All of Me

by Emily Duvall

  “Of course, I am. Why else would we hang out?”

  This time, his laugh is different, not as full. “I’m married to my job.”

  “When you say it like that, I see a briefcase dressed in a tuxedo walking down the aisle next to me. I’ll cross you off the list. Besides, I’ll find someone online.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m being resourceful. You’re in love with your job and Charlotte says there’s someone out there meant for me. I just need to find a male version of myself.”

  Caleb groans. “Don’t listen to Charlotte.”

  “Why not?” I stand as he does with the basket of fries safely in my hand. “I do want to meet someone.”

  “You can’t force a guy to put a ring on your finger. And falling in love isn’t an exact science. Relationships are messy. Look at what happened today with me and Sara. Start small. Date first. See you if you like someone for more than a week. Get to the next week until those days become months.”

  I shake my head. “This is going to take forever. I don’t have that long.”

  “You’ve got time. Take the pressure off yourself. Plenty of people find their person at different ages. My mother met my father when she was almost forty.”

  “That’s a long time to wait.”

  He takes the basket of fries and the greasy napkins. “It’s more important to find the right person than end up with the wrong one. You done?”

  “Yes.”

  Caleb throws out the fries and the lemonade into the trash. Bees buzz around the wide circle garbage bin where the stench of rot floats in our direction.

  We take the path that leads directly through the rides and takes us to downtown. The crowd has doubled in size and we barely squeeze through. Our conversation about marriage is on my mind. Caleb doesn’t seem to understand my urgency and I’ll call Charlotte and ask her to help set up a profile for me. She’s supposed to come over tomorrow, which gives me the night to peruse websites and put one together on my own. I’ll have her tweak any issues I have or pick a different photo.

  “Hey guys,” Sara says, finding us as we’re closer to the street that will take us to my apartment. “Mind if I walk with you?”

  “We’re leaving,” Caleb says quickly.

  I look at Sara. “He’s not going to marry you.”

  Caleb’s mouth cracks a noise that’s between a laugh and a groan.

  Sara’s response is all in her eyes. Not a trace of kindness lingers there. She plucks her hands at her waist and adjusts her feet almost like a lion pawing the ground beneath his claws. “I never expected a proposal. Not from him. Love isn’t really his thing.” She looks to Caleb and takes a humongous breath, like she’s just single-handedly beat a dozen men charging and shooting at her with rifles.

  “Good night, Sara,” Caleb says and continues walking ahead.

  I don’t bring up Sara on the way home because there’s nothing to say. *I think.*

  The sight of my apartment building carries calm right to my breath. This is what I had wanted, no one checking on me, nobody getting in the way of my night. My stomach twinges and I think I may have been wrong. I want to hang out with Libby tonight and New York feels a long way away.

  Caleb takes the elevator up, even though I didn’t ask him to follow. Maybe he forgot something. I unlock the door, giving him a curious glance. “Do you need something?”

  “I promised Libby I’d make sure you’re safe.”

  “I am, but you know that. So, you can go.” I open the door and spin around, ready to shut it.

  Caleb’s hand hits the door. My gaze jumps to his. There’s a depth and heat to his eyes that sets off a bundle of nerves in my stomach. Blood rushes to my head, to my breasts, and warmth burns beneath my skin like sparks catching fire. Caleb’s not bolting. He’s staying.

  “What are you doing about dinner?” he says, shutting the door.

  “Nothing right now. We just ate. Why? Are you thinking about food?”

  “No, I’m just…thinking ahead.” Caleb walks over to the eating area and he stops in front of the large schedule board. There are reminders and goals. He takes one of the notes down. “Size of the problem?”

  I snatch the paper out of his hands. “I don’t want you to see this part of my life.”

  “I want to see this. What’s on the paper?”

  “A way for me to measure what is an acceptable response. A level five is if my arm falls off, then I’m allowed to be upset.”

  “You have a system to control your reactions? That’s impressive. Does the method work?”

  “They used to. They’re leftover from a therapy I did in elementary school. Libby thinks having them on my wall will help.”

  “I need to make one for my clients.”

  My face brightens. “You can have mine. I’ve been wanting to tear this down for years.”

  “So, do it,” he says, folding his arms over his chest and nodding at the photo.

  “I—ugh,” I say, not having considered this option. “Can I?”

  “Do you hate looking at this system? You just said the ideas were helpful when you were younger, but not now.”

  I fly past him and remove the four tacks. I take the paper and rip the chart in half. I rip them into fours and eights and toss them over my head, grinning, feeling so full and alive with momentum. I reach out to Caleb, who’s hand has grazed my waist and he pulls me towards him. The torn paper falls around us, around our laughter, and I look up him with thrill swarming my heart.

  His hand captures my waist and the other, brushes the hair off my shoulder. I am aware how quiet the apartment has gone and how I can hear my neighbor’s voices carry through the walls. I stand on my tip toes, wanting so much to be closer to him, to have my lips belong to him. Our smiles dwindle, and my heart beats with the reality that he may not want to kiss me again. When has any guy ever wanted that? But I don’t think my brain is playing tricks on me.

