"Easy, Jug." He touched Jerome's arm, above the hand holding the punch.
When their eyes met, Jerome gave him a wary, grateful nod. Wince winked in reply and elbow bumped him. Instant friends, almost like they'd been looking for each other all this time.
Thanks, man.
Shared smiles, right before the gabbling teachers pushed through the mob.
No sweat.
Both Thad and Wince got suspended for three days, but Jerome had met his best friend. Fair trade. They were a perfect match.
First time they hung out, he discovered Wince loaded up on cafeteria food because it was the one meal he could count on. He attended Walton Academy under Prep for Prep, a charity program that paid for poor kids to go to private school in New York City. Tuition, books, everything, but you had to keep your nose clean, something Wince didn't do well. Jerome did it for him so he could survive.
Jerome's parents were wealthy, but Wince lived "at risk" in the Gompers Projects with absent addict parents and anger to spare. He'd grown up a great bullshitter who hit things hard and first, with no respect for authority. He got his nickname 'cause even the seniors flinched when he moved. Even now, even as a grown man with a kid of his own, he came at things like a groggy cage fighter.
"Jug." And that was Wince, seventeen years later like no time had passed, looking at him with bright eyes and a loose heart. "Thank you."
"You're so welcome." A real smile passed between them and knotted itself firmly. Long time no see.
An alarm beeped nearby, yanking Jerome into the present. The curtain skittered open.
"Dad?" Keisha stood over him with raised eyebrows. "Are we gonna go, like, ever?"
The quiet bubble around them melted, and they were sitting in an emergency room again looking at his impatient daughter.
"Soon." Sheesh.
She gestured at her fuzzy gray rig. "Wardrobe flippin' out."
"Sorry. Uhh, yeah. Sorry hon."
"Cool costume." Wince probably wanted to split, too.
Keisha twisted her braids into a thick coil and smoothed it over her collarbone. Her mother's gesture, her mother's bones. "Is he dead or what?" She eyed Flip.
Wince grinned. "Not yet. They did a brain transplant."
Keisha raised her eyebrows like that was a fine idea. "Dad, it's three and I'm still a mouse, mostly?"
To Wince. "S'my daughter. Keisha."
"I had a hunch." Wince's smile did that thing where it stopped joking and shone on her gently. He extended his hand. "Wince." They shook. "Farley."
"Nice to meet you." Keisha's brow creased. "Are you his friend?" Like he had only one. Well, back in the day, true enough.
"Jug and I went to Walton together, back when dinos roamed the earth." Wince's voice turned polite and got very sitcom-dad square. "Thanks for rescuing my kid."
She shrugged. "That was all my dad. I was putting on my mouse getup for the third graders." She turned and lowered her voice. "I'm gonna be late for rehearsal. Forty minutes?"
Wince squinted at Jerome.
"Nutcracker."
Keisha was having none of that. "We refer to it as The Ball-buster."
Jerome grimaced. "She's dancing at Lincoln Center."
"That's so groovy. I never seen a ballet." Wince bobbed his head.
Keisha set the bait. "It's pretty dippy an' all. But I'm in two parts this year. Mice and Polichinelles." She glanced back with her mom's ruthless, elegant aim. "We can bring guests to the dress rehearsal, Mr. Farley. You should come."
What? Jerome tried to read her eyes.
Wince lit up at the invite. "Sure!"
Keisha approved. "He's cool." A peek at her dad.
Jerome shook his head. "You don't have to. Don't blackmail him. Not everyone likes Tchaikovsky."
"Butts in seats, yo. Dancers are athletes." She looked at Wince. "I think you should. Nuts will be cracked. Bring Flip. After his brain transplant heals." She motioned to Jerome, looked at her watch. "I gotta go."
"We'll be there." Wince nodded and stood.
Keisha didn't wait another second. Like Olivia. She hated being late, breaking the rules, disappointing anyone. Over her shoulder, she said, "Whole hospital smells like that stupid pig."
Wince crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "Great kid."
"She is." Jerome stared after her. "So much like her mother."
"I'm glad."
"She was a soap actress. Her mom was ..." And then he flat ran out of the words.
Wince watched him for a moment before he asked. "She died?"
