The Bridge Between

By C.A. Masterson

Addictions come in many forms, Jessie Moore learns—including relationships. Working at the fledgling Philly Times newspaper with reporter Matt Cleary proves draining after their breakup. When a longtime friend dies of AIDS, she reconnects with her first love, Billy Black, who becomes a bridge back to the safety of her old life, and also to the origins of her artistic inspiration. But Billy drowns his worries in beer, threatening to drag her down too. After she rekindles their affair, Matt’s jealousy confuses her. Before she can truly give herself to anyone, can Jessie learn to be true to herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.A. Masterson
• Release date: Oct 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301477500

C.A. Masterson

C.A. Masterson loves stories of any genre. Her novellas, short stories and flash fiction appeared at various epress sites and web zines (The Battered Suitcase, A Long Story Short, Dark Sky Magazine, Cezanne’s Carrot, The Harrow, Flesh from Ashes, Quality Women’s Fiction, Phase, and The Writer’s online edition).In 2010, The Pearl S. Buck Foundation awarded first place to her short literary story, Christmas Eve at the Diner on Rathole Street. Her short literary story, All is Calm, All is Bright, was awarded second place in the annual Pennwriters Short Story contest in 2005.Look for her at http://paintingfirewithwords.blogspot.com, and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jessie Moore’s camera lens captured their fear, accusation, pain, weariness—and youth. Too young to deal with the death of a classmate. It wasn’t the first time. Too bad it wouldn’t be the last.

Panning the camera across the crowd, she stopped at one baby-faced girl, eyes wide with anger and reproach. Three times she clicked the shutter, then swiveled toward a boy leaning his head in toward another girl with tears glistening on her cheek. Another three shots.

Not the kind of shots these kids were used to, the kind that wounded more than their pride.

She waited in the choir balcony while the kids in school uniforms lined up toward the front of the church in one interconnected jumble. The communion of this mass was not a small white host. It was fourteen-year-old Evan Brown, lying in the casket on the altar.

This angle had to produce the money shot. Jessie clicked the shutter twice, and zoomed in tighter. Surely Ed would like one of these, if even one came out as she’d envisioned it. Maybe it would make the front page, above the fold, of tomorrow’s Philly Times.

At the entryway, she waited for Matt to wrap up with the teacher. Her stomach churned a little, as it always did when she intruded on private scenes. Evan Brown had ridden his bike past the home of a local drug dealer, and took three bullets in a drive-by. The one hundred and eighth homicide in Philadelphia so far this year, and it was only July. There would be hate mail tomorrow.

And the next story to cover.

Intent on finishing his notes, Matt walked down the aisle toward her. Ten months ago, she thought she’d be walking up a church aisle toward Matt. But that was the way life had been going lately. In reverse, it seemed sometimes. Even her photography seemed to be degrading slowly, as if she were losing her skills bit by bit rather than sharpening them. If someone were to snap her picture, the printed photo might erode until she appeared as barely a shadow.

Matt’s eyes met hers only long enough to ask, Get what you need?

The opportunity for sarcasm, Jessie had found, could present itself an unbearable number of times in ten months. Self control was becoming a fine art.

Yes. You? Penultimate professionalism, the very image. Images were her forte, after all. She’d save the crying jag for tonight. One of these nights, her insides wouldn’t feel so hollow, her heart wouldn’t feel like a five-pound potato that had been left in the microwave too long.

She followed him down the church steps, not even thinking of bouquets or rice. It wouldn’t kill him to crack a smile now and then, but she wasn’t waiting for that, either.

Driving back to the newsroom, Jessie’s ring tone sounded from the back seat—the slide guitar and percussion from Beck’s Loser. She flailed her arm in its direction, but couldn’t reach. Shoot. Can you… Before it gets to the part about being a loser, baby, why don’t you kill me....

Matt reached behind her, looked at the phone. Ha. It’s Miss Dena. He flipped it open.

Hey! Matt… Jessie’s tone carried a warning.

