Page 15 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Believe it or not, the next morning, I was back at the gym.

This had become a thing for me. And not in a good way.

Here’s the thing about gyms. There are lots of people.

There’s music. And then people are listening to their own music.

And they’re talking to each other. And there are mirrors.

And people are looking at themselves in the mirrors.

And they’re looking at you. And no matter how hard you try, you sometimes end up seeing yourself in the mirrors.

And weights are clanking and people are judging and did you know that treadmills keep going forever ?

Like, the manufacturers don’t even build in a safety mechanism to disable them after you’ve run a mile.

I won’t even mention the locker rooms except to say this: there are a lot of gentlemen (usually older) who are way too comfortable with their bodies.

Oh, and the smells.

And one time I saw a guy cleaning under his toenails!

Okay, I’m done.

(For now.)

But building some muscle and losing some, uh, tummy was part of the Straight to the Moon: Dashiell Dawson Dane, Rocket Man Improvement Plan.

And the secret weapon in my plan was Chester Lamb: certified dreamboat, unofficial personal trainer, and world’s gentlest bully (ace edition).

Here’s the thing about Chester. He’s soft-spoken.

He loves photography. He is weirdly into puzzles that have more than twenty-four pieces (my max capacity).

He lives in his parents’ basement. And I know what you’re thinking: he’s some pasty, misbegotten thing that probably has to shield its eyes when it comes out into the sunlight.

Sadly, life isn’t fair.

Chester is the dictionary definition of eye candy.

He’s got dark blond hair that’s messy on top and shaved short on the sides, he’s got an incredibly cute beard/mustache thing going on, and he looks like some ancient Greek sculptor made his body on a good day—so many muscles.

Unfortunately, it turns out he got all those muscles through hard work and perseverance and all sorts of other terrible things.

He’d taken pity on me at the gym when I’d gotten myself trapped under a barbell.

(Like, literally—it was pinning me to the bench, and everybody was going about their business, pretending nothing was happening.

Although I’m pretty sure if Mr. Cheek had been there, he would have gently pressed down on that barbell until Bobby Mai was free again.) And after saving my life and soothing my ego, Chester had appointed himself in charge of all future physical self-improvement.

He was in these cute shorts and a tank today. The tank showed the sun lifting weights. The sun was smiling. It was so adorable—and it was so early in the morning (nine o’clock)—that I almost screamed.

“We’re starting with cardio,” Chester informed me.

“I’m going to scream,” I warned him.

That made him laugh for some reason. But while he was laughing, he also manhandled me up onto the treadmill and pressed something, and then it was either run or get sucked under and wrapped around the treadmill belt like a cartoon character.

After our “warm-up,” which is such a cruel lie that I feel like there should be legal recourse and some sort of compensation, Chester made me lift weights.

Lots of weights. Heavy weights. (Okay, not that heavy.

Althea Wilson was using the same weights, and she’s in her seventies.

Also, she’s a total babe.) And then I had to throw a medicine ball.

And then I had to do push-ups . (The horror: cue a montage of embarrassing memories from high school PE.)

But here’s the weird thing about exercise.

Somehow, it tricks your body. Your body doesn’t realize you’re trying to kill it.

Your body, for some reason, thinks it’s a good thing.

And then all these hormones start rushing through you.

(Are they endorphins or are they hormones?

Are endorphins hormones? Should I see a doctor?) And your head doesn’t feel as—is smoggy a thing?

Like, when everything in your head is gray and thick and heavy, and some days you aren’t even sure you can get out of bed, except you know Keme will put a snake under the covers if you don’t?

And after a while, even though you can’t breathe and every inch of you feels like it’s on fire, you start to feel almost…

Well, I almost said normal . But I guess I meant good .

“I like the new haircut,” Chester said.

I grunted and threw the medicine ball at his face.

“Spikier,” he said.

“I’m going to murder you.”

“Let’s do the tire next.”

The tire. Oh my God, the tire.

It’s a huge tire. What else do I have to say except that Chester makes me push it around?

“I like the new kicks,” Chester said after the tire fell on me and almost crushed me to death.

I made a sound that was mostly about being crushed by the tire.

And later, when Chester allowed me— allowed me —to get a drink, he said, “That’s a cute outfit. Lululemon?”

I wiped water from my mouth. I stared at him. I breathed.

“You’re doing great,” Chester informed me. “Lunges.”

