Wild Child (28 page)

Gwen shrugged. “What’s the point, you know? They’re dead. I can’t be mad at them.”

“But you’re mad at someone?”

Gwen held herself very still for a moment and Monica recognized a glass about to shatter. She had been in that position more times than she could count, keeping it together until it was impossible. Until it hurt too much to try.

She decided to nudge. “Your brother?”

“Brother,” she scoffed. “I’d hardly call him that.”

“What would you call him?”

“I don’t know—babysitter?”

Monica winced before she could help it. Gwen saw it, and it launched her on a tirade. “You don’t know what it was like. Before the accident I barely remember him. I mean, like nothing. He was always off at some big swim meet or some other cool high-school-kid thing. And then he was gone and it was just Mom and Dad and me. But he was still kind of there, you know? I could feel them watching me and thinking—why isn’t she more like him? Why isn’t she normal? And popular?”

“Gwen, you don’t know that,” she whispered.

“Well, it felt like it. And then suddenly … he was in charge of me. And he used to do all this shit, you know—invite my classmates over for movies. Or to go miniature golfing, and they only went because he was paying. They weren’t my friends. And he didn’t ever see that. Those kids were laughing at me because I didn’t know how to talk to them. I never knew what to say or when to say it and he … he never saw that. He just kept setting up these stupid parties. Without ever guessing how awful they were.”

“I think your brother just wanted you to be happy.”

“Yeah, well, total fail. And now he’s going to be all over my ass because he smelled beer on me this morning.”

“Is that …” Oh, she had to be careful here. “Do you drink a lot?”

“Never. But I went to a party last night.”

“Parties can be good.” From the look on Gwen’s face, she could guess the opposite was true.

“It was awful. Totally awful. All these idiots standing in a field getting drunk and making out. And I thought … why can’t it be easy for me? Why can’t I want to do this?”

Monica sat down on one of the low tables, suddenly so aware of how different Jackson and his sister were on the outside, but on the inside, how similar. Jackson just knew how to hide his discomfort behind a wide smile. A friendly demeanor.

“You know,” Monica said, “I totally get what you’re saying. Those party situations … they suck. Unless you want to be there. Unless you feel comfortable. I used to pretend I wanted to be there, and I wasted a lot of years being someone I didn’t like very much.”

Gwen sat down on the other table, her flip-flops dangling from her clenched toes.

“But once I stopped that and wanted to be friends with someone—I mean, actually be close to someone—I
had to force myself to do it.” She thought of Jackson that day in her hotel room with the chicken. It had been so uncomfortable, so truly painful to share those moments with him, but it was something that had to be done. Like tearing off a bandage long after the wound was healed. And she was glad she’d done it, no matter what situation they were in now. Otherwise, truthfully, she’d probably never be able to have this conversation with Gwen. Opening one door had opened a lot of her doors.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“Start small. Start with someone safe, who you know won’t hurt you or make you uncomfortable or ask you to stand in a field and drink beer and make out. And just … talk to them. About yourself. About them. About movies. Stupid stuff.” She thought about how smart Gwen was. “Or genius stuff, whatever.” Monica thought she might pass out from relief when Gwen smiled. “What about Ania?”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “She’s the queen of the beer parties.”

Really?
Monica would not have guessed.

“What about Jay?”

“He’s so annoying.”

“Boys his age are. It’s unfortunate. But he likes you, and he seems like a nice guy.”

“I guess.” Gwen nodded. “Just talk to him?”

“Just talk. He likes you, so you could probably talk about anything and he’d pretend to be interested.”

“Pythagorean theorems?”

“The language of love.”

Gwen laughed, pushing the blond hair out of her face. Monica considered saying something about the makeup, but decided she’d played After School Special enough for one day.

“You going to tell my brother about this?”

“No,” she said, adding it to the pile of secrets she was keeping for people around here. “I won’t tell your brother. But, give me your phone.” Stunned, Gwen reluctantly held out her phone. Monica typed in
Taxi
and her cell number. “I have a car here, and if you’re somewhere drinking and the choice is to get in a car with someone who has been drinking or call me, I hope you’ll make the right choice.”

