Come Again

by Poppy Dunne

  “Fancy seeing you here.” He sounds easy and charming while he says it, but I’m not in the mood for fun talk. My pride is still stinging from giving that phone call to Blaire. She sounded totally understanding and kind, but also fairly muted. It’s my fault for hyping her up so much. I just never imagined it wouldn’t work out.

  Well, in Hollywood, it’s important to imagine every outcome. That way, you don’t end up staring down Gavin Walker’s handsome but sometimes eminently punchable smile.

  “Yeah, I’m. Very. Fancy.” So sue me, it’s a Monday afternoon and I’m a little slow on the pick up. I’ve got other, Fraser-centric drama to play out in my mind. Gavin takes a drink, crushes the paper cup, and tosses it into the trash. Not even the recycling. Tsk. Such judgment.

  “You seem reserved lately.” Gavin leans against the counter. “I get the feeling it’s because of the Blaire pitch.”

  “No, not at all.” It shouldn’t be a feeling; it is the Blaire pitch. Plus your stupid, weird relationship triangle with Fraser and that hot lady. But then again, I don’t like to get involved in other people’s drama. At least, not unless it’s from a safe distance with binoculars. “I’ve been busy reading. You know, that job the company pays me to do? Gotta earn those Starbucks trips, avocado toasts and vintage coats somehow.” Seriously though, I saw the cutest, coolest old trench coat on the Venice boardwalk. Looks like Humphrey Bogart meets Furiosa. Maybe after work I can—

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin says. He finally takes his eyes from my face, a repentant move to the core. “I let personal things get in the way of professionalism.”

  “Oh?” I’m not going to tip my hand either way. Let’s see how this plays out. I take another sip of chocolate, and don’t get any on my blouse. I am an adult.

  “I said some things that I shouldn’t have when rejecting your Blaire pitch.” He runs a hand through his hair; clearly this apologizing is hard work. “My only excuse is that I care about you. Like I said.”

  “Thanks, boss. It’s nice to be cared for.” I take a final sip of my drink and toss it into recycling. Then all the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, because I feel Gavin draw up right behind me. It’s ‘breath on the back of my neck’ levels of close.

  “I care about you more than I should, Emma.” His voice is dark and mysterious and hypnotizing and all the other adjectives you’d use to describe a potentially pornographic scenario. Except that it’s not what I want right now. At all.

  “Hold on,” I say, turning around. Or at least, that’s what I start to say when Gavin’s arms go around me, his blue gaze locks with mine, and he leans in to kiss me.

  Yes, he is trying to kiss me in the break room in the middle of the work day.

  “Whoa, whoa!” I shove myself away from him, out of lip-lock range. Only I don’t break completely free; even with me shoving him and verbally exclaiming and all that other good, don’t-kiss-me stuff, Gavin’s still got his arms around me. He’s still pulling me closer, coming in for the romantic kill. As he tries to kiss me again, I shove harder and hiss, “I will SING on you so hard, man, if you don’t knock it off.”

  That does the trick. Finally releasing me, Gavin frowns. “Sing?”

  “Solarplex, instep, nose, groin.” Like I said, Miss Congeniality is now a required Auntie Emma movie night. Sawyer and Sage need to be prepared, man. “As in all the places on you I’d hit if you didn’t back the fuck off.”

  Should I have started shouting? Gotten someone in here to back up my story? Because I know how sideways things can go in this industry, in this office, when it’s ‘her word against his’ time.

  Gavin smoothes that raven black hair of his again; it’s his go-to technique. “Emma,” he says, licking his lips. He blinks. Next thing he’ll tell me is an alien intelligence hijacked his motor functions for a few minutes. He looks that surprised. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

  “Yeah, nothing screams ‘do me’ like standing side by side and drinking Arrowhead straight out of the tank,” I snap. Looking over my shoulder, I can see no one else is coming in, or saw any of this. “Stay the hell away from me, Gavin.” I think I need to go to HR. I think I need to call a lawyer. I think I need to challenge Gavin to a kickboxing match in the parking lot and put my pencil heel right in his groin.

  “You’ll probably run straight to Fraser now,” he mutters. And boy howdy, is that ever a new way to piss me off. ‘Run off to your boyfriend, little girl’ is what’s steadily implied there. Well, I can protect my own damn self, pal.

  “Speaking of, turns out you were lying, buddy. Fraser told me that he and Gillian dated, and she’s the one that ended it. So whatever fan fiction of your own life you’ve been writing, it needs to stop now. You don’t fool me.”

  And there I am, about to confidently stride out of this kitchen and away from this toxic mess of a man, when he says the magic little words, “Fraser got Gillian pregnant.”

