Slip of the Tongue Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  I’ve found her. It’s her journal I have, her words I possess. I’m the current owner of her thoughts. But what to do with this information?

  “So, you’re obviously a photographer,” she says, glancing at the camera around my neck, which I’ve taken to keeping close like a security blanket. “Have I seen your work?”

  “No. I’ve never shown anywhere.”

  “Is it any good?”

  I don’t know what to say. If you want to be a successful artist, especially in this city, you’d better believe your shit is good. I spent ten months after graduating from NYU trying to make it before my father-in-law shipped me off to business school. That, plus this past year, is the whole of my struggling-artist experience. I haven’t managed even a rejection letter from the major galleries. So far, it’s been jobs like senior class photos, real estate listings, and Upper East Side dog photography.

  Yes, I took headshots of a poodle.

  I shrug. “It’s my work.”

  She hands me her coffee and sets her purse on the ground with a thump. When she bends over to rummage through it, I look right down her blouse. Her bra is fire-engine red, and a siren call to my dick. That’s more what I expected to find in her, some attitude.

  It hits me that she’s getting out a business card. Good. That’s a socially acceptable way to learn more about her.

  But when she stands back up, she just has her notepad in hand again. She hoists her bag over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”

  I’m not ready for goodbye—I haven’t even said hello. “Wait,” I say, but she hasn’t made a move to leave. “Can we exchange cards?”

  She scratches her elbow. “Um.”

  No response? I’ll take that as a yes. I pull out my card, a little miffed I haven’t updated it as I’ve been meaning to. I don’t care about finding work right now, I just want her to reciprocate. I hold it out. “Finn Cohen.”

  She glances at it before sliding it from my hand. In the next few seconds, she studies my face. “Thanks. I left mine at home. On purpose. Sorry.”

  Damn. I rub my chin. “How come?”

  “People are always trying to use me at these things. Maybe that’s what you’re doing—”

  Use her? I don’t even know her. “I’m not.”

  She pauses. “I believe you. Anyway.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t throw it.”

  I try to figure out if she’s joking or serious. We smile at the same moment. She opens her mouth, but I never get to hear what she says.

  “There you are,” a man says from the doorway.

  She glances over. He’s shadowed, but he wears a suit and looks around our age.

  “I have to go,” she says without looking at me. “Good luck with your stuff.”

  I go to call her back. With the kind of heart she poured into the pages of her journal, she must miss it. The journal, maybe the heart too. But the man puts his arm around her and takes her back inside.

  Forget her, she’s not yours, you’re not enough.

  She isn’t who I’d pictured. She’s too put together—composed, without scars or mascara streaks or coal-colored hair. I expected storm clouds overhead, fidgeting fingers, lyrics in her movements.

  Then again, what the fuck do I know?

  I once expected an audible click when fate kicked in.

  Sparks.

  Ignition.

  Fireworks.

  Like the time I stepped out of my apartment, met eyes with 6B across the hall, and lost my heart to my stomach.

  But I’d been wrong about Sadie.

  Am I wrong now?

  Could I be misreading this girl? On the outside, she’s clean lines and smooth curves. But then, the calm before the storm can be more unnerving than the storm itself. Is that who she is?

  Or is she red lingerie, ice-gray eyes and fake cigarettes?

  I walk away, and she’s all I think about on my way home. Whether I was supposed to find her . . . or if fate is warning me to leave it alone. I should listen. Maybe it’s best this spark doesn’t ignite. Because fireworks can explode in your face—and it fucking hurts.

  Even if you’re expecting it.

  3

  Six simple words.

  Did anyone turn in a journal?

  I repeat them to myself as I cross the busy street to Lait Noir. I should’ve stopped for coffee on my way to get coffee. Situations that make a heart beat this hard should not be tackled without caffeine. Through the café window, I see a woman at the exact table where the book fell out of my bag. I’ve been back every morning since I lost it, and it isn’t there. Which means it’s most likely behind the counter. I just have to ask.

  Inside the café, I remove my mittens and get in line. There are enough people in front of me to give me time to prepare.

  I wasn’t going to ask. Once I realized it was gone, I convinced myself it was a good thing. The girl in the journal is dark, depraved, a fraud. She’s someone I’ve worked hard to bury, but for some reason, she continues to come out through my words. Why can’t I let this one piece of my former self go?

  I move forward in line. Pete throws me a wave from behind the register, and my throat dries. Last night, after the City Still Life show, I was restless. Rich noticed, asked if I needed anything.

  It might’ve been my encounter with the handsome, quiet photographer—Finn. He looked at me like he was trying to read my thoughts through my eyes. I’m not used to being seen that way; I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I wanted to stay and find out, but that desire alone made me wary.

  Or maybe it finally hit me that my journal was somewhere out there by itself, and that I’d never see years’ worth of work again. Bad work, in more ways than one, but still mine. As Rich and I rode away from the show, all I wanted to do was go home, put my feelings on the page as I normally would, and close the book on them.

  The customer in front of me steps aside, and suddenly, it’s just me and Pete. And the five people in line behind me. And the female barista who only scowls.

  “One coffee, black as my heart, coming right up,” Pete says with a grin.