Gwen took her phone back like it was the holy grail. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands.”

Oh. God. Oh no
. She was not role-model, not confidante material. She’d made every mistake in the world; no one should look up to her.

But there was Gwen, looking at her. Waiting for her to say something, to validate this incredible risk she’d taken, to offer up some modicum of respect for what it had cost her to open her mouth and talk about why she felt so different.

“My pleasure,” she said. “I’m glad you talked to someone and I’m really honored that it was me.”

Gwen walked to the cubbies and grabbed her book bag before heading out the front door. She looked back over her shoulder, lit by the powerful southern sun behind her. “You’re not a bad teacher after all.”

“Well, let’s not go overboard.”

Gwen lifted her hand in a small wave and left, the door closing behind her. Monica collapsed, folded right over, her hands on her knees, the strength totally drained from her body.

She turned, looking for a chair she could die in, only to be brought up short.

Shelby stood in the hallway leading to her office, and from the look on her face, she’d seen everything.

*   *   *

Shelby watched Monica pull herself together, gather all her armor and her fuck-you attitude, and stand there with her chin out, pretending to be so tough.

But Shelby had heard most of that conversation, and Monica had nothing to be defensive about.

“Wait here,” Shelby said.

“Why? So you can call Jackson?” Monica grabbed her bag. “Read me the riot act for giving her advice? No thanks.”

Shelby stepped up to the low table and put down the bottle of bourbon one of the parents had given her for Christmas about a zillion years ago. The coffee cup she’d been planning to drink out of landed next to the bottle with a thunk. “I’m going to get another glass. Wait here.”

When she came back in the room with a second mug, Monica was sitting in one of the small chairs, her body curled up as she rested her head in her hands.

Shelby quickly poured the bourbon into one of the mugs and handed it to Monica.

“I don’t drink,” Monica said, staring at the cup.

“Me neither,” Shelby said, but she poured her own shot and, in total disregard for the bourbon’s fine sipping qualities, drank it back in one swallow.

“Ahhhh,” she winced. “That hurts. Come on,” she insisted, pointing to Monica. “Drink up.”

Shelby had woken up this morning feeling as if the clouds had parted, the rain had passed, and she could get on with her life after the three-day meltdown she’d engaged in.

Dean was gone.
Gone
.

But in the three hours he’d been gone, he’d emailed her twice.

Dirty emails, about missing her. Missing her taste.

She’d deleted them. But she was unsettled. Rattled.

“I wouldn’t peg you as a drinking-in-the-workplace
kind of woman,” Monica said, sipping the bourbon like a teetotaler.

“Well, it’s a day for surprises, isn’t it?” Shelby poured herself another shot and sipped it. She was already slightly light-headed from the first.

Monica laughed bitterly. “You were listening to us talk?”

“Only the last part.”

“And you didn’t step in?”

“You had it handled, and truthfully … you handled it way better than I would have.
Way
better.”

Monica seemed shocked at the praise. As shocked as Shelby was at handing it out, but she’d stood in the shadows, terrified, worried, feeling utterly inadequate to the scene she’d walked in on.

“I would have lectured her about the drinking, missing the point totally. And giving her your phone number? You were brilliant. In fact, I wish someone had talked to me like that when I was growing up. When I felt different. You have a knack,” Shelby said, looking at the dark-haired woman who seemed so exotic next to her own ordinariness.

“Thank you, Shelby,” Monica said after a moment. “That means a lot from you. You are a really good teacher.”

Shelby nearly snorted, doubting Monica’s sincerity, but Monica wasn’t being sarcastic. She meant it.
Oh. Well
.

Monica reached over and poured them a little more to drink.

“So Dean is gone,” Monica said, staring down at the bourbon in her glass.

“You’re keeping a lot of secrets for people these days,” Shelby said.

“Not my choice, trust me.”

Shelby had no shortage of friends. Book club friends.
Work friends. High school friends. Parents of some of the more gifted kids she’d had. Jackson. But none of them knew what this woman knew about her. That didn’t make her a friend, exactly, but Shelby couldn’t find another word for it.

