by Piper Lennox
“Ah. Right this way, then, Mr. Fairfield.”
“Thank you,” I say loudly, in my best impression of my uncle. Then, under my breath: “Dick.” His shoulders tense with more laughter.
“Do you know him?” Juliet hisses.
“I know everyone here.” I wink and squeeze her hand. “Relax. Brent and I went to school together.”
“Usual table?” Brent asks. I nod; he seats us and nods to Juliet as he leaves. She shakes her head at me.
“What?”
“Why do I get the feeling you do this a lot?” She pokes the centerpiece cautiously, judging whether or not the exotic flowers floating in the water are real. They are.
“I really don’t do it a lot…anymore. By the way, forget the menu—you should order the cheeseburger. It’s not on there, but it’s the best thing in the place.”
“A cheeseburger? Here?” Juliet glances around at the other patrons in suits and dresses, then at the chandelier overhead. As if a place’s lighting dictates the menu. I guess I can’t blame her: Maison is one of the fanciest places in the city. It serves business luncheons to the corporate elite by day, and caters posh couples and the occasional family by night. Most people only eat here for special events, like anniversaries or birthdays. And you can tell exactly which ones they are, by the phone in their hand documenting every course for social media.
“It’s a fancy cheeseburger,” I explain. “High-quality beef, gouda on top, and, uh....” I snap my fingers to remember. “Brioche. They used to serve them in little sliders, but now they do the big version by request. You just have to know what to ask for.”
The ice in her water glass clinks as she sips. “Or,” she says, “be a Fairfield.”
I furrow my brow at her. “Maybe I’m way off, here, but...do you think of me as some spoiled rich kid? You make that kind of joke a lot.”
“I’m sorry.” She sips her water again, trying to cool the pink coming into her cheeks. “I don’t mean to. You have to see where I’m coming from, though—the Fairfields are an urban legend around here. When I was kid, we’d tell stories on the playground like, ‘Oh, the Fairfields have swimming pools full of Mountain Dew,’ and ‘The Fairfields have a hundred bathrooms in their house.’”
“Couldn’t be more wrong. The pool is filled with Mr. Pibb.”
She laughs and nudges my foot with hers under the table. “Point is, everyone knows all about them.” Her smile gets smaller, more serious, as she steadies her gaze on mine. “But nobody actually knows them.”
“Well.” I hold up my water glass. She taps it with hers. “Now you do.”
“Wait, wait—you didn’t go to school until you were seven?”
Cohen takes another bite (he ordered the “fancy” sliders; I chose fig and ricotta ravioli) and shakes his head. “Our mom homeschooled us for a few years. Most families in the trailer park did, because...duh.”
“The being naked all the time,” I tease, and he finishes the sentence with me, nodding and laughing.
“Does your mom still live there?” Involuntarily, I gasp, hands flying to my mouth. “Oh, God, do you guys...visit her?”
This time, Cohen’s laugh is so loud, half the tables around us turn to look. “Hell no. I would never visit her, if she was still doing the nudist thing.”
“I have to say, I’m very relieved.”
“Same.” He composes himself, smiling over his water glass at me. My face aches. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much on a date. Or whatever this is.
“Did she give up the hippie life?”
“Not at all. She’s currently nomadic. Lives in a van-turned-RV with a guy named Patch who sells cannabis-infused gummi bears on the internet.”
“I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“It is indeed a thing.” Cohen stretches beneath the table. I wonder if he means to let his leg linger against mine the way he does. “But, yeah, she took a more traditional turn when we moved out of Freedom Farm into the rancher. I was about...seven, eight? Levi and I pressured her into it.”
“Yeah, but I imagine that would have happened regardless, after a point. What teenage boys want to see their mom’s—”
“For the love of God, don’t finish that sentence.”
We laugh again, the candle by the centerpiece flickering under our breaths.
“It wasn’t just the nudist thing, though,” he goes on, a little quieter, thoughtful. “By then we were visiting the Fairfield estate a lot more, because Mom wanted us to know our family. Even if she didn’t like the money and business parts, she still loved them. And she thought by being around them, we’d see what she meant about money not buying happiness.”