  I hand him exact change. “Thanks.”

  “How’s your morning, Halston?” he asks, popping open the register.

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Let’s just say my winter-white Tom Ford pants that’re as expensive as they sound were not made for this job.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve warned you before about wearing designer clothing to work.”

  “And let Tom Ford waste away in a closet that couldn’t house a Chihuahua? Please. Anyway, I hear coffee stains are so trendy, nobody’s even talking about them yet.”

  I smile, but I don’t feel at ease. My stomach cramps as I try to force the words to the surface.

  Did anyone turn in a journal?

  The person behind me sighs.

  “So, what’s so good about your morning?” Pete asks over his shoulder as he fills my cup.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns with the coffee and grabs a lid. “It’s just, every day I ask you how it’s going, and you always say good, no matter what.”

  I blink at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Most of the time, but not every day. Sometimes there’s snow or tourists to battle or some days, people just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I hear it all. But not you. Do you ever have a bad day?”

  I don’t know how to answer. Everybody has bad days. I just don’t experience them often—or great days, either. Some might call that boring, but it’s a form of self-preservation. I don’t handle highs and lows like the average person, so I do what I have to do to stay even. “I guess I’m just a generally happy person.”

  Or, I’ve gotten help in that department so long, it’s basically the truth.

  “That’s nice,” he says, sliding the cup across the counter. “I can’t even imagine a day without all hell breaking loose.”

  I glance at the coffe
e. This is the perfect job for social Pete. Having gotten to know him through my daily visits the last year, I’m fairly certain he likes some chaos in his life. To me, he’s the one who seems happy. I’m just getting by as best I can.

  This is the perfect opening to ask about the lost and found. In fact, I do have difficult days, and that’s why the journal is necessary. I take a breath. “Pete—”

  “Are you two going to chat all morning?” a woman in line asks.

  Pete ignores her. “What’s up, babe? You finally going to try one of my famous scones? On the house. First hit’s free.”

  I envision the journal sitting right between us, underneath the counter. I doubt Pete’d hesitate to open someone’s private diary if it caught his interest. He’s nosy like that. What if he was disgusted? Or showed it to perma-scowl and they found it offensively bad? Worse . . . what if they laughed? It wouldn’t be the first time. In eighth grade, I wrote and performed a poem for drama and stupidly chose the topic of sex. I could barely hear myself over the snickering. The teacher sent a note home to my parents.

  If I ask Pete for my journal and he returns it to me, I have to assume he read it. And perma-scowl too. I could never show my face in here again. I need my journal, but I need this routine too. I pick up my coffee and wait for Pete to finish boasting about his scone recipe. “Not today,” I say when he’s done. “But thanks anyway.”

  “See you later for a refill?” he asks.

  “Maybe.” I wave on my way outside.

  Instead of heading down to the subway, I decide to walk to work. I’m not good with nervous energy. I rarely get anxious anymore, my dad has seen to that, but when my regular coping methods aren’t enough, I write. I put it all in the journal so I can function properly, do my job, play the roles I’m supposed to and fall asleep at night without dark thoughts creeping in. My words come from a corner of my mind I don’t like to shine light on, but sometimes I need to. Not for anyone other than myself to see, though.

  I dial the agency to check in with my assistant.

  “Halston Fox’s line,” Benny answers.

  “It’s me. Is Rich at the office?”

  She hums. “Gee, you could just call him yourself.”

  I half roll my eyes. “I want to come in late, but he gets all judgey when I do.”

  “You can’t. Your dad just called a meeting upstairs. That’s where Rich is headed, and that’s where you need to be in fifteen minutes.”

  Damn. It doesn’t really matter if I’m late—that’s one of the advantages to being the boss’s daughter—but I don’t like to give my dad or Rich excuses for a lecture. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  I hang up, step off the curb, and stick my hand out for a cab. Despite the sun shining bright, it’s still a crisp December day. I wedge my coffee in one elbow and dig in my handbag for my mittens. Before I get them, my phone’s daily reminder rings. I abandon the gloves and get my meds from the side pocket. I don’t normally take them in public, so I hide the bottle in a fist to unscrew the cap.

  A taxi swerves over, disturbing a flock of pigeons. When a bird nearly wings me in the face, I throw my arms up, dumping pills all over the street.

  Shit shit shit.

  “In or out,” the cabbie yells.

  The alarm continues to ding. A couple people stop on the sidewalk. “Do you need help?” someone asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically. Little white tablets are scattered on the pavement in a chalky constellation. The only way this moment could get more embarrassing is if I get on my hands and knees to retrieve a bunch of happy pills.

  I leave them to hop in the car. “Fourteenth and Fifth,” I tell the driver.

  Before we’ve even pulled away from the curb, I touch my fingers to the inked feather behind my ear. My mother’s the only person I knew who actually liked pigeons. She insisted birds could love and be loved. For a second, I think I can feel my pulse there, my hammering heart.

  Could the birds have been a message from her? If so, what does it mean?