Pleasant and aloof, he answered. Hello? Who? Yes, she’s right here. Unfortunately, she’s driving. It’s against The Philly Times’ policy to speak on a cell phone while driving.

The blare of Dena’s voice came through distinctly: Put Jessie on the phone, Matt. Now. I don’t have time for your crap today.

Give me that. Jessie held out her hand. Despite his refreshing change in attitude from glum to playful—the first since they’d broken up—she knew Dena didn’t call just to check in. Not during work hours.

He set it in her palm. Hey, I’m trying to save us from having an accident.

She shot him a glare. Dena?

Jess. Sorry to bother you at work.

No bother. We’re on our way back to the office. What’s up?

It’s Jay. Honey, Marc would’ve called; he wanted to, but he’s a mess.

Jessie’s foot jammed the brake, and the taxi behind them blared its horn, then sped by in the other lane.

Matt braced himself Shit, I was kidding.

Jessie waved him away. Oh no. Is he…

He’s gone, Dena said. We need to go home. In time for Wednesday night’s services. I’m sorry, sweetie.

Me too. Sorry didn’t begin to cover it.

***

Jessie drove the twisted downhill road that led home. In the seat next to her, Dena tensed as they passed through the last traffic light in Pennsylvania, and the car inclined, then made the small yet sharp curve onto the metal bridge that emptied into New Jersey.

God, it’s like driving through a time warp, Dena said. I hate this bridge.

Jessie followed Dena’s gaze downriver, to where the Delaware disappeared around the bend below Bowman’s Tower. The tower sat atop the hill like a ghostly beacon with no light, a sentinel that could no longer see.

The wind sweeping down the river riffled through Dena’s hair, so she rolled up the window. It’s like a damn postcard. Like the whole place is sedated.

I could use a little sedation about now. Jessie rubbed her temple. At least an aspirin.

Wait, I have something. Dena dug in her purse, oblivious to the sunset streaking the sky with ribbons of neon. The Delaware below them, its waters dull as ever, more shallow, even for mid-summer.

Jessie didn’t say it but Dena was right—driving over this bridge was like going back in time, to when Lambertville was all they knew. Then, the world beyond this bridge existed only in stories of the Philadelphia and New York newspapers, or in the bad news blared by the six o’clock news.

Nothing bad ever happened in Lambertville. Not that people talked about.

She popped the two pills Dena offered.

The whir of the car’s wheels silenced as metal grate gave way to macadam, and they were on Bridge Street. Dena let out a breath and consulted her watch. Good. We’re not early, but not late. She gave a stiff smile like a peace offering.

Jessie drove the few blocks to River Road and into the parking lot, where cars sat two and three deep.

Dena pulled down the visor mirror, touched up her plum lipstick, adjusted her fuschia neck scarf, smoothed the short skirt of her designer-label black suit. Quite a crowd, looks like.

Stop fussing. You look great. Jessie tucked her long hair behind her ear, wished she’d thought to get a haircut. Something. Anything.. Let’s go.

Dena put up the visor. Okay, let’s do this, She plunged ahead through the aisles of sport utility vehicles, Lexuses, Beemers, old Chevys.

Light and music streamed from the windows, the doorway. Jessie stopped, gasped at the reggae tune.

Jay loved this song. An image gripped her—Jay swinging his hips, arms high, lost in the rhythm.

I remember. Dena linked her arm with Jessie’s and guided her through the door. Men and women in clothes as vivid as rainforest birds swirled through the lobby into the adjoining room. Some swayed to the music, some stood talking. It might have been a class reunion, some other celebration. Jay was like that, though—always celebrating something, even if he had to invent an occasion.

Jessie took a yellow lei from the table by the door and slipped it over her head. He thought of everything.

Dena arranged the pink one around her neck. Leave it to Jay to plan a ’theme’ viewing.

Leis hung from the wall sconces and ringed the guest book, where two dashboard hula girls swayed as visitors signed in. Hibiscus, bird of paradise, other exotic flowers lined the lobby, varieties that would have looked at home on a postcard from the islands.

