Chapter 16
Straight Outta Jumanji
I leave lunch with Marjorie knowing I need to talk to Mark, but having no idea how to actually do it.
I meant it when I told her I was sure he’d break up with me.
But still. To give myself the best odds, I want to try to talk to him when he might be receptive to what I have to say, and hear me out before he kicks me out, but I have no idea when that will be.
Obviously not today, since he has a game tonight—apparently one that matters, because games against teams in your division are more important than games against teams that aren’t in your conference, which makes no sense since they’re all part of the NHL.
He’s already stressed because the team itself is the primary suspect in Joey Carmichael’s death, which isn’t something I could’ve predicted, but is incredibly satisfying. I wish I’d planned it that way, but all I really wanted was for everyone to watch Joey Carmichael die on the ice.
And at some point—probably today, maybe tomorrow—when Matt Davidson fails to show up for another practice or misses the game entirely, they’re going to do a welfare check and find his body floating in the pool, which I’m sure is only going to add to Mark’s stress level.
Because of that, I’d like Mark to pick the time.
But if I just call or text him and say, ‘Hey, I want to talk to you about something important, when’s a good time?
’ either his answer is going to be, ‘Now,’ or he’ll be worrying about that too.
I should be better at this, but if experience has taught me anything, it’s that fixing other people’s problems is always a lot easier than fixing my own.
I opt for simple and benign, at least for now, and send Mark a text saying, Hey, any chance you have time to get together in the next few days?
Almost immediately, three dots appear. A minute later, I get a response saying, If you don’t mind it being late, you can come over after the game tonight. Otherwise, I’m free tomorrow evening
I want to ask him how stressed he is, but that would definitely send up warning flags, so I don’t. Text me when you’re on your way home if you still want me to come by tonight. Otherwise, we can get together tomorrow
He responds with a thumbs up to my message but doesn’t send back one of his own. I put my phone away, feeling the Doomsday Clock hovering above my head accelerate toward midnight.
“What are we watching tonight?” I ask as I take a seat next to Katie on the couch.
“The Green Planet,” Katie tells me.
“How are you finding all these? Did you join some nature documentary club or subreddit or something?”
She laughs. “No. Mostly, I’m just working my way through the list of documentaries I’ve been meaning to watch for a while.
Whenever we’d add a new one to the library’s catalog, if it looked interesting, I’d put it on my list, only I never had time to sit down and watch them. So I’m finally getting caught up.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I’m considering going back to work,” she says.
“Full time or part time?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe part time to start. I’m getting bored.”
“Tutoring isn’t cutting it?” I ask. Katie took medical leave from her position at the library after everything happened, when the panic attacks became too severe for her to be there.
She’s been working as a virtual SAT tutor for international students hoping to attend college in the US since then to supplement her income.
The fact that she’s thinking about going back to work is a big deal.
“It’s fine, but… I guess I miss being around people.”
“Cool,” I say, not wanting to make her feel like there’s any pressure or expectation from me that she should do so.
She nods, and we both focus our attention on the documentary. About ten or fifteen minutes have gone by, and I’m watching a giant water lily leaf unfold. It looks—and grows—like something straight out of Jumanji, and I couldn’t be more fascinated.
“Holy shit!” Katie gasps, and I glance over to find her staring at her phone.
“What?” I ask, grabbing the remote and pausing the TV, trying not to be annoyed at the interruption.
“Matt Davidson is dead! They found his body earlier this afternoon. This says he drowned!” she says, a grin on her face. “This is the best month ever!”
“Good news for womankind,” I reply, the grin on my face matching hers.
“Should I bake a cake? I feel like I should bake a cake!”
“I won’t say no to that,” I tell her, glancing at my watch.
It’s a bit after six. I have to assume they’ve already told Mark about this.
I imagine the rest of the team knows too.
Even if the other players didn’t like Matt Davidson—and I have no idea whether or not they did—if morale was low upon finding out that Joey Carmichael was murdered, this will crush it.
The game tonight is going to be a bloodbath.
I doubt I’ll be hearing from Mark.
My phone rings as I’m walking into my office building. It’s Mark. “Hey, good morning. How are you?” I ask.
“Sorry for not texting you last night. You heard what happened?”
I pause as I reach for the door, trying to figure out how to phrase my response.
“About the drowning?” I probe. This is going to make telling him about Katie so much harder.
He is so going to dump my ass, and I can’t even blame him.
I’d dump me too. “Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry.
It’s got to be difficult to lose two players that close together. ”
“I don’t have any idea how I feel, if I’m being honest. I didn’t like either of them as people, and personally, I’d prefer not to have them on the team, but they were both important for our success, and his death makes my job harder.
It’s a fucking disaster. They’re saying it was an accident, but he’s another one of the group who was on trial this summer, and it’s got the guys spooked.
Half the team is looking at the remaining three like they’re contagious, and somehow that makes Fischer think he’s entitled to be even more of a pain in my ass than usual.
Sorry,” Mark mutters. “I didn’t call you to vent. You don’t care about any of this.”
