The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (15 page)

“Brandon said he’s coming.”
 

“Then I guess he still likes you. I’m guessing he doesn’t need the charity.”

“I heard something about Mason James. The developer?” Mason was building when I was a kid, but I gather he’s much bigger now. Like maybe-responsible-for-half-of-Cherry-Hill bigger.
 

“He married Mason’s daughter. But he was already some big shit in the company even before they met. You know Brandon.”
 

I do. Unless Brandon has changed, he’s a Boy Scout. Guys like Brandon don’t manipulate anyone. If anything, they’re self-effacing and overly proud. If his wife is rich, that’s something for Brandon to cope with rather than embrace. He was so poor when we were kids, he sometimes emptied garbage cans to find aluminum cans to recycle. Compared to Brandon and even Joe, I was living the high life with my folks, then finally with the bastard whose detritus surrounds us now.
 

I wonder if Brandon will show up with his new wife, and I’m struggling to figure out how I’ll explain that this was all a trap to some hapless woman when Ernie’s doorbell rings. Brandon’s there, and there’s a tall, hot brunette beside him. But it’s not his wife. Nope. I know and slightly fear this one.
 

Something hits me in the chest. It’s a six-pack. A
phenomenally cheap
six-pack, which tells me that if Brandon’s rich, this is beer Bridget bought herself. Not because she’s cheap, but because she’s kind of a bitch. An adorable bitch who’s always sorta been one of the guys, but a bitch nonetheless.
 

“Fridge,” she says, moving past me. She’s also holding work gloves. Her shirt is tight and tattered, and I have to remind myself I’m not allowed to look at her boobs.
 

Then I see Brandon. Who’s also dressed to work, but could be the same poor kid I knew all those years ago if not for his close shave and relatively neat haircut. The only real change is a scar on his cheek, which I’ve been expecting. Of everyone I left in Inferno, Brandon is the only one I’ve done more than a passable job of keeping friendly with. I know that scar’s story, and it’s not hard to believe. He got it defending his sister. Bridget grew up tough like Brandon, juggled through all those foster homes, but apparently she fell in with a guy who got past all her old defenses.
 

That’s the thing about love. It turns the smartest people stupid, and the strongest people weak.
 

“You look good,” Brandon tells me from the doorway.
 

“Liar.”
 

I extend a hand for shaking, but Brandon uses it as a handle to reel me in and give me a back-slapping bro hug. I hear an affectionate “Don’t give me that shit,” and then I’m released. Joe and I look at each other like maybe we should have hugged it out too, but we’re dudes so we let it go and stare around the group: just four guys, one of whom has tits we know better than to acknowledge.
 

We spend the next three hours taking Ernie’s crap outside by the hand- and boxful, tossing it into the dumpster unless it looks remotely interesting. The lawyer already has his will and all the other important documents, so the way I figure it, the rest is ready for the landfill.
 

The place isn’t completely devoid of treasures; I find a few trinkets that may not be worthless and a wad with two grand in cash at the back of a bookcase. I divvy the cash four ways, and Brandon is cool enough to take a share rather than point out how he doesn’t need it because now he’s better than us. I imagine it’ll find its way to Bridget and Joe once I’m gone anyway, in the form of many rounds of drinks on Brandon. There’s also a lamp made from a human skull that I hope is fake. Bridget and Joe tussle for dibs. The fight turns physical, and there is much immature wrestling. Eventually, Joe must let Bridget have it because his arms are like steel girders, but that doesn’t stop Bridget from rubbing her victory in his face.
 

We eat. We drink my good beers, but go out of our way to avoid Bridget’s six-pack.

At the end of the evening, the place is mostly cleared out. I’ve kept the furniture that seems worth attempting to sell when I auction the house, but most of it ends up in with the rest of Ernie’s worthless shit. It’s a little sad to see his life piled high in an open-ended dumpster — one man’s existence reduced to trash at the end of his days. But then I remind myself that this is Ernie, and he didn’t deserve much better. There was a reason I left town. Many reasons, really … but the idea of living another year with Ernie didn’t exactly help.
 

I look at my phone. It’s only 9:30; we made shorter work of the job than I’d thought. I can spend the remaining days between now and my park date with Maya cleaning more, maybe hiring someone to come in and do it better than I have the patience for. But it’s good enough for now, and I’ve managed to not think about that park date for a while. That’s a victory. The next two days — knowing I need to wait, but not make additional contact per the situation’s clear fragility — will be harder.
 

“I guess that’s it,” I say, looking around our tired group. I turn to Joe. “You sure you don’t want to use this place as one of those training houses? Where you set it on fire for practice?”
 

“I kind of doubt it,” he says. I’m still getting used to Joe’s new look. I’m not usually comfortable admitting when men look good, especially when they’re my friends, but he really does look like a model or something. Either puberty came late, or he was going for an ugly duckling reveal back in school because he now has a serious brow and Superman’s jaw.
 

“Well, thanks.”
 

Bridget stands, walks over to me, and for a minute I think she’ll hug me, maybe say welcome back. It would be out of character, but that’s what seems on the verge of happening when she slaps me hard with her work gloves instead.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she says.
 

“Thanks, Bridget,” I repeat, now a little satirical, as she glances down at Brandon, who must be her ride.
 

She turns and, out of the blue says, “I have to ask.”
 

“What?”
 

“Did you call her?”

“Who?”

“Who.”
She rolls her eyes. “Maya.”
 

I look away. I’m actually surprised this didn’t come up earlier. Maya and Bridget were only ever connected through me, and we never really chummed around with both girls in the mix. But a lot of time has passed, gossip has had time to spread, and Inferno just isn’t that big of a place. They could be best friends by now, with many wasted evenings spent complaining about me in my neglectful absence.

