Wrong Question, Right Answer Page 9

  I shove him out of my way as I leave the kitchen. “You need to go.”

  As I walk past the entrance to the living room, the fishbowl catches my eye, forcing me to stop, forcing me to remember why Lucky is even here in the first place. He didn’t come to sleep with me; he came because he was suffering and he didn’t know where else to go. And nothing has changed in that respect. He still lost something special today that was a reminder of his sister’s death—a tragedy he hasn’t been able to move on from yet.

  I grab a handful of hair and squeeze again, wishing I could cry and fall apart right here on the hallway floor. But I know I can’t. I don’t have that luxury of letting myself go nuts, imagining all the ways a child would completely ruin my life, because my friend needs me and that’s more important than what might be happening in my life. I turn around and shout to him from the hallway. “Never mind. You can stay. I just have to go online for a little bit.”

  I go into my home office and log on to my computer, praying I’ll find an answer to my dilemma. Maybe there’s a chart I can consult that’ll tell me if I was fertile on Friday or whatever.

  I don’t know why I’m bothering, though. If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all, and I’m not going to assume that just because I slept with a guy named Lucky that I’m suddenly going to become fortunate myself. My ovaries were probably busy throwing out ten big, fat, fertile eggs on Friday night. I can just picture those slutty little eggs, too . . . Here, spermy, spermy, spermy . . .

  Lucky comes up behind me as I’m scanning ovulation charts. I click on an advertisement for a morning-after pill in my hurry to hide what I’m doing. Oh well. What’s another Commandment broken?

  “Toni, don’t.” Lucky puts his hands on my shoulders and gently squeezes.

  I brush him away angrily. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  He gets a chair and brings it over, sitting down next to me. “You don’t need to panic. The chances of you being . . . whatever . . . are very slim. Let’s just ride it out.” He reaches up and strokes my upper arm.

  My finger freezes in the process of clicking the mouse. I turn to look at him, trying not to let the anguish I’m feeling show in my eyes. I hate how weak and scared I’m acting right now. “You can’t be serious. Our entire lives would be destroyed if I got pregnant. Kids hate me, and I don’t like them either. I’d be a terrible mother. I’d ruin the kid’s life!” I can’t get the image of a neglected, lonely little girl out of my head. She looks a lot like Lucky’s sister.

  “No you wouldn’t. That’s ridiculous.” He glances at the ad on my computer screen and then looks at me, sadder than I’ve ever seen him. Even sadder than when Sunny went belly up. “So, what are you going to do? Start a spontaneous abortion? Is that really what you want?”

  I can’t handle it. I can’t handle his words or his face or the meaning behind everything. I stand up and scream. “I can’t, Lucky! I can’t! I can’t do this!”

  The idea of ending another life has me seeing red. I know I’m not being rational, that murdering Charlie by putting five bullets in his chest is not the same thing as taking a morning-after pill, but I can’t seem to stop the flood of emotion that surges through me. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie . . . I murdered a man I was supposed to love. I’m a murderer forever and that will never change.

  I grab the nearest thing and throw it, trying to calm the emotion taking over every inch of me. It smashes against the wall on the other side of the room. Unfortunately, it was one of my late grandmother’s antique vases, but I don’t let that stop me. The emotions are still there, still eating me alive.

  A box of books is next. I tip it over, sending the contents spilling all over the floor. The pillows on the settee call to me after I’ve trampled the pages. I wish I could shred the material and stuffing into a thousand tiny little pieces, but I lack the strength. Instead, I hurl the cushions against pictures on the walls, knocking them all down. They each fall with a crash of broken glass.

  I’m crying as I pause to yell at the ceiling. “Why?! Is this part of my punishment, God? Is this what I get? A lifetime of repenting? A lifetime of ruining someone else’s life too?” I see a mirror on the wall throwing my ugly image back at me and go after it with both hands out.

  Right before I get there, as I’m reaching to rip it off the wall, steel bands close around me from behind. Lucky is there and he’s got me locked down in a full body hold.

