Mind Pucked (Chicago Blue Jays #1)

3. Amelia

3

AMELIA

I open a new tab, pulling up Spotify. It’s too damn quiet in this place. I’ve been sitting at my computer for over an hour now, looking for jobs I can apply for and researching various programs to get my teaching certificate locally. I think I’m still in the running for the nanny job with Jackson and Hayden, but I don’t really know. It’s been three days, and his behavior didn’t really tell me anything. Nothing useful, anyway. So, since I have rent to pay, I have to keep looking.

I pull up a playlist of my favorite songs to keep me going, and I stretch my neck and back, wiggling my fingers and toes before getting back to it.

I finish off the application for a daycare, after answering some open-ended questions. As if they’re really going to look at my answers. No need to make this process more efficient. It’s supposedly so easy to get a job when you have a degree in something. That’s the whole reason we waste an extra several years of our lives and lots of money to get one. Well, it was my parents’ money in my case, but still. Someone needs to do something about this.

I hit submit and then move on to the next application. This one seems to only be asking for a resume and then a couple questions about my education and experience, but I see it doesn’t pay very much. I might as well work fast food for that wage.

I close the tab and roll my eyes, trying to stay positive.

“You can do it.” I feel silly, speaking to my self like this, but at least there’s no one around to hear in my own damn apartment.

A neighbor turns up their music, and I scowl at our shared wall. I turn up my own music. A song comes on that makes me want to get up and dance, but I’m stuck at this stupid computer trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. A life that still feels like it’s in shambles after losing my brother.

I should be taking responsibility for myself, and for my future, but instead I feel a responsibility to my family to figure out what happened to Preston. I feel a responsibility to him, even though he was always my protector. If he is up there somewhere, really watching over me, he’s probably screaming about how he didn’t protect me all those years just for me to do this. This is not my job.

I roll my eyes and shoot him the finger.

I look at the three programs I have open for getting my certificate. One of them is really expensive, and I don’t want to ask my parents for any more money. They have it, and they’ll give it willingly, but I want to do something for myself for once. So, I close that one.

The next one has a payment plan. That’s promising. I start going through the website, looking hopefully at everything it has to offer. This might be the one, though I’ll look at the other one just in case.

I’m in a trance, lost in the music I’m listening to—finally, now that the neighbor has gotten the message about their stupid death metal music blaring—when my doorbell rings.

I scowl as I go to answer it. I’m not exactly expecting anyone and haven’t ordered any packages. I sigh when I look through the peephole and see my mother standing on the other side of the door. She’s technically my stepmother, but I don’t think of her that way. My mom died when I was young, and my stepmom came into our lives not too long after, so both Preston and I have always just called her “Mom.”

She’s wearing all those frown lines she’s developed over the past year. Losing Preston has aged her and my father so much. They were so quick to talk about moving on and having him declared dead, but here they are looking worse than I do. It’s like they’ve turned into zombies.

And she’s been hovering ever since I came back to town. She immediately asked for my address, and she keeps showing up unannounced.

It’s a good thing I love this woman, because otherwise I’d be telling her off about my age and my privacy.

I plaster on a smile and swing the door open.

“Amelia, so glad you’re home.” She doesn’t wait for me to invite her in, just comes barging through so that I have to push the door open the rest of the way real fast. Her heels click against the cheap tile entryway, and the door creaks as I swing it shut. I have to give it a little extra shove with my shoulder to get it closed all the way before I can lock it.

She takes a few more steps into the apartment and looks around, as if it might be different than was the last time she was here, only five days ago. She has a bag in her hand, no doubt full of something to leave here. She never shows up empty-handed. And I don’t know if it’s just a habit after being a guest at a lot of important people’s houses, or if it’s charity. Either way, I wish I could tell her to shove it, but I just can’t hurt her that way. After all, I’m her only remaining child.

“Hi, Mom. You know you really should at least tell me when you’re coming. I want to make sure the place is clean and I don’t have any plans made…”

She waves me off with her manicured nails, almost scratching me on the nose. I have to dodge and weave like I’m in an MMA match.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t need anything special. I just need to see you.”

