Awkward.

by Lily Kate

  I arrive home, park, and climb upstairs to my room. Settling into bed, I pop open my computer and scan through a few more comments, finding bits of encouragement and holding them close.

  Wheels turning, I plot the outline for the next article in my head. It had been an unlikely ending to the story, even I had to admit. While I’d chosen the pros, Jack Darcy had selected the con list.

  Humming with possibilities, I make my way to the shower to rinse off and draft the story. My best thinking is done in the shower, and also, I need to wash the smell of Jack’s shampoo off me. Every time my hair brushes my face, I’m reminded of him, of his bed, of the empty space next to me when I awoke this morning.

  The humming continues as I crank the heat to high. I undress, peek once more at my phone, and battle off the disappointment when I see Jack hasn’t texted me. I left his house over an hour ago; if he’d wanted to get ahold of me, he should’ve by now.

  Lathering up with shampoo, I wonder if Jack is planning to come over tonight. It’s the first day of school tomorrow, and I told him I’d need to turn in early after our routine dinner. Now, I’m wondering if it’ll be a solo order.

  By the time I climb from the shower, I’m a wreck. My shakiness is intensified when, after stepping from the shower, I catch the tail-end of my ringtone. I rush to where I’d tossed it on a pile of towels and pick it up frantically, worrying I’ve missed Jack’s call.

  But it’s not Jack who’s calling me.

  I’m so startled at the name that I hit Accept before I realize what’s happening, and I scramble to speak into the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Darcy?”

  The bathroom is bursting with steam, but I shiver as she greets me.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. “Is Jack okay?”

  “Jack is fine, I imagine. I’m not calling about Jack.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m calling to schedule the orientation.”

  “Orientation?”

  “You are going to watch the poodles, aren’t you?” she asks crisply. “We discussed this. Beginning the night of my awards ceremony next Saturday and extending through the following weekend.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you available today? I’m thinking one o’clock would work if you’re available.”

  One o’clock is in thirty minutes. “Um, okay,” I agree, stalling, pretending to check my non-existent calendar. “Sure. I can do that.”

  I rush to get dressed, not loving the idea of spending the day at Jack Darcy’s childhood house. I’m familiar with it, too familiar, and a part of me wonders if there’s a catch to this whole thing. Could it really be a coincidence that Kathleen Darcy is calling the morning after the disaster date?

  Either way, I can use the money. Five grand for a week of dog sitting is nothing. I can fix my car, get a new phone, and splurge on a new pair of shoes since the ones from last night are waterlogged despite my best attempts of blow-drying them in Jack’s bathroom.

  I reach the car and am halfway to Jack’s house before I realize my phone is back in my bathroom, snuggled among a pile of towels. I’d been considering texting Jack, breaking the silence, having a good laugh at the idea of poodle watching.

  But I’m running late for my one o’clock appointment already, so I plow through a yellow light and race toward the Darcy Estate. Several minutes later, it looms before me, stately and gorgeous. Neither flamboyant nor flashy, the Darcy home is tastefully decorated, offset by powerful columns, ornate fireplaces, and furniture too pristine for use.

  I’ve never felt comfortable walking through the gargantuan front doors of this place. As usual, the housekeeper lets me in, and I slide my shoes off as I wait for the woman of the house to appear.

  “Good morning, Allie.” Mrs. Darcy rounds the corner, looking crisp in a navy blue pantsuit with pearl jewelry dotting her neck and earlobes. “It’s nice of you to show up.”

  I bite back a retort, wondering how I’m possibly late when it’s only 12:58. Not to mention, I’d been mid-shampoo when she called barely twenty minutes before.

  “It’s no problem,” I reply, shooting for demure and landing around sarcastic. There’s nothing I can do about that; it’s my natural speaking voice. “Thanks for having me.”

  Her eyes flash at my tone. “We’ll get you reacquainted with the poodles next Saturday. Today, I’ll be showing you where I keep all of their supplies.”

  “I’ve met your poodles before.”

  “Yes, well, I prefer they don’t spend the week feeling anxious. If they meet you today, they’ll know that Betsy won’t be around, and I can’t have that. They’re very sensitive to newcomers.”

  Mrs. Darcy sounds annoyed with me, and I’ve barely stepped through her front doors. Usually, I’m aware when I piss people off, but this time I’m just confused. “Wouldn’t it be better if I meet them today so we can ease into it?”

  “They’re my poodles,” she snaps. “I know what’s best for them.”

  I’m wondering if we’re still talking about poodles, and I raise my hands in surrender. “Sure.”

  Mrs. Darcy’s poodles are a relatively recent hobby. Of course, Mrs. Darcy had to jump on board this new trendy fad with the best. The dogs have more paperwork than I do to verify their lineage. They’re the best of the best.

  “Follow me.” She stomps forward with more gusto than I’m used to seeing from her. “This is their playroom.”

  I stop abruptly, nearly bumping into her. “Wow, this is beautiful.”

  “This is where they play,” she says, waving her hand at a gorgeously ornate room. If I remember correctly, it used to be a sitting room. “They’re not allowed to play elsewhere.”