It’s perfect. Perfectly surreal, Jessie thought. Her pantsuit was lilac, as pale as she’d felt when she’d gotten the call about Jay. Because the obituary called for luau-appropriate clothing, she’d draped a scarf with muted flowers loosely around her neck. But even in these subdued hues, she felt like a twelve-year-old playing dress up. Coming home could do that to her.

Dena touched her elbow. I need a drink.

Jessie followed her, accepted the plastic cup with the paper umbrella she offered.

Hawaiian punch. Unspiked, dammit. But it goes with his Hawaiian shirt. Dena pointed with her cup.

She needn’t have. Jessie’s gaze had skipped to the far end of the main room when they first arrived, and she’d had to force herself to look away. Now she couldn’t stop looking.

Jay lay in the coffin in his Hawaiian shirt and blue lei, probably his small tribute to Elvis. He held a ukelele across his chest, the same one he’d played so badly in high school. Fake palm trees stood at either side, lit with the small white lights that had become a year-round tradition in the Lambertville-New Hope area.

Jessie looked away. We’re too young to be burying our friends. Like the students on Monday. Maybe it was karma that Ed had frowned at her photos that day. Matt’s story had made page one, but her photo was buried with the jump on the back page.

Dena drained her cup. Twenty-seven’s feeling older every day. She smoothed the short skirt of her designer-label black suit, and shifted the pink lei over her neck scarf.

A dark-suited man approached, a smile on his lips that spoke of tedium, perhaps impatience. Probably the funeral home director. Maybe he liked predictable wakes. Jessie smiled at the thought of Jay bursting with laughter at bucking convention again. Convention equaled apathy, Jay liked to say, and was an indication of being brainwashed by society. He only went against the grain, even if it meant losing a layer of skin.

Welcome, said the director. If you brought a story to share, the scrapbook’s on the table in the adjacent sitting room.

It was more of a shrine, filled with framed photos, flanked by two poster boards jammed with more photos.

Jessie drew the envelope from her purse, went to the table and flipped the scrapbook to the beginning. The album bulged with notes and photos from Jay’s friends, art gallery colleagues, neighbors.

Pages one, two and three belonged to Marc. His four years with Jay had spawned many stories. Marc had pasted pictures of them at home with their labs Lola and Roxanne, at Mardi Gras (Jay threw beads at Marc, who lifted his shirt), in tuxes at a friend’s wedding.

She looked around the room for Marc; it struck her as odd that he wasn’t here greeting people by the door as the director had, or near the coffin.

She glanced through the photos of Jay as a boy, Jay in high school, Jay with his sister, his friends, his lovers. The display encapsulated Jay’s life from his first year through this year’s twenty-seventh birthday—much less of a celebration than past years, judging from Jay and Marc’s strained smiles.

Jessie slipped her page beneath the vinyl cover. A memory of Jay, but also of Dena and herself. And Billy. They’d made an unlikely group of friends in high school. Her picture of them huddled around a campfire on the beach at sunset now made them look almost anonymous—they could have been any teenagers from any town.

Dena maneuvered through cliques of people, dragging a man by the sleeve. Hey Jess, look who I found.

Jessie stared at him, hoping the fog in her brain would clear and his name would pop into her head. Hi, how are you?

Dena gave her a mock glare. It’s Jim. Jim Dawson. Dena’s tenth grade flame; he’d broken her heart, and she’d spent that summer mooning over him.

Jessie held out her hand. Jim. Sorry, my mind’s elsewhere.

I understand. He clasped her hand in both of his, holding it there. It’s a tough night. And it’s been a few years. He laughed in the self-amused way that had been his trademark in high school, mimicked by kids who couldn’t stand him, which was mostly everyone. Jim had been class vice president, his hair always carefully combed, his polo shirts unwrinkled, as if ironed by mommy. His starched image must have leached onto Dena—that was when she began weighing herself every day, studying harder, pushing herself, at everything. Standing next to Jim now, she pressed stray hairs into place, tugged her skirt wrinkle-free.

You look great, Jim said. Both of you. Like we graduated last week.

