by Jess Bentley
“Okay, that was quite a courageous move,” I remark as I slide into the passenger seat.
Clarissa scowls and peers around the steering wheel. “How do you turn this thing on?”
She steps on the brake and I thumb the ignition button. A chime goes off to let us know the engine is running, because it is so quiet you can’t tell.
“Okay, here is what I’m thinking,” she says in a rush as she pilots the Tesla out of the parking lot. “Isaac is not just an ear-nose-throat guy. He’s a naturopath. He does the whole holistic healing bit. He’s probably thinking he is some kind of artist. Or at least he wants his patients to think so. He doesn’t want these cookie-cutter, boring corporate boxes.”
She glances in the rearview mirror to make sure that Isaac is still following us, then flips on the turn signal.
“Okay, this is a really cool car,” she breathes excitedly.
“Yeah, thanks…” I answer uncertainly. “So where are we going? Somewhere off the list?”
“Well it’s on our list, just not on the list that you compiled for him. You’ll have to trust me.”
I’m not sure what to say. Of course, I’m not in the driver’s seat, so what choice do I have?
But when she turns into a residential neighborhood, I am beginning to get concerned. Isaac has been with the brokerage for at least fifteen years. He set up his brother’s dental practice. If I lose this client, I am finished.
What are we supposed to be doing here, I wonder, as I stare into the leafy green canopy of trees that arch over the antiquated street. She turns through winding, somewhat confusing streets until reaching a parking lot, nearly hidden by overly tall lilac bushes.
Isaac exits the roadster, scratching his head underneath his baseball cap.
“Where are we?” he mumbles through a cockeyed grin. “I didn’t even know this neighborhood was here.”
Clarissa’s eyes sparkle. “Kind of a hidden gem, right? Come look…”
Isaac and I follow her obediently as she sways up the cobbled path toward the back entrance of a stately Victorian mansion. Obviously someone went to considerable expense to renovate it, bringing it up to code while not losing the historic elements.
As we enter the parlor, I can tell that Isaac is immediately charmed. From the squat, marble columns to the curving grand stairway, this teeters precisely on the edge of “quirky” and “extravagant.” It is both artistic and lavish. It’s the perfect place for people to spend a thousand dollars getting aromatic steam puffed into their nostrils.
Isaac mutters to himself then wanders off, darting up the stairs without another word. Clarissa stares at the ceiling, tracking his position with a bemused smile on her face. Her cheeks flush charmingly. She knows she made the deal.
When he comes down, she already has a listing sheet loaded on her iPad.
“Terms are reasonable,” she chirps optimistically. “A three-year lease will get you a significant discount—”
“What’s the purchase price?” he interrupts.
She only takes a half moment to swallow before answering him with a high seven-figure price tag that doesn’t even make him flinch.
Instead he strides forward with his hand out. She shakes it confidently.
“Sounds like we found ourselves a deal,” he grins, ignoring me entirely.
Still, I feel like I won something too.
Chapter 4
Clarissa
Either the days are already getting shorter, or being in this office just makes me much more aware of the time. With the big windows behind my desk, I can sense the light changing as the hours drift by. Before I really make any progress, it’s already the golden light of midafternoon.
It seems like I still have mountains of paperwork to do, but I can barely focus. My brain is all just numbers and descriptions like “great views!” and “room to expand!” falling all over each other nonsensically.
I feel like I am making no headway at all. No matter what I do, the stack of folders on my desk doesn’t seem to be getting any shorter. Should I be grateful for all the work? Probably. But running at breakneck speed in a hamster wheel means I am getting nowhere.
“Hey, do you have the file on… Oh, here it is,” Maxwell announces, walking into my office.
I would at least throw him a dirty look, but he looks at least half as tired as I feel. His thick, wavy hair has a bit of a ridge in it where I can tell he’s been leaning on his hand, probably stuck in the same position in his desk for hours at a time just like me.
“Take them all,” I joke halfheartedly as he picks a folder up off the stack.
But he just takes the Old Town project folder and tucks it under his arm, smiling sympathetically. Just before he leaves my office, he turns around abruptly.
“You know, I’m starving,” he shrugs. “It’s almost seven. Did you eat?”
I look up at him, confused. He swallows, almost a nervous gesture. I’m sure it’s just an innocent thing, but I can’t help but be suspicious.
Okay, dial it back, I caution myself. We are not at war. He is just my boss.
“Seven o’clock already?” I sigh, forcing myself to strip all traces of sarcasm from my tone.
He smiles, sensing a break in my attitude.
“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests. “Something casual. Something quick. We both deserve a break.”
I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no either and I guess that’s enough of a confirmation for him. He leaves and comes back shortly afterward, and I stand and slip my shoes back on, nervously smoothing my trousers over my hips.
I can be nice, I tell myself. I can be friendly, even if he is an ass. This doesn’t have to be awkward. It’s not a prison sentence.
The evening is warm and quiet, and Maxwell leads me around the corner to one of the narrow side streets where the sound of Michigan Avenue is just a dull roar in the background. Well-dressed businesspeople and residents of the incredibly expensive condos stand in the outdoor cafés, laughing and talking over sparkling glasses of wine.
