Miss Adventure Page 19

  “Did you ever see them again? Edgar and Griselda, I mean?”

  “Four years later,” he says. “Edgar’s funeral. Luz called my parents and they told me. That’s the end.”

  We stand there quietly, not even looking at one another. I lean my butt against the door but don’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. I don’t even ask why he never went after them, tried to explain.

  How could he? For Edgar and Griselda to believe him, they would have to accept that their daughter had willfully and joyfully jumped into bed with a man who was not her husband. Jack would never ask them to do that. Never.

  I bet he’s spent a chunk of the past fourteen years hoping Luz would find it in her heart or soul to tell Griselda the truth. But I guess she never has. And anyway, it’s too late for Edgar. Too late for Jack.

  Bitch.

  Jack turns to lean against Dalton like I am. He squints at the golden glint of the setting sun, looking at nothing in particular. As I watch him, I can feel it steal over me, like the solution to a Brother Cadfael mystery. Suddenly, I just know, probably because it’s so obvious, that Jack wants to be alone.

  Jack looks across the street toward the HEYA parking lot, as everyone begins to drift away for the night. “Party is totally over,” he says. “I guess we better–”

  “No,” I say. “It’s okay. You’ve been an amazing help. But I’ve got it from here.”

  Jack nods, still not looking at me. “I’m over here,” he says, kind of shrugging down the street to his egg roll truck.

  “’Night.”

  “’Night.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I’m in the garage shoving dishtowels into the washer, still fantasizing about meeting Luz and destroying her. The phone rings in the house. I run to grab it, in case it’s Jack.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I say, trying to make sense of the voice on the other end. “Who are you? Where did you get my number?”

  “Keith,” yells the guy on the other end of the phone. I can tell he’s trying to hear me and be heard over background bar noise.

  Great. Keith is freely giving my number to drunken guys on slow Sunday nights as if I’m a last ditch party trick.

  “He said I was good at what?” I shout, trying to be helpful.

  “Trivia! It’s free drinks if we win and the next round starts in twenty minutes.”

  “A big trivia competition on a Sunday night? This late?”

  “That’s the only way to keep anyone in here on Sunday after the games are over. C’mon. Be a sport and come down, will ya? Keith said you’re the guru of trivia.”

  It’s true. I am.

  It’s the one thing I’m really good at.

  Funny, isn’t it? The one thing at which I excel is defined as, “That which is unimportant; insignificant minutiae.”

  Still, I do kick ass at it. And I need to stop thinking about Jack. I really do.

  “Where are you?” I ask, as I look around for my shoes.

  * * * * *

  The first round is almost over, and I have to say, I’m disappointed. Three guys and I sit at a bar table. We watch the TV monitor in front of us as it flashes questions, then we race against four other tables to be the quickest to enter the right answer. Either A, B, or C or D.

  That’s right. It’s multiple choice. How lame is that?

  It’s hardly a challenge at all when they’re options. I can’t believe I sacrificed a night of Mystery! for this. At least the guy to my right is cute.

  “Pacers and trotters.” I speak softly enough so the other tables can’t steal our answer.

  “What?” This from Jason, who insists on being the one who punches in the answers. Even though he doesn’t know a single one. Ignoring him, I reach over and punch in C.

  “Hey!” He hovers protectively over the console.

  The monitors flash with confetti graphics. We win Round One.

  Jason, of course, takes all the credit. As he pumps his fists into the air, I feel a hand slide along the back of my neck.

  “So,” the cute guy says, giving me tingles down my spine, “how did you know pacers and trotters? You a big gambler with your millions?”

  Why did I ever agree to meet a bunch of Keith’s friends? Why?

  I give him a hint of a smile. “What’s your name again?”

  “Noah.”

  “Well, Noah. One of the Black Stallion books,” I answer. “I forget which one. But for some reason, Alec ends up spending time at harness racing stables. That must be where I picked it up.”

  “Ooo-kay,” he says, then smiles. “You’re cute.”

