All of Me

by Emily Duvall

  “Not much. At some point they tried to get men to pay for their drinks. They seemed immature.”

  “How so?”

  “In that way girls giggle repeatedly and have secret jokes. They were beautiful, and they knew it.”

  “Did you see all three of them show ID?”

  “I can’t say either way. Maren and I weren’t paying attention to them early on. I remember wanting to move seats because they wouldn’t stop laughing and whiplashing their ponytails.” She imitates the gesture.

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” Libby slides her hands over her knees. “Maren said she doesn’t want to talk to you about it.”

  “I know. When I brought up the case to her, she got…weird. Standoffish. She seemed hesitant to say anything.”

  “The reason probably isn’t what you think. She could be thinking about fifty different nuances from that night, the noise, the bright lights. She’ll talk when she’s ready. She’s been bothered lately about being single and feeling different, my guess is that evening triggered her awareness of not ever being that comfortable in a bar. I’ll talk to her this weekend.” Libby looks over at Maren. “She’ll tell me. Anyway, tell me more about the case. What do you have?”

  “Beth’s parents claim this was her first time sneaking into a bar and purchasing alcohol illegally. The police recovered licenses from Ellie and Amanda, which helps build the case that they knew exactly what they were doing, but Beth’s has vanished.”

  “Didn’t the police find Beth’s license on her at the accident?”

  “No.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “She must have trashed the ID beforehand or lost it. The police did a sweep of the place and didn’t find anything. I can’t let the case hinge on this one detail, which is why I need you and your sister to cooperate.”

  I shift my attention to Maren, leaning on the counter, head on her hand, watching me.

  Chapter 17

  Maren

  Libby’s phone rings and she rushes to get the call, leaving Caleb and me alone. He’s on his way out and I am not going to let him sneak away. “So, Sara,” I snort. “The girl you don’t want anymore. The one you aren’t seeing. You’ll be having sex with her tonight.”

  Caleb folds his arms over his chest and shrugs. “Maren, do you have any idea how childish you sound? I’m going for an evening out. Sara and I are over. I told you.”

  “Then why go?”

  Caleb rubs his brow. “I don’t know, maybe because I just want to drink and socialize and have actual fun.”

  “We have fun jogging. Or we did. You could have said no.”

  Another cold nod. “But I didn’t.”

  “You just go from woman to woman?”

  “I just wanted a bit of—”

  “You just wanted what?”

  “To not have to explain myself.” Caleb’s arm shoots out and his face is red. “I hadn’t planned to be here tonight. Libby’s the one who arranged this. I certainly didn’t show up to upset you. Do you have any idea how important this case is to me?”

  My laughter is like a honk. “The case is so important that you’re spending the night with Sara.”

  “We,” he says, coming closer with eyes a heavy brown, “are not a thing. I’m allowed to go out with Sara or anyone else. That’s how this works, Maren. People change their mind, life gets in the way.” He takes a step back and undoes the top button on his collar. One glance to the bedroom and he curses. “Tell her I couldn’t stay.”

  The timer chimes on the oven, the noise making me aware the desired temperature has been reached. The problem is my feet are stuck and my hand, by my side, is twitchy and my fingers flap hard against my leg. I made a mistake, I think. He’s mad at me and I feel the same way towards him. Why is this so hard? Why, why, why, can’t this be easy and simple? Nothing about this feels good. Not in my bones, not in my thoughts, even the air around me is thick. I want Caleb to see me like he sees Sara. Even without the court case, which I have not agreed to help him with, he doesn’t want me.

  Caleb doesn’t want me.

  “Sorry about that,” Libby says, returning and looking around. “Where’d he go?”

  “To his fundraiser with Sara,” I say without hiding my snide tone.

  “What’s wrong?” Libby says, making a place next to me and stealing an olive.

  “Nothing,” I answer without looking at her and keep my gaze trained on the door as if he might come back. “Why does he like her?”

