The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (23 page)

And it’s not like I was happy with Maya at the time. She didn’t tell me she was pregnant until we were back together for a month, so in addition to feeling betrayed, I also had the repugnant sense of trodding behind Tommy Finch, picking up his leftovers. I’m sure that wasn’t fair, but she wasn’t fair, either. Maya tried to write it off as an impulsive, one-time thing that happened while we were broken up, but she’d
always
liked him.

I want to take Vince up on his offer and hit Alaska — a place I’ve always wanted to see. But now I wonder if I’m making excuses, and if this is just another form of running away.
 

I’ll stay for a while.
 

Unless I’m being stupid. Unless there’s no reason to stay because Maya doesn’t care, doesn’t have any renewed interest in me at all, and is doing fine. And also, I don’t
want
to stay because then I’ll be tied down.
 

But maybe I don’t want to be tied down because I’m afraid.
 

Or maybe, if I belong in Alaska, it’s nobody’s damned business whether I’m afraid or not.
 

I decide on impulse to wait on a proper lunch, feeling the need to stretch my errands if I’m going to be homeless all day with hours to fill. I could get a room now, but the truck is parked and the weather is nice and I know there are some good motels out toward Maya’s parents’ place, so I can leave early and grab one on my way.
 

I grab fries from a stand, but no burger to go with them. I walk. My route takes me past Carl again, so I give him one of my fries. Turns out, cats like French fries. Who knew?
 

It’s noon.
 

It’s 12:15.
 

There’s a bookstore not far from the Nosh Pit. I’m not ready to see Maya and don’t know if she’s working before our dinner plans, so I cut wide and only cross the street for the bookstore once I’m past. It’s a little used shop, but several volumes jump out with titles I recognize and have wanted to read. I read a lot, but I’ve stalled in the past week. I miss it. I don’t usually hang onto physical books because they’re heavy and I travel light, but I left my reader back at Ernie’s and don’t feel like squinting down at my phone’s tiny screen. So, screw it. I’ll buy one book to help pass the day then sell it back. Or better: donate it to the library.
 

The shop has a bunch of magazines, so I grab one on my trip to the register. It’s one of those single-subject volumes, and I swear someone put it there to tempt me. It’s called
Alaska Traveler
. The only thing missing from the cover is a headline reading,
HEY GRADY. HINT, HINT.

With book and magazine in hand, I head to the small green area with the pavilion in its center, figuring I’ll kick back on a bench and kill some hours reading. I manage to get through a few chapters, but there are kids playing some sort of a game where they hit a baton back and forth with two other batons, and they’re so enthralled by the ups and downs that they won’t shut up.
 

I look at my phone: 1:34. Even allowing for motel check-in on the way, I still have around two and a half hours to burn. It’s time for a proper lunch.
 

I take my time getting back to the Tomato Shack, a pizza shop I’d meant to visit after seeing it earlier. There are tables outside in the shade, so I order a big slice and sit in one. The terrace is quiet, unlike the park, but there are people milling past for the perfect Sunday-in-a-small-town vibe. Only one of the other tables is occupied, by two men, one younger and the other older, quietly talking. I’m not positive, but I think the older man might Mason James, Brandon’s new father-in-law. Looks like him, anyway.
 

After a few minutes of eating and glancing around, I start getting uncomfortable. Because there’s just me and the other table, it’s like we’re in this together. And there’s something personal unfolding between the two men. Something I have no business intruding on.
 

I know I won’t be able to make the book lie flat, but I can look at my magazine while eating. So I set it on the wrought iron table and flip the pages, taking in vistas of the distant land I’m still not sure if I’ll visit … or if I’ll stay here, with Maya, pretending to play house.
 

Eventually, I realize that conversation at the other table has stopped. From the corner of my eye, I can see that the man who may have been Mason James has left, but that the other is practically standing over me. I look up, about to either greet him or ask him what he’s staring at depending on his bearing, but something in his face stops me. He looks sad, bone-deep. Crestfallen. Like he’s lost and has no idea where to go.
 

“Alaska,” he says, as if my business is his. “It’s an amazing place. You ever been?”
 

I meet the man’s eyes. He has an interesting but intense look under whatever is bothering him. His eyes are introspective; his brows are bushy without being out of control. I don’t know why, but my gut reaction is to open up, to answer this strange intruder honestly.
 

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m trying to decide.”

“You should go. You won’t regret it.”
 

But he doesn’t know my story. He doesn’t know Joe, probably, so he doesn’t know the reasons Joe would disagree. It’s also none of his business, and I didn’t come here for a conversation with strangers.
 

But there’s something in this man’s face that makes me trust him. Something that seems familiar, as if he has insights that I need to hear.
 

It’s not even two o’clock. I’ve got nothing but time.
 

So I ask him if he’d like to sit.
 

And I tell him my story.

CHAPTER 26

My lunch companion’s name is Ebon Shale. He’s an agent, and he’s in town doing something I’d heard rumors of but didn’t entirely believe: trying to coax Jimmy Cannon out of retirement. Apparently, it’s an errand he’s been on for years, with little luck. “But the casting directors won’t stop demanding that I try,” he tells me with a wan smile.
 

Everything Ebon says is sharp but laced with melancholy. It’s like he’s wearing a cloak, but it’s a sinister cloak that’s slowly killing him. I don’t have the guts to ask this man I’ve just met what’s wrong, but I’m sure he’s covered it all with Mason — so if I’m supercurious, maybe Brandon can tell me.
 

