Page 59 of Corkscrew You
“Nope, he died vomiting blood.”
“Cool story, Jords,” nods Chiara. “Awesome.”
“So back to Nate’s dad,” I say. “Are you saying he won’t take medication for his condition?”
“He refused to takeanythinguntil he got brought in after a collapse. Now, he’s grudgingly on the minimum. But what he needs is some kind of device that regulates his heartbeat. If he refuses that, his chances aren’t great. Mortality rate higher than seventy percent, even if he is a damn sight fitter thanmydad.”
Chiara’s Italian dad is the cook in the family, and believes cream is a condiment. His cannoli are todiefor. OK, bad choice of words.
“Why would you be that stubborn when your life’s at risk?” I ask.
Then I picture Nate, and answer my own question.
“Have you talked to Nate about this?” says the ever-psychic Chiara.
“Not in detail. I think he was concerned I’d be upset. You know, becausemydad died.”
“Ah, that’s really sweet,” says Jordan, the romantic. “Nate, I mean. Not your dad dying.”
“I think he’s worried,” I say. “Likereallyworried. I thought all this relationship-on-hold thing was because he was super busy, but now I think it’s more like he’s super stressed. And to be honest, I’m not sure he’s all that good at dealing with it.”
“Yeah, he’s a pretty solid Type A,” says Chiara. “You think he might be heading for a crash like yours?”
“Thanks for reminding me of that dark, terrible time in my life,” I say.
“No problemo,” Chiara says, with a smile. “Well, do you?”
“How can I tell?” I shrug. “We’re supposed to be colleagues now, all business. I can hardly drop something like that into a conversation about cluster thinning.”
“You could put one of those signs up, like they have on the Golden Gate Bridge,” says Jordan. “Having suicidal thoughts? Call 1-800-SHELBY.”
“Nice. Subtle.”
“Get him drunk?” is her follow-up.
“Not the worst idea,” says Chiara, and adds, pointedly, “You recall how he loosened up after a couple of cocktails the other night?”
“Wish you’d invited me,” says Jordan, with a pout. The news about Brendan has really put a dampener on her evening.
“You were in the hills roasting coyotes over an open flame,” Chiara reminds her. “Making s’mores from squished rattlesnakes.”
“I love Ted,” Jordan sighs. “But he’s not Brendan.”
“Speaking of,” says Chiara. “I think we may have outstayed our welcome.”
I look where she’s looking and, sure enough, Brendan is heading our way. Trouble is, he’s between us and the door, and he’s too big to dodge around. We’ll have to bluff it out.
“Get you anything else?” he asks, knowing full well what the answer is.
Jordan and Chiara bought one drink each. I had a sip of theirs. We’ve been here for well over an hour.
“No, thank you,” says Jordan. “We are leaving.”
Her cool, haughty tone surprises all of us. Including Brendan. I can tell because his right eye narrows a fraction.
“Come along, girls.”
Jordan holds her head high and leads us out the front door. I can’t help a quick glance back, and before the door swings shut, I’m pretty sure I see Brendan still standing there, looking after us.
