by Cassia Leo
He looks up, startled by my outburst.
“I mean, you came to talk about the contract, so… let’s talk. I’m…” I nod toward the chair for him to sit down, then I close the office door behind him. “I’m sorry for spacing out. I was just a little surprised to see you.” I take a seat in Jamie’s chair and yelp as it begins to tip backward. “Shit!”
Houston laughs as I scoot forward and lean my elbows on the desk, hoping he doesn’t notice how the sound of his laughter makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Sorry. Obviously, I don’t sit on this side of the desk very often, but Jamie didn’t want to reschedule this appointment. She should be here shortly.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” The left corner of his mouth pulls up in his signature half smile and I grit my teeth against the surge of emotions welling up inside me. “I’m actually kind of glad we ran into each other.”
“Really? You hardly remembered me a minute ago.”
He chuckles again. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was just surprised.”
I can’t argue with this when I just used the same excuse. But it’s no more true coming from his lips than it is from mine. We’re not surprised to see each other. We’re terrified.
All the times I’ve imagined running into Houston, I never once imagined he wouldn’t recognize me. I haven’t changed much. I still have the same long auburn hair he used to bury his face in and twist around his fingers. I’m still carrying the extra ten pounds I put on my freshman year at UO, my softness, he used to call it. I still don’t wear a lot of makeup, though back then I avoided makeup because I never knew when I was going to burst into tears. Now I avoid it because I’m comfortable in my skin. This is who I am. If someone doesn’t like me—or recognize me—that’s their problem.
I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. “So, Houston—would you rather I call you Hugh?”
He flashes me an uncomfortable smile, but it takes him a moment to respond. “Houston is fine.”
His family always called him Hugh, but he hated it. I always made it a point to call him Houston. Every time I said his name it was like a promise to be true to him. The real Houston. I wish I had known then that you can’t promise to be true to a ghost. Ghosts aren’t real.
“So… you’re the beer guy?” I say, trying to break the awkward silence.
“The beer guy? Is that how I’m referred to around here?”
Houston’s gaze is focused on the desk so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye. His elbows rest on the arms of the chair and his hands are clasped in front of him. That’s when I notice the wedding ring.
“You’re married,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks up, his eyes locking on mine, then nods just enough for me to notice.
My eyes and sinuses sting and I blink a few times. “What’s her name? I mean, that’s… that’s great.”
Shit. What is wrong with me?
He stares at the desk again, unsure how to respond to this. “Yeah, I guess. Um… Are you married?”
For some reason, I glance down at my hands where they rest on top of a stack of invoices on Jamie’s desk, as if I’ll suddenly find a wedding ring on my finger, too.
“No, I’m not married.” I draw in another breath and let it out slowly as I try to think of a new topic. “You’re still making beer?”
In college, Houston made his own line of homemade ale, which he called Barley Legal, since barely anyone who drank it was over twenty-one. It was very popular with the frats. I still remember the way our apartment would smell like yeast and alcohol after his weekend “tasting” parties. I’m surprised I still remember the name of the beer and the smell, considering I was pretty wasted through the last six months of my freshman year, the months we were together.
“Yep. And it’s still Barley Legal.”
“You kept the name?”
“Couldn’t let it go.”
My breath hitches at these words. They’re so similar to the last words he whispered in my ear five years ago as I lay in bed pretending to sleep. I love you, but we need to let it go.
He doesn’t seem to catch the similarity. Maybe he doesn’t even remember the last words he spoke to me. How can he be so different when he looks exactly the same? The shock of caramel-brown hair on his head still has the natural ribbons of sandy blond running through it. His blue eyes still sparkle when he talks about his homemade creations, though they’re probably not homemade anymore. He still looks like the guy who took my mind and body to places they’d never been. But there’s something very different about him. He seems subdued. Defeated.
“Rory,” he says, just loud enough to break through my thoughts. “How have you been?”
I don’t know why he’s asking this question ten minutes into our conversation, so I shrug. “Fine. I graduated two years ago. I changed my major after… Anyway, I got my degree in English—minor in creative writing. I’ve been working on a book in my spare time.”
His face lights up at this news. “A book? That’s awesome. You were always a great writer.”
“Well, probably not great, but I graduated.”
He smiles at my modesty. “You were great. I’m sure you’re even better now.”
My smile fades. Is it okay to accept praise from him now that he’s married? Is it okay to want his praise when I’ve lived without it for five years?
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see who it is. My mom’s cell number flashes on the screen. I usually send her calls to voicemail while I’m at work and check them on my lunch break, but I did ask her to check on Skippy today.
I contemplate answering her call, if only to escape the awkwardness of my conversation with Houston, but I hit the reject button. If it’s an emergency, she’ll send me a text. I’ve told her multiple times to text me in the case of an emergency, since I’m almost always with a customer when she gets the urge to call.
I look up and Houston’s jaw is clenched as he stares at the food-handling certificates hanging on the wall of the office.
