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I grinned and whisper-squealed, “That’s so exciting!” Then, my face fell as I thought about all the similarities between her and her brother.
“What? What is it?”
I faked a smile. “Nothing. It’s just…Ken doesn’t want to get married. He says he doesn’t believe in it.” I rolled my eyes.
“Pssh.” Bobby waved a dismissive hand at me. “All guys say that. Hell, I don’t know if I even believe in it to tell you the truth. Why do I need the government to give me a piece of paper to prove that I love my woman? It ain’t none of their damn business. Next thing you know, they’re gonna be microchippin’ us and tryin’ to take our guns.”
I snorted at his backwoods honesty.
Bobby’s rant died down as a wistful smile tugged at his lips. “But my girl wants to do it, and I’m gonna give that woman whatever in the hell she wants.” Bobby tossed back the rest of his beer and crunched the can in his fist. “Let me ask you this…did Kenny boy say he wouldn’t get married?”
“We’ve only been dating, like, two months, so we haven’t really talked about—”
“That don’t matter. When he said he didn’t believe in it, did he say he wouldn’t do it?”
I thought back to our conversation at Allen’s engagement party the day before. “Well…no.”
Bobby popped the tab on a new beer and tipped it in my direction. “Then, there you go.”
“You sure you don’t need me to carry you?” Bobby teased as I limped back to his house in the dark.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, embarrassed that I hadn’t taken Ken’s advice. The tops of my feet were so badly burned; I couldn’t even put my flip-flops back on.
Handing his boogie board and towel to his sister, Ken stopped on the side of the road and knelt before me. There was no I told you so, no gloating about being right. He didn’t even laugh at my pitiful condition.
Ken simply sighed and said, “Get on.”
I smiled and wrapped my arms around his tan shoulders, inhaling the lingering scent of sea on his towel-dried hair. As Ken looped his forearms under my knees and stood to carry me home, Bobby gave me a covert wink.
Do you see this shit?I squealed at him with my mind. Ken is giving me a piggyback ride!
As we strolled back to Bobby’s house along the slow, sleepy streets of Fort Walton Beach, I smiled and pressed a little kiss into Ken’s damp hair.
Fuck a walk on the beach, I thought, squeezing his waist with my legs a little tighter.
We laughed about Chelsea’s wipeout and Bobby’s farmer tan along the way, but only half of my attention was on the conversation. The other half was focused intently on my thighs, right where Ken’s hands were resting. Okay, maybe seventy-five percent. It was enough that I didn’t hear the incessant doodle-oodle-oodle-oos coming from inside the house until Bobby opened the front door.
“Who in the hell’s phone keeps ringin’?”
My heart thumped in my chest as I scrambled off of Ken’s back, through Bobby’s modest living room, and into his 1980s era kitchen. I swiped at the wall until I found the light switch, then snatched my purse off the kitchen table.
As I clawed at my belongings, elbow deep in my bag, fear gripped my spine with both hands. I was afraid it was going to be Knight. I was afraid I was going to have to explain to everyone why I didn’t answer. I was afraid it was going to be awkward.
How I wish it had only been awkward.
The voicemail alert buzzed in my hand as I pulled my phone out of my purse. Something told me I should sit down before I listened to it. I didn’t.
Monday, April 7, 6:14 p.m.: “Hey, BB.”
The voice on the other end wasn’t deep or sadistic. It wasn’t calling me a bitch or a whore. It was feminine and familiar. Goth Girl’s deadpan drawl assaulted me with unwanted memories. Images of her long black hair fanned out across my pillow, her ample breasts filling out Hans’s old Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, and her milky-white skin flushed pink after I’d slapped the shit out of her flashed behind my eyes all at once.
“I know you hate me, but…” Her voice broke, taking on a high-pitched keening sound at the end. “I need you to call me back. Okay?”
Monday, April 7, 6:59 p.m.: “BB…” Goth Girl sniffled and let out a heavy, wavering sigh. “Something really bad happened, okay? Please…just call me back.”
There was one more voicemail. I made eye contact with Ken from across the room as it began to play. Bobby and Chelsea were gone, but Ken had remained behind to bear witness to whatever bad news I was about to get.
Monday, April 7, 8:21 p.m.: “Fine. Don’t fucking answer,” Goth Girl slurred, sounding like she’d ingested half a bottle of vodka since her last voicemail. “I was just calling to let you know that Jason’s fucking dead, okay? He got shitfaced at Pearl Jam and crashed his car on the way home.” Her voice trailed off with a sniffle, taking some of her anger along with it. “Sorry. The funeral’s on Wednesday. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
