“This isn’t the first time Catherine Wright made headlines. Back in 2010, she claimed she had an affair with her—” I squeeze the Power button on the remote control so hard that the plastic body makes a cracking sound as the TV shuts off.
“Why are they talking about you? What were they going to say?” Brenna’s big eyes peer up at me. “What’s an . . . affair?” She tests out the word on her tongue for the first time.
I’m not ready for this. How much easier it would be if this had happened four years ago, when she was still blowing raspberries and throwing oatmeal at the wall, happy and oblivious. “Just . . . Go and finish your dinner. Please, Brenna.” I toss the remote to the couch, fighting tears of dread.
“Damn, I can’t watch this.” Keith only flipped on the TV a minute ago but he shuts it off now, the five-to-one score for Toronto painful to see. Anyone who was hoping the Flyers would rally in memory of their two players will be sorely disappointed.
He peeks through the blinds. “We can keep a car on Rawley’s for the night, as long as they don’t get called away on an emergency.”
“Are the reporters gone?”
“No, but they’re out on the street now.”
“How many?”
He hesitates. “More than one.”
I groan.
“Not much we can do about it unless they’re disturbing the peace. You know, all that journalistic rights bullshit.” Keith isn’t a fan of reporters, either, but that has more to do with them pestering him for story leads than any past interest they’ve had in me.
“What about my rights?” I mutter, wandering over to my kitchen cupboard.
Keith offers me an apologetic smile. “You know they’re not going to stop until they get their story. As soon as you leave the house, they’ll be on you, with cameras.”
I sigh, reaching for the bottle of chardonnay from the cabinet above the fridge, a Christmas gift from Emma. It’s seven bucks at the grocery store, not exactly high end. Still, wine is a luxury these days, so I’ve been holding on to it for a special occasion.
And SunnyD just isn’t going to cut it tonight.
“Want some?” I wave it his way, earning his grimace. “It’s not chilled, but I can put some ice in it.”
He tosses his phone and keys on the kitchen table. “My night’s clear now, so yeah, I can stick around for a bit. As long as you never tell the guys.”
I scan his jeans and button-down shirt. I’m used to seeing Keith in uniform, so maybe it’s that, but he looks different tonight. More put together than usual. “What were you doing when I called, anyway?”
He waves my question away with, “Ah, nothing. I was just going to meet up with someone, but I can do that anytime.”
I’m dumping ice cubes into two glasses when it finally clicks. The cologne, the chain around his neck . . . “You had a date tonight, didn’t you?”
“Like I said, no big deal.” He heads into Brenna’s room to tuck her in and say good night. Thankfully, as soon as Keith showed up, she quickly forgot about everything else.
Great. Now I feel bad. Keith had to cancel his date because of me. Keith rarely ever goes on dates. The guys around the station give him the gears about it constantly. I know because I overhear some of it when they come into Diamonds.
My phone chirps with a text from its resting spot on my table, and my shoulders instinctively tense. Raven News got hold of my home number and started calling me every five minutes until I unplugged the old rotary phone. I may have to power this one off next, if they’ve managed to find it.
It’s not Raven News, though. It’s Jack.
I turn my phone on after my last exam to find out that my sister saved my idol’s life. Are you fucking serious????
I sigh. Looks like news has reached Minnesota, and likely the entire rest of the country. I guess that means Emma has heard by now, too. She’s not done with exams until next week. Luckily, it would take a nuclear bomb to disrupt her study schedule.
I punch out, Sorry. I didn’t want to distract you. I’ll call you tomorrow, promise.
Of everyone in my family, Jack’s the only one I’ve never gone out of my way to avoid. But this isn’t the kind of thing you text about, and I’m not up to answering a million questions just yet. Misty has already lit up my phone with a slew of messages. I made her the same promise, though I’ll be stretching that “tomorrow” out as long as possible.
Brenna’s giggles carry from her room, so Keith is suitably distracted. I do what I promised him I wouldn’t. Grabbing the remote, I turn the TV back on, lowering the volume so far that I have to stand right in front of it to hear the reporter. “. . . Our sources have confirmed that the Grand Prix removed from the scene of the accident is registered to Catherine Wright of Balsam County. We know that she was driving her car on Old Cannery Road at the approximate time of the accident, and that the woman who called nine-one-one identified herself as Catherine. We have yet to speak to the single twenty-four-year-old mother and waitress, who has refused several of our attempts to get her side of the story.”
“And you won’t be speaking to me,” I grumble under my breath, scowling.
“Catherine Wright made local headlines seven years ago as a junior at Balsam Public High School when she claimed to be romantically involved with her art teacher, Scott Philips. Philips’s father was the principal of the school at the time. She recanted her statement after Philips’s arrest, and all charges against him were dropped, despite records detailing several inappropriate interactions between Wright and Philips.”
How the hell did they get arrest records already?
“Philips, who was charged with the misdemeanor of corruption of a minor—”
Keith’s fist slams against the Power button on the television. “What are you doing?”
I toss the remote to the couch, that deep burn of shame settling into the pit of my stomach. A sensation I haven’t had to feel in some years. “That didn’t take long.”
Grabbing me by the shoulders, Keith spins me around and pushes me to my dimly lit kitchen table. The electricity bills in this drafty little house are higher than they should be, and so I bought those energy efficient lightbulbs in an attempt to counter the costs. The only noticeable change so far has been poorer lighting.
I nudge his wineglass toward him, shuddering from the chill of the ice. “How is that jerk Gord Mayberry allowed to just go on TV and say that?”
The chair’s legs drag across the worn linoleum as Keith sits down. “There’s not really a law against it. Maybe if he had made a false statement there’d be more we could do.”
“Alluding to us dating is a false statement.” I can’t keep the grimace from my face.
It matches the one that flashes across Keith’s. “Yeah . . . not gonna lie, hearing that made my stomach turn. You haven’t given any guy the time of day for years, and then you go out with him?”