Unfinished Business (4 page)

“When you start but don’t finish.”

Josie nods, gradually understanding.

Even in the dim light I see Marc’s face pale. “Why wouldn’t you finish?”

“It depends on whose fault it is.” That from Josie, who is the sort to toss a guy off her if he isn’t performing up to par.

“Why does it have to be somebody’s fault?” Wilson wants to know.

A drunkenly thoughtful pause staggers among us. Nobody wants to go there…to the land of faults. I especially don’t because I lived there and it was hell. That’s why I packed up and moved to Detroit where none of the blamers can find me. Never mind that I left something undone back home. Here in the city it’s easy to pretend that other place doesn’t exist and that one last piece of personal business is only a dark story I tell myself.

“Do girls really fake it?”

I turn to Sam, realizing that’s the first thing he’s said. He looks like he wishes he could snatch his words out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth. I feel a little sorry for him in the big sister, poor kid, kind of way.

Wilson hitches onto Sam’s train of thought, “Don’t ever ask a girl if you’re the best.”

“Yeah.” Marc agrees. “She’ll say something meaningless like, ‘I don’t think that way’ or ‘I don’t compare guys’.”

Wilson leans forward and I notice he has a long, black ponytail. “Yeah. The next thing you know, you’re back to trying to figure out how many she’s been with and where you rate in the lineup, and that sucks.”

“Can’t you tell? How you rate?” Marc looks over at Wilson, then leans back and nods—to himself I’m guessing. “I know when I’m giving a girl a really good time.”

“What if she’s faking it?”

Poor Sam.

Silence seeps into the conversation again, either because we feel sorry for Sam and his obviously struggling male ego or because the whole faking it conversation is a no-go. Nick isn’t involved in this whole conversation. He’s staring off into space. Thinking about some math problem, probably.

Needing to do something with my attention, I gaze over to Wilson’s shiny locks.

Long hair.

How about that.

Sexy?

Out of habit, I check out his hands.

I can’t get a clear view because one arm is behind his head and one hand is wrapped around a beer bottle. The fingers look promising though. Sort of.

Wilson glances over. He doesn’t smile but something passes between us. At least I think it does. But what do I know? It’s not like I have all that much experience with city guys. Before I decide whether or not it actually did or whether or not I should do anything about it, Riana, who has been acting as hostess by refilling our wine glasses, wilts onto the olive green carpet. “Do guys really fantasize about doing it with two girls?” she asks.

The query floats around the room like a dark cloud with absolutely no silver lining. The fog of thought is dark because, one—we girls all know guys think about that and we hate them for it, and two—the guys want it bad, know we know it, and hate us because we are not willing to subject ourselves to that kind of stupidity. Well, unless it’s our idea. That’s totally different.

We all make up scenarios in our minds, whether we want to—the guys—or not—us girls. Me and Wilson and Josie? She’d take over everything and get all the credit. Me and Wilson and Riana? She’s so sweet I’d look like a bitch.

I turn to Nick. This time he’s looking right at me, the dark brown of his eyes even darker in that dim light. For no good reason I look down at his mouth. He smiles. I try to remember what we were all talking about but I have absolutely no idea.

Out of nowhere, he reaches over and sets his hand on my thigh. A bolt of electricity skittles up my leg and a crooked smile wobbles across my mouth. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the way I feel. Right then, Riana meanders over and hauls me up. Hoping I’ll thank her later, I let her pull me away from Nick. Josie follows us out of the door.

Chapter Five

Celebrate

Shh.

Ssssshhhhh
.

My brain thinks that but my body acts on its own.

“Hayley?”

I wake up realizing that I’m holding the phone to my ear. My brain careens dangerously inside my skull so I hold my head very still and whisper hello.

“Hayley, it’s me.”

Behind the sweet, enthusiastic voice greeting me, I hear my Aunt Sandy rattling around in the background. Oh yes, it’s my eleven-year-old cousin calling from an actual wall phone at the farm he calls home.

“Hey, Frankie,” I say softly, trying not to wake myself any more than necessary as I ease my head back onto my pillow.

“Big Friday night? Out drinking again?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“Mom says that’s all people do in the city. Drink, go to bars, and spend too much money on fancy coffee so they can do it all over again.”

