Chasing Forever Page 8

  Tearing his rotator cuff had rearranged a lot of his priorities.

  What about his life was going to change following two broken legs, and how did that qualify him to advise a group of kids? The GSA club didn’t feel like an issue he could find his way around, wide-receiver fashion. He was going to have to go through this one headfirst.

  The bell rang, indicating the end of the lunch period. Students trickled into the end of the hall, subdued voices echoing off the closed lockers and scuffed linoleum. Mal pushed open the door to his classroom and leaned heavily on his crutches as he moved toward his desk. He had one class that afternoon with the final period free, giving him eighty extra minutes to figure out how to run a GSA club. Or eighty minutes to fret.

  But first, the Tokugawa shogunate. Pity he couldn’t involve his kids in a game of Total War.

  Students pushed through the door in pairs and threes, the idea of entering one at a time apparently not occurring. Mal watched, bemused, as they jostled and cajoled, many of them sharing the easy camaraderie of kids who’d grown up together. Another advantage of living in a small town. The flow ended right before the second bell.

  “Ethan, could you close the door for me?”

  “Sure, Mr. M.” Mal’s elected helper hopped up to do as bid, and paused in the doorway as a final student stepped through. No . . . slunk through, as though by angling his shoulders and chin down and pressing himself close to one side of the door, he could escape notice. Unfortunately, his choice of hair color gave him away.

  The bright blue—almost aqua—highlighted the pallor of his skin and drew attention to his small stature. When he glanced up, his delicate features, including large eyes nearly the same color as his hair, also gave him away. No one with a face like that could hide. Or should hide.

  Even Ethan, who’d had the same girlfriend since third grade, seemed affected. He stuck out a hand. “Haven’t seen you around. I’m Ethan.”

  The blue-haired kid eyed the hand skeptically before accepting the shake. “Josh.”

  Ethan shuffled his feet, obviously waiting for his cue, and Mal thanked every deity for good and helpful kids he could rely on to do the right thing, even if it was just to close a door. Mal nodded and Ethan closed the door. Idly Mal wondered if he could get Ethan to volunteer for the GSA. He would be a welcoming face. Then Mal turned his attention to the new student, standing stiff and still near the doorway. His clothes were new and expensive. His backpack stiff and suspiciously clean. Newness emanated from him like a shiny wave, and he clearly hated it.

  Was that a row of metal around the edge of his ear? Mal was tempted to let the kid go and find a seat. Let him blend. But he wouldn’t be doing him any favors by leaving him unchallenged on his first day.

  Mal nodded Ethan back toward his place and beckoned Josh forward, extending a hand. Josh slid a hand into his, quickly and quietly.

  “Welcome to Morristown, Josh. Can I see your schedule?” Might as well make sure he was supposed to be here. Most of Mal’s students were juniors and seniors, but he did get the odd freshman and sophomore who was ahead.

  Josh dug into his pocket and withdrew a much-creased piece of paper. He didn’t smooth it out before handing it to Mal, so Mal had to spread it on his desk so he could read it. He glanced at the class list first, confirming Josh was supposed to be in this room at this time, then checked his morning classes. Honors French, Chemistry, and art. Interesting combination. He was only in tenth grade, but he was at least a year ahead of his age. And his name was Joshua Kenway.

  Kenway?

  Mal studied the boy’s face again, specifically the eyes, and felt his own widen in response. Then he swallowed, immediately feeling guilty for staring. He tapped the schedule. “Any relation to Brian Kenway?”

  Josh’s pale-blonde eyebrows rose. “He’s my uncle.”

  Oh really? “I’m going to guess you’ve done the introduction thing three times over already today, so why don’t you take a seat so we can get started.”

  Josh fairly wilted with relief. Mal pointed out the chair next to Ethan. “How about there? Ethan is good people. He’ll look after you.”

  Another wilt.

