Page 11 of A Night to Remember

I haven’t even taken off my coat yet. “Some,” I reply noncommittally.

“Gretchen?” he presses.

“Mm-hm.”

“Don’t let him get you down,” he says, smacking me a little too hard on the back. “He wants the best for you, deep down. I know he does. How about a drink?”

Drinking is the time-honored way my family relates to each other. I don’t really want anything, but talking to Adam without a safety buzz is not an attractive prospect right now.

I follow him into the kitchen, where our family’s cook has obviously been at work on quite a spread of hors d’oeuvres and snacks, which are arranged on half a dozen platters on the kitchen island’s broad marble counter.

“What’s all this for? Did Raul make them?”

“Oh, no. Someone from the café dropped them by. They’re catering samples for Hungry Hearts.” Hungry Hearts is the name of the annual Valentine’s Day dance at the country club that my family has always helped organize. It benefits the food pantry, but I’ve always thought “Hungry Hearts” was kind of an insensitive name. Which I guess is pretty on-brand for the Kentwood fifteen.

“We’re supposed to pick four or five of our favorites. Well, technically Lucy is supposed to, because she’s chairing the organizing committee, but since she’s at a conference this week, she had them sent here.” That must be why he’s not at the office. Just my luck.

“Want to help me choose?” he asks, passing me a beer.

I survey the trays of buffalo cauliflower, sweet potato fries and tomato soup shooters. I’d taken Kayla for a waitress, butmaybe she’s a restaurateur?Someonesure has spruced up the old diner.

“What’s wrong, little bro?” Adam asks, before shoving a tiny blue-cheese-topped burger in his mouth. The expression in his eyes, above his working jaws, hovers somewhere between gloating and sympathetic.

I don’t know how to answer this, so I just shrug and take a swig of my drink.

He swallows, then claps his hands together.

“You know what you need? You need to let your big bro help get you back on your feet with the ladies. You don’t know how lucky you are to be single! Come to Mickey’s tonight with me and Jake and Ryan. You’ll probably see girls you know there. Last time, let’s see… there was Mandy Sanchez, Allison Ambrose, Kayla Johnson…”

He gives me a look before he tips back his beer, and I wonder what he remembers about my previous friendship with Kayla. I decide not to take the bait.

“No thanks,” I tell him, standing up from the counter. “I think I’ll stick around here tonight.”

“All right,” he says, eyeing his next sample, as if he’s already moved on to more important business. “Just thought I’d mention it! You’re still planning on coming by the bank for lunch on Monday, right? I think Dad’s going to order in.”

I nod.

“Yep. It’s on my calendar.”

“Great,” he says, dipping a piece of panko-fried carrot in sauce before lifting it to his mouth. “See you then!”

Grateful to be dismissed, I go back to the driveway to unload my car.

6

Kayla

“You knowyou don’t really need to keep driving me to these appointments, right?” my mom says as our battered Impala speeds past fields of harvested corn and soybeans. Her appointment is in Hopkinsville, about an hour and a half away, and the largest city for at least a hundred miles in any direction. Anyone from Kentwood who needs specialized medical care has to go there. It’s also the home of Benton State, where I went to college. Every time I take this route I’m reminded of eighteen-year-old me, full of optimism and the unsubstantiated conviction that hard work would automatically lead to success.

“The doctors said it would be good to have someone with you, to make sure that we get all the information. Plus, I like taking care of you,” I reply with a smile.

Mom smiles back, then turns to look at the farms passing by the window. She’s tall like me, but heavier, and her rheumatoid arthritis has slowed her down considerably. As have the heart problems that brought me home to care for her. Still, she hasbeen improving steadily, thanks to lifestyle changes and the medication that is costing us a small fortune, and I know she is perfectly capable of driving herself. But I do like taking care of her. She sacrificed so much to raise me on her own. Driving her to a doctor’s appointment seems like the least I can do.

Mom and I sit in companionable silence for a while. I’m considering whether I should invent a colleague for the protagonist of my short story when Mom says, out of the blue, “I heard Gabe Wilson’s back in town.”

I focus, hard, on not accidentally veering over the center line into the path of an oncoming SUV. “Yeah,” I say, trying to control my voice. “He came into the café yesterday. How did you hear he was back?”

“Small town,” she chuckles. “I saw Tammy at Walmart—she cleans for the Wilsons, you know—and she said Cindy mentioned it to her last week.” Cindy is Gabe’s mother, a terrifying person with perfect nails and unnaturally obedient hair.

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