High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  He ignored the question.

  “Hey, Emile. What are you doing here?”

  “Meeting my agent. Clearly you were having a date you did not want.”

  “What do you do when you can’t stand it anymore?” Emile might not have a clue, but he was handy.

  Emile’s familiar happy, light expression morphed to serious. “You fix it. You try and you keep trying until it works. And if she loves you, it will work.”

  Things had gone so bad with Emile and Amy that she had run away to Georgia without telling anyone where she was going.

  Jarrett covered his face with his hands. “I don’t know, Emile. I can’t believe that you screwed up as bad as I did.”

  His own words startled him. The pieces of the puzzle began to snap into place, and he ran that last conversation through his mind. He’d done this many times, but every time, he’d been looking for justification. This time, he listened to her, let the words sink in. And all of a sudden, it didn’t seem to matter that she’d posed for that picture, but the terrible things he’d said to her mattered very much. He’d been chasing perfect all these years, while he’d been the very embodiment of imperfect. What was it Merry had said? That “almost” was all anyone was ever going to have, because there was no perfect. That might be true, but she was a damned sight closer to perfection than he could ever be.

  Emile shook his head. “Possibly worse, my friend. I am the King of Screw-up. But Amy, she loves me.”

  And Merry loved him, too. Or had. Either way, he’d thrown it away and for what? Because she’d wanted to go skiing and took off her shirt. In the scheme of things, what the hell did it matter? He didn’t give a damn about lost endorsements, humiliation, or anything except the empty feeling in his heart and the chainsaw in his gut.

  “Here’s the thing, Jarrett,” Emile said. “You must measure the screw-up and try three times that amount. If that doesn’t work, you try four times. You try and try and try. Not so unlike hockey.”

  “I am a sanctimonious, judgmental ass,” Jarrett said.

  Emile nodded. “Sometimes. But that’s not all you are. You’re a loyal friend and a good man with a heart made for loving. There’s Miles.” Emile rose. “I will leave you to contemplate how you will try.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was almost closing time.

  Thank God, she could leave as soon as they locked the doors at 11:00 p.m. instead of staying after to clean up.

  She’d done well to get through the rest of her shift after seeing Jarrett this afternoon.

  “Just five more minutes,” Myra said. Then she sighed. “Oh, hell. Here comes somebody. Don’t you think it’s a disservice to dispense caffeine this time of night?”

  “Maybe it’s a trucker.” The door opened and Merry pasted on a smile and moved to the resister. “Good evening! What can we get started for you tonight?”

  And then she met his eyes—gray eyes with lashes like Bambi.

  “Hello, Merry.”

  She felt sick. And she wanted to look at him. And she felt even sicker because she wanted to look at him.

  “Hello.” She picked up a paper cup and wrote Jarrett, * 91 on it. “Hot chocolate?”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Pastry? Lemon loaf.”

  “You all right here?” Myra asked.

  “Sure.” Apparently Myra got that this wasn’t a trucker. She nodded and went to the storeroom.

  “I don’t want lemon loaf. I’ve come for you.”

  “Then you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m not for sale.” She gave him a stony stare.

  “I wanted to tell you that I didn’t know you were working here. I would not have agreed to meet Carla here if I had.”

  “No problem. Starbucks is a public place. You and Carla should come here whenever you like. Come every day. The breakfast sandwiches here are good.”

  “I won’t be meeting Carla here or anywhere in the future.”

  If she’d felt sick for wanting to look at him, she was furious with herself for being relieved at that news.

  Myra came out of the back with the keys. “I’m locking up now, Merry. Should I let you out?”

  “Let me get my jacket.” She removed her apron. “Jarrett, you’ll have to leave.”

  He nodded and went out the door.

  “He’s not leaving,” Myra said. “He’s standing outside waiting for you. Do you want to go out the back? Should I call the police?”

  “No. He’s harmless. Really. I used to date him.”

  “Are you sure you should go out there?” Myra was doing her best to turn this into a melodrama. Starbucks Stalker.

  “He wouldn’t hurt me. See you tomorrow.”

  “Did you walk?” Jarrett asked as soon as she was outside.

  “Yes.” She reached up pull up her hood and realized this was the wrong jacket. It didn’t have a hood.

  “Let’s go somewhere. I want to talk to you.”

  “I am somewhere. And I’m about to be somewhere else—home. I don’t want to talk to you.” The last time I talked to you, a little piece of me died.

  “I understand. I was awful to you. I want to apologize.”

  Don’t! Do not make me go soft on you. I don’t have any emotional coinage left.

  “I accept. Now we’re square. Good luck in the future.” She started to walk away.

  “Merry, wait!” He reached to put a hand on her arm, but she stopped him with a cold stare.

  “Do not put your hand on me.” Because I might melt into you if you do. He withdrew his hand.

  “At least let me drive you home. You’ll be soaked before you get to the end of the block and I’m parked right here.”

  The testosterone mobile was right out in front, though she was surprised she could make it out for the sheets of rain.

  “I’ll be fine.” Fine, but very, very wet.

