by Lexi Whitlow
“Yeah.”
“Let me pick you up there in ten, I’ll explain later.”
What now?
Harrison Street Café is tiny, always busy, and popular with art students. They make a mean latte and their iced coffee is potent. I’ve been known to stop in late and load up when facing dreaded back-to-back all-nighters. Since Hayes has insisted on demonstrating his kitchen skills tonight, delaying getting me getting to the studio, I figure I’ll make the most of my time waiting for him by getting an iced coffee, extra shot thank you very much. Maybe I’ll have a little more energy as I work into the wee hours. It’s going to be a long night. I hope he’s planning on eating early rather than later. If I don’t get to work before ten, I’m going to be watching the sun come up tomorrow morning, and that’ll suck.
He’s as good as his word, pulling up to the curb in front of the café not more than fifteen minutes after I left him in the class with his fan club. I climb into the car with my bag and coffee. He gives me a look.
“You didn’t bring me one?”
“You want one? I’ll go get you one.”
He shakes his head, pulling off into traffic. “I’d have gotten you one,” he says.
“I didn’t know how long you would be, and I don’t know what you like.”
“I’m here exactly when I said I’d be here. In warm weather, I prefer iced coffee. If it’s cold, I like a Red Eye. Cream, no sugar.”
At least he’s not a half-caf with whipped cream and sprinkles sort. I hate those people.
“Next time I’ll know,” I promise.
He smiles again, but says nothing.
“So, are you going to tell me why you had to pick me up, instead of just meeting after class?”
He draws in a breath, scowls slightly. “Liza. She asked me to lunch this morning before classes, and I said no because I had a plan to show the carriage house to a prospective renter. And then she saw me coming back from lunch with you.” He turns to me briefly, gauging my reaction. I’m pretty sure I have none.
“I didn’t want her to see us leave together. Just trying to keep the tension level in check.”
There’s tension? Interesting.
“Is it a problem?” I ask. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her you rented the place and are moving in this weekend.”
My opinion of Liza Johnson is beneath low. That said, I tend to tread cautiously, as she’s the chairman of the department and can make problems if she wants to. I already know she doesn’t much care for me; why, I’m not sure. She pretty much iced me out the first time I met her, and she hasn’t warmed a bit since. I stay out of her way, reviling her from a distance.
“Don’t worry about Liza.” That makes me worry.
“Where’s your storage unit?”
“North Lombardi Street,” I say. “On the other side of Broad, across from Kroger.”
He laughs at me, shrugging. “I have no idea where that is. You want to be a little more specific, or should I put it in GPS?”
I roll my eyes. “Stay on Park. Lombardy is your next intersection. Take a right. Keep straight around the traffic circle, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He follows directions well enough.
The things I most want to retrieve from my unit are not numerous, but important. My kettle and coffee press, a few dishes, and clothes. The summers I spent in New York made an impression on me as far as wearables go, and the last couple weeks of slumming in t-shirts and jeans (because they’re easy and no one can tell if they’re clean or dirty) has put a solid crimp on my style. I find the plastic bin containing some of my favorite things, grab a couple pairs of shoes and boots from another, and I think I’m ready to go.
That’s when Hayes leans over my shoulder, peering into the bin I’m about to close, reaches in and lifts one of my cowboy boots, turning it over, studying it like a specimen.
“I remember these,” he says with a crooked, boyish smile. “First time I ever saw you, you were wearing these.”
The boots are worn-out. I’ve had them re-soled twice. The leather is soft and slouching, the color mottled and faded. Which, of course, makes them my favorite go-to for almost any occasion. If I’m having a bad day, these boots will brighten the horizon, making me feel as if I’m walking on clouds.
“That’s the day you took me up on the roof,” I say. “My first time in New York. I remember it too.”
I retrieve the boot from his hand, returning it to its mat. I gather the bin up along with a few other things. We make our way to the car with my most essential, personal possessions in tow.
I remember him on that day too. I recall meeting an awkward teen-aged boy, trying his best to impress me with his command of all things Harvey & Company, as well as New York City in general. He was cute and smart. He was also from another world. He had two parents who doted on him, and who, by every account, doted on one another, as well. They lived in some fancy midtown east apartment, with chauffeur driven limos to take them where they wanted to go.
I was thrown into that world because my mother dove head-first over the edge, again, strung out on cocaine and booze. She crashed a friend’s car into the side of a house and then wandered, bleeding, into the street, laid down on the pavement, and passed out. When they got her to the hospital, they found her parole officers card inside her wallet. The cops called him. A couple days later he came looking for me. He found me at home by myself, smoking a joint, reading a book about a girl who runs away from everything, repeatedly, eventually finding herself back where she started, realizing that’s exactly where she belonged. It was a pretty story of pure, contrived fiction.
My mother’s parole officer is the one who contacted my father and put me on a plane to New York. I’m sure he violated every rule in the book in doing that. He should have called child protective services and had me put in the foster system. He did the right thing, regardless of the rules. I just wish he’d helped send my mother to jail instead of through another round of rehab. But he, like every other guy who ever crossed my mother’s path, always gave her break after break because of how she looked, and how she wrapped him around her finger, making him want to dance for her.
