Prom Night in Purgatory (Purgatory #2)(15)

“It’s your car!” Maggie cried excitedly and looked around for Johnny, glad they would have something to talk about. He unfolded himself from under the hood of Jillian’s Camry. His shirt had a little grease at the hem, where he had probably wiped his hands without thinking. He’d gotten a haircut since she had seen him last. The style was slightly modified from its original 50s look, but it didn’t change his appearance all that much. He wore jeans, and Maggie noticed how he rolled the bottoms in a thick cuff – 50s style. His shirt was a plain blue tee that he’d tucked into the jeans that rode his hips. He was thinner, but he moved effortlessly and seemed completely healed from his ordeal. He nodded at the car and then looked back at her somberly.

“How do you know it’s mine?” Johnny replied softly.

“You told me,” Maggie offered, just as quietly. “An oil man from a couple of counties over forgot to put his brakes on when he went to spy on his wife at the reservoir. It rolled right into the water and sunk like a box of rocks. He told you if you could get it out, it was yours. You, Carter, and Jimbo got it out. You took it apart, cleaned it, and rebuilt it the summer before your senior year.” Maggie ran her hand along the sleek black side and stopped in front of the hood, which was raised just like the Camry. She tried not to look at Johnny, but she couldn’t resist. She tried not to smile at his surprised expression. He grunted but didn’t comment on her obvious knowledge of his history.

The silence in the garage became cloying, and Maggie struggled to find something to say, anything to say.

“What do you get when you offer a blonde a penny for her thoughts?” Maggie asked randomly.

“Huh?” Johnny shot a look at her from under his hood.

“It’s a joke.” What do you get when you offer a blonde a penny for her thoughts?”

“What?”

“Change,” Maggie supplied, waggling her eyebrows. Johnny stared at her for a moment and shook his head. Maggie tried again.

“What do you call a brunette with a blonde on either side?”

Johnny didn’t reply.

“An interpreter,” Maggie answered, a little less cheerfully this time. Johnny didn’t even look up from the car’s engine.

“What did the blonde say when she looked in the box of Cheerios?” she said, her voice subdued. This was her favorite one. It used to be his.

No reply again.

“Oh, look! Donut seeds...” Maggie’s voice faded off.

Johnny slammed the hood and wiped his hands on a nearby rag.

“Did I used to laugh at your jokes?” he asked brusquely.

“Only the blond jokes. I used to tell knock knock jokes but you told me they were terrible.” Maggie smiled at the memory. Johnny had liked the blonde jokes, and Maggie had searched for them, sharing new ones with him every day. She had even started calling them “Johnny jokes” because he was himself a natural blond.

“Let’s hear one.”

Maggie thought for a minute. “Knock, knock.”

Johnny raised his eyebrows impatiently, waiting for her to continue.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’” Maggie prodded.

“Who’s there?” Johnny parroted.

“Sarah.” She waited. “Say Sarah who.”

“Sarah who?” Johnny droned.

“Sarah reason you’re not lettin’ me in?”

Johnny rolled his eyes, and Maggie giggled a little, relieved he was at least participating somewhat.

“Yeah. That’s pretty bad. But I can’t imagine I liked the blonde ones much better,” he grunted sourly.

Maggie tried not to let his dismissal bother her.

“Why is it so hard to believe that you and I were friends?” Maggie said quietly. She approached him and stopped, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

“I don’t know, Margaret.” He leveled his gaze at her again. His eyes were like blue ice. “Maybe because I was born in 1939, and it’s now 2011, and I still don’t look like I’m a day over nineteen.” Johnny’s voice was laced with sarcasm. He walked toward her, still wiping his hands on the rag. He stopped about a foot in front of her. “Maybe it’s hard because I don’t know where the hell I’ve been for the last fifty odd years and nothing and nobody that I knew is still around to explain it all to me.” His voice had risen considerably, and his face was flushed.

He crossed his arms at his chest and looked her over once, and then again, resting his gaze on the glasses perched on her nose. “And maybe it’s hard to believe because I don’t remember you, not at all…”

“You don’t have to be a jerk,” Maggie shot back, crossing her own arms. “Is that why you wanted to see me? So you could tell me again how forgettable I am?” Maggie pushed her glasses farther up on her nose, though they really hadn’t slipped at all. She felt the tears threaten to spill over, and she rebuked herself silently but firmly. She would not let Johnny Kinross see her cry over him. Not again. She had some pride.

He didn’t deny her accusations or defend himself. He just stared at her mulishly for a second and then spoke again.

“So, Margaret – ”

“Maggie!”

“Maggie. You are the only one who seems to know what I’ve been doing or where I’ve been all this time. And I sure would like to know. I thought maybe you could tell me.” He attempted to sound flip, but there was a layer of strain that underscored his nonchalance. Maggie’s heart softened toward him the smallest degree.