Page 22 of Road Queens
“On the upside, it was the last push my aunt needed to go to Hazelden. Not the DUI. Not her marriage imploding. Not shoplifting Kahlúa. Barfing on your Cold Stone Creamery card.”
“I had to get a new one.” Which Amanda destroyed. Was it possible the universe was telling him to stay the hell away from Cold Stone Creamery?
“That was her rock bottom, which ... I don’t get. I was sure the DUI was gonna do it, but ...” Benny shrugged, still prone. “Whatever does the trick, right?”
“Glad I could help.” Hazelden was a rehab center about two hours away in the middle of a Minnesota marsh. There weren’t many activities to be found in the middle of a marshy slough, but sobriety was one of them. “Seriously, that’s great news.”
“She loves that place, man. Mom’s already seeing glimpses of the girl she grew up with. Prebooze Anne. A creature of legend.” Benny held out a long arm, and Sean began levering his gangly, amiable neighborup off the grass. “You know they’ve got a sundae bar? I’m not in rehab, and I don’t have access to a sundae bar.”
“You have access to a car,” Sean reminded him. “Which you drive very well. And which takes you anywhere you want to go. Including the sundae bar of your choice.”
“Boring.”
“So there’s really no need for you to keep risking your—”
“Borrrrrrrrring.”
“Tell your mom I’d love to come,” he said, surrendering. “I’ll bring dessert again.”
“Yes, you will! Those little strawberry-basil hand pies were the shit. And I gotta tell you, man, Idreamabout your Rice Krispie bars. What’d you do to them?”
Sean had to smile. “Brown butter and homemade marshmallows.”
Benny snapped his fingers with the air of a man remembering a word that had escaped him for a few hours. “Dammit, I knew that. Well, chef’s kiss or whatever the hell people are doing now to express appreciation without bothering with vocab. Now watch out, I’m going to the end of the block.”
“No!” Sean nearly sprinted back to his car. “Let me get inside first. I can’t in good conscience watch you without calling first responders of some kind.”
“Oh, please. You overreacted the last time.”
“Stitches, Benny! On my watch. I thought your mom was going to shoot me in the face.”
“She overreacted too. It’s why I’m swaddled in so much protective gear I look like a Michelin Man.”
“It’s the only way you’ll learn. And maybe not die during the learning.”
“It wasn’t my fault! I really thought you were going to catch me.”
“From ten feet away, Benny?”
“So it’s my fault you’re slow?”
“Go drive your car!” he shouted, then put his in drive and went straight to the underground garage. He glanced at Benny in the rearview and was treated to the kid giving him a big smile and a pageant-winner double wave, both middle fingers extended.
He laughed so hard he nearly ran into the pillar.If his mom catches him flipping all the birds, he’ll need more than protective gear.
“The pleasures of owning a home without the hassle of yard work!” Sean had to hand it to the board; the town home was as advertised. He’d never had to sweep a lone leaf or shovel a speck of snow. Part of that was thanks to Benny; his mom managed the complex. He might be shit on inline skates, but he could clear the sidewalk in about five minutes, a good trick when a squall dropped two feet of heart attack–inducing heavy snow.
The garage elevator deposited him at the back of his kitchen, where he dumped his bags on the island and grabbed the mail. It was the work of a minute to put away the groceries, and then he pored through the mail using all his senses, like a red fox hunting for voles. Though it was mostly catalogs and cooking mags (he paid his bills online), he once hadn’t noticed an invitation to his niece’s birthday party until the day of. His sister’s irritation wasn’t as devastating as his niece’s sweet understanding when he showed up four hours late: “It’s okay; Mommy said you were busy catching bad guys!”
Not really.
Not since that summer.
Maybe never again.
He shook off the grim thought and, having ascertained there were no sibling-inspired time bombs lurking behind the Duluth Trading Company catalog, grabbed a Coke and wandered into his living room. As with most of the town house, it was all wooden floors and throwrugs. The fireplace worked, but as often as he used it (twice since signing the mortgage six years ago), it might as well have been purely decorative. He’d never fucked in front of the fireplace; he’d never even snuggled in proximity to the fireplace. He’d had three women in his home in the last couple of years, and only one of them had made it to his bed. And she had been a one-night stand, which ended when the lady in question wolfed down both their breakfasts, then bounded out the door while bidding him a tender farewell (“Bye, Sam!”) on her way back to her life.
They were lovely women, and he felt lucky to have been in their company, however briefly. But they shared the same flaw. They weren’t Amanda.
