Page 19 of Pity Play

“And you didn’t have that with Michael?”

“Not really. We were only twenty-three when we started dating. He got a job offer in Madison when we were twenty-four. We probably should have broken up then, but I hoped things would get better.” I continue to explain, “Once we moved, he kind of went his way and I stalled. I didn’t have much of a social life outside of Michael’s work friends. I just wasn’t happy in any aspect of my life.”

“Do you like being back in Elk Lake?” she asks in such a way that confirms she’s not sold on this life.

“I love it,” I tell her. “So many people are always in such a hurry to leave home, and if that’s right for them, then good. But there are a lot of us who like living where we grew up. Don’t get me wrong,” I tell her. “I’m still not sure I’ll stay here forever, but for now I’m happy.”

At this point, it’s possible she orders us a fourth martini. Either that or the first three really start to kick in. Every muscle in my body relaxes and my eyesight starts to blur around the edges. The bottom line is, I’m feeling no pain.

My gaze strays to the window behind the counter that leads into the kitchen, and I catch a glimpse of Luke. My stomach does a little flip.

I don’t know him as an adult, but I figure there’s no time like the present. I can’t help but wonder if it’s possible that our futures might be intertwined after all.

CHAPTER TEN

LUKE

Jim and I work in tandem like we’ve been doing this for years. He forms all the hamburger patties before sprinkling them with Worcestershire and steak sauce. I dust them with salt and garlic powder before putting them back in the refrigerator until we need them. Jim puts down the fry basket and I instinctually know when to lift it—which is never when the timer says it should be.

We hardly speak for the first two hours of service. We just move on automatic pilot. When things finally slow down, I tell him, “You need to get out of here and open your own place, Jim. You’re too good to work for someone else.”

He snort-laughs, “Son, I’m sixty-five years old. I have no desire to take on all the work needed to hang my own shingle.”

“You should have done it years ago then. Why didn’t you?”

He busies himself breaking apart wedges of iceberg lettuce. “I’m happy working for your dad. We don’t all want to be the boss.”

“What else do you have?” I belatedly realize my question might sound like I’m judging him, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Luckily, my folks are both still around. I’ve got my garden and my dog.”

“Did you ever want to get married?” I don’t recall him ever being in a relationship, let alone a marriage.

Instead of answering, he tells me, “Get more onions on the grill. We’re going to need them soon.”

As I turn toward the island to start slicing, I glance out the opening between the kitchen and the dining room. That’s when I make eye contact with Lorelai. By the number of empty martini glasses on her table, it looks like she and her friend are having a contest.

Lorelai’s complexion turns pink, and I don’t know if that’s due to all the cocktails or her seeing me. I quickly avert my gaze and focus on getting the onions ready to sauté.

It’s strange seeing my friend’s sister after so many years. She’s a grown woman now and nothing like the awkward girl I remember. When I went home this afternoon and saw her napping on her bed, I couldn’t help myself from stopping and staring at her for a minute.

I remember people from my past at the age where they made the biggest impact on me. For instance, whenever I think about my grandparents, I remember them from when I was little. I knew them for years after that, but in my mind’s eye, they are forever middle-aged.

Lorelai will always be in her early teens to me, and believe me when I say, that was a dicey stretch. She was constantly working on a new craft project that usually entailed yarn, or paint. Although there were also a lot of sequins there for a couple of years. I smile when an image of that pink and silver beret she bedazzled pops into my head. When the light hit it, it was positively blinding.

Looking at her across Pop’s dining room, wearing a soft pink sweater and drinking martinis, really messes with how I’ve always thought about her—as an adolescent girl.

Turning around, I put the onions on the grill and get busy seasoning them. I’ve tossed them several times when the hostess from earlier today comes running into the kitchen. “Some lady just slipped and fell on her butt,” she blurts out. “She says she’s okay, but she sounds kind of drunk. What should I do?”

I untie my apron and put it on the counter. “I’ll go check on her, Jim.” Following the girl out to the dining room, I find none other than Lorelai sitting on the floor by the front door. She’s laughing like she just heard the best joke ever. What she’s not doing is moving, and people are starting to step around her.

I extend a hand as I approach her. “How about some help up?”

She tips her head back and nearly shouts, “Come on down and join me!”

“I think you’re drunk, Lorelai,” I tell her, realizing what a cute drunk she is.

“I’m just happy.”

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