  “So are you,” I chirp back matter-of-factly, noting to myself that he can’t handle talking about horse books. “I’m going to get a drink. Wanna come?”

  Pressed shoulder to shoulder at the bar, waiting for our drinks–me for my Coke and he for his Rolling Rock–I sneak a glance at his profile. He reminds me of Aaron Eckhart.

  “Keith was right about you,” he says with a slow, sexy smile. “You are good at trivia.”

  My Coke arrives in one of those long glass bottles. With an almost orgasmic sigh, I take a long pull.

  Noah holds his Rolling Rock, just staring at me. He leans in close, even though the bar is pretty tame and I can hear him just fine. “Makes me wonder if he was right about all the other stuff he said.”

  I shrug. “Maybe,” I say, refusing to let him bait me.

  Noah straightens up, giving me this totally hot look where he crinkles his eyes. “He said the sex was great.”

  I just met him and he's talking to me about my sex life? Like he has any right? But then he takes a drink, giving me a good look at his Adam’s apple.

  I have this thing for a guy’s Adam’s apple. When it comes to turn-ons, for me, it’s a guy’s hips, then Adam’s apple, then haircuts. And hands. Definitely hands.

  He lowers his bottle. “Never boring. He said you always came at the same time.”

  It takes all of my control not to react. Fucking Keith! Like the world doesn’t already know enough about me?

  Now Keith is telling people about my orgasms? For sure that means he also told them all the awful, embarrassing stuff, too.

  At least Noah has the sense not to trot out everything he knows. Smart move, since it’s pretty clear he wants to get busy with me.

  “You call that great sex?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he laughs. “What do you call it?”

  “Sex that’s not boring? I call that the bare minimum for what I expect out of a date.” I take a drink. “Is a lot of the sex you have boring?”

  “What?” He bobbles the bottle that was on the way to his mouth, spilling some. “No. I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t saying that. I just meant, you guys came at the same time.”

  “When do your sex partners come?” I ask. “Or don’t they?”

  “What? Of course they do. I just–”

  “Round Two is starting.” After making this important pronouncement, I head back to the table, Noah following in my wake.

  I get back to our table, slide into my seat, and pull the answer console in front of me.

  “Hey!” Jason is not happy.

  “I work the controls from now on.” I state it, simple as that. “I’ve had enough of this bogus team spirit. Either you want me to win for you, or you don’t. What’ll it be?”

  They back off.

  For the next ten minutes, they mostly leave me alone.

  Good.

  It makes me sick to think of how I showed up tonight just so I could distract myself by trying to impress three guys I don’t even know with my awesome trivia prowess.

  Did I think that would mean they liked me? And that Jack is no big deal in my grand scheme of things? Jack uses me to test his gear, which I agreed to.

  Now these guys are using me, but to win free drinks. Something else I agreed to.

  When I punch in the answer to the last question, I stand up to leave. Noah looks up.

  “Aren’t you
going to wait to see us win?”

  I shrug into my barn jacket with the frayed corduroy collar, shaking my head. “I’ve got laundry to do.”

  I’m almost at my car half way down the block when Noah comes running after me. I slow down, letting him jog up to me.

  “Laundry?” he asks. “Seriously? I can guarantee that sex with me is better than that.”

  I need to stop thinking about Jack.

  I give him a coy, assessing smile. “Really?”

  “Really.” He reaches out, takes me by my frayed lapels, and pulls me into a kiss.

  * * * * *

  Driving home, I try really hard to concentrate on the road, not on my stupid life. What have I done? Why did I do it? I can scarcely breathe every time I contemplate convincing answers. But I need to know. Am I fool? Or not?

  I should have gone home with Noah.

  Okay, maybe not.

  Noah seems like the type to sell the story to the tabloids. But is that really the reason I didn’t get down and dirty with him?

  By the time I get back to my house, I’m so confused I top off the litter boxes with dry cat food and give Ginger’s vitamins to Christian.

