Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
OWEN
April 28
This gel is only barely strong enough to tame my thick hair, and despite my attempts, a rogue curl keeps popping free and draping itself over my forehead. It detracts from the polished Navy pilot image I’m going for, but I like imagining Wyatt brushing it off my forehead tonight.
My dad’s girlfriend—and yes, it’s still weird to say that about my father, a bachelor widower for the last twenty-five years—is on the board of a nonprofit that supports women leaving violent relationships. They offer housing, legal and financial support, and counseling. For this year’s gala, Corianne decided to “put the fun in fundraiser” and switch from the usual boring plated rubber chicken dinner to an all-night eighties-themed dance marathon.
Which means that not only do I have to stay up all night, I have to do it in costume.
But it’s for a good cause, and my dad has bent over backward for the five us his whole life. Corianne makes him happy, so I’ll do what I can to make her happy. That’s what family does.
Which is why I’m wearing an army-green flight suit and black boots, a pair of aviators perched on top of my head.
I reach for the faucet to wash the pomade off my hands, but when I turn the knob it just sputters and dies.
“Felix!” I shout, already halfway down the hall to hunt him down.
I find Felix on his back on the kitchen floor, his head in the cabinet beneath the sink. The kitchen is a disaster, wet towels surrounding him, half the cabinet doors leaned up against the wall, waiting to be painted.
They’ve been waiting since President’s Day.
My brother has been a tinkerer all his life, from Lego sets as a kid to gathering up the wood scraps Dad had lying around his workshop to make avant-garde birdhouses. He went to school for engineering, finishing his BA and master’s in five years, but after only a month at his first job with a big Chicago firm, he realized a desk job wasn’t for him. So he moved home and became Cardinal Springs’s most sought-after handyman while he worked toward his contractor’s license.
Unfortunately, he spends an ungodly amount of time honing his craft in the little house we share. There’s a newly built deck off the back that still needs staining, our hall bath is partially tiled, and the basement has an in-progress wet bar in the far corner. And that’s to say nothing of our living room, which sports six different paint samples splotched on the wall and an uncaulked chair rail.
My brother is as reliable as they come if you hire him to work on your house, but when it comes to his house, his ADHD gets the better of him.
But I can’t complain. The rent is cheap, and when he does manage to finish a project, it always turns out spectacularly. Like the outdoor kitchen with a gas grill, flat top, brick oven, and weatherproof sixty-five-inch television with surround sound. The first time he grilled steaks while we watched the Cubs opening day, I forgave him for all the early mornings he woke me up hammering on the wall outside my bedroom.
But when he does things like turning the water off without telling me, I get testy.
“Where’s the water, dude?” I ask, kicking the sole of his dirty work boot. “And also your costume? We’re supposed to leave in ten.”
Felix gives whatever tool he’s holding a final twist, then slides across the partially stripped wood floor of our kitchen.
“Needed to fix this leak, so I shut off the water. But it’s fine now, so I can turn it back on.” He wipes his hands on a rag and looks up at me. “Good look, Goose.”
“I’m Maverick,” I scoff. “Goose dies. What the hell are you?”
My twin brother is wearing a pair of jeans, a plaid pearl-snap shirt, and dusty, beat-up old work boots.
Which is what he wears every day to the jobsite.
“I’m the guy from Footloose . Kevin Bacon?”
I roll my eyes. “Kevin Bacon is the actor. And that’s a weak costume, bro. Those are your regular clothes.”
Felix shrugs. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it. Going to be kind of hard to drag Wyatt Hart to the janitor’s closet when you’re wearing a onesie.”
“It’s a flight suit,” I say, glancing down at my costume. “And don’t talk about Wyatt like that.”
Felix’s eyes shoot up at the heat in my tone.
“’Sup, Goose,” Dan says as he strolls into the kitchen.
“I’m Maverick!” I tap the patch on my chest where I wrote it out in Sharpie. “Where’s your costume?”
Dan is wearing his usual crisp black suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The only variation on his usual workwear is the blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, paisley tie, and matching suspenders.
