by Leigh, Ember
A dimply grin crosses her face, and the shyness in her smile prompts a smile on my own face. If this had been Tamara, I would have found makeup weighing down her bags. The woman packed an arsenal large enough to paint the faces of a thousand Fashion Week models. I pay the employee, and a conveyor belt carries Kinsley’s bag into the bowels of the airport. We make our way through security and into the current of people traversing the concourse.
Nervousness rolls off her. It’s in the way she keeps fiddling with the gold chain around her neck and smoothing down the front of her gray slacks. She’s dressed like this is a business trip but is nervous like we’re going to pull off a heist. Once we reach the gate and pick some seats on the outer edge, I bring up the thing we’ve been avoiding all along.
“So. Let’s talk about…the rules, I guess?”
She nods vehemently. “Yes. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“I don’t want this to be weird or uncomfortable. My old room has two separate twin beds, so it’s not like we have to share a bed or anything. We’ll act like a couple, minimal PDA required. Maybe holding hands or a kiss on the cheek would be the extent of the affection. Does that sound doable?”
“Totally.” She flashes a smile, hazarding a glance at me. She doesn’t meet my gaze much, and I find myself staring at her and searching out a glimpse of those periwinkle eyes. “Do you want me to tell my parents we’re dating too?”
“No, we only want my family to know.” I lean back in my seat, crossing my ankle over my knee. “Do you think they’ll be suspicious if you’re staying at my house?”
She shrugs. “I told them I’m staying at a friend’s house.”
An announcement informs us priority boarding is beginning. That’s us. We shuffle into the line and take our seats in the middle of business class. Kinsley coos as she settles into her seat, straightening her legs out in front of her.
“I can actually extend my leg all the way.”
“Luxury, right?”
She inspects the area around the arm rests and discovers the USB ports. “Oh, lord. I can charge my phone, too? This is VIP.” She twists around, scanning the aisle. “Where are the warm towels and welcome champagne?”
“It’s just business class. They only wipe your ass like that in first class.”
She snickers. “Then I demand an upgrade.”
“You’re in business class for five minutes and already need more.” I tut. “I’ve ruined you.”
“You have.” She nudges me as an attendant files past. “Ask her if she’ll do the ass wiping.”
A laugh bursts out of me. I don’t think I ever said the words ass and wipe next to each other around Tamara. She probably would have puked into her hand. Something about Kinsley makes me a little looser than normal. Maybe it’s the grandma pants or the total lack of feminine pretension that she carries around with her. I can’t imagine kissing her, even though she has a great mouth, with perfectly plump lips.
The thought shudders through me. What would kissing her be like?
I look past her out the window, focusing on the tarmac below. Thoughts like those should be avoided. I’m 90 percent not attracted to Kinsley. Well, maybe 80 percent. I can still remember just how slight her shoulder felt when I touched it at the bar the other night. And yeah, I kinda got hard from that. At any rate, her ears stick out from her head too much. We could never be together.
The plane finishes loading, and when we’re up in the air, I feel the usual restlessness setting in. Kinsley is already buried in a book, and the way she’s furrowing her brow, I don’t want to interrupt her. My mom is a bookworm, and I know what happens when you annoy an avid reader.
I pull out my briefcase and open my laptop. This is the best way to channel my energy: puzzling over software code. I’ve been working on a new app for almost six months, something I started because Tamara said she had an in with a competing company that would pay me more, if only I could present a solid app in my portfolio.
But not just any company. WeGo, which is the newest Google competitor to emerge on the scene in the past year. The place is apparently as innovative as Apple, with plans to become as ubiquitous as Amazon. But getting in is hard. Like Mission Impossible-style hard, with Tom Cruise rappelling past the laser beams and all. You either need to know somebody or already be somebody.
And it turns out, I know someone.
Tamara.
Except I hate thinking that I’ve been working on this shit for six months only to lose my chance at this prestigious opportunity. Snagging this job would be a boon to my resume and probably make me a software wunderkind if I can finagle it. She knows the HR department there and had promised to get me in as a favor. But now that we’ve parted ways, I’m not counting on her being nice for the hell of it.
