It takes us several trips to and from the kitchen, but before long, the room is bursting with balloons. They crowd every available surface and are piled to the ceiling in the walk-in closet and adjoining bathroom. We position the remaining balloons on the bed, then start backing out of the room. Just when I’m sure we’re in the clear, my heel connects with a stack of old vinyl records next to the doorframe. I lose my balance, and Annabelle grabs my shirt collar. I have to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from yelping. Nick stirs and mumbles. Everything inside me freezes, waiting for him to snap to attention, catch us red-handed. Miraculously, Nick rolls over and buries his head under a pillow, his knee brushing against a balloon. A beat later, his breathing is steady again, as is his snoring. I relax, and feel Annabelle do the same.
We dart out of the house, not even bothering to return the spare key to its hiding spot, and jump in my truck. When we are a safe enough distance away, I pull into a gas station and shut off the engine.
“So, that was a success,” I say.
Annabelle eyes me skeptically.
“Okay, there were some minor hiccups,” I admit.
Annabelle shakes her head, suppressing a smile.
“What?” I say.
“Next time your ass is staying in the truck.”
The sun is cresting over the horizon by the time I stumble into my childhood room and collapse like a ruined soufflé on the bed. Within seconds, sleep drags me under. I wake up just before lunchtime to discover a folded paper propped against the bedside lamp. Still half asleep and groggy, I unfold it. The note is written in Nick’s handwriting, so neat it looks as if it’s been typed. My eyes trip over the words: You throw away the outside and cook the inside. Then you consume the outside and throw away the inside. What did you eat?
I know I’ve heard this one before. The answer nags at the back of my mind but never crystallizes.
I’m still contemplating the riddle when a realization slams into me. While I was drooling on a pillow, Nick was here. I jolt upright in bed, glancing down at myself, then around the room. Nothing seems out of order or tampered with. What did he do?
Whipping the covers off my legs, I head for the door, wondering what kind of retaliation awaits me. I start to ease it open but hesitate when I feel something heavy pressing against the other side. Only it’s too late, the strain is too much. The door opens against my will, knocking me on my butt. A trash can falls on top of me. Unsealed containers of cream corn, corn husks, and corncobs spill out, sticking in my hair and soaking into my clothes. A few strands of corn silk have even found their way inside my mouth.
Another note is taped to the lip of the garbage bin, fluttering from the breeze floating through the window. With slimy fingers, I peel it away and read: You still snore worse than an elephant. I hear a greasy burger can cure that. Interested?
EIGHTEEN
DESPITE THE LATE-AFTERNOON crowd at Otto’s Corner, I spot the rowdy crew crammed into a round booth in the back corner almost immediately. From the bottles littering the table and the volume of their voices, I gather they’ve been here for a while. Wes and Annabelle are smushed together in the center of the booth, surrounded by members of the Randy Hollis Band. Nick and Margaret sit on chairs pulled up from a nearby table.
It appears our once tight-knit group of four has expanded its membership. Or maybe I’ve simply been replaced. A pang shoots through me, longing for how things used to be.
I inhale a deep breath and make my way over to them. Tim seems to be the only one who notices me, tipping his cowboy hat in acknowledgment. The others are too absorbed in a story Matt is telling. Something about a crazed fan who broke into his car, filled the trunk with underwear, and snapped racy Polaroid pictures before taping them to the windshield and review mirror. The cops found the woman passed out on Matt’s front lawn, stark naked and drooling, using an empty bottle of Jim Beam as a pillow. One of the biggest highlights of his career as a musician so far.
Everyone breaks into laughter. Everyone except Nick, whose gaze is now locked on mine. There’s a flicker behind his eyes, something mischievous, though his face remains impassive. My heart speeds up.
I clear my throat and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Hey, guys,” I say over their cheerful chatter and the Bonnie Raitt tune playing through the overhead speakers. “Is there space for one more?”
