I blink hard. “So, wait. The strip bar you were at was a drag bar? All the strippers were men?”
“Yep. All of them. And you couldn’t even tell. They looked just like women. Except for this one guy. Oh man.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “I swear, his Adam’s apple was the size of a grapefruit. It was so obvious, but Jay still didn’t clue in. Poor guy, he was so loaded.”
Once again, I’m surprised to find myself relieved by yet another Officer Poncherello assumption I got wrong.
“Sounds like it was a pretty great night.”
Laugh dwindling, he says, “Yeah. It was. It was the best night. At first, I wasn’t going to put the picture up because I thought it might make me depressed, but it actually makes me feel better—like he’s still around, you know?” I nod. I don’t remember a thing about my father, but I’d know his face anywhere, thanks to the collection of pictures Mom kept of him. “I’ve also got his Cubs cap in a drawer at home, and I keep his old coffee mug on my desk at work. It’s ugly, but it reminds me of him, so . . . yeah.” He shrugs. “I guess it’s just my little coping mechanism.”
I swallow hard. The hideous Hooters mug is a coping mechanism, not a proclamation of his favorite place to get wings. And stare at boobs.
“And your wife left you during all of that?” I ask.
“Not right away, but within a few months.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
“And the cherry on top of it all was that when I was finally healthy enough to come back to work, I was transferred out of vice, which I loved, and into a desk job—cold cases,” he clarifies, “which is where I am now. Needless to say, it was not the best time in my life.”
“No, I imagine it wasn’t.”
“That’s actually when I started coming here,” he goes on, motioning to our surroundings. “I was seeing a therapist, which actually helped a lot, but I was still so mad that I had to find a way to work out my aggressions without getting myself into trouble. Turns out beating the hell out of a car does the trick.” His familiar grin slowly reemerges, prompting me to nod in agreement. Yes, it does. “And it’s all good now,” he goes on. “The desk job is surprisingly interesting, and because it’s more of a nine to five, it allows me time to do other stuff: rock climbing, traveling, baking . . .” He winks at me, sending an unanticipated flutter to erupt in my chest. “I feel like I’m learning how to take advantage of my life now, you know?” I nod again. He got a second chance at life. It makes sense that he’d want to make the most of it. “And things are even pretty good with my ex now. I mean, it’s not like we’re friends or anything, but I don’t hate her anymore. And looking back, it was just a matter of time before we got divorced anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We grew apart way before the shooting. We were basically just going through the motions. Playing the part . . .”
His comment hits surprisingly close to home, forcing my chest to tighten with unease. I raise the water bottle to my lips and take another drink, then quickly change the subject to something less familiar.
“So, based on what Jessie said,” I say, thumbing back toward the check-in shed, “you still come here quite a bit?”
“Not as often as I used to, but yeah. Every now and then. I brought my sister with me the last time I came.”
His sister?
His sister is the chick he brought with him last time?
Okay, make that three assumptions I got wrong . . .
“So, anger is a family trait then?” I tease, another flood of unexpected relief driving my question.
He snorts. “Oh yeah. That girl’s got a lot of anger to work through. Her husband—the dick—bailed on her a year ago, right after their son’s third birthday. No warning, just a note that said, ‘Sorry, I can’t do this anymore.’”
I gasp. Dan may be a horrible husband, but at least he’s a good father. Abandoning your child is inexcusable; I know!
“It got pretty ugly for a while there,” he goes on, “especially when she had to move back in with my parents. But she’s a tough girl. She’ll get through it okay. Actually, you probably remember her from school, Stacy Chavez? She was a year older than us . . .”
My eyes narrow in consideration, but no one comes to mind.
“She was junior class president?” he offers. “Ran track and was on the yearbook committee . . . looks just like me but shorter . . .”
“Sorry.”
He tips his head, a tender smirk riding his lips. “You don’t remember much about high school, do you?”
“Not really. That was, um . . . that was a really hard time in my life. Not like what you went through—” On instinct, I lay my hand against his arm in reassurance but just as quickly pull it back, the warmth radiating through his jacket too much to process. “I just had a lot of . . . stuff going on back then.”
“Stuff?”
Considering what he’s just shared with me, and that he already knows the most personal thing about me—or about Dan—it’s a little ridiculous that I’m hesitant to answer his question. But I am. I don’t like this part of my life.
I drop my gaze a bit. “My mom was kind of a mess back then,” I admit. “She dated around a lot—always looking for someone to replace my dad, I think. He walked out on us when I was four,” I add over a callous shrug. I got over his abandonment years ago. “But she was never happy with any of them, until Gary . . .”
My lips pull up in a reminiscent grin as I think back on the sixteen months Gary was in our lives. Such a kind, thoughtful man; he treated Mom like gold and loved Julie and me like we were his own. I remember how excited I was when we moved in with him, and not because we got separate bedrooms for the first time, but because Gary’s zip code afforded me the luxury of attending a good school: South Glenn High.
A lump of long-forgotten disappointment starts to swell in my throat.
She never even acknowledged what she did.