“This is my costume,” he grunts. “I’m Gordon Gecko. From Wall Street .”
“You guys have no sense of fun,” I grumble.
“What the hell are you two supposed to be?” Archer, our oldest brother, booms as he walks in, studying Dan and Felix. He’s dressed as a ghostbuster in a light beige jumpsuit, complete with a homemade laser gun on his back.
“Sweet proton pack,” Felix says.
Archer spins to show off the blue and red lights that actually glow.
“Betsy made it,” he says, his grin wide, as it is whenever the twelve-year-old daughter of his beautiful next door neighbor comes up. She’s become the joy of my brother’s life these last few months. “That kid is so fucking creative, unlike you jokers. Footloose and Gordon Gecko? Snooze.”
And then, without breaking eye contact, he holds up a hand and silently high-fives me.
“Where are Betsy and Madeline, anyway?” Felix asks.
“They’re meeting us there. Betsy wanted her costume to be a surprise.”
“You guys are hanging out again?” I ask. The last time I drove by, I noticed that the BMW that’s been in Madeline’s driveway the last few weeks has disappeared.
Archer shifts in his work boots. “Same as always,” he replies, and before I can pepper him with more questions, he raises his eyebrow. “You hanging out with Wyatt Hart?”
Archer and I glare at each other. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours , he’s saying silently.
Not a chance in hell , I reply with my eyes.
“Good talk,” I finally say.
“Back atcha,” he replies.
Dan silently rocks on his heels.
“The three of you need to loosen the fuck up,” Felix says as the slams the lid of his toolbox. “Now let’s go dance.”
I’ve barely seen Wyatt in the two weeks since I ran into her at the grocery store. That night had all the makings of a disaster. I remember the panic coursing through my body, coiling tight in my muscles. My temples felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, and all I wanted was a dark, quiet room.
Not that sleep would have come for me. I knew I was well on the road to lying in my bed, staring at my dark ceiling, and willing my brain to slow down, to cut me some slack, to get a fucking grip. Those kinds of nights used to plague me often back in medical school, and I’d lie awake combing through all my mistakes, noting my near-misses, and cataloguing my catastrophes.
Now that I’m out of the pressure cooker of med school and residency and life in the emergency room, sleepless nights come less frequently, but they still come. Usually after a day when everything’s gone to shit, but sometimes for no reason at all.
When they come, I try my best to do the calming breathing techniques the therapist gave me back in residency. But usually I wind up just waiting it out. By the time the sun rises, I can take the fresh start and move on. Well, after some ibuprofen and coffee to deal with the insomnia-related migraines.
Anxiety hangovers, if you will.
But that night in the grocery store, everything went a different way. Wyatt showed up out of nowhere, interrupting my thought spirals, catching the herd of squirrels racing around my brain and soothing them to sleep.
If I hadn’t had to put seven stitches in Erica Montour’s forehead, I would have taken Wyatt home and used all that energy to show her my appreciation. Because after months of reticence, whatever hang-ups have kept her from me seem to have dissipated. She wanted me that night. She’s ready to let go, and I am too.
And tonight, I’m finally going to be alone with her.
Well, her, my entire family, and damn near everyone else in this town.
Still, I don’t plan on letting anything interrupt us tonight. Even if I have to get creative.
As soon as I step through the doors with my brothers, I begin scanning the crowd for her. Last I saw her, the streaks in her dark curls were a gentle lavender, and that’s what I look for in the sea of dancers in brightly colored costumes clustered around the half court line of the Cardinal Springs High School gym. The smell of bleach layered over old basketballs and body odor brings me right back to my teenage years. In fact, with the balloon arch, the refreshment table, and the DJ set up underneath the scoreboard, it looks almost identical to our senior prom.
I spot three different Cyndi Laupers bopping around the floor and a number of hair metal wigs, but I don’t see her.
Beside me, Archer busts out laughing so hard he nearly falls over on me.
“What the hell?” I mutter, rubbing my arm, but then I see the little girl weaving through the crowd wearing a denim shirt and bell-bottoms, a paint palette and brush in her hand and a brown permed wig on her head.