  Mal didn’t dare touch a student, especially uninvited, but he made his expression as calm as he could—striving for that balance between friendliness and not-taking-shit. Students needed to know they could approach him without feeling like they could then walk over the top of him. “I’m here all day if you need anything.”

  Josh gave him a quick nod and fled for the desk where, as Mal had expected, Ethan immediately welcomed him.

  Mal took a breath that did not calm the racing of his heart, or the burn of his curiosity. He turned a smile toward his class. “Okay, let’s get started.”

  The Colonial had a suitably dive quality during the day. All taverns did, as though night were required to hide the stickiness of the carpet and the tackiness of the décor. Daylight seemed to intensify the odor of spilled beer too, though the bar didn’t smell as bad as some places he’d been. Leo obviously cleaned his floors now and again—and the windows, judging by the amount of light streaming through the tessellated panes.

  Monday afternoon didn’t seem to invite a lot of drinking, or maybe it was too cold to be out. A few patrons gathered around one large table, all with silver or thinning hair. They were watching one of the TV screens in total silence—which they could be doing at home?

  Another guy slumped at the end of the bar in what Brian had come to think of as Mal’s spot, and his pulse quickened for the thirty seconds it took to figure out the guy wasn’t Mal. That Mal was probably at work, professoring or whatever it was he did. And why didn’t he know that yet? They’d talked twice now.

  Leo took a break from the glass-polishing bartenders always seemed to do when they weren’t pouring drinks. “Brian.” He cut loose a cheeky smile. “Not really your crowd today.”

  “No kidding.” Brian jerked his head toward the TV-watching group. “This a regular thing?”

  “Mm-hmm. Bowling club today. Ladies day tomorrow. They all come in around lunch and watch The Price is Right.”

  “Okay.” What else did you say to that? Brian dug in his pocket for his wallet. “I wanted to settle my bill. Sorry I haven’t been in sooner.”

  He’d spent all of last week and most of the weekend shepherding Josh from appointment to appointment, making sure he wasn’t going to die on him and that his shots were up-to-date. Then he’d needed a tooth filled and something for a rash. How complicated were children supposed to be?

  “No worries,” Leo said. “I know where you live.”

  “You do?” Had he ever taken Leo home? Guy was attractive enough, though not Brian’s type. He was too . . . friendly? What the fuck? And married. He was married. “I don’t do married.”

  “And I like that about you.”

  “But not much else,” Brian guessed, remembering why he never would have approached Leo. He was Simon’s friend and Simon’s friends had always been across a really thick line.

  Leo put down his glass. “What does it matter what I think?”

  “It doesn’t.” A stack of papers rested atop the bar, and though Brian wasn’t the overly curious sort, he recognized the letterhead for the company that owned the hotel across the street. He nodded toward the stack. “Doing business with the Billings Group?”

  Leo’s expression darkened. “No. They want to knock this building down. Put up a row of boutiques or something.”

  “What? This building should be registered, not bulldozed.” Good lord, one stray thought and now he sounded like Simon.

  “‘Registered’?”

  “It’s probably been here for over a hundred years.” Brian’s inner-Simon waved toward the windows. “Possibly longer, judging by the refit on the windows and the roof. Do you know the history of the place? The bar has been here for a while, yeah?”

  “My grandfather started the original tavern. Not sure what it was before, but he wanted a place for men
to drink and talk about sports. His son, my father, was a hometown football hero.”

  Damn, both Simon and his annoying friend Frank ate this sort of shit for breakfast. Not only did the building have history, it had a story. Brian looked around again, using a different eye—not the one that evaluated a drinking establishment, but one that decided whether a building could be saved, or would be better out of the way. The interior, while relatively clean, was shabby, but that was a bar during the daylight hours. He could see where one corner sank slightly, meaning an issue with the foundation, and he vaguely remembered seeing cracks in the plaster of the hall. The building didn’t feel ready to fall, though. It was solid. It just needed some work.

