Love on Hold

by Mia Miller

  That last bit was a semi-truth. They did factual reporting, but they were center-left and could be biased from time to time. I waited for more questions, but he was just looking at me quizzically.

  “It came to my attention this morning that you’re preparing for a career in insurance? I’m not really sure how this fits with your journalistic endeavors. We are a long-term commitment kind of paper, not something to fill your time until the end of the semester.”

  I squeezed my fists on the armrests and hoped he didn’t look at my whitening knuckles.

  “I fully intend to commit long-term to the newspaper that gets me started on my investigative journalism path. I—”

  He waved his hand and didn’t let me finish.

  “I read your résumé and have reviewed your portfolio. Your articles in your high school paper were impressive. I liked the cafeteria food bits and the changes that seemed to have stemmed from those. I have to say, the pieces you did in your first couple of years of college are the most relevant. Follow-up on foster families from New York and the abuse going on that you showed through anonymous interviews is something I would pay you to continue to do … I thought you were onto something. I was a bit disappointed to see that you have since changed gears and have been writing mainly about the environment.”

  “It was the only spot they had at Stanford News but—”

  “You need a richer, more diversified portfolio to qualify for a job here.”

  “I applied for an intern position that was meant to help me get that portfolio with you—”

  “I’m afraid we no longer have room for interns.”

  He sounded adamant. I sounded like a wimp, letting him cut me off. If I needed to prove myself, then I needed to start from the bottom and not be afraid of it.

  “As of when?”

  “As of today.”

  What he meant to say was as of five seconds after my father called him.

  I nodded, ignoring the bitter knot in my throat, and made my way toward the door. I stopped with my hand on the doorknob and looked at the editor in chief.

  “Mr. Rogers. Does your closing of intern positions coincide with finding out about my … insurance career prospects?”

  He didn’t answer, not with words, but his working throat and his eyes did the job for him. I shut the door without another word.

  Greyhound had become a fast favorite. It was small and indistinct on the outside and had experienced bartenders who poured and didn’t question on the inside. Also, it had a neat dancing area. The owner always had discreet entertainers around of both the female and the male variety. Right then, I was watching two of the former: a blonde and a brunette. They were hand in hand and dancing salaciously in front of me. Their tits touched, and you couldn’t fit a needle between their semi-naked bodies. They moved slowly and watched me from time to time.

  Ordinarily, I’d rise from my chair and try to see how long it would take me to get them to let me dance between them. And then, once I was there, I would try to get them to let me do other things between them. Not tonight, though.

  I looked in front of me, at the booze. Man, but did I suck? I had counted down the damn days until I turned twenty-one and able to access my trust fund from grandparents I’d never met. Had moved across the country to escape seeing my father, too grossed out by his daily, slow suicide by alcohol, only to end up doing the exact same thing he was doing.

  I looked at my phone. It had been on silent since I walked into that shame of an interview. I had a few texts from Carrie, who was the first girl I’d taken home when I transferred to Stanford in the fall, and unfortunately for the both of us, she seemed to want to stick to me like wax. I’d have to see to that. But right that moment, I couldn’t deal with drama.

  I had yet another text from the man who’d spawned me.

  DICK: Come home.

  And at the bottom of my notifications, I had a new text from Scissors, from a couple hours back. I hadn’t heard from her since the morning.

  Scissors: How was your interview?

  Three

  “Who’s TDL?”

  LEONIE

  Note to self: throw phone deep into a pit before bed. Do not pass go. Do not answer calls from sexy male strangers during the night.

  I could barely function. I was in my last year at Stanford, on a full scholarship, and on top of my schoolwork, I worked part time at Stanford Hair and volunteered in the children’s ward. I was always over-caffeinated and always in need of a nap.

  Stanford campus was huge but thoroughly organized, and I’d come to know it like the back of my hand during my tenure there. It was really just a bunch of concentric circles, so finding my way between the multiple halls dedicated to my respective major was fairly easy.

  I normally navigated these hallways and alleys with nothing but studies on my mind, but I was dragging, still haunted by a voice. When I’d woken, I checked the number of the mystery caller. I’d thought about it long and hard while looking for my things in my messy room. It was a local California number, but his accent hinted that he may have been from New York. Never mind that. I was obsessing over the deepness, the velvet of the tone I’d heard, and there was something about it all that had me craving to hear it again.

  I was already running late for Arabic translations, which was part of my minor, and one of the reasons for my lack of sleep.

  I was just past the arcades that stood proud outside The Language Center, when I heard a –

  “Hey, little woman, wait up!”

  I groaned and walked just a bit faster. Freaking Daniel. It was pointless because he followed me.

  “Hey,” he said, snagging my elbow to pull me to a stop. “We need to talk.”

  I looked into his chocolate-brown eyes, and I took in his beautiful face as he stepped too far into my personal space.

  “What’s up, D? I have a class to get to.”

  “Mom needs that confirmation for Thanksgiving.”