  “Don’t dogs just... play wherever they feel like it?”

  “Not my dogs. Maybe the average dog, but my poodles are extraordinary.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  “Are you challenging me? I think I know what’s best for my family.”

  “Are we still talking about poodles?”

  In a stark change from her aloofness, Mrs. Darcy turns to stare at me. “How was your date last night, Allie?”

  “Um, it was okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Did you enjoy Theo’s company?”

  “I think Delilah enjoyed it more than I did. I guess I couldn’t compare to her.”

  Mrs. Darcy steps closer to me, her eyes narrowed as she gazes at me through slits. “Exactly.”

  I take a step back. “I’m sorry, did I do something to offend you?”

  She scans me over. “You’re a smart woman. Figure it out.”

  I rack my brain for something I said recently, but the only thing I circle back on is the date from last night. “Are you pissed that I didn’t interest Theo enough? That I’m the reason Delilah wasn’t focused on Jack?”

  “No, Allie. I’m pissed that you are taking advantage of my son.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Jack is an exceptional boy.”

  “Man.”

  “My son deserves the best. I have no qualms with you personally, Allie, and actually, I’d quite like you if you hadn’t drawn a target on my son’s back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jack and I have been friends since before we could talk.”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t sabotage Jack’s date with Delilah?”

  “Of course not! It makes no difference to me who he dates. He’s my friend.”

  “Is that right?” she snarls. “Look me in the eye and say that to me again.”

  I pick at the hem of my shirt. Mrs. Darcy is standing so close to me I can’t quite meet her gaze. “Your son is my friend. It’s up to him to choose who he dates.”

  “Look at me.”

  I struggle to pull my gaze up, and I’m not thrilled with the results when I finally do. There’s a hint of amusement there as she sees the resignation in my eyes. It’s in this moment I realize that she smells a victory.


  So, I clear my throat and let her have the win. “It doesn’t matter. Jack is not interested in me.”

  To my surprise, she throws her head back and gives a cackling laugh. “Maybe I gave you more credit than I should have.”

  “What are you talking about?!”

  Her sharp eyes focus on me for a moment, scanning me over. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Since you can’t seem to read between the lines, let me be very clear.” Mrs. Darcy’s knuckles clench tighter and tighter until they almost disappear in whiteness. “Jack is in love with you.”

  Her words hit me like a sack of bricks straight to the gut. I fall silent, leaning forward against an armchair as I gather my thoughts. “What?”

  “If you care for him as a friend, you will leave him alone,” she continues. “Let him come to the awards banquet with someone else.”

  “He hasn’t asked me to the awards banquet.”

  “Very good. I’ve already informed him of the consequences if he does.”

  “Consequences?”

  She gives a tight-lipped smile.

  “It is us or it is you.”

  “You’re wrong. You are so wrong about all of this. Jack wants nothing to do with me.”

  The ensuing silence plummets the room to a standstill. Mrs. Darcy watches my every movement, one slender hip perched against the deck as she takes shallow breaths.

  “I’m sorry, I should go.” I can’t take this any longer. Not even for the five grand that I could really use to fix my car. “I hope you’re happy with this little Pinocchio thing you’ve got going on. There’s only one problem.”

  Mrs. Darcy raises her penciled-in eyebrows in question. “And what’s that?”

  “Jack’s not a puppet.”

  Mrs. Darcy’s phone rings, cutting her off before she can respond. She flicks her eyes toward it dismissively, then does a double take at the caller ID.

  I reach for my own phone on impulse, but it’s still at home, cuddling on the pile of towels. At first, I think nothing of Mrs. Darcy’s phone call, since she’s always talking with foreign business people or researchers far above my pay grade.

  Then, she says a word that stops my heart.

  “Of course, Jack.” Her eyes raise, smug, to meet mine. “I’ll be right there.”

  I want to ask, but the question is stuck in my throat like taffy.

  “Jack needs me,” she says. “I’m sorry to cut our orientation short, but I have to leave. The housekeeper will escort you out.”

  Chapter 27

  ALLIE

  I didn’t love leaving the Darcy home with so many unresolved issues.

  Why had Jack called? Where was he? Was he in trouble? Why had he called me nine hundred and three times during the hour I’d forgotten my phone?

  Does Jack love me?

  I barely made it through my apartment to retrieve my phone when a knock pulls me back to the front door. Cracking it open, I find my downstairs neighbor, Martha, waiting for me. Her hair is curled in tight spirals, and her lipstick covers half her face. As always, a cigarette burns in her hand.

  I give her my standard please-don’t-bother-me smile. “How’s it going, Martha?”

  “I didn’t get a nap in today,” she says, pushing a pair of thick lenses up her nose. “Some lunatic broke into your apartment.”

  “My apartment?” I glance behind me. “Really?”

  “He didn’t get inside. I called the cops first, so he only got away with breaking your window. I gave the policemen your number, and they tried to call you, too. But you didn’t answer.”

  “I forgot my phone here, and I just got back. Do you know who it was? Er—why someone would want to break into here?”

