Someday Never Comes

Chapter Eleven

"Oh, piss off," Erin howled at me.

Or some, even less polite thing to that effect. I was hard to make out concrete words between the sobbing.

Anyone who tells you they're 'good' with crying people, is lying. Period. Universal constant. I've always wondered why then, everyone feels the need to point it out. 'Gee whiz, Jim, maybe you should go tell the old lady her husband took a header into that median. I'm just no good with crying people.' Cha. Because some of us became just ace at that situation. Right around the time we also started enjoying the challenge of genital rashes.

Truth is, you can be the most 'feeling' person on the planet. Dr. Phil in the overpaid, botoxed flesh. Somebody starts seriously losing their shit in front of you, no amount of 'I feel your pain, Barb' sympathy nodding and kleenex is going to help the situation. Nothing you can really and truly do but just wait it out and let them work through their jag.

Anyway, Erin Worth wasn't sad. She was furious. The rage carnage scattered around her told it all.

Do what she says, that criminally neglected little voice that was my better sense whispered. Turn around. Don't get involved.

Yeah right. Because that always worked.

Hopscotch stepping my way around the largest of the puddles I crouched down in front of her. Eye level, but well out of swinging range

"Let me guess," I asked, looking at the jar she was holding, "the pickles have it coming."

The dill spears made pssst noise as they whizzed past my right ear and into the wall. Kid had the pitching arm of a pro-leaguer.

"Okay," I said, hands going up in surrender. "Okay."

Erin sniffed, once, twice, trying to work back the impending threat of snot. Third go she gave up, scraped the back of a hand across her nose.

"If this's the part where you give the grown up speech, you can-"

"Piss off. Yeah I got that."

She gave me a demure squint. "I was gonna' say you can shove it up your ass."

Well okay then. "No speeches," I said. I lowered both hands, leaned back on my heals. "Scouts honor."

Another sniff. "Like you were ever a boy scout." She had me there.

"So what's with the great culling of the garnishes?"

Her face screwed up in an even deeper glower. "I'm pissed," she said, teeth grit with such force I was amazed the words got out.

"I get that, yeah."

What was that old adage about bleeding turnips?

"Hey," I tried, "guy here with everything he owns in the back of his car, okay?" She was still making a show of not looking at me, but that got the scowl cranked down a little, won me a point. I plowed on. "No judgements. Seriously. What's up?"

She let out a confused little half sobbing laugh, dragged that soggy hand across her nose again. "Like Jamie hasn't already told you all about everything."

I weighed the merits of being honest and agreeing with that.

"He said you guys have been clashing," I admitted, figuring it was best to keep things at a plausible deniability level of vague.

Scoffing, Erin hefted a jar of maraschino cherries that had rolled into her leg. I shifted, getting ready to duck aside, but she didn't toss it, just rolled it between her palms. To fro, to fro; so the black printing on the lid blurred into lines. She was sniffing more than crying now, looking defeated.