Second Chance Friends (3 page)

Paul hadn't understood. Of course he hadn't.
Thank God Melinda was there to help,
he'd told people, proudly.
She's used to seeing these things. She knows how to handle it.
He'd assumed life would go on as it had. They'd keep trying to have a baby, keep trying to start their family.

But he'd been wrong.

Yes, she was used to seeing these things.

And that was precisely why she couldn't carry on as normal.

That stick. That bloody stick with the pink plus sign.

She nearly bumped into a woman in a dowdy brown
skirt coming out of the diner and then did a double take. How weird. Melinda hadn't thought of the woman since the day of the accident and would never have been able to describe her if anyone asked—it had been such chaos she couldn't focus on anything other than the impossible task of trying to keep Maddie Routh calm—but she knew the woman the minute she caught her profile in her periphery. She was tall, but thin, wore clunky-heeled shoes, a pair of cheap stud earrings poking out from under her short grayish brown hair.

“Hello?” she asked, stutter-stepping toward the woman.

The woman paused, and Melinda could see recognition set in her eyes. “Oh,” she said. She half waved with a hand that was gripping a cell phone. “I was in my own world there, I guess. How are you?”

Melinda nodded, and then instantly wished she'd never spoken to the woman at all, as she didn't know how on earth to follow up the hello. It seemed like there should be more, but the more was so weighty and enormous, how could one say it to a stranger?

The woman gestured toward the divots. “It's been a month, today,” she said.

Melinda nodded. “That's why I stopped. They were talking about it on the radio.” She squinted into the sun, which was the warm beautiful orange of morning. “Probably stupid to come back here. Nothing to see.”

The woman shrugged. “I come every day.” She pointed with her cell phone at the nearest window. “Sit right there, right where I was sitting when it happened.”

Melinda turned and gazed at the window. To watch the sun rise over those marks in the grass every day. It seemed so . . . “Pointless,” Melinda muttered. The woman didn't hear her, but she burned with apology anyway. She offered a grin. “I don't suppose you've heard anything about what happened to her,” she said. “The girl in the wreck? Maddie Routh?”

The woman shook her head. “I wonder about her all the time. I hope she's okay.”

Melinda nodded and turned to stare at the divots again. If she didn't know better, she'd swear the new grass was a different color. Richer, somehow. A deeper hue. “Yeah,” she said, unable to tear her eyes away.

“And I hope the baby's okay,” the woman added softly.

“Yeah,” Melinda said, and, without realizing it, gripped both arms around her stomach tight.

H
iding was exhausting. It sounded so easy. After all, hiding was full of don'ts.
Don't go to work. Don't call in. Don't answer your phone when they call you. Don't go home to Sunday dinner. Don't go to rehearsal. And, whatever you do, don't go out with the cast on a Friday night.
What was simpler than inactivity?

But the truth of the matter, as far as Joanna Chambers could see, was that
don't
wasn't as full of inaction as it seemed. There was willfulness behind shrugging off the most important parts and pieces of your life. It stuck in the pit of your stomach and leapt in your heart. The phone never rang to indifference.

Not that she'd answered her phone in a month. Not that
she'd checked her missed calls, and especially not her voice mail. The last time she'd done that was a mistake.

Voice mail #1 had made her toes go icy: “Joanna, hello, it's Max. Not sure what's going on with you, but we're really missing you here at LaEats. Stephen told us you're sick with the flu? It's been a long time. Hope you're okay. Listen, I don't want to fire you. But Leese will probably really start going apeshit if you don't at least call. Stephen's been taking your shifts. Call soon.”

Voice mail #2 had made her swim with guilt: “Joanna, it's Stephen. What the heck is going on? It's like you dropped off the face of the earth. Is this about that night with the wine? It's okay. It really is. I don't even remember most of it anyway. I was stupid to say something. I was drunk. It's fine. . . . I wish you'd answer your phone. I can't keep covering you forever. Leese is on the warpath. Plus I'm afraid you're trapped in a hole or something. If you don't answer by the end of today, I'm going to come to your apartment. I love you. In a nonweird way, okay? Please answer.”

Voice mail #3 had crushed her: “Yes, I'm calling for Joanna. This is Eliot, your stage manager? Stan said to tell you you're off the cast. And to, uh, never audition for him again. Uh, sorry. Good-bye.”

Voice mail #4 had broken her heart: “Hey, sweetie, it's me. Your father and I are wondering if you might have time to come to dinner this Sunday. We know you're busy with the show, but it's been so many weeks now, we've forgotten
what you look like. Just kidding, a mother could never forget such a precious face. Come home. We miss you.”

Voice mail #5, she couldn't even listen to: “Um, hi. It's Sutton. You probably know that. . . .”

