Unfinished Business (7 page)

“It was a St. Paddy’s Day limerick contest sponsored by the restaurant.”

My mouth drops open. After I snap my choppers shut, I stammer, “You’re kidding?”

“No dear. I’m not kidding.” Her voice is dead serious. “You know what a funny boy he is.”

Did I know that? “What did he get?”

“Fifty dollars!”

“Fifty dollars!” He won actual money? Not a cornbeefan cabbish dinner?

“Let me see if I can remember the poem.”

I imagine my mother curling her mouth to the side and tapping her chin.

“There once was a pretty young model…”

Naturally she finishes up the whole thing, remembering each line accurately and delivering it perfectly. As must have been the case with young Frankie, her delivery isn’t hindered by thin, green beer or erroneous visions of leprechauns.

Stinking kids and their stinking limericks.

“Yeah, that is a good one,” I mumble when she gets to the end. “I’ll have to call Frankie and tell him good job.”

“You do that. Your Aunt Sandy tells me he has some others, but, well, she threatened to take his DS away if he told one of the really bad ones for the contest. Some of those limericks can be, well…” Her chattering fades for a few seconds then she breaks the silence buzzing between us with, “So, we’ll see you on Saturday?”

I can’t hold it all in. “Um, hey, Mom…?”

She hums into the phone, very mom-like.

“It’s not going to be, I don’t want…”

Again the pause, puff of breath then reply, “No one is going to say anything about…about…
it
.”

The way she puts emphasis on that single two-letter word tells me what I need to know. They—that means the whole country side of town—aren’t over what happened last spring. That day I ‘ruined everything for everyone’.

As we say our goodbyes, Tony slips out of Caroline’s office and I wave him off as he goes out of the side door.

Chapter Eight

Fail-Proof Ways to Loosen His Lips and Get Him Talking

Later that same day, I’m getting ready for the much-anticipated night with Clifford the Big Red Dog, and Nick is angled on my couch, pulling handfuls of pork rinds out of the crackling bag balanced on his chest. He’s watching ESPN. Him lying around on my couch for no reason is usually no big deal. But today he is…weird. He keeps looking at me like he’s going to say something but then decides not to. Finally a question tumbles out, “What do you know about this guy anyway?”

I’m not about to admit the truth, that I know close to nothing, so I hedge with, “He’s from Josie’s dating thing.”

“Does she do a background check on these guys?”

Here I can state the facts so I tip my head out to yell back at him, “She calls references, asks for their current place of employment and photocopies their driver’s license.”

I hear the crumble of the empty bag as he wads it up. “You didn’t ask her that. Riana did,” he calls, brandishing his bottled water.

“So what?” I wave my brow pencil at him. “I know he’s safe.”

“What else do you know?”

I duck back in to finish my eyes. “He plays football at Wayne. On scholarship.”

A sputtering choking sound is followed by silence. When Nick speaks again, his voice sounds too tight. “What position?”

Typical guy question. Who cares? They all wear those pads, don’t they? They all have helmets and run around smashing into each other.

I sigh when Nick asks again. “I don’t know.”

Did I hear him mutter ‘of course not’? Or was he simply mumbling to himself?

I think about trying to provoke him by asking,
Is there a reason you want to know all this stuff?
But instead, I say, “I’ll be sure to ask him.”

“You do that.”

Sarcasm?

I can do better than provoking him with a question. I dash across the hall and grab my black dress. Laying it across myself so Nick will be able to imagine what it’ll look like, I ask, “This? Or jeans and a T-shirt?”

He eyes me skeptically, barely even looking at the dress. “Which T-shirt?”

“Power Puff Girls? Or that Abercrombie one you like.”

A grimace settles over his mouth and his eyebrows drop. “Don’t wear that one. And don’t you think everyone stopped caring about the Power Puff Girls?”

In a huff, I spin on my heels and stomp back to my closet. “Fine, I’ll wear the dress,” I holler as I slip it off the hanger.

“Whatever.”

Even more annoyed that he’s going to sit there stewing on something but not do anything about it, I accidently forget I’m wearing only my panties and bra and march out and set my hands on my hips. “Thank you so much for coming over and helping me get ready.”

