That or today’s article comparing the Jonas brothers to the Hanson brothers. “Yes. That whole pesky having a job thing. You wouldn’t know.”
I immediately regret making that dig. I love working. I’d probably do so even if money weren’t an issue. But I definitely don’t want to devalue women who stay home with a child. In theory, I’m all about choices. Sometimes it’s hard to remember when I have so few of my own. And when I’m being made to feel guilty about the things I can’t control by people like Tabby.
Tabitha’s eyes narrow, making her eyelashes look even more spidery. Her smile turns sickly sweet. “I thought I’d heard something of you getting a big windfall. A winning lottery ticket of sorts.”
“I think I’d be the first to know if I won any kind of lottery, Tab.”
“I meant Patrick Graham. Isn’t he your ex? Heard he’s back in town, and I figured you might be cashing in on that.”
The accusation that I’d ever use him for money burns. I’m opening my mouth to snap something back when Tabby steps away from my car.
“I’ll be in touch about Galaxy Day. Bye now!” She slams the door and walks away before I can say things that are undoubtedly true, but which I’m sure I’d regret.
I’m fuming as I wait for an opening to pull out. Another ten cars pass me before I can finally escape the line.
Back in college, Pat educated me on cleat chasers. “Or jersey chasers,” I remember him saying with a bitter smile. “Take your pick on the name.” Women threw themselves at him—and, he told me, at his dad and brother—because of their name, their fame, their bank accounts. He knew it would only get worse as the draft approached.
“Some guys start their careers only to find out a few months in that—surprise!—they’re a baby daddy,” he said. Which only made our no-sex rule make more sense for him.
I was never with Pat for fame or money or anything else. It was always and only about him. That hasn’t changed. Not that I’m with him now, but I would never use him. I might be in desperate times, but they do not mean desperate measures. Not like Tabby implied.
Winnie calls when I’m halfway home and still hot with rage. I don’t even say hello but instead launch into a Tabby tirade. “You won’t believe what Tabitha—”
“I thought you’d want to know that your boyfriend is in jail.”
I have not had nearly the amount of coffee I need for the kinds of things people are throwing my way this morning.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Sure, you don’t. But your non-boyfriend and his brothers spent the night in the drunk tank, according to Chevy. I thought you might want to come by and gloat.”
I have to pull over into a bank parking lot so I can focus on the conversation. “Chevy arrested Pat? Here? For what?”
Winnie laughs. “Disturbing the peace at Backwoods Bar.”
I can only imagine the kind of trouble Pat would get up to at Backwoods Bar. The mouth on that man could incite war in Switzerland. Now that the whole town knows about the mayor selling to the Grahams, I bet it wasn’t pretty. Winnie once took Dale, who’s from Austin, to Backwoods with her, and the man barely made it out of there with his ironed polo shirt. Honestly, half the problem was that Dale is the kind of guy who wears ironed polo shirts. They say there’s no accounting for taste, and it’s definitely true in the case of Winnie and Dale, who is about as exciting as an unsalted Saltine cracker.
Is Pat okay? The errant thought is like a weed, needing to be yanked out by the root.
Pat is fine. He’s in jail, not the hospital. And he’s not your concern.
My worry quickly changes direction, and I settle back into the rage originally sparked by Tabby. Pat cannot keep showing up like this, making me feel things. Making me dream about him in a ringmaster’s costume. I have to focus on Jo right now—and only Jo.
Seeing Pat again only whetted my appetite for more of him, and I can’t have that. His apology doesn’t change his character or his character flaws. Eventually, Pat will tire of Sheet Cake. A small town like this isn’t big enough for his personality. Or his ego. He’ll leave, but I need to help speed the process along. I won’t let myself get attached only to be hurt again. And I definitely won’t let him hurt Jo, who has been bringing him up daily, wondering when he and Mr. Tank will be back. The last thing Jo needs is another person leaving her.
“Chevy says their lawyer is on the way. They should be out within the hour,” Winnie says.
I pull back out into traffic, headed toward downtown. “You know what? I’m on my way. Pat needs a little encouragement to leave town, and I’m happy to give him a reason. Text Val for me and tell her to meet us there. We’ve got some butt-kicking to do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lindy
By the time I park at the municipal building, I’ve listened to “Eye of the Tiger” no less than four times, and I am ready to rise up to the challenge of my rival. Who, in this case, is Patrick Graham.
“You’ve got this,” I tell myself. “I’ve got this,” I agree. Because it’s totally normal to give yourself pep talks in your car. I’m going to count this as manifesting, and I need to manifest myself some strength right now.
Winnie and Val are waiting outside the building, looking like polar opposites—if we’re talking opposite poles on two different planets. Win has on high-waisted jeans, a pink short-sleeved sweater, and a bandana as a headband. Val has on overalls today, no less paint-splattered than her coveralls, and is barefoot. Her hair is twisted into a knot with a paintbrush.
For a moment, the three of us grasp hands in a little circle, foreheads together. It’s more group huddle than group hug. “We are such dorks,” I say.
“Total dorks,” Winnie agrees.
“Queens of Dorktonia,” Val says. “But why are we here? Winnie said something about butts.”
We pull back and I glare at Winnie. “That’s what you told her?”
Win smiles, looking totally unrepentant. “I knew it would get her here.”