Summer Loving

by Lise Gold et al.

  Now you’ve been summoned. And you show up because you are so smitten it’s ridiculous.

  The bartender’s name always escapes you because of all the bad characteristics you have, forgetting people’s names is the worst as well as the most prolific. She remembers you, though, and you have an old-fashioned before you can even think to order something different.

  The first sip is perfection. The second even better. Then you see her, and the first glance you’re provided with is better than the first sip. She breezes through the door, pulls to a stop to see where you are, makes eye contact, and moves toward you. She’s dressed in a black knee-length dress, and yet again, you feel insanely underdressed. You thought, a drink, a night cap, why would I dress up? Skinny jeans and a cute top with a blazer is a far cry from a black number with heels. The only reason you’re okay with it is because she looks drop-dead gorgeous. And her blond hair, with large loose curls, is pulled up at the sides, away from her face. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her like this, and wow, it’s a great look.

  She sits next to you. But she doesn’t just sit. No. She sits with purpose, as if she has a reason to be here, and it has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to get a drink with her co-anchor. Honestly, every single thing Madeline Barnes does seems to be with purpose. You admire her for that, even if you kind of like not always needing a purpose for every single thing you do in your life.

  “Hi,” she says while motioning at the bartender. “Extra dirty martini.”

  “Stuffed olives?” The bartender’s smile is huge. She knows who you both are. And it simultaneously comforts and distresses you.

  “Yes, three, please.”

  The bartender rushes away, quickly pouring the Tito’s, the olive juice, the dry vermouth, into a shaker. She’s quick and good. Madeline hasn’t said a word, just watches the bartender like a lion would watch an injured gazelle. You’re getting the feeling this drink is needed before any sort of conversation happens. The bartender places an empty martini glass in front of Madeline and expertly pours the drink. She gingerly places a skewer with blue-cheese-stuffed olives into the drink.

  “Thank you so much,” Madeline breathes as she reaches forward, eagerly bringing the drink to her lips. She takes a greedy sip, then another, before she sets it on the bar and looks at you. “Hi.”

  “You said that already.” You smile, arch an eyebrow, and pick up your drink. “What’s up? Why the clandestine meeting?”

  “Cindy’s is hardly clandestine for me.”

  “True. But it’s not our normal haunt.”

  She presses her lips together, rolls them inward, then, as if all of that lip game wasn’t enough for your fragile little heart, her tongue slips between them, and she wets the pink flesh. You muster up the strength to look away before she says, “We don’t really have a normal haunt, do we?”

  You shake your head slowly. The feeling has left your hands and legs. You want to down your drink and go, but you can’t seem to get your brain to communicate to your hands to do what you need. It’s too busy being preoccupied by what you want, which is to kiss her. Kiss those amazing lips. Kiss that smug look right off her face. Kiss her like she’s never been kissed before.

  But nothing good would come of that.

  Truth be told, you’re hurt that you opened your life, your apartment, your couch, your sheets, your brand-new toothbrush, your stupid idiotic heart to her, and she basically ignored it all. No thank you. No fuck off. No kiss my ass. She just ignored you. Which makes total sense, but it still doesn’t negate the hurt.

  “Can you look at me?”

  No.

  “Lucinda?”

  You turn and make eye contact. “What?”

  “I was having an affair with Josephine.”

  There’s a split second when you’re trapped between I fucking knew it! and holy fucking shit. You blink rapidly, clearing the confusion, excitement, desire away. “Excuse me?”

  “Josephine. It was going on for years. The execs found out and…she was out. Forced retirement. And I was allowed to stay.” She drinks her dirty martini, and damn if the name of that drink doesn’t ring alarmingly true.

  “You’re married.” Your voice sounds far away, as if your ears are clogged and need to pop from an altitude adjustment.

  “Divorce paperwork was final last week.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  She runs her forefinger and thumb along the stem of the glass, and sweet Jesus, the things it’s doing to your body. Her fingernails are painted such a light pink they almost look white. Her ring is gone. All of her rings are gone. No anniversary band. No wedding band. Just her pale, pale skin and pale, pale nails.

  “You and Josephine are…no longer then?”

  Madeline clenches her jaw so tight her muscles flex. She shakes her head.

  “Just like that?”

  She nods.

  “Wow.

  “Yeah, she, um…” She drinks one swallow, then another, before finishing with, “Didn’t want to leave her husband.”

  “Wow.” It seems to be the only word you can think of.

  “I think you deserve to know.” Her voice, how it trails off, leads you to believe there is more to that sentence, and you find yourself dying to know what else is there.

  “Why?”

  Your eyes lock. It feels so strange, yet so amazing at the same time. “I feel like you might know why.”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. What is she talking about? You have literally no fucking idea.

  “Come outside with me.”

  Of course, instead of saying, no, motherfucker, tell me what the fuck you mean right this second, you stand, drink in hand, and follow her through the bar, restaurant, and out to the rooftop. The railing is made of glass, and the Chicago skyline is lit up, twinkling and helping to calm your nerves. There’s something about the city that always helps you take a breath. Chicago has a way of reminding you how small but also how important you are, as weird as it sounds.