  “Do you even have an umbrella?”

  “I do. At home.” But it hadn’t been raining when she’d come to work.

  “Merry, please.”

  If possible, the rain came down harder.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “But you are not coming in and I’m not going to talk to you.”

  He looked like he thought he’d won. Little did he know.

  He took out his keys and clicked the key fob. “Stay here for a second.”

  Once he had opened the passenger door, he turned and held out his hand to her. She ran though the rain. When he reached out to help her, she moved away from him and scaled the truck like a squirrel. It wasn’t pretty, but she’d done it without him.

  “Do you like working at Starbucks?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Oh, yes. I’m giving up law school to make a career of it. It was the lemon loaf that put me over the top. Can’t get that in a courtroom.”

  “How’s that going? School?”

  “Well enough.” But it would be going a lot better if I could concentrate on something besides you.

  “I guess you’ve heard that the team isn’t doing too well. There’s talk that we might not make the playoffs. I think we will, but we’re going to have to step it up.”

  “No, actually, I had not heard that. I don’t keep up with hockey anymore.” That was a lie. “You’re about to miss my driveway.” That wasn’t a lie.

  “This rain.” He backed up and pulled in.

  “Thanks.” She reached for the door handle.

  “Merry, please.” He almost touched her but pulled back. “Please hear me out. You deserve a proper apology.”

  He was right about that.

  “You have five minutes.”

  “I was a sanctimonious asshole. I dreamed up who I wanted you to be without considering who you are. But when I said I loved you, it was true. It still is. I’m not good at this, but I’m trying.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I made a list of all the insulting, demeaning things I said to you that day, and I’m going to apologize for each one individ
ually.”

  “No.” She put her hand on his arm to stop him—and all of a sudden, the wind went out of her sails and she wasn’t mad anymore. She just felt very, very tired. “Don’t. I’m well aware of the things you said. I cannot go through the humiliation of hearing you say them again—even if they are piggybacked with an apology.”

  He nodded. “All right. Then let me say this: I am truly sorry. I won’t say I didn’t mean them, because I did. But I don’t mean them anymore. I’ve learned.”

  She let that sink in. “I forgive you.” She looked him in the eye and tried to communicate her sincerity. “It’s good that we had this conversation. Now we can go our separate ways without that hanging over us.”

  “But I don’t want to go our separate ways. I want—”

  And for what would be the last time she would ever touch him, she put two fingers over his lips to quiet him.

  “Shh, Jarrett.” She was surprised at the emotion in her voice. “It can’t work out for us. Too much has happened. I’m always going to be the girl who posed topless to go skiing.” And I can’t go through that again—of seeing you disgusted with me.

  “I don’t care about that. And I can take you skiing.”

  She laughed a little. “I don’t want to go skiing. It was a horrible trip.”

  “What do you want?”

  You. I want you.

  “I want none of this to have ever happened, but since it did, I want to go into my house, take a shower, and go to bed.” This next part was going to be hard. “And I want you to not contact me again.”

  He looked as drained as she felt. He was silent for a moment. “I guess if that’s the only thing I can do for you, I have to love you enough to do it—no matter how much I don’t want to.”

  She nodded and tried to think of something else to say—“Thank you,” “Good luck with the rest of the season,” “If I could turn back the clock, I would,” “I love you, too, and that’s always going to be true.”

  In the end, she gave him a little wave, got out of the truck unassisted, and ran in the house.

  Once inside, she leaned against the door, slid onto the floor, and, for the first time, cried.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I am so sick of this St. Patrick’s Day stuff, I could scream,” Chelsea said. “I want it gone. I want to put out bunnies and eggs, and those darling little papier-mâché carrots.”

  Merry smiled and continued to straighten the birthday cards. “Let’s get through the actual day first. I’ll move it to the table in the back as soon as we come in tomorrow, and you can put Easter on that table.”

  “Always the wise one,” Chelsea said. “If you’ll be okay for a little while, I’m going to make a bank run.”

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  What a difference a month made. She still had her moments, but she wasn’t living in misery anymore—and she didn’t try to catch a glimpse of him going into The Big Skate after games anymore. He had honored her wishes and had not contacted her, which was for the best.

  She still missed him, but like the misery, that would pass in time. Or maybe not. Maybe she would always miss him. Oddly, that was a comforting thought.

  The little silver bell above the door announced a customer.

  “Amy,” Merry said. “I’m so glad to see you.” And it was true. For a while, seeing Amy had done nothing but remind her of better times. “Are you settling in? I saw the moving van last week.”

  Amy laughed. “More or less, but we’re getting a dog tomorrow, so I’m sure everything will be in upheaval again. You have to come over.”

  “I’d love to.” But not to watch hockey. It’s too soon.

  “What can I help you find today?” Merry asked.

  “Actually, I’m not here to buy anything.” She took her iPad out of her bag and Merry’s stomach bottomed out. The last time someone had done that, it hadn’t been good news. “I’d like you to watch something with me.”

  “It’s not a naked picture of me, is it? Because if it is, I’m just not up for that.”

