The jake ryan complex, p.8
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 8
“Yeah, actually, I think I’ll have a beer.”
Since all the tables are taken, I settle in with my longneck at the small bar. The two seats on my left—in the direction of the TV—are occupied by an older couple I recognize from the dog park. We’ve never spoken, but Rerun’s always very interested in their border collie . . . or specific parts of their border collie. The stool on my right is empty, though with the way this place is filling up to watch the game, I doubt it will stay that way for long.
“Here we go, Cubbies, here we go!” a man chants from one of the tables as the commercial comes to an end and our boys in stripes take to the outfield.
“Let’s go, Cubs!” someone else yells.
Their cries are contagious, inciting the rest of the patrons to join in with their own cheers and yelps.
“Come on, boys,” the old man beside me says earnestly. He turns his ball cap backward on his head, then raises his pinched fingers to his lips, kisses them, and makes the sign of the cross on his chest.
I grin. This is just what I needed.
“Let’s go, Cubbies!” I shout, then follow his lead by turning my own cap backward. He offers me an approving nod and turns back to the game.
The Rockies get two base hits and a double, earning them another run as we head into the bottom of the ninth. Even though we’re down by one, Chicago Joe’s is still alive with hopeful energy. Die-hard as we are, Cubs fans aren’t often given a reason to celebrate—we have to capitalize on every opportunity we get.
“Come on, Cubs—you got this! You got this!” My scream is lost among the sea of other yelps and superstitious cries, but it’s still invigorating. I take another pull off my beer, my gaze fixed intently on the screen above me when a touch to my right shoulder steals my attention.
I turn back and—
Ohmygod.
I slap my hand over my mouth just as a sputter of amber bubbles starts to erupt from my lips. Thankfully, I’m able to contain it, but not before J.T., in all his unexpected glory, raises his hands up in a mock shield over his face.
“You really need to work on your drinking skills.” He laughs, that damn adorable grin peeking out at me from behind his veil of fingers.
I snort while dragging the back of my hand across my mouth.
“I’m so sorry.” I chuckle. “I swear I don’t have a hole in my lip.” His amused gaze darts to my mouth, prompting a frustrating tickle to stir in my chest. Oh dear . . . I shake off the sensation with a clear of the throat, then say, “So, what, um—what are you doing here?”
“Just picking up some food,” he says. “I’d ask you the same, but I think it’s pretty obvious.” He taps at the bill of my hat with his finger. “Pretty sure I heard you from the parking lot.”
My cheeks flush, though it’s not because I’m embarrassed. (I’m proud of my loyalty!) It’s because of the way he’s looking at me: sort of skittish, like he was the other morning, but also a bit . . . enthralled. Like learning I’m a Cubs fan has thrown him for a loop.
“You’re pretty hard-core, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Well, yeah.” I raise my palms. “It’s the Cubs—you gotta support your team. Plus”—I thumb toward the TV behind me—“do you see what’s happening here? We’re only down by one. We can totally pull this off.”
He shakes his head. “Eh, I don’t know. The Rockies have a really solid closer this year.” He settles easily onto the stool beside me, his delicious brown gaze shifting to the TV. “He hasn’t lost them a game all season.”
“Yeah, well, that’s ’cause this is the first time they’ve played us.”
His grin deepens, and he turns his attention back to me. We lock eyes for a pulse-pounding beat before the distinct sound of a cracking bat draws our attention back to the TV.
“Go, go, go!” I scream, springing to my feet along with J.T. and the rest of the patrons. We’re all yelling and waving our arms frantically, as if we can somehow help propel the ball over the ivy-covered outfield wall—
“No!”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Dammit all!”
The Rockies’ freakishly quick center fielder snags the ball out of the air just inches from the wall.
“Ugh, so close,” I groan, flopping back onto the stool. “He almost had it.”
He gives my arm a consoling pat. “It’s okay. We’ve still got two more at bats. Anything can happen.”
