Page 34 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

We ended up sitting on a log. I had my arm around Bobby’s shoulders, and he leaned into me.

He stopped crying, and then we sat there, the quiet broken only by eddies of wind, the vast sound of trees moving, and Bobby’s occasional noises of recovery—a hiccup, a sniffle, the rasp of him clearing his throat.

He spoke first. “I kept telling myself to take a breath. Ever since she died, it’s been like that.

I catch myself not breathing. And then I start thinking about how it felt when you were—when I thought something bad was going to happen to you.

So, I kept telling myself, ‘Breathe, keep breathing.’” He made an unhappy noise that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“So that I wouldn’t have a panic attack. ”

I rubbed his back.

“And when I woke up this morning and you were gone, that was the first thing that went through my head: Something happened to Dash.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t—”

He shook his head. “I knew that was just my brain. I kept trying to calm myself down. I called you; you were fine. I knew I’d been pushing you away, and I wanted to apologize.

” That same not-laugh trickled out of him again.

“But I didn’t. You told me about the flowers, and that was so sweet, so thoughtful, so…

you. I wanted to double-check the delivery address, so I got on your computer like you said. ”

“And I’d left the spreadsheet open.”

“It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing. All those names in red. And then it was like—it was like all that anger I’d been holding back washed over me.

Everything I’d been holding back. Everything I knew I couldn’t let out because—” His mouth slanted in an ugly version of the goofy grin I loved so much.

“—it’s proof that I’m a terrible son. I was so mad.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely get the keys in the ignition.

I kept telling myself, ‘At least it’s better than a panic attack. ’”

“You’ve been under a lot of strain. You’re hurting. And I kept something from you; it’s okay for you to get mad, honest.”

“I don’t know if it is.” He seemed to consider that.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t believe you hadn’t told me.

It felt like this massive betrayal.” When I opened my mouth, he said, “I know it wasn’t; that was the emotion talking.

But I couldn’t seem to turn the anger off.

That scared me more than anything. It was like—it was like after West, when I felt so much, and it never let up.

I started driving. I called you, and you didn’t answer.

That only made me angrier. I called again.

And in my head, I was playing out these huge explosions, even though I wasn’t really mad at you.

I was mad at my mom. For dying.” He shivered; I pulled him closer. “That’s so messed up.”

“Well, we’re all messed up. I mean, you’ve met my parents. I’m Exhibit A in the Museum of Messed-Up Children.”

He turned his face into my shoulder. His cheek was warm, and his hair brushed my neck.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” I said. “About whatever you want. I didn’t know your mom, and I wasn’t part of that relationship.

But I know you, Bobby. You’re such a good, kind, loving person.

If you feel conflicted, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.

It doesn’t mean you don’t miss her. People are complicated.

Emotions are messy.” I ran my fingers through his glossy black hair.

“Thank you for talking to me. It means a lot to me that you’re letting me share this with you. ”

Somewhere among the trees, a drop of water plonked. That clean, sporty scent of Bobby’s deodorant rose on the air, mixing with the smell of sap and a recent rain.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he said in a low voice.

I rubbed his back some more. The muscles there were broad and strong and firm. He was shivering, I realized. And then—the thought making me smile—he needed a haircut.

“You won’t,” I said. “Feelings aren’t forever.”

The wind picked up again. The trees wavered and bent, and the same wind pulled at my hair and speckled my glasses with little drops of water.

I took a breath. “In the spirit of talking about our feelings and apologizing and, uh, leaving no stone unturned, I guess—”

Bobby didn’t exactly groan out loud, but that’s only because he’s a trooper.

“—I wanted to say I’m sorry if I haven’t done a good job, you know, helping you.”

Bobby raised his head from my shoulder and looked at me.

“It’s my first time,” I said. And pure nerves plus the fact that I’m still thirteen years old inside made me add, “Not like that first time. But you know that. Ha ha. Um, more like, it’s my first time trying to be, you know, an emotional support for my partner, and I wanted to make sure you knew you could talk to me, but I also didn’t want to press too much, and I knew you needed to eat, but I knew sometimes people honestly couldn’t eat because they were grieving, and I think at one point I was worried about your pillow—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I literally have no idea. I’m trying to say that I’m going to keep working on this too. On being there for you. In a way that’s meaningful and right for you. Because I love you, and I want to be that person for you.”

