by Julia Kent
I chug the coffee, then turn to my wine.
“We’re just so glad you don’t think poorly of Mallory after that whole incident at your house.” Mom’s eyes go shifty. “You know. The porn,” she whispers. Her voice goes back to normal. “Because the last thing my Mallory would ever do is have sex before marriage!”
Wine sprays in an admirable arc. Will looks down at himself, my mouthful all over his front.
“Jesus!” I shout.
“You’re close. You drew blood earlier. Now it's wine. Just get some nails, thorns, and two thick beams and let’s recreate that scene from the Bible,” he quips as he blots himself with his napkin and stands. His eyes, amused as hell but full of a pained confusion that makes my heart squeeze, dart from Mom to Dad to me.
“This was nice, Mallory. Glad to get those work details hammered out. I’ve got a call in fifteen minutes with some investors from China, so if you’ll all excuse me,” Will says with a polished, smooth tone that has a finality to it. The lie comes out easily, a social nicety that gets a pass. It's a tone you take when you're in command.
Or when you're just done.
A nod to Mom and Dad each, and Will walks away. I see him stop at the counter and take out his credit card, gesturing in our direction. Then he's gone.
Taking my guts with him.
“That was abrupt,” Mom says, taking in the half-empty dessert plates, my coffee, Will’s half-finished wine glass, and his unfolded napkin like a little white mountain on the tabletop. Dad picks up the wine bottle and pours the rest of the bottle into his glass. He catches the server's eye and gestures for the check, but she shakes her head and smiles, pointing to the door that Will just went through.
“He has a lot of ground to cover. With the Chinese investors, I mean,” I grind out, grabbing my purse and turning toward the door.
“We didn’t end your date, did we?” Mom asks, alarmed, as I walk in front of her and Dad, assuming they’re on my heels.
“It was just a business meeting.”
“Oh.”
We get outside and I realize I’m parked back near Bailargo.
“Sharon, you’re driving,” Dad declares, handing her the keys. They’re a well-oiled machine, aren’t they?
I feel like a rusted-out Yugo left at a nuclear accident site for the last twenty-eight years.
Hugs all around and Mom and Dad go in the opposite direction of me, their hands seeking each other reflexively, fingers threading. When two people have been together for decades, is that how it works? Their bodies just know what to do, the muscle memory so wired for connection?
I sigh, my throat tightening as I watch them fade into the darkness.
I want that.
The parking lot at Bailargo is down to two cars, mine and Philippe’s. I know it’s his because he comes out of the building, locks the front door with a keypad code, and turns around, hands on hips, staring at me.
“You!”
“Just Mallory!” I call back, a bit cheeky.
“You like the DANCE?” he asks, walking toward me, his car three spots away from mine.
“I do.” A little embarrassed, but mostly just tired, I give him an apologetic look. “Sorry for disappearing like that. Long, weird night.”
“You didn’t disappear, Just Mallory. You were like a rocket.” He makes a hand gesture for emphasis, one hand clapping against the other and skyrocketing to the moon.
“Thanks for the visual.”
“Listen,” he says. “David is a jerk. Call corporate tomorrow and complain about him, okay?”
“Sure.”
“You and your man were good dancers.”
“My what?”
“Your man. His eyes. His love for you shows in his eyes.”
“He’s not my man,” I insist as Philippe unlocks his car, climbs in, lowers the window, and turns on the engine. Pulling forward, he’s facing me in his driver’s seat. I bend down to peer in the open window. As I exhale, I smell coffee and wine, sugar and unfulfilled expectations on my breath. I'm safe to drive home because I sprayed my wine all over Will.
I'm dangerous to drive home because I'll wallow in self-pity.
Philippe laughs at me. “He is absolutely your man.”
“No, he's not.” Stepping back, I take him in, the desolate lot, the glare of streetlights on faded asphalt. It's too bright, too dark, too empty, too full.
Too everything.
Eyebrows up, he points at me and simply says, “Not yet.”
14
“It looks like my parents’ house might be going under contract today,” Will announces as I stand in the coffee room on Monday morning, making an Americano. Free coffee at work? Are you kidding?
I’m totally taking advantage. It’s this or go to Perky’s coffee shop, and I’m avoiding her right now.
I spent all morning trying to figure out what to say to him after my mom and dad and the Bailargo mess, but he just made is super easy.
“SQUEEEEE!!!” I scream.
He winces. “You need to warn people about that air raid drill that lives in your throat, Mallory.”
“Sorry. It’s just–that’s AMAZING!” I grab him and hug him as I jump up and down. His laugh feels like his chest is jumping, too. As his belt buckle grazes the space beneath my navel I pause, remembering the last time we were so close.
Funny. His hands are resting in the exact positions for tango. The dance where you make love standing up, fully clothed. He keeps his hands there, the smile between us turning intense.
“Whatever you did, it was magic,” he tells me.
“Not magic. Energy.”
“Same thing. Call it whatever you want, it worked. And now you get your commission.”
“How much did it sell for?”
“Two point three.”
“Asking price?”
“Yes.”
