Your idea, Heather thought, but refrained from saying. “Mr. B is okay.” Used to be, anyway.
“Heather!” Her mother sounded exasperated now. “You tell me the truth about that note!”
“I did. It wasn’t me who wrote it.”
“Then—what? You’re saying someone forged it?”
Her mother didn’t believe her, made the whole idea sound crazy. But it had to be true. “I guess, yeah.”
“But why?” her mother demanded. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, Mom.” But by now Heather had a pretty good idea who. Even if she still had no clue why.
MORNING FADED INTO AFTERNOON, shadows dimming the corners of his office. Slumped at his desk, Jeremy couldn’t shake that image of Heather, her look of sorrow. No, not sorrow. He slowly gathered up books and papers. Disillusion. She’d seen right through him. But how? Heather didn’t know about Nikki.
Jeremy crammed the books and papers into his briefcase, turned off the light and left, locking his office door behind him. He imagined Heather’s eyes following him through the hall, down the stairs.
Instead, he discovered Nikki waiting by his car in the teachers’ parking lot. She came up behind him, reaching for his elbow.
“It was her, right, Mr. B?”
Startled, Jeremy turned and stared, searching Nikki’s perfect face. Did he catch a flicker of triumph there? Or had Marge’s talk about rivalry made him paranoid?
“I—I really can’t discuss it.”
Nikki’s eyes widened a fraction. “Not even with me?”
Normally that look and appeal from her would have moved him. Now he hesitated, reluctant to risk giving her any more ammo. Sickening to see her that way, his muse. And yet. Better be the adult now. “I’m sorry, Nikki.”
Her face fell.
“I can’t.” He turned to go, heartsick.
“I was only trying to help you, Mr. B.”
Such wistfulness in her voice. He stopped, didn’t turn around. “I know, Nikki. I have to go now.” He got into the Honda, pulled away without looking back.
Look where you’re going. Keep your eyes on the road ahead. You’ve been driving blind. Like his father’s voice inside Jeremy’s head. God, how he missed Mike Barrett, needed him now.
THIRTY FIVE
JEREMY PULLED UP AT the apartment shortly after four. He turned off the engine and lingered in the driver’s seat. He saw Melissa’s car, knew she’d be upstairs. He seized a few more moments to sit with his disquiet. A neighbor walked by and waved. Jeremy raised a hand in a return greeting, blinked to clear his head, and got out of the car.
Melissa must have heard his footsteps, because the apartment door swung open as Jeremy reached the second floor. “We have company.” She angled her head toward the living room.
Jeremy raised his eyebrows, and a familiar voice called out: “Hey, Baby Daddy! Get in here, man.”
“Rick?” Jeremy walked in, gaping at his old friend, who rose from the sofa. “Holy shit! What are you doing here, bro?” He rushed into a bear hug. Since Rick’s move to California, Jeremy rarely saw him.
“Business trip, last minute. Thought I’d surprise you guys.” Rick pulled back from their embrace and regarded Jeremy with a roguish grin. “And here, you’re the ones surprising me. Melissa told me the news. Congratulations, dude! Imagine you being Papa Jeremy.” Rick gave his shoulder a playful punch.
“I can’t believe this.” Jeremy stared at his friend’s suntanned face, the handsome features, always impossible to compete with. “How you been? How’re your folks? You see them yet?” Rick’s parents still lived nearby in Livingston.
“Yeah, I’m staying with them for a couple days. They’re great. Talking about moving down to Florida, can you believe that?” Rick chuckled. “They can hang out with your Mom. How’s she doing?”
“Good,” Jeremy replied. “Well, pretty good, considering.”
Rick’s smile faded. “Must be tough for her since your Dad’s gone.”
“Yeah, kinda.” Weird. He’d just been thinking of his father. “But, you know, she’s coming along. She’s got plenty of friends.”
“And a grandchild on the way!” Rick’s lopsided grin returned. “I hear that’s worth major points in the Florida grandparent circuit. Must be perking her up.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy gestured toward the sofa. “C’mon, sit. Get you a beer?”
“Absolutely.” Rick settled onto the couch.
