“I get it,” Izzy said. “Because…Whoa. That’s…deep.” Years ago, Eden had lost a baby, extremely late in her pregnancy. Pinkie—his in utero name—had been stillborn, which had been awful. Add postpartum depression into the mix, and…Eden had suffered intensely. But lately, Danny and Jenn’s procreation had triggered a bit of impatience in Izzy. Baby-fever was highly contagious. But he could tell that Eden still wasn’t ready, despite the years that had passed.
Maybe it was because she was afraid that they’d be happier, and that would somehow dishonor Pinkie’s memory…?
“It’s weird,” Hans agreed. “You get kinda crazy when someone dies. I mean, my dad was, like, forty when Mom died. What’s he supposed to do, just lock himself away, and be alone forever? I didn’t want that for him. But at the same time…You know, my stepmom—Doris—she always identified herself as my dad’s second wife. And she talked about my mom—she didn’t try to make her disappear. The first year—and really, all the years—she was like, how did your mom celebrate Chanukah? Which plates did your mom use for Thanksgiving dinner? What was your mom’s favorite song?” He smiled. “She didn’t try to erase her.”
“That’s freaking brilliant,” Izzy said, as his cellphone rang, and he pulled it out to check….
It was Grunge. Izzy hit answer and put the call on speaker. “Greetings from Van Nuys, where Schlossman and I are bonding. I may have to embrace him.”
The lieutenant’s voice was flat. “Any sign of Maddie?”
“Nope,” Izzy said. “And no one’s been here for a while. Like weeks at least.”
“Fuck. Daryl Middleton’s address was a dead end, and the lawyer aunt is gonna be in court all day.” Grunge sighed. “I’m thinking about flying up to Sacramento.”
“You want company?” Izzy asked. “Or prolly not, ’cause you’ll want to go with Shayla. I like her, by the way.”
Grunge sighed. “Yeah, I like her, too, but…Thanks again for making the trek to Van Nuys.”
“De nada,” Izzy said.
“Lemme know what I owe you for gas.”
As the connection to Grunge was cut, Hans exhaled, and Izzy realized that the younger man had been holding his breath.
“I know we just bonded,” Izzy said, “but if you’ve been lying, and all this time you’ve really been fucking around with G’s daughter? I will kill you. With my bare hands.”
“I haven’t, I wouldn’t, I…No,” Hans said. “But FYI? Kids whose moms die? They sometimes lie.”
“So…are you cryptically saying that you have been lying?” Izzy asked.
Hans pointed to himself with both hands. “Not a kid anymore.”
“Good point,” Izzy said. “I’m hungry—are you hungry? Let’s get a pizza for the road.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sun was starting to set before Shayla finally got another text from Peter.
He’d dashed her a quick one earlier: Nobody home in Van Nuys, nothing from the aunt, going in to an unscheduled meeting on base, more later.
She’d texted him back: I’m here if you need help w anything. Chapt 2??
She knew that he’d know that stood for the second installment in the When Peter Met Lisa story he was writing as part of the let-Maddie-get-to-know-him offensive. But he didn’t text back and he didn’t text back, and she tried very hard not to keep going into the living room and kitchen, where her windows had a clear shot of his empty driveway.
After school, Tevin had dropped her car off, but that had taken all of forty-five seconds. Carter had been in a hurry as usual—her ex-husband was a gifted musician, but his time management skills were for crap—so she’d gotten little more than a “Keys are on the key hook!” shout, and waves from all three of them, as Carter zoomed off in his sweet little sports car, taking T and Frank to his place. Their shared custody meant that she had the boys every other week—Thursdays were transition days. Although odds were strong that Carter would get an out-of-town gig and drop them off early Saturday morning with an apology and a promise to pick them up again on Monday, but that was okay, because she missed her children when they weren’t around, and frankly, she never had plans. Not-writing and more not-writing. Maybe a trip to the gym or a run in the park.
Harry popped in. Yeah, but this weekend you might have plans of the sexy kind.
Stop.
He still not home?
Shayla pointedly turned her back on the window where, yes, Peter’s truck was still not in his drive.
Ooh, maybe he’s made a connection with Fiona’s aunt Susan. Maybe they’re having a drink together right now—no, maybe he’s fucking her in the law office bathroom—
“Stop!” Shit, she’d actually said that out loud. Fictional-characters’-voices-in-one’s-head was appropriately, quirkily writer-crazy. But talking back to them, out loud? Nope. That was crazy-crazy, and she was not that.
You shush me all the time. Out loud.
That was different.
No, it’s not. And your SEAL has heard you do it, and yet he still wanted you to kiss him—
“If he wanted that so much, why didn’t he just kiss me?” Damnit, she was losing it.
It was then that her phone swooshed and she lunged for it to see, yes, Peter had finally texted her. Sorry about the delay, he wrote. Problem on base, solved now. Lots of waiting around though, so I “wrote” chap two. OK if I email to have you read first?
Of course, she typed back and hit send.
Okay, with the speed of your response, you just essentially told him you’ve been sitting around, waiting for him to text, Harry pointed out.
She had been. But only because she wanted to help him find Maddie.
Riiight. Aren’t you gonna ask him if it was good? Harry asked. Go on and ask him that. You know. His sex with Aunt Susan. Isn’t that your job as the quirky neighbor? To make sure he gets a proper romance-hero-worthy fucking? Shouldn’t you make sure they hooked up, and encourage him to do so, immediately, if they didn’t? “Life is too short,” you could tell him that. Or YOLO him. While you bring him a neighborly tuna casserole.
Whoosh! Email sent, came Peter’s texted reply, with another whoosh for his thank you, hot on its heels.
Shay’s computer was on the kitchen counter, so she opened her email and started to read.
About two weeks into our ride-to-school-based friendship, Lisa called me.
“Has Mr. Jimenez called you yet?” she asked.
“Why would Mr. Jimenez call me?” I asked. He was the drama teacher. He taught English, too, but I wasn’t in his class.
“So he hasn’t called yet,” Lisa said. “Good. When he calls? I need you to tell him that you were part of this big Shakespearean drama program, and that you played Romeo. You know, on your island.”
“But that’s not true,” I pointed out. “I mean, I’ve read some Shakespeare, but mostly his comedies. I started Romeo and Juliet, but…”
“That’s close enough,” she said. “I’ll help you learn the lines. We’ve got nine whole days before opening night.”
“Wait,” I said. “What? Whoa…”
She hit me with some classic Star Wars. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” And then she told me that the kid who was originally cast as Romeo got suspended for drinking—along with his bestie, who just happened to be his understudy. Mr. Jimenez was going to cancel the performances, because who were they going to find to play Romeo on such short notice…?