  I knew that. Deanna Hastings and I talked on the phone at least once a week. Unlike her son, Deanna was sweet and she cared about my life on the campus, but Daniel and I had been broken up for a while now. It just didn’t seem to stick. I hadn’t given her an answer yet because I wasn’t sure. Unlike her son, she actually remembered my name and didn’t insist on calling me nicknames that reminded me every day about my small height. However, I knew deep down maybe it was time to cut these ties to the past altogether.

  “Hello? Earth to Munchkin! You know I never have anyone else beside me at that table but you.”

  That was also something I knew very well. Even after we had broken up, Daniel had insisted on keeping me a part of family meals. I knew he thought it would always be that way, but he was mistaken as to my motivations for continuing to go. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with how much I adored his mom. I owed her the kindness she’d granted me during high school.

  “There’s plenty of time until then, you know? But in theory, I’ll be there, D.”

  He grinned. “I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive together.” Then he leaned forward, his cologne—a new one he’d probably spent a fortune on—drowning me as he whispered, “Maybe one of these days, we go out and catch up, what do you say?”

  I wanted to say that if I hadn’t actually wanted to catch up with him a single time over the last four years, it was unlikely that I’d start anytime soon. Sometimes, I didn’t think he would ever actually leave high school where it belonged … in the damn past.

  “Yeah, sure. Call me, and we’ll set it up. I have to go now,” I answered, knowing Daniel would never call and I would never pick up if he did.

  For him, I was somewhere suspended between that girl he had in high school and that friend his mom kept in his life. He’d always used to joke about how we’d settle down together after college, but I’d never taken him seriously. Besides, I’d made peace with him and me not being a couple a long time ago.

  “Try not to have too much fun, Leonie,” he
said with a wink.

  “I’ll try,” I said, swallowing my self-loathing over not speaking out for the hundredth time.

  Daniel Hasting and I had been on and off and it was no doubt in his mind, per his behavior, that we would be on again. There was no doubt in my mind that would not be the case.

  I lingered in the hallway for a little while longer, watching Daniel while he strode away. He turned female heads and got smiles, as usual. He was sure he would have everything in life, and he would excel in politics, which his father had been grooming him for since before Daniel could walk. I didn’t even know if it mattered if Daniel even wanted that life, and he had never given an opinion about it either way. I guessed it was just a given, as was his huge inheritance, as was marriage to a “good girl.”

  I was just glad I would be out of that picture completely.

  But before that, I had to graduate, which meant I had a class to pass.

  “No, Aunt Theresa, I won’t have it!” I said, slightly out of breath as I jumped two stairs at a time.

  It was Tuesday evening, and we had story time. I was going to read them Hansel and Gretel—the real deal from my prized Brothers Grimm hardback with all the gory details. I hoped they’d still let me volunteer at the hospital after that.

  “I’ve told you that I’m doing just fine. You don’t need to keep sending money. It should be the other way around.”

  “Well, I’m doing just fine too. Remember? I have a full scholarship, which I never would have been able to get if it weren’t for you. So, if I want to send you money, you should let me. If you don’t want to use it for your medical bills, you can donate it.”

  How many times had she and I had this very same conversation? Each time, I would tell her the same thing, and each time, she took the out. My aunt, the woman who had taken me in even though she had been paralyzed in the same accident that killed my parents, was almost too proud for her own good. I had watched her struggle financially for years, but she had always made sure I never went without the things I needed. It was something I would never forget.

  “Okay, baby girl.” She heaved a heavy sigh, and even through the phone, I sensed her loneliness.

  “Enough about that. Tell me if you’ve thought any more about that job offer at the winery? I bet they could use the extra help.”

  “I have. I’m planning to call the owner sometime after the holidays. Speaking of which, are you making it home this year?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.” Most people preferred Christmas to Thanksgiving, but not me. Not that I didn’t like Christmas, I did, but we usually ended up at a spa or sauna, which wasn’t exactly festive. Thanksgiving had always been a weekend-long affair where we sat around in our pajamas, watched movies, and gorged on whatever we felt like eating. It was tradition, and I looked forward to it all year long.

  “That’s dandy, Leonie. I’ll make you pumpkin everything.”

  “I can’t wait. I have to run. I love you tons!”

  “I love you too. Have fun with the kids.”

  I let out a light laugh. “I always do.”

  I pushed the door to the ward with one shoulder, balancing the animal balloons I’d brought and some donuts in one hand, and got tackled by two of my kids. Their gap-toothed smiles and wrinkle-free foreheads made me forget about the knot of tears in my throat for a while.

  It was story time.

  “What have you brought us, babe?”

  My roommate was squealing and mock-growling with Glue when I kicked the door closed.

  I stopped her in her track and stuffed a beignet in her mouth.

  “You’re gonna make me fat!” she said, chewing with her mouth open as she squeezed me into a hug.

