by Julia Kent
His words fade out as Fiona looks at me, impressed.
“You got Raul excited.”
“Yes.”
“You look excited.”
“I am.”
Weeping sounds make us both look around, the hitched breath of someone in distress cutting through the air. We turn in unison, a herd of attuned gazelles finding a loner in need of attention.
It's the guy from earlier, his girlfriend staring at him with eye-rolling contempt. He has drying chai stains on his shirt sleeve and leg, and he's holding a recycled-tan napkin over his eyes.
“Ouch,” Fiona whispers.
“Poor guy,” Mallory chimes in.
The woman looks up, catching my eye. If I look away, I acknowledge we're gawking.
So I give her a sympathetic smile.
She flips me off.
“What the heck?" Mallory gasps.
“Someone get Perky a container of sour cream,” Fiona whispers, looking at me. “If anyone deserves a glop to the head, it's that bitch.”
“Hey, hey, non-violent preschool teacher!” Raul says, looking at her with new appreciation. “What you got against sour cream?”
The weeping man makes sounds that start to resemble an orgasm whinnier.
“Ah,” Fiona says, turning red. “I see.”
“You see what?” Raul enquires, confused.
The sounds get louder; Mallory grimaces. Raul gives us major side eye until his face takes on the most extraordinary look of realization, mouth twisting into a grimace.
The woman storms out, shaking her head. Raul walks over to the dude and slides him a bottled ginger tea, speaking in a voice men reserve for other men when they're down.
I guess. I wouldn't know. No one's ever talked to me like that.
“No one likes being dumped,” Mallory says in a sage voice.
“You ever dump anyone?”
She chews on a honey stick. “No.”
“Me, neither,” Fi says.
“Same.”
“You dumped Parker.”
“That doesn't count.”
“Technically, it does.”
“Technically, Parker dumped me by turning my boobs into a logo for teenage boy wanking.”
They sigh, the long-suffering sound of besties.
As Dumped Dude falls to pieces, Raul struggling to help a stranger in pain, we look at each other.
“Thai or Indian?” Fiona asks.
Before Mallory can suggest Taco Cubed, I jump in. “How about Greek?” I quickly add, “Not my mom's cooking. Please.”
“Take out from Athena's?”
I nod.
“Mallory's place?”
We all nod.
Parker's in town. Mallory's getting married. Fiona's paired with Fletch in the wedding. Hasty's part of it all.
We need to talk.
And eat.
“I don't understand why you don't get your own place,” Mallory says as we lug the take-out bags from Athena's Delite into her perfect apartment. The scent of baked apples, sweet puff pastry, honey-gooey goodness, and roasted chicken makes my drool turn into tzatziki sauce before I've even opened a single container.
I haven’t gotten my own place because I have a cottage next to the big house and my old bedroom. Why leave? After Parker and I split up, I came home, tail between my legs, and never moved out. Mom and Dad went into protective mode and my time was taken up with all the legal maneuvers needed to get that damn half-naked picture of me off the internet.
And I was heartbroken, okay? I took the path of least resistance.
“Are you offering this place up?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“No. Will likes it.” She gets a satisfied smile on her face that makes my antenna tingle.
“He's moving in?”
“Maybe. He prefers his condo, but agrees this apartment has appeal.”
Fi and I look at each other. “You told him the energy in his condo is draining, didn't you?” Fiona says lightly, pulling out packages of roast chicken. My mouth waters at the thought of the lemon-coated grilled potatoes coming next.
“It is draining! I've rearranged that place countless times, and–”
“Will got tired of having his place rearranged, so he's agreed to move in with you.”
“That's not how it is!” she protests. “He's just finally seen reason.”
Fiona and I hoot. We're close to being used by Hogwarts as Uber drivers.
“Mallory,” I say slowly, “Will has more than enough money to stay in his condo and not squeeze into a one-bedroom in-law apartment that you rent.”
She reddens.
Fiona frowns, picking up on the same signal that has my radar pinging. Something's off.
“Wait a minute,” Fiona says, setting down the styrofoam container in her hand. Sensing an out, Mallory's eyes alight on it. A lecture on recycling and environmental ruin via take-out containers is cueing up in her head as a possible distraction technique.
Mallory is good.
But Fiona teaches preschoolers.
She's a master.
“You're buying the entire house, aren't you?”
Mallory makes a sex-doll face. You know the kind? Mouth dropping to form a perfect O, the hole just right for, um...
Protesting.
“I heard the Bajerians were considering leaving town.”
“Who told you?”
“Your mom.”
“When did you talk to my mom?”
“She asked me to help her pick Himalayan sea salt for the custom-blend scrub you want at the bachelorette spa weekend.”
This is the first I've heard of it.
“Sharon called you about that?”
“Yes.”
“Mallory.”
Her hands go up in protest. “I didn't pick it! Mom insisted!”
“Apple didn't fall far from the tree.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You had a wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner, Mallory. Now you're making custom-blend Himalayan sea salt scrub for the bachelorette spa weekend. Do you hear my words?” I point to my lips. “It's like you're a walking wedding-satire account on Twitter.”