After my mother’s first drug charge and DWI arrest—I was four-years-old and in the car with her for that one—the courts should have awarded my father custody. But all my mother had to do was bat her eyelashes at the judge, and my dad didn’t have a prayer.
That was the sum-total of my life until the autumn of my thirteenth year. I remember standing on the roof of my father’s building, gazing out at the city, feeling like I’d been robbed of something. I made up my mind right then and there that I was going to take it all back, and no one was going to get in my way.
I’ve been running on that premise ever since. So far, I’ve never let anything alter my forward momentum. The last few days, however, have caught me struggling between slipping gears.
The bathroom in this place is over the top. It’s like something out of a magazine or a movie; all gleaming stone surfaces and shining chrome. I put my new toothbrush on the black granite countertop beside the sink, then I take a moment to study myself in the mirror. My hair has gone frizzy, and I have gray circles under my eyes. I’m pale, and I think I smell a little funky.
I turn on the hot water and let the shower warm up as I gather clean clothes to put on.
It’s going to take a while to get accustomed to this place. I’m not sure I should allow myself to get too comfortable here. Luxury like this isn’t made for people like me. I’m a temporary interloper in someone else’s Architectural Digest spread.
My first shower in days is an out-of-body experience. Soap and shampoo, the smooth edge of a razor, these things become the potions and instruments of magical rejuvenation. Once bathed, shaved, and powdered, I feel whole again, new. My wet hair, clean and combed, falls like a friend’s hug over my shoulders and down my back. I gather the length of it up in a knot, tying it back.
Obse
rving my image in the mirror again, this time turned out in decent clothes, freshly scrubbed with a touch of perfume dabbed here and there, I feel back on my game.
Thanks to Danny and Scott, along with having a nice place to live, I also have extra cash in the bank. Things are looking up.
“I hope you like salmon?” Hayes asks, meeting me at the back door, handing me a glass of wine while he holds the screen door for me.
I see his gaze drop to my bare thighs and knees. He hasn’t seen me wear a skirt, and I’m guessing he thinks I cleaned up for him. He’s wrong.
“I like anything that isn’t Mexican, flash frozen, or out of a can,” I reply, taking the glass in hand. “I’m not picky.”
“Good,” he responds, falling in behind me. “Then it won’t be hard to impress you.”
His kitchen is to die for. It’s spacious and organized, obviously put together by someone who enjoyed entertaining. The fridge, stove and gas cook top are commercial grade, and the black granite counter tops gleam. There’s a pot rack hanging above the center island, hung with as nice a collection of top quality stainless steel and enamel cookware as I’ve ever seen.
I sniff the wine in my glass while settling onto a barstool at the center island. It smells fruity and salty, a little dry. I taste it and I know in an instant he didn’t find this vintage in the boxed wine section where I shop.
Hayes takes his place in the kitchen, facing me, turning his attention to something simmering in a saucepan.
“We’ve having sugar roasted salmon steaks, mushroom and spinach sweet potato gnocchi, and asparagus, with what’s turning out to be a slightly too salty lemon hollandaise sauce.”
Jesus. That sounds marvelous.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask him, feeling the urge to peek into one of the steaming pots on the stove.
“I lived all over Europe for a couple years. You pick things up,” he replies, grinning.
I can see the boy in him peeking through, the brightness in his eyes slowly emerging out from under masked shadows.
I lean forward on my elbows, sipping the delicious wine.
“Where did you live?”
“London,” Hayes says. “Then Berlin, Paris. I traveled a lot while I was there. Spent time in Florence, Venice, the Scandinavian countries. I did six months in Brazil while working for Neville Brody. I was also in Tokyo for a few months. The food there is great; difficult to replicate, but I try sometimes.”
Sushi. My favorite.
“Why so many different places?” I ask him. “Why not just pick one and really get to know it?”
Hayes considers my question, lifting his own glass to drink while he thinks. He sips and sets it down before finally speaking. “Fear of commitment.” He grins sheepishly. “I like to experiment, sample new things. I figure I’ll have plenty time to settle. I won’t always be able to just haul anchor and try something new.”
“So, the job here at VCU, it’s just another port you won’t be lingering in? You’re just feeling it out?”
Hayes stops stirring his hollandaise for a moment. A darkened veil returns to his eyes.
“I’m testing the waters,” he says cautiously. “This is my first shot at a grown-up decision. I signed a one-year commitment, and I bought the house, so I guess that’s a start.”
I want to press him, but I prefer the playful, unguarded boy. I take another sip and then bravely—emboldened by the wine, most likely—announce my grown-up plans.
“You can have Brazil, Berlin, and even Paris. All I want to do is graduate and get to New York. I’ve got my internship back at The Foundry next summer. After graduation, I’m going there full-time and I’m gonna make Scott and Danny proud.”
Hayes nods. “You’re in an awful hurry to turn into a wage slave,” he says. “Agency work, even at a place like that, is still just billing hours and keeping clients happy. You know that, right?”
He pulls the sauce from the burner, then checks the oven.
