by Piper Lawson
“You date, then,” I retort over my shoulder.
I feel like a dick the second I say it.
My mom and dad are the quintessential couple. Strongest ever.
Were.
I set the albums with the others by the door and brush my hands on my jeans. When I return to the kitchen, my mother looks uncomfortable. Way to go, asshole.
But she paints on a smile. “Let me get the menu. They added new special rolls.”
She leaves the room, and I rub my hands over my face.
I’d say my mom and I are close, but as a kid, I was always closer with my dad.
At least until I went to college. Since I finished my undergraduate degree, we were never the same.
Sometimes it feels as if he’s still here, as if I’ll turn a corner and see his face, his tall, lean frame.
In those moments, I want to lie on the floor and stare up at the ceiling until the numbness evolves into a dull tingling in my hands, my feet.
I pull out my phone and click open the email containing the list of letters and numbers which would be meaningless to 99.999% of the population.
Meeting Rena Tuesday at my lab had surprised me on more than one level. She’d asked good questions and got me thinking about things I’d never considered.
For one, that people might not even care unless it’s clear that it can help them.
My former self would’ve lamented the lack of public funding for basic science. But even if I had the inclination, I can’t afford the luxury of discriminating. I have bills to pay.
Still, as I add a short line of text to the email from Carly and hit Forward, I realize that this week’s developments have brought me the start of something I haven’t felt in the weeks since my dad died.
Hope.
I stick the phone in my back pocket and cross to the drawers next to the sink. I open the second one and manage to knock the chopsticks to the back of it.
“Dammit,” I grunt.
I’m dropped down on a knee, fishing around behind the drawer, when the phone vibrates. I rock back on my heels to read the text.
Rena: Got your email.
A cramp starts in my thigh, but I ignore it because the dots continue almost immediately.
Rena: It says I’m half Scandinavian and half ostrich?
That’s not even…Ugh.
Wait. She’s trying to provoke me.
I consider, then type back.
Wes: Don’t shoot the messenger.
That was the other surprising thing about Rena: I enjoyed talking with her. Sure, when you spend your days in a lab, an attractive woman taking even a mild interest in your work is a huge turn on.
But more than once on Tuesday, I’d caught myself not only looking at her, but curious to know what she’d say next.
I’m about to rise when dots appear again.
Rena: I can’t believe I gave my saliva to a geek.
Before I can decide whether to take offense at the label, familiarity tingles in my brain.
The circuit trips as I remember: Molly Ringwald.
This time she’s testing me.
Pshhh.
My fingers fly over the screen, correcting her quote.
Wes: You mean your panties.
The second I hit Send, the cramp in my leg is long forgotten, and it’s all thanks to a few black lines on a digital screen.
And John Hughes gets some credit too.
My gaze pulls to the top of the screen, where an auto-retrieved photo probably pulled by bots from a social profile hovers in a tiny circle.
I can’t begrudge its origins because she’s beaming, her teeth flashing white against the familiar red lipstick, and her hair’s pulled back.
It would be reasonable if part of me was attracted to her simply for what she represents: the girl I could never have.
But she’s already forgotten that kiss. I have too.
I’ve forgotten how she smells. And tastes. And how that ponytail bounces—
“Wesley!”
I jerk upright, hitting my head on the counter and wincing as blood rushes up in a wave. “What?”
“You’re smiling,” she accuses.
“Am not.”
Before I can object, Mom’s leaning over my shoulder.
Judging by the mix of triumph and delight on her face, I’m a beat late to turn off the screen.
“It’s from Sixteen Candles,” I protest because the idea that my mom thinks she caught me flirting is strangely horrifying, like the time she walked in on me masturbating under the covers in high school.
She pats the top of my head. “Sure it is, honey.”
7
Rena
I know it’s going to be a tough day before I make it to the office on Friday.
Scrunchie escaped first thing, and I barely remembered to grab my favorite lipstick on my way out the door. Then the guy I was supposed to get a parking pass from failed to show, and I ran out of time to find real parking, so I’m totally getting a ticket, if not towed, for the “spot” I squeezed into downstairs.
It gets worse once I turn on my computer. One of my regular clients sent me a campaign we have to redo because some public interest group reacted to a joke we’d made. So, by lunch, I’m hauling ass in a million directions.
Today’s also our weekly team recap, which means an update on projects and new business.
I give an update on the clients I’m working with, including the development from this morning. “And I have a prospect for new business.”
Daisy’s chin lifts. My boss is interested.
I tell her about Wes’s program. “They have a huge market research population.”
“And what’s the problem?”
“How do you know there’s a problem?”
“You wouldn’t be presenting it like you’re trying to sell me a bomb wrapped in cashmere with a satin bow.”
Damn, she’s good.
“Wes—the client—is interested in flipping the company. He’d like to put together some marketing collateral with the purpose of selling it. He’s not looking for a long-term arrangement.”
Understanding dawns on her face. “I didn’t start this company to gouge clients for a quick dollar on a single campaign. We invest in their business, and we expect them to invest in us.”