She turns to me as she says that, and she gives me the sad watery eyes. The ones I always feel so manipulated by, like a dagger to the heart.

I lead her into the living room so she can sit down, though she always sits on the very edge of the cushion. Maybe I need to get one of those plastic couch covers to make her feel better.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

She smiles and passes it over to me. I reach for it and take a look inside.

There’s some kind of store-bought dessert and some homemade dinner packed up into a couple of to-go bowls.

“Just a few things. Making sure you have your fridge and freezer stocked.”

I accept the gift, going to put it away in the kitchen, but I roll my eyes the whole way. “You do know that I’m grown and can provide food for myself, right?”

I turn toward her, watching as she wipes her clammy hands against her white slacks.

“I know that. I just want to be helpful. Let me spoil you. After all, you’re my only daughter.”

She gives me those puppy dog eyes again, and I resist the urge to remind her that I’m not just her only daughter, but her only child now. I’m constantly reminded of that fact when she pampers me like this in a way she never did before.

“So how’s Dad?” I ask, getting the elephant in the room out of the way. I haven’t seen my dad much since I came back to the States. Supposedly he’s depressed or something. Or he was, and counseling and medication helped him feel better, but now he’s having to do double duty at work to make up for the time he lost.

The two of us had a major disagreement when he wanted Preston to be declared dead. I told him it was too soon. Well, I didn’t just tell him, really. I screeched it at him and even went as far as threatening to punch his nose and break it.

I’m not proud of my behavior, but I still stand by the fact that it was probably too soon. It made it way too easy for detectives to dismiss everything they found at the site of the accident.

“He’s okay.” My mother shifts uncomfortably, looking away and using that uncomfortable high-pitched tone of hers. As if it will get me off the topic. Doesn’t she know it just makes me even more interested in whatever she’s hiding?

“Well, I wish you’d elaborate, but I doubt you will. How about you tell Dad that I’d actually like to see him every once in a while, can you do that?”

She nods, picking at fingernails that definitely don’t need it. If she keeps doing that, the false nails will just pop right off.

“Well, I just wanted to drop by and give this to you. Your father and I have somewhere to be. In fact, he’s got a doctor’s appointment. I’ve got to take him.”

I raise my eyebrows. My father’s not the type to go to the doctor unless it’s something serious. “Something wrong?”

She looks down and shakes her head. “No, of course not. He’s just been carrying a little bit of weight about…”

She trails off, never finishing what she meant to say. Instead, she gets up and gives me a hug, stilted at best, and then leaves.

I blink at the doorway for a few moments after she leaves, my brain trying to catch up with what just happened.

Breeze in and breeze out. The way my mother’s always done for my whole life and with all the people she knows. But I have to say—I did miss her and my father while I was away. It’s nice to know they still care, even if sometimes it feels like they treat me like I was second best to Preston.

I’m about to go into the kitchen to make some lunch, a late one at that, when my phone starts to ring. I go to look at it, and see that it’s Jackson. I immediately pick up the phone, trying to figure out how to make my voice sound not at all nervous and definitely excited for the job.

Good Lord, Amelia, you’re overthinking this.

“Hello?”

“Is this Amelia?” he says. His voice is husky, almost sexy, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s perpetually angry.

“This is she.”

“This is Jackson, from the nanny interview. Hayden’s father.”

I catch myself nodding along to each explanation he gives. It’s as if he thinks I don’t remember him. But maybe he thinks I interviewed for multiple nanny jobs. I shouldn’t take it personally.

“Yes, it’s good to hear from you.”

“If you’re still interested, I’d like to offer you the job taking care of Hayden. But the catch is that I need you to start within the next week. Are you available?”

I try not to jump for joy. This doesn’t only fix all my money problems, it gets me one step closer to finding out what happened to Preston. “Yeah, I’m free to start right away. Is there anything specific you need from me?”

“No. Just know that technically the first day will be a working interview. You’re hired, and I’m not talking to anyone else, but I just have to be careful.”

He doesn’t say the rest, but I know how protective he is from talking to Quinn and from observing Hayden’s behavior. It’s interesting that Hayden is supposedly so traumatized by what happened when she was so little. It makes me wonder what secrets I’m going to uncover.