“This used to be someone’s driveway,” I muse aloud. “Back when this was a residential neighborhood, before it was all high-rises.”
“Interesting,” he smiles as he walks beside me. “I did not know that.”
“Yeah,” I confirm, aware of how dorky I sound. “I like to try to imagine it, the way it looked before everything changed.”
“Right, horse-drawn carriages and everybody wearing hats,” he muses.
“Exactly,” I smile. “And nothing over three stories. Can you imagine? Everything flat.”
We slip through the crowd, with people not paying us any kind of attention. We look just like any other couple who belongs here. Except we are not a couple. But it’s easy just to find a maître d’ and flag down a table. In moments we are seated beside a concrete fountain with goblets of sparkling water and a basket of handmade breadsticks.
Arriving promptly, the waiter asks, “Tapas?”
Maxwell’s eyes flicker toward me to ask my approval before nodding. It’s a simple gesture: offering me the option to ask for a full menu instead of the small, delicate plates involved with tapas. It’s considerate of him to ask, but I like the variety and cleverness of the small plate offerings.
I’m too tired to order, and he seems to sense that. After negotiating for a few moments with the waiter, Maxwell turns to me and raises a glass of honey-colored wine in the air. I didn’t even notice I had a glass of wine in front of me. I almost want to giggle as I raise mine and clink the rim against his.
The first plates arrive with cured meats and mysterious slabs of creamy cheese, dotted with glistening pearls of oil and tiny crescents of sliced fig. As the first morsels brush my tongue, I realize that actually I’m famished. We eat with gusto, in silence, seeming to silently agree that our communication may be rocky, but this is really quite nice.
It’s effortless, I realize, if I just don’t fight it. I don’t have to do anything. Small dishes keep sho
wing up, with bites to eat that are more delicious every time I try them. My wine glass gets mysteriously refilled. I don’t have to ask for anything, and I don’t have to answer for anything.
It’s kind of a funny thing to say, but this is sort of strange for me. As a single woman living alone in Chicago, with five younger brothers and sisters that I nearly had to raise alone after my father died and before my mother got back on her feet, I’m not used to being a passenger. I’m not used to having things be easy. Even little things—ordering a meal, making sure the laundry is done, keeping the bills organized and paid—they’re not giant efforts, but they are not anyone’s responsibility but mine.
It is strangely pleasurable to just have someone else order the food.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks me suddenly, smiling over the rim of his glass.
The sun has gone down behind the buildings, and candlelight twinkles in the wine between his fingers.
“Thinking?” I repeat, startled.
To my surprise, I realize I’ve been smiling. He leans forward, narrowing his eyes as he searches my face intently.
“Yeah, there’s definitely something interesting going on in there,” he chuckles, pointing vaguely in the direction of my brain.
But when I try to assemble the words to explain it, it all sounds dumb. I’m enjoying not ordering my own food? Come on. Who would say something like that?
“Oh, I don’t know,” I finally sigh. “Probably just the wine. The food is good, right?”
“Just the wine, okay,” he repeats, with a bit of a dejected smirk. “Well, I’m glad you like it. We should try the other place, at the end of the block. Do you like Brazilian barbecue?”
My breath catches in my throat, threatening to give me instant and humiliating hiccups.
“Gosh, I’m tired!”
He presses his lips together. Suddenly I really want to go home. I just do. I feel strangely exposed out here, being asked questions about things I barely consider in my conscious mind.
“It’s been such a long day,” I explain in a rush. “But this was really nice. Thank you very much.”
He takes a breath and pauses for a beat, then motions the waiter for the check. “Nice to see you take a break. Do you need me to get you a cab?”
I realize that I am already pushing away from the table, like I am trying to escape or something. I guess my legs are committed to running away. There’s no stopping me now.
But I do force myself to smile at him before leaving. I can at least manage that.
Jeez, awkward much? I ask myself as I sit in the back seat of the Lyft, trying to purge myself of any memory of the last hour.
Am I that antisocial? Totally innocent, friendly dinner, and I have to act like a freak? Like I don’t know how to be nice? Answer questions? Maybe even ask questions?
Oh my God, I did not ask him any questions.
Come on, I scold myself. That is like Human Being 101! Ask people questions about themselves! Act normal!
“Uuuuughhh,” I groan, jamming the heel of my hand against my forehead.
“Are you okay, miss?” the driver asks, glancing at me with concern in the rearview mirror. “Do you need me to stop the car?”
Quickly I drop my hand, trying not to look like one of the drunken people he probably picks up nearly every day, the kind of person who throws up in the back seat of his nice, shiny car.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I reassure him. “Just socially inept. The usual.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” I shrug helplessly. “Actually it’s right… Oh, here. Okay. Thank you.”
I squint at the figure sitting on the front steps of my townhouse to make sure I’m not seeing things. As I climb out of the Lyft, the figure turns toward me.
“Landry?” I call out into the darkening air of my neighborhood.
A dog barks in the distance. A yuppie jogger hums as he runs past me. Landry waves her hand limply in the air.
“Hey, I thought that was you,” I smile as I approach her.
