by Maggie Bloom
“Maybe next time,” I say.
Buttercup sinks his claws into my thigh, and even though it hurts, I don’t stop him. Sometimes, I figure, love is worth the pain.
“You had a good shot,” Orv belatedly tells me, “but you might want to sit out next year. Cycling ain’t necessarily your thing.”
I want to argue with him, but instead I say, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” The car goes silent for a bit, and then I ask, “Hey, Denise, how you been feelin’?” Because I’ve noticed that the pregnancy updates have been scanty and sporadic of late.
She peers over her shoulder at me. And the cat. “Better,” she says with a smile and a soft pat of her belly, “now that the morning sickness is gone.”
I wouldn’t have even known she was ill except for the extra trips to the bathroom she’s been taking at bedtime (morning for her, since she’s still on graveyard) and the piles of crumpled tissues in the wastebasket. “Are you guys gonna find out the sex?” I say, imagining a baby girl with Denise’s kind, oversized eyes and a boy with Orv’s twitchy, lopsided grin.
“Oh, gosh no!” Denise exclaims. “That’d ruin the surprise!” She reaches over and squeezes Orv’s knee. “We’ll be happy with whatever the good Lord sees fit to give us.”
“That’s the right way to look at it, I guess,” I say, hoping with all my might that, if there is a divine power, he/she/it grants Orv and Denise a trouble-free pregnancy and a healthy infant.
For a second, I think of asking about potential baby names (Hell, I’d even had a few monikers on deck during those terrifying weeks I’d thought I might be expecting), but Buttercup’s throaty purring soon lulls me into a hazy, day-dreamy sort of sleep that doesn’t let up until our car hits Gramp’s weed-cracked driveway.
* * *
As it turned out, the goodie bag I received for participating in the Yo-Yo was pretty useful. Because the minute Orv, Denise, and I got home, I slapped the purple flea collar onto Buttercup’s neck (he’s always scratching at some elusive itch or another, and now that he’s officially part of the family, we can’t have him infesting Gramp’s house) and, with my handy new tweezers, dug a few errant shards of gravel out of the road-rash I’ve got splashed up and down both legs.
Then I hit the hay for, oh, eighteen hours, waking up fifteen minutes before the start of my shift.
* * *
Lex Arlington’s tiger-mobile is parked smack dab in front of The Pit, its newly washed and waxed sheen (where did he get a job like that done around here, the bus depot?) nearly blinding me as I hitch the Schwinn to a tree.
“It’s a definite possibility,” Harvey is saying to Lex as I waltz in. “Although I think there are some adjustments to be made.” Harvey leans across the counter and shoots me a nod of recognition that excuses my tardiness. “Bobbi.”
“Hey,” I mumble.
“I remember you,” Lex says, eyeing me with curiosity. “You were a lot…bigger before, right?”
That’s one way of putting it. “I’ve lost a few pounds, if that’s what you mean.”
“Lookin’ good,” says Lex. He reaches for my arm and starts twirling me, so I go along for the ride. (Maybe he’s practicing for an upcoming stint on Dancing with the Stars?)
“Thanks,” I say, flushing with embarrassment.
“We were just hammering out the details of the second annual Yo-Yo, to benefit The Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation,” Harvey informs me.
You know, that’s not a half-bad idea. “Yeah?”
“Yup,” says Lex, looking peacock proud. “This is kind of…what I do now.”
Maybe he’s got a public relations problem, I think (pessimistically, I know). Maybe he’s trying to cultivate a wholesome image to replace his reputation as a self-absorbed cad.
Or he’s just a nice guy.
“You’re going to change the rules, aren’t you?” I ask Harvey, the image of Duncan pedaling around like The Wicked Witch of the West suddenly popping into my mind. “So nobody can have, uh, modified bikes next time?”
Lex grins, shakes his head. “That guy’s a piece of work,” he says about my father. “I have to hand it to him, though: He makes a mean-ass racing machine. We could use a guy like that back in The Hills.”
