“It’s good.” The young man nods, his ash-blond hair falling over his forehead.
“Still majoring in English?”
“Yep.”
“And education,” Miss McCarthy adds smugly. “He’s getting his teaching certificate.”
“She’s making me,” David informs us in a tone that says this is an ongoing debate that he’s resigned himself to losing. “I want to be a writer.”
“You’re an English major,” Miss McCarthy shoots back. “Do you know what English majors become? English teachers. You can write the great American novel over summer break. Plus, with your juvenile delinquent record you’ll have street cred—the kids will love you.”
Before David went to live with Miss McCarthy, he did a stint in juvie for setting fire to a local playground.
Garrett chuckles. “Well, having a Plan B is always a solid idea. I mean, look at me—one minute I’m on track to play pro ball and the next I’m the greatest teacher and football coach in the history of Lakeside.”
When God was passing out confidence, he gave Garrett extra.
But if you’ve got a big head, Michelle McCarthy can always be relied on to deflate that sucker down to size.
“Let’s not push it. You could be the best vice principal in the history of Lakeside, but you prefer to stagnate in mediocrity.”
She’s been on Garrett’s ass to take the vice principal position for a while now. But he likes the classroom—he likes connecting with the kids.
Miss McCarthy turns to me and her voice shifts from harsh to hushed in a New Jersey minute.
“Connor . . . how are you?”
It’s how a lot of the locals talk to me now—like somebody fucking died. Such is life in a small town. Everyone knows everyone’s business, so they heard the divorce wasn’t exactly my idea. Poor Connor Daniels.
Oh, the humanity.
“I’m doing all right, Miss McCarthy. Can’t complain.”
“You were always my favorite Daniels, Connor.”
Garrett puts his hand over his heart.
“That hurts.”
Ryan pipes up from behind me, “I thought I was your favorite Daniels, Miss McCarthy.”
She glowers at him, her full, firm cheeks pulling downward.
“You weren’t, Ryan James.”
Miss McCarthy is the only person on earth outside of my parents who automatically tacks on Ryan’s middle name. There’s a backstory there.
Today, Ryan’s a respected, well-liked Lakeside police officer with an impeccable service record. But back in his teen years he was a jackass. And I don’t mean your run-of-the-mill, clueless adolescent kind of jackass. I’m talking hardcore obnoxious, noogies to freshman skulls, cherry bombs in the toilets, mooning the opposing football team across the field at halftime type of jackass.
Until junior year, when a curly-haired, Brooklyn-born girl named Angela Caravusio moved to Lakeside and started dating him.
I remember it like it was yesterday. The day Angy stood in our living room in front of my parents and brothers and told Ryan in that Carmela Soprano–ringer of an accent, “I’m not goin’ out with a frigging jackass, Ryan. Grow up!”
I think that was the day my brother fell in love with her. It was the day we all kind of fell in love with her.
Because that was the day Ryan stopped being a jackass.
“All right—my ice cream is melting; we gotta get going,” Miss McCarthy says. “Garrett, I’ll see you Monday, bright and early. Connor . . . ” and her tone drops back to funeral-lite, “Keep your chin up. Being single has its benefits. Just look at me.”
Yep. Super. Living the dream.
“Thanks, Miss McCarthy. That’s comforting.”
After we go inside and grab diapers for Charlotte, a just-in-case-they-need-it gallon of milk for Ryan, and a pack of protein bars Tim has been dying to try, we check out and head back toward my truck.
When we step outside, the sun’s at that low, dipped angle that feels like it’s aiming its blinding orange light directly into your pupils. So it takes a second for my vision to clear.
But when it does, I see someone. Someone I know.
A few feet away, pushing her cart across the parking lot toward her powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible in denim cut-off shorts and a tiny white T-shirt. Her chocolate-brown hair is in a high, long ponytail—the soft, wavy strands lifting gently in the spring breeze.
At work, it’s crucial to keep hair out of the way—confined by the tight elastic band of a mask or twisted into a secure bun at the top of the head. I’ve never actually seen her hair down. But I’ve thought about it, imagined it—long and loose, thick and silky—more times than I’ll ever admit.
Ryan bumps into my back. “Is this your first day walking?”
But Garrett follows my line of sight.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
“Violet Robinson. One of the nurses from the hospital.”
Timmy stands beside me, looking where I’m looking.
“She’s cute.”
“Yeah,” I reply with an involuntary sigh.
Because the truth is, Violet Robinson is so much more than cute.
She’s gorgeous—in that easy, effortless way that says she’s clueless about it.
And she’s a rock-star nurse. Solid, sharp under pressure, intelligent, and indispensable. I’m pretty damn quick on my feet, but I once saw Vi fly across the room to perform the Heimlich on a choking patient before anyone else had taken a single step. And she had great technique—strong hands, firm pulls.
In my book, a woman who gives good Heimlich is every bit as sexy as one who gives good head. Possibly sexier.
Now all four of us stand there watching her, but Violet doesn’t notice. It’s like she’s lost in her own little world as she hops onto the handle of the shopping cart—bracing her midsection against the bar, feet off the ground, so she can coast playfully across the lot.
It’s a move I would probably tell my kids not to do—but with her endless toned legs stretched out long and lithe behind her, she reminds me of a ballerina.
Elegant and graceful.
I raise my arm. “Hey! Hey, Vi!”
She turns in the direction of my voice, and there’s this slow motion moment when our eyes meet. There’s a spark of warm recognition in hers, and her lips start to curve into a sweet smile.
But then they stop.
And she goes down hard.
Smacking the pavement when her shopping cart crashes into the light pole she never saw coming. The cart tips on its side, her groceries spilling and rolling across the pavement.
Maybe graceful was too strong a word.
Violet’s . . . occasionally clumsy. Occasionally a lot.
Not when she’s working, but in those in-between real-life times when she’s eating or walking . . . or breathing.
“Shit.” I jog over with my brothers right behind me.
Because like I said: gentlemen.
I offer her a hand up from her knees.
“You okay?”
When she’s on her feet, she lets go, brushing dark gravel specks off her knees and shins.
“Yeah, I’m all right.” She lifts her face to mine, her pretty cheeks flushed and pink. “Nothing broken but my dignity.”