But even with staying busy, my thoughts weighed me down. It was like carrying a gigantic bag of hockey equipment around all week, metaphorically speaking.
I debated for several days over whether to do it. Weighed the pros and cons. Considered talking to Bailey first. Ruled that out. Tried to listen to my conscience. Wrestled with what my conscience said versus what my brain knew. Went back and forth several times. Asked Ward and promptly disregarded his advice because it didn’t align with what I wanted to do.
Finally, I pulled the trigger.
After getting Palmer to pass along Derek’s contact info, I had to do a shit ton of arm twisting via text to get him to meet me for a simple beer.
Dick.
I slid into the dark green vinyl booth, facing the front so I could watch for Derek when he arrived. Maybe this was a little hypocritical after giving Bailey a hard time about hiding the Morrison thing, but it was for a good cause. She’d understand.
Hopefully.
Plus, I did warn her that I was nosy.
Ten minutes later than we’d agreed, Derek pushed open the wooden double doors of O’Connor’s and crossed the room to my table. He flopped down into the booth across from me, giving me a wary look. His head-to-toe uniform of blue and gray Bulldogs gear was probably intentional, meant to remind me that we were still firmly on opposite sides.
“What do you want, Carter? Is this about Bailey?”
Pretty cold reception from someone who—according to Bailey—was willing to give me a chance, but whatever. I guess he was singing a different tune when she was around.
“And here I thought Bailey said you were going to make nice.”
“I still don’t trust you,” he said.
That was mutual. But, moving on. I was willing to be civil. We didn’t have to be best friends.
Our server appeared, and we quickly ordered a pint of beer each. The same beer, actually—Half Moon Pale Ale from the local Rockwood Brewery.
Maybe he would chill out after he had a drink. Nah, probably not. Aside from Morrison and Paul, I didn’t really hold grudges, but Derek took things much more personally than I did. Our bad blood went back pretty far too; right to the beginning of my freshman year, when I discovered how easy he was to rile up on the ice. Plus, he was really pissed after I got him thrown out of that game last spring.
I didn’t want to jump right into it, so I made a half-assed attempt at conversation about hockey and the weather while we waited for our drinks to arrive. It was painful. I wasn’t a fan of small talk at the best of times, let alone when the person across from me openly hated my guts.
My limited supply of patience dwindled quickly.
“What’s going on with your parents?” I placed my forearms on the table and angled closer.
Derek frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The house and money situation,” I said. “Your sister was pretty vague with me. How bad is it?”
“Well…it’s not great.”
Our server returned, setting down two cardboard coasters and placing the beers on top before leaving again.
“Elaborate.”
Derek looked into his beer, hesitating. “I don’t want to tell you anything Bailey doesn’t want you to know.”
“Tell me anyway. Maybe I can help.”
He snorted. “What, do you have a money tree?”
I don’t know, asshole. Does a hefty trust fund count? Christ. Was he always this salty or was I special?
“Maybe I do,” I said. “How bad?”
Derek’s expression shifted from overt hostility to poorly concealed embarrassment. “I don’t know specifically. I just know they’ve fallen behind on everything.” He shrugged, picking up his glass. “Living on one income for six months will do that.”
So her dad hadn’t been laid off recently. I wondered, given that he was a teacher, and it was partway through the school year. Dammit, James. Why was she trying to save face with me?
“Plus, they used up all their savings back when Bailey—” He caught himself.
Um, what’s this now?
“When Bailey what?” I leaned over the table, elbows spread across the top, prompting him.
Derek looked at me, wide-eyed, like a goalie caught in the line of an oncoming puck without his pads. I guess an inability to lie well ran in the family. “Uh, nothing. Never mind.”
I took a sip of my beer, pretending to let that Bailey thing slide. Even though I sure as hell wasn’t.
“Are they in foreclosure?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“They’re behind on the loan payments?”
“The mortgage is in default. They have a few more weeks before it goes into foreclosure.”
In other words, right before Christmas. Fuck.
A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t even want to go home for Christmas to deal with my catastrophe of a family. And yet, it was all Bailey wanted—but might not get.
“So that’s why they’re selling the house.”
“Yeah, they’re hoping to sell before the bank takes it,” he said.
Double fuck. I was no realtor, but even I knew hardly anyone was buying houses around Christmas. Especially in the midst of an economic recession.
“Can they get out of default before the deadline?” I asked. “Do they have anyone they can hit up for the cash?”
Derek sighed, avoiding my eyes. “Probably not. But they won’t take your charity, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”
“Would they take an interest-free loan?”
“Doubt it,” he said.
Did he actually doubt it, or did he just not want the help to come from me?
“They could pay me back once the house sells.”
Assuming it did sell and assuming they could afford to pay me back once it did. Hopefully, they weren’t underwater too. But I wouldn’t offer anything I wasn’t willing to part with permanently.
He looked at me warily, studying me with eyes that were a darker, duller version of Bailey’s—more brown, less green. Then he shook his head slightly, like he was ruling it out.
“To be clear,” I said, “unlike your dick friend Morrison, my help won’t come with strings. I don’t want Bailey to have to worry about this. And I definitely don’t want her parents to lose their home at Christmas.”
Derek’s jaw tensed, probably because of the Morrison jab.
I wanted to ask him whether he was aware of the texts that fucker was sending his sister. Or the millions of other terrible things he’d done to Bailey. But covering that would take all night—and those were just the things she’d told me about. They were the tip of the hockey stick.
“B would be pissed at you for going behind her back about this,” he said.
He was right, but the alternative was worse. I hoped Bailey would agree, at least once she forgave me. She’d never been really mad at me before; it was hard to say.
“Let me worry about that,” I said. “How much is the mortgage, do you know?”
“Around three thousand a month.”
“Do you think fifteen grand would help?”
His eyes widened. “You’re going to cut a check for fifteen grand like it’s nothing?”
Why did everyone think Morrison was the only person in the world with any cash? Because he rubbed it in their faces constantly? We weren’t all tacky assholes. And fifteen thousand dollars wasn’t that much money. It was well spent in this case, anyway.