The Girl He Knows Page 4

  “What?” I croak. Cotton mouth, a sure sign I drank too much.

  “You might want to drag your sweet ass out of bed. You’ve got a thirty-minute window to pick me up before the folks get home from church, or your secret will be out.” He’s matter-of-fact.

  “I’ll be there in ten.” I hang up and fling my phone on the bed.

  Fueled by adrenaline, head pounding be damned, I pop out of bed, pull on new undergarments, my jeans, and a clean T-shirt. I stuff my possessions into one of my large shopping bags, straighten the bed covers, and bolt for the door.

  Gigi’s husband, John, stands in the kitchen drinking coffee. He takes one look at me, pulls out a travel mug, fills it with coffee, and passes it to me while I’m putting on my shoes. The civility of it startles me, but I’ll take it because I’m desperate.

  “Thanks. Tell Gigi I have to get home and I’m sorry I didn’t help clean up.” I look at the remains of the strawberries and champagne we finished off, after my sister’s dinner, with regret. Had I refrained, my head might be more amiable to movement.

  He reaches in the cabinet, pulls out a Tylenol bottle, and passes me two capsules.

  “Thanks again,” I say and dash out the door.

  It’s breakneck speed to get to Hank’s parents’ house before they come home. Naturally, I catch every red light. I chew five sticks of mint gum and my thumbnail.

  I dread this drive home. A speeding ticket may be worth getting, to shorten the time we’re in the car together. I pull onto his parents’ driveway within ten minutes of hanging up and am not the least bit surprised to see Hank waiting outside. I’m tempted to blow the horn nice, long, and loud, three times, right in his face, but the early hour and the pounding in my head make me suppress the urge. He bends over, picks up a small brown-paper bag, comes to the driver side door, and pulls it open.

  “Is there monkey bread in that bag?” My stomach growls as I take in a deep breath of the delicious caramel smell. Ms. Becky makes the best monkey bread in the entire world.

  “Yes. Is that coffee?” He nods at my travel mug.

  “Yes, it’s mine though.” I hug it to my chest. “Go get your own. Now give me the bag.”

  Hank shakes his head and tucks the bag under his arm. “My parents drink awful chicory coffee. Can’t stand it. Move over.” He unbuckles my seat belt.

  “What? Are you kidding me? You’re not driving. I am.” I grab at the belt, but he leans, blocking me with his body, and waves the bag of yummy goodness in my face, taunting me. The aroma of melted sugar and cinnamon wafts around the car, filling the space. I make a grab for it. When I come up empty, I cross my arms, shrug, and purse my lips. Hank tosses it onto the passenger seat.

  He smirks at my annoyed look. “You can’t drive and eat monkey bread.”

  “Yes, I can.” I hold firm.

  “No. You can’t. Other people can. Time is ticking.” He taps his watch and pushes me again. I snatch up the bag, hold tight to my coffee, and scoot across the center console onto the passenger seat.

  “You’re a jackass,” I mumble and reach in the bag to pull out the small bundle of decadence wrapped in wax paper.

  “Maybe, but this jackass is the reason you have monkey bread.”

  Mmm, good point. I’m about to pop a chewy morsel of bread, cinnamon, and sugar in my mouth, when it dawns on me his parents have to wonder how he’s getting home, or how he even got here for that matter.

  Hank backs out the drive and gives me a grin.

  “Uh, what did you tell your folks about how you’re getting home?”

  “They didn’t ask.” He chuckles and pushes my hand holding the monkey bread toward my face. “Stop worrying, Paisley.”

  We don’t get ten minutes away when he pulls over into a shopping plaza and parks in front of a small café, Bert’s, known for its fine breakfast.

  “What are you doing? You can’t stop here. What if someone sees us?” I scan the parking lot, wondering if anyone we know will be inside.

  “Sees us doing what? Eating? I’m not making the trip home without coffee.”

  I grab his arm before he gets out of the SUV. “Seriously, Hank. They’ll know we...uh...you know.” I want to get as far away from Lakeland as possible so I can put this weekend behind me.

