Guess that doesn't matter since he's got a hold of Connor.
Guess it also doesn't matter that I've already been convicted of assault, which is what landed me in group therapy and led me to this exact moment.
"Wait a minute," Jillian cries out. She rushes past me in a blur, positioning herself between my enemy and me. She holds both hands out, one palm facing each of us. "Please … don't fight."
"I don't want to fight," the man growls. "But you assholes egged my house a few blocks over and someone's going to go clean that shit up or I'm calling the cops."
"We didn't do it," Barb tells the man with a glare, spouting the party line like I told her.
Deny, deny, deny. Good job, Barb.
"I just saw you with the eggs," the man yells in frustration. "You dropped them and ran."
"Doesn't mean we threw them," Barb insists as she crosses her arms over her chest defensively, her eyes flicking over to Connor. The kid is now sort of hanging in the man's grasp like a limp ragdoll, his pitiful amount of energy expended.
"You threw them," the man returns confidently. With a big, meaty hand that moves to Connor's neck, he turns and starts marching him down the sidewalk. "This one's going to clean it up. You three can come if you want."
"Please let him go," Jillian implores as she runs to catch up to the man, laying a hand lightly on his free arm. Barb and I follow along. "He's sick."
The man stops and looks at Jillian. "Sick?"
"Cancer," Jillian says softly. "Alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma. He's terminal."
The man immediately releases Connor and turns to look at him with a shrewd eye. "That true?"
"Yes, sir," Connor says. "And I'm sorry. It was a bucket-list thing-"
"I threw the eggs," I say loudly, talking right over Connor. "I'll clean your house up."
The man looks at me again, and this time his gaze travels down, pinning on my prosthetic. When his gaze lifts back to mine, there's an even harder glint in them that goes beyond mere frustration at some hoodlums egging his house.
"You in the military?" he asks.
This catches me totally off guard as there's nothing about me to indicate I was a marine. I'm wearing an old West Virginia Mountaineers t-shirt and my hair is longish, hanging an inch or so past my ears and collar.
"Marine Corps," I say.
"Army," he answers gruffly. "Lost a lot of good friends over there."
I don't respond because I don't want to bond with this turd who thinks we have some affinity because we were both in the military. He came back with all his parts as far as I can tell. He stares at me a moment longer before turning to Jillian.
"What is this?" he asks as he waves his hand in a sweeping gesture to include our entire motley group. He can see at a glance we don't belong together, but he's keen enough to know there's some bond there.
"We're all in group therapy together," Jillian explains, and I think she lays it on a little thick to be honest. "I'm going progressively blind, Connor's dying, Barb keeps trying to die, and well … Christopher lost part of his leg and hand. We're taking a cross-country trip so Connor can see the Pacific Ocean before he … well, you know … "
The man's eyes round in sympathy and fuck if I don't even see a sheen of tears forming. Most people would have called bullshit on our story, even though it's true, but he's apparently bought it hook, line, and sinker.
"How old are you kids?" the guy asks.
Jillian provides the information, because she apparently pays attention to everything in group. "I'm twenty-one, Christopher is twenty-six, Barb is twenty-four, and Connor is eighteen."
I'm surprised by her little white lie about Connor, but it was smart to do so he wouldn't ask questions why a minor was with us.
"I'm Keith," the guy says, then gives a chuckle. "You scared the shit out of Cammie, my wife. You all come back to my house, you can rinse the eggs off, and we'll have a beer."
"Really?" Connor asks in complete stunned amazement that this is even going down like this. I'm half suspecting he wanted to be arrested or something, which would be a much cooler accomplishment for his bucket list.
"Yeah," Keith says in resignation. "You can even have a beer too, seeing as you're dying and all."
"Cool," Connor says, and then he starts to follow Keith as he leads the way back to his house.
This trip is definitely nothing like I thought it would be.