“Then I make...” I do the math. Good thing his hands are on me, because I nearly fall over.
“You’re good at this.”
Being in his arms? Yes. If there's a gold medal for enjoying being in Will Lotham's arms, get me on the Olympic team. Stat.
“Have you thought about staging homes for a living?”
“No, Will. I was going back to porn.”
“Better benefits?”
“Free condoms and coconut oil. All the dog toys I can sterilize after a shoot. Can’t get much better fringe benefits than that.” My eyes cut to the right, and down. He’s still holding my waist. We’re breathing in each other’s warm air. One step closer and–
He takes it.
“I can think of lots of benefits I can offer you, Mal. Stay.”
His breath warms my nose. I look up, my hands moving along the fine, hard lines of his arms, over the business shirt he’s wearing, the cotton weave like sandpaper and silk all at the same time. I close my eyes, his breath so close, I can taste his morning coffee, and then we lean into each other and–
“Anyone here?”
Is that my mother? AGAIN?
“Mallory?”
With my dad?
“Do they have some kind of radar for moments like this?” Will mumbles as he pulls away.
Moments like this? So I wasn’t imagining Friday night was a date? That Will is interested in me? Because there’s no imagining this.
And there’s no imagining the horror of my mother’s bangle bracelets jingling the death march of a kiss as she waves at us.
“We thought we’d stop by and see Mallory’s office!” Mom chirps as Will shakes Dad’s hand, then leans against his desk.
And cracks his knuckles.
“How’s that China deal?” Dad asks Will. “The one you left dinner for on Friday?”
“Fine. Big real estate acquisition company buying up some of our West Coast properties.” Will’s voice is crisp and flat at the same time.
Dad lets out a conspirator’s whistle. “Sounds like a solid business deal.”
“Speaking of which,” Will says,
smiling at me with pride. “Your timing couldn’t be more perfect.”
“What?” I croak.
“Mallory just clinched another deal. Helped get my parents’ house under contract at full price. Took her less than a week. That house sat on the market for five months. It took her extraordinary eye to make someone see how special it really was.”
He’s talking to my parents, but he’s looking at me.
Will's phone rings. He grabs it. “Tony! I was just talking about the Maplecure house. What’s that? Great!”
Dad beams at me. “Congratulations, Mallory! I was skeptical when you took this little job, but you turned it into a gem. Maybe Will can find a more permanent position for you?”
In bed, I think to myself.
Doesn’t your mind go to silly Chinese-fortune-cookie jokes like that when you’re under stress?
Or just, you know, want someone so much that every word out of everyone’s mouth is a double entendre, even your own father’s?
No? Just me?
Will moves away from us, his voice a string of business jargon that makes it clear he’s just getting started.
“I, uh–we need to get back to–”
The kiss, I think.
“WORK!” I shout over my own mind, as if I can drown it out. Pfft.
It floats.
“You don’t have to be so adamant about it, dear,” Mom says, smoothing a spiral lock of hair off my face.
Dad leans in and asks, “How much you making?”
“One point two five percent.”
His whistle is appreciative. Nice to hear it directed at my accomplishments for once.
“No worries about living in our basement with that kind of deal,” he says, beaming. “Good for you, kid. Beats that porn gig you tried.”
“Dad!”
“Roy!”
“Am I wrong?” He snorts, then looks at Mom. “Let’s get outta here. Looks like they’re busy.”
No kidding.
They start toward the door and I walk along.
“So much for lunch,” Mom sighs.
“You were going to invite me out for lunch?”
Mom’s eyes flit back to Will.
“Mommmmm,” I groan. “Dad, you too? Quit trying to make Will happen. It’s not happening.”
Especially when you keep interrupting us.
“We’re just, you know...”
“Interfering meddlers?”
“Concerned parents.”
Same thing.
“Got it,” Dad says as he hugs me. “No lunch. No more dropping in on you two. You can just acquire cats and live alone with your Netflix and your bananas dipped in Nutella.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
Mom gives me a fast hug as Dad drags her away, muttering “One point two five, huh?” as they leave.
I return to my desk, heart racing, my skin ready to pack up and move to Sweden and practice hygge with cozy, oversized sweaters and big mugs of elderberry tea in lopsided stoneware. Can I just hide from the world right now?
Or at least, from my parents?
“They’re really intrusive, aren’t they?” Will asks from behind me, making me squeak with surprise.
“Yes.”
“Downside of living at home.”
“I don’t live at home. I have my own apartment.” Want to see it? I think to myself.
His eyes reflect that thought right back at me.
But his words don’t.
“I mean living in our hometown.”
I bristle. Here we go. “Nothing wrong with staying in a place I love.”
“Do you? Really?”
The way he adds that really makes me turn and face him, taking a deep breath to prepare myself.
“Love this place? Of course. How can you not love a place that has a town festival called the Dance and Dairy? I can’t wait for Saturday! Hesserman's Dairy will be there with the ice cream VW bus!”
He looks at his phone, then slides it into his front pants pocket. “Are you going to the reunion?”
All this air is trapped in my lungs, ready to form into words that eviscerate him, and he asks me that?
