Say Never (14 page)

“What the fuck?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. A man in a suit looks up from texting, gets a glimpse of me, and sidesteps in the opposite direction. A young tattooed guy chuckles and receives an elbow to the ribs from his girlfriend. A woman holding an infant backs away from me as if I might be some kind of crazed Starbucks stalker. I suddenly, desperately, miss New York, where no one pays attention to anyone else, especially when the ‘anyone else’ might be nuts.

After Matt completes his transaction, he moseys over to me, still wearing that shit-eating grin. He hands me the bag of Breakfast Blend just as my cell phone rings. Not bothering with a thank you—psychos have terrible manners, after all—I shove the coffee into my purse and pull out the cell. I glance at the caller ID, then answer. I feel Matt Ryan’s eyes on me, and I turn away from him.

“Hello, Damien.”

“And why haven’t we returned any of my calls, texts, and assorted emails? Seriously, have all the cell phone towers between Manhattan and the Wild Wild West been annihilated by space invaders?”

“I’ve been just a teensy weensy bit busy,” I tell him with as much sarcasm as I can project.

“Busy wiping hands, noses, and bottoms, I assume?”

“Not necessarily in that order, but yes.”

One of the Starbucks kids calls out our drinks and I hurry over to retrieve mine.

“Hold on, Damien.” I drop the cell into one of the enormous pockets of my sweats, then grab the carrier with my venti drip and my brother’s latte and head for the exit. Safely outside, I set the carrier down on a nearby table and put my phone back to my ear. In my peripheral vision, I see Matt emerge from the coffeehouse and head my way.

“I’ll see you later, Meg,” he calls to me. “This was fun.”

He gives me a two-finger salute and I wrinkle my nose at him. As he walks away, Damien pipes up in my ear. “Who’s that? That sounded like a male. A strapping male. Exactly what ‘was fun,’ dearest?”

I try to keep my gaze off of Matt Ryan’s ass as he strolls to the parking lot. But I fail, because his ass happens to be quite fetching.

“Nothing was fun, believe me,” I say, watching Matt climb into a shiny black Toyota Tundra.
Except for the view right now. That’s
definitely
fun.

“Was that, by chance, your brother?” Damien asks.

“Uh, no.”

“Some other beau-hunk…at…what is it, eight thirty in the morning out there? On the second day of your trip? Good work, love.”

“Did you call for any reason other than to harass and annoy me?” I ask, forcing myself to face the other direction. I wouldn’t want Matt Ryan to think I’m ogling him. The man clearly has issues, what with the way he takes pleasure in humiliating other people when they’re down.

Kind of sounds like someone else you know, eh Meg?

Well, shit.

“I just thought it might be of interest to you that the Humpinator is making noises about you this morning.”

“What kind of noises?”

“According to my sources, which of course shall remain nameless,
Rena, Claudia, Jackie,
he’s telling everyone that you are not planning to come back to WTLC.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

The woman with the baby chooses this exact moment to step out of the Starbucks. She cringes and presses the infant’s head against her chest, covering his exposed ear with her free hand, and scurries to her car.

“He says you’re out there entertaining some job offers.”

How the hell did he find out?

“Tell me it isn’t true, Meg,” Damien pleads.

“It’s not true, Damien,” I assure him, feeling a small worm of guilt nibble at my gut. Before I have the chance to go all regretful, I rewind the conversation a few sentences. “Wait a minute. What time did you say it is?”

“What? Oh, it’s eleven-thirty-three. My time.”

“Shit. Gotta go, D. I’ll call you later!”

I hang up and toss the phone in my purse, then grab the drinks from the table. By the time I reach the parking lot, Matt Ryan and his truck are long gone. I get behind the wheel just as my phone starts ringing again. Danny. I let the call go to voicemail, start the engine, and hightail it back to my suburban prison.

