“Yes,” I pitch in, draping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “We saw our dear friend out here with a cigarette—again”—this I say fondly, with a touch of pique—“and we decided it was time to intervene. Smoking increases the chances of an early death by a staggering percentage, you know.”
“You just randomly came upon him and decided to stage an intervention? Aren’t those things usually planned?” He sounds rightfully suspicious.
“It was fate’s plan,” Tina insists loftily. “It brought us here at exactly this moment to help Harry be strong enough to do what needs to be done.”
She’s talking about his fake smoking habit, but I see something steel inside of him. He’s going to do it. He’s going to talk.
In that moment, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Because I do like Cal, even if I shouldn’t, and something about the story of the Bad Luck Club troubles him, deep down to the marrow of his being.
Still, if I stick to this compromise, if I don’t identify Cal by name, what does he have to worry about?
He may think I’m out to ruin him, but I’m not. The thing is, whether he sees it or not, whatever is scaring him is also holding him back. I understand that all too well, and if I can help him escape the hold that fear has on him, I will. Even if nothing else ever happens between us.
“Harry, are you cool with this?” the guy asks. “Do you want to leave?”
“Um… I think I’d better hear them out,” Harry says. “Sorry to run off on you.” He pulls some cash out of his pocket and thrusts it out. “This is for my part of the bill.”
The guy nods thoughtfully as he takes it. “Yeah,” he says. “You know, it’s not a bad idea. Smokers smell terrible. I’ll call you.”
Harry, Tina, and I exchange the pop-eyed looks of people struggling to contain laughter, but we manage to hold it in for five solid seconds, until the door is closed, before it gushes out.
Suddenly, it feels like we’re old pals—not just Tina and me, but Harry too—and God, it feels good.
“What do you say, Harry?” I ask. “Up for righting some wrongs and showing Augusta who’s boss?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding, “yeah. Screw it. Cal doesn’t want to be part of the club anymore anyway. I’m his only sponsee, and he’s been trying to usher me out the door for months. He might think I haven’t noticed, but it’s hard not to notice what the sand looks like when you’re the one who buried your head in it.”
This flummoxes me, although I try not to show it. If Cal only has one sponsee, who is sponsoring the rest of them? His father? One another? And if he’s stepped back with the club so much, why does he care what becomes of it?
“You know,” Harry adds, with something like wonder, “I think I’m ready to graduate from the Bad Luck Club.”
I high-five him, we all sit down on the chairs arranged by the railing, and I pull out my notebook.
“Let’s start with the rules,” he says. “She really messed them up. There are only thirteen, with some subsets, but she has something like thirty, and a bunch of them are toxic as hell.”
My heart’s racing, and the beads of sweat on my forehead have nothing to do with the weather. Because I’m about to learn the rules, the actual rules, of the Bad Luck Club.
I’m finally on the right track.
Chapter Fourteen
Cal
Am I saying the rules were divinely inspired? I leave you to decide, dear reader. All I know is that I picked up a pen and wrote feverishly for two hours, filled with light and peace, as if my hand were being guided by a heavenly being.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
Everything has gone off the rails.
After a shitty day—well, with one exception I’m determined not to remember—I head home. Dad is sitting on the front porch drinking a beer, with Ruby lying next to him. I’ve barely started up the steps when he says, “Had a bad day, did you?”
Ruby covers her face with a paw.
I stop at the base of the porch steps. “Who did you talk to?”
“Mitch Abrams said you damn near bit his head off. And Willow asked if she could transfer to my new baking business.”
“Bear’s Buns barely exists. At this point, it’s just you and an oven and a pad full of handwritten orders.”
“Exactly. Imagine how desperate she must feel to offer up her services.”
I groan. “I’ll admit to being grumpy today, but I wasn’t that bad.”
He reaches into a small cooler next to his chair and pulls out a bottle of beer. After he pops the cap off, he hands it to me and gestures to the other chair. “Have a seat.”
I’m tempted to go inside and take a shower, but I respect my dad too much to ignore him. Still, I’m not exactly looking forward to this conversation.
I climb up to the porch and step over Ruby to take the beer and sit down.
“Does this have anything to do with that reporter?”
Little does he know…
“I know your meeting at the tea shop didn’t go well. Has something else happened?”
I stew for several seconds, my mind shooting to Molly taking in that sunrise, her eyes full of awe, and then Molly standing against that tree, naked but for her shoes. Trying to shake the image, I take a long pull from my beer. “I’ve been thinking about Augusta.”
“Oh?” he says, aiming for a nonchalant tone. He’s never been much of an actor, though, and I sense the eagerness in his voice.
“I understand your frustration,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bothered by what she’s done, how she’s twisted the club into something materialistic and self-serving. But by claiming credit, I…” I groan in frustration. “We didn’t start the Bad Luck Club for any sort of glory. We did it to help people.”
“It’s not like you’re asking for a parade,” Dad says in earnest. “All you have to do is admit we started it.”
My throat tightens. I did admit that to Molly this morning, albeit off the record, but I can’t bring myself to tell Dad. He’d want to know why.
“If you want to talk to her, I won’t stand in your way,” I say, feeling exhausted by the weight of my guilt. This is where my conscience has landed me after a long day of inner war.
“It sounds like it’s you she wants to talk to, not me.”
“I’ve said all I have to say to her, but like I said, I won’t stand in your way. Or anyone else’s. I shouldn’t have in the first place.” I take another pull of my beer, then stand.
“You have to face it someday,” Dad says quietly. “You have to let go of what happened with Alice.”
I take a deep breath and nearly tell him the truth. That I didn’t love Alice at the end. That the reason I can’t let go is because I know, I know, she never would have died that night if I hadn’t insisted she stay and talk about the end of our marriage.
But what would people think of me then?
There’s a stupid, stubborn part of me that wonders, specifically, what Molly would think.