You can guess how the story ends. They took the hill on South Orange Avenue too fast. Debbie died in the crash. The smashed-up car was put on display in front of the high school for six years. Myron wondered where it was now, what they’d eventually done to that wreck.
“What?” Aimee said.
But Myron didn’t tell them about Debbie Frankel. Erin and Aimee had undoubtedly heard other versions of the same story. It wouldn’t work. He knew that. So he tried something else.
“I need you to promise me something,” Myron said.
Erin and Aimee looked at him.
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out two business cards. He opened the top drawer and found a pen that still worked. “Here are all my numbers — home, business, mobile, my place in New York City.”
Myron scribbled on the cards and passed one to each of them. They took the cards without saying a word.
“Please listen to me, okay? If you’re ever in a bind. If you’re ever out drinking or your friends are drinking or you’re high or stoned or I don’t care what. Promise me. Promise me you’ll call me. I’ll come get you wherever you are. I won’t ask any questions. I won’t tell your parents. That’s my promise to you. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I don’t care how late. I don’t care how far away you are. I don’t care how wasted. Twenty-four-seven. Call me and I’ll pick you up.”
The girls said nothing.
Myron took a step closer. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. “Just please… please don’t ever drive with someone who’s been drinking.”
They just stared at him.
“Promise me,” he said.
And a moment later — the final what-if? — they did.
CHAPTER 3
Two hours later, Aimee’s family — the Biels — were the first to leave. Myron walked them to the door. Claire leaned close to his ear. “I heard the girls were down in your old room.”
“Yep.”
She gave him a wicked grin. “Did you tell them—?”
“God, no.”
Claire shook her head. “You’re such a prude.”
He and Claire had been good friends in high school. He’d loved her free spirit. She acted like — for lack of a more appropriate term — a guy. When they’d go to parties, she’d try to pick someone up, usually with more success because, hey, she was an attractive girl. She’d liked muscle-heads. She’d go with them once, maybe twice, and then move on.
Claire was a lawyer now. She and Myron had messed around once, down in that very basement, on a holiday break senior year. Myron had been much more uptight about it. The next day, there had been no awkwardness for Claire. No discomfort, no silent treatment, no “maybe we should discuss what happened.”
No encore either.
In law school Claire had met her husband, “Erik with a K.” That was how he always introduced himself. Erik was thin and tightly wound. He rarely smiled. He almost never laughed. His tie was always wonderfully Windsored. Erik with a K was not the man Myron had figured Claire would end up with, but they seemed to work. Something about opposites attract, he guessed.
Erik gave him a firm handshake, made sure that there was eye contact. “Will I see you on Sunday?”
They used to play in a pickup basketball game on Sunday mornings, but Myron had stopped going months ago. “I won’t be there this week, no.”
Erik nodded as though Myron had said something profound and started out the door. Aimee smothered a laugh and waved. “Nice talking to you, Myron.”
“Same here, Aimee.”
Myron tried to give her a look that said, “Remember the promise.” He didn’t know if it worked, but Aimee did give him a small nod before heading down the path.
Claire kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear again. “You look happy.”
“I am,” he said.
Claire beamed. “Ali’s great, isn’t she?”
“She is.”
“Am I the greatest matchmaker ever?”
“Like something out of a bad road production of Fiddler,” he said.
“I’m not rushing things. But I am the greatest, aren’t I? It’s okay, I can take it. I’m the best ever.”
“We’re still talking about matchmaking, right?”
“Fresh. I know I’m the best at the other.”
Myron said, “Eh.”
She punched his arm and left. He watched her walk away, shook his head, smiled. In a sense, you are always seventeen years old and waiting for your life to begin.
Ten minutes later, Ali Wilder, Myron’s new lady love, called for her children. Myron walked them all to the car. Jack, the nine-year-old boy, proudly wore a Celtics uniform with Myron’s old number on it. It was the next step in hip-hop fashion. First there had been the retro uniforms of your favorite greats. Now, at a Web site called Big-Time-Losahs.com or something like that, they sold uniforms for players who became has-beens or never-weres, players who went bust.
Like Myron.
Jack, being only nine years old, didn’t get the irony.
When they reached the car, Jack gave Myron a big hug. Unsure how to play this, Myron hugged back but kept it brief. Erin stayed back. She gave him a half-nod and slipped into the backseat. Jack followed his big sister. Ali and Myron stood and smiled at each other like a pair of newly dating doofs.
“This was fun,” Ali said.
Myron was still smiling. Ali looked up at him with these wonderful green-brown eyes. She had red-blond hair and there were still remnants of childhood freckles. Her face was wide and her smile just held him.
“What?” she said.
“You look beautiful.”
“Man, you are smooth.”
“I don’t want to brag, but yes. Yes, I am.”
Ali looked back at the house. Win — real name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III — stood with arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. “Your friend Win,” she said. “He seems nice.”
“He’s not.”
“I know. I just figured him being your best friend and all, I’d say that.”
“Win is complicated.”
“He’s good-looking.”
“He knows.”
“Not my type though. Too pretty. Too rich-preppy-boy.”
“And you prefer macho he-men,” Myron said. “I understand.”
She snickered. “Why does he keep looking at me like that?”
“My guess? He’s probably checking out your ass.”
“Good to know somebody is.”
Myron cleared his throat, glanced away. “So you want to have dinner together tomorrow?”
“That would be nice.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Ali put her hand on his chest. Myron felt something electric in the touch. She stood on tiptoes — Myron was six-four — and kissed his cheek. “I’ll cook for you.”
“Really?”
“We’ll stay in.”
“Great. So it’ll be, what, like a family-type thing? Get to know the kids more?”
“The kids will be spending the night at my sister’s.”
“Oh,” Myron said.
Ali gave him a hard look and slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Oh,” Myron said again.