by R.S. Grey
By the time I make it back to the co-op, my blouse is stuck to me like a second skin. My roommate, Jackie, gives me a wide berth as I pass her in the hallway.
“Rough day?”
I shoot her a don’t ask glare.
“I’m headed to the bakery. I’ll bring home the leftovers after my shift.”
That means she and Ethan have plans to get it on later and she wants to butter me up with flaky croissants and iced pastries. I don’t necessarily want to spend my evening listening to them bang it out next door, but that’s my loneliness talking. I refuse to be a sad, loveless loser. I’d rather be a hyperglycemic loveless loser, so I nod in consent and demand one of the bakery’s cinnamon rolls as reparation.
On the floor inside my room there’s a yellow sticky note that was clearly shoved under my door. I straighten out the crease and interpret Ian’s scratchy handwriting.
Hit me up when you’re back. Chase stopped by this afternoon.
Let me decode that:
Hit me up = come to my room.
Chase stopped by this afternoon = my dealer came by and sold me weed and I want to smoke with you.
WHO SAYS ROMANCE IS DEAD?
I crumple up the note and toss it in the trashcan underneath my desk. Though tempting, I have more important things to do than waste the day half-blazed out of my mind. I rip off my interview clothes and throw them in the hamper before I shower and change into a mismatched pair of pajamas. Yes, technically it’s still the middle of the afternoon, but these are my getting shit done jammies.
After that, I spend five minutes cleaning my room, which makes me feel marginally more in control of my life. Next, I check my bank account, which makes me feel marginally less in control of my life. The gratuities at the country club are great, but somehow paychecks sift through my fingers like sand. Every month I pay my rent, cell phone bill, health insurance premium, and the partial balance of a credit card bill (thanks to the few weeks I endured before starting at the country club). My goal is to put half of each paycheck into savings so I can ditch the country club and travel. To date, I’ve managed to sock away a couple thousand dollars, but now that I need a new bike, that figure isn’t going to increase any time soon.
I close my laptop, postpone my problems for tomorrow, and flop back on my bed.
Ellie is working at the club covering my shift so I could go to that interview, which means I can’t hang out with her, and I’m too broke to go out and buy happiness, which leaves me with very few options. I could head over to my dad’s house and raid his refrigerator. I might feel bad taking his money, but I don’t feel bad taking his food that’s just going to go bad. Unfortunately, that scenario involves running into Martha, and I don’t have the energy for her today. I could search online for a new bike, but there’s no point in looking into it until I have funds to purchase one.
Sometime between falling into a never-ending pit of misery and half-wondering if I should spend my evening getting blazed with Ian, I fall asleep. The next thing I know, my phone is buzzing on my chest, jerking me out of an unsatisfying, restless nap.
“Yup, hey there!” I say after I answer, which is officially the weirdest greeting ever.
“Brooke?”
The voice doesn’t register right away. I blink sleep out of my eyes and turn to check my bedside clock. It’s 7:42 PM. I got back from my interview around 2:00 PM. So much for getting shit done.
I remember I’m on the phone one second before the person asks, “Are you there?”
Hearing his voice floods me with warmth.
“James?”
“Hey.”
My brain is still groggy from sleeping away the afternoon. I can’t figure out why exactly I’m on the phone with James. He’s never called or texted me before, not even last week when I broke down and texted him when I was weak.
It was pathetic and read like this:
BROOKE: Hey, how certain are you that we should stay away from each other? 50%? 100%?
When he didn’t respond in 30 minutes, I did.
BROOKE: HAHA. Just kidding. Good night!
Yeah, I know, not my proudest moment. When Ellie saw it, she didn’t stop laughing for 15 whole minutes. She was rolling back and forth on my bed, howling with joy. I walked downstairs, toasted a bagel, smeared cream cheese all over it, and walked slowly back upstairs. She was still laughing when I got there, so I didn’t share my bagel with her.
“Sorry if this is a bad time,” he continues, sounding adorably earnest.
“No! No!” I sit up and smooth out my hair, like that will somehow help the situation. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to call and let you know I’m having a courier drop off a replacement bike at the co-op.”
“A bike? For me?”
“Yes. Consider it a gift.”
My emotions are everywhere. Half of me wants to jump at the opportunity to solve one of the dozen problems crushing me at the moment. The other half of me is smart enough not to accept a gift from James without knowing his intentions first.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to be in your debt,” I reason. “Besides, my mother taught me not to take gifts from strangers.”
Calling him a stranger is a petty jab, but the rest is true. I don’t know what kind of strings come attached to gifts from James Ashwood.
“Brooke.” He sighs as if he doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “I forced you to get in my car. I put your bike in the trunk. Forget that I called it a gift. It’s the least I can do for putting you through that wreck.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Please just let me do this. It’s nothing.”
I stare down at my finger twisting my duvet cover into a tight spiral. “So you bought it for me out of guilt?”
“Does it matter why I bought it?”
