Unbreakable

by Ruth Buchanan

  Sharon turned to stare out the darkened window beside the booth. The corners of her eyes glistened in the low light. “I really messed up.”

  Rachel’s stomach cramped. This was awful. How would Lynn handle this situation? Reaching awkwardly across the table, she patted Sharon’s arm.

  Sharon drew back, seeming to find the action more alarming than comforting.

  Rachel removed her hand and curled it around the hot mug. “Take it from someone who’s screwed up more times and in more ways than you can ever imagine. It’ll be OK.”

  “But what if Lee doesn’t forgive me?”

  “What’s to forgive? You were just trying to spare him. Believe me, he’ll understand.”

  Sharon sniffled and swiped a hand under her nose. “I don’t think he’ll see it like you do.”

  “He shouldn’t have put off introducing you. Although now that you’ve met her, you can probably see why.” Rachel leaned back and crossed her legs.

  Sharon’s eyes caught something over Rachel’s shoulder, and she visibly shrank. Rachel turned.

  Lee pulled open the restaurant door, Ian right behind him.

  Rachel flicked a look between the approaching men and Sharon.

  Sharon dropped her gaze and stared into her coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe.

  Seeing this, Lee quickened his pace to her side. Without a word, he grasped Sharon’s arms and pulled her, all fluttering protest, out of the booth and up to the tips of her small feet. He wound his arms all the way around her waist, enfolding her in a bear hug that lifted her into the air.

  “Lee—” she protested stuffily, her face mashed against his chest.

  Ignoring her protests, Lee hitched Sharon higher and pivoted on his heel, stalking toward the door. Sharon batted at him, but he continued with an unbroken stride. At the door, he turned to face them, dropped Rachel a wink, and pushed backward, shunting himself and Sharon into the night.

  As the door swung shut behind them, Ian slid into the booth next to Rachel. “Well.”

  Rachel suddenly became interested in a small nick in the tabletop. She picked at it with her thumbnail. This was the moment. The moment he would tell her that he liked her and he didn’t want her to keep putting herself in danger. The moment of his grand confession. This was the moment when everything would change between them.

  Before she could plan a reaction, Ian leaned closer. “Hold still.” His face was so close.

  She shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Softly, his fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the base of her skull, just behind her ear. Would he tip her face to meet his? A slow flame flickered to life.

  Then she felt a sharp tug, and her eyes shot open. Was he pulling her hair?

  “Wait.” He brought his other hand up to the base of her neck. “Tip your head forward.”

  What was going on?

  “It’s really tangled.”

  Of course. She could feel it now—the careful way in which Ian worked to free something from the snarl of curls at the base of her skull. He wasn’t being romantic: he was grooming her—like an ape. Even so, when his fingers brushed the back of her neck, her stomach dropped away. She tried not to think about how close he was or how she probably smelled. Probably worse than an ape.

  He tugged something loose. “Here we go.” He set a twig next to her coffee cup and smiled.

  Rachel’s heart swooned to the floor.

  Ian leaned back and signaled to a waitress for coffee, looking as if fishing women out of ditches and then untangling twigs from their hair were all in a day’s work for him.

  Who knew? Maybe it was.

  She dared a glance at Ian’s face, but his smile was gone. In its place was the usual passive expression.

  Of course.

  Whatever he’d felt for her when they’d met was long gone by now. He’d come to help Lee, and he’d picked the twig out of her hair as a common courtesy. The tiny flame flickered in a stiff wind. Rachel’s heart resumed normal operations. “Thanks,” she quavered, unsure how to proceed.

  He met her gaze directly. “Rachel, how long have we known each other?”

  Distracted by the proximity of those calm eyes, she floundered with the simple calculations. “Uh…”

  He went on as if she had answered reasonably. “In that amount of time, you’ve had a broken ankle, bruised ribs, a black eye, and a dislocated toe.”

  Rachel folded her arms across her chest. “And?”

  “Today I arrived just in time to watch you take a tree branch to the face and stumble into oncoming traffic with a plastic bag over your head.”

