With a Little Luck: A Novel (31 page)

“I know you hate me,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”

“You’ve already thanked me like five times. All of which were unnecessary. And I don’t hate you.”

“I hate me.”

“You don’t hate you, either.”

“Well, someone hates me.”

“Probably,” I say, and manage a soft smile. “But nobody in this room.”

“I screwed us up,” he says. “I betrayed your confidence.”

I bite my lip. Yes … he did. But now’s not the time to make him feel bad for it. “It happens.”

“It happens?”

“I’m trying to be nice.”

This gets a smile. I smile back, and he shakes his head. “I promise you, I hate me more than you hate me.”

“Stop with the hating you. Nobody hates you.”

“I’m so worried about my mom,” he says.

“I know,” I say. “What time is her biopsy?”

“Nine a.m. My dad and I are both going.”

“Just stay positive until we know anything else. Right now it’s a lump. Just a lump. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you can,” I say. “I’ll stay with you tonight. I’ll stay until you have to go take her. We’ll stay positive together. One minute at a time.”

“I’m sorry I screwed us up,” he says, and I know he means it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You didn’t mean to.”

We sit in silence for a long time. He leans into me, and I run my fingers through his hair. He rests his head on my shoulder, and
when he blinks, a tear falls from his eye onto my arm. It breaks my heart. I hate to see him worry. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to help. I hope to God that his mom is okay and that this is just a scare. I know the odds. Terrifying. If not her, it could be my mom. Or me.

I pretend not to notice the tiny drop of water on my arm, but then another falls … and another. He turns and wipes his face on his shoulder and looks up at me with a shrug.

“I know,” I say. “I get it.”

I can feel his stare like a magnet, pulling toward me, pulling me toward him. Before I know what’s happening, our lips meet and we kiss like our lives depend on it. I find tears welling up in my eyes, too, so I keep them closed so they don’t sneak out. He’s the one who pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Was that not okay?”

“Did it feel not okay?”

“It felt very okay,” he says. “It felt amazing.”

“Agreed,” I say.

“Should we talk about this?” he asks.

“No,” I say, uncharacteristically. “No talking, no thinking.”

“I can get on board with that,” he says, and we’re pulled back together, kissing hungrily.

I feel things I don’t want to feel. My mind is awash in contradictions. “I love you so freakin’ much” wants to come flying out of my mouth, but thankfully my mouth is occupied, because we’re just having a moment. He’s afraid for his mom, and he trusts me, and this is just a moment. At least that’s what I tell myself.

But Ryan’s touch feels like home. I imagine that’s what I feel like to him, too. We’re lost in each other yet somehow found. So even if this is all it is, a moment, one night … it feels right.

Before we know it, it’s five a.m. and Ryan has to get ready for his—formerly our—show. He’s skipping the last hour of on-air to take Lily to the doctor. I think he should take the whole morning off, but he wants to keep busy, and I can understand that, too. I gather my things and pull him to me for a goodbye hug.

“I’m gonna get out of your hair so you can get ready,” I say. “But call me whenever you want, and definitely call me as soon as you hear anything about your mom.”

“Okay,” he says. “I will. And … thanks.”

“Of course,” I say, without looking at him.

I pass a black cat when I’m walking back to my car. I skirt it to avoid giving it any opportunity to cross my path and breathe a sigh of relief. Lily doesn’t need a black cat right now, even if I’m not entirely sure that bad luck is transferable.

I pull out my cellphone and see four missed calls from Brendan. I quickly dial his number, but I get his voicemail.

“It’s me,” I say. “Sorry I missed your calls. My ringer was off and Nat … was just having a really bad night. Her favorite chef has been stealing, and she’s very upset, and it’s really odd because he steals things like Gouda cheese and … I don’t know … bread—anyway, so she was upset.” At this point I realize I’m rambling, and I speed up my speech to record speed. “So, yeah, just call me whenever and we’ll talk. Okay, bye.”

The guilt.

The guilt!

Should I feel guilty?

I check myself out in my rearview mirror, and wow—my hair looks like it could turn you to stone. Lovely. This is what Ryan was
looking at. Medusa on steroids. I shake off my morning humiliation and pull away from the curb. As soon as I do, that idiot black cat runs in front of my car and shoots me a look that says, “That’s right, bitch—I’m crossing your path, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” When technically, yes, there is something I could do. I could run the damn thing over in hopes that a deceased black cat can no longer ooze bad luck, but then I’ll have the whole karma thing to deal with, and of course I would never run over a cat, so this is all a moot point except for the fact that this cat has just totally ruined my morning.

Three yellow lights in a row aren’t making a strong case for the rest of the day. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Too many yellow lights are a warning sign. Something bad is brewing. It’s when I near my fourth yellow light that it hits me: These are all warning signs. Here I have this nice guy who gets me and relates to me, and I lie to him and jump the second my ex calls. Maybe these signs are saying I just made a mistake. Maybe they’re saying I should stay away from Ryan. Maybe I’m being pulled over by a fucking cop right now.

Fuck
.

“License and registration, please,” he says as I roll down my window and smile.

“Certainly, Officer,” I say as sweetly as I can muster. “But may I ask why I was pulled over?”

“You ran a red,” he says.

“It was yellow,” I counter. “I mean, it was really yellow. It was the fourth one I’ve passed in five minutes, so I think I know what yellow looks like.”

