He has the hoarse, smothered voice boys get when they’re trying not to be emotional, eyes fixed unblinking on the end of the driveway, like if he looks any nearer, he’ll cry. He looks younger than usual, keeps picking at that tear near his pocket, and I find myself wrapping my hand around his wrist, giving it a little shake.

  “Just as expected, right, Alice? I wanted to be better than that.” He glances at me for a moment. “You look incredible. God.”

  Obviously something serious has happened, but I’m not getting what it is, and he’s not giving it to me.

  But I’ve got my whole family. He has a lot less than that.

  Ugh, the little guys have left the sidewalk chalk all over the grass near the steps for the millionth time. I start scooping them up and shoving them into the bucket. “Look. Relapses happen. People come back fr
om them. You can get back from this.”

  His laugh doesn’t sound like a laugh at all. “That’s what you think.”

  “It’s true. Ask Dad. He never relapsed, but he knows plenty of people who have. It happens.”

  “Alice. I’m not hammered. I’m stone-cold sober, though I wish to hell I—” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out car keys, flips them at me. “Here. Take these. Don’t give them back until tomorrow. Even if I beg.”

  I snag the keys, move closer. He smells like sweat, but nothing criminal. Reaching up, I take his chin in my hand, turn his face to mine. The whites of his eyes are clear, his pupils look normal, his eyes aren’t glassy. He’s pale, not so flushed anymore.

  But as I look, his eyebrows draw together. “Gonna breathalyze me now, Alice? Have me walk a straight line? Frisk me?”

  I drop my hand. “You do not get to be sarcastic with me. You lost that right while I was waiting forever for you.”

  “I lost a lot of things, then,” Tim mutters.

  I open my mouth to ask, but he sets his hands on my shoulders, looks me full in the face.

  “Alice. Please.”

  “Okay. Okay. I believe you. But I’m keeping your keys for now.”

  “Swell,” Tim says, standing up in one swift fluid motion. No swaying.

  “You’re in trouble somehow, then?”

  “You could sure as hell say that. Or you could just say I’m wicked good at getting other people into it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t, Alice. I can’t now. I just—” He waves his hand. “I’m sorry. Leave it at that. And keep the goddamn keys for all I care. I’m going nowhere. Trust me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  TIM

  It’s been in my wallet like a dirty little secret all this time.

  You’re only as sick as your secrets—that’s the word in AA, and I’ve held on to this one.

  My fake ID, a fifteenth-birthday present from my dealer’s big brother. He was good at his job. I’ve never even gotten a suspicious glance when I handed it over. It helps that I’m so tall.

  No car keys. Good. That’s good.

  Start to walk to a meeting, then don’t trust my feet. Dominic didn’t pick up on his shitty-service cell phone, so I end up hanging a left to town, down to the marina, looking for his battered old motorboat. I find the Cuddy, sure enough, tied up, bumping hard against the worn wooden dock. No sign of Dom, though. Although I do find his cell tossed on the yellow slicker that I bunch up to rest my head on.

  He’ll come.

  I’ll wait.

  Simple.

  I fall asleep so fast and hard, it’s more like a pass-out. When I open my sandy eyes, sticky from the river mist, it’s after ten. The liquor stores are closed. I’m safe.

  But this feeling, this jangling itch to tear out of my own skin—it doesn’t want to be safe, not anywhere near it.

  I let Alice down, gave her my keys—and I am so pissed with her for thinking I’d go get spun—but at the same time I’m nearly dying for exactly that.

  That blue dress. She was gorgeous.

  Here’s what I should do: Go to an online meeting since there aren’t any this late. Go find safe people to be with. Mr. Garrett, for God’s sake. It’s after visiting hours at the hospital, but I could talk my way in somehow. Steal scrubs or something.

  Here’s what I actually do: Shuffle through my wallet for my fake ID, get forty bucks at the ATM of Dad’s bank, head uptown to the Dark and Stormy, the only bar on the main drag. Stand staring at the ugly-ass wooden figurehead of a female pirate jutting out over the door of the bar.

  It’s late, but the D & S is hopping. Tourists love this place and Stony Bay gets ’em by the boatload, end of summer, Stony Bay sidewalk sale season and all that. The bartenders are all female and dressed like buccaneers with a lot of cleavage, and the poor bastards who happen to be waiters dress like French sailors in striped shirts and berets. Guess who gets more tips.

  Stride on in.

  Two minutes later, I’ve shoved my way through a crowd of yacht guys still wearing their goddamn captain hats, propped myself up against the thick-planked, dark pine wall, am staring at all the colors on the well-lit glass shelves—the deep amber of whiskey and the sunny yellow of white wine and the Hawaiian surf blue of curacao. Pretty. All that trouble wrapped up in beauty. Inhaling the must of sawdust, the musk of closely packed bodies, the sharp chemical scent of all that booze. I tell myself this is all I’ll do and then I’ll go. That’ll work. Or maybe I’ll have to sit at the bar and order something . . . I won’t drink it . . . only get a whiff of it. Then I’ll go. Safe and sound.

