Journey drops her hands into her pocket and rolls back onto her heels. “There’s something dark and deeply rooted in that brain of yours, isn’t there?”
“Speaking from experience?” I retort.
“Definitely.”
“Maybe we can chat about it over dinner,” I offer. Again. I’m doing my best to stifle the smirk pinching into my cheek. I know she’ll reject the offer again, but I keep trying to play fairly.
She pinches at her bottom lip as if lost in thought. “Tonight?”
Didn’t see that one coming. “Sure, I can make myself available tonight.” I think. I’ll see if someone can watch Hannah, but it shouldn’t be too hard.
“I’m busy tonight,” she says.
I run my hand down the side of my face. “You—” I then want to say something I’ll regret, so I stop myself.
“How about Breaker Grill at seven?”
“Tonight?” I question, confused since she just said she’s busy tonight.
“Yes, I just said I was busy tonight, didn’t I?”
My God. “Busy having dinner with me. I get it now. You’re slick, Fireball.”
I haven’t called her Fireball since we were kids. It just came out as if it was the most natural response in the world.
Journey runs her fingers through her hair as if remembering the bright, gingery color her hair used to be. She pulls at the coarse ends of my beard. “Shave.”
“I don’t take kindly to demands,” I say.
“It isn’t a demand. It’s a proposition.”
With a light slap against my cheek, she smiles. “See you tonight, Brody.” With that, she turns on her heels and as if she were four hundred pounds, storms out of the warehouse, leaving an echo of her steps behind. She is like one of those tornadoes that appear out of nowhere, without warning, leaving a trail of damage behind and disappearing as fast as it arrived.
A proposition. What is that supposed to mean?
She’s expecting a story over dinner tonight, wondering about the reason for my disappearing act between the age of sixteen and eighteen. It isn’t a story I want to tell. It’s always been a coverup I haven’t shared with anyone. Every excuse I’ve told has been a fictional account of the truth. I’m the reason for the rumors, but sometimes crappy lies are better than ugly truths.
There’s a chance that having my license before most of my friends isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. I’ve turned into a glorified taxi driver of sorts, and I’m certain Mom and Dad aren’t happy about how many miles I’ve been putting on this old beater. That and I tend to bend the rules when I shouldn’t be playing with them at all. I’m lucky they let me use the car.
Tonight, is the first night I’ve been in bed before midnight all week, and I’m staring at my damn pager buzzing on my nightstand with 9-1-1. I think I need to have a chat with Pete about using 9-1-1. This is the second time in two weeks and my curfew ended two hours ago.
There’s no way I’m getting out of this house tonight. Dad doesn’t go to bed until one most nights and he’s probably sitting in the living room watching some criminal documentary.
I could try to sneak out the window, but the last time I did that, I broke my leg after missing the ladder. All the signs point to staying put.
But the messages keep coming with 9-1-1.
I tear the covers off my bed and drop my feet to the comfort of the plush carpet covering the floor. I don’t even want to go anywhere, but something must be seriously wrong with Pete. I feel around for my phone and grab the receiver, punching in the number to Pete’s pager. I send him a page with the number one, telling him I’m on my way. Somehow.
Sure enough, Dad is sitting up, wide awake, watching Dateline. “What are you doing up still? I thought you went to bed a couple hours ago.”
“I was in bed, but—”
He spots the pager in my hand. “Is someone drinking at a party?” he asks.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“What’s wrong?” Dad continues.
