Circle in the Sand (15 page)

“I know.” I pause, letting him stew. Then I say what he wants to hear. “You’re not
a loser. We’ve all been there, and at least you didn’t get behind the wheel. Besides,
I love seeing you loosen up. And I do accept that I’m a little responsible. As a bartender,
I should know better.”

He holds up a finger. “Uh, mixologist.”

“Right.”

We don’t talk for the rest of the ride. At home, Brady is in his room asleep. Travis
is on the couch with the television on.

“Hey,” Travis says sitting up as we enter. The volume is all the way down, leaving
the house peaceful, still.

No matter how loose Ned seemed tonight, his expression is now hardened and homed right
in on Travis.

“Don’t get up,” I say. “Ned’s going to spend the night. He…” Out of the corner of
my eye, I see Ned’s head snap to the side, stopping my words. I turn to find him glaring
at him. He must not want Travis to know why he’s staying. I wouldn’t want to bruise
his ego, but I’m glad he stopped me for another reason. Travis could take that news
badly given his own situation.

“You want to crash here, man?” Travis says pointing to the couch. “I can sleep on
the floor.”

Before Ned can answer, I grab his wrist and pull him down the hall. “We’re good, thanks.”

When I ease the door shut, Ned says, “Thanks, I didn’t want to bunk with Shawshank
out there. I can sleep right here.” He points to the ground next to my dresser.

“It’s fine,” I say, then begin tossing my over-abundance of pillows to the floor.
“It’s not like we’ve never slept in the same bed.”

“Yeah, but one of us was usually already asleep.” He runs his fingers through his
thick hair, watching me as if he’s trying to decide what to do.

“What about when we camped in my backyard?” I say. “That time we were all awake.”

“Freezing our asses off.”

We both smile at the memory, yet a hint of awkwardness floats between us that’s never
been there before. “I’m going to brush my teeth. You decide.”

When I return, I find him lying on the bed, his jeans and t-shirt still on. I’m wearing
sweat bottoms and a t-shirt.

“I promise to keep my hands to myself,” he says, patting the open spot.

I climb in next to him and give him a quick look over my shoulder before I turn my
back to him. “Good.”

“But my other parts have a mind of their own so no guarantees,” he says.

I smile as I reach up and turn off the lamp. “I trust you.”

In the darkness, I wait for my eyes to adjust, wondering if he’ll want to keep talking.
After a moment, he says, “Why, because I’m such a fucking nice guy.”

I can’t see his face, but I hear the tone, annoyed, maybe hurt. “Yeah, what’s wrong
with that?”

“Nothin’” he says, sounding as if he’d swallowed a spoonful of cough medicine.

The bed moves, I feel him turn toward me, his hand lands on my arm. “I know there
was something wrong with you tonight.”

It’s not like him to ask, so either he’s extremely concerned, or he wants to keep
me talking. “Yeah. I could tell by the way you looked at me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His voice is so soft, comforting. I almost give in, but I’m not ready to talk about
this. He and Emily are so close, he might share it with her, and I don’t want more
disappointment . “Not really. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He pauses, his hand moves up and down on my arm. It’s not in a sexual
way at all. It’s very sweet, but something stirs inside of me. A warm haze floats
along my body. Then he says, “I need to ask you something, so I’m just going to come
out and say it. Are you pregnant?”

My arm flinches forward, away from his hand. “No!” I fling my hand back, smacking
him in the gut. “Why would you say that?” I turn around so we’re face to face. The
light from the window is enough so I can make out his face. He doesn’t appear to be
joking.

“I don’t know.” Now he looks terrified, the look he gets when I’m about to beat his
ass.

“Yes you do.” I glare at him. “You think I’m getting fat or something?”

His eyes shoot away from mine. “Yeah, that’s it. You have been looking a little pudgy
lately. Is that wrong to say?” He finds my eyes again and smiles the way an innocent
boy would.

I lift up on one elbow and examine his expression. Something is definitely being
left out of this conversation. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he shoots right back.

“Fine.” I flip back over.

“Fine.”