Bobby did this little blink-shrug-shake of the head like he was having some kind of processing malfunction. And then he said, “What would I want you to do differently?”

“My baseline is usually ‘pretty much everything.’”

“But you’re perfect.”

It was, I’m sorry to say, literally the most Bobby thing Bobby had ever thought or said or done. One hundred percent sincerity. Complete matter-of-factitude. And the general impression that he thought this was such an obvious truth that he didn’t understand why we were even talking about it.

So, I did the obvious thing: I melted. I turned into goo. Every inch of me liquefied in a rush of warmth, and I realized I was smiling.

“Oh, um, thanks, but I’m not perfect—”

“Yes. You are. You’re perfect for me. I love you so much; I can’t imagine going through this with anyone else.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry again I called West.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I understand. There’s—there’s less at stake, I guess. You can talk to him because he’s not your boyfriend. Kind of like how you could talk to me when we were just friends.”

He cocked his head.

“What?” I asked.

“Kind of.”

“What?” I asked again.

“That’s kind of right. About it feeling less scary to talk to West because he’s not my boyfriend and because I don’t have to—” He stopped, and I thought maybe Bobby had never put the rest of it into words for himself.

After a moment he said, “And I’m going to work on that.

Keep working on that, I mean. But that’s not why I could talk to you when we were friends. ”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I could talk to you,” he said, “because I was falling in love with you.”

Did you know sometimes you smile so hard you actually can’t do anything else? It’s a full-body operation.

And because he was Bobby, that seemed to settle the matter for him.

He shifted around on the log. I did too; my joggers were getting wet, and no offense intended to whoever first came up with the idea of sitting on a log, but they’re not exactly comfortable.

I mean, people invented chairs for a reason.

And couches. And recliners. Oh! And beds!

“I can’t believe I’m never going to talk to her again.

” He scuffed his sneaker through the litter of pine needles.

“She was always there, you know. I couldn’t talk to my dad, but I could talk to her.

Even if we usually ended up fighting. God, I don’t even know what I’m going to do.

I mean, you’ve met my dad. I guess I’ll call him once a week.

Ask him how he’s doing. He’ll say fine, and I’ll tell him what you and I are doing, and then I’ll call him again the next week.

” He gave the needles another kick. “Maybe Eric’ll have an easier time of it. They can take the kids over at least.”

“At the risk of talking about things that are none of my business,” I said.

Bobby gave me a glance.

“And putting my foot in it,” I said.

He didn’t smile, but his mouth did…slant.

“And generally, uh, saying the kind of thing that, if this were a TV sitcom, would get me sent to sleep on the couch for a week?”

“This isn’t a TV sitcom.”

“But if it were, I would want to be played by The Rock.”

“Interesting casting. What was that thing you were going to put your foot into?”

“And you could be played by—oh my God, wait, you should be played by The Rock! I could be played by—who’s that gay guy with great hair who’s always a spy? And Millie could be played by that girl who kicked that paparazzo in the face when he tried to take her picture—”

“Dash.”

“I know I’m not an expert on your family. And it’s none of my business. And you didn’t ask me.”

“This is a strong start.”

That made me grin. “But I was thinking, you know, about you. And about your dad. And, well, I wonder if maybe you don’t have to talk to him.”

Bobby shrugged. “He’s my dad. It’ll be one awkward phone call a week.” And with painful optimism, he added, “Maybe it’ll turn out to be a good thing, you know?”

“Right,” I said. “And of course I want that. But I was thinking maybe he doesn’t want someone to talk to.

Maybe he wants someone to be there. And do things with him.

Help him with a project. Spend time with him, but doing something, so you don’t feel awkward not talking.

And then, if he talks, great, and if not, also great. ”

After several seconds, Bobby said, “This is why you’re perfect.”

I would have pointed out that I most definitely was not perfect—you can’t be perfect if you end up, through a series of poor life decisions, without any clean undies more than once a month. That’s a rule. But I was too busy melting into a puddle of smiling goo.

