The Lucky Ones(35)

“Not the end. Not even close. Someone in that house tried to kill you. You shouldn’t be there.”

“It was thirteen years ago.”

“So was my divorce. You don’t catch me at my ex-wife’s house, do you?”

“First of all, your ex-wife wouldn’t let you in her house. Second, none of this is any of your business, McQueen.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“No.”

“Cricket—”

“I told you not to call me that anymore. And shouldn’t you be out buying nursery furniture or something instead of interrogating me?”

“I have plenty of time to interrogate you and buy nursery furniture.”

“I’m a little busy, however, so I’m going to go.”

“Busy? Doing what?”

“Sitting on a couch staring at the ocean. I’m swamped.”

“Are you going to stay mad at me forever?” he asked.

“Forever? It’s been three days. And as a matter of fact, I’m not mad. However...I don’t think we need to be talking to each other. Do you?”

“I think if you’re in a house with someone who wants to kill you, we probably should stay on the line.”

“I’m alone in the house,” she said. “And I feel very safe here. Roland gave me quite the welcome home last night.”

“Big party?”

“We slept together,” she said.

That admission had the desired effect of silencing McQueen for a good long time. She spent those beautiful seconds grinning and watching the waves dance up the beach. They seemed happy today, happy for her.

“You had sex with Roland?”

“Twice.”

“You had sex with your brother?”

“It gets better. Or worse, depending on how Catholic you are. He’s a monk.”

“Monk? Black robes and bad haircuts? That kind of monk?”

“He wears jeans and flannels and he has very nice hair. But yes, he is a monk. He left his abbey a few months ago to take care of his dad.”

“You had sex with your ex-brother who is now a monk.”

“It was surprisingly good,” Allison said. “You would never have known he was a monk.”

“Did you do that just to hurt me?” he asked.

McQueen was silent again for long enough Allison stopped enjoying it.

“No,” she said. “Not just to hurt you.”

“Dammit, Allison.”

“McQueen, you really give yourself too much credit. You called me. I didn’t call you. You ended things. I didn’t.”

“Six years. You can’t ask me to stop worrying about you overnight after six years.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said with an exaggerated groan.

“I don’t? You’re in a house where you almost died and you don’t know who did it or why, and I’m not supposed to worry?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not sure that you do.”

“McQueen, need I remind you I was nineteen when we had sex the first time. You treated me like an adult when I was still a kid. Now I am actually an adult, and you’re treating me like a child. If your next sentence isn’t an apology, I’m hanging up and this is the last call of yours I’m ever taking.”

Knowing McQueen and his congenital inability to apologize, she fully expected this to be the last time they’d speak. Seemed McQueen was still capable of surprising her.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for taking you to bed too young. I’m sorry for making you put your life on hold for me. And I’m sorry for treating you like a child when I know you’re as smart and capable as they come.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Apology accepted.”

“But one more thing, please?”

“Are you going to say something sexist and patronizing again?”

“Probably. But give me this one.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Please, Allison, please be careful.”

The pleading tone in his voice wriggled through the chinks in her armor. Since her aunt died, he’d been the closest thing to family she’d had. He’d helped her buy a car. During a hard winter, he’d rented her a hotel room when the pipes in her old building froze. When Allison contracted pneumonia her senior year in college, he’d made sure she had the best medical care money could buy. If they’d still been together when this had happened, he would have paid her way out to see Dr. Capello, paid for her hotel room and paid for her way back. While he was never there for her when she wanted him, he was always there for her when she really needed him.

“It’s just...” she said, no longer angry. “I think I’m starting to remember things.”

“What?” he asked. “Remember what?”

“Remember things I need to remember. Something important. I’m almost there, I think, like when you’re trying to remember a word and it’s on the tip of your tongue? It’s like that.”

“Do you want to remember?”

“One of my old drawings is still on the fridge. Maybe if I knew what happened, why I had to leave... I don’t know—”