  I have to get a grip. It’s just that, I feel like I don’t know what’s going on in my own life. I think I might be doing everything wrong. I mean, look at Keith and me. I thought we really hit it off when we met. Then I thought we fell in love and built a forever kind of relationship. I even thought we were getting married. But I was wrong.

  Sometimes I wonder what was really happening for those five years.

  * * * * *

  I hunker down into the couch and pay attention as the commercial ends. This is the best movie Clint Eastwood ever made.

  Duh nuh nuh nuh.

  “Come in,” I yell.

  I’m not missing this part for Jack. I don’t care if he is helping me Advantage all the pets today.

  The front door opens.

  “Hey,” Jack says, practically making love to my dogs. “You ready?”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  Jack moves further into the room. “You’re watching TV? I have to wait for this? Lisa, I called you. You said you’d be ready.”

  “The fleas will still be here in five minutes,” I tell him. “Just chill. I had no idea this was on. I was flipping to CNN or WNC or one of the news channels and just found it.”

  “Lisa….”

  “Please? They’re almost to the best line ever.”

  Jack’s spots TiVo sitting right next to the TV. “Just record it.”

  “Haven’t hooked up the dish yet. Now just be quiet. Please. We’re almost there.”

  Jack stands, jaw set. “Lisa….”

  “Shhhh! Here it comes.”

  On screen, the Russian spy says to Clint, “Gant, can you fly that plane? Really fly it?”

  “Yeah,” Clint says, “I can fly it. I’m the best there is.”

  Wow. I’m the best there is. I hug my knees and rock back and forth a little. I think I even make a squeaky/hissy sound, like that of air escaping from an inner tube.

  “I remember that,” Jack says, staring at the TV.

  “You’ve seen this?”

  “No,” he says, crinkling his brows. “At least I don’t recognize any of this. I think I remember that line from an ad, from when I was a kid.” He pauses a second. “Firefox, right?”

  “Yup,” I say, feeling vindicated.

  “I remember.” He says it this time with a ghost of a smile. “But back then, I thought they were saying, ‘Clint, can you fly that plane.’ Anyhow, move your ass.”

  I try to gut him with a glare. “Don’t talk about my ass. Ever.”

  Jack just looks at me. He doesn’t know that my post-hospital fitness regime has begun to decline. But I know it. I know it every time I look at my butt or try to squeeze it into my treacherous clothes.

  “Well,” I insist, “if a bald guy was sensitive about losing his hair, you wouldn’t say to him, ‘C’mon, move your head.’ Unless you really wanted him to move his head, like if it was in the way or something.”

  Jack looks at me for another few seconds then opens his mouth. “Look, as long as I’m here helping with the fleas, why don’t I just install your dish for you? It won’t take long.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  Jack looks at me. “What? Why not? I installed mine. It’s not hard.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “That’s why I’m going to do it myself.”

  “Have you ever done it before?”

  “No,” I say. “When I bought it, it came with free installation. So, the TiVo guy, or the Direct TV guy, I forget which, did it. But I know how to read an instruction manual, so I’ll be fine. But thank you for offering.”

  “Lisa, it’ll be faster if–”

  “You men are all the same!” I bolt up from the couch and throw down the remote.

  Silence. Then Jack says, “You mean we all offer to help? Because that’s all I’m doing. I’m just offering to help. I can do something for you in twenty minutes when it’ll probably take you all day.”

  “So what if it takes me all day? Then I’ll know how to do it. And this is not just some ‘offer to help.’ I’ve got your number, Hawkins, so back off.”

  He actually laughs at this. “You are so insane.”

  “No, I’m not,” I say. “Guys do this all the time. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived through it. You offer to help. Again and again. So we women get used to it. Then we start expecting that you’ll do anything for us that’s just the least bit challenging. Fix the air conditioner. Change the light bulb. Plunge the toilet. Go up to the roof to get the tennis ball out of the gutter. Pretty soon, the resentment builds. Then, you start complaining how we’re nags. And lazy. And we can’t do anything for ourselves. Then you leave us and we’re clueless. It’s all a trap. An awful, vicious trap. So, no, thank you.”