Yes. I want to know the real reason, because if it is just out of guilt, that’s one thing, and maybe I’d keep it if that were the case. But, if it’s something else, a motive that runs a little deeper, I’d like to know. Still, he sounds exasperated, and I need a new bike. James feels like he owes me one, so I’ll accept the gift, and when I’ve saved up enough to buy my own, I’ll give it back.
“Okay,” I concede. “Well, thank you.”
“He should be there in a few minutes.”
“I’ll head outside in a second.”
I’m standing up, pulling a sweatshirt on over my pajamas, when he admits, “I wasn’t sure what color to get.”
“You didn’t outsource the job to Beth?”
“No. It only took a few minutes,” he says, quick to downplay the significance.
Even so, I smile thinking of him picking out my bike himself. Then I frown, thinking of him picking out my bike himself.
Outside, the sun is setting behind the houses across the street, and cicadas nearly drown out the sound of children playing a few blocks over. I plop down on the curb and glance left and right, checking for the courier.
“Okay, well, I’m outside now.”
A long pause follows and I wait for the inevitable goodbye. Instead, he says, “I saw your text the other day.”
My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. “You saw it, but didn’t reply.”
“I saw it, but didn’t reply,” he echoes.
I chuckle. “I know you’re a little older, but text messages aren’t like paper letters—you’re allowed to respond immediately.”
His tone doesn’t carry the same amusement as mine when he replies, “I thought it was probably best to give you a little space.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“This phone call?”
I know what he’s really hinting at, but I refuse to acknowledge his concerns because they’re my concerns too, and if we both agree that this is a bad idea, it’ll end. No reason for any more phone calls.
“How was your day today?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away, so I sigh, “C’mon, it’
s a platonic question. Pretend I’m your friend.”
“My day was fine. Busy. I’m still at the office, actually.”
“But the sun’s about to set.”
“I missed it rising too.”
I frown thinking of him locked away in his office all day and all night.
“Well, spoiler: it looks the same as it did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.”
He laughs, and then I hear the hinges of his chair squeal. I picture him sitting behind his desk, loosening his tie and tilting his head toward the ceiling. Maybe it’s the first time he’s taken a deep breath all day.
“I took our new CFO to the club for lunch today. I didn’t see you there.”
Was he hoping to?
“I had a job interview.”
“How’d it go?”
“Oh, you know.” I drag my Birkenstocks back and forth along the concrete. “Not that great.”
“Why do you think that?”
I laugh, thinking over the worst parts of the interview. “I could just tell, but it’s fine, because I was actually hoping to work at Twin Oaks until I die. I bet the mortician will let me wear my uniform to my grave.”
He chuckles. “You won’t stay forever.”
“No, probably just until forever isn’t very long anymore.”
“I could hire you.”
I burst out laughing.
“Yeah, c’mon,” he goads. “You could teach me French.”
“Uh huh, right.”
“Bonsoir.”
Oh Jesus, even his terrible French accent is sexy.
“Say something,” he urges.
“Si seulement les choses avaient été différentes.”
“What does that mean?” he asks with a dark, husky tone.
I tell him to look it up if he wants to know.
A car turns down my street and I perk up, hoping it’s the courier, but he passes right by.
“What were you doing before I called you?” he asks.
“Power napping,” I admit sheepishly. “I had plans to be more productive, but I fell asleep before I got around to actually doing anything.”
“I can’t remember the last time I slept a full eight hours, let alone took a nap during the day.”
“You should try it. You’re getting bags under your eyes,” I tease.
“I’ll stick to caffeine. I feel like I’ve never needed much sleep. At Caltech, my buddy and I would go stretches where we slept on pallets in the computer lab. We’d wake up, code, eat, code, sleep, and shower in the gym on campus when we couldn’t stand the stench any longer.”
That sounds horrible.
“Why?”
“We were building BioWear. There wasn’t time for anything else.”
“But now your company is successful,” I point out. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the fruits of your labor?”
He chuckles like the idea is completely preposterous. “Now I have even less time than I did then. I believe a wise 20th-century poet said it best: mo’ money, mo’ problems.”
I laugh and the hinges on his chair squeal again. There are footsteps and then the sound of ice clinking against glass. He’s sitting in his office, pouring himself a drink. He should go home, but why would he? It’s not like there’s anything better waiting for him there. The thought is almost too much to bear, so I come up with a simple solution.
“I think you should get a pet.”
He laughs. “A pet?”
“Yeah, like a dog or a hamster. Something to keep you company.”
“A hamster.” Another laugh. I can practically see him rubbing his brow and giving in to the conversation. “I don’t have time for a pet.”
“What about a fish?” I ask. “You could put it in a gigantic tank in that empty house of yours and just swim around with it in SCUBA gear.”
A white delivery truck turns onto my street. His headlights flash across me and I jump to my feet, waving him over. “Wait, I think my bike is here!”
“I’ll let you go then.”
He sounds disappointed, and I am too. I’d like to stay on the phone with him the rest of the night. I’d like to be the one to coax him out of his loneliness, but that’s not in the cards for us.
“James?”