But I should finish the app anyway and use it to scout myself a better job. WeGo might be off the radar for now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find a better gig elsewhere. Because I’m sick of going nowhere in this company. I’m sick of being one of the top developers only to be retained in my department because I’m the most efficient. I want more money; I want more control. Right now, I’m a talented, speedy grunt worker, churning out code for the coupon empire I work for.
“I thought you were on vacation.”
Kinsley’s voice makes me jolt. I turn to her, pulling out the ear buds that weren’t playing anything. It’s a force of habit from big city life. “I am.”
“Then why are you coding?”
“This isn’t for work.” I roll my shoulders. I’d been hunching and tense—standard coding position. I pull off the black-rimmed glasses I use when I stare at my laptop for hours on end and rub my eyes.
“Is this what your leisure time looks like?”
I heft with a laugh and lean back in the seat. “Maybe?”
“Well, as your fake girlfriend, I really don’t think it’s healthy for you to be coding during our vacation,” she says in a mock-serious tone. “Especially as we’ve been fake planning this for months and months. You never fake pay attention to me anymore.”
The way she’s looking at me is so tongue-in-cheek serious that I can’t even keep a straight face. A laugh ripples out of me, but I squash it.
“Sorry, sweetie.” I close my laptop, turning toward her with a shit-eating grin. Faking this type of argument is probably the type of practice we need. She’s a smart cookie. Way smarter than I bargained for. Maybe Tamara didn’t get her quite right after all. “How can I fake make it up to you?”
She stumbles at that, blinking up at me with doe eyes that betray some level of innocence that blurs the line between pretend and reality.
But Kinsley recovers quickly. She slaps down a little booklet onto her tray table: 1001 Crossword Puzzles. “Help me do this puzzle.”
She couldn’t have known it, but this sudden crossword puzzle feels like a breath of fresh air. At the very least, it will kill an hour of an otherwise frustratingly long flight. And that is as good as gold.
I might have done something right after all in picking Kinsley to accompany me.
I just hope that proves to be the case when we land in Ohio.
Chapter 5
KINSLEY
We glide into the Cleveland airport with enough time to make it to Bayshore for dinner. The closer we get to Bayshore, the flatter the land. Familiar sights snag my attention—the fireworks billboard on Route 2 that still says “Have a bangin’ time”; the particular cluster of trees and marshland that signals the fact that we’re almost home.
It’s been two years since I’ve set foot in Bayshore, and all of it has to do with money. San Diego isn’t cheap, and though I make enough money at my job, all of it goes to just keeping afloat. A better car, a replacement washer, even an unexpected mole removal that set me back about five hundred dollars. If that isn’t the mark of adulthood, I don’t know what is. Washers and mole removals. I really thought adult life would be more exciting than this.
As it is, this spur-o
f-the-moment trip to Bayshore is the most exciting thing that’s happened in a long time. Yes, going back to my hometown is the travel highlight of my mid-twenties. Though I have to admit having Connor at my side is a type of fantasy fulfillment I never saw coming. The sight of him in my periphery alone is enough to make me internally fangirl.
I don’t know what it is about him. Yes, he’s quick witted and handsome and roughly six foot perfect. But I think what keeps me in constant melt mode is the fact that I used to pine for him so hard back in high school. Ever since he came into my sixth period geometry class to interrupt the teacher with a trifold presentation about drunk driving, I’ve been a hopeless victim of his blond-hunk good looks. Even back then, he had some sort of golden surf-boy quality that has only been further polished by his time on the west coast.
But more than that, the feud between our parents lent him an enigmatic untouchability. Like he, along with all the rest of his brothers, was some type of exotic jungle fruit which nobody was really sure was poisonous. My sisters didn’t share the same fascination, so I always kept it to myself. I made sure my squiggly renditions of Connor’s name stayed in the margins of my school notebooks only.
And now that we’re adults, I’m sure everyone will be fine with the fact that we’re showing up together. So much time has gone by. Who even cares anymore? It’s something I repeat to myself as Connor merges onto the offramp leading into Bayshore. The words turn into a mantra as we cruise into town and head for his parents’ house.