  “Hmm,” she says, considering my question. “I think ‘like’ is a strong assumption. Caleb’s like this in relationships from what I’ve seen. He doesn’t like people to get too close and when he needs something, he sticks with what’s familiar, what will get him what he wants in the moment.” Libby opens the refrigerator. “Between you and me though, I’ve never trusted her. Not at the office and not as an acquaintance.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t repeat anything I say.”

  My fingers draw an X over my heart. “Promise.”

  Libby refills her glass and takes a long sip before speaking. “Sara’s possessive about Caleb. From the time she met him, she latched onto him. She didn’t care that he was seeing someone else. Caleb found her aggressiveness interesting and fun at first, but he seemed different tonight, like he’s in the middle of a war. I get the feeling Sara’s invite is nothing more than a sad act to keep what was once hers. There were times I had asked Julie not to assign her to my cases because I’d had several instances where she would openly take credit for my work and point out mistakes of mine in front of the partners whereas everyone else would do that in private. She’s also the first to bad mouth someone, which, at our ages isn’t cool anymore.” Libby downs the rest of her wine. “I don’t trust her. I don’t like her. I’m also disappointed in Caleb for agreeing to go with her tonight. I keep thinking there must be a reason.”

  “I’m so mad at him.”

  Libby pauses the cup at her lips and she gives me a curious look. “Are you mad at him about the case? He told me you didn’t want to talk about Pierce’s. I thought everything was okay after we talked to the police? I can’t believe it’s getting dragged back to life.”

  “This is not entirely about the case. Caleb and I were together. We were a couple who said we wouldn’t see other people. He was over here the other night and told me we couldn’t see each other, thanks to the case. He sets all these rules in motion, and then he breaks them and now he’s wearing a tuxedo and headed to a fundraiser with Sara. Why would anyone want to attend a fundraiser? There’s nothing worse than standing around and talking for hours.”

  “I…” Her lips push together. “Hold on. The way you’re speaking…you’re not talking about Caleb as a friend?” Her eyes get big. “I wasn’t aware of any of this. Christ, Maren. I leave for a few weeks and you and Caleb are involved?”

  “Yes.”

  She picks up the bottle and reloads, emptying the contents completely. Libby’s shoulders shake with laughter and she’s clutching her stomach, setting the drink down so the wine spills over the rim and she’s laughing harder and harder.

  “You’re a jerk,” I say. “You’re making fun of me.”

  Her head whips up and she stops smiling. “No, I’m not. I’m not laughing at you. You’re great and he’s so not worthy of you, but I’m enjoying how much you’ve turned Caleb’s world inside out. It’s justice.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”

  “I should have seen this. Caleb Allan…coming here. This wasn’t entirely about the case. He wanted to see you. It’s so obvious now. Do you have any idea how much this is driving him crazy? Caleb always gets what he wants, and he can’t have you.” Her finger makes a snake motion in front of me. “He has no idea what to do about this and even if this wasn’t about the two of you, the case is driving a wedge right through his ethics. He thinks you saw something the night at the bar. This is so exciting for me to watc
h him struggle. Not for you, naturally.”

  “I have no idea about anything you said.”

  “Has someone named Dana Rosenthal contacted you?”

  “No.”

  “What about someone from her office?”

  I think about the calls I’ve received this week. “No one from such an office. Why are we talking about her?”

  “She’s the prosecutor in the case Caleb is working. She called me.”

  “She’s going against Caleb?”

  “Yes.” Libby leans back on the couch and rests her head.

  “Am I supposed to call her?”

  “Only if she calls.”

  “I’d rather not talk to anyone.”

  Libby’s smile disappears. “What are you not saying, Mare? The police talked to the both of us. What did you tell them?”

  “I saw the girls show their driver’s licenses to the bartender. I’d rather finish the bean dip.” More like, I don’t want this to turn into something bigger, something explosive. “Can we talk about something else? Did you bring me a map of the subway system?”

  “I didn’t have a chance, sorry. We can look it up online. You sure there’s nothing else you want to say about that night?”