  “How? No one knows we had sex. Stop acting squirrelly, or they’ll figure it out. We’ve been to breakfast together a thousand times.”

  He gets out of the car and heads toward my door, but I jump out. He’s right. No one has to know I’m giving him a ride back to his truck because we rode into town together as a prelude to our hook up. Besides, I’m hungry and the monkey bread only whet my appetite. I gesture for him to lead the way and he holds the café door open for me. He’s that kind of guy. He’s also the kind of guy who stands when I enter the room, which I like. He looks at me when I pass, gives me his fabulous crooked smile, and I can’t help but smile back. Maybe he’s right. We’ve eaten out in public before. There’s nothing odd about that.

  “Hi, Bert,” he calls to the man standing at the register and pulls me toward two seats at the counter and helps me onto one. The restaurant is packed.

  “Hey, Hank. Welcome home.” Bert waves and narrows his eyes at me.

  “You mind your manners here, Paisley McAllister.” Bert wags a finger at me, his grin large, taking up half his face.

  “Jeez, Bert, I was thirteen years old when I rolled your house. My daddy gave me a whipping I’ll never forget. I’ve apologized until I was blue in the face. Can’t we get past this? I don’t even have toilet paper in my car.” I feign being mortified. It isn’t a stretch considering how an act I committed twelve years ago still haunts me. It was bad enough my father drove by and caught me midtoss as my friends, Gigi, and I wove toilet paper in and out of Bert’s large box elders.

  Hank laughs while I busy myself with a menu, wondering what will complement the monkey bread. When I look up, the reason why I rolled Bert’s box elders is standing in front of me. My appetite disappears.

  Melinda Bane, Bert’s youngest daughter and part owner of the café, stands on the other side of our counter, looming like the black widow she is, having spotted her next victim.

  “Hello, Hank,” she coos.

  Melinda graduated the year between Hank and I. In high school, she was the one girl who was very comfortable with her sexuality, something I’ve never experienced but plan on fixing. She used to joke she needed suspenders to keep her pants up. Apparently, this skill came in handy after graduation and now, two husbands later, I hear tell she’s looking for Mr. Third.

  “Hey, Melinda, how ya been?” Hank, not one to be rude, leans over the counter and hugs her. It surprises me when he leans back and puts his arm across my chair.

  “Oh, hello, Paisley. I didn’t see you there. Though I’m not surprised to see you. You always did follow Hank around in school. Some things never change.” Flipping her pale blond hair over her shoulder, she smiles at Hank, her focus never wavering away from him.

  What a bitch.

  I only followed him around at the end of the day because he was my ride home and I knew he’d leave me if I wasn’t ready when he was. I don’t bother with a response since she isn’t interested in one.

  Melinda is Hollywood beautiful. Next to her, I’m like worn flannel socks or a well-washed quilt. Where she is tan, blonde, and made up to perfection, I’m pale, ginger, with a slash of freckles across the middle of my face, and that’s on a good day. It doesn’t help I’m still hungover, haven’t brushed my teeth and hair, or even washed my face.

  “I heard you’d moved back. Is it true?” She bats her eyelids, and the monkey bread churns in my stomach.

  “I moved back to the States a few months back,” he tells her.

  “It sure is good seeing you.” She leans forward, smiles, and gives us a cleavage shot. I lean my elbow on the counter, my face resting against my palm. Perhaps I’ll get some sleep while we wait for this
to play out. I certainly don’t want to watch any longer. I close my eyes.

  “Thanks. It’s good to be home. Do we order with you, or is there someone else?” Hank asks.

  “You can order with me. What can I get you?” she purrs.

  I gag.

  “I’d love a large black coffee and an everything bagel with ham, egg, and cheese, and the home fries. Paisley, you?”

  I rethink my order, a brilliant move considering she might spit in my food. She’s that kind of girl. Now I’ll guarantee she can’t unless she spits on Hank’s, too.

  Without opening my eyes I mumble, “The same for me, please.” I say please only because my momma raised me to have manners regardless.