And then I’m laughing too.
“Betsy, that costume is incredible,” Felix says, giving her a high five, and even Dan is grinning.
“What did I tell you about this kid?” Archer says as he pulls her in for a noogie on her Bob Ross wig. “Creative as hell.”
“Don’t light a match near her—I filled that wig with enough hairspray to burn a hole in the ozone layer,” Madeline says, pushing through the crowd behind her daughter. She’s dressed in a white lace corset and skirt, and she’s got a drawn-on beauty mark and a bandana in her hair, looking just like a brunette Madonna.
Archer’s laughter dies in his throat, his mouth hanging agape as he takes in his neighbor in costume.
“Be cool,” I mutter beneath a cough.
Archer’s mouth snaps shut, but it takes him a couple of slow blinks to finds words again. “You look great, Madeline,” he says, his voice cracking only a little bit on her name. Felix stifles a laugh beside me.
“Thanks,” Madeline replies, and I can’t tell if it’s the lights, her makeup, or the way Archer can’t stop staring at her that’s causing the pink in her cheeks.
“Can we dance ?” Betsy pleads. She starts dragging Archer toward the dance floor with one hand, the other reaching for her mother’s hand.
“Yeah, of course, kid,” Archer says, and the three of them disappear into the crowd as the DJ cranks up a Whitney Houston tune.
As much as I want to stand around watching Archer try to dance to “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” while attempting not to drool all over Madeline, I have to find Wyatt.
I leave Felix and Dan and take a lap around the dance floor, but I don’t spot her. I do spot Mrs. Tingle, dressed as Prince in a purple suit, shimmying with her cane.
“Looking good, Mrs. T. You in it for the long haul tonight?”
“I’m only staying until ten,” she says, fanning herself with a sequin-gloved hand. “After that I turn into a pumpkin. But I couldn’t resist the chance to rock this costume. Betsy says I have ‘rizz,’ which from context clues seems like it’s pretty good!”
“You have mad rizz, Mrs. Tingle,” I assure her—I learned the word from the kids at the practice. They keep me young, even if they look at me like I’m a hundred and five.
“Well, don’t waste your time standing here with an old lady. Tonight is a perfect night to make your move on your favorite bartender.” Mrs. Tingle gives me her sauciest grin.
“Way ahead of you on that one,” I assure her. “I just need to find her.”
“Good luck, my dear!” she replies, and then “When Doves Cry” echoes through the gym. “They’re playing my song!” And then she’s gone into the crowd.
I take another lap, but I still don’t find Wyatt. I do find Decker and Grace, though. It’s hard to miss them in their green spandex, giant cardboard turtle shells strapped to their backs.
“Nice costume, man,” Decker says. “Wish I’d thought of it. These tights are really riding up.”
“Hey, I wanted to be Barbie and Ken, but you nixed that,” Grace says.
“Too obvious,” Decker says, and Grace opens her mouth to object—it’s obvious they’ve already had this little fight a few times—but Decker charges on. “If we weren’t Ninja Turtles, you wouldn’t have gotten to show off your mad crafting skills. You know, she made these costumes from scratch.”
I realize he’s talking to me a beat too late because I’m busy scanning the crowd for Wyatt.
“She’s running late,” Grace says. “She got stuck at the bar.”
“Who?” I ask, as if it’s not obvious. Even I can hear how pathetic I sound.
Grace rolls her eyes. “Don’t even try it, Owen. She told me you kissed her.”
I smirk, calling up the memory of her fingers digging into my back as her tongue tangled with mine. “I think she did some of the kissing too.”
Grace squeals, loud enough that I hear it over the crowd shouting along to “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
I shake my finger in her face, which I know she hates, but I also know it will get her attention. “Nope. Nuh-uh. None of that. Wyatt doesn’t want it, and I’m not going to push her.”
“She told me that too,” Grace says with a smug smile. “I’m on your side.”
“No meddling, Cherry,” Decker warns. I don’t know what that nickname means, and given the way my sister blushes, I won’t be asking.
