Page 88 of His Best Friend's Baby

“Jesse, man, if you love her…” Mac trailed off and Jesse waited, as if maybe Mac would have some kind of answer for him. But he didn’t say anything, never finished the thought, and Jesse knew there was no easy answer.

“She’s better off without me, Mac. She needs to rebuild her life.”

“Why can’t you be a part of that?”

“How can I? I’m the past. I’m what she needs to get over. I’m Mitch’s best friend.”

“She didn’t seem to care.”

“Well, I do. Maybe I need to get over this. Maybe she’s part of the past that I need to forget.” He lied, and they both knew it.

“What are you doing here, Mac?” Jesse asked. He turned the old spigot on by the side of the house and splashed lukewarm water over his neck. Anything to cool down.

“We’re worried about you,” he said. “Rachel asked me to come by.”

“Tell Rachel I’m fine. I’m fixing the roof.”

“You could tell her yourself on Sunday. Steaks again, maybe some cold beer—”

Jesse shook his head. It wasn’t for him. Sunday family dinners. The Filmores didn’t have any business even pretending such things.

“No thanks,” he said.

“But—”

“I can’t, Mac. Just try to understand.” He stared Mac in the eye for a long time, willing him to catch on that he just needed to be alone.

The way he should have stayed all along.

Finally Mac nodded. “We’re here when you need us, Jesse.”

Jesse started up the ladder away from this vicious humanity, but stopped. Compelled by all the changes he’d gone through in the last few months, he turned and grabbed Mac hard in his arms.

“Thank you,” he told him. “Thanks for everything you’ve ever done for me.”

Before Mac could say anything, Jesse was back up the ladder to the roof where, as long as he worked until he collapsed, the ghosts never reached him.

IN THE END, Jesse didn’t bother trying to fix the lean in the garage. The new owners would probably tear it down—along with his workbench. Tear it down, sod it over. Whatever they wanted. “The cedar shake was a nice touch, Jesse.” JoBeth Miller, a girl he vaguely remembered as “easy” in high school, was now his real estate agent.

She was going over his house—and him—with a mercenary eye. Her skirt was too tight, too short and he wondered if she were still easy. Maybe he could erase the scent of Julia from his mind with another woman. But as soon as he thought it, he rejected it.

“You’ve increased the value by at least a couple grand. Now if you wanted to replace this floor—”

She seemed prepared to launch into the various monetary benefits to tearing up cracked linoleum, but he stopped her before she could get far. “The kitchen floor is fine. I want the house sold by the end of the week,” he said. “At the latest.”

“Well, it’s a buyer’s market in this town. Always has been—no one is really dying to live in New Springs. It might take a bit longer.”

“Fine, but I am only here until the end of the week.”

She pouted, an immature gesture left over from her adolescent years. “Well, that’s too bad, Jesse. We’ve just gotten reacquainted.” She touched his arm and he had to step away or possibly wrench that arm from its socket.

“Sell this house, that’s all I want.”

She blinked at him, her eyelashes heavy with mascara and he realized he’d never seen Julia wear makeup. Ever.

The thought, like Mike McGuire’s fist to his stomach, made him short of breath. For a moment he wished he were the kind of man who stuck around, accompanied her to the big events that required makeup. He imagined her in candlelight, a black dress, red lips.

“Sure, Jesse.” JoBeth ripped him from his thoughts. She tugged on her skirt as if suddenly aware of how inappropriate it was. “We’ll get it listed tomorrow morning.”

He put his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks,” he muttered, slightly ashamed of his behavior but not inclined to change it. He swung open the door to let JoBeth out. On the step outside, his hand poised to ring the doorbell, stood Caleb Gomez.

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