Although I have no response to that statement of fact, apparently my aunt does, because Frankie’s hollering something at his mother that sounds like, “She doesn’t care what you and Aunt Maggie say. She thinks it’s funny.”

Nothing is funny right now, kid.

“Anyway”—he is back to me—“I’ve got a new limerick and you’re really going to love it.”

I swallow against the sour taste in my throat.

Like early mornings and calls from eleven-year-old cousins, limericks and hangovers don’t mix.

There is a muffled yell, then, “Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not the one about Bart. Mom thinks I’m going to tell you this other one I made up about a boy named Bart.”

A smile creeps onto my face. He’s a weird one, my cousin Frankie. “I can guess the rest of that one.”

He laughs the clear, happy, chuckle of a pre-teen boy who is living the honest life out in the sweet, clean countryside. He is safe from the drunks swilling down four-dollar cappuccinos. “You could try to guess the rest, Hayley, but you’d never even get close.”

I do not ever remember getting so excited about a rude poem when I was eleven.

Realizing that the only way to get the phone back on my bedside table where it belongs, I sigh and agree with, “Okay, Frankie. Lemme hear it.”

He giggles then clears his throat as if he is about to recite Shakespeare.

“There once was a pretty young model,

Who was often drawn to the bottle.

She’d drink and she’d drink,

Till she puked in the sink.

Then off to the next bar she’d tottle.”

A reluctant chuckle escapes my throat and wakes me up.

“See, I told you it was a good one.”

“Okay, Frankie. That’s a good one. It’s so good I’m going to tell it to my friends.”

There is another muffled yell, then, “Mom and me gotta go over to your house and help clean out the chicken house.”

I hear the agony in his voice, and I understand completely. I know what it is to be a kid and scraping up rotting cedar shavings dotted with chicken shit while your mother pretends to be Naomi Judd to your Wynonna. Maybe Frankie won’t have to be Wynonna. Maybe he’ll get to be Clint Black. “Call me again, Frankie. Just try to make it after ten next time.”

He laughs as he hangs up.

I hang up.
Night, night Mr. Phone
.

With the blanket pulled tightly around me, I snuggle back against the pillow and wonder about Nick’s hand on my thigh.

Hmmmm.

What did that mean, exactly?

The stupid phone hums. Again. I silence it by answering.

“It’s all set.”

How can Josie be so awake this early in the morning? Isn’t there a law against that? “What’s all set?”

“You and Clifford. I called him this morning and gave him your number.” She says something to somebody about color bottle B-23. How can she be at work already? “Don’t worry, I told him to call after ten.”

Clifford?

Oh right. Him.

The fact that Josie remembered—although did not observe—my policy about early morning phone calls does nothing to quell the sensation of frustration churning in my stomach. Or is that confusion? Or the after-effects of the wine? Defeated, I grumble, ”Okay.”

Instead of speaking to me, she mumbles something to one of the other stylists about capes.

The horrifying image of Clifford arriving at my door with a red cape hugging his shoulders and a fat C stamped on his broad chest infiltrates my mind. “I gotta go, Josie.”

“Okay,” she’s back to me. “Let me know when he calls so I can send him a bill.”

Hmmmmm.

A bill.

For calling me.

Maybe it isn’t such a good idea. I open my mouth but Josie pipes up with a quick goodbye and a speedy hang up.

Guess I won’t be calling my mom today like I usually do on Saturdays. Hi, Mom. No, nothing’s new. Dates? Oh no. Unless you count some guy who’s paying to go out with me. No, calm down Mom. It’s not like that. I’m not getting the money. See? So it’s okay.

I don’t even think so.

With the possibility of Clifford’s call lingering in the air, I accept that sleep will not be coming back. I rotate until I’m out of bed and wobble to the kitchen.
Must drink coffee. Need proper food.

My stomach rolls around inside my body like a water balloon. I regret feeling self-righteous—and fat—last Wednesday, because if that hadn’t happened I’d have three chocolate donuts waiting for me in the kitchen. No, I wouldn’t have cared that they were stale.

Immediate action is necessary. I go back to my bedroom and sit on my bed. My phone buzzes when Josie sends me a text.

