Ayers huffs and hits Decline. She was so tired after her shift at La Tapa that she face-planted on her bed still in her uniform, still in her clogs, and when Winnie jumped onto the bed with her, she didn’t protest. The phone goes dark for a second, then lights up again, and again Winnie nudges Ayers.
“Argh,” Ayers says, but she answers. “What? What, Mick, what?”
Mick is crying.
“What’s wrong?” Ayers asks, then remembers that she no longer cares what’s wrong.
“Can I come over?” he asks.
“No,” Ayers says.
“Please?”
Ayers summons her resolve. It would be only too easy to relent. Okay, fine, you can come, but you’re not staying long. Mick would step inside, bringing their nine-year history with him. It’s not that Mick is even that attractive, but he’s attractive to her. He has that something. Ayers loves his hands, and the tattoo of Gordon’s paw print under his left rib, and the way he squints when he looks at her like he’s looking at the sun. They have good memories, years of them—snorkeling and hiking and partying on the water and on land. How many times had Mick anchored a boat off Water Island so they could swim ashore and get bushwackers from Dinghy’s? How many times had they played the brass-ring game at the Soggy Dollar or rolled the dice at Cruz Bay Landing? How many times did they stand in line together at the post office or at the bank to deposit their paychecks, pinkie fingers entwined? How many brunches up at the Banana Deck, how many hikes to Ram Head, how many times had Mick dropped Ayers off at Driftwood Dave’s on their way home from the beach so she could run in for two rum punches to go while he drove around the block? How many times had Mick saved Ayers the corner seat at the Beach Bar while he was working so she could have a front-row view of the band? He used to sneak up behind her and kiss her shoulder, take a surreptitious sip of her drink.
“I’m asleep,” Ayers says. “Go home to bed, Mick. Or call Brigid.”
“I don’t want to call Brigid. I don’t care about Brigid. That night at the beach, she trapped me.”
“You kissed her, Mick,” Ayers says. “Right?” They haven’t had a conversation since Ayers broke their engagement, so she hasn’t heard Mick admit his guilt.
“Yes,” Mick says. “I kissed her. We kissed.”
Something inside Ayers zips shut, a tiny compartment where she held out hope that maybe it wasn’t true. “Thank you for telling me. We’re done. I gave you a second chance, and you blew it. I have self-worth and self-respect and you, my friend, have a problem with commitment, fidelity, and honesty.” Ayers runs her hand down Winnie’s back for comfort. “This theater production you’ve been starring in at Cruz Bay Landing is a pathetic plea for attention but it’s also a subtle way to make everyone we know think that this is my fault. You’re playing the injured party when you’re the one who screwed it up.” Ayers’s anger energizes her; she sits up, kicks off her clogs. “You’re making an ass of yourself. You’ve become the village idiot.”
“I kissed Brigid,” Mick says. “I own that. But even if I hadn’t kissed Brigid, the engagement would be over. And why? Why, Ayers? Because you’re pregnant with Banker’s baby, that’s why.”
Ayers falls back. Winnie gets to her feet and stands over her. “Who told you that?”
“It’s all over town,” Mick says.
“No,” Ayers says. Did Cash tell Tilda, who then told Skip, who then told Mick? “I haven’t told anyone.”
“You didn’t have to,” Mick says. “You took a leave of absence from the boat, you missed shifts at La Tapa, Skip said he heard you retching in the ladies’ room before service. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. Skip actually congratulated me, thinking I was the father. But I’m not. Both you and I know that I’m not.”
“No,” Ayers says.
“And now Banker knows too.”
Ayers feels dizzy, like she’s on some kind of crazed rocking horse. “What?”
“He and his little boy sat next to me at CBL earlier tonight,” Mick says. “I told him.”
Ayers is so addled that she’s certain there’s no way she’ll be able to fall back to sleep.
But she does, immediately.
When she wakes up in the morning, there’s a text from Baker. Good morning! You feeling any better?
He knows.
Does she tell him that she knows he knows? Or should she just pretend the phone call with Mick never happened and tell him herself?
The latter. Mick is irrelevant.
She thinks about sending a text back, something along the lines of Not sick, pregnant. It’s yours!
Whoa! The room is spinning. Ayers races for the bathroom and throws up. When she emerges, Winnie is stationed outside the door.
“Do you need to go out?” Ayers asks. Winnie trots over to the front door and waits. “I can’t walk you this second, I’m sorry. Just do your thing and come right back, okay?” Ayers opens the door and Winnie obeys, taking care of business efficiently and then slipping back inside past Ayers’s legs. She’s such a good dog; much better than Gordon, if Ayers is being honest. Gordon would have sniffed around for twenty minutes and couldn’t be trusted if a car or another dog came past. Of course, Winnie is female, so that alone explains it.
Ayers takes a four-seven-eight breath and pours herself half a glass of warm ginger ale. She calls Baker, who answers on the first ring.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning?” Ayers says. He sounds awfully chipper. It occurs to Ayers that maybe Mick lied about telling Baker that Ayers is pregnant. “Listen, Baker, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“If you want to talk in person, I can be there in two seconds,” Baker says.
What she wants is to hang up and go back to bed. She sighs. She can’t put this conversation off much longer. “Okay.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three—there’s a knock at