  I press my hand to his chest and lower my heels to the floor.

  He covers his hand over mine and lowers his lips to mine, then, pulls back with a long sigh. “Thank you for today,” he says.

  “You’re not going to kiss me?”

  “Not after what happened with Sara.”

  Oh. Her. Again. “If you hadn’t kissed her, you’d be kissing me now.”

  “I know,” he says regretfully. “I’m sorry. And I should go.”

  “Yeah,” I say, keeping my head held high. “You should.”

  Caleb leaves and I close the door behind him. The apartment is quiet. Something isn’t right. Something’s missing. I am used to being alone. Libby was the one who got invited to birthday parties and clubs and dances. That was all years ago, but now? Do I need more? Is human connection important to me? Interaction. Face time. Social events. The gut-wrenching soul of the matter is, I know no different.

  I’m always by myself.

  And I am okay with that.

  But there’s no one in my apartment that I can talk to. I think that would be nice.

  I should have asked Caleb to stay.

  Instead, I turn on the television for an episode of First & Last.

  Sunday morning, Charlotte sends rapid-fire texts cancelling our plans with a promise to review my online dating profile. Tears well up in my eyes that she’s not coming over. It would be a day shared with a friend.

  I hit up the one place Libby never allowed me to go. I hop on the Metro and I go north to Maryland, to the casino.

  The thing about gambling is the odds. Sure, they’re stacked against me like a delicate house of cards. My game of choice is the Roulette table. Black, red, odd, even, combinations of each one. Red chips are in front of me worth two-hundred dollars. There’s a bunch of men around the table. I ignore them. My concentration is on the screens showing numbers and colors that have been called. The last four were black and even. I place five chips across the table, all on red. Lucky, bloody, lovely, red. “Come on,” I say, clenching my hands.


  The attendant drops the ball in the revolving wheel. “No more bets,” she says.

  “Maren?”

  I ignore the sound of someone calling my name.

  “Maren,” he says again.

  “Not now.” My fists squeeze harder together. The ball slows to a stop. Coming to a stop…almost there…black…red…black. “Red!” I shout.

  One of the men at the table cusses and swigs his drink, leaving the table. The attendant pushes a stack of red chips my way.

  “Ahem.”

  I look up and do a double-take. Caleb’s standing beside me. “Why are you here?” I say.

  He points to the blackjack table across the way. A group of men with their backs to us. “Hanging out with friends. Where’s Charlotte?”

  “Place your bets,” the attendant orders.

  “Not now,” I tell Caleb, waving him off and choosing the odd, black numbers this time. “I’m up two hundred dollars.”

  “I thought she was hanging out with you.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Maren.”

  Irritation flushes in my voice. “I’m busy, Caleb. Charlotte had other plans.”

  “No more bets,” the attendant announces, tapping her long nail on the side of the table.

  Caleb is pushed against me. His hand automatically clasps my waist.

  My hand flattens over his. “I don’t care what you think. I’m on an excellent winning streak.” I look at him with pause. “Unless you’re bad luck. Then I’ll ask you to leave.”

  The ball comes to a stop right on my color.

  My gaze is trained on the ball. “Black, twenty-one. Yes.” I grab both Caleb’s hands and shake them against my chest. “I won, again.”

  He leans closer to me. His eyes are hard and his mouth, parted slightly. The way I look at him scares me, like he can see that what I’m thinking or hear how loud my heart beats against my chest. My mouth is dry. My face leans closer to his. Caleb loosens his grip and my feet are on the ground, strange, because they felt lighter a second ago.

  “You should come meet my friends,” he says. “Sit with us. Play some blackjack.”

  Being home alone feels a whole lot safer. More predictable. I don’t want to sit with his friends and make conversation. I was fine playing roulette. “Nah, I’m good. I only play roulette.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself.”

  Chapter 12

  Caleb

  Maren reminds me how much I hate rejection. I’m in the middle of getting dressed for work and all I can think about is how I had almost kissed her again. Almost. Not quite. I couldn’t though. I couldn’t let Sara kiss me and then act like nothing had happened. If I hadn’t been such an idiot, Maren and I might have spent more time together. She might have joined me at the casino instead of turning her back to me. Why do I even care? I don’t, I tell myself and get my butt to the office.

  Breaks at work don’t exist for me this week. Probably not for the next six months, maybe the entire year. I’m up to speed on the Pierce case. Three underage girls go to the bar; Amanda Thorne, Ellie Regal, and Beth Corrigan. They drink and have fun, but only one of them gets home and goes on to recover from two broken arms, a shattered nose, and a fractured eye socket. The other two girls are in a coma. Every day they remain in that state, the cost of their care increases.

  We’re defending the bartender, a small business owner. The public is divided on where to place the blame and the case has caught the attention of all major media outlets and their viewers are torn between the debate of responsibility and common sense. Small business owners are supporting Pierce while mothers and fathers are holding him accountable.

  I side with my client. Always. Paul Pierce did not force the girls to enter his bar and he didn’t shove drinks down their spoiled mouths (his words). What happened after they left was tragic, but he didn’t lock them in their car with the keys and he didn’t force Beth’s foot to push the gas pedal beyond ninety miles per hour. The prosecution disagrees.