* * *

“Everything you need to know is written down on the pad in the kitchen,” my brother says as he hurries past me on the porch. “McKenna has to be at school by eleven, sharp. The directions are on the pad. And do me a favor. Put all of the emergency and contact numbers in your cell phone.”

“I know how to call 911.”

“Just do it!”

“Okay, fine! Here.”

I hold out his latte and he stops in his tracks, shuffles over to me, and slowly lifts the cup from my hand as though it’s the Holy Grail. He takes a sip and his eyes practically roll back in his head.

“Tell no one,” he says solemnly.

“You’re welcome,” I reply.

He walks to the driver’s side of his car, then looks at me over the hood. “Good luck today, sis. I’m counting on you. Remember, everything’s on the pad.”

“I already have the Amber Alert Hotline on speed dial.” Danny goes pale at that and I realize I’ve gone too far. “Jesus, Danny, I’m kidding!”

“I know you are. I know.” He definitely looks like he
doesn’t
know. “Um, could you watch the language, too? Maybe? So I don’t have to get any more calls from irate parents in the near future? Like I did this morning after you left?”

“Take a freaking pill, would you?” I make the sign of the cross. “I’ll be good. You can call me Sister Meg-arita, that’s how good I’ll be. Okay? Just take it easy. And don’t drink that too fast or you might have a stroke.”

Inside, I find McKenna on the floor of the living room playing with a couple of Barbie dolls. Tebow stands behind her, a Barbie in his hand, trying to shove his pacifier into the plastic doll’s mouth. McKenna looks up at him and shrieks.

“No, TeeTee! Skyler doesn’t want a nummy!” She yanks the Barbie away from him and he starts to cry.

“Okay, no crying this early in the morning,” I state ineffectually as my nephew continues to wail. “McKenna, why can’t Tebow play with your Barbies?”

She shakes her head. “Mine.”

“That’s a little selfish, don’t you think?”

She scrunches up her nose at me, then returns her attention to her dolls. Tears stream down Tebow’s cheeks, and the timbre of his crying is like nails on a chalkboard.

“Here, Tebow.” I reach into my pocket with my free hand and withdraw my cell phone, then hold it out to him. “Take this. It’s much better than those silly old Barbie dolls.”

“They’re not silly!” McKenna exclaims. “What do you know about Barbie dolls anyway?”

Nothing, thankfully, as I rejected all manner of girly toys from the time I was three. I much preferred my brother’s building blocks and erector sets and balls and bats.

Tebow stops crying and waddles over to me, his eyes shining with curiosity. He pops his pacifier into his mouth and takes my Samsung, turning it over with his little fingers so that he can inspect every square millimeter.

“Be careful with that,” I tell him, even though I made sure to lock it. “Keep it away from the toilet. Understand?”

Tebow nods at me, but I have a feeling he has no idea what I just said. He scurries over to the couch and climbs onto it, then plops down against the cushions, his eyes never leaving the phone.

Satisfied that they are sufficiently distracted for the moment, I take my coffee into the kitchen. I drop my purse on the table, then pull my venti drip out of the carrier. Just as I take my first sip, the phone rings. I ignore it long enough to take a few swallows, and the mere taste of coffee on my tongue revives me.

Ah, caffeine. Sweet nectar of the gods!
I might survive this day after all.

I cross to the kitchen counter. The ‘pad’ my brother referred to sits beside the phone, and the damn thing looks like a manuscript for a book—line after line and page after page of instructions written in my brother’s bold block printing. I shove it aside and reach for the receiver. A part of me already knows who the caller is, so I make sure to sound calm, cool and in complete control.

“Monroe residence, Meg speaking.”

“If one hair on either of my children is harmed in your care, I will personally break every bone in your body before I choke the life out of you. Am I making myself clear?”

“Hi, Caroline. You know, you really should see about having your meds adjusted.”

“I’m not kidding, Meg. This whole thing was my husband’s boneheaded idea, not mine. You have no business caring for children. You have no business caring for anyone but yourself, because that’s all you’ve ever done.”

