All of Me

by Emily Duvall

  “How do I meet a guy? Most of the men here are married. Mr. Spencer’s too old. I’m not into the bar scene and I don’t want to join that kickball group you tried to get me to do last spring. If I don’t find a partner, I’ll be alone my whole life.”

  “I hear you.” Charlotte nods emphatically. “I believe there’s someone for everyone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Somewhere out there in this city there’s a male version of Maren Cole and when you find him you won’t be alone anymore.”

  I imagine myself with short hair and boy clothes. Seems a bit strange, this man-Maren. “I’ve got to get work done.”

  The spreadsheets I work on don’t take long to complete. There’s a system of checking and re-checking. Positive numbers go in one column. Negative ones in another. I use software to create graphs and write three findings. Charlotte looks over my sentences and makes corrections which I fix. Mr. Spencer likes reports with zero errors. Don’t we all?

  “Maren, good morning.” Mr. Spencer says, entering my office. He’s not alone today. A tall man with a beard and mustache is with him. “This is Mr. Williams.”

  “Hi, Mr. Williams,” I greet him. “You own our company.”

  “That I do.” He walks over and sticks out his hand, which I take. He gives a hearty handshake. I want to turn around and finish my line numbers. They need to be put into an algorithm by twelve o’clock.

  “Ms. Cole is the young lady you’ve heard so much about,” Mr. Spencer says.

  They’ve been talking about me. I look at Mr. Williams. “You’re on the top twenty list of richest businessmen in the United States.”

  “I am.”

  “How did you make your first million?”

  “Maren,” Mr. Spencer cuts in.

  “It’s fine.” Mr. Williams waves him off. “I worked for a company that made bells. I worked on the line with the materials. We found out the company was going to close. I sold my house and took out a loan. I bought the company and turned the business around a year later.”

  I don’t know anything about making bells.

  “The point is, you look for opportunities and sometimes they pay off.” He puts his hands in his pockets. He’s older, like my dad, and they make the same gesture. “Every year we have a special conference in New York. It’s to honor employees that have done an outstanding job. I hear you’ve done exceptional work.”

  “I have. My reports are 100% accurate.”

  A laugh accompanies his smile. “Which is why we feel you would be the perfect person to give a speech at our annual gala. You would be the keynote speaker. Members of the board of trustees will be present and many top-level executives. What do you think about that?”

  No, no, no way. “What would I talk about?”

  “Your experiences. How you do what you do.”

  I look to Charlotte. She’s nodding like crazy and her eyes are excited. My gaze jumps back to Mr. Williams. “I’ve never given a speech.”

  “It’s a privilege to get asked to do this. I wanted to ask you in person. I wanted to meet you.”

  “You came all the way from New York to ask me to give a speech?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like writing. I just don’t know what I would say.”

  Mr. Williams looks at Mr. Spencer. They’re saying something without speaking. I’m not imagining that.

  Another person doing the writing for me? That is tempting, but galas are meant for lots of people. I shake my head. “No thank-you. I’m not interested.”

  Mr. Williams rocks back on his feet. “Tell you what, you don’t need to decide right now. Think it over. Mr. Spencer will touch base with you in a couple of days.”

  “When?” I ask. “When is the gala?”

  “August 20th.”

  Less than three months away.

  Chapter 10

  Caleb

  I arrive at the bench before Maren. The paths and sidewalks are packed from the Chili Cook-Off taking place downtown this afternoon. I used to come here more. I used to be someone who pushed a stroller and bought a balloon for my little girl. I shoot that memory down before it anchors its unwanted self. The urge to catch my breath is strong, and I’m not even moving.

  The air is tinged with spices and grilling and smoking that has been going on for hours. Sheer perfection, if you ask me. It’s almost enough to wipe away the hollowness in my soul, but not enough. Today marks the day. The anniversary that comes every year. Eight years ago, Darcy died. She was here and then she wasn’t. I stifle emotion with a cough. Nobody wants to celebrate this type of anniversary. I thought I could take a short cut and forget. I was stupid to think a jog would delete the footprints of that day, when, in the early hours of the morning, I had held her hand as she slept. I cough hard, remembering the nurse had said quietly, “There’s no pulse.” The details of that day are clear as ever.

  I thought I could wake up and go for a run.

  I thought this year would be different.

  It’s not. It never is.

  I miss her so much.

  I don’t have a second to sink further into this black pit of hell. Maren’s darting towards me with the speed of an Olympic sprinter making a final lap around the track. I wave, but she doesn’t see me. She drives straight past me with her lean body and her thoughts wrapped up in her head.

  I chase after her.

  Falling in step alongside her, I catch my breath. “You trying out for the USA track team?”

  A quick whip of her head and she acknowledges my existence. “Why would I do that?”

  And bomb. That failed.

  I clutch my stomach. My irresponsible drinking last night is paying me back. I’m in no shape for keeping up this unspoken competition. I should be at home, drinking on my couch, and hoping to wake up tomorrow with one more year behind me.

  Maren’s always two feet in front of me looking nowhere near tired as I drag my feet. My arms are heavy. The extra round of whiskey shots make a comeback and I stop. I stop with breaths slamming against my chest and a tinge of soreness at my ribs.