“What?”
“The high school reunion. Class of 2009, Harmony Hills, the whole bit. Just got a reminder text about it. It’s Saturday, in fact. You going?”
“I–I don’t think so. I have to help with the Habitat for Humanity tent at the D&D.”
“D&D? You play that?”
“What? No. Not Dungeons & Dragons. Dance and Dairy. You know — the summer festival?”
“That dinky little thing?”
“It’s fun!” I protest. “And I wouldn’t want to miss the fried-pickle ice cream sundae. This is my one chance for the whole year.”
Surprise crosses his face, eyes narrowing as he steps closer to me, into resume-the-kiss territory.
“That must be some sundae.”
“No kidding. The combo of their creamy ice cream–”
He interrupts, one eyebrow arched. “I don’t think this is about the festival.”
“You don’t?” I huff. “You’ve obviously never experienced the culinary orgasm of a fried pickle drenched in caramel and dark chocolate fudge.”
His pupils dilate when I say orgasm. As Will opens his mouth, I wonder if that kiss is still in play.
Or maybe I need to make the next move.
And then he says:
“You’re afraid to be seen at the reunion. For people to question your choices.”
“What choices?”
“Staying. It’s weird, Mallory. You never left. Were you afraid?”
“Afraid of what?”
“Being a small fish in a big pond. Not being able to cut it in corporate life.”
“You're making some pretty big assumptions about me based on knowing only one variable!”
“Sometimes the simplest explanation is the answer.”
“It’s not about fear. It’s not like there’s something wrong with me. Why does the fact that I make choices that don’t conform to yours mean that I’m the deviant?”
Intensity level notched up by a few increments, the swiftly moving conversation has me charged.
Or maybe it's the almost kiss.
All I get is a steady gaze in response. Is he actually listening? Of all the reactions I’d expected from Will, this is the one I never anticipated.
“Explain.”
“I don’t have to explain any part of who I am to you, Will.”
“No. You don’t have to. But I want you to.”
“Because you’re going to find a way to tell me I’m wrong?”
“Because this is the most authentic conversation I’ve had with anyone since...” One corner of his mouth goes up in a wry smile that shows emotion. “Since that time our senior year.”
My mind goes blank. I thought we were closing the gap for a kiss. Not dissecting my choices and certainly not… this. Will goes from shallow to infinite depth in seconds, an intellectual and emotional whiplash I find myself enjoying, but it’s so strange.
Strange to find someone else who does it. That kind of pivoting comes naturally to me. I’ve had to tamp it down with family and friends.
But no tamping needed here.
“You had an authentic conversation with someone in twelfth grade, and that’s your benchmark? And you’ve gone an entire decade since without authenticity?” I challenge him, the words out before I can stop them.
“I had that conversation with you, Mallory.”
My mind buzzes as memory races to catch up to what he’s saying. “Me… what?”
“You don’t remember.” He’s perplexed.
More emotion than I have any right to evoke in him comes out in a long sigh, one weighed down by something inside him I can’t even begin to understand.
“I don’t,” I confess. For the longest time, I stored every single interaction with Will Lotham in a hard drive in my head and heart, but time faded some of those memories slowly, like the
tides rushing in and out, steady and strong, wearing away at every inch of me until all that was left were smooth fragments of shells.
“Last day of finals senior year,” he starts. A sigh lingers in the air between us as my heart stops. “You had bangs back then.” He looks at me and smiles. “They were auburn, like a shelf across the top of your eyebrows. And you were at your car.”
My emotional foot hits the brake pedal in my memory bank as the conversation he’s describing comes into full, blooming relief in my mind.
“When we went outside? To get textbooks out of our cars for the government final?” Plaintive and soft, he’s practically pleading with me to remember, as if the tables are turned and we’re in high school but he is trying to impress me.
I remember thinking it was a strange coincidence, that Will left his book in his car, too, and walked down the long vocational education wing with me, his voice so serious, his conversation almost existential.
“Yeah. When your friends decorated your car.”
“The ‘Most Likely to Become a Porn Star’ glitter paint on my windshield was the most authentic conversation in your life?” I goggle.
A sound of mocking comes out of him, self-deprecating and sheepish. He looks at his palms. “That magenta glitter crap was all over my hands for days. My friends and parents gave me so much shit for it.” He looks at me. “Not that, though,” he says, suddenly terse. “The rest.”
And then I know.
I know.
I know why he’s bringing that moment from ten years ago into our now.
“You asked me about Brown.”
His eyes light up. “Yes.”
“And why I’d reject Harvard for that.” I say the words verbatim. Teen Will’s revulsion came out loud and clear back then: Why would you reject Harvard for that?
“I didn’t understand.”
“No kidding. I felt like your eyes were burning me. You were so disgusted.”
“You thought that?”
“I felt that. Words are connected to emotional states for most of us, Will. What you said back then mattered.”
Still does.
“Ooof. I’m sorry.”
“And you considered that conversation to be the most authentic interaction you’d ever had?”
“You were the most authentic person I’d met.”
“Me?”
