by Julia Kent
“She's right,” Jolene says pleasantly as we step into a two-story glass-enclosed solarium, like something out of a Regency novel. Or maybe the Amazon spheres in Seattle. It feels like a biodome, both modern and antique, the air so fresh. Each inhale feels like helium.
“I do not have a higher self. And if I did, it would be ashamed of me.”
“For plotting to use revenge sex against Parker?”
“No. For letting myself be fooled by him.”
Jolene turns on a tea kettle, taking out four steeping contraptions. Shaking loose tea that smells like basil, she apportions our drinks, then stops and gives me a penetrating look.
“You know what you need to do.”
“I do?”
“Absolutely.”
“What is it?”
“I can't tell you.”
“You pay her for advice like this?” Mallory says to Fi out of the corner of her mouth.
“You're the one who won't let anyone position a couch under a support beam.”
“Because feng shui principles make it clear that's madness!”
“Feng shui is just another form of geopathic sensitivity,” Jolene says calmly. “Good to know I'm in expert company,” she says with a nod to Mal, who blushes modestly.
Jolene knows how to work a room.
Am I supposed to feel two strong, contradictory forces inside me? On the one hand, I am cradling my rational mind in my cupped hands, simultaneously protective and yet also encouraging it to open itself to this possibility. Am I hearing and feeling energy no one else is?
Really?
It says no. Firmly. My mother buys into stuff like this. Not me.
On the other hand, there is a piece of me–the same damn piece that loved Parker with such abandon–with its arms open wide, facing the wind, embracing this revelation.
And the hardest part?
I'm pretty sure both are right.
Just like Parker and me.
He’s here, whether I like it or not. And I do like it. Nothing I do makes him leave. His energy is in me, carried everywhere. Trying to shake him off is like wishing I didn’t have my right thumb.
I can cut it off, but where does that leave me?
Bzzz.
With a look of apology to Jolene, who seems to be personally offended that I forgot to turn off my phone, I look at the screen, my finger on the power button to turn it off.
It's Parker.
Speak of the devil.
Nice seeing you today. Don't worry, I sucked most of that coffee off my shirt.
The words "sucked off" and "Parker" trip through my mind.
You sure that wasn't Saoirse doing the sucking? I type back. As I hit Send, Jolene's head jerks up sharply, as if she knows.
She can't know. I'm faced away from her.
I hold the Power button down. I see three dots on my screen as Parker concocts some sort of explanation, a denial, a statement.
The screen goes white, then black, before my eyes.
Like my heart.
12
Mallory was right. The restaurant is perfect.
A server carrying an enormous tray of chocolate and cream and cake and strawberries dodges her way around me as I walk into the small, brick-walled bistro. Mallory told me the place was basically nothing but food porn, and judging from the luscious spread I'm eyeing, the server's spin showing tiramisu and some kind of pavlova made with mango and grilled pineapple, it absolutely is.
A flash of red hair in the distance tells me Mal’s already here for our double date.
She’s sitting next to a button-down shirt wearing a big smile.
And yes, I’m here. I decided to attend this farce. Remember? I’m opening myself up to possibilities. Embracing uncertainty. Being expansive and namanasty and whatever…
Ok. Fine. I just can’t stay away from him.
Plus, I have a video to make.
As the light shifts and my eyes adjust, I take in the sight of my best friend sitting with her fiancé, their hands together, fingers intertwined, the big rock on her finger gleaming in the light. They lean into each other the way that truly intimate couples do.
The casual crossing of lines between two human beings is a sign of affinity, of trust, a sign of something more than just love.
Once upon a time, I leaned into Parker like that.
Once upon a time, I trusted Parker like that.
Once upon a time, I deeply loved him, just like that.
But that was a time long ago, and time can’t be turned back.
Can it?
Whatever apology he’s about to deliver tonight, he can’t erase what’s been done. Whatever goal he has for this double date is tainted by Saoirse. He’ll say that they’re not together. He’ll say that he still loves me. He’ll say that he never released that photo five years ago.
Parker says lots of things. It’s what Parker does that matters. Actions speak louder than words, but only when they are authentic.
Only when they are sincere.
The anti-revenge-porn bill that he’s co-sponsoring in Congress says a lot. His relentless–and I must admit, endearing–pursuit of me since the night of the wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner says a lot, too.
The body can lie. It’s only human, after all, right?
You know what can’t lie? The heart.
And right now my heart is tap dancing under my ribs as I walk up to the booth to find Parker sitting with Mallory and Will, engaged in an amused conversation that fills me with a wistful sweetness and dread at the same time.
“Persephone,” he says, standing quickly, stepping out of the booth so that I can slide in. His hand goes to the small of my back, as if we are as intimate now as we were in the past. It’s also an electric gesture, almost transgressive, because my body and his body have not yet signed a treaty that defines where we can and cannot cross the boundaries between us.
“Parker,” I say, turning to Mal, who stretches up for a hug. As I bend down, Parker’s hand pulls away from me. The quick press of her cheek against mine makes me feel safe. I get a smile from Will, who can’t reach me across the booth, and we all settle down.