  “Let me go! Let me go, dammit!” I strain to get away and only manage to lift my legs up at the waist. Lucky holds strong, refusing to release me.

  “No.” He’s grunting from the effort of holding on to me. “You need to calm down before you destroy your house.”

  “I don’t care if I destroy my house.” Twisting left and right doesn’t earn my release, and neither does squeezing his arteries at the wrists. I’m going to tell Dev tomorrow how shitty his escape techniques are.

  “You’ll care later, trust me. Just calm down and we’ll talk this through. This is not the end of the world, Toni. I’m not that big of an asshole.”

  It’s him blaming himself that causes me to finally pause. My body just sags when I realize that he thinks I hate him. I don’t hate him at all. I hate me.

  Lucky drags me over to the couch that now has no pillows on it and we fall down onto it together. He grunts when his butt hits the heavy boards that make up the frame of the old settee.

  “If I let you go, are you going to break something?” he asks right next to my ear.

  “I might.” I stick my chin out, being stubborn, even though I know I’ve lost the will to destroy my little world. I’m already regretting the vase. Thank goodness Lucky stopped me before I ruined that mirror. That was one of my grandmother’s favorites.

  “I’m not an asshole. I’ll stand by you, no matter what.”

  I struggle to break free, but he’s not letting me go.

  “Why does it make you so angry when I say that?”

  “Because. I don’t think you’re an asshole, and you don’t need to stand by me. I can take care of myself.”

  Lucky slides me over and off his legs so that we’re sitting side by side. He forces me to turn and look at him by twisting me toward him. Someone seeing us from the outside would think we were sitting on the couch embracing, when in actuality he’s forcing me to look at the emotions written all over his face. They’re too intense. I don’t want to see what I think his heart is telling me. I don’t deserve his kindness.

  “You don’t have to do everything alone,” he says in a soft, kind voice. It’s almost pleading in a way. “You have a family. You have me.” He shakes me a little, and I can feel his biceps flexing against my arm and back.

  “I don’t have you, you. I have the team, and I have Thibault.” I don’t want Lucky pledging himself to me because he thinks he might have gotten me pregnant. That’s not what we’re doing here. This is not a game I am capable of playing and winning. I’ve already lost enough.

  His voice is calmer than mine. “I know you’re angry, and I know you’re lashing out right now, so I’m going to let that slide.”

  I shake my head at him. “This is not me angry. This is me being honest. You should know the difference.”

  He shakes his head at me, joining the battle of wills. “Toni, when are you going to figure out that I do know you? I’ve known you since we were kids. You can’t hide from me. You can’t pretend you don’t care when you do. I know you’re scared, and I know you’re in panic mode right now, but I don’t think you need to be. This shit happens all the time, and people get through it fine.”

  I press my lips together to keep them from trembling. “We are not other people. We’re different. I’m different.”

  He gives me a sad little smile. “I’ll concede that you’re special, but I won’t agree that there’s something wrong with you, which is what I think you’re insinuating.”

  I’ve run out of energy to fight. I’m so tired now, all I want to do is g
o to bed. “Lucky, let me go.”

  “Why? What’re you going to do?” He’s studying my expression so intently I have to look away.

  “I’m going to bed. I just need to get out of here and think.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  I push him away, managing to free myself from his grasp. I stand and shove my hands into my front pockets. “No. You should stay, but stay down here. I’ll be fine alone.”

  I back up a few steps and then turn to go, my feet crunching over the debris. I leave the room without looking behind me and mount the stairs to my bedroom. I make it all the way there before I start crying again. Holy shit. What have I done now?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For a long time, thoughts of my worst-case-scenario life swirl around my head, but I’m just getting to the point where I’m drifting off when a vision of Charlie comes into my mind. In my half-sleep state, I let him in.

  Most of the time I manage to push memories or thoughts of him away, but I guess, with all that happened with Lucky and the anniversary of Charlie’s death being here, it’s just impossible for me tonight. The man I killed is standing in front of me with a trail of swirling smoke above his head, let loose from the cigarette that just left his mouth. Dark gray tendrils slip from between his lips as he smiles. It’s not a happy expression.