His optimism is nothing short of endearing, as is his company. This night is proving to be pretty good after all—
“Here you go, brother.” Manny suddenly appears, dropping a to-go bag on the bar top in front of J.T. “Two Italian beefs with a large side of slaw. You need anything else?”
Two Italian beef sandwiches.
Two.
Because he’s not eating alone.
My heart wrenches.
Of course he’s not—
“Uh—no, that’s everything. Thanks.” He stares at the food for a moment before he turns back to me and says, “Well . . . I, um, I should probably get going.”
Despite the unwarranted disappointment stirring in my bones, I force a smile and say, “You’re not going to stay and see how the game ends?”
He frowns. “Nah. I can’t.”
“Okay. Well, it was fun running into you.”
He finds my eyes again. “Yeah,” he says. “It was. And we’re still good for Sunday, right?”
I nod. “Yep. We’re still good for Sunday.”
I wish it were just the disappointment of the Cubs losing that’s got me whimpering in my car on the way home, but it’s not. It’s the fact that J.T. is undoubtedly eating the world’s best sandwich in the company of the world’s most beautiful woman right now. And that I wasted three hours of my life on a human garbage disposal. And that Hope’s stupid wedding is going to be here before I know it—
“Dammit, Chicago!” I pound my fist against the steering wheel. “There are over a million men in this city. I just need one. Just one!”
I turn down my street, my stomach twisting when I see a familiar silver sedan parked in front of my house.
Mom.
Why is she—oh god. A snippet of our last conversation comes to mind. I grip the steering wheel tighter. Mom and Hope are here to shop for dresses.
I crank the wheel hard right, slamming on the brakes in front of Mr. Feldspar’s house, just four doors down from mine. I cut the engine and reach for the bottle of margaritas. No way I’m going in there sober . . .
Thirty minutes later, when the bottle is half-drained and I’m feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges, I decide it’s time to face my audience. I climb out of the car and walk to my house. Gia is stationed in front of an easel at the top of the driveway. I don’t ask what she’s working on, but at first glance it appears that naked Steve is taking a moonlight stroll on the beach. She must be out here for inspiration.
“The dynamic duo got here a few hours ago,” she says, her gaze shifting between the canvas and the cloud-covered moon. “Your mom seemed sort of pissed that you weren’t here to greet them.”
“Not surprising,” I grumble.
“What crawled up your ass?” She turns to look at me and grins when she spots the bottle in my hand. “Wild night, huh?”
“Horrible night is more like it.” I raise the bottle and take another drink.
“What happened? Here, hit me with a spot.” She motions for the bottle, which I reluctantly hand over. She takes a pull—“Gah! How can you drink this shit warm?”
I snatch the bottle back from her. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“What are you desperate for?”
I sigh. “A decent date for Hope’s wedding. The two guys I went out with this week were horrible.”
“Horrible how?”
Despite my inebriated state, her emphasis on the word how isn’t lost on me. In fact, it carries a similar tone to the one Claire and Tracy used when they dropped their asinine Jake Ryan bomb. Lucky for her, I’m too tired to set her straight. Besides, once she hears my reasoning, she’ll understand.
“One was like a fucking Hallmark commercial. I swear, he cried about everything.” I raise the bottle for another drink. Ugh. She’s right. This should be cold. “And the other one”—I swipe at the residual dribble from my lip—“the guy I went out with tonight, was like some sort of fucking first-world Neanderthal. He’s super smart and funny, and he looked really good, but once he started to eat—it was just—the food . . .” I gag as images of that poor ballpark dog come to mind. “It was just so fucking gross.”
“Wow. Three f-bombs in thirty seconds. Somebody’s drunk.”
I scowl but can’t argue with her snide observation. I tend to go vulgar when I’m boozing. I’ll have to watch that when I face my mom. My mom. Fuck, my mom is here . . .
