Wingman: Just a Guy and His Dog Read online

  "Please"—she waved off my logic—"All vans are suspicious. In high school the only reason boys bought vans was because—" She turned off her words quickly, and the pink on her cheeks darkened more.

  I held back a smile because I knew it would irritate her. "I believe that is what is called stereotyping, Mom. Not all vans are evil. Besides, he seems like a nice guy. He's extremely funny."

  "And . . ." Mom prodded.

  I stared at her in confusion. ". . . and he's fixing the fountain?" I ended with a question, not sure what she was waiting for.

  "And . . ."

  "And . . . why are we playing this game?"

  "Kathy mentioned that he is quite the thing."

  A laugh spurted from my mouth. "The woman sure has a way with words. If you mean the new stranger pulling weeds out of the fountain is extremely fun to look at, then yes he is quite the thing." I kissed her cheek. "I've got to take a shower. What time will dinner be ready?"

  "Half hour," she called back as I headed down the short hallway to my bedroom.

  My tiny bedroom, the smallest at the back of the house, was the perfect example of a time capsule. A very young Justin Timberlake with bushy bleached hair grinned down at me from the NSYNC poster over the bed, and even though I loved boy bands, they had some pretty strong competition from my utter adoration of horses. The horse posters outnumbered the boy band posters two to one.

  The faded floral quilt on my bed had lost all its bright pink and green and the flowers were starting to look pathetic and gray, but the blanket had been worn to blissfully soft perfection. I figured I'd be keeping it until it was just a cobweb of thread. As silly as it seemed, even to me, keeping my bedroom in the past was also comforting. Every night I went to bed hoping that when I opened my eyes in the morning, I'd find that the past eleven years had never happened and I was still twelve and everything was as it should be, happy and complete. It was crazy and laughable, but I wished it every night as I closed my eyes. Please let me wake up to Ethan's noisy video game playing in the next room. How badly I wanted to jump out of bed, pound on the black stallion poster on the wall and yell at Ethan to turn down his stupid game. Sometimes I rapped my knuckles hard on the wall just to remember what it felt like.

  I walked to my dresser and pulled out an old t-shirt to wear down to the basement.

  Dad tapped on the door and poked his head inside my room. "Hey, Kitten."

  "Hey, Dad." I had never been a parent but I figured it must always be cool for a parent to hear the words 'your kid looks just like you', but it wasn't so cool when your Roman nose and wide hazel eyes reminded you too much of someone you lost. I found comfort in seeing my dad's pronounced nose and warm gaze, but I knew he had to look in the mirror every morning and see Ethan. And I hated that he had to suffer every time he looked at his own reflection.

  Dad walked over to my nightstand and absently fingered the lampshade. He was one of those even keeled, naturally funny people. At least when he wasn't weighted down in one of his dark moods. He tried to pretend they never happened, so I pretended not to notice.

  "I understand we're having macaroni and cheese with real cheese."

  "Thank goodness she got off the fake cheese bandwagon. I mean what's next—carob instead of chocolate?"

  "God forbid. How was work? I heard some guy pulled into town with his dog and just started cleaning out the fountain. Strange."

  "Boy, the gossip chain is still strong as ever in this town."

  "Kathy Mackson. She's the solid link that keeps it strong."

  "Yeah, he was out there cleaning the fountain all day, but I'm sure he's already bored and giving up on the idea. I doubt we'll see him again." Just saying the words brought on a twinge of disappointment. Fynn had been a nice blip in the monotony of the Butterfield day. He certainly had gotten people talking and thinking about something other than their dreary lives.

  I showered and changed. I had a good fifteen minutes until dinner and decided I could use the time to set things up for painting. Mom was at the table reading something on her phone as I passed through the kitchen to the basement door.

  "Dinner will be on the table soon," she reminded me.