  “The man was handsome as all get-out. Tall with dark hair and real studly-looking; then again, they say most serial killers are pretty suave. He came to the door, but when you didn’t answer, he started throwing rocks at your window. Shattered the whole thing.”

  An image of Jack’s face flashes into my mind. Quickly, I pulled up a photo of him on my phone. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “That’s him,” she says. “Do you know him?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Think about keeping different company.”

  “I’ll consider it,” I say, inching back inside. I have a window to scout out and a few details to process. “I’m really sorry you missed your nap.”

  Martha studies me more intensely through her glasses. “Should I have not called the cops?”

  “No, no—of course. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

  “Is this about love?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you fighting?”

  “I’m not sure about that, either.”

  Martha turns to head back to her apartment. “I’m too old for this.”

  I agree, wave goodbye to her, and slip my way back inside. A quick analysis tells me that Martha was right about the window. Glass is everywhere on my bedroom floor. Another scan of my messages shows one from the police asking for a call back, and I take care of that quickly, agreeing not to press charges on one Mr. Jack Darcy.

  I debate calling Jack back, but I’m assuming he’s with his mother right now, and God only knows I don’t want to interrupt whatever’s happening there. Instead, I’ll give him some time to process his visit to the police station and call me back later once he’s home.

  Every minute of those few hours goes by painstakingly slow. I try to write. I try to nap. I try to relax with a glass of wine and none of it helps. The writing is blocked, I’m too wired to nap, and the wine makes my gut churn.

  I’m waiting for the tea kettle to boil in an attempt to try some soothing chamomile, or so it says on the wrapper, when another knock sounds on the door. Thinking it’s Martha coming back to check on me, I pull it open without glancing out the peephole.

  It’s definitely not Martha.

  In fact, it’s the same tall, dark, and handsome man who recently shattered my window.

  “Jack?” I gape at him as he moves through the door without invitation. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Sunday night.” When I don’t look up, he raises his hand as if I’m the one not making sense, and he blinks. “I thought we had dinner plans.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s Sunday night.”

  “Yeah, um...” I’m racking my brain trying to figure out how that’s relevant now when we have so many other things to worry about. “Sorry, I guess I was still stuck on the fact that I’m missing a window.”

  He paces around my apartment, his sharp eyes studying the kitchen, the boiling water, the empty cup with the waiting tea bag and the notebook next to it. I snatch the notebook up before he can see my list of title ideas for my next article.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Do you have any sort of explanation, or are we going to pretend that it didn’t happen?”

  He pauses, giving me a disgruntled look. “I was trying to be romantic.”

  “By breaking into my place?”

  “I realize now,” he says through gritted teeth, “that I was misguided.”

  “You think?”

  “I panicked!”

  “Because we kissed last night?” I’m still confused at what’s happening, and I want to give him the option to back out gracefully. “Look, Jack, I’ve had plenty of first kisses that didn’t lead anywhere. This one doesn’t have to make things between us complicated.”

  Jack flinches at this. “You think it’s not leading anywhere?”

  “Didn’t seem to me like you wanted it to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, Jack, you know what it means.” Just then, the teakettle whistles, punctuating my annoyance with a shrill scream. I turn off the water and pull
my mug closer as I lift it from the burner. “Don’t play stupid.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t make me spell this out for you.” I spin to face him. “If you wanted to be romantic, here’s an idea: you could’ve jumped into bed with me when I asked. Or at least explained why you didn’t.”

  He stares at me, his lips parted in surprise.

  “I don’t need anything fancy, or...or, rocks thrown at my window. I just wanted you.”

  “Back the hell up.” Jack waves his hand. “I’m missing the piece where you gave me any sort of signal. How was I supposed to know that you wanted me?”

  “I freaking wrote it down! How much clearer did I have to get?”

  “Is this another one of your analogies?” he roars, waving a hand and speaking with such animation I’m sure Martha’s hovering nearby with her fingers resting on the 9-1-1 keys. “Class is over, Allie. Don’t make me figure this out on my own.”

  “You’re the one who threw the damn note away! And you wonder why I’m feeling awkward. Did you think I’d forgotten about it?”

  “Forgotten about what? What note? You never asked me to get in bed with you.” Jack takes a step forward and wraps his hand around my wrist, snaking his fingers down and looping them through mine. “I would’ve remembered every damn word of that invitation if you had.”

  “It wasn’t a word, it was a note—just like I said. On the pillow. It wasn’t there in the morning, and I didn’t move it, so unless it grew legs and walked away...”

  His confusion appears to be growing, which raises the hairs on my neck.

  “The bright orange Post-It,” I clarify. “You came into the room, I know you did; the window was open when I went to bed, and it was shut in the morning.”

  “There wasn’t a note,” he says, squeezing his fingers tighter against mine. “I would’ve seen it. I stared right at you, for crying out loud. I checked on you, made sure you were comfortable. You were sleeping, and there was no note. So, I took the couch.”

  We’re standing nose to nose, so close every one of his breaths trickles across my lips, crisp and clean, welcoming me to step closer. I don’t move, and neither does Jack. We wait, still as stone.