I can’t sleep now. I’m confused and frustrated. Why does Ned always find a way to
piss me off? I get that he’s worried about me, but this makes no sense. I stare at
my digital clock, watching the numbers click over one by one. When I’m sure Ned is
asleep, I scoot my body back toward him, nestling in. Even if he’s annoyed me, this
position is too comforting. I need to be close to someone, another body next to mine.
Or, it’s possible I just need Ned. I really don’t know. I shut my eyes, try again
to fall asleep, crooked in the curve of his body, as his arm wraps around me. 

“I really want to help you, Jax,” he whispers.

“You are.”

I wake alone in Jax’s bed, remembering what an idiot I was last night. I drank too
much, had to be driven home, called her fat, and asked if she was pregnant.
Nice work, asshole
. I should have drunk more so at least I wouldn’t have the memory of that nightmare.
My body is stiff, as if I’d slept in the exact same position all night. My arms stretch,
reach out to her pillow. My hands clasp around it and bring it to my face where I
inhale the scent of coconut
. Jax’s shampoo
. I lie a moment on her pillow, not sure if she’s coming back. My mind goes back to
last night. Not the awkward, insulting conversation, but the end. When she’d assumed
I was asleep, scooted closer to me. I had put my arm around her, but I’d also held
back. It felt too good. That thought rattled around in my brain a while as I summoned
the strength to get up.

Damn, sleeping in jeans all night. I sit up, then adjust myself before grabbing my
cell to check the time and messages. It’s only seven-twenty. I’m working from home
today, so I’m not stressed for time. I’m more concerned about Jax. She was upset last
night. Had my big mouth made it worse?

It’s been a while since I was in this room, so I take a minute to check it out. Her
guitar propped against the wall in the corner brings a grin to my face. As does the
desk, covered in fliers for different events: charity drives, the homeless shelter,
a new tattoo shop, and band nights. Tons of band nights. You’d think memories of her
dead-beat dad would make her hate music. But it’s the exact opposite. She used to
sing for us when we were in high school. Not really for us, actually. She’d just be
singing when we were around.

My brain scans backwards, and I recall the last time I heard Jax’s beautiful voice.

When James was in the hospital, we’d planted ourselves outside the room for whenever
Eric and Emily had to go somewhere or needed a break. Usually we went in together
because neither of us wanted to be alone in that room. But one time, I must have been
in the bathroom or getting some crappy coffee or something. Because I came back and
Jax was gone. I eased the door open to James’s room to find Jax sitting on the bed,
holding his hand. I’m not even sure I remember the song, but I’m sure it was something
from Aerosmith. She sang it so softly, so sweetly. I stood in the doorway, watching,
listening. James blinked awake a few times, smiling at Jax. I was proud of her in
that moment, but when she came out, I didn’t say anything. I probably even made fun
of her. Why don’t I ever tell her that shit? I never tell her anything.

My stomach grumbles, then lurches. I make my way to the bathroom with still no sign
of Jax. A quick piss and a mouth rinse before trekking down the hall, the cold wood
floor soothing beneath my feet. I hear faint music coming from the living room as
I approach. Brady sits on the couch eating a bowl of cereal over the coffee table.

“Hey, man,” he says when he sees me. The television is on a music channel, but the
volume is low. At least he has some common courtesy.

I nod and continue on toward the kitchen.

“She’s not here,” he says behind me, mouth full of something crunchy.

I stop, turn on my heel. The all-American farm boy smiles and says, “Want some Pops?
This cereal kicks ass. Mama neva let us have sugah cereals.” In case I wasn’t sure
who he was talking about, he adds, “My real mama, back home, I mean.”

“Right,” I say, taking a seat. “I figured you weren’t talking about Jax.”

“So you want me to get ya a bowl?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.” I’m actually feeling a little shitty and food would probably
help. But if Jax isn’t here, then I don’t want to prolong this any further. “Do you
know where she went?”

“Yeah, they went down to that food pantry over on LaSalle.”

“They?”