She stands and hugs me, sniffing my hair judgmentally like she always does.
“Flowers,” she remarks, like she always does.
“Roses,” I correct her, like I always do. “You coming in?”
Trudging up the steps, I get my keys out and she follows me. The security gate on the front door is probably pointless but it does look pretty. Questions for her tumble in my mind as I key open the gate, and then the front door. Why is she here? Is she okay? Am I okay? Is Mom okay? Is somebody else okay? Or not okay?
But we have played this game before. If I ask a question, she will not answer it. I’m supposed to wait for her to come around to tell me whatever she wants to tell me, whenever she is ready. I’m not supposed to push her, I have repeatedly been told.
“Hey, make yourself at home,” I sigh as I drop my purse and briefcase under the hallway table and kick off my shoes. “I’m just going to go get changed real quick.”
“Sure,” she says vaguely as she wanders into the living room, her head tipped back so she can look the place over.
When I come back to the living room, I’m surprised but pleased to find that she’s made tea for us. She sits in the corner of the sofa, her ankles tucked under her bottom with a steaming mug between her cupped hands.
“Perfect,” I sigh happily as I pick up the other mug and deposit myself on the other corner of the sofa.
We sit there in silence until I realize I’m about to doze off. Just in time, she draws breath to say something and I am immediately alert again.
“Think I could stay here for a few days?” she asks in a way that sounds like she practiced it a few times.
“A few days?” I reply innocently.
She wrinkles her nose and twists her mouth to the side. When she stares up at the ceiling again, I notice that her fingernails are short, bitten down. Her index finger is pink where the cuticle tore some days ago, by the looks of it.
“My roommate is annoying,” she explains fussily. “No big deal. I just thought a little me time would be good.”
“Stay as long as you like,” I smile, careful not to appear judgmental or prying.
“Okay, thanks,” she replies mildly.
It’s like there are two extra people in the room with us, saying the things that we are not saying out loud. There is an invisible Landry filling me in on the details. I know the roommate is a boyfriend. I am almost positive. I don’t know his name, but that’s because she never saw fit to tell me.
And there is an invisible Clarissa, pouting because my single-lady lifestyle is being encroached. Then there is another invisible Clarissa, scolding the first invisible Clarissa for being so selfish. Landry needs help. Why am I being petty?
Okay, this is crazy. Totally bonkers.
“I’m glad to have you here,” I announce, as much to her as to myself.
Then I get up and go to the linen closet, returning shortly with a blanket, sheets, and a pillow.
“Thanks, sis,” she smiles awkwardly as she takes the linens from me. “Just a few days.”
Out of habit, I lean forward automatically and press my lips to her forehead just like I used to do when she was eight or nine. It means hello. It means good night. It’s also a good way to check if she has a fever.
To my surprise, though, she leans into it, too. She used to lean away, sometimes almost flinch. Nice to see that she accepts it.
“Okay, good night, then.”
“Good night,” she murmurs.
My legs feel heavy as I trudge up the stairs to my bedroom, falling across the coverlet like I’m drunk. I’m not drunk, just really tired. Wrapping my arm around the oversized pillow, I pull it close to me and somehow the thought creeps into my head that it’s nice, having this shape against my body. Nice to have something to hold onto.
My mind wanders to times I’ve had that—had a warm body next to me, like a buoy to rock with on calm waters. Someone to breathe next to. Someone t
o inhale.
It was nice, the way Maxwell guided the conversation and dinner tonight. Really, it was nice to let go and let someone else take the reins for just a moment. No pressure, just someone to be quiet with and…
Hold on, what am I thinking about?
All right. This is stupid.
I push the pillow away, annoyed that somehow it dragged Maxwell into the forefront of my mind. Like I told Nayala, I like my uncomplicated life. I like my independence. I don’t need a pillow—or a person—to hang onto.
Chapter 5
Maxwell
As I enter the lobby of the high-rise, the smell of coffee assaults my sinuses. Again, I thought I was going to make it to my office without dropping by the coffee kiosk, but that’s just not going to be possible.
The heart wants what it wants, after all.
I stop short when Clarissa rounds the corner, her eyes wide and startled when she sees me, barely avoiding a collision. The beverages slosh in her fingers dangerously, practically tipping over the edge.
“Oh!” she exclaims, her lips rounding dramatically. “Jeez! Not again!”
“You know, if you would get a lid for your coffee, you could probably cut spillage in half,” I scold her jokingly.
Saying nothing, she raises her eyebrows and cocks her head, then extends one arm toward me. The froth of the cappuccino swirls invitingly against the rim of the cup.
“Wait, is that for me?” I smile.
Lips stubbornly pressed together, she just nods curtly. I take the cup from her fingers, momentarily stunned. I guess I was expecting her chilly demeanor to come right back.
Maybe it was the tapas that finally broke the ice. Those small plates can be magical.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint that I possess to keep from making a comment about the day I met her. When she spilled that cappuccino across my trousers. When her trembling fingers brushed the outline of my cock through my pants, springing it into life. There is just no professional way to bring that up. I can’t do it. I have to hold that back. No matter what.