If you’ve never done lunges, don’t . Lunges are the worst. Lunges were invented by the devil—who, it turns out, is actually Chester.

As I did the lunges, I said a lot of words you’re not allowed to say in your high school PE class. I thought I was saying them quietly, but Chester—who was doing lunges with me and somehow wasn’t even breathing hard—finally said, “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m dying.”

Chester’s a wise man. He didn’t say anything to that.

Finally, mercifully, it was over. And here’s the thing about Chester: he really is a sweetheart, because at the end of every workout, he buys me a smoothie.

I mean, I should be buying him a smoothie.

The logical part of me knows that. But somehow, by the end of every workout, it’s so gratifying that I let him.

Like, I earned that smoothie, even if I am disgusting and sweaty and sore.

So, we sat at the little smoothie bar near the front of the gym.

It had big glass windows that looked out on another rainy day in Hastings Rock, and the ceiling was high, and all that open space made voices echo as people came and went.

By that point, I didn’t care about people.

All I cared about was my strawberry-banana-chia seed smoothie.

(Chester was the one who picked the chia seeds, and I was too weak to fight him.)

One of the reasons I like Chester (aside from the fact that he doesn’t want to date me, which let me tell you, is a huge relief to both of us, plus the whole eye-candy thing) is that Chester doesn’t yammer.

Chester doesn’t fill the silence. Chester doesn’t chatter.

Chester is easy to be with, especially for someone with an endearing little case of social anxiety (like me).

Today, though, Chester was making a lot of unnecessary eye contact.

“What?” I finally said.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What’s going on?”

“Oh my God. This town and the murders—”

“No, with you.” And then he beamed at me. “Have you guys set a date?”

The best I could come up with (and remember, I’m a writer) was “Huh?”

“You’re getting married, right?” Chester said slowly. “I mean, the new haircut, the new clothes, the new shoes, the new workout routine … Oh my God, you’re not getting married. Dash, I’m so sorry.”

To my own surprise, I laughed. “It’s okay.”

“You guys are so great together,” Chester said. “And when you started making all these changes, I assumed—God, I’m such an idiot.”

“No, no. I mean, I wish.”

And I definitely hadn’t meant to say that.

Chester’s eyebrows went up.

“Nope.” I shook my head. “Forget I said that.”

Chester took a commiserating drink of his smoothie.

“I mean, if he asked me, would I say yes? Absolutely. One hundred percent. Bobby is my dream man. He’s smart, and he’s funny, and he’s so sweet. Like one time, I was way too tired to reach the cake, so he put it on a plate and brought it to me.”

“You were too tired to reach it?” Chester asked.

I ignored that. “We haven’t talked about it yet.” And I tried to stop myself, I did, but the words kept coming. “We haven’t talked about anything, actually.”

Chester took a few more sips of smoothie. And then he said the words God never intended man to say to man: “Do you want to talk about it?”

I groaned. I slid down in my seat. I might have done a little tantrum-style stomping with my feet. “You too?”

“You realize my dad wanted me to marry you?”

That made me burst out laughing. I dragged myself upright.

“I don’t know. We’ve talked about the future.

About stuff. Plans. Like, are we going to try to plan a vacation for this year?

Where do we want to spend the holidays? But we haven’t talked talked.

There have been these—these comments, I guess, when emotions are running high.

But those weren’t exactly, um, conversations. ”

Chester, bless his little heart, was staring at me.

“They were, um, special adult times,” I clarified.

“Got it.”

“Which isn’t exactly ideal for a conversation.”

“Oh my God, Dash, my dad thought we were a match .”

Grinning, I said, “We’ve only been dating—God, it hasn’t even been a year.”

Chester’s flat look was not, to put it politely, flattering.

“What?”

“Don’t give me that. You know what you and Bobby have is more serious than that.”

And that was true. At least, I thought it was. But I said, “I think we’re both waiting for things to settle down. There are still a lot of moving pieces, you know?”

Chester’s answering noise was, again, unflattering. “What moving pieces?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m not ready to settle down.”

“Two weeks ago, you told me the only way you were leaving Hemlock House was in a body bag, and we were talking about going to the Otter Slide. If you get any more settled, they’re going to put up a headstone.”

“I mean there are a few things that need to change before Bobby and I take the next step. And it’s not Bobby, by the way. He’s perfect, and I love him. Just life stuff.”

“Like?”

Like me, I almost said.

