Wingmen (Modern Love Story #2, 4, & bonus)

by Daisy Prescott

I licked my bottom lip and chewed on the scruff right below it before smiling at her. “Nope. I’m embracing my bowling ball status.”

  “Good. I’m the birdcage.”

  “And what a lovely birdcage you are.” Our tension lifted and we settled back into right. The even keel comfort between us returned.

  “You have enough fun at the dump?”

  “Best time at the dump ever.” She grinned up at me, her eyes alight with happiness.

  “Glad to hear it. I still don’t know what your favorite ice cream is, but I know you identify yourself as an old birdcage. I think it says more about you than the simple stuff.”

  “I agree, bowling balls.” She reached out and grabbed my hand and swung it between us.

  “We need a new code word.”

  “How about pyramid? I don’t see us managing to bring that into conversation.”

  “We might if we have a heated discussion about Egypt.”

  “Or Mexico.”

  “Or Mexico,” I said at the same time, swinging her hand when we walked over to the truck. “Pyramid it is.”

  “Hopefully we won’t have to use it.”

  I liked her optimism.

  Winter’s iciness thawed into rain and the sun broke through the gray more often when February turned to March. Diane and I hung out, often playing what she dubbed “Truth or Pyramids”—a nod to our code word. The need for an out faded as we learned about each other.

  “Favorite Star Wars?” she asked.

  “Star Wars.”

  “Favorite city?” I asked.

  “London.”

  “Favorite tree?” she asked

  “Cedar.”

  “Favorite body of water?” I asked.

  “A lake.”

  “Favorite fish?” she asked

  “Salmon.”

  And so it continued for weeks. Neither of us ever said pyramid.

  We talked about other stuff: weather, island gossip, zombie apocalypse preparedness, and the probability of a zombie apocalypse. And if zombies existed, then other supernatural creatures must exist, too, which led to reminiscing about our vampire story. Normal stuff. Sometimes we went to the movies. Once we drove to Oak Harbor when she swore she craved fast food only to figure out she had lost her taste for it after going so long without it.

  Occasionally, I’d have a guys’ night out with Donnely. On some of those nights we headed over to town and flirted with women we hadn’t known our whole lives. But I never missed the last ferry. The appeal wasn’t there. Donnely commented, but didn’t make a big deal of it, which surprised me at the time. He also toned down hitting on Diane. Guess he figured she was sticking around and wasn’t giving in to his charms any time soon. Could have been that or she beat him at pool every time they played. Losing damaged a man’s ego.

  After much reminding from my aunt, we found ourselves in her Jeep driving to have Sunday dinner with my family. I kept warning her they might be overbearing or my uncle would probably say something homophobic, but they were good people. She’d never asked about my family again and I’d been nervous she’d find out all the ugly truth. I could have told her upfront, but the topic hadn’t come up. And I was a chicken shit.

  While we bumped along the unpaved driveway through the woods to the house, I filled her in on the list of cousins who might show up. I felt relief when only two cars sat in the driveway. We’d lucked out and my explanations were for naught. No big family inquisition.

  Helen and Peter were as nice as could be to Diane, offering her wine and inviting her to help herself to the homemade cheese-ball or smoked salmon. She politely tried both, asking if Peter had smoked the salmon.

  “John and I did it together. I’m surprised he hasn’t shared some with you already.”

  “I’ve heard legend of his fish sharing, but he’s never brought me any fish.”

  I wondered where she’d heard that … ah, Maggie. They must have talked. Of course they talked. Maggie was her landlord. Made me wonder what else they spoke about. Specifically, what did they say about me?

  Dinner tasted delicious. After we finished eating, Peter invited Diane to sit with him while I helped my aunt with the cleanup. He insisted, even after she offered. Damn him. I hated doing the dishes.

  Helen waved me away from the sink. “Stand here and keep me company while I clean up. You’ll only get in the way.”

