Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
FLETCH
Poppy looks ghostly pale in the dashboard lights. The storm has made the sky nonexistent. The only pinpoints of light in the dark come from the snow in the headlights.
“When I was eleven, my mom and I found out that my dad had a gambling addiction and had racked up hundreds of thousands in debt. He’d forged a loan application to cover it,” Poppy says.
I breathe in sharply. Nothing about Poppy would have led me to what I now realize is coming.
“He got caught, of course. He should have gotten caught. It was reckless and wrong of him.”
“He did time?” I ask, a tight feeling coiling in my chest.
“He was sentenced to fifteen years.”
My jaw falls open. “Fifteen? Half of the murderers on Beyond Justice don’t even get that long.”
“I know,” Poppy says, her voice running on empty.
A car passes on the other side of the freeway, and its headlights catch the unshed tears in her eyes.
“It was his first offense, and most of the money was recovered. But the judge still gave him fifteen years—the maximum, so he could ‘make an example out of him.’” The quiver of her chin sends a stab of pain to my gut.
“It ripped my family apart. They seized everything to pay off my dad’s debts, and my mom and I were forced to leave our house and move into a crappy apartment we could barely afford.
We had nothing. No money, no insurance, no friends.
We became total outcasts. Everyone shunned us, as if a gambling addiction that could drive a mild-mannered accountant to commit an escrow scam was somehow contagious. ”
“Poppy, I’m sorry,” I say, still stunned. What a broken system: the man who attacked my brother did no time, but Poppy’s dad did fifteen years. I’m sick. “Is he home now?”
“His release day is this week, actually. That’s the, uh, party I’m going home for,” she says with a strained smile.
“Before he was put away, he was so fun-loving and easygoing. But everyone abandoned us after he was arrested. My mom was so angry and hurt, she divorced him. I can’t blame her, but he had no one.
So I promised myself I’d be the one person who stayed by his side. ”
Her face screws up like the emotion is too much to contain.
“We started planning his release party during my freshman year. My mom met someone online and married him my first semester. She waited until I was settled, and then she moved down to Florida with her new husband and his kids. I couldn’t wait for my dad to come home, so I insisted we start planning his party.
” She exhales, her thumbs rubbing the steering wheel.
“It’s so weird talking about this with someone. ”
“We can stop,” I say, but the second the words leave my mouth, she flinches slightly, like a door closing halfway. “But we can keep going, too,” I add quickly, leaning forward, already wishing I could take it back. My fingers tap restlessly against my knee.
I’ve shut her down, so I’ll need to prod to open her back up—something I typically avoid.
“Do you … do you think he deserved to do time?”
She inhales slowly. “He did wrong, and he needed to pay for what he did. But a maximum sentence for a first offense and a family ruined? No. None of us deserved that.”
She’s right that he needed to pay for what he did.
I don’t feel my normal fire compelling me to tell her that, though.
I stare at her, at the way passing headlights illuminate her face.
The light catches the wetness in her eyes, and I can see how her expression shifts between determination and vulnerability. I don’t know which is braver.
I don’t know which makes me want to squeeze her hand more.
My hand twitches toward hers, so I ball it up and shove it back in my hoodie.
“So this is why you wanted the Fairhaven Hazings over the Jensen wire fraud case?” I ask.
“You’re smarter than you look.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wow. I look that dumb, huh?”
“No,” she says with a half-smile that feels like her best impression of a smirk. “You don’t look dumb. You kind of act dumb, though.”
“Not sure when we resorted to name calling.”
“Really? ‘Elf on the Shelf?’”
“You’re like four feet tall.”
“I’m five-one and a half, thank you very much. You know the average height for women in this country is only five-three and a half? I’m barely below average.”
“Nuh-uh. Two inches is not ‘barely below average. A guy who’s five-eleven gets no love. A guy who’s six-one, on the other hand …”
“Are you kidding? What woman cares if a guy is over six feet?”
“You’re messing with me, right? Have you ever been on the internet? I’m six-four, and I’m still not tall enough for some women.”
“Then those women are lame. Not because they’re rejecting you—that’s probably advisable—but because that’s stupid.”