The table turns quiet, eight pairs of eyes on me. Then, all at once, a chorus of hellos ring through the air. Even Margaret offers a thin smile and a wave. That’s . . . different. I wonder if her attitude adjustment has something to do with finding out about Drew. Perhaps she no longer views me as a threat. Then again, maybe she’s adopted the age-old tactic of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.
“Jelly Bean! It’s about time you got here,” Wes hollers, his usually slight southern drawl more pronounced with the addition of alcohol. “What’s that you’ve got there?” He stretches across the table and snatches the foil-covered plate from my grasp.
“Jalapeño and pork tamales,” I say. “I had some extra corn husks lying around, so I figured, why not?” My eyes cut to Nick. He’s still staring at me, one side of his mouth quirked up.
Wes frowns. “This is all you brought?”
Annabelle snorts. “What are you, pregnant?” she says. “You’ve already devoured two baskets of fried pickles.”
“Those were an appetizer. I’m a growing boy who needs constant sustenance,” Wes says, patting his stomach. “Besides, you ate at least half of those pickles, and the chipotle ranch dip.”
“Give me a break,” Annabelle says with a playful shove to his arm. “I had like three bites.”
Wes’s mouth twists into a grin. “But they were big bites.”
I blink and shake my head, convinced I’ve been transported to some alternate reality. Their banter is so normal, so reminiscent of how they used to be. Any moment I expect Wes to lean over and plant a kiss on Annabelle’s nose, something he did when he thought she was being particularly cute or sassy.
Jason scoots out of the booth, and Karl slides out after him. “Lillie, we were about to order some food,” Karl says. “What’s your preference?”
“The Labyrinth,” Nick, Wes, and Annabelle say at the same time. Though Wes’s words come out garbled because of the tamale stuffed into his mouth.
Otto’s Corner is the only place in town where every burger on the menu is named after an eighties cult-classic movie. There’s The Heather—a half-pound patty stuffed with sharp cheddar and bacon and smothered with chili con carne, onions, and hot dog pieces. Or The Gremlin—poblano corn relish and pepper jack cheese piled atop a buttermilk fried chicken breast, served on a pretzel bun.
I scoff. “I don’t always order The Labyrinth,” I say, though my mouth is watering just thinking about that delicious turkey burger with tangy peach barbecue sauce.
“Yes, you do.” Once again in unison.
“I got The Toxic Avenger that one time—”
“The curry mayo knocked you on your ass, if I remember,” Nick interjects as he stands and taps my nose. “You were sick for a week after.”
Margaret huffs and mutters something about people being like itchy scabs before she saunters off toward the order counter. Soon everyone else is trailing behind her and it’s Wes and me at the table. I slide into the booth beside him. Silence settles around us.
Wes drapes an arm over my shoulders and sighs. Sad, wistful. I follow his line of sight, which is focused on Annabelle talking to the poor guy manning the register. From the frustrated expression on the worker’s face, I’m guessing Annabelle has changed her burger choice no less than four times. Par for the course, I’m afraid.
“I’m trying, Jelly Bean,” Wes says. “Fuck if it doesn’t kill me, but I’m trying.”
I’m quiet for a moment before I say, “So am I.”
My gaze flicks to Nick. He and Margaret have meandered to the area with the dartboards, a beer in his hand and a glass of red wine in
hers. I watch as Nick rolls up his sleeves. Margaret unbuttons her fitted suit jacket and tosses it onto a stool. Her emerald-green blouse underneath is a perfect complement to her ruby hair and fair complexion. Nick walks over to her and places a few darts in her open palm, gesturing for her to have the first shot at the board. Standing on tiptoes, Margaret whispers something in his ear, then playfully aligns her hips with his, running a finger along his forearm, as if she’s tempting Nick to take a more hands-on approach to the game. Nick shakes his head and steps back. I wish I could read something into the space he puts between them, but it seems clear with the way Margaret laughs over her shoulder, the sound high-pitched like a spoon tapping against a champagne flute, that the only distance between them is friendly competition.
My chest tightens. For a moment, seeing Nick this way—content, relaxed, exactly what I’ve always hoped for him—it’s hard to hold on to my dislike for Margaret when he wears his happiness so well.
