The Heartbreak Messenger Page 14

  “You’re a good friend, Rob. I’m sorry if I haven’t always been one. Especially since, well, you know, since becoming the Heartbreak Messenger.”

  “Apology accepted,” Rob said, pulling out his ham and cheese. “But feel free to tell me again how awesome I am.”

  I laughed around another bite of doughnut. “Seriously. You’re awesome.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sat there next to him, thinking about my successes and my failures, my business and my life. I wondered if the next apology I needed to deliver would go as smoothly. “Do you think Abby will ever speak to me again?”

  “Well, I’m not a gambling man, but if I was, I’d probably put some money on it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she was the one that saved you the Holey Dough.” Rob looked over at me and smiled big. “If it was up to me, I’d have eaten it myself.”

  Chapter 28

  I left our apartment early the next morning, wanting to be at the front door of Pretty Bouquets right when they opened at ten o’clock. There were hearts to fix and a friendship to patch and a schedule to keep. There was also still some thinking to do.

  I rode my bike along a meandering road on the far west side of town. A dusty cloud trailed in my wake. I swerved in and out, making patterns in the dirt. I passed the Bus Barn, where the yellow school buses were lined up in a neat row, resting for the weekend. Up ahead, warehouses and self-storage complexes sat back in the trees on the left, while a small stream ran through a gully on the right. Eventually the road would go past the backside of Lincoln Hill Park and let out near the flower shop. The long route gave me time to think.

  I’d rehearsed about twenty different speeches for Abby in front of the bathroom mirror, but none of them seemed right. Apologies are never easy, I guess. And apparently the bigger the bonehead you’ve been, the more they hurt coming up. Mom had told me to say what was in my heart. There was plenty in there—assuming I could get it all out.

  To be completely honest, the biggest problem was trying to figure out my own feelings. Everything just seemed so complicated.

  Abby. Me. Justin. Friend. Buddy. Best friend. Girlfriend. A few weeks ago, I’d thought I knew what all of those words meant. Then somehow everything had become muddled and twisted and blurred. Part of me wished that things could get back to normal, uncomplicated. But at the same time, I wasn’t so sure that’s what I wanted at all.

  Maybe it wasn’t that I needed a Rosetta Stone for girls. Maybe I needed one to figure out myself.

  Engine noise rumbled into my thoughts.

  At first I figured it was one of the school buses out for a weekend spin. But it was the wrong kind of rumble. It was smaller, vaguely familiar—and it pushed needles of fear into my skin.

  Ten yards ahead, a motorcycle pulled out from one of the side roads that led back into the complex of warehouses. The rider wore a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket. He looked up the road, ready to make a left turn in the direction I was headed. Then he glanced my way.

  Gunner peered over the top of his sunglasses and smiled.

  My life flashed before my eyes. It was boring and short and about to end way too early. But the thought that rose above all others was, Why today?

  I glanced around, but there was nowhere my bike could go where the motorcycle couldn’t follow. I slammed on my brakes.

  Gunner’s motorcycle shot toward me with a roar. Within seconds his front tire bumped up against mine and his headlight filled my vision.

  I took a deep breath. Perhaps he just wanted to talk. Maybe he didn’t know about the black book betrayal with his ex-girlfriends.

  He let his bike idle to a monotonous growl. “Hey, Sly,” he said with a smile. “I was just heading out to see what pain I could cause. Nice of you to stop by.”

  Hmmm. He probably knows. “Hey, Gunner. Um, I gotta go. Someone’s waiting for me.”

  Gunner flicked his handlebar and the Beast lurched forward, giving my bike a violent nudge. I scooted back, my toes on the ground to keep my balance. Gunner kept rolling slowly forward as I tried to increase the gap between our tires.

  “You know,” he said over the noise of the Kawasaki, “my life has really sucked lately. It took some time, Sly, but I finally figured out what to blame it on.”

  I glanced behind me. “Rotten luck?”