Hiding was such a bad idea. She should have known that. She'd tried it before. It didn't work out then, so why would she have any reason to expect it to work out now? She'd hidden so well the last time that she'd disappeared from college for what, so far, looked like would be forever. Was she prepared to disappear from acting forever? From working? No, according to her bank account, she could disappear from working for only about two more months, and then she'd be screwed.

Not that LaEats was going to keep her job open for two more months. Not that Stephen was going to cover her shift for that long.

God. Stephen.

He might not have remembered most of what happened that night with the wine, but she did. She remembered every single second of it. She remembered him showing up for their standing Friday night movie date, a box of Franzia under his arm. His turn to buy; her turn to cook.

“Whatever you're making, it better go with . . .” He'd paused, checking the box as he followed her to the kitchen. “Red.”

She'd bent, pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven with flourish. “Pizza pockets. I believe red is, in fact, the proper pairing.”

He set the box on the counter. “What the hell? Frozen pizza pockets? I made beef bourguignon for you.”

“It was delicious.”

“It took me all day!”

“Whatever. You just made it because you like saying it.” She'd scraped the pockets onto a plate.

“Saying what?”

“Beef bourguignon. Sounds like
boof
.”

“It's French,” he protested.

“It's naughty, and that's why you love it.” She stuffed a bite of pizza pocket into her mouth. “Get the glasses. I'm thirsty. And I've got vintage Sandra Bullock cued up.”

They'd sat on her couch, munching on pizza pockets and popcorn and Skittles, and drinking way too much wine. They watched
While You Were Sleeping
, talking over the movie, trying to decide which of their LaEats regulars would be most likely to be the subject of secret marriage fantasies.

“Got one,” Stephen said, taking a huge gulp of wine. “The girl with the pointy boobs. The one who always starts with the Irish Nachos?”

“Oh!” Joanna, more than a little drunk, had snapped her fingers a few times, trying to drum up the girl's name. “Ugh. I can't remember. The one Bryce calls Patty O'Furniture.”

“Yes, that one! She might be secret-fantasy-worthy. She's got a nice face above those cone boobs.”

Joanna curled one lip. “Not my type,” she said. She'd
been saying that about all the girls he brought up, a part of her hoping it could provide a good segue. Maybe wishing he would ask:
What do you mean, not your type? Do you have a type of
girl
?
She always did this when they drank too much together. She always felt the truth sitting right there in the back of her throat, begging to come out, and looked for ways for it to conveniently slip. She wanted so badly to tell her best friend. If only one other person in the world could know, maybe the weight on her chest wouldn't be so heavy. Maybe she wouldn't walk around feeling so ashamed all the time, and so silly for feeling so ashamed. And so angry that there should be shame involved at all.

Stephen leaned forward to refill her wineglass. “There's another girl,” he said. “She's definitely fantasy material.”

“What girl? Don't say Mani-Pedi Woman. It's bad enough how Bryce goes on about her. She's not all that he thinks she is.”

“Nope, not Mani-Pedi Woman.” Stephen sucked a drop of spilled wine off his thumb and sat back, a blot of wine licking over the top edge of the glass and bleeding into his shirt. He didn't notice. “She is cute, though. Bryce is totally going to get her number next time she comes in.”

“Plain. And she has a ring tan.”

He got wide-eyed. “How did you notice that?”

She shrugged, feeling her face burn. The truth was, Bryce wasn't wrong. Mani-Pedi Woman was cute. But she was also a cheater. And gay. The ring tan was on her right hand. Of course Joanna noticed.

“So who's the girl, then?” she asked, sipping her wine, not noticing that the credits were now rolling on the TV.

“She's not exactly a regular customer,” Stephen said.

“Barfly? You know I don't pay attention to those. They're so pathetic with their mow-hee-toes and their lame get-laid lines. Hey, baby,” she mimicked in a drunken voice, “I don't suppose you could help me with this zipper? It's stuck.” She made an exaggerated pouty face.

Stephen laughed and bumped her shoulder. “No. None of the barflies.” He shook his head a little too fast, causing him to lean hard into her. “She works there.”

Joanna's eyes grew wide. “Oh my! You've been holding out on a work crush? Who is it? Is it the new bartender? It has to be the bartender. She's got all those tattoos. I never took you for a tat man.” She jostled his shoulder with hers. “Tell me. Do not leave me hanging here.”

Stephen leaned his head against her shoulder, and then turned and rubbed his nose shyly against her shirt. “You,” he said.

Joanna had laughed out loud, sure it had been a joke. Stephen calling her secret-fantasy-worthy was like calling a sibling secret-fantasy-worthy. “Yes, I am such a dream. A nice face above these pointy boobs.”

Stephen turned his head to gaze at her, his eyes faraway and swimmy, their faces just inches apart. “No, I'm being serious,” he slurred. “You're the crush.”

“You're drunk, Stephen Wilkinson,” she said, bumping his shoulder again. “This is going to be hilarious tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am and it will. But that doesn't change the fact.”