I cut my eyes away. Wes still hasn’t taken his attention off Annabelle. She’s now with Matt and Tim at the bar. They seem to be in a heated discussion about some college football game on TV.
“We met for coffee this morning,” Wes says after a while.
“Yeah?” I wonder how Annabelle isn’t acting like a zombie right now from lack of sleep after this morning’s early shenanigans.
He nods, spinning an empty beer bottle between his palms.
“And?” I ask.
“I’ll let you know. For now we’re . . . talking. Working things out. We still have a long way to go and mounds of shit to deal with, but it’s a start.”
“I’m glad, Wes.”
“What about you?” He gestures with his chin at Nick.
Jason and Karl have joined him and Margaret at the dartboard and are now teaching Margaret proper dart-throwing techniques. As if Nick can feel the weight of my stare, he meets my gaze, grabs hold of it, and doesn’t let go. Then he smiles, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a deflated pink balloon.
A grin spreads across my face. “I’m working it out, too,” I say to Wes as I pick up a tamale wrapped in a corn husk and tilt it toward Nick in a silent toast.
LATER, AFTER WE’VE gorged ourselves on burgers, we sit around the table sharing stories. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard. It echoes the ache in my chest. There’s so much I’ve missed, so much I haven’t been a part of.
“I’m going to grab another round of refreshments,” Annabelle says, sliding out of the booth. “Who’s in?”
Even though everyone raises their hand except for me, Annabelle insists on counting each one anyway. I stopped drinking hours ago, I’d rather avoid another episode where I end up passed out on the floor.
“I think you’re going to need some assistance,” Wes says, scooting out after her. “Nobody touch Jelly Bean’s tamales, and save the onion rings. Those are for breakfast tomorrow.” He spins his baseball cap around so the bill is facing the back, his curly hair sticking out underneath. He and Annabelle move away from the group toward the bar.
I shake my head and smile. Leave it to Wes to consume the most random things at any hour of the day. I glance at Nick, wondering if he remembers when Wes ate nothing but SpaghettiOs for a month. The grin on his face tells me he does.
Karl leans forward. “How about that time Margaret went crowd surfing?” he says, peering at the rest of the band.
My eyes cut to Margaret. She’s studying her wine like it’s the key to the universe. A faint blush kisses the tops of her cheeks.
Jason and Tim scrunch up their faces like they’re confused, but Matt bursts into laughter. “Shit, I forgot about that. Where was that?” he asks.
“I think it was at that club on Lower Greenville,” Karl says. “There were only a handful of people in the audience that night, so she ended up landing on her ass.”
“I remember that now,” Jason says, putting his elbows on the table. “Didn’t she have to be escorted out by a bouncer?”
Tim removes his cowboy hat and rakes a hand through his sandy-blond hair. “Yeah, because she tried to climb the stage lights like some kind of monkey.”
“I wasn’t escorted out,” Margaret says, straightening her posture. “I was calmly and politely shown the exit.” She smiles and shrugs.
This gives me pause. I’ve never seen Margaret be anything other than smugly confident, but now she seems almost shy, if not a little silly. Like the kind of person I would be friends with.
“You tried to climb the stage lights?” I say, picturing her scaling the tall metal structure in three-inch heels before being yanked down by a man double her size and thrown out like a holiday fruitcake on the sidewalk.
“I think one too many glasses of Cabernet may have been involved,” she says, brushing a speck of lint off her skirt. “But that type of behavior hasn’t occurred since college, when I was allowed to be young and stupid.”
Nick rocks back on his chair with an arm bent behind his head. “Oh, it’s happened a few times since then.”
“Liar,” Margaret says. “The last time I was that overserved was at Matt’s wedding, and I was still in college so it doesn’t count.”
“You were in grad school,” Nick says.
Waving him off, she takes a sip of wine and says, “Same difference.”
Matt’s wedding?
“How long have you known the band?” I ask.
“Shortly after they started playing together,” she says, matter-of-fact, like I’m an idiot for not already knowing this.