  He had a point. “I can explain—”

  Ian held up a hand, palm out. “I don’t need you to explain. I need you to tell me that there’s a limit to this sort of thing.” He reached for a napkin. He swiped it over his forehead and across the back of his neck, leaving a film of ditch muck.

  “This time it wasn’t my fault!” she protested. “I had no idea Mavis would throw a tree branch at me! I only came because Sharon called and asked for my help, and I had no idea you would show up, either, so you can hardly blame me that you had to see it.” Rachel took a sip of coffee, forgetting that the mug contained battery acid. She shuddered involuntarily as the brew burned its way down her throat.

  “What’s wrong now?” he asked, scanning for clues.

  “It’s this coffee. It’s disgusting.”

  He lifted the mug from her hands and took a careful sip, his lips covering the spot where hers had just rested.

  If she hadn’t been wedged against the corner of the booth, she would have fallen out of it.

  Ian pulled a face as he swallowed. Shaking his head, he placed the mug back in her hands. “That,” he said, “is truly terrible.” He craned his neck as his gaze swept the restaurant, perhaps in search of their waitress so he could cancel his order. Since she wasn’t in direct line of sight, he turned his attention back to Rachel.

  She took the mug and rotated it in her hands, carefully turning the side he’d just sipped from away from her body.

  His gaze flicked from the mug to her face.

  This was it—the moment. He would say something now—something meaningful and important. Only he didn’t.

  Rachel turned her head to stare out the window, fighting for control. It was just as she’d told Ann and Lynn. If he had any residual desire to date her, he would have said something by now.

  She tried not to let her disappointment show.

  After all, there was always Lockstep.

  “You two haven’t ordered yet?”

  Rachel started. She’d been so focused on her inner monologue that she hadn’t even heard the couple approach. Lee slid into the opposite side of the booth and tugged a blushing Sharon in next to him.

  Lee kept hold of Sharon’s hand and braced it against his chest, rubbing her fingers as if they were cold—which they probably were. With his other hand, he slid a plastic menu from the loose stack in the middle of the table. He flicked another across the table toward Ian and yawned mightily. “I’m starving. Corralling a drug addict is hard work. Eat up, everyone. I’m buying. It’s the least I can do.”

  “What happened with Mavis?” Rachel asked, appalled she hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask before. But with Ian sitting so close and smiling at her and pulling twigs from behind her ear, it just hadn’t occurred to her.

  “Well,” Lee grunted, squeezing Sharon’s hand. “Even though she didn’t get arrested, the fact that the police were involved today means she violated her terms with the halfway house.”

  Sharon ducked her head, and Lee squeezed her hand again.

  “She’s agreed to do the full thirty-day program at the rehab center, so that gives me a month to figure out what’s next for her.”

  “A month,” Rachel said slowly. “Isn’t that about how much time you have until the wedding?”

  Lee grunted. “Don’t remind me.”

  “We’ll be ready.” Sharon sounded as
if she were trying to convince herself.

  Lee studied the twig resting next to Rachel’s coffee cup. He raised a pointed eyebrow as he lifted his gaze to her face. “Everything in working order?”

  “I seem to have escaped undamaged. Not like that time right before your senior trip.”

  Lee rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t remind me.”

  “The school hosts this trip every year for the seniors—you know. Anyway, at the last minute, Lee’s mother wouldn’t drive him to meet the bus,” Rachel told Ian and Sharon. “She said he could go, but if he wanted to get to the school on time, he’d have to get there himself. So he called me to come pick him up, which was fine. But when I showed up, Mavis threw a potted plant at my head.”

  Sharon gasped, eyelids a-quiver.

  “You didn’t press charges,” Ian confirmed.

  “She missed!” Rachel laughed.

  Lee’s brow lowered. “But when you jumped out of the way, you fell backward off the porch and scraped your head against the corner of a cement block.”

  Rachel shrugged. “It was just a tiny scrape.”

  “It bled a lot,” Lee said. “It was horrifying.”

