The Truth About Mallory Bain (7 page)

“I don't need a doctor. I
do
need sleep.” I teetered against my car. “Maybe an icepack.”

Mom mumbled as she walked me to the Explorer, “I thought Rick was the only one of you kids with a lead foot.”

“We need to get out of this rain.”

She opened the car door for me. “You need a long night's sleep. Clear your head of whatever made you this way.”

Once tucked in my cozy bed, I realized my need for sleep felt markedly different from exhaustion. I attached that impression to Chad's remarks about protection before I fell into a deep slumber.

I
n my dream, it was seven years before. I was strolling from one room to another in Chad's off-campus duplex apartment. I was searching for Ben. Each room I passed through was crowded with groups of college kids standing around drinking, laughing, partying hard Friday night before cramming all weekend for finals.

Chad had thrown one last kegger for all of his friends and their friends before moving home to Tennessee. Maroon 5 boomed from speakers in the background. People milled about, spilled onto the rickety back porch overlooking the backyard hosting even more clusters of people.

I stopped in the kitchen to refill my cup with ginger ale and turned my face away from the sweet, skunky smoke drifting through the wide-open window that separated me from Ben's roommate, Brian Hayes.

I overheard snippets of conversation when I walked back into the living room—an animated Missy Fowler, Erik's cousin, asking a group of girls, “Have you read
New Moon
yet?” Erik betting the Twins will beat the Tigers over the weekend. Car talk, “Cut my hair for summer or not” talk. Familiar banter had replaced the contemplative topics we had often debated during those academic years at the University of Minnesota. Years when everybody in our group thought we knew and understood each other well. Too well at times, I suppose.

The front door opened wide, framing the yellow bug light behind it. Erik Fowler, with his coppery hair, stepped into the frame pulling on his denim jacket. He glanced back over his shoulder, and I saw a visual connection between Dana and him. He then
slipped out the door and out of sight. I was curious as to why he left early when he always was first to arrive and last to leave. My watch read ten fifteen. I'd found it more curious that Dana had bothered to look at him in the first place.

I ran into Ben engaged in a spirited football debate with two of his friends. He gave me a sideways hug but made no attempt to leave them.

Jack Harwood sat alone across the living room, not smothered by his usual entourage of followers. His bewildered expression prompted me to squeeze through the crowd to sit beside him. He'd been out of sorts a few days before the party and I wanted to know why.

I asked him outright what was up with the wallflower act, hanging out all by himself on the sidelines—unsociable and aloof. He answered with a snarky comment about wishing he could read everybody's minds.

“Give me five minutes and I'll glean more than I need to know.” He slapped the cushion beneath him. “They don't give a shit anyway.”

“If you say so,” I said.

A deep sigh instead of a clarifying response.

“Jack. What's bothering you?”

“Might be nothing. Or. Might be ugly.”

“Has to be ugly to make you miserable.” I held my cup against my mouth and sucked in a floating chunk of ice to crunch on.

“Oh, hell. Give any one of them a few beers and they might admit to something worth telling.” He tipped his head toward mine. “Ignore me. I'm being cynical tonight. I'm drunk.”

“You've never been a cynic before. Drunk, yes. Cynic, no.”

He sputtered a small laugh. “I'm sorting through stuff.”

“Stuff.”

He stared straight ahead.

Pressing for answers was pointless. Changing the subject felt less intrusive. He'd talk when he was ready. “I think they've changed. More sure of themselves, you know. Cocky.”

He nodded assent but said nothing informative.

“Erik took off already. Go figure.” I breathed out, “Humph. “Chad's been watching the clock.” I gently squeezed his wrist lying beside me. “Remember last winter how we used to party 'til dawn?”

“Good times. We aren't carefree anymore. Can't be when starting a career. Too much at stake. Big responsibility.” He didn't wait for my comment. “Everybody's got an itch they can't scratch until they move on. Let it go, Mallory. Change is an inevitable fact of life.” He gestured at Chad, drinking alone at a table across the room. “Check out Powers if you're looking for a challenge. Figure out what's plaguing him these days.”

Chad had been cheerful enough when Ben and I arrived. Now he downed tequila shots with beer backups, his expression deadpan.

“I'm sure you have a hunch,” I said and turned back to Jack.

“I might. I'll tell you when I find out more.”

“Better hurry. He's abandoning us. A lot of our friends are.”

He chuckled despite his frown. Crossed one long, lanky leg over the other. “Yes. They are. Make new friends, Mallory. I may leave, too. We can't ever look back. It's sad to watch but our group is collapsing right before our eyes.”

I smiled and clung to his arm, feigning anxiety, which had always made him laugh. “Oh, please, Jack. Please make it stop.”

He nudged his elbow against me and chuckled again.

I repositioned myself sideways, one leg up and one down, and watched him with devoted interest.

“I am not the all-powerful Jack Harwood you think I am, sweetheart, but thank you for thinking so these past three years. We will settle into our new lives and our careers. A few of us will remain friends. A few won't, nor will we ever want them as friends for a myriad of reasons.”

“An entire myriad, huh?”

His frown deepened. He made a
tsk
ing noise as he leaned back against Chad's futon with arms folded behind his head.
“Focus on your possibilities. Forget the losers.” He nodded toward Chad.

I gave Chad a quick glance. Even a week before, Jack never would have called him a loser.

“Maybe he's in trouble.”

“He ought to be except he's such a rich, pathetic ass he won't be.” Jack turned his focus on Dana. “Our futures can be whatever we choose. Picture the beautiful future you and Ben are creating.”

“He's all I think about anymore. I can't imagine life without him.”

“Precisely. All of us can expect a spectacular future. Consider where I'm headed.”