“Yeah?”
The sadness in his tone eats away at me.
“Thanks for calling,” I say, hoping he deciphers everything left unsaid.
He pauses before replying, “Thanks for answering.”
By the time I hang up, the delivery truck has pulled up in front of the curb, and I watch as a tall skinny guy hops out with a clipboard in hand.
“Brooke Davenport?”
“That’s me.”
He nods and then I watch as he pops open the back doors and wheels my new bike down the ramp and onto the sidewalk. I was expecting something similar to what I had, but this is one of those fancy bikes I’ve always dreamed about owning one day. Even better, it’s the same color as my bookshelf: sunflower yellow. I beam.
“I’ve never seen a bike this color before,” I say, stepping forward to brush my hand across the polished body.
He shrugs. “Had to pick it up from a paint shop this afternoon.”
My stomach knots into a tight ball. There’s the answer I was seeking earlier. No one takes the time to get a bike custom painted out of guilt. No, this is something special.
The next day, I force Ellie to drive me to a pet shop and then to James’ office downtown. He’s in a meeting, so I leave the goldfish with Beth, along with fish food and a note.
This is Harry. He needed a friend. Take good care of him! XO, Brooke.
PS I love the yellow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two weeks later, Ellie and I are changing out of our work clothes in the employee locker room at Twin Oaks. I’m sweaty and hot from working in the cabana during the peak of summer. Ellie is annoyingly fresh-faced and beautiful from her shift working the lunch service.
“Here…can I just—”
Sweet-smelling mist hits the back of my head, and I turn to find Ellie holding her body spray at arm’s length with one hand while pinching her nose closed with the other. She spritzes me again.
“Stop Febreezing me like I’m a sofa!”
“You stink!”
I reach forward to try to slap the bottle out of her hand, but she drops it back into her locker with a gloating smile.
“Well it’s like a million degrees out at the cabana and some old geezer spilled his Bloody Mary on me. I get it, I smell like a frat party.”
“Well now you smell like Strawberry Breeze,” she announces proudly.
I glare at her before turning back to finish changing into my workout clothes.
“Need a ride home?”
“Nah, I have my bike.”
“The one from Mr. Ashwood?”
She’s taken to addressing James as Mr. Ashwood and tacking on a snooty British accent to go along with it. I find it excruciatingly annoying, but I can’t tell her that or she’ll do it even more.
“That’s the one.”
“Isn’t it kind of weird that he gifted you that expensive bike and then ignored you for the two weeks?”
I straighten my shoulders. “He hasn’t ignored me.”
“Oh? I thought you said the two of you hadn’t talked since he called you?”
Well that’s true, we haven’t talked, but a few days ago, I was working at the cabana when I saw his Porsche zipping down the drive. I paused in the middle of making a drink and stepped around the corner so I could watch him park. He was with a work associate or something, another guy in an expensive suit. I stood frozen as they headed toward the entrance of the clubhouse. He seemed to be listening intently to his friend then suddenly he turned and caught me staring. A rush of adrenaline tingled through my body as his gaze captured mine. A small, enigmatic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, just enough to bring out that dimple, and I fought the urge to wave or do something equ
ally lame. Fortunately, his friend tapped his shoulder and reclaimed his attention before I could make a fool of myself.
I picked apart every detail of his smile for the next 24 hours before I finally found enough sense to force myself to move on. Other than that, there have been no texts, no phone calls. I don’t even know if Harry has adjusted to his new goldfish life or if he’s swimming in a porcelain graveyard.
“Brooke?” Ellie says, flicking my arm and tugging me out of my reverie. “You haven’t talked to him, have you?”
“No.”
“Because Marissa showed me something earlier, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell you.”
I pause, pulling my shirt on over my head. “What are you talking about? Does it have to do with James?”
“Yeah. I guess he went to some sort of fundraiser last night? There are pictures of him on Instagram.”
I finish tugging my shirt down and then get to work on my tennis shoes. “He doesn’t have an Instagram.”
“His date posted the photo.”
I ignore the burning sensation in my chest and the sudden urge to vomit all over the employee locker room. I’d have to clean that shit up, and that is not happening.
“Do you wanna see it?”
It’s feels like she’s asking me to check out a dead body she found in the woods.
“No thank you.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, her phone already open to the photo.
Ugh.
I yank it out of her hand and take in the sight for myself. Jealousy is such a rare sensation for me that it’s hard to identify as I stare down at what can only be described as the most photogenic couple on earth. James’ date is a petite blonde with curls that cascade down her back. The volume alone is something I’ve never been able to achieve—bitch must have gone to Drybar. Her dress is tight and clingy, just like her. I swear there’s not a single iota of space between her and James. She has her arm wrapped around his waist and she’s leaning into him like they’re posing for an engagement announcement.
James is hard to look at, depressingly handsome in his fitted tuxedo, perhaps the very same one he wore when he took me to the 1920s party. He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t exactly look angry to have the blonde wrapped around him either. His impenetrable dark eyes stare straight into the camera…straight at me.
