The Kiss Test

By Shannon McKelden

Margo Gentry’s life is perfect. She loves her job as a DJ for Manhattan’s only country music station, and she has a great boyfriend who accepts her need to avoid marriage and tolerates her Elvis obsession—even the velvet Elvis painting in their bedroom.

But then it all falls apart. The radio station changes formats and fires all the DJs. Margo's boyfriend decides he wants kids and a house in the suburbs and kicks her to the curb. And to top it all off, her Mom is getting married—for the 11th time!—and expects Margo to be there as maid of honor.

With no job and no place to live, Margo has to bunk on the couch of her best friend, Chris, whose revolving bedroom door has played host to half the women in New York—at least, the ones who pass his “kiss test.” Worse, he’s insisting she attend her mother’s wedding, and he’s personally driving her cross-country to ensure she shows up.

Forget about surviving the road trip—can their friendship survive The Kiss Test?

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Dedication

As always, for my family, Jon, Jessie and JM, who stand by me when the writing gets crazy. I love you all!

For Gina Bernal, my editor, who worked so hard to make this book better, while making the process so painless for me, I may actually be able to write another book.

For everyone at Harlequin’s Carina Press, especially Angela James and Malle Vallik, who bring so much enthusiasm to Carina Press that even those of us completely new to the e-publishing industry feel right at home.

And last, but not least, for the King. Researching The Kiss Test gave me an excuse to listen to almost every song Elvis ever recorded. His talent was amazing and should never be forgotten. Thanks, Elvis, for letting me borrow your song titles to title my chapters!

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One “All Shook Up”

Chapter Two “Double Trouble”

Chapter Three “Hard Knocks”

Chapter Four “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

Chapter Five “I Slipped, I Stumbled, I Fell”

Chapter Six “Hard-Headed Woman”

Chapter Seven “I Need Somebody To Lean On”

Chapter Eight “Hound Dog”

Chapter Nine “How the Web Was Woven”

Chapter Ten “Heartbreak Hotel”

Chapter Eleven “Jailhouse Rock”

Chapter Twelve “A Little Less Conversation”

Chapter Thirteen “Let’s Be Friends”

Chapter Fourteen “Cryin’ in the Chapel”

Chapter Fifteen “How Can You Lose What You Never Had?”

Chapter Sixteen “One Broken Heart for Sale”

Chapter Seventeen “Love Me Tender”

About the Author

Chapter One

“All Shook Up”

“Don't Be Cruel” blared from the alarm clock.

Kevin groaned beside me. He thought it was cruel to have Elvis blasting out at him at three-thirty every morning. He wanted a “normal” alarm. And he had one—set for three hours from now, when it was time for him to get up. This one was all mine.

As always, Elvis also accompanied me in the shower. I lathered, rinsed and repeated to “Hard-Headed Woman,” which Kevin deemed more than appropriate, since I wouldn’t give up my morning Elvis fix. On weekends, I’d drag Kevin into the shower with me, soaping him down, fittingly, to “Release Me,” and he’d stop protesting my musical choices. At least for a moment.

Thanks to a timer the coffee pot was full and hot by the time I was dry and dressed. Checks, Kevin’s multicolored cat, waited somewhat impatiently for his breakfast, which today he decided would include chunks of my cream-cheese-slathered New York bagel. He attacked and devoured it like I imagine he’d partake of a mouse meal had there been any in our tenth-floor Manhattan apartment.

This was my favorite time of day. Well, my whole life was pretty much my favorite. I’d worked hard over the past few years to get everything the way it was. I had a great job as Margo in the Morning, the a.m. DJ for WKUP, Wake Up 107, a country radio station housed in the Empire State Building. We liked to joke that WKUP was for people who were country at heart but afraid of farm animals. I had a great market share, enjoyed near-celebrity status among New York City country music listeners and had the privilege of meeting many of my favorite country artists every week.

I had a boyfriend who loved sex, remembered to put the toilet seat down and didn’t pressure me to get married—a definite not-gonna-happen in my book. We lived in a terrific apartment—complete with elevator and doorman—on the edge of Chelsea, surrounded by Kevin’s modestly elegant decor and my Elvis collection.

I loved New York—running in Central Park, Broadway matinees (so I didn’t have to dress up) and meeting friends for drinks at our favorite sports bar. I loved the traffic, the noise, the variety of people. I loved the fact that my mother lived in California.

I simply loved my life.

At four-thirty, I dragged on a lightweight sweat jacket, shoved my feet into sneakers and gave the Elvis bobblehead on the hall table a tap. He’d been my good-luck charm since winning him on eBay six months ago. Some people rubbed Buddha’s belly; I whacked Elvis upside the head to watch his pelvic gyrations.

Though the sky over Manhattan was still dark, the sidewalks were bright with lights from the buildings, as was typical for the pre-crack of dawn in mid-June. It was five long blocks to work, and the brisk walk in the still-chilled air warmed me up. I dodged the other Type A personalities headed for work before most people even thought of opening their eyes, and spent the time going over any exciting news I’d read or heard in the past twenty-four hours, which would serve as fodder for my program. I went for fresh and hip on Margo in the Morning.

Two blocks from work my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Margo? Honey, is that you?”

“Mom? Mom, it’s—” I squinted at my watch as I passed a lighted store front, “It’s 1:35 a.m. in California. What’s wrong?”

“I know what time it is, Margo. I have a watch.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Then why are you calling so early?”

“I wanted to catch you before you got to work.”

“Well, I’m almost there now. What’s going on?”

“I’m getting married.”

I froze in the middle of crossing 34th Street.

I paused to count marriages with my fingers. On both hands. Oops, no, we needed a toe for this one.

A cab blared its horn and grazed my calf with its fender, prompting me out of my shock. I stepped onto the curb.

My mother was getting married. Again.

Why did this surprise me? This is why I would never get married. My mother had used up her quota of marriages and all of mine.

“Margo, did you hear me? I’m getting married.”

“I heard, Mom. Who is it this time?”

“Now don’t take that tone, dear.” She said it with no recrimination. My mother didn’t get angry. It would have been an insult to her gentle Southern upbringing.

“Tone? What tone would that be?”

The tone that says “I can’t believe she can’t live without a man for more than six months?”

The tone that says “I find it hard to believe she’s found ‘true love’ eleven times?”

The tone that says “I’m pissed that she’s been married to more men than I’ve ever slept with?”

“The tone that tells me you’re not happy for me, honey. I’m in love. Be happy for me.”

She’s always in love, at least until they die, leave her for a younger woman or she gets bored and throws them out. Actually I’m not sure about the last two because I try to avoid the intimate details of my mother’s love life. Five husbands died from natural causes—or lost the will to live married to my mother. However, I’m not fully certain of the reasons behind the five divorces she’s racked up. Other than her divorce from my father, Husband Number One. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt on that one. It’s hard being married to a man who disappears off the face of the earth then shows up a year later claiming to have found God, the secret to crop circles and a new eighteen-year-old wife. Maybe that started my mom on this downhill cycle.

“Oh, sure, Mom. I’m happy for you.” Just like I’d been happy when she married (in no particular order) William, Coleman, Bert, Jim, Ray, Juan, Leonard, Dominic, uh…Oh hell, I hadn’t been happy when she married any of them. Who was I fooling?

Apparently my mother.

“Oh good, honey. I want you to come for the wedding.”

“You’re having a church wedding?” The last four or five had been hasty city-hall affairs. If she was the daughter and I the mother, I’d have been checking for a baby bump.

I stopped outside the Empire State Building and leaned against the chilled wall. I didn’t want to go up while still on the phone with my mother, as it was entirely possible I’d jump out an eighty-fifth floor window to put myself out of my misery.

“Of course, dear. Quinn is very religious.”

Quinn. I didn’t know anyone over the age of twenty named Quinn. Well, well. That would be something my mother hadn’t done before. She hadn’t yet robbed the cradle. There was always a first time.

“Doesn’t the church have something to say about you having been married so, uh, often?”

“I’m not sure. I’m sure it will be fine, though.” I could see her waving dismissively at anything that might upset her little dream world. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Margo? It’s going to be on the last Saturday in July. Of course, I’ll need you here a few days early to be fitted for the dress. We can go shopping and do lunch. It’ll be such fun!” She deafened me by clapping her hands directly in front of the speaker.

“A dress?”

“Your bridesmaid dress! I want you to be my maid of honor.”

Wow. That was a new one. “Why?”

“Because I love you and I want you by my side.”

This was a complete surprise to me. My mother had never asked me to stand up with her before. She so rarely had a church wedding, it hadn’t come up. Even when she did, she’d had a friend stand up with her or no one at all.

It was very suspicious.

“Mom, I probably can’t get the time off.”

Again, my mother didn’t want to hear what she didn’t want to hear, so she pretended I never said it. “Will you tell your brother, too, dear? I can’t ever seem to get Robert on the phone and he doesn’t have an answering machine.”

But he does have caller ID, I thought, reminding myself to explain to my brother—yet again—that I am not an only child and that he should be forced to talk to Mom, too.

“I’m afraid the only way to get his attention is with email, and you know how I am about things like that.”

“I’ll tell Rob. But, Mom, I don’t think I can—”

“Margo, I need to go. Quinn just got out of the shower and I’m not comfortable chatting with my daughter while he’s naked.”

I could have lived the rest of my life without that visual.

Before going on the air, I emailed my brother. Mom’s getting married again. Not going. How ’bout you?

***

“Tired of fast food? Looking for something different? The Seoul of Korea Restaurant, in the soul of Greenwich Village offers authentic Korean cuisine at a price that’ll leave you enough money for cab fare home. So don’t eat anywhere else, or you’ll be left saying ‘Wow! I could have had Korean!’”

“Geez, who writes this stuff?” I asked Cleo, my producer, near the end of my shift. I’d had so much fun I’d nearly forgotten my mother’s nuptial addiction. Cleo didn’t answer, as the music segued from the Korean restaurant ad into the next one—I shuffled pages—for a Korean dry cleaner. Geez.

Peppy Asian music cued the end and I turned to the last ad. “No way!” I said to Cleo, off-mike. “Who transported us to Asia overnight?” The third ad was for a Korean grocery.

Cleo just shrugged, concentrating on her computer screen so she wouldn’t miss anything exciting. I read the copy, stumbling over unfamiliar Korean delicacies, hoping I wasn’t botching them into obscenities.

“Holy crap!” I punched up the next song, “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems” by Kenny Chesney, and stared through the glass into the radio control room otherwise known—at least between 5:00 and 10:00 a.m. every weekday morning—as Cleo’s Domain. “No more unpronounceable words. High-school Spanish doesn’t help with the pronunciation of Korean edibles.”

Cleo shrugged again. “I don’t write ’em. I just pass them on.”

“Then we need to hire an interpreter.”

Kenny finished his tribute to Mexican vacations and then it was time for the traffic and weather. I pointed at Ben Barnes, who slipped into the studio—followed by a cloud of cheap cologne strong enough to penetrate a chemical suit—just in time for his report. “Go, Benny.”

After Ben told us how horrible the traffic was in Manhattan (why didn’t we just replay the same traffic report every morning since it never varied?), he moved on to the weather. “Today in New York, we’ll have a high of eighty-seven and muggy. More of the same tomorrow, with a high of ninety. Seoul is expecting a high today of eighty, and tomorrow a high of eighty-three with monsoon rains possible.”

I gaped at Ben open-mouthed. “I must be losing it. I could have sworn you just did the weather for South Korea.”

“That’s what they gave me.” He waved the sheet at me, as if to prove his point, even though I couldn’t read it from the other end of our Formica-topped table. “Maybe for our foreign listeners tuning in over the internet?”

“I guess,” I replied, with an eye roll. “Well, anyone hopping a plane for Korea, pack an umbrella. Anyway, that’s it for me today. Don’t forget to sign on to the WKUP website to win those tickets to next month’s Carrie Underwood concert at the Garden. I’m Margo in the Morning and you’ve—”

Cleo waved frantically at me from beyond the glass wall. “You have a call,” she said into my headphones.

Glancing down at the computer monitor, I noted she’d cued up a call from someone named Nancy. No subject line. “Well, I guess I can’t go home quite yet. I’m taking a call from Nancy. Hi, Nancy.” There was a moment of light static on the line before my caller finally spoke.

“Hi, Margo. I’m Nancy Noble from Today’s Country Magazine.”

“Hey, my favorite!” I said, meaning it. They put out a great magazine filled with country music gossip, a lot of which I used on my show, but also had in-depth spreads on other country-related stuff. This month’s issue even included an article about the upcoming anniversary of Elvis’s death and the memorials planned in Memphis. Elvis may not have been a country singer, but he was loved in the South all the same.

“I’m glad you like it. We have some wonderful news for you, Margo. You’ve been chosen as this year’s Best Country DJ.”

I blinked and looked up at Cleo. Her heavily-lined face cracked into a huge grin. I looked over at Ben. He, too, smiled broadly, eyes magnified behind his thick lenses.

“Really?” I squeaked. “Me?”

“You were nominated by your listeners,” Nancy said. “We award Best Country DJ to someone who’s popular amongst their listeners, provides dedicated service to the country music industry and has spent at least three years at their current station, on-air and in a promotional capacity. You’re the first jock outside the South to win. It’s a pretty big thing.”

I was at a total loss for words. Or thoughts.

Me. Margo Gentry. Best Country DJ.

Wow.

“Are you there, Margo?” Nancy asked over the phone line.

“Yeah, I’m just in shock. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You can thank us by coming for an interview next month.”

“Sure. I’d love to.” I know I told my mother I couldn’t get away for her wedding next month. Maybe the eleventh time I got voted Best Country DJ, I’d be more jaded. But now I felt like jumping out the eighty-fifth floor window—this time, because I was sure I could fly.

I hastily signed off and moved into Cleo’s Domain to talk to Nancy about the details. When we were done, I hung up and stared at Cleo, still in shock.

“Good job, girl,” my producer said, pulling cigarettes out of her purse. She fondled the pack between her purple-painted fingertips, crinkling the cellophane. “You deserve it.”

“I still can’t believe it,” I said, leading the way out into the hall that circled the station offices. “This has to be the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Hit ’em up for a raise, I say.” Cleo shoved an unlit cigarette between fuchsia lips and headed off for her smoke break before her blood-to-nicotine ratio got so low her organs began shutting down.

With a grin, I bounced off to the break room to get my stuff from my locker. This award was big. National. It would open doors to other jobs, if I wanted other jobs. But I loved it here at WKUP and had no intention of leaving for a very long time. Even if they didn’t give me the raise Cleo suggested I hit them up for.

I had to tell someone. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed as I walked.

“X-Treem Sports, Chip Xavier speaking.”

“Hey, Chip. It’s Margo. Can I speak to Chris?”

I pushed away the tiny twinge of guilt I felt for not calling my boyfriend first to tell him the good news. Kevin and I aren’t married, so that unwritten rule about having to first tell your spouse about every momentous occasion in your life didn’t apply. Oh, Kevin’ll be happy for me. He’ll tell me he’s excited and push all the right body parts to show his support, but Chris…Chris will get it. He’ll know what it means to me. Kevin is my boyfriend, but Chris Treem is my best friend. Has been for nearly twenty years. Even though he’s straight as an arrow—and thick as a log to hear him tell it.

The summer I turned ten was a very bad year. My dad walked out, my fragilely Southern mom took to her bed and my older brother, Rob (Chris’s former best friend), took solace in his Sega Genesis. I needed someone to talk to, and Chris was taking applications for a new best friend. The rest is history.

“Chris here.”

“You’ll never guess what I got.”

He paused to consider a moment, then suggested, “You bid on a square of Elvis’s used TP and won.”

“You know, your crappy attitude about Elvis is the only thing that prevents you from being the perfect friend.”

“It’s my only fault. So shoot me.”

“You wouldn’t like where I’d aim. Now will you be serious? Guess what I got.”

I heard a cell phone, presumably Chris’s, going off in the background.

“Can we do this without the twenty questions?” He silenced the phone.

I sighed. It almost took all the fun out of it. Almost, but not quite. “I just won Best Country DJ. Today’s Country Magazine called during my show.”

“Damn! That’s pretty huge, isn’t it? Your big mouth finally paid off.” I smiled at the pride in his voice. That was why I’d called him instead of Kevin.

“I even get to go to L.A. next month to be interviewed. With a stop in Nashville for a photo shoot for the cover. It’ll be in an issue a couple months from now.”

“Pretty good, for a girl,” Chris said. “I’ll buy on Friday night.”

“Damn straight.”

We said goodbye and I pocketed the cell phone again, glad I’d taken the time to call. Kevin I’d tell in person tonight, over Chinese take-out, maybe naked, so we had something to fall back on if our enthusiasm levels weren’t equal.

I continued down the hall, slowing and moving to the side to let pass a group of tourists being shown around the station by Clement Banks, assistant to Joe Looney, our general manager. Clem was a major dweeb, who spent much of his time kissing ass and pretending to be more important than he really was. The tourists appeared to be Asian businessmen, smiling broadly and gesturing to each other as they moved through the green-carpeted hallway under Clem’s guidance.

Spotting me, they stopped and bowed and smiled. I bowed back, hoping that was the correct response to their greeting. For all I knew, it was insulting for a woman to bow. Or construed as some sort of sexual signal. No one jumped my bones, so I was probably wrong about the last part.

“Hey, Margo!” Clem waved from the other side of the group. I groaned inwardly. I’d been hoping to pass without any acknowledgement from him. But Clem wasn’t going to ruin my good mood. “Gentlemen, this is Margo, our morning DJ, just coming off her show. She’s been one of our most popular DJs. Margo,” Clem continued pointedly, “these men are touring the station from the Soon Kim Group of South Korea.”

Hmm. Maybe we hadn’t been transported to Korea overnight. Maybe we’d been invaded. Not that it bothered me. You couldn’t live in New York without being used to the ethnicity of the city. Still, how many Koreans actually listened to Garth Brooks and Johnny Cash? Did these guys even know “A Boy Named Sue”?

Smiling, I bowed again at our guests. “Have fun, gentlemen.” I turned away, but Clem called out to me. Oh, lucky me, I thought, turning back and flashing a smile that would only fool someone who expected everyone to smile at him.

“Margo, someone wants to see you in the break room.”

A few minutes later, I discovered the entire station waiting for me, complete with flowers and a cake that said Congrats Margo! Best Country DJ!

Cleo and Ben were there, having circled around the hall to beat me to the lunch room. My friends Katya Steinberg and Adair Lewis from sales, Duane and Yin from promotions, and everyone from engineering and sports were there, too. God, my life is good, I thought, accepting hugs and well wishes from all my closest friends and coworkers, who’d apparently been alerted yesterday about the award.

Someone had mocked up a cover of Today’s Country Magazine, where they’d superimposed my face over the body of a country star who was much better endowed than I (perhaps I should consider a boob job before my photo shoot), and had inserted the headline Margo Gentry, DJ of the Year!

I couldn’t stop grinning. I accepted a knife and began cutting the cake and distributing it all around. “Where’s Joe?” I asked the crowd at large, missing our general manager, one of my favorite people.

“He had a meeting he couldn’t get out of,” our intern, Nigel, said. “He was pretty pissed about missing your party.”

Oh well. Even that wasn’t going to get me down. I’d see Joe later.

Katya, a spindly, spiky-haired blonde and one of my close friends, sat down at the table with her cake. “I could barely get a break to come here. Your award’s put your time slot in demand for advertising already. The phone’s been ringing off the hook for the past twenty minutes.”

I laughed. “Glad I could help.” I’d put up with reading Korean advertising on-air for the rest of my life, if only I could keep this feeling.

I loved my life. It was perfect.

Chapter Two

“Double Trouble”

My celebration with Kevin went pretty much like I’d envisioned—Beef Chow Yuk and nakedness included. There was also the added bonus of sweet-and-sour sauce body paint, sticky but satisfying. He was happy for me to the extent an accountant could show happiness. I mean, granted, my Best Country DJ Award wasn’t as exciting as Kevin’s Best Tax Loophole Award, but he tried to work up the same enthusiasm.

After my show the next day—a damn good show if I do say so myself—the general manager sent word for me to come to his office. I practically jogged down the hall to see Joe. I’d missed him sharing in my excitement yesterday. He was the best boss I’d ever had, besides being my mentor and good friend. You know, one of those people you can always count on. I knew he wanted to congratulate me, and I’d take all the pats on the back I could get.

I knocked at Joe’s door. His gruff voice barked softly to enter. Joe was a huge man, probably six-eight and solid muscle, mammoth in size and girth, especially to a five-foot four-inch girl like me. He sat behind a tiny metal desk—the station owners weren’t big on esthetics—circa nineteen thirty, I think. Maybe it wasn’t really tiny but just looked that way because of Joe’s size.

“You summoned me?” I said, drawing Joe’s attention from the papers he was inspecting.

He glanced up and quickly removed his reading glasses before standing.

“Margo.”

I blinked at his somber tone. Joe tended toward cheerful and nearly effusive enthusiasm, with a soft spot for his morning girl, in my own humble opinion, and I surely expected him to be thrilled about my award. Now, he was decidedly not effusive. Or thrilled.

“I missed you at my party yesterday,” I said. “But, I know you planned it. It was really nice. Look, I brought you the magazine the guys in IT made.”

He ignored the magazine I tossed on the desk and looked up at me. A stab of worry went through me. Despite the huge smile I had on my face, Joe looked like someone had died.

He motioned to the faux leather chair in front of his desk, but I shook my head. “I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” I said, twisting my waist one way then the other, in an effort to get some of the kinks out. It would also serve as a warm-up for the Central Park run I planned to take with Katya and Adair in a couple of hours. “A shift in the studio is enough to freeze the limberest joints.”

Joe nodded again and returned to his own seat, not quite meeting my eyes. His fingers thrummed lightly on the cover of my magazine, not really seeing it. “Well. Margo.”

The pause became so pregnant it nearly gave birth.

“You okay, Joe?”

He finally looked up, meeting my eyes, his gaze serious and forbidding. For an instant, I felt a catch in the pit of my stomach. Maybe someone had died and Joe had to tell me who it was. I briefly racked my brain trying to remember who in the station I hadn’t seen this morning. Who might have been hit by one of those damned cabs that honked at nothing or who may have succumbed to some fast-acting virus spread through the subway by a bronchitic sicky. I came up with no one.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He heaved a deep breath. “The station’s been sold.”

“Hey, that’s great,” I said. The station had been up for sale for months with no takers, and I knew that the current powers-that-be were getting a little antsy. New blood, new investors, meant bigger and better things for WKUP. “When did this happen?”

“It was finalized yesterday afternoon. That’s where I was during your party,” Joe said. Then he waved at the chair again. “Sure you don’t want to sit?”

“I’m fine. Tell me about the new owners. Anything new and exciting in the works?”

Joe groaned. “They’re Korean.”

Completely aside from the fact that I’d heard the terms “Korea” and “Korean” more times in the past two days than I had probably ever heard them before in my entire life (today’s program had contained even more Korean ads than yesterday’s), I was a bit surprised at his reaction to the nationality of our new owners. We had a pretty eclectic group of people working for the station, maybe not the typical employees of a country station in the South, but this was New York after all. Diversity was our middle name.

Then it hit me. Korean ads, Korean weather, Korean businessmen touring the building (they’d made a repeat appearance this morning, sitting in with Cleo through part of my show). I glanced back at the door and jerked a thumb in that direction. “The Soon Kim Group?” I guessed. Joe nodded grimly.

It would be different, I supposed, with Asian owners of a country radio station, but it probably wasn’t unheard of. Maybe.

“Is this a problem?” I asked, rising up on my toes, stretching out my calf muscles and thinking vaguely about my run. As much as I loved my job, by the time I was done with my shift my body screamed for exercise. And I needed to work off some of the nervous, excited energy my award and the anticipation of the interview were giving me. That reminded me that I also needed to schedule time off to fly to Nashville and L.A.

“Yeah,” Joe said, folding the reading glasses he still held in his hand, placing them gently on the blotter in front of him and picking up the neon-green stress ball he kept on the desk. Cleo had given it to him to replace the cigarettes he’d given up last year. He gave it a few fierce squeezes, and I wondered if it honestly did anything to relieve the stress. He still seemed to have a pulse beating beneath his balding pate, right smack in the middle of his forehead. “Yeah, it is a problem.”

“Why?”

“They’re dropping the country format. It’s going to be an all Korean Jazz station.”

“Pardon me?” I was sure I hadn’t heard him right. “Like Chick Korea?”

He smiled at my attempted levity, but then shook his head slowly and sadly. “They’re letting a lot of people go.”

My head snapped up. “But, why? Stations get bought out all the time and nothing changes. Things just go on as normal.”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” Joe looked like he was ready to cry. I’d never seen him like this before and it scared me to death. I didn’t deal well with emotion.

Suddenly, my heart thudded to a complete stop, and I sank into the formerly proffered chair. “Oh no. Not you, Joe. Please say they didn’t fire you.”

If anything he looked even more miserable than moments before. He tossed down the stress ball and rearranged his glasses on the desk until they were precisely parallel to the edge of the magazine with my face staring up at him.

“No, not me.”

“Then who?”

“You.”

***

Two hours later, I’d arranged with the personnel department to end my employment with WKUP. A good severance package had been offered, along with the opportunity to allow them to assist me in a job search. I’d accepted the former and turned down the latter. Surely I could find my own job. After all, I’d just won Best Country DJ. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

I changed my clothes and silently rode the elevator down eighty-five floors, flanked by Katya and Adair. They both sent furtive looks at me from the corners of their eyes. I’m sure they were wondering just how suicidal I was.

Our walk up Fifth Avenue to Central Park served as a warm-up for our daily run, dodging New York citizens and tourists to hone our reflexes. The incessant noise was comforting in its sameness, in its constancy.

Unlike my employment.

Damn.

I picked up my pace.

“Margo. Honey.” Adair panted beside me. “You know I can’t fan in these crowds. Can’t you go slower until we get in the open?”

Katya, his roommate and conscience, growled at him from behind me, and I could imagine the look on her face. It would speak volumes—“Don’t say anything to upset Margo. She’s just been fired.” Okay, I was exaggerating. I hadn’t been fired. I’d been downsized, laid off, phased out. Whatever.

Adair remained silent all the way to the park. I was feeling too mean to care whether he sweated up his designer tank or not. Don’t take this wrong. I liked Adair a lot. He’s a great friend, aside from having had to almost compete with him for men a time or two. But his vanity and freakish paranoia about sweating while running—and thus possibly staining—his trendy duds, was highly annoying. Adair would pull out a pocket fan—to prevent wetness from forming anywhere on his body—as soon as we hit the “openness” of Central Park and there was no chance of someone bumping into him and getting the blades tangled up in his chest hair.

I’d insert an eye roll here if I had the mental energy to actually roll my eyes.

I dodged people and cabs, barely stopping for lights in my desperation to run. Adair and Katya, ever the faithful friends, kept up their suicide watch. We entered the park and took off like taxis through an intersection. As we moved onto the road that threaded through the park—used by runners, bicyclists, rollerbladers and any other souls brave enough to risk being stampeded by the health-conscious—the elm trees closed in, and the traffic and horns were silenced, or at least muffled. Central Park was like a completely separate world from the rest of Manhattan. A bit of nature persistent in its survival amidst the stone and steel of the city. Something to be cherished, a respite from rushing, even while running.

As predicted, Adair pulled out his fan the minute the coast was clear, and every few minutes he’d aim it at an armpit or down the front of his racer-back tank, ensuring any droplets of sweat that dared to appear were instantly blown into submission.

“Do you want to talk about it, Margo?” Katya asked tentatively, keeping pace with me on my left while Adair brought up the right. “It might make you feel better.”

Adair agreed. “Talking always makes things better. Kat and I talk all the time and look how healthy and well-adjusted we are.”

I shot a glance at the man running beside me, chin thrust in the air, pointing a whirling pink pocket fan at his neck. “I’m not sure I could stand to be as healthy and well-adjusted as you, Adair. It might just make me sick.”

Katya chuckled nervously. “Did they say anything about who else might be, you know, let go?”

“Everyone on-air,” I said. “I didn’t hear anything about anyone else.” I didn’t voice my concern that it might be just a matter of time before many of the other English-only-speaking employees were let go in favor of Korean-speaking employees. No need to scare my friends half to death. The very idea of them both losing their jobs at the same time was frightening. The two of them had shared an apartment for five years and were almost like an old married couple—minus the sex, given they both had a preference for sleeping with men. They pooled their money and their support. Take that away and they’d be in trouble.

“That’s just wrong,” Adair professed, craning his neck to follow the assets of a cute guy who sped past us on roller blades.

“His ass?”

“Don’t be perverse. I can carry on a conversation while admiring the view. It’s wrong that you were fired.”

“She wasn’t fired!” Kat protested. “She was laid off. There’s a big difference.”

“And the difference would be?”

“This wasn’t her fault. She didn’t do anything wrong!”

If I ever needed defending, I’d go to Katya. She should have been a lawyer. Or an animal rights activist. She was passionate about protesting mistreatment and upholding the downtrodden. Not that I fit that description. I might be down, but I wasn’t trodden yet.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I agreed, “except study the wrong language in high school. And be born on the wrong side of the world.”

“That wasn’t your fault either,” Katya repeated, and I had to smile despite my depression.

“Of course not,” Adair agreed, blowing his brow-line with the fan.

“Geez, you guys. Lighten up. It’s just a job.” I said it like I meant it. And, I suppose, underneath it all, I really did. I knew I’d find another job. At least I was pretty sure I would. It wasn’t like there were a glut of country stations in New York City. None to be exact. The closest one was in New Jersey. Maybe they had an opening for a morning girl.

I shuddered a bit. Did any self-respecting New Yorker actually commute to Jersey to work?

I picked up the pace a bit. I needed my pulse rate up, a sheen of sweat on my skin. I needed to find the “zone.” I needed to forget my troubles for a few minutes at least. My friends ran silently beside me for several minutes, keeping pace easily, until finally Adair protested.

“Margo, honey, I bought this fan at the dime store. It doesn’t do high speed.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, slowing a bit to avoid being the sole cause of Adair’s profuse, fabric-dissolving perspiration.

For a moment I was distracted by the comical sight of my fan-toting friend. A small man in stature, only an inch taller than me, Adair was bigger than life in personality. He dressed to the nines even in the casual atmosphere at WKUP and made an entrance everywhere he went. Running in the park was occasion enough to demonstrate his fashion sense. Made the rest of us running in old T-shirts and no-name-brand shorts look bad.

“Hey, isn’t that Chris?”

I jerked my head in the direction Katya pointed. A group of people, including Chris and his business partner, Chip Xavier, surrounded a couple of hot-shot skateboarders doing their stuff. Probably testing out a new board for X-Treem Sports, the sporting goods store that Chris and Chip owned. They catered to the young and daring—or immature and stupid, in some cases—and frequently bought new, state-of-the-art equipment they’d tested for manufacturers before the rest of the country.

“Oh yummy. Let’s stop and say hi.” Adair dropped back a few paces to head in that direction.

“Keep running,” I snapped.

He huffed out a breath and sped up again.

“You don’t want to stop?” Katya asked, feigning innocence. At the same time, she moved around me to run beside Adair. She grabbed the fan out of his hand and began attempting to dry the sweat stains from her own T-shirt in case I changed my mind and agreed to circle back to say hello to Chris.

“No, I don’t want to see him yet. He doesn’t need to worry about my job.” How different that conversation with Chris would be compared to yesterday’s. “Besides, I’ve told you…you didn’t pass the stupid Kiss Test, so there’s no chance for you.”

“I was nervous!” Katya protested. “All I need is one more chance.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “The rule is ‘one kiss, one chance.’ It’s a dumb game anyway.” Chris was my best friend, and I’d defend him over just about anything except The Kiss Test. He’d developed it in high school—maybe even earlier. Chris claimed he could tell instantly if he was meant to be with a girl by kissing her. He administered the Kiss Test with the seriousness of a physician removing an appendix. If she passed, she was guaranteed at least one supposedly unforgettable night with “Extreme Treem.” And if, according to Chris, he felt nothing from the kiss, it didn’t matter how well they got along, how attractive the girl was or how much he liked her, she was out of the running.

Katya had been administered the Kiss Test two weeks ago and failed.

“Doesn’t sound like a dumb game to me,” Adair said, snatching the fan back from Katya, who was now sulking beside her roommate, who would no doubt soothe her later with Häagen-Dazs and Kahlua. “He just needs to give that Kiss Test to the right person.” He puckered his lips and made kissy noises. “He’s doling out those tests to the wrong people. No offense, honey.”

Katya glared at him and went back to pouting.

“Don’t even think about it,” I told Adair. “Stick to your own team.”

“Speaking of.” Adair’s entire demeanor suddenly changed. He tucked the fan away in his back pocket and stood taller. His hands immediately went to his hair, quickly patting it into place. “Incoming.”

Katya and I followed his fluttery-eyed gaze to where the Wide-Strider moved along the sidewalk, making his way to cross the running path. This guy never failed to get a laugh out of Kat and me, but Adair was totally smitten. At probably six-foot-ten, the guy was nearly skeletal, and usually wore a tan polyester suit with a black silk shirt and tie. His pasty white head was shaved bald, he wore ultra-mod shades no matter what the weather and carried a big black leather purse. Okay, it was probably a soft-sided briefcase, but it sure as heck looked like a man bag to me. To Adair, it was a sign that they walked on the same side of the fence.

The funniest part about this guy, though, was the way he walked, like an exaggerated member of Hitler’s SS—long, straight-legged strides, like his knees didn’t bend or he thought it might take less time to traverse the park if he took larger steps, his body bobbing up and down with each slow-mo stride. He never failed to crack us up. Even today.

As soon as the Wide-Strider passed us, Katya stopped running and mimicked his bobbing saunter.

“You stop that right now!” Adair scolded. “He may be our new roommate some day, if I can figure out how to meet him. I’ll run my own Kiss Test, and that Mr. Studly will be mine.”

Katya met my gaze behind Adair’s back and we both cracked up. Mr. Studly?

“He’d better not move in with us,” Katya said, when we finally stopped snickering and returned to running. “I don’t think I could ever look that guy in the face without laughing.”

“Humph,” Adair snorted.

“Well, back to a subject that makes some sense,” Katya began with a smirk. “Aren’t you going to tell Chris about being laid off, Margo?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell him Friday night over drinks.” We parted waters to pass a couple of dawdling walkers and met up again on the other side. “I’m not telling Kevin yet either.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” I’m not sure when I’d decided that, but the minute it was out of my mouth, I knew it was the right decision. “He’ll just try to micromanage my job search, which I don’t need.”

“How are you going to keep it from him?” Adair asked, apparently not angry at us any more for making fun of his dream man. “Won’t he notice when you don’t get out of bed and go to work every morning?”

“I have one more week left. By then I’ll have a job.” Hopefully. “Even a one-week reprieve from telling him is better than nothing.”

“What if he calls work and someone blows it?”

“He never calls work. He calls my cell.”

“What if he hears that the station’s been sold?”

“If he asks me point-blank if I lost my job, I’ll tell him. We have an honest relationship.”

“Dishonesty by omission is still dishonesty,” Adair said, with a slightly haughty look.

I returned it with a look of my own. “Oh, you mean like how you’ve omitted telling your parents you’re gay?”

He pinched his lips together and faced forward again. “That’s different.”

“Why? You don’t tell them because you don’t want them to try to run your life, right?” A raucous cheer went up from a group of Frisbee throwers playing in a grassy field, drawing our attention momentarily, just to make sure none of those deadly disks came in our direction. Katya still sported a scar on her forehead from a wayward Frisbee thrown while we were running last summer. “Same reason I’m not telling Kevin just yet. I wouldn’t be able to make a move without him analyzing it and trying to correct any tactical errors I might be making. I’m perfectly capable of getting a job without his strategic help. I’ll add my Best Country DJ award to my résumé and have a job before my first unemployment check kicks in.”

All of a sudden I ground to a halt. My heart raced, and it wasn’t from the exercise.

I’d just thought of something.

Shit.

Adair looked back at me. “What’s wrong?”

I sped up to catch them again, my mind now racing nearly as fast as my heart. “I just realized something.”

“What?”

“Today’s Country Magazine is giving me this award. I have to go for an interview next month.”

“So? Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It is if I have a job. How am I going to explain to Today’s Country that I got fired the day after I won the award?”

“But you didn’t get fired!” Kat protested again.

“Do you think that matters? One of the qualifications for winning is that the jock has kept their job for three years. By the time of that interview, I won’t have a job. And even if I do get another job by then, it won’t be the same. Not the same station or the same listeners.”

The light dawned in Katya’s eyes, and for a brief moment she looked like she might cry for me. But she bucked up and braved on, obviously determined not to let me wallow in despair. “You’ll think of something, Margo. You always do. You’re not beaten until you say you’re beaten. And I would totally say you aren’t beaten.”

I wasn’t terribly reassured however. I’d been voted Best Country DJ by my listeners. Listeners who would no longer have me to listen to in another week. Suddenly, it all seemed even more bleak.

I, Margo June Gentry, Margo in the Morning, voted Best Country DJ by Today’s Country Magazine was soon to be unemployed. I didn’t even know how to wrap my mind around that.

Suddenly, my “perfect” little life didn’t seem so perfect any more.

Maybe my “lucky” Elvis bobblehead was defective.

***

After our run, I spent a few hours wandering around, mindless of my sweaty state. I left a message on Kevin’s voice mail to say I’d be late and not to wait dinner for me. I needed some time to myself, to remind myself that losing a job wasn’t the end of the world. Even when it was a job I loved and had worked really hard at for years. People lost jobs every day—and got new ones. I would just get a new one. No matter how few the opportunities seemed.

Nope, no more of that thinking, I told myself. It got me nowhere except depressed.

Pulling out my rhinestone-studded Elvis keychain, I unlocked our apartment door. Kevin had Kenny G on the stereo, but it seemed louder than usual. I pulled the door shut behind me and turned to find our apartment full of people. Suit and tie-wearing people. At least in the case of the men. The women had omitted the ties in favor of cleavage.

“Margo!” Kevin waved from across the room and made his way over to me. Still dressed for work, his Brooks Brothers suit sported nary a wrinkle. He had on a designer tie which, frankly, to me, looked like any other tie. I grew painfully aware I was wearing a pair of running shorts and a cut-off Hound Dog T-shirt, worn to softness and washed nearly threadbare, over a sports bra, and Reeboks.

Underdressed was an understatement.

I dumped the day pack carrying my work clothes on the floor in front of the hall closet and moved into the apartment.

“Surprise!” Kevin said when he reached my side. He kissed me quickly on the cheek, with a barely concealed flinch at what I’m sure was my vaguely ripe smell. “We decided to throw you a party to celebrate your little award.”

“Really?” I asked, trying to work up some enthusiasm. It had been nice, after all, for Kevin to think of me. I could ignore the “little award” comment.

I looked around the room, taking stock of our guests. Surprisingly, I didn’t recognize all the faces, or even most of them. One of them was Kramer Neuhalfen, or Newfoundland, or something like that. He was Kevin’s boss and greatly resembled a cousin of the Saint Bernard, heavy-jowled and saggy-skinned. Kevin’s secretary, Sally Stick-Up-The-Ass, was also here, champagne glass in hand, skirt hem crotch-high. She once informed me it was really sad I was forced to work with the less fortunate. When I asked what she meant, she pointed out it was quite obvious that only people of lesser intelligence, like the Beverly Hillbillies, listened to country music. She even offered to help me find a job at a classical station, if I thought it wouldn’t be too much of a reach for me.

Gee, that reminded me I no longer even worked for an “underprivileged” country radio station. I needed to find a job quickly so Sally didn’t offer to help me with the search. Yet another reason not to tell Kevin about my unemployed state.

I recognized a few other people from Kevin’s office. Most of whom I’d never been introduced to, but had passed in the hallway the few times I deigned to grace Neuhalfen and McMillan Accounting with my presence.

Odd thing was, no one in the room was a friend of mine. They were Kevin’s crowd.

“Did you invite Chris?” I asked, snagging a glass of champagne and taking a gulp. “Any of the gang coming?”

“Oh, no,” Kevin said, completely matter-of-factly. “I figured you see them all the time. You rarely get to socialize with these friends.”

Maybe because they weren’t my friends?

“Say,” Kevin said, slipping the champagne glass from my hand, “why don’t you go shower and change into something nicer before you join us? That way we’ll all be more comfortable.”

Kevin doesn’t rank very high in the tact department. But, I was a mess and I knew it, so I didn’t bother to call him on it. Besides, I’ve been known to voice my opinion a bit loudly at times, so I couldn’t really fault him for that.

“See you all in a bit.” I finger-waved at the room of virtual strangers and joined Elvis in the shower. One “Jailhouse Rock” and a side of “King Creole” later, I smelled better and actually felt better, too. However, I had no desire to join a room full of Kevin’s friends who couldn’t care less about my award. I’d rather curl up in bed with a good book—Elvis: The Fat Years, An Unauthorized Biography was waiting for me—and a cold beer, or maybe enjoy a rousing round of chase-Kevin-through-the-sheets to get my mind off my job.

Still, I did care about Kevin and the fact that he’d even thought about throwing a party for me. For that alone I’d buck up, smile and accept any bones thrown my way. I didn’t expect any, but I could enjoy the expensive champagne and the hors d’oeuvres Kevin undoubtedly had catered and delivered. That made the prospect of the rest of the evening much better. More food I didn’t have to cook. I’d just console myself with the fact that tomorrow night was Friday—my night with my friends. No suits allowed.

Dressed in a more acceptable pair of black slacks and a shimmery tank top, with my still-damp hair pulled back in a ponytail, I stepped barefoot into my bedroom.

“Elvis is dead, you know.”

I whirled to find Kevin’s boss standing before my Paint by Number Elvis portrait, the gift from my brother when I was eleven that instigated my whole Elvis infatuation. It was rather disconcerting to have Kramer’s large presence so close to my bed.

“Really?” I asked. I would have really played it up if one of my friends made a stupid comment like that, but I didn’t want to embarrass Kevin. So, I didn’t pretend to faint dead away with the horror of discovering my idol wasn’t really hidden away on the second floor of Graceland, wheelchair-bound in his old, deteriorated age, but alive nonetheless.

“Of course, he is,” Kramer continued, tugging at his collar to settle it between two thick folds of skin that made up Chin One and Chin Two. “They examined the body.”

“Actually, that’s a huge relief,” I said, planting a hand on his meaty back, directing him out of my bedroom where his presence was giving me the creeps. “Because my collection wouldn’t be worth nearly as much if Elvis was still alive.”

His brow wrinkled in thought as we left the room. “So it’s an investment, is it? All this Elvis stuff?” He waved a heavy paw at the wall in our hallway, on which hung a framed, signed copy of the musical score from Blue Hawaii; a collage of seven original 1956 Elvis bubble-gum cards; a glass-front case containing a tube of Hound Dog Orange non-smear lipstick; a pen Elvis used to sign autographs at Graceland; and assorted photos, buttons, etc., that I’d collected over the years.

“Sure, it’s an investment,” I said, steering Kramer back out to the more public areas of our apartment. Only he would have the balls to walk, uninvited, into someone’s bedroom. Thank God I’d dressed before leaving the bathroom.

“Still damn weird if you ask me,” he said.

Good thing I hadn’t asked him.

We entered the living room again, and Kevin looked over at us in surprise and headed our way. From his concerned look, I got the impression he was worried I’d say something to his boss that I shouldn’t. I gratefully released Kramer’s arm, just as Kevin took mine, excused us and moved me into the kitchen.

“What were you doing with him?” he snapped.

“He was in our bedroom. While I was showering,” I hissed, pulling away from him and pouring myself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge. “Creep.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Probably just curious.”

I lowered the glass. “Do you go into people’s bedrooms without their permission? Out of curiosity?”

“Well, no, but…”

There wasn’t any way he could defend his boss. He’d been rude, and Kevin knew it. So, he tried diversionary tactics, slipping his arms around my waist and pulling me close.

“Forget about Kramer. Come out and enjoy the party, okay?”

I sighed and pasted on a smile. I should tell him the truth. “Kevin, by the way, I lost my job today.” But, I couldn’t do it. I really didn’t want him taking over my job search. I also didn’t want to disappoint him in front of his friends.

And I didn’t want his friends to think I was a loser.

I know, that’s crap. I shouldn’t care what they thought about me. And really, I didn’t. I cared what they thought about Kevin. I faced the fact a long time ago that Kevin can be rather shallow. Appearances mean a lot to him. The appearance of having a girlfriend who was now technically, if not yet effectively, unemployed wasn’t very flattering. Kevin had gone through a lot—okay, a little bit—of trouble to throw this party for me, and though he hadn’t invited any of my friends, he had invited his friends, which told me, in Kevin’s strange and sort of superficial way, he wanted me to be presentable to his friends and co-workers. I had to take him as he was.

God knows, Kevin was the best boyfriend I ever had. I’ve only had a few. There was Mo, my first real boyfriend, in college. He spent most of his time looking for the meaning of life in a cloud of pot smoke. At first, he seemed the perfect guy for me. He was socially opposed to marriage, which is the number one criteria for anyone I date. However, he also had no desire to ever come out of his drug-induced fog. He sought guidance by conversing with my Elvis portrait, and actually had a panic attack when I took it down to dust one day, thinking the end of the world was on its way because his “guru” disappeared. We broke up when he left me to move to Tibet to become a Dalai Lama groupie. I refused to join him. They don’t have beer and pizza in Tibet.

After Mo and college, I got my own apartment, worked at the radio station, waitressed and bought and sold Elvis stuff on early eBay to supplement my income. My next boyfriend, Terrance, was cute, studious, went to law school at night, let me do my own thing and wasn’t even considering marriage, since he had years of school left before he felt ready to settle down. Actually, he wanted nothing to do with monogamy either, and as opposed as I am to holy matrimony, I’m more vehemently opposed to sharing my boyfriend’s body with other women. He moved out when I found out April was living there while I was at work.

I had one more boyfriend before Kevin. Lance. He worked in finance, ran with me and was truly happy for me when they promoted me to “morning girl” at the station. Lance was great. Until the day he told me he loved me. I don’t do love. I know that sounds ridiculous to some people, but really, with the mother I have, who finds “true love” at every grocery store or inside every pair of Brooks Brothers slacks, who could blame me? I honestly don’t believe it exists. Why not just take what you can from relationships…and give what you have to give? Kevin and I have a total give-and-take relationship. He gives me stability, a nice place to live, someone to talk to. I give him an occasional home-cooked meal, as much sex as he wants—or can handle—and make sure he doesn’t become so stuffy that he suffocates. We do what works for us.

So, being the self-sacrificing, hungry-for-catered-hors d’oeuvres woman that I am, I went back out and enjoyed my party, making Kevin happy, which would prompt him to keep me happy (hopefully in bed, tonight), thus keeping at least one thing in my life normal.

Chapter Three

“Hard Knocks”

Chris had already bellied up to the bar at Jeffrey’s Pub and Sports by the time I got there the next night, a beer in hand and another for me on the counter next to him. That he anticipated my needs before I even voiced them was a definite plus in the best friend department.

There are a lot of pluses about Chris. Chris and my older brother, Rob, had been best friends since kindergarten, but when my dad left and Rob buried himself in video games, Chris and I turned to each other for entertainment. Almost twenty years later, he still entertains me.

Chris is a ladies’ man. They flock to him. They cling to him. They offer him their first-born children—or at least they offer to let him help create their first-born children. Chris tells them thanks, but no thanks; however, if they just want to get some practice in on the creation process, he’s more than willing. Normally this behavior in a guy would drive the feminist in me to drink. But Chris enjoys sex and I can’t blame him for that. I love sex. I, however, choose to have it with one guy at a time, in a monogamous relationship, since I can’t see the benefit in quantity over quality.

Katya’s reaction to failing the Kiss Test wasn’t a fluke. All women act like that around Chris. My mother acts like that around him, for crying out loud. Yet another reason to be very glad my mother lives in California. Not that I think Chris would ever fall for whatever bait she uses to trap men.

Frankly, I don’t understand that about Chris—the part where women drop at his feet in worship. I see where he could probably get away with being an underwear model. His obsession with sports keeps him in optimal shape. But the whole swooning girls thing is beyond my comprehension. Chris is just a guy, like any other guy. Maybe it’s that I don’t swoon over anyone which makes it seem so ridiculous when they’re swooning over my best friend.

Stepping up to the bar, I bumped Chris’s broad shoulder with my smaller one and slid onto the wooden stool beside him, immediately taking up my drink. “Thanks for the beer.”

“No problem.” He flashed me a smile and went back to scoping out the room for women. I’d asked him to meet me before our usual time so I could talk to him alone. We meet here most Friday nights, but usually with a gang comprised of our coworkers, friends and anyone else who loves sports bars and doesn’t want to hang out with the suit-and-tie crowd.

Ugh. That reminded me of last night and the “lovely” party Kevin had thrown for me. At least that’s what Sally Stick-Up-The-Ass had called it as she left at ten. How could ten o’ clock feel so late and yet still be so early? When you’re hanging out with the comatose and boring, I guess. I was a beer-and-pretzels kind of girl mixing with the champagne-and-pâté crowd.

“So,” I said to Chris, attempting to draw his attention away from a busty blonde down the bar. I understood his need to connect with the opposite sex, but not when it encroached on my best friend time. “I lost my job yesterday.”

“Huh?” He turned quickly to me. He could definitely be counted on to be a loyal friend, regardless of what prospects for sex were twenty feet away. “You’re kidding. You just got the award the day before.”

“A Korean group bought WKUP. They’re making it into a Korean Jazz station.”

“Shit. How long do you have?”

“Another week.”

“Anything lined up yet?” Chris lifted his beer to his lips, concern creasing his forehead. I have to admit, it felt good to have someone showing some concern. Though it had been entirely my own choice not to share this with Kevin yet, I was getting a bit tense keeping the news to myself.

“I haven’t had the chance to look yet. I’ll do some research this weekend and after work next week.” I didn’t bother to mention the only other country station within commuting distance was across the Hudson.

“Well, you could always come work for me.”

“Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I can totally see myself selling jock straps and sports bras. There’s a reason I’m kept invisible at my job.”

“You’re not invisible. You do promotions all the time.” Chris raised a hand and ordered two more beers. The way this conversation was going, I’d need the second one. “We could put you in charge of answering phones in that little room at the top of the stairs. You’d get to use the loudspeaker. It’d feel just like the radio station. Maybe we’d even let you pick the music of the day.”

“Gee, thanks.” I went back to my beer and tried not to be depressed.

“So what does Kevin have to say about you getting canned?”

“I haven’t told him.” I cringed, waiting for the bomb to drop and wasn’t disappointed.

“What?” Chris stared at me like I’d grown another head.

“I haven’t had time.”

“It’s been more than twenty-four hours.”

“He threw me a party last night because of my award. What was I going to do, tell him in the middle of it? ‘Oh, by the way, I got fired today. Please pass the champagne.’?”

Chris frowned and looked suspicious. “I didn’t get invited to any party.”

“Think about that.”

