Round Twenty
BILLY
A couple of hours after arriving at Picnic Point, I climb back into my car and follow Devina’s all the way to the edge of town. I flash my lights in farewell and grin at the toot-toot of her horn bouncing into the distance, then I perform a U-turn and head home.
Try not to pick a fight.
Definitely apologize for that weird ass kiss I forced on her.
Like a fucking idiot!
I have to come up with a story for our date debrief, since she won’t leave until I give her something to analyze and pick at me about, and after all that, I have to watch her walk home, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, shoulders bowed because she’s out of the house at four in the morning every morning lately, and not back again until six in the evening.
On the days she gets to sleep in, her car is gone again anyway by the time I send Jeremy off to school, and worse, those are the days she doesn’t come back again until damn near two in the morning.
Working? At those hours?
I tap my steering wheel to the beat of whatever is on the radio, some chick-singer pop-y thing with high notes and throat-aching solos, and as I amble along Main Street, past the diner and, after that, Alana’s bookstore, I do a security sweep out of habit.
As I reach the end of the street, I turn left and head on over to the house I bought with my wife almost an entire decade ago.
The grass is nice, because I enjoy working on it for as long as the warm weather persists, and the deck has been refinished, because my son is a danger magnet, and ignoring the busted lengths of timber would’ve cost far more in ER visits than the materials cost to do the job properly.
My house got a fresh coat of paint in the spring, because before that, it was peeling after years of neglect, and my windows are the fancy double glazed, non-shatter kind, because… Jeremy.
The non-shattering thing was most important of all.
Magnolia sees only what I have now, eight years after Aria’s death.
Five years after I dragged myself out of hell and got on with my life.
Three years after I decided I could date again, maybe, depending on the chick sitting across from me, and just one year after I decided taking another woman to bed was not disrespecting my late wife.
I went seven fucking years without touch, except for the too-much-touch of a kid who needed me, and the not-very-nice touch of a perp resisting arrest. I didn’t kiss another woman until a year ago, and that didn’t feel good, anyway.
I didn’t have sex at all in the second half of my twenties, because even if could find a woman decent enough to date, one who didn’t cry about the unfairness of dead wives and motherless sons, I hardly had the time to undress them, anyway.
So I mow my lawn instead. I cut the edges with expert precision, paint the rafters without a safety rope, replace windows before my son kills himself, and, as of the middle of September, I stare at my beautiful new neighbor and mentally practice all the nice things I want to say.
The fact different things come out of my mouth is hardly my fault.
She’s just so fuckin’ pretty that being within ten feet of her scrambles my brains.
Shaking my head, I cruise along Ollie’s street and study the house lit up from the inside, with the flickering light of a television proving someone is home. Better yet, Ollie’s truck is in the driveway, which means Rose isn’t in there alone.
I continue past without stopping, and just a few minutes after that, I pull into my driveway, cut the lights before they flash inside my house, then I switch the engine off and pocket my keys.
Opening my door and sliding out, I move to the trunk and grab Maggie’s massive picnic basket.
It’s lighter now than it was when the night started, with fancy Cajun chicken pasta settled happily in my stomach, alongside individually wrapped garlic toasts that somehow remained warm and moist, even after sitting in the basket for at least an hour before I served it up.
Maggie prepared strawberry shortcake bites, and mason jars bursting with soft ice-cream, whipped cream, and slivered chocolate pieces, and because she’s really a pro at this shit, she added a packet of playing cards—to pass the time, I suppose—and breath mints—in case things went well.
I lift the basket and hook the handle over my arm, then, closing the trunk again, careful not to make too much noise, I head across my yard and up the porch steps.
I unlock my front door and step inside my house, and setting the basket on the floor out of the way, I lock up again and take a deep whiff.
It smells like Maggie in here. Maggie, and garlic, and something creamy and delicious.
There’s a distinct tang of hot chocolate in the air, and alongside it, the soft strains of a movie I’ve heard this week already.
Twice.
Frowning, I carefully hang my keys on the hook by the door, then I toe my boots off and poke my head through the next doorway to discover Maggie and Jeremy laid out on the couch together, exactly how I found them that first night I went out, but this time, instead of getting caught up in Maggie’s hellfire eyes, I’m stunned by Jeremy’s stare and the finger he slowly brings up to his lips.
