Page 49 of Before She Disappeared

“Football or baseball?” I ask him now, because I can’t decide.

“Neither.”

I chew my lower lip, then realize I’ve been stupid. The broken nose, battered features. “Boxing,” I state.

“I’ve been known to spend some time in the ring.”

“Is that when someone went Mike Tyson on your ear?”

“That’s from my older brother when we were kids. We fought a lot. Just, you know, to have something to do.”

“How many brothers?”

“Three.”

“Good God, your poor mom.”

“Exactly.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Foxborough.”

“Is that around here?”

“South of the city. My parents were teachers. My mom taught English, my father was the classic gym instructor by day, school coach by night. He was at a middle school, so he coached across the board, football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. But his first love was boxing; he took my brothers and me to the gym on the weekends. Your turn.”

“Grew up West Coast. Mom worked hard, Dad drank hard. Both are now dead.”

He stares at me hard enough as we pause at a crosswalk that I finally add: “Car accident. The other vehicle was at fault, which was a total shocker given my father’s drinking and my mother’s rage. The driver drifted over the center line, hit them head on. They died instantly. It’s funny, my parents had a terrible marriage. I don’t remember either of them ever being happy. And yet the fact they died together brings me comfort.”

He nods in understanding.

“Military,” I deduce next, inspecting his haircut. “Possibly army, but I’m thinking with those looks, former Marine.”

“No such thing as a former Marine,” he says, answering my question. “Post high school?” he quizzes me.

“Excelled at partying. I spend a lot of time in church basements now.”

“But you work in a bar.”

“Being around booze isn’t such a big deal for me. And bartending is my only life skill.”

“You don’t have a home. Or a husband, or kids. You just travel all around doing... this.”

“Inserting myself into other people’s problems?”

“Exactly.”

“Definitely growing on you. And your deal? Wife, kid, white picket fence?”

“My job is a demanding enough spouse, and my nieces and nephews keep me busy.”

“You’re the favorite uncle, aren’t you? Swoop in, hop them up on video games, sugar them up with soda, then ride off into the sunset.”

“Guilty as charged.” He arches a brow. My turn. Everyone has someone, don’t they?

“Ghosts of Christmas past,” I tell him lightly, all I’m going to say on the subject. “Okay, bonus round: In this day and age of racial tension, gender fluidity, and political polarization, how do you most define yourself?”

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