Landslide (41 page)

“Oh, I’d love to, sugar, but I can’t go out tonight…my team dropped three places last week and I think if I miss another night of league, my teammates will form a lynch mob with pitchforks and torches,” he says semi-seriously yet chuckling too, “But you can come with me if you want and I can buy you a celebratory basket of mozzarella sticks or cheese fries, or we can go all-out and share a plate of carne asada nachos…they’re huge and freaking delicious. Seriously.”

“I could eat some nachos…”

Once we’re at the bowling alley, it starts sinking in that Cole has really settled into living a rather tame life. That’s not to say that I find his lifestyle disappointing in any way whatsoever; it really just doesn’t fit with what I used to picture how he’d turn out is all. When we were all in high school, Cole and Holden both were exceptionally comfortable being stars; they were the kind of guys who were the center of everyone’s attention and it seemed innate. Holden was actively trying to pursue a dream of being a sports icon and Cole was the lynchpin of a social posse that had at minimum twenty to twenty-five people of both genders in it at any given time. He was gregarious, animated, and you’d practically never find him being idle, so I used to see a future Cole as someone who’d be happiest being in the spotlight and living it up with every opportunity presented to him. And if an opportunity didn’t present itself, he would be the kind of person to create one on his own.

He’s not like that even a little bit now. He seems to know everyone here at the bowling alley and most people greet him by name, but it’s almost as if he makes a somewhat concerted effort to keep his head down and blend into the crowd, rather than trying to stand out so that he’s noticed. He isn’t an incorrigible flirt anymore either. He’s not timid by any means, but he keeps his hands and lips to himself and is quietly polite. I also pick up on the fact that when he speaks to most women, he does still tend to use one of his standard terms of endearment instead of their name, like he does with me, but I think that’s a habit born of doing it for almost his entire life, and it’s clear he’s not intending to show any interest or disrespect by how his endearments sound when they slip out.

I do find it slightly hilarious however when one of Cole’s teammates turns out to be Ryan, one of the guys I met at the bar the night Cole and I were first reunited, and he greets me with a hug that feels to last a second or two longer than what’s justified while saying, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes… Nice to see you again, beautiful.”

Cole’s response is to pull a distinctly perturbed frown and gruffly question, “
Beautiful
?”

Ryan’s eyes go back and forth between Cole and me, and then coming to some kind of decision, he shrugs. “Just stating a fact, Hastings. The girl has it goin’ on.”

“Thanks,” I accept Ryan’s compliment with a smile, receiving a wink in return that I leave unacknowledged. Although turning to a now almost surly looking Cole, I lightly backhand him in the shoulder and hiss, “What is wrong with you? You call me and every other female you’ve ever spoken to beautiful and sugar and all kinds of crap like that.”

His tone and expression now shy of being petulant, he replies, “Yeah, I know. But that’s my thing.” I shake my head and roll my eyes at him; however, just as I’m about to sit down again, Cole nudges me in the arm with his elbow and leans down to conspiratorially whisper, “Just so you know, he’s been divorced twice. Cheated on the first one with the second one. The third one wouldn’t marry him or he’d be thrice divorced.”

Suppressing a chortle, I give him a look of mock exasperation. “Go bowl, you over-protective doofus.”
 

Just then, Jerry, another one of the guys from the bar, throws himself down in a seat across from me, huffing out a huge breath and pouring himself a mug of beer from the pitcher on the counter next to him. “Sorry I’m late, guys, and man, am I glad to get outta the house.”

The fourth member of Cole’s team, Joel, nods while sipping his beer. “Yeah, you look wiped, buddy, what’s goin’ on?”
 

“Oh, I had to do the Mr. Mom thing all day while Marcy spent most of her time in bed or tossing her cookies.”

“Mm, flu’s kept half the kids in my classroom home this week,” Joel mumbles around a mouthful of pizza now.

“It’s not just goin’ around the schools. Erica and I both had it last week…why I wasn’t here Thursday.”

I nod. “Yeah, and it sucked. We were both down for almost three days. Hope your wife’s flu bug doesn’t last that long.”

“Yeah, I appreciate the good thoughts there, Erica, but I’m pretty sure this bug is the nine month kind.”

All three of his teammates swing their heads to stare at him, but it’s Ryan who questions, “Seriously? That’ll be number five, Jer! Ever hear of birth control?”