  “I have a friend in a historical society. I could call him and find out what it takes to get a building registered. Find out if that could save it. Do you have the funds to renovate? That might be something you could work out with the Billings Group. When did they buy the building?”

  “Why are you so interested?” Leo asked.

  Brian shrugged. “Why not? It’s what I do. Building and renovation. Usually on a larger scale. I can at least check a few things for you.”

  “That’d be . . . Thanks, Brian.”

  “Don’t mention it. Now, what do I owe you?”

  Leo waved a hand. “It’s taken care of.”

  “I don’t even know if I can help you yet.”

  “No, it’s already paid. Mal picked up your tab after you left.”

  “Mal did.”

  “That’s what I said.” Leo’s expression indicated that he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

  Brian put his wallet away. “Okay, then. Ah . . . Do you know where he works?”

  “You going to harass him?”

  “No. I want to thank him. Can you give me his number?”

  Leo nodded toward the framed prints. “He teaches at the high school.”

  Well, that made sense. Brian glanced over at one of the prints. A footballer being lifted up by his teammates. The headline beneath proclaimed the Morristown Colonials the 1985 State Champions. “The place is named after the high school football team?” he asked.

  “Yep.” Leo nodded toward the picture. “Guess who number twelve is.”

  Number twelve was the player being celebrated. “Your dad?”

  “Fuck no. About twenty years too late for him.”

  “You?”

  “Wrong again.”

  “Mal?”

  Leo grinned.

  Brian narrowed his eyes. “You two went to school together, didn’t you?”

  “Yep, and I’m not going to give you any hints,” Leo said. “You want in, you gotta earn it. And if you mess with him like you did Simon, you gotta deal with me and half the guys in this bar. Got that?”

  “Maybe I’ll just mail him a check.”

  Leo was still laughing as Brian left the tavern. On the street, he pulled out his phone and dialed Simon Lynley, ex-lover, former business partner, and most talented architect he knew.

  Simon answered after the second ring. “Hello, Brian.”

  An odd pang dove through Brian’s center, from somewhere below his throat to somewhere above his gut. He recognized the pain; it often accompanied thoughts of Simon. What he couldn’t figure out was what it was, exactly. Not loss, but like that. Not sadness, but almost.

  “Happy New Year,” he said.

  “And to you. How’s things?”

  “Um, fine.” Straight to business. “You’re in the Bethlehem Historical Society, right?”

  After a pause, Simon answered, “Historic Bethlehem, yes.”

  “How do you go about getting a building registered?”

  “That’s something you could google.”

  “Sure, but then I wouldn’t be able to tell you about this building.” Brian noticed, for perhaps the first time, the collegiate font used to spell out the tavern’s name on the sign hanging over the door. He’d hazard a guess that maroon and white were the school’s colors too. “Remember the Colonial?”

  “Your Thursday-night venue?”

  “The Billings Group bought the building and wants to knock it down.”

  “Sounds more like your area. You can help them design a sleek and modern replacement.”

  “Maybe I want to help save this place. It’s . . .” Brian grimaced at the small, nondescript windows on the second floor. “It’s got character.”

  “Leo is married, Brian.”

  “Why are you being such an ass? I went and looked at Frank’s place when you asked. I put together a great proposal for it. That project is nearly halfway done with phase one. I helped make it happen. Now I’m asking for a favor in return and you’re . . .” Brian ran out of steam. He thought about ending the call. Instead, he breathed into his end, waiting for his temper to settle. Hating that Simon could still get him so riled up.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said.

  “Whatever.”

  “No. Really, I am. I’m just . . . You always have an angle, and I’m in the habit of skipping ahead so I don’t get left behind the turn.”

  “I’ll google it. Don’t worry about it.”

  After a pause, Simon said, “I’ll get my partner to send you some links. He loves this kind of stuff.” Simon’s business partner was about as old as the Colonial Tavern and was supposed to have retired about a year ago. “Send me some pictures too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Brian?”

