Fix Her Up: A Novel
Fix Her Up: Chapter 5

Georgie circled a garment rack, browsing through hangers of old clothing. When she came to a gray T-shirt with the Port Jefferson High School logo, she tugged it out of the jam-packed row and held it up to face the woman behind the register.

“Hey, I think this used to be mine!”

She got a thumbs-up in return, before the thrift shop owner, Zelda, went back to reading her romance novel. Thus was their dynamic. Sometimes Georgie wondered if Zelda would rather have a completely empty store than have to deal with a customer interrupting her book. In a few minutes, the older woman would finish her chapter, dog-ear the page, and be ready to talk. That was just her process. Georgie was well used to it, considering Second Chance Zelda’s was where she’d been buying her clothes for years.

Being the youngest of the Castle family meant Georgie’s wardrobe growing up consisted of hand-me-downs, from Bethany and Stephen. She’d attended school in patched-up jeans, faded sweaters, and sneakers from five seasons ago. Not that her parents couldn’t afford to buy her new clothes, but Morty Castle came from humble beginnings and didn’t believe in fixing something that wasn’t broken. His credo was what made him so successful in the house-flipping business. Making necessary changes only, focusing on curb appeal and sprucing existing features, had served him well.

Had that logic served Georgie well? Classmates had definitely poked fun at her oversized or unfashionable clothing more than once, but as with most small towns, the past popularity of her siblings had helped curb the bullying. It didn’t hurt that local phenom Travis Ford was a close friend of the family. And finally one day, Georgie reached a point where there were no more hand-me-downs. They’d literally all been handed.

Almost five years had passed since she’d ridden shotgun in her mother’s station wagon on the way to Zelda’s for the first time. The back of the wagon was loaded with decades of Castle kid clothing, ready to be donated. They’d planned to venture to the mall afterward to finally buy Georgie some threads of her own choosing, but she got no farther than the overloaded racks of Zelda’s. It was too late. Secondhand clothes had become her comfort zone. Soft, old camp T-shirts, flannel, discontinued jeans. What could be better?

Lately she’d begun to wonder this very thing. What could be better?

Georgie had two uniforms: a clown costume and thrift shop rejects. Was that part of the reason her family didn’t take her seriously? Because she still dressed the same way she had in elementary school?

She ran her finger down the pleat of a floor-length skirt, letting it drop.

After chewing her lip for a minute, she slipped her cell out of the pocket of her jeans and pulled up her contacts, running her thumb over Bethany’s name. Asking her effortlessly chic sister for fashion advice wasn’t high on her to-do list, but she didn’t have anyone else to call. After graduating from high school in Port Jefferson, people had two options: stick around and marry someone local, or leave for college, club your mate over the head, and drag them home. If you were Port Jeff born, you always ended up back on its shores. Unfortunately, both of Georgie’s closest childhood friends hadn’t quite managed to club an unsuspecting gentleman yet and were still living single in vastly different zip codes.

On the other hand, Bethany worked as a stager/decorator for Brick & Morty, meaning she got the bat signal only when a house was completed. Most of her time was spent ordering materials online or hunting down unique pieces at antique malls on Long Island. There was a good chance she’d be around.

Georgie bit the bullet and tapped Bethany’s name.

G: Hey, can you meet me? I need help.

B: With what?

G: Clothes. For . . .

Georgie’s thumbs paused on the screen. She should have had a better game plan. Her reason for wanting new clothes had more layers than a Super Bowl Sunday snack dip.

Most importantly, the clown business was waning. Those phone calls she’d returned last Saturday? She’d booked only two jobs out of them. Her birthday parties were top-notch, those eight noes had assured her, but they were looking for something . . . bigger. Georgie knew it would take a lot of hard work to turn a fledgling one-woman operation into something respectable. An actual business that advertised and made bids. As of now, she relied on word-of-mouth referrals and repeat customers who knew her, knew her reputation, and, in most cases, were friends of the Castle family.

The Castle family. They didn’t take her seriously. How could she expect anyone else to?

She looked down at her faded 501 jeans that had probably belonged to a deceased lumberjack. Her scuffed boots peeked out under the frayed hems, taunting her. What did people see when they looked at her? Not a businesswoman.

Not a sexually desirable woman, either. And maybe, just maybe, when Travis came over to measure her fireplace on Tuesday, she wanted him to see one. Someone worth polishing the family jewels over. Georgie shot a cautious glance at Zelda, as if that inappropriate thought had occurred out loud. She’d been saying a lot of things out loud lately.

Have you seen Dale? I need Dale.

Had she really called for her vibrator in front of Travis Ford?