  “Look at you,” he says. “Who would’ve thought? Little Antoinette Delacourte becoming a mama.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see the day. Maybe we’ll have a little boy.”

  I feel like I’m going to vomit. I know this can’t be real, that Charlie can’t be here and he can’t be the father of my hypothetical baby. He’s dead because I killed him. None of what’s happening is rational, but it feels completely real. It’s like he’s standing right here in my bedroom looking down at me in judgment, claiming my future for his own.

  Is this what happens when you commit murder? Does the ghost of your victim come back and get to judge everything you do until you die? Control how your life plays out? As awful as it sounds, it also seems fair to me; I took his life and now he’s taking mine.

  I can’t argue the logic of it, but still, I try to shake my head no at Charlie’s ghost. I’m not having a baby. I’m not pregnant. It was just a little mistake, and God has already punished me enough.

  “You should name him Charlie,” the ghost says. More smoke leaks out from behind his teeth. I get the impression that the effect is not from that cigarette that’s still between his fingers. It’s as if there’s a fire burning inside him. I’m sure any moment I’m going to see flames shooting out of his eye sockets.

  I whimper in response. I want to cry out, No!, but the words won’t come.

  Charlie’s face gets closer, looming over mine and getting bigger and bigger. “Will you call him Charlie? And when he’s bad, will you shoot him in the heart? How many times will you shoot him, Bitch? Once? Twice? Five times?”

  That’s it. I can only take so much shit from a ghost. I reach out to hit him in the face, but he grabs me and holds me down. Charlie’s ghost has never been able to do this before. Has the anniversary of his death made him stronger? I’m trapped! I scream, kicking and writhing, trying to get away. He’s going to drag me down into hell with him, I know he is!

  “Toni! Toni!” A voice is calling me from far away. It’s Lucky. Is he going after Lucky?

  “Lucky!” I scream. “He’s here! He’s here—run!”

  My fist goes up and down hard as I throw a random punch, trying to free myself from the ghost of my mistakes.

  “Oof . . . owww . . . dammit, that hurt . . .”

  Something jabs me in the back of my neck. It feels like . . . a chin? I stop struggling, as I listen to someone experiencing great pain. Is it Charlie? For a brief moment, I feel as though I am the victor, that I’ve defeated the ghost who came to rob me of my life and my friend’s life.

  “You finally got me in the nads, just like you promised,” says a strained voice from behind my back.

  My brain finally comes back online, and I realize the voice I heard belongs to Lucky. He’s behind me. Behind me?

  My hand reaches out in front of me and touches sheets. I’m definitely in my bed. Lucky is in my bed?

  I turn and look at him over my shoulder. The room is dark, but the curtains are open and the moon is full. In its glow, I see Lucky lying on the bed next to me. He’s moaning.

  “Damn, that was a good shot in the dark,” he says between heavy breaths.

  I turn over completely and look at him, reaching out to touch his head to make sure he’s real. “What just happened?”

  Lucky’s breathing with difficulty. “You racked me with your fist.”

  Oh shit. “Do you want me to get some ice?”

  “Might not be a bad idea,” he groans.

  I jump up from the bed and scramble out the door. I snag a bag of frozen okra from my freezer and grab a bottle of beer from the fridge. I’ve seen the guys go down in practice sessions at work enough times to know that sometimes they need a little bit of both to dull the pain.

  I walk back into the room with both held out in front of me. “Here. Sorry about that.”

  Lucky reaches up with one hand, not moving from his spot on the bed. He puts the bag of vegetables right between his legs and holds it there with both hands, ignoring the bottle.

  “I brought you a beer, too.”

  “I think I’ve had enough. I’m going to swear off alcohol for the time being, I think.”

  I put the beer on the nightstand and sit down on the edge of the bed, looking at him. “I told you to stay downstairs, dummy.”

