When we get there, Aidan refuses to go in until Jace arrives, so we wait at the bumper of the car, Aidan playing with his zipper while I resist the temptation to rifle through my purse just so I have something to do with my hands. I hate that it’ll look like we’ve been waiting for him—even though that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.
A tingle of anticipation zips through me when his red truck pulls in, and from the huge smile on Aidan’s face, I’m not the only one affected. He starts hopping a little on his feet, from one to the other.
To my surprise, Jace is grinning when he gets out of the truck. He’s not treating this as an unexpected inconvenience.
“Thanks,” I say to him, telling my hormones to get lost. This is Aidan’s “buddy.” And my son needs to make connections more than I need to get laid, even if Molly’s right and there are spiderwebs in my vagina. Besides, it’s not as if a man like him would ever look twice at me. He probably dates models. Or bartenders. Or the type of women who keep snakes for pets and take pictures of them writhing sinuously around their bodies. “I appreciate you making the time. I know you were only expecting to spend an hour with him today.”
He shoots me a look that’s almost annoyed. Um, okay.
“It’s no imposition. I’m happy to spend time with Aidan.”
“Come on,” Aidan says, offering Jace his hand as if I’ve become vapor. “You know, you should get almond milk too. Human bodies aren’t equipped to process cow milk. We’re only supposed to drink breast milk, like how Mom fed me when I was a baby.”
Dear God. I think my flesh has permanently become red. Jace doesn’t glance back at me, thankfully, and I follow them in, silently reminding myself to be grateful. This is the most I’ve heard Aidan speak to a nonfamily member for a month, and while he often attaches himself to one person at a time, letting everyone else fade away like they’re wallpaper, I’m still totally gobsmacked that this Butterfly Buddies thing has worked out so well.
So why can’t I stop myself from checking out Jace’s butt in his slightly worn jeans?
The Chocolate Lounge is going well. Sometimes it’s hit-and-miss because Aidan doesn’t like crowds or do well in them, but his focus is totally on Jace. Although Jace does ask me what I do—lawyer—and responds that he totally “sees that,” whatever that means, I mostly stay silent while the two of them talk. Actually, Aidan does most of the talking, telling Jace statistics about his favorite dinosaur (the ankylosaurus), but I soak in my son’s good cheer. He hasn’t been happy much since Glenn left. Glenn was a mostly absent father, but he was still Aidan’s dad. That meant something. Or at least it did to me and Aidan. Yet, a little voice in my head whispers that Glenn never listened to Aidan with this much interest, as if he actually cared about what he was saying. He’d have been scrolling through his phone twenty seconds in.
Aidan pauses the dinosaur talk to say, “We don’t have to play that matching game again on Thursday, do we, Jace? The library has a copy of Race to the Treasure, and that’s a much better game. I used to have it, but Mom left it at Nana and Gramps’s house.” He gives me an accusatory look that tells me I’d better order a replacement.
Thankfully, Jace isn’t the sort to get offended easily. “Sure, buddy. I’d love to learn something new.” The easy way he says it warms me to him.
“Well, if you want to learn something new, I can tell you about the ankylosaurus’s natural enemies.”
Jace might be bored out of his skull, but if he is, he isn’t showing it, and I take the opportunity to order the game for Aidan on my phone.
We don’t stay long, because I have my mysterious Molly meeting to get to, but after we say goodbye and I get Aidan strapped into his booster seat, I notice Jace’s truck is still in the lot. On a whim, I tell Aidan, “I’ll be right back,” and rush over to Jace’s truck. His ocean eyes widen when I appear by his window.
“Everything okay?” he asks as he rolls the window down.
“Yes,” I say, realizing I’m panting a little. God, I’m a mess. Still, I have to tell him this. “Thank you. I…I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sure about this whole thing. But Aidan’s really taken with you. It’s wonderful to see him so happy. He hasn’t been since…anyway, thank you for that. I…” Oh, no. Are there tears in my eyes? What on earth is happening to me? “Anyway. I just wanted to thank you.” I’m repeating myself, and I probably sound exactly as tired as I am, but when I meet his eyes again, I’m surprised by how they’ve softened.
