The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (12 page)

But in the same breath that Arthur told me about the Nosh Pit, he shambled on in his rat-a-tat way to tell me that meeting his daughter there, of all places, wasn’t a great idea. “She’s been all keyed up these past days, Grady. Probably on account of that snippy woman.”
 

I could have asked Arthur to elaborate, but he’d already moved on. Classic Arthur Holland. I swear, it’s like no time has passed. I used to sit on this man’s couch when I visited Maya, and he always talked this way: like I knew all he knew, and nothing required explanation.
 

I guess it doesn’t matter who “the snippy woman” is, or what has Maya all “keyed up.” All that mattered was that I hung up learning two things I needed to know: Maya’s phone number and that of all the places to meet in Inferno Falls, the Nosh Pit is my worst bet.
 

I didn’t bother going further until Maya returned my text. I sent it with shaking fingers then had to endure an hour before she finally responded. During that time, I was certain I’d made a mistake. Of
course
she still hates me. How could she not? I almost wanted the interlude to last forever because the more time passed, the surer I became that she’d received it fine and was composing the perfect vitriolic response. I was afraid to look at my phone from that point on, sure that I’d find something more than a simple answer on my screen. The way Maya must feel about me — anger from long ago, stoked and simmering for years to today’s eruption — would result in something alive. Something that might reach through the phone with digital hands, giving me the throttling I so deserve.
 

I can’t say how sorry I am now, over text. I kept hoping she’d give me the opportunity to apologize in person. Because I am sorry. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that I was wrong. It’s obvious. It’s horribly, in-my-stupid-face obvious that I was nothing more than an irresponsible, selfish prick. A man doesn’t abandon his responsibilities. I know that now, but I didn’t get it then; I was a dumb kid. Angry and scared. I’ve never liked being tied down or boxed in, and to me that
was
Inferno Falls.

There was school. There was my deadbeat uncle. And then there was Maya. I couldn’t handle a baby. I just couldn’t. It was one responsibility too many, so I ran, like a coward. I ran from the diapers. I ran from the late-night feedings. I ran from the feeling of being tethered, of having something to take care of and feel responsible for. I didn’t know how to be a father. My dad was barely a parent, and my uncle definitely wasn’t.
 

She had nobody else, but I chose me anyway. I left. All this time, I suppose I’ve always meant to return, but I couldn’t face it — the responsibility, of course, but now there was the guilt as well. And the more time passed, the worse that guilt became.
 

I want to tell her how sorry I am for everything. Maybe there’s a way to make it right between us. I’d like that. If she can forgive me, and let me back in.
 

So I waited. And sweated. I’d told myself before contacting Maya that I was detached from it all. If she wanted me in her and Mackenzie’s life, then maybe I could be. If she didn’t, no big deal. I’ve lived this long on my own; rejection would be fine. And perhaps for the best.
 

But the more time passed between my text and her response, the more I realized that I couldn’t take a no. I couldn’t take her anger and rejection, even though I deserved it.
 

When the response came, it was simpler than I’d imagined.
 

There was no anger. No joy. No emotion. There wasn’t even surprise. I’ve never texted Maya, and I’ve never, ever approached Inferno since I left. But here I was getting intimately in touch, letting her know I’m nearby, and going as far as to expose my throat by saying,
 
I don’t know if you’re willing to see me, but I’d like to see you
. And all she says is,
8:30 tonight. Where?

No shock.
 

No elation.
 

No remonstration.
 

No wishing in return. For all I know, she took my desire to see her as pathetic. She might be holding her emotions like a knife, waiting to come here and cut me.
Oh, you’d like to see me, Grady? Well, I’m not willing, so go fuck yourself.
The message delivered in person so she can look me in the eye for the personal touch.
 

But it was all I had. So I focused on finding the right place. A place that sent a neutral message — nothing too committed. That ruled out all our old spots, which carried emotional baggage, and I also ruled out all of the unknown spots that might harbor potential land mines. Eventually, I settled on somewhere so bland, my decision to meet there could mean anything: the Hungry Bear — a dingy little diner where I used to occasionally eat with my old man.
 

I’m sitting in a booth when this little portly guy with all-white hair, a white goatee, and a tweed-looking cabbie hat slides into the seat opposite me.
 

“Well, well,” he says. “Ain’t this a crazy sight?”
 

I’m about to respond, but he cuts me off.
 

“Grady Dade. Fancy seeing you here. How long has it been? You know who was in here the other day? Brandon Grant. Got himself a real pretty girl on his arm. You been keeping up with Brandon? Holy shit. I think something is burning in the kitchen. Got a new cook. Can you hang on just a second?”
 

The old guy stands up and bustles off toward the kitchen like an agitated wind-up toy before I can respond. Then he’s back a few seconds later. There’s no way he did more in the kitchen but enter, revolve once, and come right out again. He’s sliding into the booth for the second time and starts apologizing for leaving, as if I invited him to sit in the first place.
 

“New cook,” he explains. Then he sticks a hand toward me, palm up. I intuit that I’m probably supposed to shake it, so I do. This must be correct because he shakes back and diverts entirely from the cook and whatever may or may not be going wrong in the kitchen.
 

“I guess I knew you talked to Brandon,” he says, as if I’d answered him earlier, which I haven’t. I haven’t even been able to confirm my identity. I know this guy; he’s Vincent Brush, the Hungry Bear’s owner. But he hasn’t seen me in forever, and there must be other people who look a little like me. For all he knows, he’s talking to someone who has no idea what’s going on.
 

Knowing Vincent and his propensity for talk, it’s entirely possible that’s happened to him before. It’s impossible to get a word in if he doesn’t allow it, so there’s probably more than one person in his past who’s walked away and said to a companion, “Who the hell was that?”

