by Piper Lennox
Alvin burst out laughing. He and his wife, Beatrix, were almost three times my mother’s age; his skin was leathery from the sun, pruny with age, and marked in faded blue ink from his days in the Navy. Sometimes he’d hold his arms out to let Levi and me stretch the skin and see his tattoos properly, like one of those MAD Magazine fold-ins in reverse.
My favorite was the one on his wrist, a barn swallow with just the lightest bit of peach left in its chest. Its beak held a banner that read, “Trixie Treat.”
“I’m not going to punish you, baby.” Mom pushed my hair back from my face. I’d never had a haircut—it wasn’t until we moved and I started public school, when the principal demanded it, that Mom granted me my wish to chop it off—so she was always doing that: pushing it out of my eyes, a fringe of dirty brown replaced by her face, the world suddenly clear.
After that, we were allowed to climb as much as we wanted, as long as we weren’t stupid about it. I had no problem following that rule, limiting myself to the trees I already knew by heart, the trailers whose owners didn’t mind my heavy, scrambling fall.
But Levi—he was the daredevil. He liked scaling new places: the riskier, the better. His favorites were locked buildings, like the office of the neighboring park, to see if he could get inside and back out without anyone noticing. I was forced to take the role of Lookout, every time.
Even from the ground, though, I learned. I’d watch Levi’s hands as they felt for the perfect grip; the way he’d shift his weight to one foot until the other had found, tested, and procured the best hold possible. I learned to eye screws for rust and mortar for cracks. Pretty soon, I could spot crumbling cement from a vertical mile away.
When we left Freedom Farm, Levi stopped climbing. Our new house had one tree on its property, rotting from the inside out. In the spring, it didn’t even grow leaves.
I kept going. Fences around the baseball fields at school; the thick, scratchy rope spilling from the gym rafter; lattice winding down friends’ houses when parties got busted. It made me feel like a little kid again, tumbling across the roof of Al’s trailer. The only thing missing was Levi.
“We’re too old for that shit, Co,” he’d mutter, whenever I’d try and tempt him. If I returned banged up and bruised—which was rare; I got better, every year—he’d shake his head and call me an idiot. Eventually, I stopped asking.
The climb was fun. It still is. But it’s the peak that feels best: bracing yourself as you rise, your perspective completely different than it was on the ground. Like the difference between day and night, or the brush of hair back from your eyes.
5
“You make it sound like some profound, spiritual awakening.”
“It is.” Cohen bags the last of the decorations and looks at me. “Don’t you remember that feeling? Being a kid and just climbing a tree for the hell of it, how different everything looked when you got up there?”
“I wasn’t much of a climber,” I confess. “My sisters were the bold ones.”
“Man. So they had all the fun, going way back.”
I feel my voice tightening, defensive. “If broken bones are fun, sure.”
He shrugs. I don’t know why it annoys me.
“You really didn’t have to help. It’s not that much stuff.”
“Not that much?” Cohen sweeps his arms across the bags and boxes we’ve piled by the door. “All that’s missing is some neon and we could open a chapel in Vegas.”
We grab the first load and head for my car. “Okay, it didn’t seem like that much stuff, when I told Viola I’d handle it.”
I’m embarrassed again. No—embarrassment is absolute nirvana compared to what I’m feeling. Pathetic fits much better, with a healthy dose of mortification that an actual human is here to witness my doormat tendencies.
“Can I ask you something?” Cohen watches me open my trunk and wedge the first box into place, then follows suit with his. “But you have to promise not to take it the wrong way.”
“I make no such promise.”
“Why,” he goes on, ignoring me, “did you say you’d be her maid of honor in the first place? You must have known she’d be like this. Like, it can’t be a new trait of hers—asking a lot from you.”
This is the very same question I’ve been struggling to answer all year. Especially since Abigail was the most logical choice for maid of honor, in my mind. And in hers, too.