How devastating that was to me.
She just showed up at school—her car packed with all our stuff—signed me out of English class, and then drove the three of us back to the barely-getting-by life we’d finally escaped—
“What happened to Gary?” he asks, pulling me back to the present.
“Oh, uh . . .” I right my frustrated thoughts with a quick shake of the head. “She broke up with him. She’d heard through the grapevine that my dad had died, and, I don’t know . . .” I sigh, returning my gaze to his. “I guess it just brought back all the unresolved feelings she still had for him, and she decided she could never be serious with anyone else again. So, she pulled my sister and me out of school, and we left town.”
His gaze softens sympathetically, but thankfully he doesn’t press for more details. Instead he just says, “Yeah, it was weird. One day you were at school, and the next day you were gone. You just disappeared.”
Disappeared?
More like I was kidnapped out of the perfect, stable life I’d come to love.
“You noticed?” I ask.
Another adorable flush crosses his cheeks. “Well, yeah. You did sit two tables away from me in chemistry . . .”
The fact that he remembers what class we had together is nothing short of mind-boggling—I can barely remember what classes I took in high school—but that he remembers where we sat is just crazy.
“What are you, a ginkgo addict or something?” I tease while helping myself to another bite of his messy pie. “Your memory is insane. How do you remember that stuff?”
He stares at me for a beat before he shrugs and says, “It’s hard to forget anything about your high school crush.”
My eyes snap wide, and my breath catches in surprise.
“What?” I sputter, working hard not to launch blackberry bits all over him.
His grin tugs up higher on one side as he leans in deeper against the tires. “Oh yeah. I had it bad for you, Jane Holliday.”
“You did?”
He nods, and a ridiculous explosi
on of schoolgirl tingles erupts in my chest.
“But . . . um.” I swallow hard, my breath feeling strangely short beneath my words. “You never said anything. You never even talked to me. Did you?”
He chuckles at my black hole of a memory. “No. Believe it or not, I was way too shy back then to talk to girls. But I was planning to build up enough courage to ask you to the Valentine’s dance.”
The Valentine’s dance.
The event alone doesn’t stick out as anything significant, but the timing sure does. It was February 13 when Mom piled me, Julie, and all our stuff into the car and drove us away from the perfect family life I’d come to love with Gary.
“So, would you have?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I bring myself back to the present with a quick shake of the head.
“Would you have said yes? If I had asked you?”
“Oh . . . um . . .” His question prompts the silly, teenage euphoria already thrumming through my veins to ignite like wildfire behind my cheeks. I drop my head slightly, allowing my hair to shade some of the flush. “Yeah. I would have said yes.”
“Good to know,” he says over an adorable grin, then proceeds to load up his fork with another dollop of pie. He raises it toward his mouth, stopping just before he eats it to say, “Maybe someday I’ll ask you to another dance, Jane Holliday. After you’re divorced, of course.”
The flirtatious compliment isn’t lost on me, but that’s not what prompts my breath to catch.
It’s that word: DIVORCE.
CHAPTER 14
Of course the idea of divorce had crossed my mind before Chavez so naively (and adorably) mentioned it at the impound lot a few days ago. That devastating night in Denver, it even came up in conversation, but only for a moment. Once Dan explained the fragility of the situation at the hospital and emphasized the devastating financial impact an untimely separation could have on not only us but also Mom and Julie, I had no choice but to push it out of my mind.
But now it’s back, erupting in my thoughts like one of those moles in a whack-’em arcade game just waiting for me to smash it with the mallet. DIVORCE.DIVORCE.DIVORCE.
And that’s rational, right?
My husband is gay, after all, and has been cheating on me for most of our marriage. That’s not the kind of marriage I signed up for. That’s not the kind of marriage any woman signs up for! Of course it makes sense that I’d be thinking about getting a divorce—
But then Mom would have to move somewhere cheaper; she’ll end up at a dodgy, state-run facility with underpaid staff who treat her like every other patient rather than the special mother—and grandmother—she is. And Avery will grow up in a broken home filled with uncertainty and instability. Everything I’ve tried so hard to give her will just . . . disappear. Just like I disappeared from South Glenn High. Back when I had a chance to become something more than I am now—when I had opportunities, and hope. Before I had to rely on a handsome cardiothoracic resident I met while waiting tables to offer me something bigger—something better—than I had. Something I deserved—
“Aggggh!” Frustration nips at my spine, forcing me to raise the yellow Wiffle bat in the air and strike the shrubs that line our back walk. Pain radiates through my aching shoulder muscles (three days later, I’m still popping Advil), a handful of leaves falling to the flagstone pavers at my feet. It’s a much less impressive result than Chavez’s aluminum bat would have provided and, unfortunately, much less satisfying too.
This isn’t working!
As terrified as I am to share my situation with anyone, it’s become painfully obvious that I can’t work this out on my own. (If not for the sake of my aching muscles, then at least for the safety of my landscaping.) Chavez is a great listener and provides surprisingly sound advice, but our . . . relationship took a bit of a turn the other night. A turn I have no idea how to navigate right now, but one that assures me he can’t be my therapist.