“Yeah,
Ry
, I’ve heard of it. And I’m gonna end up a rich man, ‘cause when Marcy finds out she’s preggo again, she’s gonna murder the doctor who clipped me and said we were good to go.”

“When did you get snipped?” Cole asks.

“Few months ago. You know that…you took Roxy for us for the weekend,” Jerry reminds Cole with his brows raised in a knowing manner, like he just explained everything.

“
What
in the hell are you talking about? I mean I remember, but what does your dog have to do with getting a vasectomy?”

“Oh my God, I know for a
fact
you’ve experienced what a crazy-intense ball sniffer she is!”

A small sympathetic wince escapes me followed by a snicker when Cole fidgets in his seat. “Yeah, that was awkward. And, fuckin’ frightening.”

“Right? And I love my dog, but she even gets growly with Jenna when she tries to take a tennis ball from her just so that she can throw it for the damned beast. So, I’ll be goddamned if I was gonna let a one hundred-thirty pound mastiff anywhere near my jewels right after a procedure like that. No way. Not that it worked. And I’m not doin’ it again. Marcy can get her tubes tied this time.”
 

“Wait, if she doesn’t know she’s pregnant yet, then how do you? Ever think she might just have the flu like everyone else?”

“Well,” Jerry huffs and bends to put his bowling shoes on, “I always know before she does for one thing because for about the first two weeks, I can’t keep her off me, but after that, she won’t let me get within twenty feet of her until eight weeks minimum after the baby is born. I got laid every day for the last week and a half, sometimes
twice
, and suddenly this week, I’m a pariah in my own damned house.”

The guys start snorting and laughing and I try desperately to not smile.

“You guys think it’s funny or that I’m joking? I’m being serious here! I can’t even look in the general direction of my own wife’s tits when she’s pregnant without her throwing whatever she has in her hands at me, and if she don’t got nothin’ in her hands, she’ll take her goddamned shoe off and throw it at me. No lie.”

Cole barks out a laugh and points at Jerry. “Oh shit! Was that what was goin’ on at that barbecue of Sean’s a couple years ago when you had to tell her not to throw your son?”

“See?” Jerry flings his hand up in Cole’s direction, “I have a witness.”

“Oh my God…that was the funniest damned thing. Swear to God, you guys, Marcy is talking to me and some woman, I can’t even remember who it was, and she’s got Tyler on her hip when Jerry comes walking up to rescue me, and he literally says to Marcy, ‘Don’t you throw that baby at me,’ and she doesn’t, but he and I turn to leave before the women had me married to whoever they were tryin—”

“Charlotte Mitchell. It was like days before her botched boob job,” Jerry supplies.

“Oh yeah…what a train wreck she turned out to be,” Cole nods, as do the rest of the guys, and then he continues as he wipes down his bowling ball, “Like I was saying though, Marcy doesn’t throw Ty, but just as Jerry and I start walking away, she pelts him in the back of the head with her flip-flop. I’m tellin’ you, I’ve had some scary-ass projectiles hurled my way before, but I’ll never forget that flip-flop…it had
giant
rhinestone flowers on it and they were this blinding bright and truly
awful
fuchsia pink color, and the part that to this day I still have nightmares about is the teeny green frog with it’s tongue sticking out that was right smack-dab in the center of the flower cluster.”

Jerry jokingly rubs the back of his head. “Yep, that pair and I share some fond memories. She wore those with Alec too.”

“Dude, you didn’t even turn around or acknowledge it…you just kept going. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I didn’t wanna ask either of you because I was afraid she’d hit me with the other one!”

“Nah, she wouldn’t throw anything at you. I mean unless you were the one who knocked her up. She only takes her hatred of being pregnant out on the sperm donor…it’s how I know for sure that I’m the father of all my kids.”

“Charlotte almost looks good now…got her boobs fixed
and
her chin,” Joel comments, rejoining the conversation after bowling a spare, not realizing or maybe simply not caring that we’ve well moved past Charlotte Mitchell.

“Huh. ‘Bout time,” Ryan says, “What about her hair? She stop pretending to be a real ginger yet?”

“She is a real ginger,” Cole throws out as he steps onto the boards to make his initial approach, and everyone, including me, looks at him with interest.