  “Make it to go, please,” Hank says.

  I open up my eyes, surprised. Weren’t we eating here?

  “Sure thing, hon.” She strokes his cheek and sashays down the length of the counter to the kitchen. Never in a million years could I move like that. I’m known to trip over air.

  Hank makes small talk with Bert, and I reach for the Sunday paper someone has left behind. I crack it open and scan the headlines, only to be cut off by my ringing phone. I pull it out of my purse and see my friend Kenley’s face on the screen. Kenley is part of the group of girls I hang out with in Daytona. Before I could graduate with my occupational therapy degree, I was required to complete two internships. Kenley was my supervisor at my second one. We’ve been fast friends since.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I lean back in my seat.

  “Paisley, I think Tyler’s had a seizure. Heather is on the way to the hospital with him right now,” she says.

  I sit straight up. Heather is Kenley’s sister-in-law and Tyler is Heather’s four-year-old son. He has special needs, though it’s something Heather and Justin, her husband, aren’t ready to acknowledge. Because I work in pediatrics and have more firsthand knowledge, Kenley and I have had several conversations about this. We know the importance of early intervention, the difference it could make in improving his overall development. For over a year now, we’ve hinted that Heather should seek help for him.

  “What’s happened?” I keep my voice steady.

  “They were having breakfast and she said he seemed to space out. When he came to—her words—he threw up and was disoriented. She called 9-1-1 and then me. Doug and I are on the way to the hospital to meet her.” Doug is Kenley’s husband and Heather’s brother.

  “Holy cow.” I knew Tyler was delayed with talking and his play skills were very immature for his age, but I never considered seizures.

  “Yeah, it’s hit the fan now,” Kenley says. “You think you could meet us at the hospital? I could use the extra support and I know Heather could, too.”

  “Where’s Justin?” I look at my watch and try to estimate my arrival time.

  “He’s golfing. I’ve called several times. He either has his phone off or isn’t answering.” She says it as if she’s swallowing a bitter pill.

  If a person can be less than dependable, then that’s Justin. He’s a real douche.

  “I’m in Lakeland but headed home right now. I’ll be there in a little over two hours. I’ll text you when I get to town and can meet you then.”

  She sighs. “OK.”

  “Hey, we can get her through this. In the meantime, text me if you need anything.”

  “See you in a bit,” she says and we disconnect.

  I stare down at the blank face of my phone. This could be a rough road for Heather, and I make a silent wish, hoping for it to all work out.

  “Everything all right?” He reaches for me and I want to wrap myself in his embrace. Knowing our actions would set the tongues wagging makes me hesitate. Instead, I stand, put the chair between us, and tell him what happened.

  “Want me to take you straight home? I can get someone else to run me to my truck.”

  “No, thanks though. She’s not alone. Unfortunately, this has been a long time coming. As worried as I am for her, this is going to be a good thing because now Tyler will start getting the services he needs.” I stare at my phone and count the minutes it takes Melinda to return with our food and coffee. She comes out from behind the counter and gives Hank a hug.

  “It was great seeing you again, Hank. Don’t be a stranger, hear?” she says. She is ninja-quick and subtle and had I blinked a second sooner or glanced away I would not have seen Melinda slip a folded square of paper in his front jean pocket.

  Hank catches my eye, and he knows I saw. I look away and start for the door. Hank pays and follows me out. He hands me the bag of food and opens the passenger door for me. I can’t make eye contact, afraid he’ll see how disgusted I am with him and Melinda. My movements are stiff, awkward and I take a deep breath, hoping to steady the whooshing sound in my head.

  “You do know I’m not interested in Melinda, don’t you?” He brushes his thumb along my jawline. I shrug and lean over to pull the door closed, forcing him to step out of the way.

  “I thought we were eating there,” I ask when he gets in. If you ignore stuff, it tends to go away. Or so I hope. I busy my jittery hands with unwrapping my bagel.

  “Yeah, but we can’t talk in there. We can talk in here.” He backs the car out and points it toward the interstate.