Well, I’ll get to dig deeper down the rabbit hole now. “Absolutely. That’s not a problem.”

“How’s Wednesday?”

“That’ll work.”

Before I can thank him, he’s already hung up. Figures.

I run the conversation back in my head, as well as the interview. I was never exactly close to Jackson. And due to our age difference, I wasn’t as close to Preston as I would have liked to be during most of the time that Jackson was around.

Jackson must not know who I am. He’s not giving me any reason to make me believe that he does. Of course, this will help me out, because he’ll trust me more so I can get more information. But I can’t say it doesn’t upset me just a little bit that there’s not even an inkling of any idea who I might be, especially considering my last name. But then again, Williams isn’t exactly an uncommon last name.

Before I put my phone down, it buzzes, letting me know I have a text message. I unlock it and take a look, seeing that it’s from Brooke, my best friend.

I’ve known Brooke since we were about twelve. We actually met in middle school and went to the same horrible, snobby high school together. Then we split up at college—I went to that prestigious private school on the behest of my parents, and she decided to go public. It was such a scandal in the community. But she wanted the experience, especially since she was going into psychology. She thought she needed to be around normal everyday people in order to understand them.

I kind of get it now, and wish I’d had the balls back then to stand up to my parents and do what I wanted. I have my chance now, and the two of us are still great friends.

Her college turned out to be not too far from mine, and she used to drive to see me on weekends. Her parents had bought her a car, and she had the freedom to do whatever she wanted. They were much more lax than mine.

And so we’ve kept in touch. I’m grateful, because now she’s pretty much all I have. She’s basically like a sister to me.

I read the message and smile.

Leaving work for the day. Want to go out?

I text back immediately.

Of course. Getting ready now.

I go into my closet and dig out something appropriate. I never go clubbing or anything, it’s not really my kind of thing. But I still try to not look like an old lady. I’m already getting that cat lady look just lounging around my house in my pajamas or sometimes my cutoffs.

I find myself completely ready by the time Brooke walks in the door, setting her purse down and giving me a hug. Even though it’s only been a couple of days since we’ve seen each other, she always acts like it’s been ages. It’s really nice to have a friend like that.

“Okay, so where are we going?” I ask, feeling an energy run through me. I always feel so much better when Brooke is around. Sometimes it’s like I’m waiting for life to happen while she’s out living it. I don’t feel like I’m entirely myself until she shows up. She’s offered for us to live together a few times, help with rent and all that, but I don’t want to take advantage of her like that. Besides, if she starts dating someone and then falls in love, I don’t want to make it awkward when she has to kick me to the curb because she’s ready to move in with the guy. That wouldn’t be great for our friendship.

Brooke shrugs, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

I shake my finger at her. “I picked the last two times. It’s your turn, and you’re not getting out of it.” I smile, and it makes her laugh.

“Okay. Fine. I haven’t been to the coffee shop around the corner in a while. You know the one with the cookie mocha frappe that I love?” she asks, clearly not able to think of the name.

“Yeah, that little fake Italian one. I haven’t been since the last time we went together.”

I point toward the door and playfully push her out, giggling as we head to her car and get in. Before we get out of the parking lot, she’s already blasting Taylor Swift with the windows down.

We sing along to our favorite songs for the five-minute ride, getting a few strange looks. Maybe it’s because people think we’re a little too old for this. Or maybe it’s because they think we look deranged. Who cares? Life is too short to be anything but yourself. Being myself is hella fun, and I don’t give a shit what anybody thinks about what I should be doing at my age or not.

Besides, I work with children. And children love adults who can still play. In fact, I find some of the best parents never really grew up. At least not in the ways that count.

We pull into the coffee shop parking lot and Brooke insists on sitting here to finish the current song—because it’s her favorite—before we go inside.

Another woman even comes up to the car looking all corporate and chic—only to start belting it along with us. Taylor Swift is clearly universal.

When the song is over, we roll up the windows and go inside, her car making a little beep beep as she locks it.

We breeze through to the counter to place an order of our favorite drinks, even flirting with the barista who’s probably only eighteen. But honestly, we probably just made his day. He can go tell all of his friends how these adult women flirted with him.

