Until There Was You(17)

“I don’t want to skip,” Rick said. “Dude, relax, okay? It’s just a cooking class.”

True enough. But by all that was holy, she didn’t want to spend a nanosecond with Rick Balin.

Rick was a native of Bellsford, too, and like Posey, he’d moved back after college. But they hadn’t spoken since high school, though of course she’d seen him here and there, at the bank or a town meeting. Rick “managed” one of his parents’ marinas, which, according to the gossip at Rosebud’s Bar and Grille, meant that he came into the office, downloaded  p**n  (hey, maybe he’d recognize Gus), then left around three to start cocktail hour.

“So, how are you?” Risk asked. “It’s been a while, right?”

She gave a tight nod. The only saving grace was how horrible he looked, even worse up close. The years had taken a toll—the years, and several thousand bottles of beer, she guessed, based on his large belly and florid face. Even so, Rick Balin still oozed that rich-boy smugness (that, and alcohol fumes) as he lackadaisically chopped basil.

For a second, it was as if they were back in high school and Rick was leaning against her locker, blocking her from opening it. Back then, Rick Balin had lived the cliché of trust fund brat: he was beautiful, he was spoiled and he was cruel.

He’d also been her prom date.

“So, you’re still single, Posey?” Rick asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” she answered.

“Me, too. Divorced. Twice, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, I can.”

“So, maybe we can hook up sometime.”

“No, thanks.”

He shrugged and gave her a once-over. “Still scrawny,” he said. His eyes, which Posey had once thought beautiful, settled on her br**sts. “Then again, anything more than a mouthful’s a waste.”

She flinched, her arm hitting his, and suddenly Rick was screaming. “What the hell! What the hell!” and blood was pooling on the cutting board, totally ruining Jon’s beautiful basil, because Rick had just sliced into the tip of his little finger.

Which, though she probably shouldn’t, Posey found deeply satisfying.

Jon leaped over with a towel, yanked Rick’s arm up.

“She cut me! She did that on purpose!”

“Oh, grow a pair, Rick,” she said. “You cut yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t drink when using sharp instruments.”

“Did you hear that? She’s so mean!” Rick said.

“It’s a just a cut,” Jon said.

“Dude! I’m gushing blood! I need an ambulance!”

Jon sighed. “Fine. Good thing you all signed that waiver, huh?”

Someone called 911, and Rick was led out of the room. As he left, he turned back to glare at her. “Whoops,” she mouthed.

Granted, it hadn’t been planned. But it was wonderful nonetheless.

“SO THAT WAS FUN,” Kate declared as they drove home. “Did you have fun? Find anyone to marry?”

“The  p**n  star was kind of cute, but then I remembered my mother’s angina, so no.”

“You okay about seeing Rick?” Kate asked, glancing over. She reached out and patted Posey’s knee. “Awesome that you sliced off his finger.” The boo-boo had already taken on legendary proportions.

“I actually didn’t. It was the divine hand of fate, that’s all. He was half-drunk.”

“He stood you up at the prom,” Kate said.

“Yeah, I remember.”

It was true. But though Rick had indeed dumped her at the prom, it was Liam Murphy who’d done the real damage.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE FIRST TIME Posey laid eyes on Liam Murphy, her life changed.

Until high school, Posey’s childhood had been great—a big brother, Guten Tag as a second home, parents who constantly assured her of her specialness, her beauty (“Cuter than a bug’s ear!” her dad liked to exclaim), her talents (bricklaying…she’d done the entire patio, just for fun). Sure, her parents laid it on a bit thick—after all, Henry had already delivered the goods one pictures when thinking adoption: Asian, IQ of 164, gifted at violin. Posey’s greatest public moment had come when she was cast in her fourth grade’s production of Farmer Smith’s Bunny, in which she played a nonspeaking turnip. But she knew she was loved.

So, yes, despite Stacia’s conviction that Posey was teetering on the edge of death, disaster or kidnapping at all times, life was good, and Posey felt like a pretty normal, happy person, despite her friends’ fascination with her adoption. It was only when Ruth, Ralphie and Gretchen came to visit that the little wounds of insecurity were cut open. Her aunt and uncle showed Gretchen off like a prized dog at Westminster. “Isn’t she the image of Oma? Look at those eyes, like the sky, Stacia! Have you tasted this torte? Amazing!” There was no getting around it— Gretchen was everything good the family genetics had ever produced.

Gretchen was also full of information—older by two months, she seemed to feel it was her job to fill in the blanks for Posey. Gret told her how you got pregnant (French kissing), how babies came out of their mothers (pooped out), where Posey’s real name came from (Great-Aunt Cordelia, who only had one eye and fell in a well and died, but Posey shouldn’t bring that up, because it would make their mothers cry).