“I think she knows better than to ask me,” she grumbled, the day of the engagement party last year. “I won’t take any of her bullshit and kiss her ass. I mean, no offense, but you give in to her way too much. She knows all she has to do is say, ‘Jump,’ and you’ll be like, ‘Okay, and where should I construct a landing pad? Should I buy a trampoline?’”
“How can I not be offended by that?”
“She didn’t even ask me to be a bridesmaid!” Abby went on, brushing my annoyance aside as easily as a fly from the veggie tray. “Instead she’s got these four random bitches from high school?”
My eyes followed her angry gesture to Dad’s patio, where the girls in question were fawning over Viola’s ring for a photo. “Palmer and Edie have been around since she was fourteen, and we met the other two with her prom group. They’re not totally random.” I adjusted the stack of napkins. “Honestly, it’s probably just a money thing. She knows I’m single and my job pays kind of well, so.”
“They aren’t her flesh and blood,” Abby spit. “God, Jules, are you seriously taking her side on this?”
I sighed and bit into a carrot so I wouldn’t have to answer.
Abigail gasped, suddenly, although it didn’t make me bat an eye. Both my sisters were on the dramatic side, but Abigail tended to be a little more down-to-earth—except, of course, when the drama was connected to Viola. “She knows Lionel and I are trying for another baby.”
“Wh— You are?” The news shocked me, since her daughter was only two months old, but also stung: poor Juliet, always the last to know. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well...I mean, we didn’t tell anyone, really.”
“You told Vi.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, “but...but that was just a quick, you know, passing comment.” She got quiet. “It wasn’t official.”
“Oh.” I nodded, chomping into another carrot. This happened a lot, actually: because they were so close in age, Viola and Abigail had grown up together, knew the same people, attended the same parties—and told each other far more than either told me. I knew it was just the price of being the oldest, and my role as Replacement Mom was more to blame than anything else. Still, it hurt.
Abigail narrowed her eyes through the glass as Viola posed for another picture, this time kissing Marco while her friends pretended to hold her back. “She doesn’t want me in the wedding party,” she whispered fiercely, “because she doesn’t want a pregnant bridesmaid in her pictures.”
“Oh, come on, Ab. You don’t really believe that.” Even as I said this, I could feel the truth in my gut. Viola was a sweetheart, deep down—but she could also be incredibly superficial.
“I’m gonna ask her.”
“No, come on.” I grabbed her arm with my free hand and pulled her away from the door. “Let her enjoy her party.”
“She can’t get away with this. It’s the bitchiest move ever.”
“I’m not saying let her get away with it. Just don’t bring it up right now, in front of all her friends and our entire family. Take the high road.”
Abigail blew her hair out of her face and rolled her eyes while I spoke, but I knew she was listening. She always did. “Fine. But as soon as this party’s over, I’m confronting her.”
I nodded solemnly. “That’s all I ask.”
So as the party wrapped up and the guests went home, I cleaned up the backyard with Dad while the girls had their heart-to-heart. Viola just hadn’t asked Abigail because she assumed she’d want to spend money on baby supplies and doctor bills, not a dress she’d probably need altered to h
ell and back. Abigail assured her that was not the case at all; she’d love to be a bridesmaid.
I wasn’t sure Viola was telling the truth, because she could be that shallow. I wasn’t sure Abby was, either: she bemoaned every wedding she’d ever been involved with, including her own.
In the end, it didn’t matter if either was telling the truth or not, because Abigail dropped out upon discovering she was pregnant with twins. Morning sickness had her beat, so Viola understood—and was probably secretly thrilled.
“I did know it wouldn’t be easy,” I tell Cohen now, after the silence tips from thoughtful to awkward, “but I didn’t think it’d be like this. The small favors just snowballed, until I didn’t know how to get back out.” I pause. “She asks a lot because I give a lot.”
“You teach people how to treat you,” he says. It’s infuriating…but probably because I know he’s right.
He wipes his brow as we head back for the last of the decorations. “But anyway, like I said last night: your sisters are lucky to have you.”