  Maren turns around and jogs in place. Her skin is glistening, her eyes are vibrant, and her hair is lush, all crammed up in a messy ponytail. She looks incredible. She’s also taking in the pitiful sight of the great Caleb Allan wounded by a hangover. “Why are you stopping?” she deadpans.

  My hand drops to the cramp in my side. “I need a second.”

  “If we stop, I won’t be back at the apartment by ten-thirty.”

  “Why ten-thirty?”

  “Libby.”

  “Libby’s not there,” I say coldly, protecting my sensitive ego. She’s the one in better shape than me. She’s the one not grieving for her daughter. “You can get home whenever you want.”

  Her gaze zones out for a second. “I forgot,” she says, with such heaviness, I want to pull her into a hug. What? A hug? Is it for her or for me?

  “It’s okay.”

  This time when her gaze clears, and her eyes meet mine, I swallow back that feeling—like this is a glimpse of something more. She’s back to the Maren I’m getting used to being around. Or the Maren I could get used to being around.

  “You’re in a bad mood,” she concludes.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I would like to blame this on the whiskey. I would like to let this particular day be the reason I get to be an asshole. I would like to put fault on any minor inconvenience in my way. That would be a lie. I’m tore up in a way I don’t want to deal with and in way that has nothing to do with the Pierce case, which has turned high profile overnight. Here’s the problem. The one that keeps jabbing my side. The more I’m around Maren, I want to tell her about this pain I can’t seem to admit to anyone. My hands land on my hips and I give my running partner a long look. Maren’s waiting for my answer. “Why am I in a bad mood?”

  “That was the question. Are you going to answer?”

  The words sit in my mouth
like I’ve taken too big a bite. I’m sure my face is as green as my stomach. “I…A few years ago…” Nope. Can’t do it. I can’t. “Never mind.”

  “Does it have something to do with those numbers tattooed on your arm?” She points to them.

  The sleeve should have covered them up, but they are there, on the upper inside of my bicep. 10-15. “Yes.”

  “What do they mean?”

  How the hell can I answer that?

  She’s not helping with her fresh-faced expression and caring, open gaze, and yet a touch of indifference. The way she doesn’t give a shit is endearing and radiant. Maybe that’s what makes her so different. So special. She gets me. And damn if I want to get her.

  “You can tell me,” she says gently.

  “I know—I just can’t right now.” My grief is all mine. I’ve never shared it and I’m not willing to do that now.

  “Okay, if you’re not going to tell me, let’s not stand around all day.” There’s not a trace of malice in her voice. “I’m running. You coming?”

  Fine. I don’t care. Home is where I should be, keeping busy, shutting out life. I have no business meeting her here, being the first one to show. I motion for Maren to move along. “Be my guest.”

  “I’ll wait,” Maren says, matter-of-fact. Of all the days for her to show a blip of reciprocation, today is not the day.

  “Just go without me.”

  “No.” Her voice is stubborn. “We’re in this together.”

  “I have stuff on my mind. I shouldn’t have met you.”

  “But you did. You’re here.” She touches my shoulder like she means it. A first. I look at her with strands of loose hair blowing against her soft cheeks and the bumpy ponytail that works for her more than she could ever imagine. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

  Yes, and yes. “No.”

  I think about where this is headed. I can’t dump my crap on this one. She’s not like Sara. She would move her entire schedule to sit and listen to my whining about life and death and about Darcy, which isn’t a bad thing—it’s just, maybe I hold back for a reason. Maybe Sara isn’t someone I want to tell those things to. And Maren? What if I do want to tell her?

  Maren’s having trouble budging a few extra minutes. Odd as this encounter is, I need her. Maybe I need her to say nothing, to have someone listen without looking for pointers on how to make my shit better. Shit doesn’t get better. It’s shit. Maybe Maren’s exactly what I need to run off my mood until I don’t think about how my heart is caving in on itself. “Let’s finish the course.”

  “Finally,” she says, exasperated.

  I laugh from the gut. I feel something strange. Something like life. Something lighter.

  The problems I started out with are distant by the time we reach her apartment. Breathless and sweaty, we stand in front of her building. “Are you going to invite me up for water?” I say without any ulterior motive. We ran hard and I’m dying of thirst.

  “You can come up for water. You can see my place.”

  I am curious about her personal space. Seeing where and how she lives will put her more in perspective. Have any other men had the luxury of getting a personal invite to her apartment? Am I the only one? We take the elevator up in comfortable silence. The doors are slow opening and a long hallway greets us with depressive low lighting.

  Maren’s place is a contrast to the hallway with bright natural light thanks to the entire wall made up of floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen is good for about two people standing in the space. Dishes are piled in the sink. Crumbs are on the counter. A giant board with tasks like doing laundry and packing lunch hangs on the side of the refrigerator, along with a list of motivational sayings. Mix It Up! Be flexible! Fruit snacks aren’t a meal!

