9. Jack
Jack
“You didn’t tell me that you were leaving me for a younger woman,” June says.
Before I can answer, she throws her head back and cackles at my confusion.
Bingo and ABBA are both serious business in this town.
I scan the row of bingo cards my grandmother and her friends dared me to buy. Dammit. No I-17 on any of these. They’re kicking my ass.
They’re roasting me too.
“Who am I leaving you for?”
June drums her pearlescent painted fingernails over the red checkered tablecloth. “Izzy Sinclair, dear.”
“Oh, she’s nice,” my grandmother adds.
I’m sure it’s true, but I don’t really know her.
I don’t know if Izzy wants me to know her, and we’re gonna have to get to the bottom of that if this crazy plan is going to work.
So tonight, after I get my ass handed to me in bingo with the rest of the senior citizens of Merritt Point, we’re hitting the reset button.
“You were my first love, June.”
“You say that to all the girls, I bet.” She winks at me, then turns her attention back to surveying her cards when the next number is called.
“Hpmh.” Nana frowns. “She always brought you Munchkins when she came over. Sugary bribes.”
I gently knock my shoulder against hers, and she giggles. “The way to a man’s heart is donuts.”
“G-44. The next number is G-44. Don’t forget, we’re playing four corners right now,” Mr. Leechman calls. “Next game will be our big prize pot of two hundred dollars with a cover all.”
I grip my bright-blue dauber tighter, the numbers swimming in front of me. Five days out from a concussion, and everything aches. But mainly, I’m stuck on what June just said.
Next month, I’ll be turning thirty. I’ve never earnestly told any girl I’ve been with that I love her. I’ve said it, sure, but they were empty words.
“Izzy’s a hard worker,” Nana says. “Might wear off on you a bit.”
I draw back. “You don’t think I work hard?”
She shrugs, then springs to action as B-8 is called. Nana moves over her cards with laser focus. Boom, boom, boom. She whacks the dauber over the cards with what could only be considered lethal force.
Holy shit.
“I saw Mr. Kelly at the grocery store yesterday. Told me you were at the rink a few weeks back.”
What is it with small towns? “It’s really run-down. Hadn’t noticed when I was in town this summer.”
Finally, I spot one B-8 on a card of mine and mark it. The ink bleeds out in a sharp circle.
“Well, after Jimmy Arden passed, the money dried up. It’s an expensive sport to play, always was.
But there isn’t help now, so the high school voted to cut the team this year for budget reasons.
It’s too bad.” She adjusts her lucky “I Love Bingo” visor.
“Now there’s talk of condos. A whole complex of them, with a greenway and some big discount store. It’d be sad to see.”
“G-14,” Mr. Leechman calls out. “G-14.”
I mask my surprise about that last bit. Condos are one thing, but a massive redevelopment not only changes the rink, but also what I know of Merritt Point. Won’t be much of a small town then. “That’d be too bad.”
Nana shrugs and pushes my water bottle toward me. “But perfect for you…”
My stomach sinks. Mr. Kelly shouldn’t know about my talks with Mr. Foley. My investment firm was handling it. The tips of my ears turn red.
“Drink,” she insists. I’m mid-sip when she continues. “Anyway, I think you need someone to challenge you.”
I sputter, almost choking. “I’m trying to win the cup this year. I’d say I’m plenty challenged, Nana.”
She pats my arm with a sweet smile. “You’re used to having your way. You’re used to being the life of the party. That’s fun for a while, but it’ll feel lonely eventually.”
“O-69,” Mr. Leechman announces.
“My favorite number!” June marks her board, then waves her hand in the air. “Bingo!”
Carol, one of the volunteers, walks over with her microphone and examines June’s cards. “We have a bingo, Mr. Leechman.”
“Congratulations, June. And now, it’s time for cover all.”
Nana leans in, marking one of my boards for me when the first number is announced. “It’s okay to want more. Just make sure you know what you want more of. Some things have shitty returns, and it might be too late to go after what you really want.”
“What if I don’t know?”
“You’ll figure it out, Jack. You always do.”
Two hours later, I’m hunting for a house tucked away on a side street off Main. Fog’s rolled in thick from the harbor, and the drizzle turns the early October night damn near black.
The small gray beach cottage has bright-white shutters and window boxes overflowing with dark-burgundy vines and little ghost cutouts poking out on top.
A cluster of rubber bats flies across the salmon-pink front door, and there on the step, a pumpkin with a pink bow on its stem, just like the ones outside the Salty Romantic.