  “What’s there to talk about?” I take a small bite but have to remind myself to chew. My mind races with the events of the last few minutes. Heather. Melinda. Hank.

  “You. Me. Sex. You can start by telling me what happened between you and Trevor.”

  Ugh.

  Chapter 6

  The moment my marriage imploded, I became celibate. Not on purpose, but because the drama and stress of a failed marriage and subsequent divorce took every ounce of my energy. Once I knew Trevor and I were not going to make it, specifically, when he moved out and filed for divorce, I decided to take the following year for myself and use it to heal. I took a cooking class, kickboxing, and even a financial-investing class. I wanted to be one of those smart women who finishes rich. I realized how much I didn’t do my last year of college or after. When my peers were enjoying their lives post-college, I was putting mine back together. When they were making life goals, I was watching mine disappear, unsure of how to make new ones. First, I had to know what I wanted.

  Here we are. Celibacy over. Truth is, Hank came along at the right time. He’s my crash course back into the single life. And that’s what I want to focus on, my single life. Not my failed marriage. Thinking about retelling the story makes me weary. Heck, just thinking of Trevor makes me weary and nauseated.

  “Nothing happened.” I pick at my bagel, nervous about sharing my most intimate of failures with Hank. Sometimes I wish the truth was we simply didn’t get along, “Why do you think something happened?”

  He gives me a look as if I can’t be serious and pushes me in the shoulder. “Because you’re divorced. I figured there had to be a good reason.”

  “What did Gigi tell you?” I attempt a blasé air but it takes all my control not to wrap my arms around myself or shift away in my seat. Instead, I rip off a small bit of my bagel, put it in my mouth, and cast him a sideways glance.

  “Gigi didn’t say anything except you were going through a rough time.” He looks straight ahead, his bagel resting on his leg, untouched, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other massaging his neck.

  I look out the window and ponder. It’s funny; if he’d asked this question last month, I wouldn’t feel as hesitant, or maybe would have hesitated for a different reason. Now that we’d slept together, sharing the humiliation only makes it worse. I’d been cheated on, repeatedly. How could I not personalize it? What if the problem was me?

  I glance back at him and know he’s waiting for my response. His bagel is still untouched and he’s sitting straight up. What does he think happened? I’m afraid to ask. What if his perception of me is different than I think? Or worse? So much has changed between us already. The only answer i
s to tell him the truth. Besides, it’s not like my own mother won’t tell him if he should ask. I’m sure his parents know. The truth has to be better than what he’s imagining, I hope. I take a big breath and spill it out in a rush of sentences.

  “He cheated on me. I thought it was the one time, when I walked in on him. Turns out once he got in med school it became his extracurricular activity.”

  “You walked in on him?” He gives me the wide-eyed, I-don’t-believe-it look.

  “Yeah. My whole family was in the house. We’d taken Momma and Nana to Savannah and got home sooner than he expected. Obviously. Sarah Grace was the one who walked in the bedroom with me and saw it, too.” I cringe. The memory is forever burned on my brain so much that when I think of it I can almost smell the patchouli incense he was burning.

  A burst of laughter escapes me. “I was too stunned. I just stood there, but not Sarah Grace. She walked right up to him, pushed him off the bed, and punched him in the nose.” I watch him as I sip my coffee, waiting for his reaction.

  “No way.” He tosses his head back with a short laugh and smiles. I can tell he expected nothing less, because in Hank’s Code of Ethics book, siblings take care of each other.

  “It was pretty spectacular. She broke his nose and her middle finger.” I search his face, still looking for the slightest pity, anger, or embarrassment and come up lacking.

  “I bet it was. That’s something I would’ve liked to see.” He gives me a small smile and picks up his bagel. “Thanks for telling me.”

  We ride in silence. Eating, drinking, and, I’m sure, picturing Sarah Grace beating the tar out of people.

  “Wanna get together again next weekend?” he asks.

  I swivel my head to look at him. “Are you serious? No, I don’t want to get together next weekend. This”—I gesture in the space between us—“cannot happen again.”

  “Why not?” He grins and wags his eyebrows.