  Simple.

  Because—because the fact that I am a goddamn father does not mean I’m stupid enough to blow more than two months of sobriety, piss away my thirty-day chip, my two-month-er, the single solitary smart thing I’ve done this year.

  Heaving myself off the wall, I sink onto one of the bar stools.

  “Ahoy there, hottie,” says a cheerful voice, and a waitress plunks the fake pirate’s map that’s the drinks menu down on the counter and gives me a jolly smile.

  Jesus. The waitress is Ms. Sobieski, who was my sixth-grade math teacher. Also my Sunday school teacher. Now wearing a puffy white top that makes the most of the reasons I remember her so well.

  Open my mouth to blurt out some excuse, tell her I’m waiting for a friend—like, say, Jack Daniels?

  “Want the fancy stuff or something straight up?” She slides a wicker basket of unshelled peanuts in front of me, and gives a cheerful wink, and I get it. She has no clue who I am. Or used to be.

  Still, she’s gotta know I’m underage. But no ID request. Maybe she just figures I’ll order a Coke or something.

  Maybe I will do only that.

  The responsible thing.

  But the part of me that wants and needs to do the right thing has been avalanched and I can’t dig far enough down to reach it.

  Wet my lips. “I—” Before I can say more, she comes forward, giving me an up-close-and-personal with her great rack, and asks, “You’ve been away at school, right? I see your mom and dad at church. Surprised to see you here, though.”

  Me too.

  Pop wouldn’t be.

  Wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow if he walked in right now and saw me.

  I edge off the stool. “Be right back.”

  Walking quickly—walking at all—toward the exit is not easy. I stall out at the ancient cigarette machine. Then I do more than that, put in a ton of change and pull the lever. But there aren’t any Marlboros left; just Kool Menthol and I hate menthol even more than I crave nicotine. So I get outside, stumbling like I actually had taken a few drinks, prop myself against the brick wall, gasping, almost gagging, black spots flicking in front of my eyes.

  Get some air. Don’t, for Chrissake, go back in.

  No sense of how long I stand there.

  “Mase?” calls a voice, like it’s been calling for a while, and there’s Jase climbing off Joel’s motorcycle. “You okay?” He walks closer, eyes moving from the door of the D & S and then back to me.

  “Kinda,” I say, still breathing hard, like I’m trying to outrun something.

  He settles in next to me, stretches back against the wall like I am. Like this is no big deal. For a few minutes he’s quiet. My raspy inhales and exhales are the only sound in the night air, except the clattering and laughter, the rumble of loud conversation from inside.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  I nod but don’t move. “What the hell are you doing out so late?”

  He looks at his watch. “It’s only ten thirty-seven.” Jase has a digital watch and always tells the time to the exact minute. “I went for a run on the beach.”

  “Are you nuts? In the dark? Haven’t you seen what happened to the chick in the opener of Jaws?”

  “She swam. I was on the sand. The big mechanical shark can’t jump that far,” Jase says. “C’mon, Tim.” He reac
hes for the extra helmet, looped around that steel thing at the end of the seat, unbuckles it, and tosses it at me.

  I catch it automatically. “You kidding? I can’t ride on that.”

  “I ride. You’re the passenger,” he says patiently, like he’s explaining to George.

  “No the hell way, man. I’ll walk.”

  “Will you?” Jase asks. His tone gives nothing away, but his eyes steal back to the lit windows of the D & S.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I didn’t.” I put my hands in my hair and pull, like I can tear out my thoughts.

  “No? Good. Let’s get out of here.”

  “On that? With you?”

  “Jesus, Tim. Yeah. You need to leave this place. I have a fast exit. Put the helmet on. Get on the bike. You can hold on to the handle in back.”

  “You bet I will. You can save the reach-around for Samantha.”

  “Bite me,” Jase says, knocking back the kickstand.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ALICE

  Jase comes slamming in the kitchen door, bringing with him a whiff of the night air in town, silt of the river, wet grass, mud from his sneakers. He stomps a few times, leaving diamond-shaped pieces of dirt on the tile floor, then looks up. “Al—wow.”

  “Samantha did it for me. What do you think?”

  He studies my newly re-dyed hair, the first time in years it’s been nothing but plain brown, my real color. “Job interview?” he asks finally. “That supervisor at work giving you attitude?”

  I ruffle my hands through the still-damp waves. “Just seemed pointless to keep doing something I started to do to bug Mom when I was fifteen. Does it look bad?”

  He shakes his head. “Where’s Sam?”

  “Curfew.” I point to the clock. “Everything all right there?”

  Samantha was quiet and a little edgy, I thought. Only really relaxed with my siblings, where she’s always in her element. The things that throw me, make me want to run screaming, never bother her. Not Harry insisting on sleeping with his soccer guards on, not Patsy calling Sam back to her crib twenty times in the usual way, by running her sippy cup back and forth across the crib slats like a prisoner summoning the jail warden, nothing. Except a call from her mother, which had her tossing on her hoodie and leaving almost without a word, nothing but a quick, embarrassed glance in my direction.