Meaning Olivia. Meaning that whole other life and wife Wince had missed. Meaning Wince's forked path through exes and overdoses. Jerome nodded. Embarrassed at these feelings. Embarrassed to be embarrassed with Wince. Olivia would've made fun of him for not speaking up, not introducing her to his oldest friend with some panache. "Bone cancer."
Around them the hallway had emptied, a row of curtained areas to hide the people in pain from each other.
"Sucks. Sorry." Wince looked at the linoleum floor, fiddling with his watchband. "Flip's mom ditched us when he was three. She had ... problems."
Jerome gave a tight frown. "You got burned, too."
"Not really. I got Flip. Fun job. Travel. Cool digs." He looked so tired. Beaten. "I made out great." He held up his fist.
Jerome did the same and bumped their knuckles together. "Sorry."
"For what? We both got burned doing what we loved. That's the deal. Live. Burn." He scooped Flip up, still fast asleep.
On the other side of the curtain, raised voices speaking Spanish as a gurney wheeled past.
"We okay to go, y'think?" Wince looked to Jerome. "I'd like to get this guy home."
Jerome scanned the room, plucking his bag and coat off the stool.
"I gave them everything, talked to the doc before I came in." Wince shifted his weight, itchy to flee.
Of course, Wince hated emergency rooms: How many times had he watched his parents bleeding and screaming in these places? How many times had he had his stomach pumped and worse? And how much did Wince remember of the last night they saw each other? The only time they ever kissed, both drunk enough to pretend they hadn't. Wasted and wasting everything they had because they didn't know better, what mattered, what didn't.
Wince's teenaged voice in his head: What am I good for, Jug?
Me.
And then kissing him, terrified and triumphant. So close to perfect, best friends for three years and they'd blown it in one horrible night, joyriding in the rain. Reckless and wrecked. The car Wince had stolen 'cause he knew how. The Lincoln they'd totaled. Blood in both their eyes from the dashboard. The taste of Wince and shit whiskey in his mouth while he confessed to cops and parents.
After that night, Jerome's parents forbade him to speak to his best friend, his only friend. Wince got expelled, vanished into juvie then worse. No goodbye, no contact. Jerome trudged back to his regularly scheduled life--prep school, undergrad, med school, wife--until that life vanished, too.
No one had died that night, but everything had ended in a white room just like this one; seventeen years burned-burned-burned to ash. Leaving them alone where they belonged.
Jerome trailed through the ER hanging a little behind father and son, afraid of making things worse. Up ahead, he could see Keisha's red coat by the exit, the mouse tail peeking out below.
Gotta go. Irrationally he caught himself wasting time, walking slowly. What if he never got to talk to Wince again like this? They had half an hour, and it was only seven blocks to Lincoln Center.
"What was Keisha's pig deal?" Wince glanced sideways at him. "Does The Nutcracker have pigs?"
Jerome chuckled and sighed. "Eighth-grade biology. Fetal pig dissection. I dunno." He slid his fingers together and crossed his arms. "Somehow dissecting this pig became a huge crisis."
"Well, her mom died," Wince spoke softly, but the words fell like a hammer.
Jerome'd never thought of that. "You think that
's why?" They were almost to the door.
"I think she's a kid who's already had to hug death close, and that might make Porky Jr. a real drag." He sniffed and regarded his son gently. "When Flip's mom left, it took a year to be real to him, her bailing on us so easy. He still talks to her sometimes. Pretends. Y'know. Hurts to watch." His eyes did that thing where they softened without moving. Laugh lines. When had he gotten so grown up?
We're old, yo.
Maybe regret wasn't so bad. Maybe that was something you learned to live with. An inch at a time, like sliding into warm water over a fire until you could tolerate being boiled alive.
"Daddy." Flip's voice broke the spell. He squirmed against Wince's chest.
Wince blinked and looked down. "Oh lord. What now?" His warm tone made the words into an old joke.
The boy sighed. "Never mind." His cast was strapped against him like an oversized fiberglass fossil.
"Okay." Wince hefted him closer. "We're going home, mister." The automatic doors shushed open for them.
Keisha glowered at him through the glass, the mouse tail draped over her arm like a rubbery pink stole.
Before stepping out into the frosty air, Jerome wrapped his scarf around his neck and zipped his coat. "Keesh, we got ages still."