Once we’re parked in the lakeside neighborhood, staring at the backs of unfamiliar SUV’s and a brand-new VW, panic cinches my chest.
“Your parents aren’t going to, like…care that I’m here, right?” I ask. This whole idea seemed so much easier and non-problematic when we were two thousand miles west. When staying at his parent’s house in Bayshore was still a concept.
He sends me a flat look. “They’ll be fine. We’re all adults.”
True. We’re all adults. But you can’t really count on adulthood for much. Aside from mole removals and new washers, we’re all just barely mature children. I want to tell Connor this—remember how our parents have hated each other for three decades? They’re technically adults too—but he’s pushing out of the car. He comes around toward the stone path as the front door swings open.
His mother Annette is there, a family-portrait-worthy smile on her face.
I shut the passenger door, facing the front porch. A submissive smile plastered on my own face. The one that says, Hi, I’m no trouble at all. Will you let me in the house?
Annette’s gaze moves past Connor and lands on me. Her smile evaporates, like water on summer asphalt.
No trace of it anywhere. Fucking gone.
I can only stare as Connor approaches her and wraps her in a hug. She hugs him back, and I step forward carefully, as one would around a pregnant cat. I’m not here to cause problems. I’m here to be Connor’s girlfriend for the next two weeks. No drama, please.
Connor sweeps his arm toward me. He’s talking, but I can’t hear over my sudden and crippling anxiety. His mother’s razor gaze slices over me.
“Kinley and I have been together for a while,” Connor is saying as I step up to him. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me into him.
“Kinsley,” Annette says, less like a greeting and more like a test. “Cabana.”
“That’s me.” I offer another one of those ultra-sugary smiles, and my arm slingshots around Connor’s waist. He is my anchor in this terrifying maternal sea, and I’m not letting go. “Great to see you again. It’s been a long time.”
And it has. I ran into her in the Daily Shop a few times during my teens; I saw her at school functions, notably the senior musical presentation of Annie, in which Connor acted as President Roosevelt. And yes, I only went to the musical to see Connor.
She inhales deeply, her eyes fluttering slightly, as if she’s drawing a cleansing breath from the bowels of the earth. A tight grin graces her narrow face.
“Time for dinner,” she says, in the pinched tone which only a super pissed-off mom can manage.
Once Annette stomps inside the house, I turn to Connor and fist his button-down at the front of his chest. “What have you gotten me into?” I hiss.
“It’s fine,” he reassures me, the heat of his arm still securely draped over my shoulders. God, it feels good. It really does. Even though I’m slightly worried I’ll be poached inside the Daly household like a trophy animal. Something to send home to my parents; the ultimate victory. Ha ha! We’ve got your daughter! Now, make them break up, or she’s dead!
“That didn’t feel fine,” I whisper as we step into the house. It’s cozy and updated, with white trim, wood floors, and driftwood-style frames around pictures of lakes. I swear, that’s some sort of obligation in my hometown—every inhabitant of Bayshore must display at least three pictures showcasing #lakelife, or they’ll be forced out of the town.
“Do you need to drop off your bags, honey?” Annette’s voice drifts from further inside the house. “Connor,” she adds, in case I thought that honey was directed at me. Connor drops his arm from around my shoulders, pauses, then grabs my hand. He gives me a deeply meaningful look. The type of look that makes my ovaries clench from needing to bear his children.
“We’re going to meet my dad now.” His voice has the tone of an executioner. Inevitably fatal.
“Okay,” I say, but before I can get my bearings, Connor is leading me deeper into the house, and then bam, we’re facing the entire Daly clan. Annette flits between kitchen and dining room, while the big oak table is surrounded by the guys. All of them. Starting with the burly and formidable Mr. Daly, and Connor’s four brothers.
Holy hell, I forgot what it was like to be around the Daly boys. The Daly men. Because whatever I remember from high school is way, way outdated now. These guys have matured and in the best way possible. But Connor still blows the rest of them away. They might be a family of hotties, but Connor is the Babraham Lincoln to rule them all.