Hollywood? He wants to take Duncan home with him? “No, you can’t,” I say matter-of-factly. “He’s unstable.” And I’m not so sure this isn’t the truth. I turn to Harvey. “Mind if I use the phone?” I haven’t spoken to Tom since I lost him in the Yo-Yo.
“Knock yourself out.”
I sneak around the counter and head for the back, at the last minute calling over my shoulder to Lex, “It was nice meeting you—again!”
“Likewise!” he yells back.
I don’t know what I was expecting (something a bit neater than this, I guess), but the office is in complete disarray, the remnants of Scott’s and my goodie bag adventure still scattered among many, many of Harvey’s to-do projects.
I smush a pile of sales receipts against the wall and drag the phone to the only clear spot on the desk. Then I punch in Tom’s number and wait, pinching and unpinching the phone cord between my thumb and forefinger like an accordion.
“Hello?” Tom says, sounding as tired as I felt before my sleep marathon.
“So,” I say, diving right in, “I guess you heard—”
“About your dad?”
“Yeah, well…about him,” I agree, thrown a little off track, “and…about the accident.”
“He had an accident?”
My eyebrows pull together. “Huh?”
“I thought he won the race.”
“He did,” I say, confused. “What was the question again?”
“You said he had an accident,” Tom reminds me.
“Oh, no,” I say. “That was me. Justin White and Malcolm Gates started some trouble, then Brent Flynn sort of put a stop to it. But after that I was all flustered, and I saw Buttercup, and my bike got stuck in a rut or something and flipped—”
“But you’re okay?” Tom interrupts, concern rising in his voice. “Right? You sound okay.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” I downplay. “Although I’ll be needing a new helmet.” I chuckle lightly, but he doesn’t join in.
“You saw Buttercup?” he wants to know.
What is it about that cat that makes me happier than anything else can? “Uh-huh,” I say, my eyes involuntarily welling. “Orv and Denise are letting me—or, well, us—keep him.”
Tom’s grin is practically visible through the phone. “That’s cool.”
“I think so.” I dab at the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. “Hey, what happened to you anyway? You disappeared after the first mile.”
With a sigh, he says, “Long story.”
“I’m not doin’ anything.”
“Actually, it’s a short story.”
I joke, “So you’re a liar?”
“Not usually.”
“Go ahead,” I prompt, my curiosity piqued.
“Remember about my leg?” he says.
As a matter of fact, I do. “The hairline fracture?”
“That’s the one.”
“What’d you do?” I ask, my calf aching in sympathy.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It just started acting up and…and I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to stop. Walk it off.”
“You didn’t finish the race?” I say, surprised.
He hesitates as if he’s ashamed to admit it. “Nah,” he says. “There was no way… My dad had to pick me up.”
“That stinks.”
“Eh, it’s no big deal.”
“So we’re both losers?” I propose, trying to lighten the mood.
“Definitely not. We just have bad luck.”
I sense something sappy coming. “I feel pretty lucky,” I say, because it’s true.
“You’re the best,” he tells me, and even though he doesn’t say it, I’m sure he loves me.
And I love him too. “No, you are,” I say,
and we both know what I mean.
* * *
The oddest thing happened two days after the Yo-Yo: I got my period. Of course, when it crashed Geometry, it didn’t offer to explain why it had gone MIA or where it had been holed up for the past four or five months.
And I didn’t bother asking.
But I did bother inhaling every sugary, greasy, ridiculously-bad-for-me morsel to cross my path in the next few days, negating a full four pounds of my weight loss.
I also bothered (mostly due to a raging case of erratic hormones, I’d like to think) to concoct a revenge scheme against Justin White, Malcolm Gates, Evan Richter, Corey Benson, and anyone else I thought might’ve had a hand in destroying the Royale, that involved a velociraptor, a bikini wax, and a pair of needle-nose pliers (not necessarily in that order).
Then came the crying. Over everything. And nothing. Waterworks that would turn Niagara Falls green with envy. Sixteen years worth of upset and frustration, disappointment and shame, spilling like a tipsy barfly’s piña colada five minutes before closing time.
