“Excuse me?”
“Are the men in Chicago nice?”
“Yes, Carol, they're very nice. They open the door for you, sometimes they
bathe, and they don't dip your pigtails in the inkwell.”
“As nice as Peter? He's been such a nice neighbor to have. So helpful.”
“Sure he's nice. He's nice to everyone. He's got a virulent, terminal case of
nice. When God was handing out niceness he looked at Peter and just
said…'nice!' He's the niceness king. If niceness were an Olympic event—”
“Katie. Kate?”
“What?”
“You're babbling.
Kate put her hand on her forehead. “I know. I need a nap.” She sat on the couch. “But doesn't it make you a little crazy sometimes that he's so…you know…” She flopped her hands, searching for the word.
“Nice?” Carol offered.
Kate put her hands over her ears. “Yarggh, stop saying that word.”
Carol burst out laughing.
“What?”
Carol waved her hand, still chuckling. “Look at you. Most women complain
because men are too mean or stupid or lazy, and you're getting all bent out of shape because someone's too nice.”
Kate scrunched her lips, then sighed. Carol might act like a matchmaking busybody at times, but she was a friend. More than that, almost a surrogate mom.
“I guess that's the point. He's just being nice to me like he's nice to everyone
else.” Like, Penny Fitch at the high school.
“Are you sure of that?” Carol approached, touched her arm. “Why don't you
ask him if it's more than that?”
Ask him? Like, with words? Did Kate even really want to know? They'd had
a rough enough time just getting back to square one as friends, hadn't they? And,
yeah, maybe there was some flirting, but that was harmless, right?
Did she really want to risk complicating a friendship by having to wallow through some painful “Do you like like me?” conversation like a blushing,
blubbering school girl?
Carol touched her arm again. “Kate, what is your heart telling you?”
What was this, a Disney movie? She smiled, gave her friend an arm squeeze
back. “It's telling me I need to get to work.”
Chapter Sixteen
Kate followed Carol up the concrete stairs. Even though the vinyl letters on the
back door of the old gym announced Golden Grove Community Center, too
many memories still made it high school to her. The same metal railings, same
worn slatted maple floors. It was the smell that got her most, that scent of dust
and wax and history. She swallowed.
She'd wondered on the walk here whether there would be some kind of big
moment when she stepped inside the gym. Some heart-stabbing revelation,
dropping her to her knees in a flood of anguished memories. This was the heart