“So just find someone who isn’t so horrible.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter. “The only nonhorrible guy I’m interested in is fu—fuhreaking married. He is married, right? You’re positive he’s married?”
Her eyes narrow. “Who are you talking about?”
“J.T.”
“Ahhh . . . yeah, okay. I can totally get on board with that.”
“Hey!” I lurch toward her. “I’m the one who gets to board him, not you.” That comes out different than intended. I shake my head. “I mean, yeah. He’s hot. But he’s also really sweet and charming, and I need to know for sure if he’s married, because I am not a home-wrecker. So is he?”
“You’re the one who saw his ring.”
“Yeah, but . . . maybe his wife died, and he’s just too sad to take it off. That could happen, right?”
This ridiculous scenario came to me while I was chugging in my car, and I really like it. Not the his-wife-dying part but him not actually being married anymore. Maybe he bought two sandwiches because he was taking one to her grave site . . . like a tribute or something. People do weird stuff like that, right?
“Yep. That could totally happen—if you’re in a Hallmark movie.”
“I hate you.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. All I know is he comes into the shop and buys the Sweetheart’s Special at least twice a month. I don’t look to see who he addresses the card to.”
My shoulders sag, and I raise the bottle for another drink. I’m sure there’s no costumed cat on the front of those cards, but the fact that J.T. actually takes the time to write out a message says he’s committed to someone.
“See, I’m totally screwed,” I grumble. “All the single ones are horrible.”
“Well, I told you Carlos said he’d be up to hang out with you, and he’s definitely not horrible.”
My eyes snap wide. “Carlos? Who’s Carlos? You didn’t tell me about anyone named Carlos.”
Her eyes narrow beneath her retro frames. “I didn’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She shrugs. “Okay, well, Carlos is a guy I know from the studio who said he’d be up for meeting you.”
“When?”
If I were in a sober state of mind, there’s no way I’d be this excited to meet one of Gia’s artist friends. I’ve seen enough of them over the years to know they’re not really my type. And that’s not because they drive Priuses instead of red Porsches. It’s because our lifestyles don’t really mesh. But right now, when I’m half-drunk and 100 percent desperate, the prospect of any date is exciting.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say for sure.”
“Well, can you text him or call him or something?”
“Damn, you really are desperate, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I told you I was. I’ve only got like five weeks until the wedding, and I have to find a decent Michael to bring with me.”
“Michael? Who’s Michael?”
I blow out a big breath. “Michael is the imaginary man my mom thinks I’ve been dating for the last few months.”
She bursts out laughing. “You have a fictitious boyfriend?”
Again, my compromised state is diluting reality to more tolerable levels. Levels that make it somehow acceptable to confess that I, a thirty-nine-year-old professional, invented a make-believe boyfriend because I’m too scared of being publicly shamed and verbally assaulted by my mother to tell her the truth.
“Yup.” I take a pull off the bottle. “I made up a boyfriend.”
“Why? Is she that bad?”
She no sooner asks the question than the familiar squeak of the back door sounds, and then a biting tone cries out, “Mackenzie Rose, is that you?”
Shit.
I instantly revert to my teenage self and tuck the bottle behind my back. “Hi, Mom!”
“Where have you been? Did you forget that your sister and I were coming down this weekend?”
I hear Gia snickering behind me. I guess she’s getting the answer to her Is she that bad? question.
“No, I didn’t forget. I just had plans. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Well, don’t be too long. It’s going to rain.”
As soon as she disappears into the house, I turn back to Gia. “Please get ahold of Carlos. Whenever he’s available, I’ll make it work.”
“Should I let him know he’ll need to change his name to Michael?”
“Shut up.” I take one last pull from the bottle, then hand it over to her. “Wish me luck.”
I’m not surprised to find that my house smells of pizza. Picking up a deep dish from Giordano’s is always my family’s first priority when they come to visit. Even though I’m still turned off by the thought of eating, I grab a slice. I need something to help soak up some of my buzz.