  He looks up at me, his expression pained. “Which I was happy to do until you started yelling my name.”

  I frown at him. “You lie. You wish.”

  He tries to smile but doesn’t quite pull it off. “I do wish, but I don’t lie. Heard my name several times. I thought someone was up here killing you.”

  “It felt like somebody was.”

  Lucky tries to prop himself up on one arm. He looks at me, his voice not quite right yet. “You have nightmares about Charlie a lot?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You knew it was Charlie? How?”

  His smile is more genuine this time. “Well, it was either him or me, and I was kind of hoping it wasn’t me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Shut up. I would never have a nightmare about you.”

  “Even if I knocked you up?”

  I lean over and shove him out of the way, sending him onto his back.

  He moans. “Aw, man, that hurt.”

  “You deserved it.”

  He’s staring up at the ceiling, the bag of okra still gripped between his legs. “So, what if I knocked you up?” He tilts his head to look at me. “Would it be such a horrible, awful, terrible thing?”

  Apparently tagging him in the testicles gives him brain damage. “Do you even have to ask that question?” It’s so weird being here with Lucky like this. It seems like overnight we’re slipping into some other type of relationship that I’m having a hard time defining. He’s acting more like a boyfriend now than a brother. Do I want that? Can I handle that? Am I completely deluding myself about how he feels? I don’t feel qualified to answer any of my questions.

  His hand comes up lazily and lands on my leg. His fingers travel up my thigh. “We’d make a good couple, you know.”

  I slap his hand away. “Shut up.” Somehow, despite my horrible nightmare, suffered just minutes earlier, he’s making a smile start to sneak onto my face. I refuse to let it show.

  His hand comes back. “I’m serious. Everybody says so. I talk to Jenny about us a lot. She’s good with advice. She says I should go for it and stop hiding from my feelings.”

  I lift his hand up and move it over to the okra. “Anyone who says that is a complete idiot, and you should stop listening to them.” I knew it was Jenny getting into his head. May too, probably. Those chicks need to learn to mind their own business, and I’m going to t
ell them that the next time I see them.

  Lucky play-frowns at me. “You are seriously damaging my ego right now. You know that, right?”

  I snort. “Believe me, your ego is big enough to handle it.”

  Lucky frowns for real, going pensive. He reaches up and rubs his chin, wiggling it around a little bit. “Do you think I should grow a beard?”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  He looks at me. “Jenny says I should grow a beard because I’m too good-looking. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m too good-looking and that intimidates you.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “Lucky, you forget; I’ve known you since you were, like, eleven years old. Remember those teeth you had?” I pretend to shiver in disgust. “Yikes.”

  He sticks his front teeth out at me. “Fixed themselves, didn’t they? No braces, baby.”

  This is the Lucky I know, not the one sobbing over things he can’t change. I’m more comfortable on what feels like solid ground.

  “Maybe,” I say, “but every time I look at you, all I see are those buck teeth.”

  “Seriously?” He sounds almost hurt.

  I scoot back on my bed so I can lean on my pillows against the headboard. Lucky watches me go.

  “Remember when we decided to make that clubhouse over on that bare lot where you were shooting your BB gun, the first day we met you?”

  Lucky drags himself up to the headboard with me and lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’s wearing a nostalgic expression that probably mirrors my own. “Yeah, I remember that. That was the coolest day of my life.”

  I laugh, but when I realize he’s serious, I stop. “Really? Why?”

  He looks at me. “Because the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on came over to me and asked if she could try my gun. And when she couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with it, she asked me to show her how to shoot. And then, when I knocked all the cans off the wall, she told me I was pretty cool. Remember, I had those buck teeth, so any compliment was a big deal.”

  He probably expects me to shove him for saying that, but I don’t bother. I’m ignoring his ridiculous assertions of having an infatuation with me since way back when. Talking to Jenny the overly romantic matchmaker has made him see his past in a way he never did before. I get it; it’s nicer thinking of it that way than focusing on our real lives, on our parents and the reasons why we spent so much time not at home.