The conversation quickly dies down, and all eyes are on us. Mr. Daly clears his throat.
“Hey, fam,” Connor says, the start of a shit-eating grin on his face. “Long time no see. I brought my girlfriend. You guys remember Kinsley Cabana?”
“Jesus Christ.” Mr. Daly massages his forehead for a moment, his eyes closing. His jaw works back and forth. He’s salt and pepper at the temples, but his dark brown hair is still as vibrant as his sons’. All of them except Connor, that is.
Grayson, the second eldest, stands suddenly, waving us toward the table. “Connor, don’t keep her over there like a recluse. Sit down. Let’s eat.”
“I think I remember you,” Dom offers, squinting at me as if placing me in a police lineup. “You graduated in Connor’s class.” Connor goes around the table to hug his younger brothers Weston and Maverick, but that’s the extent of it.
“A year after him,” I correct. Connor leads me closer to the table, where two empty chairs are wedged between Weston and Annette. They were expecting him to bring a girlfriend. Connor just failed to mention that it would be me. My fingers have turned to stone between Connor’s, and I’m not sure he’ll be able to escape my grip short of using a lever. The same kind one might use to break into a car.
I knew our parents had a beef, but I didn’t think it would be this bad. As I grimace-smile at everyone around me, murmuring my greeting while melting into the wooden dining room chair, I try to perform a thought experiment. What if I showed up with Connor to my parents’ house? Would they act like this? Would my father swear to the lord above in lieu of a greeting?
I don’t get far in my scientific analysis, because Annette is slamming down dishes onto the table. I can’t help but feel as if the angry breeze whooshing over the table is meant for me. Grayson tilts his head, jerking his chin toward Connor.
“Did you have a bunch of layovers or something?”
Connor lets out a terse sigh. “No, but the earlier f
lights were booked. We couldn’t go until later.”
“Hm.” Grayson leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Connor’s grip on my hand tightens, and I get the feeling I’ve missed some sort of brotherly undertext.
“Don’t worry, we flew business,” Connor spits. Yes, there is definitely some brotherly undertext here.
“You live out west with Connor?” Dom leans forward, his authoritarian voice almost sounding as if it’s coming from their father. Dom’s neatly slicked walnut tresses distract me for a moment. He looks like a very stern Ken doll.
“Yes,” I say, glancing around the table. This is an interrogation I wasn’t entirely prepared for, because I’m not sure where the undercurrents are leading. Most of the brothers are looking at me, or between me and Connor. Only their parents are avoiding our gaze as if they’re in that movie with Sandra Bullock and the blindfolds. Like if they look at me, they’ll disintegrate into a weird zombie. “We actually work for the same company. That’s how we…reconnected.”
Not a lie, but it leaves plenty of room open for interpretation. Because that’s what we’re supposed to be doing here. Fooling his family into thinking we’re not lifelong acquaintances who never exchanged words until last week.
“Oh, right,” Dom says, a strange smile quirking his face. “What is it again? Some sort of national discount mailer…?”
Connor’s gaze goes up to the ceiling, and I can feel his thigh go rock hard beneath our clasped hands. “It’s E-bid. You remember, the nation’s largest e-commerce marketplace?”
“Right.” Dom adjusts his silverware for a moment, then snaps his gaze up to me. “Are you in the same department? Code monkeys or something?”
I look between Dom and Connor, not entirely sure what’s going on here. Annette has bristled at my side, and I feel as if the nearby window is going to crack from pent-up pressure.
“Code poets, you mean,” Connor corrects with a tight grin. “And no. She’s in HR.”
“I could never do what Connor does,” I add quickly, sensing the need for someone to speak up for him. Clearly his brothers have some sort of holier-than-thou battle going on. Annette has started a serving bowl around the table—mixed greens. Ranch dressing sits on the table, which is the only option that matters. “They really test the developers at E-bid. The company has been expanding so much, and the challenges have been really…” My voice withers as Mr. Daly mutters something to Dom, and I get the sense it’s about me. “Challenging.”
