Free Shot Girl by Karen E. Olson Page B

was worried something like this might happen someday."
    Worried what might happen? That Ralph would get shot? That’s what was in the paper; that’s what everyone thought. Why would Ned think this was how Ralph would end up?
    I gently released myself from his arms and took in his tanned face, hazel eyes, which were blue in one light and green in another, and blond hair that was spiked up in an effort to cover an ever-increasing receding hairline. He’d put on more than a few pounds, and it threw me for a minute. He’d always been pretty vain about his looks and to see that he’d gained so much weight was a shock. He was nattily dressed in blue slacks and a button-down shirt, his feet clad in brown loafers. Very college professorlike.
    Sometimes it was hard to remember we were grown-ups now. Even though those double digits kept getting higher, most of the time I still felt like I had in my twenties. Of course that could have a lot to do with the fact that I was still living my life as I had when I was in my twenties: single and working at the Herald .
    The gap of differences between my life and Ned Winters’ had diminished considerably in just a few seconds of introspection. I felt like Dr. Phil had come around the corner and shouted, "How’s that workin’ out for ya?" I didn’t have an answer for him.
    Time to get off the fucking pity pot.
    "Well, I know a little more about what happened to Ralph," I started, but Ned took my arm and led me outside, back into the natural furnace.
    "Let’s go to the student center and get something to drink," he suggested.
    We didn’t say anything, following the sidewalk. I marveled at the work being done on the library, and as we approached the Michael J. Adanti Student Center, I was struck by how much it had changed here, how time and construction had physically erased what I remembered.
    "It was such a tragedy when Adanti died," Ned said as he held the door open for me.
    Michael Adanti had been president of the school, on vacation in Italy, when he died in a freak car accident just a couple of years ago. I nodded. I’d skimmed the stories but not much more than that. Our higher-education reporter had covered it.
    As Ned pushed open the door to the student center, I could see in his face how comfortable he was here, like he was just going from the living room to the kitchen in his own house. Southern really was Ned’s life. It had been his life since we’d all gone to school here, and I wondered what that must be like, to perpetually be in college.
    It wasn’t the air-conditioning that made me shudder now.
    Two iced teas later and seated near windows overlooking the bridge I’d just passed on the road, Ned leaned back and studied my face.
    "You look good," he said, like he was surprised.
    "You put some weight on," I said flatly.
    He chuckled, patted his stomach. "Yeah."
    "Married yet?"
    "No way."
    "Too many coeds to play with?" I asked, but it wasn’t a joke and he knew it. A year or so ago there had been some allegations, a pregnant student claiming he was the father. Priscilla told me about it. I tried like hell to get something in the paper—it would serve Ned right—but the threatened lawsuit never materialized and Priscilla said a DNA test had proved the girl’s claims false. But knowing Ned, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had been screwing around with the girl.
    The scowl turned his face ugly, and more memories rushed back. I pushed them out of the way.
    "Priscilla called me," I said, ready to change the subject.
    Ned nodded, and the scowl disappeared. "I talked to her, too." He paused. "You said you knew something. Something about Ralph?"
    I watched the drops of sweat slip down the sides of my iced-tea glass. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him where I’d spent the night. But I had to tell him the truth. "He wasn’t shot. He had a heart attack."
    Ned let that sit for a minute as he took a sip of his drink. "Was it hard for you to see him like that,