  Glue jumped around our feet, demanding our attention, and I hunched to kiss his little face before taking a seat on the couch. He was an adorable mix of Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and Yorkie. My roommate had searched for a dog that’d make the perfect couch potato, and she’d found him. Glue’s favorite pastimes were kissing and sleeping with the occasional squirrel stalking from the window. The building’s policy was for no pets, but Amaya would always say she had the “boobage” to get her way with the administrator. And she always did.

  Amaya and I had met in freshman year, and it had been a soul-sister-at-first-sight kind of bonding. She was different in all the right ways, enough to complete me, make me better, and always lift me up.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, we’re going out tonight!”

  “You do know it’s Tuesday, right? Don’t you have a class at, like, eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “No one is ever awake in that class. Script analysis lectures might as well be used as tranquilizers,” she said, taking it upon herself to sort through my closet. “The least you can do is come with me tonight so I have something to think about while I’m being tortured.”

  “It isn’t my fault you saved that course for your senior year. You should have listened to all the other film and media majors and taken it first.” That earned me a sharp look, which made me grin. “Fine. Where are we going anyway?”

  “Party at DKE.”

  DKE was the only frat house whose parties we still attended. They liked to party hard but were laid-back at the same time, and there was little to no shady activity in their ranks if you didn’t take the occasional goat theft incident into consideration.

  “Black or red?” She held up two corsets, my staple article of clothing.

  “Red,” I said without hesitation and she tossed it to me. After she hung the black one back in the closet, she started digging for whatever shoes she would demand I wear.

  “You know,” Amaya carried on as she tossed my favorite kitten heels to the side, “I’ll never understand it. You wear this gorgeous lingerie underneath almost everything else you have, and yet you never get laid. On purpose!”

  She was forced to rummage through my room in the mess that prevailed on my bed, in my bedroom, on the floor. Who had time to clean when there was so much to do?

  “It isn’t about getting laid,” I said and knew that was something she would never really understand. The woman lived for the chase. She wasn’t slutty, per say. She was just a flirt, a trait that she blamed on her heritage.

  As if my statement was blasphemous, she stood, made the sign of the cross, and whisper-shouted, “Aren’t you afraid it will dry out and fall off?”

  I burst into laughter. “Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.”

  Amaya stuck her tongue out at me and went back to tossing my shoes around.

  “Seriously, I know you don’t believe in love and stuff … but no one says you have to marry the guy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me and then tossed me a pair of knee-high boots.

  At my five-two, heels were a necessity. The only times I didn’t wear them were in the shower and in bed. My feet were accustomed to a permanent state of numbness.

  “Shut up, stop perving, and go get dressed. Or else I will change my mind and stay home and study. Like I actually should!” I hollered after her.

  In truth, I didn’t mind being dragged out of the apartment. If it was still an every-weekend thing like it had been our freshman year, I may have protested, but it had been almost a month since we hung out and did something that didn’t involve studying.

  “And it isn’t that I don’t believe in love,” I called out as I pulled my shirt off and started to fasten all the hooks on my corset. “It’s just not on my radar.”

  I had just pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and was headed to the living room when a text alert sounded. I swiped the phone from the table, shaking my head and smiling. A tiny part of me really wanted it to be the guy from last night returning the text I’d sent him earlier.

  Unfortunately, it was Amaya’s phone on the table. We would often mistake the two gadgets, owning the same model and color. It had never been a problem because we didn’t have things to hide.

  “Hey, you have so many texts from a dude!�
� I called after her.

  “Well, so do you! Who’s TDL?”

  Amaya emerged from her bedroom, and we traded phones. She was halfway dressed in a saffron-colored dress that complemented her olive skin tone wonderfully, and she was smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

  “Shut up.” I grinned back. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the party.”

  Four

  “Do You Like Ribs?”

  The music was loud, the booze abundant, and there was a ton of boisterous laughing and plenty of drinking games all around. Just another party at a frat house. Amaya always joked that my soul was too old, and I had no issues with that. I just didn’t have fun in large gatherings. It seemed too repetitive: dance, drink, laugh with someone I’d met in classes but had forgotten their name.

  My brain was focused on too many things already, and I figured I had all the fun in the world ahead of me after I’d graduated. After I had my own place. Just … after.

  “We’ll stay just one hour. I promise. And because I love you, I won’t do shots,” Amaya said, giving me a wink before she disappeared toward the kitchen.

  I saw her throwing up her middle finger toward a corner of the room and my gaze landed squarely on Daniel. He didn’t have eyes for anyone but the blonde girl that was with him. There was some serious mutual groping going on. In the few minutes I stood there trying not to watch the show they were putting on, I decided that it was a bad idea to take a picture of him and send it to his mom. Though, I hadn’t ruled out taking a picture to hold on to if I ever needed to blackmail a politician.

  Amaya came back holding two Solo cups, saw where my attention was, and screwed her face into a look of disgust. “After all this time, I still don’t get it. Don’t you just want to kick him in the nuts?”

  “Whatever for?” I shrugged.

  “For being a classless jerk? You don’t suck face in front of the lady whose V-Card you took.”