“Why would anyone come to a diner on Thanksgiving?” she asked, handing me a sizable menu with a picture of a milkshake on the front.
“My family sucks,” I answered.
Her eyes lit up and she laughed, deep and raspy.
“Hmm, now that I can understand. What can I get you?”
“What have you got?”
“Name it, we got it,” she said, leaning on the counter. Her blouse fell open to reveal the lacy trim of her baby-blue bra. She smelled like patchouli, a hint of cigarette smoke around the edges.
“I’d like dessert,” I said, holding her gaze.
Just what I needed. A little harmless flirting to make the world go away.
“We’ve got cheesecake . . . chocolate mousse . . . pie . . . What do you like?”
“Surprise me.”
“A challenge? I’ll take it. Drink?”
“Coffee, black.”
“For real? You will be a challenge,” she said, grabbing a cup and saucer and putting them in front of me. “So what’s your name?” she asked as she poured the coffee.
The familiar buzz of the chase coursed through me.
“Mike,” I answered.
“I’m Mia. Mike and Mia, that sounds good, that’s . . . oh crap, what’s that called?”
“Alliteration,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “Cute and smart. Bet you’re in from college for Thanksgiving.”
Compliment and info dig. I was so in.
“See, I’m less of a challenge than you think.”
“Let me get that dessert. Stay right where you are. You’re, like, the most entertaining thing that’s happened in this sleepy, little dump all day.”
Mia kept her eyes on me until she disappeared into the kitchen.
Luke Dobson would be proud. I could almost hear him say, See how easy it is to get back in the game?
Is this really what I wanted though? Did I want to wedge my way into a girl’s heart to sniff out if she’d be a good hit? Or just a lovely distraction? Mia fit the second bill nicely. She probably lived paycheck to paycheck, so no bank there. But she was as sexy as hell. Killer rear view.
Christ, Grayson, stop lining up her stats.
Mia came back. She placed a large slab of pumpkin pie in front of me, took whipped cream, and, without asking, put a generous spray over the top.
“How’d you know that was my favorite part?”
“Lucky guess,” she said, taking her finger and swiping a bit from the top. She put it in her mouth. “I can’t believe I just did that! You make me feel a little wicked.”
The moment was interrupted by the ding of the order-up bell and a loud shout of “Mia!” from the kitchen. She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Be right back, Mike.”
The pie sat in front of me. If I took a bite . . .
This wasn’t who I was anymore. It felt wrong to be playing Mia for my own amusement. I couldn’t go backward. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself about getting kicked out of St. Gabe’s, because the truth was—I was the one who screwed it all up. Me. Term-paper pimp. Cheater. No spin-doctoring that. And I needed to figure out how to move forward. I was so damn sick of standing still.
I reached into my inside jacket pocket for my wallet. Right on the top, in front of my license, was Ruth Caswell’s card from the Camelot Inn. Wren. I would not mess up this second chance fate had tossed in my path.
“Hey, dontcha like it?” Mia asked.
“Oh, yeah, Mia, but . . . my buddy just called. I have to run. Just the check,” I said, getting up. She pouted and scribbled on her order pad.
“Well, if you’re bored later, stop by. I get off at midnight.”
I took the bill up to the register, ignoring the flirty tone in her voice.
“Here, I think she wants you to have that,” the cashier said, handing me back my change along with the check. In bold print it said, MIKE, U R HOT, CALL ME! (heart) Mia with her number beneath it. I turned to see Mia, behind the counter, helping another customer. I waved the check at her: “got it.”
Then I trotted down the steps, crumpled the check, and tossed it in the trash can out front.
A new plan formed as I slid behind the wheel.
And it started with Wren.
SEVEN
WREN
“MORNING,” I SAID.
My father sat stoically at the kitchen table, reading the New York Times. I fixed a bowl of Apple Jacks and sat across from him, wondering if I should bring up what happened last night. He beat me to it.
“Your mother is already at the Inn for that big wedding today. Brooke spent the night at Pete’s parents’ house. Probably best if things cool down between Brooke and your mother,” he said, eyes still on the paper. He reached for his coffee mug.
“So you’re okay with it?” I asked.
His piercing blue prosecutor’s eyes bored into me over his reading glasses.
“Let’s just say this isn’t what I envisioned for your sister, but I’m dealing with it.”
“It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think, Grandpa?”
My father closed the paper, folded it neatly in front of him, and pushed his reading glasses back into his graying hair. Maybe the Grandpa mention wasn’t the best route.
“What?” I asked, wiping a milk dribble from the corner of my mouth.
“You do realize this isn’t the best path for her to follow? Or you.”
“Oh, God, Dad,” I said, blushing. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just—she’s an adult. In a relationship with someone she loves. You and Mom—”
“Exactly. Your mother and I have been through it. Student loans. Baby food. Sleep schedules. It’s hard enough juggling a new family, but throw in law school? Lots of sacrifices. For both parties. I just hope Brooke can handle it.”
“Handle what?” Josh asked, breezing in with a trail of frigid air—a full brown paper bag under one arm, the Daily News under the other. He dropped the bag on the island and placed the paper in front of my father. Josh was in the same clothes he’d been wearing last night.
“How industrious. Out early?” Dad asked, suspicious.
“Sure, Dad,” Josh answered, winking at me. I knew otherwise, since I’d woken up at 4:00 a.m. in his room, where he’d left me, surrounded by three years’ worth of St. Gabe’s yearbooks. After my first pic of Grayson, I’d needed more. I’d spent the rest of the night poring over Grayson Barrett: The Earlier Years, piecing together what I could about him from the little info the yearbooks gave. He’d had a major growth spurt between freshman and sophomore year. He was captain of the JV lacrosse team and an alternate on varsity when he was a sophomore. He was also in the Key Club and the chess club. Not that it mattered, since I was never going to see him again.
“Here,” Josh said, putting an everything bagel in front of Dad.
“Some example you’re setting for your little sister,” my father said, slicing his bagel in half.
“Dad, don’t be a buzzkill. Had to celebrate Saint Gabe’s huge win yesterday,” Josh said, flopping down in his seat and grabbing a bagel. “I work hard, party harder . . . your motto, remember?”
I raised my eyebrows at my father as he pushed Josh’s hat off his head, revealing his usual dirty-blond mass of unkempt bedhead.
“Don’t give away my secrets, Josh. Wrennie’s my easy kid. I’d like her to stay like that.”
“Great,” I said, pushing away my bowl of cereal. “Why don’t you just call me boring?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “You remind me of your mother, always something going on behind those eyes of yours. You think before you leap. Quiet is not a bad thing.”