“Hey, Champ. I’m talking to you. You with the pubes on your face.”
 

My hand goes to my unshaven cheek.
 

“Yes, I called her.”
 

“I’ve gone to where she works a few times to eat. We’ve chatted. She still seems nice.”
 

Shit.
So they do know each other better than they used to. Why is Bridget waiting until now to bring it up? Has she been working this whole evening hating me?

“She’s real good to that little girl,” she says. “She’s been all alone, but she’s tough.”
 

Joe is looking from Bridget to me. He either doesn’t know Maya, or doesn’t know the story.
 

“We’re going to the park together Thursday.” I feel the need to emphasize this, to prove that I’m not being badgered by Bridget. I was already planning to be a good guy and see her, so
there
.
 

“Just you and her? Or is Mackenzie going too?”
 

“I don’t know.” Honestly, I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it. The answer is probably yes, and it’s giving me chills. I can only imagine how I’ll react. I can only imagine how I’ll feel when I see them together, and wonder what could have been. What probably
should
have been.
 

Bridget slaps me on the upper arm with her free hand, but this time it’s less chastising, more companionable. More like the slaps she gave us all when we hung out together as kids.
 

“Be nice to her.”

“I’m not going to be rude to a little kid, Bridget. Give me some credit.”
 

Bridget’s face becomes the unique strain of patronizing that women save for men who don’t get it — because they’re men and can’t help being a little stupid.
 

“Mackenzie doesn’t know you from Adam, Grady,” she says. “It’s Maya whose heart you’re dangerously close to breaking again.”
 

I start to say something, but my mouth just opens and closes.
 

“A lot of time has passed,” she adds. “Maybe it’s time for forgiveness.”
 

CHAPTER 18

I get a call from Joe the next afternoon, inviting me to shoot some pool at ten. Room With a Cue has cleaned up its act since we used to slum around as kids, but that’s fine; these days we’re both more refined. That hits us as absurd at the same time because we burst out laughing together.
 

I accept, grateful that Joe seems to be trying to make me welcome. I’ve had mixed reactions from everyone else — enough that the authority defier within me almost wants to yell at a few folks for not minding their own business. Almost none of the people looking at me with one raised eyebrow know the full story, but that doesn’t stop them from having an opinion. And while they’ve mostly been friendly, there’s still an unspoken something in the air. A something that says that I’m wrong and a bad person —
only
wrong,
only
bad, and the only one carrying any blame for events that happened nearly ten years ago and are clearly none of their business.
 

It’s barely three in the afternoon by the time I hang up. It’s a nice day, and I could use that time to explore, but something in me fights it for a long time. I was always a question mark in this town, and in true teenage-angst fashion, I only ever felt that Maya understood me. My parents, before they died, thought I was stepping on some wayward paths. Uncle Ernie saw me as a black sheep with nothing to offer. I was a problem at school. No wonder I left. It’s what everyone expected of someone like me.
 

But mostly, I keep thinking that as unlikely as it seems, I might run into Maya if I head out walking. There’s no reason that should bug me, but tomorrow’s park date has the feel of a sealed missive sent overseas in a bottle. Right now, our appointment is scheduled but hasn’t happened, and we’re in a curious limbo. I need that time to prepare. I need to decide what I’ll say to Maya, and perhaps more importantly what I’ll say (and won’t say) to Mackenzie. I’m not properly steeled to just run into her, and I doubt she’s ready to run into me.
 

If I don’t take time to carefully build my responses, I could react to Maya in any of the knee-jerk ways I’ve felt thinking of her over these past years. I might want to embrace her. I might want to shout at her. I might want to take hold of her and hang on, promising that everything will go back to how it always should have been. And at the same time, I just want to go. Get out of town, and
go
. I’ve signed most if not all of the papers requiring my signature, and the house is nearly composed and clean enough to auction. I don’t need to be present for that. I can hire the auctioneer now and arrange for payment later, assuming there’s anything left after Ernie’s debts are settled. Either way, it can be handled from afar. From Alaska, even.
 

 
I don’t know how I’ll react if I see Maya too early. I don’t want to find out. I’m sure that part of me longs to be with her. God knows I’ve lain on my back enough nights since I left, staring at the sky and seeing her in my mind. God knows I’ve wondered if I made a mistake — and, more often than not, feel sure I did. God knows I feel like a bastard more than I feel righteous. Yes, we caused each other pain. Yes, she hurt me while I was hurting her. Maybe that can vanish like water under a bridge. Or maybe too much has been done and said.
 

Eventually, I convince myself I’m being an idiot — and, most importantly, acting like Ernie, who holed up in this stupid house for most of the little life I knew him to have. I head out, and I walk. Through Old Town then over to Tiny Amsterdam.
 

I used to know a lot of people on this side of town, even though I was young. I know the shithole Regency, which Brandon lived in with a foster family once, before moving there to live on his own. I know the little porno shops, strip clubs, and slightly classier (but still tantalizingly filthy) adult stores and erotic bakeries. The whole area has a fresh coat of paint and could almost pass for respectable. And, peeking in without
going
in, I even see people I think I know: girls I went to school with now maybe running these dirty businesses that went legit in Inferno’s gentrification.

I stroll to the lip of Edison Park — the exact opposite of Dalton Park, where I’ll meet Maya tomorrow. Edison is proof that while even Inferno’s borderline areas and sex district Falls have turned legit, there’s still an underbelly just under the surface. I could go into Edison. I almost want to. But I don’t want to get knifed just to see what’s there, and even in my day, you were as likely to leave Edison with a wound as a fake ID or a baggie of drugs.