Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 18

“Anytime.”

“It’s probably for the best,” I said. “I should be moving on anyway.”

Shelby stood abruptly, balled her hands into fists, and pressed them against her hips. She looked down at me and spoke without blinking.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“What?”

“Don’t you dare. Every time you become involved with a woman you do this.”

“Do what?”

“You start looking for something, anything, as an excuse to break up. ‘Just didn’t work out, time to move on’—you always say that.”

“I do not.”

“Always.”

“Na-uh.”

“You want a list? Should we start with Annie?”

“Whatever happened to her?” Bobby asked.

“She. Married. Someone. Else.”

“Oh.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Nina’s dating this guy. . .”

“An architect,” said Bobby.

“You can start by apologizing for standing her up,” she told me.

“I did.”

“Do it again.”

“But it wasn’t my fault.”

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“It really doesn’t,” said Bobby. “I’ve apologized to Shelby for a lot of things that weren’t my fault, and . . .”

Shelby gave him that look. You know the one I mean. Bobby turned and stared past the porch toward Merriam Park as if there were something out there that was suddenly very interesting.

“McKenzie,” Shelby said. “She’s the best of them. Mary Beth, Annie, Judy, Theresa, Robin, Kirsten—Nina is the best of them.”

“No, you’re the best of them.”

“Balderdash.”

“Balderdash?”

“I’m just the excuse you use. You pretend to be in love with your best friend’s wife, and since you can’t have her, you won’t marry anyone. ‘Pity me, the poor lonely bachelor.’ It’s balderdash.”

“There’s that word again.”

“If I were suddenly free—if Bobby got hit by a truck tomorrow—it’d be the same ol’ thing. Just didn’t work out, time to move on.”

I looked at Bobby.

“It’s true,” he said. “If it wasn’t, I would have blown your brains out back when we were in college.”

“It’s fear of commitment,” Shelby said. “That’s what we’re talking about.”

“Balderdash.”

Shelby looked at me as if I were nuts.

“You said it first,” I reminded her.

“We’re trying to cut down on the cursing because of the girls.”

“Yeah, but do you really want your kids to go around saying balderdash?”

Shelby refused to be distracted.

“She’s the best of all the women you’ve known, McKenzie,” she said. “She really is.”

“I know.”

“We’ll make Moorhead buy drinks at Nina’s place,” Bobby said. “He can apologize to her at the same time. Whaddya say?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Bobby, the dream came back.”

“The dream? The shotgun dream?”

“It came back when I was in jail and then again last night.”

“I thought you were done with that.”

“So did I.”

“You were supposed to get therapy,” Shelby said.

“I did.”

“You went three times and then you quit—pronounced yourself cured and started dating the therapist.”

“Dr. Jillian DeMarais. She was a babe.”

“She was a bitch,” said Bobby.

“Nonetheless.”

“McKenzie, the dream,” said Shelby.

“It doesn’t freak me out,” I told her. “It wakes me up sometimes, but it’s not like I can’t sleep or I’m afraid to sleep. I don’t shake, rattle, or roll—I can still function. It’s just a dream. Like the one I used to have about not being able to find the classroom during finals. It’ll go away just like it did before. Don’t worry about it.”

“What if it doesn’t go away?”

“It will.”

“You have to see someone, seriously this time.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Bobby. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’d have to be nuts to go to a psychiatrist,” I said.

No one laughed at the joke.

Lemonade was sipped.

Silent moments passed.

“What are you going to do?” Bobby asked.

“About what?”

“About Moorhead,” Bobby said.

“About Nina,” Shelby said.

They looked at each other. Shelby scowled and said, “First things first.” Bobby surrendered without firing a shot.

“About Nina,” Shelby repeated.

“I’ll apologize. Again. I’ll try to win her back. Will that make you happy?”

Shelby smiled like it would.

“About Moorhead?” asked Bobby.

“The bastard put me in jail. He gave me bad dreams. Fuck ’im.”

“McKenzie,” Shelby said.

“Balderdash.”

It just didn’t sound the same.