“I understand.” I don’t tell her that I’m also not sure how he’ll pay for it.
“Keep working on the new business. Kendall?”
My friend runs through an update from her notes, ending with a company whose line of business makes me raise a brow.
“What’s ASMR?” I ask.
“Autonomous sensory meridian response,” she reads. “It’s like that feeling when someone’s doing your hair. It makes you shiver.”
“There’s a company selling that?” I ask incredulously.
“Yep. They have a video channel people watch when they need to relax or fall asleep. Though it’s less about the video than how the sound interacts with your brain.”
Wow. That’s way worse than Crotchmaster.
“Rena?” I turn toward my boss’s voice. “Help Kendall with her new client.”
Daisy’s gone before I can respond.
“You deserved that,” Kendall says with a smile.
I groan. “Come on. I babysat your kid last night. He had all the same limbs when you got home.”
“And I’m eternally grateful. Except now he won’t stop insisting we get a skunk.”
“It really is the best lifestyle.”
Kendall’s kid is super sweet. I haven’t babysat in ages, but Rory was a lot of fun.
Kendall clicks open a window on her computer, and I watch the video she pulls up. A woman with dark hair is whispering. She takes a hair brush and runs it in front of a microphone.
“What the…? Tell me she’s not sticking that somewhere,” I say.
Kendall cracks up. “Only against the microphone. But people swear by it. And this woman racks up millions of views.”
Someone knocks on the conference room door. “We have a meeting in… Is that our client?”
Two more people join us to watch these videos.
“How much money do they make?” one of the guys says.
“Seven figures a month from ad revenues alone.”
Kendall’s response elicits a low whistle.
“What do you think?” Kendall says at last, turning to me.
“Honestly? I think people are twisted.”
“People do things to feel good.”
We all whirl at the sound of Daisy’s voice. Kendall snaps the computer closed as our boss folds her arms. The other staff scatter instantly.
“That’s why we have this business—because no matter what kind of technology comes, people want the same things. Comfort. Security. Love. Acceptance. Are you going to judge them for it?” Daisy shoots me a look before continuing down the hall toward the printer.
My boss is a badass. She wants to run the biggest female-owned marketing firm on the East Coast, and something tells me she’ll succeed.
And now I’m more than a little chastened.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask Kendall. “They’re going to brush peoples’ hair on the corner of East 57th and Madison?”
“No. They have a boutique where you can go and experience it firsthand.”
“Huh. Can we meet next week? I need to finish fighting this fire before the weekend.”
“Sure thing,” she says as I gather my things. “And too bad about that guy Wes. He was seriously cute. It sucks you have to tell him no.”
“Mmm,” I say, noncommittal.
I found myself thinking of Wes more than once since Tuesday.
When I ordered my favorite vegan bowl with steak for lunch.
When a friend posted on social about her hellish online dating experience.
Anytime I saw a guy in a suit with light brown hair, I’d look to see if his eyes were blue.
But once I tell him no, I’m never seeing him again.
It shouldn’t be a big deal.
I can forget his mouth, firm with a hint of give. The hard body that had me itching to run my hands under his jacket.
It would be easier to forget Wes if he didn’t make such an impression when we weren’t kissing. Spending an hour at his lab, watching him nerd out, was kind of fascinating. He’s not my usual type, but his competence was a serious turn on.
And then, there was the email Wes sent me while Rory and I had been stirring risotto, followed by the text messages that had me cracking up.
“You are telling him no, right?” Kendall’s voice cuts into my thoughts.
I clear my throat. “What else would I tell him?”
With a suspicious look, Kendall returns to her computer.
Over the afternoon, I finish redrafting the campaign for my client, catch up on some billings, then RSVP to a couple of brand events.
It’s after five when a text comes in.
I’ve sent my brother a flurry of texts since he took my car—at first angry, later asking whether he’s okay.
All my texts have gone unanswered.
Until now.
Beck: Dad doesn’t think I’m okay. Apparently he hacked my therapist’s records.
“What is it?” Kendall asks, glancing up from her computer.
“My brother’s being a little asshole, but this? This is not okay.”
I text back.
Rena: Where is he?
Beck: Probably the club.
I go down to my car. Sure enough, it’s been towed.
I send up a curse at my brother and the world in general. This is what I get for being involved. Why I was so grateful to get out of here in the first place.
I take a cab to the club, a stone building with turn-of-the-century architecture, popping a couple of antacids on the way.
I stride through the lobby on my heels, craning my neck to peek into the lounge. It looks as though they’re setting up for an event with towers of glasses, and a few people are sitting in club chairs. From here I can see a Dali, two Pollocks, and a de Kooning.
Because God forbid anyone think they’re old-fashioned.
“Have you seen my father?” I ask the guy at the desk after giving him my name.
“He’s likely finished his exercise by now.”
I can either wait and hope my father surfaces or take matters into my own hands.
