Three for the City

August: Hobnobbing

Topher platonically loved his boss for the simple reason Nicky was fine with him taking off the back half of an entire week as long as he emailed his content in by the prearranged deadline each day. Sometime around noon, and Topher had tapped away on his Gateway starting at seven-something that morning while Matt was still sleeping, face pressed into his pillow and oblivious to the world around him. Delia, bless her, had started the coffee when she’d gotten up to go to work.

It had been hell to get her to leave work early without telling her a concrete reason, and she eyed them with appropriate mistrust over dinner at the beginning of the week before she finally caved.

He shoved his good hand in his pocket, resting his cast against the top of the metal railing that created a sort of funnel in the arrivals hall at Newark International. It had been years since he’d seen Maddy, and except for the occasional update from Facebook, he hadn’t heard much from her, either. She talked regularly with Delia, of course – Matt talked to his own sisters on a weekly basis, so he figured it was a sibling thing – but he hadn’t spoken to her since…

Helen’s funeral. Shit.

Jesus, has it really been that long? He sighed, looking at the faces coming through the wide doorway. A girl around his age ran to the couple next to him, tears rolling down her face, hugging her parents awkwardly over the railing. More people came and went, and he tugged his hand free to rub his face.

“Toph?”

He looked up. Maddy was an inch or two taller than Delia, wearing denim cutoffs and flats. Curly hair a shade or two darker than her sister’s, though they had the same eyes – green, like most of the Stanton family – and Topher had to tilt his head slightly.

“Hey, Maddy,” he said.

She looked pointedly at his cast. “Anyone who didn’t know any better would think you were accident prone.”

“Thanks. I think.”

The crowd had thinned considerably, allowing her to hand him both her rolling suitcase and her tote bag stuffed full of who-knew-what over the railing. She climbed up and over, landing lightly next to him, and adjusted the bottom of her sleeveless shirt. Where Delia had the light, lithe musculature of a dancer, Maddy had a thicker build, courtesy of her years in the weight room for soccer.

“Been lookin’ at colleges?” he asked, taking the handle on her suitcase before she could. She huffed, fiddling with one of her curls, and followed him toward the pneumatic doors to the parking lot.

“A few,” she said. “There might be some scouts at some of my games, but I don’t know if I want to be completely owned by soccer for the next four years of my life.” Maddy waited by the back bumper while Topher unlocked the Cherokee, heaving her suitcase in and shutting the hatch. “Would – do you think Matt would mind if I talked to him about it? He played football, right?”

“He did.” Topher paused, keys in hand, as a memory of Matt in his padded pants paraded to the forefront of his mind. Matt had a fantastic ass, in Topher’s humble opinion, and his uniform had only made it better. “Ask him about it. He still talks to his old teammates regularly, and he stopped playing during spring ball our junior year.” He headed for the driver’s seat.

Maddy stuffed her tote bag on the floor between her feet and put her seatbelt on. Topher had a New York license and therefore, along with every other New Yorker she knew, most likely drove like a damn maniac.

The engine turned over, the air conditioning and radio coming to life simultaneously, and Topher checked his mirrors as he backed out of the parking space. She turned up the volume on that ear-worm by Carly Rae Jepsen, took a deep breath, and refused to reach for the oh shit handle, preferring the one on the door. It was a little more inconspicuous. He got them turned around and headed back the way he’d come in, figuring the extra gas to go north first before south wasn’t a big deal, and it was the easiest way for him to get back to the Turnpike.