“Three minutes and we eat.” He points toward a cabinet across the kitchen. “Grab us some plates.”
I set the table, finding silverware in a nearby drawer. I know what he means about the challenge of keeping clients happy, but I also know that my father made it work.
“My father kept his clients happy,” I say. “They kept coming back. Scott and Danny seem to be doing well. I know my father loved his work.”
Hayes prepares a plate, setting it on the table. He prepares a second and motions for me to take a seat.
“You father did the client work for money and his own work for himself. The latter was what he loved, what kept him up at night. If he could have made a living as a fine artist, he would have quit the business before he ever started.”
Hayes keeps talking as we begin eating, telling me things I never knew about my father.
“It’s one reason I decided to try this college professor thing,” Hayes tells me. “I’m hoping that it affords me some freedom to do some of the things I want to do, rather than spending my best years doing the corporate grind for committees of guys in suits who want to sell widgets. I’m hoping your father’s advice to me to steer clear of getting caught up in commerce was sound.”
“Is his advice sound, so far?” I ask.
He lifts his glass, taking another sip. “It’s way too soon to tell,” he admits. “How’s the salmon? Not over-cooked I hope?”
“It’s perfect.” I speak the truth. “Best meal I’ve had in as long as I can remember.”
“I’ve seen your portfolio,” Hayes says to me as he clears our things. “Your head isn’t all about logos and ads. Your photography is inventive. Your typography—the things you did for your sophomore submission—that stuff was brand new.”
I know the pieces he’s talking about. They were done when I was in New York, on internship at The Foundry. They were done as experiments, in my free time, just having fun.
“Nobody’s ever going to pay me to do that kind of thing.” I wave him off. “That was just fun stuff I did on my own time. I put them in the book just to make Liza Jackson cringe, because I knew the three other professors in the review too, and I knew they’d love the stuff.”
Hayes smiles knowingly. “You put pieces in your review book that weren’t part of your coursework?” he asks. “That’s bold. Bordering on reckless, but it obviously worked out.”
I sip my wine, shaking my head. “I didn’t have much to risk,” I admit. “My father’s name is over the door. He gifted a third of the labs and studios in the building. All that, and my work is way above average. They weren’t about to shut me out of the program.”
“Pretty confident about that,” Hayes observes, sitting down again, this time next to me instead of across from me. “Why don’t you like Liza?”
I’m about to answer the question when Hayes’ phone starts buzzing. He lifts it, has a quick look, and then texts something in return. When he’s done, he places the phone on the table. He returns to me. “Sorry about that… Liza… Why don’t you like her?”
“Probably because she doesn’t like me,” I admit. “She was always kind of nasty and short with me from day one. I don’t know what her problem is, but after a while the distaste gets reciprocated.”
Hayes smiles again. “I have some idea why,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Instead he refills our glasses, I think for the second time.
I’m feeling the wine, despite the big, scrumptious meal. I’m wishing I had another cup of coffee to chase the one from earlier this afternoon.
“Liza’s an interesting case,” he says. “Not that uncommon, but absolutely interesting.”
Hayes stands up, grabbing his phone, slipping it in his jeans pocket. He asks me to follow, leading me to the living room where he plops down on the end of his giant, overstuffed leather couch. He motions for me sit as he begins waxing philosophic on Liza Johnson.
“I’ve worked with and for a lot of women like her,” he says. “If you’re right, and she di
sliked you from the beginning, it’s because you have something she never had, but always wanted. She envies you. She may not even be aware of it, but I think the things she most envies are your youth and your fearlessness.”
Fearlessness? He must be smoking something.
“Don’t antagonize her,” Hayes advises. “Women like Liza are formidable.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll say it again. She’s a hack.”
“She may be,” Hayes warns. “But she’s a hack with power.”
His phone buzzes again. “Jesus,” he sighs. “What now?”
Once more he hurriedly texts something in response. When he’s done, he looks up.
“I’m popular,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging. “A bunch of grad students are drinking at Poe’s and begging me to join up. I keep telling them I’m in for the evening, but the alcohol is clearly clouding their reading comprehension.”
“You should go,” I say. “I need to get to the studio anyway. Tons of work to do, especially since this asshole professor of mine piled on more work.” I offer a smirking grin.
Hayes shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere yet. It’s early. Have another glass of wine.”
If I have another glass of wine I won’t get a damn thing done all night.
He pours me another glass, which I don’t touch, and then settles back down on the couch.
“I’m having dinner with Liza tomorrow night.” He doesn’t look happy about it. “She’s been pestering me, leaning on me. She’s going to make a ridiculous fool of herself by propositioning me, and I’m going to have to confront that—and turn it around on her. I’m not looking forward to it.”
I’m all astonishment hearing this. I can’t believe he’s telling me.
“How do you know that’s what she’s going to do?”
He laughs. “The signals are hard to miss,” he says. Then he levels his eyes, halfway grinning with the glow of several glasses of red wine illuminating his cheeks. “Were you serious when you said you never dated anyone, never had a boyfriend?”
What the hell does that have to do with the current discussion?