Didn’t take much thought. “Oh, right. Perfect boyfriend doesn’t like me.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t like you. You just don’t fit his vision of an ideal friend. Heck, I don’t fit his vision of an ideal friend.” I told Chris the party story, starting with my shockingly inappropriately dressed arrival and ending with the pat on the head I’d received from one of the senior partners as he left for the evening. “You didn’t miss much.”

“Guess not.”

“So, anyway, I’m not telling Kevin yet. The minute I do, he’ll be analyzing, taking over, telling me what to do. I’m capable of finding my own job. I’m not a child and don’t need someone managing my life. I know that’s what he’ll do, so I’m exercising my right to choose, by choosing not to tell him yet.”

“Suit yourself. Still, I think you should be honest with him.”

“I will be honest with him…when the time comes. Right now I want to talk to Nancy from Today’s Country and see if there’s any way to do my interview early.”

“What are they going to think about you being let go?”

I concentrated really hard on the rim of my beer bottle. “I don’t think I’m going to tell them either.”

“Hello? Earth to Margo.” Chris waved his hand in front of my face until I smacked it away.

“I can’t tell them!” I said. “I won this award because of my job. If I tell them I suddenly got canned, what are they going to say? What if they take it away? It might be my only chance at getting another job.”

“It’s not your only chance at getting another job. You’re good at what you do.”

“Yeah, I’m good at country music. I’m not going to get a job somewhere else just because I go in and bat my eyelashes.”

“That’s for sure,” Chris muttered under his breath, a crack of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “It’ll have to be your big mouth that gets you a job.”

“That, or the award on my résumé,” I said, ignoring his teasing. I’d gotten very good at that over the years. “If I tell Today’s Country I don’t have a job, that’ll come out in the interview. All the country stations read that magazine, and how will that look? Are they going to hire the girl who couldn’t keep her job, even with a Best Country DJ award?” The particular facts wouldn’t matter. People focused on the worst. Extenuating circumstances, like format changes to Korean Jazz music, were patently ignored. “I need a clean interview. I’ll confess after it comes out in print if I have to.”

“I don’t know. Things like that tend to come back and bite you in the ass later.”

I sighed. “Leave me with some hope, would you? Hopefully, I’ll already have my ass in a chair at a new job by the time any biting happens.”

“So when’s the interview?”

“Next month.” I told him the date. First cover photos taken at the magazine’s studio in Nashville, then an interview with Nancy Noble in L.A., where she’d be interviewing Tim McGraw on the set of his upcoming movie. Maybe I’d get to meet him. He was one country star I’d never interviewed myself.

“Speaking of next month,” Chris continued, “your brother was in the store today, putting a bigger hard drive in our server.”

I raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t go blind in the sunlight?” My brother never ventured out of his apartment. Rob managed to do his job—some kind of computer consulting—almost entirely from his home office. He worked nearly twenty-four hours a day, rarely slept more than a few hours before awakening with some solution to a problem or a brilliant new idea that took him back to his computer again. He came out only in emergencies, so Chris had performed a miracle convincing Rob to stray into the great big world to do something as simple as change a hard drive. “What does that have to do with next month?” I asked.

“He said your mom’s getting married again next month.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“You going?”

“In her dreams.”

My sarcasm wasn’t lost on Chris, and he grinned. “I’m thinking of going.”

I nearly dropped my bottle. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugged his black T-shirt-clad shoulders, catching the attention of a brunette who stepped up behind him. I raised a warning eyebrow at her, and she glared in return before searching for another target. I needed some attention tonight, so tough luck for Chris. What he never had, he couldn’t miss. There’d be no Kiss Test administered on my watch.

“She invites me to every wedding,” he continued. “I’m assuming I’ll get an invitation to this one. I have business out there, so I thought I’d combine the two.”

“You don’t have to go to the wedding.”

“Hey, you may not like your mom, but I do.”

I huffed out a breath. “I don’t dislike my mother. I just don’t approve of her getting married for the—” I sarcastically ticked off husbands on my fingers for effect, and ended by raising a sneaker-clad foot in the air. “Eleventh time.”

“Who’s counting?”

“Me.”

Slumping down in my stool, I took a long draw from my beer. I’d completely forgotten my mother’s next marriage today. It had been a nice reprieve—despite the fact it had been replaced by thoughts of my unemployment—so I wasn’t too thrilled Chris not only brought it up again, but condoned it.

“You should cut her some slack.” Chris tossed some pretzels in his mouth.

“And you should cut me some slack. Your mother isn’t working on the Guinness World Record for most marriages. My mother changes men like I change bed sheets.”

“Don’t be so hard on her. She’s a nice lady.”

“You didn’t live with her. When you came around, she paid attention to you.” When it came to her own kids, my mother was too busy trying to keep the attention of whatever man she currently had on her hook. I shook my head, sitting up straighter, determined not to defend my feelings about my mother. We needed to change the subject. “So, what kind of business do you have in L.A.?”

“Just business.”

Ah, a mystery, I thought, leaning over the counter, trying to appear nonchalant. I’d played this game with Chris for years. He was secretive; I was nosy. He didn’t like discussing plans before they actually panned out. I didn’t even know he and Chip were opening a sporting goods store until I got the grand-opening invitation. This was either an inherent part of Chris’s personality or he just knew it drove me crazy not to know things. The trick was to take him by surprise in order to retrieve information. He was like a vault. It took the fine touch of a safecracker to tease the lock open.

I tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind my ear and set in for sleuthing. “Surfboard buying?”

“Nah.” He took a swig of beer. “We get those from Australia.”

“Hmmm. Bodyboards?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, those high-tech roller blades I saw on CNN the other night? Those were great. You should carry them in the store. I might even be convinced to get a pair, just to alternate with running or something.”

“On their way.”

“So what is it already?” I prodded, irritated that he hadn’t taken my bait. I’d either become rusty from not playing this game in a long time, or he’d improved. “It’s not like you go to California every day on business.” So much for subtle lock-picking.

“It’s just business, I told you.” He shrugged and grinned, knowing my frustration level was sky-high and perfectly willing to string me along.

I frowned at my beer. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t really care. Have fun at the wedding. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“You could come with. I think Rob’s going to have me pick up a ticket for him. I could get yours at the same time.”

“Not a chance. I’m going to Nashville for the photos, hopping to L.A. for one day for the interview and then I’m coming home to a new job. The times don’t mesh. And, if they did, I wouldn’t go to my mother’s wedding. I’d go on vacation.”

“Where would you go?”

Where? I’d never taken a vacation just for pleasure before. I’d been to California for a few of my mother’s weddings—at least the ones that hadn’t been sprung on me after the fact. I’d traveled around the country, usually to interview country music stars for the station or to attend awards shows.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never really thought of it. Maybe Graceland. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Well, gee, there’s a surprise.” Chris caught the eye of the bartender and ordered us two more beers. I raised an eyebrow. Okay, it was a three beer night. That’s why New Yorkers invented buses and subways—so all us drinkers didn’t crash our cars all over the city. I deserved it after the week I’d had.

I smiled and brought my attention back to the current subject. Finally, I nodded and waved my hands expansively, anticipating how riled up I could get my very anti-Elvis friend. “I know! Maybe I should take a Dedicated to Elvis Tour.”

His amber eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Why not? Maybe I should screw looking for a job and take a vacation. I’ll rent an SUV and drive to Nashville for my photos. Then make strategic stops in Memphis, for Graceland, of course. Shoot, maybe I’ll even go to Vegas. Elvis and Priscilla got married there. It would all be in tribute to the King. Ending, of course, in L.A. for the interview.” The idea quickly grew on me. Why the heck not? I hadn’t done anything just for me since…well, in so long that I couldn’t remember, which was pretty pathetic. “This could be a gift to myself, for winning the Best Country DJ award.”

“Again, you’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all.” I caught the eye of a good-looking guy down the bar, where Chris’s busty blonde had been. He winked and I winked back. Amazing how this brilliant idea of taking an Elvis vacation suddenly improved my mood. Maybe I should take it seriously. I turned back to Chris. “It could be a pilgrimage in honor of Elvis.”

Chris tipped beer into his mouth. “I’d rather take a six-hour nonstop flight entertained only by your brother. Kissing Elvis’s gravestone wouldn’t exactly be the highlight of my life.”

It might, however, be the highlight of mine. It’d sure make my job loss and my mother’s screwed-up life a little less painful. Afterward, I’d come home, fix the few little broken parts of my perfect life and move on. I gave this serious consideration. Of course, I’d have to tell Kevin about losing my job. He might not notice if I didn’t leave for work every morning, but he would definitely notice if I left one day and didn’t come home at all.

“No worries,” I said, cracking open my third beer. “Wouldn’t want you along anyway. You’re a spoil sport.”

Chris smiled and I smiled back, until I realized that he wasn’t smiling at me but at someone over my shoulder. I turned to see who he was looking at. She was tall, with short red hair and a come-hither look on her face. She looked past me and beckoned Chris with one finger.

“Well.” He patted the bar beside me. “That call appears to be for me, so I’ll be off now.”

He dropped a quick, brotherly peck on my cheek before hopping off the bar stool to answer the redhead’s call for the Kiss Test.

***

“Graceland, here I come.” I double clicked the reservations button on the hotel website and booked myself a room at the Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis. Yee-haw! On my way to Elvisville. I’d never had a vacation like this and, after blurting it out last night just to annoy Chris, I became totally obsessed with the idea. Some of the sucky parts of my life may have snuck up on me, but I’d more than make up for that.

The hard part would be telling Kevin.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I should have told him already but, gee, he rushed off to work early this Saturday morning, and I didn’t have the heart to ruin his whole day with the sordid tale. I was just being a nice, non-wave-making girlfriend. I refused to feel guilty.

I went back to my vacation plans and quickly forgot all about my job problems. Though I took a forced break when my mother called to inform her I had to work and wouldn’t make it to the wedding. Even her carefully scripted guilt didn’t ruin my fun. I spent the next half hour taking my vacation “virtually,” visiting Graceland, eating fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches (Elvis’s favorite) and even checking out the Free-Flying Elvises in Las Vegas. They might be worth a laugh.

I was interrupted again by the turning of a key in the lock. Shit!

“Kevin,” I said brightly, jumping up to block the computer screen. “You’re home.”

“Guess so,” he replied, looking at me oddly. Can’t imagine why. I mean, I frequently lounge back on the computer table, blocking the screen with my body when he comes home.

Kevin placed his briefcase into the front closet before heading in my direction, oblivious to my pasted-on smile. Thinking fast, I reached behind me and turned off the computer monitor before Kevin reached me for a kiss.

He turned his pearly whites on me, and I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

He rubbed my arms up and down, as if I might need warming up. “I have something to tell you. You’ll love it.”

“Yeah, well, I need to talk to you about something, too,” I said. “So, me first?”

“No, let me.” He sounded almost eager.

Well, our news must be vastly different, I thought, because I didn’t feel anywhere near “eager” about spilling my news.

“Okay.” I headed for the kitchen for something to drink. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to go house hunting.”

“House hunting?” I made an exaggerated glance around the moderately sized, efficient kitchen. “We have a house.”

“No, we have an apartment.”

“A great apartment,” I reminded him. “With an elevator. And a doorman.”

“Yes, but a couple eventually needs something more permanent.”

I blinked. “Permanent?”

Kevin nodded—eagerly again—and leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest. “Yes. Permanent. As in Westchester. Or Connecticut.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Connecticut? What’s wrong with Manhattan?”

“I was talking to some of my coworkers, and they all agreed that Manhattan isn’t the best place to raise a family.”

I turned to stare at him, holding two frosty beers by their necks. “What are you talking about?”

“Margo, I want to get married.”

How could I have come to the conclusion that my relationship with Kevin was the only thing in my life that didn’t suck?

I was obviously wrong.

All of my life sucked.

Chapter Four

“Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

“Married?” I slammed the refrigerator door and shoved one of the beer bottles at Kevin, then opened the other and took a swig. I backhanded the dribble that leaked from the corner of my mouth before continuing. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“I think it’s about time. We could have kids and an Escalade. Maybe even a dog. I was going to wait to ask, but why not now?”

“Why ever is more like it,” I said. “You know how I feel about marriage.”

I turned and fled the room. Kevin had the balls to follow, though if he knew how mad I was, he’d think twice about exposing to me the family jewels necessary for creating his hypothetical children.

“Look, Margo, we’ve been together for two years. Don’t you think it’s time we—”

“No, I don’t. I don’t want to get married.” I had no intention of becoming my mother, marrying every guy who asked her. Just the idea of starting that downward spiral made me a little sick to my stomach. “Then I would have to feel guilty when hot guys flirt with me.”

“Margo.” Kevin’s mouth turned up at the corners as if he thought I was joking.

I wasn’t.

“We’d get penalized on our taxes,” I threw at him, thinking the financial implications of marriage might deter him.

“I’m an accountant, Margo. I know that. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not!” I tossed back half my beer in a big gulp, and paced the room. “We can’t get married. We’d start to look alike. You’d hate that. You hate the way I dress.”

Kevin had the gall to laugh. He crossed the room and led me to the couch, where he pushed me down onto the fluffy cushions. My shock prevented me from protesting. He sat down, drawing me into the crook of his arm. “Maybe you’ll start to look like me, instead.”

“This isn’t a joke.” I stared down at the brown bottle rapidly warming in my suddenly sweaty grip.

“Margo.” Kevin ran a finger along the back of my arm, a move that would normally have made me take his hand and drag him to the bedroom, even in the middle of a hot June afternoon.

It wasn’t going to work this time.

“Don’t ‘Margo’ me.” I leaped up and walked away from him, feeling trapped. “You know I don’t want to get married.”

“I thought that was just temporary. I didn’t think you meant never.”

Kevin actually looked really upset. And for a fleeting moment—less than a moment, really, a nanosecond—I felt sorry for him.

It didn’t last.

All I could think about was my mother and her soon-to-be eleventh marriage and how every one of the first ten had ended—in loud voices, hurt feelings and another round of my mother taking to her bed in despair and depression. It would kill me to ever put a kid through that. To say nothing of myself.

Marriage was not on my agenda, now or ever.

“What part of the word ‘never’ was unclear?” I flopped into my desk chair and looked Kevin directly in the eye, making sure he knew I was serious. “I like things just the way they are.”

“Well, I don’t. Look. You could sell your apartment—”

“No! I like my apartment.”

“You don’t live in it, so what’s the point?”

I stared at him. The point was that, with the Upper East Side apartment I kept in my name, but sublet to a young married couple, I still had a place to go.

“I just can’t,” I said instead, as if that explained it all.

Kevin wandered over and squatted down beside me, taking one of my hands in his. “Margo, I love you.”

I blinked. He didn’t say it often. I never said it. I didn’t think I had it in me. When Lance had told me he loved me, I left him. I couldn’t handle it. I had progressed, really. I mean, I hadn’t left when Kevin first said it to me. I don’t know why. With Kevin, they were only words. Words I could ignore…until now.

Kevin Timber and I were compatible, in and out of bed, most of the time. We liked some of the same things—mostly foods and movies—and what we didn’t both like, we were perfectly content to do separately. But Kevin still didn’t understand certain things about me. My aversion to marriage for instance.

In the past, Kevin always let it slide when I never repeated his declaration of love. Not this time.

“Say it back to me, Margo.”

“I…I can’t, Kevin. I’m sorry.” He started to pull his hands away, and I grabbed them back. “I’m really sorry. It’s not that I don’t care. I just…” I wouldn’t make promises I couldn’t keep. Promises I’d learned through many childhood lessons were virtually impossible to keep.

Kevin clamped his lips together and stood. I let him go.

“I need some time to think,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He turned and left the apartment.

I hadn’t even told him about losing my job. I wasn’t sure if it would have helped or hurt.

***

My Elvis bedside clock said 11:00 p.m. when I finally heard the key scrape in the front door. Kevin arrived in the bedroom a few minutes later, and I shut off the Viva Las Vegas DVD I’d been watching. Just me and Elvis, forgetting my troubles. Only it hadn’t worked very well.

“Hey.”

Kevin grunted and headed for the bathroom, looking a little rough around the edges. He’d probably been at Jeffrey’s. He didn’t go there often, as it wasn’t the normal hang-out for his accountant friends. He’d been there a few times with me and went occasionally on his own, because it was close. Especially when we’d been arguing and he needed to get away.

It took another ten minutes before he came out of the bathroom in boxers and no shirt. Kevin had a gorgeous chest, and when he slipped into bed, I ran a hand over his pecs, hoping we could put this nonsense behind us and have some incredible make-up sex.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked, looking at me rather hopefully.

“No.” I brushed my fingers through the light hair on his mostly muscular chest, hoping to tempt him into forgetting this topic.

“Neither have I.” He lifted my hand and dropped it onto the sheets between us. “I want more, Margo. And, I think you want more, too.”

“I don’t want more.” I sat up, exasperated at this whole conversation, which I’d replayed over and over for the last several hours. “My life is perfect. Totally, perfectly perfect.”

“Is it?” His voice was oddly accusatory.

“Yes. Of course it is.”

“Funny, from what I heard, it doesn’t sound all that perfect.”

I glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Some guy from WKUP was at Jeffrey’s. Stuart, I think was his name.”

I swallowed. I should have come clean earlier. “Steward,” I said. “It’s his mother’s maiden name.”

“Doesn’t matter. He said to tell you how sorry he was.”

“For what?” I asked as innocently as I could, just in case he didn’t know what I thought he knew.

He knew.

“For your job loss.” Blue eyes bored into mine.

I paused, silently conceding a small chink in my life’s perfection. “Okay, I lost my job, but everything else is perfect, and as soon as I find a new job, it’ll be perfect again.”

“When the hell did you plan on telling me about that?” He sat up in bed, smelling vaguely of beer and cigarette smoke tinged with toothpaste.

“I planned on telling you tonight, but you threw all this on me.” When all else fails, blame someone else. “Can’t we just forget this marriage nonsense, Kevin? You don’t really want to get married. You’ve just been talking to people who happen to like it. We wouldn’t be those people.”

“Don’t you get it, Margo?” Kevin’s baby-blue eyes were pleading. “I want to take care of you.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of. I’m a grown woman.”

“Of course you do. I mean look at you.”

I glanced down at my “I Love Elvis” baby tee. “What about me?”

“Look at that.” Kevin gestured at the Elvis lamp and clock on my bedside table. “And that.” He pointed across the room at my black velvet Paint by Number portrait of Elvis. “And that.” He glowered at the blow-up doll that stood in the corner wearing the white sequined replica of Elvis’s jumpsuit I donned every year for Halloween. “You are such a child.”

He was out of his mind. How did the topic of marriage—or lack thereof—turn into “bash Margo’s Elvis collection”?

“You need a keeper, Margo. I’ve let you do your own thing, collecting all this stuff. I’ve let you play music and call it a career.” He ground out the last word as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth, which he spat out in sarcasm. “Not that we have to worry about that any more. Maybe you can find a decent job now that you have that one out of your system.”

I sat there with my mouth hanging open. What happened to analyzing, taking over, drawing up plans? That I could have dealt with. This was just…psychotic.

Kevin waved his arms wildly, making me lean back in bed out of his reach. “I let you do what you want, whenever you want. And you continue to act like a child. Hell, you even still play with the same childhood friend.”

“Chris?” I yelped.

“Yes, Chris,” Kevin snapped. “I mean, come on, the guy thinks skateboarding is a competitive sport. He jumps off cliffs like he’s Super Dude. He sells toys for a living.”

I finally snapped out of my shock. “Oh, and I suppose all I do is collect stuff that belonged to a dead guy and play with the radio and call it a career?”

“Yes!” Kevin flashed me a grin I wished I could punch off his face. “Now you get it.”

I leaped out of bed before I gave in to my baser instincts. “I don’t need this,” I said. “You’ve been drinking, Kevin, and I just don’t need this crap.”

Kevin sighed and slumped onto the bed. “No, Margo, you don’t need this. You don’t need me either.”

I blinked. “What do you want? A clingy female who’s incapable of taking care of herself? Of thinking for herself?” Like my mother? I added silently.

“It would just be really nice to be needed once in a while.”

Kevin turned his back on me and slid out of bed. He sat with his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his face, the muscles on his back flexing with the movement. Just a few hours—even minutes—ago, I was thinking how nice it would have been to feel those muscles beneath my fingers.

Now I wondered how they’d feel beneath the blade of a knife.

“I’m sleeping in the living room.”

“What?” No matter how we’d argued before, we always slept in the same bed. Usually making up with some raucous sex before the night ended.

“I can’t go on this way. I want more, and you obviously don’t. You’re happier with a dead guy.” Kevin picked up a pillow and heaved it at the Elvis portrait, knocking it askew. I jumped for it, catching it before it slipped from the nail.

Kevin stood and threw me a look of disgust mixed with sadness, yanked the comforter off the bed and dragged it toward the living room, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Still unclear about what had just happened, I stared down at the picture in my hands. “Kevin has left the building,” I said aloud. “Looks like we’re in trouble, Elvis, old pal.”

***

A week later, Elvis and I were still in trouble. I’d hardly seen Kevin. He’d come back to our bed after that first night on the couch—probably because the couch was about six inches too short for him—but made sure he went to bed long after I did. When he did come to bed, he rolled the comforter between us like the Berlin Wall.

Only this wall wasn’t coming down.

Obviously I’d been walking around with blinders on, like the horses who pulled the carriages in Central Park. It wasn’t the first time a relationship had gone sour on me. However, it was the first time I’d been caught unaware. This time, I was as prepared as I’d have been to step off a curb and get hit by a bus.

When Mo and I broke up, it had mostly been because I wasn’t willing to don the robes of Tibetan monks and move halfway around the world. But, I hadn’t been unprepared for that break-up. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know that a guy who spends more time conversing with a Paint by Number Elvis than other humans has had a few brain cells “leave the building” and isn’t exactly long-term relationship material.

And even though Lance’s proclamation of love had been a surprise, I’d suspected something was going on for a while. He started watching me with dreamy eyes. He spoke more softly to me and gazed longingly at children in Central Park when we ran. At least a dozen times, he opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again without saying anything. He should have just kept it shut.

Terrance had been obvious, too. I wasn’t all that surprised he was having a fling on the side. In fact, I probably (purposely) overlooked the signs because everything else was moving along smoothly. Once April started drying her pantyhose on my shower curtain rod, though, all bets were off. The only thing I’d been confused about in that relationship was why Terry felt the need for other women. It wasn’t like we lacked anything in our sex life. He said it was because it was nice to have someone need him. At the time, I didn’t get it. I still didn’t get it now, but the words echoed in my head, a reflection of what Kevin had told me a week ago. “It would be really nice to be needed once in a while.”

What the hell did that mean?

All in all, though, I hadn’t been surprised or overly concerned with the demise of any of my previous relationships. That was normal, right? Relationships were temporary. Finite. I even made it easier on myself by not getting too attached in the first place.

***

On my last day at WKUP, I barely got through my show. Cleo wouldn’t stop crying. She’d been canned, too, since an English-speaking producer was of about as much use as an English-speaking jock on a Korean station. Katya and Adair kept popping into the studio or the control room to eye me cautiously, my self-proclaimed protectors come to make sure I hadn’t rigged up a noose with the mike cords. I wasn’t that desperate, I tried to tell them. They left for ten minutes and then started taking turns checking on me, apparently thinking it made it less obvious that they still didn’t trust my mental state.

When the show ended, I said good-bye to my listeners for the last time. “You all keep checking on the other NYC stations,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, “because I will be back. Just call me the Terminator DJ.” Or was that the terminated DJ? “In the meantime, keep country at heart.”

I switched off the mike, allowing Garth Brooks to take over with “The Dance.” It fit my mood, but I muted it when Cleo’s sobs came over my earphones.

“Come on, Clee,” I pleaded, entering the room formerly known as Cleo’s Domain. “Don’t do this. We’ll find jobs.”

“Separate jobs,” she croaked. “It won’t be the same.”

She was right, it wouldn’t be the same. I had to focus on the hope that I’d get a better job out of this. Maybe I’d find a position at a bigger station, get better pay, have a bigger audience. Once the award was official, I’d have leverage. The world hadn’t ended, and I would work again, despite the fact that I’d had no luck in the job search this week. I called the New Jersey station, but they weren’t hiring—not a Morning Girl or a Late-Night-No-One’s-Going-To-Listen-To-You-Anyway Girl. I realized now, more than ever, I needed that award on my résumé. I still didn’t know where I’d find a job in the near future, but the award would be the clincher when I did.

I patted Cleo’s shoulder. “When I get back from vacation, I’ll call to see if you’ve come up with anything. If not, we’ll implement a plan and find ourselves new jobs. Maybe even together. Think of this as a rest period.”

She blew out a nicotine-scented breath. “I’m going to smoke. It’s the only thing I got left in my life.”

She paused and looked up at me, before putting her arms around me and giving me a tentative hug. Hugging wasn’t something Cleo did. We were alike in that way. I patted her back just as tentatively.

She smiled a watery-eyed smile. “See ya ’round, kid.”

I watched Cleo stride down the hall and swallowed hard. I couldn’t believe I wouldn’t be back here next Monday. Or ever.

The office was somber as I left. I turned down Joe’s invitation to one last lunch. I told him I’d rather he took me out when I got back from vacation, to give me something to look forward to, and he agreed.

Katya and Adair walked me to the elevator when it came time to vacate the premises.

“You going to be okay going home by yourself?” Adair rested his arm on my shoulder and searched my eyes for signs of depression. “I could fake PMS and blow this joint and keep you company.”

I laughed. Adair frequently threatened to fake PMS to get his way around the office. He’d probably get away with it. He was a natural-born drama queen, wasting away in the sales department of a radio station.

“No thanks.” I slipped out from under his arm to punch the down button on the elevator bank. “I’m going to go home, make a good dinner and see if I can get Kevin to speak to me again.”

“He’s still not talking to you?” Katya asked, handing me the day pack containing all my worldly goods, or at least the ones that had been part of WKUP since I started working here six years ago. “That’s not fair! Just because you don’t want to get married—”

“Don’t forget that I’m also childish and immature,” I interrupted, not bothering to keep the bite out of my voice. “Oh, and I need a keeper.”

“Sounds like someone else is PMSing,” Adair declared. “You want me to come over there and take him down a notch? I could, you know.”

I laughed. “What? Outrun him?”

“Hey! I boxed in high school.”

Katya and I both turned to stare at Adair, our mouths hanging open.

“You allowed people to hit your face?” Katya asked.

Adair pulled himself up to his full five foot five. “It was before I came out. I didn’t know the importance of protecting my assets.” He framed his face with his hands, as if cradling a priceless piece of art. “And I had a lot of rage. Boxing was my outlet. Really. My out-let. That’s when I discovered sweating did nothing for my complexion or my wardrobe.”

Katya and I cracked up, breaking the tension.

The elevator showed up just then.

“I’ll be fine, you guys. I’ll call you later. Maybe we can run tomorrow.”

Without waiting for an answer, I swapped places with the lone guy who’d ridden the elevator up—a Korean guy in a suit, surprise, surprise—and gave them a quick wave as the doors closed.

I felt like I was leaving home.

***

Kevin hadn’t come home for dinner the night of my last day at work, so the steaks and baked potatoes I’d fixed hoping that a full stomach would displace all thoughts of marriage, had gone uneaten. The cat and I picked at the steak, and the potatoes had been tossed in the trash, hard as steel after three hours in the oven. I’d finally gone to bed about midnight, and Kevin drifted in some time later. He didn’t smell like he’d been out. Nor did he smell like he’d been out any of the other nights he’d come home late in the last five days. I, however, had reached the end of my patience. We needed to have it out. If he wasn’t coming home, I’d go to him.

The next day, I showed up at his office at 6:00 p.m. and stalked past the abandoned desk of Sally Stick-Up-The-Ass. Thank God she wasn’t on duty guarding Kevin’s office, because no doubt I’d have been chased off like a burglar by a pit bull. It was only when I actually arrived at Kevin’s office door that I suddenly wondered what I’d do if Sally was in Kevin’s office performing, well, other duties.

Kevin was alone, though, head bent over his desk, piles of paperwork around him, boxes of take-out stacked on the piles.

“Knock, knock,” I said, raising my hand to the door and tapping.

Kevin glanced up, looking startled to see me at the door and not one of his coworkers. He stood. “Margo. What are you doing here?”

“Came to check on you.” I moved to the back of the black leather visitor’s chair. “You never come home anymore.”

He shrugged and sat down again. “Why should I? He’s still there.”

“He, who?”

He made a stabbing motion at my chest, where “Elvis” was spelled out in multicolored rhinestones. I stared at the sparkling letters for a minute before looking back at Kevin and blinking.

“You’re jealous of a dead man?”

“Oh, you mean you actually realize he’s dead?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Of course, I know he’s dead! What’s your problem?”

He slammed his pen down onto the desk and stood again, glaring at me. “My problem is your childishness, Margo. Do you know that the day after the party I threw for your stupid award—because I was trying to be a nice, supportive boyfriend and trying to make my friends and coworkers like you—Kramer called me into his office to ask when I was going to get a real girlfriend? A girlfriend I’d be proud to take to company functions? A girlfriend I wouldn’t have to worry might show up in sweaty rags when I decided to throw a surprise party for her?”

“For God’s sake, Kevin! It was a surprise party! How was I supposed to know to dress for the occasion? I usually leave my Versace at home when I run. Sweat stains tend to make the sequins lose their glitter.”

“See? Your sarcasm is beneath you. Beneath me. I was mortified to be reprimanded for your sophomoric behavior.”

My grip on the back of the chair became lethal. If I actually had fingernails, I’d have punched holes in the thick leather. I’d never taken part in a more asinine argument and, believe me, I’d been in some doozies.

“Have you considered growing some balls?” I asked. “Or telling Kramer I’m a grown woman and can do whatever the hell I want?”

“No. Because I agree with him. Your juvenile behavior needs to be stemmed. Right now. Make a decision.” Kevin squared his shoulders and settled his hands on his hips. “Elvis or me.”

Chapter Five

“I Slipped, I Stumbled, I Fell”

You know, for most women, the choice would have been simple. Kevin was flesh and blood. Elvis, obviously not. Kevin could carry on a two-way conversation over dinner. Elvis couldn’t. Kevin provided sex. Elvis didn’t. Most women would make the clear choice and keep the boyfriend.

I didn’t.

“I’m not getting rid of my Elvis collection,” I said.

Kevin’s lightly stubbled jaw dropped in shock. Clearly, he thought I was most women. “You mean you’d choose a dead man over me?”

“It has nothing to do with that,” I protested. “It has to do with the fact that you’re being totally irrational. Talk about juvenile. ‘You like Elvis better than you like me,’” I taunted in a sing-song voice I last heard—and used—in kindergarten.

“See! That’s what I mean,” Kevin yelled. “I never said that.”

“Not in so many words. But it meant the same thing. Besides, what’s the difference between my Elvis collection and your…your tie collection?”

“Canali and Fendi ties can’t even be compared to your Elvis crap. I wear them.”

“I wear my white fringed jumpsuit,” I pointed out, then pointed to my chest, just like Kevin had done a few minutes ago. “I wear my Elvis T-shirts.”

“Halloween costumes are not the same as business attire.”

“What have you been doing, bottling all this up for the last two years, just waiting to explode?” I said.

“I guess so!” Kevin rounded the desk and I flinched as he advanced on me, blue eyes blazing almost black. He made no motion toward me, though, and I forced myself to relax. Forced my heart to slow again. Only now I was even angrier because I’d let him intimidate me, even for a second.

Then I realized he was searching my eyes like people do in the movies, just before they kiss each other.

He didn’t try to kiss me, thank God, because I was in a pissy enough mood to do some damage, but he did raise his hands to touch me. I backed up. He let me.

Finally he spoke. “Look, maybe we can put the Elvis problem aside. If we buy a house, you can have a room, just for your collection. Out of my sight, out of my mind. You can spend all the time you want in your Elvis room, and I won’t have to be embarrassed.”

I shook my head and fought to unclench my jaw before I broke a tooth. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Kevin. This isn’t about Elvis. This is about us not wanting the same things. We’re not buying a house. I’m not marrying you.”

“This is important,” he said firmly. “All the junior and senior partners are married.”

“It’s a requirement?”

“Well, no, but if they all are…”

“They can’t make you get married to get a promotion.”

Kevin ignored me. “Are you unwilling to compromise on this at all, Margo?”

I watched him for a minute, and as I did, all the things he’d said to me—twice now—went through my head.

You’re such a child.

I’ve let you play music and call it a career.

That stupid award.

I knew in that moment, that even if Kevin dropped the whole marriage idea—and guaranteed he would never, ever bring it up again—things would never be the same. When I got a new DJ job, I’d know Kevin thought my career was unimportant. When I trained for the New York City Marathon and improved my time from last year, I’d know Kevin thought it was a waste. And, when I found that elusive Elvis piece on eBay and secured it for my collection, I’d know I was verifying yet again for Kevin that I was beneath him.

I didn’t feel beneath Kevin. I had enough self-esteem to realize Kevin wasn’t better than me, no matter our difference in careers or interests or opinions on marriage.

Even if I didn’t believe it, Kevin did, and I couldn’t stand knowing that.

I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. For all his polished good looks, I really didn’t know him. He’d “kept” me under false pretences. If he didn’t care about me for who I was, then he didn’t really care. No matter what trite little words he threw at me when the mood struck.

“No, Kevin, I won’t compromise.” I squared my shoulders to show it didn’t bother me. I knew what was coming. “I don’t want to get married. To you or anyone else.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“You don’t want to marry me anyway, Kevin. Why would you want to marry someone ‘childish and juvenile,’ and—what was it?—‘sophomoric’?”

“You could change if you really wanted to.”

“So could you. But, I’d never ask you to.”

I turned to leave his office. There’d be no compromise. The hurtful words had been said.

“Margo.”

I turned at the door.

“I’d like you out of the apartment by Friday. Maybe you can get the renters to give you your apartment back. That is why you kept it after all, isn’t it?”

I didn’t dignify his pout with an answer. It didn’t matter that he was right.

***

The next day I started apartment hunting. Staying with my brother was an option. If I could convince him to give up his hermit-like existence, his spare room would probably hold me and my stuff at least for a while. I was leaving for my much-needed, much-deserved trip/escape in just over a week, so he’d only have to put up with me until then, and then I wouldn’t be back until nearly the end of July. By then, maybe my renters could find a new apartment.

It felt weird that I had no place to live. At least not any place that included a man. I could deal with living alone. It was just an odd feeling. When you’re used to always having someone there, whether you’re doing your own thing or not, it’s strange to suddenly think there’s no one wondering where you are, waiting up for you. I wondered if that’s how my mom felt, what made her hop from marriage to marriage to marriage, with barely a breather in between. Which had sucked for Rob and me. Our own father was completely absent from our lives after a while, and every time we’d get used to a new stepdad, every time we’d start to like him or get attached, things would get rocky and then he’d be gone, too. Mom didn’t seem to care—or even notice—the effect this had on us. She was too busy wallowing in depression, until the switch flipped and she became obsessively focused on finding the next man to take care of her.

All the more reason for me to suck it up and learn to deal. No way was I going to be like her. Whether Kevin understood it or not, I couldn’t be needy just because it made him feel better. I would live by myself and like it.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t start talking to Elvis for company. At least not any more than I talked to him already.

Maybe I’d get a cat. I’d miss Checks, but I sure as heck wasn’t in any hurry to find another man. Sex notwithstanding, I figured I could do without the aggravation of feeling like I was being clear about my intentions, only to find out later the guy didn’t take me at my word.

Lance hadn’t taken my word for it when I said I didn’t do marriage. Neither had Kevin. (Terrance, apparently, had a bit of trouble with the definitions of monogamy and marriage and thought they were interchangeable). So, maybe, after getting used to it, I’d realize being man-less was safer. Katya had recommended a good place to buy a vibrator, anyway. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about it suddenly wanting a commitment out of me.

Pressing the button outside Robert’s building in the East Village, I waited in the tiny strip of shade provided by an anemic-looking tree stuck in the middle of the sidewalk. The building was a three-story, converted walk-up, a bit worse for wear on the outside, but perfect for a guy who never had visitors and rarely left his apartment. He made enough money to afford much better, but he was happy. Which, I guess, was all that counted.

He buzzed me up and I headed for the second floor. The apartment door was open when I arrived, but Rob was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello?”

“Back here,” muttered a voice from the depths of the apartment.

And, I do mean depths. “Apartment” was a rather loose term for the place my brother lived. It more closely resembled a tomb or a cavern. Stuff stood heaped in mountains everywhere—computer components, a multitude of unlabeled plastic bins holding God knows what and software manuals probably dating back to DOS. The couch was buried beneath months’ worth of probably unread newspapers, the threadbare carpet gritty with debris that hadn’t been vacuumed in forever, probably because a vacuum—if he even owned one—couldn’t make it through the obstacle course of junk. Through the breezeway into the kitchen, I saw it hadn’t seen a good scrubbing in years. The cupboards probably contained no food, as the counters were covered with boxes of cereal, bags of pasta and milk cartons. The sink held towers of dishes. I was afraid to even venture into the kitchen for fear of the size of the cockroaches that must be living in that heap.

I didn’t remember the apartment being quite such a wreck the last time I’d been here. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure this particular change of address was the best thing for me.

“Robert?” I called out again, afraid that maybe the door had been opened, not by my brother, but some mutant roach, living on my brother’s remains.

“In the bedroom,” a muffled voice called—roach or Rob, I wasn’t sure.

I made my way back toward my brother’s room, skirting more junk in the hallway, and actually having to step over a computer monitor completely blocking the bedroom door.

My brother sat at his desk, bent over the keyboard, mere inches from the computer screen. Profoundly farsighted since childhood, he wore thick black-framed glasses, which, if you added a bit of masking tape around the bridge, would have completed his dork costume. He clenched a pencil between his teeth, which explained the muffled voice.

He was a year older than me, the same age as Chris. Occasionally I wondered what would have happened if my dad hadn’t left and Rob hadn’t buried himself in computers and video games. Would he have been more like Chris, athletic and outgoing, or would he have turned out the way he did anyway? Sometimes I mourned the lost brother I vaguely remembered. The one who allowed his kid sister to tag along when he and his buddies built forts in the woods behind our house in upstate New York, and who bragged to everyone at school when I made it all the way down Dead Man’s Hill on my bike, with no hands. Would Chris and I and Rob have grown up close friends if Rob hadn’t dropped out of society at the ripe old age of eleven? I’d never know, but I still held a soft spot in my heart for the kid Robert used to be, though I hadn’t seen him in almost two decades.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked, my nose wrinkling a bit at the smell of stale coffee and soured creamer, obviously coming from the multitude of coffee cups covering every available surface. It appeared that, instead of washing cups when he ran out, my brother just bought more.

Rob never took his eyes off the screen as his fingers tapped out unintelligible words and symbols. He did spit out the pencil though before speaking. “I’m re-architecting the hardware abstraction layer in the proprietary OS my client ships in their wireless devices to deconflict some API naming schemas.”

I blinked, hoping somewhere, on some level, to someone, that made sense, and it wasn’t an indication my brother had started dabbling in drugs.

I glanced around his bedroom, such as it was. I didn’t know where he possibly slept. A huge mound of clothes covered the bed. Maybe clean, maybe dirty. The closet, wide open, was virtually empty. The floor sported discarded sneakers and socks and a stray pair of jockey shorts or twelve. The top of the desk was a graveyard of take-out boxes, used utensils and unopened bills propped between the coffee cups. Amazing he had power or running water, considering how scatterbrained my brother was. He didn’t need a roommate, he needed a secretary.

“So, I don’t have a job anymore,” I ventured, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“Huh?” He kept typing.

I tried a different tactic. “I’ve been uninstalled.”

That got his attention. He turned to face me. “Really? How come?”

I explained the situation in brief. Korean Jazz station, inability to speak the language, yada, yada.

“Oh, and, on top of that, Kevin asked me to marry him.”

Robert’s mouth dropped open and he stared at me over the top of his glasses with unfocused dark eyes that matched mine.

“And you said…?”

“What do you think?” I rolled my eyes and shoved aside a pile of clothes so I could sit on a corner of the bed. “Like I want to be anything like Mom.”

Rob frowned, considering. “Speaking of, she’s pretty mad you’re not coming to the wedding. I’ve had to talk to her twice this week. That’s not really fair.”

“Don’t talk to me about fair! You never answer the phone when she calls. You go months without talking to her.”

He shrugged. How could he argue with the truth?

“You’re a mess,” I said, changing the subject and tweaking the shoulder of his plaid button-front shirt, which sported a large spot that resembled blood, but was probably spaghetti sauce from Angelo’s judging by the restaurant boxes cluttering the desktop. “I hope you’re washing clothes before you go to the wedding.”

He shrugged again, turning back to his computer. “So what’d Kevin say when you refused him?” Rob asked, tapping out a reply to an email he’d just received. How could he carry on a conversation with me at the same time he wrote a “conversation” with someone else? Especially if it contained all that mumbo jumbo he’d recited to me a few minutes ago.

Well, let’s see, I thought, concentrating on the question. He called me childish, immature, sophomoric…“He told me I needed to leave.”

Rob nodded as if that was totally logical. Okay, so it probably was, considering we’d broken up, but it didn’t feel all that logical from my homeless point of view.

“So, where are you staying?” More tapping on the computer. I hoped he wasn’t transcribing our conversation for his clients by mistake.

“Nowhere at the moment,” I said. “I found out this morning that the Ballards are expecting a baby, so I can’t very well throw them out of my apartment. I don’t know what to do.”

He waved a hand over his head, in the general direction of the bedroom door. “You can stay here if you want. It may not look like much, but…” He chuckled to himself as if he’d made a joke. He hadn’t. It wasn’t much. But at this point, it looked like my only choice.

“How’s the spare room?” I asked.

He shrugged, so I went to check. I stepped over the monitor. It wasn’t one of the newer flat screens. It was an older seventeen-inch monstrosity that probably weighed thirty pounds. I wondered why he hadn’t set it down twelve inches to the right, where it wouldn’t have blocked the doorway.

Across the hall, the spare room was dark. I reached in and flipped the light switch, and bit back a yelp. Scientists should study my brother to figure out how someone who never leaves his apartment can accumulate so much junk. The room held a myriad of items, from a bicycle with only one wheel, assorted piles of what looked like women’s clothing (I had no intention of asking what he did with those), mounds of shredded paper and a few large green plastic garbage bags I prayed didn’t hold the bodies of previous guests lost in the mess. Boxes overflowed with toys, some of which I recognized from Rob’s childhood, stacks and stacks of books and a pallet of toilet paper. I guess if you never leave your apartment, toilet paper is an essential item to have on hand.

As I stared in abject horror at what was essentially an indoor landfill, I noticed the paper shreds moving. Suddenly a mouse shot out from under the scraps and darted toward me.

“Ahhh!” I turned toward Rob’s room and leapt on top of the computer monitor, balancing precariously by holding on to the door frame.

Rob turned at the sound of the commotion and I pointed in the direction of his spare room. “You have mice.”

“Yeah, for some reason they like it here.”

Before I could complete my wide-eyed head shake, a sudden, loud crash, which rattled the windows, came from the direction of the front of the apartment, bringing both of our heads up. Rob immediately dismissed it and went back to his computer.

“What the heck was that?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Don’t know. It happens all the time. I think it comes from the kitchen. Maybe roaches.”

Or mice. “And, you don’t check on it or anything?” I prompted.

“Nah. Have you seen my kitchen?”

***

Needless to say, I didn’t move in with my brother. Aside from the fact there was nowhere to sleep other than on stacks of The New York Times, I wasn’t at all sure a house cat of any size could take on roaches large enough to create window-jarring crashes, and I couldn’t live like that.

I meandered into Central Park that afternoon, looking for a place to think. It was a little cooler than it had been the past few days, a reprieve from the first humid nineties of the early summer, into the humid eighties anyway. Runners shot by me, and I felt no desire to follow them…a huge deal for me. Running is my anti-depressant, and I knew I had it bad when I couldn’t rouse myself from my despair to even enjoy that.

My perfect life had developed some serious cracks. Things looked more hopeless by the minute. I was running out of time and still had no place to live. After I left Rob’s apartment, I headed for Katya and Adair’s place, just desperate enough to see if they had room on their couch. Unfortunately, their couch was parked in the hallway when I arrived. Their apartment was in disarray, most flat surfaces covered with sheets, paint cans stacked against one wall, and the strong smell of turpentine and latex fogging the air. Adair apparently decided remodeling their apartment, from his former favorite, French Country, to his new favorite, Ultra Mod (complete with a wavy chrome-and-glass shelving unit, a wall clock in the shape of melted dice and what looked like a coffee table in the shape of a neon-orange foam mushroom), would snag him a date with the Wide-Strider from Central Park.

“He saw some Oprah special the other day,” Katya informed me, rolling her eyes at her roommate’s sudden loss of mental faculties. “About people who regretted getting old without reaching out to their dream men. All these women crying about how they’d lost the best years of their lives because they were afraid to take a chance on the guys they were attracted to. Adair took it totally to heart. He decided he’s not getting any younger and if he doesn’t hook up with this guy now, he’s going to be alone forever, rocking in his rocker on the fire escape.”

I groaned sympathetically and headed out, feeling sorry for Kat. And for myself. I was jobless. Boyfriendless. Homeless. I had nowhere else to go. A hotel was out. I needed money for my trip. And for surviving once I got back to the city next month, if I didn’t have a job by then. I couldn’t spend it staying in a hotel. Maybe I could bargain with Kevin. Talk him into letting me sleep on the couch. I mean, gee, he’d “put up” with me and my glaring faults this long. What was a few more days?

Except I couldn’t stand the idea of begging him to let me stay, or even admitting I needed to stay because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I wasn’t some bimbo who needed a man to take care of her. I was an independent woman. Which was why, when the Ballards were able to move out, I’d live in my very own apartment, by my very own self, with no one to criticize my habits or hobbies. No one to bad-mouth my career or clothing choices. No one to try to plan my future.

Which was all fine and dandy, but didn’t solve my immediate problem.

I had no idea where I was headed, but it was getting dark, so I decided I’d better make up my mind when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Margo?”

“Oh. Hi, Mom.” Pardon my lack of enthusiasm. “What’s up?”

“Kevin told me, dear. But I had to hear it from you, it’s just so outrageous.”

“Kevin told you what?”

“That you broke up with him. Whyever would you do such a thing? He was grounded and stable.”

And I’m not grounded and stable?

“He has a good head on his shoulders, and he’s handsome from what I remember. He seemed very upset that you’d leave him.”

“He’s upset that I wouldn’t marry him.” I didn’t want to get into this with her, but I had to defend myself. “He’s mad because he didn’t get his way.”

“He loves you, Margo. He told me so. He sounded like he’d been crying.”

Crying my butt! Not in a million years. He just took the opportunity to use my mother against me.

“You should take him up on his offer. Marriage is wonderful and I just know you’d agree with me once you gave it a try. This may be your last chance.”

I paused in the middle of the sidewalk and blinked.

This may be your last chance?

Said a lot about what she thought of me. She’d had eleven men who wanted to marry her, but Kevin may be my one and only chance? Way to be supportive, Mom.

“Margo?”

“I have to go.”

I punched the end button and fought back the urge to hurl the cell phone down the street.

Someone shoved past me on the sidewalk and startled me out of my stunned state. I realized then that I really had to use the bathroom. It had been hours, and suddenly I had to go.

A glance up and down the street showed I’d ended up a couple of blocks from Chris’s Upper West Side apartment, so I headed in that direction. He’d let me use his bathroom, give me a cold beer and let me whine about my sucky life. Granted, he wouldn’t sympathize with me about my mother, since he thought she was perfect—or at least not as bad as I thought she was—but he’d sympathize about the rest.

Leafy summer trees guarded Chris’s stately brownstone. I let myself in with my key and bolted up the stairway toward his top-floor apartment. I needed to use the restroom and then drown in beer. At about the third floor my cell rang again.

“What?!” I snapped, sure it was my mother again.

“Margo? You okay?”

Kat.

“Sorry. Long day.”

“I just wanted to say again that I’m sorry about not having the couch available.”

I sighed. “That’s okay. Hope you survive Adair’s manic episode.”

“I will. It actually doesn’t look that bad. I’m not sure I can stand living with that guy from the park, though. He’s too creepy, even for me.”

“Worry about that if the time comes. Adair hasn’t even talked to him yet.” I reached the fifth floor and leaned on the railing to finish my conversation with Kat.

“Where are you? You sound like you’ve been running.”

“Just made it up the stairs to Chris’s apartment. I thought I’d—”

“You’re going to stay with Chris? Oh, please can I come over? I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t even ask if he’ll let me retake the Kiss Test. I mean, if he offers, God, yes, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I know I’d be better. I’ve been practicing.”

“With what, your pillow?”

Katya made a little choking sound. “Never mind. Just let me come over there while you’re staying with him. Please. He’s a god. I’ll just sit and look at him politely.”

“I can’t stay with him,” I protested. “He has a revolving bedroom door. He’d make me crazy with all the women in and out of here.”

“Man, what I’d give to be one of those women.” Katya sighed. “But, where else are you going to stay? It would only be for a week or so, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. Just ask him. He’s your best friend, for God’s sake. There’s no one else left, is there?”

“No, but—”

“Then go for it.”

I stared down the hall at the forest-green door with the 5G plaque and considered the truth behind Kat’s words, no matter how tainted they were with her desire to get into Chris’s pants. There was no one left. And the fact that Kevin fed my mother that great big line of horse crap made me that much less willing to beg him to let me stay another week.

I needed out of that apartment.

Now.

That left Chris.

It wasn’t that I didn’t think he’d let me stay with him. It was just kind of weird. I mean, Chris had a sex life. I didn’t know how comfortable I’d be, sacked out on his couch, knowing he was getting horizontal with someone in the next room. Talk about a third wheel. But it was down to the wire, to the point I would have to put my stuff in storage and sleep on public transit. Bus seats don’t make good beds.

I only needed a week. If it meant Chris didn’t have sex for seven days—which was doubtful, since he had no problem picking up women or administering the Kiss Test while I was standing right next to him—then he’d survive. I would, too. I’d prepare for my trip, find a job and get my life totally situated and ready to restart as soon as I returned from communing with Elvis.

“Well, maybe I’ll see what he says,” I told Kat. “The worst that can happen is he says no.” Actually the worst that could happen is that I’d catch him in the middle of a torrid act in his living room because I arrived unannounced. Nature was calling in earnest now. “I have to go, Kat. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Invite me over!” she hollered at the last minute, as I disconnected.

When he didn’t respond to my knock, I let myself into Chris’s empty apartment. The benefit of having keys to your friends’ apartments: Access to clean facilities in several different areas of the city at any given time.

Having taken care of the necessities, I wandered back out into the apartment. It was good-sized as apartments in Manhattan go. Two bedrooms, one used as an office. One-and-a-half baths. The kitchen was separated from the large living room by a counter, and looked like it held the beginnings of dinner preparations. Salad fixings were spread out on a cutting board next to what I assumed was garlic bread wrapped in foil, and a pot of water, warm, but not boiling, sat on the cooling stove burner. Another pot contained hot spaghetti sauce that made my stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten all day. I rummaged around in a drawer for a spoon and was just savoring a bite of the meaty sauce when someone spoke.

