So Not Happening (28 page)
“Shrimp puff? Cucumber sandwich? Mini quiche?” I glide through the room, carrying a serving tray of hors d'oeuvres to men who could crush me with one hand.
“Thank you, little darlin'. I love the light hint of oregano on the quiche.” This from a man whose wrestler name is Breath of Death. “And I love your t-shirt. If I'm not mistaken, that's a Tory Burch, right?”
I think I've stepped onto another planet. “Yes, it is.” I walk away before the six-foot-seven dude starts giving me makeup advice.
About thirty wrestlers and their wives mingle with a few reporters from the local papers, plus a journalist from the Channel 5 news. Mom knows how to throw a party. And how to recruit some PR. She did it all the time for her charities.
“What are they saying about my garlic hummus?” Dolly asks as I enter the kitchen for a reload.
“One guy said it's better than a pile driver, but I have no idea what that means.”
She shakes her big blonde head. “Wrestler talk.” A shadow of a smile passes her face.
“You miss it, don't you?”
“Of course not. I got so sick of hearing about wrestling back in the day. That's all Mickey did was live, eat, and work wrestling. And now that he's a trainer, it's probably even worse.”
“He's been watching you all night.”
“Has not.” Her cheeks burn a suspicious pink. “Well, if he has, it's because I've had a plate of food in my hands every time he sees me.”
“You should go talk to him.”
“I'm busy, Bella. Now go push the sausage balls. I made too many.”
“How long has it been since you spoke?”
“To the sausage balls?”
“To your ex-husband.” I sit down and rest my feet.
She rearranges some perfectly lined up fruit on a tray. “The day he left. We let our lawyers do the talking after that. Not that there was much to say. He walked away and left it all behind. And I mean
all.
Didn't fight for a thing.”
Including Dolly, I guess.
“But that was a long time ago. We're different people now with different lives.”
“You live in the same town though.”
“Big enough to avoid someone.” She dusts off her hands on her apron. “Speaking of avoiding someone, if I were you, I wouldn't avoid
that.”
She wiggles her brows.
I turn around and there stands Luke, leaning in the doorway, his shoulder resting on a cabinet.
“What are you doing here?” I feel my own face flaming. He and I pretty much ignored each other all day, even in class. It's hard to make out with someone at night then face him in the light of day—when it was all for show.
Dolly takes my tray and heads back out into the sea of overstuffed men, leaving me and Luke. Together. Alone.
“I was invited. Your mom called to see if the school paper would cover it. I saw the other media. She seems to have covered all her bases.”
Now that Mom knows about Jake's wrestling, she's his biggest promoter.
“I talked to Reggie Lee. He's agreed to meet us later tonight if you can get away. He wanted to talk Saturday night, but I thought I heard you tell someone today that you're leaving for New York.” His chiseled face is expressionless.
“Thanks. I'm glad you did that—included me. I know you could've met him this weekend on your own.”
He smiles. “We're partners.”
Awkward! Awkward! Why can't I get over this weird feeling? He doesn't seem to be fazed by it. Maybe he makes out with girls all the time in the name of a good story.
“So are you looking forward to going back home?”
Home. I feel more disconnected from my friends and family in New York than ever. Mia has yet to call. Dad said he'd have work this weekend. It's like I'm slowly transitioning to Truman. I'm not to sure if that's a good thing or not.
“Bella?”
“Oh, home. Yeah, I'm excited to see my dad, my best friend.” And just in case Mr. Arrogance thinks I now pine for him, take this. And my boyfriend, of course. I'm surprising him.”
Luke has the nerve to continue smiling. “I'm sure everyone will be glad to see you.” He pushes away from the cabinet. “I'd better get to work. Hey, pretty cool your stepdad's a wrestler.”
“Yeah, about as cool as him making maxi-pads.”
Three hours later, there's not a shrimp puff or melon ball left. I don't know about their skills on the mat, but those wrestlers are champion eaters.
“Iron Skull, are you sure you have to go?” my mom asks the final one making his retreat out the front door.
“Oh yeah, Mrs. Finley. That bean dip ought to be kicking in any moment now.”
Nice. Maybe he should go by Noxious Gas. Or the Deadly Farter.
“So, Robbie, what did you think about all that?”