  Jack doesn’t say anything for a minute. “You don’t seem like the type to play tennis,” he finally decides.

  “I don’t,” I say. “But I might be throwing a tennis ball for Aaron or Christian to go after.”

  “And you’d throw it on the roof?”

  “Not on purpose, but I have really bad aim. Major tendency to overthrow.” I turn to him. “And don’t think I don’t see that you’re changing the subject because you know I’m right.”

  “Fine, I won’t help you.”

  “I know you won’t,” I say. “Because I said ‘No,’ to your offer of help.” I huff out a breath. “But, thank you.”

  “So, why am I here again?”

  “Shut up.”

  * * * * *

  Ninety minutes and four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches later, we’re almost done with the lot of them.

  “Who’s left?” Jack asks from the bathroom doorway.

  “Dorothy and Jayne,” I say, peering into the mirror over the sink.

  I suck in my breath as I press the cotton ball soaked with hydrogen peroxide to the scratches on my neck. Damn damn damn.

  I swear my droopy dough-boy chin is coming back. I blasted it to hell once I got out of the hospital and got in shape. But now, thanks to Jack, with whom I pig-out on a regular basis, I’m gaining my weight back. And the sex between us never lasts long enough to burn comparable calories. This is not fair.

  Jack doesn’t move from the bathroom doorway to go look for the cats or anything helpful like that. “Lisa, they’re both boys. You didn’t change their names yet?”

  “No,” I state, “and I’m not going to. Besides, Jayne is a boy’s name.” I dab at my neck. “At least, he’s named after a guy named Jayne. And Dorothy from the Golden Girls could totally pass for a man.”

  “But–”

  “Jack.” I bite into the one syllable. “Not every guy needs a testosterone-injected name in order to feel his manhood.”

  “Hey! I didn’t pick my name.”

  “Noooo,” I concede, “but you’ve certainly lived up to it. I mean, seriously.
What were the chances you’d end up becoming a pot-bellied actuary with a name like Jack Hawkins?”

  “You’re bitching about my name? Seriously? What bug crawled up your ass?”

  Now the big bully is actually trying to piss me off. He knows I’m sensitive about my ass!

  I put the hydrogen peroxide away and shut the medicine cabinet door. “You are such a guy,” I accuse, pushing past him on my way back to the kitchen.

  “Lisa!” he yells, following me. “What the hell?” He laughs, like I have no reason to be upset. “I come over here to help you and you lay into me about my name and… and… what? That I’m a guy? I could have sworn you knew all along.”

  I turn, launching into him. “You eat whatever you want!”

  Jack stops in the kitchen doorway. “Don’t most grown-ups?”

  “Not women,” I fume. “We can't. We gain weight when we eat. You never gain weight. I bet you’ve never counted a calorie in your life.”

  Jack just looks at me like a gym teacher would who warned me not to play so rough with the boys. “With your talent for losing millions at a time,” he says, “I wouldn’t be so cavalier about betting when you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. As usual.”

  I set the last two tubes of flea medicine on the kitchen counter. “Let me guess. You were stuck on top of some mountain with a herd of Yetis and you had one power bar between you to last through a blizzard and doling out the calories correctly was a matter of survival.” I blow my hair out of my eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Jack picks up Dorothy from where he sleeps on one of the kitchen chairs. “What are you talking about?” But he says it in this soft, coochy-coochy-coo kind of voice as he scratches Dorothy between the ears. Jack is SUCH a sap.

  “You’re making me fat.” There. I said it.

  “You’re not fat.” He says this in a high-pitched falsetto, and I can tell he’s pretending to be Dorothy talking. “Have you seen Sophia?” he continues in Dorothy’s voice. “Now, she’s got a big gut.”

  “I’m fatter than I was when I got in shape after the hospital. Every time I’m with you, we eat. You’re my enabler.”