  Rachel waved this aside. “Mavis has never liked me.” Although at this point, that probably went without saying.

  She sneaked a peek at Ian. His poker face had given way to something narrow and focused. It reminded her of how he’d looked at her the night Jessica had tried to freefall from the set of Murder Came Knocking, and he’d arrived on the scene to find Rachel huddled in a tiny, aching ball.

  But his voice was mild now as he turned his attention to Lee. “Has your mother always been violent?”

  Lee ran his free hand through his scummy hair, leaving one side standing up stiffly. He nodded slowly.

  “Wasn’t that the trip when Joey Bryant sprained his ankle?” Rachel asked quickly, knowing how much Lee hated talking about his mother.

  “Wrist,” Lee corrected. “And he asked you to sign his splint, even though we told him nobody signs splints.”

  Rachel laughed. “Poor Joey.”

  “We sent him a Save the Date,” Sharon put in. “The next day he called Lee and asked him if you would be there.”

  Ian shifted beside her, and she shot him a smile. “Thank you for coming today. I don’t know what we would have done without you there to smooth things over.”

  Ian nodded. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  ~*~

  For someone who hated driving with a cop in the car, Rachel seemed to be making a habit of it.

  “Thanks for the lift. It would be out of the way for Lee or Sharon.”

  “No problem. Tell me again where we’re going?”

  “Osceola Park. Garcia and I were there when Lee called. Since it was on his way, it just seemed easiest for him to swing by and pick me up.”

  “I see. Is it OK for you to leave work like that?”

  “We weren’t working.” His phone buzzed, and he read the text silently. “Can we make a stop on the way? Garcia needs supplies.”

  Ten minutes later, Ian trotted out of a convenience store toting a small white grocery bag.

  “Ice cream bars.” He answered her unasked question as he folded into the passenger’s seat.

  “How are those supplies?”

  One corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ll see.”

  When they drove around the corner and into the park, all became clear.

  Under the mosquito-clouded lights of the cement basketball court, a heated game was underway. One of the tallest and sweatiest players was Garcia, hair caught in a high ponytail and strong arms on display in a sleeveless tank-top.

  Every other player was a teenage boy.

  “Take this.” Ian handed Rachel the bag of ice creams.

  Although Garcia had given no sign of having noticed their approach, the minute Ian stepped over the line into the court, she pitched the ball toward him without breaking eye contact with the boy trying to block her.

  Ian caught the pass and shot from where he stood, smiling against the howls of protest. The ball circled the rim and spun out. The howls turned gleeful.

  Ian stepped back to Rachel’s side and hooked a finger under the handles of the bag dangling from her wrist. The backs of their hands brushed. “It was worth a shot,” he murmured. Then he lifted the bag and waggled it back and forth. “Ice cream?” he called, just before he was mobbed.

  ~*~

  Rachel sat atop a weather-pitted picnic table, feet on the bench as she nibbled a partially-smashed ice cream bar.

  Garcia sat next to her, still sweating freely. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said around a mouthful of ice cream.

  “Sorry?”

  “Ever since that night at your school when me and Smith found you looking like you’d crawled out of a stampede, I’ve been waiting for him to start bringing you around.” Her dark eyes flashed to Rachel’s. “Been playing hard to get?”

  Rachel choked on her ice cream, and Garcia whacked her between the shoulder blades. “Good girl. Always keep ‘em guessing.”

  Rachel gasped, eyes streaming. “It’s not like that.”

  Garcia’s gaze sharpened as she scanned Rachel. She leaned forward and sniffed, then reared back. “Whew. What happened to you, mami?” She raised her voice, presumably so it would carry one table over to Ian, currently embroiled in an intense arm-wrestling competition. “You both smell like you’ve been rolling in a ditch.”

  Ian met her gaze, his face impassive. “We have.”

  Garcia’s eyebrows shot up, and she eyed Rachel with dawning respect. Whatever expression she saw on Rachel’s face must have pleased her, because she balled up her ice cream wrapper, tossed it into a nearby trash can, propped her hands behind her on the picnic table, and leaned back contentedly. “Happy to hear it. Anything to get Mr. Straightlace over there to loosen up.”