  “Nope. Some kid I hired to do a simple job. Turns out he had a death wish.”

  I tightened my grip on the handlebars and tried to keep my voice steady. “Listen, Gunner, I … I did what you asked. I broke up with the girls and didn’t tell them about each other.” There was now several feet between our tires.

  Gunner’s smile turned into a sneer. “Nice try, Sly. But I want my money back. And I’ll take it, right after I beat the…”

  I slammed my pedals forward with everything I had. I swerved hard, scraping past the Beast and ducking as Gunner’s hand shot out to grab me. I heard him curse and then the engine roared to life like a war machine.

  My mind raced. I couldn’t outpace Gunner when he was sitting on 120 horsepower. There was no chance of a cop car passing by out here. And natural disasters never strike when and where you need them. My only hope was to hold out until I reached some public place where Gunner couldn’t beat me to death without witnesses.

  The air vibrated as the motorcycle pulled up alongside me. Gunner smiled his jungle cat grin as his hair danced around his face. He pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and then swerved toward me in one smooth motion.

  I frantically pulled my handlebars to the right and then yanked back, inches away from slipping into the gully on the side of the road.

  Gunner laughed. He was like a cat playing with the mouse before devouring it whole. He edged his motorcycle closer as I pedaled on the stony lip of the gully. I glanced down to see a thin line of water trickling at the bottom. The gully was less than two yards across, but it was shoulder-deep with steep walls. If I fell, I probably wouldn’t break anything, but the only escape would be through Gunner’s fists.

  Something smacked the backside of my head. I looked over in time to see Gunner reach over and slap my head again.

  “What’s the matter, Sly?” he shouted. “I thought the Heartbreaker wanted to play tough with Gunner. Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Twenty yards ahead the road pulled to the left. My heart sank. I knew what Gunner was going to do. He would crowd me out as we came around that curve, and I’d go crashing into the gully.

  My body urged me to hit the brakes, to turn around and try to find help in the warehouses half a mile back. But it was Saturday—no one would be there.

  We were almost at the curve. Gunner saw my wide eyes, my look of panic. He laughed.

  I was ready to slam on the brakes when I saw a large round stone in my path just where the gully wall plunged downward and the curve in the road pulled to the left. Knowing that broken limbs were probably a sure thing at that point, I poured on the last bit of speed my legs could give me.

  My front tire hit the smooth side of the stone, which was slanted just enough to give me the lift I needed. I flew into the air over the gully. I had the speed. I had the height. I had the momentum. I felt like throwing my arms into the air and shouting, “Free at last!”

  I’d taken enough bike jumps to know how to position my legs, grip the handlebars, and keep everything steady on impact. Not that I was ever very good at it. As my rear tire crashed into the ground on the other side of the gully, my angle was all wrong. The bike slipped out from under me and sent me tumbling into the trees.

  I scrambled to my feet, feeling every scrape and bruise along my body. Nothing seemed to be broken, which almost made me smile. Down the dirt road, Gunner was turning around as quickly as he could. I grabbed the handlebars of my bike, but saw that the back rim looked like a wavy letter D with whiskers made out of spokes.

  Gunner wasn’t likely to risk his motorcycle trying that jump, but I wasn’t going to wait
to find out. Legs still wobbling, I pushed my bike through the trees.

  The ground gradually sloped upward. My calves burned with each step. I caught a branch underfoot and slid back a few yards. I kinda knew where I was, but really had no idea where the trees would end and civilization begin. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, hands on knees.

  I have to hurry. I have to keep going. I couldn’t let Abby down again.

  And then I heard that familiar rumble, faint but distinct. The Beast was on the move.

  I couldn’t tell which direction the sound came from—in front or behind. I ran, pushing my wounded bike through the sycamores and poplars. Moments later I burst through the edge of the trees and landed on an expanse of trimmed green grass.