“Is nothing sacred to you?”

I jumped and dropped the spoon into the pot, burning my fingers when I instinctively tried to retrieve it from the hot red sauce.

“Damn!” I flung the spoon into the sink and sucked at my scorched fingers. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

Chris sauntered in, taking a package of pasta from a paper sack and depositing it on the counter. “I didn’t sneak. Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so engrossed in a pot of spaghetti sauce before.” He flicked on the burner under the pot of water.

“Please tell me I can stay for dinner.” I licked the tasty tomato sauce from my fingers with relish. “I’m starving.”

“I have a date.”

“I’ll eat fast.”

“The meal is for her, not for you.”

I groaned and sank onto a bar stool, biting my lip and coveting Chris’s dinner. “How about a doggy bag…or bowl? I’ll even find my own pasta at home. Just give me some of the sauce, and no one gets hurt. My blood sugar is exceedingly low, and I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Not a chance.” Chris popped the garlic bread into the oven and took out place settings for the table. “You have fifteen minutes of my precious time then you’re seriously out of here. I’ve tried to get a date with Julie for six friggin’ months, and this is it. Make yourself useful.”

I pouted as he handed me a stack of plates, napkins and silverware, and nodded toward the small dining table where he’d placed flowers and a couple of candles.

Okay, so I wasn’t going to get a meal, but maybe I could still get a place to stay if I played my cards right and promised not to come back until tomorrow afternoon.

“So,” I began, as I folded the napkins and tucked them next to the plates. “I’ve been apartment hunting today.”

“Apartment hunting? What’s wrong with the apartment you live in?”

“Uh, Kevin doesn’t want me to live in it anymore.”

Chris raised one dark eyebrow at me.

“Long story.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Suffice it to say, I need to move out.”

“What about your apartment?”

“Yeah, well, Mary Ballard is about to pop out a kid any day, and I don’t feel right throwing them out. I’ve pretty much used up all my other options. Kat and Adair are remodeling and the health inspector is probably going to show up on Rob’s doorstep any day now, so they’re out for places to crash.”

“That bites,” Chris commented absently, as he added the pasta to the now boiling water.

“You have a time limit?”

I leaned my hip against the kitchen counter, watching him work, and tried not to salivate. Maybe his date would call off sick, and I could pick up the pieces of his broken heart for the price of a free meal.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

Chris glanced up from his cooking. “What are you going to do?”

I plastered on my biggest, brightest smile and shrugged innocently. “Well, I was kind of wondering if, since I’ll be leaving for vacation in a week, I could, you know, crash here.”

Chris blinked. “I have a date. Don’t you think that would cramp my style a bit? ‘Oh, Julie, this is my best friend, Margo. Don’t mind her. She’s homeless right now. But, please, let’s carry on with our screwing. She’ll plug her ears.’”

I cringed, but I couldn’t let him deter me. I needed a place to stay. “I won’t come back until tomorrow. Surely you’ll be done by then. Won’t you?”

“Not if I can help it.” Chris frowned. “I don’t know. I’m so used to being able to…”

“Fuck on demand?”

He laughed. “Well. Yeah.”

“I won’t get in your way. I promise.” I moved closer, prepared to beg. “Please, Chris. We could be like Will and Grace.”

Chris grimaced. “Except that I’m not gay, and you’re not…” He gave me the same once-over I’d seen him give a potential date in a bar a million times.

“Hot?” I taunted.

“A redhead.”

I raised my brows.

“It’ll work. Your dates won’t find me threatening. I swear. I’ll stay out late if you have a date. It’s only for a week. Please.” I frowned. “I’m begging you, and you know I hate to beg. But my only choices are begging you for your couch or begging Kevin to let me stay another week, and I’m not giving that jerk the upper hand.”

Chris glanced at his watch. “Okay, fine. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”

I practically leaped at him, pecking him on the cheek. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, call first. Julie’s a live one, and I have the day off, so we may not get out of bed until late.”

From the other room, the doorbell sounded, and we both jumped—Chris in anticipation and me with guilt. No need to screw up his first date by having her find a woman in his apartment right off the bat.

“Crap. I’ll sneak out while you distract her.”

“Geez.” Chris frowned, heading for the door. “I’m a grown man. If I want ten women in my apartment at the same time, I can.” He threw the front door open, grinning broadly at the lithe blonde on the other side. “Hey, Julie.”

She moved forward, head ducked coquettishly and planted a big one on Chris’s mouth. I could only guess from his reaction that Julie hadn’t had much problem passing the Kiss Test. When the kiss threatened to supersede dinner, I cleared my throat, since they blocked the door, making escape impossible. They broke apart and Julie gasped at the sight of me.

“Oh, uh, Julie,” Chris stuttered, wiping the back of his hand across his lips which were now a lovely shade of pink. “This is Margo. She was just leaving.”

I pasted a smile on my face and squeezed past Julie, backing toward the stairs. “Nice to meet you. Have a good dinner, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Wait, Chris. Why is there a woman in your apartment?” Julie asked, in that vaguely breathless kind of voice that indicated a vast expanse of free air between her ears.

“I’m not a woman,” I assured her, reaching behind me for the railing. “I’m just—”

“My sister,” Chris interjected quickly.

“Yeah. Sister.” I nodded. “Bye-bye, brother dear.”

Julie turned to glare at him. “But, you said you didn’t have any brothers or sisters, Chris.”

Smooth move, genius, I thought, and turned quickly toward the stairs. Unfortunately, in the half hour since I arrived, someone had placed a bucket on the steps and my foot landed directly in it. I reached out to get my balance but felt only open space. My arms flailed about me and I heard shouts—Julie’s and Chris’s.

And then nothing.

Chapter Six

“Hard-Headed Woman”

The lights overhead nearly blinded me when I tried to open my eyes. It took a minute, and much blinking, to adjust to the brightness. A soft humming, then a snap and a sucking sound filled the room. Something gripped my left upper arm like a vise, and I quickly turned my head to see what it was.

The room spun wildly and I slammed my eyes shut to stop it.

Slowly, the whirling stopped and I ventured to open my eyes again. To my right, I heard a rustling sound. This time I turned my throbbing head little by little in that direction, discovering I appeared to be in a hospital room, the grip on my arm a blood pressure cuff. What the heck?

Someone sat in a chair by the window, hidden behind a newspaper. I recognized the sneakers.

“Chris?” My voice came out like a squeak, so I cleared my throat and repeated, “Chris?”

The newspaper lowered. “It’s about damn time you woke up.”

“What’s going on?” I moved my head again and, when the spinning started, clamped my eyes closed and breathed through the dizziness. “How did I get here?”

“Let’s just say you picked a hell of a way to get me to break my date with Julie.”

Julie. Tall, willow thin. Airheady.

Chris’s apartment. Spaghetti.

Backing into the stairwell. Julie’s suspicion that we weren’t siblings. Rushing to leave.

The bucket on the landing.

“I fell down the stairs.”

“And ruined my date with the one woman I’ve been trying to get in bed for six months.”

I groaned and opened my eyes again. “I’m sorry. Really.”

He shrugged. “It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. If she got that freaked out you were at my apartment, she’s probably a little too Fatal Attraction.”

“I’m still sorry. What time is it?” The sun shone outside, which didn’t quite coincide with my memory of it being evening when I was at Chris’s apartment.

“Noon. Saturday.”

“Saturday!” I tried to sit up too quickly, and flung my arms out as the room twisted violently around me. I gasped and gulped back a wave of nausea, flopping back onto the bed.

Chris was out of his chair and holding my hand when I finally stopped feeling like I was going to lose…what? I couldn’t remember my last meal. Suddenly I was starving.

“What happened to the spaghetti?” I finally managed.

Chris laughed. “Probably a charred mess in the bottom of the pan.”

“Bummer.” I sighed heavily before slipping back to sleep.

***

Sunday morning, I went home with Chris. In a wheelchair, then in a taxi, and from there he practically carried me up to his apartment, because the floor kept diving at my face. The doctor indicated I had a concussion and I jarred something in the fall, causing my equilibrium to be “off.” When I asked how long until it was “on” again, he just smiled sympathetically. Could be a day. Could be a month. Or longer.

I had in hand a list of restrictions a foot long. No driving, no stairs, no running, no sports, no operating heavy machinery, nothing that could jolt me suddenly or require any sort of coordination on my part. Sex was obviously out.

Chris and I arrived at his place to find the living room stacked with boxes, three deep and four high.

“What’s all this?” I waved in the direction of the cardboard mountain as I made a beeline for the couch, where I collapsed.

“Your stuff.” Chris headed for the kitchen. “I gave Kat and Adair your key and asked them to clean out Kevin’s apartment. I figured you weren’t in any shape to do it.”

“Oh.” I stared across the room and tried to imagine all my things—my prized possessions, clothes and personal items—filling those boxes. My life diminished to nothing but baggage.

Chris set a glass of water down on the coffee table. That was when I noticed my Elvis bobblehead.

“I’m going to go change,” Chris said. “I’ve been in the same clothes since yesterday.”

I nodded absently and glared at Elvis. After Chris left, I reached out a hand and gave Elvis a whack, knocking him over. He lay forlornly staring back at me.

“Some good-luck charm,” I scolded. “What happened to all the good stuff that used to happen to me? The great job? The decent boyfriend? A place to live? The award?” Well, I supposed the award wasn’t gone. That was the only thing I had going for me at this point in time. An award for a job I didn’t even have anymore.

I groaned.

“You okay?” Chris came back into the room, tucking a clean T-shirt into fresh jeans, his feet bare. “I could get you something. Food? A pain pill? Something to drink?”

“Stop babying me,” I snapped, then jammed my eyes closed as the room took a whirl.

“I’m not entirely incapable.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“I’m not,” I protested. “I’ll be fine. I’m going on vacation, so I have to be fine.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

“I would.” No way was I canceling my vacation. My Elvis bobblehead may have betrayed me, but the real Elvis wouldn’t. I needed to escape my life for a while. All the mess, the things that couldn’t be swept under the rug and forgotten.

***

“I’m going.” I chucked a pair of jeans into the open suitcase on the floor at my feet.

“You’re not going,” Adair said from Chris’s couch.

I turned to glare at him and found him examining his manicure. “I’m. Going.”

“You’re falling on your face, honey. You can’t get behind the wheel of a car.”

“I’m fine when I’m sitting down.” I turned back to the boxes that held my wardrobe, slamming my hand against the wall when the room began a slow pirouette. I’d gotten pretty good at that over the last week…and had the bruises on my wrists and knuckles to prove it. A wall was amazingly easy to miss when it refused to hold still.

“Well, then, I suppose that’ll totally work, as long as you never need the john and sleep in the driver’s seat.”

I rolled my eyes, shoving aside the limp and lifeless body of my Elvis blow-up doll, still in his white fringed suit, looking like plastic roadkill in plus-sized clothes. The packing wasn’t going very well, mostly because the idea of squatting to actually pack neatly was rather nauseating. I’d save that for later.

“I give up,” I whined, when the dizziness didn’t stop this time. I closed my eyes and blindly made my way across the living room to the couch, collapsing onto the piece of furniture I’d come to know intimately in the past five days. I hadn’t left it longer than it took to go to the bathroom or take a quick shower while leaning against the wall to keep from kissing the drain.

“You can’t give up,” Adair reassured me.

“You just got through telling me I couldn’t go.”

“No, I said you couldn’t drive. You have to go see Elvis. You have to go worship at Graceland with all the other fanatics. That’s the only way you’ll get better.”

I opened one eye—I’d discovered one eye was safer than two—and stared at my friend. “Worship at Graceland? This wasn’t meant to be a religious pilgrimage.”

“Whatever, sweetie. Religious, sexual, it’s all the same.”

“It wasn’t meant to be sexual either, Adair. Gross! You’re aware Elvis is dead, right?” I closed my eye again and laid my head back. “I just need to get away. But if I can’t drive, I can’t go.”

“You need a surrogate.”

“Excuse me?” I ventured another look at Adair. He’d undergone a radical change since starting his campaign for love. He wore all black today. Black suit, black shirt, black silk tie and black Ray-Bans, alarmingly similar to the glasses worn by the Wide-Strider, atop his head. He looked like he’d had a wardrobe transplant.

“A surrogate driver.”

“A surrogate driver?”

“Yeah. Then you’d enjoy the trip, but not have to do any of the work.”

“You volunteering?” I smiled, picturing Adair behind the wheel of the SUV I’d rented for my cross-country venture.

He rolled his eyes. “Hardly. I ride in vehicles, not drive them. That’s the main reason for living in New York City. No need to take your life into your own hands. You pay someone else to do the dirty work while you lounge in luxury.”

I don’t know which cabs he took to work, but I’d yet to see one that could be termed “luxurious.”

“Well, I’m out of luck, then, aren’t I? Kat doesn’t have a license.” I sighed. “I’m going to leave for this trip in two days if it kills me. There has to be some miracle of modern medicine to cure vertigo.” Frustrated, I jabbed my foot into the coffee table and watched Elvis gyrate for a minute before it stirred up too much dizziness, and I had to sink back into blackness again.

“Maybe I should get on the internet tonight and find out.”

Without my vacation, not only was I out the money I paid for deposits, but I could probably kiss my career goodbye. I’d miss my award photos and interview. Worst of all, if I didn’t go on vacation, I had to ask Chris to let me stay longer. That would probably be the death of me. Don’t get me wrong. He’d been a prince this week. He cooked for me and helped me to the bathroom when I couldn’t do anything but crawl along the floor, using walls for support. He’d taken me to my follow-up appointment this morning, before dropping me off and heading to work. He’d done everything right…and he was driving me crazy.

Chris wouldn’t let me do anything for myself. He hovered (probably fearing litigation if I fell and cracked my skull open on his coffee table), and I heard him on the phone a few times, turning down dates. He ignored it when I told him I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And, I was capable. Give me a couple of knee-pads, and maybe a crash helmet, and I’d have been just fine.

But, no. He treated me like a child. He even called my mother, reassuring her I was in good hands, promising her he’d take care of me, and then spending the rest of the week making good on that promise. It was totally aggravating.

“What’s this?” Adair leaned over and picked up the small ivory card from the coffee table, flipping it over to examine the coordinating ivory doves flocking around the edges.

“Invitation to my mother’s wedding.” I took a breath, slowly picking my head up to see if the dizziness had passed. “She obviously didn’t believe me when I said I couldn’t come.”

“Won’t you be in L.A. anyway on your trip?” Adair hinted. He’d become so sentimental since watching that Oprah episode on lost love or lost opportunities or whatever. Kat was ready to strangle him if he didn’t stop trying to sign her up for Match.com so she wouldn’t be alone forever. Even she had taken every opportunity this week, while visiting me (or was it Chris?), to bug me about this wedding, knowing I couldn’t just get up and walk away. Now Adair took over.

“Oh,” I said, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm, “you mean the vacation you’ve informed me I won’t be able to take?”

Adair huffed. “Don’t get snappy. I’m just suggesting that you might regret it—”

“The only thing I’ll regret is not getting to see Graceland. And missing my interview. I most certainly don’t regret missing Wedding Number Eleven.”

“Not now, but—”

“Not ever,” I said firmly. “Trust me. There’ll be another one in a few years.”

The front door opened before Adair could further argue with me, and Chris came in. Adair sat up straighter—like he had a snowball’s chance in hell. I bit back a reminder that he’d just remodeled his entire apartment for the guy in the park.

“Hey,” Chris greeted us.

“Hey, yourself,” I groused, suddenly crabby. Between the realization that my trip probably wouldn’t happen and Adair’s lectures about going to my mother’s wedding, I wasn’t in the mood to be nice. Oh, and Chris had picked up Angelo’s on the way home, which was what I’d wanted for lunch today but couldn’t even get to the phone to order because I was an invalid. It all just really ticked me off.

“Has she been good, Adair?” Chris tossed the take-out bags in the kitchen and returned to the living room, loosening the tie he’d worn to work despite the fact that he sold sporting goods. He’d probably had a business appointment today.

When Adair didn’t answer right away, I glanced at him to see his eyes glued to Chris as the tie came off and got tossed on the table. There may even have been a bit of drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Sheesh.

“Fine,” Adair finally stammered, when Chris looked at him curiously. “She was fine. A little moody, but it’s probably that time or something. Katya gets just like that every month.” He stood quickly and moved around the table before I could smack him. “One of those things I really am glad us men don’t go through, you know? Makes us so much easier to live with.”

I could see where this was going, though Chris remained oblivious. He was well aware of his attractiveness to women (how could he not be when they dropped at his feet on a daily basis?), but it wouldn’t occur to him that gay men would find him equally attractive. I, however, was totally aware, and unwilling to watch the fall. “So, Adair, have you met the guy in Central Park yet?”

He flushed and stammered a bit before turning from Chris and back to me, looking vaguely stunned. “What? Uh, no, not yet. I’m running every day until the opportunity presents itself though. Now that the apartment is almost done…”

“Running?” I asked, unable to resist baiting him. What can I say? I’d been bored this week. “Won’t you sweat? What if he doesn’t like sweat?”

“Well, I’ll…I’ll…I guess I could just stand near where he crosses and start running when I see him. Maybe bump into him or something.”

I grinned, having successfully diverted his attention from Chris. “Good plan. Let me know how it goes.”

Chris watched this conversation with vague curiosity. “I’ll explain later,” I mouthed behind Adair’s back.

Adair’s phone beeped and he glanced quickly at the screen. “Katya,” he said. “Wants to know what I’m bringing home for dinner.” He sniffed toward the kitchen then grinned at Chris. “Maybe Angelo’s. It’s one of my favorites.”

I rolled my eyes.

Chris grinned, still oblivious. “Mine, too.”

Adair departed and Chris dished up the meal that, despite my sulkiness, smelled heavenly. Vertigo did nothing to diminish my appetite, though it had, on a couple of occasions, diminished the volume of food in my stomach shortly after eating it.

“What was that all about?” Chris called from the counter behind me.

“Adair’s in lust,” I said, eyeing the suitcase across the room and wondering how long it would actually take me to pack, and whether my time was better spent packing or lying on the couch praying for miraculous healing.

“With who?”

“Some bizarre guy we see in the park when we run.” I frowned as I suddenly envisioned the atrophying of my muscles from lack of exercise. All the more reason to rise and walk—or run, as the case may be. But, as usual, the room spun the moment I tried to move. Maybe a little more rest would be good. I closed my eyes again.

Chris came into the living room, bringing with him a smell that brought my eyes open. He handed me a plate heaped with cheesy lasagna and herbed garlic bread. My mouth watered in response. “Is that what brought on Adair’s wardrobe overhaul?”

I nodded, my mouth already full of the best Italian food in the city.

Chris plopped down beside me and turned on the news. We ate silently for several minutes, benignly observing the daily New York news—which included a cat who gave birth to a litter of kittens on the tracks under the F train and a man who was crushed to death when the shelves housing his yo-yo collection collapsed—until we were both full and sated.

“Thanks.” I set my plate on the coffee table. “I needed that. Probably like a hole in the head, since I can’t go run off the two thousand calories I just ate.”

Chris laughed and carried the plates to the kitchen. I heard him scraping and rinsing them, before he returned to join me. “You realize you’re on KP for about a month, once you can stand.”

I glanced up at him, startled. “I’m not planning on being here that long, am I?”

He shrugged. “Got any other plans?”

My eyes shifted to the suitcase on the floor, knowing I would have a fight on my hands.

Chris followed my gaze. “What’s that?”

“My suitcase.”

“Going somewhere?” His face told me he knew exactly where I thought I was going, and he wasn’t happy about it.

I stood up to prove I was fine and that I was going on this trip, no matter what he said. To my surprise, the room stayed still. Ha! Maybe Angelo’s lasagna contained some miraculous healing power. Magic oregano maybe?

“I’m leaving in two days.” I moved confidently over to the boxes to continue my packing.

“No, you’re not. You can’t drive.”

“I’m fine,” I argued. “Look.” To prove my point, I grabbed a handful of underwear and threw them into the suitcase. Half of them landed on the floor next to the suitcase. Apparently equilibrium affected aim, too.

Chris stared at them for a moment then cocked a grin. “So that’s what your underwear looks like.”

I squatted down quickly to pick them up. “Stop looking.” I swayed a bit, but my balance held. Maybe it would be okay after all.

“You can’t drive, Margo. You’ll kill someone.”

“Yes, I can. And, no, I won’t.” I reached for more clothes. “How hard can it be to sit in the car all day? It’s not like I’ll be walking all that much at first. By the time I get to Graceland, I’m sure it’ll be gone.”

“You can’t drive. You can barely stand.”

I opened my mouth to contradict him again, and Chris lunged for me. “Boo!”

I jumped and the walls billowed like sails in the wind. The next thing I knew, I was on my ass on the floor, gripping my head in both hands, willing the lasagna to stay in my stomach.

“What the hell was that for?” I asked, once I could open my eyes again.

Chris towered over me, hands on hips. “Trying to scare some sense in you. Though I’m beginning to think that’s impossible. You’re the most hard-headed woman I know.”

He walked away and I stuck my tongue out at his back.

“I saw that.”

I groaned and decided, while I was on the floor anyway, I should probably take the opportunity to fold the clothes overflowing my suitcase. I was going on this trip. No one could stop me.

“Did you get the invitation to your mother’s wedding today?”

I nodded then realized he couldn’t see me from the kitchen. “Yeah. Adair brought my mail over from the other apartment.”

“Do you have your tickets yet?”

“What tickets?”

“Your airline tickets to the wedding.”

“Why would I buy airline tickets when I’ll be driving?” Shit. I hadn’t meant to remind him I’d be there in time for the wedding.

He wandered back to the living room. “So you are going.”

I dropped a half-folded shirt into my lap. “What part of ‘I’m not going’ don’t you understand?”

He lowered himself to the couch, where he stared at me through narrowed eyes. Finally he spoke. “How much do you want to go on this trip?”

I placed the newly folded shirt in the suitcase and picked up another before turning my most charming smile on my best friend. “I’m going on the trip and that’s final. I’m not going to the wedding, and that’s final. I don’t care if the interview takes place in the church…during the ceremony.”

“Let me rephrase the question. How much do you want to live through this trip?”

“Ha, ha.”

“I’m not kidding,” Chris said, suddenly pissed off. “Hell, you can’t even walk down the hall without clipping the walls. And what if you have a dizzy spell while on the highway? What if you hit someone because you can’t tell up from down? What if you kill someone?”

I dropped my hands into my lap and stared at them. Deep inside I knew he was right, but giving up this trip felt like defeat. It felt like, if I skipped this trip, I’d never get my act together, never get another job, never put the pieces of my perfect life back in place. I’d originally thrown out the idea for this vacation just to annoy my best friend, and now it somehow seemed like a matter of life and death. However, it wasn’t worth taking someone else’s life.

“How much do you want to go on this trip?” Chris repeated, leaning back and resting his hands on his thighs.

“Stop asking me that!” I shouted. “You know I want to go. And you know, just like I do—” I tossed the shirt, still in a rumpled ball, back into the suitcase, “—that I can’t.” I sagged against the stack of boxes and willed myself not to cry.

“Are you willing to go to your mother’s wedding, if it means you can go on your trip?”

I looked up. “What does one have to do with the other? If I can’t go on my trip, I’d have to fly to California for the wedding, which still means no trip.”

“What if I drove you?”

“You mean like a surrogate?”

“A what?” He cringed like I said an ugly word. Like vagina.

“A surrogate. Driver, that is. Adair mentioned it.”

Chris shook his head. “Whatever. I just meant that I have to go to L.A. anyway, for business…and for the wedding.”

“You’re really going?”

“So are you, if you want me to drive you halfway across the country on some Fanatical About Elvis tour.”

“Dedicated to Elvis.”

“Whatever,” he repeated, rolling his eyes. “So, are you going to the wedding, or staying here and pouting—and putting a cramp in my love life—until you’re healed and can get your lazy butt back to work?”

I frowned. The idea of going to my mother’s wedding was possibly more depressing than missing the trip. I looked over at my Elvis bobblehead, sitting motionless on the coffee table among Chris’s sports magazines and business journals. This might be my only chance to see Graceland.

Where I could pretend all my problems didn’t exist…if only for a few days.

I bit my lip and looked back at Chris. “You hate Elvis.”

“I’ll adjust.”

“I’m touring Graceland and Graceland Too. I’m staying at the Heartbreak Hotel. I’m eating fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. I’m going to the Elvis-A-Rama Museum in Vegas.” With each sentence, Chris’s lip curled a bit more. I took no pity. “I’m going to see a show with Elvis impersonators.”

Chris’s nod was slow and painful.

“I’m serious. If you drive, you have to remember this is my vacation. You’ll have to live and breathe Elvis.”

“I’ll…suffer through it. Literally.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

Chris grinned. “Now, for my rules. We’ll take my Jeep, not that SUV thing you rented.”

“But the SUV is bigger.”

Chris raised a warning eyebrow at me.

“Fine.”

“I get to do some things I want on this trip.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

“You’ll go to the wedding. No fuss?”

I took a deep breath. “No fuss.”

“And you’ll wear whatever dress your mother picks for you, no matter how lacy it is?”

I threw a pair of socks at him. “Don’t push it.”

Chris smiled. “I don’t want you to miss your trip.”

“You don’t want me to stay here any longer, keeping you from having sex.”

“That, too. The sooner you get Elvis out of your system, the faster you can get back to your life. Which means I can get back to mine.”

“Sorry I’ve cramped your style.” I pushed myself up from the floor, deciding the packing could wait until tomorrow morning. Suddenly something occurred to me. “How are you going to take the time off work?”

“I’m the boss. I can do what I want.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number I assumed was Chip’s. While he waited for an answer, he plucked his cordless phone from the side table and tossed it to me. “Call your mother. RSVP for the both of us.”

Well, gee, that just about took all the joy out of going on the trip after all.

Chapter Seven

“I Need Somebody To Lean On”

Chris leaned on the horn impatiently—which had about as much effect as the honking of every other vehicle in Manhattan—warning me he was ready to leave. I’d remembered something in the apartment I needed to get.

Ten minutes later—slowed down by the vertigo—I arrived back at the car and slipped into my seat. I reached up and slapped my Elvis bobblehead on the dashboard. I’d rigged him up with Velcro so he’d stick.

“What the hell is that?” Chris asked, staring at it like he’d never seen it before in his life.

“Elvis. My good-luck charm.”

“Good luck, my ass!” He grabbed it and started to heave it into the rear recesses of the car, but I stopped him with a quick hand. My reflexes weren’t totally gone.

“Put. Him. Back.”

“In. Your. Dreams.”

“Chris, you said this was my trip.”

“This is my Jeep. Jeeps don’t have Elvis bobbleheads on the dash.”

“This one does.” I reached up with my other hand and removed Elvis from the clutches of The King Hater and stuck him back on the dash. “Touch him and die.”

“Big threat,” he shot back, but he put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic without trying to dethrone Elvis again. Although he did tend to slam on the brakes in a purposeful way, trying to dislodge Elvis from his position on the dashboard. He wasn’t successful and after a while gave up.

The traffic, of course, was hideous at this hour of the morning. It’s hideous at any hour in the city. By the time we drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and into New Jersey, I’d discovered riding in a car was hell on vertigo symptoms. I finally gave up and closed my eyes, resting my head back on the seat.

“Dizzy?” Chris asked, with a smile I could hear.

Not willing to concede weakness this early in the trip, I lied. “No, just tired. I didn’t sleep well. You need a new couch.”

“I need to not have a guest on my couch that was meant for sitting, not sleeping.”

I ignored him. “When are we going to get there?”

“In about nine hours. Want to drive?”

I groaned and glared at him through slitted eyes. Long car trips, at least when you weren’t occupied by driving, were boring as hell. Without thinking, I reached over and punched the seek button on the radio until it stopped on WKUP. For a moment, it sounded like any other jazz radio station. Music was music in any language. But, when the DJ came on, completely unintelligible to English-speaking listeners, it hit me that WKUP Wake Up Country was gone. Forever.

“Miss it?” Chris always picked up on my mood.

“I’ll be back.” I repeated the phrase I’d used on my listeners two short weeks ago. “One door closed but another will open.” Stupid cliché, I know, but I needed to believe it.

“Ever thought of trying another type of station besides country?” Chris made the peace sign at a passing Jeep that looked like it was on steroids, painted with a rainbow of colors, hyped up on monster truck wheels and with enough lights to illuminate a night game at Yankee Stadium.

“I’m not exactly an R&B or hip-hop kind of girl. Easy listening puts me to sleep, and gospel would be kind of blasphemous, don’t you think?”

Chris laughed, but I was serious. Sure, the thought had crossed my mind that it might be easier to settle for a job at another type of radio station. But I dismissed it just as quickly. Jockeying for anything other than a country station made as much sense for me as being a fashion consultant at Bergdorf Goodman.

***

“So, you wanna tell me what happened with you and Kevin?” Chris asked later. We parked Chris’s red Jeep in the parking lot of a Roanoke, Virginia, campground late that afternoon and donned our packs for the hike up to a camping spot Chris swore he’d been to before, but which looked to be beyond civilization. I took him at his word, only because I had no other choice.

The camping was being forced on me by Chris, who wanted to try out a new tent before he stocked it in his store. We’d ship it back to Chip tomorrow, after seeing if it withstood a night in the Virginia hills.

I huffed out a breath as I trudged up the dusty hill behind him, and it wasn’t only from exertion after being confined to a tiny car for nine hours. “Do I have to?”

“It’ll give us something to talk about.”

“How about the weather?”

“How about what you did to make Kevin throw you out with less than a week’s notice?”

At first I didn’t answer. It took all my concentration to keep walking without giving in to the dizziness that had been threatening ever since we got out of the car. I wasn’t quite ready to collapse, but if I gave in even for a moment I would be.

Chris glanced back over his shoulder, and I straightened up so he wouldn’t see how much of a toll this relatively easy hike was taking on me. “You okay?”

“Fine. Keep walking.”

He turned back and my shoulders sagged again. I desperately wanted to ask how much farther.

“So? Spill.”

Giving up, I answered the question. He’d find out soon enough anyway. Actually, considering the size of the mouths on all my friends, I was surprised he didn’t know already. I took a deep breath and blurted it out. “He asked me to marry him.”

Chris stopped so fast, I ran into the back of him.

“Geez.”

He grabbed my shoulders to steady me, but I moved away quickly, sucking it up.

“Marry him?”

I made a face and played it casual by reaching up and taking my ponytail out, making a big production of nonchalantly redoing it. “Yeah. Can you believe anything so stupid?”

“You obviously said no.”

“Of course, I said no! I’m not my mother.”

I turned and led the way up the path myself, assuming Chris would tell me when to stop.

“So what brought this on?” He caught up to me and took my arm as we climbed over a fallen tree.

I shook him off. “Heck if I know. One day everything was perfect and the next he told me we needed to go house hunting and get married. Then,” I said, halting in the middle of the path, causing Chris to run into me, “when I said no, he became this raving lunatic. He didn’t like my clothes. He didn’t like my job. He didn’t like Elvis.”

“Can’t say I disagree with him there.”

I slugged him in the stomach and continued walking. Obviously I didn’t hit him hard enough, because he followed.

“The point is, we’ve been together for more than two years, and he never said anything about any of that stuff. Then, when I don’t agree with the change of game plan, he goes off about how childish I am and how it’s time I got a real job. I mean, if he felt that way, why was he with me in the first place?”

“Free milk?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.” He veered off the path to a clearing in the trees. “Over here.” Birds sang all around us, obviously considering us friend instead of foe. Chris dumped his pack onto the dirt and pine-needle-packed ground and turned to take mine from my back. I bit back a sigh of relief to be relieved of the burden. It was hard to believe a week of enforced laziness could decondition a person so much. I couldn’t have run Central Park right now if I was being chased by a mugger.

I ran my hand through my hair. “Well, you’re right. Why does he want to marry me if I give it to him for free?”

“Beats me. Here, hold this.”

I took the end of the tent pole and held it while Chris pieced it together. We didn’t talk for a while, just worked together to set up the tent, enjoying the cool, fresh air, ripe with oxygen. Our lungs were probably in severe shock from the lack of carbon monoxide in the Virginia hills.

“So,” I finally said, as I closed the tent flap and brushed off my hands. “Kevin should have been happy getting sex for free and left it well enough alone.”

“Well, seeing as how he’s not getting it at all right now, you’re probably right. I always knew that guy wasn’t too bright.”

“Why couldn’t he be the stereotypically commitment-phobic guy?” I asked. “Like you.” Chris shot me a sidelong glance. “Or at least leave me out of it.”

He didn’t bother to answer.

Well, I thought, as I headed into the trees for a potty break, maybe that was exactly what Kevin had done by dumping me when I turned him down. He’d left me out of it.

***

A short time later, we sat back against a log, enjoying hot dogs roasted over a small fire in the provided pit.

“Remember when we went camping in college?” I popped the last bit of bun in my mouth. I felt surprisingly good, the dizziness at bay for the moment. “Penny Myers was so hot for you, she couldn’t stop following you around, and all you wanted to do was bang Amanda Wells.”

“I did bang Amanda Wells.” Chris tossed his napkin into the fire, followed by another piece of wood.

“No way!” Amanda Wells had been the epitome of badness. She stirred up trouble, especially between any couples in our group who hooked up, because she couldn’t stand the idea that some girl had some guy she couldn’t have. It didn’t matter if she didn’t want the guy in the first place. It only mattered that, as long as she couldn’t have him, she wanted him.

“Sure I did,” Chris replied, turning hazel eyes on me. “Lots of times. During and after the camping trip.”

“God. I have lost all respect for you. She was such a skank.”

“And damn good at it. I still miss her sometimes.”

I shuddered. It wasn’t the first time Chris slept with someone I didn’t like, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Wonder what ever happened to the old gang from school.” I put the vision of skanky Amanda and Chris going at it like rabbits out of my mind.

“I saw Mick Peters last week. He’s an attorney upstate.”

“Really? I always liked him.”

“He married that chick from the debate team. Had about six kids and got divorced a year ago.”

“What about Abe? What was his last name?”

Chris remembered everyone from college, and probably high school, and seemed to run into them a lot, so I knew he’d remember.

“Canfield. He married a blind date someone set him up on. They divorced about two months later. I think he said he married a third or fourth cousin or something.”

I sneered.

“That one didn’t last either. I think he’s collecting disability and watching soaps all day. He didn’t sound like a very motivated guy when I talked to him. What about that Mary Waite? You guys were good friends, weren’t you? I always wanted in her pants, but she played hard to get.”

I laughed. I’d have much preferred Chris to get into Mary Waite’s pants than Amanda Wells’s, but Mary wasn’t that kind of girl. “No one got in Mary’s pants. I think she graduated college a virgin and proud of it. She might be a nun now.”

Chris shook his head, a serious look on his face. “Damn shame. She was fine.”

“What about Becker?” I suddenly asked, after a few moments of silence. “Yum. I’d have let him in my pants.”

“Okay, I really don’t want to think about that, so don’t go there.”

I turned to stare at him. “What? Me and Becker?”

“The thought of you having sex. With Becker or anybody else for that matter.” He shuddered violently.

I rolled my eyes and settled back down, our shoulders brushing. “Yeah, Kevin and I were celibate for the last two years. You just go ahead and keep thinking that.”

“Fine with me.”

I snickered at Chris’s hypocritical attitude. Sex was good enough for him, but not for me. Well, I admit I didn’t really go out of my way to imagine Chris having sex either. It was kind of like picturing your sibling getting it on. I frowned, wondering if my brother, Rob, was still a virgin. He didn’t get out much.

“Anyway back to Becker,” I said.

“Last I heard he owned a bar on Beale Street. In Memphis.”

“Really?” I brightened up. “We should look him up when we get there. I’m free now.”

“Sure we can look him up. Not for sex, but because he used to be a great drinking buddy.”

I chuckled. Not like I’d seriously take up with a guy I hadn’t seen in seven or eight years. I was vacationing, not trolling for a fling.

“I wonder how many of our friends are married,” I said, thinking briefly that I felt sorry for any of them that were, but doubting, knowing how high the divorce rate was, many had stayed married, even if they had decided to take the plunge.

“I know of at least nine or ten who got married,” Chris commented, staring absently at the tree line where a group of crows sat eyeing us, probably hoping we’d head for the tent before dark so they could forage for our leftovers. “And probably eight of those also got a divorce or have been married more than once. Shit, I think I heard that one guy who’d been on the football team was on his fourth wife or something.”

I shook my head. “It all goes to prove my point. If Kevin really thought about it, marriage is highly overrated. Heck, even Elvis got a divorce.” I shrugged off the uncomfortable topic, though I’d been the one to bring it up. “Did you bring marshmallows?” Suddenly s’mores sounded good.

“No. I packed light.”

“Humph. Remind me to pack next time.”

“You didn’t even want to come.” Chris nudged me good-naturedly with his shoulder as I yawned.

The sun drifted down, behind the trees at least, giving our little patch of the world a shadowed, ethereal look. Without the sun’s rays, the temperature began to drop. I slumped a bit down on the log, leaning into Chris’s side to absorb some of his body heat.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to come,” I assured him. “It’s that I didn’t want you taking over my trip.”

“Would I do that?” His look was one of practiced innocence.

After twenty years of friendship, I knew better. “This trip is really important.” Unexpectedly, I needed him to understand. “I feel like my life has fallen apart bit by bit. Remember that game we used to play as kids? Don’t Break The Ice? Where that little guy sat on a chair in the middle of the ice blocks and the players took turns pounding out one block at a time, until he finally fell down?” I reached over and snagged a long stick to poke at the fire. Showers of sparks floated up into the dusky air. “That’s how I feel. Like each day for the past few weeks somebody else has taken a turn at the hammer, banging out one more little ice block of my life.”

Chris laughed, draping his arm over my shoulder. After a second of feeling startled by the move, I decided to just enjoy the warmth and scooted closer. “Don’t worry,” Chris said, “I won’t let anyone else bang you. I’ll take care of you.”

“Very funny.” Even teasing, his words hit a nerve. “I don’t need taking care of. I need to be allowed to live the way I want. I need people to take me seriously when I talk, whether or not they agree with what I say. I need my life to go back to the way it was before.”

“You can’t go back,” Mr. Philosophical said.

“Okay, then I want to go forward to perfection.”

“So how does communing with Elvis accomplish that?”

“It’s not the communing with Elvis that will accomplish it.” I eyed him to make sure there was no Elvis bashing in the works. When he didn’t make any snide comments, I continued.

“I just need to get away. Not think about jobs or relationships for a few weeks. I figure it’ll give me a chance to figure out what to do with my life and where to go from here.” I tossed my flaming stick into the fire. “I could’ve done without seeing my mother on this trip, however.”

“Uh, uh, uh. No whining. That was our deal.”

“No, our deal was that I’d go to the wedding and you’d drive. You never said I couldn’t whine about it.”

Chris just smiled and settled in, pulling me closer to him as I shivered in the chill air. I had to smile back. A peace I hadn’t felt in too long settled over me. I decided not to analyze it and just enjoy it.

“Look.” I pointed up as the first stars winked awake.

We watched the stars for a while, while the fire popped and sparked. Though this spur-of-the-moment camping trip hadn’t been on my agenda, I had to say it felt pretty welcome right then. I didn’t have to think about how to find a job. I didn’t have to think about Kevin’s harsh words and obvious dislike for just about everything I’d said and done in the last couple of years. I could simply sit and be…with the one person in my life who didn’t judge me.

***

The tent was empty when I awoke the next morning at what my watch said was 6:30 a.m. I mentally scolded myself for sleeping so long. I needed to keep to my early rising schedule so I wouldn’t get out of the habit.

I sat up tentatively, testing my equilibrium before attempting any sudden moves. It seemed okay. I stood and stretched and ran my fingers through my hair, scratching my scalp before securing my hair in an easy-to-care-for ponytail and rubbing at the back of my itchy neck. It would be really nice to be in a motel room with running water tonight. Not that I didn’t like camping, but I loved my showers.

The cold morning air further awakened me as I brushed my teeth with bottled water, spitting into the bushes at the side of the camp. Chris must have been off taking care of business. The birds practiced their morning scales, and the dew rose up off the ground wherever the sun touched it.

I scratched at a spot on my left arm and then dug around in our packs to see what breakfast would entail this morning. There wasn’t much to choose from, so I decided to wait to see what Chris had planned, praying we weren’t testing out any kind of backpacking rations or anything. I wanted real food.

“Morning.”

I remembered to rise slowly and was pleased to find I still didn’t get dizzy from the new position change.

“Morning, yourself,” I answered, rubbing at what felt like a zit forming on my forehead. Great. Just what I needed the day before a photo shoot.

“Holy shit.” Chris moved closer, staring at my face like I transformed overnight into something hideous. “You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.” I moved away, scratching the side of my neck. “You look mighty terrific in the morning, too.”

“No, Margo. Really.” Chris took hold of my shoulder and turned me back toward him, cringing a little when he got too close. “Did you put on that mosquito repellant I left on your sleeping bag last night?”

“That bottle of stuff I couldn’t read in the dark?” I snapped, arching my back to scratch a spot between my shoulder blades, which burned and itched at the same time. “How was I supposed to know what it was?”

Suddenly my whole body itched. I looked down at my bare legs, still in the shorts I’d worn yesterday and slept in last night. Bright red circular welts the size of quarters covered me from thighs to shins. “Shit!” I lunged for the car, yanking open the door and rolling down the driver’s window so I could see into the side mirror. My face, too, had sprouted a multitude of angry mosquito bites overnight. “I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me to use that stuff!” I attacked a spot above my right brow with a vengeance.

“Stop scratching.” Chris pulled my hand away from my face. “You’ll just make it worse.”

“It can’t get worse,” I shouted, staring back into the mirror in a combination of horror and fascination. “I have a photo shoot tomorrow. I can’t go looking like this.” Slamming the car door, I attacked my arms with my fingernails, scratching like a dog with fleas. “Get me to a store. Now. I need calamine lotion or something.”

We packed fast, skipping breakfast, and were in the car within thirty minutes. Thankfully, there was a country store not too far down out of the hills, fully stocked for stupid campers who didn’t take the proper precautions.

“The way my luck is going,” I growled, slouching in my seat and using the Braille method to dab each mountain-sized bump on my face with calamine, “I’ll get malaria or West Nile virus on top of everything else. Oh, but on the bright side,” I said sarcastically, “then, I won’t have to go to my mother’s wedding.”

Chris ignored me and I went back to painting myself in pink lotion. Getting tired of dotting each spot individually, I briefly toyed with the idea of slathering it on like regular lotion, but a warning from Chris not to get the stuff on his car seats kept me from following through.

We found a McDonald’s and Chris fed me, probably to keep me from biting his head off for the entire rest of today’s car trip. I was in no mood for niceties and sure as heck didn’t feel like being pleasant to the person who hadn’t even thought to warn me about the voracity of Virginian mosquitoes.

I’d barely finished my Egg McMuffin, washed down with OJ, when my cell phone rang.

“Margo?”

I threw Chris a pained look, but he didn’t notice so keen was he on waving at some chick in another Jeep.

“Margo?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m here.”

“Where? You aren’t riding those awful subways again, are you?”

“Cell phones don’t work in the subway. I’m in the car with Chris.” My extended vacation was a secret. One hint I was free of any sort of schedule, and she’d try to talk me into showing up in California earlier than the three days before the wedding I’d already reluctantly added to my schedule.

“So, dear, what do you think of pink?”

“Basically, I try not to think of pink.”

“I mean for the bridesmaids’ dresses, Margo, not as a topic for general contemplation.”

Again, I was struck by the fact that my mother asked me to be an attendant in her wedding. Ten previous marriages—nine that I had been able to attend, having actually been alive for them—and she’d never asked me to be in the wedding party. It was enough to make a girl suspicious. It was also probably a question I’d never get answered. My mother did things for reasons like “being in love” (in the case of the marriages), because she thought something was pretty (like the time she purchased a catamaran, which she didn’t know how to sail and ended up docking somewhere so she could look at it), or because it made her happy (the reason she called me every day, even though I clearly didn’t share the sentiment).

Oh, well. There were more important things right now than delving into the whys and wherefores of my mother’s psyche. Namely, convincing her I wasn’t wearing pink in public.

I checked to be sure Chris was still occupied with driving and not listening to my conversation. “Well, Mom,” I said as carefully and as quietly as I could, considering the soft top of the Jeep in the wind sounded like a drum beating overhead. “I think you might pick a different color. Pink is really better suited to babies, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, dear. Pink is all the rage this year.”

Maybe in the clubs where Adair hung out.

“Well,” I began again, wracking my brain for an excuse. “Pink really isn’t very flattering to my coloring.”

“Oh.” She sounded vaguely disappointed—and like she believed I might actually know what colors were flattering on me, which I didn’t. I chose my clothing by what I liked, not what accented my eye color or brought out the golden highlights in my hair, which I wasn’t even sure existed. Curious, I flipped down the sun visor to find out, but apparently Jeeps didn’t come with vanity mirrors. Chris shot me a curious glance before turning back to the twisty-turny road.

“That’s too bad,” my mother continued, “because Sam and I found the perfect pink dresses today. You could—”

“Wait. Sam? I thought his name was Quinn.” Good God, she’d changed husbands before the wedding even happened. Did my mother know no shame? Did she think men were disposable, never-ending commodities to be bought and sold on her whim? Did she—

“Oh, Margo!” Mom laughed. “Sam is Quinn’s daughter. What do you take me for?”

Uh, the woman of ever-revolving men?

“Sorry. Quinn has a daughter?”

“Yes. She’s delightful, Margo. You’ll love her. You always wanted a sister.”

“I did?”

“When you were little, you asked me once if I could exchange Rob for a sister, like we’d exchanged a Barbie you didn’t like for a skateboard.”

I chuckled and rubbed my back against the car seat like a bear scratching on a tree. Right. That was the year sports equipment became infinitely more exciting than out-of-proportion fashion dolls. The same year Rob started to become a really irritating older brother. I didn’t remember the part about trading him in though. That must have been before I proved my skills with the skateboard and Rob and Chris started inviting me to play with them.

“So, how old is Quinn’s daughter?” I asked, not so much because I cared, but because I wondered how much more “mothering” my mother was going to attempt in her life. I mean, she hadn’t exactly been stellar at it when I was a kid, at least not after the age of ten.

“She’s your age. Maybe twenty-five.”

Only four years younger than me? I guess that exploded the theory Quinn was in his twenties. Strike cradle-robbing off the list of my mother’s misdemeanors.

“You’ll love her. And his three other children.”

I’d never know them. Just like I wouldn’t know my new stepfather. Like I didn’t really even know my mother—and she didn’t know me, if she thought I’d be caught dead in a pink bridesmaid dress.

“Great! But how about blue or black for the dresses? Those colors are flattering on just about everyone,” I suggested, digging at a particularly itchy patch of bites through the jeans I’d changed into before leaving the camp. That triggered itching on my left arm and I transferred my phone to that side, so my right hand was free for scratching.

“Black for a wedding? Margo, really. That would be just wrong.”

Would it? I thought. Wasn’t this particular wedding the death of the whole institution of marriage itself? That big “’til death do us part” thing mocked and scorned? I wasn’t going to argue with her, though. “Look, Mom, I need to get going. The doorbell is ringing.”

Chris shot me a look.

“I thought you said you were in the car.”

I bit my lip and crossed my fingers at my side. “I, uh, was. But, I’m home now. Gotta run. Oh, and no pink, okay?”

I quickly disconnected the phone.

“Your mom?”

“How’d you guess? She wanted me to wear a pink bridesmaid dress.”

His grin took up nearly his whole face. “It would match your spots.”

***

I fell asleep not long after, and for once I didn’t care that I was letting Chris take care of me. The few times I woke up, the itching was so unbearable, all I could do was succumb to sleep again to keep sane.

We pulled into the Nashville area in the late afternoon. Our stomachs growled from lack of food, and I was cranky from being cooped up in a cramped car, where access to some particularly itchy spots was limited. All I wanted to do was stretch my legs, eat a triple cheeseburger and sink into a soft, roomy-enough-for-scratching bed.

Our motel was far from the heart of Nashville. Not even really in the suburbs. A tiny little thing, but I’d saved my money for the better (read: Elvis-oriented) hotels in Memphis and Las Vegas, and pinched my pennies everywhere else. So, this one was nothing special and nowhere special. One would have had a hard time telling flashy Nashville, Tennessee, wasn’t too far away.

We each dumped our bags on our respective beds, and I made a beeline for the bathroom. “I look like a Heffalump!” I cried, peering at my face in the less-than-crystalline mirror.

“A heffa-what?”

“A Heffalump.” I turned to the left to see how far around my neck the welts extended. “Or a Woozle.”

“Again, a what?”

I turned off the light and came out of the bathroom. Chris was pawing through his duffle bag.

“You know, like in Winnie the Pooh? His nightmare was Heffalumps and Woozles. They were elephants. Spotted elephants.”

Chris raised his shaving kit in triumph, before giving me a once-over. “You’re safe then, unless you pack on a couple tons.”

He headed for the bathroom and I peered at myself in the dresser mirror, drawn to my reflection like a narcissist who couldn’t get enough of his image. A depressed narcissist, because if these bites didn’t disappear by tomorrow, my photo on the cover of Today’s Country would frighten away whatever prospective employers I might attract with my fifteen minutes of fame. Somehow I doubted anyone would want to hire a DJ who looked like she had leprosy.

Staring at the spots made them itch more, and I delicately scratched through the calamine lotion, trying not to flake it off. I’d need another layer soon. Not that it was helping. I still itched like a son of a gun. There had to be a better way.

Hearing the shower come on in the bathroom, I dug through the drawers of the bureau trying to find a phone book. Finally locating it, I thumbed through until I found the number for the local hospital and dialed the emergency room. Hey, it was a dermatologic emergency in my eyes.

Ten minutes later, I hung up the phone with a list of what to do for mind-numbing itching. They included such props as uncooked oatmeal and Benadryl, which I’m pretty sure weren’t on the room-service menu, especially considering this motel didn’t have room service. This required a trip to the store. Now. I tiptoed toward the bathroom door. Chris sang to himself over the rush of water. I smiled. How cute. I’d never known anyone but me who actually sang in the shower. Giving the room a quick once-over, I looked for Chris’s keys.

Of course, I wasn’t supposed to drive, but I hadn’t felt dizzy for a long time. Hours, at least. And I remembered seeing a grocery store close by. Surely I could manage to get that far without running into anything.

Biting my lip as I spotted the keys on one of the bedside tables, I threw up a promise that if I felt even the slightest bit dizzy on the way to the parking lot, I’d come back to the room. I wouldn’t take a chance on wrecking Chris’s car.

Keys in hand, I headed outside, figuring I had a good twenty minutes before Chris even realized I left. Driving the Jeep was fun. I didn’t drive much, only borrowing Kevin’s little Honda if I needed to go so far that a taxi ride would require a bank loan or the bus or subway would need more than five transfers. However, Chris’s Jeep was a stick shift. It had been years since I’d driven a stick. Thankfully, Chris didn’t see my first whiplash-inducing attempts to leave the motel parking lot.

