So it Begins

I miss Dylan so much.

While he’s away, I get a good dose of him by watching the Wolves’s games on TV. When we’re down to just one before Dylan’s set to return to Vegas—and to me!—I invite Graham over for a viewing party.

We haven’t hung out for a while, and I’ve been feeling like a crappy sister. Graham likes hockey a lot so I know he’ll be up for it.

I catch him via cell, and he lets me know he’ll be at my place by seven, a half hour before the puck’s set to drop.

“Perfect,” I reply. “But I do have one condition.”

“Uh-oh, what’s that?”

“Nothing bad,” I assure him since he sounds worried. “In fact, I think you’ll like this one.”

“Go on…”

“I’m up to step six in that X Your Ex program, and this next one is “Live a Little and Eat Stuff that’s Bad for You for a Day.”

He starts laughing. “Hell, this is right up your alley.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Laughing, he says, “It just means I know you love peppermint patties more than life.”

“Au contraire, big bro. peppermint patties are life.”

“I’m guessing that means we’re going on a junk food junket tonight?”

“You bet your ass we are.”

He informs me he’ll supply the candy for my fix. And I, in turn, promise him, “I’ll make a bunch of butter-smothered popcorn for you. I know that’s your fave fall-off-the-diet-wagon food.”

Graham’s all about staying at his old playing weight since he hopes to play again. But this night, all bets are off. Candy and popcorn will reign.

We agree it’s a plan, and a few short hours later, as we’re watching the pregame before the Wolves take on the Vancouver Canucks, Graham and I fully immersed in our bad-for-you pig-out.

“Hey, Chlo, pass me another candy bar.”

In addition to my beloved peppermint patties, Graham brought along an assortment of chocolate bar selections.

I hold up a shiny gold and red-wrapped bar and say, “Twix okay?”

“Yep.”

Graham and I are lounging on the sofa, and I toss him the Twix.

“I feel like a kid again,” he remarks as he rips open the candy wrapper.

“I know, right?” I’m in the middle of stuffing a handful of freshly popped popcorn into my mouth when I add, “Here, haf thome.”

My brother makes a face. “Chloe, you are so gross. Dylan might have a whole new opinion of you if he saw you like this—mouth stuffed full, popcorn falling out. It looks like you’re waterboarding the stuff.”

I laugh, but keep it to myself that Dylan has seen me with my mouth stuffed with something far more, uh, interesting than a handful of popcorn.

“Why are you laughing?” Graham wants to know.

Like I’m going to answer that!

“No reason,” I reply, and then I quickly change subjects. “Hey, do you remember how we used to sneak into the Cineplex down the street from where we lived when we were kids?”

He laughs. “Yeah, but there wasn’t any ‘sneaking’ involved. As I recall, that really pretty girl from my high school used to let us in for free all the time.”

“I remember her. She was really pretty. And”—I nudge him in the arm—“she had a huge crush on you.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Yes, she did,” I insist. “That’s why she never charged us. And for the record, we did still have to sneak…past the ushers.”

“Okay, okay,” Graham concedes. “But you’re wrong about one thing—that girl never had a crush on me. She was just being nice.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so clueless sometimes. Like most guys.”

“Huh,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “You really think she liked me?”

“I know she did.”

The game starts then, and since the Wolves come out flying, we drop any further teenage-crush talk.

“Those boys must’ve downed some Red Bull before the game,” I remark.

“Yeah, or they inhaled an overload of smelling salts.”

I laugh.

It’s true, though, that the Wolves are hitting hard and skating fast. Dylan, as always, looks great on defense. My man is blocking shots and keeping the other team from scoring. He and his defense partner, Noel, seem really in sync tonight.

Graham must notice me smiling ’cause he asks, “How are things going with you and Dylan?”

“Great,” I reply. “He’s a terrific guy, and I really like him a lot.”

“I’m glad, Chloe. You deserve someone nice.”

We get back to watching the game, which ends in a Wolves victory. Yay!

I feel so good in every way, except for maybe my stomach.