He notices, halts dead in his tracks, and then starts defensively gesturing with the sixteen-pound bowling ball that he’s easily holding in one hand. I’m trying to not laugh because his ball also happens to be sporting an image within it of a
super
creepy skeleton soldier dude holding several sticks of dynamite bound together with the words ‘Nerves of Steel’ underneath it, and here Cole is, all in a twitter because the spotlight is shining straight into his eyes and he’s the one who turned it on to the Power Ranger setting in the first place simply by opening his mouth.
 

“Oh, now wait a goddamned minute. I was
not
the only one at that New Year’s party. She showed up coked out of her mind and wearing what
had
to be a headband instead of a skirt. There was no escaping knowing she wasn’t wearing any knickers with that outfit to begin with, but then she went ahead and fell across the lap of Elizabeth Page’s fifteen-year-old nephew. Even Reverend Pasley now knows that Charlotte Mitchell’s upstairs matches what’s downstairs, so every one of you can quit looking at me like I ever paid a visit there on my own. Mm-mm. Nope.”

“Nerves of steel, huh?” I tease as he turns back around to bowl.

He throws me a smirk over his shoulder. “You shoosh.”

I grin and chuckle under my breath, but when he comes back from bowling a strike and stretches out in the seat next to me, placing his hands behind his head with
the
most cocky of expressions on his face, I wave my finger at him indicating his general appearance of arrogance and ask, “What’s this about?”

His eyes slide to the side and his mouth forms a self-satisfied half-grin when he whispers, “Oh, I’m just debating whether I wanna announce what your real hair color is…”

My mouth falls open. Then gathering myself enough to whack him in the bicep repeatedly while he laughs at me, I scoff, “I look like a ghost without putting color in my hair, you jerk, and besides, I
barely
need lowlights now.”
 

“Yeah, but you
do
still have ‘em, and you use something to color in your eyebrows too, and my point is,
how
I know you do. These guys never let anything go, so, unless you want ‘em pestering
you
incessantly, you might not wanna tease me too much around them.”

“Or what? What are you gonna do? So I have lowlights and use an eyebrow pencil, big deal. A lot of women do.”

“Erica, I have so much dirt on you. Don’t forget, I know you superbly well.”

“Oh, please. You do not.”

Cole’s eyes flutter closed for a moment while he shakes his head slowly, breathes deeply, and works his teeth together. Then with an ominous chuckle, he turns to me, his voice dropping into an octave that resonates with sheer seductive masculinity, which only makes his point even more effective. “Oh yes, I do. I know how you got that itty-bitty scar right below your left ass cheek, what color the bottle was and what kind of beer was in it, and I know you didn’t flinch a single muscle when the glass was pulled out, and because I know about that, I also know that you have an almost invisible dimple in one cheek but not the other one.

“I know that moths and even butterflies freak the shit out of you, that you call maggots baby flies because the word maggot grosses you out, and that up until you were ten, you thought babies literally came from birds and bees. I know that you cry if you even
hear
a Mother’s Day Pampers commercial on TV, and I know you’ll
say
hickies are vulgar yet deep down you fucking
love
how it feels getting them,
and
that if you were to take your bra off right now, you can probably still see one you got…” he pauses to check the date on his phone, “eight days ago. I know that you can serve up a seriously mean Beef Wellington but you can
not
get a simple over-easy egg to come out right no matter what you do.

“I know that if you can get away with it, you’ll sleep in the raw or only your underwear even if it’s twenty degrees out because clothes make you feel claustrophobic when you sleep, however, you’ll sleep like the dead all through the night if someone’s holding you. I know it took you more than a year longer than everyone else your age to learn how to read, and once you finally learned, you went to the hospital every weekend for years and read to all the kids there who couldn’t for themselves yet, and I know that despite having a beautiful singing voice, you only use it to sing children to sleep or to comfort someone when they’re sick or hurt. I know that you have a strawberry birthmark smaller than a pinhead
all
the way up on the very inside of your right thigh.

“To this day I know what your menstrual cycle is, I know that you’ll inevitably puke if you get high because you hoover everything you can get your hands on, I know using my teeth on
any
part of your body makes you shiver. Every. Time. I know what’s written on your birth certificate and even what your weight is on your driver’s license, which I’m guessing is about eight to ten pounds shy of what you actually weigh. And, I know that you shave the tops of your big toes because you think the two or three little hairs that grow on ‘em make it look like you have hobbit feet. You really wanna risk getting in the ring with me?”