“My nephew and I were close,” he says, leaning toward me a little. “Aidan reminds me a little of him. It’s really meaningful to me…spending time with him.”
The way he says it makes me wonder if the little boy died. A gasp escapes me, and I lean forward, but he pulls back in the car as if he’s worried I might try to kiss him. Oh my God, did he think I was going to?
Mortification roils through me. “Okay. So. Anyway. Thank you. Yeah, I said that. I’ll see you on Thursday. Not for hot chocolate but when I come to pick up Aidan.”
An alarm goes off in my head, practically chanting, Exit, exit, exit.
He displays that little half smile again, and I have to wonder if he’s laughing at me. People do that sometimes. Because I’m too literal. Because I’m almost as socially awkward as Aidan. Because when you strip away the mask of manners and professional dress, I don’t know what to do with myself. At least I came here in my work clothes. At least I have that to cling to.
“Goodbye, Mary,” he says. “I’ll get hot chocolate with you anytime you like.”
Then he puts the truck in reverse and leaves.
My mind is working overtime—anytime I like? Did he mean anytime Aidan likes?—when I hear a woman calling out, “Holy Christmas crackers! Someone left a little kid in this car. Are you okay, kid? Micah, why isn’t he saying anything? Does he have enough oxygen?”
Which is my cue to run back to the car. The woman is tapping on the window as if Aidan were a goldfish, and he is, understandably, cringing away.
“He’s fine, ma’am,” I say, trying to tamp down my annoyance. “The car is on, and he’s six.”
“So you’re saying he could just drive away if there’s a problem?” she snaps, turning on me in a cloud of brown hair and perfume. She’s getting in my face, and I feel a familiar slick of discomfort on my palms. “I don’t know where you come from, but kids around here don’t drive at age six.”
“Here,” I mutter, pushing past her. “I come from here. And he’s just fine.”
Maybe if I keep telling myself that it’ll be true.
I hear her mumbling something about young people these days, even though she looks to be my age, or maybe younger, but then I get the door closed, and it’s just me and Aidan.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t like that woman,” he says, grazing his lips with his nails. “Can I have my blanket?”
I fetch it from the trunk, ignoring the woman, who calls out, “Leaving him again, huh?” which twangs an uncomfortable song on my nerves. Because one parent walked out on Aidan, and I’m going to make damn sure I’m always there for him, even if I have to staple our sleeves together. The rest of the evening passes without any sort of mishap, although Aidan kept his weighted blanket on the whole way home. I pack him off to Maisie’s, stopping in for long enough to kiss the baby—Mabel is another redhead, bless her; our father would be tickled by that—before continuing on to Molly’s house.
It’s a bit of a fixer-upper that never got to the fix-up stage, but Molly and her two roommates seem to love it. I’ve only met them once or twice. They seem nice, though, like the kind of friends you could call at two in the morning if something happened. I’ve never really had friends like that. The only people in my life like that are Molly and Maisie, but I don’t think I’d ever call either of them at two in the morning.
The thing is, I’m the big sister—I’m supposed to take care of them, not the other way around. I remember my mom making a point of that one day after
Molly darted into the street when she and I were walking the family dog. She almost got hit by a car, and Mom grabbed me by the shoulders and said it was up to me to keep her safe because I was her big sister.
Too bad I’ve always sucked at being a good one.
I immediately head around back, as Molly instructed, just in case one of her roommates has a guest over. An acquaintance in college told me that someone will hang a sock on their doorknob to tell their roommates they’re getting busy, and I don’t want to walk in and see a bunch of socks. I think I’ve blushed enough for one day.
Only one person’s waiting in the back, though, and it’s not Molly.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, glancing around as if Molly might be hiding under the picnic table. “Molly told me to come back here.”