His face gets a weird pained look as his gaze skims over me. He clicks off the TV, scrambles to his feet, not saying anything. Especially not,
‘Sorry for being a rude shithead who put his hand on your leg and got you thinking things but did nothing about stopping you from going out with another guy’.
Then he steps toward me and for a crazy second I think he’s going to grab me and kiss me but then that insanity passes. Funny thing, though, the second it passes I want it back. Without saying anything more, he spins around and stalks to the door, his wide shoulders shifting as he moves quickly. I shout to his blue and red flannelled back as he swings open the door, “Be sure to call me next time you’re getting ready to go on a date. I’ll come over and eat nasty food and act like an asshole.”

He looks back and casts me a weak smile, one that almost makes me forgive him, and says, “Don’t ask him what position he plays. Have fun.”

The door closes with a solid click.

Back in my room, I wiggle into the black dress then slide into my knee-high boots.

I have no idea where The Dog plans on taking me but that’ll be no problem. No thanks to Nick, I’ve made the right choice. I’ve got Basic Black. I can go anywhere and the tight-but-not-too-tight cling, well, it lets him know I mean business.

At six o’clock I drop onto the couch in the very spot Nick vacated. I take a deep breath and catch a whiff of his scent. Crabby thing that he was. I won’t think about him. Must think about something else.

Urgh.

Although I have managed to avoid them for the past twelve hours, the jitters finally track me down and move in.

Guys don’t have to go through all this.

Why did I agree to this? Nick is right. I know nothing about this guy except that he’s good looking in a big-shouldered, lumbering kind of way. He might be a dull simpleton with no redeeming characteristics.

Except for those hands. I watched that disc enough times that I remember each wide, sturdy curve.

A shocking thought ripples across my brain.

He’s arranged to go out with me without even knowing what I look like.

I check my phone. Four minutes.

I wonder if the guy pays before the date or after. What if he refuses to pay? How embarrassing.

Two flights down, the door slams shut. Heavy feet clamor up the steps. There’s a pause.

Please don’t let him—or any of his disgusting smells—be out in the hall.

The pounding resumes, and I hop to my feet. One last glance in the mirror. Bright eyes, subtle lips. Hair in place but not stiff. Good to go.

After he knocks, I wait a reasonable space of time then swing open the door.

Concentrating on not searching for those hands, I smile at his face and say, unoriginally I might add, “Hi.”

Picking up on my conventional greeting style, he replies, “Hi.” His green gaze skims over my dress and for some unfathomable reason, he actually frowns. “Are you ready?” he asks, after his eyes focus on mine.

Don’t I look ready?

“Yeah,” I stammer and wobble a bit. Should I ask what the problem is? He hates dresses? He thinks I’m a witch? “I have to grab my purse.”

He nods so I turn away to snatch up my smaller, going-out-with-a-guy purse. Scotty—Hairdresser to the Stars—and I agreed that men are afraid of women who carry huge over-stuffed purses so I always stick to the ‘smaller is better’ approach.

The Dog and I shuffle around each other in the hall. I giggle stupidly, lock the door then start working my way down the steps in my high-heeled boots. It isn’t easy and I’m already rethinking my footwear choice.

Also, me being in front of him is not at all right.

I twist sideways and force him to look at my face by saying, “Did you have any trouble finding this place?”

“Um. No.” Then, perhaps because he realizes I can see him staring straight at my butt, his nicely squared chin jerks up. For no apparent reason a bright smile flashes across his face. By this time, we’ve reached the bottom of the steps so I take the opportunity to sweep the door open and hold it for him. He lumbers past and I get a whiff of his aftershave. Very clean. And manly.

Pretty good stuff actually.

His shoulders are robustly wide and much more substantial than any other guy I’ve ever been out with. Even the muscles of his back bend and flex as he walks.

My heart starts to pound with weird nervous energy.

Have I been overlooking an entire section of the male population? The big, muscular athletes? Honestly, I’d never even considered them before but I don’t like basketball and never watched football, except with my dad. I don’t have to care about the sport to like the man who comes off the field. And right now, I’m liking this particular man very much. His body, anyway.