I made it to Kroger, ignoring the stares at my spotted state, collected my purchases and was back in the car with no mishaps. My equilibrium troubles seemed well behind me. Stowing the oatmeal and Benadryl—as well as snack food and foundation to cover up any bites that still existed tomorrow—in the miniscule back seat, I climbed in and slid out of the parking space.

The motel was almost out in the country. I sped along, enjoying the breeze coming in the open driver’s window, taking in the unfamiliar scenery, feeling free and light for the first time in days. I was upright, driving by myself instead of being driven—which, I suppose, was a rather silly thing to be proud of when I rarely drove myself anywhere, dizzy or not. Still, after being taken care of for the entire last week, it felt great to be independent. My confidence soared. I’d park the Jeep and be back in the motel room before Chris even missed me.

That is until another Jeep went by and the driver waved. Surprised, since I’d been under the assumption all the waving going on had been Chris waving at hot chicks, I swung my head around to see what could possibly have possessed the driver to wave at me. All of a sudden, my stomach lurched, my vision blurred and the passing trees darted into the road, as dizziness flooded back in a huge wave.

Another car passed and laid on its horn when I swerved into the oncoming lane. Panicked and nauseous, I dragged the wheel to the right, pulled over to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes, throwing my head forward as I came to a stop. I rested it against the steering wheel, willing the world back to stillness. No such luck. I stumbled out onto the pavement, probably giving the car coming up behind me a heart attack, as they, too, swerved to miss me. Using the hood for balance, I groped my way around to the ditch and promptly lost my lunch.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed before my brain fog lifted enough to remember that if Chris got out of the shower and found me gone, I was a dead woman.

Reversing my previous path around the car, I inched my way back to the driver’s seat and started the car again. Did people get tickets for driving too slow? The five-minute trip took fifteen by the time I pulled into the thankfully still-empty spot we’d occupied in the motel parking lot. It took another ten minutes to be able to lift my head off the steering wheel again. And, even then, I had to be prompted.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Chapter Eight

“Hound Dog”

I startled, or at least my eyelids did, because they were the only body part I could move at the moment.

“Don’t yell,” I whispered.

“Damn straight I’m going to yell,” Chris shouted back. “What the hell are you doing driving?”

I decided it was now or never, so I groped for the grocery sack in the passenger seat and shoved the door open, swinging it wildly toward Chris, who backed up, cursing, to avoid getting a black eye.

“Don’t worry,” I muttered. “I didn’t wreck your precious car.”

“Jeep,” he corrected, slamming the driver’s door and following me toward the open door of our room, as I tripped and swayed my way back to the sanctuary within. “And I wasn’t worried about the goddamn Jeep.” He gripped my elbow and practically lifted me up and over the curb, which may as well have been a mountain for my inability to negotiate my way over it.

“Okay, yes, I was, but you could have killed yourself.”

Glancing out the corner of my eye at him as I fell face-first onto my bed, I took in his beet-red face and narrowed eyes, and didn’t believe for a minute he’d been worried about my skin. Shoving my bag onto the floor, I attempted to maneuver myself farther onto the bed, as the room took a turn around me.

“What was so damned important that you couldn’t wait until I got out of the shower?” Chris picked up the bag and opened it. When he figured it out, the heat of his anger practically radiated off him. “Benadryl? Oatmeal? Make-up?”

“For the itch. The oatmeal and Benadryl. Doctor’s orders.”

“What doctor?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but when my stomach lurched I clamped my jaw shut and waved him off. It didn’t matter what doctor.

“So what are we supposed to do with it?”

Surprised at his suddenly calm voice, I opened one eye and looked at him. He stood beside the bed, reading the label on the back of the oatmeal box. His anger was gone.

“I’m supposed to take a bath in it.”

“A bath?” He looked incredulous for a moment, and then shrugged and headed for the bathroom. “Hot or cold?”

Pushing myself up on one elbow I stared at Chris through weary eyes. “What?”

“Hot or cold water? I’ll run the bath. Obviously it’s important.”

Ten minutes later, I lay in a warm bath filled with floating specks of beige breakfast food, drifting in a Benadryl-induced haze, and wondered about the guy I’d called my best friend for twenty years.

How had he gone from zero to furious and back again in such a short time? I could have wrecked his car, stranding us in the middle of nowhere, leaving his insurance record in tatters, not to mention possibly being the cause of a lawsuit or worse, if I’d actually hurt someone. Why’d he forgive me so quickly?

Absently rubbing my skin with the softly rough oatmeal water, I remembered once fighting with Kevin. I somehow crashed his computer and he’d been furious for weeks. Even after it was fixed—no harm done to any of his files or programs—it took a while for him to forgive and forget. Over a computer. I could have destroyed Chris’s car, and it took him less than five minutes to forgive me. And draw a bath for me.

Kevin had never drawn a bath for me.

He’d never taken care of me, despite his assertion that was one of our problems. Once I’d had walking pneumonia. Instead of taking the day off to make sure I was okay, Kevin had been out the door as usual, by eight-thirty, headed for the office. After all, he had an important meeting and I was merely running a hundred-and-three-degree fever and coughing up a lung. No doubt if I’d had the strength to call Chris, he’d have been at my door with chicken soup and Tylenol before I hung up the phone.

Not that I needed or wanted to be taken care of. I took care of myself, sick or not. This showed the obvious difference between the boyfriend who thought mainly of himself and the best friend who cared enough to make sure I didn’t scratch myself bloody.

Chris tapped gently at the door. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I turned my head toward the door and opened my eyes, which promptly misted over. Geez. I was turning into a sap just because Chris was sick of watching me scratch. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Did it help much?” Chris laid down the magazine he was browsing and looked up as I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later in jeans and a clean T-shirt, a bit less itchy but feeling like a wet noodle from the warm water and last vestiges of dizziness.

Nodding, I made my way over to the second chair at the tiny round table by the window. “It’s better.”

“Where’s the calamine?”

“No more dots. I’m starving and I thought maybe you’d take me out for dinner.” I stuck out my lower lip and tried to look pitiful, in case he was still angry and wanted to make me suffer by starvation.

He stood and stretched his arms above his head, revealing a few muscled bulges beneath his T-shirt. I hadn’t felt any muscled chests in a while, and I wondered if really wild sex might knock back into place whatever was loose in my head. Too bad I had no prospects to test that remedy.

“There’s a little bar next door,” Chris suggested. “I called the front desk and they said it serves pretty good burgers.”

“Sure.” My stomach gave a little leap at the thought of grease and salt. Could you be hungry and nauseous at the same time? If not, I was forging new territory.

Country music blared from the old-fashioned jukebox, and a half dozen old-timers had a line dance going in a corner cleared of tables. The fresh air revived me a bit, taking the edge off the nausea and bringing out my appetite. Chris and I took a couple of empty places at the chipped and scarred wooden bar. The wall behind the bar was a collage of faded black-and-white and color photos of various country music legends, some signed, some not. A woman as old as dirt polished a glass with a cloth tucked into the waist of her apron, and then filled it from the tap before passing it down the bar to a guy who looked like he’d been at it for a while. That or he suffered from vertigo like me.

“Two beers, please,” Chris told the bartender.

“Make mine Coke,” I amended, adding to Chris, “I don’t think my balance can take any more abuse today.”

“What caused the dizziness to come back?” He automatically scoped out the room and rolled his eyes at the line dancers in the corner. Country music wasn’t his thing. I, on the other hand, would have loved to join, had I been able to participate on my hands and knees.

“Someone waved at me.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I felt fine. Driving along. Almost back to the motel. When some guy in another Jeep waved.” I shrugged and took a grateful sip of the Coke the bartender set in front of me. Maybe the jolt of caffeine would wake me up. “I turned too fast to see if it was someone who knew me or something.”

“Of course they didn’t know you. It was the Jeep Wave.”

“Like the wave at a ball game?”

“No.” He rolled his eyes as he swigged his beer. “It’s the Jeep Wave. Everyone who owns a Wrangler waves at everyone else who owns a Wrangler.”

My turn to roll my eyes. “You mean, like a fraternity handshake.”

“Exactly. Haven’t you noticed all the waves since we left the city? What did you think I was doing?”

“Waving at hot women, who just happened to be driving the same car.”

“Jeep. It’s not a car. It’s a Jeep.”

“It has four tires, an engine and a steering wheel. It’s a car.”

“A riding lawn mower has four tires, an engine and a steering wheel, too, and it’s not a car. A Jeep is a Jeep.”

Obviously I wouldn’t win this argument. I wasted my breath if I thought I’d come out the victor. Chris picked up on that and returned to giving the room a once-over. He swiveled his barstool around to get a better view. I left mine the way it was. I didn’t want to risk any sudden circular movements.

“Possibility at ten o’clock,” Chris muttered.

“Possibility? Are you kidding?”

He turned an incredulous eye on me. “I haven’t had sex in over a week. No thanks to you.”

“I haven’t had sex in almost four weeks, and you don’t see me trolling for strangers.”

“Guess you don’t like sex as much as I do.”

“Yes, I do,” I replied, drawing funny looks from several other patrons at the bar. I continued in a quieter voice, “I just don’t need strangers to fulfill my urges.”

Chris grinned. “Take care of things on your own, do you?”

“No!” Geez. Like I’d fly solo with Chris in the next bedroom—or bed, as the case was now.

He just laughed and left it. Probably knew he’d never get me to admit to even needing to take care of things myself. Instead he went back to staring at his possibility, who turned out to be a tiny little blonde in a cropped T-shirt that said Babe on it, leaning over the pool table, lining up a shot. As she bent over, the guys she was playing with moved to stare at her ass, encased in Daisy Duke shorts, or at her boobs, which were probably peeking out from under the edge of her T-shirt.

“Looks like your possibility already has other possibilities. Better luck next time.”

The bartender delivered the burgers we’d ordered and Chris gave up his watch to concentrate on his food. Neither of us had eaten since this morning and it showed in the speed with which we consumed the drippy burgers. I found myself relaxing, with the brunt of the dizziness abating and the itching slightly relieved by the oatmeal bath. May end up taking another one of those baths before the night is over, I thought, biting off the end of a nearly foot-long French fry and trying not to think about scratching, which would inevitably start up the itching again.

Periodically, the bar door opened, bringing in a draft to clear out some of the smoke, which was oddly comforting after so much fresh air in the last two days. We finished our burgers and sat silently digesting for a few minutes. I glanced at the door as it opened and shut again, this time admitting a group of women, who immediately set to looking about the room.

Chris noticed too, because he let out a low whistle. “Sex at ten o’clock.”

“You wish,” I shot back, under my breath. All this talk of sex—or lack of it—made me itchy, and it didn’t have anything to do with mosquito bites. I did like sex just as much as Chris. Maybe more. I just kept it under control. But the past couple of days—without the sedative effects of pollution—I’d been feeling exceedingly antsy. Lack of exercise or sex and being cooped up in a car, on top of an entire week relegated to the couch in Chris’s living room, was creating a lot of tension. I needed a good run. Or a man.

The chances of either were slim.

“Hey.”

Chris and I turned simultaneously at the sound of the demure little voice behind us. A small brunette pressed herself practically into Chris’s lap.

“Hey, yourself.” The hitch in his voice probably matched the hitch in his crotch.

“My name’s Candy.”

Of course it was. She was small, olive-skinned and built. And not like a linebacker. Her endowment made me look like I had two pancakes hidden under my shirt.

“Are you from around here?” she asked, licking her lips in an exaggerated manner.

“Passing through.” Chris turned on his thousand-watt smile, which was totally irresistible to most women, present party excluded. I’d seen Katya, as well as countless other women—and men, in Adair’s case—collapse under the high gloss of Chris’s smile.

“Passing through is good. I’m just passing through, too. My friends and I are from Phillie.”

“New York. I’m staying at the motel next door.”

He was staying at the motel next door with me. No mention of me was made.

“Me, too!” Candy replied in her best blonde bimbo voice. She obviously wasn’t a natural brunette. “Do you have your own room?” She glanced at the group of girls she was with.

I almost groaned aloud. How completely obvious could she be?

Chris’s hesitation was brief, but still punctuated with a silent question aimed in my direction. Do I have my own room?

I coughed.

Chris and Candy both looked at me.

I shrugged innocently. “Fry in my throat.”

Chris sent a narrow warning glance at me before turning back to his prey. “My sister,” he lied. I coughed again. “She doesn’t like to be ignored.”

“Oh, well, maybe I should leave.” Her words lacked any kind of sincerity.

“No, don’t leave. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room. But maybe we could work around that.”

What? The back seat of the car—excuse me, Jeep—wasn’t big enough for extracurricular activities. That left someplace outdoors. Behind the bar Dumpster? In the woods behind the motel? Lance and I once had sex in the woods when we’d gone to an outdoor concert, which was surprisingly exciting, so I certainly wouldn’t put it past Chris to go that route.

“Want to dance?” Chris asked Candy, running a hand up her bare arm.

Sensing I was about to be deserted, I couldn’t let him sacrifice himself by dancing to country music. “You hate—”

“I love dancing,” Chris barked, and I shut up, knowing when a man began thinking with alternative body parts, there was no deterring him.

With another strange look at me, Chris’s new friend took him up on his offer. She slipped her hand into his waistband and tugged him off the stool. The triumphant look he shot me ticked me off even more. He was going to get it and I wasn’t. Just one more reason to hate him.

For a while, I toyed with my cold French fries, twirling them in ketchup and mashing them in my mouth, the tang of the ketchup the only thing they had going for them now. Chris’s new toy laughed as she showed him how to dance the two-step. Rolling my eyes, I watched him stumble over the unfamiliar steps, with Candy using the opportunity to rub all over him, mesmerized by his overblown personality.

How could anyone take that seriously? He was like one of those spotlights used to highlight grand openings. He lit up, and everyone—female and sometimes male—turned to see what he offered. It seemed excessive.

I was used to guys who were quieter, more reserved. Kevin would no more have turned on a thousand-watt smile to get what he wanted, with me or anyone else, than he would have jumped into the Hudson. Chris, on the other hand, had people begging to do his bidding with a simple smile. Even I wasn’t immune…in a completely nonsexual sense, of course. Hadn’t I given in to him on a hundred different occasions? Picking up his mail for him when he left town, even though it was inconvenient for me to get there every day. Bringing him corned-beef sandwiches from that SoHo deli he loved when he worked on Sunday, because they didn’t deliver and he just couldn’t live without one. One smile, which Chris somehow managed to deliver even over phone lines, and everyone jumped to his beck and call, including me. Which made me really, really cranky.

My cell phone chirped, and I turned away from watching Chris and Candy slip from two-stepping into a slow dance to dig the phone from my pocket.

“What?” I snapped, fully expecting my mother again.

Instead it was Katya. I needed to start looking at the caller ID before answering my phone. “I’m going insane.”

“Join the club,” I muttered, using my knife to draw a frowning face in the puddle of ketchup on my plate.

“I’m serious, Margo. Keep your eyes out in the paper for a murder in Manhattan, because Adair is coming really, really close to forcing my hand.”

I laughed, forgetting Chris’s betrayal for the moment. “Must be getting good. You’re normally such a pacifist.”

“He bought a cat. One of those hairless ones.”

“What for?” I couldn’t picture Adair with a cat.

“Some picture in one of the fifteen modern-decorating magazines he now subscribes to showed one, so he decided we needed one. Rather, he needed one. I don’t think he knows I exist anymore.”

I turned to find Chris. He and Candy were in the middle of a lip lock. I groaned. “Again, join the club. Chris is administering the Kiss Test to some slutty woman as we speak, and appears to have forgotten all about the fact that he’s on this vacation with me.”

Yes, I knew we weren’t on vacation “together.” And, yes, I didn’t want him with me in the first place. That wasn’t the point. The point was Chris was right. I didn’t like to be ignored.

“Well, thanks for telling me that,” Kat moaned. “Just heap on more pain, why don’t you?”

Chris lifted his head from Candy’s. He was smiling. Catching my eye, he gave me the thumbs-up sign. I gave him a scowl and turned away. I could ignore him, too. I don’t know what made me feel worse. What he was doing or the fact that I cared.

“So, am I missing anything at home?” I asked.

Kat told me all about the early heat wave, Adair’s ongoing quest to bag the Wide-Strider and what was going on at the station, which involved interpreters and so much bowing non-Korean employees were lining up appointments with their chiropractors. By the time we hung up, I was more depressed. It sounded like fun.

“Anything else for you?”

I looked up to see the bartender awaiting my answer. Pushing my plate toward her, I shook my head and then looked around for Chris. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“If you’re looking for your friend, he said not to wait up.” The bartender, whose hair could have used a good washing, winked at me just in case I didn’t get her drift.

“Thanks.” For nothing, I added to myself.

Since dinner was clearly on me tonight, I paid the bill and then surveyed the room one more time, absently scratching at my thigh, where the rubbing of my jeans antagonized the bug bites. The bar hadn’t changed much in the last hour. Still had dancers, still had drinkers, still had girls scouting for hot guys. The music was loud and very country. My favorite song, “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problems,” Kenny Chesney’s island-beat song about vacationing in Mexico, played on the jukebox, which usually got my feet moving, but today just brought me down.

Dang it! This wasn’t how my vacation was supposed to be going. I’d come to enjoy myself. I was supposed to be figuring out what to do with my life. Being depressed because Chris deserted me, when he wasn’t supposed to have been on this vacation in the first place, was stupid. Since he was with me, though, it would have been nice if his attention wasn’t focused elsewhere.

I needed a good night’s sleep. Which I just might get with the room to myself.

A particularly annoying bite below my right ear started to irritate me, so I headed back for Benadryl and another oatmeal bath. Tomorrow would be better.

Fifteen minutes later, with my Elvis bobblehead that I’d swiped from the dash of Chris’s Jeep watching me from the bathroom counter, I sank neck-deep in warm water, meditating on my future, trying not to scratch. I knew the Benadryl would kick in soon, but in the meantime, I had to make an effort.

My thoughts mixed with the silence and the softly lapping water. It was so quiet here, unlike New York where, no matter how quiet your apartment seemed, outside sounds still drifted in. Here, minus the honking, the car engines and the constant murmur of miscellaneous street sounds, a person was truly alone with her thoughts. Not sure I liked it much. Lying in a tub in Tennessee didn’t put me any closer to getting a new job. Or did it? The photo shoot tomorrow took me in the right direction. Once my face graced the cover of Today’s Country Magazine, I’d have ammunition.

“I’ll just waltz right into WDIG when I get home and tell them they can’t live without me,” I told Elvis, sinking into water which made me drowsier by the second. “Who wouldn’t want the opportunity to employ this year’s Best Country DJ?”

At least I hoped it would go down that way. After all, rent didn’t pay itself, and unemployment checks didn’t even make a dent in living expenses in Manhattan. I couldn’t stay with Chris. Meeting him at the bar for drinks on Friday nights, the occasional ball game or movie, was enough. This close-quarters stuff would wear thin soon.

“I just have to get back on my feet again,” I muttered, shutting my eyes against the dim light shining from above the vanity. “I’m meant to be an independent woman.”

Some time later, muffled noises drifted into my consciousness, or lack thereof. The Benadryl had knocked me out and I’d drifted off in the tub. Dazed, I pushed myself upright, simultaneously noticing the chilly water, the oatmeal stuck all over my body and the escalating moans coming from the room. Vaguely remembering I was supposed to be alone because Chris left the bar with his conquest, I froze, listening. It sounded like…

“Oh, that’s right, baby. That’s right.”

No. Way.

The sounds waxed and waned as Chris and Candy went at it in the next room. Hopefully on Chris’s bed.

For God’s sake, why me? I thought, covering my ears. What did I do to deserve such punishment? I needed to get out of here. But I was stuck. I’d have to wait and hope they quit soon and I could sneak out of here with some of my dignity left.

They didn’t stop. They went on and on and on. I had to hand it to Chris, he had some kind of stamina. Even without Viagra. Pretty soon, though, awe turned to annoyance. The water grew progressively colder, the oatmeal stickier and the sounds of passion too…intimate. The cold water turned me into a frozen prune, so I turned on the warm water to a trickle and attempted to rinse myself off. It didn’t work. The pipes must have been old, so when the water wasn’t on full blast, they made an awful groan. Giving up, I turned the water off and let the bathtub drain. I’d have to dress without rinsing.

Except, I had no clothes.

Shit.

They were on the bed. Hopefully not the bed Chris and Candy were using for their play date. I, on the other hand, was stuck in the bathroom with no clothes, only bath towels with the absorbency of plywood. I set a towel on the toilet lid, shivering, and wrapped another towel around my shoulders, which did absolutely nothing to make me feel warmer.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to think happy, non-sexy thoughts. I searched for a happy place…far, far away from this motel room.

It didn’t work.

Did sex always sound like that? I knew I made noise during sex, but did I sound that bad? Like a rhino in heat?

With a grand finale, things in the other room finally quieted down. Thank God. Hopefully now that they were done, Candy would clear out, and I could get out of here and go to bed. Only, what if one of them needed the bathroom? I dove for the door, trying to turn the lock quietly. I hadn’t bothered before, since I was all alone, but now…

It wouldn’t budge. I desperately jiggled the lock as quietly as possible. No such luck. Glancing around the bathroom for something to cover up in, I decided on the shower curtain. Only it was attached to the rod in such a way as to never come off. Yeah, because people stole them all the time, I thought sarcastically.

Finally giving up, I decided to hide in the bathtub. I lined the tub with towels and climbed in, draped another flimsy towel over the top of me for warmth and closed the curtain. The worst that could happen now was that one of them needed to use the john, and I’d be subjected to more ear pollution.

For a bit, everything remained quiet, as I waited impatiently in my little tub/cocoon for someone to do something. Anything. Hopefully involving saying goodbye and leaving.

Apparently, what I thought had been the grand finale was just intermission. Next thing I knew, they were going at it again, the headboard banging the wall, the box springs squeaking in protest.

God.

Weary beyond belief, I decided to get some sleep. When I woke up, it would all be over. Candy would be gone, and I could knife Chris in the back for putting me through all this.

Didn’t take long to discover it’s impossible to sleep with someone having sex in the next room. It’s like watching an X-rated movie. Probably. The last porn movie I’d seen was when Mo had gone through his “deconditioning” phase. He thought if he watched porn night and day, he wouldn’t miss sex when he moved to Tibet to become a monk. Damn it! I wanted to wake up in the morning still liking sex, still having hope I’d have sex again someday—even if I didn’t know how I’d do that and keep men out of my life at the same time. I didn’t want to be deconditioned. Which meant I didn’t want to listen to any more of this shit.

Tossing open the shower curtain, mindless of any noise I might be making—because God knew they couldn’t possibly hear me through all the grunting, groaning, puffing and panting—I grabbed the roll of toilet paper from its holder. I tore off small pieces and balled them up before stuffing them into my ears.

It helped, but not much. I settled back into the tub, shifting this way and that, trying to find a comfortable position. I had better luck on the hard forest floor last night, with nothing but a sleeping bag between me and several tree roots. The cold porcelain of the bathtub seeped through the thin, damp towels. The oatmeal flaked and itched, and once sent up a little cloud that had me holding my nose, practically blowing out my eardrums trying to sneeze without making any noise.

I shoved the toilet paper roll between my left cheek and the faucet, a makeshift pillow. I draped a towel over my shoulder, hoping to stave off pneumonia. Although, I thought, seeing a bright spot, that might get me out of my mother’s wedding.

Finally, the Benadryl took over, causing my eyelids to shut of their own accord. Despite the marathon screwing going on in the next room, I eventually drifted into a fitful sleep.

***

“Aaaahhhhh! Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

The scream came from above my head, and I sat bolt upright and crashed my skull into some immovable object.

The world went black.

***

“Margo? Margo, wake up.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? There’s a dead woman in your bathtub. Why is there a dead woman…a naked dead woman in your bathtub, Chris? Are you are murderer? Why didn’t you tell me you were a murderer?”

“Would you be quiet? Margo, wake up.”

A sandpapery hand shook my bare shoulder, but I was incapable of opening my eyes. It was too foggy in my brain.

Someone pulled the plugs of toilet paper out of my ears. “Margo. Come on, just open those stubborn little eyes of yours. You can do it. Come on.”

The hand, presumably Chris’s, did some more shaking. My head did some more aching. Right smack in the middle of my forehead.

I groaned.

The screamer, presumably Candy, shrieked again.

“Okay, she’ll be fine.” Chris’s voice came from farther away than it had been a minute ago. “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

People shuffled around the motel room, speaking in muffled voices, and there was more whining about dead naked bodies, followed by the door opening and closing.

Then Chris was back in the bathroom.

Again with the shaking of the shoulders.

Again, I groaned. “Stop moving me.”

“You have to get out of this tub.”

“Not moving.”

“Either you move, or I’ll move you.”

Big threat, I thought. But I placed a hand beneath my side and tried to push myself upright. The minute I moved, two things registered: the dizziness had returned with a vengeance…and I was bare-ass naked. Candy the Hysterical had pointed that out already, but judging by the painful hammering in my skull, I had another concussion and could be forgiven for being dense.

“Shit.” The word was a prayer, whispered by the desperate.

“Jesus.” Chris was not the answer to this prayer no matter what he thought.

Before I could protest, Chris reached into the tub and lifted me out. Towels went askew, slipping to the floor, baring more than just my ass before we even exited the bathroom.

“Hey!” I kicked and squirmed, trying to cover myself, all while keeping my eyes clamped tightly shut and fighting waves of nausea.

“Just hold still, will you?”

I was dumped onto the bed. Okay, he laid me on the bed very gently, but it felt like being dumped. Then he pulled the covers over me, to cover my nakedness. My whole body sank gratefully into the soft warmth of the bed, and I felt Chris heap on another blanket, trying to quell my shivering. It felt heavenly compared to the insubstantial bath towels on hard porcelain that had been my bed for…how long had it been?

“Are you all right now?” he finally asked.

All right in the sense I wouldn’t die tonight, maybe. But all right in any other sense? The answer was a definite no.

“Don’t try to be nice, you son of a bitch,” I growled, pressing my hands to my forehead. I yelped in surprise at the pain that radiated through my brain.

“Don’t touch it, idiot.” He yanked my hands away from my face. “You have a huge knot on your forehead.”

No shit.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Opening one eye, I saw Chris pull a pair of jeans on over his boxers before heading out the door. Probably to go pick up a new conquest to torture me with.

Not that I cared. He could do whatever he wanted. He was my best friend, not my boyfriend. So it made absolutely no sense at all that my throat felt tight and my chest heavy as I glanced at Chris’s bed, visions of what he’d been doing with Candy flashing through my brain.

Feeling stupid, I shook it off. Figuratively, of course, since my head was killing me. According to the clock on the bedside table, it was 2:00 a.m. Less than twelve hours until I had to stand in front of the cameras that would immortalize me for my former, and hopefully future, fans. Eleven hours, and from the feel of my skin, plastered with dried oatmeal, scraping against the bed linens, I was still covered with spots, couldn’t stand up or even open my eyes for more than a second or two, and God knew what my forehead looked like after contacting the metal faucet of the tub. I’d be lucky if I could get out of bed by morning, let alone make it through a photo shoot.

True to his word—and determined to ruin my life—Chris was back momentarily, carrying an ice bucket. He took a handful of cubes and wrapped them in a damp washcloth from the bathroom before returning to the bed. I closed my eyes again, because I wasn’t speaking to or looking at him. Ever again.

“Here, put this on your forehead.”

I didn’t move, so he put it there for me. It made me suck in my breath.

“What the heck were you doing in the bathtub?” Chris finally said, after he piled more blankets over my now seemingly impossible-to-heat body.

“Taking a bath. Then, keeping away from you and Candy the screamer,” I shot back, without opening my eyes. The ice was cold and as it melted quickly against my skin, rivulets of chilly water dripped down my temples and over the top of my right ear. “Why the hell did you come back here to screw around?”

“We didn’t plan on doing it in here. I stopped in for a condom, and the room was empty.

So—”

“So you decided to ignore the fact that even if I wasn’t here then, I would have to come back eventually?” I opened one eye and attempted to glare at him from beneath the makeshift ice pack. It probably wasn’t very effective since the pain searing through my head made glaring difficult. “Where’d you think I was spending the night? The damn bar?”

Chris frowned. “I didn’t—”

“Think? Care?”

“Hey! I didn’t know you were in there. Don’t blame me.”

I whipped the soggy cloth off my forehead and opened both eyes to glare this time. Bad move. The room spun, the floor waved, the walls danced. My stomach heaved.

Chris dove off the bed and reappeared with a wastebasket just in time. By the time I finished, I couldn’t even summon the energy to yell at him anymore.

So I simply passed out.

Chapter Nine

“How the Web Was Woven”

My ex-best friend slept peacefully in the next bed.

I fought the urge to kick him awake.

I wrapped the comforter around my still naked body. Well, not really naked, as I was still clothed in about a third of a box of dried oatmeal. I moved gingerly toward the bathroom, my head still pounding, though, for the moment, I wasn’t experiencing the rolling dizziness that had overtaken me during the night.

Upon looking in the mirror, I stifled a scream to rival Candy’s when she saw me naked. I looked like hell. Worse than hell. There was a huge bruise in the center of my forehead where I connected with the faucet. Mosquito bites still marred both cheeks and the center of my nose. There was no way I’d be ready for a photo shoot in just a few hours.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

I couldn’t think while flaking, so I stepped into the shower, hoping warm water and soap would improve not only my disposition, but my creative thinking, so I could figure out a way out of this disaster. Besides murder, which—though satisfying in the moment—would only lead to more trouble when I landed in jail. However, if unable to resist, maybe I could arrange sharing a cell with Katya after she murdered Adair.

What was it with men?

Showering helped me feel a little better, but it didn’t change the condition of my face. Time to break out the big guns. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a gun permit. A half hour and half a bottle of foundation later, I surveyed myself in the mirror. The dots were still there. So was the bruise. Only now it looked like I had leprosy superimposed on top of them.

The makeup gave my skin a vaguely fuzzy look, like well-worn suede. It left a lovely blunt line along my lower jaw, where the foundation ended and my pale, shade-loving skin began. Remembering a trick from some beauty magazine I’d read in the doctor’s office once, I wet my fingertips and tried to blend the line in by smoothing it down my jaw and on to my neck.

It left streaks.

“Grrrr!”

I barely knew which end of the mascara brush to use, so how was I expected to be able to cover up hundreds of mosquito bites? I looked like I had a case of acne on steroids, and I was supposed to be on the cover of Today’s Country Magazine. In three hours. I hoped they had a hell of a Photoshop expert on staff.

Conceding defeat, I scrubbed my face off again, swept my damp hair back into a ponytail and got dressed.

“I’m going to the mall,” I announced, groping my way out of the bathroom.

“Not in my Jeep, you’re not,” Chris muttered from beneath the sheets, where he sprawled on his bed.

“Then, I guess you better get up, because I don’t have time to call a cab and I am not going to my appointment looking like this. I need makeup.”

The snort from across the room fueled my fire.

“You know, if I were you, I wouldn’t piss me off right now. You’ve already used up your quota of screw-ups this trip, and my inner bitch and I have already had a detailed discussion about revenge.”

Chris didn’t move a muscle. I contemplated heaving the phone book. He owed me. Big time. I spotted his keys on the table and picked them up. I gave them an ominous jangle and headed for the door. As soon as I opened it, he moved.

While waiting for Chris to dress, I perused the maps in the phone book and marked a route to the nearest Nashville mall. With any luck, they’d have a department store with a cosmetics counter and someone who knew the difference between eye liner and lipstick. I also scribbled down the address and directions for the offices of Today’s Country, to save time later.

Chris didn’t speak to me when he exited the bathroom, which was just Jim Dandy fine with me. He had no right to be mad. I hadn’t decided to pick up a total stranger in a bar. I hadn’t assumed my roommate would stay clear of the motel room all night long. I certainly hadn’t been the one screwing all night while he was stuck in the bathroom listening.

I shoved the hastily sketched map at him on the way to the car. He ripped it out of my hand before unlocking the passenger door. He left me to get in by myself. No problem. I could get in a car without help from a man.

The mall parking lot was crowded, but I finally spotted a Dillard’s and, knowing they’d have what I needed, I gestured in that general direction. Chris got out with me.

“No need to strain yourself,” I said. “You had a long night. Feel free to stay in the car.”

“Jeep,” he corrected. “I need to burn off some energy.”

Gee. I could have sworn that’s what he’d been doing all blasted night long with Miss Cotton Candy for brains.

The walk through the parking lot, into the store and to the makeup counter at Dillard’s was slow and painful, as I fought to stay upright. There was only so far you could go while holding on to things. That part was tolerable. But give me open spaces and I was a wreck. Chris didn’t offer a helping hand, which was just as well because I wouldn’t have accepted it.

I wondered briefly if they sold canes here. For balance, of course, not to beat Chris senseless.

Chris continued through the store, as I stopped at the makeup counter. “Be back in half an hour,” I ordered, when he brushed past me and stalked toward the entrance into the mall. God could only hope he didn’t pick up any more women while wandering around on the loose.

The woman behind the cosmetics counter was blonde and polished, her hair upswept in some kind of bun, her makeup flawless. I felt a stirring of hope. Granted, her makeup probably wasn’t hiding what mine needed to, but she appeared to have skill with the stuff.

She took one look at me and visibly blanched.

“I’m not contagious,” I said, though it didn’t appear to convince her. “I camped inside mosquito enemy lines. I’m due in three hours for a cover shoot with Today’s Country Magazine, and I’ll give you my first-born child to cover up these spots. Be thankful I’m not doing a Playboy photo shoot, or I’d need a full-body cover up.”

She stared, open-mouthed, for a moment before her gaze settled on my forehead, her brow furrowing in concern.

I rolled my eyes upward, as if I could really see the bruise in question by doing so. “I banged my head. It’s nothing.”

Again, she stared, probably contemplating whether or not to call security. I’m sure I didn’t look much like the kind of celebrity to grace the cover of Today’s Country. I probably looked more like the kind of person to grace a mug shot at this point. Aside from the disaster that was my face, my hair was in its usual ponytail, stretched until my skin pulled. I hadn’t bothered to remove it from its confines yet. That would come later.

“Of course, your first-born child won’t be necessary,” she said, her twang reminding me for a minute how far from home I was. She warily eyed my blemishes.

No sense bothering to mention I offered her my offspring to show her the depth of my need, not because I’d ever actually have offspring. She didn’t need to know that much. As long as she understood my desperation.

I sat under a white smock and tried to ignore the looks I received from passing customers and the makeup lady herself. They had me exceedingly worried she wouldn’t be able to accomplish the miracle I needed.

“Relax your face, miss. You’re frowning.”

Darn right I’m frowning, I wanted to say. This was the most important day of my life and I was a mess. I’d had two hours of very restless sleep—in a damned bathtub. I cracked my forehead on a spigot and probably had another concussion. And, in three hours, I’d be photographed for a magazine article that could make or break my career.

No stress there.

The cosmetic consultant spent a few moments choosing products I’d be guilted into purchasing before the session was over, and then turned back to me. She brushed aside some strands of hair from my forehead.

“You know, there are places you can call.” She dabbed something gently onto the bruise. I tried not to flinch when it smarted.

“You mean like…cosmetics places?” I asked, unsure what we were talking about.

She stepped back and gave me a pitying look. I knew it, she couldn’t fix me. I’d have my picture on the cover of Today’s Country and become the poster child for Today’s Dermatology all at the same time.

“No.” She looked deeply into my eyes and patted my arm. “Places that will help you get away from him.”

“Him?” I frowned again. “Him, who?”

She leaned over conspiratorially. I noticed that her nametag said Bebe.

“The guy who did this to you. That guy you came in with.”

Suddenly the light dawned on me. “Oh, it’s not what you—”

“You have to stand up for yourself.”

“But, you don’t under—”

“I do!” she said, a bit more loudly, drawing stares from a few of her coworkers, who peered at us from around the center island of the cosmetics counter. “My sister. Her husband beat on her for years.” She stared up at the ceiling for a minute, obviously collecting herself before she continued. “I covered up her bruises, too. Until she finally had the sense to throw him out. Best thing she ever did. You need to do the same.”

“But, I’m not even married.” I tried again to convince her she had the wrong idea.

“It doesn’t matter. An abuser is an abuser, no matter what the relationship. I’ll find you the number of the crisis center before you leave.”

“But, I don’t need—”

She silenced me with a finger to my lips. I leaned back to get her foundation-covered finger away from my mouth.

“You do need to do this, sugar. For women everywhere. Not just for yourself. We need to put a stop to the violence.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. What do you say at a time like this? Every protest made it seem like I was in denial. Every argument I made against being a battered woman would make her that much more sure I was exactly that.

So, I just nodded.

Thirty minutes later, Chris showed up. My new best friend, Bebe—who managed to miraculously make two dozen mosquito bites and a fist-sized bruise disappear from my face and neck—pulled herself up to her full height and squared her shoulders, leveling Chris with a look that could have curdled milk.

“Pond scum,” she muttered, just loud enough that Chris turned and looked at her in surprise before following me out of the store, carrying a bag of cosmetics to mail to Katya (purchased at the battered woman’s forty-percent-off price) and the phone number of the local women’s shelter.

“What the hell was that about?” Chris followed me back to the Jeep, while I tried my darndest to pretend I felt normal. I’d stood up too quickly, trying to get free of Bebe’s clutches, and my equilibrium was…nonexistent.

I still didn’t feel like talking to Chris. Thirty minutes had not been enough to alleviate my anger. In fact it had been magnified by the half-hour lecture on the rights of women to be free of violence in their lives I just received. My head was spinning and my blood was still boiling. Walking in a straight line required all my concentration.

A speed bump finally proved too much for my reeling head, and I fell over it, landing on the trunk of a parked car. Unfortunately, the car had an alarm, and it blared out a warning that had me clutching my ears and spinning wildly away from the obnoxious noise.

Chris caught my arm before I fell over onto anything else.

“Geez! Would you slow down and relax?” His grip tightened on my elbow as I tried to pull away from him. “You’re going to get us arrested.”

“I am not,” I snapped, finally releasing my arm from his grasp as we got to the Jeep. He unlocked the door and, despite my protests, practically lifted me into my seat.

So very chivalrous. Ass.

On the road again, he took up questioning where he left off, apparently in a better mood than he’d been when we parted company less than an hour ago. He’d probably found some slutty woman to nail in the service hallway. Most likely while some innocent person was trapped around the corner, forced to listen.

“What did you tell that woman that has her thinking I’m the devil’s spawn?”

I shrugged, leaving it open for interpretation. My attention wasn’t on explaining the actions of the woman at Dillard’s. I suddenly realized if the makeup on my face didn’t last for the next several hours—and the air was already sweaty-hot—chances were the staff at Today’s Country Magazine would come to the same conclusion as Bebe.

I was doomed.

Here I was, accepting an award I never even dreamed of receiving, and I looked more like a battered woman than a popular DJ. It was all Chris’s fault.

“Hello? Earth to Margo.”

“Margo’s out.” I stared out the window at the passing scenery.

“Out of her mind,” Chris muttered. “I suppose you’re going to pout like this for the rest of the trip?”

“Maybe I am. You deserve it.”

“Because I had sex and you didn’t?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. The last thing he should have done is remind me he burned off energy in more ways than one in the last twenty-four hours and I hadn’t. Nor would I be. “Because you had sex, in my room, while I slept in a goddamn bathtub covered in dried oatmeal and freezing my ass off! Because I was awakened, after listening to you two go at it all night long, by a screaming banshee! Because, not once, while you were screwing Candy’s brains out last night, did it occur to you to wonder where the hell I was sleeping!”

For a moment, Chris stared at me like he wanted to say something.

“What?” I prompted, because frankly I wanted to hear his excuses. I wanted to know what had been going through his head last night, because it obviously hadn’t involved me. “I didn’t think—”

My jaw dropped as I stared at Chris’s profile. “Oh, you were thinking, all right. You were thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” His admission stunned me into silence.

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I figured you weren’t up to scratching that particular itch for me. Am I right?” Something in his eyes told me he was actually asking the question with some seriousness.

I stared at my clenched fists. “You are so not hitting on me right now.” The only thing keeping me from punching him was the fact that a car accident would make me late for my appointment.

After a beat, Chris turned his attention back to the road, his cocky grin fading. “Bad idea, huh?” round.

Whatever. Let him think he won. I had more important things to worry about. I needed to get back to the motel, change my clothes, do something with my hair and then get a cab to the offices of Today’s Country Magazine by one o’clock, an hour and a half from now. I’d just make it.

Or not.

A half hour later, we still sat in traffic, a semi overturned on the interstate, blocking all lanes. The longer we sat in silence, the more tense I got, and the more I scratched at the bites on my legs and arms that nearly drove me out of my mind. I sucked in air between my teeth, as a particularly nasty bite on my face begged to be scratched. No way could I lay a single finger on my face and disturb the carefully applied mask that would, with any luck, keep me from being pegged an abused woman once more today.

“Would you hold still, for God’s sake?” Chris finally snapped. “You’re making me itch just watching you.”

“So sorry, Your Highness,” I snapped right back. “I think I can safely blame you for all the scratching. As well as my headache, my dizziness and the fact that I had to listen to an hour-long lecture on how not to be a battered woman this morning.” I flipped Bebe the cosmetic consultant’s business card, with the number for the women’s shelter scribbled on the back, in Chris’s direction. “I just want to get to this appointment and get my life back on track, and now—” I waved my hand in the general direction of the wall of cars blocking our way, “—now, I’m not even going to get to do that.”

Chris stared at the number on the card for a minute before looking at me, his face serious. “She thought I hit you?”

I watched him another few seconds, wondering why I felt like I’d lost this particular round.

“Yes. But worse than that, she thought I was the kind of person who would take it.” I huffed out a frustrated breath and stared straight ahead.

“You wouldn’t.”

I glanced over at Chris, who looked very solemn. “No, I wouldn’t.” I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t help remembering who had.

I was nine. My dad had been gone on a long business trip, about two weeks. His return had been hailed with much fanfare in our home. My brother and I, prompted by my mother, painted a banner, welcoming Dad home. My mother prepared his favorite meal—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, homemade biscuits and that green-bean casserole with the crispy onions on the top that most people only serve on Thanksgiving. She’d been nervously fretting all day. Every detail had to be perfect. The placement of the good china on the dining room table (usually reserved for company), the consistency of the mashed potatoes (not too runny, not too lumpy), the way Rob’s and my hair was combed. We were glad Dad was coming home, too, but we whispered conspiratorially in my bedroom that she seemed to be getting a little carried away with the whole homecoming thing.

Dad arrived home in a bad mood. Our carefully designed banner met with very little notice. He gave us kids distracted hugs, but pointedly turned away from my mother when she presented herself for a kiss.

We all sat at the table to eat, Rob and I chattering about what we’d done the past two weeks, taking advantage of the free-flowing sparkling cider my mother bought for this occasion, asking for refill after refill. Dad offered no response to our prattling and finally Mom told us to be quiet and eat. The rest of Mom’s perfect meal was eaten in silence, the tension thicker than the meatloaf. Mom stared at her plate in between brightly offered comments meant to draw my dad into conversation. It didn’t work. Rob and I were sent to bed early, with the excuse that Dad was tired and needed some peace.

A few hours later I woke to loud voices coming from the living room…mainly my father’s voice. For a few minutes, I thought I was dreaming. Dad never raised his voice. Dad never got emotional, but he was emotional now. Angry.

I listened for a while, wondering if I’d done something wrong. Nothing specific came to mind, but that didn’t mean anything. I wracked my brain about possible infractions either Rob or I could have been guilty of—leaving Dad’s tools out in the rain, sneaking all of his secret stash of cookies from the back of the pantry and not leaving him any—but I came up with nothing. In the meantime, all the sparkling cider I drank at dinner needed release, and I crept from my bedroom, hoping to avoid getting into trouble…either for being out of bed when I shouldn’t be, or for whatever I might have done that had Dad so upset.

I couldn’t see the living room from the bathroom but, when I finished my business, my curiosity got the better of me. The voices grew louder, my mother pleading, my father angry. I don’t remember the words. Maybe I never heard them.

As I reached the corner of the hallway, entering the living room, my father struck out. I flinched as the back of his hand made contact with my mother’s surprised face.

I think that was probably the first time it happened. It wasn’t the last.

For nearly a year, the scene repeated itself over and over again. By this time, Rob joined my covert observations of our parents’ fights. Sometimes I’d creep from my own bed to Rob’s room, climbing under the covers with him, where we buried our heads and whispered to each other, attempting to drown out the shouts from the other end of the house. Sometimes, the draw was too much, and we’d both sneak down the hall to watch in horror as the argument escalated into violence. At first strike, though, we flew back to our beds, our hearts racing, never speaking of it to each other in the light of day.

Looking back, I never remember seeing any marks on my mother’s face. She was obviously more skilled with makeup than me. She hid it from us and from our neighbors and friends. No one suspected.

My mother had taken it. She didn’t throw my father out. He left on his own the next year, returning a year after that with his new wife and new religion, looking like a different man. Worse, my mother had “taken it” from more than one man. Her next two husbands—at least—also smacked her around.

It solidified my childish belief that my mother must be a bad person to make people hit her. It had taken adulthood to see the truth. My mother hadn’t done anything wrong…except choose the wrong men.

“What’re you thinking?” Chris finally asked, as we crept forward a few feet, the traffic looking more and more like it wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

“Nothing.” I wouldn’t share that part of my childhood with anyone, not even my best friend. And not just because I was still mad at him. I’d spent so many years ignoring the past, I saw no reason to give voice to it now. The memory of it reaffirmed my thankfulness that I was nothing like my mother. No man would ever strike me, and if he did, it would be the last time he was in my presence. I was not the doormat my mother had been…maybe still was. After those first few attempts at marriage didn’t turn out any better than her first, I stopped paying attention. If I ignored my mother’s shortcomings, her inability to stand up for herself, it couldn’t rub off on me. I prided myself on my ability to pick better men than she did, my ability to know when to walk away from a relationship that threatened my individuality and, most of all, my ability to be very different from my mother.

After all, I’d had four relationships. She’d had eleven. If at first you don’t succeed, try not to make the same mistakes again. Apparently she was still working on that.

“What time are you supposed to be at your appointment?”

I glanced down at my watch and cringed. “Forty-five minutes from now. Damn. Come on!” I shouted out my frustration at the parking lot of cars surrounding us. “Do I have ‘kick me’ written on my forehead?” I asked Chris. “Because I’m getting really tired of being foiled at every turn.”

He laughed, having no clue how much this was stressing me out. He may have understood the award was important, but I had serious doubts how much he realized…“This is my last chance.”

“For what? To get a job?”

“Yes.”

“That’s stupid. You don’t need this award.”

“Don’t you get it? If I don’t have this award, then I’m nothing special. I’m just an out-of-work DJ. Without this award, I’m a name on a résumé with no meaning. With the award, I at least have half a chance. I’m special. My skills are worthwhile.”

Chris stared at me a minute before finally speaking. “Well, I don’t agree with you,” he began. “But, I believe that you believe your entire career depends on this award.”

“It does!”

“It doesn’t,” he insisted. “You’re Margo Gentry. You are not the ‘Best Country DJ’.”

“I don’t follow. Oh, God. I really did win the award, didn’t I? Don’t tell me I dreamed it, because that’s the only thing holding my sanity together at this point.”

“You may have been awarded with that honor, but it’s not your identity.”

“Your point?”

“My point is, when did you find out you got the award?”

“A month ago.”

“And, when did the voting take place?”

I shrugged, curious as to where this discussion was going. “A few weeks before that, I guess.”

“And a week before you knew you’d won the award, how did you do your job?”

“Huh? The way I always did it.”

“Exactly.” Chris put on his blinker and moved into the far right lane when someone slowed to let him through. “You did a good job before anyone gave you an award for doing a good job.”

I frowned. His words may have made sense, though I wasn’t positive. Chris was trying to tell me I was putting too much value on the Best Country DJ Award. “So, in other words…?” I prompted, fishing for clarity.

“In other words, you were a good DJ before you were aware of the award. You are not a good DJ because of the award.”

“You think I’m an idiot for placing so much emphasis on a title.”

“Yep. ’Fraid so.”

Well, nothing like a little support to put things into perspective. My anger at Chris for last night eased a little. “You’re saying I should blow the photo shoot?”

“Hell no.” He pulled to the right of two cars blocking our way to the nearest exit off the interstate. He drove along the shoulder until the coast was clear and sped up as he reached the open roadway. “I’m saying I’m going to get you there on time, but stop thinking that’s your only merit as a DJ.” We braked at the light at the end of the off-ramp.

Chris turned to face me. “You’re good at your job because you love it, not because anybody pats you on the back for it.”

For a minute we just stared at each other, my mind drifting back to some of Kevin’s last words to me. He hadn’t understood my career choice. He ridiculed it. Had it changed how much I loved my job? No. His approval hadn’t mattered. Chris’s approval mattered. Maybe he understood.

Or maybe he was just a good friend who believed in me enough to cheer me up, even when I was pissed at him.

***

It took a while, but we finally located the magazine’s offices. Chris dropped me at the front door.

“What are you going to tell them?” he asked, and I didn’t have to ask him what he meant.

“I’m just getting my picture taken today. No need to tell anyone anything, is there?”

Chris shrugged. “That depends on whether you believe what I said or not.”

“Look,” I said, opening the door and climbing out. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I believe you. It matters whether or not Today’s Country believes me.”

Chris sighed and stared at the steering wheel for a minute. Disappointment radiated off him. Well, there was nothing I could do about that right now. I had too much at stake here to count on anyone else understanding my circumstances. I knew he was trying to help, but…

He told me to call his cell when I was done.

I opened my mouth to say something—I’m not sure what, but it felt like something needed to be said. I didn’t want to apologize for being mad, because I still was (at least a little). But, he made the effort to get me here on time, when he could have just driven back to the motel and made me suffer.

“Look,” I began, staring at the seat I’d just vacated.

“No, you look,” Chris replied, with a smile meant to reassure me we were okay. “Get your butt up there, so you’re not late.”

Glad to be off the hook, since I still really didn’t know what I planned to say, I nodded and closed the door.

“Hey,” he called to me through the open window. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

I guess that would depend on your definition of “the right thing.”

The offices of Today’s Country Magazine were housed in an older four-story brick building. Directed to the second floor, I arrived with moments to spare. I introduced myself to the receptionist and stated the reason for my visit. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I told her. “It’s a long story.”

“No problem,” she replied around a wad of gum large enough to choke a hippo. She stood up and motioned that I follow her into the depths of the office. “He’s ready for you.”

“He” was Jeff, a cowboy boot-wearing, tobacco-chewing (judging by his bulging lower lip) photographer. He shook my hand and surveyed what he had to work with. I cringed at the close scrutiny, prayed my makeup hadn’t run and wished I’d had time to change out of my typical uniform of jeans and running shoes, and one of the twenty Elvis T-shirts I owned. “We were stuck in traffic,” I started to explain. “I’m afraid I didn’t even have time to go back to the motel to change.”

Jeff gave me one last look then waved off my concerns. “You look fine. We like our covers natural, bein’ themselves.”

“Well,” I laughed, looking down at the black T-shirt I’d thrown on that morning. My favorite one, with “Elvis” in rhinestones. “I’m definitely my very own self today.” I didn’t mention my very own self would not have a hundred dollars worth of Estée Lauder caked on her face. Hopefully it looked natural, since I’d only given it a passing glance in the hand mirror at Dillard’s. No strange looks were forthcoming, so I must have passed muster.