What I need is the sound, honest wisdom only a woman with life experience can provide. A woman whose blunt observations and matter-of-fact opinions have always rubbed me the wrong way but now might be just what I need to hear. A woman who knows all the players but no longer has access to the game.
Gina is the nurse manning the front desk today. She’s not as friendly as Carol (who unfortunately doesn’t work on Sundays), but she still informs me that Mom “seems to be having a good day.” It’s not the assured response I was hoping for, but it’s enough to calm my nerves a bit. I need her to be fully present to provide me the kind of advice I’m looking for.
I make my way down the hall, inhaling motivating breaths the entire way, then give her door a hearty rap with my knuckle.
“Who’s there?” she calls out almost immediately, which is a good sign. When she’s Mom, she’s quick to react to visitors.
I push the door open and lean inside. “It’s me, Mom.”
Her distance vision isn’t what it used to be, so I’m not surprised to see her squinting from where she sits on the love seat, but it’s obvious she recognizes my voice.
“Oh, Janie. Hi. Come in.” She waves me over with a smile while scrambling off the love seat and hurrying across the room to greet me.
My heart twists at her agility. She still moves like a teenager, so graceful and free. If only her brain were so generous.
“Good to see you, kid.”
“You too, Mom.”
She throws her arms around me and gives me a hug. It’s not particularly tight—her hugs never are—but thanks to my time at Smash Land, it still hurts.
“What’s wrong with you?” She pulls back, surveying me with a narrowed gaze. “Why did you just whimper?”
“Oh, it’s . . . nothing.” I instinctively raise my left hand to my right shoulder. “I just worked out really hard the other day, and I’m still sore, that’s all.”
“Well, there’s some aspirin around here somewhere,” she says, already looking disinterested with my pain. As always, her bedside manner could use a little work. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure. Whatever you’ve got is fine.”
I set my bag down on the little dinette table, then make my way over to the love seat while she clanks around in the kitchen. An episode of The Love Boat, her favorite show, is playing on the TV.
“Who’s the guest star on this episode?” I call out to her.
I’m not really interested in the answer to that question, but it’s a good way to determine how herself she is today. It’s likely she’s seen this episode ten times before. If she can remember some of the details of the show, odds are she’ll remember some of the details of her own life too.
“Tom Hanks,” she calls back to me over a budding laugh. “He’s playing an old college buddy to . . . oh, you know. The guy with the animal name—”
“Gopher?”
“Yes! Gopher,” she chuckles. “Tom Hanks is trying to score with the cruise director, and Gopher can’t stand it, so he’s pretending to be her boyfriend to keep him away.”
“Oh, right.” I nod. “I remember this one.”
Because we lived on Mom’s meager waitressing paycheck, our entertainment was limited to whatever channels our TV antenna could pick up, the one that came in the clearest being an all-reruns channel. So, while other kids my age were indulging in the delicacies of cable shows—Tales from the Crypt, Fraggle Rock, Remote Control—I was learning life lessons from people who wore bell-bottoms and had really bad haircuts. Not that the Bradford kids weren’t entertaining, but sometimes eight was way more than enough.
“Here.” Mom returns to the room and hands me my drink. My stomach twists. It’s V8 juice. Yet another of her newly acquired tastes.
I force down a polite sip, then set it on the coffee table.
“So, what’s going on?” she asks as she settles back into her spot beside me.
“Nothing much. I just thought I’d come by and see how you were doing.” And tell you that my husband is secretly gay and ask if
you think I should divorce him. “I missed you at Thanksgiving.”
She sighs. “Julie said I was being pretty bitchy. Sorry.”
My mom’s never been one for apologies, but ever since she was diagnosed, she’ll offer them up on occasion. Though I think it has more to do with her own frustration for not remembering than actually feeling bad for any mistreatment of us.
I give her arm a little pat. “That’s okay. You didn’t miss much.”
“How’s . . . Avery?” Her gaze drifts to the picture on the credenza. “Is she still playing soccer?”
I nod quickly, delighted she remembers. “All the time. She had a game yesterday, and she scored the winning goal.”
“Good for her.” She pumps her fist in support. Gina was right. She does seem to be having a pretty good day. “And you’re still doing the whole PTA thing?”
“Yes. I’m the president.”
I’ve told her this before. More than a few times.
“Well, good for you. I’m sure you’re doing a great job.”
My cheeks flush beneath one of her rarely delivered compliments. “I try.”
“They can’t ask for more than that, can they?”
I grin and shake my head. “No, they can’t.”
She grabs her own glass of V8 from the end table and takes a long drink, gaze shifting back toward the TV.
“This was his first TV acting job. Did you know that?” Mom asks, referring to a very young Tom Hanks on the screen. “He did this, and then not too long after he started on Bosom Buddies. That was a good show.” She laughs. “You remember that one, don’t you?”
“I do,” I answer, my voice cracking with a sudden burst of nervousness.
Shit.
See Jane Snap Page 17
