Page 110 of Mr. Picture Perfect
“Thanks, TJ.” I smile up at him. “What’re you doing home, by the way? Don’t you have classes?”
“I left campus in the afternoon to catch y’all’s final rehearsal. My mom said Mrs. Strong was a bit stressed with everything, and my presence would be ‘very much appreciated’. I don’t think she even noticed.” He laughs. “Anyway, I don’t have classes on Fridays this semester, so that gives me an extra-long weekend.” He shakes his head. “You sure are impressive, by the way. I don’t think I’d dare do half the amazing stuff you did out there tonight.”
“It’s all for fun and to put money into the town,” I say with a light shrug. “I’m not sure I’d call my talent impressive or amazing, but if it entertains the crowd and gets them to throw money …”
“Well, youdidhave a nice talent, but that’s not exactly what I was calling amazing or impressive.” He gives me a suggestive look.
Oh. He’s talking about the Speedo. “I’m not quite sure what’s so amazing about banana-hammock swimwear,” I repeat, “but if the crowd likes it, that’s better for us all.”
“The crowd most definitely will like it,” he says with a giggle. “Hey, what’s got you out here on your phone, anyway? I was in the kitchen earlier and thought I heard yelling. I almost went to the guest wing to check.”
“Oh. That was probably Anthony watching baseball.” I frown as I peer down at my phone. Still nothing. “I think I just needed a bit of space from the guys. They’re fighting again.”
“I see.” TJ frowns, crossing his arms on the banister. “I heard they’re not best friends.”
“You heard correctly.”
“Y’know what it sounds like they need?” He slaps the banister with determination. “A party, that’s what.”
I peer quizzically at him as he starts coming down the stairs, practically hopping. “Uh …”
“C’mon, I’ll solve all their issues. Let’s go.” TJ throws an arm over my shoulders and leads me right back to the guest wing.
I’m cringing at the idea of what we’ll find. That TJ will witness the worst of what we’ve had to put up with over the course of the past several weeks. That the second we enter the lounge, we will have to dodge a very expensive piece of airborne art flung our way by a drunken Anthony. That the two of them will be squared off on opposite ends of the couch wielding artwork for weapons.
Instead, we enter to find the pair of them on the couch.
Hugging.
And sobbing uncontrollably.
“I d-d-don’t know why I g-g-get like this,” cries Anthony.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” says Dean, patting him on the shoulder. “We all have our demons, we all do.”
“B-B-But my demons are so f-f-fuckingugly…”
“If my Cherie were here, she’d say we’ve got to have patience with each other—and with ourselves most of all.”
“She sounds s-s-so sweet …”
“You remind me of my nephew Tyrone when he was young, during his formative years.”
“I wanna b-b-be better … I wanna d-do better …”
“You will, you will. I’ll help you, son. You’ve got it in you, you can fight those demons, you’ve got it in you. Oh, if my dear Cherie were here right now … what she’d say …what she’d say…”
“I love you, man, I’m s-s-so sorry …”
“I’m so sorry, too.”
TJ and I turn to each other, completely baffled.
And that’s when the sound of scuffling shoes is heard. I turn to find Noah standing at the entrance to the lounge with a striped blue-and-white backpack slung over his shoulder. His eyes reflect as much bewilderment as our own at the bizarre scene before us.
“Noah,” I greet him, amazed.
“The butler let me in,” he says in reply, then smiles flatly.