“Her and Travis.” Brady lifts the bowl, which now has only milk in it, to his lips.
When he sees me watching, he decides not to slurp it down like the hick he is and
sets it on the table. “She takes him once or twice a week so he can get in some of
his community service hours.”

I shake my head, hold back a
damn
, as air expels from my lungs. Maybe this shouldn’t piss me off, but it does. Jax
helps people. Great. But why this asshole with a record? I notice I’m giving the bowl
of milk the death stare as I contemplate this, when I hear the kid speak up. “Why
do you hate my bro, man? He’s a good guy. Just give him a chance.”

I look up, feeling sorry for him. “I don’t hate him. I just don’t trust him. Not with
Jax anyway. She doesn’t know how to
not
trust.”

“You can trust Travis. He made a fucking mistake, dude. It happens.”

This side of Brady emerging catches me by surprise, his accent lost in the attitude.
“Yeah? And what was that mistake?”

“You don’t know?” I fail to stop the disappointed look on my face, which makes him
smile. “So, Jax didn’t tell you. Guess you two ain’t that close after all.”

I think back to last night, glad I can recall the details of the evening. “I know
it has to do with alcohol.” I decide to throw out my guess. “It was drunk driving
wasn’t it?”

Brady’s expression tells me I’m right. “You don’t know the whole story, man.”

“Then tell me.”

He gets up with his bowl. “If you want that, you’re gonna have to talk to my brother.
I’m late for school.”

“Great.” I lean back in the chair, wondering if I should drop it or go to the pantry.
I stay seated, listening to Brady rinse his bowl and place it in the dishwasher.

He passes back through the living room, stops in front of me. “I get that you’re looking
out for Jax, but me and my brother…we care about her too. And Travis isn’t going to
do anything to mess up her being our friend.”

I admire him speaking up, looking out for his brother, so I’ll say what he wants to
hear. But that doesn’t mean he’s convinced me worth a shit to trust Travis. “Got it,
man. I appreciate that.” I get up and follow him down the hall.

When he gets to his doorway, he says, “I’m glad you’re starting to be cool about this.
If the girls trust him, you should too.”

I stop in Jax’s doorway. “Girls?”

“Yeah, Jax and Sage.”

●●●

Days later I’m sitting on Sage’s couch waiting for her to get ready for this masquerade
of a client party. I’m still not sure why she needs me. I heard what she said—that
her boss’s husband hit on her—so I guess she’s looking for a little protection, a
deterrent. But why me? There’s a ton of guys that would go through worse just for
a shot at Sage. It’s because she comfortable with me. I am the nice guy, the dependable
one, the fucking predictable good time Charlie. Except, of course, for that one night.
But neither of us counts that.

For the fourth time, I hear her yell, “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Her house is a mirror image of herself: beautiful, but not overly confident, conservative,
yet makes a statement. As I glance around the room, nothing is out of place. Clutter
or excess would never be used to describe this space. I sit on a modern, olive-green
sofa that’s much more comfortable than it looks. I lean over and examine the dark
wood coffee table. It’s square-shaped without a scratch on it. Mine looks as if a
prisoner in solitary marked off weeks of confinement.

I stand when I finally hear her heals snag across the carpet. The first thing I notice
are the legs attached to those heels—toned, tanned, and a mile long. Her dress is
short and black. Part of the top is covered in some silver sparkly stuff. Even though
it’s being held up by some little straps, the neckline is not low. I appreciate that
she never needs to show off her perfectly sized rack. Using the word perfect makes
me want to punch myself in the face. It sounds pathetic. She gleams a smile, throws
back her long blonde hair. “You look beautiful,” I say.

“Thanks. You, too.”

I couldn’t look any more basic if I tried. With my black slacks, long-sleeved blue
shirt, and unruly hair, I’m a cross between the Kohl’s catalog and a bad yearbook
picture. I say “Thank you” anyway.

Since I’d arrived, I wanted to ask her about Travis, but I don’t want her to think
I’m jealous. Especially because I’m not. I wait until the car ride over, when we are
both facing forward.

“So why didn’t you ask your new boyfriend to this thing?” This is probably not the
best way to start the conversation.