“Guess that backfired on her,” I snort. “Kids don’t see things that way. They look at what they don’t have, not what they do.”
“Exactly. All it did was make Levi and me wonder, you know—why didn’t we live like this?” He sweeps his arm to the room, encompassing all the gilded ornamentation, marble columns, and tablecloths with higher thread counts than my bed sheets.
“Or like anyone else, for that matter,” he continues. “We were questioning everything, by then. You see kids living in normal houses instead of trailers, doing normal stuff like soccer, going to real schools...it gets to you.” He quiets again. “You start wondering, ‘Why am I different?’”
I set my fork down, feeling something strange in my chest: that eerie sense your mind is being read when someone says aloud the very words you’ve thought, always silent, for years.
“I know,” Cohen sighs, pulling his leg away as he leans back in his chair. “Poor little Fairfield boy, couldn’t grow up in a mansion. Boo-hoo.”
“You just wanted what everyone else had.” I push my plate away. The flowers in the centerpiece slosh against the glass. “I was the same way.”
Cohen tilts his head and sits forward. “That’s right—your mom wasn’t around,” he says quietly. “You raised your sisters. So you really didn’t have what anyone else had.”
My water’s running low, so I crunch the ice instead.
When his hand covers mine on the tabletop, I can’t understand the leap my heart gives. It’s not like Cohen’s never held my hand before.
Has he? I hate that I can’t remember.
“Dessert?” he asks. Not that I’d ever tell him, but hearing him ask initiates some automatic response of need. Great. For the rest of my life, I’ll probably associate late-night sugar with Cohen undressing me.
“No,” I say quickly. My hormones have only gotten worse during the three or so weeks we’ve been doing this. I’m not sure I’d have the self-control to resist if he suggested ducking into a janitor closet or empty event room.
Of course he has to look so damn good in the low, shimmering light. Of course he rolls his sleeves halfway up before the meal is over.
When the check comes, I expect him to ditch it. Call it a perk of being a Fairfield.
Instead, he slides some money into the book, passes it to the waiter discreetly, and says, “Keep the change.” When he catches my surprise, he winks. I, of course, get embarrassed.
“Come with me.” He gets up, offering his arm. I take it. “Someone I want you to meet.”
We stroll through the restaurant to the private dining room at the back. It’s enclosed in frosted glass; I see four shapes moving inside. The closer we get, the louder their laughter becomes.
“Cohen! Great to see you.” A man I instantly recognize as Timothy Fairfield, Jr., with the same shining silver hair and photo-ready smile as all the business magazines and television stories, gets up to hug Cohen. “Did you talk to your mother today?”
“Yep, just left Santa Fe. She said she sent all of us postcards yesterday, so look for them in the mailbox soon.” Cohen squeezes my hand and pulls me forward; I’ve been hanging back in the doorway. “Uncle Tim, this is Juliet Brooks. Juliet, my uncle Timothy Fairfield.”
“Nice to meet you.” We shake. “Brooks,” he repeat
s slowly, adjusting his glasses and scanning my face. “Any relation to the West Woodcrest Brooks? Knew a Gregory Brooks in college. Heard he’s done pretty well for himself.”
“Uh...” I glance at Cohen, who shrugs. “I don’t know. My dad’s name is Paul, though. He was a pyrotechnics specialist for the stadium until he retired, last year.”
“No kidding?” Tim laughs, patting Cohen’s back. “Paul Brooks! Good man. Fourth of July over the stadium’s a can’t-miss show for us.”
I’m surprised Tim knows my dad in even the smallest capacity, but maybe I shouldn’t be. The Fairfields paid for much of the baseball stadium’s renovation six years ago, including the addition of VIP skyboxes few people actually use. They have money tied into every piece of this city.
Tim introduces us to the other men there, all rich, all old, and all holding glasses of honey-colored apple brandy. It’s weird: I would’ve expected them to be in suits, or at least formal clothes, like Cohen, but they’re all dressed pretty casually in khakis and golf shirts.