  Amy looked shocked for a moment and then both women laughed.

  “If you can laugh about it, that’s a good sign,” Amy said.

  “What do you want to show me?”

  “Jarrett has a press conference in a few minutes and I think you ought to see it.”

  “A press conference? About what?” Surely he wasn’t retiring.

  “It’s better if you just watch. I tried to persuade him to ask you to come, but he was very firm. He said he’d promised you he wouldn’t contact you, and he wasn’t going to go against that.”

  “How is he?” She had to ask.

  “Good,” Amy said hesitantly. “Not great. He misses you. He knows he made some mistakes. But I’m not here to plead his case. I’m here to show you this.”

  Should she watch? Was it going to send her right back into longing and misery? The answers to those questions didn’t matter much. The thought of watching him was too tempting.

  “All right.”

  Amy leaned the iPad against a stack of catalogs on the counter and fooled with it a bit. “There we go. It’s just starting.”

  “We’re coming to you live from The Music City Ice Center.” The reporter was standing outside the facility. “We’re waiting to hear from Nashville Sound’s forward, Jarrett MacPherson, about an exciting program he’s bringing to the area.”

  “What?” Merry asked.

  “You’ll see.” Amy said. “There he is.”

  He was dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He looked good, happy.

  “I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. As you all know, I had a little excitement in the press a couple of months back, and at the time, I would have given anything to wave a magic wand and make it go away.” Gentle, soft laughter emanated from the crowd. Jarrett put his hand to his head and laughed a little. “Yeah. Good times. But I’m glad I didn’t have that power, because I would have missed some important lessons that I’ve learned since then.

  “We like to tell ourselves how far we have come in terms of making a man’s world into a woman’s world, too. We have made strides, but we still have a far way to go, because we still live in a world:

  Where a sex worker will go to jail while those who avail themselves of her services remain anonymous.

  Where when nonfraternizing rules are broken, it’s the women who are held accountable.

  Where women who pose for nude pictures are ridiculed and demeaned by the very men who pump money into the industry.”

  Merry caught her breath and Amy reached for her hand.

  “Human trafficking is not only alive and well along every interstate in this country, it’s at an all time high. And every day, little girls who know they are girls are told they must be boys.

  “These are just a few of the problems we face in this arena. I don’t have the answers to these problems. I barely recognized them as problems until some ugly truths about myself were laid at my doorstep. Luckily, there are people who have some good ideas about where to start. There will be three phases to the program:

  1. Educating young girls so that they will grow into empowered women;

  2. Providing immediate emergency aid for women in crisis; and

  3. Providing rehabilitation and training for a new life for women who have been exploited.

  “Let me introduce you to something I’m very proud to be a part of: My Body, My Business.” And he pulled a cloth off an easel that sat beside the podium where the words were printed in bold letters on a sign.

  “You’ll notice we don’t have a fancy logo, and we’re not going to have one. We are going to use our money to give a fifteen-year-old girl who has been prostituted since she was thirteen a clean bed and some counseling, and to teach a seven-year-old girl that it’s her body, and her business.

  “In closing I’d like to say I have a mother, a grandmother, a sister, and a niece. I had the love of my life who I stupidly los
t. This is for them.”

  Merry hadn’t noticed that she was crying or that Chelsea had returned until Chelsea put a tissue in her hand.

  “Are you going to go get him?” Chelsea asked.

  “Shh,” Merry said. “He’s speaking again.”

  “Are there any questions?” Jarrett asked. “I’ll answer what I can and get back to you about what I can’t. Yes. First row. Blue blouse.”

  “I have two questions. First, is this your brainchild? Second, how is it being funded?”

  “I came up with a germ of an idea, but the plans you see here today were refined by experts in the field who are much smarter than I am. As to the funding—the startup is coming from strictly private funds.” Which Merry suspected meant Jarrett’s money. “Later, there will be some fundraising, and I understand there are grants and government funding available for certain programs. Next question. Second row, brown jacket.”

  “Is the Sound Organization aware of this endeavor and are they supportive?”

  “They are and they are supportive. If they weren’t, I guess I’d say My Conviction, My Business.”

  “Hey, Saint!” a voice from the crowd called. “What do you have to say about this?”

  And to Merry’s horror a poster board-size picture of Miss January appeared in front of the camera—and there were no censor bands. What followed happened fast. There was a scuffle and the picture disappeared. In the background, someone was being hauled away by police.

  Chelsea gasped.

  Amy said, “Oh, honey!”

  The camera moved to show that Jarrett’s eyes were wide and his lips were parted. Good had crashed into hell and it was all her fault.

  “I’ve ruined this for him. He is doing such a good thing, and I’ve ruined it. This is all anyone will remember.”

  “Wait,” Chelsea said. “Let’s see what he says.”

  Jarrett was at the microphone again. “Well, I wouldn’t have chosen for that to happen, but that’s a prime example of what I’ve been talking about. But for those of you who saw the picture, isn’t she beautiful? And it’s her body, and her business.” There was applause from the crowd.