by Julia Kent
I can’t answer until I find my heart again. It’s wandered off into 2009 somewhere. Every inch of skin, however, is firmly in the present.
“I prefer to see clearly,” I announce in that haughty tone again, the one I use whenever I’m covering for the fact that I am only pretending to be a functional adult who knows what the hell she is doing with her emotions.
“Don’t we all?” he asks in a tone that says there’s more to that statement.
“Yes,” I say slowly, unable to look away. “Yes, I think we do.”
I didn’t know you could live for nine thousand years and not blink.
Somehow, that actually happens to me, standing in front of my new desk on my first day as Will Lotham’s contract employee.
And then his phone rings.
Spell broken.
In a rush to answer it, he grabs the phone out of his pocket, losing his grip. For a former quarterback, he’s remarkably clumsy as it flips and flops in his hands, falling in one big arc–
Straight into my cleavage.
Quarterbacks have a physical precision that moves beyond exceptional eye-hand coordination and well into the realm of sheer magic. It’s more than alchemy. More than discipline and practice. It takes muscle memory and endurance and raises them a level–one that Will demonstrates as he stops his hand, fingertips mere millimeters from diving between my breasts to grab his phone.
Magic, though, bleeds.
You cannot conjure the divine and ask it to do a simple task. Once unleashed, it seeks a challenge. It does not respect boundaries. Spells are notorious for breaking the laws of physics. Why would a power source stay within the confines of lines drawn by others who fear a world they cannot see or understand?
Will’s body is pure magic. Reflexes like that don’t come from following rules.
They come from playing with fire.
The cold metal case with a glass face makes the soft, warm valley of my boobs feel impersonal, like a speculum in the wrong place. A simple error, born of a fumble.
No big deal, right?
His eyes are glued to my chest, the phone vibrating between my girls in an insanely, embarrassingly pleasurable hum, his jacket lapels moving up and down, wide and narrow as he breathes, so close to me that I feel his warmth. With a steady hand I reach into my shirt, pull out his phone, and start laughing.
Hard.
Everything is a blur at normal distance, but it comes into sharper focus when I look at him this close. I’m nearsighted. You have to be an inch or two from my face before I can see all your edges, all the lines that separate you from the rest of the world. Objects blur until the perfect range makes them distinct.
That range is different for everyone.
But we all have a focal point for clarity.
Finding yours is a life journey.
“Nice catch,” Will says as I hand him his now-warm phone. It stops ringing. Is it my imagination or does his hand linger for a few seconds longer than is socially polite?
“That is as athletic as I get. Good to see them finally do something constructive,” I say, looking down at my breasts. “They’ve been nothing but a source of agony for most of my life.”
“Agony? I think you mean pleasure.”
His phone rings again.
Literally saved by the bell.
“Conference call,” he whispers, turning his back to me, a move designed to help him keep his conversation private but that serves better as a way for me to watch his ass without being observed.
I have been working with Will Lotham for a grand total of fifteen minutes and all I can think about is his mouth and his ass.
I am doomed.
I am so doomed.
When someone is this doomed, there is only one sane response.
I leave.
Packing up my purse, phone, and keys, I wave to Will as he talks on his boob-warmed phone. I get a flicker of acknowledgment from him that reminds me of the high school hallway.
Enough to say Hey, I know you.
But not enough to say Hey, you’re important.
8
The drive to 29 Maplecure Street takes exactly three minutes. I don’t even have time to decompress from that conversation with Will before I’m smacked in the face with more Will. This isn’t his childhood home. That address I’ve memorized and will know until the day I die.
I’ll be on my deathbed, overtaken by dementia, and while I won’t know the name of the current president, by God, I’ll know the exact time on Tuesday afternoons that Will had to mow the front lawn when they lived on Concordian Road and I got Mom to drive me past his house on the way to the mall. (2:30 p.m., before his lacrosse practice).
I pull up to 29 Maplecure Street and look at the house through new eyes.
Without a porn crew bustling about, it’s got a different feel.
Imposing. Manicured. Polished and sophisticated, this is the home of someone significant. This is a showplace, designed to send signals. Financial signals.
Power signals.
Most people buy a home because it’s what they can afford, or for a specific school district or neighborhood. Most people settle into an environment out of a desire for comfort. We use adjectives and phrases that actually contain the word home to describe emotions:
* * *
Homey
Make yourself at home
It’s like coming home
Home is where the heart is
* * *
But houses like 29 Maplecure Street aren’t about comfort.
They’re about prestige.
Homes talk. They might not be able to speak directly, but if you’re fluent in Space like I am, you can pick up what they’re putting down. When I came here last week for the fluffer job, I thought I was staging a television show set. I wasn’t looking at the house through the eyes of a space professional working on selling this place.
Now I am.
I grin.
Will Lotham is going to give up that one percent so, so soon.