  “Mmm?” Brian answered, striving for as neutral a tone as possible.

  “Take care.”

  Shaking off melancholy he absolutely shouldn’t be feeling, Brian ended the call and used his phone to take pictures of the outside of the building, including the alley down one side and the back. He texted a couple to Simon with a note that he’d upload the rest later, then tucked his phone into his pocket and pulled out his car keys.

  A few minutes later, he was turning into the parking lot of Morristown High School and that weird pang was back. He’d hated school. The paperwork involved with getting Josh transferred and registered last week had been enough of a reminder for a lifetime, and he’d seriously considered letting Josh do the homeschool thing. Except that he would suck as a teacher.

  Josh needed to have a future. After he finished high school, he could do what he wanted. But he needed this taken care of. Also, according to the transcript from his old school, Josh was ridiculously smart. Made Brian feel like he’d quit around third grade.

  Sighing, he parked in the visitor lot and made the icy trek to the front doors. Buses were already lining up in the bus lot, but the doors remained sealed. Someone buzzed him through and he prepared to show his driver’s license to the front desk, marveling at the security put in place since the last time he’d been inside a high school.

  “I’m here to see Mal . . .” What was Mal’s last name?”

  “Mr. Montgomery?”

  “Yes.”

  “In relation to?”

  “Ah, my nephew. He’s just been enrolled as a student here. Joshua Kenway.” And Josh probably didn’t have a class with Mal, so this was going to be super weird.

  The secretary smiled. “Josh with the blue hair?”

  “That would be him.”

  “I hope he’s settling in okay. This was his first full day of classes, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  She’d been pushing buttons all the while, now she spoke into the phone. “Mal? Parent here to see you. About Joshua Kenway?” Before Brian could explain that he wasn’t there about Josh, she hung up the phone and said, “He’ll be right out.”

  Right out meant about ten minutes, and a rhythmic click preceded Mal through the office door. Then he appeared, dressed in a rust-colored sweater, rumpled khakis, and a big ugly brace that covered his right leg from thigh to ankle. He had his arms hooked over a pair of crutches and looked pained and exhausted.

  “Holy—” Remembering he was in a school, Brian swallowed the rest of his curse. “What the h
ell happened? Sorry, I could have come to see you. Well, I did. But I mean your classroom.” Oh God, since when did he ramble? Brian stuck out a hand, retracting it when he realized Mal would have to juggle crutches to shake. “Ah, er, hey.”

  Mal’s smile had a well-worn quality to it. “Hey. You’re here to talk about Josh?” Brian glanced at the secretary. Following his gaze, Mal said, “I think the staff lounge is free. Want to step in there for a minute?”

  “Sure. Is it close?”

  “Right behind me.”

  Thank God.

  Brian hurried to get the door as the secretary asked, “Will you be taking Josh with you this afternoon, Mr. Kenway?”

  “Ah, yeah. Can I do that?”

  “Of course. I’ll sign him out for you and send him in after the bell. There’s only a handful of minutes left in last period.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mal had already gone inside the small lounge and was easing himself down onto one of the chairs.

  “Can I—”

  “I’ve got it,” Mal said. “I normally only need one crutch, but it’s been a long day. My good leg, which is an entirely relative description right now, hates me, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to do PT this afternoon.”

  “Should you even be working?”

  “I had to take all of last semester off. Just got back.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story. You wanted to talk about Josh?”

  “Ah, no, actually. I came to thank you for paying my tab the other night and to apologize for leaving so abruptly.”

  Mal’s expression closed a little. He gazed down at the braced leg he had extended in front of him. Spoke to the Velcro tabs as he adjusted a couple of them. “No big deal. As you can see, I was hardly in a position to follow up.”

  Brian felt his eyebrows drawing together. “Wait, you were wearing that brace at the bar?”