“I’ll get it.” Melissa headed for the kitchen. “You guys chill and catch up. Rick, you’ll stay for dinner, right?”
“On one condition,” he replied. “We go out and celebrate, and I buy.”
“Deal,” Jeremy said.
NIKKI STARED INTO THE barren refrigerator, cursing under her breath. Mom hadn’t picked up groceries before she left for work. Probably didn’t get up in time. Sleeping off the contents of that empty vodka bottle sitting on top of the recycling, she guessed. Fuck that. Let Mom put out the can for tomorrow’s pickup. Damned if she’d do it.
Having eaten only a candy bar for lunch, Nikki was ravenous. She contemplated a half-full jar of chunky peanut butter, the staple of her brother Brandon’s diet, but it didn’t appeal to her. She wanted some fresh fruit, maybe a yogurt. Disgusted, she slammed the refrigerator door and stalked to the pantry closet for the saltines.
The bitch. What were the chances she’d hit the supermarket on her way home from her shift at Macy’s? Slim to none. Do you know what it’s like to be on your feet all day? Nikki imagined the whine in her mother’s voice. And your father late with his child support again.
Fuck, she’d leave too.
She hoped Mom would pick up a pizza on the way home. Nikki opened the package of crackers and stuffed one into her mouth. Stale. She grabbed a couple more from the pack anyway and walked off, leaving the pantry door open.
Things used to be better. When her father still…
No. Nikki pushed aside that thought before it claimed any more real estate in her head. No use dwelling on shit like that. Better to savor the coup she’d pulled off on Heather today. What a mastermind! She could be a freaking Hollywood director, right? Freaking Sofia Coppola.
Nikki swallowed the last of her cracker and thrust another into her mouth. So hungry. Hungry for so much. The nerve of Mr. B, putting her off like that today. Again! Her Special Older Guy, and he treats her like that?
UnFucking Acceptable.
Rejection and abandonment? Not for Nikki Jordan. No more. Mr. B had a choice—shape up or suffer the consequences.
Starting tomorrow.
THIRTY SIX
ALTHOUGH RICK INSISTED HIS expense account would cover a four-star restaurant of their choice, Jeremy held out for their favorite local BYOB Italian place and brought along a decent Cabernet they had on hand. One day it might be the Barretts’ turn to reciprocate Rick’s hospitality, and Jeremy preferred not to set the bar too high. The food did not disappoint.
Over appetizers of Mussels Fra Diavlo, Stuffed Mushrooms, and Asparagus and Prosciutto drizzled with Truffle Oil—which the three of them shared, family-style—Rick announced that he’d put a down payment on a place in Newport Beach.
“A small cottage,” he said.
“But in Newport Beach!” Melissa marveled. “Near the water?”
Rick shrugged. “A block away.”
Jeremy shook his head. Talk about the rich getting richer.
“Aah.” Rick waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“We’ve been talking about house hunting,” Melissa said.
Jeremy shot her a warning glance, as he reached to dip his bread in the last of the Fra Diavlo sauce.
“Makes sense, with the baby coming,” Rick said. “Where you looking?”
“Basking Ridge, maybe,” Melissa said.
“Nowhere yet,” Jeremy said at the same instant.
“Okaaay.” Rick looked from husband to wife with a wry smile. “So, Jeremy
, how’s your writing coming along?”
Jeremy realized his buddy meant to toss him a life preserver, not a curve ball. But his writing? Not a topic Jeremy wanted to discuss. “Uh, haven’t had much time for it lately,” he stammered, hoping he wasn’t blushing.
Melissa pursed her lips.
Jeremy pulled his shirt collar away from his neck. More than wine making him sweat.
“Too bad, man,” Rick said. “Your stuff is awesome.” He raised the wine bottle in Melissa’s direction, but she shook her head and covered her empty glass with her hand. Rick nodded. “Right, Mama.” He poured more wine into his own glass and topped off Jeremy’s. “You know, Mel, he showed me some of those poems he wrote after that summer in France. No wonder you fell for this guy.”
Jeremy caught her eye roll and gulped more wine. The waiter appeared and cleared their appetizer dishes.
“He still the soulful romantic?” Rick teased.
