“You have got to be kidding me,” Will whispered. “Stacy?”
Nick laughed. “Gives you a funny tingle, doesn't she?”
Will glanced at him. “She always did,” he admitted. But Nick already knew that. Nick knew the whole story, in fact, for he had gone with Will on the ski trip the senior class had taken to Mount Orford in Canada. On the bus ride north Will had spent more than two hours locked in conversation with Stacy Shipman, the girl with the sweetest, most suggestive smile he had ever seen. Party girl. Pothead. Double trouble. Stacy had been all of those things, but mysterious as well, for she had never really hung out with her classmates. Though there had been a couple of exceptions—mostly tough guys who did too many drugs and didn't graduate anyway.
Caitlyn had been his girlfriend, but Will had always been fascinated by Stacy. All of the guys were. And on that bus ride, for the first time, he had gotten to know her and discovered that she was bright and funny and ambitious, all of the things her reputation said she could not possibly be.
They had never hung out again after that, but at graduation Stacy had written a very long note in his yearbook, thanking him for that talk on the bus, for being “real” with her. He had never forgotten it, or her.
Will thanked Nick for the drink, promised his friends he'd be back to the table in just a minute, and walked straight across the room to slide into a chair right in front of that platform. There, he watched Stacy finish up an old Edwin McCain tune.
Near the end of the song, as she lifted her head to sing the chorus for a final time, she saw him. In the midst of strumming chords, she broke off and gave him a little wave, then her fingers fell right back into rhythm. When she was done and a ripple of applause went through the room, Stacy leaned into the microphone.
“Thanks, you guys,” she said softly. “We got started a little early, so I'm gonna take a short break and then we'll kick it up a notch.”
Another round of applause followed her as she set her guitar on its stand and stepped down off the platform, striding over to Will. He stood up, drink in hand, but he didn't hug or kiss her. They had never had that kind of friendship.
“Hey,” she said, almost shyly, though there was nothing shy in her gaze. It was just her way.
“You're amazing.”
She glanced at the ground for a moment. “Thanks.”
“It's really nice to see you,” he said. “I hoped you'd be here, actually. Of all the people we went to high school with, there are only a couple I really wanted to see again. I'm glad you made it.”
“Me, too,” she said, nodding. Then she reached out and took his hand, gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I'm going to do a long set, then take a break about eight-thirty or so. Can we talk more then? I want to know what's up with your life.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Good.”
Without another word she drifted off into the growing crowd.
Will took a long sip of his Captain Morgan and then shook his head. He was waylaid several times on the way back to the table by people who had not necessarily been his friends in high school but had been casual acquaintances. Each time, he took a few minutes to be cordial and moved on, everyone assuring one another that they would speak more later that night, or the following day. It was going to be a long weekened, with plenty of time to get caught up.
At last he returned to the round table where he had left his friends. Danny and Eric had disappeared, leaving the four women. Will took one look at Danny's wife, Keisha, and felt bad for her. She smiled politely, but Ashleigh, Pix, and Lolly had known each other for fourteen years.
Will spotted the guys over at the bar talking to Nick and he was tempted to join them, but instead he slid into Danny's empty chair next to Keisha.
“Hey,” he said, smiling as he set his drink on the table. “This weekend is probably going to be excruciating for you.”
One corner of her mouth tugged upward in a playful half-smirk. “Nah. I love all you guys. We don't get to see you nearly enough, so this is a good excuse. It's all the rest of the stuff that I could do without. If it was just, you know, you guys, that'd be great. But . . . Eastborough High's Homecoming parade and football game?” Her eyes rolled up. “I think I might have a headache tomorrow.”
“You can't!” Will said, eyes wide with feigned scandal. “You'd miss the steamed hot dogs and cotton candy and—”
“And the cheerleaders,” Ashleigh said, leaning over to shoot Will an insinuating glare. “Don't forget about the cheerleaders.”