  She’d had post-partum depression for a few months after I was born. I hadn’t even known until my dad told me following a client meeting where he’d had too many drinks. But once Mom had come out of it, that was it, according to him. Cured. I’ve wondered many times how she would’ve felt about the meds. If the birds are any indication, not supportive. But she isn’t here, is she? I make a mental note to see if I have a back-up stash at home.

  On the top of my purse, sitting precariously close to the edge, is Finn’s card. I pick it up, relieved it didn’t fall out. Why? I don’t intend to do anything with it. Do I? God, he was attractive—taller than anyone I’ve ever dated, but with an almost gentle demeanor. Almost. There was that moment he tried to tell me no. Another where he absentmindedly ran a hand through his golden-brown hair, fisting it with a big, paw-like hand.

  And his lips. Rust-colored and a step beyond kissable. Fuckable? Can lips be fuckable?

  That man’s could.

  I blush, even though I’m alone, and tuck the card into a side pocket. He’s out of my league anyway, and those are the kinds of thoughts reserved for my journal.

  Since only some of my coffee spilled out of the top, I drink what’s left. My walk might’ve been cut short, but at least I have my coffee. I calm down as its familiar taste coats my tongue. I have to forget about the journal. It was a way to distract myself when I needed escape, and I have others. I’ve tried to get rid of them before. Maybe losing that journal is a nudge to move on, another sign from Mom.

  It takes a second to register the loss, but when I do, sadness overwhelms me. I let it. I’m alone for the next eight or so minutes, so I can feel whatever I want without judgment. Some days it’s as though just having the journal keeps me functioning, but I know that’s not true. It takes more than that to maintain my sanity. Not having the journal doesn’t change anything. If I won’t go outside my comfort zone to find it, it must not be that important, right?

  I’ll keep telling myself that until it feels true enough.

  I have seven more minutes to mourn.

  Then it’s back to happy as usual.

  4

  Monday morning, I stake out the coffee shop.

  I ignored fickle fate for an entire Friday and a weekend—three days, seventy-two hours. It helped that I had my daughter to distract me. But once Kendra picked Marissa up, I was alone with my thoughts again.

  Alone with her thoughts.

  And I just can’t let it go.

  Finding that journal under my table was an accident? An agenda with one entry wasn’t supposed to lead me right to her? I can’t ignore it. If fate is testing me, I won’t fail. I know one thing for sure about the owner—she comes to Lait Noir. So I make sure to get there when the café opens at the break of dawn.

  Another thing I know for sure? She fascinates me. She’s beautiful in a way that makes her seem untouchable. I don’t want to keep my hands to myself, though. I want to feel and make her feel. I want the journal girl I met a week ago to be the one from the gallery.

  It’s almost nine when I look up from my laptop and spot her across the street, waiting for a break in traffic. Once again, she’s in all black. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back except for a few loose strands that float around her face. Pulling her coat closed, she expertly darts through traffic in knee-high leather boots.

  I quickly slide my laptop into its case, weave through the tables, and get in line. When I hear her heels clicking behind me, I glance back.

  She unfurls a soft-as-fuck-looking gray scarf from around her neck. Her coat is open, her nipples noticeably hard through a dark, sheer blouse.

  She clears her throat.

  I look up. I’ve been caught staring.

  “Are you following me?” she asks.

  “That’d be impressive, considering I’m ahead of you in line.”

  After a tense silence during which she might be planning to deck me, she smiles. She’s messing with me, but like the
other night, her sense of humor isn’t so obvious. “Finn, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  The man behind the counter calls me forward. I order a black coffee and angle sideways to ask, “Can I get your drink?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist. How’s a latte sound? You like that pumpkin spice stuff?”

  The barista laughs. “Yeah, do you like pumpkin spice, babe?”

  She smiles—at him. That fucker. “Do those even have caffeine?” she asks.

  “I got you,” he says, looking back at me. “Halston likes it black as the devil’s soul. That’s why she keeps coming back to me.” He winks. “That’ll be four-sixty.”

  I give him my credit card but keep my eyes on her. “Halston. Really made me work for that, didn’t you?”

  She reaches by me to take her coffee from the counter. All at once, she’s in my nostrils, my personal space, blocking anything in my vision that isn’t her. She smells like pepper, a hint of masculinity that has me leaning in. Since her hair is pulled back, I see the flash of a tattoo under her ear. I’m keeping tally: secret journal, red bra, fake smoking, strategically placed ink, spicy scent. She hides herself well, and my curiosity’s getting the better of me.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” she says, stepping back before I’ve had my fill.

  “Will you sit for a minute?”

  “No tables . . .”

  “I know a place.” I pick up my coffee, and since I’m headed toward the exit, she has to follow. My predestined table is taken, today of all days, but that’s not where I’m taking her. Near the front of the shop is a deep windowsill that’ll fit just two ass cheeks—one of hers, one of mine.

  She peers outside, and then at me. “Is this about work?”

  “No.”

  Her phone begins to chime. She takes it from her purse. “Don’t answer,” I say.

  She arches an eyebrow at me but silences it. “It’s not a call. I only have a minute.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  She balances on the ledge, facing me. It’s cozy, our knees brushing. She doesn’t pull hers away, and I’m certainly not about to. “Do you . . . come here a lot?”