  The intern from The George Washington Law school, Jane Harper, carries in a box of documents about the parents into my office. These are papers printed off from their social media sites that will help us learn more about them as people. Anything is fair game when they post public messages and images about their lifestyle. There’re also critical facts about the case that Jane has pulled, evidence I’ll use.

  “This is everything you asked me to get,” Jane announces, carting the box over to my desk. “Organized by date like you asked. I put the most important documents on top and I circled posts you can use in red. The Thorne family closed their social media accounts last night. I guess their lawyer finally wised up.”

  “Dana Rosenthal’s representing them. I’m surprised she let their sites stay up this long.”

  “You know the prosecutor?”

  I groan. “We went to law school together.”

  “Is she tough?”

  “Yes. And smart. Which means we have our work cut out for us.” I snap my fingers. “Give me the highlights from your research.”

  “The Regal family has been aware of their daughter’s drinking problem for a full year. They sent her to a rehab program this past summer.”

  So far what I want to hear. “What about the other two girls?”

  Jane continues, her voice calm, “Amanda Thorne was given a citation for underage drinking at a house party three years ago. She did community service.”

  “What about Corrigan? She’s the only one able to recount what happened.”

  “Her parents posted an open letter about how their daughter had never had a sip of alcohol and Pierce served her without checking her ID. They claim she’s innocent and she got roped into going to the bar with her friends. They also claim Pierce forced her to drink several shots as punishment after she left the bar, as she was going to her car.”

  “No,” I quip, glancing through the documents. “Since when do business owners try to break the law? Beth’s blood alcohol level was .219 which is equivalent to about seven drinks. She weighs…” I skip the next paragraph and look for the figures, “one-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds. Her parents say she went through hell with Pierce, that he intimidated her and forced her to drink more. She claims she’s never owned a fake ID.”

  Jane’s gaze is inquisitive toward the document she’s flipping through. “Mr. Pierce says each girl showed one of the bartenders their ID’s, including Beth. We need to talk to him and find out which bartenders checked hers and if anyone saw Pierce leave the bar after the girls left.”

  “That’s a good start. Are there cameras in the parking lot? Anything to disprove her claim?”

  Jane flips through a few pages; her lips purse together as she studies the text. “No. No cameras covered the back lot. I think she’s lying.”

  “She might be a liar, but you have to prove she’s not telling the truth.”

  Jane picks up another printout and listlessly reviews it. “What time should I be at the bar?”

  “Nine o’clock. Pierce has his staff coming in at assigned times, bartenders first, then waitstaff. We’ll go over security tapes and we’ll be there awhile. I want to talk to anyone working their shift that night and any customers they can bring in. We’ll need them to testify if they have information we can use. Sara will meet us there. Did Julie tell you? You’ll report to me directly.”

  “She told me, yes, and this opportunity is amazing.” Jane gives an excited little fist pump up.

  I realize how much the ten-year difference between us shows. “Just do the work,” I say sternly.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “I’ve sent you a list of items to go through and prepare. I want everything completed by the time you meet me in the morning.”

  Her face drops. I know the amount of work is impossible, but I want to see what this one can do. “You can go.”

  My cell phone rings.

  One look at the screen and I go cold. The caller is Ellen Cole. Libby had given
me her number before she had left, in case of an emergency. If I pick up it’s going to ruin my plans for living at work this week. I just know it. I’ve done an excellent job of avoiding anything to do with Maren since running in to her at the casino. How is that girl supposed to get anywhere in this life if she can’t pee without having a list dedicated to proper bathroom etiquette? This is more than avoidance and my gut knows that above all else. I have kept my distance for one reason alone. I’m in over my head with her. I made the mistake to let my fantasies run wild after I left her apartment. Which they did last night and this morning.

  I answer the phone anyway and greet Ellen with a short, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Allan, this is Maren’s mother, Ellen.”

  “I know who you are. Libby told me you might call.” I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at work…”

  Get to the point. “It’s fine. What’s up?”

  “Ryan and I are staying in Florida longer than anticipated. We want to be with Maren, but we can’t right now. Could you call her or stop by and make sure work went well and that she’s eating the meals I left?”

  “You’ll have to ask Charlotte.”

  “We’ve already checked. She’s swamped with work and I don’t want to call and bug her.”

  “Maren will be fine on her own,” I assure her with a touch of harshness.

  “Mr. Allan, please. It’s more than that. Checking on her won’t take long. I want her to have a bit of…human connection and make sure she hasn’t burned down her apartment.”

  I hold back telling Ellen that her daughter became the center of attention at the casino and walked away with two thousand dollars. I doubt anything Maren does would cause a fire. Not with the brochures about what to do in an evacuation plastered on her refrigerator. She’s probably the safest person I know. She’d make a great seat belt checker at an amusement park.

  I roll my eyes. If I mention that she’s okay, I have this gut feeling that Ellen will want to know how I know. “No problem. I’ll be by around seven.”

  “You have no idea how much this means to me. One day, you’ll have a child and you’ll remember this call and the worry in my voice.”