Will pressed a hand against his chest and made his face a mask of hurt feelings. “You wound me. They're children, Ashleigh. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old girls.”
Lolly barked laughter. “Oh, please, like you won't be looking.”
“At jailbait?” Will scoffed, letting an evil grin slip across his features.
Pix gave Keisha a conspiratorial look and lowered her voice. “They'll all be looking at the cheerleaders. Don't think Danny's innocent.”
Keisha waved her away. “Oh, honey, there's nothing innocent about that man.” She gave Lolly a pointed look. “Trust me. I know where he's been. And I know where he's going if he ever does more than look.”
They all laughed at that and then the chatter began again, but this time, Keisha was very much a part of it. Will smiled. My work here is done. The women barely noticed when he excused himself and went over to the bar, where the guys were involved in a conversation about the girls they had secretly—and not so secretly—desired back in high school.
The moment Will arrived they all looked at him. Danny raised his beer and gestured with it toward the empty stage.
“And speaking of secret longings, you two seemed intimate.”
Will arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yes. Very.”
Nick smiled as he drew a beer from the tap. “Could it be there's a woman in the world you'd go on more than three dates with? Is the Caitlyn Curse over?”
“There's no curse,” Will said, no longer amused.
Danny arched an eyebrow. “Do tell?”
But Nick had stopped teasing. He brought the beer to a woman a ways down the bar and then came back to them.
“Seriously, Will. How long are you gonna stay girl-skittish? There's more to a relationship than a couple of weeks of coffee bars and sex.”
Will glanced around. “Do me a favor, Nick. Point out your girlfriend or wife in this room.”
The bartender winced and glanced away, the jab obviously hitting too close to home. “Okay, Will. We're just friends, looking out for our old bud, but okay. Nobody's trying to start anything. But for the record, I've made it to the pennant race a few times. Yeah, I blew it every time, but that doesn't keep me from stepping up to the plate again. You've got to be in the game.”
His expression was so earnest that for a long moment, Will and Danny could only stare at him. The absurdity of it all descended upon them and Will started to chuckle. A moment later all four of them were laughing.
“Romance According to the Boston Red Sox,” Danny said.
“Confucius at the Bat,” Will added.
Nick shot them a withering glance and moved on to serve another customer. By the time he came back, Will and Danny were on to other subjects. They all began to talk at once, two or three conversations happening at a time. They were laughing, giving each other shit; the drinks kept coming, and soon it seemed like no time at all had passed since they had last done this.
Stacy was back up onstage, doing some more upbeat tunes. Will watched her, and he wondered how much of what Nick had said was true.
After a while, Will became distracted. He would tune the guys out, just for a second, and glance over Danny's shoulder at the door. The first time he looked at his watch, it was quarter to eight. He checked it again seven minutes later. When he checked it the third time, Eric and Nick were in the middle of a debate about the New England Patriots coaching staff, and Danny took Will by the arm and pulled him away from them.
“Hey,” he said, brows knitted in concern. “What's with you? So Caitlyn's not here. I thought you didn't want to see her anyway.”
For a moment, Will didn't understand. Then he put it together. Danny had seen him watching the door.
“No. I mean, I don't. Want to see her. I mean, I don't care if I see her or not. I figure she'll be there tomorrow night if nothing else. Most everyone will be, right? But it's not her I'm looking for. It's Mike. I got e-mail from him; he said he'd be here. It's been like three years, and I was hoping he was gonna—”
“Mike?” Danny asked, frown deepening. He narrowed one eye, the way he always did when he was trying to work something out in his head. “Mike who?”
Will scoffed. “Mike. Mike, Mike. What do you mean, Mike who? Fucking Lebo. He told me he was gonna be—”
The look on Danny's face stopped him cold. Will blinked several times as though that would help him escape the grave disapproval that had carved itself into Danny Plumer's face.