Keisha herded him toward the curb. "They're rehearsing Coffee with the new Russian couple. Chumakov and Petrachenko. I wanna watch. Legit."
Jerome laughed. "Okay. Okay. Legit."
She trotted to the crosswalk and glared at him to hurry up already.
Wince smiled beside him. "Coffee?"
"The Arabian variation. Nutcracker." Jeez. Not what he wanted to talk about at all. "The Coffee bit in Act Two, but she's too young." Jerome exhaled roughly. "Sorry, I hear about this stuff so much, I forget most people have no idea--"
"Doesn't matter. I get it. Good for her." Wince exhaled with a smile. "You're a great dad, better than yours was."
"Y'think?" His parents had been corporate lawyers: great with conflict, encouragement not so much.
Nod. "She's lucky."
"Well, she's not old enough to dance Coffee. Frankly, the music is too sexy. But mad beautiful. We spend a lot of time arguing about it." Jerome smiled. "Welcome to every dinner at my house."
Wink. "If you insist."
Somehow they'd stopped talking about ballet.
A hot hollow opened behind Jerome's heart. "Uh. Good." Smile.
"You look happy, Jug. I'm really glad."
He glanced at his daughter cocking her confused frown at him. "She knows what she wants."
Wince dropped his gaze to his dozing son. "Lucky. A lot of people never know."
"That's not--" Jerome swallowed and tried again. "Wince."
Wince blinked. A shivery silence dragged between them like swords scraping blade to blade.
Jerome said, "I gotta go."
"I'll see you, okay? At the coffee-pig-mice thing. Ballet!" Wince grinned and winked at him, gorgeous and open as the sky.
They both chuckled, somehow calm standing there facing each other in the cold all these years later. His pulse thumped in his ears. If Jerome didn't feel happy, he at least didn't feel lost. Regret never killed anyone.
Olivia would have loved him. Too.
An awkward moment where they couldn't hug or shake or anything in farewell, so Jerome saluted and pointed at Flip. "Take care of him."
"What else am I good for?" Wince crossed the street to hail a cab.
Me. But we're bad for each other.
Jerome caught up with his daughter distractedly. What just happened? He forgot to tug on his gloves 'til she did.
"I was right. He's cool." Keisha looked at him directly when he didn't reply. "Wince."
"I never said he wasn't." But I implied it. She didn't really understand because Wince's charm blinded people.
They doubled back up Columbus toward rehearsals.
She swiveled toward him and nodded in the cold. "Dad, I totally ship it."
He made an old man face. "What does that mean?" She couldn't possibly understand.
"Wince. It makes no sense, so it makes perfect sense. That you're friends." She tucked the tail tip in her pocket and took his arm.
"I haven't seen him in seventeen years, Keisha." A panicky edge to his voice made him sound like he was lying. "Give or take."
"What?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "So you don't like him?"
"I don't know him." He forced himself to speak more quietly. "Anymore."
Had he done something to give himself away? Had Wince noticed? What was she saying exactly?
"Dad. It's okay to like someone. He's nice to you." Keisha laughed at him and studied his face. "And you return the favor. I ship it." She squinted at something in the distance. "Did Mom like him? She must've." As if she'd read his mind a moment ago.
"She never met him."
"She would've though. A lot." A tight nod. "Why does he call you Jug?"
"A long, crazy story. Not for little people." A quick memory of Thad Plasky showing up to school with black eyes, chipped teeth, and his nose taped for a week. "Because that's what he calls me."
An approaching van made an illegal right. Jerome covered his embarrassment by turning to watch it barreling right through the crosswalk.
"So I was right." She pushed her hands into her coat, obviously proud of her mind-reading skills. "About Wince?"
The stage door buzzed and swung open. The security guard nodded at the desk.
"Maybe." He blinked and hugged her. "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day."
"Well, yeah." Keisha rolled her eyes. She stepped inside walking backward, laughing. "But only if you happen to be looking at exactly the right second." Only then she turned, dropping the tail.
Once burned ...
Heading around to the Koch entrance, he made his way to the front of house in the dim theater and found a seat with the teachers and kids watching the empty stage.
"Places. Places, people," said a voice from overhead.
