the party mood. Goddamn. Wanna send me some photos from some really messed-up accidents, too? Like, show me some poor old lady with her guts spilling out or something.”
“Wyatt—”
“No!” he interrupts. “What the heck? Like, seriously, what the heck?”
My brother, with his ‘heck.’ Jesus. He sounds about twelve. I wish he was in rehab. I wish I could get him there again. I wish it would stick.
“I’m not in the mood to be lectured. I’ve been working my ass off these past two days, studied ten goddamn hours yesterday—”
“That’s good,” I say, trying to win him back. “I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah, okay, cool, thanks. But I think I’ve earned the right to unwind a little, without the freaking guilt trip.”
“Sure,” I say, backing down as fast as I possibly can. I can’t afford to lose him. “Just be careful, okay, bro?”
“Huh?” Wyatt says to somebody talking to him over the sound of the music. “What, now? Yeah.” He says to me, “Listen, sis, I’ve gotta go. I love you.”
He hangs up before I can get the words out of my mouth, so I say to a dead connection, “I love you, too, baby brother.”
Then I let the phone fall in my lap and rest my forehead against the glass for a second.
I feel Ricky looking at me. It’s back to the wanting-to-know-I’m-solid thing and even if Ricky’s a jerk, he’s got a good point. We’re speeding through traffic, yet here I am like I’m in a tearjerker and I’m just waiting for it to rain.
I sit up and sniffle, nodding briefly to answer his unspoken question.
“Wyatt out on the town tonight, then?” he asks, but softly. Maybe he knows I’d decapitate him if he started jabbering about how he wishes he was out there, too.
“Yep.” A thought occurs to me. “Ricky, could you talk to him? Just tell him to take it easy? Not reprimand him or anything, just like a casual, ‘Hey dude, chill.’”
Ricky’s shaking his head before I’m even done talking. “No way, José.”
“Because they wouldn’t let you party with them anymore?” I’m guessing.
“Nobody likes a guilt trip,” he says, speeding around another corner. The navigation system tells me we’re almost there. “Wyatt’s a big boy, Dani. He can take care of himself.”
“Sure.”
But I’m not sure, not really. Because every time I close my eyes and think of my baby brother, I see just that: a little baby. Or a bright-faced dorky kid with a pencil tucked behind his ear, biting his bottom lip as he erased his calculations for a math problem. In my mind’s eye, I walk into the kitchen and put my hand on his shoulder. He looks up from the counter, work splayed everywhere. “I can do it, sis,” little Wyatt tells me. “Just one more try.”
I feel like I’m either going to cry or smash the window. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually glad when we get to the call site.
We jump from Betty, but right away I can tell this is no biggie. Some Mom-mobile crashed into the back of a sleek black car with tinted windows.
The damage looks mostly minimal. They’ve even pulled over to the side of the road, letting the traffic pass by. I’m thinking about how this is going to be a nice easy call—when I spot him berating the owner of the Mom-mobile.
I stop, wondering how this is possible. He mentioned fate before—as a stupid joke—but what if fate really is screwing with me?
At this point, all the evidence seems to be screaming that it is.
Because, standing in front of me with blood dripping down his face like a battle-tested warrior, is Angelo De Maggio.
He’s jabbing his finger at the lady, shaking his head in disgust. A big man in a suit stands behind him, hands folded over his front, looking sort of shifty. The lady has rollers in her hair and—I shit you not—she is casually filing her nails as Angelo continues to rant at her. She literally does not give a rat’s ass. I’m thinking about how awesome that is, until I hear what Angelo’s problem is.
“You could’ve killed someone!” I hear as I get closer. “You can’t be on your cell phone when you’re driving. What is wrong with you?”
They don’t even see us approaching. I’m annoyed with myself about how glad I am he’s berating her for being on her phone. If it’s true, it does deserve a tongue-lashing.
But at the same time, it’s a bit of a jerk move