If it matters. Which, in the big picture, it doesn’t.
 

Ebon listens to everything I say. He’s so quiet that I almost think I’m boring him, but his serious eyes are intense, seeming to take it all in. Several times, I wonder why I’m doing any of this. But there’s something about Mr. Ebon Shale. I can tell he’s a man who makes connections, a man people trust. I can tell he’s someone who keeps his mouth shut. Who keeps secrets, when secrets need keeping.

When I’m finished, Ebon touches the open magazine on the table.
 

“So you can go then. To Alaska, I mean.”
 

I nod. “Almost immediately.”
 

“But you don’t know if you should.”
 

“It’s my choice. But I don’t want to be an asshole, and am no longer sure I’m not one.”
 

“You don’t strike me as an asshole, Grady.”
 

I don’t know why, but this pleases me. I just met Ebon. And yet his approval seems to matter.

“Thanks.”
 

“I’m good at my job because I’m good at reading people, so you should believe me on this.” I get a small smile. But then it retreats, as if the statement bothers him. “Usually, anyway,” he adds. Then he blinks up, that troubling aside banished, and says, “Can I be presumptuous?”

“Sure.”
 

“If you want to know what you should do, just ask yourself a question: What do you think about more often than anything else?”

“What do you mean?”
 

“When you were away, what did you think about?” He waves his hands as if erasing the board to start fresh. “What kept coming back to you, like a song that wouldn’t stop rattling around in your brain? What thoughts haunted you?”
 

“I guess this place did. But before I left, I just wanted to get away.”
 

“But now you’re back. Do the same things keep popping into your head, about this place?”
 

“Maybe.”
 

I think he’ll ask me for more, given that I haven’t actually answered, but instead he leans back. Some of the sadness leaves his tired eyes, and his face changes to something like pleasant recollection.
 

“Let me tell you something I learned the hard way. Nobody really appreciates the things they have when they have them. It’s something hardwired into our brains. We’re driven by desire, and the only way you can ‘desire’ something is if you don’t actually have it. We
chase
, and then we
get
. And once we
get
, we no longer
want
.”
 

I nod, wondering where this is going.
 

“I think there’s only one real exception, but it’s an important one. For a few, select places and people in our lives, we’ll want them forever … then want them
more
once they’re close enough to touch. Those are the things your compass is telling you to chase: the things that don’t run when you approach them.”

“Like reclusive actors who won’t come out of retirement?” It’s a stupid joke to break Ebon’s intensity, but I backtrack when I realize it’s my own bullshit behind the words. The truth bothers me enough that I want to run.
 

Ebon spares me the indignity of acknowledging my interruption and simply continues.

“When I was a kid, I spent a few summers on an island. A place called Aaron, off the Atlantic coast. Ever heard of it?”
 

I shake my head.
 

“It’s a tiny place; I’m not at all surprised. Nothing really remarkable about it for most people, either — just cottages, shops, dirt roads, and this big carnival on a pier. And yet there’s something about those old, pedestrian memories that I can’t seem to shake. It never made sense to go back as an adult because I’d made a life in the city. And, in fact, there was at least one good reason to
never
go back. But I still thought of Aaron
all the time.
I have a fantastic memory, Grady. Practically photographic; it’s why I’m so good with clients, because I remember every little thing about them. But my memories of Aaron are on another level. They’re like movies. I think of those summers at the strangest times. They practically assault me. Maybe like memories of Inferno Falls assaulted you, and brought you home.”
 

“My uncle’s death brought me back.”

Ebon gives me a smile that says he doesn’t believe me any more than Joe did.

“Now that you’re here, though, you’re thinking about Alaska.” He taps my magazine. “So the big question is, are you still thinking about Inferno Falls?”
 

I look up. I’m not sure if this is a question I’m supposed to answer, but I’m interrupted by my chirping phone. It’s a new email notification, but when I glance at the screen I see that nearly three hours have passed. I’m so shocked, I find myself gaping at Ebon as if this is an elaborate joke. There’s no way it’s been that long. I talked about Inferno and Maya. That was it.
 

But on the other hand, if I spilled to a stranger for that long without realizing it, I have every answer I’ll ever need. What compels me? What thoughts constantly orbit my head, giving a clear direction to my desire’s compass? There’s really no question, now that I think about it.
 

“Shit, I’m so sorry to bolt like this, but I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten. I have to go.”

“Going anywhere interesting?”

Finally, something tips inside me, and I find myself giving the answer I failed to give earlier. “Something I can’t stop thinking about.”
 

Ebon stands to match me. I’m taller, but Ebon’s one of those people who seems larger through force of presence. He extends a hand. “It was nice to meet you then, Grady Dade. Good luck with your decisions.”
 

“And good luck with Jimmy. I hope you can get him to do what you want, with the movies and whatever.”
 

“I’m sure I will.
Or whatever.”
He smiles then looks down, the fingers of his right hand fiddling with his wedding band. When he meets my eyes again, a quiet smile adds an appendix:
But if that doesn’t work out, I don’t really care anymore
.
 

I suddenly feel charitable for providing our afternoon’s chat, certain that as much as I needed to unload, Ebon was much happier to stop thinking about whatever’s been haunting him.
 

I head for the patio gate. But then I turn around halfway.
 

Thanks to this man, I know what I need to do today. I know that I have to try, and be unafraid. I need to find out how Maya feels — and if she wants me to, I need to stay here, with her. I need to stop running.