When all was said and done, I felt new, clean, empty; the way a junkie does (or so I imagine) after a good, old-fashioned detox.
* * *
I storm up Tom’s steps with energy and determination (not to mention a string of snarky, rehearsed comebacks for any degrading remarks Wilma might toss my way).
Ding-dong! goes the frog when I punch it.
The door cracks open on a surprised Tom. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, squinting into the sunlight. He glances around, then throws the door open. “Come on in.”
“No, thank you,” I say. I hand him the envelope, which he turns over in his hands, looking confused.
“What’s this?”
I smile. “Open it and find out.”
Tentatively he rips through the seal and withdraws the note card, which features two interlocked hearts (a leftover invitation from Orv and Denise’s wedding that, lucky for me, was blank inside and could be easily repurposed). “Tonight?” Tom says with a glint in his eye.
I nod. “That’s right. Seven o’clock okay?” I ask, reiterating what the invitation has already communicated.
“Yeah. Sure,” he says. “Want me to bring anything?”
I hop up a step and peck him on the lips. “Just my boyfriend,” I say, feeling giddy.
Tom Cantwell is my boyfriend.
He kisses me back. “I think I can arrange that.”
“Good,” I say. Reluctantly I pull away from him and ease back over to the Schwinn. “See you then?”
With a wink, he promises, “Absolutely.”
chapter 20
SINCE ORV and Denise tied the knot, I’ve had Gramp’s house pretty much to myself (instead of hunkering down in anticipation of the baby, the parents-to-be are savoring their last few months of freedom), the result being that I’m on my own, a situation I’ll be using to my full advantage tonight.
Where did I put that damn pepper grinder? I wonder, my nerves beginning to fray (and the marinara sauce I’m simmering threatening to boil over the edge of the skillet).
I shuffle through the crusty old condiments in the refrigerator door until I spy a jar of minced garlic, which I twist open and peer into, its contents largely dried to the walls of the container. Who needs garlic anyway? I think as I toss the thing into the trash. It’s horrible for the breath, especially if kissing might be on the menu.
I never met my grandmother, Gramp’s wife, Lurlene (Lurlene Roberta, to be precise; they called her Bobbi, like me), but I’ve got her handwritten recipe book propped open on the counter, its pages held back with a half-used jar of mayo and a discount-bin (meaning: dented to smithereens) can of black olives.
The recipe I’m following is for basic spaghetti and meatballs, but apparently nothing Lurlene did—in the realm of cooking, anyway—was basic, her tricks of the trade taking two full pages to spell out. Even then, I’m not so sure I’ve got a handle on things.
The proof? As the compact balls of ground beef and breadcrumbs crackle in the bottom of a stockpot, the fresh linguine I snapped up at the Food Lion (it was supposed to be homemade spaghetti, but I had to cut corners somewhere!) starts frothing in waves over the rim of the saucepan, the water sizzling as it hits the red-hot burner and steams away.
I dash to the stove, dial the burner back to its off position and let the linguine sit (the recipe tells me to do this, to keep the pasta al dente, which, based on my experience with the Food Network, I believe means stiff or hard).
For a moment, everything appears to be under control, so I stop to ponder my grandmother’s childlike handwriting, its oversized loops and right-leaning slant reminding me of my fifth grade teacher, Ms. Martin, who, try as she might, failed to get me to perfect my cursive penmanship.
Is it possible to miss someone you never knew? I wonder, feeling a twinge of sadness for me and Gramp, who, the way Orv tells it, lost the love of his life when Lurlene died.
What about Marie? With parents like Gramp and Lurlene, shouldn’t she have had a head start at mothering? Instead, she and Duncan ditched me at their earliest convenience. Maybe she’ll be better with Roy, I think. Maybe they both will.
The meatballs are in need of turning, a task I accomplish with an angled spatula and a sigh. Then I go back to stirring the tomato sauce, if for no other reason than to keep it from charring.
