The Boys Are Back in Town (4 page)

Lolly laughed. “We tried it once. Didn't like it.”

Will smiled in appreciation. “You know, I can't tell if you're bullshitting me, but if you are, please just let me go on believing that.”

He bent to kiss her on the cheek as well.

There followed just the slightest awkward pause, a silent moment filled only by the music being played at the other end of the room and by the strange feeling that there was a ghost among them. Pix gave him a look that was sort of sad.

She had been there that day—the day he was supposed to have married Caitlyn. Pix had been the maid of honor. Panicked and humiliated, Will had jokingly asked her if she wanted to stand in. And PixieGirl had cried for him.

He smiled at her now and leaned close in so that no one else could hear him. “I'm fine,” he said.

“No,
I'm
fine,” she teased. “You, you're just okay.”

“Will, what'll you have?” Danny asked. “Have you eaten? Want a drink? What's your pleasure?”

Before he could answer something hit him in the back of the head. Will spun just in time to see a maraschino cherry bounce on the ground. When he touched his head where it had struck him, his hair was sticky. He shot a glance over at the bar and could only laugh.

“Hang on,” he told Danny.

He marched over to the bar, where Nick Acosta was pouring glasses of wine for a pair of women who were obviously spouses. Neither of them looked familiar to him at all. When the spouses departed, Will rapped on the bar.

“Barkeep. Captain Morgan and Coke, please.”

Nick shuddered with revulsion and shot him a look that wrinkled the thin white scar that trailed down from his scalp across his forehead and through his left eyebrow. The sight of it triggered a memory in Will, images of freshman year, when Nick had lost his footing playing basketball in the schoolyard and careened into a tree, a broken limb peeling his skin back far enough that when he looked up, blood veiling his features, the other guys gathered there had been able to see bone. Even now, all these years later, with his black hair, a mass of curls and cowlicks, and deep olive skin, the scar was like a magnet to the eye, forcing anyone talking to Nick to glance at it at least once.

“Spiced rum. You still drinking that crap?” Nick asked. “Don't know how you don't sick it up.”

Will gave him a blank look. “I do. Is that not supposed to happen?”

Nick chuckled and started to fix the drink as he regarded Will. “How you doing, man? Been way too long.”

“Doing great. Can't complain, though it usually doesn't stop me.”

“Any love in your life?” Nick asked, raising that same scarred eyebrow. He was tall enough that he seemed to loom over Will from behind the bar.

“Comes and goes,” Will replied, and though their banter was light, there was a truth to it, just as there had always been in these conversations with Nick. He was the sage of the group. Whenever anybody had a problem, Nick was the one they talked to.

“It always does,” Nick replied. “Then again, who knows what fate might have in store for you this weekend? For instance, have you taken a look at her?”

He gestured across the room.

Will turned.

On a raised platform a woman sat on a stool with an electric acoustic guitar and a microphone. Since he had walked in Will had been enjoying her raspy, smoky voice and the way she played. Old Tori Amos songs side by side with The Corrs and Nelly Furtado. But only now did he get a good look at her.

She was slender, with an exotic bronze complexion that was set off by the green silk shirt she wore with plain blue jeans. Her black hair was lush and draped in a sensual curtain across her face when she bent over her guitar to play a break.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Will whispered. “Stacy?”

Nick laughed. “Gives you a funny tingle, doesn't she?”

Will glanced at him. “She always did,” he admitted. But Nick already knew that. Nick knew the whole story, in fact, for he had gone with Will on the ski trip the senior class had taken to Mount Orford in Canada. On the bus ride north Will had spent more than two hours locked in conversation with Stacy Shipman, the girl with the sweetest, most suggestive smile he had ever seen. Party girl. Pothead. Double trouble. Stacy had been all of those things, but mysterious as well, for she had never really hung out with her classmates. Though there had been a couple of exceptions—mostly tough guys who did too many drugs and didn't graduate anyway.

Caitlyn had been his girlfriend, but Will had always been fascinated by Stacy. All of the guys were. And on that bus ride, for the first time, he had gotten to know her and discovered that she was bright and funny and ambitious, all of the things her reputation said she could not possibly be.