She glances over, eyes shooting down her nose. “To whom are you referring?”

“I hear from a reliable source that you have begun your own prisoner rehabilitation
program.”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously, are you dating this guy?” I’m trying to convince myself these are the
words of a concerned friend, but the word pussy keeps flashing in my mind.

“We’re friends; that’s all,” she says and turns her head forward. “For now.” I look
over and see the corners of her mouth turn up.

“But he’s not your type. And he could be dangerous.”

“First of all, I’m sick of my type. And secondly, he’s not dangerous.”

“And you know this how?”

“He told me all about it. I believe him when he says it was all a horrible mistake.”
She shifts her body slightly so she’s facing me. “People do make them.”

I wonder now if she’s still talking about Travis. I hate it when she drops this shit
on me, like a reminder of her one mistake in life. I don’t need to be fucking reminded.

When I don’t answer, she says, “Listen, I really appreciate you doing this tonight.
Can we drop this whole Travis thing? Just trust me, okay. Maybe someday you two can
get to know each other better.”

“I doubt that.”

She reaches over, puts her hand across mine as it rests on the gear shift. This is
how Sage smooths things over, with her touch. And it works, as usual. “You’re a great
friend, Ned. You mean a lot to me. You know that, right?”

I sigh, letting my frustration fall away. It makes no sense to start something when
we are supposed to be the happy couple minutes from now. “Yeah. Same here.”

We enter the Fitzgerald home, the party already in full swing. Sage had told me on
the way over that Reynold Fitzgerald is American, but his wife Reyna is Tahitian.
She speaks English with a thick accent. They have three children, and as we take a
few steps down into the living room, I spot two of them, both girls, serving hors
d’oeuvres. They’re sporting little white aprons, carrying trays and wide smiles. One
looks around ten, the other early teens. I’m sure it was meant to be cute and helpful,
but given the background information Sage gave me, it creeps me out a little. Images
of children sweating while sitting at rows of sewing machines enter my brain. Sage
mumbles something about a nanny, pointing to a lady walking a tiny boy down a hallway
that probably leads to bedrooms.

Soft music is coming from the back and instinctively we head to the large glass door
across the room. Sage’s hand clasps onto mine as we walk. Her palm is moist, so I
pull her closer and give her an encouraging smile. The lighting above is low, but
every flat surface we pass is covered with small candles. There is somewhat of a tropical
beach theme going on here, of the Tahitian variety, I guess, since I can now see a
Tahitian hut in the back next to the pool.

As soon as we step onto the patio, we are greeted by a couple I’m sure is the Fitzgeralds.
Clean-cut guy wearing a sharp suit and a slight stick-up-the-ass expression, arm around
a dark-skinned beauty.

“Sage, wonderful of you to make it,” the guy says, approaching us.

Intros are made all around, hands shaking, smiles exchanged. This isn’t the jack-ass
Sage is worried about, but still I slip my arm around her as she and Reynold make
small talk about finances and his wife smiles and nods. The couple eventually excuse
themselves, leaving Sage and me to wander around looking for her co-workers. We stop
at the hut where I receive some sort of wheat beer on tap. Sage grabs a glass of Chardonnay.
Wicker table and chair sets border the pool, so we decide to take a seat to do our
people watching.

“You okay,” I ask. I haven’t seen Sage look this nervous since her mom was ill. It
doesn’t make sense to me for her to get this worked up.

“Fine,” she says, then sips her wine. Several men execute double takes on her as they
walk by. Back in the day when this would happen, Sage would tell me to get lost. She
didn’t want me discouraging her prospects. But tonight, I’m the golden boy, so I just
nod at all those jealous bastards. “Thanks again for doing this,” she continues, uncaring
about the attention. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Really it’s not my thing, but I don’t want her to feel worse.

I’m staring into the sea of strangers when the chair next to me slides out. A boney
brunette in a strapless brown dress sits down. She has that same stick-up-the ass
look as Reynold, so I’m sure it’s Sage’s boss.

“Christine, hi.” Sage’s expression turns from somber to eager beaver.