“If you think that was a yellow light, you’ve just admitted to running four red lights in a row.”

“Yellow,” I say. “They were all yellow.”

I’m starting to miss Officer Ma’am. At least he doesn’t give me tickets. Now this guy’s gone back to his car to run my license or call his mom or eat a doughnut—whatever the hell they do when they walk away with your stuff.

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me off with a warning?” I call out to him, but he ignores me.

Damn it.

I pull out my cellphone and listen to the rest of my missed messages. There are two from Bill; both say it’s urgent that I call him. At first, I think he knows about Ryan’s mom and he’s gonna use this as an angle to make me feel sorry for him and do the morning show again, but that ship has sailed, and when I think a little more clearheadedly I realize that of course Bill doesn’t know about Ryan’s mom. Nobody knows about Ryan’s mom except for Ryan. And me.

I think about Ryan and text him:

Just got pulled over for running a red light. It was YELLOW, I swear. Anyway, since you yelled at me for running them last night, I thought you’d enjoy my karmic ass-biting.

A minute later he texts back:

Please drive safely! What did I tell you about making me worry?

I text him immediately:

A little pity here? I’m getting a ticket!

He responds:

Sorry. No pity here. Drive safely and I’ll pity you for other reasons. Already do. HA!

Well, at least he’s obviously feeling better. A little Berry boning works wonders on the emotionally fragile, I guess. I respond:

Glad to see you have your sense of humor this morning. I’ll just be here GETTING THIS TICKET! SOB!

When Officer Red Light Liar returns, we share very little small talk. He hands me the ticket and tells me that unless it is unsafe to stop, I should probably slow down and try to stop whenever I see yellow lights.

“Mainly because it would appear that you’re color-blind,” he says.

Oh, he’s a joker now? Fulfilling his ticket quota puts him in a good mood?

“The light was yellow,” I say.

“Have a nice day, ma’am.”

Just when I thought I was at least getting away without a “ma’am,” he hits me. There needs to be an equivalent comeback to “ma’am.” But what would it be? All that comes to mind is “saggy balls,” and that’s hardly appropriate, since “ma’am,” for all of its faults, is a pseudo-attempt toward politeness. Even though to me it’s just the equivalent of a Southerner saying “Bless your heart” when what they really mean is “Fuck you.”

After a quick shower I change to go to the station—I don’t really have to be there for a few more hours to prep for my show, but the truth is I want to be there just in case Ryan gets upset while he’s on the air or after and he needs me. When I pull into my parking spot, it’s oddly missing my nameplate.

Okay, that’s very strange. And very worrisome. Bill can’t be that upset about my quitting the show. Could he?

There’s a sinking feeling settling in my stomach, and it doesn’t improve when I walk up to the elevator. Jed and Daryl are carrying packed crates out of the building.
Oh my God
, I think to myself. They finally crossed a line and got fired.

“This is bullshit,” Daryl says.

“Guys, what happened?”

They look at each other. Jed responds, “What do you care? You never liked us. The way you just up and quit things … You don’t even like your job.”

“Hold it,” I say. “I quit the talk job. And I understand you’re emotional right now, so I won’t take that personally, but I do care about my job. That’s why I worked my ass off to get this job, and that is the job I still care about.”

“Yeah, you seem all broken up,” Daryl says, and pushes past me.

“Is that a breakup pun?” I ask Jed.

“Whatever,” Jed says. “I’m sure you’ll be back on your morning show in no time.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Well, good luck. Whatever you do.”

“Thanks,” I say, mildly confused. “But seriously, what happened?”

Daryl looks at me with what almost seems like a touch of actual empathy and shakes his head.

“You’ll see, Berry.”

I don’t recognize anything when the elevator door opens.
Shit
. I’m so frazzled I got off on the wrong floor.

Wait. I am on the right floor. What the hell’s going on?

It’s like I left for college and returned home to find my childhood bedroom was rented out to Jeff Foxworthy. The hall posters that once featured the Doors and the Stones and Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin have been replaced with Toby Keith and Tim McGraw and Kenny Chesney and Brad Paisley.
This can’t be good
. The sinking feeling in my stomach has turned into the
Titanic
.

There are people I don’t recognize and cowboy hats everywhere. It’s like a nightmare in which I wake up and tell people, “I had the weirdest dream! I walked into work Monday morning and our station
had turned into a country music station!” It’s baffling. Are we having a party? And who are these people scurrying about like they work here?

“There you are.” I turn to see where the voice is coming from and find Bill … wearing a cowboy hat. Sadly, he’s one of the few people whose looks are markedly improved by one. “Uh,” I say, trying to sound calm, but I am so not calm. “Bill, I didn’t get the memo. Is it dress-up day? Are we having a hoedown? What’s going on?”

“I called you twice, Berry,” he says. “Most people didn’t even get the courtesy call.”

“Huh?” is all I can muster. I still don’t know for certain, but I’m suddenly getting quick flashes of my recent past, like in the
Lost
finale. Daryl and Jed walking out with their things, people staring at me ominously as I pushed the button for the elevator, the sawdust, the new framed posters, swapped out like the old ones were never there.

Oh
.

My
.

God
.

It’s not a joke.

We’ve gone country.

The station format has changed. We’re now …