At the thought of Will, my body tingles, heat pouring into my arms, legs, chest at the instant memory recall programmed into me. See, this is the problem with Will being back in my world: I’ve spent ten years chasing him out of my head.
I evicted him.
Turns out he’s been squatting in my heart.
Who knew?
Okay, okay–Perky and Fiona knew. But that’s because they’re jerks who think they know me better than I know myself.
But they are wrong—
Shoot.
They’re right.
Will’s parents' house, on careful examination, is more than a showplace. Quiet beige dominates the stonework, but it’s done with such fine taste and superb craftsmanship that it commands attention. Together, the architectural designer and the mason elevated the simplest scheme to an artisanal visual feast, with the stonework itself at the center. If you’ve ever been caught off guard by beauty, you know what I mean. I could look at the walls, the steps, the intersection of paths for hours and never be bored.
And that’s just the beginning.
When I arrived here last week for the fluffer job, I was in a different head space. Head space matters. We think of reality as one monolithic state, but it’s actually a prism. Twist in another direction by a millimeter and the world you thought you knew disappears, replaced by a charmingly different–yet disturbingly familiar–state.
The Mallory who walked up this stone path last week is one twist away from the Mallory I am now.
I like the now better.
Combining an appealing, comfortable feel with an eye for power display is tough to manage. The Lothams have done it. Will said his mother managed interior design for the company, and while her own ideas at the office made me cringe, as I punch the key code into the lock and open the front door, I have to retract my doubts. She obviously hired the best to do this house.
It is, simply put, damn near perfect.
Gone is the garish red otto
man. Gone is the strange sofa. In their place, I see neutrals in tones that someone has assembled with a delicacy that is intriguing. Meant to blend in, the layers are all different shades and textures, with occasional soft blues and greens to bring the outside in. The New Zealand wool carpet isn’t there just for show. It’s meant for bare feet to walk on, for the indulgence of treating your sore tootsies after a long day, for allowing everyday pleasure to be factored into design.
Isn’t that supposed to be the point?
Yet only the best design does that, and few people look for it.
Except me.
And, apparently, whoever designed this home.
I said damn near perfect, mind you. The energy is still off, the unused, stagnant spaces making it pool into frustrated ponds of lifeless potential. This house was not meant to be even partly empty. Energy matters. Just like people.
Just like Will.
I move down the hall to the kitchen on the right, and stop dead in my tracks.
There, on the counter, are three items.
A jar of marshmallow Fluff.
A jar of creamy peanut butter.
A loaf of bread.
A note, with an envelope embossed with the initials WJL (William Joshua Lotham, my mind recites, pulling up data I shouldn’t be able to retrieve so quickly but do), is propped against the Fluff.
Ha.
Ha.
With an eagerness I don’t want to admit, I open the envelope and run my fingertips along the slanted handwriting. In high school, Will wanted to be an architect. His penmanship has a draftsman’s quality to it, almost font-like in its squared uniformity.
In case you have a sudden craving.
W
There’s a house brochure on the honed marble counter behind me, printed on heavy paper with gorgeous, full-color photos. It makes a useful fan. I wave it in front of my face, staring up at the beamed ceiling, willing my pulse to re-center itself where it belongs, at my throat.
And not between my legs.
Bright, natural light bounces off the whitewashed crossbeams in the kitchen, the big, antique iron and glass lanterns over the center island creating an interesting focal point that grounds me. Inhaling deeply, I smell clary sage and cinnamon, which tells me more than I learned about this house during my brief time as an accidental porn-set fluffer.
Will’s mother, or her interior designer, was going for the whole environment.
For the next hour, I consider relationships–of objects, not humans. People think that the stuff is what matters, and they’re right.
But only half right.
It’s also about the space. The relationship between objects, some complementary, some contradictory. How they exist relative to each other, and how we move between and around them. How we find our place in the world is dictated by arrangements.
Arrangements of items, people, and time.
I want my one percent, I text him, attaching pictures when I’m done.
Nice! he texts back.
Of course it is!
When it sells, he replies.
Get your checkbook ready, buddy, because this place will be under contract in a week, I text back, thumbs flying so fast, doubt can't creep in.
If this place is under contract in a week at full price, I’ll up that commission to one point two five and throw in a case of Fluff.
Deal! But you can keep the Fluff.
No deal. You have to take the Fluff or else.
Or else what?
No deal.
You’re forcing me to accept an entire case of Fluff because of a double entendre?
Yes.
That moves the joke out of the funny category into the stupid category. Why are you making me?
Because I already bought the case and have no desire to be stuck with it.
Too bad. You'll have to find something to do with all that Fluff. Think of it as a timesaver.
Timesaver?
Now you know what your lunches are for the next year.
I hate fluffernutter sandwiches.
Really? So do I. I thought I was the only kid in Massachusetts who didn’t like them, I text back.
Admitting you hate fluffernutter sandwiches when you live in New England is like saying you’re a Yankees fan.