Sure, there is more to a man than arms and legs, but I’m not thinking about living the rest of my life with this guy. I only want a night out. A chance to step out of that fog that has followed me from the country, live some, forget some.

What does he want?

“Pizza in Greektown okay with you, Hayley?”

Of course. He wants food. How could he not? He must need at least three thousand calories a day just to carry himself around.

He yanks open the passenger door of his red, four-door car, so I climb in. Once he’s behind the wheel, I reply with what I hope is a cute smile that says—‘you like me already’. “Pizza is fine.”

“Some girls don’t like pizza. All that wheat and carbs.”

Since when is wheat bad?

The car rumbles away from the battered curb and we weave through the potholed side streets of Detroit. Greektown is a weird slice of the city about seven blocks from the Detroit River and Hart Plaza. Hart Plaza is a cement park that runs alongside the murky river. All summer there are dozens of free concerts there.

Imagine the world’s largest free outdoor country music festival right smack in the middle of Motown. Thousands of boot-wearing, hat-toting displaced hilljacks gargling Coors. The ferocity of their fun is fueled by their fat, factory paychecks from Ford.

Frightening? Yes. That’s why it was moved and they started charging to get in. But not everything unsettling gets moved. How about the world’s largest techno music festival? Hundreds of geeky German guys—yes, with real accents and bristly mustaches, and direct from Metro Airport—trying to pick up rich high-school girls from West Bloomfield. There’s something really unsettling about pink-haired girls from the suburbs wearing those frayed, elephant leg pants and sucking on pacifiers. Those poor Germans. At least the candy necklaces are cheap.

Back to Greentown.

It’s one street lined with Greek restaurants and bakeries. It looks pretty much the same as it has for years, except there’s a casino there now. Courtesy of Dennis Archer, Former Mayor Extraordinaire.

I don’t think the muscle men that guard the polished chrome and glass doors of the casino are Greek or even care about being Greek. They’re there to look threatening and make the people who feed the slot machines feel either—one, safe or, two, daring and fearless for venturing to the wild and dangerous streets of downtown Detroit.

I glance over at Clifford and admire the great way his cheekbones are sculpted. Because he doesn’t appear to notice me staring at him, I let my gaze linger.

Hmmmmm. Nice.

The last guy I went out with, Timothy, was small and brittle looking. Artistic. Sensitive and thoughtful. The kind of guy who can watch endless episodes of Portlandia without laughing.

This wedge of beef doesn’t have a delicate inch on him. And there are a lot of inches. Hard, thick, unyielding inches.

“You play football, right?”

His square chin bobs up and down as he scans the street for a place to park. “Ever since sixth grade.”

“You like it a lot?”

“Uh-huh.”

Nick never did say why I wasn’t supposed to ask The Dog what position he played. “What position are you?”

“This year?”

Hoping to encourage him to put together more than four words, I nod and work to make my face as non-threatening as possible.

“This year I’m tight-end. It’s a good position for me.”

That doesn’t tell me much since I know nothing about football. Luckily, by this time we’re walking down the street and the need for conversation is diminished. After we stroll along the sidewalk for about two blocks, Clifford taps my shoulder and jerks his head toward one of the restaurant doors. “Okay?”

Because I haven’t thought of anything dazzling to say to liven him up and get him talking, I nod.

Inside, three Greek men linger by the register. The oldest is stretched across the counter, the other two are standing side-by-side with their arms folded. The youngest is clutching a handful of plastic-coated menus.

The one holding the menus leads us to a table. As I slip into a chair, I spot Clifford staring at me. His face is pinched.

“Could you stand up a minute?”

After I rise, he places those big hands on the edges of the table and while he’s still sitting down, lifts it straight up off the floor and sets it about a foot away from himself. Then he scoots his chair away from the wall and settles himself as well as he can.

Well! I’ve never been out with a guy who was too big to fit into a typical restaurant space.

“Does that happen often?” I ask, feeling very waiflike as I slide daintily into my chair.

“I guess so. After a while you get used to it.”