“Wow.” I shift in my seat, the chocolate milk catching up with me. “Rejecting me is ‘advisable?’ Really?”
“You’re a crank.”
“I’m not a crank.” I huff. “I’m a grump.”
“You’re like next level grump, though. You’re so irritable, you get mad at people for sharing their snacks with you.”
I narrow my eyes, angling toward her and that infuriating smile. “I didn’t get mad at you.”
“You were in tears.”
I squirm again as I feel a twinge in my bladder. “That was from the heat, not because I was throwing some tantrum.”
“You refused to spit it out, so you swallowed it, instead, and then chased it with sixteen ounces of chocolate milk and a Mars bar. You absolutely threw a tantrum.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Right, because anytime a woman points out that a man is emotional, she’s being ridiculous?”
“No, anytime a woman pulls a bait and switch with beef jerky that’s actually made from molten lava and then blames the guy for choking on it, that’s when she’s being ridiculous.”
“Crank.”
“Trickster.”
She laughs. “Trickster?”
“Yes, you’re a trickster. You tricked me into thinking it was normal beef jerky.”
“How?”
“Because you’re so … cute! And … bubbly and … undaunted. I half expected the flavor to be cotton candy.”
Did I just call her cute? Out loud?
For some reason, this makes her beam brighter than headlights. “You thought wrong.”
“Tell that to my mouth.”
The words hang in the air between us.
Her eyes pop.
My eyes pop.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, the heat in my gut rushing up to my face in a way that makes me wonder if I’m embarrassed or … lying to myself.
“I can’t imagine you did,” she says.
But the corner of her mouth tugs up, and man, she is cute.
So painfully, adorably cute.
And she’s not the bubbling brook I pegged her as at first. There’s a well underneath that playful surface, one that runs so deep and dark, I can only imagine what it contains.
Oof.
I gotta stop thinking in water metaphors, especially when—
My bladder’s going to explode.
I look at the map, my foot tapping faster than a rabbit’s. We’re still an hour from Salina.
“I hate to say this,” I tell her, squeezing my eyes closed. “But I have to use the bathroom.”
“OLIVER FLETCHER!” she says. “What did I tell you about using the bathroom when we stopped?”
“I know,” I gripe. “But it’s your fault for getting that devil jerky.”
She gasps. “How dare you blame me because you don’t know how to read labels and have the spice tolerance of a literal infant.”
I sit up, trying to take some of the pressure off my bladder, but my head hits the roof in the process, making Poppy roll her lips together to hide her laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. It’s my fault,” I say. “But you gotta pull over.”
“There’s barely a shoulder!”
“Then find a place to turn off. I can’t take it.”
“Fine. Find the nearest rest stop.”
I grab the phone and type frantically. “There’s a town in less than a mile. Wilson, Kansas.” I point eagerly toward the exit that we’re already—mercifully—approaching. “Take it. Take it!”
“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’m taking it.”
My leg is bouncing against the dashboard. “Take the first right.”
“Press ‘go’ on the map,” she says through clenched teeth.
I press “go.”
“In two miles, turn right onto 27th Street/Old US-40. The destination will be on your left.”
“Two miles,” I say.
“I heard,” Poppy says in a voice that’s so irritatingly calm, I could growl.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” I say.
“Never,” she says, sounding even calmer and more condescending. If that’s possible.
I alternate between drumming my palms on the dashboard and balling my hands into fists until we reach the turn in the tiny town.
“There it is!” I say, unbuckling.
“I take it back,” she says. I throw open the door before she’s even put the car in park, and I sprint through the snow, I hear her call out, “I think I can call you Fletch.”
When I get back to the car two minutes later, Poppy is yawning and fluttering her eyes, like she’s trying to keep them open. I spot dark circles beneath her eyes that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
Guilt jabs my gut. She’s driven all day in crappy conditions that have already added an hour to the drive, and she’s clearly exhausted.
“Want me to drive? I can handle being cramped.”
“No, I’m fine,” she says. Mid-yawn.
“Poppy—”
“Fletch, you barely fit as it is. I’m fine. We’re almost there.”