She buried her face in a fleece-lined jacket. Oh God, that had simultaneously been the best and worst night of her life. Her intentions had been pure. She’d only wanted to drop off some leftovers for the man who had no family left in town and had just watched his career burn to the dust. Even if she hadn’t been nursing an infatuation with him for a long, long time, she would have done that.

Instead of doing the noble thing and leaving, she’d spent two hours watching a shirtless Travis Ford bend over to pick up trash and stretching to dust off high surfaces. There was no movement he could make where something didn’t flex. There was nigh constant flexing. She’d meant to lie down for only a few seconds after changing his sheets, because who can resist freshly laundered sheets? Turned out all that athletic muscle observance had revved her subconscious, because she’d dropped right into a sex dream. As with all her naughtiest fantasies since time began, they starred Travis Ford. However, since most of her fantasies involved use of Dale—and not the real deal—she’d called her Day-Glo orange pal’s name instead.

There had been a split second when she woke up where she swore Travis was looking at her with something like . . . tenderness. A figment of her imagination, obviously, but she continued to go back to it, replaying how warm it made her feel. How warm Travis made her feel in general. Not in the simple hot-for-jock kind of way, either. He’d let his guard down on accident a couple of times when they were alone and showed her someone different from the infallible superstar of her dreams. He was so utterly human. She should be worried that it did nothing to detract from her admiration of him. No, it only seemed to heighten it. Why?

Georgie’s phone buzzed again.

B: You need help with what? Have you been kidnapped?

G: No. Never mind. I’m just looking for outfit advice.

B: I’d let you borrow something, but all my clown suits are at the cleaners.

There it is. Shouldn’t have bothered. Georgie shoved her phone back into her pocket with a grimace. The dismissive texts from her siblings were nothing new. But this desire to prove to them she was a capable adult only grew stronger. And maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with Travis noticing her as more than his best friend’s annoying little sister.

“I’ll catch you next time, Zelda,” Georgie said on her way out the door.

Zelda merely turned the page in response.

Travis sat down on the stoop of the four-bedroom Cape, smacking the demolition dust off his jeans. Trying his best to ignore the house across the street, he cracked open a ginger ale and drank deeply. When Stephen had told him the address of this renovation, why hadn’t he declined? Out of anyone in Port Jefferson, Stephen would have understood. But it would have been admitting a weakness, and Travis had too many of those right now, didn’t he? Still, living in this town meant being surrounded by his past. He didn’t need to have it staring him in the face morning until night. No. He damn sure didn’t need that.

Travis’s father no longer lived in the ramshackle Colonial across the road, but since it had never been sold, all the signs of neglect were still there. The eaves drooped like sad, sloping eyebrows over grime-covered windows. Once upon a time, the trees surrounding the home were tall and proud. They hadn’t been trimmed in so long, though, they’d formed kind of a leafy green barrier around the house. A blessing, since it partially blocked everyone’s view of the house from the street. A breeze blew past, smacking a shutter off to the side of his old bedroom, just like it used to when he slept inside, scaring the shit out of him in the middle of the night.

If he closed his eyes, he could remember his mother pulling up outside the house in her old white Ford Explorer, dropping him off for the weekend. She’d sigh and hesitate. He’d pray she would bring him home and not force him to endure his father’s turn, custody agreement be damned. But she never caved, telling Travis to get out and go wait on the porch until his father returned home. Sometimes he’d sit there until the middle of the night, waiting.

A can cracked open behind Travis and he turned to replace Stephen leaning against the wrought-iron rail, draining his own ginger ale, the work site drink of choice since they couldn’t have beer. Not on Stephen’s watch. “Got about another hour here before we head.” He shook some dust from his hair. “I want to get that wall opened up in the dining room and see what kind of structural support we’re dealing with. Could fuck up the open concept unless we want to knock it down and add a support beam.”

“Ouch. A beam will cost you.”

“Something always does.” Stephen took a slow sip and rolled it around in his mouth. “Been weird working this close to the old house?”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Travis stood and strode into the house. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Don’t you own the place now? Why not knock it down?” Stephen said, following Travis into the renovation, where the third member of their crew, Dominic Vega, was repointing an exposed brick wall, his movements slow and methodical. Focused. “Might be cathartic.”

Or it could enable the demons to run amok.

“We don’t share the same definition of ‘cathartic,’” Travis muttered.

“Are you referencing sex?” asked Stephen. “I drive a minivan part-time, so I need dirty jokes explained to me now.”

“If I’m talking about sex, you’ll know it.”

Dominic set down his trowel and crossed his arms, his legs braced in a military stance that meant business. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Travis answered, ignoring the impulse to look back out the window at the shrine to his childhood across the street. “The boss can’t mind his own business.”