I startle at Luke's voice behind me. I thought he had left with the rest of the press.
Robbie scratches his head. “Well, I think tonight we had an example of mankind laying aside their differences, not to mention their stage makeup, and coming together in unity. It shows that peace is attainable. They are a model to our brothers and sisters in the Middle East.”
I pat Robbie on his scruffy head. “He's had a lot of Mountain Dew tonight.”
Mickey balances a stack of plates and heads toward the kitchen.
“Excuse me.” I leave Luke's company to seek out Dolly, scrubbing down the table in the dining room.
“Um . . . could you give me some help in the kitchen?”
Her hand pauses. “Sure, kid. What do you need?”
I don't answer but walk away, grateful when she follows.
I hear her intake of breath when she sees her ex-husband standing at the sink. He turns around. Frowns.
“Well, hey, Mickey!” My voice is overly bright, even to my own ears. “What a nice guy, doing the dishes. Isn't that nice of him, Dolly?”
Her overshadowed eyes narrow. “Oh, he's a real sweetheart.”
Hurt flashes on his face. He turns around and attacks a platter with a scrub brush.
Dolly plants a hand on her curvy hip. “Get out of my kitchen, Mickey.”
“I believe it's the Finleys' kitchen.
You
get out.”
Her mouth drops. “I'm the caterer tonight. You're j u s t . . . j u s t . .. the—”
“Manager?” He points a sudsy brush at her. “That's never been good enough for you, has it? I've never been good enough.”
“You leave me out of your inferiority complex. Don't you put that on me. I always supported you.”
“As long as I worked eight to five. You wanted me to have a desk job—admit it. You hated my late house.“
“Late hours?” Her voice explodes in the tiny kitchen. “There's a difference in working late now and then and
never
being home for your family.”
Just when I expect Mickey to match her volume and snap back with a comment, he closes his mouth. And stares at the floor. The gross linoleum floor.
“I have regrets, Dolly. Don't think I don't.”
“Yeah, well, is leaving your family one of them?”
Thunderclouds roll behind his eyes. His expression is so pained, I find myself stepping back toward the door.
“I killed my family.”
Dolly's breath hitches. “I was your family too. Maybe I needed you.” A tear glides down her cheek. A n accident killed our daughters, Mickey. Pulling the plug on our marriage is what I could never forgive you for.” She throws down her rag and rushes out, her heels an angry staccato on the floor.
Mickey watches her go. After a moment his troubled eyes rest on me. “I tend to ruin parties.” He forces a smile. “I'm not very good at Scrabble either.”
“You were driving the car the day your daughters were killed.” It's not really a question. But it's also not something I meant to say out loud.
“Yup.” He runs a big hand over his stubbly face.
“Don't tell me that's the first time you two have talked about it.”
“I kind of disappeared after the accident.” The dishwater covers his arms as he returns to cleaning. “I'm not proud of that. I couldn't stand to look at myself, and even worse, I didn't want to see myself through her eyes.”
“It was an accident.”
He hands me a bowl and a dry towel. “I was driving. I walked away with barely a scratch. My little girls never woke up.” His voice is hoarse, raw. He hands me another dish to dry.
“What happened?”
“Ice. It was a bad winter. An eighteen-wheeler lost control, and I swerved to miss him. We spun into the median on the highway.” Mickey laughs, a sound as bitter as a rotten grape. “I had a match that weekend. I was mad because Dolly'd been called into a second shift and asked me to watch the girls and not go to the gym. But training came first, and I put them in the car and drove us to Byler so I could get my workout in. So even if my driving didn't kill them, my priorities did.”
“That's not true, Mickey.” I feel my
Ask Miss Hilliard
instincts kicking in. “You heard Dolly say she doesn't hold you responsible. She forgives you. Maybe it's time to forgive yourself.”
He flings the water off his hands. “Nothing's going to bring them back, Bella.” Then he looks at me with that expression that says,
Why am I talking to a kid?
“Mickey, wait—”
But he's gone. I sigh and rub the tension building in the back of my neck.
“Why is it people want to pour their hearts out to you?”
Luke.
“Why is it you like to eavesdrop on my conversations?”
“My reporter's intuition led me here.”
“You heard Dolly yelling.”