  "Yep, just going to set up." I opened the door and the familiar, pungent smell of oil paints struck me. Usually, if I spent too long buried down in the brick walled basement with its tiny windows, I came up feeling more than a little high from the fumes. But I didn't mind. The basement was a perfect artist's studio, a place that I could shut out the rest of life and concentrate on my work. Occasionally, Dad would drift down to see what I was working on, but Mom never thought much of my love for art. She always considered it a waste of my brain power. I had to disagree. When I painted, it felt as if I was spilling out not just my intellect but every other part of my soul onto the canvas.

  I walked over to the twelve by twelve piece of wood and carried it to the easel. I'd gotten the idea for my latest project when the old building that was once used as a town community center was being ripped down. It felt so sad and final to watch the workers jam their hammers and chisels into the planks to pry away the walls. So many things had happened in that community center, town festivals, summer crafts, even the occasional first kiss. In the summer before sixth grade, Sawyer Dunn, an older man of twelve kissed me behind the community center or at least I considered it a kiss. Our braces smacked together and there was some exchange of spit. Sawyer and his family moved out of town soon after that. Not because of the kiss but because his dad was relocated to New York. I was Lucky Thirteen, but they were the Lucky Dunns. I hated that all those memories were being stripped away just because no one in town had the energy or desire to keep the place up, a place from a time when things in the town were right side up instead of upside down. So I decided to salvage some of it. I picked out some of the best pieces of wood and hauled them back to my house in the back of Dad's truck.

  Mom had watched me carry each piece down to the basement, but she never asked what I was doing with them. She knew not to ask when it came to my art.

  I rested the wood on the easel. The shiny blue number four stood out in the collage of other pictures, the strawberry ice cream and the shiny white pair of ice skates. Aside from being a big fan of strawberry ice cream and ice skating, Sandra Forrest, Angel #4 had read the entire Little House on the Prairie series three times and she'd had an amazing pony named Jasper. I was more jealous of Sandra's pony than I was of Sheila's butterfly costume. I sometimes felt guilty when I went to Sandra's house because I was really just there to visit Jasper. Sandra and I just didn't have that much in common. Sandra's parents didn't stay in town. It was too hard, they said. Too painful. Too many memories. Mom had heard that they eventually divorced and moved on to new lives. They had left Jasper behind. He was still alive and amazing, living in Roger Hick's backyard. I was devastated when my parents turned down the chance for us to have Jasper. 'We just don't have the room, Ella' dad had told me through my heavy sobs.

  "Ella, dinner. Remember to wash your hands," my mom called down to the basement.

  "Be right there." I stayed for a minute longer and looked at the blank piece of wood that I was keeping for last. It was the nicest piece, with no big knot holes or cracks. I'd set it aside for last even though it was for Angel #3. It would be the hardest of all to complete. Angel #3, he was the reason it was so hard for my dad to look himself in the mirror. He was the reason I let my mom say childish things like 'don't talk to strangers' and 'wash your hands' without getting mad. He was the reason I stayed in Butterfield and went to bed every night hoping I would wake up to the annoying sound effects of a video game. He was Ethan Joseph Ives. Son to Susan and Derek Ives. He loved collecting baseball cards, watching gory movies and he could throw a football like a torpedo. He never stopped smiling. And he had been my best friend and by my side since day one . . . literally. Angel #3, Ethan Joseph Ives was my twin brother.

  Chapter Seven

  Fynn

  I could have told myself tha
t I wasn't waiting to see her, but that would have been a big fucking lie.

  I loved that she rode a bicycle, a dark pink bicycle that looked as if it had seen better days.

  "Good morning, Starshine," I called from my perch in the fountain.

  A smile broke out on her face as she climbed off the bike. She rolled it over to the fountain and pushed down the kickstand. Boone trotted out from under his shade spot, stopped at her feet and instantly rolled to his back in a shameless attempt for a belly rub.

  Ella crouched down and obliged him.

  "He trained himself to do that, to roll over at the sight of a pretty girl. Everything I ever learned about flirting, I learned from that dog."

  Ella peered up at me. Those blue eyes, damn they were incredible. "That would explain your lack of subtlety."

  She was never thrown off by anything I said, another cool thing.