Jeremy gritted his teeth.
“Oh, sure.” Melissa aligned her silverware. “He’s into red lace garters these days.”
“Woo hoo!” Rick lifted his glass to salute Jeremy. “Do tell!”
Jeremy yanked his napkin from his lap and dropped it onto the table. “Melissa will tell it better. I’ll be right back.” He ignored Rick’s puzzled look and headed for the men’s room.
At the sink, Jeremy splashed cold water on his flushed face and dried off with a paper towel. The reflection staring back at him from the mirror looked utterly defeated. He’d always run a distant second to Rick, but now he’d fallen so far behind that catching up was out of the question. His friend, who’d started out a jock with mediocre grades, now enjoyed money and success. What did he have? Supposedly the smart one, Jeremy didn’t make enough to afford a house, assuming he’d even keep his job. No wonder his wife considered him a loser. Nice going, Barrett.
Add to his stellar portfolio one blind infatuation with a sixteen-year-old girl.
Jeremy lowered his eyes, too disgusted to look at his reflection. Measuring himself against Rick tonight made everything clear. He’d latched onto Nikki as a desperate fantasy of a second chance—as a writer and a man—instead of going out and staking his claim, like Rick. A stupid, half-assed risk of what little he had. Adding to his shame, Jeremy knew he’d played a part in hurting Heather. Everything he touched turned to shit. He left the men’s room before he did any further damage, like smashing his fist through the mirror, and returned to their table.
The entrees had been served during Jeremy’s retreat to the men’s room, but Melissa and Rick had waited for him, rather than dig into their meals. They looked downright cozy, Melissa laughing and leaning in toward Rick, her hand resting on his arm. They looked up at him—their expressions all amusement and no guilt—as Jeremy took his seat. Maybe Melissa had regaled Rick with an account of the red garter incident. He hoped not.
“Go ahead,” Jeremy urged, picking up his fork. “Don’t let it get cold.”
“Great food,” Rick said, savoring his Osso Bucco. “Glad you picked this place.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy sliced off a piece of Veal Francais and slid it into his mouth. He didn’t deserve to eat anything this good.
“So.” Rick looked from Melissa to Jeremy. “You guys hoping for a boy or a girl?”
Melissa shook her head, swallowing a mouthful of fish. “Please! Too early. It’s probably bad luck to even think about that yet.”
“Nah.” Rick speared his veal shank with a marrow fork. “Gotta think about names, right?”
Jeremy pushed around the veal on his plate. “Plenty of time for that.”
“Hey.” Rick sat back in his chair. “Why not name the baby after your old man, Jeremy? Michael—or even Michaela, if it’s a girl.” He shook his head. “Your dad was the best. Too bad he can’t be around to meet his first grandchild.”
A wave of sadness killed the rest of Jeremy’s appetite. He didn’t want to hear any more about his father tonight.
Rick went on. “Remember when you kicked that football through your neighbor’s window? What were we—ten, twelve years old?”
“Twelve.” Jeremy remembered, all right. He’d been aiming that kick about sixty degrees in the other direction.
“You broke a neighbor’s window?” Melissa snickered.
“Shattered the fucker.” Rick chuckled. “Made some racket, too. So the guy comes storming out of the house…” He paused, laughing in earnest now.
“Oh, boy,” Melissa said.
Jeremy gulped his wine.
“And Jeremy’s dad comes out of the Barretts’ at the same time.”
“What happened?” Melissa looked at Jeremy.
“Nothing, really.” Jeremy shrugged. “I had to pay for the new window, from my allowance and by doing yard work for the neighbor.”
“Yeah,” Rick said, “but the point is how your dad stayed totally calm. He defused the whole thing.”
Jeremy nodded, his throat tight. For the second time that night, he heard his father’s voice. Accidents happen. But we have to pay for the damage we do.
If only Mike Barrett was here to take charge again, help Jeremy out of the mess he’d made. But maybe better that he wasn’t around to see his worst fear confirmed—that he had a failure for a son. Aimless, whether it came to a football, a career or a real commitment to his marriage. Jeremy stared down in misery at his half-eaten dinner.
