Chapter 21
Phelps
As the mousse was consumed and Doug told an unnecessarily long story about a gutter sale—dear God he needed a remedial course in lying—Phelps kept looking at Bunny, with one thought and one thought only repeating in his
mind like a scrolling news ticker:
Bunny aborted my child.
She didn’t have to finish her damn sentence for Phelps to see it in her eyes. There was no little Phelps. Little Phelps had
been killed in utero. Phelps was definitely pro-choice; women had endured men’s power-hungry ridiculousness for too long,
and their beautiful bodies belonged to them. Phelps certainly wouldn’t want to push a ten-centimeter orb out of a hole in
his crotch. But this was different. If he’d known he had a baby, he would have turned around and driven back to Nashville.
He would have started a baby registry and bought one of those baby name books and signed them up for a birthing class. Or,
if Bunny didn’t want Phelps or the kid in the picture, he would have raised the kid on his own here in Michigan City. He’d
be ten years old now, and Skyler and Kayden would have an older brother.
However much of an asshole move Phelps made when he decided to drive away from Nashville, he’d deserved to know. Deserved
to be a part of that decision.
Maybe Bunny thought he’d flake. Clearly, she didn’t have a high opinion of him even now, since she thought he’d been messing around with Olivia behind the fridge.
It drove Phelps crazy how people assumed just because you were a liar, divorced, smoked marijuana, and had shoplifted a few times, you had no conscience at all.
Fuck that. You know what? Phelps was also an awesome dad.
Skyler and Kayden were great kids, they behaved at school, and they could kick Phelps’s ass at Mario Kart.
Sure, the divorce wasn’t a positive in their lives, but Phelps made every effort to get along with Kylie and Craig Curtis,
CPA, so the boys didn’t have to suffer any more drama than necessary. And you know what? He would have been an awesome dad
for his and Bunny’s baby too.
Damn. His back hurt, his thumb was still throbbing from the burn on the sheet pan, and now his head was starting to pulse.
He needed a drink. Two drinks. Three drinks and a long smoke.
If someone had told him that three hours into his own party, he would be wrongfully accused of sleeping with his best friend’s
wife and informed that his ex-fiancée aborted their baby over a decade ago without telling him, he wouldn’t have believed it. As much
drama as this friend group had been through over the past fifteen years, he had not been expecting drama tonight. They were
middle-aged. It wasn’t cute anymore to have these kinds of problems.
He had fun games planned for tonight. He had set up a BB gun shooting range in the backyard: miss and you have to take a shot
of tequila, hit one and you get to dole out a shot to the victim of your choosing, except for Doug of course, who would get
a shot of Diet Pepsi. He’d planned on a round of Truth or Dare, with dares as bold as having to jump naked into the pond in
the property behind his, which he highly anticipated a drunk Allie going for—he had pictured it in detail at least a dozen
times. He had darts in the basement and Mario Kart on the gaming system. He’d thought tonight would legit be full of good cheer, and perhaps a roll in bed with Allie would
top off the old year and shoot him into the next. Now the party was taking a dump in his face. He regretted inviting these
people. Spending his hard-earned money on a bunch of ingrates who thought Phelps was a piece of shit. And, looking into the
near future, having to endure them all the next morning when they woke in their makeshift beds throughout the house, cranky
and bleary-eyed, demanding coffee and bitching about headaches. There was no buzzkill quite as strong as seeing everyone the
morning after and realizing you didn’t love them half as well with stinky breath and messy hair as you’d loved them while
drunk the night before.
You know what? As soon as dessert was over, he should take this sorry group outside and shoot up those glass plates. Get some
fresh air into everyone, himself included, shake off all this fucking negativity . . . and even though there was nothing to
be done about Bunny, Phelps could at least bow into the Dog House for a quick smoke with Bennett, get to the bottom of why
both he and Olivia seemed to think Phelps had done this terrible thing, and clear his fucking name.
Doug, his devil horn hat crooked on his head, had moved on to some wild story about the year Phelps and he were roommates
in that shit house on Cloverdale when Doug was supposedly in part-time college at IU South Bend. Why wouldn’t he just shut up for a minute? Why didn’t Hellie keep a tighter leash on her man? It drove Phelps crazy how she just sat there, calm and quiet,
taking his nonsense, letting him make an ass of himself when everyone could tell he was high . . .
“Will, can I ask you something?” interrupted Hellie, placing a hand on Doug’s arm. Phelps sighed with relief. “I have a friend
in Indy . . . they’re looking for a job, they have retail experience . . . do you have a business card I can give them? So
they can send you their résumé?”
“Who do you know in Indy?” said Doug.
“No one you know,” said Hellie. “A family friend.”
“Sure,” said Will. “Of course. No problem.” He patted his pants pockets, half rose, and fumbled a business card out of his
wallet. He handed it to Hellie.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a long look at it before moving it to her lap. “This is perfect.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” burst out Doug, pointing at Phelps. “And remember that old Seagull guitar that disappeared from under my bed?
And then it showed up in the fucking pawn shop? Confess, man. Level with me. It was you, right?”
Allie muffled a laugh. “You stole his guitar?”
“Oh, my God,” Phelps said wearily. That was it. “Time for guns.” If he had to sit around this table and listen to Doug talk for a single goddamn minute longer . . .
“What?” said Jenn, sounding shocked.
“BB guns,” Phelps snapped. “Doug is starting to annoy the shit out of me—” Doug guffawed loudly “—so it’s time for a little
shooting contest outside. Who’s ready for the first game of the night?”
“Let’s do it,” said Bennett. He looked relieved too.
“What does the winner get?” said Bunny suddenly.
“Hey, we could pool some money—” said Doug.
“I’m actually an expert marksman,” drawled Ted as he scooted back his chair with a dragging screech.
“I’ve never shot anything,” said Olivia, gathering her knee up in a feline move, as if she expected she might be allowed to
stay put. “How cold is it? Do you think we need our coats?”
“It’s easy. You’ll be great,” said Hellie encouragingly.
“I’ll get your coat,” said Bennett, making for the front entry.
“Isn’t it too dark?” said Jenn, looking concerned. “I’m just thinking about safety . . .”
“Safety should be the least of your concerns,” said Phelps, rising. “You should be worried about winning, Jennifer. Because, Doug excepted, the loser is going to be drunk as hell. I’m going to see to it personally.” He pointed at Doug. “Pepsi for you.”
“She always wins,” said Will suddenly. He thrust an arm around Jenn’s neck, tugged her close, and planted a kiss on her head.
“We should place bets. My money’s on her.”
“Stop it,” said Jenn playfully, wriggling to escape Will’s arm.
“Aw, you guys are so cute,” said Allie.
“No betting on the competition!” said Phelps, feeling a mad current enter his body. No more of this morose, downer energy.
Time for a move, time for a change. Time to turn this fucking party around. “It’s every man for himself.”