“She missed some of our early shows,” Matt interjects. “After that, if we had a gig in the area, she was there.”
“Really?” I say. “How did you discover them?”
“By chance, actually,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “One of my sorority sisters set me up on this horrific blind date with a guy named Jerry. I called a cab when he went to use the restroom, then left him at the restaurant. I told the driver to pick me up a few blocks over so Jerry wouldn’t find me waiting outside. On my way to our meeting point, I passed this hole-in-the-wall bar where the band was playing a small show. I’ve been a fan ever since.”
The Margaret I remember growing up with spent her time at the Dallas Country Club with her other spoiled, rich friends, but this side of her reminds me so much of the way I used to be, when I’d hang out in smelly venues to watch Nick perform the songs he wrote. Maybe we’re more alike than I thought.
Wes and Annabelle return with a tray of drinks and reclaim their spots in the booth.
Karl takes a long pull from his Shiner Bock and says, “Margaret’s the reason we all met.”
“I thought you were introduced at a charity football tournament,” I say.
“We were,” Jason says. “Margaret’s the one who invited us to participate in it.”
“My PR firm was responsible for the press and marketing of the event,” Margaret says. “I figured they might want to get involved in a good cause.”
“Little did we know that Nick would make such a memorable impression,” Tim says without a hint of humor. “Or is that a tale for another day?”
Nick shoots him a pointed stare too loaded with meaning to decipher. The table grows quiet, the easy atmosphere dissolving around us. I shift my gaze to Annabelle and Wes, who exchange an uncomfortable glance.
“What am I missing here?” I ask.
“You mean other than the last five years?” Margaret says, touching Nick’s knee, her thumb tracing a pattern. “Do you need a manual so you can keep up?”
Just like that any thoughts of friendship I had fall away. Acquaintances will be quite enough.
Nick sighs and shakes his head, but doesn’t look at me. Still, it’s clear from the way he shifts away from Margaret that he’s unhappy.
As if scolded, she removes her hand. “I think it’s about time I head home,” she says, standing. “I’ve got an early morning appointment I still need to prepare for.”
“I’ll walk you to your
car,” Nick says, helping her into her suit jacket.
Everyone offers their good-byes as Nick ushers Margaret outside. The gang scatters then. Matt, Annabelle, and Wes join a neighboring booth for a Jenga challenge. Jason and Karl go throw darts again.
I’m perched on a bar stool talking with Tim about the band’s early days and how they got started when Nick reappears a long while later. His whole demeanor has changed—his jaw now clenched, his shoulders tense as a pulled wire. I wonder if he and Margaret had an argument in the parking lot.
Nick spots me and walks over to the bar, setting a copy of Resolution in front of me. My brow furrows. The album isn’t released for a few more days.
“Earlier you mentioned you were excited about hearing the whole record,” Nick says with an edge in his voice. “Now you can.”
“Wow. Thank you.” I pick up the album. The cover shows the band smiling as they lounge on a grungy old sofa in someone’s garage. Maybe it’s a nod to their humble beginnings. The track listing on the back is comprised of fifteen songs, only a few of which I recognize. “You know, I’m tempted to slip out of here right now to listen to it.”
That makes Nick crack a smile. “Too bad Big Blue only has a tape deck,” he says.
I open the plastic case to scan the various lyrics, but only the glossy cover photo is there and not the CD booklet. “Where are the liner notes?”
Tim clears his throat. “The early advanced copies don’t have them, but be sure to check them out. The liner notes are often the best part of a record.” He looks at Nick. A message passes between them, even more encoded than the one before. “I’m going to hit the road. I’ll see you at the launch party, Lillie.” Tim squeezes my shoulder and leaves without a word to Nick.
What’s up with them?
Nick settles onto Tim’s vacant stool and motions to the bartender for a beer.
“Balloons, huh?” he says after he’s squeezed an orange wedge into the glass and taken a few sips. “Not exactly original, but I’ll grant you points for getting them into my room without waking me up.”
From Scratch Page 16