  My teeth push against each other. “I don’t!” I shout. “Stop asking.”

  “We can talk about something else. What did you think of the group home?”

  My heartrate hikes up a steep incline. The residence we had visited was for people with social struggles, a community of working people like me, except with dorm-style settings and in-house support groups. “The place smelled like too much vanilla.” Tears sting the backs of my eyes and my throat feels suddenly dry. “Am I like those people I saw in there?”

  “No, you’re not,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry Mom is putting you through this. You know she gets an idea in her head and doesn’t stop. I’ll talk to her.”

  I shake my head. “I will continue to tell her. I just need you to back me up.”

  “I will, I promise. You seem to be navigating life in the city on your own just fine.”

  “Look, I want to say one more thing about the case. If you have something to say, be honest. This isn’t going to get easier. Rosenthal and Caleb are tough. The last thing you want is for the court to serve you papers to be a witness and whatever you’re keeping inside will come out in front of a jury and audience. Rosenthal hasn’t called you, so for now, you’re in Caleb’s corner.”

  “Everyone is making a big deal about this.”

  “That’s because two young women are in comas because of that night and the other one has to live with herself. I want you to be prepared in case this gets complicated.”

  I’m officially stressed. “Two girls are in comas?”

  “That’s right.”

  That’s not good.

  Libby raises her glass for a toast, but her phone interrupts us. Libby’s attention is wrapped up in whoever’s on the other end. “Sorry, I have to do some work,” she says, taking the call and disappearing into my bedroom.

  Libby’s attention is with a crisis in her office. She works from my balcony. I don’t touch the bean dip. I open a bottle of wine and go through two glasses. I close my door and flop on my bed, unable to stop the churning in my stomach. The nerves rattle together like snakeheads and I get out my journal. The home we toured, Caleb and Sara, this weight crushing my chest and my hands are flapping and moving and hurting my skin. I open to the middle of the writing book and I begin the hard-fisted scrawl with my heart beating hard against my chest. I write the entry the same way I have the others. The same sentence that fills the preceding pages.

  He forced her to drink.

  He forced her to drink.

  He forced her to drink.

  I shut the journal and stare up at the ceiling feeling rotten and anxious. I want to go back to the way things were, but as the weekend progresses, and Libby is committed to her job, I see there’s no chance of that. The days of her living in the same apartment are sealed in the vault of the past.

  Charlotte’s mood is rotten on Monday morning. She gives me a quick look and huffs at her computer. I stand next to her holding my bag and spill everything about Caleb and Sara before taking a full breath.

  “Maren, you need to move on from him,” she finally says. “He’s not interested and if you pursue him, he’ll think you’re a crazy stalker.”

  “I’m not though.”

  “This should help.” She brings up the search engine on her computer and types in the words ‘Where to meet guys.’ I lean closer to see the results.

  Church

  Bar

  Online

  Work

  Through a friend

  Lunch club

  Meet-up Group

  Hobby/Interest

  Festival/Community Event

  Wedding

  “Approach dating like a job,” she says, tapping her finger on the list. “Figure out the best options, your top picks, and start there.”

  My nose wrinkles at the thought of putting myself out there. “What’s a lunch club?”

  “Ever heard of speed dating?”

  My answer is an eye roll. “Not going to happen. What about a friend? Do you know any guys?”

  “If I did, I’d be checking them out for myself. Whatever you do, don’t think about Caleb. Every time you do, think of him leaving your apartment on his way to meet Sara.”

  I imagine the scene and my nerves flare. “You’re right, that should work.”

  “The worst thing you can do is make yourself available to him. Men need to know what they’re missing and someone like Caleb isn’t going to put you first. You need to do something for yourself. I signed up for a class on how to braid hair.” Charlotte runs her hand over her long hair. “I’m giving the whole dating thing a break. You should come with me.”

  “Will there be guys there?”

  “Highly doubtful and not really the point. If you expect to meet a guy in every situation, you won’t. Come with me. Learn how to work a sexy a braid into your hair. Come on. I need a buddy, say yes.”