Stephen sighed. “Having all the answers is a burden, but I press on.”

Dom coughed into his fist, the blue tattoos on his knuckles covered in dirt and specks of mortar. “Why not sell the place? Make it someone else’s problem?”

“Maybe being proactive with the house will prove he can still give a damn about something,” Stephen said, punctuating his statement with a superior sniff. “God forbid.”

Travis didn’t care for the hollowness of his own laugh. There was no chance he was going to tell Stephen and Dominic that while he did own the house, his father’s name was also still on the deed. And the last thing he needed was to bring that old fucker back into his life. He’d be keeping that to himself, though, because to an outsider it might seem like Travis was scared to confront his father. That wasn’t the case. It wasn’t that easy. The last time he’d seen his father, he’d beaten the odds and gotten scouted by Northwestern. He merely wanted to avoid hearing I told you so at all costs now that he’d failed.

“I don’t give a damn about anything. You should both try it sometime,” Travis finally responded. For some reason, Georgie’s face popped into his mind. The odd timing propelled him into picking up a sledgehammer and burying it in the dining room wall. “Come on in, boys. The water’s fine.”

“No, thank you.” Stephen inspected the wall through the hole. “I like the hot water Kristin is boiling me alive in. Keeps me young.”

“Keeps you on the verge of a stroke, you mean.”

“Maybe.” Stephen almost smiled, but whatever he saw in the wall made him frown. “We’re going to need to bring in a support beam.”

Dom came up behind them. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Stephen massaged the bridge of his nose. “But if I’ve got a post in the middle of Bethany’s open concept, she’ll have to change the whole design.”

“And you’ll have to replace the balls she’s going to rip off,” Dom muttered.

“If she hasn’t changed since high school, that sounds about accurate.” Travis dropped the sledgehammer and started to gather his tools, knowing it would be pointless to move on until they brought in a crew to bolster the structure. “You guys up for a beer?”

“I’m in,” Dom said, taking off his work gloves and shoving them in his back pocket. “Rosie is taking some exercise class tonight, so I’m fending for myself. Again.”

A deep trench formed between Dom’s eyebrows. Growing up, Travis remembered those two being a solid couple who seemed to speak their own language, no one else in the room existing when they were together. They’d had each other’s backs, named their future children, and were voted Most Likely to Get Married. After graduation, Dom made the yearbook prediction a reality and proposed to Rosie, right there in the center of the football field, both of them in caps and gowns. Months later, having parked a ring on Rosie’s finger, he’d joined the marines and spent time overseas—but he’d come back quieter. More serious.

Travis didn’t intend to diagnose Dom the way Stephen might, but there definitively appeared to be trouble in paradise where Dom and Rosie were concerned. Even Travis, who thought marriage was an unrealistic institution, didn’t want to see the couple drift apart. Back in the day, everyone had been so positive they’d be the ones to beat the odds.

If Dom and Rosie were going to separate, Travis could only be grateful they didn’t have children. He knew too well how divorce could turn a child into a pawn in an ugly game of chess. After all, he was standing across the street from the hell his own parents had created for him.

Yeah, definitely time for that beer.

They each took their own truck into town, parking in the lot behind Grumpy Tom’s and piling in through the back door, reserved for regulars. Port Jefferson was a small town, but it had become an increasingly popular destination over the years. Most of the sightseers stayed near the water where the ferry let off or shopped on Main Street. Every once in a while, some of them wandered into Grumpy Tom’s, but most of the bar’s patrons were locals. Some blue collar, some white collar, and all with one goal: to watch the ball game and unwind. Tonight in particular that was exactly what Travis needed.

Before they could order drinks, a man slid in beside them at the bar, pounding a fist on the wood and drawing attention with a booming laugh. “There he is. I knew Two Bats would get back on the prowl if we just gave him time.” The man scanned the bar. “Slim pickins tonight, but once the ladies hear you’re around, it’ll be standing room only. We all stand to benefit.”

Having his sordid past glorified didn’t sit right. Over the last year, he’d been traded to Chicago, San Diego, Miami. During nights out, or even in professional settings, men would approach him and ask for details of his exploits. Travis usually satisfied their curiosity without actually imparting any real information. The old I never kiss and tell routine. But even that felt wrong now. He wasn’t up for it anymore. And the reminder of his reputation was bothering him more than usual tonight, having Stephen within earshot—the man whose little sister had fallen asleep on his bed last week.

Travis sent the patron a vague smile, hoping he’d take the hint and fuck off. “All right, man.”

“The boys were saying you haven’t picked up one skirt since coming home, and I said . . .” He paused to swig his beer. “I said you’ve probably been going into Manhattan for the high-quality pu—”

“Okay, buddy. I’m going to stop you there.” Travis slid off the stool, avoiding Stephen’s eyes. “Order me a beer. I’m going to make a phone call.”