“Aren’t you going to finish your veal?” Melissa asked.
“No.” Jeremy put down his fork. “I’ve had enough.”
THIRTY SEVEN
JEREMY DID HIS BEST to stay engaged for the rest of the meal. Melissa and Rick laughed and chatted through dessert, but he had no appetite. Finally Rick paid the check and to Jeremy’s relief, declined his half-hearted invitation to come up for an after-dinner brandy, pleading an early sales call. After Rick drove off in his rented Lexus, Jeremy and Melissa trudged upstairs to their apartment.
“You okay?” She peered at his face. “You hardly touched your dinner. And you were so quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Jeremy assured her, unbuttoning his shirt.
“I’ll say.” He remembered the easy laughter between his wife and friend. “Little cottage by the ocean, and all.”
“Hey.” Melissa’s fingers grazed Jeremy’s bare chest as he pulled off his shirt. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
Letting the shirt drop to the floor, Jeremy put an arm around Melissa and kissed the top of her head. He smelled a trace of coconut and wondered if she’d used a new shampoo. “No.” He sighed. “Well, maybe a little.” His gaze traveled around the cramped apartment, with its cheap furniture, piles of clothing and books. “We’re a long fucking way from Newport Beach.”
Melissa pressed her lips to his neck. “And he’s a long way from married with a baby on the way. It’s okay. Really.” She stared up into his eyes. “As long as we’re together in this.”
Jeremy felt a knot inside him loosen. Did she mean that? Could Melissa still love him, in spite of all the ways he’d fallen short? “Of course we are,” he murmured, drawing her into an embrace. He pulled back and searched her face for signs of doubt or disappointment. But she was smiling, her eyes soft.
Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to make it right between them, to become once again the shy, romantic boy who wrote poetry for her. “Mel?” he said. “I know I’ve been distant lately. I’m sorry. I’ve been scared of being a father, afraid I’ll screw up. Distracted by all that stuff at school.” He placed a finger over her lips before she replied. “Sweetheart, I promise I’ll do better. I’m with you. I’m here for our child.” He meant it.
She threw her arms around him. “I love you.”
No more, Jeremy vowed. Done with Nikki once and for all. Before he came in to bed, he opened the file with his half-written poem, read it one last time. “Goodbye,” he whispered, and deleted it.
ALL THROUGH AP CLASS the next m
orning, Jeremy felt Nikki’s eyes on him. He avoided her gaze, but those blue lasers blazed through him. Whenever their eyes did meet, he felt exposed, as if she were reading x-rays of his mind and soul, seeing the sickness there.
Does she know it’s over? Or did he need to say the words and remove any shreds of doubt from both their minds?
Nikki lingered at her desk at the end of the period, gathering her things, the last to leave the classroom. Her eyebrows arched into a silent question as she approached his desk.
Jeremy stared back at her, torn.
“Meet me later?” she asked.
A fluttering arose in his chest. Yes, he’d have to spell it out. But not here. “The park at four.”
She nodded, her lips curving in a smile, and left.
Jeremy exhaled, drew the first full breath he’d taken all period. He waited a few beats to make sure Nikki had walked off before he stepped into the hallway.
“Jeremy!”
He turned. Marge Peterson hurried up to him, a look of excitement on her round face.
Not a good sign. “What’s up?” he asked.
She glanced around the corridor, still crowded with students heading to their classes. “In here.” Marge drew Jeremy into his classroom and closed the door.
He eyed her quizzically. “What is it?”
“Do you believe in coincidence?” She gave him a conspiratorial look. “Marge, what are you talking about?”
“Yesterday morning they posted the sign-up sheet for the DC trip.” She paused.
“So?”
“And yesterday afternoon, it was gone.”
Jeremy frowned. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Missing,” Marge announced, with a triumphant grin. “Removed from the bulletin board. Gone!”
“Marge…” Jeremy’s face knotted with impatience.
“So I started to wonder.” Marge tapped an index finger against her forehead. “Because I, for one, don’t believe in coincidence.”
Who was she, Sherlock fucking Holmes? “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that Heather Lloyd signed that sheet yesterday morning. Signed,” she added, “as in signature.”