"I think it's the MMA guy."
"Which one?"
"Wilder," he says, touching his cheeks absent-mindedly, as if he's contemplating this. "I think I saw his Hummer after my car alarm went off."
I'm tempted to say this could be any Hummer, but Ty's car is pretty unique, with the skulls, flames and all the other atrocities.
"Why would Ty do that to you?"
Shane shakes his head. "No clue. I know he had some beef with my roomie Josh, but that was a long time ago. Maybe he thought my Mustang was his."
I put my hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes. “Hey, buddy, trust me, it’s probably some punk kids. Where you live in Oakland, you should be thankful it’s just your tires they butchered. I’ll give you a ride back home today.”
This rewards me with a tight smile. It's not much, but I'll take it. I hate seeing Shane so down. It's unlike him.
"Oh, and good news. Izzy said she'd be thrilled to help you out." I bend the truth just a tad, babbling on. "She asked exactly what you need and promised she'll get you everything you ask for."
"Really?" He eyes me suspiciously, his nose wrinkling to disguise his gut-punched reaction.
I go out of my way to look enthusiastic, but I'm not exactly known for my convincing poker face. "Yeah. Whatever you need! Let me know and she'll pass it through me."
Shane offers me a knowing smile and we make our way back into the university building. "Of course you will. By the way, you never answered my text message."
What text message? Oh, shit.
I hurriedly tug my phone out of my pocket and scroll to my incoming messages. For some weird reason, the text under Shane’s name looks like I've already opened it. It says, Don't make me hurt you, B. You'll regret the day.
I remember the last text I sent him. It was a futile threat saying I'd stage an intervention for him and Izzy, forcing them back in the same room to work out their issues.
Comprehension strikes me like a bolt of lightning. Did Ty see the text while I was snoring my way to Drunksville? He may have even interpreted this as some kind of a threat. But why slash Shane's tires? The only thing Ty seems interested in is his job.
And now me.
Why me?
A teeny, tiny part of me now wants to find out.
***
I make a stop at the apartment to freshen up or, to put bluntly, attempt a makeover that transforms me from something that looks like it didn’t crawled out of a sewer in a sci-fi film. Calling a truce in this war between Brain and Hormones, I've decided not to jump to any conclusions regarding Shane's vandalized car until I have the chance to run it by Ty.
I change my clothes and spray on enough perfume to stun a herd of buffalos. After which, I try three different lipsticks and apply my signature thick eyeliner. I shove a pack of mint gum into my jeans’ pocket and head out. First stop: visiting Nana Marty. Final destination: date redemption with Ty Wilder.
For the interview, of course. Just for the interview.
Nana Marty lives in a high-end senior home in Oakland. It looks like a glitzy hotel inside and out. Martha Rosenbloom isn’t just badass, she’s purely lethal. She arrived in this country not long after World War II, straight to Ellis Island and told the officer her name was Miriam. He changed it to Martha and gave her candy: That’s why she always told Izzy and me to “always take candy from strangers. It’s yummy and sweet. Just make sure your parents are around when you do.”
Nana Marty has a reputation for not giving a fuck about what people think. At eighteen, she headed west from her New York home and landed in San Francisco, where she bagged herself a job at Fisherman’s Wharf selling spices and herbs. She knew every single sailor that passed by her store (in more than one way, if you ask me) and refused to settle down with any of them. Her behavior was unheard of. A single, young woman working and paying her way to independence. But she didn’t want to get married. Until she met Grandpa Graham, that is.
Graham wasn’t Jewish or a sailor. Actually, he was well off, coming from a family of liquor importers. Marty and Graham fell in love, but his parents weren’t happy about her being uneducated, poor as hell and Jewish. Graham went ahead and married her anyway. Gran got pregnant with twins—my mother and her brother, Graham Junior—soon after. She continued working until the last day of her pregnancy and when the twins turned three, she and Graham managed to buy her store together.
Graham died seven years later of a heart attack.
Marty arranged the most beautiful funeral, held her chin up when she met his family, and got back to work the following day. She never asked for a penny from them, or from anyone else. Over the years, she had boyfriends here and there, but no one could fill a dead man’s shoes. Especially when that dead man gave up his good life and fortune to be with you. Marty never forgot this.