Except for my heart.
Before I can say another word, the server appears. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks in a too-chipper voice.
My eyes dart around the table. I take in Mallory’s half-full glass of wine, Will’s empty tumbler of something that was amber, and Parker’s half-full pint of dark beer.
“A dirty vodka martini with three olives,” I say.
She asks which brand of vodka, and when I name it, Parker chuckles. As the server skitters away, I turn to him.
“Something funny?”
“That’s a brand made in Texas,” he says with a slow drawl. "It's made from corn, gluten free." His parents weren’t from Texas, so Parker doesn’t have the accent ingrained in him, but he was born there. It comes out sometimes, a cadence that slips easily into his speech, from a culture so strong that it claims you forever.
My heart skips a beat.
It slips, too.
He moves, man-spreading slightly, shifting in the booth. His right thigh brushes against my left, and then he pulls back away, leaning with a casual elbow to the right.
“When did you start drinking dirty vodka martinis?”
Mallory looks at me as I answer with a laugh that doesn’t reach my eyes, “The night you came into town.”
“And there it is,” he says simply, hands going flat on the booth.
A chill cools my skin, though it's not from fear. Even discomfort doesn't quite explain it. Mallory and Will go still. We're in close quarters, fully formed adults now, and the two people across from me are really in it with us.
I don't have to hide. I don't have to fake any feelings here.
And neither does Parker.
“I've already apologized,” Parker says, and those words coming from any other man's mouth would have a defensive tone to them, produced by bruis
ed ego combined with salty regret. The server interrupts, appearing with my martini and sliding it onto a printed coaster right in front of me.
I do a double take at the logo.
The Energy Master, it says, with a small lightning bolt right under the edge of my glass.
Martini glasses are simple cones, but this one looks like a piece of Art Nouveau, a thin line of blue glass swirled in curlicues around the edge. The liquid inside is smoky, three fat olives with pimentos peeking out in a flash of red, like a bullfighter urging on a bull.
I'm ready to charge deep.
“And I'll apologize again,” Parker continues after the server leaves, my mouth already tickled by the perfect blend of olive brine, vodka, and vermouth. The sip goes down smooth, like ocean water.
Like drinking tears.
Five years' worth.
There's a pause, a chance to catch my breath, as all of us take a moment to sip, to look away, to turn inside and regroup.
Then Parker says, “But I regret nothing.”
Tapping on the edge of his glass, Will's first knuckle makes a thumping sound, fast and muted, like the underbeat of a song. He stops abruptly and looks at me.
Not Parker.
“How did you two meet?” he asks, prompting Mallory to sputter slightly. His obvious ploy for breaking the tension is a little too obvious.
Will's question is genuine, though. His blue-green eyes meet mine, the color of a dark robin's egg. Mallory wasn't the only girl in high school with a crush on him.
And for the record, the rumor someone started that I stole his jockstrap in ninth grade and huffed it every night was just a rumor.
In the seconds before I look away, I see all the Wills. This is what’s wonderful about having lifelong friends. I see ninth-grade Will with broad shoulders, long, lean arms, and a self-assured walk. Twelfth-grade Will, the burst of testosterone adding muscle, the scruff of beard, the squared jaw, and the confidence to hold the frame in any situation.
Twenty-eight-year-old Will last year, returning to town, walking back into Anderhill to take over his parents' real estate company after his father's cancer scare (and, thank goodness, recovery).
And Will now, my best friend's fiancé, asking me this totally normal question.
“We met in jail,” Parker answers simply.
I nod.
What? It's the truth.
“Which one of you was behind bars?” Will asks politely, cutting his eyes to Parker, who chuckles.
“Guess,” I say, drinking half my martini, the crisp, cold mouthfeel grounding me.
“What were the charges against Perky?” Will asks, not even pausing to think. “Something involving assault, Skip? Er, I mean, Parker?” A rue head shake follows the slip of name, reminding me that Parker's had five years of experiences away from me. People know him who I've never heard of. He's a congressman for goodness sake.
And he's here. With me. With my bestie and her guy and we're being so normal.
Other than talking about me being in jail and all.
Squinting, Parker scratches his chin, a devilish smile making the pause feel delicious. Or maybe that's the martini. My mouth fills with salt and memory.
Olives always evoke sophistication, smooth and full. I can't really taste the vodka but it gives me liquid courage, a soul sister supporting me as I mourn for a relationship I never had.
But could have had, if life had been different.
If Parker had been different.
And what I really, desperately want more than anything (except Parker) is a damn cigarette. Olives may represent a worldly, cosmopolitan layer of life, but a nicotine stick gets shit done.
“If I recall correctly,” he answers, “the charges against Persephone included unlawful assembly–”
“We had a permit!”
“–and you ignored the police order to disperse.”
“WE HAD A PERMIT!”
Will's eyes light up with amusement. Mallory drains her drink and waves the empty glass in the air to signal the server.
“Resisting arrest–”
“We went limp! How could we be resisting when we exhibited the clinical signs of hypotonia?”