You don’t sound so good, BTW. Perk up before he calls.

I’m not yet in the mood for her attitude. I reply with my custom designed Hangover Recovery Plan.

1. Gently wash face while the coffee is brewing.

2. Drink coffee and review clip of The Big Red Dog.

3. Take off the ICP T-shirt and bike shorts I slept in.

4. Find some clothing that won’t squish my stomach.

5. Walk down to Pastry Pete’s, get donuts.

6. Scarf down donuts on the way back.

7. Take the back way up to avoid Him.

8. Lie down and hope to either throw up or fall asleep.

* * * *

My future looks better already. After accomplishing tasks one to four, I grab the wad of dollars off the coffee table and stuff it into my pocket. I find my smile and sense of humor next to sad, empty Carlo so I grab them too.

Urgh.
My phone hums. Again.

I answer with the freshly recovered smile snugly in place. “Hayley’s Happy House of Hangovers.”

A low voice curls through the phone. “Um… Uh… Is this Hayley?”

Clifford. The dog.

Those hands
.

“Yeah, hi. This is Hayley.”

”I got your number from that girl, Josie.”

My mind is so blank all I can come up with is, “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay if I come get you at six-fifteen on Wednesday?” he wants to know.

Why Wednesday?

Why six-fifteen?

I have no idea.

But I say, “Sure, that’d be great.”

His response, “Cool. She already gave me your address,” is followed by silence that hums between us.

The awkwardness lingers until I say, “See you then.”

That prompts a matching pair of goodbyes and we hang up.

Chapter Six

Holiday Survival: Keep the Joy

Why didn’t someone tell me it was St. Patrick’s Day? It’s important to be ready for these things in advance. Had I known this significant holiday was approaching I would’ve prepared. If someone had been kind enough to remind me I would have…would have…
Would’ve
…?

I glance down at the thin, green beer in my formerly frosted mug. I would’ve drunk less wine at Nick’s last night.

That way I wouldn’t have this cloud of guilt fogging my vision. Girls who are trying to get their lives together shouldn’t drink too much three nights in a row. It’s tricky enough business trying to see through one’s drunken haze without the nuisance of an emotional cloud of guilt making things worse.

Come to think of it, I’m not hearing so well either.

“Whaddya say, Riana?”

Riana arches across the tattered booth she, Nick and I have been using as our home base for the past two hours. “It says here”—she stabs at the helpfully informational, green flyer that was handed to us on the way in—“that there’s going to be a limerick contest.”

A contest.

I twist my mouth thoughtfully, as if I can taste the question lurking there. “What’s the prize?”

Her eyebrows pull together as she positions the sheet closer to her face and peers at me across the top of it. “Dinner for two. The Rooney McNamara special!”

I try to ask, “Do you suppose that’s corned beef and cabbage or some other traditional Irish dish?” Unfortunately, what comes out sounds more like, “Dahya sink thats cornbeefan cabbish?”

Before Riana translates, Nick slides in next to me, bumps my shoulder with his and grumbles, “Jukebox is broken.”

A sappy grin tilts across my face as I grab his left arm. “I’m so glad you’re out with us tonight, Nicky-boy.” I hold up my hand so my forefinger and thumb are about an inch apart. “I might be a little sorry you lost the toss, seein’ as you’re the only one of us who’s actually Irish. Or part Irish. Whatever.”

Riana frowns and pats the arm I’m clinging to. “You ought to be getting drunk on this nasty beer.”

“Clear the air, girls. It’s starting to look like one of those weep fests.” He shakes his head. “I guess I should be glad Josie isn’t here.”

I shift to Riana. “Are you feeling all stupid and weepy?”

She ignores my question and stabs at the air near Nick. “The contest! Nick! You have to know a limerick!”

Looking thoughtful, he takes a long drink of his Gatorade.

“I know a limerick,” I mumble, half-hoping neither of them heard me and half-hoping they’ll think I’m wonderful.

Unfortunately, after the words are out of my mouth, their heads swivel simultaneously like puppets. Creepy, slow moving puppets. Not at all a response I was hoping for. Or one I’d even considered.
Please God, don’t let them blink at the same time, because then I’ll have to scrabble over the table and bolt for the door
.