Chapter 11
As we walk back to the house, Keith and Connor keep up a running dialogue. While I know he was pissed as hell we egged his house, I can see he's highly intrigued by our group. And I'll also have to just go with my hunch he's a guy with a good heart, because most people would certainly not invite a bunch of criminal twerps into their home for a beer.
Barb follows right behind Keith and Connor. Jillian and I take up the rear, walking awkwardly side by side.
We went from a heart-pounding but brief kiss to cleaning eggs off a brick house. I'm not sure where we stand. Was Jillian just caught up in the exhilaration of the moment, perhaps the thrill of being chased and caught causing her to be daring and reckless? Or did she really want me to kiss her?
Without warning, preamble, or a head's-up, Jillian quietly slips her hand into mine. I'm completely shocked and nearly stumble. Because she's walking on my right, she has to take my deformed hand and I fucking hate it.
Hate it because I don't want to gross her out, and hate it because half the remaining skin around the area where I lost my fingers is numb and I can't really feel her skin against mine.
But mostly I'm embarrassed and ashamed, and I actually pull my hand back a little with the intention of moving around her so she can hold my left hand.
I'm thwarted rewarded when Jillian's hand tightens around the half that's left of mine, and she murmurs one word. "Don't."
Don't pull away.
Don't be scared.
Don't be ashamed.
Just don't.
I try to calm my stammering heart, try to push down all my self-conscious thoughts, and try like hell to just be in the moment. It's hard because I've not let myself be in a moment in a long time. I've kept myself so sheltered from the real world that human touch feels foreign to me.
I'm not sure if I like it or not, but I don't pull my hand away.
When we reach Keith's house, he says, "Come on inside. I'll introduce you to Cammie."
We follow him in, and I wonder just how pissed Cammie is going to be at us. She's waiting for us in the living room as we enter, taking in the entire group with an eyebrow cocked high and her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Whereas Keith is built like a mountain, Cammie is the opposite. Small, petite, and delicate looking.
"Caught them," Keith says as he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at us. "They're going to clean up the mess. After that, we're going to have a beer."
Cammie's eyebrow cocks higher. "I already cleaned it up. Got the garden hose out and sprayed it off before it could dry."
"Huh?" Keith says, scratching his head. "Well … what should we do with them? Can't have my beer without penance."
Connor snickers, causing Cammie's eyes to drift over to him. They immediately fill with sympathy as she takes him in, meaning she recognizes he's sick.
"Well," she says with a mischievous smile at Connor as she uncrosses her arms. Pointing to the kitchen, she says, "You can finish cleaning up my kitchen. Then we'll be square."
"Deal," Connor says, accepting quickly, and Cammie's expression warms even further.
Okay, so I am going to have to admit it … Keith and Cammie may be two of the coolest weirdest people I've ever met.
♦
"So egging houses was seriously on your bucket list?" Cammie asks Connor as we sit outside on their deck. It's small, and there's only a table with four chairs around it. Cammie, Connor, Jillian, and Barb are at the table, while Keith and I lean back against the deck railing.
Connor shrugs. "I've been sick for such a long time, so there was a lot of fun growing-up stuff I missed out on."
"Well, we're honored you chose our house," Cammie says jokingly and holds her beer up to Connor.
He taps his can to hers with a sheepish grin. "I won't ever forget this."
"We want to thank you for how cool you and Keith have been about this," Jillian says. Her back is to me, but I can imagine the apologetic expression on her face. We had dropped hands as we walked into Keith's house. Since then, she's barely looked at me.
"How long ago did that happen?" Keith asks quietly from beside me, and this does not offend me the way the "thank you for your sacrifice" does.
I turn my head, and his head nods down to my leg. "Little over a year and a half ago."
Keith turns around and rests his elbows on the edge of the deck rail, holding his beer can in one hand. It's a move that says, "Let's talk a bit more privately," so I turn to face the railing and mimic the way he leans over it. I'd already finished my beer and declined a second one offered by Keith since I'm driving. While I'm sure I'd be fine driving with two beers, I don't want to worry Jillian the others about whether I'm impaired.