His hand goes to my knee, the fingers spread, a light touch meant to convey familiarity. To bridge a gap.
To right a wrong.
“They brought thirty-seven of you in that night. All detained in a cell intended for ten prisoners.”
Squeeze.
“Back up, back up,” Will says, laughing. Stretching his arm across the back of the booth, he pulls Mallory in, as if settling in for a story. “What were you protesting?”
Parker's hand doesn't move. I don't want it to move. I've spent five years not touching him. Now he's touching me. If I slough him off, if I shift away, if I scooch a few inches to the right, I break the contact.
I can't. It's as hard to separate as it would be to stop breathing.
Feeling energy others can't detect is my superpower, right? Jolene basically said so yesterday.
Who renounces their superpower?
“She was protesting the use of slave labor to make the AlwaysDoll,” Parker says somberly.
A snort comes out of Will, casual and free. Normally, he's a fairly controlled guy, so maybe the alcohol loosened him up.
“You got arrested because of a sex doll.”
“No! I got arrested because of the working conditions greedy corporations inflict on their female workers. The red dye on the dolls' lips contained lead! Can you imagine sticking your face in a set of labia two thousand times a day, day in and day out?”
Parker's grip on my knee tightens.
Will looks at Mallory. “I can,” he says solemnly, nodding.
The hand on my knee is attached to a man who is shaking slightly, trying to control his laughter.
“You assholes,” I mutter as the server appears with another glass of wine for Mallory.
“Perky was looking for a purpose after she graduated from UMass and her trust fund kicked in,” Mallory says suddenly, eyeing me like she's decided to go for it and spill my secrets for my own good.
“Who wouldn't?” I ask, drinking a bit more.
Will frowns, as if the bridge of his nose is reacting to something but the rest of his face can't quite agree. “The lottery money?”
I nod. “I never have to work again. And it was unearned. I have an obligation to help people who can't help themselves.”
“That sounds very noblesse oblige,” Parker replies. I look up sharply, expecting a smirk, but instead I get a sort of admiration that shakes me.
“We're not exactly old money here, Parker. Not like you. Your mom's family has had money from the days of trading fake beads with the natives.”
“The Tanager name carries its own set of obligations. Just like your lottery money.” He finishes his beer and as he sets down the glass, his wrist angles down, flashing a Blancpain. Unlike most guys our age, Parker still wears a watch. A long time ago, he told me it conveyed seriousness to the older men he worked with. Gave him the gravitas a new law school grad really needed.
I also know it was a college graduation gift from his mom, handed down from his great-grandfather.
“Money is a weight,” Will adds. “Managing Mom and Dad's company comes with plenty of privileges, but responsibility, too.”
“When you're me, being arrested is a form of privilege.”
Eyebrows shooting up, Will cocks his head and gives me a look without saying a word.
His expression demands an explanation.
“I have money. I work in a coffee shop for fun. I don't need my paycheck. I feel guilty.”
“So you protest and get arrested out of guilt?”
“Not only that, but sure–it's part of it. I have the luxury of being able to go out on the line and fight for the rights of people who can't do it for themselves. I won't lose my kids or my job if I'm arrested.”
“That is crazy,” Parker says, the hand on my knee stiffeni
ng. I remember these arguments from five years ago, our nine months together fraught with conflict over this one issue.
“You think the best way to defend the rights of others is to do it from within the system,” I say lightly but seriously.
“And you think that shaking up the system is the only way to enact change.”
“Tastes great,” Will says.
“Less filling,” Mallory laughs.
“We're never, ever going to agree on this, Parker,” I say to him, moving my hand over his, patting it.
Until he flips his hand, grabs mine, and holds hard.
“That's what makes being with you so interesting, Persephone,” he says, looking me in the eye.
The server sets down a basket of focaccia with caramelized onion, pan-seared rosemary, and salt chunks on top, breadsticks, and some sort of multigrain bread with whole pepitas in the crust. She drizzles olive oil onto a small plate, then leaves quickly. Mallory digs in. I can’t touch it, of course.
And then she adds a smaller plate, with a different kind of bread, the plate lined with a red circle around the edge. “This is gluten-free,” she says, offering a small separate dipping bowl for oil.
“Thank you,” I say, grateful my friends said something to the server before I even arrived.
“We get a lot of ribbing for being together,” Will says to Parker, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“We do?” Mallory enquires, holding her head in the universal gesture that warns guys to watch the next words out of their mouth.
Parker's smirk deepens, but Will? Will forges on.
“I do. You know. Hometown girl and guy, high school sweethearts, the whole nine yards.”
“You have people claiming we were high school sweethearts?” Her voice notches up. Will takes a piece of focaccia and dips it in oil. I do the same, stifling a moan. Flavor explodes on my tongue, the top of the crust brushed with a roasted garlic concoction you don't see, only taste.
Parker, who isn't stupid, just leans back, ready to be entertained.
“Sure. And Philippe takes credit for bringing us together all the time, after we went to that dance lesson together at Bailargo on your failed dance date.”
Parker grins. “What is a ‘failed dance date’?”
“Don't ask,” I whisper out of one side of my mouth.