You’re entitled to your opinion as long as you never, ever express it.
Yet another thing we have in common, Mal.
What else do we have in common?
We both want to sell my parents’ house.
Yes. But no Fluff for me.
Then the entire deal is off.
You can’t do that! We have a contract.
You want that extra .25 percent? Take the Fluff.
I’ll donate it to a food bank. If they'll take it.
That’s fine.
My phone rings and I jump. Unknown, the caller ID says, but it's a local number, and I know it’s Will.
“Fluffers Anonymous,” I answer without thinking.
“I'm looking for an anonymous fluffer,” he says. I close my eyes and conjure him in the office, jacket off, the tuft of chest hair at the V of his open shirt, the corded muscle of his forearms.
“Then you’ve come to the right place. How can I help you?”
“I need a professional fluffer to help me take care of a problem,” he says, voice dropping at the end.
“How big is the problem?”
“Twelve.”
I gulp. “Twelve, uh, what?” Inches?
“You really don’t like fluffernutters?” he asks, his voice smooth and inviting. I’m not expecting the question, so my mind goes blank.
“Uh.” I open the jar of Fluff and search the drawers for a spoon. “I’m really not a fan.”
Twelve inches? I want to ask. What did he mean by twelve?
“I’ve got a case of the stuff, twelve jars,” he says as I find a spoon and use it to dig into the creamy marshmallow goodness. “And besides," he says slowly, sensually, his voice taking on new character. “If you don’t like fluffernutters, why are you licking that spoon like it’s your last meal?”
I freeze. “Licking what? I’m not licking anything.” My tongue peeks out to catch a smear of fluff at the corner of my mouth.
“You are definitely licking something, Mallory. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?”
“How would you–wait a minute!” I look up and stare directly at a glass eye shining from a corner of the ceiling. Bingo!
Camera.
“You have cameras in here?” I put the spoon down and yank at the hem of my shirt, as if that alone will make my muffin top disappear.
“Yes. They’re new. I was calling to let you know, because I realized we hadn’t warned you. It was part of how we figured out the porn situation.”
“You said a neighbor told you!”
“She did. Then we checked the surveillance cameras and confirmed it.”
“You have cameras inside the house? Are they in the bathrooms? The bedrooms?”
“What? No. That’s illegal. We only installed them in the living room and the kitchen, and can legally turn them on to monitor under really specific conditions. The house is only being rented to corporations for daytime business activities.”
“Daytime what?”
“Focus group testing. Kitchen demonstrations. Small corporate training retreats. Not overnight, not vacationers. So the privacy element is a little different. If that idiot Spatula had read the rental contract, he'd have known,” he informs me, his voice a little too soothing, like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but before he took a bite.
“What if I had been undressing?”
“Then I would have been extra glad I’d installed them,” he says with a short sigh at the end, voice husky.
“What if I—” I halt. Back up. Those words he just said... Is–is Will Lotham flirting with me?
He laughs. “Besides, why would you undress in a client’s living room?” He pauses. “Unless you really are a porn
actress?”
I choke.
“What? No!” I cough out. “What if I’d needed to adjust the girls?”
“The girls?”
“You know.” If he’s watching, might as well. I reach in with my non-Fluff hand and adjust my headlights, if you know what I mean.
He goes dead silent.
“That’s a thing?”
“What’s a thing?”
“Adjusting–women reach inside their bra cups and do that?”
“Of course we do! Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend? Or a live-in lover?”
“Lover? Who uses the word lover? That’s like calling pants slacks. And yes, I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. No live-ins.”
“Wife?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“No. Look, Mallory, I’ve had plenty of girlfriends and none of them are secret girl adjusters.”
“That makes me sound like a guard in a women’s prison.”
He laughs again, then makes a sound of consideration. “It makes sense, when I think about it.”
OMIGOD WILL LOTHAM IS THINKING ABOUT MY GIRLS.
“Guys adjust, too,” Will adds, his voice casual.
“Guys adjust... what? Unless you magically sprouted moobs in the half hour since I last saw you, Will, you have nothing of importance to adjust.”
“You know.” He clears his throat meaningfully.
“Oh! Those!” I gasp.
“Last time I checked, I still had those. No girlfriend or lover has stamped ‘property of’ just yet.” Pause. A strange breath. “Yep. Still here. Just checked.”
“You... touched your... those while talking to me?” I squeak.
“Seems fair. You touched your breasts. Now we’re even.” His voice sounds like every cranberry cosmo I’ve had in a bar, all while waiting for transformation in the form of That Guy. You know. The guy who miraculously picks me out of a crowd, one out of a million, and tells me I’m the answer to all his questions.
That Guy.
Will sure sounds like That Guy, if That Guy ever actually existed. But he doesn’t, because he’s a fantasy I’ve conjured in my starved imagination.
But I’m not imagining it. He really said that.
Am I having phone sex with Will Lotham and I don’t even realize it?