  “You know I didn’t like you at first.”

  You laugh. Seriously? She is a goddamn trip. “No shit,” you say through your laughter.

  She laughs with you, which feels odd, yet completely accurate. “It had nothing to do with you. I hope you know that.”

  “Well, I do now.”

  She drinks. Your eyes are drawn to the glass pressed against her lips. You’re staring. You know you are, but for the first time, maybe ever, you don’t care. It feels so fucking good to stare and not care. And staring at her is wonderful in all the best ways. Her eyes, her makeup, her hair, everything looks even more amazing in the evening light, accented by the ambiance of the rooftop bar. The June air is warm, yet she has goose bumps on her arms and along her chest. You’re staring at her chest. Shit. You glance at her eyes, and she’s staring right back, and fuck, you’ve been caught. Her left eyebrow is arched, a sly smile on her face. “You okay?” Her question isn’t accusatory, although it probably should be.

  “I was going to ask you that,” you say before you drink. The bourbon isn’t strong enough now. The ice cube has melted. If you don’t watch yourself, you’ll be three sheets to the wind in no time. You can’t really blame the ice, though. You’re melting during this conversation, too, so why wouldn’t it?

  “I’m not okay, no.” She shrugs, and her purse strap slides off her shoulder. She quickly moves it back up. You reach forward, slide your forefinger and middle finger under the strap, and pull it gently down her arm. She glances down then back to you. “It’s fine.” If you weren’t so unsure of yourself, you’d swear her voice sounded breathy in all the best ways.

  “Relax.” You’re telling her to do so, but you’re also hoping you take your own advice. You place her purse on the table next to you. The leather is so soft. Of course it is. She can afford the nicest of nice. She has been famous for years. Ever since ABC decided to move Good Morning America to Chicago, which caus
ed so much buzz it was ridiculous, she’s been the co-anchor. First with Joe Black, then with Josephine Collins, and now you.

  You. Sweet, innocent, young you with no anchor experience under your belt. You, from Indianapolis, Indiana. You, who has no idea how to function when you’re next to her.

  Her.

  Who is so beautiful it sometimes hurts. Who is so talented and good at her job. Who has no idea you have no idea how to function when you’re next to her.

  “Why do you hate me?”

  Her question causes you to suck in while you’re swallowing a sip of alcohol, and you end up choking. You’re coughing and coughing and coughing. She’s concerned but only slightly. Of course. She probably wants you to perish, so she’ll have the show all to herself. “Jesus,” you finally manage to push out. “What the hell?”

  She chuckles. “First time drinking?”

  “Very funny.” You’re breathless still, but after a few deep, cleansing breaths, you feel better. “Who said I hate you?”

  “Everyone.” She says it so matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most common of knowledge.

  “That’s a lie.”

  She shrugs. “Well, not everyone. But quite a few people have told me you don’t like me.”

  “Like who?”

  “Mutual friends.”

  “Another lie. We have no mutual friends. The same way we don’t have a normal haunt.”

  She shrugs again. “I don’t know, Lucinda. Maybe I can just tell?” Her expression is displaying irritation and defeat. She looks pained. Is being wrong that hard for her?

  You aren’t sure, but there’s a stretch of foundation inside, deep, deep, deep inside that cracks. “I don’t hate you.” The confession is freeing. “I don’t hate you.” You repeat it because it seems like she didn’t hear you the first time.

  “You just can’t stand me?”

  You laugh. “No. That’s not it at all.”

  “Then? Can you tell me the truth?”

  This conversation is not one you should be having right now. If ever. And she knows it. There’s no way she went over the entire conversation in her mind and got to the conclusion that yes, yes, I will confront Lucinda, and everything will end with rainbows and butterflies. And in the same breath, there is no way you can answer her truthfully. Because what even is the truth anymore?

  At first, it had nothing to do with hate. She was Madeline fucking Barnes, and you were nothing, no one, and that was where you knew you needed to stay. You were the intern who climbed and climbed, but you were still no one important. She never said a word to you until you were her co-anchor, and even then, it was sporadic. She tried a couple times to talk to you since the promotion. She reached out one night after a hard day on set. You were sitting in your dressing room, legs pulled up under you on your couch, and she came in. She sat. She touched your shoe. Your stupid shoe, for Christ’s sake. The gesture was way more intimate than you deserved. Or maybe more intimate than she deserved. Either way, you didn’t hate her. But then…you did…and not for reasons you feel mean anything. Reasons that make no real sense, like she is hard to handle and a brat and the epitome of a narcissist. Then something happened. And maybe it was when Josephine left, and you were promoted to co-anchor, and you got to meet the real Madeline. You got to see what dwells just beneath her surface. You got to speak with her, get to know her, sort of, and she had these moments of being delicate and kind. You didn’t hate her then. Oh, no. You fell then. You fell hard and fast, and in order to not let go of yourself, you started to hate her again because it was easier. Hate was easier than love because love was never possible. The truth is that love is easier than hate all the time. The closer you get to her, the more you realize it. “I don’t know…if you’re ready for that truth.”