“No. But I care about you, so I’ll listen to you talk about it for as long as you need me to,” I state as I head for the stairs, not wanting to risk losing the call by getting in the building’s elevator.
“Thanks. Do you want to get together this evening? I promise I’ll be better company by then.”
I want to tell him not to make promises he won’t be able to keep, but I only say, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a barbecue place in Hosford-Abernethy that’s supposed to be pretty good if you’re up for it.”
“Yeah, that works.”
“Pick you up at six-thirty?”
“Let’s meet there. I’m not sure I’ll make it back to my place in time,” I lie.
If we arrive separately, and things go badly, he won’t be forced to drive me home or make me take an Uber—which I’m almost positive he wouldn’t do.
He’d drive me himself, and it would be the most awkward, tortured drive either of us has ever endured.
“Okay. I’ll text you the address later. And if you want to spend the night, I wouldn’t say no.”
“Okay,” I reply noncommittally, because how the hell do I respond to that?
‘Wait until you’ve heard what I have to say?
’ If I did, he’d probably get straight into his car, drive over here, and demand to have the conversation right now.
“I’m at the office though, so I have to run.
I’ll see you tonight,” I reply before hanging up.
Mark is already waiting on the sidewalk in front of Outsiders Barbecue by the time I arrive, and his face breaks into a smile when he sees me.
Despite the terror curled in my stomach, I can’t stop a similar smile from appearing on my face.
This is going to suck so much. I’ll wait until we’re done eating and tell him then, I decide.
At least that way I won’t ruin his dinner.
Once I’m close enough, he grabs my left hand, pulling me toward him. He presses a brief kiss to my lips. I’m sure he intentionally avoided touching my still-injured right arm, and it makes me feel that much worse.
“Hey,” he greets.
“Hey,” I reply, suddenly having no idea how to carry on a conversation with him. “How was your day?” The question comes out sounding stilted.
“Could’ve been worse,” he states, leading the way to the door. “No one died. So there’s that at least.”
“Is that the standard we’re going with these days? No one dies, and it’s a good day?”
“Right now? Yeah. Anyhow, how was yours? It doesn’t look like you got punched in the face today.”
“No,” I snort. Although the bruise looks worse than ever, the swelling has finally started to go down, and the cut is fully scabbed over. I don’t even think it will scar. “I didn’t. I guess it was a good day for us both.”
“Well, alright.” He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “To low standards.”
Then someone is leading us to a table, and it feels like the room is simultaneously too hot and is spinning around me.
“Water, please,” I mumble when I’m asked what I want to drink. The thought of adding alcohol to the mixture of guilt and nerves that’s roiling through me would be a terrible idea. I already feel like I might throw up.
“What are you doing for Halloween?” Mark asks as my eyes scan the menu, not actually seeing a single word printed on it.
“I don’t know. Why?” I ask, glancing up at him.
“Well, we’re gone from the twenty-fourth through the thirtieth for road games, but we’ll be back on the thirty-first. There’s going to be a party at The Rose Room on Halloween, and I thought maybe you’d like to go with me.”
“That sounds fun. I’m not sure if my cousin already made plans that night or not, though. Can I let you know in a day or two?” I ask.
“Sure.”
Then the server is back, setting our drinks down and asking what we want to eat.
Mark looks at me, indicating I should order first. “The ribs,” I say, naming the first thing I see on the menu.
“With the…” I search frantically for the list of sides.
“Potato salad,” I finish, once again reading off the first item.
Mark orders the pulled pork with the collard greens and, as soon as the server is gone, asks, “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“You look paler than normal, and you seem a bit… distracted,” he says in a way that implies it wasn’t his first choice of descriptors.
“I… there’s something I want to talk to you about, but I was going to wait until after we eat,” I mumble, glancing away from him without intending to.
“Or we could talk about it now, since whatever it is, it’s clearly bothering you,” he says, folding his hands on the table before him.
“Hah,” I reply humorlessly, looking around for a server to flag down, having changed my mind. Alcohol suddenly sounds like a fantastic idea.
There’s a woman a couple of tables away. She’s not our server, but she’s wearing the same uniform. I wave at her, getting her attention. “Hi, sorry. I know you’re not our server, but can you bring two double bourbons? One neat and one on the rocks. Anything from the top shelf is fine.”
“Um. Sure. I’ll put that in for you,” she replies before walking away.
“I’m paying,” I tell Mark.
“Okay. Why?”
“Because it’s really the very least I can do.”
“Alyssa, what’s going on?” he questions, reaching for my hand. I let him take it, feeling the calluses on his fingers brush over my skin.
“My cousin, the one I live with—she’s actually the only one I have, at least the only one I know of,” I say, and I’m definitely babbling. “She wants to meet you.”
“Okay. And why does that make you look like you want to throw up?”
“You remember the day we met? How you thought I was following you?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of hard to forget,” he replies, a smile flickering across his face, his amber-flecked hazel eyes steady on mine.
“You were right,” I blurt out as our server appears and thunks two glasses of bourbon onto the table. “I was.”