He led me deeper into the building, as I took a few cleansing breaths and tried to relax. Why my stomach was doing somersaults, I had no idea. I was used to having my picture taken, with celebrities even. Pictures that were up on the WKUP website for the world to see. Well, at least they had been before the foreign takeover. Now my American face would probably stick out like a cow amidst a herd of horses.

“Did you have a nice flight to Nashville?” Jeff’s question startled me out of my thoughts of photos and celebrities and cows among horses.

“Uh, actually we drove.” I hurried to catch up with the photographer. “A friend and I. I’m kind of making this into a vacation.”

“Got the time off work, huh? Now that you’ve won the big award?” Jeff chuckled, and I smiled what I’m sure was a weak-ass smile, thankful his back was to me.

“Uh, yeah. I had vacation built up.” Shit. I felt a cold sweat coming on. I wasn’t supposed to have to worry about truth-telling until I met with Nancy.

Jeff directed me into a brightly lit studio. The ceilings were high, the lights bright and a stool sat against a white backdrop. Presumably where I’d plant my behind. And, if he already suspected I was lying, he’d just add some ID numbers on a mini chalk board and make this a mug shot.

“Why don’t you take a seat over there. I’ll set up.”

The small high stool made me feel like a child in the middle of the huge room. For a few minutes, I watched Jeff—turning on lights, adjusting the position of the camera, fiddling with the gigantic lens. He was pretty cute, for a cowboy. His tight black Levis hugged his butt like skin, as did his equally tight black T-shirt. His biceps bulged and his pecs were bigger than mine, giving away that he obviously worked out. His short-trimmed dark blond hair was barely visible beneath his black cowboy hat. Without the hat, he’d have been just my kind of guy. The kind I’d talk to, flirt with, maybe dance the two-step with, make a beer toast with.

My stomach settled down. Maybe that was the key: think about guys. Jeff, in particular, since he happened to be handy.

“So,” I said, as Jeff bent over the camera. “Have you worked long for Today’s Country?”

“About two years.” He strode across the room to aim a large light in my direction. “How long have you been with your station?”

“Oh, about six years.” Not a lie. I had been with WKUP for six years. “You live in Nashville?” I tried. A safe question.

“All my life. My parents have a horse ranch outside the city, and I went to the University of Memphis.”

See, it worked. Subject safely steered away from Margo and on to Jeff.

Jeff snapped a picture.

“Hey!” I laughed. “Don’t you warn a person?”

Jeff grinned, and I noticed that he had really piercing blue eyes, the color of the Manhattan sky on a really clear day.

“Nope. No warnings. Get some of my best shots that way. They’re more natural. No posing.”

“I’m not much of a poser anyway.” At least not a picture poser. I was pretty good at posing as an employed disk jockey.

Jeff bent over the camera again. “So, what’s your favorite part of your job, Margo?”

Having one. “Um, the music’s great. I love music.” Lame. People who love music listen to CDs. How the hell was I supposed to get a new job, if I couldn’t even articulate why I wanted it?

I was obviously doomed.

“No frowning.” Jeff’s voice intruded on my thoughts again.

“Oh, sorry.” I plastered on what I felt might look somewhat like a natural smile. Not.

“Lost you there for a minute, did I?”

“Just daydreaming, I guess. Or sleeping. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Ah.” He gave me a knowing look. And a wink. “Drive down here with a guy friend, then?”

“Uh, yeah. But, you have the wrong idea.” I laughed, feeling safer drifting away from career talk into personal talk. And, believe me, if I felt more comfortable with personal talk, that was really saying something.

“So, what kind of idea should I have?” Jeff’s face was ripe with suggestion. Hmm. Too bad I wasn’t more like Chris. If I was, I might have been persuaded to meet this cowboy for drinks tonight and have a little Tennessee fling. But, I was definitely not Chris.

“Not that kind of idea,” I assured him. “Chris is my buddy. My best friend of a very long time. That’s all.”

“But, you’re road trippin’ together?” Jeff snapped off a bunch more shots, miming directions to me about where to put my hands, how to turn my head, when to flick my hair just so. I am not a natural-born hair-flicker, so that step required repeated demonstrations on Jeff’s part.

“Only because I can’t drive right now. A head thing.” I waved my hands vaguely in the direction of my lately misbehaving brain. Jeff gave me an odd look and then went back to snapping pictures. A little late, I realized how stupid I looked, like I was demonstrating the emptiness of my head.

“So, anyway. What’s bein’ a DJ like? I always thought that’d be a neat job.”

Damn. This guy had a one-track mind.

“Great. Busy. Up early. To bed early. You know.”

Again Jeff grinned, dimples showing around the corners of his mouth. “When do you have to go back to work?”

“What?” Odd question.

“When are you going back to work at…WKUP is it?”

“Uh, yeah.” Did this guy know something? Had someone called the station and found out I was no longer employed? “Soon. A couple of weeks. I’m off to my mother’s wedding in California. That’s when I meet with Nancy.”

“Yeah, Nancy’s in California for a while. She’s lookin’ real forward to talking to you about your job and what you like about being a jock for WKUP.”

That sick feeling erupted in my stomach again. Jeff the photographer was entirely too concerned with my job.

He took off his hat and made messy motions with his hands, like he wanted me to tousle my hair. I frowned. This wasn’t Playboy. I’d never seen any of the Today’s Country cover celebrities with just-got-out-of-bed hair. Jeff made the motions in a little more exaggerated manner, so I did what he said, pulling my ponytail out and throwing my shoulders back as I did so. My chest wasn’t large, but it was functional as a distraction device. Momentarily.

“Are you friends with a lot of your coworkers at WKUP?” It sounded like he was emphasizing the station call letters. Just in case I’d forgotten where I worked…before. Where I didn’t work now.

Was it getting hot in here?

If it was getting hot, I’d start to sweat, and the carefully applied makeup would run. I concentrated on looking photogenic so we could get this over with.

“Sure, lots of friends,” I quipped. “Even a few enemies. Ha. Ha.” Joke. Lighten it up in here.

“You plan to work for WKUP for a long time?”

What the hell?

My conscience knotted like a ball in the center of my chest and Chris’s parting words echoed in my head. I know you’ll do the right thing.

Sure, if the right thing was saving my own ass. Apparently I’m not as noble as he gives me credit for.

I squared my shoulders and smiled my biggest smile, wishing for just one moment I was the blonde bimbo type who made men forget their names.

“Yep.” I steeled myself for the lightning bolt that was sure to strike me dead any minute.

“I will be working for WKUP forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

Damn.

Chapter Ten

“Heartbreak Hotel”

“Finally, we’re on to the good stuff!” I shouted to Chris over the rush of wind blowing around us. The day’s blistering heat prompted us to take down the Jeep’s top before hitting Interstate 40 for Memphis, a three-and-a-half hour ride from Nashville, and what I considered to be the real start of this road trip.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Chris shouted back. “Now, if we were going rock climbing—”

“Yeah, I can just see myself, clinging to the face of a cliff by my fingertips. Like I need to add any more bruises to my body.” I shoved a handful of hair out of my face and thumbed through the Elvis trivia book I’d purchased before we left Nashville. “Did you know Elvis was only the second white person to have a number one single on Billboard’s rhythm-and-blues chart?”

“Really. Wow.”

I grinned at Chris’s lack of enthusiasm, but even he couldn’t ruin my day. I’d had a nap yesterday and a good night’s sleep, thanks to keeping a tight rein on Chris at dinner. No roaming allowed. No scoping allowed. No Kiss Test allowed. Although he managed to cheat on that last rule more than a few times. After dragging him off and giving him a piece of my mind, I reminded him that the damn Kiss Test was what had gotten us (read: him) into trouble the night before. He pouted, but I prevailed by repeatedly showing him the scrubbed-clean bruise in the center of my forehead and making him feel guilty.

“Elvis also holds the records for Most Charted Singles, Most Top-Ten Singles and Most Weeks at Number One.”

“Did you know Jeeps are built in Toledo, Ohio and Ontario, Canada?” Chris tossed back, lifting a hand to wave at another topless Jeep traveling in the opposite direction.

“Yeah but, see, we’re not playing Jeep trivia.” I went back to my book.

Chris muttered something under his breath.

“Hey, Kurt Russell made his film debut in one of Elvis’s movies. It Happened At The World’s Fair. He was ten years old.”

“Are we going to do this all the way to Memphis?”

“Probably.”

“Then you’re off at the next rest stop.”

I just smiled. No way Chris could wreck my good mood. The rest of the photo shoot yesterday had gone off without a hitch, and then Chris humored me—probably out of guilt—and we visited the Country Music Hall of Fame after my nap. I practically bounced through the building, in between bouts of dizziness that had me clinging to Chris to keep from kissing the ground. I felt so comfortable and at home among the faces and voices that had been part of my daily routine for so long. Until I remembered they were no longer a part of my life. I had to believe there would be another station, another studio, another job to fill that hole in my life. There had to be.

I lied to the photographer, yes, but I wasn’t going to apologize. For the first time in weeks, I’d taken a step in the direction of correcting my life’s problems. I lost a job, a boyfriend, a place to live…I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity for my future. No matter what Chris said, I lied for a good reason, and there was nothing to apologize for.

Now, I was on to bigger and better things.

***

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s perfect!” I ran over and jumped onto the blue-and-gold checked harlequin bedspread covering a gigantic “King” size bed, raising my arms in mock supplication to the portrait of the real King, immortalized midserenade, on the wall above the bed at Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis. “At last, I’m home.”

Chris frowned and dropped his duffle bag near the bureau. “I’m not sleeping with Elvis staring at me.”

“Don’t have much choice, do you now?” I was grinning like a fool, but I didn’t care. Suddenly things seemed much brighter. The next couple of days were all about basking in Elvis, doing things I’d never done, immersing myself in my hobby and forgetting the troubles that had been crowding in lately. It was all a distraction, and distraction was good.

“You realize there’s only one bed, don’t you?”

Chris stared down at me, one dark eyebrow raised. Climbing off the bed, I walked over and pressed a hand to his cheek, patting gently. “I was planning on coming on this vacation alone. But, having only one bed, I guess I won’t have to worry about you bringing home any more strays.”

I trotted off to the bathroom, leaving him glaring after me.

***

He was still glaring hours later, though not about the bed. This time it was Elvis. We’d seen it all that afternoon. Every Memphis venue Elvis ever played; the green-awning’d Sun Studios, where his career began; the store he’d shopped in (Lansky Bros., where I was unable to talk Chris into buying any Elvis-inspired clothing for himself); Humes High school, from which Elvis graduated. We ate—okay, I ate—a fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich, which was actually pretty tasty. We had bags of Elvis souvenirs—Christmas ornaments, beach towels (to use in California) and, of course, more T-shirts to round out my wardrobe. I even sent my brother an Elvis mouse pad. It was all kitsch and I was cool with that.

Chris was not. “Why do you need another Elvis T-shirt? Don’t you have enough?”

“Do you have enough sports equipment?” I asked brightly, unwilling to be brought down, even by the premier Elvis basher. “Do you have enough rock climbing doo-dads? Or do you still need the latest and greatest?”

“That’s not the same.”

Finally spent, for the moment, I agreed to make a brief stop at the hotel to dump our goods off.

I gave Chris exactly ten minutes of downtime.

“Okay, time to go.”

He lay on the bed, covering his eyes with his arm, blocking out images of Elvis burned into his eyeballs, he said. His only response was to groan.

“I’ll buy you alcohol,” I said. “We’re doing Beale Street.”

“No more Elvis?”

“Not tonight anyway.”

We discovered Beale Street is sometimes known as the Bourbon Street of Memphis. The road was cordoned off at night, allowing the tourists and native partiers freedom to roam without fear of being run down by drivers with no regard for the drunk. Open containers of alcohol were allowed, giving free movement from one bar to the next, one club to another, without becoming parched on the way. At night, Beale Street was alive with neon and the blues, packed into three short wild and crazy blocks. My dizziness was nearly nonexistent, so I ventured into the world of alcohol again with a daiquiri to top all daiquiris.

“Sissy booze?” Chris gave me a playful shove with his shoulder. His mood had improved greatly now that Elvis wasn’t the main attraction. I hoped he wasn’t getting too comfortable in his Elvis-less world, because tomorrow would be the pièce de résistance. Graceland.

“Not sissy booze.” I dodged out of the way of some woman careening down the sidewalk with two drinks in her hand, and probably several already in her belly. “I needed to get some fruit in. You know, strawberries, bananas…”

“Yeah, like that’s on the food pyramid.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if it is or not. I’m just…happy to be alive.” I sounded like a New Age ditz and didn’t give two hoots. New York was behind me, troubles in the past, Kevin forgotten. Okay, well, Kevin had been forgotten until I remembered I forgot him, but really, what difference did it make? He chose to move on, and I chose to let him. Somehow, I think I got the better end of the deal.

“Let’s check out the dancing in here,” Chris suggested, veering off into a brick and glass-fronted building on a corner.

The rock-and-roll music perked us right up, and soon we were on the dance floor. We danced together. We danced separately. I tried to ignore Chris giving the Kiss Test to every dance partner. Well, except me, of course.

Three hours later, my head throbbed, either from the alcohol, the loud music or the dancing, I’m not sure which. But I was happy.

“Hey, let’s find Becker,” Chris suggested. “I looked up his address earlier. It’s just down the street.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot he was here.” I stepped over someone’s spent beer bottle and gripped Chris’s arm to keep from falling.

He smiled at me and winked. “Still wanna get laid?”

Sighing, I shook my head. My head said no, but my body said, “Yes. But, I won’t. Even if he’s still hotter than four-alarm chili.”

“Why not?” Chris gave me a few pokes in the side with his elbow. “You haven’t had sex in a while. Don’t you think you deserve it?”

“I thought that thinking of me having sex grossed you out.”

“It does, but maybe I won’t feel guilty any more for that goose egg on your forehead.”

“Gee, thanks.” I absently rubbed at my bruise and swayed a little at some sultry blues coming out of one of the bars. After all the exercise of the last three hours, I was surprisingly mellow. Maybe because my body hadn’t had such a workout in weeks. It wore out more quickly.

“There it is.”

Just outside the protective barriers blocking off Beale Street from the rest of Memphis, sat a hole-in-the-wall storefront.

Case the Joint, it said.

“Great name!” I brightened at the thought of seeing Case Becker after all these years. I’d once been head over heels for him. He, however, had about as much interest in me as Chris did. We were pals, buddies, drinking mates. It never crossed his mind to do anything else with me. Nor would it have crossed his mind that I’d be interested in him.

Chris and I crossed the street and made our way through the milling tourists to the door of Case the Joint. The little bar held a big crowd, even this late at night. Signed photos—not of famous people, that I could tell, but of normal people—papered the walls, Polaroids signed with permanent markers. From the high, open ceiling hung cast-off bras, a few panties and the occasional thong, those nearest the windows faded from years of sunlight.

“Interesting place.” Chris followed me in, stepping aside to allow another couple to pass.

Music throbbed from an unseen jukebox, hidden somewhere within the standing-room-only crowd.

“If Becker is the owner,” I hollered to Chris, as we made our way toward the bar, “what are the chances of him actually being here?”

“From what I heard, he lives for this place. Night and day.” Chris looked over the top of my head and a few seconds later broke into his high-wattage smile. “Beck!”

He raised his hand in greeting and I followed his gaze toward the glossy wooden bar along the rear of the room. Behind the bar, Case Becker stood in all his glory. Years hadn’t diminished anything about Becker, except his hairline. What had been fading in college—in a very attractive manner, of course—had receded into oblivion. His bald head gleamed in the muted bar lights as he turned at the sound of his name.

“Treem! You bastard!” Becker broke into a huge grin and tossed a white cloth to the other bartender behind the counter before heading our way. He wove through his customers, a full head and a half taller than any of them, and made his way toward us. “Damn, man. Where’ve you been all my life?”

He threw his arms around Chris and they did the back-slapping, man-patting, bear hug that would have killed any woman they tried it on.

“We’re in town for a few days.” Chris gestured in my direction. “Thought we’d stop by and give you hell.”

Becker saw me, and I wiggled my fingers and smiled. “Surprise!”

“Margo? Long Haul Margo?”

I laughed at the nickname I hadn’t heard for years. Becker dubbed me that when I broke some college records for cross country. Back then, he always said I was “in it for the long haul.” Well, back then, I’d have been into him for the long haul anyway. “That’s me.”

Becker swooped in and lifted me straight off my feet. We whirled around until I kicked some woman in the butt with my feet, then he put me down and apologized by ordering her a free drink. She must not have been too upset, judging by the amount of eyelid fluttering going on. Becker obviously still had the same charm that had worked to his and Chris’s advantage in college.

“Hey, come on back to my lair, where it’s quiet.” Becker snapped his fingers at someone behind the bar. “Beer for three in the back.”

Chris and I followed Becker toward the back of the bar. I felt like a midget sandwich, squeezed between such tall men. Chris was six-two, not a giant, but to my five-four, it was still pretty tall. Becker, on the other hand, towered over us both, somewhere in the neighborhood of six-seven or eight. I squared my shoulders and tried not to feel intimidated about their imposing height by concentrating on Becker’s great butt. That sure hadn’t changed since I’d last seen him.

Becker led us through a narrow, dim hallway into a smallish room in the rear of the bar. A door marked Emergency Exit stood catty-corner and probably led out into a back alleyway. The “lair” was square and softly lit, smelled like the soft brown leather sofa against the wall, and held a round table set off to the side, topped with a bunch of magazines—called things like Skin Art and Nasty Tattoo—and some loose change. A few moments later, a red-headed waitress showed up with a tray full of mugs and a pitcher of dark beer. She dropped them off and accepted a kiss from Becker.

“This is my wife, Angel.” Becker introduced us all around. Then, Angel told us to have fun and went back out to the bar.

“Married, huh?” Chris settled into a chair and reached for the beer. “Damn, that’s too bad, isn’t it, Margo?” He gave me a pointed look that silently communicated, Oops, looks like you’re not getting laid tonight either.

I kicked him under the table.

Becker was oblivious. “Four years now. Even got a kid.”

Chris and I made the appropriate oohs and aahs at the picture Becker withdrew from his wallet, while I inwardly cringed. I couldn’t imagine being thirty years old, saddled with a kid already. I had too much life to live, too much to do.

Funny, years ago, when I’d had the hots for Becker, I might have even accepted a marriage proposal from him. Oh, not because I was in love or anything. It was definitely a physical thing. Beck had basketball-player hands. The kind of hands that suction-cupped a basketball, as if it was nothing. His arms were thick with muscles, not to mention every other part of his body. His butt was like premium beef steak, packed into button-fly Levis and ripe for grilling. He was so physical all the time, touching, hugging, carrying me around. Well, not only me. Ladies’ man Beck paid no more attention to me than he would his kid sister. I got all the physical attention, except the kind I wanted. If he’d asked me to marry him, I probably would have, because I’d convinced myself sex with Becker would be a cosmic experience I’d never recover from. I wanted him in my bed so much I’d have done just about anything.

Actually, I did just about everything.

It hadn’t worked.

Looking at Becker now, regardless of the fact he was married, I didn’t feel all that much. Sure, he was a prime specimen, and if I’d been a different girl, I might’ve felt like examining him closer. But the old spark wasn’t there. He’d settled into being just an old friend.

“So, how ’bout you two?” Becker asked, drawing my attention back to the conversation.

“How long’ve you been married?”

I spit my beer in a streaming fountain onto the table and gasped for air while Chris pounded me on the back, laughing.

“Margo’s allergic to the M-word. Probably shouldn’t mention it again or she might toss a lung.”

“So, what? You guys just shacking up then?”

“Geez, Becker.” I stared at him like he’d admitted to wearing women’s underpants.

“Chris is my best friend. You know that. Best friends don’t sleep together.”

“Well, we’re gonna sleep together tonight,” Chris reminded me with an intimate pat on the thigh, meant to egg me on.

I slapped his paw away. “That’s not the same.”

We explained to Beck about our vacation and my accident, which forced me to bring Chris along—much to my utter disappointment. “He’s such an Elvis hater.”

Becker stared around the room in mock horror, as if waiting for the Elvis police to burst through the door and bust us. “Don’t ever speak of such things outside this room.”

“I don’t hate Elv…uh, him,” Chris corrected with an eye roll. “I could just live without him.”

“Not if you live in Memphis, man.”

Becker refilled our beers and told us about his business. “The bar’s downstairs and upstairs is my studio.”

“Studio?” I asked, as I began my second beer, wondering if he’d taken up painting or something. Or maybe he meant dance studio, my slightly tipsy subconscious thought, and I snickered under my breath at my own wit.

“Tattoo studio.” He indicated the magazines spread out on the table. I’d stopped looking at them a short time ago. The images started swimming in front of my eyes like bad drug trip, so I’d been avoiding eye contact. Besides, the cover photo of a woman with a dragon curling up her side, resting its huge head on the upper part of her breast made my skin hurt just looking at it. Did people take entire bottles of Valium before subjecting themselves to a tattoo artist’s needle?

Chris and Becker discussed the trials and tribulations of business ownership, until I felt a bit left out. Crap, I didn’t even have a job I could discuss. I felt about ten years old.

Pretty soon, though, the conversation turned to our college years. Becker’s wife, Angel, joined us while on her break, bringing another couple of pitchers. We had a good time, talking about our lives now and our lives in college. We reminded Becker of the camping trip we’d all taken, sharing stories with his wife, who’d never heard them before. We laughed until our sides hurt, probably due as much to the excess of alcohol as to the laughter itself. When one pitcher was gone, another miraculously appeared.

After a while, the alcohol, having nowhere else to go, began replacing brain cells, and I don’t remember what happened the rest of the night. But, I’m sure we had a good time.

***

A taxi must have taken us back to the Heartbreak Hotel, and we must have staggered safely to our room because when I finally woke up, early morning sunlight flooded between the curtains we’d forgotten to close.

Chris was draped over the top of me.

My first thought was, Please, God, tell me I didn’t have sex with my best friend. Without moving a muscle, I took inventory of body parts—something I’d done on a couple of occasions in the past, after a night of too much imbibing and not enough memory of the company I’d kept. Chances were, since it had been so blasted long, I’d somehow know whether I had sex.

I hadn’t.

Thank God.

Not wanting to awaken Chris yet, I didn’t move. It was actually kind of nice, I decided. The weight of Chris’s arm across my chest, his chin against my shoulder. His soft breath blowing on my neck with each exhale.

I don’t like to be touched when I sleep. It’s always been an unwritten rule. Lance tried to get past my boundaries a few times, but the threat of me sleeping on the couch if he didn’t stay on his own side of the bed prevented him from trying to snuggle at night.

So why wasn’t I bothered by Chris touching me in my sleep? Thinking about it logically, I should have been more upset at having Chris, a “mere” friend, invading my space. Strange. Looking at Chris, his dark hair tousled, his cheeks needing a shave, his eyes fluttering in his dreams, I felt more intimate with him than I ever remember feeling before, with any of my boyfriends. Maybe with anyone at all.

Yesterday, I’d shared Elvis with Chris all day long. Not that he enjoyed it, but he’d gone. Kevin would never have gone with me. He’d have insisted on being the tour guide and taking me to cultural sites and museums only—not the Rock ‘n’ Soul Museum either. And forget the Graceland tour planned for today. That wouldn’t even have been an option. He’d have orchestrated the entire trip, with no thought to what I wanted to do. Chris grumbled, but he went along with it. Because he understood me.

Chris and I had shared so much over the years. He’d been there for every break-up I’d been through, every maternal wedding I endured, every job disappointment, college illness and, as kids, every bit of other trouble you could imagine. He listened to my dreams of being a DJ and hadn’t judged me because I loved the music and celebrities. He saw me cry when I flunked my driver’s test the first time and didn’t get to drive home the new Honda I saved so long to buy. He’d seen me naked (with oatmeal) and hadn’t made me feel awkward or embarrassed.

There was more intimacy in our friendship than I think I had with all my boyfriends put together.

Which must have been why I didn’t move from under Chris’s weight and instead just closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

***

When next I woke up, Chris hadn’t moved, but I needed to. Nature, the demanding little bugger, was calling.

Trying to slip out from under a six-foot two-inch man is harder than it sounds. And, seeing as I had no prior experience, I did a lousy job of it. I shimmied to the right, toward the edge of the bed. Chris groaned in his sleep and tugged me closer with the arm thrown across my belly. I tried scooting up toward the head of the bed. Chris moved even closer and threw a leg into the mix, pinning my thighs to the bed. My bladder, sensing that it wouldn’t be relieved soon, protested louder.

I finally decided waking Chris was the only option. “Hey. Sleeping Beauty.” I gave his shoulder a shake. “I need to use the restroom.” No response. “Earth to Treem. Waste water must be jettisoned. Please respond.”

Nothing.

My bladder screamed and threatened mutiny.

I pulled out the big guns. “Chris!”

Even with shouting in his ear, he awakened slowly. One eye opened, then the other, as he focused on my face. For a brief moment, I watched as his brain registered who he was lying on. I wondered how he would react.

He didn’t react in the horror I half expected. “Hmm. You’re pretty comfortable for a girl with no boobs.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said wryly. “Don’t think I’ve heard sweeter words from a guy’s mouth before.”

“My pleasure.” Chris shifted lazily in bed, apparently not in any hurry to leave Dreamland.

Suddenly my brain registered something of its own. I stared down at Chris in surprise and, uh, shock. “Is that a gun in your boxers or are you happy to see me?”

Chris snorted and rolled away from me, though not in a self-conscious manner. “Nothing that doesn’t happen every morning.”

I sat up on the edge of the bed, my bladder much relieved now that it wasn’t crowded by a large male leg. “Really?” I tugged down the edge of the T-shirt I’d slept in. “I always thought that morning wood thing was a myth.”

“You mean that has never happened to you before? With any of your boyfriends?”

I shook my head and leaned back against the headboard where I could see Chris. My bladder could wait. “Nope.”

“Didn’t you and Kevin ever snuggle in the morning?” He looked so completely incredulous that I laughed.

“I’m not much of a cuddler. I like my space when I sleep.”

Chris made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like doubt. “Then why didn’t you move when you woke up a few hours ago?”

I felt myself flush involuntarily. “I was comfortable. You were comfortable. I was too tired to move.”

“I think you liked it.” He grinned that thousand-watt smile meant to disarm his victims.

“No, I didn’t. I was just exhausted.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

I smacked him on the chest and climbed out of bed. “Your ego is pretty swollen in the morning, too, isn’t it?”

I took two steps across the carpet and landed on my face. “Damn,” I said from my position on the floor.

“You okay?”

I rolled over on my back and stared one-eyed up at where Chris now hung over the edge of the bed, ready to give assistance to the dizzy broad on the floor. “Fine.” I groaned. “Obviously, alcohol was not a good idea.”

Chris laughed. “Maybe not.”

I slowly pushed myself to my feet, hanging on to my friend the wall. I truly looked forward to the day when I could walk with both hands free…all the time.

“Hey,” Chris called as I got to the bathroom door. “Didn’t you ever have morning sex? You know, that sleepy sex, where you both wake up and find yourself in the middle of making love and no one’s quite sure who started it? The kind that lasts for hours because neither of you wants to wake up from the really great dream you’re both sharing?”

I leaned against the wall and smiled a little. “Nope. Never. The only morning sex I ever had was a quickie in the shower.”

Chris shook his tousled head sadly. “You don’t know what you’ve been missing, babe.”

As I turned to enter the bathroom, I sighed. Chris’s brief description was just enough to tell me what I’d been missing. I had to wonder if I’d ever find out first-hand, seeing that I was through with men.

My bladder now a happy camper, I gave my face a good scrubbing. Despite the hangover, I really looked forward to today. Graceland. The culmination of my entire Elvis vacation fantasy.

I rubbed at a leftover bug bite on my hip. Most of the others had faded, but this one still bothered me. In fact, it really kind of hurt. Sliding down the shorts I’d worn to bed—obviously not being coherent enough to change out of them at whatever time we dragged our behinds into the hotel last night—I balanced against the counter and bent to the side to examine the bite. Or rather the thick gauze bandage covering what I thought was a bite. I peeled back the adhesive to see what was underneath.

“Ahhhhhh!!!” The scream I let out had Chris bursting through the bathroom door in five seconds flat.

“What the hell?! What’s wrong?” Chris latched on to my shoulders as if to keep me from falling over.

“What the fuck is that?” I screeched in horror.

“What? Where?” He twisted to look around the bathroom, obviously thinking I’d seen something that scared me.

I’d seen something that scared me all right, but it wasn’t loose in the Heartbreak Hotel bathroom. “This!” I snarled and pivoted to show him my hip. The one sporting a newly needled tattoo.

A tattoo that said CHRIS in giant black letters.

Surrounded by a red heart.

With white wings.

For a minute, Chris only stared, open-mouthed. Then he burst out laughing. He doubled over, gripping the counter while he howled. He laughed so hard I thought he’d bust a blood vessel.

I had no plans to call 911 if he did.

I finally kicked him in the shin to shut him up. “This is not funny!” I screeched. “I cannot go through life with your name tattooed on my ass.”

“Well, technically it’s not your ass. It’s your hip.” Chris panted heavily and rested his hands on his thighs trying to get a grip on himself. I was about to get a grip on him myself, and it wasn’t going to be pleasurable.

“It’s not funny! Stop laughing,” I demanded. “What did you and Case do? How the hell did I end up with a tattoo?”

“I swear, I don’t remember,” he assured me. Which wasn’t reassuring at all.

A shocking thought crossed my mind. What if I had more than one tattoo?

I began frantically searching my body for signs of other graffiti.

Arms: clear.

Legs and ankles: clear.

I pulled my shirt away from my chest, reached underneath and yanked my bra away from the breasts that really weren’t even large enough to need holding up. Breasts: clear.

“Check my shoulders.” I turned and lifted my shirt.

“No tattoos,” Chris said, through a snicker.

That only left…my butt. People got tattoos on their butts, didn’t they? Oh, God, if I’d bared my butt to Case Becker, I was going to put a bullet through my brain.

With a deep breath, I bent over and yanked my shorts down only as far as necessary. Chris snorted with renewed laughter, and I quickly pulled my shorts into place.

“This is serious. Do I or don’t I have someone else’s name on my ass?”

Chris literally couldn’t speak he was laughing so hard.

I finally gave up waiting for an answer and climbed up onto the toilet lid, bared my butt again and twisted around to look at it in the mirror.

Tattoo-free.

I yanked up my shorts and started to climb down, only to be swamped by a wave of dizziness. Chris stopped laughing for ten seconds to catch me, returning me to the floor.

“You are so dead.” I stomped past him out of the bathroom. “You and Case are going to rot in hell for this.”

“It’s just a tattoo.”

“It has your name on it!”

“Lots of women get tattoos with guys’ names on them. Doesn’t Angelina Jolie have a tattoo that says Billy Bob?”

“Angelina Jolie was married to Billy Bob at the time. Don’t you think it’s more than a little weird to have my best friend’s name tattooed on me?” I yanked a clean set of clothes out of my suitcase. “I mean, gee, it might turn out to be a little awkward the next time I have sex with a guy—every time I have sex with a guy for the rest of my life—when I have to stop and explain my tattoo.”

Chris just stood by the bed, scratching his bare—tattoo-free, I might add—chest, and trying not to laugh. Barely. Disgusted, I huffed past him, which sent him into further fits of laughter. Obviously my pain was amusing.

“You are so going to pay,” I said, turning back when I reached the bathroom door. “You have three more weeks of me—”

I stopped midsentence and gasped. Chris didn’t notice, because he was too busy being a man and thinking everything was a big joke. Well, I had a surefire way to put a stop to his mirth.

I dumped my clothes on the floor and walked up behind him, giving him a shove.

“Hey,” he protested, still chuckling. “No violence.”

“Remember that in about five seconds,” I snapped, giving him another push and lining him up with the bureau mirror. “Take a look at that, smart man.” I reached up and yanked off the bandage covering his right shoulder blade.

His sharp intake of breath told me his tattoo hurt much like mine.

He swiveled his head to peer in the mirror. I saw his eyes widen in his reflection. He backed up another foot until his thighs bumped on to the bureau and leaned close to the mirror.

“Does that say—”

“Margo.” I folded my hands across my chest and waited for it to sink in that he now sported my name in black—surrounded by a red heart, with lovely white wings. He wouldn’t find the situation nearly so funny now that he had his own damn explaining to do every time he had sex the rest of his life.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

I grinned with satisfaction, glad to have proven my point.

Chris promptly burst into hysterics again. He laughed until he finally had to collapse on the bed to keep from falling.

“You are such a moron.”

“Ah, but I’m your moron,” he pointed out. “The tattoos say so.”

I closed my eyes and counted to ten to keep from bludgeoning him with a table lamp.

“Hey.” He finally sat up on the edge of the bed, turning to once again admire his tattoo in the mirror. “If you hate yours that much, you could always add a T to the end of my name to change it to Christ, and tell everybody you found religion.”

“And, you can change the R to another G and add a T to the end of my name and change it to maggot, because that is exactly what you are to have gotten me into this in the first place!”

The slamming of the bathroom door behind me probably reverberated throughout the entire hotel.

***

Crisp bacon crackled between my jaws as I took out my frustration on innocent pork. I could barely look at Chris, who sat across the table from me, all nonchalant, like I hadn’t been violated last night with ink and needles.

He bit into his buttered rye toast and blinked.

“Oh, you think this is so amusing, don’t you?” I finally snapped.

Chris snorted. “Am I laughing?”

His eyes were laughing. “Yes, you are. You and Becker probably both laughed last night, didn’t you? ‘Let’s take Margo upstairs and brand her!’ That was the deal, wasn’t it? A bet. Or…or payback.”

“Branding you would hardly be the case, now would it, considering I have a matching tattoo with your name on it? And, it definitely wasn’t payback.” He paused and then frowned.

“Payback for what?”

“For—” I clamped my jaw shut. Chris didn’t know what I might need to be paid back for.

I figured he’d guessed all those years ago. I figured he knew how I felt about Becker back then and would have put two and two together.

“For what?” he asked again, leaning across the table on his elbows, narrowing his eyes.

“What did you do?”

I shook my head, suddenly famished. I tucked into my scrambled eggs with renewed fervor, while examining the design on the handles of my silverware. There wasn’t a design, but if there had been, I was examining what it would have looked like.

“Margo.”

“What?” I asked, completely innocently. “I’m eating my breakfast, and frankly you’re not helping my digestion.”

“Your digestion is going to need more than help if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about. What did you do that Becker or I might need to pay you back for?”

I waved my hand, burying my face in my morning Coke. “It’s not even worth mentioning.” At least, not if I wanted to get home from this vacation any way other than on foot. My very childish, very bad behavior was definitely not going to keep me in Chris’s good graces. Lord knew, if I confessed and he told Becker I’d been the one to spread the “Becker’s got herpes” rumor all those years ago—in a completely well-intentioned attempt to get every other girl on campus to steer clear of Becker so he might notice me—Becker would probably drug me and tattoo something much more foul on my body than my best friend’s name.

“You know, when time goes by, some things are just better left in the past.” I continued, “So, I want to be at Graceland by ten. To beat the heat and the crowds.”

Chris reached across the table and ripped my fork from my hand. “Oh, no. Changing the subject isn’t going to work.”

“Sure it is.” I did some reaching of my own and retrieved my fork. “You wouldn’t tell me about your California business, so I don’t have to confess my si—uh, little tiny mistakes of nearly a decade ago.”

I went back to my breakfast like a starving linebacker. My mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full, so as long as I kept food in my mouth, I’d be unable to answer further questions from my inquisitor.

Chris opened his mouth to speak, and, as I was between bites, I interrupted. “So, are you attending meetings in Cali or some kind of seminar?” Chris frowned and went back to his food, while I smiled triumphantly at the top of his head.

Finally, he took a break and drank some coffee before speaking again. “Anyway, we’re doing Graceland tomorrow. I’m totally Elvis’d out.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped at the hissing sound from the next table. I glanced over to find a gray-haired lady glaring in Chris’s direction. With a mental note to watch my back and feign ignorance should I be in any way connected with the Elvis-Hater, I turned back to Chris. “We’re not waiting until tomorrow. We’re going today. That was the whole point of this trip.”

“You told me I’d be allowed to do what I wanted to do.”

“Sure, we can do what you want tomorrow, when I’ve seen Graceland.”

“I already made plans.”

“When did you have time to make plans?”

“When you were showering. I’m going skydiving.”

“Skydiving. Fine.” I shrugged. “I don’t need you to go with me anyway. You go jump out of a plane—Hey! Without a parachute would be great!—and I’ll go to Graceland.”

“You go, sister!” the little old lady at the next table encouraged with a toothless smile.

“Who needs ’im?”

I returned her smile and nodded my thanks before turning back to Chris. “See. It’s agreed. You skydive. I go see Graceland.”

“The only problem is that you can’t walk three feet without falling on your face.”

“I can so.” I straightened my spine as if to prove it. “I was fine last night.”

“And then promptly kissed the carpet before you’d taken two steps this morning.”

“It was early, and I was hung over.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Chris swallowed some coffee and then set it back down before giving me his serious look. “You can’t go off by yourself, especially in a place like that.”

“What kind of place would that be, sonny?” snarled my champion at the next table.

Whereas I might have felt like snapping her head off if she had been on Chris’s side, I gave her a discreet thumbs-up under the table, because she was on mine.

Chris decided to play dirty. He turned his thousand-watt smile on the poor, unsuspecting female…and she was a goner. Didn’t matter how old they were. Within ten seconds, she waggled her eyelids at him, clutching her heart.

I absolutely could not compete with electrically charged male testosterone.

“You don’t understand, ma’am.” Chris dripped honey in an attempt to attract the bee to his nectar. “Margo here was injured a few weeks ago, in a very unfortunate accident. She’s not fully…well.” He drew a circle around one ear with his forefinger. I kicked him sharply under the table. He never took his luring eyes off his victim, and she was so enamored at this point, I knew I was on my own. “I’ve been caring for her the whole time, with no break. She requires care 24/7 and, well, I’m just plumb worn out.”

Plumb worn out? I hadn’t heard that phrase since visiting my grandma when I was a kid.

“Oh, you’re such a good young man to take care of her when she needs help. You deserve a break.”

“No, he doesn’t!”

Both Chris and my former teammate, who’d defected to the other team simply because Chris had a Y chromosome, turned to stare at me, eyebrows identically arched.

“He doesn’t deserve a break,” I repeated, albeit in a much more subdued voice, now that everyone was staring at me and probably thinking I just proved Chris’s point about my mental instability. “I deserve to go to Graceland. My life is in the toilet, and I deserve to see Elvis.”

Old Lady wavered. I saw her favor tip in my direction. After all, she was obviously a Memphis native, where Elvis was everything. I leaned over and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You understand my needs much more than he does. Don’t you? I mean, it’s not just anywhere I want to go, it’s Graceland.” For good measure, I turned so she could see my I Love Elvis T-shirt.

Slowly, her tiny head began to nod, as we shared a brief bonding moment. Finally, she turned to Chris, and I swear there were tears in her eyes. “Take her to Graceland, boy.”

“I will,” Chris replied politely, although the glare he shot me was anything but. “Tomorrow.”

“I’m going today.” My temper again. I took a twenty out of my wallet and laid it on the table. “I’m going now. So, I guess I’ll meet you back here tonight.”

With that I got up and stalked across the room, in a completely straight line, with no falling, no swaying and no faltering of steps.

Until I got into the elevator, where I promptly hit the floor just as the doors closed.

Much to the horror of the two extremely hot guys at whose feet I fell.

***

Tourists lined the circular driveway in front of Graceland to pay their respects to Elvis and see how the King lived so many years ago. We’d been dropped off by the shuttle that carted us across Elvis Presley Boulevard from the ticket office. We were a mixed lot. Portly older men standing with little blue-haired ladies; a few teenagers in ball caps and bandanas; a group from Japan, cameras slung round their necks and clutched between their hands so as to be ready for any Kodak moment; and a few families corralling children obviously bored with the wait. It was leaning toward hot outside, but the stately trees provided us lots of shade as we waited for the tour to begin. A few security guards watched from the sidewalk opposite us, probably to keep control of any fanatics among our ranks.

Then there was me. I mostly stood very, very still. No way could I have admitted to Chris how dizzy I really was this morning, including keeping to myself the episode in the elevator where I had to be lifted to my feet by the two gorgeous guys who thought I’d had multiple mimosas for breakfast.

It had to have been the alcohol last night. And maybe the pain in my hip from having needles stabbed into it. I absently rubbed the sore spot and got pissed off all over again. This was obviously all Becker’s fault. Giving us free alcohol all night then luring us into his tattoo parlor. It smacked of conspiracy, of payback.

Damned if he hadn’t succeeded.

“All right, everyone! Let’s begin the tour.”

We followed the guide in a semi-orderly fashion up the steps leading to the front door of Graceland. I tried to stay ahead of the two women behind me who, no sooner had our shuttle passed through the famous wrought-iron gates with their musical notes and silhouettes of Elvis, had loudly burst into tears. They appeared to be in their mid-fifties and probably had been the same groupies who followed Elvis around years ago, screaming and crying when he made eye contact with them. I, of course, would never have done that.

“See?” I silently admonished the absent Chris. “I’m not such a wacko.”

As we paused to wait for the ladies to gain control over themselves, so their sobbing didn’t disturb the tour, I glanced around, back out toward the boulevard that ran in front of Elvis’s home. From our vantage point, I could see a BBQ restaurant and a Krispy Kreme, and it struck me that Elvis might not be altogether pleased at how his lovely country home had become so commercial. On the other hand, I think he’d trusted his daughter to handle his affairs in a dignified manner, so maybe he was pleased after all. His fans, even those who, like me, were too young to have lived the Elvis experience, had an opportunity to come here and revisit it. I guess, if you lived on in people’s hearts, you never really died. Maybe Elvis had known all along that this would happen.

The women finally gained control of themselves and the guide called to us to begin our tour. I concentrated, figuring I needed to add to my Elvis knowledge, if only for the purpose of having more trivia with which to torture Chris. I learned Graceland was a Georgian colonial with Corinthian columns holding up the front portico. I stared upward as we passed under the portico. It sounded like a word from a “Word of the Day” calendar, one that us New Yorkers don’t have much opportunity to use in our day-to-day lives.

Once inside, being in Graceland was like stepping back into the seventies. I looked down at myself, almost expecting my clothes to miraculously morph from khaki shorts and a T-shirt to bell bottoms and a tie-dyed smock. Thankfully they didn’t, so I went back to paying attention.

Although we were warned not to touch anything, we were encouraged to hang back and enjoy the house if something caught our eye. I intended to keep up though, so as not to miss any of the guide’s words. I’d waited years for this visit, and I wasn’t about to be left out of anything. Plus, thankfully, the tour moved slowly enough that I kept my balance with no problem. Again, speaking to Chris in my mind, I said, “I told you I could do this on my own.” I didn’t need a keeper, no matter what everyone seemed to think.

“Can we go upstairs?” one woman asked, and we all turned to look up the impressive, white-carpeted staircase leading up to the second floor.

“I’m afraid the second floor is off-limits to the public,” our patient tour guide replied with a smile.

“’Cause that’s where Elvis is, right?” some guy with a redneck accent piped up. “He really ain’t dead, is he? He’s just up there hanging out, watching all us tourists on hidden cameras, right?”

The tour guide laughed, as the entire group searched the walls and ceiling for surveillance equipment.

“Well, that’s what some people think. But since us guides aren’t even allowed upstairs, I can’t say with any certainty.” He gave us a wink and then began the meat and potatoes of the tour.

I’d seen pictures, but truly, they didn’t do justice to real life. Elvis’s tastes leaned toward the gaudy, with lots of chrome and glass, bold colors, fabric-covered walls, shag carpet and furniture no one else would be caught dead with—maybe with the exception of Adair, who, though no Elvis fan, would have swooned over the fur-covered chairs in the Jungle Room and the mirrored ceiling and walls in the TV room downstairs.

Outside, we visited some of Elvis’s car collection, the pasture that housed his horses and the Trophy Room. We passed through the Hall of Gold, an eighty-foot hall lined with Elvis’s gold and platinum records and other awards. At the end of the Hall of Gold, we entered the Big Room. The Big Room contained enough memorabilia to make the most casual collector flush. I nearly had heart palpitations. There were Priscilla and Elvis’s wedding outfits (Elvis wore a snappy black paisley tux), paintings of Elvis, his collection of police and sheriff’s badges, guns and many of the clothes he’d worn on stage. What I wouldn’t have given for any of these items in my collection. My stuff seemed pale by comparison.

I relaxed and relished the tour. The Meditation Garden, one of Elvis’s favorite places, was the final resting place of the King and the members of his family. Surrounded by a circular brick wall with a beautiful fountain at the center, the sound of water added to the peacefulness, white noise softening the footsteps and words of the tourists, allowing one to drift into their own thoughts if desired.

The Meditation Garden also drew more sobbing from our more dramatic tourmates. Trying to be helpful, the redneck man who insisted Elvis was alive and living on the second floor of Graceland, roughly patted one of the women on the shoulder. “Y’all just dry yer tears now,” he explained with a knowing nod of his head. “Ol’ Elvis is right up in them there windows, watching y’all right now. He din’t really die. He just got tired of all the publicity and went into hidin’.”

The two women looked at him oddly, but they did settle down a bit. As he left them to rejoin his family at the grave of Elvis’s mother, I saw them both peering back toward Graceland, probably wondering if maybe Elvis was watching them.

We were shuttled back across the street, and though I was getting tired, I had no intention of going back to the hotel until I’d seen everything. Elvis’s jets, the “Walk a Mile” film, which, Elvis fan though I was, nearly had me nodding off in its brief twenty-two minutes, and finally the Automobile Museum, where I had someone take my picture in front of the Pink Cadillac Seville. That one would be blown up and hung on my wall as part of my collection.

The Automobile Museum was set up like a park, where tourists meandered amongst the cars Elvis had treasured, reading about each one before moving on to the next. I wasn’t much interested in cars, so I just admired their nice paint jobs and wondered where I’d ever put one if I were so lucky as to add an Elvis car to my collection. As a collector, owning one of Elvis’s cars would be a coup. However, I’d have had to rent a garage to keep it in, which was pretty much out of the question. Unless I lived in the car in the garage, which was a distinct possibility if I didn’t find a job with which to pay my rent.

I couldn’t think of that, I decided. This was a sacred day. An Elvis day. A day meant just for me, to take my mind off my troubles and put it on something I enjoyed, which had no connotations of trouble involved. Elvis.

A few doors down from the Automobile Museum was “Sincerely Elvis,” the only exhibit I’d not yet looked at. Though beginning to drag my feet and feeling a little lightheaded, I couldn’t pass it up. I slowly wandered through the little building, smiling at all the things Elvis’s people thought the rest of us would enjoy. The gold telephone from Elvis’s bedside, his baseball memorabilia and his LP display. This stuff made Elvis real. He’d been a real person who liked baseball and talked to friends on the phone.

“Wouldn’t you just love to touch that?”

I turned to find a little old lady waggling wrinkled fingers in the direction of the gold telephone.

“Um, sure,” I replied with an agreeable smile. I didn’t have much experience with the elderly, but Adair had mentioned his elderly grandmother was highly excitable and prone to fainting if she was contradicted, which caused her blood pressure to fluctuate too quickly.

“That Elvis was one hot man,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning toward me until I was surrounded by a cloud of Bengay strong enough to cause permanent corneal damage. “Course, in his day, I wouldn’t let my girls watch him. Got ’em too riled up.” She waggled a finger in my direction. “You get riled up by Elvis and them pelvic gyrations?”

“Well, no—”

“Oh, don’t lie to me, missy. I been a mother to two girls who liked me to think they were all pure and innocent, too. But, I saw the way they was watching Mr. Elvis’s pelvis do all that thrusting and poking.” She put her hands on her hips and gave me a demonstration of pelvic thrusting I feared would send her by ambulance to the nearest chiropractor.

I shot a frantic look around the room to see who she might belong to, so I could return her to her owners. No one appeared to be looking for their granny, so I was stuck with her.

“You like that movement?” she asked again, crowding into my personal space. I backed up.

“Uh, no, not really.” On Chippendale dancers maybe, but not on little old ladies. It was time for escape tactics. “I think I need to—”

She poked me in the ribs. “You one of them anorexics?” she asked.

“What? No.”

“Yer too damn skinny. I always told my girls that men like women with a little meat on their bones.”

I stared down at this tiny little woman. I towered over her at five foot four, and probably outweighed her by forty pounds, and she was calling me skinny.

“I’m a runner,” I assured her, taking another step away.

“Running from what? A man? A man with pelvis gyrations?”

The next demonstration of pelvic thrusting was worse than the last and beginning to creep me out.

“Uh, I gotta go,” I said. “Nice talking to you.”

Without waiting for an answer, I turned to go, only to find a looming figure behind me. The quick movement sent my equilibrium into a tailspin, and the room whirled around me. I reached out toward the person who’d startled me—Elvis, I registered, as I went down—and lunged for his hand.

The last thing I remember was an elderly voice screaming like a banshee, “She’s molested Elvis. She’s molested the King! Call the police!”

Chapter Eleven

“Jailhouse Rock”

“I’m not drunk, Officer, I swear.” I sat on a well-worn wooden bench in the police station and leaned my still-spinning head against the wall. “I’m really, really not.”

“Miss, do you know what passin’ a Breathalyzer means?” A rather potbellied officer, straining the lower buttons of his uniform, leaned toward me with his hands on his knees like he was talking to a little child. “It means we already know ya ain’t drunk. But something is obviously mentally wrong, so we can’t just release ya. And then there’s the little bit about destruction of property.”

I groaned and opened one eye to peer at the desk a few feet away. There rested the hand of Elvis still clutching his microphone. A wax hand. I had reached out for help from a lifeless statue. Of the King. And in return for breaking my fall, I’d defaced him. De-handed him. I was an unfit Elvis fan.

“There’s nothing mentally wrong with me,” I assured the officer with a sigh. “Please just let me go. I’m dizzy, that’s all.”

“She’s dizzy, all right,” came a voice from a few desks down. “Disrespecting the King and all. That’s as bad as ripping the Crown of Thorns from our Lord on the Cross.”

Again I groaned. I was interred in a building with a hundred men and women, natives of Memphis, who’d been weaned on “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Devil in Disguise” and thought anyone who spoke ill of Elvis was a blasphemer.

Okay, so I accused Chris of the same on occasion, but I knew he didn’t like Elvis. I, on the other hand, loved him. But having broken the hand from the “Sincerely Elvis” exhibit’s prized display, on loan from a wax museum in Ohio, I was not to be believed when I professed my love. I needed more drastic measures.

“You like Elvis?” I peered up at my captor, who was now standing over me, scratching his white undershirt through the gaps in his buttons.

He snorted. “Whatcha think?”

