Page 39 of Mic Drop (Passionate Beats #3)

Luke extends his hand. “We talked briefly on the phone a while back.”

The door opens wider, and Curtiss ushers us in. “My parents are away for the next few hours, so we can speak freely.”

When I enter the house, memories blast at me from every corner. Learning how to play checkers on the floor over there. Big Twister games in that corner. Epic Monopoly competitions in the dining room. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Curtiss concurs.

He leads us into the kitchen, where he offers us lemonade in addition to beer. Hope springs up. “Is it your mom’s famous pink lemonade?”

From the fridge, he pulls a container containing pink liquid. “The one and only.”

My salivary glands get a workout. “Yes, please.” Curtiss beams back at me .

Luke’s head bounces between Curtiss and me. “Seems like I have to have a glass too.”

“Three lemonades coming up.” He opens the cabinet containing glasses and gets to work.

I slide into the chair that used to be “mine” at his house, my fingers tracing some scratches I made long ago.

For a moment, I let my mind wander down the what-if path.

What if Curtiss didn’t ask Lissa to the prom?

What if I didn’t join UC? What if Curtiss and I were still best friends?

Would I have turned out like him, living a boring adult life without any zing?

He shuffles over and gives us our lemonades. I sip the tart nectar. I’m being unfair. Curtiss could be content with his lot in life, and I could be judging him unfairly.

“So,” Luke asks, “What do you do, Curtiss?”

I lean onto my forearms.

“I run a marketing agency in Philly.”

“Impressive,” my manager replies. “Married? Kids?”

He’s asking all my questions. I take another sip of his mother’s lemonade.

“Divorced. Two kids.”

So he does have a reason to sport his dad bod after all. “Did Lissa break up your marriage?” I almost add in the word, “too,” but manage to keep this bit of gossip out of our conversation. Besides, I haven’t been served with divorce papers yet. I never will .

“No, that honor belongs to my ex-wife. She hooked up with her personal trainer.”

“Ouch.” Holy shit, that sucks.

“Yeah.” He rubs his bald head. “Happened two years ago. I’m moving past it. When I saw what Lissa was trying to do to you, though, I couldn’t let another woman screw over one of my,” he glances directly into my eyes. “Friends.”

There’s that word again. It no longer applies to Curtiss and me, but it did once. I lean on those memories. “I appreciate it. ”

Luke wades into the charged silence. “Bennett said you have proof she’s lying?”

“Right.” He jumps up from the table, disappears for a minute, then returns carrying some papers and photos, which he lays out in front of us. “Think these will work?”

Luke and I shuffle through the documents. Which turn out to be love notes between Lissa and Curtiss. Words that would have hurt me years ago, but with Jenna in my life now, they’re meaningless. Although, they do paint a damning picture of my high school sweetheart.

In the notes, she professes to be in love with Curtiss. Goes on and on about how good he makes her feel. Says she loves him, more than she ever did me.

Okay, those words sting the high school boy living inside of me.

Not for the first time, I’m glad I lost my virginity to a groupie rather than to her.

Lissa never was in love with me. I was a real dipshit back in high school.

Guess I owe Darren an even bigger one for encouraging me to drop out. Coop, Río, and 007, too.

Luke flips through the last of the photos. “These certainly are damning, Curtiss. But I didn’t see anything about her being pregnant in any of them.”

I flip through the notes again, and my shoulders drop. “Luke’s right.”

He points to the photos from the Senior Prom. “Those show we were together, though, right?”

“They do,” Luke agrees.

But it’s not enough . Please let there be something else. “Did she ever send you anything when she got pregnant?” I ask. “Did you go with her to any doctor appointments?”

“She miscarried before her first appointment.”

I’m sunk. If he can’t prove anything more than they were together, there won’t be a way to stop the rumor mill. Noise at the front door captures our attention, and his parents enter the house carrying bags. Both Curtiss and I rush to help them. Like old times. Sort of.

As soon as I take the bag, Mrs. Fanone’s free hand flies in front of her face. “Bennett Hardy? Is that you?”

My beef was with her son, never with her. “In the flesh.”

Disregarding the fact that I’m holding whatever she purchased, she hugs me, bag and all. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She squeezes me again.

Mr. Fanone comes over and shakes my hand, Curtiss now the proud recipient of the bags. “It’s so good to see you again, son.”

Son .

My dry mouth swallows gravel. “It’s nice to see you, too.” As a unit, we return to the kitchen, where Luke remains seated. I make introductions.

His father points to the notes and photos strewn across the table. “So what do you have there?”

Curtiss’s cheeks pinken. “I was showing them somethings Lissa sent me years ago.”

“Yeah,” Luke says. “We’re trying to figure out how to prove she’s been lying about being pregnant with Bennett’s baby. These notes are incriminating, but don’t tie Curtiss to the baby.”

Both his parents sit and sift through the notes. Then his mother’s eyes take on a weird gleam. She snaps her fingers and rushes out of the kitchen without a word. The three of us look to his father.

Mr. Fanone shrugs. “I dunno,” he answers our unasked question. “I do know, though, that we’ve been saddened by how Lissa’s been playing it in the media. She’s quite something.”

“An accomplished liar,” Curtiss adds.

“So, it seems your life has turned out pretty well, Bennett,” his father addresses me. “Congratulations on your wedding.”

I don’t want to mar his image about Jenna and me, so I simply give him a head bob. Besides, I refuse to believe we’re over. I can’t. Won’t.

His mother returns to the kitchen, carrying a small wooden box, which she places in the middle of the table.

The lid reads, “She’s pregnant!” Mrs. Fanone opens the box to reveal a stick with two pink lines snuggled against some fabric.

The lid’s interior says, “Lissa and Curtiss.” It’s dated after I joined UC, a year after I left high school.

Curtiss stares at the box, then clears his throat. “Is that the positive pregnancy test?

His mother replies, “It is. I wanted to commemorate the momentous occasion and had it sent out to be preserved. It came back after the miscarriage, so I never showed it to you, honey.”

Luke and I exchange a triumphant glance. This is it. The proof we need.