  Howls of protest rose from the group clustered around Ian as he inched his opponent’s arm toward the tabletop.

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said carefully, almost to herself. “He seems pretty great just the way he is.”

  “Oh, really?” A voice boomed directly into her ear.

  Rachel jumped, emitting an undignified squawk that would have astounded her students. Scooting in next to her and leaning directly into her space was a skinny, knobby-kneed teenager with dark, glistening skin and somewhat over-prominent white teeth. He was so close that Rachel could smell his chocolate ice cream breath.

  Garcia leaned behind Rachel and gave him an affectionate, stiff-armed push. “Get out of her face, Demetrius. You’ll scare her.”

  No longer startled, Rachel straightened her spine and leveled a gaze that would have flattened a less forceful personality. The boy scooted back of his own accord, and his cocky grin eased into something more genuine. He stuck out a skinny hand. “Demetrius Washburn.”

  “Rachel Cooper.” Rachel gave his hand two swift shakes. “You’ve got a great name.”

  “Demetrius was a third-century Greek king and military leader,” he informed her, shoulders straight and head up.

  “Demetrius is also from Shakespeare,” Rachel told him. “He’s one of the lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Although that was nothing to be proud of.

  Garcia snorted. “That play’s ridiculous.”

  Rachel knew she’d liked her.

  Demetrius leapt from the picnic table and dropped into a funky little dance step. “Look who has a fancy-pants education,” he cooed, his laugh so infectious it removed any trace of sting his words might have implied. He extended both hands, palms out, for a double high-five.

  Garcia rolled her eyes. “Demetrius is also the name of a silversmith in Ephesus who started a riot against the Apostle Paul.” As Demetrius’s head swiveled her direction, she yawned. “Don’t look so surprised.” She jerked a thumb toward Rachel. “Fancy Pants here isn’t the only one who’s educated.” She extended her hands for her own double high-five.
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  Having vanquished all comers in the arm-wrestling battle, Ian joined them just in time to step in and slap her hands with his. “What’s going on?” His gaze cut to meet Rachel’s. His eyes were warm.

  Heat scorched up her neck. She glanced away to collect herself, only to encounter Demetrius’s leering grin.

  Garcia flipped her substantial ponytail over one brown shoulder. “We’re astounding Demetrius with our vast knowledge.”

  “They’re showing off,” Demetrius said at the same time.

  Ian settled next to Rachel on the picnic table.

  Demetrius stepped back, made L shapes with thumbs and pointer fingers, and turned them to create a frame through which he regarded Rachel and Ian. “Lookin’ good, Five-Oh,” he told Ian.

  Rachel made a show of swatting at a nonexistent mosquito and hoped no one noticed her face igniting.

  Whistling to himself, Demetrius pulled a set of ear buds from his pocket, jammed them into his ears, and ambled away, snapping his fingers. “Later, Shakespeare,” he called over his shoulder.

  “He likes you,” Garcia informed Rachel.

  Rachel smiled, her mouth stretching wide like the Cheshire Cat. She hadn’t spent all these years working with high schoolers for nothing. “I know.”

  ~*~

  “I worked this area in my early days on the force,” Ian told Rachel as they pulled out of the parking lot. “After I made detective, I started seeing familiar faces from the neighborhood cycling in and out of the system. I thought if we could create some trust with the kids in this area, we could maybe get ahead of things. That’s around the time I partnered up with Garcia, and she agreed. She’s actually the one who suggested we start weekly basketball nights.”

  “It was her idea?” Rachel asked, surprised.

  “She’s the one who could play.”

  “You didn’t play in high school or anything?” He seemed like the sports type.

  “I had other interests. I mean, I’m not terrible. And I do play with them most weeks. But mostly I’m just the one who supplies the ice cream.”

  She had a flash of him quoting Sara Teasdale from memory and felt her lips curl at the tips. She flicked on her right-hand turn signal.