  The rest of her place is surprisingly adultish. A navy couch and dark-wooded coffee table. A flat screen television, a home system activated by voice commands, and a magazine rack filled with maps of different states and countries. The art on the wall is vintage and non-descript, like faded metal/wood blend and antique hooks hanging next to them. I like the way she’s decorated. The style is unpretentious and straightforward. The coziness puts me at ease. All of it is so her.

  Maren’s halfway through guzzling a bottle of water.

  “You going to offer me one?”

  She stops drinking and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. “You see the refrigerator.”

  A grin rides up my mouth. Duh. Of course, I should have just grabbed my own. No need to abide by those social rules between the host and her guest.

  I open the refrigerator to find the motherload of prepared meals. “Who made you all this food?” The chunky writing belongs to Libby. “Did she actually put these in order of when to eat? Impressive and a bit controlling.”

  “She does that.”

  “I’d go crazy if someone organized my life like this.”

  “Libby doesn’t think I can cook on my own.”

  Just like that. So honest. “Can you?”

  She shrugs. “Does anyone really care?”

  “I do.” I do.

  “After college, I attended a culinary school at night.”

  This is news. “Why’d you stop?”

  “My parents were living here at the time. They didn’t like how late the class went and the jobs from the culinary school didn’t pay much. Our lives became easier with Libby planning the meals and I’ve gotten used to having someone else do that. Spending time in the kitchen felt like a waste of time.”

  My fingers pause twisting the cap off the water bottle. “Ever thought of doing that again?”

  “Cooking is a lot of work and there’s just me. I don’t think I’ll get into it again.”

  “How do you like living on your own?”

  “The first six hours of my first Saturday have gone well.”

  “What do you and Libby normally do?”

  “Whatever’s on Libby’s list of errands. Except for running, I always do that.”

  “Don’t you ever sleep in?”

  “Not usually.”

  Maren walks around me, and her shoulder brushes mine. “What about you? What do you do on your days off?”

  “Work.”

  “Even on weekends?” She eyes me up like this is the worst possible answer.

  “It sucks, I know.”

  “You’ve got Sara to hang out with.”

  My eyes meet hers. A spark of energy courses through me. “No, I don’t. We’re not together anymore.”

  Maren pauses like she’s processing the information. “Oh. Why not?”

  “Why not?” I take a step closer to Maren. My hand slides against hers. Embarrassment tip-toes up my spine like an unwanted critter. I’m stuck in the middle of a defining moment. The one I can’t ignore. The woman standing in front of me has more to do with my decision to end things with Sara than I want to admit.

  Maren isn’t finished. “Why aren’t you together?”

  “We wanted different futures.” Another step closer…

  Maren’s fingers drift over mine, making contact. “How do you know?”

  I know I’m going to kiss her. My heart is in my throat. “I just do.” My hand draws her face close to mine. My gaze falters at the sight of her mouth. Without asking, without thinking, I press my lips against hers.

  Maren pulls back. She glances at me and takes my face in her hands. She pushes her lips to mine and she kisses me. Tension unravels in my stomach, in my muscles, and a soft breath escapes my mouth like a release. My hand firmly lands on the back of her waist.

  The kiss was brief and heartfelt and over before it really begins.

  She breaks away first, staring at me with depth and color to her eyes that tells me this might have been short and sweet, but is far from over.

  “You kissed me,” she says, straight-faced.

  I grin. “I did.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.” Maren’s eyes
lighting up are all the confirmation I need.

  She picks up her iPad and turns it on.

  I point to the screen. “What do we have here?”

  “Countess Coins is a strategy game. Get the coins to the treasure chest. Make them match, like this.”

  “My grandparents were addicted to this game. Why are you playing it now? We just kissed.”

  A pink hue stains her cheeks. “I know, I just don’t know what to say afterwards.”

  I laugh and grab the tablet from her hand. “We can talk about anything you want. Do you like chili?”

  “No,” she says adamantly.

  I put the tablet on the table. “There’s a thing going on downtown. A chili competition. You should join me.”

  This scores me eye contact. “What about my game?”

  “Screw the game. Do you want to come with me?”

  “I’m not sure I get the point, but yeah, I’ll join. I won’t eat chili though.”

  “I have to go home and change first. I’ll come back and get you.” I start to leave and stop at the notes on the board. Take a shower before all activities. Greet someone with a smile and a hello. Dust once a week, no exceptions!

  “What time will you be back?” She says with her attention on the tablet screen.

  “Four o’clock.”

  She jerks her face to mine. “Six hours, twenty-two minutes. Got it.”

  I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing by inviting her, but she’s growing on me, and I want to spend more time with her. And let’s be honest. I so want to kiss her again.

  By the time I catch up on work and shower off the stench of sweat and heat, I decide to stop stressing about asking Maren to come along. If hanging out with her isn’t good—if it’s not working, I can change direction and find an excuse to not see her. I can’t use her as an excuse to put off something I should have done this morning.

  I go out back to the deck. On it is a miniature rose plant with soft pink petals. I carry it to the back yard, near the tree I planted for Darcy on the first anniversary of her death and dig with my bare hands. The soil is soft and easy to get through and I plant a new bloom for her, like I have done every year. Then I sit back on my knees. The dirt on my hands transfers to my shorts, but I don’t care. I sit for a minute and I break down.