Page 25 of Midnight Valentine
“Whoa,” she says, steadying herself. “I think you might have to drive home, sweetie. The room is tilted.”
“All right, hotshot, I’ve got you. Don’t impale my feet with those heels of yours. Here we go.”
We make our way through the restaurant—my arm around her shoulders, her arm around my waist—and I try to ignore the snickers I hear as we go.
I have a funny feeling this isn’t the first time Suzanne hasn’t been able to walk out of a restaurant unassisted.
7
Though it’s less than a ten-minute drive from Booger’s to where Suzanne lives, she promptly falls asleep in the car after giving me her home address. I don’t mind, because I’m used to being alone with my thoughts, but I’m a little worried about her.
In a small town, everyone knows everyone, and their dirty laundry too. Maybe all those stares she got on the way in weren’t about her outfit.
I use the map app in my phone to navigate to her house. She lives in a lovely little bungalow with pink azaleas lining a white picket fence that encloses a tidy yard. I park the car in the driveway, then go around to her side to help her out. When I open the door and unbuckle her seat belt, she’s snoring.
“Suzanne.” I gently poke her arm. “We’re home. Wake up.”
She rolls her head toward me, mumbling something about cats. I write it off to the booze, then drag her out of the car as gently as I can, wondering if she was drinking before she came to pick me up, because she’s really out of it.
We stagger to the front door. I have to rummage around in her purse for the keys because she’s literally sleeping standing up, leaning against me. When I get the front door open, I’m assaulted by the smell of cat piss.
Then the little beasts descend in full force, caterwauling to raise the dead.
“De Niro!” Suzanne slurs, cracking open an eye. “Pacino! Stallone! Shut the hell up, Mommy’s head hurts!”
I help Suzanne over the threshold and into the house. She collapses onto the living room sofa, and all three cats—a calico, an orange tabby, and one big, fuzzy black bastard—jump up on her like they’re about to eat off her face.
“Shoo!” I wave my arms around, hoping to dislodge them from poor Suzanne, but they just sit there and look at me like I’m stupid. They don’t, however, make any move to devour her, so I watch them warily for a moment, waiting to see what they’ll do.
They settle in around her, curling up their tails as they nestle on her chest, her stomach, and between her legs, and watch me back.
“Okay, beasties, I’m leaving you in charge of Mommy. We good?”
The big black one—I think that’s Stallone—yawns. I’m being dismissed.
I head into the kitchen in search of water for Suzanne and find an open bottle of wine on the counter, a third full, and an empty wineglass beside it with hot-pink lipstick prints that match the color Suzanne wore tonight.
Now I’m not so much feeling sorry for her as feeling furious that she drove over to pick me up after having that much wine. When she’s sober tomorrow, we’re going to have a nice long talk about how driving under the influence of even one glass of alcohol can be deadly.
If anyone knows how true that is, it’s me.
Grinding my teeth, I get a bottle of water from the fridge, then set it on the coffee table next to the sofa. I turn t
he lamp off on the side table, slip off Suzanne’s heels, and settle a blanket over the lower part of her legs, leave her handbag and keys on the dining room table, and lock the front door before pulling it shut behind me.
It takes about fifteen minutes of walking before I’ve calmed down enough that my hands no longer shake.
It’s a beautiful night, but it’s chilly. The moon is full, the air is thick with the scent of the ocean, and the stars are out in full force. They never blazed this brilliantly in smog-choked Phoenix. Wishing I’d brought a coat to dinner, I walk through Suzanne’s quiet neighborhood until I reach the main boulevard leading into town, then I head south toward home.
Seaside is one of those towns whose sidewalks curl up when the sun goes down, and tonight is no exception. The boulevard is deserted. The only thing keeping me company are the moths dancing silently around the streetlamps overhead. I walk, unhurried, absorbed in thought as I listen to the distant boom of the surf and the crickets’ serenade, the music of the night.
You’d love it here, Cass. You’d love it so much.
Out of nowhere, a classic black Mustang blasts past at top speed, engine rumbling like a wolf’s growl, the draft in its wake blowing my hair and skirt sideways. About fifty yards past me, the driver slams on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop in the middle of the street. Then it sits there, engine idling, brake lights glowing red in the darkness, steam billowing from the tailpipe like smoke from the nostrils of a dragon.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter, knowing exactly who it is.
The car shifts gear and slowly begins to reverse.