They had never hung out again after that, but at graduation Stacy had written a very long note in his yearbook, thanking him for that talk on the bus, for being “real” with her. He had never forgotten it, or her.

Will thanked Nick for the drink, promised his friends he'd be back to the table in just a minute, and walked straight across the room to slide into a chair right in front of that platform. There, he watched Stacy finish up an old Edwin McCain tune.

Near the end of the song, as she lifted her head to sing the chorus for a final time, she saw him. In the midst of strumming chords, she broke off and gave him a little wave, then her fingers fell right back into rhythm. When she was done and a ripple of applause went through the room, Stacy leaned into the microphone.

“Thanks, you guys,” she said softly. “We got started a little early, so I'm gonna take a short break and then we'll kick it up a notch.”

Another round of applause followed her as she set her guitar on its stand and stepped down off the platform, striding over to Will. He stood up, drink in hand, but he didn't hug or kiss her. They had never had that kind of friendship.

“Hey,” she said, almost shyly, though there was nothing shy in her gaze. It was just her way.

“You're amazing.”

She glanced at the ground for a moment. “Thanks.”

“It's really nice to see you,” he said. “I hoped you'd be here, actually. Of all the people we went to high school with, there are only a couple I really wanted to see again. I'm glad you made it.”

“Me, too,” she said, nodding. Then she reached out and took his hand, gave his fingers a little squeeze. “I'm going to do a long set, then take a break about eight-thirty or so. Can we talk more then? I want to know what's up with your life.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

Without another word she drifted off into the growing crowd.

Will took a long sip of his Captain Morgan and then shook his head. He was waylaid several times on the way back to the table by people who had not necessarily been his friends in high school but had been casual acquaintances. Each time, he took a few minutes to be cordial and moved on, everyone assuring one another that they would speak more later that night, or the following day. It was going to be a long weekened, with plenty of time to get caught up.

At last he returned to the round table where he had left his friends. Danny and Eric had disappeared, leaving the four women. Will took one look at Danny's wife, Keisha, and felt bad for her. She smiled politely, but Ashleigh, Pix, and Lolly had known each other for fourteen years.

Will spotted the guys over at the bar talking to Nick and he was tempted to join them, but instead he slid into Danny's empty chair next to Keisha.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he set his drink on the table. “This weekend is probably going to be excruciating for you.”

One corner of her mouth tugged upward in a playful half-smirk. “Nah. I love all you guys. We don't get to see you nearly enough, so this is a good excuse. It's all the rest of the stuff that I could do without. If it was just, you know, you guys, that'd be great. But . . . Eastborough High's Homecoming parade and football game?” Her eyes rolled up. “I think I might have a headache tomorrow.”

“You can't!” Will said, eyes wide with feigned scandal. “You'd miss the steamed hot dogs and cotton candy and—”

“And the cheerleaders,” Ashleigh said, leaning over to shoot Will an insinuating glare. “Don't forget about the cheerleaders.”

Will pressed a hand against his chest and made his face a mask of hurt feelings. “You wound me. They're children, Ashleigh. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old girls.”

Lolly barked laughter. “Oh, please, like you won't be looking.”

“At jailbait?” Will scoffed, letting an evil grin slip across his features.

Pix gave Keisha a conspiratorial look and lowered her voice. “They'll all be looking at the cheerleaders. Don't think Danny's innocent.”

Keisha waved her away. “Oh, honey, there's nothing innocent about that man.” She gave Lolly a pointed look. “Trust me. I know where he's been. And I know where he's going if he ever does more than look.”

They all laughed at that and then the chatter began again, but this time, Keisha was very much a part of it. Will smiled.
My work here is done.
The women barely noticed when he excused himself and went over to the bar, where the guys were involved in a conversation about the girls they had secretly—and not so secretly—desired back in high school.

The moment Will arrived they all looked at him. Danny raised his beer and gestured with it toward the empty stage.

“And speaking of secret longings, you two seemed intimate.”

Will arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yes. Very.”