“So, how about if you let me go without having to make a phone call, and as soon as I get back to New York, I’ll mail you my…” I closed my eyes and thought fast. What might I have in my collection that would prompt a big burly cop to let sweet little innocent me go free without having to call Chris for help? “I have a ticket to the movie Roustabout from 1964, and it’s signed by Elvis. I’ll send it to you. Just let me go.”

Officer Potbelly narrowed his eyes at me. “You tryin’ to bribe me, little Yankee girl?”

“No!” Geez. Just bury me now. I really and truly thought I had used up all my bad luck for this lifetime—or at least for this year. But, no. It just kept coming. “Really, Officer, I’m not trying to bribe you.” Maybe the truth would work. “You see, I came to Memphis with a friend. A friend who thinks I need a keeper, that I’m helpless. And I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. I mean, I really don’t need a keeper. I don’t need help getting back to our hotel. I just need a taxi.” Taxis don’t count as help. You have to pay them for their services. They aren’t doing you a favor by coming to pick you up at the police station. The cab driver isn’t going to lecture you for weeks with, “See, you can’t take care of yourself.” A cab driver will just drop you off at the entrance to the hotel, accept his fare (along with a hefty tip, of course, because I’d be so blasted grateful not to have been found needing help) and be on his merry way, with my best friend none the wiser.

“Sounds more like you need a shrink. Maybe that friend is righter than you think.” He headed back around his desk with a disapproving look. Picking up Elvis’s hand he shook it in my direction. “And this here hand tells me I’m right. Now make that phone call, little girl.”

Okay, dammit. I’d been called “missy” by the old lady in the museum—whose fault this whole thing was anyway, what with her grinding that osteoporotic pelvis in my direction one too many times—and now “little girl” by a cop who smelled like cigars and stale beer.

I sat up straighter and fought the dizziness to give him a stern look. “Why do I have to make a phone call? I’m a grown adult. I’ve agreed to make restitution with the Elvis museum.” Which was going to pretty much cost me most of my savings account. “And, I’m not being held on any charges. I should be allowed to leave under my own power.”

“Yeah, well, some prissy little New York princess said the same thing last year after causing a disturbance down on Beale Street one night. We let her pretty little butt go home under her own power, and she got mugged on the way back to her hotel. Her rich daddy sued the pants offa us for not making her call him to come get her.”

“Well, I don’t have a rich daddy, so no chance of that happening in this case.”

“Ya got your own cellular phone or ya want to use the pay phone down the hall? I wouldn’t recommend that one highly, cause some joker who used it this morning turned out to have that kissing disease that makes ya real tired. We Lysol’d it, but I don’t know as I trust that stuff.”

I cringed and slowly pulled my cell phone from my pocket. Glaring at it, I tried to out-think my captors. Maybe I could pretend to call Chris, and then be really, really annoying to the officers until they let me go just to get me out of their hair. Or, maybe Chris wouldn’t answer his phone. He was very possibly, after all, in an airplane high above Memphis at this very minute.

I looked around the room. All officers seemed hard at work, including mine. He was back on the phone, seemingly uninterested in my phone call angst. Maybe I could make a break for it. Slowly I stood and, when no indication of noticing me was forthcoming, I turned and took a few steps toward the door. I swayed a bit and reached for the wall, tip-toeing another step or two before I got busted.

“Where ya think you’re going, little girl?”

I spun around to show my displeasure at being treated like a, well, a little girl. “You know, I have a name, and it isn’t ‘little girl’. Don’t you think you should treat people with a little more respect?” Unfortunately my sternness diminished somewhat when I had to grab the wall to keep from falling on my face.

Officer Potbelly (okay, maybe that wasn’t too respectful on my part, either, but I wasn’t saying it to his face) pushed himself up from his rickety desk chair with an ominous squeak. “And don’t you think you oughta do what yer told and make that phone call before I lock you up for real?”

“You can’t lock me up,” I replied, squaring my shoulders and giving my hair a menacing toss. “I haven’t been charged with anything.”

My opponent crossed the few feet between us and glared down at me. I flinched, half expecting him to poke me in the chest and thrust his pelvis at me like the last person who’d gotten this close to me had. Instead he just put his hands on his hips and leaned closer. “I’m gonna charge ya with bein’ a pain in the ass in a minute and throw ya in solitary. Now sit that annoying little butt onto that bench and start dialing.”

Knowing it was useless to argue any further, unless I wanted to be banned from Memphis for life, I sank down onto the bench and did as I was told.

It took Chris an hour and a half to get to the police station. By the time he arrived, I’d been lulled into a near coma by the sheer boredom of sitting on that hard bench with nothing to do but watch Officer Potbelly and his coworker, Deputy Dog, whose flat face and heavy jowls reminded me of the St. Bernard Chris owned when we were kids.

“I cannot believe you’re in jail.”

My eyes flew open to meet the gaze of one very angry Christopher Treem.

“I’m not exactly in jail,” I replied. “Not in the most technical sense of the word anyway.” I rose slowly from the bench, turning toward the officer who had, in the last two hours, to my shock and surprise, consumed twelve cups of coffee—he had his own pot on a counter behind his desk—three sandwiches, an entire bag of Doritos and seven glazed donuts. I kept my finger poised over my cell phone key pad, expecting to have to dial 911 at any moment. He was either his cardiologist’s favorite patient or his worst nightmare.

“Thanks for the, uh, entertainment,” I offered generously to the officer. “It was such an honor and pleasure to be in your company the past few hours.”

The officer rose from his desk and approached Chris, reaching out a friendly hand. “I’ve got to hand it to ya, son. You’re a brave, brave man. If this was my woman, I’d have left her here at least until tomorrow.”

Chris narrowed his eyes at me. “The thought crossed my mind, as the plane I was supposed to be jumping out of was touching down on the runway, with me still in it. Two hundred and fifty nonrefundable dollars poorer than when I went up.”

I cringed at the acid bite of his words. I’d obviously hear about this for the next three weeks…if not for the rest of my life. I suppose, in some very small, really insignificant way, I probably deserved it. However, I had no intention of admitting fault. The pelvic-thrusting granny had that squarely on her shoulders.

“Well, yer a good man,” Officer Potbelly said, and then leaned close to Chris and whispered loudly enough to be heard all the way across the station. “What’s her problem anyway? She can’t stand up. She’s mouthier than hell. And, well, she attacked poor Elvis.”

“I didn’t attack him!” I protested. “I told you, I was trying to get away from the crazy woman in the museum and Elvis startled me.”

Officer Potbelly circled his right ear with his index finger and nodded knowingly at Chris. “Some kind of mental condition then?”

I watched the wheels of Chris’s brain turn for a moment while he contemplated what to tell the officer. “Don’t you dare tell him I’m crazy, Christopher Treem, or it’ll be the last thing that ever comes out of your mouth.”

“See?” Officer Potbelly waved his hand at me and tossed Chris a look of concern. “She’s volatile. She crazy or what?”

Chris looked from me to him and back again before sighing. I knew that meant his conscience wouldn’t let him lie to the officer about my mental condition. “No, she’s not crazy.”

“See?” I gloated. “Not crazy.”

“If you’re sure about that.” The cop sent him a wary look.

“No, not crazy,” Chris repeated. “Just insanely jealous.”

“What?!” I blurted.

“Jealous?” The officer scratched his potbelly in confusion, the way some people scratch their head.

Chris nodded. “Insanely. She’s dizzy because she has a concussion, which she got while trying to wrestle a woman I’d been trying to get into my bed for six months.”

“I did not!” I punched Chris in the arm, a move diminished by a wave of dizziness, making me clutch his arm instead to steady myself.

“See?” Chris pointed to my hand on his forearm, as if that explained everything. “She got so wild she fell down the stairs. Knocked herself silly.”

“That’d explain it, all right.”

“It explains nothing,” I shot at the cop. “It’s all a complete lie. Well, not about falling down the stairs. But, I wasn’t fighting with anyone.”

“It’s so sad, really.” Chris patted my hand in a conciliatory manner until I smacked it away. “She’s got complete amnesia about the event.”

I shut my eyes and blocked out the world. It was a lost cause. My story would never be believed, so why defend myself? Chris would make me pay for disturbing his play day, and Officer Potbelly was a gullible victim. Why me?

“Well, you can take her if you want,” the officer said to Chris. “I’d keep an eye on ’er though, so’s you don’t have to pay money to get ’er outta jail next time. This one’s free, but she’s pretty unpredictable.”

I opened my eyes. “There won’t be a next time. We’re leaving Memphis the day after tomorrow.”

“Sure you don’t want to move that up a day? Although, I don’t doubt you could cause trouble in nearly any town you’re in, little girl.”

I simply growled and pushed Chris toward the door. It was most definitely time to leave. As we passed Officer Potbelly’s desk, I paused and picked up Elvis’s hand.

“I, uh, don’t suppose I could keep this as a souvenir? Seeing as how I have to buy an entirely new wax figure for the museum.”

The officer just glared at me.

I set Elvis’s hand back down on the desk with a sigh. For a moment I’d thought I might end up with the most unique Elvis collector’s item ever.

***

Graceland Too was a rush job the next morning. Chris barely spoke to me, except to tell me about fifteen times not to touch anything and to yank me away from every display he thought I approached too closely. Our trip to Tupelo, Elvis’s birthplace, was equally cool—temperament-wise, not neat-o cool. I tried to enjoy myself, to absorb a little more of the Elvis vibe, but neither of us was in the mood for niceties. My tattoo itched like a son of a bitch, reminding me every thirty seconds of exactly how pissed off I was to have Chris’s name etched into my skin for the rest of my life. A real sexual turn-on to any potential men I might take to my bed.

By the time we packed up the Jeep to leave Memphis the next day, we were almost sarcastically polite to each other.

“After you.”

“No, after you.”

Another day later, the ice was melting. It’s hard to be cooped up in a vehicle for hours a day without talking. And, admittedly, there’s something about a Jeep with the top down, and the constant friendly waves from every other Jeeper on the road. It’s hard to maintain wave-silence without feeling like a jackass.

This leg of our journey was a direct shot from Memphis to Las Vegas. Had it not been for the interview and my mother’s wedding, I’d have loved to take more time, maybe go to New Orleans. After all, King Creole was shot there. Much to my disappointment, however, the Elvis portion of my trip was mostly over. Somehow I felt cheated, seeing how the last few stops had been ruined by Chris’s constant nagging.

We drove six hours a day, not really pushing ourselves. After two days of silence, we were both going nearly crazy. The silent treatment is very difficult for those of us who thrive on socializing.

Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, I slammed closed my Elvis trivia book. I hadn’t bothered to torture Chris with it since leaving Memphis.

“What’s the matter with you?” Chris asked, with a sidelong glance. “Elvis lost his charm? Or have you finished studying for Trivial Pursuit, the Elvis Edition?”

“Neither.” I stowed the book under the seat and surveyed the scenery. Every mile we drove took us that much closer to the fun of Vegas—or the torture of the wedding. I chose to focus on fun. I reached up and gave my Elvis bobblehead a poke, making him jiggle around on his perch on the dash. “I miss Elvis. Can’t wait for Vegas. We’re staying in the Elvis and Priscilla honeymoon suite.” I poked Elvis again, just for fun.

Chris frowned. “That is so demasculinating.”

I laughed. “Is that even a word?”

“If not, it should be, and the first linguist who catches sight of Elvis on the dash of a Jeep will coin it in a heartbeat.”

“What’s so bad about Elvis?” I asked.

“Elvis isn’t manly.”

“Manly? What isn’t manly about him?” I poked the bobblehead again. “I mean, check out that pelvic motion. Any man should be jealous.”

Even Chris had to laugh at that one, relaxing into the conversation a bit. “Maybe the motions are to be envied, but heck, I can do that.”

“Can you?” I teased, waggling my eyebrows at him. Three days without our banter had been almost scary. Like someone turned the light off in my world and I couldn’t find the switch.

“Have you ever done that? To impress a girl, I mean.”

“I plead the Fifth.” His laughing eyes did the telling, though.

“You have!” I gave his shoulder a shove. “You’ve done Elvis impressions in the bedroom. Oh my God!”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to. I know you better than anyone.”

Chris gave me a sideways glance. “Do you?”

“Sure.” I settled back in my seat and gave a big wave at an oncoming Jeep, since Chris was watching me and not paying attention. I didn’t want them to feel left out of the fraternity. And, suddenly, I felt like being friendly again. “You love women, preferably lacking in the brain department and making up for it with boobs like watermelons.”

“Hey!”

I held up a silencing hand. “I’ve not even scratched the surface of your psyche, mister. You’re fanatical about dangerous sports, which is the modern-day equivalent of the warrior mentality. You can’t fight and still be civilized, so you fight nature in the form of gravity and/or speed, in order to maintain your warrior status in the world.”

“Warrior? Who uses words like that anymore?”

“Women love warriors. They’re dangerous, yet chivalrous. Trustworthy, yet unpredictable. Look at how women fall all over themselves to be around you. It’s your warrior image.”

“Gee, I thought I was just outrageously hot and sexy.”

I laughed. “Yeah, well, that too, but mostly it’s the warrior image.”

There was no comment from the driver’s seat, and after a minute I glanced over to see what had Chris’s attention. He was staring at me with an odd look on his face.

“What?” I asked. “Do I have something hanging out of my nose?”

“You think I’m hot and sexy?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean—” I waved a hand and went back to watching the scenery out the windshield. “You don’t need me to tell you that. You have women crawling all over you.”

“But you do?”

“Only in the same way I think athletic guys are hot and sexy. Jocks, athletes. Those are my kinds of guys.”

“And yet, again and again, you have relationship after relationship with geeky suits.”

I chuckled, picturing Kevin in his daily work suit. Before that there was Lance, who worked in finance…and wore a suit. And Terrance, the law student, didn’t wear one too often in school, but he was well on his way to becoming a full-time suit.

“I guess I have picked a lot of suits, huh? Maybe that’s been the problem.”

“You think? All those tight-assed—”

“Whoa!” I laughed. “They weren’t that bad.”

“The heck they weren’t.” Chris glanced at me again. “Permission to speak freely?”

I snickered. “Sure. Totally off the record.”

“Your taste in men sucks.”

“Good thing you don’t have to sleep with them then, isn’t it?” I stuck my hand out the top of the Jeep and waved at an oncoming Wrangler. “You’re slacking off on your waving duty, Chris.”

“I’m serious. You say you’re attracted to jocks, guys you’d totally have stuff in common with, and yet you keep going out with guys who do absolutely nothing for you.”

“Kevin did stuff for me.”

“Name one thing. Not counting sexual favors, which I highly doubt he was all that good at anyway.”

I frowned. Well, crap. Sexual favors had been exactly what I was thinking of. Kevin could be quite generous in the bedroom. Of course, usually I was generous first. So what did he give me? There had to be something. He provided a roof over my head—probably not what Chris had in mind. He provided companionship, though it was probably only payoff for the sexual favors, considering I’d discovered he hated just about everything about me.

What the heck had I gotten out of the relationship I wasted the last two years on? Pretty much nothing, obviously, if it took this much effort to think about it.

“Well?” Chris poked. “Can’t think of anything, can you? And what about Rance?”

“Lance.”

“See, I can’t even remember his name, so he must not have done anything for the relationship.”

I laughed. “Whose relationship? Yours and his or mine and his?”

“Either one. He wasn’t much better than Kevin.”

“Lance ran with me.”

“One step up from Kevin then, but what else did he do for you?”

Once again I thought about it until I felt my brain cells would explode from the effort. Lance provided a warm body in bed, companionship, someone with whom to take turns emptying the dishwasher and to pay half the rent.

“Not a damn thing.” Chris finished my thoughts for me, just in case I didn’t come to the same conclusion he did. “If any of them gave you anything, you’d still be with them. So, if you’re not going to marry a guy anyway, why don’t you at least go for guys that turn your crank?”

“Guys like you, I suppose.” I rolled my eyes.

“Guys who turn you on. Make you drool. Get you hot.”

“Well, that leaves you out.”

Chris glared. “Forget that you find me sexy and hot. I just mean, if you claim to be attracted to guys who are jocks, warrior guys, then go for them. Stop picking suits. Don’t pick guys for their stability and safety. Pick a dangerous guy.”

“I don’t pick guys for stability and safety. I can take care of myself.” With the exception of the weeks following a head injury. “I picked them because…”

“What?”

I shrugged. “I really don’t think you should be giving advice when you aren’t exactly getting close and cozy with anyone for more than one night at a time. It’s kind of like getting relationship advice from my mother the divorce queen.”

“I just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

I pushed some wildly blowing hair behind my left ear and leaned toward him, so I could look into his face and know if he was putting me on. “So you’re telling me, if the right girl came along, you’d stop sowing your wild oats and settle down?” If this was true I was going to die of shock. It would be like saying, if the right woman came along, Adair would go straight.

Chris shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

I flopped back in my seat. “I don’t believe you. You can’t have spent the last fourteen years banging every woman in sight trying to find Ms. Right.”

“What the hell else did you think I was doing?”

“Being a guy! Being the Christopher Treem I know. Lovin’ ’em and leavin’ ’em. You weren’t interviewing them all for a permanent job.”

“Not all of them,” he agreed with a chuckle. “I didn’t have any illusions about Candy’s qualifications for Mrs. Treem.”

“Well, thank God for that. You marry anyone like her and I’ll put the bullet through your heart myself.”

I turned to stare out the passenger window, still stunned. Here I’d thought for all these years that Chris was just like me. Marriage-phobic. And now I find out that he’s not? It was almost too much to take.

What would I do if Chris got married? It wasn’t as if just any woman would accept the fact that her husband’s best friend was another woman.

Where would that leave me?

I chewed my lower lip a minute before I finally spoke. “Do you think our closeness has affected our relationships?”

“How so?”

“Have you ever had problems with anyone you’ve dated because of me? Like Julie the other night. She wasn’t too happy about finding me in your apartment, even with you lying about who I was. Has that ever happened before?”

Chris shrugged. “Not really. Guess I haven’t dated anyone long enough for you to become a problem. At least not a problem for them. You seem to have a knack for being a problem for me lately.”

“Highly amusing.” I smirked back. “The women in your life probably accept my presence merely to stay in your bed. But, I’m serious. Do you know I once broke up with a guy who forbid me to see you?”

“Seriously? Who?”

“Remember Joel?”

“The actor?”

“Yeah.” Not a suit, but I didn’t bother to point that out, since the moment had passed.

“We went out a few times, and then once we met by accident at Jeffrey’s. Not on a date or anything. I was there with you.”

“Like every Friday night.”

“Yeah. Like the Friday night I met him. But this time he went ballistic, freaking out, accusing me of cheating on him with you. I dumped him.”

“You dumped a guy for me?”

I looked at him like he was nuts. “Are you kidding? For one thing, I’m not going out with a guy who tells me what to do. But, we’ve been friends forever. Why would I date someone who tried to tell me we couldn’t be friends anymore?” This wasn’t such a hard concept to believe. Unless—“Would you throw me over for some girl?”

“No.”

He didn’t sound very convincing to me. “Not even if she was Mrs. Right?”

“Of course not.”

I stared at his profile, trying to read his mind. He’d just told me that he planned to get married someday, which totally blew away all my previous assumptions about my best friend. So how did I know he wasn’t keeping something else from me? What if he met the woman who matched him perfectly? Who held Chris’s interest for more than a date or two? A woman who passed the Kiss Test. And, the Bed Test (if there was one I wasn’t privy to). What if he met the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with?

What would happen to me?

I guess, in the most platonic sense, I’d always expected to be the woman he spent the rest of his life with. What if I were replaced?

Suddenly I didn’t feel so well.

Chris finally turned and looked at me. “What?”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

He just grinned that disarming grin. “That’s one of the things women find so fascinating about me. I’m unreadable. Dangerous. Warrior-like, as you so poetically put it.”

Charm didn’t work on me this time. I felt like the rock my world was built on had crumbled.

Chapter Twelve

“A Little Less Conversation”

The next day things were pretty much back to normal between us. With my dizziness nearly nonexistent now, I’d been able to get some exercise, taking a long walk with Chris prior to heading for our hotel the night before. The pressure of getting the photo shoot out of the way, and without Chris annoyed with me for dragging him through Elvisville, peace had returned to Best Friend Land.

I tried not to dwell on the revelation that Chris’s allergy to matrimony had been a figment of my imagination and consoled myself by remembering that, in the last decade and a half of searching, he obviously hadn’t found the right woman. Considering the sheer volume of women he’d been through, if Chris was going to find someone, odds were he’d have done so already. Right? Which meant he was so incredibly picky he’d never be able to settle on one woman for life, or he’d already passed by Mrs. Right without recognizing her. Either way, my place in Chris’s life appeared secure for the moment.

However, this did nothing to stem the sense of panic I now felt every time he administered the Kiss Test. Which was fairly often.

My burger waited for me by the time I got back from the restroom, where I’d washed my hands and relieved about four hours of bladder build-up since our last stop.

“Oh, thank God. Meat,” I said. The small town we stopped in last night for dinner, in the boonies of New Mexico, had only one restaurant. The Veggie Barn. All veggies, all the time. I like broccoli and Brussels sprouts as much as the next person, but this red-blooded woman is definitely carnivorous.

“Not bad meat, either,” Chris muttered around a mouthful of sirloin. “Shoot me if I ever think eggplant is enough to subsist on again.”

I didn’t bother answering. Gastronomic heaven required a vow of silence. The burger was expertly dressed with blue cheese, lettuce and tomato, oozing out the edges of the heavy roll it was packed between. It had taken us until midafternoon to find this place, but with a lunch like this, I just might make it the rest of the day.

“I asked how far to the next town.” Chris sat back in his chair and rubbed his now full, yet ever flat and muscular belly. “With a hotel, that is, since we missed the last one.”

We’d blown through the last town so fast we’d only seen a gas station and a post office. No homes in sight—but a post office, just in case. We drove on into northern Arizona in search of a hotel and nourishment, until the growling of my stomach eating its own lining grew to such a decibel we could no longer hear the Jeep engine, forcing Chris to pull over for food before I did bodily harm.

The first available food was Spiffy’s Sports, which thankfully sported a non-vegetarian menu. We felt right at home at the sports bar. The Giants played the Cubs on multiple overhead TV monitors, so the late-afternoon patrons could watch Randy Johnson strike out his opponents at every angle.

“How far is that, exactly?” I asked. “Or, more importantly, how much closer are we to any fun I may have on this trip?”

“About fifty miles. Or an hour closer to L.A.”

I drank half of my Coke before answering. “Are you sure we just can’t quit now and go home? I’d even give up Vegas if it meant I could skip the Wedding of the Year, Volume Eleven.”

“And what about my business? And yours?”

“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten my interview with Nancy of Today’s Country Magazine.

“Maybe we could see if our hotel in Vegas has banquet facilities and have Nancy and your business contacts meet us there.”

“Nice try.” Chris pushed his now-empty plate back. “I need to stretch my legs. Mind if I go shoot some pool while you finish up?”

I shook my head and retrieved a chunk of blue cheese from the ketchup on my plate. I needed to check my phone messages anyway. I’d placed a few calls and faxed résumés to some non-country radio stations back home and needed to see if I’d had any response. Branching out and exploring my options was my best move. A job was a job, at this point. After I had work again, I could court the country stations outside the city for openings. I just had to keep my foot in the door, so I didn’t lose my edge. And so I could pay my rent.

Once finished with my meal, I settled back in the booth to make my calls. Chris was in the pool room, a glassed-in area across the bar, with its own TV, its own personal bartender and a boisterous crowd. Pool wasn’t my thing, though I played when I had nothing better to do. Darts was more my style.

My only message was from Katya, who informed me—in what sounded like an extremely relieved voice—that Adair finally made contact with the Wide-Strider in Central Park, only to discover he had a wife and three kids. Adair had immediately purchased a rocking chair at the flea market on Twenty-Sixth and spent his evenings on the fire escape, rocking, and asking Kat repeatedly if he was really so pathetic that he’d be alone forever. She told him he wasn’t pathetic yet, but if he stayed out on the fire escape past October, it would be a different story.

I laughed and flipped my phone off. I missed my friends. Well, not so much now that Chris and I were speaking again. I’d missed them fiercely the days we were giving each other the silent treatment. I don’t do silence well—unless it’s with my mother.

My eyes drifted back toward the pool room and I groaned. Chris locked lips with an exotic, dark-skinned chick, who looked like a cover model. As they broke apart, Chris’s gaze lingered on hers a bit too long, as if considering, and my stomach gave a lurch. What if she was it? What if he liked kissing her so much he kissed her again? And what if that kiss was even better than the first and he brought her to Las Vegas with us, where she auditioned for the part of Mrs. Treem with a Bed Test? And what if she was the jealous type and told Chris she wouldn’t sleep with him unless I was gone, so he gave me bus fare to go on to L.A. by myself? He’d bring her to my mother’s wedding and by the time we got home, they’d be married, and I’d be…nobody.

The possible future Mrs. Treem went back for another kiss and I closed my eyes. I couldn’t watch.

“You okay, miss?”

The waitress, in her khaki shorts and green Spiffy’s Sports T-shirt, looked concerned.

I sat up straighter. “Fine. Just tired.” And sick, I thought. Sick of suddenly having to worry about my friendship with Chris. It was dumb to be concerned, right? This wasn’t the 1920s. Men and women could be friends, and surely Chris had enough sense not to marry some insecure twit who couldn’t accept twenty years of friendship.

Another peek at the pool room revealed Extreme Treem attempting the daring maneuver of making a shot while blinded by the drape of ebony hair blocking his view as he sucked face again.

Oh, shit. I needed reassurance. I dialed Adair’s cell phone.

“Single Central,” he answered.

I laughed, cheered up already…a little. Until Chris planted another wet one on Madame Gorgeous and my stomach turned. “It’s me,” I said. “You okay? Katya told me about the Wide-Strider.”

I heard what sounded like the runners of a rocker scraping against the metal fire escape.

“I’m Jim Dandy,” Adair snapped. “I’ve booked an episode on Oprah. ‘Gay Men No Man Wants and the Rockers Who Love Them.’”

“Oh, Adair—”

“No, don’t pity me, Margo. Just enjoy your trip with Mr. Hunkola, who is totally wasted on you.”

“Sorry, but he’d be wasted on you, too.” I pushed my plate away and rested my elbow on the table, nesting the phone against my ear, observing that, at least for the moment, Chris seemed to be keeping his lips to himself. Rolling my eyes, I realized I’d sunk to a new low to care what Chris was or wasn’t doing with his lips. But, dammit, my future was at stake. “Hey, I was wondering…Kat’s your best friend, isn’t she?”

“Every day but those six around midmonth when Aunt Flo visits. That girl is no one’s friend then.”

“I’m serious. If Oprah had a…a ‘Gay Men and Their Best Girlfriends’ show, would you take Kat?”

“Of course. Pre-mens notwithstanding, she’s my most loyal subject.”

But was Adair loyal? Was Chris?

“So, let’s say—hypothetically of course—that you meet the man of your dreams—”

“I met him,” Adair said with an audible pout. “He said he was straight. I called him a liar. He showed me pictures of his wife and kids. I told him he was in denial. He threatened to call the cops.”

“Adair.”

“Sorry. What was the question, love?”

“Say you meet the man of your dreams—”

“What does he look like?”

“Adair!”

“It matters.”

“You don’t even know what the question is, so how do you know it matters?”

“Looks are everything, babe.”

Geez. Maybe I’d called the wrong person.

“Forget—” I stopped when I caught sight of a blonde girl cheerleading Chris’s apparent victory at the billiard table. She planted a smack right on his mouth and he didn’t fight her off by any stretch of the imagination. I needed my question answered. “Adair. Focus. You meet the man of your dreams—and he looks like Adonis.”

“Yummy. Keep going.”

I snorted. “And you decide to become life partners. What would happen to Kat?”

“Why, she’d be my best woman when I stood up in front of God and everyone to get married. As soon as the no-gay-marriage law is overturned.”

I smiled at Adair’s romantic side. He’d probably carry a ribbon-festooned fan up the aisle to prevent sweat stains on the Armani suit he’d wear for his nuptials. But, I was more worried about what happened after the commitment.

“What if Mr. Perfect doesn’t like Kat?” I ventured. “What if he wants you to stop seeing her?”

There was a prolonged pause. “How hot did you say he was?”

“Adair!” I sat bolt upright in the vinyl booth seat. “What difference does that make? Kat’s your best friend. Would you dump her because a damned Adonis told you to?”

The rocking got faster, more agitated. “Everyone likes Kat. That wouldn’t happen. I’d just ban her from visiting during that time of the month.”

“But what if it did happen? Would you dump her just for another guy? Your best friend?”

“You know, Margo, this is not helping my depressive state.”

I sighed. It wasn’t helping mine, either. We chit-chatted a few minutes then I said goodbye, and went back to watching Chris play pool. Big mistake. It felt like watching my own death. The death of my position as Head Friend. I was being circled by the two vultures in the pool room, just waiting to get their hooks in Chris. We needed to get out of here before I went crazy.

“Hey, Chris, all done.” I waggled my phone at him as I entered the pool room. Everyone turned to look at me and I sensed hostility from the most recent participants in the Kiss Test.

“Give me a minute, Margo.” He bent down to line up another shot.

“Who’s that?” the blonde asked, never taking her beady little eyes from me.

“I’m his girlfriend.”

Chris choked and dug the pool cue into the felt-topped table, missing the ball entirely.

Rising slowly, he raised his eyebrows at me.

“Come on, darling. Time to go home.” With a wiggle of my fingers at the two now speechless vultures, I turned and headed toward the front door.

Chris caught up to me in the middle of the bar. “What the heck was that?” He was half laughing.

We stood at the counter to pay the cashier for our meal. “I was ready to leave, and I knew they wouldn’t let you go without a fight, either amongst themselves, or with me.”

“So you decided to lie.”

“I like to think of it as self-preservation. Neither of them is welcome in our hotel room once we find one.” I’m sure he assumed I meant preserving my physical health by not having to sleep in the bathtub. What I really meant was preservation of my status in Chris’s life.

I was being an idiot. Possessiveness wasn’t a quality I’d had with any of my boyfriends—well, except for Terrance. And that was just not wanting to share his body with another girl.

This was a nearly incapacitating fear of being edged out of Chris’s life. It was ridiculous. But it wasn’t going away.

Chris pushed the front door open for me and I stepped out.

“Shit! It’s pouring!”

We tore from the door of the bar to the topless Jeep. The sky opened up like I’d never seen. Unprotected, everything in the Jeep soaked up the water like a sponge. As fast as we could—which wasn’t fast enough—Chris and I replaced the top, zipped in all the windows, and dove into the front seat.

For a moment, we sat there panting like a couple of rats after a near drowning. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” I choked. “What do we do now?”

Chris ran a hand through his hair and then shook his head like a dog, flinging water everywhere, until I shrieked and covered my face. He started the engine. “Find a hotel?”

The roads were treacherously deep with water. It was only a matter of time before we hit a road block and had to detour off the highway. I wondered if they had flash floods in Arizona this time of year.

“Up ahead.” I finally saw something an hour into the detour and pointed through the curtain of rain. “That sign just said lodging is available at the next stop. Rebates Motel.”

Chris gritted his teeth and maneuvered through a particularly deep wash across the highway. Thank goodness we weren’t in some little sports car. We’d have floated away. It took another twenty minutes to spot the glow of neon lights, fighting their way through the downpour. The air conditioner in the Jeep was going full blast, in an attempt to cool down, since we couldn’t open the windows. The downside was that the blasting cold air was turning us into human popsicles in our wet clothing.

“Not much further.” Chris wrestled with the steering wheel and leaned as close to the windshield as he could in an attempt to see the road through the wildly flapping wipers. The rain pounded on the soft top like we were directly under a waterfall.

The motel sign came into clearer view as we approached.

“This is not good.” The burned-out lights of the motel sign left only “bates Motel.” “Are you sure we have to stop here?”

“Do you see a five-star hotel anywhere nearby? ’Cause if you do, point it out. Otherwise I’m stopping. I’m wet and frozen.”

I shrugged. Fine. I was a big girl. I was brave. Despite the fact I’d lain awake at night for two months after seeing Psycho. That was a movie. This was reality. A reality I hoped did not include anyone named Norman.

I should have known, considering the way my life was going, Norman would be a given. Thank God he didn’t look like Anthony Perkins or, cold or not, rain or not, I’d have slept in the friggin’ Jeep.

“May I help you?”

Chris noticed his name tag at the same time I did, and we exchanged looks.

“I can do it if you can do it.” The quavering in my voice was most definitely the result of the excessive shivering I’d been doing in the Jeep, although the air outside the vehicle felt more like a sauna than a freezer.

“I can do it,” he replied. “Two rooms, please.”

“Only got one,” Norman said. “It’s raining outside.”

I bit back a smart-mouthed retort, considering I really wanted to be able to take a shower without fearing for my life.

“There’s been a flash flood down the road a bit, so we’ve had the place fill up purty fast tonight.”

“We’ll take the one, then.”

I nodded my acceptance. I didn’t care if we had half a room. If I could change clothes and take a shower I’d crash anywhere.

Norman bustled around behind the counter, taking Chris’s credit card, filling out paperwork and finally handing me the key.

“This is Mother’s favorite room,” Norman commented.

The hand that reached for the key froze in midair. Chris finally took it for me, with a not completely steady hand himself.

“Oh, by the way, there’s no hot water. Or air conditioning. Repair guy can’t come ’til tomorrow.” He reached under the counter and I fought not to visibly cringe as a vision of him rising from behind the counter with a butcher knife flashed through my head. Instead he produced a candle and a book of matches. “Better take these along. Always lose power with the rain.”

“Uh, thanks.” Chris opened the door and hustled me out into the rain. I think we both felt safer dealing with the flash flood.

The room was an oven. A damp, sweaty, stinky oven. If it had been dry, it would have smelled musty. Seeing as how the humidity hovered around the two-hundred-percent mark, it smelled like wet must.

Clean, dry clothes were first on the agenda. And, not to be found anywhere. The rainstorm had been so sudden, and raising the top on the Jeep such slow going, our bags were soaked through. There wasn’t a dry piece of clothing to be had between us. Taking a shower was out, since even a cold shower—which would have been most welcome—wouldn’t do much good if all we had to put back on was more wet clothes.

My shoulders sagged. “Now what?” I tossed a drippy T-shirt over the curtain rod in the bathroom, which looked like a disorganized clothing store now. “And what about food? Clearly there’s no dinner in our future and I’m not going to last all night in this room without sustenance.”

Chris thumbed through the guest information book…all one page of it. “Closest restaurant is fifty miles away. Apparently the city planners decided motels and restaurants should never be in the same town. However, there was a vending machine in the breezeway a few doors down. We could try that.”

I shrugged. “Just keep me fed and no one gets hurt.”

We dashed outside, wading through puddles up to our ankles, and found the motel’s vending machines. Judging by the meager contents, this had been the source of dinner for most of the occupants of the motel this evening. We settled on a bag of cheese curls, three Kit Kat bars, a bag of Twizzlers and a pack of M&M’s. We each got a soda from a second vending machine. Once in the room, I divided the food onto napkins.

“Ooh, twelve cheese curls, twenty-nine M&M’s, three Twizzlers and six Kit Kat sticks each. I really hope we don’t overdo it here.”

“Stop complaining. We’re out of the storm.” Chris turned on the TV but the cable was out, as evidenced by the snow on the screen. He turned it back off and began opening drawers.

“Hey, look.” Chris held a deck of cards in his hand. He counted them out. “Fifty-two. We have the evening’s entertainment lined up.”

I tried to savor my snacks, but nerves, and the off chance this might be my last supper, forced me to gluttony, and I wiped them out in minutes. I couldn’t get visions of Norman out of my head.

Chris dealt out Gin Rummy.

“I wonder why this was ‘Mother’s’ favorite room.” I rearranged my hand by suit.

“Probably because of the clear view of the mansion up on the hill.”

My eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right? I didn’t see any mansion on the hill.”

Chris grinned as he arranged his own cards. “Me neither. It was too dark. But it got you going there for a second.”

“Ha, ha.”

“So, what was really behind that ‘I’m his girlfriend’ deal back at the restaurant?”

I made a big production of concentrating on my hand, choosing just the right discard.

“Nothing. I told you. Self-preservation. I didn’t want you picking up any more strays.”

“Really? There wasn’t any jealousy behind it at all?”

I blew out what I hoped sounded like an incredulous breath. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Hmm.” Chris drew the next card in the stock pile, adding it to his hand and doing some shuffling. Finally, he laid down a sequence of clubs, six through eight.

“What is it with that stupid Kiss Test anyway?” I immediately regretted bringing it up, because I did, indeed, sound like a jealous idiot. I shuddered, and not because of my sticky, damp clothes. It was the nausea-inducing memory of Chris lip locking every bimbo he crossed paths with. “I mean, it has to be the stupidest thing I ever heard of. You can’t tell anything by kissing someone, except if they have bad breath or not.”

“Ah.” Chris raised a finger in correction. “You can’t tell anything by kissing someone if you aren’t administering the test correctly.”

I snorted and backhanded a trickle of sweat sliding down between my breasts. “Correctly? A kiss is a kiss is a kiss. Ooh, I need that six.” I picked up the six of diamonds from the discard pile and laid down the rest of my cards. “I’m out. I win.” I ripped my T-shirt off over my head and tossed it aside.

Chris raised an eyebrow at my tank top as he dealt the next hand. “Are we playing Strip Rummy?”

“I don’t care what you call it,” I said, wiping my forehead off with my shirt hem. “I’m using any excuse to take off these damn wet clothes.”

There was nothing sexual about it at all. It was just plain hot. Hotter than hot. Sauna hot. Steam bath hot. Opening the fogged-over window was out of the question, as faulty gutters outside—maybe from the whitewater gushing through them—weren’t corralling the rain at all, but instead redirected it toward the motel room windows. With no air conditioning and no dry clothes to put on, it was unbearable.

I stretched my legs out in front of me and wiggled my bare toes. “Deal me another winning hand, ’cause I need out of these clothes.”

Chris laughed, and then soundly trounced me, while I still had all ten cards left. He removed his shirt to reveal a bare muscular chest. An extremely nice bare muscular chest. I’d seen it before, of course, but tonight it took an extra second or two to drag my gaze away.

“Hey, I have too many layers on,” I protested with an awkward laugh.

“I’m a minimalist.”

“Back to that stupid test.” I couldn’t help myself. I spent the last two days freaking out, watching him kiss girl after girl. He didn’t plan on sleeping with them. He wouldn’t dare have sex on my watch again. So, what was the point? It wasn’t like those Kiss Tests were going to lead to anything. “When did you give your first official Kiss Test?”

“Third grade.”

“Third grade?”

“Underneath those tires. Remember?”

The playground had six giant tires from the most mammoth piece of machinery you could imagine. They were painted white, buried halfway in the ground, forming a kind of half circle on which to climb. Or, for the more secretive students, a space in which to hide. My girlfriends and I had used them to hide from annoying boys. Chris obviously used them for more clandestine purposes.

“And dare I ask who your first victim was?” I tossed an ace of hearts onto the discard pile.

“Can’t remember. Little freckle-faced girl. Lorna or Londa or something.”

“And did she pass?”

“Don’t know. I hadn’t actually set up criteria yet.”

“Criteria? What, you carry a score sheet in your wallet and check off whether they apply the right amount of pressure, or rate the wetness level on a scale of one to five?” I laid down the remaining cards in my hand and stripped off my tank top. I had on my running bra underneath, even though I hadn’t run in weeks.

Chris watched me through narrowed eyes.

“What? It’s not like you haven’t seen me running in this a thousand times.” I dealt the next hand, hoping for a chance to slip out of the jean cut-offs I was wearing, too. Their dampness felt like a diaper, and I knew as soon as I had them off, my underwear (fairly modest bikinis) would dry pretty quickly. “So, third grade, Lorna somebody, can’t remember if she passed or failed. And the whole Kiss Test just snowballed from there?”

“Pretty much.” Chris trounced me again and took off his shorts. Underneath were black silk boxers with Aladdin’s Lamp, Rub Vigorously emblazoned on the front.

“Ack!” I squeaked. “You have to be kidding.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Wanna make a wish?”

“God. No.” I shielded my eyes and tried to ignore the split-second picture in my mind of me doing exactly that. Making a wish. Rubbing the lamp. Shit. Finding a boyfriend when returning to New York was now at the top of my list, despite my resolve to stay away from men. A woman had needs.

Chris dropped back down to the floor and dealt another hand. “Go Fish this time.”

A second later, the lights flickered and went out.

“Great,” I muttered. “Can’t play cards in the dark.”

“We have a candle, remember?”

I heard Chris stand and move around the room. He stepped on my fingers. “Ow!”

“Shit. Sorry. Hang on.”

A bit more scrambling and the candle flared to life. He set it on the dresser behind me. “We’ll have to lean against the dresser to both get light.” He sat down next to me and leaned against the dresser. Turning his cards away, he issued a warning. “No peeking.”

“At your cards or your lamp?”

“Neither. And no score card. For the Kiss Test. I just kind of go by feeling.”

“Feeling? Like a fluttery stomach or pitter-pattering heart kind of feeling?”

He shrugged, his bare shoulder rubbing against mine. “Well, I haven’t felt all that. Yet. I suppose it’s possible. With the right person. Do you have a four?”

I absently handed him the four of spades in my hand. “So, of all the women you’ve ever kissed—I mean, what’s the point? Why don’t you just take them to bed if you’re attracted to them? It seems like an awful lot of kissing female frogs.”

“Do you have a queen? Haven’t you ever kissed someone without sleeping with them?” Chris drew from the pile when I didn’t have a queen to hand over.

“I don’t waste my time kissing guys I have no intention of sleeping with.” I won the hand. “Thank God.” I stripped down to my white cotton bikini panties and settled back down next to Chris, feeling better already.

Chris laid his cards on the floor next to him and looked at me. “What if you tried the Kiss Test? Maybe you wouldn’t end up with such geeks. Maybe you’d discover some good-looking guy, who you didn’t think was your type, actually is your type.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I know what I like.”

“Geeks.”

“No. Just—”

“Geeks.”

I laughed. “You make fun of geeks, yet you put faith in a Kiss Test.”

“I can prove it works.”

“How?”

“I’ll show you.”

I made an exaggerated sweep of the darkened room with my eyes. “I see no one here, unless the ghost of Norman’s mother is hiding out in the bathroom.”

“I’ll kiss you.”

“Me?” I stared at him. He had completely lost his mind. “Is the humidity getting to you? The heat maybe?”

“Scared?” He flashed me the manipulative smile that made me trek all the way to SoHo on my day off, just to bring him corned beef.

“No, I’m not scared! I just…why would you kiss me? I’m not one of your test subjects.”

“Then, it’ll prove the Kiss Test works, won’t it?”

Faces turned toward each other, shoulder to shoulder, bare leg to bare leg, Chris’s mouth, the one that administered the Kiss Test, was only inches away.

“It won’t work,” I croaked.

“Won’t it?”

My eyes drifted of their own accord to Chris’s mouth, cocked in a little smile, poised for attack.

“Scared?” he asked again.

This time I just shook my head, although I don’t think it really moved. “Go ahead. You’ll just prove me right. The Kiss Test is a sham.”

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

Before I knew what was happening, he moved in for the kill.

Chris’s lips were soft, yet firm. Moist, but not overly so. He applied just the right amount of pressure.

My stomach jumped a little, and, without really meaning to, I kissed him back. Applying a little of my own pressure. A little of my own moisture. Just a touch of tongue.

With a moan, Chris took hold of the back of my neck, keeping our lips firmly in contact, as we passed phase one of the Kiss Test and advanced to the head of the class.

My God. He was an incredible kisser. It was like bait. Hook ’em on, reel ’em in. He fished, women bit and he took them home for dinner. Or dessert. I now knew why Katya was desperate for a second chance. Hell, I wanted a second chance, and I hadn’t even finished my first.

A few minutes—or maybe hours—later, we finally came up for air. Chris didn’t release me though, his hand tight on the back of my neck. We both panted as we searched each other’s eyes for, I don’t know, grades maybe. I wondered if he could tell I’d already given him a perfect score.

“Didn’t expect that to be the conclusion,” Chris finally ground out.

“What conclusion is that?” I whispered, acutely aware that my breasts were smashed up against some incredibly muscular pecs and that, at some point during the kiss, I’d turned in to it and draped my legs over Chris’s lap.

I couldn’t force myself to move them.

“I’m not sure. I think…I think I need more data.”

The next casting of the line proved fatal for this fish. Within seconds, I was on his lap, straddling him, conscious of every stroke of my body against his. Conscious of every lap of his tongue into my mouth. Conscious of the moment his hand found my breasts and freed them from the bra with the rasp of the front-closing zipper. Involuntarily, I moved against him, pushing into his hands, his groin, taking in the sensations, not new, and yet so new. I’d had sex a thousand times and it had never been like this. Had I just forgotten, or…had it really never been like this before?

Chris groaned against me, grasping my hips and dragging me even tighter to him. He was hard as stone when I rose on my knees, settling over him, completing the contact. Above us, the candle wavered and fell as we shook the dresser, casting the room into complete darkness. It was safer that way. I could forget how dangerous this was. How dangerous he was.

“You pass,” Chris whispered, and I laughed nervously.

“I figured.” The sound that escaped me was keening, as Chris’s fingers pushed aside my underwear to plunge inside me. “Oh, God.”

As his fingers moved, his lips sought and found first one nipple, then the other, drawing them into his mouth, suckling until I was nearly delirious with the sensations.

“I want…” Chris whispered, against a swollen, peaked nipple.

“Yes.” Without thinking, I reached between us, tugging down his Aladdin’s Lamp boxers and giving it the previously offered rub. He removed his fingers from me, and without pausing to even enjoy the feel of his length in my hand, I guided him to me, nudging aside the panties and impaling myself on him. My chest exploded at the feeling that pushed through me as he filled me. I was right.

It had never, ever been like this before.

With his hands on my bottom, Chris guided our movements. In and out. In and out. Slowly at first, the panties providing amazing friction and tightness. Then faster, as the sensations built, and we both became desperate for release.

Faster, as Chris’s mouth attacked my neck, plucked at my nipples, feasted on my lips.

Even faster still, as the tension built and the blood rushed from my head, Chris drove into me over and over again.

With a final thrust, we exploded simultaneously, pulsing as we clung together, our breath lodged in our lungs.

Subconsciously, I knew that this would never happen again, that this was a one-time shot. And that I would never, ever be satisfied like this again.

With anyone.

***

I don’t remember going to bed. I don’t remember sleeping. I remember staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Wondering what in the hell I’d just done.

My best friend snored softly next to me on his stomach, his face turned away from me, like he couldn’t stand to even look at me. I didn’t blame him. I started that stupid conversation about the Kiss Test. I’d continued to harp on it, knowing full well it was just a lame excuse for him to kiss women and that I felt insecure about the idea of him finding Mrs. Right.

God, he probably thought I’d been asking him to kiss me.

He was going to hate me in the morning.

***

I dreamed I was having sex. It was the best sex I’d ever had. Slow and sleepy. Almost unconscious. Like I didn’t have any control over my body or my lover’s. Purely instinctual.

It was unbelievably erotic and sensuous.

Almost like…making love.

I don’t know who started it. But, I know who ended it.

As soon as I became fully conscious, and came to the realization Chris and I were…you know…again, I came unglued.

“Oh my God.” I tore my lips from his, pushed him away, grabbed the nearest articles of clothing I found and barricaded myself in the bathroom.

***

“We should probably talk about that.” I stared unseeing out the windshield as we left the aptly named “bates Motel”—since I was going to think of it as a nightmare for the rest of my life—and headed for Vegas. I still hadn’t been able to look Chris in the eye. Not while packing. Not while loading the Jeep. Not after we’d gotten on the road and driven twenty miles before finding a McDonald’s, where I felt so sick about what I’d done that I couldn’t eat. I certainly hadn’t been able to look at Chris as he ate his McMuffin, because all I saw was what else he could do—and had done—with those lips. “We really should just get the awkwardness over with. Out in the open.”

“We’re awkward?” Chris asked, and I could tell he wasn’t looking at me either. Probably couldn’t believe what he’d just done. What we’d just done. What we’d done…together.

Oh, God. What had I done?

I’d screwed my best friend. Biblically.

Not once, but twice.

And liked it.

I felt sick.

We had to get past this.

“Yes, we’re awkward,” I replied. “I mean, we have a right to be. We did something best friends don’t do. It was like…it was like…just something not done. This morning we had an excuse. You yourself said that morning sex is, like, nearly an unconscious act. We just woke up in the middle of it. Geez, as many times as we’ve slept in the same bed in the last ten days, it’s amazing it hasn’t happened before. Us waking up, doing that, thinking we were with someone else. Right?”

“Right,” Chris agreed, his voice monotone—with embarrassment of course. “I am surprised we never did that before.”

“Right. And last night. Well, I should never have asked you about the Kiss Test. And I think we can blame the rest of it on exhaustion, the humidity…and a sugar high from all that vending-machine candy. Really, it was meaningless.”

“Meaningless.”

“Of course.” I ventured a sideways glance at Chris, who concentrated wholly on the road, a muscle flexing as he clenched his jaw. He’d never forgive me for starting that stupid Kiss Test conversation in the first place. I had to reassure him. “Of course, it was meaningless. After all, it was just sex. Two grown adults, a bit crazy with carbohydrate poisoning. It meant nothing.”

“Nothing.” Chris nodded, his mouth firm and strong.

God. Shit. Stop thinking about his mouth. Think straight. Think—patch this up before he never speaks to you again. “Yes. Nothing. It was completely my fault and I truly meant nothing by it. So you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Put it out of your mind. Think nothing of it.”

“Right.”

“Right.” I held my breath, waiting for him to say something else. He didn’t. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Chris turned to look at me, and I had the urge to rip off his sunglasses so I could see his eyes. So I could gauge if he was looking at me with complete and utter contempt or if, by some small chance, he’d forgiven me already—however improbable that was. “What more is there to say? I think you covered all the bases.”

Trying not to flinch thinking of all the bases we’d covered in the last twelve hours, I smiled as brightly as I could, considering I had no clue whether he was really okay with things. Rather than push it, I chose to pretend I was okay. “Alright then. We’re good.”

We dropped into silence for a while, the only sounds being the radio on low volume and the fluttering sound of the Jeep’s soft top. The only time we talked was when I gave directions for the detour Norman the motel clerk had given us to get around the flooded roads. Chris followed my instructions without comment.

We finally took a break at a rest stop near Kingman, Arizona. When I returned to the Jeep, Chris was already there. He cracked open a Coke and handed it to me.

“I think we should go straight through to L.A.”

I halted with the can halfway to my lips. “What?”

He shrugged and appeared markedly interested in an older gentleman walking his Schnauzer. “I think we should skip Vegas and go straight on to L.A. I’ve got business to attend to. You have a wedding to get ready for. I’m sure your mom would appreciate you being there earlier than planned.”

I don’t want to be in the same bed with you again. He didn’t have to say the words aloud. I heard them clearly just the same.

If I argued that I really wanted to see Las Vegas, he’d probably give in, and either nothing would happen because neither of us would be able to sleep the entire time we were there, or something would happen and he’d really hate me forever and our friendship would be damaged beyond repair. I couldn’t risk that. “Okay,” I said, downing half the can of Coke. “L.A. it is.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “No arguments?”