  “I knew there was a reason I loved you,” I said, leaning down and kissing the top of her head.

  “I talked to your dad last week. They’re thinking of bringing the RV up this summer. We figured they could park it here on the property for a visit.”

  My spine stiffened at the idea of my father visiting.

  “I can see how happy you are about the idea. He’s your dad, John. The only parent you have. You only get one set to start out with and there isn’t a return policy.”

  “I know,” I grumbled and picked at a spot on her counter with my thumbnail. “I’ll play nice when they come. I promise.” Even to my own ears I sounded like an insincere child.

  “You have a couple of months to practice.” She sighed and patted my arm.

  A change of subject was needed and she chose the exact one I’d rather not discuss with her. If only my code word worked with everyone.

  “Diane seems like a nice girl.”

  Pyramid.

  I leaned back and peered around the corner to see Peter and Diane in the living room. Her soft laughter carried into the kitchen. Nothing appeared out of sorts, nor did she sound uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, Diane’s nice. We’ve been hanging out.”

  “Is that code for dating?”

  “No, in this case it means spending time together, but not dating.”

  “Is that the same thing as hooking up?”

  Pyramid.

  “No, not hooking up. Hooking up is the benefits of dating without the dates if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “Well.”

  “Yeah. Not that.”

  “Good. A nice girl should be respected and treated like a lady. I think your generation would benefit from courting.”

  “Seriously? Courting? My generation? You’re not that old. Dad got Mom pregnant before they got married. Sounds like your generation could have benefitted from it too.” I bumped her hip with mine to emphasize my teasing.

  “Oh, those things have always happened.”

  ‘Those things’ were my brother James, born fourteen months before me.

  “Speaking of the bastard child, how is Jim?”

  “Don’t call your brother a bastard. Haven’t spoken with him, so I guess he’s fine. You should call him.”

  Pyramid.

  “Sure. I’m going to check on Diane. We should probably get going.”

  Peeking into the living room, I spied Peter showing her a framed photo. The familiar frame and the picture in it would open a whole big box of pyramids.

  Why did I think bringing her to dinner was a good idea?

  DIANE WAITED UNTIL we climbed in her car and hit the main road to ask the question. It would have to be asked sooner rather than later. Either way I knew she’d give me the out if I needed it.

  “What happened to your mother?” she asked, her voice soft, concerned. Full of pity.

  Fuck.

  I sat in silence while I debated which answer I’d give her. “Pyramid?” I said, the question evident in my voice.

  “If you want. I won’t pry, but I’m curious. Your uncle didn’t tell me, if you were wondering. He showed me a couple of family pictures and in the later ones she’s missing.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  Her hand found mine on my thigh and she gave it a squeeze before saying, “Pyramid.”

  The word conveyed more empathy than any frown or words of pity. Diane got it. She wouldn’t push and accepted death for the answer. The how’s and why’s didn’t matter.

  “Favorite sp
ort?” Diane asked.

  “Soccer.”

  “Do you still play?” Her question was innocent.

  “Not anymore.”

  “But you did?”

  “I did.”

  “But now you don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  We’d run out questions of ice cream flavors and childhood memories. Lately our conversations wandered more into first kisses, weird scar stories, and beloved, but dead pets.

  “I blasted out my knee in college. Tore both the ACL and MCL.”

  “Playing soccer?”

  “Yeah. I played goalie. If YouTube had been around then, the video probably would have gone viral. Legs aren’t supposed to bend in that direction.”

  I watched Diane cringe and curl up further into a ball in one of my leather chairs. Rain beat the windows and we had blown off a hike for sitting around, watching movies, and waiting for the storm to pass.

  “Ouch,” she said, rubbing her own knee. “Were you good? Before the injury?”

  Chuckling, I absentmindedly rubbed the faint scar on my left knee. “Was I good? Yeah, I was good. Full scholarship and being scouted for the Olympics when it happened.”

