“Why?” I ask.
“Where are we going?” Veda asks.
“Like, leaving Richmond leaving, or leaving the hotel leaving?”
“I have to be at the funeral in the morning or my uncle will disown me.” Veda cocks her head. “Actually, I don’t care if he disowns me. I think the only thing he’s leaving me is his pet fish and a few more insecurities, because he thinks I should’ve been a lawyer and gone into politics, and I’m allergic to aquariums. Let’s hit the beach. I’m not allergic to sea life. Only sea life kept in buildings.”
Tyler presses his palm into his eye socket.
He’s seriously hot, standing there looking like he wants to strangle someone.
And it doesn’t lessen the hotness factor that I’m pretty sure the someone he wants to strangle is me.
“We’re getting dinner,” he informs us. “And while we’re there, you two are going to sit there and tell each other good things about yourselves and then we’re all getting drunk. Or possibly drunker.”
Veda squints at him. “I get to say good things about Muffy?”
“No. You get to say good things about yourself. And Muffy gets to say good things about herself. And I get to suffer through it all in my vodka and steak. And if either of you tell me you’re vegan or fruititarian or potato-tarian, or you only eat cocktail shrimp or watermelon soup or whatever, tough shit.”
“He grew up with four older sisters,” I whisper to Veda. “Something tells me this won’t be the first time he’s had to do this.”
“He’s seriously hot in the protective kind of way. You should really think about dating him for real,” she whispers back.
He glares at her.
“Told you she’d know you were only doing me a favor,” I say to him.
“It’s not that Muffy’s not hot enough for you,” Veda says. “She doesn’t date. And I did want to know how you met because it’s just as interesting when friends who’ll go to funerals with you meet as it is when lovers meet.”
A muscle ticks in his neck, which really is as wide as his head. I hadn’t noticed until Veda pointed it out, since his beard technically makes his face wider than his neck, but she’s right.
He has a very thick neck.
“Ride’s here,” he grunts.
I grab my shoes and shove Veda’s at her too. “C’mon. Let’s go get dinner.”
“But not anywhere my father or his friends or colleagues would go,” she says quickly.
“Deal.”
14
Tyler
We drive ten miles south of town to a busy exit off the interstate with a popular chain sports bar not far off the main drag, and now I’m trapped in a booth with Muffy and her friend Veda, who are breaking all of my rules and saying nice things about each other but nothing nice about themselves while I chow through a steak.
The bar’s playing the Washington-Denver hockey game on one screen, the LA-New York basketball game on another screen, and the Chicago-New England football game on a third screen.
I could easily lose myself in any of the three, but instead, I’m paying attention to the women.
Neither of them have said a word about me passing out at the funeral home.
Not exactly. Muffy did give me very specific looks while she made that side trip to Cod Pieces before we got to the hotel, like she knew that was my comfort food, and that, more than anything, has me in a mood.
Muffy Periwinkle is not supposed to take care of me.
She’s too flighty for that.
Or is she?
She is the same woman who once texted me after a game to ask me to go to Chester Green’s and “accidentally” bump into a specific table where she overheard a family talking about how I was their favorite player, and they came all the way in from Chicago for the game, and wouldn’t it be cool if I showed up at the hockey bar?
Another time, she saved Klein from a bunch of pissed-off fans by pretending to be his angry pregnant girlfriend, speaking only in some kind of French-Russian accent and using broken English to accuse him of leaving her out of his planned orgy, which left them feeling incredibly sorry for him instead of angry.
And then there was the time we were playing darts at a party at Lavoie’s house and I swear she threw the game for the sake of my ego.
Must’ve been beginner’s luck, she’d said with a shrug when she couldn’t hit the board anymore.
Her methods might be weird, but until she came shrieking into Murphy’s house the other day, begging for a date, she’s not usually asking for things for herself.
Tonight?
Yeah. Tonight she’s definitely in need of something.
And I want to know why.
She and Veda are doing that silent communication thing my sisters do sometimes, and I’m positive Muffy’s told her friend to not speak a word about when they were in med school together here, because every time one of them says Blackwell or school or anything else related to education, the conversation abruptly stops, and they switch to the weather or Muff Matchers or Veda’s family practice or stories about their parents.
Mostly Muffy’s mom and Veda’s dad, since Veda’s mom apparently died when she was young, and Muffy’s dad moved away when she was in grade school after her parents’ divorce, and she got very creative in finding ways to avoid going to her assigned weekends with him.
Plus, there are endless stories to tell about Hilda Periwinkle.
I’ve only met the woman a handful of times and also have stories from every single time.
Makes sense.
Also, no, I don’t want to talk about any of them. The woman has even fewer boundaries than my sisters, and that takes skills that I’d prefer to avoid.
Once I’m done with my steak and on to my third beer, I turn my phone back on and catch up on all the messages from all day long about my brother-in-law’s vasectomy issues.
He’s fine now. Back home. Resting with more ice.
But I have a private, one-on-one text message from my sister-in-law asking if I’m okay and threatening to bring the whole family into it if I don’t answer her immediately.
Shit.
“Bathroom,” I grunt to the women.
I’m dialing Daisy before I’ve left the table, on my way to the brightly lit parking lot in the chilly evening.
Feels good to not be boxed in.
“Tyler! You’re alive!” Daisy cheers after picking up on the second ring.
“What exactly were you planning on telling my family if I didn’t call you?”
“I heard you passed out at a funeral home. West’s packing our bags. If you’re going to pass out and die, you couldn’t pick a better place than a funeral home, but I’m really glad you’re not dead. At least, not yet. What are you doing in Richmond? How did you know Professor Harris?”
Professor Harris.
That must be Veda’s dad. I don’t actually know her last name. Or maybe that’s the funeral guy and she thinks I hang out at mortuaries three hours from my place for fun. “How do you know Professor Harris?” I counter.
“I don’t. I know Barry, the funeral home director. Long story. It involves a hippo and a stun gun mishap on a vacation in an undisclosed location. But not a stun gun used on a hippo, to clarify. Anyway, he recognized you and texted me to ask me to let him know how you’re doing. So, are you okay?”