My gaze lands on the changing room door across the lobby. I slide my sunglasses up on my head as I start across the carpet. A few male glances tilt my way, but no one stops me until I’m nearly at the door.
“Miss?” Then more urgent. “Miss!”
I hear glasses break behind me, but I don’t stop. I shove open the door to the men’s changing room. Holy crap, there’s wainscoting here too.
I turn the first corner, and some half-naked old guys appear. I hold a hand over my eyes so I can still see the floor, which changes to tile as I charge past the foyer.
“Dad?” I holler.
Murmuring and laughing turns to disgruntled whispering and slamming of lockers as I wind my way through. I’m like Perseus slaying the Gorgon because I don’t dare look ahead of me.
These guys keep fit, but I’m still not pumped to see naked sixty-year-olds.
I get to the showers. “Dad!”
“Rena?” a low voice demands.
It’s not my dad.
I turn back, forgetting to keep my hand over my face as I blink against the overhead lights.
That’s why it takes a second for me to realize the stunningly sculpted, way-south-of-sixty man standing in front of me—naked save for the towel slung low on his hips—is Wes Robinson.
The broad shoulders I’ve seen fill out his jacket look even broader without it. He’s strong everywhere but lean too, the outline of his pecs and abs transitioning seamlessly from shallow muscles to flat planes. His hair’s dark from his shower, his body glistening.
And holy hell, I’m not prepared to watch the drop of water slide off his hair, down his neck, and across his shoulder.
Is that the same droplet running down his pec, following the curve down to abs that definitely didn’t come from sciencing?
I force my eyes up to his. “Wes. Hi.”
“Hi.” I forgot his voice was that low. Maybe I misremembered it.
“I’m looking for my dad.”
His brow creases. “And this is where you typically find him.”
“Not so much. But it’s urgent.”
He moves to the side as another man, staring at me as if I’m a hologram that might steal his stock portfolio, sneaks past us toward the lockers.
“Are you okay?” Concern has him stepping closer.
No. I want to stab a finger, accusing, in his broad chest, like he should’ve had the decency to announce at the outset, WARNING: I’m smart and have killer abs.
Before I can lift a hand—to keep distance between us or maybe to cop a feel of that chest, I’m not sure—Wes’s towel slips.
I can’t stop my inhale as he goes for it.
He comes up with it in time, but not before I get a look at an intriguing trail of hair that starts low on his abs.
Continues down and disappears under the white cotton.
I’m envious of a gym towel. This is a new low.
“Miss!” We both turn as the attendant catches up to me. “You can’t be in here. You’re breaking all kinds of rules.”
“Excuse me,” I say, lifting my chin. Then I turn back to Wes. “It was nice to… see you.”
“Of course,” he says, still looking tousled and way too sexy for his own good.
I go outside and notice a guy in kitchen clothes cleaning up broken glass. Probably the tray the attendant dropped when I ducked into the changing room.
I worked in the service industry in college. It sucks cleaning up after people who think they own you because they pay their drink bill.
Although the scenery is better, I can only imagine work
ing somewhere like this is worse.
I hold out a hand for his broom and bucket. “Put the charges on our account.”
The way I say it leaves no room for arguing, and I look for a spot with no glass so I can kneel and sweep up the shards.
My plan to come down here was half-cocked at best. Even if I found my father, I wouldn’t really give him hell. That’s not how our family works. In twenty-four years, I’ve never chewed out my dad. Not that I haven’t thought about it.
I’m not sure why I reacted so strongly to my dad’s actions with Beck. Maybe because they were so out of line. Or because they showed how much he cared…
I get halfway done before a familiar voice cuts into my thoughts. “Let me help.”
I tilt my face up to see Wes hovering over me, wearing chinos and a navy V-neck sweater, his hair still damp from his shower.
I hand him the dustpan. “No tie today?”
“Didn’t want you ripping it off me.”
I smile, my eyes on the carpet. “So you knew I’d be here? And also, I didn’t rip it off you. I just figured you’d look more comfortable without it. And you do.” I sneak a look at him as he empties the glass into the bucket with a shimmer of clinks. “How’d you get so sweaty?”
“Jake and I box Tuesdays and Fridays.”
Picturing Wes half-naked in the ring, those muscles in action, is a distracting visual.
“Are you any good?”
“I hold my own. But it’s not really fighting. It’s a sport.”
“Maybe you’ve never had something worth fighting for.”
“Does anybody in this place?”
I let out a low laugh. “Of course they do, Wes. You think people who want something fight hard? Not nearly as hard as people with something to lose.”
He turns the words over in his mind.
“Rena, on her knees for a man?” Jake’s voice has both of us turning.
I shoot him a syrupy smile. “Don’t be jealous.”
Jake glances at his watch. “Wesley, something came up, and I need to get going. I’m sure Rena would share a drink with you.” They shake hands, and Jake tosses me a look on his way to the door. “Oh, and I looked at your submission for the charity event next week. You know your mother’s on the board.”