  She’s standing so close now. The heat radiating from her skin feels as if she has a fever. “I don’t think I would have asked if I wasn’t ready.”

  There’s a small sip left in your drink. You stare at it. Should you get another one or should you just go home? To your television and an empty bed and hope for enough focus to masturbate and fade away into the night. She’s not ready. There’s no way. So you lift your glass and down the final swallow. “I don’t know if I’m ready.” Your glass clinks as you set it on the table and turn to leave, but she grabs your wrist. You turn, look down, and it’s deja-vu, but it’s also as if you’re seeing it for the first time all over again.

  Her iron and yours and everything sort of clicking into place, and this cannot happen.

  She takes a step. You’re standing too close now. Way too close. God, she’s stunning. “Promise me you’ll tell me one day.” Her breath is laced with vodka, but also with the word promise, and as you start to lean closer, you realize what’s happening.

  You straighten your spine, pull away as calm as possible, a smile on your lips. “I promise.”

  When she lets go, you swear you can hear her say I don’t believe you.

  The Third Time

  The death of a United States President. It’s huge. Not just because you can’t stand him or the current administration. No, it’s more than that. It’s deeper than you ever thought possible. As a child you never thought you’d be so consumed with politics. And now? Now it’s everything. The lead up to this historic event has been ridiculous, and you’ve been covering it for the last two weeks. You’re tired. You’re stressed. And worst of all, it’s not over. Something this big will have weeks of aftermath to deal with.

  You should have stayed at the studio to prepare for tomorrow’s show. Sometimes, the monotony gets hard to handle. Starting each day the same, preparing for a show, doing the show, stress, stress, stress. You need a break. You decide to walk. To take in the early morning air. There’s something about the way the air feels lighter at this time of day, too.

  The last few months have been difficult. Long nights and early mornings and too little sleep. A lot has happened in the world. Too much, actually, and now there’s this. Maybe a chance to breathe again. Being a co-anchor of a morning show doesn’t allow you to escape many things but especially politics. And now maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

  You walk and walk until you’re standing in front of The Bean.

  Millennium Park.

  “It’s fitting,” you whisper as you stand in front of the massive sculpture. You fell in love with this sculpture when it was installed. It’s so beautiful the way it reflects everything. It has always reminded you of the work you chose to devote your life to. You hold a mirror up so the world can see what’s happening and how it looks. That’s what journalism is to you, exposing truths and allowing others to see them with ease.

  Sometimes those truths aren’t easy to swallow.

  Sometimes they’re beautiful.

  You find a seat on a bench. The weather has been beautiful. Hardly any humidity with the sun shining for most of the day. It’s been so wonderful. And the nights are just perfect. No need for a jacket. It’s only a matter of time before Chicago pulls a fast one, though, and starts in with the record heat days.

  “Lucinda?”

  Hearing your name startles you. You turn quickly because you know that voice. “What are you doing?”

  Madeline folds her arms across her chest and looks around the empty park. “I needed some air.”

  “Me, too.” You breathe because there she is. Her hair is down, her eyes, behind their tortoise shell frames, are tired, and goddamn, she looks incredible. It’s moments like these, when you get to see her how no one else does that mean the most to you.

  “Can I?” She motions to the open seat next to you on the park bench.

  “Of course.”

  She moves around the bench and sits. Her light jacket seems like overkill for the warm weather. “How are you holding up?”

  You glance at her, and when she looks at you, and your brown eyes lock onto her blue, you feel an ache in your hands that only exists when you want more from her. The more used to be unknown, but now t
he more is kissing, touching, fucking, love, and it’s all so exciting, yet all impossible. “I’m doing okay.” You breathe out slowly, still not breaking eye contact. “You?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve had better years.”

  You chuckle. “Oh, you meant overall? My bad.”

  She joins and her laugh sounds so lovely in the still too early morning air. “I just never imagined…” Finally, she looks away, and there is something in her voice that makes you think she’s going to cry. “My life like this.”

  “Care to elaborate?” You’re still looking at her. These days, you don’t stare. It’s not staring anymore when you can’t pull your eyes away. It’s looking, observing, studying. You want to know more. You want to know all. Sometimes it’s maddening. Other times, like right this second, it’s so calming and unexpected that it soothes the spot inside you that has stopped needing her and has started to yearn for her.

  She takes a deep breath and glances at you for one beat, two, before she looks away. “I’m so alone.”

  The emotion in her tone causes your eyes to well with tears. She looks at you again and smacks you on the arm.

  “Stop.” She laughs. “I didn’t say that to make you cry.”

  You chuckle as you dab your eyes. “Well, Jesus, Madeline. Don’t say shit like that then.”

  “You asked.”

  You both laugh, and when the noise settles, you can’t fight the urge to touch her, so you take her hand from her lap and intertwine your fingers. She squeezes you before you even think to give her a gentle squeeze. She’s looking at where your hands are. You wonder if she’s the one observing and studying now, or if you’re the only lunatic who can’t seem to come to grips with what’s happening between the two of you.

  “We need to get back to the studio soon.”