Page 2 of The Pocket Pair

I resist the urge to tell her she should use the term woman, not girl. The short answer is never, but I don’t say that either.

“Will you please call me next time?” I ask. “You know I’d be here in half a heartbeat.”

If gum-chewing can have a vibe, hers turns vindictive. “Next time, I’ll throw eggs. See how they like that.”

To be honest, a lot of teens could do with a good egging. Some adults too, for that matter. I make a note to check for what kind of charges egg-throwing might carry. Tipping my cowboy hat, I promise to come back soon and clean the trash out of Mrs. Fleming’s cannons.

But not at this moment. Because as of now, I’m off-duty.

“I’ll come back sometime this week or next and clean out those cannons for you,” I promise.

Her expression softens. “Your mama would be proud of the boy she raised.”

I sure hope so. I swallow thickly. “Thank you, ma’am. It means a lot.”

I’m halfway to my cruiser when she calls, “And aren’t you just the spittin’ image of your daddy. He’d be proud too.”

I sure hope not.

I don’t pause, though my steps falter, my cowboy boots kicking up a little cloud of dust in Mrs. Fleming’s gravel driveway. I’d love to take the first compliment, to let it wrap around my heart like a warm blanket on this cool January day. But she had to go and ruin it by comparing me to the last man I would ever want to resemble in looks or any other way. Making him proud is the last thing I’d want to do.

Because if a man like my father were proud, I must be doing something wrong. Too bad only a tiny percentage of the population—me, my sister, Winnie, her best friends and boyfriend—know the truth about my father. Who he was. What he did.

“He was such a good man,” Mrs. Fleming goes on, and, as I do anytime someone says something positive about my father, I bite my cheek so I don’t burst their bubble with the truth.

I can’t seem to escape the pale ghost of a man I looked up to for half my life—until I didn’t look up to him at all. He clings to me like the smoke from the cigars he sometimes covertly lit up in the backyard, the stink clinging to his hair and clothes for days after.

As much as I’d love to shower or scrub or bleach his stink off me, I don’t think that’s how it works. I share the man’s DNA. Which means I might share in his epic failures too.

“We’re not going to torpedo our relationships because of Dad’s mistakes,” my obviously much smarter-than-me sister said when we visited our parents’ graves around Thanksgiving. At least one of us is holding up the bargain we made by way of a pinky promise.

Me? I had the fingers of my other hand crossed behind my back. Figuratively, that is. Because Winnie definitely would have noticed otherwise. She can happily settle down for good with her boyfriend, James. And I’m glad for her. But it’s not for me.

And yet … I swear, ever since then, it’s like making the promise has cursed me. Dating has become a chore. Like heading to the mechanic when the check-engine light comes on. Tomorrow night is the first date I’ve scheduled for months, and I’ve considered canceling more than once. Instead, I keep finding myself watching Winnie so happy with James and feeling this weird pinch in my chest.

Better get over that quick.

My phone dings with a text, and I’m more than grateful for the chance to shove all thoughts of my father and longing for things I can’t have into a mental trash compactor in my mind.

Mari: Can you stop by the diner this afternoon? It’s important.

If it were most people, I’d put this off until tomorrow, using my date as an excuse. But I’m not all that eager about the date. Plus, it’s Mari—the woman who was like a second mother to me after mine died. Just like she stepped in to care for Val and her sisters when their mom ran off that same summer. I’d do just about anything she asked.

Is this about Val? I can’t help but wonder. Is she okay?

As one of my sister’s best friends, Val falls under the umbrella of my protection.

That’s why I care, I tell myself. The only reason.

Not because of the way her dark eyes sparkle when she laughs at my dumb jokes or the way she always manages to have paint somewhere on her skin or the way she somehow manages to look feminine in a pair of Dickie’s coveralls and a tank top. None of those reasons are why I’m hustling to get to the diner. Because those reasons would get me in trouble with my sister, even if I were the kind of guy to date someone like Val.

Nope—I’m going for Mari. Just Mari.

I almost believe it.

* * *

The diner, as always, is busy. The Bobs, three old-timers who share the same name and an unparalleled love for Sheet Cake High School football, toss me a wave. I help coach the team, but I’m gladly taking a brain break from it in the off-season, while I bet they’re already talking about next fall’s lineup. They’ll rope me into a whole conversation about it if I let them.

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