Adult. It’s funny that we’re the adults now. How long does it actually take to feel like we’re adults? Only time will tell.

Sometimes I feel like we’re just playing the part, like we’re acting. But maybe that’s all being an adult is—pretending like you know things.

We sit down with our drinks and a couple of snacks, taking our time. Brooke tells me all about her day, trying to be careful not to reveal anything specific about her patients.

She’s in her first year as an actual practicing therapist. Sure, she went through her clinicals and all that, but that was with supervision. This is the first year she’s doing it without help.

She was always so shy about it too, doubting herself. I remember having to pump up her self-esteem on late-night phone calls all the time.

From what I can tell, she’s great at it. Sometimes her psychobabble will slip into conversation where it doesn’t belong. It’s kind of endearing, though. Sometimes. As long as she isn’t trying to psychoanalyze me.

“So, what have you been up to today?” she asks.

I look at her, assessing whether or not I should tell her about the nanny job. I haven’t even told her about the interview for that yet. I’ve been psyching myself up to tell her about my plan. I know I can trust Brooke, but that doesn’t make it easier. Even if she did still have contact with Jackson, which she barely did in the first place, I know she’d never tell. But I’m worried about an outside perspective knocking me down a peg. I’m afraid of someone telling me I’m crazy—because it will only confirm something I already feel.

Sometimes I feel a little bit crazy still trying to look for answers when everyone keeps telling me there will never be any. Isn’t that the definition of insane—doing the same thing and expecting different results?

“Well, I think I got a job. I’ve been meaning to tell you about it. It’s kind of complicated, though,” I tell her, looking away and sipping my coffee.

Brooks giggles and points to my face. “What the hell is that?”

I look back at her and squint.

She snorts, causing a couple people to look at us. One of them is the barista, though he gives her a little sideways grin like he thinks it’s cute.

Then I burst into laughter. “He seems to think you’re pretty cute. It’s so sweet.”

Through the giggle, she says, “Just about as sweet as the foam that’s on your lips.”

I groan and wipe at it. “Better?” I ask her.

She nods and takes a few deep breaths before she regains her composure. “Now, tell me about this job?”

Something about the way she’s looking at me and expecting me to tell her everything makes me blush. It’s not so much about embarrassment as it is about nerves. Anxiety. My face always gets hot when I feel nervous about something. That in and of itself is embarrassing.

“Come on,” Brooks says. “Spill, before I start psychoanalyzing you over this behavior. Is your boss hot or something?” She leans forward, her tiny stomach pressing into the table.

I lean forward too, almost afraid that somebody might hear me. I don’t know who the hell in this coffee shop would even care what I’m up to. I sincerely doubt Jackson is an Italian coffee drinker. I doubt he would come to a place like this at all. But I just get so anxious at the idea that word could get back to him before I have a chance to ask any questions or look through his computer. Or…I don’t know what. I really don’t have a good plan, now that I think of it. I just hope that by being around him I’ll get some good information and ideas. Like some kind of osmosis.

“Okay, look. If I tell you this, you can’t tell anybody, got it?”

Brooks gasps. “Oh my God, is he like some hot single dad or something?”

My face and demeanor are deadpan, but a weird tingle shoots through me. If I’m being honest, Jackson is hot. I’ve always known that. Hell, every woman knows that. But the thing is, he could also be a murderer. Or at least, he could be devious in his dealings. He’s not someone I need to be getting involved with or even noticing his good looks.

“No.”

I lean back in my seat, no longer feeling so forthcoming.

She wiggles her hand at me against the table, almost knocking my drink over. “Come on. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But maybe it’s time for you to start living your life for you. You’ve spent a lot of your life kind of locked up, but I know there’s a wildcat inside of you waiting to get out.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” I tease, pursing my lips.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. We’ll finish our coffee, and then we’re going to go and buy some cute bikinis and hit the beach.”

“You want to go to the lake today? Isn’t it a little late in the day?”

She shakes her head. “Never too late to go to the lake. And that is where you’re going to tell me what the hell you’re hiding about this job.”

