Page 45 of Jack

She nodded. Okay, here went nothing. “Let’s go talk to Ty. This time, you let me do the talking. Ty and I have history.”

* * *

History? What kind of history?

Harper’s words sat inside Jack’s brain, burning as if they might be, yes, a Hot Pocket.

Next to him, Harper had pulled up GPS, was now directing him to Ty’s home, or at least the home of Ty’s parents.

“Take a right up here,” Harper said, pointing ahead.

They were driving around the smaller, older communities of Duck Lake, located near the central park that had been destroyed by the path of the tornado so many years ago. Bungalows and cottages and a few ranch-style homes. He hadn’t come home after the tornado hit, but he’d called his parents for updates and read about it online.

That hadn’t been the first time he’d regretted his lifestyle. But Doyle had moved back around then and had saved Jack from having to step back into his oldest-brother shoes.

“What kind of history?” He couldn’t stop himself, apparently.

She gave a small snort that did not sound like laughter. “The kind of history that says the guy owes me.”

“So not . . . um . . .”

“Romantic?”

He couldn’t say the word, but, “Yes.”

“Hardly. He drove me crazy. He was a hunter, a real outdoorsy guy. Wore camo to school. Loved his classic rock—was the kind of guy who blared the radio in his ancient Ford pickup in the school parking lot. Unfortunately, we were paired up for a mock debate in our senior year English class. It was a big school event every year, and everyone had to deliver a persuasive argument. It was a disaster from the beginning. He hated public speaking, and he did none of the research.”

“I’ve been in a few group projects. One person does everything.”

“Me. I did everything. But we both had to give a speech. Which I knew would be an epic fail. I’d seen him give speeches before. He’d get up and sort of ramble and sweat and . . . it wasn’t pretty.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I’m not being mean—in fact, I tried to be a good partner. Stayed after school to help him write his speech, practiced with him, everything. And then, the day of the presentation, the guy took me out at my knees.”

“Ouch. How?”

“What I didn’t know was that he stolemyspeech during our study sessions, and when the event came, he got up and delivered it. Rote memory, perfectly, as if he was acting.”

He slowed as they turned onto Birch. “I’ve heard about that phenomenon. That people who are introverts, who fall apart in public, can put on a different persona and become someone confident and amazing onstage.”

“Oh yeah. He acted his way through the speech. And it was brilliant. I’d written it, and it was supposed to be my finale speech. We performed in the school auditorium, and I’d planned to videotape it for college entrance applications. My mom was even in the audience. But there it was, already given, and I had nothing.” She paused. “It’s up ahead.”

She pointed to a story-and-a-half bungalow, gray exterior, white door, the mailbox at an angle, jutting from the snow, the victim of a snowplow. The house sat in a row of identical bungalows, probably built in the fifties when so many of these homes had gone up after the war.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, I got up and totally made up my speech on the spot. Embellished, lied, and basically told a story.”

“So—”

“The other team killed me. Took out all my arguments, made me look like an idiot.”

Oh.

“Is it some comfort that he’s an Uber driver now?” He pulled into the driveway.

“Not even a little. They can make a lot of money. I’m an out-of-work journalist. Let’s go.” She opened the door, slammed it behind her.