  “The Olympics? Really?” I could hear both the surprise and respect in her voice.

  “It would have been a long shot, a very, very long shot, but yeah. I spent the summer training. Stupid asshole slipped on the wet grass when he missed the kick. I dove for the ball and he used my knee to stop himself.”

  “Shit.” Diane rarely swore.

  “Shit is right. I think I blacked out on the field. I’ve never felt pain like that.”

  “What happened after?”

  Pyramid. “I learned what it was to lose everything.”

  “No more Olympics?”

  “No more Olympics, no more soccer, no more scholarship.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Wow.”

  If she only knew how fucked up that summer was. Sucking in a deep breath, I decided to spill the whole horrible tale.

  “It was the beginning of a shit storm in my life.”

  “What happened next?”

  “My mom died.”

  “Oh shit, shit. Shit. The same summer?”

  “A week later.” No turning back now. “You sure you want to hear the story?”

  “Only if you want to tell it.”

  “My mom had driven over to be with me when I had the surgery and set me up in my apartment after.”

  “She sounds like a good mom.”

  “She was.”

  We fell into silence while scenes from that summer flowed through my mind.

  “I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see her, that any of us would see her. She hit a summer snowstorm up at the top of Snoqualmie Pass. White out.”

  Diane stood up from her chair and joined me on the sofa. Tears already crested her lower lids, but she didn’t say anything. If I was going to finish the story, I couldn’t watch her crying. Turning my head toward the windows, I continued.

  “The news said the pass closed because of an accident involving a jack-knifed semi. No one knew if she got trapped on the other side because there isn’t great cell phone service up there. We didn’t know for hours. Everyone kept calling her cell phone. She was dead and her phone kept ringing. And we kept leaving messages thinking she’d forgotten to charge her phone or stopped for something stupid like going to the mall. She never heard any of our messages.”

  “Oh, God.” Her voice nothing more than a whisper, a quiet prayer.

  “She never would’ve been on the pass if not for me and my knee. If I hadn’t pushed to stay for soccer camp that summer, I would’ve been working in the woods with my uncle. It’s my fault she was there.”

  She reached over and took my hand. I contemplated our fingers and then peeked up at her face. She shook her head no. I chose not to argue with her over the facts. It was my fault. All my fault.

  “I guess the state bulls got in touch with the sheriff here on the island so they could let my dad know.” I rubbed my eyes, anger replaced the sadness. “They couldn’t find my dad at home. Or at his usual bar.”

  “Where was he?” Trepidation clouded her words.

  “At Joyce’s house. He was closing his pants when he opened the door for the officer.”

  “No,” she gasped.

  “Yep. Island’s a small place. Didn’t take long for the story to get around.”

  “Oh, John.”

  “Don’t. Don’t give me your pity.”

  “I’m not. I’m just… that’s really…” Her words faded away.

  “Fucked up. It was fucked up.”

  “Beyond fucked up.” She rubbed her nose on the sleeve of that damn gray sweater. “Joyce even showed up at the funeral.”

  “Wow. Wait … Joyce? As in your stepmother?”

  “My father’s wife. Yep. Same woman. He married her less than a year later.”

  “Wow. That’s so wrong.”

  “Yep.”

  The silence wrapped itself around us, cocooning us in our thoughts while we sat on the couch. Diane crept closer and half hugged me, resting her head on my shoulder. I extended my arm behind her, embracing her against my side. Outside the rain fell, making ripples in the puddles on the deck. The house felt like an ark with the two of us alone in the world, alone in the silence of my fucked up past.

  TALKING ABOUT MY mom put an end to “Truth and Pyramids” for a while. Diane tried to stop frowning when she regarded me, but she often failed. Our visits became further apart. I told myself I wasn’t pulling away, but I knew I was lying to myself. There was something uncomfortable having my story voiced aloud that changed everything. I expected the pity and found it. And who wants to see that in someone’s eyes? Not me.