I take a few bites, then head into the living room, where I can hear the two of them watching TV.
“Hello . . .”
“Macaroni!” Hope springs off the love seat and greets me with a big hug.
“Hey, kiddo. Good to see you.” She feels a little thicker around the middle than she did when I last saw her three months ago. That’s typical for Hope. She flits between a 10 and a 14, always making either size, and the one in between, look good. “Congratulations.”
“Well, thaaank you!” Her words come out with their usual dramatic flair as she pulls away from me, her left hand splayed wide in front of her so I can admire her new accessory. It’s very big. And very sparkly. “Isn’t it pretty?”
I nod.
“It sure is, sweetie,” Mom adds with a pleased smile, then gives me one of her don’t-wrinkle-me hugs. Contrary to my sister, she feels thinner than she did the last time I saw her. Along with Barbie-blonde hair and naturally straight teeth (some of us were in braces for four years), she and Hope also share the same yo-yo body-weight gene. “Where have you been? I assumed you’d be here waiting for us—”
“Yeah, sorry—”
“That Gia person had to let us in.”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry—”
“Are you aware of the mountain of wood lying on your front lawn?” She points a manicured nail toward the window that overlooks the front yard. “It looks like a construction site out there.”
I sigh. “Yes, Mom. I’m very aware of it. That’s the rotted-out porch. I’ve told you about it.” She shakes her head, disgusted by the notion. “The contractor is coming on Sunday to start replacing it.”
“Well, I should hope so. It’s unsightly. What must your poor neighbors think?”
“I’m sure they hate me—”
“And you’re sure this contractor is reliable? He’s not going to run off with all your money, is he?”
The dig is an obvious reference to Brian, the thief. She likes throwing that one out whenever she can.
“So, where were you?” Hope wisely, thankfully, intercedes.
“At the Cubs game.”
“Oooooh, with Michael?”
Hope’s flirty question catches me by surprise, though it shouldn’t. Of course she’d assume I was out with my boyfriend. That’s what women in relationships do—they go out with their boyfriends.
“Uhh . . . yep. I was with Michael . . . my boyfriend . . . at the Cubs game . . .”
My cheeks ignite beneath the bumbled lie, so I quickly make my way over to the corner where Rerun is lying belly-up on his pillow, waiting for me to greet him.
“Will we get to meet him this weekend?” Hope questions while plopping back down on the love seat.
“Oh. Um . . .” Kneeling down beside him, I keep a steady scratch on Rerun as I try to formulate the least bullshit-sounding response I can. I’m not used to lying to Hope. Dammit! This would be so much easier if I were sober. “No. He’s on call at the hospital all weekend, so . . .”
“Well, surely he can still have dinner with us,” Mom says through a pinched expression. “On-call doctors still get to eat, don’t they?”
I force out a snorty-sounding laugh that’s meant to cover up the panic that’s suddenly rising in my chest. “Yes, he can still eat,” I answer while internally kicking myself for not having the wherewithal to tell a more specific lie. Damn margaritas! “What I meant to say is that he’s on call at a hospital up in . . . Milwaukee, so he’s actually driving up there early tomorrow morning.”
Milwaukee?
Where the hell did that come from?
“Milwaukee?” Hope’s brows scrunch together. “As in Wisconsin?”
I nod slowly.
. . . Yes.
He is in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
My boyfriend is working in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, this weekend.
“Why does he have to go way up there?”
My throat instantly swells shut.
I don’t know, Hope.
I have no idea why Michael has to go all the way up there.
No one would ever drive two hours, out of state, to be on call at another hospital.
That’s just stupid.
I blink hard, desperate to somehow salvage this ridiculous lie, but my thoughts are so saturated in tequila and triple sec I can’t get a grasp on anything. Fuuuuuck! Think, Mackenzie, think! Why is Michael on call at a hospital two hours away—