  I braced my hand on the edge of the fountain and threw my legs over. My feet landed in a solid thud on the hard packed dirt. I had already cleared away all the debris and weeds that circled the fountain.

  Ella patted Boone's stomach one last time and straightened. It was impossible not to let my gaze travel the length of her, with her tempting curves and long, suntanned legs. She didn't seem to mind. She was a small town girl, but there wasn't all that much small town about her.

  She smiled down at Boone, who was still on his back just in case the belly rub took a second round. "He's a smart dog."

  "He's brilliant when it comes to getting what he wants, like treats and a tummy rub, but he doesn't fetch, or sit or shake hands. He does however have farting down to an art. And I don't want to sound like one of those braggy, delusional parents, you know the kind who think that because their kid can pluck out Chopsticks on the piano, they are ready for the symphony, but I'm pretty sure Boone can fart on cue. I've seen him clear a couch in seconds just to get the cushion he wants."

  Ella wiped a laughter tear away from her eye and caught her breath. "You two seem like the most unlikely, and yet, the most likely pair. Thank goodness you found each other."

  "Yeah, I don't know what I'd do without him. Boone is my wingman."

  Ella's smile faded. "What did you call him?"

  "My wingman. You know the guy who helps me get where I need to go." I had no clue what I'd said but something had stirred up some emotion. "Everything all right, Ella?"

  She shook her head as if to clear it. "Yes, sorry, just hadn't heard that word in a while." She took a deep breath and stared up at the fountain. I was nearly done cleaning it out. "It looks so different without the weeds." She turned back to me. "I was sure you'd be gone by this morning."

  "Were you? Are you disappointed to see me then?"

  "No, not at all. It's just—do you really think you can get it working again?"

  "We'll find out soon enough. I've got to take it apart and clean out the center tube so the water can flow freely."

  She looked pointedly at my new work gloves. "You certainly seem determined."

  "I don't give up easily." I climbed back into the fountain.

  "Wait," she said. "I want to read what it says on the back of your calf." She walked up and softly touched the back of my leg. I felt the light heat from her fingers through my entire body. "Don't get mired in all the bullshit." She grinned up at me. "It's original."

  "It's just something my dad used to say. Hey, Twinks, I was thinking maybe we could hang out after you get off work. If you have time, I could use a travel guide."

  "A travel guide for Butterfield? Guess I didn't give that career path enough consideration." When her pink lips tilted in thought, suddenly all I could think about was kissing her. "I'm off at four if you're still around." She walked over to her bike.

  "Oh, I'll be around."

  Boone let out a low growl. His black eyes were focused on a guy walking our direction. He was wearing shiny brown loafers, neatly pressed cargo shorts and one of those obnoxious grins that always made me want to ball a fist. Boone growled again.

  "Something tells me that guy is an asshole."

  Ella looked at me. "How did you know that?"

  "Ah ha, so I'm right. Although I can't take all the credit. See the way Boone's upper lip is quivering. That means he's turned on his asshole detection system, and he’s going into stealth mode."

  "And you only give him credit for farting on cue." Ella winked. "I've got to head into the market. Have a nice day."

  The guy let out an earsplitting whistle. "Hey, hot stuff," he called as he saw Ella take off across the street.

  She waved back, barely, before parking her bike and going inside the store.

  The big grin he was sporting as he watched Ella cross the street disappeared by the time he reached the fountain. He stood with his arms crossed, looking about as important as an asshole wearing polished loafers could look.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" His question was followed by Boone's growl.

  "Boone, go lay down." Boone walked with droopy head and tail back to his shady spot. I rarely talked sharply to Boone, but this guy looked like the type of guy who might kick a dog.

  He was still staring up at me through his mirrored sunglasses.

  "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm cleaning out the fountain."

  "Why?"

  I blew out a hot breath to keep my cool. "Not to get all George Mallory on you, but because it's there. That's why."

  "Who the fuck is George? My name is Brent."

