“Duh. How many Sibleys do you know?”
“None but you, thank the Lord.”
“I see you’ve taken the town slogan to heart.” I roll my eyes. “You always this slow on the uptake?”
“Well, we lost the only fast pony we had.” His green eyes dance as he chuckles. My face must give something away because he’s quick to point out, “I meant your wild streak. It’s sorely missed around these parts.”
“Oh, I know what you mean, Fletch,” I tease. “I grew up beating you at every game we played. Even girls’ softball.”
“And broke every heart in the process.”
“’Cept yours.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Sibby.”
Sibby. My nickname rolls off his tongue just as quickly as it did back then. It’s surreal to hear it after all these years.
“And last I knew, you were some kind of fancy doctor now.” He pretends to try to remember my occupation. “What do you call it, a juris doctor?”
“That silly title? It’s just a fancy piece of paper I hang in my office.”
If I still had an office, I don’t bother to mention.
My face burns at the memory of being escorted off the premises of my employer, a potted plant in hand, my navy suede Jimmy Choos clomping down the back staircase so I didn’t have to take the elevator and risk the curiosity of more inquisitive eyes.
I focus on the holster that contains Fletch’s gun and the handcuffs dangling from his waist while he examines my bare finger again.
It’s coming.
“I thought you got married.”
“I did.”
He doesn’t mention the noticeably absent jewelry but prods, “Everything okay?”
I don’t bother to tell him I’m supposed to be at a rehabilitation clinic, and wearing jewelry isn’t allowed. Or that I left my diamond engagement band and matching ring on my husband’s dresser at his behest.
“We’re taking a break.” It’s somewhat of a truth, somewhat of a lie. “Trial separation.” I’m embarrassed at the thought Fletch is going to mention the plethora of crumpled, mascara-streaked napkins I’ve soaked from crying at the breakdown of my marriage and the silent rejection from my own mother.
“Marriage is hard,” he says, commiserating. Without thinking, he blurts out, “I hope you picked a better guy than your father.”
Both of our faces redden.
Ouch.
Refusing to engage with this subject, I stare at the absence of a band on his finger. “You were smart not to bother.”
“Who said I didn’t?”
“Miles Fletcher, who was the unlucky girl?”
“You know her. You guys used to be tight. Before the drama started.”
That’s one way to put it, I guess.
I unhinge my jaw, knowing exactly who he’s talking about. I try not to throw up in my mouth at the thought of my archnemesis. Kristin used to be what is now called a “frenemy,” and we had our spats, whether it be over boys or other friends. A drama seeker, she loved being the center of attention at all costs, no matter who got hurt. I learned this the hard way.
When Kristin and Fletch started dating our senior year, I figured they deserved each other. It was after an unforgettable Halloween party, when Kristin spread a vicious rumor without regard for anyone involved. And after she dumped her boyfriend, Josh, for the umpteenth time, she and Fletch decided to give it a go. I never paid attention to see if their relationship fizzled or made it down the altar.
“Kristin and I were married for twelve years,” he says proudly.
He would marry her, especially since she did everything in her power to destroy my family. Stop making it about you, I warn myself.
“You made it longer than most.”
“Would’ve made it longer, but she, um, she, uh . . .”
I can’t help myself. “Cheated?”
“Of course not.” Crestfallen, he takes a deep breath. “How could you even ask that, with what . . .”
Shit. Foot, enter mouth. I’m royally screwing up my chances of getting out of here without a ticket, not to mention without a beautiful garnish of silver cuffs that can’t be ordered from the Home Shopping Network.
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “It’s been a long drive, and I’m not thinking clearly. I’m in desperate need of sleep.” Sniffing my armpit jokingly, I confess, “And a shower.”
I stare into the same wounded-animal eyes he gave me the afternoon of our earth-shattering fight, one that caused a close friendship of ten years to end promptly and, at the time, felt like an amputation of a necessary limb.
I extend an olive branch in the form of a small smile. “What happened with Kristin?”
“She died. I became a widower, not by choice.”
I’d rather puke than say this, but I force it out. It’s not like I haven’t embellished or lied through my teeth for the majority of my career. “That’s awful, Fletch. I’m really sorry to hear it.” I touch his hand for a fleeting second. “I wish I would’ve known. Even with all our differences, that’s not fair. And so young.” I whisper, “Life is so unfair sometimes, isn’t it?”
A rush of anger colors his cheeks. “It certainly is.”
“I’m really sorry.” I chew my lip. “I know you’ve had a tough go of it over the years.”
“How would you know?” he rebukes. “You up and left. We could’ve leaned on each other.”
Once again, I’m not taking the bait. I mustn’t run my mouth right now. I might win the argument, but I’ll lose the war. I’m thinking about how much more Fletch could do, like arrest me and haul me off to jail. I’ve already done a piss-poor job of blending in.
I need to keep him talking so he doesn’t mention my plates again. If not, I’ll be the headline by tomorrow morning, and if you think people don’t read their newspapers in these parts, you’re wrong. I can hear my mother now, worried about being the town gossip again.
“How’s the farm?” His dad uses six acres of land to grow Christmas trees of different pine variations, including Scotch, white, and red tree species. We used to go there as a