Jessie slipped her hand from his, managed a smile. Not warm enough to encourage him, yet he droned on, dredging up scenes from high school that meant nothing to her.

She interrupted him to ask Dena if she’d seen Marc.

Jim smirked, jerked his neck like a polyester-suited rooster about to crow.

Dena touched Jessie’s wrist. He’s not here.

Not here? From Dena’s expression, Jessie expected her to say he’d been overcome with grief, possibly had collapsed, and was on a feeding tube. Not much else could have kept him away.

Jim broke in, his voice too loud, too eager. Jay’s parents pitched a hissy fit. Said it was bad enough they had to put up with Jay’s boyfriends while he was alive. They didn’t want him here when they paid their last respects.

How awful. Jessie’s anger transferred to Jim as he nodded knowingly. Someone should tutor him in confidences. She wanted to twist his hideous flowered tie, ask him why he felt the need to intrude. She didn’t even know why he was here; in high school, he’d teased Jay, belittled him.

Jessie’s voice was hushed but barbed. Thank you.

Too subtle for Jim, who said, Sure, with a shrug meant to convey modesty, but suggested arrogance and self-importance.

Jessie tugged Dena’s arm, turning their backs to him. Are you kidding?

You know how controlling they are. They couldn’t control Jay before, so they take their petty little revenge now.

Jim tapped Dena’s shoulder. There they go. Marc should be back soon. They told him to stay away while they were here, is all.

Jessie felt her pulse quicken. Is all?! Funerals were supposed to bring people together, not be used as a power play. If it would have done any good, she might have shown this dolt the meaning of the word sensitivity, especially as it pertained to his genitals. But it would be a lost gesture. He’d probably think she was making a play for him.

She let her anger flow out like silk aflame. You’re such a fount of information, Jim.

He smiled, gave a wink.

Jessie turned to Dena, glanced toward the coffin. I’m going over before Marc gets back. Seeing Marc might be too much for her. He’d be distraught over losing Jay, and over the final insult from Jay’s parents.

Okay, let’s go.

No. It came out like an order, though Jessie hadn’t intended that. Please, I need a few minutes alone. Okay?

Dena’s voice was light, betraying her hurt. She was a master of emotional disguise. I’ll be over in a few minutes, then.

Jessie eased through couples, groups. They were all talking about Jay, sharing anecdotes. She didn’t look at their faces. She had to do this now, alone.

Standing next to him lying there, he looked like a life-sized doll—a Jay doll instead of Ken. (Every little boy’s dream date, the ads might say.)

From her purse, she took the origami crane. When Jay had taught her how to do the intricate folds, he’d said the crane was the Japanese symbol of good luck. She’d rendered this one in bright yellow, a bit of sunshine for a place that would never see it again. On its long wings, she’d written a wish borrowed from Shakespeare: May flights of angels carry thee to thy rest, sweet prince.

Steadying herself, she wiped her cheek. I brought you a present. I know, it’s too late for good luck. But I want you to keep it with you. It took me about twenty tries to get it right.

She wished he could respond now with one of his typical smart-ass remarks. He’d heard her, though. Even over the reggae singer’s wails.

She tucked it under his sleeve, and it fell against his arm. She reached to move it, then stopped. It wouldn’t bother him. Nothing would, now. The only good part of this.

His last phone call, he’d sounded weak, though he’d tried to disguise it with playfulness. He’d talked of Marc’s unwavering support (my very own cheerleader he’d called him). His voice had been shaky, as if he were shivering.

She turned as a hand touched her back. Dena stood next to her.

Crying’s against the rules, I hear. Dena’s face paled as her eyes skimmed Jay’s body—as if the weight of her stare might bruise him. He’s so skinny, poor kid.

A buzz resonated through the room, and they turned toward the entrance.

It’s Marc, Dena said.

As if on cue, Marc turned away from the man graspng his hand, waved at them and made his way across the room like a dignitary of state. Even his midnight blue lei exuded poised reserve.

Dena, Jess, he said with a diplomatic smile and quick hug.

Jessie had braced for a life-preserver grip, but felt afloat when he released her.