“What fact?” She rolled her eyes too elaborately, talked too loudly, shrugged too high, she knew. But her heart was pounding and she felt a restless fleeing sensation in her legs. She wanted Stephen to turn this into a joke. Please, a joke. As much as she would have liked to have reason to tell him the truth about her, this wasn't the way.

“This fact,” Stephen said instead, and leaned over and kissed her.

It was nice, as kisses went. Soft and warm, and she would've been lying if she said she'd felt nothing at all. Of course she did. She loved Stephen. Being kissed by someone you loved felt good, no matter who you were and what kind of lies you told yourself and the world.

But there was a difference between feeling good and feeling right. This kiss could never be right. She'd pulled away, trying to be gentle about it.

“You're drunk,” she repeated, much more softly this time, licking her lips. She could taste Stephen's wine on them.

Stephen gazed at her sleepily, grinning sadly. “And I'm not your type,” he said.

“It's not that. . . .” She leaned forward and set her wineglass on the coffee table. Suddenly, none of it had felt right. Not the food or the wine or the romantic movies. Suddenly it all felt like she was leading him on. Of course he would become confused. It was all her fault. “I mean, it is that, too. It's just not . . . I need to tell you something.”

Nervous—she was so nervous. She'd never said the words aloud. She'd never told anyone the truth. And a part of her had convinced herself that she wouldn't have to, that it was painfully obvious, the stuff of stereotypes. A part of her wished it would never need to be spoken. There was ease in others guessing.

Apparently, she'd been wrong. A guy had fallen for her, regardless of how painfully obvious she thought the truth was.

But Stephen—good old Stephen; God bless Stephen—simply smiled and set his wineglass down. “You don't need to say anything. It's no hard feelings.” And he reached up and tweaked the end of her nose lightly, the way he'd always done when he felt playful. He'd stood and swayed. “Woo. Looks like you're going to have a houseguest tonight. Damn that wine. Pretty sure you slipped bourbon in it so you could have your way with me.”

He headed toward the spare bedroom, the one that had only ever been occupied by him.

“Night,” he called over his shoulder.

“Night,” she'd said, and then had downed the last of her wine, poured another glass, and downed that one, too, trying to wash away the lump in her throat.

•   •   •

The next morning, she'd made sure she was gone before he awoke, as her only goal was to disappear. She'd declared herself officially in hiding and had gone to the last place she could think he would look for her—that greasy diner off the highway. They served Boston cream pie there, a weakness of hers.

And then the accident had happened, and she had gone into a weird mourning over some guy she didn't even know.

And now, after a month of hiding, she was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. She couldn't sleep; she wasn't eating well; she was jittery. And it didn't help that the news was showing that grainy cell phone footage from a month ago. Its graininess was her only saving grace—you couldn't tell who was who in that video. Apparently, even her best friend and her parents didn't recognize her. She didn't have to endure any “hero” conversations or have everyone thinking she was traumatized and “needed to talk.”

But of course she'd recognized herself in that video. She'd watched herself all morning, running out of the diner, her shirt untucked, looking as hungover and miserable as she'd felt that morning. She saw herself run toward the school bus, which had landed on its side. She saw her arms stretch up to climb, saw them reach through the open windows, the broken windows.

Every time she saw the footage, she remembered new things—the cries of the kids inside, the relief she'd felt that all the kids seemed to be able to cry, the adrenaline strength that coursed through her as she handed bruised and bloodied kids to two women who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere and were standing next to the bus.

The feeling of dread when one of those women called them both to a crumpled car, so wadded up she hadn't even noticed it before the woman had pointed it out.

The nausea and helplessness of seeing the man behind the wheel of that car.

What had been their names? Route? Roush? A young couple. A cute couple. They'd been heading to an early doctor appointment, she remembered. They'd had big news to confirm.

Joanna aimed the remote at the TV and pressed the power button, snuffing the grainy video into silence.

But it didn't help. She still felt agitated, like she—finally—needed some human interaction. And maybe some more Boston cream pie. Or maybe just proof that it really had happened, that she really had been there. That it wasn't some other lost-looking girl in the video footage.

She grabbed her keys and headed down to the parking garage.

•   •   •

She saw the two women as soon as she pulled up to the diner—an older woman in office attire and a younger one in chinos and a T-shirt. They were standing on the sidewalk, their arms crossed and their elbows nearly touching, staring at the bumps where the bus had carved up the earth on its approach. They seemed to be talking, and while it seemed unlikely that she would run across them here, today—her first time out since the crash—it somehow also made sense that she had done exactly that.

She parked her car and watched, her legs suddenly filled with ice water over the thought of human interaction. She could do this, right? You didn't just become unable to
live among people, did you? These women were not Stephen, not Sutton, not Stan, not her disappointed parents. She didn't have to hide from them.