3. Kourt with a “K” #2
“After the mirror drills, you have time to work on some zone. You’re right. Doesn’t hurt to know it… even if it’s just to guard against it.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
In my office, the phone rings. “Coach McClain.”
“Kourt?”
Shit.
“Hey, Quinn.” The woman I have been seeing off and on the past few months—more off than on lately, hum-haws on the other end of the line.
Everyone seems to have something on their mind today.
It’s been obvious the last couple of weeks she wants more, and I’m not looking for someone who wants more than we agreed on.
She pauses another second. “I just wondered, why I hadn’t heard from you, Kourt. I thought…”
“Just been busy, Quinn. I’ve got the can drive and the fire department fund raising thing and a game on Friday, not to mention I teach history and driver’s ed. Got a lot going on.”
“You’re not avoiding me?”
Shit. I hope we didn’t get our wires crossed. She knows this is casual. She’s the one who led with that.
I rest my head in my hand. “Why would I avoid you?”
I hate this. I hate hurting anyone. Fucking cad.
“So, we’re on for Saturday?”
That’s hope I hear in her voice. I flip through my coach’s book to see if I marked a date. Did I promise something on Saturday?
Nothing. There’s nothing marked. This is her way of telling me she wants more than casual. A reminder that Saturday night is when I take her out.
“About Saturday…”
We suffer through a long, crippling silence…. and Quinn whispers, “Never mind, Kourt. Everybody told me not to waste my time. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
Click.
She hangs up before I can get a word out. Everybody? She lives two towns over.
I stare at my desk phone. I could call her back. But why? I’m not pursuing that.
Leave it alone, man, for her sake. A waste of time? Only if she was in it for different results.
I decide to leave it. I’d rather look like the bad guy than call and give her false hope that my apology saddles me into another month of Saturday nights.
My cell phone pings, and I pull it out of my pocket to see a text.
Georgia: Can you stop by on your way home? Need a hand.
I text her back a thumbs up.
“Saw you at Georgia’s after school.” Helen likes playing nosey neighbor. It’s part of her slumming it with me in the small town we grew up in. FaceTime with my best friend most evenings is the only female obligation I look forward to. She is my person.
“I’m going to help them put up their Christmas lights this weekend. She wanted me to drag them out of the attic for her.”
“Always the dutiful—”
“It’s the least I can do. Bob was at work. And besides, he doesn’t need to be climbing that ladder at his age, anyway.”
“How are you, after what happened this afternoon? Our Erika’s a mess, isn’t she.” Helen crinkles her nose at the tip in that look. It’s a look that lets me know she’s enticed and on to something, and she just can’t wait to see if I’m aboard.
A hot mess. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the aunt, I gather.” My air fryer dings with my supper as I slide a plate across the counter.
“Great-aunt,” Helen corrects.
“What was that about, anyway?”
“You know Josephine.” Helen’s noisy ice machine plops cubes into a shaker. “She got a wild hair and took off, sent Erika the keys to her house and car all cryptic, like some estate she just inherited. Erika has time off from work with the holidays, so she showed up yesterday.”
Helen throws her head back and giggle-groans. “She wanted to drive the Beetle. I should’ve known better. Chicago girl takes the L. Sorry about that.”
“How long’s she here?” I set the phone down to take the pot pie out of the air fryer, giving Helen a close-up of my elbow. “Shit, that’s hot.”
“No idea,” Helen says. “What’d you do?”
“Burned my hand. It’s fine.”
“Do you care?”
“That I burned my hand? Yeah.” I wag it to cool it off, muttering to myself.
“No, dummy. Do you care if she stays or not?”
“Why would I?” I grab a potholder to safely move the steaming pot pie to a plate. “I’ve got two things on my mind right now: the game with Willow Creek—which we really need to win. And this fundraising drive for a fire truck.”
“Before we move on to discuss your top priorities that seem quite sad, really, may I at least ask, what possessed you to ask Erika if she had fake eyelashes?” Helen’s head tilts back as she lets out a loud laugh. “What was that about?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. It just came out. I can’t get this damn pie out of its holder. The crust stuck to the tin pan.”
“Last time I checked you weren’t a complete and total brute. You don’t ask women if they have fake anything.”
A smile hijacks my face, thinking about what an ass I was, blurting that out. “Did you see how she looked down at her chest, like I was asking if she had fake tits?” I can’t stop this grin, thinking about my stupidity and her reaction.
Helen shrieks, “What if she did?”
“Did what?”
“Have fake tits.”
“Anything more than a handful is wasteful. But then, as she said, I have big hands.”
“Stop it!” Helen chokes on her cocktail.
“Just saying.” I wiggle my hand in front of the phone camera.
“I hate to tell you, McShotty, no one has a handful—for you.”
“True. A mouthful will do. She’s got that.”
“ Ahhh! ” Helen screams. “She’s my client—well, so to speak. And I assure you, they are real. I don’t think there’s a fake bone in her body. Odd really.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. She’s just so real. What you see is what you get, but it’s a lot—and so genuine.”
“Wait. Hold on a minute. I’ve got to get this damn pie out of its holder before I starve to death. It’s stuck.” I set down the phone long enough to get the pliers out of the drawer.
Seeing them, Helen erupts. “This is why I get takeout.”
“I’m using the pliers to grip the hot-ass pie tin so I can turn it upside down and dump it on my plate. Watch carefully in case it happens to you.”
“I’ve never met a pot pie I wanted that badly.”
“So wait, I don’t follow. She’s an honest, na?ve, but practical version of the eccentric Josephine?”
“No. She’s not na?ve at all—or practical for that matter. She’s… hopeful. It’s different. Kind of nice.”
“Are you suggesting we’re jaded?” I attempt my first bite of dinner. “Fuck! Shit that’s hot. It’s the sauce. Every time.”
I drop the bite of pot pie to lick burning hot cream sauce off my finger and wince again.
“I could call us a lot of things after that display.” Helen takes a sip of her martini. “We’re not quite jaded… more on the road to complacent.”
“Nice one, Helen. Just use all your big words tonight for your best friend who got mowed down while volunteering for a can drive by your—what was that again? Hopeful client? And I just burned the hell out of my tongue on top of it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Kourt. It’s Friday night and what did you just burn your tongue on? A hot pocket?”
“It’s a pot pie. And you’re home alone on your second dirty martini. I heard the ice machine again.” My words cut through my home sharper than I meant them to, as I walk backwards, reaching for a napkin before stalking to the living room with my dinner.
“That is precisely my point.” Helen’s head bobs as I pick my phone back up. “Wait. Kourt—is that a Christmas tree behind you? Did you actually put up a Christmas tree this year?”
I glance over my shoulder. “It’s one of those old, vintage metal trees.
Aluminum, I think, like from the 1950s. I saw it at the flea market.
You know I like old stuff, so I bought it to satisfy my nagging friend who’s been on my ass for three years to buy a fucking tree.
Got sick of hearing about it. Are you satisfied now?
Do you stand corrected over that complacent comment? ”
“You just said it, Kourt. Three years, buddy. It took three years, but you finally have a tree up again. I think I stand more than corrected. I think I might be— hopeful .”