“It was my mom,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to mention this. “Probably just wants to tell me I’m out of coffee or something.”
“You still live with your mom and dad?”
“No. God, no. My parents divorced two weeks after… we broke up. My mom and I moved to Portland two years ago. She has her own apartment now, but she checks on my dog while I’m at work.”
He smiles at my reaction and my stomach flutters. Then, I find myself wondering what shifted between us in the last minute or two, because I’m beginning to wish we could sit here talking like this forever. But any minute now Jamie is going to walk through that office door and relieve me of this meeting.
“How long have you worked here?” Houston asks as he leans back in his chair, getting a bit more comfortable.
He’s dressed in jeans and a brown T-shirt bearing the logo of his company. The shirt clings to his biceps and pectoral muscles. I try not to think of the nights I fell asleep with his arms around me and my cheek pressed against his solid chest. The fact that he wore a T-shirt and jeans to a pitch meeting proves he hasn’t changed. He’s still the laid-back guy everyone wants to share a beer with. And if he hasn’t changed, I should stop letting my mind wander to our past.
“I’ve worked here a little more than a year,” I reply. “I interned at the Oregonian for a while after graduation, but I got tired of living with my mom and never having money. I applied for this job on a whim, but it ended up working out. I’m union, so I make enough to live in a one-bedroom nearby and still feed myself and Skippy.”
“Skippy?”
“My dog.”
“Oh.”
The desk phone rings and I contemplate not answering it, but it could be Jamie calling me from somewhere else in the store. “Jamie Zucker’s office. How may I help you?”
“Rory! Skip passed out and I can’t wake him up.” My mom is frantic and I can tell by the thicknes
s in her throat that she’s crying. My mom never cries, and the mere sound of it makes my heart race.
“What? What’s going on? What happened?” I stand suddenly and Houston’s smile disappears as he stands, too.
“I don’t know. The apartment was pretty warm when I came inside. I don’t think your air conditioner’s working. He was just lying there in the crate, so I put some ice in his water bowl and put it next to his face so he could drink. He drank the whole bowl, then he passed out! Oh, my God. Did I do something wrong? I was just trying to cool him down. I swear, I didn’t mean to do anything. I’m sorry, Rory. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no. How long has he been out?”
“About twelve minutes now.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hang up the desk phone and grab my cell off the stack of invoices. Then I scroll through my contacts searching for the number to Skip’s vet as Houston follows me out of the office.
“Shit! I rode my bike today. It will take me at least twenty-five minutes to get there.”
“I can take you,” Houston immediately volunteers.
I gaze into his eyes, knowing that every second I hesitate could mean the difference between life and death for my best friend.
Suddenly, the memories come flooding back to me from the day my world was turned upside down five and a half years ago. The day I found Houston standing outside my dorm refusing to let me inside. The day Houston became my protector and my downfall.
My finger hovers over the call button, then I grab Houston’s arm as he begins walking straight toward Grandpa John and Jamie, who are both standing at register three talking to Kenny, another cashier.
Houston glances down at his arm where my fingers are curled around his firm bicep. I quickly let it go.
“Sorry, but we can’t go that way. We have to go through the back. Hurry.”
He follows me into the warehouse and out through the back door.
“What about your meeting?” I mention as we skitter like mice along the back wall of the store.
“I’ll work it out,” he replies quickly.
We turn right at the back corner of the building into a small service alley that reeks of trash and stale beer.
“Where are you parked?” I ask.
“Right out front. Don’t you need to tell your boss you’re leaving?”
“I’ll call her after I call the vet.”
We make it to the end of the alley and Houston grabs my arm before I can walk out onto the sidewalk. “Rory, wait.”
I glance down at his fingers, which are curled around my forearm the same way mine were curled around his bicep a minute ago, and I instantly grow impatient. “What?”
He’s silent for a moment, then he lets go of me. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
I follow closely behind him as we approach his shiny, pearl-white SUV. The sight of it makes my stomach curdle. Not because it’s a gas-guzzler, but because his wife probably sat next to him inside this car, holding his hand, stroking his skin. Maybe they’ve even had sex in there.
I know I shouldn’t care. I haven’t seen or heard from Houston in five years and here he is going out of his way to help me—again. As if the past five years never happened.
He opens the passenger door for me and I grit my teeth as I climb inside, holding my breath to block out the heady scent of beige leather.
Shutting the door after me, he rounds the front of the car and smoothly climbs into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?” he asks, unable to hide the hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
I stare straight ahead and think, I wish I knew.
3. Houston
August 13th
* * *
I stare at the dashboard so I can’t see her face. She looks the same as she did five years ago, and back then that face had the power to knock the breath out of me. The curve of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the softness of her skin. She was the drug that numbed the pain, but only temporarily. I just have to keep reminding myself of that so I don’t do anything stupid, like telling her the truth.