  Storms passed and the skies would clear up for a day or two before another wall of gray clouds descended. Trees and earth began the long thaw into spring while each day grew a little less dark in the morning.

  One Saturday toward the end of March, I stood at the window facing my deck, drinking my coffee while deciding what I’d do for the day. The clouds floated high over the Olympics and the weather guy said they’d clear by the afternoon. Could mean rain all day, but my guess was it would mist rather than pour.

  A knock at the door and Diane waving at me through the glass broke me out of my thoughts. She wore jeans and the ugly cardigan. My eyes wandered to her face and I saw distress in her eyes.

  After motioning her inside, I offered her coffee as a way of greeting.

  “You want cream in it?”

  “Milk’s fine. Sorry for barging over. I know we didn’t have plans, but I needed someone to talk to about this.” I noticed she held an envelope in her hand, crumpled from her grip.

  “Whatcha got there?” I asked, handing her a cup.

  “Letter from Kip.”

  “Who’s Kip?” My brain wandered through the names of her friends and family I’d learned over the past few months. No Kip came to mind.

  She stared at me with her mouth agape. Guess I should have known who Kip was. I shrugged.

  “Kip! Kip Woodley? My ex-husband?” Her voice raised with each word until it reached a high-pitched level of incredulity.

  Racking my memory for some story of her telling me her husband’s name, I still came up blank. “You know, I don’t think you ever told me his first name. We called him Mr. Not-so-Perfect or Woodley. You married a man named Kip?”

  “Kenneth Pennington Woodley Junior, thank you. And I divorced a man named Kip.”

  “Seriously? Could his name be more pretentious?”

  “You’re not listening!” She took out her frustration by throwing the envelope on the counter.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry, I was distracted by Kip. What’s up?” I backed away from her with my hands held up in case she turned completely feral, and attacked.

  “I divorced him. Done. Finito. He’s agreed to the settlement.” She gestur
ed to the crumpled paper.

  “That’s a good thing, right? Being finished with it?”

  “It should be. It is. Only Kip had to add a personal letter to me. Asshole.”

  “And? What did it say?”

  “I only read the first paragraph and headed over here.”

  “Okay. Want me to read it?”

  “No. Yes. No. Gah! He can’t have this hold on me anymore. He lost that right.” She turned and paced to the window and back. Babe watched her from his perch on the couch. Back and forth. Back and forth. On her third lap, I made the decision this wasn’t an event for coffee. We needed whiskey.

  I poured some into her coffee. Maybe a finger or two’s worth. Maybe a little more.

  “Thanks.” Sipping her coffee, Diane flopped on the couch next to Babe and petted his head.

  “Right. Now we’re prepared, do you want to read his letter?”

  “Not really. But I should. I think.”

  “Up to you. You’re legally done with him. There are no ‘have-to’s’ in this situation. Should you? Maybe. Must? No.”

  “Okay, I’ll read it. But not out loud. Is that okay?”

  She was ridiculous, but who was I to push on emotional issues?

  I handed her the envelope and she pulled out the letter— a single typed sheet. What asshole types a personal letter? Right. Her ex-husband. Asshole.

  Her eyes scanned the letter quickly, then settled on the top of the page and moved slowly over the paper. I waited, sitting on the arm of one of the chairs next to the couch.

  Finally, she scrunched up the paper and threw it across the room. Her aim indicated the fireplace, but she missed wide right. She drained the contents of her mug and held it out to me for a refill.

  “Want me to bother with the coffee this time?” I asked, eyeing her before taking the cup.

  “No. Don’t bother.”

  Oh boy. Emotional women were not my thing. I added more coffee to my cup along with some whiskey before facing the potential emotional bomb on my couch.

  Diane drained her cup in two big swallows and cringed. After wiping her mouth on the back of her hand with her eyes closed, she shook her head a few times when the whiskey burned down her throat.

  I kept silent and waited.