I’m so glad you could come, he said.

I’m so sorry, sweetie, Jessie said.

Marc’s smile was serene. Thank you. He looked at Jay. He looks good, doesn’t he? Like the old Jay.

Jessie agreed, studying Marc for signs he might have relied on antidepressants to get him through the evening. The surreal quality of it all faded as more people gathered around to speak to Marc. Jessie and Dena moved away and sat in chairs off to the side.

That wasn’t what I expected, Jessie whispered.

Dena smoothed her skirt, tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. He’s probably relieved for Jay. And maybe for himself. It must have been hell at the end.

Jessie winced at the thought. They shared something powerful. That’s more than a lot of us can say.

Dena tilted her head, gave her a sad smile. It’ll get better soon.

A familiar flash felt like a pinprick in Jessie’s eye. A boyish-looking man stood near the coffin, his cell phone open and aimed toward Jay.

Dena stiffened, as if poised to pounce. Omigod. He didn’t.

He did.

Jay’s grin seemed wider.

Dena’s grip tightened on her purse. Jessie spoke to keep Dena in check, as well as rationalize it to herself. It’s actually an old custom to photograph the dead. In the 1800s, people used to have pictures taken of their kids or husbands laid out. Sometimes it was the only picture they had of them.

Spare me the history lesson. You know that asshole’s going to send that picture flying across the Internet. Zillions of people will see it.

Jessie smiled. Jay probably hoped so.

Dena’s tension left her in a snort. Yeah. She pressed a tissue to her eye. He probably did.

The crowd swelled and thinned with arrivals and departures. Jessie recognized only a few faces; Jay had much wider social circles than she did. She tried to sort friends from acquaintances, from those Jay might have known from the club scene, from business associates. But Jay was the kind of person who struck up a conversation with sales clerks, or people in line at the grocery store, conversations that would sometimes end with the exchange of email addresses or phone numbers.

The funeral director went to the podium and invited them to get up and speak. One by one, about a dozen men and women shuffled to the front. Jay’s first partner told of their mutual fear at coming out, how they vowed to stick by one another, expecting an overwhelming aftershock. The biggest reaction was a shrug, he said with a laugh and a tear. The most anyone said was, what took you so long? He shook his head. Guess it escaped our notice that we lived across the river from New Hope, gay capital of the U.S.A.

Chuckles rippled through the crowd as if they were at an improv club. An expensive one; the props were too costly.

Don’t look now, Dena whispered. But Billy just walked in.

Every one of Jessie’s senses sharpened. Really. How nice he could fit us into his tight schedule.

Hoo baby. He looks good. Dena smiled and waved. Contact, she said through immobile lips.

Jessie turned but Billy ducked back into the foyer.

Dena raised an eyebrow. Playing hard to get?

No need. I’m way past that. I don’t even need Jay to run interference for me.

Dena smirked. Jay was handy that way, wasn’t he?

Jessie let herself look at Jay again, still half-expecting his eyes to meet hers, give her an exaggerated wink, that allover smile he had. He tried to warn me, keep me away from Billy… Then afterwards, of course, I had to listen to how right he’d been.

Jay was jealous because he couldn’t have Billy.

Memories flooded Jessie’s head, things she hadn’t thought of in years. Funny that Billy used the same line on Jay that he used on me.

What was it again? Dena’s eyes followed a guy with gelled blond hair wandering through the room as if unsure he belonged.

‘You’re out of my league,’ he said.

He was right. In both cases.

The funeral director stepped to the podium. I have a few announcements. He waited, lips pursed, hands clasped, until conversations quelled. Jay would have loved him; with his slicked-back hair, he looked ready to introduce a drag queen show.

The director gave the details of the burial services: mass tomorrow morning at nine thirty at Saint John’s Roman Catholic Church, to conclude at the parish cemetery on Cottage Hill. We’ll be closing our doors here in fifteen minutes. Jay asked that you all continue the, uh, party in his name at Mason’s.

