I deleted the conversation, deleted his contact information, and blocked his number just as Boyce’s familiar smirk showed up on my screen and the ringtone he’d never know I’d set for him years ago played softly.
“Hello there, Mr. Wynn.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Boyce
She sounded happy. Good. I wanted to be the one who triggered it, but I’d rather her be happy the rest of her life without me than be the thing that made her sad. The tears she’d shed after I kissed her this morning had hung over my day like a storm brewing out over the water but never making landfall. I couldn’t for the life of me think what I might’ve done to hurt her, but I had no damned clue why she’d been crying.
“Hey, Miss Frank. How was the birthday?”
“It was good. I heard back from Lucas—I texted him last night to thank him for arranging the apartment. He said he and Jacqueline are coming down for Thanksgiving and meeting his dad at the Hellers’. Are they related or something?”
“I think his dad went to college with them. Maxfield’s known them his whole life.” I blew a stream of smoke away from the phone, as if she were sitting next to me instead of in her bedroom two miles and two thousand reasons away from me.
“The first thing I thought when I read it was that I can’t stay there for Thanksgiving, because I won’t see you unless I come home. And then I realized I don’t even know where you’ll be in November.”
“Maybe I’ll come see you there. I’ve been tied to the garage for years. Now I’m not.” I wondered what in hell made me say that. I kept meaning to let her go, but I kept holding on.
“I would like that.” She went silent for a moment. “How does that feel, to be free of it?”
Like I had a sense of purpose and a place in the world and it evaporated. Like I got cut loose on the ocean in a rowboat. “I don’t know yet,” I said, both fact and fib.
“I’m going to open my box now. Okay?”
“I feel like a dick making a big deal about it. It’s just… something I thought you’d like. I dunno. Hope it’s not too lame.”
Through the phone, I heard the scrape as she pulled flaps of cardboard apart and the crumple of the old newspapers as she peeled them aside.
“Oh, Boyce,” she said.
Relief washed over me, and I pulled in a drawn-out dose of nicotine to prolong the high. “It’s not as big as the last one, but the day you moved in with me I noticed the spire was cracked on that shell. Been hunting for a new one ever since. I found one that was perfect but still inhabited. I knew how you’d feel about me evicting his ass, so I put him back in the water.” Her soft laugh confirmed I’d nailed that decision. “I almost gave up and bought one on eBay, but that would be like cheating. Anyhow, I found that one last week and Thompson polished it up at his mom’s shop. Glad you like it.”
“I love it. I’ll always love the first one you gave me too, cracked or not.” She paused. “Mitchell broke it on purpose, you know.”
“He what?” I should have kicked that douchebag’s ass when I had the chance.
“During the last argument we had—the night we broke up. He was pissed when I told him I wasn’t going to Vanderbilt. He walked to my bookcase, grabbed the most important thing on it, and smashed it against the wall. That was the final straw for me.”
“I knew that guy was an asshole. What business of his was it if you decided not to go to med school?” That shell was the most important thing on her bookcase?
“We were going to go together, get an apartment, blah blah, and I changed my mind at the last minute. I kinda didn’t tell him for a month or so either.”
I laughed, imagining that little prick throwing a tantrum, but I sobered up at the next thought. “Did he ever hurt you?” She was quiet a beat too long. “Pearl, goddammit—”
“Once—which he swore was an accident and I—ugh. I was stupid—”
“The fuck you were. You’ve never been stupid a day in your life. Trusting and sweet and too goddamned forgiving, maybe.” Well, there you go. Damnation.
“Don’t think I’m a dumb girl anymore, huh?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face and hung my head. “Jesus Christ I was a dick of a kid. I’d kinda hoped you’d long forgot that.”
“You made up for it.” I heard the soft smile in her voice and took another deep drag to keep from telling her all the ways she could demand I make up for it and keep making up for it as long as she wanted.
“About Friday. Why don’t I pick you up and be your designated driver so you can go wild and celebrate your fill? I’ll get you back home safe.” Fuck if I wouldn’t rather get you back to my bed safe.
“Okay.”
• • • • • • • • • •
Thompson and I shuffled our Friday night supper to Thursday. “Maybe we can stop somewhere after, get in a game of pool?” I asked.
“Let’s not go nuts, man. We’re responsible adults now,” he said, chuckling and sifting through the envelopes and flyers in his hand.
“Hey there, Boyce,” his mom called, walking down to the mailbox at the end of their drive where we stood talking.
Thompson handed her the mail. “Goin’ to supper with Wynn tonight instead of tomorrow night, Mom. That okay?”
“Sure, hon,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Maybe your dad and I will go out too, and I’ll save that fried chicken for tomorrow.”