Stephen was eyeing the idiot with disgust. “Sure.”

Travis didn’t actually have a phone call to make; he just needed some air. Salt and humidity filled his lungs as he stepped out the back door of the bar. Wind kicked up from the distant water, blowing his hair around. Thankfully, the alleyway running behind Grumpy Tom’s was empty so he could have a minute to himself. He tugged his cell out of the back pocket of his jeans to check the time, surprised to replace a missed call from his agent.

Hope straightened his spine before he could stop it. Was it possible a shortstop position had opened up and he was being called to suit up? They’d exhausted all options weeks ago, his agent telling him playing professional ball again was hopeless. What if something had changed, though? Maybe an overseas option?

He hit the call back button, holding the phone to his ear as he paced in a circle.

His agent picked up on the second ring. “Ford. My man.”

“Donny.” He tried to shake off the hope and failed. “What’s up?”

“First of all, it’s not what you think. Sorry. Nothing has changed.” Donny rambled right over the thick slowdown of Travis’s pulse. “But I’ve got a line on something better.”

Travis pressed his palm to the bridge of his nose. “Better than playing ball?”

“Fuck yes. Do I have to remind you about ice baths, road fatigue, and B12 shots in the ass? I know, I know. You’re going to tell me that sounds like heaven. But what if I told you, Ford, you could sit in an air-conditioned box at the stadium in a suit and commentate?”

The idea was so out of left field, Travis could only shake his head. “What?”

“The New York Bombers are looking for a new voice. Fresh, young, easy on the eyes. They’ve got a short list of candidates and you’re on it.” He could hear his agent punching computer keys in the background. “It pays in the two-comma neighborhood and you only have to work home games. National television. Who knows where it could lead? Look, man. It’s the next best thing to being on the field. You’ll be at the field, talking about the game you love. What do you say?”

Travis found himself thinking about the old Colonial with sagging shutters. The echoes of voices from the past in the kitchen, the feel of the coarse wooden porch underneath him. The man who’d told him he’d come crawling back as a disappointment eventually. Travis might have failed to achieve the kind of career he’d dreamed about, but this? This could be a way to salvage it. Commentating had never even occurred to him. Now it was this bright, shiny thing that made the chance to prove himself attainable again.

“You said I’m on a list. How do I get to the top?”

Donny sighed. “You know how it goes. There’s always a rub, my man.” His agent stopped typing, probably adopting his all too familiar let me level with you pose. “This is network television. They want wholesome. They want someone who isn’t going to show up hungover with panties hanging out of his pocket.”

“That happened once.”

“At a children’s hospital charity event.”

A jab of regret made Travis close his eyes. Just one of the many times he’d lived up to the Two Bats hype. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Right now you’re not—you’re in a rut. But a leopard doesn’t change its spots.” A calculated beat passed. “We just need to make them think you did.”

Travis shook his head. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I’m working on getting you an invitation to dinner with the head of the network. Might be a couple weeks. Lie low until then. Or better yet, settle down and pop out a kid or two.”

“Not even if the Bombers offered me a ten-year contract, Donny.”

His agent snorted a laugh. “Worth a shot. Seriously, though. Find a way to prove some stability and we’re a shoo-in. You’re great on camera. Recognizable.” Another phone went off in the background. “I have to take this. I’ll keep you posted on that dinner invite.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Feeling a little like a sleepwalker, Travis returned to the bar. It was too early in the game to tell Stephen and Dominic about the potential commentator job. He didn’t want to jinx himself, so he slid back onto his stool and picked up his beer, glad to see their unwanted guest had returned to his side of the bar. Travis’s mind should have been filled with the possibilities of getting a job involving baseball—something he’d stopped thinking of as an option over a month ago. Instead, something else was niggling at his subconscious. Like he’d shown up for a game without his favorite glove.

“Hey, what day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Dominic replied.

Fuck.

The few sips of beer in Travis’s stomach went sour.

He’d forgotten the fireplace appointment.

Poised to ask Stephen for Georgie’s number so he could call and reschedule, Travis took the phone back out of his pocket . . . and stopped. Let’s recap. You’re getting ready to ask your best friend for his little sister’s phone number. Are you fucking insane?

Yeah. He was. They never should have been spending time together in the first place. This was exactly what he needed—a wake-up call. If Stephen knew they’d been hanging out, he’d deck him. Travis would deserve it, too. He’d apologize for missing the appointment next time she showed up to pester him. Then he’d send Georgie on her way. For good this time. Still, when he put his phone back in his pocket, the guilt and unease refused to fade.