Shush.
I look just two inches to his right and find her. Her eyes closed, her lips puffed forward in a sleepy pout, her long lashes kissing her cheeks with the kind of finality that says she’s done with her day.
That’s what happens when you leave the house at four in the damn morning five days a week.
Inching forward, my socks making each step mercifully silent on the hardwood floor, I glance back at the television and catch The Bodyguard playing again—not entirely appropriate for an eight-year-old to watch on his own—then I stop in the gap between the coffee table and the couch and lower into a crouch that puts me on their level. “Has she been out long, buddy?”
“Almost since the start of the movie.” Fuck him, fuck my own son, because he strokes her cheek like they’ve been together their whole lives. “Don’t get mad at her for not taking care of me, Dad. She did all the things she was supposed to, and I haven’t moved since we sat down.”
Don’t get mad at her.
Fuck.
I study her perfect face, her slightly upturned nose and the shadows beneath her eyes that weren’t there when she first moved to Plainview.
I pick up a long lock of her hair, careful not to tug, and bring it to my nose.
Because it smells good, and because I’ve been smelling this girl’s hair since she was seven years old.
Grinning behind the mahogany lock, I bring my eyes back to Jeremy’s. “Did you have a nice night?”
“We made dinner,” he whispers. “And we even cleaned the kitchen so it wouldn’t be messy for you. Then we made cupcakes. They’re mine. She said I could take them to school, and if I put them in the freezer, they’ll last all the way till the end of next week.”
“You’re not even gonna share?” I chuckle. “Geez, buddy. You’re awfully possessive of those cupcakes you made in my kitchen. Using my ingredients.”
He purses his lips. “We made them in her kitchen, using her ingredients. Cos she has the fancy cake mixer and all we have is a fork.” He gently drags the tip of his finger around her jawline. “Why are you always so mean to her, anyways? She’s nice.”
I sigh. “I don’t mean to be mean. It just sometimes comes out that way.”
“You hurt her feelings.” His green-eyed stare comes up and hits me with the weight of a prizefighter’s fists.
“You’re not allowed to hurt her feelings anymore.
Did you know she works alllll the time? Which is why she’s always tired.
And even when she’s tired, she comes over here to play and does all the things I want to do, instead of being at her house, resting and doing the things she wants to do. ”
My brow comes up as, behind me, Whitney Housten snaps out a furious line. “Watching The Bodyguard three times in one week is the thing you want to do?”
“Well…” His lips curl into a smug grin. “No. But every time we scroll for a movie and this one comes up, she sighs. So then I say I wanna watch it.”
“Even though you don’t want to?”
He lifts just one shoulder, shifting it barely half an inch higher than the other. “It’s okay, I guess. I like the main guy. He’s grumpy, kinda like you. And it’s good, cos she’s grumpy right back. Also, Ramone called on the house phone while you were out.”
“He did?” Curious, I snag my cell and check the screen. “He didn’t call me.”
“He said he wanted to talk to me spifically.”
“Specifically?” Nothing good ever came of Ramone Devereaux sneaking around behind my back. “What did he want to talk about?”
“The barbecue at his house on Saturday.” He casts a wary glance toward Maggie as she smacks her lips in her sleep and burrows deeper into the couch cushion.
Whispering, he adds, “Ramone told me about the barbecue, and said how I could bring my shorts if I wanted to, cos he’ll turn the hot tub on.
Then he said to pack jammies too, cos he’s gonna get you drunk and you can’t drive me home after that. ”
I roll my eyes and set my phone on the coffee table. “He’s real classy, huh?” Huffing, I push up straight. “Nice conversation to have with an eight-year-old.”
“He said he invited Maggie too, and that she should bring her swimsuit as well. And jammies. He said he had loads of spare rooms at the house, cos he’s single and has no kids or nuffin. He also said Franky would be there, and Molly, so we could have a giant sleepover and it would be cool.”
“Sounds like he’s offering to keep you for the weekend so I can come home and sleep for forty-eight hours straight.” Grinning, I rub my hands together and study the puzzle laid out in front of me. Literally. “Guess I should wake her, huh? Send her home.”
“No.” He snuggles in closer, laying his cheek comfortably on her chest. “She’s sleeping, and her house is cold and lonely, anyway. Just leave her here.”