Nick smiled as he drew a beer from the tap. “Could it be there's a woman in the world you'd go on more than three dates with? Is the Caitlyn Curse over?”

“There's no curse,” Will said, no longer amused.

Danny arched an eyebrow. “Do tell?”

But Nick had stopped teasing. He brought the beer to a woman a ways down the bar and then came back to them.

“Seriously, Will. How long are you gonna stay girl-skittish? There's more to a relationship than a couple of weeks of coffee bars and sex.”

Will glanced around. “Do me a favor, Nick. Point out your girlfriend or wife in this room.”

The bartender winced and glanced away, the jab obviously hitting too close to home. “Okay, Will. We're just friends, looking out for our old bud, but okay. Nobody's trying to start anything. But for the record, I've made it to the pennant race a few times. Yeah, I blew it every time, but that doesn't keep me from stepping up to the plate again. You've got to be in the game.”

His expression was so earnest that for a long moment, Will and Danny could only stare at him. The absurdity of it all descended upon them and Will started to chuckle. A moment later all four of them were laughing.

“Romance According to the Boston Red Sox,” Danny said.

“Confucius at the Bat,” Will added.

Nick shot them a withering glance and moved on to serve another customer. By the time he came back, Will and Danny were on to other subjects. They all began to talk at once, two or three conversations happening at a time. They were laughing, giving each other shit; the drinks kept coming, and soon it seemed like no time at all had passed since they had last done this.

Stacy was back up onstage, doing some more upbeat tunes. Will watched her, and he wondered how much of what Nick had said was true.

After a while, Will became distracted. He would tune the guys out, just for a second, and glance over Danny's shoulder at the door. The first time he looked at his watch, it was quarter to eight. He checked it again seven minutes later. When he checked it the third time, Eric and Nick were in the middle of a debate about the New England Patriots coaching staff, and Danny took Will by the arm and pulled him away from them.

“Hey,” he said, brows knitted in concern. “What's with you? So Caitlyn's not here. I thought you didn't want to see her anyway.”

For a moment, Will didn't understand. Then he put it together. Danny had seen him watching the door.

“No. I mean, I don't. Want to see her. I mean, I don't care if I see her or not. I figure she'll be there tomorrow night if nothing else. Most everyone will be, right? But it's not her I'm looking for. It's Mike. I got e-mail from him; he said he'd be here. It's been like three years, and I was hoping he was gonna—”

“Mike?” Danny asked, frown deepening. He narrowed one eye, the way he always did when he was trying to work something out in his head. “Mike who?”

Will scoffed. “Mike. Mike, Mike. What do you mean, Mike who? Fucking Lebo. He told me he was gonna be—”

The look on Danny's face stopped him cold. Will blinked several times as though that would help him escape the grave disapproval that had carved itself into Danny Plumer's face.

“Will. I know it was a long time ago, so maybe you think . . .” Danny shook his head. “That is
not
fucking funny. Sincerely. Not even a little.”

Confused, Will tilted his head. “What isn't? What are you talking about? I'm not supposed to want to see him, or I'm not supposed to get pissed 'cause he said he was gonna show and he—”

Danny twisted his head to the left as if suddenly offended by Will's smell. Will was stunned to silence. His best friend had just recoiled from him in what could only be disgust. Danny was a big joker, but there was nothing remotely resembling jest in his manner now.

“What?” Will demanded.

Abruptly Danny looked at him again, pinning Will to the ground with the intensity of his glare. “Mike? Mike fucking Lebo?”

Will spread his arms wide. “Ye-eahh?”

With a quick glance over at the table, where Eric had rejoined his wife and the other women, Danny took a deep breath and let it out. He was calmer when he looked back at Will, but the disgust had been replaced by something akin to disappointment.

“Maybe you're past it, bud. Me? I still have nightmares about his funeral. It's never gonna be funny to me.”

Will felt a numbness spread through his body. His mouth began to gape. “Funeral? What are you . . . wait, no, fuck that. You're saying Mike's dead? Jesus, when did—”

Danny held up a hand to stop him. “Stop.” He narrowed his eyes angrily. “When you decide to stop being such a prick, you know where the table is.”