“Will. I know it was a long time ago, so maybe you think . . .” Danny shook his head. “That is not fucking funny. Sincerely. Not even a little.”
Confused, Will tilted his head. “What isn't? What are you talking about? I'm not supposed to want to see him, or I'm not supposed to get pissed 'cause he said he was gonna show and he—”
Danny twisted his head to the left as if suddenly offended by Will's smell. Will was stunned to silence. His best friend had just recoiled from him in what could only be disgust. Danny was a big joker, but there was nothing remotely resembling jest in his manner now.
“What?” Will demanded.
Abruptly Danny looked at him again, pinning Will to the ground with the intensity of his glare. “Mike? Mike fucking Lebo?”
Will spread his arms wide. “Ye-eahh?”
With a quick glance over at the table, where Eric had rejoined his wife and the other women, Danny took a deep breath and let it out. He was calmer when he looked back at Will, but the disgust had been replaced by something akin to disappointment.
“Maybe you're past it, bud. Me? I still have nightmares about his funeral. It's never gonna be funny to me.”
Will felt a numbness spread through his body. His mouth began to gape. “Funeral? What are you . . . wait, no, fuck that. You're saying Mike's dead? Jesus, when did—”
Danny held up a hand to stop him. “Stop.” He narrowed his eyes angrily. “When you decide to stop being such a prick, you know where the table is.”
In stunned silence, Will watched his best friend turn and walk away.
I still have nightmares about his funeral. That's what Danny had said. But Mike could not be dead. Will had received an e-mail from him just a week ago.
And yet now, as he thought about it, tasted the concept with his mind, he found just a whisper of a memory in his head, something about a hit-and-run.
A funeral.
Up on the platform, Stacy growled into the microphone, smiling mischievously as she sang Sheryl Crow's “Steve McQueen.” Maybe a dozen people had abandoned their seats or their quiet corners and gathered to bump and grind in front of the platform. There were several Will did not recognize, but the others were all older versions of familiar faces. Others stood up behind him and started in dancing as well, so that he was caged on either side by laughing, gyrating people.
A frenetic, benevolent energy exuded from them just as surely as sweat and alcohol from their pores, and yet it touched him not at all. The evening's celebration churned all around him but he was no longer a part of it. The colorful dresses on the women seemed tacky all of a sudden, and the laughter perverse. A hollow place had opened up inside of him.
Will felt completely detached, as though he had phased into some gray limbo, passed out of existence completely, and the rest of the world went on around him as though he wasn't there at all. He had had dreams like this, and they had always terrified him. The room had taken on the texture of a dream now, and the air he was breathing was not quite right. The voices were too loud, the music somehow muffled.
He closed his eyes and felt himself swaying, knew he was about to pass out but could do nothing to stop it.
“Will?” a soft voice said, a gentle hand steadying him.
His eyes fluttered open. The delicate, almost otherworldly face of Martina Dienst swam into focus. Her eyes were narrowed with concern, but other than the tiny lines at the edges of her mouth, she looked as though she had not aged a day in the last ten years.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He stared at her, his throat dry. The woman had changed not at all, and yet it seemed that his eyes had altered, or perhaps what had evolved was his way of seeing. Martina had always been beautiful, but now she was stunning. There was an elegance and grace about her that had always been there but seemed far more vital now.
“Hey,” he said, forcing a smile that felt stiff and false. “I'm . . . I'm OK. I've just had a really long week.” Will took a deep breath and raised his chin, stood a bit straighter, not wanting her to think he was drunk or high. “You look amazing, by the way.”
Her smile was sweet and yet somehow regal. There had always been a touch of majesty about her. “Thank you. You look pretty good, too, if we ignore the pale, nearly fainting part.”
Will laughed softly and felt as though some of the color flooded back into the world. The surreal quality of the room rolled back like a wave on the shore, but he was cautious, afraid it would wash over him anew. When it didn't, he smiled again and this time it felt more real.
“Very long week,” he reiterated.