We may only ever have one great, passionate love. If I had one, it would definitely be Rory. But sometimes it’s best to leave that kind of love in the past. Still, there’s so much unfinished business between us. As I watch her from the corner of my eye, I wonder if this chance encounter is the opportunity for absolution I’ve been hoping for the past five years.
“Hold on,” she says as she presses the cell phone to her ear. “Hello? Yes, is Dr. Heinlein in the office today?… My dog is unconscious and I need to bring him in. It’s an emergency… No, not that I know of… Blood type? Um… DEA 6, I think… Yes… Thank you so much. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” She pulls the phone away from her ear and checks something on the screen. “We have to go to my apartment first. I’m in Portland Towers.”
“On 21st?”
She nods and I sense a bit of tension, like she’s embarrassed to live in a building mostly inhabited by college students. She probably imagines I live in a nice house with my wife and kids and maybe even a few pets. She doesn’t know that Tessa and I live in a generic two-bedroom apartment downtown and we have no children.
We make it to her building in seven minutes and I find myself getting nervous. How far do I take this act of kindness? Do I go inside? Do I help take her dog to the vet? The conversation she had with her mom a few minutes ago implied she has a car of her own, but she opted to ride her bike to work today. Technically, she no longer needs my help, but I have no idea how big her dog is. He could be a teacup poodle or a huge mastiff, in which case she definitely needs my help getting the dog into the car.
I park in a fifteen-minute loading zone right in front of the thirteen-story apartment building and kill the engine. I throw open my car door to follow her inside, but she stops me before she gets out of the car.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice still taut with tension. “I have a car. I’m fine. You need to go back to your meeting.”
“I can help you carry the dog down, then I’ll take off.”
She hesitates for a moment, then she nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
Following her into the elevator, I hold my breath as she presses the button for the eighth floor. Just walking behind her, I’ve gotten small whiffs of her hair. But I know the close quarters in the elevator will only amplify that. And I don’t want her to know how crazy that scent is making me.
We stand side by side in total silence as the elevator ascends. The fingers on my right hand tingle, as if my skin can sense she’s near. Then I realize it’s probably because I’m holding my breath. Slowly, I breathe in, catching a strong whiff of vanilla that sends my heart racing. I clench my fist to keep from reaching out to touch her.
She glances down at my hand as she sees the slight movement from the corner of her eye. I relax my hand again so she doesn’t think being this close to her is making me tense, but I don’t believe for a second I can fool her.
She steps forward, closer to the elevator doors, putting more distance between us. A soft buzzing noise breaks through the silence just as the elevator doors slide open. She holds the phone to her ear as we exit onto the eighth floor.
“What’s wrong?” she says, her eyebrows furrowed with worry, then her lips curl into an absolutely beautiful smile. “Oh, thank God… Yes, we just got here. I’ll be right in.” Holding the phone to her chest, she lets out a sigh of relief. “He’s awake.”
“That’s great news.”
She stops in front of apartment 811 and looks up at me. “I guess you can go.”
“You’re not still taking him to the vet?”
“Well, it’s not an emergency anymore. I’ll just have my mom take him in my car. She can walk him down now that he’s awake.”
My heart clenches as I realize I’m no longer needed. “Of course. So, you’re okay?”
What a stupid
loaded question.
She shrugs as she reaches for the doorknob. “As good as I can be,” she replies, then suddenly she wraps her arms around my waist. “Thanks for the ride.”
The smell of her hair hits me like a knife in the chest and I hold my breath to keep myself from completely inhaling her. I pat her on the back and she chuckles as she lets me go.
“Good luck with your pitch,” she says, never looking back as she disappears into the apartment.
Jesus fucking Christ. I’m in deep shit here. I can’t go back to the store for that meeting. There’s no way I’ll be able to work with Rory on a regular basis. If we open that wine bar, I’ll have to check in at least once a week, probably more like two to three times a week.
I won’t survive seeing her that often. I’ve barely survived the past five years.
But I can’t throw away a multimillion-dollar joint venture contract. There’s too much competition in the craft beer market these days. I need to take whatever bones are thrown my way.
I just wish I knew if Rory were truly okay. I can put myself through the agony of seeing her on a regular basis if I know it won’t affect her. The last thing I want to do is make her work situation unbearable. She doesn’t deserve that after what I did to her.
I managed to avoid bumping into Rory on the way out of the meeting at Zuckers by leaving the shop while she was busy with a customer. The pitch meeting with Jamie went well. When she heard why I stepped out earlier, she was quite impressed with my kindness toward the staff. I considered telling her that Rory is far from just a staff member to me, but I opted against it. If Rory wants her boss to know about our past, she should be the one to tell her.
As I drive away from Zucker’s market, I think of going back to the brewery to see how Dean, our production manager, is coming along with the new winter lager. We’ve been brewing it in small batches in the pilot brewing system since January, and it won a gold medal at the Portland International Beer Festival last week. But today we’re brewing the first large-scale production batch. Scaling up can be a bit tricky, but I’m confident Dean can handle everything on his own.