“We just came to say hi,” Cohen explains.
“Always good to have you.” Tim looks from Cohen to me. “How’d you two meet?”
“Oh...I’m, uh—”
“Juliet’s a friend of mine. We met at a wedding.”
Cohen ignores my stare while Tim pulls a cigar from the box on the table. “We were just about to head to the ballroom balcony, if you two want to join us for a while. You and I can touch base about the Wallmans’ anniversary party, while you’re here.”
“I’d love to,” Cohen says, sounding not at all believable as he shuffles us to the door, “but Levi and I haven’t fully hammered out the details, yet.”
“Speaking of Levi and the balcony,” one of the guys says, giving a phlegmy laugh he probably shouldn’t make worse with a cigar, “Cohen, you tell her the Sweet Sixteen story yet?”
“Sweet Sixteen?”
“Not yet.” Cohen gives a polite laugh. “Have a good night, everyone.” Tim slaps his back as we leave, the men following behind and veering off outside Maison, milling into an elevator.
Outside, in the swelling nightlife and tunneled breeze of the city, I look at him. “Does no one in your family...know about me?” I hold up my hand as he makes his signature “joke on the way” smirk. “Please. Just tell me.”
He rocks back on his heels, eyes cast downward. “No. I haven’t told anyone about you.”
I don’t know why it hurts my feelings. I don’t know why I care at all.
The wind suddenly feels colder than it is. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Juliet.” He reaches for me, running his hands up and down my arms as I cross them. “It’s not you. I haven’t told anyone because...because they always expected me to do something like this.”
“What, get a girl pregnant?”
“Yeah. Or get arrested for something stupid, or lose my apartment, or anything you’d expect from somebody like me.”
“...moochers. Always dreaming and all talk, but no action. ... They’ve always got something ‘in the works,’ but it never goes anywhere.”
My guilt has to be visible, even after we leave the courtyard and walk down the darkened streets. I expected things like that from Cohen, too, without even knowing him. It must be terrible, having everyone who knows you best think the same.
On the other hand, it’s a glaring red reminder of why I thought those things to begin with. If everyone expects it, isn’t there probably a reason?
“I’m going to tell my family soon, I promise.” He pushes back his hair. I watch the smooth motion of his hand, the flexing muscles in his forearm. “Guess it’d be easier if I could say, ‘Here’s my girlfriend, I knocked her up,’ but I can’t.” He looks at me. “I don’t know how to explain you and me. Whatever we are. You know?”
A few weeks ago, with as little as I knew about Cohen, I would have taken offense to this, interpreting it as another attempt to pair us up. But now I can decode the tone of his voice, read that furrow in his brow, and know he’s just stating facts: whatever we are, there’s no easy way to make other people understand it. I’m not sure I do, myself.
The walk to my loft does us good: loosens us up, eases the tension. We pitch more baby names and joke with each other. When he catches my hand after I go to swat him, he pauses, smiles, and pulls me in fast for a kiss.
“Mara’s gone,” I whisper against his mouth. My free hand can’t leave him alone: I touch the buttons of his shirt, his neck, the hair that’s fallen over his forehead. “Her shift doesn’t end until two. Place to ourselves.”
Cohen kisses me again, teeth grazing my bottom lip. “That’s good. Because what I’ve got planned involves at least an hour of licking you all over.”
I make a face. “Ew. That isn’t sexy.”
“Yeah?” He pushes my hair back from my neck, trailing his tongue from my collarbone up to that spot behind my ear. Instantly, I shiver. The air rushes out of my lungs.
Cohen lifts his head. His arrogant smile, once so infuriating I couldn’t even stand to imagine it, makes me dizzy.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says in the stairwell, planting his hand on my butt as we climb.
“You look very, very nice, too,” I admit. “I was wondering what you thought of this dress. You never said anything, so I figured you didn’t like it.”
“I couldn’t compliment you on it right away—I had to spend all night pretending this wasn’t a date.”
I spin on the landing and laugh as he pulls me against him, before I can react.