THE DRESS REHEARSAL WAS not a date, but it sure as hell felt like one.
All November, Jerome had wrestled with himself, terrified he was overanalyzing but afraid of missing his chance, if one existed. Impossible. He kept hoping they'd bump into each other before or after school, but no deal. He saw Flip with a nanny a couple of afternoons, but no Wince. He found their number in the school directory, but it went undialed 'til Keisha called with her invitation.
Wince couldn't come 'til one. He'd see the second act, Keish's bit with Mother Ginger at least.
"He's been on a tour," she said. "He sounded weird. Tired."
"Weird how?"
"Dad, he's your friend."
By eleven a.m. Jerome was a mess. By the intermission, panic set in.
He'd slept like hell the past three nights. Distracted at the gym. Now he paced just inside the stage door, waiting for Wince and his son so they could run backstage before the second half got started. He forced his breath slower as if he were benching three hundred pounds.
If nothing else, they'd talk. Right?
"Sorry, Jug." Wince's hair was slicked back in a wavy helmet, parted no less, and he was wearing a suit. Madman makes good. He was out of breath and glazed with sweat in the cold air. "Sorry, I'm late."
Jerome whistled. "You look sharp." At least he'd put on khakis and a sweater. He saw a lot of rehearsals with dance moms. He never would've thought to wear a suit, but Wince looked like a million bucks. "I feel underdressed."
"You look great. You always look great."
He shifted his weight uneasily.
"Sorry I missed the first half." Since when did Wince sweat? "Label meeting. I tried to get away faster."
He waved away the worry. "First act is pretty much opening presents and fights."
"So I know this show's a holiday thing. Candy and fairies. And Arabian coffee?"
"Yep. Mice, sugar, princes, plums." He counted the nonsense on his fingers. He took a breath and asked, "Wher
e's Flip?"
"Sitter." Quick blink.
Was he nervous too? A thin tendril of hope worked into Jerome's chest.
Wince said, "I gotta be honest: my kid wasn't interested in tights and nuts."
Jerome caught his eye then. "Unlike you?"
Wince snorted, which made him snort. A bright bloom of pleasure behind his ribs. He hadn't laughed, not inside-laughed, in a long time. Christmas coming and Olivia had been gone three years, the scar faded smooth by now. Oh. She hadn't been able to see Keisha in a Nutcracker since right after she got diagnosed. All that time, where does it wind up?
Wince studied his face and stance, getting a read the way only he could. "You okay?"
Jerome finally exhaled and held the backstage door open. "Sure. Yeah. Long story." Olivia had heard about Wince plenty, urged him to reach out for years. What would she think? Most likely, she would've grinned and kicked his ass and told him to make a damn choice, Jerome. Ten years of soap scripts had fed her unshakeable faith in happy reunions.
Wince blinked, but he didn't press. "Well, today it's just us."
"Old times." Jerome smiled at him.
"Speak for yourself." But sure enough, he smiled, still eager as a stray dog. He held up a bouquet of orange roses. "For Keisha."
"She'll love that; only, we can't go to the dressing rooms 'til after." Jerome put a hand at the small of Wince's muscular back and steered him past the rigging.
As they snaked toward the front of house, a few dancers eyed their progress cagily. Jerome nodded at the dance captain who'd been so patient about letting Keisha watch the Coffee rehearsals.
Wince clocked the ceiling and the cyclorama. "Gah. Some setup."
Jerome smiled. Band manager. "I forgot. You're in theaters all the time."
"Well, not this high end, but yeah. Same idea." As they neared the stage, Wince craned to check out the stored set pieces. He muttered conspiratorially. "So what'd I miss?"
Jerome kept his voice low as they cut through the wings. "First half, little girl gets a nutcracker that turns into a hot soldier. He fights mice and takes her to check out junk food." Stop rushing. "For real."
"But with tutus."
Jerome shrugged. "I guess. And dance belts: don't ask. S'pretty old school."
"Nostal-gic." Wince's grin made the idea into a dirty joke.
"That's the word. So you're in time for Candyland." The ribbon of hope looped into a bow and squeezed his heart.
A heavy stage manager in black sweats corralled the corps, "In five. That's your five minutes." The stage lights pulsed bright then dark. The crew scurried for preset.