“Thanks for the early morning vote of confidence-slash-character assassination.”

“That is not a character assassination, Meg. It’s the truth. You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met—”

“Look, Caroline, I have to go,” I say, not wanting to hear another word out of her self-righteous, hideous mouth. As I hang up the phone I hear her yell “Wait!”

Before she can call back, I press the talk button and hear the lovely sound of the dial tone. I leave the line open while I drink my coffee, only pressing the talk button when that annoying beeping sound starts up. I drain the cup and toss it away, then shove the receiver into the cradle, and head back to the living room to retrieve my cell phone.

When I reach the foyer, I see that McKenna and Tebow are seated side by side on the couch, staring down at the screen of the Samsung. Two seconds later, a lascivious moan emanates from the device.

“Booby!” Tebow says around his pacifier.

“What’re they doing?” McKenna asks no one in particular.

My eyes go wide and I nearly choke up my coffee. I rush into the living room and cross to the couch, then sweep the cell phone out of their hands with one swift move. I look down at the screen to see two naked people boffing away. How my nephew managed to get the phone unlocked—let alone find internet porn—I have no clue.
I
don’t even know how to find internet porn on it.

McKenna looks up at me as I fumble with the phone, trying to get off the internet.

“What were they doing?” This time, her question is directed at me.

“Uh, they were…uh…playing a game,” I say, for lack of another dumb-fuck explanation. “Like Twister. You ever play Twister?”

“Yeah. But we don’t take off our clothes.”

“Well, sometimes grownups take off their clothes to play Twister.”

“I saw my mommy and daddy playing that one time in their bed.” Oh. Dear. God. “But I didn’t see the mat with all the color circles on it.”

“Maybe it was under the covers?” I suddenly wish I’d let Dr. Rabinowitz prescribe something stronger than Xanax. I could really use some Prozac right now.

McKenna gives me a doubtful look and I try to smile calmly at her. “Let’s just forget about naked Twister. In fact, you don’t need to tell anyone about this. Not
anyone
, okay?”

She shrugs at me, and I suspect that naked Twister is going to be the talk of the kindergarten playground today. “Why don’t we turn on the TV and see if Dora is on.”

“Do-da!” says Tebow.

“We have it on DVR, remember?” McKenna says and I nod.

I pick up the remote from the coffee table, but McKenna yanks it from my grasp. “I know how to do it,” she assures me.

“Of course you do,” I reply.
DVR’s nothing compared to getting internet porn on a phone. Maybe I should ask them to help me with my new Excel software
.

I heave a sigh then head back to the kitchen to load Danny’s emergency/contact numbers into my cell. Between the police department, the fire department, the hospital, the walk-in clinic, the vet, the Department of Child and Family Services, my dad, freaking Patsy Gates and Matt Ryan next door, it’s a good thing my Samsung has a lot of memory.

* * *

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. If you’ll just let me transfer you to the—”

“No! I’ve been transferred four times already!” By now I’m seething. “I understand that this is a budget airline, therefore employees like yourself are only paid minimum wage, which means that you are probably only worth minimum wage and only perform your duties at minimum wage standards, but there is no excuse for losing complete track of a passenger’s luggage!”

“I’ll just transfer you to my supervisor.”

Musak suddenly blares in my ear and I curse softly enough that my niece and nephew can’t hear it from the other room.

After another interminable hold, a chipper-voiced man interrupts the string-instrument-version of “Brown Sugar.”

“This is Dale Oberman, how may I help you on this fine day?”

I roll my eyes and slowly count to ten.

“Hello?” Dale Oberman says.

“Hello, Dale.” I’m using what I call my icicle-voice. Calm but colder than a witch’s nether parts. “My name is Meg Monroe. I am a patron of your airline, although at this moment, I’m considering writing to the Better Business Bureau, not to mention possibly devoting an entire segment of my
radio show
to the subject of your flagrant inefficiency
.
”