My jacket’s damp, cap pulled low to shield my glasses from the rain. The hot pizza box stings one palm, while the Slurpee clutched in my other hand is freezing. I’m cleared to drive, but my headache’s bad enough that I’d rather walk back to Ethan’s later. It’s only a few minutes away anyway.
I knock on Izzy’s door. No answer. Then, through the sidelight, there’s a quick flash of pink before it disappears.
“I just saw you.” I try to fight back my smile. “I know you’re there, Izzy.”
“Go away,” she calls from the other side of the door.
“Is this how you treat all your boyfriends?” That word tastes strange on my tongue. I haven’t had a girlfriend for a year or two now. It’s much easier to keep everything casual with my schedule.
Though that’s not completely true.
The door swings open. My gaze lands on her pink, fuzzy strawberry socks, then the quilted robe cinched tight at her waist. Her blue eyes glare at me, but I catch the small tremble at the corner of her mouth as if she’s mortified to be discovered looking this way.
I try not to let anything play out across my face, try not to let my gaze linger. But there’s something so soft and vulnerable about her.
Izzy crosses her arms. “You didn’t mention anything about stopping by when you texted earlier.”
“Needed to see if you’d reply.”
She gives me a tight nod, swinging the door back and forth an inch or two, as if she’s arguing with herself about whether she’ll let me in. “First my shop, now my house…”
I lift the pizza box a little higher, the smell of cheese and grease heavy in the air between us. Then, I shove the Slurpee toward her, breaking out the dimples. “I’m prepared to bribe you if necessary. But you better hurry up and grab this because it’s fucking freezing.”
Izzy surveys my hand before carefully extracting the icy drink.
“Does this work normally?” She spins and gestures for me to follow her inside. At least she doesn’t slam the door in my face.
For a moment, I’m struck by the way her long black hair swishes against the small of her back, half tied up in a pink satin bow. I shouldn’t be imagining what her hair would feel like wrapped around my fingers, or how perfectly my palm would fit against that spot at the base of her spine.
I shake it off, or try to, and step inside.
Her cottage is warm and smells like books and something sweet.
Vanilla maybe. My glasses fog as the heat hits, blurring the coziness of her living room.
It takes a few blinks before I can see a knitted blanket bunched up next to the opened paperback and a wineglass of iced coffee on the ottoman in front of the couch.
Everything is pink and pretty and perfectly put together, but that all feels like a fragile illusion that might break if I’m not careful.
“Here.” She grabs the pizza from me and sets it on a table tucked behind a low bookcase dividing the living room from the kitchen.
The vintage tablecloth is dotted with bright strawberries and what looks like…
signatures. It’s embroidered with dates and little notes to Izzy.
Memories of nights I know nothing about.
“What are you doing here, Jack?”
My attention snaps back to her, well, partially. I’ve never seen pink kitchen cabinets before. They match the bookshelves at her bookstore, that same bubblegum pink.
I rub my hands together, rocking back on the heels of my boots. Not sure why my stomach feels all bubbly like I drank too much milk or something. “We’ve got to come up with a convincing story.” I walk over to the table and point to the box. “I brought pizza.”
“Yeah, I see that.” A small, rough chuckle.
Outside, rain taps softly against the windows, and the already gloomy night is black now. October in New England has teeth.
“We agreed to three public dates.”
“This isn’t a date,” I correct. Her eyes narrow in on me, then the pizza box. “It’s a… strategy session. If we’re going to pull this off, we need a solid story.”
She twists the tie of her bathrobe around her hand. “You’ve thought this through.”
I push past the stab of disappointment at her disbelief. “You seem like you like a plan.”
“Eldest daughter syndrome.”
“Sounds serious. Here I am thinking middle children have it bad.”
“What? Being ignored? That sounds like a vacation.”
I move toward the cabinets. “Where do you keep—”
“Over by the sink.”
“Thanks.” I open a door to find a stack of vintage china with little flowers curling around the rims. I glance at her, one brow raised.
“Too alpha to eat off a plate with a flower on it?”
It’s delicate, this dance we’re doing. She’s barely tolerating me being here, but I can also tell she’s at least a little curious.
“I like that you like what you like.” I set two plates on the table. “Didn’t know what kind of pizza you preferred, so I ordered half pepperoni, half veggie.”
She scoffs, sinks down in the chair opposite me, and pulls a piece of pepperoni free.
“Help yourself to a drink. Glasses are next to the plates.” She takes a bite, then points to the fridge. “I think I have some soda if you don’t want water. Guessing you shouldn’t have beer, but there’s some if you want it.”
She takes another long sip through her straw.
“So you will have a Slurpee with me after all?”