  I was in Lincoln Hill Park. In the distance I saw the path up to the top of the hill, and then the parking lot beyond where I’d first met Gunner. I briefly wondered if Gunner appreciated the irony of that as I turned and saw him bearing down on me across the green grass. I dropped my bike and ran for it. I headed toward the neighborhoods beyond the park, where the masses of civilized people were picking up their morning papers.

  But Gunner was in control again. He curved around and cut me off. I turned and he cut me off again. I rounded the corner of a brick maintenance shed, hoping it would at least separate me from Gunner’s view. But the edge of the shed was met by a chain-link fence, creating the perfect corner for catching a mouse.

  Gunner parked his motorcycle in front of me and slid off with a swagger.

  My legs were Jell-O and my lungs were burning. Trapped between wall and fence, I knew if I ran I wouldn’t make it ten feet before he tackled me. I stood as straight as I could and stared at my pitiful reflection in his sunglasses.

  He pulled off his black leather jacket and draped it across the seat of the Beast. He slid the shades from his face to reveal steely eyes that focused on me like machine gun sights. He stretched his arms back and rolled his head around, like he was getting ready to box at the gym. “All right, Sly. Time to do business.”

  I prepared myself for death or unconsciousness, whichever came first. But as I closed my eyes, Abby’s face was the only thing that came to mind.

  Gunner took a step forward and raised his fist.

  “Gunner!”

  My eyes popped open and Gunner spun around. Past him, down the park path and over the grass, I saw ten hulking forms in gray shorts and crimson T-shirts bounding toward us in single file. Duke Ripling trotted at the front of the line.

  “Gunner!” Duke shouted again. As they approached, Duke called out a command and pointed his fingers to the sides. The John P. Westmore defensive line split in two and formed a half circle around me and Gunner before coming to a stop.

  Duke stepped up to Gunner.

  “What do you want, Ripling?” Gunner’s shoulders were back and his head up, but he was still six inches shorter than Duke.

  “What you doing with my little man here?” Duke asked.

  “Nothing I need you around for.”

  Duke squared his shoulders. “Maybe you oughta pick on someone your own size.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. I restrained myself from launching into some sort of Go team! cheerleader chant.

  “Oh, you’re a real hero, aren’t you?” Gunner said the words with bravado, but his eyes jumped for a split second to the football players surrounding us. He glanced back toward his jacket and I remembered the knife.

  A step forward put Duke inches from Gunner’s face. “I don’t think you understand. The little messenger man is with me. Anything happens to him, I’m going to take it personal, and I’ll probably get just a little angry. You do know why they call me Duke the Ripper, don’t you?”

  I’d wondered that myself and wished he would go into detail for Gunner’s sake.

  Gunner sidled toward his bike, throwing on his jacket as he tossed a leg over the Beast. “Shove a jockstrap in it, Ripling.”

  Duke lunged forward and Gunner jumped, trying to push his motorcycle along while hitting the ignition. It finally turned and the defensive line let him pass with a few taunts and insults. Gunner revved the engine and took off across the grass.

  Laughing, Duke turned back to me and held up his hand for a high-five. “Righteous, little messenger.” I hit his hand hard, and then wished I hadn’t.

  “Take five, guys,” Duke said to his teammates. Half of the players collapsed to the ground, while the others trotted over to the drinking fountain.

  It took a moment for my heart to slow down enough for me to talk. “Thanks, Duke. Sir. I really appreciate that.”

  “No worries, man. Like I told you the other day, I think you’re all right. Now that Gunner knows I got your back, he won’t even look your way. He’s all leather and steel on the outside, but I’ve never seen such a cream puff.”

  “Well, thanks.” I stood there for a moment, wondering what else I could say. I felt like hugging the guy, since he’d just saved my skin and all, but I was afraid that might not go over too well, especially in front of the team. Instead I said, “So, hey, have you talked to Lisa lately?”

  Duke’s face fell and he sighed. Perhaps not the best question to ask, but at least he didn’t start crying. “I’ve tried. I even sat outside her window all night long on Wednesday, at least until her grandma chased me away with a fire poker. She just won’t listen. Won’t even talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Once again, I had the feeling Lisa was missing out on something, that they were both suffering for no good reason.