I shrugged. “It’s probably safer that way. For both of us,” I muttered as I climbed into the passenger seat.

Chapter Thirteen

“Let’s Be Friends”

I took four steps toward the front door of my future stepfather’s house. Or rather, Chris pushed me four steps toward the front door of my future stepfather’s house. When I stopped, he pushed again. I dragged my feet three more steps before stopping and fully turning around.

“Aren’t we close enough?”

Chris set his hands on my shoulders and stood there until I finally looked up him. I really, really didn’t want him touching me. The possibility existed of my being unable to control myself around him.

Our awkwardness had slowly slipped away as the day went on. Mine because I decided to try the “fake it ’til you make it” method of getting over my acute embarrassment and humiliation. I don’t know how Chris got over his awkwardness but, after a few hours on the road, he started humming along to the ’80s CDs we played when the radio signal was too weak to pick up. At that point, I figured he was cool.

We pulled into L.A., or rather the outskirts of Santa Monica where Quinn lived, in late afternoon. Chris had called ahead to his hotel see if his room was available, and we stopped there to change into dry clothes—purchased at the local Macy’s. Chris sent the rest of his wet clothes to the hotel laundry, and I planned on dumping mine on my mother. If she wanted to be motherly, she could start with my laundry.

At Chris’s hotel, I completely ignored anything that remotely looked like something we could have sex on. This included the bed, the little round table in the corner, the bathtub and probably the most dangerous surface of all, the floor, where the dirty deed had been committed in the first place. Basically, I refused to allow my eyes to light on anything in the entire hotel room, because, God knew, even the vertical wall surface would suffice should the need become overwhelming.

In fact, while Chris changed clothes, I took up sentry duty in the hallway. It seemed the safest place. Sex in the hall was out of the question. I decided motel arrangements on the way home to Manhattan would require double rooms—or tag-team driving. No more tempting fate by sleeping in the same bed ever again. It was the only way I’d get any rest whatsoever.

“Hello. Earth to Margo.”

“What?” I asked, when Chris’s scrutiny of me in front of Quinn’s house carried on too long. I shrugged off his hands, which he dropped off my shoulders with a frown.

“Why are you so afraid of your mother?” he asked, all serious and adult-looking, while I felt like a child being punished.

“I’m not afraid of her,” I protested. When had Chris’s eyes become the color of dark honey? I obviously hadn’t been able to see them in the dim light of the motel room last night, because I would have noticed something like that.

He raised an eyebrow over one of the said honey-colored eyes.

“I’m afraid of being like her,” I finally confessed. “Fickle. Cheap. Easy.”

Chris frowned. “You think your mother is cheap and easy? Really?”

“Okay, she’s probably really expensive.”

“Margo.”

I huffed out a breath and turned back toward the Door of Doom. “You’re such a poop.”

“Ah, but I’m your poop.”

Chris’s smile was back—I could hear it—and it cheered me up. So much that he only had to push me twice more to get me all the way to the front stoop. Oh, and he had to ring the doorbell because I think my arms broke somewhere on the way up the long sidewalk.

“Margo!” My mother had the door open before the elegant—and lengthy—chimes finished ringing within the house.

At least I think it was my mother. She looked so…young. The last time I’d seen her, her hair had been a cotton candy cloud of teased albino fluff. Styled now in a sleek chestnut bob, she looked like she had during my childhood—only happy.

Chris broke the ice first, giving me yet another shove from behind. I landed in my mother’s arms and reluctantly returned her hug.

“And Christopher!” Mom released me and replaced me with Chris, who accepted her embrace much more willingly than I, the traitor.

“You look wonderful, Miss June.”

I barely covered my snort with a cough. Chris had taken to calling her Miss June when she remarried after my father left. After all, she wasn’t Mrs. Gentry anymore. She’d finally told him to call her the impossibly Southern and old-fashioned Miss June to avoid confusion. Maybe she’d had a premonition about how many last name changes she’d go through.

“Come on, you two,” my mother prompted, slipping a hand through each of our arms.

“Let’s go meet the family.”

With the exception of my brother, Rob, I didn’t recognize anyone in the living room as “family,” but a sharp glare from Chris prevented me from pointing that out.

“Everyone! This is our family friend, Christopher Treem. And, of course, my Margo.”

I pasted on a smile and refrained from rolling my eyes at the fake tone of pride in my mother’s voice.

Apparently no one else noticed, because they all descended on me at once. First, my mother’s fiancé, Quinn McFarland. He was a giant of a man, red-haired and freckled, with a bear of a grip that nearly crushed my ribs.

“My new daughter,” he declared, in a rolling Scottish brogue that had my eyes popping—not at his presumptuous words, but at how extremely sexy they sounded when he said them.

Obviously one hot night of steamy sex had recharged my hormones if I was lusting after my mother’s fiancé, who’d said exactly three words to me. Geez.

Next came Paul and Red, Quinn’s sons. Paul, the oldest, was dark and had a persona to match his dad’s. I got a hug from him, as well as a declaration of siblinghood. “Surely you’ll be better than the two sisters I’ve already got,” he said with a wink.

I barely had time to register the protests from the back of the line of people waiting to invade my personal space, before the next son of Quinn had his arms around me. Red was a carbon copy of his father—right down to the kilt. Both men wore tartan kilts straight out of Braveheart, very possibly bare-assed authentic beneath them. I wondered what they’d do if I tried to check. It might make this meeting less gruesome.

With barely a moment to catch my breath after the last bone-cracking hug, Red disappeared from view, shoved aside by a mini version of the two red-headed, kilt-wearing men—minus the kilt. And with breasts.

“I’m Sam, the youngest, and I’ll spare you the wrestling hold.” She stuck out her hand, which I accepted gratefully while choking back a laugh. “You want any dirt on these toads, I’m your girl. And watch out for the blonde. She’s lactating.”

“Hey!” Said blonde shoved her way into the picture and promptly thrust a crying baby into my arms. “Hold Jamie so I can hug you properly,” she said, her eyes actually misting over as she looked at me. “I’m Denise, and I always wanted a nice sister. Please say you’re a nice sister, Margo.”

I’d have laughed at her desperately emotional plea, if only I hadn’t had to concentrate on keeping a death grip on the thing in my arms. I’d held exactly one baby in my entire life…and this was it. I stared at it in horror as what I hoped would be the last sister—Denise—babbled on about how unsympathetic her family was about her hormonal state, and how they didn’t understand how difficult it really is to produce X amount of breast milk every day, while fighting cracked and bleeding nipples and something about latching problems. I lost her at that point.

Unfortunately, I did not also lose the baby in my arms, who continued to squirm as if I held it wrong. I cast desperate glances around the room for help. None was available. My mother was as misty-eyed as the hormonal Denise, as she watched me holding the infant (with obviously no clue as to my discomfort) and clutched her hands to her breasts, probably in supplication that I produce a grandchild in the near future. Like that would happen. Thank God I was on the Pill and didn’t have the added worry that mine and Chris’s entanglement last night—or this morning—would produce any little Treems nine months from now, since we’d been stupidly neglectful of protection.

Finally another man appeared behind the now nearly hysterical new mother, and steered her away from me. “Adam,” he said, by way of introduction. “Whose fault all of this display is. I should have kept it in my pants.”

I flashed a wide-eyed glance at Chris, who barely controlled his laughter behind a strategically placed hand.

“Now that everyone’s met,” my mother said, clapping her hands together like a child at a birthday party, “let’s eat!”

Everyone headed out of the room, leaving me standing there, afraid to move lest I drop the unwanted baby onto the hardwood floor.

Rob came up beside me on one side and Chris on the other.

“Having fun yet?” Chris asked with a laugh.

“I’ll give you a million dollars to ditch this baby and take me home to Manhattan. Two million if you can accomplish it in the next five minutes.”

“You’re stuck with him now.” Rob indicated the kid, as he and Chris pushed me to follow the others. “I had to hold him for eight hours straight when I first got here, except during diaper changes and breast feedings. I think it’s like an initiation.”

***

I’m not sure if I passed. I was only forced to hold the squirming rug rat through dinner, when he (she?) slept peacefully, while I balanced her (him?) on my legs with one arm and attempted to eat with the other.

Eating with these people was like dining in a restaurant. A really noisy restaurant. My mother played the consummate Southern hostess and Quinn the gracious host. I watched them with much suspicion, expecting to detect a chink in their blissfully shiny armor.

I never found it.

Quinn was attentive to my mother, laughing at her jokes, his eyes constantly twinkling at her as they shared private looks meant only for each other. He fed her chunks of pineapple with his fingers, allowing her to suck the juice from them…which really grossed me out. During dessert, which could have been good if everyone hadn’t ganged up on me wanting to hear all about my secretly nonexistent job, Denise finally took back her baby, thereby ending my initiation. Thank God I was physically unable to perform the feeding rites. When Denise came back to the room fifteen minutes later, she held the sleeping baby and two bottles of what looked like gray milk. I scooted my chair as close to the table as I could and put both elbows on the table, trying to appear like I was really concentrating on my chocolate mousse.

Beside me, Chris snorted.

“What?” I whispered.

“Try not to look so obviously appalled.”

“Wouldn’t you be, if you’d had to hold him? Her? It?” God, what was the kid?

Chris leaned in really close, and his aftershave gave me flashbacks. Good flashbacks. To a dark and stormy night. And a blissful morning.

“Actually, you looked kind of cute holding a baby.”

I forgot about steamy sex and flashed him a surprised look. “I did?”

He nodded and treated me to his thousand-watt smile.

Something in my chest region constricted and I quickly turned away. Think about something else. Think about anything but hot steamy sex with your best friend. Underline friend. I had to pretend it never happened, and the only way to do that was to stop thinking about it.

Luckily, my mother provided distraction. “So, it’s almost time for shopping,” my mother announced, again clapping her hands together. And this time she added a waggle of the eyebrows, which was really, really scary.

“Shopping?” I glanced warily around the table. I hate shopping.

“Yes. Girl shopping, that is.” She hopped up from the table.

I really hate girl shopping. I opened my mouth to say I didn’t feel like shopping, that I was tired and they could feel free to go on without me—

Mom didn’t seem to care. “Christopher, may we steal Margo from you?”

“Gee, Mom.” I stood before Chris could egg on my mother’s archaic notions of ownership by answering in the affirmative. “Last time I checked, I still owned myself, so Chris doesn’t really need to give his permission for me to go anywhere.”

Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Of course not, dear. I was just being polite. So, let’s shop!”

As she turned to leave the room, closely followed by Sam and Denise, I stood there with my mouth open. How had I gotten sucked into that? Feeling Chris shaking next to me, I looked down to find him trying to cover his obvious enjoyment of our little exchange with his napkin.

“This is not funny,” I hissed. I straightened and pasted on a broad, plastic smile for the benefit of everyone left at the table. “May I see you alone for a moment, Christopher? In the other room?”

Quinn and his sons encouraged Chris to come back to the table as soon as we finished, plying him with promises of beer and ESPN. Grabbing his hand, I nearly dragged him into the adjacent den, where I firmly closed the door behind us. The instant it closed, I wasn’t mad anymore. I was begging.

“Please, please, don’t make me go with them!” I gripped his forearm like a lifeline. “I hate shopping. I can barely tolerate my mother. And if Denise shoves that baby in my arms one more time—”

“You’ll what?” Chris wasn’t taking me seriously at all.

“Please? Do something. I’m here, I’m going to the wedding like you asked, but please, please don’t make me do anything else with them.”

Chris crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Uh, uh. Last I heard, you still owned yourself, so I can’t really make you do anything, now can I?” With an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes, Chris waltzed out of the den and left me standing there, my mouth hanging open for the second time today. In case I might want to eat my own words.

***

“So, what exactly is girl shopping?” I asked Sam quietly, as we sat in the back seat of Denise’s minivan, with Jamie the genderless child, dressed in equally genderless yellow, between us in a car seat. My mother was in the front seat, directing Denise where to go, since she and her husband lived somewhere farther north and she wasn’t familiar with the area’s intricate network of highways and byways.

Sam seemed to be the most level-headed of the bunch. She was small and compact, built a lot like me. Maybe she was a runner, too. Had I cared to get close to any of these people, I might have made the effort to ask.

“You know, lingerie shopping. Victoria’s Secret.”

I gaped. A few more days with this family and my jaw was going to lock in the open position. “Lingerie for who?”

“That’s whom, dear,” my mother piped up from the front seat, turning around, probably at the shrill tone of my voice. “And, lingerie for me.” She patted her chest proudly. “For my honeymoon.”

Oh. My. God.

Was this a West Coast thing? Was this a Scottish thing? Was this a my-mother-has-completely-gone-off-the-deep-end thing? I couldn’t speak, I was so stunned. A moment later we pulled into the mall parking lot and as we all piled out, I excused myself, dodged behind the van and punched in Chris’s number on my cell phone.

“Women do not go lingerie shopping together,” I told him the minute he answered.

“They do in men’s fantasies.”

“Please don’t be such a man. I think I have appendicitis. I need a ride to the hospital. Please come get me.”

“Sorry, Mar. You and your mom need to bond. And what better way to bond than over push-up bras and panties.”

“Chris! That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

“Hey, your mom is pretty hot.”

“Ugh!” I hung up the phone just as Denise came around the back of the van to get me.

“There you are. Here, you push Jamie’s cart. You know, new auntie-to-be and all.”

No, I did not know, but I took the stroller anyway. If my hands were occupied, I wouldn’t be forced to touch anything in Victoria’s Secret. It worked. For a while anyway.

“What about this one, June?” Denise held up a skimpy blue bra with barely any fabric holding the straps together. It hooked in the front, which reminded me of my zipper-front sports bra. Which reminded me how swiftly Chris removed it last night. I nearly groaned.

“Ooh, that’s good,” my mom replied, nodding vigorously and heading in Denise’s direction. I jerked the stroller back and forth and tried not to make eye contact with anyone who might ask me if I needed anything. I was afraid I would blurt out that I needed a ride home. Preferably all the way to New York.

“That’s good,” Mom repeated, “for Margo.”

“Margo?” My head snapped to attention. “I have my quota of bras, thanks very much.” Sports bras, too, none of those flimsy things that barely cover anything. What was the point? That thing looked even easier to get out of than the one I’d been wearing last night. Which was the last thing I needed.

“Sure you do, dear.” My mother headed in my direction, holding the bra in front of her like a battering ram.

Screw holding on to the stroller. I dropped it like a hot brick and backed up several feet. “No bras. This is your trip, Mom, not mine.”

“But, you need underwear to match your bridesmaid dress. We settled on navy, by the way, although Sam and I really liked the pink.”

Sam nodded in agreement, looking vaguely disappointed in the change from pink to navy.

My focus was brought back to the problem at hand, as my mother held the bra up against my chest, which was completely hidden beneath my crossed arms.

“Too bad you’re not a bit bustier, dear. We’ll probably have to have your dress taken in.”

Humiliation was my middle name.

“Miss!” My mother raised a hand and gestured to a hovering clerk. “My daughter would like to be fitted with this brassiere.”

“Actually, I’d rather have a root canal,” I dead-panned.

“Nonsense, Margo. A good bra fitting is a milestone in every young woman’s life.”

My milestone took place in the dressing room at Victoria’s Secret with a total stranger ogling my apparently underdeveloped chest and having to return to the store three times to get smaller cup sizes. A half hour later, properly fitted bra in hand and a scowl on my face—that I fully intended to unleash on Chris the minute I got back to Quinn’s house—we went back to shopping for my mother.

“What about this?” The glow on my mother’s face, as she held up a black silk one-piece thingy, made me nauseous.

“Perfect, June!” Denise nodded eagerly, fingering the slippery fabric. “Mmm, so silky. My dad’ll love it.”

Did no one else think this was totally weird? How many daughters picked out underwear for their father’s lovers? There had to be something sickeningly wrong with this scenario.

“I think so, too.” Mom tucked the teddy under her arm and moved in my direction to look at more unnecessary undergarments. What happened to plain old cotton? It had gotten me through nearly thirty years of life.

It had gotten me through the most awesome sex of my life—without even being removed.

Oh, God.

Unable to stand still any more, I bolted. “I’m going to take little Jamie out for some air.”

In the mall, I paced back and forth in front of Victoria’s Secret, wearing a hole in the tile flooring until the other three finally came out, purchases in hand, grinning like idiots.

“Next stop, the bridal shop,” my mother announced. “Your dress fitting is tonight, Margo.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, trying to catch up with them. They seemed to be in an all-fired big hurry to get to bridal hell. “You could have warned me. I’d have worn clean underwear.”

Mom waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “That’s why we bought you new.”

All too soon, I was sheathed in a navy dress, uh, sheath, I was told it was called. Fitting name. As pointed out by my ever-so-supportive mother, it did need to be taken in to fit my flat chest. The tsking from the fitter made me want to square my shoulders and point out Chris hadn’t complained about the size of my breasts last night. And had, in fact, come back for seconds this morning—however unconscious and dream-inspired that second helping had been. But, I decided drawing attention to my sexual misconduct with my best friend wasn’t wise.

So, I just listened to Denise and Sam and my mom prattle on. I don’t think they ever stopped talking—about the wedding, the honeymoon, men in general. My mother really did light up when she talked about Quinn. I kept expecting to notice artificiality in her feelings for Quinn. He wasn’t her first choice or anything. He was just another man in a long string of men. She must be a really good actress, though, because I never spotted what I was looking for.

Then there was hormonal Denise, whose husband took the blame for her over-emotional state. She, too, glowed when she talked about Adam. It was weird. Even when I was in a relationship, I didn’t talk like that about my partner. Truthfully, having Kevin break up with me was, well, a non-event. Maybe I’d known all along we wouldn’t go any further in our relationship. Being alone for a while would be a nice break.

But, after last night with Chris—or even more so after the realization Chris was looking for Mrs. Right—being single didn’t hold the same appeal. Maybe Adair and Oprah had it right. Being alone, rocking on your fire escape, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“Don’t you think so, Margo?”

I glanced back at the group, sitting around on the couches, watching the dress fitter tuck and pin about a half a yard of material to be cut off my dress bodice. “Don’t I think what?”

“That there’s more to men than just sex?” The question came from Denise.

“I disagree,” Sam argued. “Great sex can hold together a relationship, can’t it? I bet Margo is much more savvy about this stuff than you, Denise. She’s from New York after all. She’s probably had lots of sexual relationships. Right, Margo?”

“Well, actually—” The fitter stared at my lack of cleavage with a rather incredulous look on her face. Probably didn’t think I could get any man with that chest. I rolled my eyes and ignored her.

“There’s more to a good relationship than sex, Sam,” Denise said. “Adam’s my best friend. And Dad says June is his best friend, too.”

My mom actually flushed and ducked her head demurely. I wanted to vomit.

“Right, Margo? Don’t you think you should be best friends with your lover?”

“What?” I gasped, my face growing hot. “I didn’t…I mean, we aren’t—”

“When your best friend is your lover, you not only get great sex, you get a shoulder to cry on.” Mom appeared not to notice my discomfort. “A last-minute movie date. Someone to take care of you when you’re sick or to share take-out with on a stormy night.”

I choked.

“Multiple orgasms,” Sam added.

Mom laughed and Denise gasped. The fitter jumped and stuck me with a pin.

“Ow!” All eyes turned to me. “A pin,” I whimpered with a glare at the fitter. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“See.” Sam pointed at me. “Margo agrees with me. Don’t you? Multiple orgasms can cover a multitude of sins.”

“Um—” I opened my mouth to speak, just as my cell phone rang. “Gotta get that!” I leapt off the little platform and pushed past the fitter. “Hello?” I ditched the psycho ladies.

“Are you alive?”

“You have no idea how much torture this is, Chris.” I closed my eyes and leaned against the partition dividing the fitting rooms from the rest of the store. “Are you sure you won’t play along with the appendicitis story? I’ll pay you back in sexual favors.”

“What?”

Shit. “Kidding.” I groaned. “Sorry. Really.”

“Oh.”

Did he sound a little bit disappointed? No, we’d agreed it would be best to put it behind us. No awkwardness. Strictly friendship.

So why was it that I really wouldn’t have minded passing out some sexual favors? Even if it wasn’t in payment for getting me out of girl shopping with my mom and the wacky stepsisters.

***

A week with the McFarland family was very disconcerting. It was hard not to like them…in a completely impersonal, I-like-the-family-on-that-TV-sitcom kind of way. They were all very close, no matter how much they teased and tormented each other, but I was this way with my friends, not my family.

Mom did her best to draw me into the fold. Rob, the hermit, jumped in with both feet, surprising me with his animation and practically split personality. He dressed more carefully than normal (of course, mice and roaches don’t generally care what you wear around the house), combed his hair, even flirted with the girls and eagerly joined family game night. I joined in too, reluctantly.

I felt like a fraud. Denise and Sam constantly pointed out how happy our parents were together, until I wanted to scream. Paul and Red doted on my mother like she belonged to them, like she was already their stepmother. Was I the only one seeing through this charade? Quinn had been married exactly once before. My mother had a rap sheet of failed marriages a mile long. Could no one else see she was bound to ruin his life, as well as the lives of a family I had to admit would be a pretty nice family to belong to, had I wanted to make an effort to belong?

Everyone else was oblivious. As the week went on, they tried to get to know me, and I tried to keep them at a distance. What was the point? In a few short days, Rob, Chris and I would head back to New York, and they’d keep up their little family illusion without us.

The closer it got to the wedding day, the busier Mom got. Denise and Sam already had their set roles as her helpers, and I tagged along when forced to, feeling a little lost. Chris had business meetings most of the week, stopping by the house just a few evenings, eating dinner with the family, fitting in like he belonged there, and I felt exceedingly out of touch with him. Maybe because we’d spent so much time together over the past few weeks, which came to a pretty abrupt stop when we reached California. Maybe it was because I had these feelings for him I didn’t know what to do with, and, as long as he was with me, his attitude helped me remember we were just best friends. As soon as he wasn’t with me, all I could think of was his arms around me and his lips on mine…and how much I’d give to relive that night just once more. In case I never experienced all those feelings again. With anyone.

Chris—probably sensing my increasing restlessness—finally promised me a day of sightseeing. Just us. I hated to admit, even to myself, how eager I was to get out of the house and away from the scary family.

“Going somewhere fun?” Mom stuck her head in the guest room, as I pulled on my shoes and tied them.

“Just sightseeing.”

“Christopher seems happy these days.”

I shrugged, not really wanting to be drawn into a conversation with her about Chris. Unfortunately, what I wanted usually didn’t matter to my mother.

“How are things going with you two?” Mom reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. I moved my head away.

“Me and Chris?” I absently rubbed at the tattoo on my left hip, a constant reminder of two very different nights—one of drunken fun that landed me with my best friend’s brand on my hip for life, the other of a quite sane, but completely insane night spent in that best friend’s arms.

I moved away from my mother to rearrange things in my already neat and tidy suitcase. “Fine, I guess. Same old thing. He’s working at the store. I’m…uh, working at the station.” Lightning didn’t strike, so God must have approved of my little white lie. He probably wouldn’t want my mother to worry about my welfare, which was a much more charitable reason for accepting my lie than my reason for telling it.

Mom smiled. “I don’t mean how are your professional careers. I mean, how is your relationship?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Uh, friendly?” Surely she didn’t know anything about our night together. It hadn’t changed anything…except for the fact I now knew first-hand why women fell at his feet. And was oh-so-tempted to fall at his feet again myself.

“You have a good relationship, don’t you?”

I shrugged. “We’ve been friends for years, Mom.”

“I just wondered if it was something more yet.”

“More?”

Mom looked at me with such intensity, my eyeballs began to itch. “Good relationships aren’t accidents, Margo.”

“And your point?”

“I just wonder if you realize what you have with Christopher.”

“Like romantically, you mean?” My mouth fell open as she nodded. “Just a few weeks ago, you told me I should get back together with Kevin. That marrying him might be my last chance. Now you suggest I should be involved with Chris?”

“I just meant that you might like being married if you’d give it a try—”

“So, since Kevin didn’t work out for me, I should latch on to Chris a few weeks later, because God knows I might not have any more chances?” I slammed the lid of my suitcase closed and whirled to face her. “You know what, Mom? I’m not like you. I don’t change men like I change my underwear. And, I certainly don’t need relationship advice from a person who can’t keep a relationship longer than a year.” I shoved past her to the door of the bedroom when Chris honked outside. “You know,” I said, pointing down the hall in the general direction of the main part of the house, the part of the house where the McFarland family gathered, “I hope you think about what you’re doing to the rest of this really nice family. I wonder how many other families you’ve left in the dust over the last twenty years. Besides ours, I mean.”

***

Chris must have sensed my volatile mood, because he didn’t move the Jeep immediately. Instead he sat and watched me for a minute, letting the engine idle.

I watched the front door, half expecting my mother to come running after me. “Can we just go?” I asked. “Sooner than later?”

“Sure.” Chris put the car in reverse and backed out. “What happened?”

“Nothing I want to talk about.” I leaned my head back against the seat and enjoyed the wind blowing through the open roof. “Suffice it to say, we could probably leave for New York any time now, and I wouldn’t be missed.”

Chris laughed. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll get away with that.”

“Probably not.” I sighed and pawed around in the glove compartment for my sunglasses. Slipping them on, I turned to Chris. “So, where are we off to? Someplace obscenely fun and mind-numbing, I hope.”

“You’ll just have to sit back and find out. But, I think you’ll like it.”

I took his advice, sitting back and enjoying the beautiful day. Enjoying the freedom of not having to try to fit in with a family I’d never fit in with. Enjoying feeling comfortable and relaxed for the first time in several days. Being with Chris, even when we bashed heads or had our differences, was never a struggle.

“First stop, the Walk of Fame,” Chris finally announced, as we circled around Hollywood, looking for a parking space.

“The Walk of Fame?” I peered at him over the top of my sunglasses. “Since when are you a movie-star hound?”

“Just follow me.”

We piled out of the Jeep and Chris reviewed a map, while absently reaching out to take my hand. With a sidelong glance, I let him take it. The jolt had me swallowing and staring off into space to beat the unexpected feeling into submission. Friend, friend, friend, friend, I chanted to myself, as he dragged me a little way down the sidewalk. Pretty soon, though, I was caught up in the stars themselves. Muted pink stars on charcoal plaques dotted the sidewalk as far as the eye could see. Tourists paused every once in a while to have their picture taken with this star or that.

“Hey, look. Arnold.” I pointed to the star of the governor of California. “Bet he’s glad he got that star before he started the job. There aren’t any politicians with stars on the Walk of Fame. Maybe the Walk of Shame.”

Chris, off in La La Land, didn’t comment. He walked a bit farther then indicated the next corner. “We need to cross. Come on.”

I blindly followed, letting him pull me along Hollywood Boulevard, taking in the 1920s and ’30s architecture. The beautiful beige spire of the Hollywood First National Bank Building reached for the sky across the street from us, and Chris seemed to be headed that way.

“Going banking?” I asked, as he pulled me up onto the sidewalk. I was grateful that my dizziness had completely abated over the past week, making it much less difficult to keep up with Extreme Treem as he headed, with determined purpose, toward…whatever we were heading toward.

“Here.” Chris stopped and finally dropped my hand, turning his high-wattage smile in my direction. “Just for you.”

I looked down to find another star, like all the other stars, and yet not. It was Elvis’s star.

“Oh.” I bent to run my hands over the cool stone. “You looked up Elvis’s star just for me?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, looking pleased with his surprise. “Elvis’s star was one of the first approximately fifteen hundred installed between February 1960 and June 1961. However, no formal ceremony was held for the unveiling, so Elvis wasn’t even present.”

I laughed. “Wow! That took a lot of research. I’m impressed.” And more than a little pleased at the effort Chris had taken to surprise me.

Chris produced a disposable camera from his pocket and waved me into place so he could get a few shots of me drooling over Elvis’s star. “You may also, if you choose, adopt Elvis’s star. You must, however, agree to polish it on the first Saturday of every month.”

I laughed. “A bit of a long commute from Manhattan, wouldn’t you say?” I stood and brushed my now dusty hands off on my shorts. Looking back at the star, I sighed. “Might be worth it, though, to take care of Elvis on a monthly basis. It’d have to be even better luck than flicking the bobblehead.”

Chris wasn’t done with the surprises, though. We crossed the street to the Hollywood Wax Museum, where Chris dragged me in after dismissing my claims of nightmarish flashbacks of the Memphis prison. He did, however, hold my hand very tightly as we checked out the hideous replica of the King, probably worried that my grabbing of Elvis’s hand at Graceland hadn’t really been an accident. We visited the Rock Walk on Sunset Boulevard, where Chris took another couple of photos of me standing with Elvis’s bronze plaque, situated right between Buddy Holly and Marvin Gaye. We even went to the Peterson Automotive Museum and paid admission just to see “Mongrel,” a very strange, multicolored roadster that had been in a movie with Elvis.

I replaced my sunglasses as we exited the building. “I can’t believe you paid fourteen dollars for me to see one car.” Despite my accusations of wasting money, I couldn’t quit smiling. I appreciated it more than he could know.

Chris knew. “I figured you needed cheering up. It’s been a long week for you.”

I stared straight ahead as we walked back toward the Jeep. I didn’t want him to see how much his words, his noticing, affected me. “That obvious, huh?” I kept my tone light.

“Just to those of us who know you well.”

“Well, thank God, that’s only you, then.” I flashed him a flirty grin. “So, where to next, my ever-so-excellent tour guide?”

“How about some lunch?”

We ate lunch at the Formosa Café, ogling Elvis’s signed photograph on the wall. (I ogled, he ate). Then, we took a drive past Elvis and Priscilla’s former home on Monvale Drive, a white cottage Chris informed me had been purchased for a mere $335,000 in 1972.

“Quite the Elvis trivia buff all of a sudden, for someone who doesn’t even like him,” I teased.

“Some things are just important to know.”

Not for most people, they aren’t, I thought, counting palm trees as we headed for who knew what surprise next. Distraction—from what was developing into a serious problem in my mind—was absolutely necessary.

We drove for a while, finally ending up at the beach.

“Notice the name?” Chris pointed as we drove into the town.

“Manhattan Beach! We’re home!” I cheered, waving my arms out the top of the Jeep. It was breathtaking, even as crowded as it was. A long pier stretched out into the crashing turquoise waves. Rollerbladers and runners sped down the strand, gleaming with sweat in the California sunshine. “Oh, God, I want to run. It’s been too long.”

“What a great place, huh?” Chris parked the Jeep within sight of the beach and we sat there a moment, taking it all in. “I’d even consider running here.”

“Oh, sure.” I laughed. “A fair-weather runner. Besides,” I said, closing the car door behind me, “you wouldn’t be able to run any further in L.A. than you do at home.”

“Probably not.”

I was getting used to Chris taking my hand as we wandered around. He’d done it several times today, and it was no less pleasant this time than it had been the first. I didn’t know what to make of it. He never held my hand in New York. On top of that, I kept catching him looking at me. Just looking, like he wanted to say something…or he couldn’t get enough of watching my pleasure at his Elvis tour. Was it because of what happened that night during the rain storm? Or was it that we’d spent so much time together in the past month?

Afraid I was reading too much into the whole thing, I concentrated on the view and the sun and the beach stretched out for miles in front of us. We strolled down the strand to the white sand beach and parked ourselves on the beach towel Chris had the forethought to pack.

Leaning back on my hands, I turned my face toward the sun. “I could live here.”

“Really?” Chris asked, sounding surprised. “I thought you were Manhattan born and bred.”

“We were born and bred upstate,” I reminded him. “Besides, as you so carefully pointed out, this is Manhattan.”

A group of volleyball players a few yards away drew our attention as their game got rowdy. When the game wound down, surfers out on the waves offered more entertainment. The peace here was incredible, so free of worry and care that, for a while, I truly did believe I could stay here forever.

“So what happened with your mom this morning?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

I flopped back down on the towel and stared up at the sky. “She was just giving unsolicited advice, that’s all.”

“About what?”

About you. “About…relationships.”

“Trying to set you up with one of your future stepbrothers?”

I gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

Chris laughed. “Yeah. Sure you don’t want to talk about your mom?”

“Positive.”

“You know, you could be honest with her.”

“About what?”

“About why you can’t seem to get along with her. About why you’re mad at her all the time. About how you feel about your childhood.”

Narrowing my eyes at him, I wondered how much he knew. “What about my childhood?”

“Rob used to talk about it. I didn’t make the connection to what happened that day at Dillard’s right away. Now I know why you were so upset.”

I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing. “There’s nothing to be upset about. It’s ancient history.”

“But it still affects how you look at your mom.”

“It does not. That has nothing to do with why I don’t get along with my mother. I don’t get along with my mother because she drives me crazy. Because she tries to run my life. Because she thinks I should…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

For a while, we sat in silence. I thought about my mother’s suggestion that Chris and I had something between us, that a good relationship shouldn’t be ignored. What I was ignoring was how much I wished she was right, and knowing she wasn’t. Couldn’t be. I don’t know what Chris was thinking, but it certainly didn’t have anything to do with relationships and me.

“So, what time do you have to get back?” Chris finally asked. “For your interview?”

I glanced at my watch. “Oh. Yeah.” I’d completely forgotten. “I need to meet Nancy at six.”

Chris stood and pulled me up beside him. “Then I guess we better get you home so you have time to get ready.” He turned to look at me with a thoughtful expression. “You are going to tell her the truth, aren’t you?”

I frowned. “What is it with you and all this truth-telling? There is some benefit to silence, you know.”

“What would that be?” Chris took my hand and started back to the Jeep.

“Safety. Not having to worry about being rejected.”

“Are we talking about your mom or Nancy?”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing Chris to a halt.

“Well?” he prompted, when I didn’t answer him.

“I’m not talking about my mother.”

“Fine. So, you’re talking about Nancy.” He didn’t sound convinced. “No one will get mad at you for telling the truth. Do I have to give you that whole honesty speech again?”

“It wouldn’t help,” I pouted, dropping his hand and stalking back to the Jeep ahead of him. Why was he pushing all my buttons and ruining a perfectly good day? “You just don’t get it. You have a secure job, a business. Your entire career isn’t in the hands of a lot of very judgmental people.”

Chris laughed as we seat-belted ourselves for the ride back to the McFarland house. “Yeah, just every sporting goods consumer in Manhattan. Chip and I are acutely aware that any mistake on our part could bring our store down in a heartbeat.” Chris headed out of Manhattan Beach, and I turned to glance back at the little town with the homey name. At least homey to me. Maybe I’d come back here some day and take a run on the beach.

Chris continued, “Remember when we had that huge downturn of business a few years ago?”

“Sure. Why?”

“It was poor management on our part. Mine and Chip’s. We talked about it and decided to be honest with the public. We put out a few brutally honest press releases, talking about how business was and how we planned to make up for our shortcomings and nearsightedness. It was a big risk. Customers could’ve just gone to one of the other sporting goods stores in the city, figuring we were a couple of screw-ups. Instead they came in droves. I had at least a dozen people a day tell me they admired our honesty about the situation.”

I frowned a little. “You make it very difficult to stick to my convictions here.”

“Maybe because in your heart you know your convictions don’t make sense.” Chris reached over and took my hand. That weird tingly feeling went through my fingers. “Just try telling Nancy the truth and see what happens.”

“Yeah, my ruined career could be what happens.”

Chris flashed me his killer smile and I knew I’d at least consider it. That grin had powers he didn’t even realize. Or did he? “Have a little faith. Take a chance. Live dangerously.”

My stomach cramped. I’d lived dangerously not too long ago, in a humid hotel room during a flash flood. What felt incredible at the time also had the potential to completely ruin something very important to me.

I wasn’t sure Chris’s advice was wise.

Chapter Fourteen

“Cryin’ in the Chapel”

“So, you see—” I took a giant, very unmannerly, nerve-stabilizing gulp of the red wine Nancy had ordered for our meal, “—I wasn’t sure how to tell you I lost my job. I’m not even sure I should tell you now, to be honest.”

The tall, skinny, graying blonde on the other side of the table only said, “I see,” before leaning back in her seat and retrieving a cigarette from her purse. She lit it and took a long drag before eyeing me again.

Nancy Noble and I were dining on the patio of Spago Beverly Hills, and I was too nervous to enjoy it. The salmon—what I’d managed to actually choke down—tasted wonderful, but I wouldn’t be reporting back to anyone on my experience of dining in one of Wolfgang Puck’s famous restaurants. My mind blurred and my stomach knotted. I crossed my fingers under the table and prayed I hadn’t done the wrong thing.

“Well.” Nancy leaned forward and sucked another lungful of smoke, which she blew out of the corner of her mouth. “That changes everything.”

Oh! What winged thing just took off from my shoulder? I think it was Hope. Sighing, I laid my fork across my plate, not even bothering to pretend I could finish my meal. The whole interview had gone so well. Until I decided to be honest. Damn Christopher Treem’s honorable soul. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“Like I said, I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I wasted the photographer’s time and yours. I understand if Today’s Country wants to name someone else as Best DJ.”

“Why would we do that?”

“What? Because I thought—”

“You won. That doesn’t change. In fact,” Nancy said, stubbing out her hastily smoked Virginia Slim in the ashtray, “it’s liable to gain you a lot of sympathy.”

“Yeah, well, sympathy doesn’t pay rent.” I chuckled, relieved Nancy wasn’t snatching back my award and running from Spago, leaving me with the check for being a fraud.

“But sympathy could get you job opportunities. Where have you looked?”

For the next half hour, we discussed my job-hunting failures. The calls, the résumés sent. The rejections.

Finally, three cigarettes later, Nancy nodded. “How stuck are you on country?” She grinned at my surprised look. “I’m no country whore. Jazz is more my style. A job is a job. I fell into this one. Not because of a love of Conway Twitty and Hank Williams, believe me. New Country’s kinda grown on me, though.”

I laughed then sighed. “I love country. There just aren’t a lot of places I’d fit. The only thing I listen to other than country music is Elvis.”

“Ah. Then oldies.”

Oldies. Why hadn’t that occurred to me before? “That might work. I’ll have to check the oldies stations when I get home.”

Nancy raised her hand for the check. “Let me check my connections, too. Maybe we can get something set up.”

Amazingly enough, by the next morning, I had a voice mail on my cell phone. “Margo, this is James Friend, from WOLD, Oldies 103, in Manhattan. We got your name from Nancy Noble at Today’s Country Magazine and we’re looking for a new morning person. Nancy tells us you’re a huge Elvis fan. So are our listeners. We’d love to have a chance to talk to you, so give me a call.”

In a daze, I wrote down the number, before heading out the door to the wedding rehearsal.

***

The next two days were a blur of wedding activities. Rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, beauty parlor torture the morning of the wedding, dressing for the wedding, riding to the church, etc. I was in the constant company of my mother and the wacky stepsisters who, despite all my efforts to stay away from them, continued to try to include me in everything.

“But, she’s your mother,” Denise reminded me when I generously offered her the job of being my mother’s helper for the day. “You should be the one to help her dress for the wedding. That’s what daughters do.”

“Most daughters aren’t around for their mother’s weddings,” I protested. “And there’ll be plenty of opportunities to help her dress for future weddings.” The minute the words left my mouth—almost simultaneously with the look of shock on Denise’s face—I realized my error and tried to backpedal. “I mean, not that my mother will have future weddings. She and Quinn are very happy. I just meant…maybe they’ll renew their vows some day. I’ll help her dress then.”

Denise simply nodded mutely and retreated to her own room to get ready.

I kicked my own shin in self-flagellation before packing my bag to take to the church.

Two hours later, I watched my mother peer into the mirror set up in the church dressing room and fuss with her makeup yet again. A bit more lipstick, a brush of color across her cheeks. I was still amazed at her hair, identical to my own. I remembered sitting in her lap as a child, fingering the ends of it. It had the almost hypnotic effect of sucking one’s thumb. Now, having replicated that look, she’d been made twenty years younger. Something about Quinn agreed with her.

I turned away to pace the length of the room, actually missing the bustling chit-chat of Sam and Denise, who had seemingly forgiven my earlier faux pas and was acting as if it never happened. The two of them had gone to see if their father needed anything, leaving me alone with my mother. Probably not a very good idea, at least from my point of view. We were still barely speaking.

“You look lovely, Margo.”

I gave my mother a quick glance and smoothed my hands down the front of my navy satin sheath. It was pretty. Even I, the queen of jeans and tees, had to admit I didn’t look half bad. For a wedding anyway.

A wedding I was still sure was doomed.

My mother’s eyes were soft and kind of sad. She was probably still angry with me for my temper the other day. Not that she had mentioned it. The issue hadn’t come up, but we’d all been too busy to discuss anything but whether or not we each had spare pantyhose in case of runs and what “old” item Mom would wear for the wedding ceremony.

“Are you really sure you want to go through with this, Mom? It’s not too late to back out.” I gestured toward the window, where bright California sunshine heated the sill, only half joking about disappearing into the sunset. But, was it her that I wanted to escape the wedding…or me?

“Of course, I’m going through with it. I know you don’t approve, but I know I’m doing the right thing. I love Quinn.”

And I liked Quinn. I had to admit it. Over the last week, I’d grown to really enjoy his company and appreciate his feelings for my mother. But when would it change? Because it would change. It always did.

“Margo?”

What had Chris said about honesty? I’d been honest with Nancy, and it had turned out all right. Better than all right. What would happen if I was honest with my mother?

“I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” I told her. “You have the right to do what you want with your life. But, I also have the right to do what I want with mine. Maybe you don’t purposely set out to hurt people. Maybe you truly do love Quinn…maybe you’ve loved all your husbands. But that’s not me. That’s not who I am. I’ll never get married.”

Mom turned back to the mirror and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and blasted it with hair spray again. It was as unruly as mine, despite its smooth exterior. When she finally turned back to me, her expression was solemn. “I wish I was more like you.”

“Me?” Of all the things I might have expected to hear from my mother, this was not one of them. “After every nasty thing I said, you want to be like me? I’m not sure that’s a wise ambition.”

“You’re so independent, Margo. So in the face of the world. You don’t care what it throws at you, you just stick with it and do what needs to be done. You don’t need anyone to make you whole.” My mother sank onto the vanity bench and laid her softly wrinkled hands primly in her lap. “You don’t need a man to complete you.”

Didn’t I? Wasn’t what I felt for Chris just a matter of needing a man in my life, and he just happened to be convenient?

“I’m not so sure about that.” I worked to keep my voice steady. Honesty was one thing. Emotionalism was another. “Do you realize I’ve never been without a man in my life for more than a few weeks or a month at a time?”

“But you don’t feel the need to marry them, do you?”

“No.” I sighed and searched my brain for what to say to make her understand. Maybe, for once, I needed to search my heart.

I felt like I was jumping off a cliff into space. I took a deep breath and crossed the room, sitting on the bench next to her. I needed another breath before I could speak. “Aren’t you afraid? To get married again, I mean.”

“Afraid?” Mom turned to look at my profile, and I prayed she couldn’t tell how much this was taking out of me.

“Afraid of it happening again. The…the abuse.”

I wasn’t sure if I imagined her sharp intake of breath, but when I turned to face her, to look into her eyes so she couldn’t lie to me, I couldn’t tell if she was shocked that I knew or that I was speaking of it.

“I used to be.” She turned haunted eyes toward the door, beyond which Quinn waited for her. A slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?” I demanded, my temper flaring. “I’m still terrified, and I’ve never even had it happen to me.” I leapt up from my seat and began pacing again. “Every guy I’m with—every guy I’ve ever dated—was Dad, just in different skin.”

“Were they really, or did you just see it that way?”

“Don’t you?” I snapped. “Don’t you live in constant fear of being slapped again? Of being pushed down? Kicked?” My mind burned and tears bit the backs of my eyelids, long-held emotions clawing their way out. My fury at my mother’s weakness boiled to the surface, tired of simmering all these years. “How the hell do you ever get past that?”

Mom shook her head. “I’m not that woman anymore.”

“How do you know?” I searched her eyes, her face, her hair, her skin, her body—searching for a sign to reassure me she wasn’t that woman any longer. Other than the makeover, I saw no convincing evidence. No one would convince me a bottle of hair dye made a woman stronger.

She patted her heart with her hand. “You just know, Margo. It’s inside of you, the acceptance of abuse, and then it’s gone. And once it’s gone, you know you won’t ever accept it again.”

“But—” I waved toward the door. “Does Quinn know that? Does Quinn know you aren’t that woman anymore? How does Quinn, or any man, know you aren’t the type of woman to take it again? Do you tell them? Do you wear a sign around your neck when you date? Do you remind them every day when you get out of bed?”

I crossed to the window and stared out. Guests were arriving at the church, smiling and laughing, some of them couples, some with families. Were there demons lurking behind those smiles?

“Quinn’s not that kind of man.”

I believed her. Quinn didn’t seem like the kind of man to use a woman as a punching bag.

“But, then, at some point in time, Mom, you didn’t think Dad was either.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. But, back then, when I discovered what kind of man he was, I wasn’t the type of woman to walk out.”

“How many times did it happen before you were the type of woman to walk out?” She looked so dignified sitting there, I almost bit my tongue for asking her. But I had to know. I had to know how many times it took before you were brave enough to change.

“Only a few.”

A few. Even a few would be too many times for me. “So, how did you know that you weren’t that type of woman anymore?”

My mother laughed, a bit bitterly. “At first, I didn’t know. I thought I was a different person, but I couldn’t be sure. Broke up a couple of perfectly good marriages leaving when no leaving was necessary, just because I suddenly got scared.”

“You mean you were afraid you might be hit, so you left?”

She nodded with a sad smile. “Bert was shocked when I filed for divorce after one little tiff over how to squeeze the toothpaste tube. But I was terrified his little display of temper would escalate.” She paused and shook her head. “No, actually, I was terrified that if it did escalate, I’d stay there and take it. So I got out before he even had the chance to prove otherwise. It wasn’t the last time either. I let go of at least a couple good men.”

I moved across the room and sat on the vanity bench again. “When did you finally stay past that first fight? When did you stop cringing at every raised voice?”

She shrugged. “It took a while. A few arguments, a few fights. Then, one day I knew. I was okay. I wasn’t that woman anymore. Freed up a lot of psychological space in my head, once I figured that out.” She chuckled softly. “Not every man is your father.”

“I guess I don’t trust myself to find that out.”

“But you’ve lived with men before.”

“Lived with them. That’s all I did.”

“You didn’t love any of them?”

I didn’t even need to think about that. “No.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “It’s easier to leave if you don’t love them. Wouldn’t it have been easier to leave Dad when he hit you if you hadn’t loved him?”

Mom looked very carefully into my eyes. “Yes. But just because you love a man doesn’t mean he’ll hit you. Not every man is provoked to violence.”

“Like I’d want to test out that theory.”

“Did any of your boyfriends ever hit you?”

I shook my head.

“Didn’t you ever provoke them?” Mom laughed and patted my knee. “You forget I’m your mother, Margo. I know you have a temper. I can’t imagine you spent two years with Kevin acting like a perfect little angel.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“And what about Christopher?”

My gaze shot up to meet hers. “What about Chris?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Shit. “I don’t look—”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

That shut me up. “Me?”

She nodded, with a smile. “Yes, Margo. You. I’ve known Christopher a long time, and I know how he looked at you before, and I know how he looks at you now.”

“I don’t think so, Mom. Your ESP has a faulty switch or something.”

Again, she patted my knee. “You go ahead and think what you like, dear. I know better. But, my point is, have you not ever made Chris mad?”

I mentally ticked off all the times I’d pissed him off just in the last few weeks with a half smile. Did ruining his date with Julie count? Forcing him to babysit me for the last four, very long, drawn-out weeks? Making him miss his skydiving trip to bail me out of jail?

I chuckled. “Yeah, I can confidently say I’ve made Chris mad before.”

“And were you ever afraid he’d hit you? It’s not just spouses or lovers that are abusive.”

“No. Chris isn’t that kind of guy.”

“I agree. But could it also be that you know you wouldn’t let yourself be that kind of girl?”

I shook my head. “If that was the case, wouldn’t I have been just as confident with Kevin? Or any of the other guys I’ve been with. Wouldn’t I have allowed myself to get closer to them?”

My mother reached up and turned my chin toward her, looking so deeply into my eyes tears threatened again. “Or is it because, with Christopher, you know yourself better than you knew yourself with any of the other men in your life?”

I started to shake my head again, but she stopped me.

“Chris knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?”

I gave a slight nod.

“And he’s never walked away from you, has he?”

I laughed. “He doesn’t have to live with me.”

Mom smiled. “He’s lived with you the last few weeks. There’s been an airport in every major city you’ve been in. He could have dumped you at any one of them and told you to make your own way here. He could have given you the keys to his car and taken his own flight home. But he didn’t. And you don’t run from him, either.”

“It’s different,” I said. “He’s a friend, not a potential husband.”

“Do you think he’d be a different man if he was?”

I shook my head. “No. If Chris is anything, he’s stable.”

“Would you be a different person, if he were to ask you to marry—”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off with a finger to my lips.

“Just supposing, by some way-out, wild, unbelievable chance, that he should be in love with you.” We both laughed. “And if, supposing he went completely out of his head and asked you to marry him, and you, being stark-raving crazy, said yes…would you be a different person? Would he? Or have you been who you really are, with him, for as long as you’ve known him?”

I considered her words, looking down at the tiny Celtic knot pendant she wore at her throat, a gift from Quinn. A symbol of the thread of life they would be sharing.

Was I really so comfortable with Chris because I was who I really was, deep down inside, when I was with him? Was he, of all the guys I’d dated and lived with in my life, the one person I wasn’t afraid of? The one person who didn’t make me afraid of myself?

***

As I stood at my mother’s side, watching her vow her love for Quinn, I looked out over the faces of their guests. Why is it that people cry at weddings? We always think it’s because they’re happy for the matrimonial couple. Or are they really thinking of their own failed marriages, more than one in every two having ended in divorce? Were they really thinking about the poor fools pledging vows which have so little chance of sticking?

I couldn’t answer that. Hell, I didn’t even know why I was crying. Tears weren’t usually part of my repertoire. Was I happy for Quinn and my mom? Was I sad? And, if I was sad, was I sad for them…or for me?

Chris met my gaze over the top of the head of a lady in a purple hat. He winked at me, and I felt my heart well up. What if my mom was right? What if every man, for the rest of my life, left me afraid, except for Chris? Best friendship only went so far. What if Chris was the only man I could ever be sure of myself with?

***

A few hours into the reception, Red McFarland stepped away and Chris slid into my arms. We’d barely seen each other in the last two days. Chris’s time had been filled with business meetings late into the night, and mine with this wedding.

“So,” I asked, “how many times are you going to cut in on whoever I’m dancing with? What is this, the sixth time?”

“As many times as it takes.”

I laughed. “As many times as it takes to what?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “See that chick in the black lace top over by the cake?”

I turned—

“Don’t look!”

“Then how am I supposed to see her?”

Chris danced us in a circle until I had a clear shot of the cake table…and the girl in the black lace top.

“She’s glaring at us,” I said.

“She had her tongue in my ear a few minutes ago.”