My face gets hot again. First at his compliment, and then at the sight of him lifting the heaviest box like it’s nothing. The strain of his muscles in that undershirt reminds me of last night.
Maybe it wasn’t just the alcohol, I think. Cohen’s not the type I’d go for while sober and emotionally stable—dead-end job, goofy humor, daredevil behavior more fitting for a high-schooler—but he’s definitely not unattractive.
“That’s the last of it.” He takes the bag of flowers from me, shoves it into the back, and slams the trunk shut. “Can I help you get it somewhere?”
“Oh...no, I’m good.” I take my time turning to face him. He’s shrugging his shirt back on, rumpled and, somehow, flecked with glitter. I look down at my arms and find even more. I’ll be picking sparkles out of my life for months.
“Can I call you this week?” He slides his hands into his pockets and smiles, leaning dangerously close. A shock of hair falls out of place. Just like last night.
Here it is: the part I’ve been dreading ever since he stunt-manned his way into the building for me. It’s hard enough letting someone down easily first thing in the morning; it’s almost impossible once you’ve spent a few hours together. You either get one-night stands out fast, or not at all: even a cup of coffee opens the door for Date Number Two. I wonder if breaking and entering to clean up someone else’s party is equivalent to brunch.
“I, uh...I don’t know.” My voice melts into a rigid laugh. Cohen just tilts his head.
“What don’t you know?”
God. He’s going to make me spell it out. “You’re a nice guy, and I really appreciate you helping me with all this, but...you’re not really my type.”
“Type,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Is it the cotton candy thing?”
“No.” My answer draws itself out; he rolls his eyes. “Really, it’s not your job.” Not completely. “I just don’t, you know, see this...going anywhere, to be honest.”
“How can you know it’s a dead-end after just one night together? And not to sound egotistical,” he adds, voice lowering, “but it was a pretty damn good night.”
Uh-oh. Cue the defenses.
“I barely remember last night.”
“Maybe I should remind you, then.”
His smirk has that boyishness to it that makes me want to bolt, if only because I can’t trust myself not to get swept into its current. But the stance of his body, one arm braced against my car beside my head, flexing in my periphery...the subtle tilt of his hips towards mine....
For just a second, I let myself imagine what another night with him—a sober one—might be like. I could make my evening with a Fairfield so much more than a hazy half-regret.
“Come for me, Juliet.”
My legs press together as I lean against my car. Heat rockets up my spinal cord. I shouldn’t be wet at nothing but the sight of his tongue, flashing when he speaks. I shouldn’t be turned on by the scent of sugar in a guy’s clothes.
“Look,” he says, softer now, “I’m not saying we’re soulmates or whatever. I’m just saying, get dinner with me. Maybe spend another night together.” Damn that smirk. “How do we know this won’t go anywhere unless we actually see where it goes?”
I shut my eyes and give him a smile, cringe-worthy in its politeness. “You’re nice,” I say again, “but I’m just...not interested.” Technically, this might be a lie.
Screw it: it is a lie. When you consider the fact some primal, cave-woman piece of me is eyeing Cohen’s van across the lot, wanting to climb inside so he can light my body up like Times Square—yeah. I’m lying my ass off.
What I’m really telling him is, I don’t want to be interested. I’ve dated guys like him before. What starts out as cute, boyish charm quickly slides into relationship-destroying immaturity. Unless I want to be the last single Brooks sister forever, I can’t let the cave-woman call the shots.
“Not interested.” He tongues his cheek, eyebrow peaked, and pushes himself off the car, hand sliding right back into his pocket. “Fair enough.”
“Thank you, though.” Great. Now I feel bad. “For helping me clean up, and for...”
Making me come so hard I couldn’t stop shaking.
Giving me the best fuck I’ve had in years. Maybe ever.
Showing me an incredible night, after an unbearably shitty day.
“...everything.”
“You’re welcome.” His jaw is tight, and he won’t meet my eyes anymore. Another mark of immature men I’ve learned to watch for: pouting.