“You're not alone,” Martina said. “I arrived from Vienna yesterday. I am still not in this time zone.”
For a brief instant it seemed to him that he was going to be able to do it, to take a breath and dive back into the flow of the evening. But then Danny's words came back to him, coupled with the ghost of a memory he did not recall ever experiencing before. It wasn't déjà vu. If there was an opposite to déjà vu, that's what this was.
Caitlyn sobbing, face streaked with tears. The strength going out of Ashleigh's legs as she sat down hard on the tile in the corridor, slumping up against a row of lockers.
I still have nightmares about his funeral.
Jesus, Will thought, trying not to let Martina see how shaken he was. Mike Lebo is dead?
It was fucking impossible. Completely, utterly impossible. He had no recollection of a funeral—a sliver of a memory, a rose dropped upon a casket, already in the ground, loose dirt sifting down to spatter the wood—but Danny wasn't fucking around. Will had seen that in his eyes. He might joke about a lot of things, almost everything, but not about this.
“Damn,” Will muttered, shaking his head. Then he focused on her. “Martina, you remember Mike Lebo, right?”
A veil of melancholy was drawn across her eyes. “Of course I do, Will. Who could forget? What a sweet guy. The day they announced it in school, when he was killed, that moment is burned into my mind. He's still the only friend I've ever had die. Maybe that makes me lucky.”
Will could not seem to catch his breath. His eyes burned as though he were about to cry, but no tears fell.
“Yeah. Maybe it does,” he rasped. That look of concern was back in Martina's eyes, but he could not bear speaking with her even a moment longer. Not right now.
“You know what? I'd love to catch up with you. I've been to Europe once, back in college, and I've always wanted to go again. I'd love to pick your brain, but I'm really not feeling well. Are you going to be at the other events this weekend?”
Martina nodded, frowning. “I'll be around all weekend. You just look after yourself and feel better, all right? Are you all right to drive? Maybe someone should take you home.”
“I live in Somerville.”
“A hotel, then?” she suggested.
He took another long breath and shook his head, trying not to be too dismissive of her kindness. “I'll be all right.”
They said th
eir good-byes and he turned to walk back to the table. As he did he caught sight of Stacy. With a toss of her hair she strummed out the final chords of a song by the Eagles that had been released before any of them had been born.
“Thank you,” she said as the applause erupted. That knowing smile was there again. “It's great to see all of you. I'm going to take a break and then do one more set for tonight. It's really a pleasure to play for you guys. Thanks for having me.”
In the lights that illuminated the platform and the microphone stand, the spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose seemed somehow darker. When she put her guitar on its stand and came down off the platform, she had an expression of real contentment on her face.
Will had paused on his way back to the table. Now he waited as she approached him. When she had crossed half the distance that separated them, the smile on Stacy's face faltered and a kind of trepidation crept into her eyes.
“Hey. You all right?”
“No,” he admitted, hoping she read the regret in his tone. “I'm really not feeling well. I'm going to head out, I think. Will you be at the game tomorrow?”
Stacy looked pensive, gnawing her lower lip a moment. “Yeah,” she said at length. “I'll be there. Feel better, all right?”
“Probably just working too hard,” he lied.
She nodded, leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the cheek, and then turned away. “See you tomorrow. You take care of yourself,” she said over her shoulder. Then she was off across the room, threading through the crowd, politely fending off the compliments she received as she went to mingle.
Will pushed her out of his head, along with everything else that had happened tonight. The only way he could put one foot in front of the other, the only way he could function at all, was to purposely avoid thinking about certain things. But he knew he would not be able to put those thoughts off forever.
He went to the table where his friends sat, moving amongst chairs that had been pushed too far out from their places, trying not to knock off jackets that had been hung off the backs. Several people greeted him and Will managed to smile and even shake a few hands, to promise he would catch up with them at the football game the next day.
The Boys Are Back in Town Page 4