  “If there was just a way to make her understand,” Duke said.

  Right then an idea popped into my head and snapped into place, like magnetic puzzle pieces finding each other at last. “Hey, Duke … there’s something I want to talk over with you. I need to think it through first, and I’m late for an appointment right now, but I might be able to return the favor.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “Uh, sure, man, stop by the house any time and we’ll talk.”

  “Okay,” I said as I headed off to grab my bike, my mind already whirling with ideas that hopefully wouldn’t get me pulverized or threatened or make me feel guilty. Maybe. “And thanks again.”

  Chapter 29

  This time when I walked into the Pretty Bouquets flower shop, the lady behind the counter shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, dear, but there was a funeral this morning. I’m all out of carnations.”

  “That’s okay. I’m actually here for something different.”

  That made her eyebrows lift just a little.

  “I need a rose. A really nice rose. It’s for a friend. She’s a girl. She’s just a friend—my best friend, really—but, you know, maybe later on down the road … anyway. I need to apologize. I need to let her know I’m still here for her. As a friend.”

  The woman gave a nod of satisfaction. “Now that’s something I can help you with.”

  She turned behind her and opened a glass door. The cold air flooded into the small store. She gestured to a collection of roses on the far right-hand side. “Now, a short-stemmed rose is something you want to avoid. It’s what one gives his mother on Mother’s Day. And they’re usually cheap enough to buy at the grocery store, which is always a faux pas.”

  “A phoo-what?”

  But the lady was deep into her floral consultation. “No, what you need is a long-stemmed rose. These are usually fuller and larger than an average short-stemmed, and often last longer once they bloom. This allows the recipient more time to think about your kindness and devotion.” She moved over to the large buckets of roses on the left. “Always select a rose with a number of leaves still attached, as this suggests authenticity. As for color, in your situation, you may want to avoid red, since it tends to be indicative of romantic love. But a yellow rose is a sign of friendship, a white rose a sign of peace…”

  She moved toward the display of long-stemmed roses and carefully pulled one out. “In your particular situation, I have a good f
eeling about this one here.” The rose was a deep lavender, with darker purple peeking out at the edges of the petals just starting to open up. Even to me it looked pretty cool.

  “Can I get it plain like that, with a ribbon tied around the stem?” I asked.

  She cocked her head to one side. “A very refined choice. But don’t you want to know how much it costs first?”

  “No. I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 30

  I arrived at Mick’s when the sun was just high enough to cast shadows over the picnic table. Abby sat there with Rob, just as he had promised me she would. As I headed through the parking lot, I glanced over at the garage where Mom was working on a Dodge Neon (spark plugs). She saw the rose in my hand and gave me a quick wink.

  I stopped just short of the picnic table. Abby studied a page in her spiral notebook, a pencil in her hand. She didn’t look at me. A five-gallon bucket of walnuts was on the ground next to Rob, a Tupperware on the table, and a metal nutcracker in his hand. He raised the nutcracker in greeting. “Hey, Quentin.” He nodded toward Abby and gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Thanks, Rob,” I said.

  “No problem.” He put a nut in the cracker and snapped it open.

  I stared at him for a moment. “Rob,” I finally said.

  “Oh. Oh, right. I, um, I’m going to go help your mom, uh, hold wrenches or something.” He tossed down the nutcracker and left.

  I cleared my throat. “Abby, what I have to say…”

  “Sit down, Mr. Chinetti.”

  I immediately knew what kind of conversation this was going to be.

  I sat down across the table from Abby and laid the rose right in front of me where it couldn’t be missed.

  “I have three questions for you.” Abby wrote in her notebook as she spoke. “If you can answer those three questions honestly, then there’s a good chance I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

  Oh, boy, here we go.

  She looked up and locked eyes with me, then raised her left index finger. “What were you doing on Monday afternoon when you stood me up for our homework session?”