“Ow,” I lament. “I feel gross.”

Graham deadpans, “Gee, I wonder why.”

After consuming too much buttered popcorn and candy, I’m paying the price. Still, I declare, “It was worth it. I had so much fun tonight.”

“Yeah, I did too,” Graham replies. He looks at his watch then. “But I’m afraid the fun will have to end. I need to hit the road. I’m opening the gym extra early tomorrow so a couple of the guys can workout before dawn.”

“Ugh, that would never be me,” I say.

“No, it wouldn’t, sleepyhead.”

Ah, my brother knows me so well—I am not, nor ever will be an early riser.

After Graham leaves, I text Dylan to congratulate him on a great game, then I head off to bed.

As I begin to doze off, I begin to think about how my life sure has turned around. Just a few short months ago I was in the process of divorcing Sten. Now that feels like a lifetime ago.

Despite being upbeat about, well, everything, I end up sleeping fitfully throughout the night. That bothers me because I’m intuitive like that. All too often my bad dreams and restlessness are harbingers of a crappy day.

Sure enough, in the morning when I head outside to my car, I discover I have a freaking flat tire.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

I change the tire, a skill taught to me by Graham a long time ago, and then debate if I should still run my errands as planned or head over to the tire store to buy a real tire.

I choose the latter since I hate driving around on those little donut thingies, which is what was in the trunk.

Only problem is payday isn’t till tomorrow, and I’m running a little short on funds.

“Hmm, I can always charge it,” I muse.

Ugh, like my cards aren’t already maxed-out.

Suddenly, I have an idea—maybe the flat tire can be patched. If so, it’d save me a ton of money.

At the tire store, the young guy working at the counter is friendly and understanding of my plight.

“Well,” he begins, “if the nail is in the tread area, it can probably be plugged. Though I have to warn you, nails in the sidewalls are a whole different story.”

“I couldn’t really tell where the air was leaking from,” I reply. “Not that I looked over the tire all that thoroughly.”

“No problem,” he says. “Just give me the tire and I’ll take it out to the guys in the back. They’ll check it over for you.”

“Thank you,” I say as I hand over the flat tire.

I take a seat in the small customer waiting area and pick up a magazine. I figure I’ll be here for a while, but to my surprise, the man returns within minutes.

“Uh-oh, what’s wrong?” I ask, standing.

He’s holding the flat and looks kind of worried. “Miss,” he says, walking over to me, “I’d like to show you something.”

“Can the tire not be repaired?”

“I’m afraid not.” He lifts the tire and turns it to the side so I can see the damage. Pointing to the sidewall, he says, “Do you see that gash there?”

I look more closely and then I see it.

“Oh my God, how did I miss that?”

There’s an absolutely wicked tear about an inch long in the sidewall.

“You probably had the tire turned the other way,” he replies. “I didn’t see it myself till I got out in the sunlight.”

“How could something like that have happened, though?” I inquire worriedly. “I don’t recall hitting any curbs or doing anything that would result in that sort of damage.”

“This isn’t from hitting a curb, miss.”

Drawing my attention to the tear, he says somberly, “I hate to say it, but it looks like someone purposely slashed your tire.”

A chill runs through me. This was not an accident. Someone intentionally did this.

The magazine I’m holding drops to the floor. “Who would do this?” I ask, bewildered. “And…why?”

My small neighborhood is home to mainly senior citizens. I rarely even see them. Not to mention, they sure as hell don’t strike me as vandalizing types.

I explain all this to the employee and say, “I just can’t imagine granny out there slashing tires with a knife.”

“I don’t know about that either, miss, but someone did this.”

Yes, someone did. Was I the target, or was it random? If it was random, then I guess I have bad luck.

But if it wasn’t, what does that mean?

Has someone—someone dangerous—taken an unhealthy interest in me?

Suddenly, I just want out of the tire store.

I want to call Graham.

No wait, I’d rather call Dylan.

He makes me feel the safest.

But he’s still out of town.

Jeez, could tomorrow just get here already?