In the soft darkness of my bedroom, Cohen undresses me slowly, running his mouth and tongue over every bit of skin he exposes. His words from outside the Acre ring in my head. Whatever we are.
“You wet for me, Juliet?” he breathes, right against the inside of my thigh.
I am. One touch from Cohen—or even just the thought or promise of one—makes my body react down to the very last cell, every time.
But right now, a familiar feeling is creeping up. Not doubt. I wish it was, because at least I can shove doubt away for a while and pretend it doesn’t exist. This is physical, something I haven’t felt in a few weeks. A tightness in the stomach. A flood of sour bile, at the back of my mouth.
“Fuck,” I blurt, bolting for the bathroom. I don’t even notice the fact I kneed Cohen in the chest by accident, until I hear him coughing while I drop in front of the toilet.
“Are you okay?” he calls.
I retch instead of answering. Is he stupid? Of course I’m not okay. Few private hells on this earth compare to being equally horny and nauseous at the same time.
My hair lifts off my face; I feel Cohen’s fingers brushing my neck.
“Can you get out of here, please?” My voice is whiny, echoing inside the toilet bowl.
“I’m holding your hair back for you.”
“I just want privacy.”
“Juliet, come on. I’ve already seen you naked, wasted, covered in glitter, hungover—what’s left to be embarrassed about? Here, I won’t even look. I’ll just hold the hair.”
I reach up and take my hair from his hands, twisting it into a bun and grabbing one of Mara’s many clips scattered on the windowsill. There. Problem solved.
Cohen’s feet shuffle across the tile in what has to be the slowest exit in history. “Can I get you anything?” he asks from the doorway. “Ginger tea? Coke? Toast?”
“You can get out,” I snap, as another wave of nausea churns through me.
Finally, I’m done. One of the most expensive meals I’ve ever had, now part of the city sewer system.
While I brush my teeth, I notice something in the mirror. A foot, right there by the doorway.
“Are you seriously waiting out there?”
Cohen pokes his head around the doorframe. “Yeah,” he says simply, like I should know this. “Why?”
I spit and stare at his reflection. “What part of ‘I want privacy’ did you not get?”
&nbs
p; He holds up his hands, exhaling dramatically as he strolls out of view. “Sorry. Just trying to help.”
“I don’t need—”
I gag again. Fantastic: now even toothpaste makes me sick.
This time, the nausea’s relentless. I get sick into the sink, then on the floor beside the sink, before I can get back to the toilet. Since it’s the mint taste triggering my reflex—God, I’ll never be able to enjoy mint chocolate chip ice cream again—it takes a while to slow down; the taste is all over my mouth. Who knew one’s own squeaky-clean breath could be so disgusting.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter, when Cohen ventures back into the bathroom to find me in tears. In his hands are a glass of flat Coke and a pack of tissues. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, I just....”
“Shh.” He helps me sit back against the tub, holds the glass to my lips, and kisses my forehead. The sweat I feel there doesn’t seem to bother him. “Drink it slowly.”
In the same way the vomiting just wouldn’t stop, I’m now crying uncontrollably. It’s equal parts frustration at my nausea, sadness at how poorly I just treated Cohen, and gratitude at how sweet he’s still being.
“Let’s get you in bed.”
“No.” I hug my arms to myself; I can’t stop shivering, suddenly. “I—I need to clean—”
“I’ll handle that. You need to rest.”
My bed sounds incredible, right now. Warm, soft, sinking. But as Cohen bends down to scoop me from the tile floor, all I can think about is how warm and soft this place feels: tucked against his chest.
“There you go.” He pulls the comforter around me. Just like the first night of this arrangement. This stupid, wonderful, fucked-up arrangement.
Actually: like the night we met. It comes back to me out of nowhere, the memory of Cohen pulling the hotel blanket up around me, right before we fell asleep together.
“Here’s a trash can in case you get sick again.” His whisper blooms from the darkness. “The Coke is on your nightstand.”
“The floor....”
“Already cleaned. Don’t worry.” I feel his lips on my forehead again. “What else can I get you?”
