Dedication by Emma McLaughlin

Author:Emma McLaughlin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2008-09-04T06:00:00+00:00

Jake pulls up across from Todd’s house, where a Christmas party has filled the street with salt-crusted cars. “Fetch him?”

“Me?” Sam balks. “We’re not exactly on the best terms.”

“I can’t ring his doorbell if he’s having a party. It’ll cause a fucking riot,” Jake retorts wearily, “And then we won’t get to spend any time together.” Travesty.

“Fine.” Sam climbs out and approaches the twinkling house through the mechanized lawn ornaments. He presses the bell, and after a few moments Todd answers, the foyer chandelier revealing his dramatically thinned hair.

“Wow,” I whisper. Sam gestures to us. Todd steps out and squints, his face lighting up when he spots the Corvette.

“I thought you’d be flattered,” Jake mumbles from the front seat.

“Excuse me?” I rev with alert.

“I thought you’d be flattered.”

“You thought I’d be flattered?” I lean forward as Todd closes his front door and Sam ambles back down the walk. “Think the peasants on the plains of Mongolia were flattered?”

“What?” He turns to me.

“When they were raped and pillaged by Attila the Hun—think they were flattered?”

Sam opens the door, flips the passenger seat forward, and squeezes in next to me. “He said to pull around the corner.”

“At your service.” We cruise the bend just as Todd comes flying out the side door, hunched, bent-kneed, barn coat flapping, inviting an unfortunate mallard-comparison. He dives into the waiting passenger seat, a pair of skates clutched in his arms.

“Drive. Drive!”

Jake belly laughs as he shifts gears and lurches us out into the street. “My God, man, is this the fucking escape from Alcatraz?” He reaches over to pat Todd’s pate.

“Katie, hey!” Jake’s hand on his gleaming head, Todd leans around the seat, the springs squeaking.

“Hey.” I smile awkwardly, not wanting to betray my allegiance to Sam. “You okay?”

“Michelle doesn’t know I’m gone.”

“I can’t believe you bagged Michelle Walker.” Jake chuckles, returning his hand to the wheel as we roll across the river.

“Bagged her. Married her. Had two kids with her.” His voice flushes with pride. Sam and I exchange silent glances at the shared vision of Michelle’s prom triumph, a decade and a hundred pounds ago. Todd turns back to us. “Katie, you look great.”

“Thanks. You, too, Todd.”

His bare crown tinges crimson. “Michelle has me on Atkins.”

Sam turns to me. “We were doing South Beach until Laura got pregnant. You do not want to see a pregnant woman on a low-carb diet.”

“My nutritionist makes these seaweed shakes,” Jake pipes in as we take a hard left and I careen into Sam. “They’re supposed to be prenatal—”

“Fitting,” I interrupt and Sam grins.

“They taste like foot,” he continues. “But they’re supernutritious. Hey! I could have her send Laura a few bottles.”

“Thanks, but I’m guessing the only thing scarier than my pregnant wife on a low-carb diet is my pregnant wife trying to suck down seaweed.” Or, seven-figure royalty check outstanding, unwrapping a gift basket from Jake Sharpe’s nutritionist.

Todd twists in his seat again. “We saw your parents at the kids’ pageant, they said you’re doing something with the environment?”

“Yeah.

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