I shoved down a nasty little territorial gremlin. It wasn’t my place to decide who did or didn’t stick their tongue in Chris’s ears. They were, however, strictly off-limits to me. Instead, I very casually examined first his left ear, then his right. “You have lipstick on your earlobe.” I rubbed it off with my thumb.

“Thanks,” Chris muttered as we moved to the swaying rhythm of Sinatra, his arms around my waist and mine around his neck.

Rule number one for getting over a crush you shouldn’t have: push your crush on someone else. “Why don’t you just give her the Kiss Test? At least her tongue would be someplace other than your ear.”

He looked at me for the briefest of moments and then looked away. “Haven’t felt much like giving the Kiss Test lately.”

Oh, God. He probably couldn’t do it anymore because he remembered what happened the last time. “I guess I can understand that after last week’s failure.”

Chris’s face was so grim, I cringed, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. “Failure?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I mean, you found out the Kiss Test isn’t as accurate as you thought. Otherwise we wouldn’t have…you know.”

The silence grew to a painful length, until finally Chris spoke. “I have complete confidence in the Kiss Test.”

A laugh escaped me. “Okay. Whatever you say. I don’t know how you can have confidence in something with such an obviously wide margin of error.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Chris went back to staring into space, but didn’t let me go when one song ended and the next began. I actually liked dancing with Chris and didn’t want him to stop. Which was bad. I shouldn’t even entertain the idea of getting used to this.

When we returned to Manhattan, things would get back to normal. We’d meet for Friday-night beers. Hit the Knicks games together next season. Go back to the status quo we’d upheld for the last twenty years.

Yet, somewhere inside me, I couldn’t believe anything would ever be normal again. Not when it felt so good to be in Chris’s arms, to feel my body against his, to move together. It would be hard to forget this. But it had to be done.

Unless…I was honest with him.

Looking at it logically, what was the worst that could happen? He could hate me, but I’d put him in his place if he even tried that. After all, he was Mr. Gotta Be Honest. He was the one who said no one should ever be mad at someone for being honest. If he got angry at me for telling him that sleeping with him the other night hadn’t felt like a mistake at all, that being in his arms, dancing like this, felt more right than anything I’d ever done, that I thought I might love—

Oh, God. I couldn’t—

I mean, I didn’t—

A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over me and it didn’t have anything to do with falling down stairs. It had to do with falling in—

Be honest, I thought. Just say it.

I opened my mouth to speak, to spill my guts.

Nothing came out. I was pathetic. A psychiatrist would have a field day with me…

“Just close your eyes, Ms. Gentry. Now tell me what you’re feeling,” the imaginary analyst said inside my head.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” I replied. “That’s the problem.”

“And why do you believe this is a problem?”

“You’re not supposed to have thoughts like this about your best friend.”

“What thoughts would those be, Ms. Gentry?”

“Uh, sexual thoughts.”

“But, you’ve had sex, have you not?”

“Yes, but that was a huge mistake!”

“A mistake you enjoyed very much.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“A mistake you would like to repeat?”

“No. Well, yes. But we can’t. We’re like brother and sister, for crying out loud.”

“At least you were before you had sex. And how do you feel about Christopher now?”

Supine on the imaginary analyst’s couch, I sighed. “I feel like I want to be with him all the time. Like I want Friday-night beer to become Friday-night dinner and a movie. I feel like, when we get back to Manhattan, I don’t want to move into my apartment. I want to stay with Chris.”

“And how do these feelings make you feel?”

“They make me feel…needy.”

“As if you need Chris in your life.”

“Yes! And…and I can’t need him. We’ve never needed each other. We just always knew the other was there. But, if I need him…”

“He could leave?”

“Yes,” I whispered, a tear welling up and running down my cheek. “I don’t need Chris. I don’t need anyone. That way, when they aren’t there for me, I’m not disappointed.”

“Hmmm,” the therapist murmured, putting down her pen. “Sounds lonely.”

I didn’t answer. I felt sick.

How could I be sure this neediness wasn’t simply me wanting to fill the empty space left by Kevin? Like I told my mom, I’d never been without a man for any length of time. Maybe these irrational feelings about Chris were about my fear of being alone. Maybe it wasn’t Chris I needed, but someone—anyone—to fill in that empty space.

Which meant I could just as easily fill the space with someone else and avoid fucking up my friendship with Chris.

“Margo?”

I sighed and didn’t bother lifting my head from the smooth fabric of the analyst’s couch. I felt like I’d just run a marathon. And I was no closer to the finish line than when I’d started.

“Margo?”

Blinking, the imaginary therapist’s office disappeared and the wedding reception reemerged, my cheek resting against Chris’s chest. I lifted my head and dashed away the tear that trickled down my cheek. Thankfully, the room was dim and he didn’t see it.

“Remember the last time we danced like this?” Chris asked with a faraway smile. “Your junior prom.”

I groaned and laughed at the same time. “Will Barlow dumped me the night before. Said he couldn’t study for the SATs and date at the same time. That his IQ was slipping from too much making out and not enough studying. Wonder what I ever saw in him?”

“Told you.” Chris smirked as we moved slowly around the dance floor. I’d have to thank my mother for choosing so many slow songs for the reception.

“That’s not polite to say. Especially when I’m fully aware of it.”

“You were dying to go to that dance.”

“It wasn’t the dance,” I corrected. “I was on the decorating committee. If I hadn’t shown up, it would have been humiliating.”

“So you called me.” He looked smug and amused.

“To commiserate, not to get you to take me to the dance. I had no idea Vanessa Lakey’s father had caught you two in a compromising position in the back of your Mustang.”

Chris shuddered. “That was gruesome.”

“So we were both out dates for the prom.” I thought back wistfully to that night.

“Let’s go together,” Chris had suggested all those years ago.

“What?” Surely I hadn’t heard him right.

“We’ll go together. You can save face. I’ll pick out my new girlfriend.”

“Well, gee, when you put it that way, how could a girl resist?” I replied, applying the sarcasm thickly. I figured we’d show up, Chris would dance with every other girl there but me, picking his next prospect, and I’d stand around admiring our decorating skills and fending off questions about where Will was. It would be embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as showing up alone or not showing up at all.

But Chris had surprised me. He danced every dance…with me. He made sure everyone in the room knew we came together. It didn’t matter that everyone knew we were best friends. He told everyone I’d broken up with Will and he’d broken up with Vanessa, just so we could go to the junior prom together. By the end of the evening, the sting from Will’s break-up was gone. Chris hadn’t replaced Vanessa, but he had helped me save face. It meant a lot that he’d sacrifice his chances at future conquests, even for one night, just for me.

Obviously, as evidenced by the past few weeks’ events, Chris spent a lot of time sacrificing things for me.

***

“Wait! Mom!” I kicked off my heels a few hours later and thrust my bouquet into the hands of a startled Chris. Hitching up my skirt, I left him standing on the steps of the church, where we’d thrown birdseed at the newlyweds as they stepped into their new lives together. A few guests, not paying attention, continued to pelt birdseed at the back of my head, as I ran down the steps toward the waiting limo. Mom and Quinn stood beside the open door, curiosity clear on their faces.

“The minister asked for objections already, Margo,” Quinn said with a grin. “You had your chance.”

“No. No objections,” I assured him with a nervous smile, “but I really need a moment with my mom. Just a second. Please.”

I grabbed her hands without waiting for his permission and hauled her away, behind a tall palm tree.

“Margo, what is it?”

“What you said before…about admiring me for being independent. About thinking it was a good thing I didn’t need to be with a man all the time. What did you mean?”

My mom smiled, rubbing her thumbs across the backs of my hands. A month ago, if someone told me I’d hold hands with my mother and like it, I’d have told them to bite me. Today, it felt almost natural.

“Did I tell you Quinn and I met before, ten years ago?”

I shook my head.

“We met at the country club. I was married at the time—I’m not even sure to whom—and had only been in California a short time. Quinn had been widowed for a year. We really hit it off.”

“Did you—”

“No, we didn’t.” She looked mildly shocked. “I may hold the world record for the most marriages, Margo, but I do have morals.”

“Sorry.”

She squeezed my hands. “Don’t be. It’s not like I didn’t think about it.”

We shared a smile.

“When we met up again, and fell in love—and I mean real love, the first real love I think I’ve ever had other than your father—I spent a lot of time beating myself up for needing to be with a man so much that I’d married the wrong one more than once. If I hadn’t been married when I first met Quinn, maybe we’d have been together these last ten years.”

“You’re together now,” I reassured her.

“Ten years older. Ten years closer to—” She shrugged. “We won’t live forever. I’ve been a widow enough times to have had that point driven home. Maybe if I’d been more independent, a bit more like you, I’d have been free when I first met Quinn. Then, instead of being unsettled, unhappy even, a lot of these last ten years, instead of him waiting around for someone he wasn’t even sure was coming…maybe we’d have been together.”

“He waited for you?” The idea surprised me. Someone had waited ten years to marry my mother? Not knowing if it would ever come about, but knowing that’s who he wanted? My mother?

She nodded. “He waited. But because we only saw each other occasionally, every time we met again, I was married. Because I wasn’t like you.”

In the distance, I heard the gulls cry and followed the sound of their calls with my eyes. Then, sensing I was being watched, I turned toward the church. Chris leaned against the wall. Our eyes met, not for the first time tonight, and I felt…recognition.

I turned back to my mom. “I’m not sure I understand your logic. I think we already determined I’ve basically been hiding out from getting close to men for the last ten years.”

“And now look at you.” My mother cupped my cheek in her hand and leaned close.

“Now, the real thing is looking you right in the face, and you have nothing keeping you from it.”

Her eyes strayed for a moment in Chris’s direction, and I knew by her soft smile the instant they made eye contact.

“Don’t let fear of what your father did take away any more of your life, Margo. I’m certainly not.”

With a soft kiss on my cheek, Mom was gone.

Chapter Fifteen

“How Can You Lose What You Never Had?”

“Meet me for dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight. Dress fancy. Maybe the dress you wore in the wedding.”

Huh? Where in the world would Chris want to take me that would require navy satin and another night of high heels?

“Thank goodness, I didn’t crumple the dress up on the floor when I got home last night.” I punched the keypad on my cell phone to listen to my next voice mail message. I was quite the popular gal today, it appeared. “Margo? It’s Mary Ballard. It’s a boy! Baldy Jr. Well, not really, but it’s just too cute to not call him that anyway.” I smiled at the joy in my renter’s voice. A baby. Holding Denise’s baby was an experience…one I never expected to have. It was nice, I had to admit. Mary continued, so my thoughts didn’t drift long. “Anyway, the baby was actually born a couple weeks ago…and Baldy and I decided to move in with my folks in Trenton. They have a great house, in a nice neighborhood. Lots of room for us. We figure if we stay with them for a while, we can save up for a place of our own, you know? So, anyway, I wanted to let you know we’d moved out of the apartment. We’ll see you when you get back to return the keys. Talk to you soon!”

Well, another obstacle to regaining my old life had cleared up. I had my apartment back. I wouldn’t cramp Chris’s style anymore by sacking out on his couch.

I forced a smile I didn’t feel.

A soft breeze blew in the open window of the guest room, with it the gentle scent of the flowers my mom had placed on my bedside table. A sense of peace settled over me. I’d survived being honest with my mother. For the first time in nearly two decades, I talked to her like a daughter to a mother rather than like adversary to enemy. It had been good. Chris had been right.

Had my mother been right? Was I free of relationships now because something was meant to happen between Chris and me? All those years I pushed away guy after guy, while keeping Chris in my life…was it meant to be something more than just friendship? And, if this was true, would Chris recognize it?

Pushing my worries out of my head, I made the necessary phone calls. Arrangements were made with the Ballards for getting my keys back, and I spoke with Jim Friend at WOLD, setting up an interview for when I got home. He’d spoken to Joe Looney, my ex-boss, and he’d provided Jim with tapes of my WKUP show, which he’d listened to and enjoyed. I might be just the morning girl they needed, he told me. There could definitely be worse things than playing Elvis for a living, I thought.

I crossed my fingers things would keep going my way. I was tired of my life sucking. There was only one more thing to deal with.

Fisting my hand into my stomach over the navy sheath I’d slipped over my head, I glared furiously into the full-length mirror. Knots gripped my stomach and I hadn’t even made a real decision yet. Should I or shouldn’t I risk telling Chris how I felt about him? Why was the decision so damn hard?

“It’s just Chris, dammit. The same Chris who smacked Billy Workman for snapping your first bra. The same Chris who buys you beer when you’re pissed off at life. The same Chris who irritates you with bad Elvis jokes. Get a grip on yourself,” I snapped at the butterflies in my belly.

Maybe more mascara would help. It seemed to help normal women. I gave my lashes a few more strokes, fussed with my hair some more. I could really have used that makeup lady from Dillard’s about now. I smoothed the imaginary wrinkles from my dress. Finally, with a stomp of my foot, I turned away from the traitorous mirror. “This is stupid. I’ve never fussed for anyone, and I’m not starting now.”

I distracted myself putting last-minute items into my suitcases. Chris and I were heading home tomorrow morning. The more direct route this time, no touring, no Elvis. Satisfied everything was packed, except what I had on and what I’d wear tomorrow, I set my Elvis bobblehead on top of the bag, so I could return him to his rightful place on the dashboard of the Jeep for the trip home.

I checked my watch. Chris would be here in less than forty-five minutes. I had to make a final decision.

To tell him, or not to tell him. That was the question.

Eeny, meeny, miney, moe.

Or should I just let well enough alone and not risk losing my best friend in the whole wide world, because I went all girly on him and fell at his feet like all the other women in the world?

It was all too much to think about. Swiping my matching purse from the bed—thank God for my mother’s foresight to realize I wouldn’t have a purse to match a fancy dress—I headed for the front of the house to wait for Chris.

In the hallway, I nearly plowed into Sam. “Oh! I didn’t know anyone was here.”

Sam shrugged and licked Chunky Monkey off her spoon before stabbing it back into the pint. “It’s a big house.” She tipped the ice-cream carton toward me with raised brows.

I shook my head. “I’m going out.”

“With Chris?” She followed me through the house.

“Yeah. We’re going for dinner.”

“Somewhere fancy, it looks like.”

“I’m not sure. I mean, yeah, fancy, but I’m not sure where.” I blinked and waved my hand in a dismissive gesture that reminded me of my mother. She did it all the time. So did I. Guess there was more of a connection between us than I’d thought all these years. Made me kind of sad to be going home to Manhattan before Quinn and my mom got back from their honeymoon. Maybe I’d visit more often.

The door into the garden opened and my brother wandered in.

“Hi, Rob.”

I turned to Sam, surprised at the tone of her voice. She hid the Chunky Monkey behind her, her shoulders thrown back, and she looked almost…shy. In the past week, I’d come to know Quinn’s kids, and shy did not describe any of them.

Rob glanced up, appearing startled to see the two of us, as if he expected to be alone in the house, too. He was used to being alone in New York, so it was probably hard to get used to having other people around. “Hey,” he said by way of greeting, and continued past us toward the kitchen. Sam followed and, since I didn’t have to be anywhere for a while, I did, too.

“Chunky Monkey?” Sam held the carton out to Rob, who smiled broadly and, astonishingly, took it from her. When he took a bite from the spoon Sam had been using, I nearly had to stick my arms out to catch her when she swayed.

Well, well. Wasn’t this an interesting development? My geeky brother had a very cute girl crushing all over him.

“Thanks,” Rob said, around his mouth full of ice cream. “My favorite.”

“Really?” Sam bounced on her toes like a ten-year-old. “Mine, too.”

“Really?” Rob turned to retrieve a couple of mugs from the cupboard and proceeded to divide the ice cream into them. As an afterthought he asked me if I was interested. “Sis?”

I shook my head. “I’m going out.”

“With Chris,” Sam supplied.

I blushed. Why the hell did I blush? For crying out loud, Chris was my best friend. No news to Rob, last time I checked. So why this sudden sense of guilt? I distracted myself with a glass of water to soothe my curiously dry throat and dehydration that probably explained my fluttery stomach.

“Chris, huh?” Rob handed a mug of Ben & Jerry’s to Sam. “You guys ever going to have sex and get it over with?”

I sprayed water all over the kitchen floor. “What?” I choked out, as Sam dived for a dish cloth.

“God, I may be far-sighted, but I’m not blind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I accepted the dish towel from Sam and dabbed at the water spots on my dress, praying they’d dry in the next fifteen minutes, because I didn’t have anything else to wear.

“I’m talking about you and Chris. The sexual tension rolls off you two in waves.”

I froze, stunned. “You know, sexual tension isn’t like the radiation coming from your computer screen, so I’m not sure you’d recognize it if it bit you in the ass.”

Rob shook his head at Sam. “Dressed up so pretty and ruining it with foul language.”

Sam giggled and I stared at the two of them. “There isn’t anything between Chris and me. We’re just friends.”

Rob ignored me and addressed Sam instead. “You know, Margo stole my best friend from me when I was eleven.”

“I did not!” I shot back, ready to defend my actions, until I noticed the twinkle in his eye. He stared at Sam like she was the best thing he’d seen since Linux.

“Yes, she did. I tried to seduce him away from her with video games, but, nope, he only had eyes for her, even before she developed a figure.” My brother turned to eye me from head to toe.

“Knock it off,” I snapped. “Don’t listen to him, Sam. He’s obviously delusional.”

“By the time she had boobs, Chris would barely speak to me.” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed with mock sadness. “Go figure.”

“Geez.” I rolled my eyes and turned to leave the room, as it was nearing eight o’clock.

“You are so psychotic, Rob.”

At that moment the doorbell rang, and my stomach jumped despite the fact it was only Chris.

As I reached for the doorknob, Rob finished his speech. “If they’d just sleep together, they’d either get it out of their systems or see that they belong together.”

Shit. We’d already slept together. And I, personally, was no closer to the answer to either of those questions than I had been before.

***

The lighting was soft in the restaurant, Chez-something or other. I was too nervous to pay attention. Candles flickered at every table. Masses of peach rosebuds swelled from tiny potbellied vases. Potted trees isolated every table into their own private island, where waiters hovered close by, but at enough distance to be discreet.

“Everything okay with you and your mom?” Chris finally asked, before bringing his wine glass to his lips.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I think so. You were right about being honest with her. We ironed out a lot of things.”

“What changed?”

I shrugged. “I probably won’t hang up the phone on her any more. And I most likely won’t give her a bad time about being married so many times. Quinn’s a good guy. Maybe she did it right this time. But living cross country, I won’t have much chance to develop a relationship with her.” I pushed my chicken around on my plate and thought about leaving tomorrow.

“Do you regret going home?”

I glanced sharply at Chris, feeling like he was reading my mind. “I don’t know. It’s nice here. I’d have liked to try surfing. Maybe do some running on Manhattan Beach.” I shrugged.

“But the city is home. My friends are all there. I’ll just come back and visit.”

“You could do that.” Chris seemed distracted. He, too, pushed his food around his plate, not really eating much.

“Oh! Hey!” I grabbed one of Chris’s hands in my excitement. “I forgot to tell you, we’ve been so busy the last two days. Your ‘honesty is the best policy’ thing really worked. I’ve got an interview!”

“Really?”

I nodded excitedly. “Yeah. With an oldies station. Nancy Noble was okay with my unemployment and called WOLD in Manhattan, and the GM there called and asked me to come talk to him as soon as we get back.”

“Wow. That’s…great. Congratulations.” Chris’s lack of enthusiasm made me pause.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He reached for his glass again, found it empty and gestured to the waiter to bring him another. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have believed the unflappable Christopher Treem was…well, flapped.

“Oh, and also, the Ballards had their baby,” I continued, deciding Chris must be tired from all the wedding and business activities of the past week. “They moved out of my apartment.” I explained about them moving in with Mary’s parents, leaving my apartment free again. “I’ll be out of your hair.” I gave a little sigh of relief. “God. I finally feel like my life is getting back on track. Everything’s coming together. A new job, my apartment back.”

“Sure,” Chris snapped, his jaw clenched so tightly it was obvious, even to me on the other side of the table. “Now all you need is a new boyfriend.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “A new…boyfriend?”

“Sure,” he repeated. “Isn’t that the only thing missing from your formerly perfect life?”

“Maybe. But maybe that part wasn’t so important after all.” Squirming under Chris’s sudden intense scrutiny, I gestured at his plate. “Is the chicken good?”

Snapping out of his funk, Chris nodded, reaching for a bite and offering it to me on his fork. I tentatively reached out and took the chicken in my mouth, catching my breath. Not at the taste of the food—which could have been cardboard for all I noticed—but because of how intimate the gesture felt. Intimate like the way Rob had eaten ice cream from Sam’s spoon back at the house.

I realized in a flash, I wanted it to happen again. I wanted to stand at Chris’s stove and taste spaghetti sauce from the same spoon. I wanted to sip wine from the same glass. I wanted to take a bite of his pepperoni pizza when I’d ordered garlic chicken. I wanted Chris to feed me chunks of pineapple and let me suck the juice from his fingers. I wanted to share with Chris more than I’d ever shared with anyone before.

I wanted to share my life.

My mom thought my independence was a virtue. Was it also a curse? Not letting anyone close had made me feel safe from hurt. But right now, the idea of going back to the way things were between Chris and I hurt more anything I’d ever imagined. Maybe I should follow my mother’s advice and take a chance, with my life, and with my heart.

I sucked in a deep breath and opened my mouth to finally be honest with him—

“Margo, I need to talk to you,” Chris blurted out, suddenly laying down his utensils and turning his full attention on me.

I nearly choked on the unsaid words lodged in my throat. Okay, I thought. He just bought me a little time. I’d let him talk and then tell him how I felt. Everything I felt. “Okay,” I said, forking a green bean into my mouth. “Shoot.”

Chris closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. Whatever he had to say was serious.

I set my fork aside and swallowed. “What is it?”

“You know I’ve had a lot of business meetings the past week.”

I nodded, relaxing a bit. It obviously wasn’t something horrible. I sipped my wine and waited for him to continue.

“Well, Chip and I have a lot of plans for the store. We’ve expanded as much as we can in Manhattan and have been looking for other avenues.”

“Growth is good.”

“Right.” Chris nodded, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Growth is good. And sometimes growth can’t be accomplished without big changes.”

“Makes sense. So what were your meetings about?”

Chris took another deep breath and blew it out. “We’re opening a new store. Near Manhattan Beach.”

I frowned. “Manhattan Beach…California?”

Chris nodded. “We finalized the deal the day of the wedding. We’ll be opening in a few months.”

“Wow,” I said. “That is a big change. Having stores clear across the country from each other.” Suddenly something dawned on me. “Who’s going to run the West Coast store?”

Silence stretched taut between us, the only sound being the soft clinking of silverware and glasses around the restaurant.

I blinked, a sense of foreboding clutching at me. “Who, Chris?”

“Me.”

With one word, my life shattered.

Chapter Sixteen

“One Broken Heart for Sale”

“You?” I whispered.

Chris nodded. “Chip’s got a family—”

In slow motion, I halted him with an upheld hand, while pushing away from the table with the other. “I have to go.”

“Margo!”

I ignored him and did the only thing I could do.

I ran.

I ran all the way through the restaurant, oblivious to the startled looks of other diners, ignoring the maitre d’ when he asked if I was alright.

I didn’t stop until I reached the sidewalk. “Taxi!”

I nearly dove into the back of the cab. At least I think it was a cab. It was hard to tell through the blur of tears.

***

Nine hours later, I stumbled out of another cab, in front of Chris’s apartment. I was shaky with exhaustion, but knew I couldn’t stop for anything. During the long red-eye flight I had time to think, and the conclusions I’d come to weren’t pretty.

One more person in my life was leaving me.

Only this time, it was someone I’d never have suspected.

The only thing I hadn’t figured out in those hours in which I retrieved my suitcase from Quinn’s house, left a note for my brother and Sam, and took a cab to LAX for the nonstop flight home, was whether Chris planned to leave me all along…or if he only decided to stay in California after we slept together.

I locked the apartment door behind me and tossed my keys on the hall table. The apartment was just as we left it, except closed up and stuffy. The only sound came from the soft hum of the refrigerator keeping the condiments cold. I crossed the living room, dragged open the blinds and pushed up the window to let in fresh air. Not that it made any difference to me.

I was numb.

No, numb was the wrong word because numbness implies a lack of pain. And I definitely felt pain.

The texture of the hallway walls was rough against my fingers. Opening the bedroom window, I squeezed through and out onto the fire escape. The dusty metal had rusted away in spots, pushing flakes of paint from the surface. Maybe back at my own apartment, I’d plant some flowers and put them on my fire escape. After all, I’d probably spend a lot of time there as years passed…rocking in the rocker I’d pick up at the flea market on Twenty-Sixth.

From inside the apartment, the phone rang. I started to climb back in the window, but then remembered it wasn’t my home and I wasn’t responsible for answering it. Chris’s voice, instructing the caller to leave a message, forced me away from the window, not wanting to hear him.

I figured I had a week at minimum. He’d have business to wrap up, a hotel to check out of, a Jeep to drive home. Back, I mean. New York wouldn’t be home for him anymore. Maybe, while I packed up my stuff, I should pack his. That way, when he was ready to go to California, he wouldn’t have as much to do.

I don’t know why it hurt so much. This was the age of cell phones, email and instant messaging. It wasn’t like we’d be out of touch.

But it wouldn’t be the same. There would be no more Friday nights at the bar. I’d lose my favorite person to laugh with. My favorite person to share my secrets with. The one who really knew me and loved me still.

Liked me still.

It had been so easy before. When Chris was like a brother to me, there were no problems, no worries, no pain. We’d never needed each other before. I supposed it was really a moot point, because Chris didn’t need me at all. And, after a while, I wouldn’t need him either. He’d fade like my dad, my mom, every stepfather that had waltzed into—and out of—my life. And every boyfriend. Thank God I hadn’t spilled my guts before his little announcement.

I finally crawled back in the window. Chris’s bedroom was neat. Masculine. I hadn’t ventured into it often. Now, there was no one to notice I was in Chris’s space. No one to notice when I sat down on the bed. No one to notice when I curled up on the comforter and laid my head on Chris’s pillow that still, after all this time away, smelled like him.

For just a few moments, I felt a little less alone.

***

The ringing phone woke me. I blindly reached for it, ramming my fingers into something solid before realizing I wasn’t in my own apartment. Whoever it was hung up before the answering machine kicked on. Thankfully.

Manuel & Brothers Hauling was set for three days from now. I didn’t need a big truck. Just one large enough for boxes, of which there would be fewer by moving day since I intended to purge the boxes of junk. No sense keeping the deadwood in my life.

My cell was off and I’d unplugged Chris’s phone. His girlfriends were going to have to learn to live without him, so they might as well get used to it now. I had to.

By Wednesday afternoon, I’d gone through almost all the boxes, made a pick-up appointment with the Salvation Army and subsisted on nothing but coffee and Captain Crunch. I’d had very little sleep and, other than the first day, I steered clear of Chris’s bedroom. It was safer that way.

I shoved another box of clothing for the Salvation Army toward the front door. They were due this afternoon to clear out everything Manuel & Brothers weren’t moving tomorrow morning. Turning, I spotted my Paint by Number Elvis leaning against the wall, looking a tad faded by a coat of dust.

“I’ll clean you up when we get home,” I promised. “Since I left your bobblehead brother in L.A., you’ll have to stand in as my lucky charm. Hopefully, you’ll do a better job than your predecessor.”

Turning away from the King, I opened the next carton. I’d not been in this one yet. It had Margo-Personal written across it in black, in Katya’s flowery scrawl. I felt a pang about being in town three days without having contacted her or Adair, but I wasn’t up for questions. The only person I’d talked to was James Friend at WOLD. I’d report to the studio Monday morning to begin my new career. My new life. I wished I felt more enthusiasm.

Inside the box was my life in memories. A couple of diaries, a scrapbook with so many track meet and marathon ribbons in it that they were falling out all over the place, and a photo album my mom gave me when I left for college. I thumbed through the pages, smiling at the photos she’d chosen. It was a pictorial tour of my life, from birth until the day I left for school. I was surprised to notice in how many photos I was smiling, at my brother, at my mom, at Chris, even at the stepfather of the hour. Strangely, I didn’t recall having so much to smile at.

There was a picture of Chris and me on the way to the junior prom—the one when he’d rescued me from sure humiliation. His mullet hairstyle hung past the collar of his sky-blue tux with white lapel ruffles. My hair hung halfway down my back. We looked geeky. And happy.

I set aside the scrapbook, closing the page on that particular picture. I retrieved the diary, which was yellowing, the lock firmly holding and no key in sight. I twisted and pulled on the flimsy strap that held it shut, to no avail. My curiosity piqued, I pushed off the floor, retrieved a sharp knife from the kitchen and slit the diary open. The open window added some light, and I flipped the diary to a random page.

April 20, 1990.

I’d been a sophomore in high school.

“Today was the worst day of my life,” I read aloud, chuckling at my teenage dramatics. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” Gee, just the beginning of a long line of stupidity.

Chris is such a jerk, I’d written. I saw him kiss Jennifer Springer today. The ass! The heated words were written in angry scribble. I remembered that—seeing Chris kissing Jennifer had totally pissed me off, not because I was jealous but because it meant I didn’t get a ride to school. I went back to reading.

Yesterday Chris cornered me in the hall between fifth and sixth periods to tell me he couldn’t give me a ride home from school. He didn’t tell me why, just that I needed to take the bus. No big deal. Sometimes he stays after school and I ride the bus. But, last night, he was supposed to come over. When he didn’t show up, I called his house. Mrs. Treem said he was out and didn’t know when he’d be back. Then she passed along the message that he wouldn’t be able to give me a ride to school the next morning, either. No biggie. He probably had to go early or something. But today, at school, I figured out why he couldn’t take me to school…he was taking Jennifer Springer to school. She is such a slut!

I chuckled. Jennifer Springer had actually been one of my friends prior to kissing Chris. But afterward…

It was funny how ticked off I’d been about it. Thinking back, I think I felt…replaced. Chris’s fling with Jennifer only lasted a couple of weeks, and then I was back in the passenger seat of the Mustang as usual. Over the next two years of high school, I was an on-again/off-again bus rider, depending on whether Chris had a girlfriend or not. I didn’t make a big deal about it. If I didn’t get attached to the ride—to Chris—it didn’t matter when I was replaced.

Shaking myself, I pushed off the floor and headed back for the boxes. I’d read the rest of the diary later. Maybe after I moved into my own apartment and Chris was in California. After all, my Friday nights would be free from then on.

At the bottom of the box, I dug out the last items. There was a silver-framed picture of Chris and I that I hadn’t seen for years. Best Friends, it said. I dropped it quickly back in the box, knowing looking at it would bring the tears I was trying to avoid.

There was also a sheet of paper, riddled with faded, pen-written words in Chris’s handwriting. It was dated July 25, 1991, written from his grandmother’s home in Montana, where he’d spent summer vacation.

Dear Margo,

Remind me never to move to Montana. I’ve never seen any place so flat and brown in my life. My grandmother says it’s not like that in the winter, but I have hard time believing the flatness changes with the seasons. Mailboxes here are at least three miles apart, I swear. Must take the mailman all day to deliver mail to twenty families. And forget about borrowing sugar from your next door neighbor. It’d take less time to grow your own sugar cane. Trips to the grocery store are an all-day production, done once a month. If you run out of Jolly Ranchers midmonth, forget about having any more for at least two more weeks. Nothing is spontaneous around here. My grandma insisted I meet some “young people.” God. Kids here are as exciting as cardboard. They gather at the local “grange,” a wooden building with one room, a kitchen and an outhouse. They have spaghetti feeds every so often so they don’t forget there are other people on the planet. There are no pizza parlors, skating rinks or arcades. Grandma gets exactly three stations on TV—news, weather and religion. “Everything a body could want in life,” she says. I beg to differ.

Again, remind me never to move to Montana. In fact, remind me never to move anywhere you’re not. I miss talking to you, and not just because all anyone here talks about is horses, cows or chickens. I miss hanging out with you. I miss skating and goofing around. I miss going for pepperoni pizza at Shakey’s. I miss cruising the loop. “Young people” never see anyone often enough to have friendships like we have. Makes me realize how lucky I am.

Oh, by the way, I broke up with Heather before I came out here. I didn’t have time to tell you before we left. I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about what I like in a girl. It’s more than good looks. And putting out doesn’t make very good conversation. What I’m saying is that I need more. I need someone I can talk to, spend time with and don’t get tired of. You know what I mean? I’m not saying this very well, I guess. And, I don’t really know how to write it. I really want to talk about it with you, but it’s hard to communicate in a letter. Hey, wait…

I just talked to my grandma. She says you can call collect. So, call me. I really want to talk (and I promise I won’t talk about 4H or crop rotations, ha!). Call me as soon as you get this letter. I really, really need to talk to you and I don’t want to wait until next month. Call 406-555-2653. Hurry.

LOVE,
Chris

The pen Chris used had been so faded he’d used a different pen—bold and red—for the salutation. LOVE, Chris. Odd way to sign a letter to your best friend.

I hadn’t called him. A few hours later, Will Barlow had asked me out. By the time Chris returned from Montana, Will and I had been dating for a month and I was no longer a virgin. Chris had been pissed—not about my loss of virginity—but because Will played water polo and “only geeks play water polo.” Obviously, Chris had an ongoing issue with my dating geeks. I attributed his out-of-proportion anger at my “sin” of dating a member of an “unmanly” sport, to not getting laid in a while. He didn’t replace Heather for a long time after he got home. Eventually my theory proved right, when Chris started dating again and seemed to get back to his normal self. Things between us grew comfortable again, although for a while we didn’t have much time for each other until we were both dumped before the prom.

I tossed the uninteresting letter on the coffee table and stretched out on the couch. I never found out why Chris wanted me to call Montana collect. Nothing important, I imagined, since he hadn’t said anything profound to me when he returned, except, “What the fuck are you thinking dating an asshole like Will Barlow?”

As I fell into a restless sleep, I thought about the request in Chris’s letter to remind him never to move somewhere I wasn’t. In all these years, Chris hadn’t needed reminding not to move away from me. And now that he did, I knew I wouldn’t ask him to stay. Because it was pathetic to run after someone who obviously didn’t feel as strongly about you as you did about them.

Chapter Seventeen

“Love Me Tender”

“Here’s the key to the apartment, Manuel.” I dropped it into his outstretched hand. “You guys go ahead. I’ll, uh,” I turned and vaguely gestured around Chris’s living room, “I’ll close up here, and then I’m going to run through the park. I’ll meet you there.”

“You sure you don’t want a ride, señorita? We have room in the truck. And it’s raining.” Manuel, one of the brothers I hired to haul my boxes to my apartment, waved toward the window where the unexpected shower washed the grimy Manhattan streets clean and reflected my mood perfectly.

I shook my head. “No. I need to run.”

Manuel closed the door behind him and I checked the locks on the living room windows. The letter was still lying on the floor in the living room. Not wanting to leave it for Chris to find, I folded it and tucked it in the back zipper pocket of my running pants. I’d throw it away when I got home.

I wandered slowly through Chris’s apartment, memorizing details I’d never see again. The portrait of an extreme skier, a wake of snow blowing up around him as he hurtled down a mountain. The pile of rock-climbing equipment Chris left in the corner of the living room, where it was handy for an unexpected trip. The shelf of photographs on the wall of his bedroom.

I paused and smiled at the most prominent photo of Chris and his parents, taken not long ago from the looks of it. They looked so happy, so at ease with each other. Could my mother and I achieve that? I’d like to think we started something in California last week. Healing maybe.

There was a snapshot of Chris and Chip Xavier, decked out in snow gear, noses frosted white with sunblock, eyes hidden behind reflective lenses, grinning widely atop Mt. Rainier in Washington State, where they’d climbed last year. One of Chris’s proudest moments.

There was a third photo in a silver-plate frame. My breath hitched as I took it down from the shelf. Best Friends read the caption on the frame. The pose was casual. The clothing and hair styles mid-nineties. The setting, Lake George. Chris beamed down at me, his thousand-watt smile turned on high. I was laughing back at him.

Two weeks ago, I questioned his loyalty to me. Yet, he slept in this room, brought girls home to this bed and kept this picture in plain sight. I’d kept mine in the bottom of a cardboard box. Who was the loyal friend here?

Returning the picture to the shelf, I locked the bedroom window before turning back to look around the room once more. Leaving felt final. So final that I choked back a sob as I picked up Chris’s pillow and buried my face in it, inhaling his scent one last time.

At the last minute, before leaving the apartment, I removed my key from the ring and left it on the kitchen counter. I stepped outside into the humid, rain-permeated city. The showers had stopped and steam rose from the sidewalks. I sighed, taking in the moist air and hoping it would make breathing easier. I suspected only time would help.

At the bottom of the steps, I stopped and turned back to look at the familiar brownstone I’d visited a thousand times. As soon as Chris moved out another renter would move in. I’d learn to deal with it. I’d find other facilities to use for potty breaks.

Something struck me in the shoulder. “Ow!” I turned to see what hit me. I spotted it on the sidewalk a few feet away and bent to pick it up, not quite believing what I was seeing.

“Elvis?” Bobblehead Elvis to be exact. I searched the street for the Jeep, knowing there was no way Chris could have driven from L.A. to New York in four days.

But he had. Chris leaned against the red Jeep, arms crossed, expression dark. He didn’t appear to have combed his hair in four days and had at least that many days’ growth of beard.

Stony-faced, belying my pounding heart, I raised Elvis in salute. “Thanks for returning him,” I said, as casually as I could manage. “I left your house key on the kitchen counter.”

I turned and headed for the park, thrusting Elvis in my pocket and praying Chris wouldn’t follow. Of course, he did.

“Why did you leave?” he demanded, falling into step beside me.

Since this was my warm-up, I kept walking and snorted my disgust. “You’re a fine one to talk about leaving.”

A taxi blared its horn at us as I ignored the Don’t Walk sign and Chris, unblinking, followed me into the street.

“You know, you are the most damned exasperating woman I’ve ever known.”

“Great. I’ll add that to my résumé.” Central Park was still several blocks away, but I didn’t care. Warm-up was officially over. At the next block, I started running.

Chris persisted. He followed me the next few blocks, keeping step. I knew he could follow for quite a while before he got tired or gave up.

As we ran past the former Tavern on the Green, he finally spoke again. “When are you going to stop running?”

“When I get to my apartment.”

“I mean,” Chris ground out, as he dodged a woman with a stroller crossing the running path, “when are you going to stop running away?”

“When are you going to stop chasing me?”

I was having a hard time not looking at him. I wanted to stop, to memorize his face before he was gone. I wanted to talk to him, to tell him how I felt so he wouldn’t go.

Instead I picked up my pace.

“You’re right,” Chris said, keeping up, but tiring I could tell. He was a sprinter, not a long-distance runner. “You are so right. Thirteen years is too fucking long to chase anyone.”

With that, he dropped away from my side and was gone.

Thirteen years? What was he talking about?

Thirteen years was too long to chase someone?

The blood roared in my ears as I slowed to a stop and turned to see Chris walking away from me, back toward home.

“What do you mean?” I called, following him.

“Just what I said,” he replied heavily. “A fucking waste of time.”

I flinched at his tone. Chris rarely swore and even less frequently got angry. At anything. Now, rage steamed off him like the rain from the sidewalks. It made his anger at the police station in Memphis look mild in comparison.

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but the slapping of his shoes on the wet pavement suddenly reminded me of that little hammer in Don’t Break the Ice. Tapping away at the few ice blocks I had left holding me up on my little chair, my life. With a burst of realization, I decided that, unlike the little red man on the little red chair in the game, I wasn’t going to just sit here and wait until I fell through. I was going to get up and run, not away, but to something.

“Wait!” I took off after Chris, dragging on his arm when I reached him. “What do you mean thirteen years is too long to chase after someone?”

His face was grim as he searched mine. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“Why? So you can run away again? Before I even finish? That seems to be your forte. As soon as you get uncomfortable, or think you might have to feel an emotion, off you run.”

“I do not,” I protested, planting my feet to show him I wasn’t running now and thereby proving him wrong.

“You did it in the restaurant. Didn’t give me a chance to finish.”

“You said you were leaving me! What else was there to say?”

“I never said I was leaving you.”

A businessman passed us by, briefcase swinging against his thigh, leather shoes repeating that ominous tapping sound I was beginning to hate. “It sounded like leaving to me.”

“Because you didn’t stay to hear me out!” Chris shot back, drawing my attention back to him. “Just like always. Just like the morning after we made love. After I made love. Apparently that’s not what you were doing.”

“But you said…We agreed—”

“No. You said. Then, you walked away. Without giving me a chance to say anything.”

I deflated. I couldn’t look at Chris anymore. Couldn’t face his anger. I’d never seen him so furious.

“You always run away, Margo. Every time. You ran away thirteen years ago and haven’t stopped running yet.”

I inflated again. “What happened thirteen years ago? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chris snorted. “Why would you? You ran so fast you didn’t have time to think about what anyone else thought or felt.”

“Would you stop talking in goddamn riddles? What happened thirteen years ago?”

“I wrote you a letter.”

I stilled, my thudding heart the only evidence I was still alive. “A letter?”

“Yeah. A letter. A letter in which I tried to tell you how I felt about you. I didn’t do a very good job, so I told you to call me collect, at my grandmother’s house. You didn’t. So I called you. You were out. For days you were out and didn’t return my calls. Found out later you’d run right into the arms of the nearest guy.”

His words knocked me back a few steps as my hand unconsciously went to my back pocket where a letter was concealed. A letter written thirteen years ago. In slow motion, I unzipped the pocket and withdrew the wrinkled paper.

“This one?” I held it out to Chris. His angry expression gave way to one of bewilderment as he took it from me.

His face grew stony again as he read the words. “That’s it.” He shoved it back at me. “Still have it and still don’t care, do you?”

The sound of him kicking up a spray of puddle water as he stalked away from me was like a cold splash in the face. I sprinted after him, throwing myself in front of him, planting my hands on his chest to stop him.

“What did you want? What were you going to tell me when I called?”

Instead of answering right away, he tore the letter from my hand and flipped to the back page. He pointed to the word above his signature. LOVE.

“I would have told you I loved you. I didn’t want to do it in the letter, but I didn’t want to wait another month until I got home either.”

“But you couldn’t mean—”

“Why couldn’t I? Shit, Margo, lots of people in your life love you, but when they tell you, you brush them off and run away.”

I didn’t understand. “But, why didn’t you tell me later? It’s been thirteen years.”

“Because there haven’t been more than a few days or weeks for the past thirteen years that you haven’t had a boyfriend.”

My mother’s words came back to me in a flash. “If I hadn’t been married at the time I first met Quinn, maybe we’d have been together these last ten years.”

Had Chris really been waiting for me for thirteen years?

Two weeks ago, Chris told me to stop dating safe men and “pick a dangerous guy.” Had he meant himself? Because Chris was the most dangerous man I knew. The only man with the capability of ripping my heart to shreds and stomping all over it. A man so dangerous, the thought of letting him into my heart was scarier than the thought of letting him go.

I couldn’t believe this. I dropped my hands from Chris’s chest and stared at the buttons on his shirt as if they were the most fascinating things I’d ever seen. “But, in between, maybe you—” Something suddenly occurred to me. “Why weren’t you honest? All this time, you’ve been lecturing me about being honest, and you’ve been lying to me—keeping things from me—for thirteen years.”

Chris shoved both hands through his hair and looked at me like I was a lunatic. I was inclined to agree with him. I felt crazy. Out of control. Like I was losing my mind.

“You know, a man has his pride. Yeah, maybe I could have been honest. And maybe you’d have run away again. And maybe it would’ve fucked up our friendship entirely. And then where would we be?” He shook his head and stared into the distance. “It was safer just to forget how I felt.”

I’d stomped on his heart all those years ago. I’d run, just like he said. I remember reading those red-inked words, LOVE, Chris, and feeling…fear. So fearful I didn’t even let the inkling of what it meant take hold in my brain and heart. Instead of facing my fears, I’d run after Will Barlow, jumped into bed with him, gave him my virginity. Hadn’t called Chris. Hadn’t taken his calls.

“God. You must hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Margo. You’re my best friend. That didn’t change.”

I laughed bitterly. “I can’t see why.”

“Because I loved you.”

Past tense. I blinked back sudden tears. “That was thirteen years ago.”

Chris grabbed my shoulders and shook me gently until I looked at him. “That was thirteen years ago that I loved you. When I wrote that letter and when I danced with you at the prom, for hours and hours. It was also ten years ago. And five years ago. And a month ago when I asked to go on this crazy trip with you. And two weeks ago in that motel where we did what I’d wanted to do for more years than I can count. It was also the next day, when you walked out on me. It was the days in L.A. It was Sunday at dinner when I was going to ask you to stay with me in L.A., or, if you said no, turn the new store over to Mitch Vogler, the manager I hired. It was every one of the last four days, when you’ve ignored my calls, as I drove like a maniac trying to get home before you left. It was—is—right now. Love doesn’t go away. Real love doesn’t go away. No matter how much you try to ignore it. No matter how far or fast you run.”

With the slightest of tugs, I was in Chris’s arms, my tears mingling with the rain that fell again. He felt so good. He felt like home. He felt like…the words I’d never said to anyone before.

“I love you, too,” I whispered. “And I’m scared.”

“Oh, Margo.” His hands were in my hair, on my face, brushing off the rain and my tears.

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“I’ve never loved anyone before.”

“Sure you have.” Chris turned up the wattage on his smile. “You’ve loved me this whole time. You just didn’t know it.”

My laugh came out like a sob, but I didn’t argue with him. He very well may have been right. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“It’ll work.”

I wanted to believe him. With every fiber of my soul I wanted to believe it would work and he’d never leave me. But so many people in my life had left me. How could I keep my heart from being broken again? I’d never cared before. Now I cared, and it was terrifying. “How do you know?”

“Because.” Chris leaned in and pressed his lips to mine so tenderly tears started flowing again. No one had ever kissed me like that before. Like it mattered more to him than anything in the world. “Because you passed the Kiss Test.”

“Other girls have passed the Kiss Test,” I reminded him breathlessly.

“And you passed the Bed Test.”

I raised my eyebrows. “There’s a Bed Test?”

Chris shrugged. “Actually, I didn’t realize there was until I slept with you. After that night, and morning, I realized what I’d really been missing all those years.”

“Me?” I guessed.

“You. Love. It makes a difference. It’s not just sex.”

I nodded. “I know. I was just—”

“Scared. I know.” Chris gathered me close. “If you’d just stop being Miss Independent for five minutes,” he said against my hair, “and let me take care of you—at least sometimes—maybe you’d stop being so scared. Maybe you’d stop running.”

Suddenly, I didn’t want to run. Not anymore. Not if it meant losing my best friend. I wanted to need someone. Chris. I wanted to keep my arms around him forever and not let go. I wanted to make love to him again.

It seemed like Chris’s arms were made for me as I squeezed him tightly against me. Elvis poked us until Chris pushed me away and retrieved him from my pocket.

Holding Elvis aloft between us, he gave him a little pelvis-wiggling shake. “Forgot to show you that move that night in the hotel. Maybe that would have kept you from running.”

I smiled. “So show me tonight.”

Chris groaned and checked his watch. “Tonight is hours away. I’ve been celibate for fifteen days, four hours and thirty-seven minutes. I’m getting blue balls.”

“Aw. Poor baby.” I rested my forehead on his chest until he put one arm around me and started walking toward my apartment, where I imagined, as soon as we could throw Manuel & Brothers out, Chris might make love to me again.

Chris gave Elvis another shake. “I really got to like this little guy on the trip home. Gave me someone to talk to. Reminded me of you. I’m thinking he might make a great wedding cake centerpiece. That is, unless you’re still allergic to the M-word.” For a moment he looked anxious, afraid I might bolt again.

Instead I took Elvis from him and examined him from every angle. “Too bad he’s not wearing the white jumpsuit. That would be much more appropriate wedding attire.”

***

One Year Later

“Don’t Be Cruel” blared from the alarm clock.

A low growl sounded in the bed next to me…just before Chris grabbed me and hauled me over for morning sex.

As always, Elvis accompanied me in the shower. I lathered, rinsed and repeated to “Hard-Headed Woman,” which Chris deemed more than appropriate, since I wouldn’t give up my morning fix of shower sex. I didn’t have to wait for weekends to drag Chris into the shower with me. He came willingly seven days a week, even at 3:30 in the morning, as we soaped down each other’s tattoos, which thankfully weren’t at all the problem to my bedmate I’d originally anticipated. It was almost like Becker had known something we didn’t.

Morning was my favorite time of day. Actually, my whole life was pretty much my favorite. I’d worked hard over the past year to get everything the way it was.

Filled with real living. Friends, family, loving.

I bounced into the studio a few minutes before 5:00 a.m., greeting my producer, Rainie, with a salute. She managed to unfurl one finger from its iron grip around her coffee cup. That was the most I could expect from the party girl before seven.

I pulled the mike toward me, slipping on my headphones. I had the best job in the world, I thought, as I watched the pinkening sky out the studio window. Later today, I’d watch the sunset from the beach while making out with Chris on the sand in front of our Manhattan Beach condo.

“Hey, everybody!” I said to my listeners at the end of my shift a few hours later, back from a block of commercials. “This is Margo in the Morning, and you’re listening to KCLA, King Country, Los Angeles. I’d like to give a great big shout out to my mom June and stepdad Quinn, who are celebrating their first anniversary. Many happy years ahead, you guys. I love you. Also, a huge congrats to my big brother Rob Gentry and his new bride-to-be, Samantha McFarland. You have my awe, Sam. Anyone who can make a computer-geek hermit leave his home and turn him into a surf bum is a miracle worker. You welcomed me into your family a year ago, and now I welcome you into mine.

“And lastly, before we take off, I want to remind everyone about the Manhattan Beach Surf Party tomorrow night, sponsored by KCLA and X-Treem Sports West Coast. Need a new suit or board for the event? Head down to X-Treem Sports today and ask for the owner, Chris Treem. Tell him his best friend, Margo, sent you, and he’ll give you ten percent off your purchase because he loves his wife and will do anything I say.”

About the Author

Shannon McKelden writes stories with humor and romance, two things her life is full of. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her high school sweetheart-turned-husband, two great kids and a menagerie of pets. Next to spending time with her family, McKelden loves hanging with her friends, who make the writing life a little less lonely and a lot more fun.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9065-9

Copyright © 2010 by Shannon McKelden Cave

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Table of Contents

Letter to Reader

Dedication

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One “All Shook Up”

Chapter Two “Double Trouble”

Chapter Three “Hard Knocks”

Chapter Four “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

Chapter Five “I Slipped, I Stumbled, I Fell”

Chapter Six “Hard-Headed Woman”

Chapter Seven “I Need Somebody To Lean On”

Chapter Eight “Hound Dog”

Chapter Nine “How the Web Was Woven”

Chapter Ten “Heartbreak Hotel”

Chapter Eleven “Jailhouse Rock”

Chapter Twelve “A Little Less Conversation”

Chapter Thirteen “Let’s Be Friends”

Chapter Fourteen “Cryin’ in the Chapel”

Chapter Fifteen “How Can You Lose What You Never Had?”

Chapter Sixteen “One Broken Heart for Sale”

Chapter Seventeen “Love Me Tender”

About the Author