I know there’s no point in fighting over it. She’s going to pull it out of me one way or the other. So, I just nod my agreement and pick up my coffee. I swirl it around a little with my finger, then lick the whipped cream off the top.

What is she going to think of me when I tell her I’m still dwelling on all of this? Hopefully, she’ll separate the professional and the personal, because I can’t handle hearing her psychobabble about this right now. Not when I’m so close to getting what I need.

Just like she promised, we finish our coffee, grab some bikinis at a little shop across the street, and drive to the lake. It has the beautiful backdrop of the city, and sand just like any other beach. The difference is, it’s a lake instead of an ocean. But I’m partial to it.

I love the fact that I can just turn around and see the hustling and bustling of the city. The cars going across the highway. Life happening. Beaches at the ocean sometimes just feel too quiet. I know some people enjoy that, but I don’t. It makes me think strange thoughts. I shouldn’t be by myself so much. Maybe I am going crazy.

We’re lying across blankets on the sand, and Brooke turns to me. “Okay, you promised. It’s time to tell me what’s going on.”

I lean back and allow myself to relax, and I look up at the sky. I do the thing we all did as kids where you look up at the clouds and try to figure out what they look like. While I look, I start to spill it all out, like paint onto a canvas. I tell her everything about how long I’ve been holding on to what happened to Preston. Not that she doesn’t know my family is still all hung up on it and grieving in our own way. But she doesn’t know the lengths I’ve gone through for this.

“So let me get this straight. You’ve been basically pseudo-stalking Jackson so you can find some kind of information about what happened to Preston? And that’s because you think Jackson is responsible for what happened to Preston because they were some kind of petty hockey rivals?”

The way she says it does make me sound a bit insane.

I nod my head. “I mean, pretty much. But, there are so many other motives. The thing is, you know very well that the last person Preston was with was Jackson’s wife. They were in a car together. She died, so I can’t ask her. But you can’t tell me it’s just some strange coincidence. And the cops never said that Jackson knew of a reason for them to be together either. Isn’t that strange? I always got the feeling that things were just playful competition when they were younger, but then it got more serious as they got older. Like, they low-key hated each other.”

Brooke whistles. “Okay, but it does sound like a little bit much, even for hatred. You play pranks on them, and you might wish bad things would happen, but you don’t cause a fatal car accident for the person you hate—especially when your wife is involved.”

I rest on my elbows again. “Unless they were doing something that made Jackson hate them both.”

Brooke raises an eyebrow. “Would now be a bad time to ask about your trauma around relationships? Because it seems to me like you’re putting some interesting feelings on a couple that for all intents and purposes everybody said was the perfect couple.”

I scowl and roll my eyes. “Yes, this would be a bad time.”

“Okay, okay. I get the Preston thing. You miss him. You feel guilty because you weren’t here when everything happened. You feel like you could have done something more to stop it, even though logically, you know that you couldn’t have.”

Brooke reaches over and pats me on the hand. There’s that famous psychobabble. But this time it’s comforting, so I let it go.

“If I remember right, you cared about him too.” I really shouldn’t have brought it up. I always knew Brooke had a thing for my brother. It seemed like a silly school-girl crush for a while, but I kind of wondered if she was ever going to go for it. Sure, there was an age gap there, but not big enough to cause some crazy scandal.

“I did.” Brooke looks away, and I wonder if she’s hiding a tear. She was so good at being there for me after his death, but I always thought she never took the proper time to grieve Preston herself. “It doesn’t matter now. I probably would have outgrown it anyway. It was just a crush.”

I can feel the emotion underneath what she’s saying, and I definitely wish I could find out what it would’ve been like had she started dating my brother. For all I know, she could have become my real sister. Now, I’ll never know.

I squeeze her hand, and our eyes meet. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears, but there’s also a strength there. She’s always been so much stronger than me.

“I am dating this new guy. It’s real casual.”

She’s trying to change the subject for my sake, and I go right along with it.

“Really? So, is he hot? Good in bed?”

Brooke gasps as if I’ve asked her the most scandalous question ever and then throws a hunk of sand at me.

I gasp but then laugh, yanking her up with me and dragging her into the water.