“Am not!”
“Is the wedding cake vegan?”
Her eyes fly wide open.
“No. Wait! Don't answer that.” I press my temple. “You have a vegan cake, a paleo cake, a keto one, and a–”
“Gluten free! Don't worry. We covered you. Turns out Fletch has a gluten-intolerance issue, too, and five people answered the pre-wedding survey with gluten-free options as a request, so–”
“Pre-wedding survey?”
“Didn't you get the Doodle poll?”
Fiona's lips curl in as she bites them.
“Can we change the subject?” Mallory whines, pulling out a souvlaki stick and shoving a piece of lamb into her mouth, chewing furiously. “Ooor oouining dah ooood.”
“What?”
Fi pushes my container toward me. “Eat.”
We do. It's good. Mom sniffs like we're the caterers at the Red Wedding and “The Rains of Castamere” is playing whenever we get take-out from Athena's, but it's the closest thing to Mom's cooking.
My grandma came here from Greece in the late 1930s and she taught Mom everything she knows. The gene broke somewhere in me, DNA strands snapping like weak branches on trees in an ice storm. Ditie is a born cook, but I can barely heat up a tray of grocery-store spanakopita without angering the gods.
“Please tell me you're not issuing instruction manuals for your wedding,” I choke out. “Like the ones they make fun of on Instagram.”
Mal's eyes get huge. For a split second, I worry I'll have to do the Heimlich.
Which makes me think of Parker.
Which makes me remember that kiss.
Which makes my body conjure that orgasm.
Which makes me want another one.
I shove a stuffed grape leaf in my mouth and chew.
“I
t won't be an instruction manual,” Mallory says primly, eyes shifty like she's giving congressional testimony. “Just a helpful welcome packet.”
“I pity your obstetrician,” Fiona says around a mound of potato spear.
Mallory starts choking. “What obstetrician? I'm not pregnant!”
“Your future one.” Shaking her head, Fiona fans her mouth to cool down her food.
“Why?” Mallory peeps, holding her mouth open and blowing out hard, the piece of meat too hot.
“Your birth plan is going to be epic. Have you started choosing the colors on your Excel spreadsheet yet? It'll have a legend, won't it?”
“And you'll use pivot tables,” I add.
“I would never use Excel to build a birthing plan!” Mal scoffs.
It's hard to hoot with rice pilaf (made gluten free for me by Athena, bless her) in your mouth, but Fiona and I manage somehow.
“I wouldn't! That's what AirTable is for!”
“Point made.”
“Point not made.”
“Mallory, what are you going to do when you realize you can't plan for everything in the world?”
“I didn't plan for Will.” The satisfied smile on her face makes me happy. Happy she let him in. Happy her wildest dreams really did come true.
Happy we get to hear about the real Will and are forever spared the never-ending stories about Fantasy Will.
“No. You didn't.”
“And you didn't plan for Parker.” Mallory licks her fingers.
Acid fills my mouth. “Sure didn't. What he did to me five years ago was–”
“I mean now, Perk.” Searching the counter for a napkin, she doesn't make eye contact.
“Huh?”
“He's back. You have to face it.” Her eyes meet mine, unblinking.
“I am facing it! How am I not facing it? He kissed me and I punched him and–”
“He's still in love with you.”
“I know. He told me.”
“He did?” Fiona jumps in, the conversation more compelling than a piece of grilled pita bread, and that's saying a lot.
“Yes.”
“What? Why?”
“I think because I said it first.”
“So much happened while I was changing my dress!”
“You didn't tell me you got back together!” Fiona says, accusatory.
“We didn't.”
“Wait wait wait. You told each other you still love each other?”
“Yes.”
“And you kissed.”
“Yes.”
“And you punched him?”
“Uh huh.”
“Then by Perky Relationship Standards, you're back together,” Fiona declares.
“He has always sworn he didn't do it.” Mal licks her fingers and grabs a potato wedge. Again.
“Creepy narcissists always say they didn't do it and then the police find the woman's head in a fifty-five gallon drum somewhere,” Fiona muses.
“You are cut off from those true-crime podcasts,” I inform her.
“They make me feel better about my life choices!” She bites into a piece of baklava I can't touch. “And I've learned never to get married because it's always the husband.”
“Perk.” Mallory finishes chewing and takes a sip from a bottle of flavored sparkling water she pulled out of her fridge. “How are you handling all this? It's a big deal to have Parker in town.”
“I'm fine.”
Huh. Didn't know Mallory could hoot, too.
“I am fine!”
“You're in denial.”
“Then I'm you, one year ago.”
Mallory's offended. Good. I hit a nerve.
“And you and Fiona are the ones who told me I was holding myself back from being who I really am by refusing to believe Will really was interested in me.”
“So?”
“So–you're doing the same with Parker.”
“You're–you actually think I should take that sleazeball back?”
“I think you should talk to the guy. And I don’t mean talk as in play Hide the Sausage in a coat closet at my wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner.”
Fiona stops, mid-chew, to gawk at Mallory. A thin line of honey slowly rolls down the corner of her open mouth.