“I asked him about you,” Vincent says, his fluffy goatee bobbing along with his hat. “Your old man’s dead, right?”
 

“Um … ” It would be indelicate coming from anyone else, but I can only stammer.
 

“Say, did I ever tell you about my buddy Stinky Peet who died at a bowling alley?”
 

“Um … ”
 

“Yeah. Swear to God. He got his hand caught in that ball return thing. That’s not how he died; I’m just mentioning it because, so, you know, because, well, that’s not really part of the story, but he did, up to the shoulder because his jacket got caught there, and the ball shot up and broke his hand.”
 

I wince. I don’t know what else to do. There were days Dad and I went to another restaurant after leaving the Hungry Bear because Vincent showed up and we never got to order any food.
 

“Oh, he didn’t mind,” Vincent continues. “That’s how he got his hook. And if he hadn’t gotten the hook, he wouldn’t have been able to zip line down the power cable with his cousin, Ralphie Pants.”

“Ralphie Pants?” I’m still wondering how Stinky Peet died in the bowling alley.
 

“I told you and your dad about the time my buddy Crotchless Dave got his fist stuck in his own mouth, right? It was Ralphie’s wife, Daisy, who helped him get it out.”
 

“Okay.” But mostly I don’t understand why Daisy, alone in this story, has a normal name.
 

Something breaks in the kitchen. Vincent looks over.
 

“Dammit. New guy’s klutzy. But I had to have him cook for me. He’s Mexican.”
 

The Hungry Bear doesn’t have a single Mexican dish on the menu.
 

“Hey,” Vincent says, “remind me sometime to tell you about his brother, Guacamole.”
 

I wonder if I should express shock at the possible racism. But there’s too much to be confused by, and this story’s other characters are Stinky Peet and Crotchless Dave, and they could be any race, creed, religion, or even gender. So it works out.
 

Something else breaks. Without excusing himself, Vincent gets up and runs away. I think I hear him say “Margaret Thatcher,” but there’s no way to be sure. This time I’m alone for five full minutes before I eventually see Vincent again, this time following one of the waiters. The waiter’s eyes are clearly up in the top half of his head, so he’s either rolling his eyes at Vincent’s latest tall tale or he’s been working at the Hungry Bear long enough that they’re permanently stuck.
 

I pick up my phone. It’s 8:25.

It’s strange to be in this place alone, I think as I continue waiting, still not knowing what to do with myself. It occurs to me that since I’ve been back, Vincent is the only person I’ve talked to, and I didn’t actually talk
to
him at all. In most towns and with most people, the encounter I had might have felt like a welcome, but I’m confused and disoriented more than anything. Vincent sat as if I was here yesterday, and Maya responded to my text without any surprise. Am I missing something? Did the entire town know I was coming, and I’m the only one who finds anything about my homecoming trying at all? Should I head back to Ernie’s now and skip the reunions?
 

With Vincent gone, it’s too quiet.
 

I pick up the menu. It literally hasn’t changed. If I looked through all of the menus they own, I could probably find the one whose corner I melted with my father’s lighter while he was in the bathroom. I browse the foods and look at the photos, not feeling hungry at all. Worse: I can’t focus. The top part of my mind knows what a Reuben and a cheeseburger are, but to the part that’s in charge, they’re meaningless words.

The waitress arrives while I’m still looking, feeling a sudden urge to get an order in before Maya shows up. I can’t be sitting here ramrod straight, jittery and unsure, waiting to be judged, yelled at, or perhaps even slapped. If all I’ve done before she shows is to sit and look penitent, it’s giving too much away. It will unsettle our footing. Start us off on the wrong note. I already feel like I begged in my text, and like she shot me down with a big helping of I-could-give-a-shit. I won’t just wait. I need to be eating, so if she reams me out then leaves, I can at least pretend I came for more than abuse.
 

But I can’t focus, and there’s so little time. I mutter without looking up, “I’ll just have coffee.”
 

The waitress doesn’t respond, so I meet her eyes.
 

But it’s Maya, not the waitress. She used to be pretty. Now she’s stunning.

She looks down at me, and I have no idea what she’s thinking.
 

CHAPTER 15

I told myself to stay cool the entire walk over here.

I told myself that whatever history I once had with Grady, it’s meaningless today. The people we were back then, they might as well have been strangers. I used to be carefree around him, and today I barely know the word. I work all the time, and when I don’t, I’m on duty with Mackenzie. I only have time to myself when she’s asleep and I’m awake, or when she’s with my folks. Those times aren’t just rare; they’re downright strange. I never feel
carefree
enough to even appreciate the silence, and apparently I’m afraid enough of being alone that I leave the house most of those times to seek the company I always regret.
 

I can’t remember the girl I used to be. I don’t remember what it was like before I had a kid, before I was a mom, before I had to sweat every inch of someone else’s life and be sure that I was usually doing it wrong.
 

I don’t know about Grady, but on the walk over I decided he must have changed, too. I know he’s spent the intervening years traveling like he always wanted (like
we
always wanted), but the same time passed for him as for me. Surely, he’s different. Surely, he has as much trouble remembering the Grady who used to let a quiet little redhead hang on his arm at the movies. Surely, that kid is as strange to Grady as the old Maya is to me.
 

There’s no need to be emotional — and that covers any emotion that cares to arise.
 

I could be angry. I
am
angry and remember anger most strongly, so it’s an easy choice. But what will making a scene do for me? Maybe it’s better to be the bigger person.
 

I could be sad. Because whatever was once between us, it’s gone now. I could be sad in the way I’m sad about the childhood toys I once adored but have since lost track of. Those old memories weren’t discarded; they’re just gone, as if they didn’t matter. It’s like that with the way Grady and I used to be.