The story will be strong enough to get me the gig, I think, depending on who this other contender is and what they have to offer.
And sure, there’s a voice in my head whispering that the story I plan on writing is a glossy bit of fluff—that the real story is about why Cal allowed Augusta to get away with her long con. It’s about the two flawed yet well-meaning men who created a club that truly helps people—and still haven’t helped themselves.
But I won’t steer down roads that will lead to my ruination and Cal’s. Bear’s. Because I like them. Because I care. Because I feel reasonably sure, in a way that scares and thrills me, that Cal is a true steadfast.
But still…I was hoping Cal would open that door all the way. So far he hasn’t, but I feel this thing between us growing, snowballing, and he’s taking me to a meeting.
Surely he’ll confide in me. Surely.
Cal and I are in his car, and the two fruit tarts are stacked in boxes on my lap.
“Don’t jostle mine just so you can win,” he says, shooting me a suspicious look chased by a grin. “That’s no way to clinch a victory.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I remember a particularly salient quote from Augusta’s book—winning is winning, however you do it.”
He pulls a face.
“So you’ve read it?” I ask, interested. I assumed as much, of course, because how could he help himself? And that phantom part of me, the one I’ve been trying to tamp down, insists, He needed to check to make sure she didn’t share whatever she knows.
“Unfortunately.”
“Can we talk a little about Augusta? Or will you jump out of the truck?”
“I’m driving,” he says, lifting his brows.
“Exactly. I don’t want to have to make a lunge for the wheel. I’m pretty sure the tarts wouldn’t survive.”
He laughs a little, but I’ve gotten to know his laughs, and there’s a certain nervous edge to this one. “Let’s not, okay? Not before the meeting. We’ll talk about her later.”
Not later tonight, though. We’d planned on going out, but I’ll have to write tonight. I broke the news earlier, after I finally checked my email. He said he has work to do too, and invited me to go out tomorrow night instead.
“What are we going to tell everyone?” I ask. Then I realize Harry’s going to be there, and he has no idea that I’m coming. He and Tina and I made plans to get together on Tuesday, but I failed to mention how I was spending my weekend. “Oh shit. I forgot to tell you. I ran into Harry the other night—”
Another lift of his brows. “Ran into him, huh?”
“Seriously!” I lift my hands, then set them down quickly when the tarts start to slip. “I was a complete innocent this time. Anyway, I was with Tina, and we all got to talking, and he let me in on the club’s rules. But I didn’t tell him I’m coming today, and I don’t want to freak him out by randomly showing up, so maybe one of us should text him a warning.”
A funny look comes over his face. “He has told me literally none of this. Last I heard, he was going on a date with someone on Friday night.”
I laugh, because I’m beset by the sudden image of the hot guy who smelled like the combined uniforms of the Asheville Tourists after one of their unimpressive baseball games.
“Care to share?”
I gloss over the story, and end with, “I guess he didn’t say anything because he was worried you’d get pissed. You know how he gets.”
He grunts, like maybe he’s hurt that Harry decided to confide in me rather than him. And, to be fair, Harry did think I was some kind of spy up until a few days ago. Then his lips tip up. “Can’t say I blame him for opening up. You are hard to resist. And if you helped him want to graduate, I’m grateful.” He casts a quick glance at me. “I’ve been trying and failing for months. Texting him is a good idea, but you should probably be the one to do it since I’m driving.”
Protective of the tarts, I try to type one-handedly. Harry, I’m going to the meeting today!
His response is immediate. Don’t try to peek in through the back window. There’s a thorny bush under it. Small wounds can get infected more easily than most people realize. If you want, I’ll open the side window, and you can lurk under that one. Actually, scratch that. Maybe you should just come with me. I can say you’re my sponsee.
Grinning to myself, because we really have come a long way if he’s willing to bend so many rules for me, I write back: You’d do that for me? Also, you don’t need to. Cal’s the one who’s bringing me.
This time, the beginning of his text is in all caps: !!!! ARE YOU GUYS TOGETHER? Like, TOGETHER together? I sensed something was going on when you and Tina kept cracking up over the word tree the other night. Was that some kind of weird code? Also, I don’t know how to feel about this. It’s like finding out your parents have sex.
Sorry, Harry. I hate to spoil things for you, but that’s how babies are made.
“What are you grinning at?” Cal says, but he doesn’t sound upset. If anything, he seems pleased that Harry and I have become friends.
“Harry offered to help me spy on you.” I take a second, thinking. “I’m not sure whether I should tell you this, but your dad was totally in on our hiking meetup.” His eyes widen, and I lift a hand. “He has no idea what happened…you know, with our tree. But they all wanted you to talk to me. Because they think the Bad Luck Club is important. I’m glad you’re bringing me today.”
“Yeah, I am too.” But that pleased look has faded from his eyes, and there’s a new tension in his shoulders.
Surely he’ll confide in me. Surely.
We’re the first to arrive. Bear has been busy, and the sideboard is full of delicacies that, quite honestly, make both of our fruit tarts look like they came from the “yesterday’s yummies” section at the grocery store.
He’s thrilled to see us, and it’s quite obvious that he approves of whatever it is we have going on.
“I said not to come home until ten, and here you’re getting home at two thirty the next day. I couldn’t be prouder.”
Cal’s ears go pink, which is frankly adorable, and he mutters something about the downsides of living with your father, which Bear waves off. Ruby is so happy for company, she’s practically dancing, in between trying to snatch various items of food off the table.
I find myself remembering Cal’s story about the gerbil—Mr. Whiskers. I can so easily see Bear, this kind, wonderful man, taking care of a gerbil that gave him the willies just to make his son happy. Much like I can imagine the two of them sitting in the living room with a bottle of whiskey, writing the rules for this club they’ve built.
Not one of their rules are cruel.
Not one of their rules are self-serving.
If they’ve misstepped in one crucial way—in helping themselves—it’s because they’re selfless men. It only makes me more determined to take Augusta down.
I help arrange the chairs, and not long after, people start to arrive.
Harry is first, and he greets me like a long-lost friend. The warmth I feel inside only grows.