I pick up my phone to resume our route when a notification hits.
Your reservation at the Sleep Inn Salina has been canceled due to no-show. All guests must check in before 11:59 p.m. on the date of arrival. The credit card on file has been charged for one night’s stay. Please contact customer service with any questions.
“We changed time zones,” I say with a groan.
“Yeah, so?”
I take off my hat and massage my scalp. “We missed our reservation. We had to check in by midnight.”
A whimper escapes Poppy’s lips, but then she rolls her shoulders. “It’s okay. We’ll just … keep going!”
“No,” I bite out, annoyed. Annoyed with myself, with this stupid toy car, with this crappy weather, with these dumb time zones. “I saw a sign in the gas station for a hotel here in town. We can stay there.”
“Are you sure? Your brother’s wedding—”
“Is in three days. Or two days, now? Either way, we’ll make it fine.”
Her eyes meet mine, like she’s worried to hope. Like she’s looking for reassurance that I mean what I say.
“I mean it. We’re doing fine on time.”
She nods. “Okay. Okay! Great. We have time. And heck, we can probably drive most of the way tomorrow! Today? Whatever.”
I don’t contradict her. We’re still nineteen hours from home, and that’s assuming no accidents or delays.
It’s not the end of the world. I have plenty of time to make the wedding.
But I don’t see us making up most of the time tomorrow. The universe doesn’t like me enough for that.
I pull up the hotel on my map and then chuckle to myself.
“It’s a tenth of a mile away,” I say, “on the right. Do you need me to hit ‘go’ on the map?”
She shoots me a look that’s more teasing than annoyed. “I think we can manage.”
The car bumps over train tracks, and after a quick turn, we’re pulling up to an old hotel.
“Is that the Statue of Liberty?” Poppy says, rubbing her eyes and looking out my window to where a replica of the famous statue rests in a snowy park, holding a street lamp instead of a torch.
“Uh, yes.”
She blinks. “Okay.” She pauses, her eyes lingering on it. “I thought it would be bigger.”
I snort.
I grab our bags and we trudge through the cold snow into the Wilson Railroad Hotel.
The lobby is warm, with polished wood trim and the kind of sturdy limestone walls that have clearly been here for more than a century.
The place has been restored by someone who cared enough to keep the bones intact.
A few framed black-and-white photos of old trains hang on the wall, and there’s a bowl with painted eggs that feel more Easter than Christmas.
The front desk clerk looks up from his phone and offers a tired smile.
“We’re looking for two rooms,” I say, standing closer to Poppy than I probably should, but we’ve been huddled together in the car all day.
He pulls up his computer, and his eyes scan the screen. “Ooh, looks like I’ve only got one room left,” he says.
I blow air through my lips. “You’re kidding, right? A hotel in Wilson, Kansas has one room left?”
Poppy puts her hand on my forearm. “Oliver Fletcher,” she says in a voice of soft warning. Her hand is gentle, but firm, draining some of my annoyance from the long day.
The man tuts. “We had a family reunion check in earlier, and with a couple of housekeeping staff out, we’re behind on getting the other rooms ready. Would you like the room?”
“We’ll take it,” Poppy says, putting her license and credit card on the counter before I can grumble us into trouble.
I frown at her, and she glares at me, and I know exactly what that glare means.
“Sorry for the attitude,” I tell the man. “Long day.”
“I understand,” he says, warmth returning to his voice just as warmth returns to Poppy’s eyes. “Let me just get you two the room key.”
“Perfect,” Poppy tells him. “Thank you.”
We wait for the man to finish the check-in process, and I exhale slowly, trying to channel some calm I don’t feel.
I really wanted some space. Some time to unwind, recharge, turn my head off, and—
Okay, I wanted to message Grace. I wanted to chat with the one person who gets me without having to hide my screen or justify tuning everything else out.
All day, the idea of messaging Grace has kept me going, and now, there’s no way I can do that. Not when I’ll be stuck sharing a room with Poppy.
When she signs the last form and hands it back to the clerk, she catches my eye. Then she gives a little shrug and a soft smile that says what can you do?
Maybe being stuck with her won’t be the worst thing in the world.