“Sans Dana, I'm thinking.”

He drew in a slow sip from his cup and shot me a devilish side-glance, that scoundrelly kind of look he wore whenever he felt playful. “Perhaps.” He tipped his head and clinked his plastic cup against mine, which was nearly drained of ginger ale. One corner of his mouth stretched into a mysterious smile.

“What's up with Chad, then?” I asked.

“I'll say when I'm not shitfaced. It'd be good for you to know.”

I remained sitting beside Jack Harwood. Ben's astute older friend. A good-looking man, usually enthusiastic about life. A critical thinker. In the few short years I'd known him, his educated opinion on any subject impressed me, the youngest in our group. I'd be worse than sad if he told us goodbye, too.

“People will hurt you, Mallory, but only when you let them.”

Not clear why or when he'd formed that opinion, I disagreed. “In some cases that isn't true.” My head filled with examples supporting my opinion. Still, I chose silence because I knew he had more on his mind.

He said nothing for a long while, however. Contemplating my response, or so I presumed. Rather than expanding his point per usual, he focused with knitted brow and penetrating eyes on a cluster of friends that included his then-girlfriend Dana Norris.
He wrinkled his nose, and I sensed he disapproved of her “less is more” choice of clothing.

Ronnie Moore was there, too. She had been my friend the longest. Lissome bronze arms folded gently against her chest. One delicate finger slid a lock of silken black hair off her shoulder. Her head bent toward the plastic cup secured within her hands. She glanced up. Her eyes moved between Dana and Ben. Just once her head turned and she gazed across the room. She was looking at Chad.

Jack Grant, whom we often called Grant to avoid confusion because we had a pair of Jacks in our group, stood between Ronnie and Dana. He habitually pushed up his glasses and shifted from one foot to the other whenever he started to speak. He averted his look from Ben once he noticed Jack and me watching.

I was certain Harwood had not intended his strange advice entirely for me. Yet, not one of those people in that group of friends he was critically observing would ever hurt him or me.

Although Harwood was not as openly miserable as Chad was that evening, he was troubled. Clearly anyone who knew him well could tell. I believed he had been hurt, yet despite the cause, he remained silent, too reticent to ask our help. Ben and I were his closest friends. We'd always be there for Jack whenever he needed us.

The morning after the party, Ben insisted we invite Jack and Dana for dinner. I suggested inviting others but Ben disagreed. He pointed out that Jack was more likely to open up with only the four of us.

No matter, because Grant declined. He had offered to drive Ronnie back to Madison after her short visit home by bus the middle of the week. Chad griped about his goddamn hangover and all the packing left to do. His refusal relieved Ben. Erik Fowler, on the other hand, surprised us when he never called back.

Ordinarily everyone enjoyed visiting my parents' home. People seldom decline an invitation. The veranda and backyard are perfect for outdoor parties. During my call to Mom, who was in Duluth for the weekend, she agreed a cookout might give Jack a more relaxed environment for airing his troubles.

Since I had woken up ill, Ben coaxed me into a morning walk along Lake of the Isles. The lake is a peaceful body of water tucked beneath the backdrop of the Minneapolis skyline rising in the near distance of the Kenwood neighborhood. The lake's shoreline is peppered with lofty, timeworn trees, and luxuriant homes built a century ago circle its perimeter. We returned refreshed, pleased at how the brightly shining, late-morning sun boded a pleasant afternoon.

Ben worked outdoors, setting up the veranda and cleaning Dad's grill. After putting a pot of red potatoes on the stove to boil, I tidied the rest of the downstairs rooms—folding newspapers into a neat pile in the basket beside Dad's rocker near the foyer, and gathering up the dishes we'd left on the breakfast bar.

I labeled the architecture of the Bain house “Tudoresque” during an early-twentieth-century study phase my sophomore year in college. My parents modernized the home, but the original structure my great-grandparents built remains a revival style. There are timber-framed, square-paned windows of various sizes and shapes. The house has a brown brick and gray stone exterior. A sizeable stone chimney rises above the sloping roof to the right of the medieval-style arched portico, and a pair of bronze lanterns with seedy glass are mounted either side of the heavy, wood door.

Ronnie and I used to spread blankets on the front lawn to play dolls when we were girls. There beneath the cool shade of the silver maple, she spun tales of handsome princes and dashing knights emerging through our entryway. At least we imagined princes and knights until one or both of my brothers emerged instead.

Ben strolled into the kitchen and over to the island sink where I was rinsing vegetables for the salad. He nuzzled his cheek beside my ear and locked his arms around me from behind.

“You look like you're feeling better,” he said.

“Much better.” I turned to face him and popped a chunk of carrot into his mouth.

He crunched down and grinned at me, then brushed his finger along my cheek. “You're pale.”

I pinched my cheeks back to pink and stepped over to the counter to peer into the stainless toaster. Whenever sick or lacking sleep, my brown eyes become deep-set and dark-circled. I tried rubbing the darkness away, without much luck.

“The combination of orange juice on an empty stomach and the heat of my morning shower made me ill.”

After throwing up, however, I passed out on the bed pulling on my socks. I suppose we both had a hunch this was more than a bout of the flu but neither of us mentioned our suspicions to the other.

He pulled me close again. “Stay well for finals. I'm making plans, you know.”

I chuckled. “I've heard.”

“I'm serious. See a doctor Monday.” His mouth curled into a sweet smile.

“Can't Monday. Dental hygiene final.”

“After.” He fingered a lock of hair away from my face and tucked it gently behind my ear.

“You're in such a hurry, getting engaged already.”

Ben remained quiet for a long moment. Instead of answering me directly, he said, “I'm talking to your dad when he gets home tomorrow.”