Jessie and Dena exchanged knowing looks. Mason’s was a dive, but also Jay and Billy’s favorite hangout.

Jay made arrangements for drinks to be on the house until ‘the stroke of midnight’… his words. He nodded then scurried to the foyer.

Jessie walked to the casket with Dena.

Eyes, look your last, she whispered, quoting Jay’s favorite Shakespeare.

Skip the last embrace, though, huh? Dena wiped her eyes with a tissue, touched her fingers to her lips, then to Jay’s cheek. Sweet dreams, sweetie.

Til we meet again, Jessie told him. And neither of us needs makeup to look beautiful. She hoped his waxy mannequin look wouldn’t haunt her, that she’d remember Jay as he was when they were young, happy.

They fell into the line shuffling past Marc near the door. As they entered the foyer, she saw Billy in the outer sitting room, leaning over the album. Her feet took her faster. She heard Dena say, Hey, Jess… but then she stood next to him. His hair was still longish, his face handsome, bronzed from too much sun. And he’d grown a mustache. Jay used to joke that Billy would make a perfect cowboy with his steely-eyed looks, his hard surface that seemed impossible to get beneath.

He was reading her remembrance. Without looking up, he said, You would have to use that one.

It’s one of my best memories. And it was. Even now, it ranked in the top three. Something inside her choked and tangled her emotions.

His eyes met hers. Fire and ice, they always made her think of. Such heat contained beneath that cool exterior. Warmth that could envelop you, frost that could make her feel like the only snow blind soul lost in a tundra.

Look... Her voice caught, so she spoke more softly. …how happy we all are.

Hm. The good old days.

So what happened—did you get hung up in traffic? Take a wrong turn at Mason’s?

His eyes flicked to hers, more ice than fire, but he met her sarcasm with a smile.

Insults flew through her brain but were hushed when the director dimmed the lights in the main room. Jay was now alone, an actor with no audience. She wished she hadn’t seen him like that; he looked unbearably lonely.

God, she whispered, tears in her eyes.

Billy touched her shoulder.

He looked toward the other room. Excuse me. My turn to say goodbye, he said, and moved away as if drawn toward Jay.

You’re going to Mason’s, right? Asking made her feel sixteen again.

He hesitated in the archway. Are you?

She got a chill seeing him standing there, Jay waiting in his coffin in the eerie twilight for his private goodbye with Billy. It felt like one of those old movies, like Billy might fade into the mist with Jay.

Jay wanted us all to go.

Billy nodded, his head low; then she saw that he held an orchid.

Yeah. His face looked older, more worn. I’ll be there. He turned toward Jay, reverence in his footsteps as he walked to the coffin, and placed the orchid in Jay’s hands. His arm moved in the Sign of the Cross, surprising her.

Jessie went to Marc, embraced him. His voice faltered only slightly as he said, I’ll be over after we finish up here.

Dena must have gone ahead outside. The director edged closer to the door, ushering them out. He nodded goodnight as she walked by.

Dena turned toward her as she stepped outside. Ready?

Jessie drew a deep breath. I guess.

Night had closed in, and the balmy air cut by a cool breeze.

Dena’s lashes were wet, her smile lopsided. Come on. With a sniff, she linked her arm through Jessie’s. Jay invited us for one last drink. Let’s not disappoint him.

With mock wistfulness, Jessie said, He was such a thoughtful guy. It’s our bad luck that he was gay.

If it weren’t for bad luck…

She finished Dena’s thought. We’d have none at all.

Dena threw her head back in a laugh. Isn’t that a country song?

If it’s not, then it should be.

Jessie leaned into her friend, one of her oldest friends now that Jay was gone. She squeezed her arm, as if that could keep Dena beside her, keep her from harm. The world beyond Lambertville had always seemed an unstable place, but for the first time, Jessie felt the instability had crept over the bridge like an insidious fog. Even the night’s darkness felt precarious, as if it hinged on chance, and at any moment could change to something unexpected.

Chapter 2

The neon sign hung crookedly in the window, where grime from the last few decades dulled the glow of the red letters.