“I had an affair with a man I detest.”

Monica shook her head like a cartoon character who couldn’t believe what she’d heard.

“I put my whole life here in jeopardy for a man I could barely say two words to if they weren’t dirty.”

Monica choked on the sip of bourbon she’d taken and Shelby, having uncorked herself, couldn’t shut up. “And he’s emailed me. Twice. It hasn’t even been a day and he’s talking about missing me. It’s … gross.”

“Why did you do it?” Monica asked.

“Because I’m lonely. Because no one I know would ever treat me the way he did. Because being respected and liked can be sad substitutes for being desired.”

“Did he hurt you?” Monica asked, looking like she would form a posse if one was required. Shelby was touched by her venom.

“He didn’t hurt me,” she said, unable to really put into words what had happened. And she was ashamed of why she’d liked him, at the nature of the sex between them. “But the sex was … not great. I think I had a psychotic break.”

Monica tipped her head back and laughed, full-throated, all out. Uninhibited. Shelby had never laughed like that—not once in her life—and she took a sip of her bourbon, made sour by her jealousy.

“I understand psychotic breaks,” Monica said emphatically.

“Jackson?” Shelby asked, perhaps pointedly. Monica sobered. Shelby would not have been surprised if Monica walked out. It was a personal question, and just because
Shelby had offered up her own mistakes didn’t mean Monica was going to offer up hers.

“How did you know?” Monica asked.

“It’s pretty obvious when you’re in the same room. The atmosphere changes.”

Once, a few years ago, Shelby had told a high school student that the only reason he was a smartass was because he was so smart. And the look on his face had been this sort of dubious pleasure, as if he wasn’t sure being proud of himself was the right thing in that situation.

Monica had the exact same look.

“Never mind,” Shelby said. “It’s none of my business.”

“It will end,” Monica said, “soon enough. I’ll leave town. He’ll … do whatever he’s going to do, and it will all be back to regular life.”

Shelby wondered if Monica knew how sad she sounded about the prospect of her regular life.

“Back to regular life, huh?” she said, happy about the idea, ready to shelve this person she’d been for three days.

Monica leaned over to clink her coffee cup to Shelby’s. “To real life.” They both sipped and stared up at the comic books hanging from the ceiling. “You know,” Monica said, “I really like that kid’s farting robot.”

For some reason Shelby thought this was the funniest thing ever and she bent forward, laughing.

Full-throated.

Uninhibited.

Chapter 18

Monica had gotten in the habit of waking up early and walking Reba around town along the bike path. It was gorgeous in the morning, with the mist and the sunrise and the silence. She’d taken her words to Shelby to heart and had gotten back to regular life with a vengeance. She had pages—lots of them—to send to her editor. They were full of vitriol and hurt feelings and opinions on her parents’ poor choices, and as much as she tried to take herself out of it, she couldn’t.

The story was about her, after all; it was why people would pick up the book. And so she just stopped listening to the misgivings about her work, and late last night she’d emailed her editor her first three chapters.

She circled back through town, heading toward Cora’s for her coffee, when she remembered it was Tuesday, the
America Today
show day, so instead she headed toward The Pour House, hoping that besides Bloody Marys, Sean would have had the good sense to make coffee.

Or better yet, let Cora make it.

Walking into the garage next to The Pour House was like walking into a wall of sound. A wall of smell. Sweat and fritters and coffee made for an interesting perfume—Eau de Bishop. The place was packed. The chairs were full, people lined the wall, and kids were sitting on the floor in front of the TV. A commercial for a credit card company was on, but the second it was over Jessica Walsh
was back on the screen—beautiful in the fantasy way of beauty pageant contestants—and the room went silent.

Reba barked, no doubt her doggy brain confused, and everyone turned around to shush her. A few hands reached out to give her a pat, which Reba accepted as her due.

“Sorry,” Monica mouthed, creeping around the edges of the group over to where Sean stood behind a card table, a cooler at his feet, a coffeemaker steaming beside him.