But then, instead of storming off or calling me names—reactions I can set my watch by, with these boyish types—Cohen smiles. I feel my back press against the searing metal of the car again as I step away, it surprises me so much.
“Here,” he says. “In case you change your mind.” When his hand slips from his pocket, it palms me a business card.
A simple piece of cardstock. I’d have to be downright cruel not to accept at least this much.
“Oh. Thanks.” Cohen Fairfield: Vendor. “Not ‘cotton candy professional?’” I tease, then scold myself. Teasing is flirting. I’m supposed to be ripping off a Band-Aid, here.
“Yeah, well. Didn’t want to brag.” He pushes back his hair, but the same piece falls into the exact same spot. “Besides, one of these days I’ll get them reading ‘Co-owner.’”
“Ah.” Another checkbox: guys like him are big dreamers. Lots of talk and stars in their eyes, but little to no action. Pass.
“Bye, Juliet,” he says quietly, rapping on the roof of my car once as I climb in. He’s already halfway to his van before I’ve started the engine.
I put his business card into my cupholder. Throwing it away would be much wiser, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet, at least.
“No tip jar, right?”
My teeth ache down to the nerves, I grate them so hard. I turn away from Levi, who’s doing inventory for the third time this month. It’s supposed to be my responsibility, but a guy gets tired of having his big brother follow him like a damn shadow while he tries to work.
“No tip jar,” I assure him. He relaxes.
But of course I don’t leave it at that. It’s Sunday, so we’re closed and I’m bored: childish as it sounds, it’s fun to get under Levi’s skin.
“The maid of honor made me hide it.”
“Cohen.” He sighs and nudges a box of glow sticks with his foot. They’re a big reception trend lately (one that brides are apparently willing to pay a dollar apiece for, even though we get the things off eBay for a nickel each). “You know, you’re always saying I should take you more seriously—”
“Sticking me with cotton candy and bounce house duty for every single event is bullshit. You said yourself, you want to step back from this part of the business. Put me in, Coach.”
“—but,” he continues, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you have yet to prove to me that you can be more serious.” He closes a Rubbe
rmaid container of easels, marks the clipboard, and strides across the warehouse to his desk.
“I’m ready.” I pull one of the event binders from the shelf by the water cooler and slap it open to mid-July. Normally, I wouldn’t have the energy to argue about this on my only day off, but this morning with Juliet keyed me up good. “Let me try just one event, to prove it to you.”
Levi unfolds a packet of BC Powder halfway before looking at me, then the binder, and slips his reading glasses from his pocket. “Which event?”
“The anniversary party.”
He laughs. “No. No fucking way.”
“Why not? You told me Lindsay wants you to take off for that cruise.”
“And I explained to her,” he says slowly, “that I can’t possibly take off that week.”
“When was the last time you took a vacation? No, forget that: when was the last time you took Lindsay on a vacation? I think she deserves it.”
Levi takes a breath and looks back up at me. “The anniversary party is huge, Co.”
“You don’t have to tell me it’s huge. I know it’s huge. But it’s also the perfect test, because the Wallmans are hiring so many other vendors for this thing. There isn’t that much pressure on us to be, like...flawless.”
There it is, his face’s permanent edge. Exactly how and when my brother got so serious is beyond me.
“Not that we won’t be,” I correct myself. “I’m just saying, we aren’t the only suppliers for their party. So you might as well let me take over this one. I could only fuck things up but so much.” I’m joking, obviously. He still sighs like I’m not.
But then, my God: an actual miracle.
“Jeannie and Tim are renting the ballroom to the Wallmans for free,” he says quietly, bouncing back in his chair.
“Exactly!” Chill. Keep your poker face. “The Wallmans are getting this party for way cheaper than they’d usually pay for an event like this, so they won’t be as critical. And, you know...not like I’ll be throwing this card around, but we’re Jeannie and Tim’s nephews. What are they gonna do?”