But for once, I stopped myself in time, and I managed a weak, “Just, you know, stuff.”

It would have been bad enough if Chester’s answering gaze had been scornful or contemptuous or even amused. The compassion I saw there, though, was worse.

Fortunately, my phone buzzed.

“My father did not kill that boy,” Fox said.

“Hi, Fox.”

“They’re trying to railroad him!”

“I’m sure Sheriff Acosta wouldn’t do that.”

Instead of the usual Fox huff—or similarly scornful sound—they simply got louder. “The sheriff has been interrogating him all day, Dash. She thinks he did it. She’s determined to make an innocent man go down for a crime he didn’t commit. What would you call that?”

“Fox, it’s all going to be okay. If you say your dad didn’t kill Kyson, then the sheriff will eventually clear him and move on to other suspects.”

I didn’t say this next part out loud: Like Jonni.

“Oh? And how well did that go for you when you were arrested? Or Hugo? Or Keme? Or Indira?”

“Fox, I know you’re upset.”

“You’re darn tootin’ right I’m upset.”

( Darn tootin’ was the cleanest version I could come up with.)

We were both silent for several long seconds.

“How can I help?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” The anger drained out of Fox’s voice, and now they sounded tired. “My father won’t talk to anyone except Tinny. It’s insane. ‘Tinny knows what to do.’ ‘Tinny says everything’s going to be okay.’ ‘Tinny saw it in the crystal.’ Tinny didn’t see jack crap in that crystal!”

(Again, jack crap is the filtered version.)

“Why?” I asked. “I mean, he has to understand how serious this is, doesn’t he?”

“You’d think.” Fox’s voice held a hint of their usual dry amusement.

“Do you know what he said when I finally had a minute to talk to him? When he was still being held at the station, mind you. When I was trying to find out if he already had a lawyer he wanted me to call. He said, ‘If anything happens to me, take care of Tinny.’” There was a beat of silence, and then Fox’s strained, disbelieving laughter came across the phone.

“I know you believe your father is innocent—” I began.

“I don’t believe it, Dash. I know it. My father is many things, but he’s not a killer.”

“Not even for Tinny?”

I hated myself as soon as I asked the question, but it was too late.

Fox’s breathing rasped.

Maybe something showed on my face, because Chester reached across the table to grip my hand, and he offered me a tight smile.

“Ah,” Fox said, as though a piece had tumbled.

“I’m not saying he did it,” I said. “Fox, I don’t believe he did it either. I was thinking about it all night. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Of course.” But the words were stiff and dismissive.

“But there’s a reason Kyson has those pictures of your dad. They mean something. And whatever it is, it’s not good. Do you have any idea what might have been happening?”

“No.”

“Your dad didn’t say what he was doing, or why Kyson might have taken those photos?”

“You may find this hard to believe, Dash, but no, my father didn’t conveniently explain away the crux of the entire case the sheriff is building against him.”

(That sounded more like the old Fox.)

“I know this is an ugly question, but could your father have been having a…relationship with Kyson?”

“My father ?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, Kyson was a young, attractive man, and—”

“My father is straight.”

“Oh.”

“He’s sleeping with Tinny.”

“Well, I got that much, but I thought—”

“I shouldn’t have to say this, but obviously .”

“Right, I mean, okay, but the tabard—”

“What about the tabard?”

“You know what? He wasn’t sleeping with Kyson. That’s the important part.”

Fox let out a frustrated breath. “What drives me crazy is that I know he’s hiding something.

And I know Tinny, and that little country bumpkin—” (Again, my term.) “—is hiding something too. In my whole life, Dash, my father has never lied to me. And now it seems like all he does is lie. I can’t reason with him.

I can’t argue with him. I can’t even talk to him. ”

A pair of teenage girls approached the smoothie bar.

They were laughing, whispering to each other, and glancing at Chester.

Poor Chester looked like somebody had lit a fire under him—I think he was the only person in the universe who hated attention more than I did—but to his credit, he kept hold of my hand.

“Come to the show tonight,” Fox said. “Please. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

“Will he be there?”

“Unless they arrest them. And even if they do, you still need to talk to the cast and the crew. Dash, someone killed that boy, and it wasn’t my father. That means the killer is still out there.”

I mean, what was I supposed to say?

After I disconnected, Chester’s smile curled at the corner. “Let me guess. You’re about to go looking for trouble.”