  I haven’t worked out the logistics of what happens in hair class, but with my mother harping on me about a new living situation, I need leverage to show her I can be alone and have interests.

  “I have a meeting,” Charlotte says, excusing herself and leaving the office.

  My mother and this house are in my thoughts. I’m doing everything she’s asked. I’m surviving. I’m arriving at work on time and eating three meals a day. This runs deeper, this idea of hers, and I’m tired of caving, of being ready to hold my hand out at whatever reward she’s got in store for me to tempt me to consider this residential home.

  My whole life has been rewards. I do A and I get B. Libby always says she means well, but she’s been there enough to experience the fallout when whatever my mom wants me to do doesn’t go her way, like sign me up for softball in the sixth grade. I remember my screams when the ball slammed into my left ear. I remember the rush of adult faces around me as I thrashed over home plate and my parents couldn’t calm me down. I can smell the dust in my nostrils and the whispers later that night of my mom telling my father I should have been able to calm down. I’m not that girl anymore, but I’m afraid when my mother looks at me, she sees twelve-year-old Maren kicking and screaming in public. In front of everyone. My God, when I see that memory, I want to ask myself why I ever thought Caleb would want to be with someone like me.

  Turns out, the hair class is an activity I look forward to attending come Friday. Charlotte’s extra chatty about our big evening ahead. The location isn’t far from our office. We pass by the restaurants and I think of Caleb and the jewelry shop. I’m happy at first, then, tears tickle the backs of my eyes.

  All About Hair is on the corner next to a busy intersection. Charlotte and I enter to the sound of a bell jiggling on the door. One wall is entirely made up of mirrors. The chairs in the waiting area are leather with tears in them a
nd magazines are stacked in the corner. The place smells like nail polish remover and hair spray. A sign is taped to the counter.

  Hair Class Meet Here

  There’s nobody else joining our group. I’m surprised. There’s a lot of women out there who could learn to do their hair better, like Sara. Her hair is consistently in a messy bun. A short woman with dark skin and long, flowing golden-orange hair comes over.

  “Here for the braiding lesson?” she says, stretching her hand with a smile. A smile is universal. “I’m Patrice.”

  “Charlotte,” she says, “this is Maren.”

  “Your hair is awesome,” I say, reaching out to touch a strand. “Can you do the same to mine?”

  Patrice makes an approving sound. “You have good taste. I like you already. Good to have you both, come on back and we’ll get started and if you want hair like this, we’ll get you set up too.” We’re taken to the back, to a small room with a dirty window and a long table covered in a plastic cloth. There’s a line of mannequin busts with wigs on their heads. “Both of you ladies have exceptional hair. You’re perfect for this class.” Patrice handles the money first and offers us something to drink, which we both decline, and gets started. “Ladies, what is your objective for this class?”

  “To learn how to have killer hair,” Charlotte says.

  “I want to do my hair in a way that will get me phone numbers from guys.”

  “Why? You trying to get married?”

  “Aren’t we all?” I say.

  Patrice laughs. “This is going to be fun. Ever braided before?” she says, picking at the mannequin with the dark hair and blunt-cut bangs.

  Charlotte lifts her hand. “I have.”

  “What about you Green Eyes?”

  She’s looking at me and it registers that she used a nickname. Nicknames means someone’s fond of me. I smile. “No, I haven’t.”

  “You will by the time you’re done. Your hair will be the envy of everyone,” she continues. “Charlotte, since you have experience with the basic braid, I’ll start you on the fish tail.”

  At first, I don’t want to touch the fake hair, I mean who does? My hands feel sweaty and my heart starts to race. I reach my hand out and pat the mannequin’s head. It’s softer than I expect, like my own hair. There’s a dimension to braiding I click with. The over-under pattern keeps my hands busy and I divide the hair equally to make it the same. I try this style multiple times before moving to the next, the fish tail. Patrice demonstrates a Dutch braid on Charlotte’s hair.