Jessie followed Dena, who scowled as she delicately lifted her Prada-clad feet across the threshold of the bar.

It’s such a dungeon in here, Jessie said.

A full dungeon. Jay knows how to pack ‘em in. Dena scowled, assessing the room. Some things in this town never change.

Same dark paneling, tables scattered along one wall and a pool table and dart board in an adjacent alcove. People crammed the aisle wrapped around the horseshoe bar, eternally tended by Charlie Crowell, the owner.

When Dena saw the wall decorations, she rolled her eyes. Ugh, they still have their little ‘collection’ on display.

The collection consisted of animal penises, stuffed and shellacked, then mounted on the wall. Jay had been impressed by the variety, as well as the girth of some of them, from dog to bear to horse—Jay’s all-time favorite.

Jessie couldn’t help smiling. One of the reasons Jay loved this place.

A man sitting at the bar who looked vaguely familiar stood and offered his seat.

Dena eyed the red vinyl-topped barstool. I think I’ll stand.

Jessie thanked him and sat down, wondering if Charlie had intended a retro look, or simply never bothered to upgrade all these years. Charlie, like most people who’d grown up in Lambertville and stayed, eked out a living.

Dena picked miniscule lint from her sleeve and slammed back her Manhattan, her acquired gentility forgotten. So you never answered my email. Are you coming to the awards banquet?

Are you going to nominate one of my shots? Jessie sipped at her margarita.

I would if I could.

No one else has. My photography’s been shit lately.

Dena held up her empty glass to the bartender. That can’t be true.

Jessie gave a short laugh. Apparently you haven’t picked up The Philly Times for oh, the past year or so. Lately, I can’t capture the composition I see in my head.

Everyone has bad streaks.

The embarrassment of attending last year’s awards banquet—an event organized by Dena, the events planner for the statewide newspaper association—had been crushing. An honorable mention, to Jessie, was not worth mentioning to anyone.

Things go in cycles. It will get better.

So you keep telling me. At Dena’s quick look, Jessie added, And I appreciate it.

Jessie’d started her second drink before Billy finally came through the door. He spoke with several people, clasping shoulders, shaking hands, smiling at Charlie, who handed him a mug of beer.

When Marc arrived, Billy doubled back to talk to him.

Billy was another reminder of her failures, bad choices. If only my bad streak wasn’t across the board—work, men… you name it.

Dena was about to say something, probably some platitude to cheer her. Jessie cut her off. I know, I’m the life of the party.

Eh. The party’s a wake.

No excuse. Restlessness drove her to her feet. Let’s play some darts.

Dena’s mouth opened to a cavern. In these shoes? Jessie had to laugh. When they were younger, Dena could outrun any of them. But those stilettos were a definite disadvantage, even for darts.

Jessie grabbed the darts from the board. I’ll give you a handicap.

You better. And all I remember is baseball.

Jessie aligned her foot with the floor marker and aimed. The dart hit the wall and fell like a bird shot from the sky. The other darts landed on the board, but nowhere near the mark. She pulled them from the board and handed them to Dena.

Dena bit the edge of her tongue as she aimed. Her first dart barely penetrated the cork, then hung limply from the board.

Damn. Dena squinted as if sighting prey through a scope.

Relax, we’re not playing for money.

Billy eased himself through a cluster of people. Jessie downed the rest of her drink, razzed Dena as she plucked the darts from the cork. Her arm felt as tense as a bow string, and the dart flew to the spot she’d targeted.

Billy stood, one hand jammed in his jeans pocket, the other held his half-empty mug of beer. Nice shot.

Jessie smiled. Nice mustache.

He smiled, ran his forefinger and thumb along the mustache self-consciously. She imagined what it would feel like to take his mug, let it drop to the floor, trace his lips with her tongue, invade his mouth.

It was the tequila. It tingled in her blood, elongated her nerves into disconnected strands.

She aligned her shoulder with the board. The second dart sailed to the wall and fell. There’s the end of my winning streak. Here, why don’t you show us how it’s done?

He chuckled, lifted his mug. "I’d rather