“I need a drink,” I mutter. I underestimated how loud and social this event would be without Wyatt to distract me, and while I’m very good at extroverting, there comes a point at which it exhausts me. And I’m starting to hit my limit with the loud eighties playlist ringing in my ears.
“It’s a dry gym, unfortunately,” Decker says, and my heart sinks, but then he reaches beneath his cardboard turtle shell and pulls out a flask. He passes it to me with a wink. “Just like old times.”
“Back in high school, I’m pretty sure you and Archer filled your flask with flat ginger ale and jalapenos and tried to convince Felix and me it was moonshine,” I remind him.
Decker laughs. “You guys acted like you were wasted for a good hour before you figured it out.”
“Yeah, and Felix still barfed because that shit was disgusting.” I shake my head, laughing. I’m definitely going to have to remind Felix of that memory later.
I head off through the crowd, the flask tucked in the pocket of my flight suit. I drop my aviators over my eyes like I’m on a covert mission, and when I get to the refreshment table, I quickly fill a cup with pink punch from the enormous crystal bowl at the end. Then I tuck myself into a corner, glancing around like Principal Paterno is going to appear and give me detention at thirty-one years old, and top off the punch with what I think is gin.
The cup smells like every one of my high school indiscretions, and it nearly goes tumbling right out of my hand when I see her.
Because Wyatt steps through the doors of the gym, backlit by the lobby lights, wearing only a black leotard, a soft gray sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, and a pair of short black leg warmers.
I’ve never seen Flashdance , but that doesn’t mean the movie poster didn’t imprint itself on my teenage brain.
She looks delicious.
As if she can feel my eyes on her, her gaze finds mine right away. She raises her hand in a little wave, the other tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt in a way that is demure and sexy and scandalous all at once.
I toss the cup into the nearest trash can and feel myself moving before I even realize I’m doing it. I think I hear Mrs. Tingle say, “Go get ’er, tiger,” but I can’t be sure. All I know is that I need that woman in my arms. Now .
But Ernie, the owner of the Half Pint, beats me to her. He holds out his hand, and with a quick look my way that says what are ya gonna do about it , she steps into his arms for a slow dance.
What am I gonna do? I’m gonna wait until this song is over like a goddamn gentleman and then claim her as my own. That’s what I’m gonna do.
But the eighties synth slow jam barely ends before Archer steps up. Some yacht rock song fills the gym, and they sway together to the gentle beat. I grit my teeth, stepping a little closer so I’ll have a better shot next time, but still, I wait. As soon as the song starts to fade, I’m striding over.
Only Decker, the motherfucker, slides up, pulling Wyatt into his arms and dipping her to the Phil Collins song that’s just starting. Beside them, Grace covers her mouth and giggles. I thought she was on my side.
“Traitor,” I mouth in Decker’s direction, but he just gives me a devious grin.
And on it goes, Felix jumping in, followed by Dan, who I didn’t even realize knew how to dance. Mrs. Tingle is next, and luckily for me, she tires before the end of Toto’s “Africa.” Unluckily for me, Archer is back and ready to take her spot before I can even come close to gathering Wyatt to my chest.
I’m about to hip check Archer directly into the bleachers when Felix appears at my side, distracting me so Dad can take his turn with Wyatt on the dance floor.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say to my twin brother, exasperated.
“Good things come to those who wait,” Felix explains, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans in a classic Felix McBride aw, shucks little brother move even though he’s literally four minutes younger than me.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“You bet your ass I am. After Dad comes his whole bowling league.”
I glare at my twin. “Why are you doing this to me?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s fun. And because I can’t remember the last time you had a crush.”
“I don’t have a crush!” I throw my arms up. “This isn’t high school!”
Felix grins. “Look around, brother. It’s literally high school.”
I grind my molars. “Fuck off.”
“Hey, Wyatt doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do,” he says.
And that’s when I catch her eye.
She looks at me for a long beat.
And then she winks.
Goddammit. She’s playing with me too. Again.