We sat there. The trees bent in the wind. Distantly, the sounds of Fox’s outrage rose—ordinary outrage, the kind of thing you recognize after you’ve heard it enough times. Probably because Millie suggested they wear a different kind of goggle or Keme laughed at their boots.

And then, because I will perpetually be Dashiell Dawson Dane, I said, “Okay, change of subject, but did you know Jethro was Mal’s son?”

“What?”

“Indira just told me.”

Bobby shook his head. “Did you call the sheriff?”

“Well, no, I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Prepare yourselves for a mystery to be dramatically concluded’—”

“Absolutely not,” he said as he dug out his phone.

As Bobby placed the call, I said, “Be sure to tell her that this gives Jethro a motive for killing Mal.”

Bobby nodded.

“And tell her that Jethro doesn’t have a good alibi for the shooting.”

Phone to his ear, Bobby gave me a look.

“And tell her it’s extremely suspicious that Jethro didn’t tell us.

Oh, and tell her that Indira is innocent and was only trying to cover for Jethro because of her tangled history with Mal and her own unresolved grief about the loss of a child.

Oh! And tell her that I figured all of this out through a series of brilliant deductions.

And tell her that Jethro is probably being set up. ”

Bobby spoke into the phone. “Jethro is Mal’s son.”

And then he disconnected.

“Okay,” I said, “points for brevity—”

“She didn’t answer,” Bobby said as he placed another call. This time, though, he frowned as a voice began to speak.

I scooted closer and pulled at Bobby’s hand until I could hear too.

“—on leave, in case you forgot,” Deputy Dairek was saying.

Deputy Dairek might have been, to put it politely, my least favorite deputy.

And that’s including the one who tried to kill me.

Among other compelling character traits, Deputy Dairek was loud, opinionated, small-minded, and had once told his mom to, quote, Shove off in the middle of the Keel Haul.

He’s lucky Millie’s mom wasn’t around because that would have called for an immediate spanking.

Also, word on the street was that one time, in elementary school, he’d pushed his grandpa into the pool.

Like I said: least favorite.

“I know I’m on leave,” Bobby was saying. “But I need to talk to the sheriff.”

“The sheriff is busy. And you’re not supposed to call the station.”

“This is an emergency. It’s about the investigation into Thomas Malick’s death—”

Dairek cut Bobby off with a crow of triumph. “I knew it! I knew it! I knew the two of you were trying to help your friend.”

“Of course we’re trying to help our friend,” I snapped. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

Bobby sent me a clear message with the way he scrunched his eyes, but his tone was even as he said, “Dairek—”

“Let me guess,” Dairek said over him. “You figured it out. You and Sherlock Holmes junior cracked the case. The rest of us can turn off the lights and see ourselves out.”

“I’ve got important information—” Bobby tried.

“Junior?” I couldn’t help myself. “Sherlock Holmes junior ?”

Fortunately, Dairek didn’t follow up on that. “If you’ve got important information, you can tell me, and I’ll pass it along to the sheriff.”

“Jethro is Mal’s son,” Bobby said. “That gives him a motive. And he doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the shooting.”

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Your friend had the murder weapon in her flat.

Her prints are on the gun. When the sheriff goes to arrest her, it turns out she’s on the run, and your other friends are accomplices.

And now you’ve cracked the case wide open, and surprise, surprise, it’s not your friend. ”

“Because it’s not —” I tried.

“How many times do you think that’s going to work?” Dairek said. “Let the sheriff do her job. Keep your nose out of sheriff’s office business. And enjoy your leave. I wish I was on leave—”

Bobby disconnected.

He took one long, deep breath through his nose.

Take it from me: it’s a lot scarier than when he yells.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we’re going to—”

“We’re going to talk to Jethro?”

I’m not even joking: the entire forest froze. The wind stopped blowing. The trees stopped creaking. The crows stopped, uh, crowing.

Bobby has these remarkable, burnt-bronze eyes that, if I’m being one hundred percent honest, sometimes have this laser-like intensity.

“You know what?” I said. “You tell me what you were going to say.”

He got to his feet and started back toward the cabin.

I let him get a head start.