With a sprinkle of oregano, the sauce is a fait accompli. Three minutes later, the meatballs achieve optimum doneness too, a point at which the recipe instructs me to marry the aforementioned ingredients, creating a gurgling, boulder-filled lake of yummy.
I check my watch. The time is six forty-five, fifteen minutes ‘til Tom (which means I’m laudably ahead of schedule). I lift the apron I’m wearing (a Christmas-themed one Denise bought a couple of years ago at Derby’s during a post-holiday liquidation) gingerly over my head, careful not to disturb the tower of curls I’ve been working all afternoon to perfect (although I’m a little concerned that the steam from all this cooking may have put a damper on my retro ‘80s ‘do).
We don’t have a special hook in the kitchen on which to hang the apron, so I give the thing a quick once-over for stains, and, finding none (at least I’m a neat cook, I guess), refold it and deposit it in the bottom drawer of the linen closet, from whence it came.
Then I notice something unusual: silence. I’ve been so preoccupied trying to pull off this dinner that the lack of mewing didn’t even register.
Until now.
I give a couple of quick calls for Buttercup while popping the top off a can of cat food and spooning a generous portion into his dish.
He must be outside, I think, racking my brain for the last time I saw him (was it this morning?).
I wanted Buttercup to be an indoor cat, so I’d always know where he was. But Orv said, at Buttercup’s age, with his history of meandering, it’d be nearly impossible to rein him in (which turned out to be truer than anyone knew, since every time that door cracks open even an inch, the sneak of a cat manages to slip out).
I dump Buttercup’s filmy old water and give him a new drink, just in case he decides to show his sweet, whiskered face tonight.
When I spin back around from the sink, I notice headlights streaming across Gramp’s driveway.
I shouldn’t be nervous (I mean, I’ve known Tom just about forever), but try telling that to my jittery heart, which suddenly seems to think my chest cavity is one of those bouncy houses at a rich kid’s birthday party.
“Coming!” I yell toward the door, even though I’m not sure Tom has knocked. I straighten my abstract-patterned blouse (another nod to the ‘80s) and remind myself to practice good posture, like those girls in the charm school videos with books balanced on their heads.
There is a gentle rap as I swing the door open. “Hey,” Tom says with a smile. He throws a wave over his shoulder at his father, who is already backing that grungy work truck into the street.
I jiggle the doo
r shut behind us and ask, “You’re hungry, right?” (He’d better be, after everything I’ve done to make this night happen.)
He drops his hoodie over a kitchen chair, revealing a black button-down that increases his hotness quotient by a factor of five, at least. “Famished,” he says.
I get the weirdest feeling right then, like I’ve caught a glimpse into a possible future, like Tom has just schlepped in from a hard day at the office and, like a good Susie Homemaker, I’ve got a piping hot meal awaiting him.
For some reason, I shudder.
I like Tom. Maybe even love him. And I wouldn’t mind cooking dinner for him now and then, just not every night. And not at the expense of my dignity.
The table is set with Gramp’s best china (meaning two plates that actually match, although they’ve both got tiny chips out of the edges) and a pair of heavy sapphire blue (Denise’s favorite color) drinking glasses. I’ve also scrounged up all the candles in the house (six tea lights, which I’ve arranged in a floral pattern on a stoneware dish, two tapers that are so tall I had to stand them up in one of Denise’s freebie vases from Welcome Home, and, to complete the look, a gingerbread-scented pillar that’s been kicking around the bathroom for a year or two but has yet to meet a lighter or a match).
Tom takes Orv’s seat at the table, and I plate the linguine, slop some sauce and a couple of meatballs on top, then smother it all with freshly grated parmesan cheese (ooh-la-la!).
“Dinner is served,” I proclaim as I slide the plates across the table.
Tom just stares at his food. “I thought you were making Kraft Macaroni and Cheese,” he says, his tone astonished and confused.
I sit across from him and unroll my silverware. (We don’t own any froufrou napkins, so I substituted the embroidered fingertip towels Denise bought—and never used—for guests.) “I’m not that lame,” I say, suppressing an eye roll. “I can cook a little.”