Her scary friend, the one with the pink hair and nose ring, nods. “She did. Because I told her to. This, Mary O’Shea, is your intervention.”
“Intervention?” I ask. “I’ve never even smoked a blunt. Heck, I’ve only been drunk twelve and a half times.”
“Exactly,” she says with a healthy dose of disgust. “Does that sound like a person who’s living life?”
“Actually, it does,” I say, keeping my distance. My heart is racing, although I’m not sure why. “It sounds like someone who’s doing a good job of not dying.”
She shakes her head with something like pity, and to my shock, I find myself taking a step toward her. Then another. “The fact that you think they’re the same thing says it all.”
“One of those twelve and a half times was on Thanksgiving,” I admit. “So, I don’t actually remember your name. Or know why you’d think I need an intervention.”
“I’m Nicole,” she says, not offering her hand for a shake. “And you should probably sit down. This might take a while.”
I glance around again. “Does this mean Molly’s not coming?”
“She and her roommates went out for dinner.”
“That sounds nice.” I’d rather be with them, to be honest, but it would be rude to say so. Still, I take another step closer.
“You’d rather be with them,” she says, her expression smug. “I can see right through you.”
Some residual anger from the other night, the terrible Not-Santa night, bubbles back up. “Good. Then maybe you can fill me in on what, exactly, I can do to make my life not suck. I’m all ears.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says with a smile, her teeth sharp and almost feral. “I’m starting a new Bad Luck Club, and I want you to be my first sponsee.”
I know what she’s talking about. Actually, anyone with an internet connection would probably know what she’s talking about. Molly’s boyfriend, Cal, and his father, Bear, started a club to help down-on-their-luck people turn their lives around. It became kind of a media sensation, what with someone stealing their idea and writing a bestselling book about it. Molly was the one who revealed them as the true creators, and since then it’s gained even more of a following—with Bear appearing on a major talk show to tell his story.
So, yeah, I know about the Bad Luck Club.
But my life’s not that bad, is it? I’m floundering, yes, but I have a good job, I have a roof over my head, and I’ve never struggled to put food on my son’s plate. I’m doing okay when it comes to the things that matter.
I venture to say so, and Nicole laughs in my face.
“Someone’s always going to have it worse, but from where I’m sitting, you need plenty of help. You’re a single mother with a special-needs child. You probably haven’t had an orgasm in five years, and you’ve only been drunk twelve and a half times. Oh, and your parents died when your little sister was only seventeen. Molly needed a guardian, and she chose to stay with your middle sister rather than you. Does that about sum it up?”
God, when she puts it that way…
Did I tell her all of that on Thanksgiving, or does she know some of it from Molly? I feel a little pulse of anxiety at the thought of Molly having shared so much. Does Nicole also know about our dad?
Before our parents died, Molly found out that he was cheating on our mom. She tried to tell me back then, but I refused to listen to her, even though I knew she was probably right. Mom had confided in me in ways she hadn’t confided in my sisters, and I knew how much she’d struggled with Dad’s flightiness. Yeah, some big sister I’ve been. I told myself I was protecting her and Maisie, that I was doing and saying what my mother would have wanted, but maybe I just didn’t feel capable of dealing with another heartache. Molly and I have healed our relationship, mostly, but I haven’t forgiven myself. I shouldn’t forgive myself, for that and a whole filing cabinet’s worth of other things.
Still, that’s not how I respond to Nicole. For some unearthly reason, I sputter, “Please. Five years ago? Try never.”
My alarm bells go off instantly. I shouldn’t have told her that. It’s insane for me to have told her that. I don’t know this woman at all. For all I know, she could have snuck onto Molly’s property both times I’ve talked to her. Maybe she’s a complete stranger who’s stalking me. Like Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character in Single White Female.
Please, Mary. Who would want to steal your life?
Nicole’s eyes widen, and then her mouth stretches into an even bigger, scarier smile.
“Oh, we’re going to have fun,” she says.