“You think Perky should actually meet with Parker and have a conversation about what happened five years ago? After blocking him on all social media and on her phone? After having her parents hire teams of tech experts to strip that picture off the internet? After suing four different websites, claiming copyright violation on a photo of her tits?”
“Quit saying tits,” I grumble.
“After years of social media bullying, you seriously believe the guy?”
A big gulp makes Mallory's throat move.
“Yes,” she says with a little sniff that shows she's feeling the fear and doing it anyway.
“Why?”
“Because Parker Campbell has spent the last five years protesting that he's innocent. And he still loves you.”
“Not a good-enough reason.”
“And you love him right back.”
“Still not a good-enough reason.”
“Really?” The fire in Mal's eyes morphs into something worse than the righteous certainty she displays when she's dug in and convinced she needs to make me bend.
I can handle that kind of conflict. I know how to beat her.
What's radiating out of those earnest brown eyes right now is a weapon she doesn't even know she's using.
It’s the love from a bestie who is a true friend. In Ancient Greece, my mom explained to me a long time ago, the concept of a true friend meant someone who would call you on your stupid shit. No, the philosophers didn't use the phrase "stupid shit," but they might as well have.
Mallory and Fiona are true friends. They tell me when I'm being a dumbass.
Like now.
“Perky, what Parker did to you was atrocious. But what kind of guy sticks to the same story year in and year out? What kind of guy realizes that coincidence made him come to our wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner and then uses that time to plead with you–and tell you he still loves you?”
“And saves the life of a slimy jerkface who looked at your tits on the internet,” Fiona adds.
“Not helping,” Mallory hisses out of the side of her mouth.
I'm softening, though. I am, and I hate myself for it. Every word Mallory says makes my heart do jumping jacks. All these years, I’ve wanted to believe Parker was telling the truth.
Now Mal is saying I can crack that door open? Really?
“Remember, Mal, how you didn't want to take the job as a consultant for Will's company? How when he came back to town and found you on a porn set with a string of anal beds on the floor next to you and an oiled-up–”
“I remember.”
“Remember how he offered you the home-staging gig to sell his parents' house?”
“Of course.”
“You argued you didn't want to take the job because you didn't want to go back to being the person you were in high school. That you couldn't handle turning back the clock.”
“I did. Is that what holds you back? You don't want to be the person you were five years ago, with Parker?”
I shake my head, finally giving in to my tears.
“No,” I say as one drops on top of my hand. “That's the thing, guys. I do want to be the person I was with Parker. I do. And if I let myself go back and be that person again, then what have I done for the last five years?”
Fiona grabs my now-wet hand, Mallory clasping the other.
“Oh, God. What if I've been wrong all along? And what if Parker really didn't do it?”
8
Seahorse Cannon is allll over Parker.
Okay. Fine. That's juvenile. It's Saoirse. But she's attached herself to him like a barnacle on a hull, and barnacle doesn't work with her name.
She’s at Beanerino when I walk into work this morning–at nine a.m. sh
arp–the place teeming with media and staffers from Congressman Ouemann's office.
And Parker.
What the hell is Parker doing here? This was supposed to be Ouemann’s show.
“Congressman Campbell would like to make sure the lighting is...” someone behind me says in a high voice, the squeaky anxiety of a young woman who was adjusting her graduation cap just a few months ago piercing the air between me and the back counter. No one knows who I am, so I dodge my way through the cameras, careful not to trip on microphone cords.
Scratch that.
Someone knows exactly who I am.
“Persephone Tsongas?” Saoirse's voice has no twang this time, no inflection, and no warmth. “What are you doing here? You were at the restaurant the other night when Congressman Campbell saved that man's life.”
“I work here. Have we met?”
“No. But I've seen you everywhere.” Her smirk makes it clear where. That damn meme.
“Mmm.” The noncommittal sound isn't my usual tactic, but people like her seek attention. It's painful for them when you don't hand it out freely.
“I've heard plenty about you from Jennifer.” The emphasis on you makes my back teeth ache.
“Funny. I never heard a word from her about you.” It takes everything in me not to smile.
All pretense of decency melts off her face. “She's here, you know.”
My heart jumps into my throat as Thiago appears, running around like a man juggling crystal goblets. “Perky! We need you in the back. Some of the Sumatran turned and the shots are spoiled. We need a new dark roast!”
“Barista?” Her snide tone is so condescending.
“Mmmm.” No use in trying to prove myself to someone like her. Been there, done that, have the lingering bitter taste in my mouth from my tenth high school reunion last year.
“Saoirse?” Jennifer Tanager Campbell's voice sends shivers down my spine as she approaches us from behind, the air hug she gives Saoirse careful to avoid smearing her on-camera makeup. “I thought that was you!”
What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a set up.
A big fat set up.
They turn to me just as Parker appears, tall and sleek and in a bespoke suit, cut to fit his fine, muscular form. My mind goes AWOL for a moment, the small coffee shop overrun with people who don't fit in, the memory bank of how this could have happened hopelessly jammed.