  "George Mallory? The guy who climbed Everest because 'it was there'? Never mind. Just thought I'd get the thing working again." I refocused on the weeds, hoping he'd get bored of watching me and leave. No such luck.

  "Don't know why you'd bother. This whole park looks like shit. Be easier if the earth just opened up and swallowed the whole fucking place. Everything went to hell after the accident. I couldn't wait to blow this town once I graduated." He looked back toward the market. "What were you doing talking to Ella?"

  "Just having a conversation."

  His laugh was grating. "They call her Lucky Thirteen, but back in high school we guys were the lucky ones, if you catch my meaning. Ella Ives was every guy's fantasy, and she made those fantasies come true. She was the perfect date because you always knew you'd score with her."

  I wrenched out a big wet clump of weeds and squeezed my hand around them as I tried to ignore the jerk and every shitty thing he said about Ella.

  "The big bummer was that she was a year younger than the rest of us, so she was off limits near the end of high school when I turned eighteen."

  "What accident?" I asked sharply to switch topics, even though I wasn't too sure I wanted to hear about the accident either.

  He stared up at me and shook his head. "Nothing. That's town business."

  I was done with this guy. "Speaking of business, seems to me the shit you said earlier is Ella's business." I dropped the slimy, wet clump of weeds right next to him, splattering his sparkling loafers.

  "Fuck. Look what you did."

  "Sorry about that. I've got to get back to work."

  "Yeah, well I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be cleaning that fountain. I think I'll talk to the mayor and see about getting you booted out of town. You seem like nothing but trouble."

  "You do that."

  Chapter Eight

  Ella

  I felt stupid for feeling giddy about spending time with Fynn, but I couldn't seem to stop. I finished stocking the refrigerator section and headed to the bathroom to clean up. "I'm finished with the beverages, Patty, so I'm leaving for the day."

  I'd spent a few hours trying to figure out how to sneak over to the park to meet Fynn without Patty noticing, but there was no solution. She had spent a good part of the day staring out at the fountain. I felt guilty about hanging out with Fynn but then I tended to feel guilty a lot. It was hard not to, especially when people were constantly reminding me with the stupid Lucky Thirteen nickname. And the moniker had two different meanings, depen
ding on who was saying it. Some people said it with an air of wonderment, as if I was some kind of miraculous thing walking around the town. Others said it with a bitter edge, as if offhandedly telling me I had no right to be so damn lucky. Sadly enough, I just never felt all that lucky, and I sure as heck didn't ask for the nickname.

  Patty looked up from her account book. "It's going to be a boring end of the day now that Mr. Hot and Handy is gone. I wonder if he'll be back tomorrow?"

  "He's gone?" I looked toward the front window. The fountain was empty.

  "Yeah, darn it. He packed up his amazing muscles and tools and took off about an hour ago." She patted her ledger. "I guess it's a good thing. I'll finally be able to concentrate on these damn numbers."

  As stupid as I felt for feeling excited about the prospect of spending time with Fynn, I felt even sillier for being thoroughly disappointed that he stood me up. He'd had a long hot day in the sun and his invite had been only quick and casual, so it seemed perfectly reasonable that he forgot. I tried not to feel hurt or I'd risk feeling even sillier.

  I headed into the bathroom to wash up and a yucky thought crept into my head. Brent Mackson had stood in front of the fountain, looking like a big shot with his blue polo shirt and his arms crossed. Patty and I watched Fynn and Brent have some kind of conversation. With the way they looked, none of it seemed to be lighthearted or congenial. I wondered just how much of the humiliating spiral into the loose and wild high school years of Ella Ives Brent had relayed to the town's new visitor. Guilt, sorrow and a general lack of gravity under my feet had helped me make some incredibly bad decisions in high school. Everyone in town had dealt with our profound loss in a different way. Patty couldn't talk to strangers or walk past a bottle of aspirin without rearranging it. Kathy Mackson had decided smiles were no longer a part of her daily routine. And I'd spent my teen years wanting to please everyone. Brent was the one person intent on never letting me forget those out of control years.