He shrugs. “Something like that.” Luke removes my hand from my neck and replaces it with his own. “Got some tension, Counselor Bella?”
My skin tingles at his touch, and I'm reminded of our lip-locking moment. This boy is so maddening. Frustrating. Confusing.
His magic fingers stop, and he turns around.
When I see his face, disappointment swishes in my stomach. He looks totally bored. Not that I like him, but where's the look of burning passion he's unable to contain? Where's the look that says,
Bella, I admire you from afar—your face, your scent, your growing journalistic
abilities that could one day rival mine.
Where is that? Instead his face says,
When my hands were on you, I was doing long division in
my head.
How dare he look bored!
“Are you ready to meet Reggie Lee? Bella—did you hear me?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, let me grab my purse.” I should be packing instead of talking to former football players in secret. I run upstairs to get my bag. My eyes automatically go to my bed, where Moxie should be lying. But she's not.
Outside Luke waits for me in his 4Runner. He doesn't even glance my way as I snap myself into the seat belt. His car smells like his cologne, and I stop myself from breathing too deeply.
“Where are we going?” I ask when Luke turns toward Tulsa.
“We're meeting him at the Cherokee Waffle House.”
“Sounds very classy.”
Luke shoots down my every attempt at conversation with monosyllable responses until I'm forced to quit talking. Just to be obnoxious, I try to sing along to each tune on the radio. And since it's a country station, I know absolutely none of the songs. So I just make up the words. He ignores me anyway.
The interior of the SUV is illuminated as he pulls into the restaurant's parking lot. Through the glass windows I see tired truckers and mostly old men taking up the seats.
Inside we're greeted by the smell of twenty-four-hour breakfast. And though the interior leaves a lot to be desired, decked out in every Indian whatnot ever made, the food smells heavenly. I didn't have time to eat a single crumb at the party.
I slide into a booth across from Luke and open a sticky menu.
A slender African-American girl stops at our table. She pops a pink bubble. Are y'all from around here?”
“Truman,” Luke answers.
She nods. “So what can I get you?”
My eyes scan the choices. “Belgian waffles with strawberries, please.”
For the first time all night, Luke smiles. “Me too.” Guess he didn't get to eat either.
We both watch the door for the next hour.
I pick at my last bite of waffle. “He's not coming.”
“No. He's not.”
We pay and then walk into the muggy night air toward the 4Runner.
“Hey!” The waitress walks out of a side door. She hurries to us. “You're here to meet Reggie, aren't you?”
“Yes. Do you know where he is?” Luke asks.
She looks behind her, as if she's afraid someone's watching. “He couldn't make it.”
I step closer to her. “Who are you?”
“His girlfriend. And I think you guys should leave all this alone. Reggie's been through enough. He just wants to move on.”
“But what if we could prove that the drugs in his locker weren't his?”
She casts a wary eye at Luke. “It doesn't matter. They'll come after him another way.” She shakes her head. “It's over. It's done. He wasn't responsible for Zach Epps's accident.”
I startle. “What? Who said he was?”
“I have to go.”
“Wait!” Nothing like chasing someone in a parking lot. “Wait!” I catch her at the side door.
“They're like a high school mafia, okay?” Her breathing is ragged, her eyes wild. “You don't know what they'll do. For your own sakes and Reggie's, stay out of this.”
“We can't.” I read her name tag. “Marissa, one person's dead, one's on life-support. How many more have to be hurt before someone's willing to speak up?”
Her hand pauses on the door handle. “The Brotherhood has its own MySpace page. Only the members can access it. But every initiation is recorded.”
This doesn't surprise me. In fact, I should've thought of it. Even serious gangs post videos of their beat-ins, shootings, and initiations. The question is . . . how can we access a MySpace page that's set to private?
“Reggie was racing Zach Epps the night of the accident, wasn't he?”
Her mad stare is the only response.
“Please, you have got to tell Reggie to come forward and talk to the police. Zach lost his life that night.”
She wrenches open the door. “He may not be on life-support, but that night... Reggie lost his life too.”
I
saw you on
E!
last night, Dad. How did the pitch go for the new show?” I lurch forward as my dad slams on his brakes for the zillionth time. New York City traffic—there's nothing like it. I'd rather drive behind a slow tractor in Truman any day over this madness.