The Scammer(70)

* * *




I notice that the night bugs scream louder in the country down south as I stand by, watching Richie drag a passed-out Nick out of the bed of his truck.

“What I tell you? Didn’t I tell you!” Richie shouts, cackling.

We ate, drank, played cards, and ate some more. It was the most relaxing, stress-free Thanksgiving I have ever had. I could stay at Anita’s forever.

Anita hops out of the front seat and takes my hand. “Come on, girl. You too.”

“What? I—” But before I can spit out the word, I tumble forward. The earth begins spinning backward and forward. Damn Richie and that moonshine!

Anita and Richie deposit us on Nick’s living room sofa.

“I’ll drop your car off tomorrow with Uncle Pete,” Richie says. “See you two later.”

“Call us in the morning, Nicky,” Anita says, kissing his forehead. “I can stop by and whip up some breakfast.”

“My leftovers,” I whimper, reaching for the unknown.

Anita laughs. “They’re already in the fridge, baby girl.”

I hear the front door close before the world fades to black. Then someone is shaking my shoulder.

“Hey,” Nick utters. “It’s time for bed. I can’t sleep down here.”

Barely coherent, I nod as we climb up the stairs on our hands and knees. The sight of us makes me giggle until I snort. Nick breaks down laughing, his face turning beet red. We reach the top and fall into each other.

Nick gives me a sloppy grin. “I want to sleep together like we always do.”

“Okay,” I mumble, swaying like a breeze hit me.

“I sleep better with you,” he slurs.

“Okay,” I say, and take his hand, leading him down the hall.

“Jordyn,” he moans. “Wait . . . I . . .”

Then we’re in his room, surrounded by his childhood. The sight of him in here reminds me of something. I turn to the window . . . looking out at the driveway.

“It happened here,” I mutter. “You saw it happen right . . . here.”

Nick follows my line of sight and whirls away, shutting his eyes. The action is too fast, and he stumbles forward.

“Jordyn . . .”

I step toward him, taking his hand.

“Nick, I . . .”

He brushes his thumb against my lips, the corner of his lip sliding into a silly drunken smirk.

“Shhhh . . .” He leans his forehead on mine. “Please.”

“Talk to me,” I beg. “Please.”

Nick shakes his head, wobbling backward out of the room, releasing my hand.

“Tomorrow. I promise to tell you whatever you want. Trust me.”





Twenty-Six




The sun seems to beam directly into Nick’s room.

A text dings. I lean up too quick, my head spinning. That damn moonshine.

Unknown number: Remember to stay strong this Black Friday. Do not fall victim to capitalism.



That’s right. It is Black Friday. Usually, Mom and I would have big shopping plans at the outlets, then end the day at our favorite Italian restaurant with cheesecake. It was tradition. I wonder if she’s thinking of me now. They didn’t even call or return my text.

It must be Devonte sending these random texts. Mr. “I don’t believe in phones” must have one after all. This is probably the longest I’ve gone without thinking of him in months. Most food I’ve had too.

Just the thought reminds me of our takeaway plates downstairs, calling my name. I lick my lips at just the thought of eating a slice of Anita’s sweet corn bread with my morning tea.

I slip on Nick’s sweatshirt and tiptoe downstairs. Nick is in the kitchen, facing the windows, mind so far away he doesn’t hear me coming.

“Hey,” I say, unsure of how to act around him. Especially after last night. “Are you . . . okay?”

He sips his coffee without looking up.

“Get dressed. Something you don’t mind getting wet. There’s something I want to show you.”



* * *




Guess Nick is accustomed to moonshine. While he floats around the house, I’m still woozy and sluggish. Once dressed, we walk out into the backyard, heading for the river.

I didn’t have many clothes to bring so I settled on some leggings and one of Nick’s sweatshirts with Loren’s sneakers. The sight of their laces makes my heart crack. I wonder what the girls are doing. It didn’t seem like anyone was heading home for the holiday.

I put thoughts of them aside and refocus. “Okay, so where are we going?”

“Here,” he says, pointing to the dock. At the end, bobbing in the water, is a purple-and-black Jet Ski. The moment I see it, I stop walking.

“We’re going Jet Skiing?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, come on, I want to show you something.”

He grabs my wrist and tugs us forward.

“Uh, seriously? I can’t get on that thing!”

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re afraid of water.”

“No. It’s just . . .” I cringe, embarrassed of my thought before saying it out loud. “I . . . really don’t want my hair to get wet.”