Chapter Four
Jace
My apartment is quiet, just like it always is, but the energy feels off tonight, like the quiet is louder than before.
My laughter breaks the silence, because that’s a stupid-ass thought—even if it rings true—and it’s such an Asheville thing to think. Energies, auras, inner peace, yada, yada, yada. I’ve probably just absorbed too much of the energy around me in this city, no pun intended.
Yet there’s no denying I feel lonelier tonight than I have in a long time.
I shouldn’t have met Mary and Aidan for hot chocolate. It was an impulsive decision, much like most of my worst mistakes. Still, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
Mary O’Shea intrigues me more than she has a right to. Far more than any woman has in a very long time. But there’s no denying she’s one of the most uptight women I’ve ever met. She probably has her cereal dumped into labeled plastic containers neatly lined up on a shelf and a color-coded calendar on her phone. She’s the kind of woman who cares what other people think about her and her son, and to be honest, women like that have never interested me. I don’t need a woman to micromanage me.
So why the hell am I thinking about her as anything other than the mother of my buddy?
Aidan reminds me so much of Ben it hurts. So deep in his head he’s not sure how to get out. When he mentioned that the only milk that’s good for human consumption is breast milk, I nearly lost it. Until I saw Mary’s creamy cheeks turn pink. It would take a stronger man than me not to think of her breasts flushing that way too.
I knew right then that I should make my excuses and go. But I didn’t. And then Mary ran up to me after we said goodbye, her cheeks pink again, her eyes warm, and said something to me that obviously wasn’t planned. I can’t deny that sharpened my interest. Because what would it be like to help a woman like her lose control? What would it be like to be the man who made her lose her mind?
There’s a rapping at my front door, and I look up from a Hungry-Man frozen dinner on my thrift store kitchen table. A small smile lifts my lips. I don’t bother answering—this particular guest doesn’t expect an engraved invitation—and, sure enough, it opens and in comes Roger, my eighty-seven-year-old neighbor from across the hall.
Bingo, stretched out on the back of the couch, watches him enter with a look of disdain. Then again, I think that look is permanently frozen onto his face.
“What kind of dinner is that?” Roger asks hopefully, leaving the door ajar behind him. I could ask him to close it, but I don’t. There’s a chance Mrs. Rosa will drop in as well, and this way I won’t have to get up
to let her in. It won’t hurt to leave the door open. Bingo thinks he has it too good here to try to escape.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say as I get up and grab another meal from the freezer and pop it in the microwave. “You should know by now that these things taste like shit, but they say it’s food.”
His lips press together with a scowl. “Hmph.”
“What did Meals on Wheels bring you today?”
Roger is living on a fixed income that is pretty broken as far as I can tell. When I moved in here a few years ago, I realized he was eating soup so thinned out he was practically drinking flavored water. I started inviting him over for dinner and leaving cat food in his cupboard. Cleo, an orange tabby cat, was Roger’s only friend at the time. Just like Bingo used to be my only friend. Turns out being imprisoned for grand theft auto helps you figure out who your real friends are—and I didn’t have any. Roger and I have become friends (Mrs. Rosa calls it a May–December friendship), but Cleo and Bingo still hate each other.
Can’t win ’em all.
Roger comes over almost every night now, right around dinnertime, so I always make sure I have enough to feed him too. The only reason he didn’t eat with me last night was because he got roped into playing bingo at the VFW by a veteran he worked with back in the day. The guy had been bugging him to do it forever, and Roger finally relented. But as soon as he got back, he dropped by to let me know bingo wasn’t for him—no insult intended to Bingo the cat—and went straight to bed.
“Meh.” He waves a hand as he sits in the chair across from mine. The table is small and round and covered in chipped white paint, and none of the four chairs match. One is black with spindles, two are white with slat backs, and the one I just vacated is a simple oak. I used to have a nicer set before I went to prison, but I have no idea where it is now. Somewhere in Sydney, North Carolina, probably. I spent my entire life there until my sentencing.
Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club) Page 4