  Now you might be wondering ‘Emma, why is your life such a soap opera’ and my response to that very sane question would be ‘I know, right? If only it were Passions or Dark Shadows instead of All My Children. I like the stories with hot vampires.’ So I’m not really answering your question, but I am acknowledging that it’s true.

  My life is a goddamn soap opera.

  I should just pretend I didn’t hear him and walk out of here, but this little twist in the story is simply too juicy to turn away from.

  “You have half a minute to explain yourself before I go screaming into the HR department like an atomic bomb with flattering highlights.” I spin around slowly. Gavin doesn’t come closer to me, so thank goodness for small favors.

  “Fraser got Gillian pregnant, and left,” he says simply. He looks green when he speaks the words, like this is tearing out a little piece of his soul. No way. This is just a good, slimy performance.

  “Gillian left him,” I begin.

  “That’s a lie, Emma.” He says it with a kind of sad resignation, which pisses me off.

  “I don’t want to be part of your little arena of mindfuckery, all right? From now on, you are not in my—”

  “I talked to Gillian last night. She’s in town because her daughter, Anna, needs an operation. The best cardiologists are in the States. She’s been after Fraser to help pay the bills for years, and he’s been dodging his responsibilities. If I’d known she’d come all this way, I’d have stepped in before. But she won’t take anything from me. She never would.” He says those words with a raw, ragged edge of pain. He closes his eyes. “All she wants is for Anna’s father to do what he’s supposed to do.”

  I let that settle for a minute, then slowly applaud. You know, golf claps. “Such a dramatic reading of some really shitty B-grade material. Let me guess. You and Fraser are also twins separated at birth, and you had to deal with a period of amnesia after vacationing in Bermuda. Oh, and which one of you knows where the ancient Drake treasure is buried? Because that’ll provide a lot of tension for sweeps week. Wow, remember old television lingo? I miss it.”

  “This isn’t a joke.” He sounds a trifle miffed by my readiness not to believe a single word of this craziness.

  “No, it is a joke. It’s a joke wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a waffle cone. No, I take that back. If waffle cones were involved, I might be inclined to swallow it.” I rock back into a warning stance as Gavin comes nearer. I will scream, dude. Do not test me.

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt, for God’s sake.”

  “And you show it in the rape-iest way possible, might I add. Thanks for the tension headache, boss. I’ll be taking the rest of the day off, and I don’t want to hear a word about it.” I turn quickly on my heels and storm back to my desk. I can practically hear the blood rushing in my ears. Yes, I am sure as hell getting out of this office. You don’t go through the cheerful candy-coated mindfuck I just received and return to reading upmarket women’s fiction about vacationing in Nantucket with your best girlfriends and rediscovering love during pum
pkin season. You need a breather. And maybe a taco. Or three.

  “Uh, what’s happening?” Casey probably notices how I’m flipping books closed and powering computers off and generally almost tripping over myself.

  “I don’t want to do this here. Can I call you after work?” I whisper as I slide into my jacket. Her lips purse, and her eyes dart in the direction of Gavin’s office. Bingo, baby.

  “Do you need someone to go with you?”

  “Nope, I just need to blow off some steam. Call me?” She nods, and I grab my purse and stalk out of there as gracefully and quietly as possible. I don’t notice the heads turning in my wake; nope, I don’t notice anything at all. A few minutes later, I get in my car and leave skid marks in my hurry to get the hell out. Back in the early afternoon traffic, I’m able to think a little clearer. I pull out my phone and call Fraser at a red light.

  And get his voice mail. Of course I do. At the tone, I leave a message. I’m good at following electronic directions.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m taking a chance you’re still at home and heading over. I think the Gavin Walker situation is hitting critical mass. Not going to spoil anything, but I may take you up on the offer to come over to the office and engage in fisticuffs for my honor. Though I’ll be bringing popcorn. Okay, see you soon.” I make a kissing noise, hang up, and find my blood pressure has gone down considerably.

  This is all going to be okay. Fraser and I are going to talk it out, smooth everything out, take the trash out. You name it, it’s going out.

  I pull up to his apartment, and find excellent street parking. See, the day’s already going better. Then I head into the lobby and wave at the doorman. He doesn’t even buzz me up. On Fraser’s request, I can go in whenever I like.

  Makes a girl feel special.

  By the time the elevator lets me off at Fraser’s floor, I’m ready to start laughing at all my idiocy. There was a white-hot second somewhere between Gavin’s groping and Gavin’s surly scowling that I believed him. No, no, I didn’t believe. I just doubted. After all, Fraser and I never really had that talk I wanted. Well, here’s the perfect opportunity.

  Everything’s going to be fine.

  I knock on the door, and Hot Legs McGee opens up. I mean, Gillian. That’s probably the name everyone actually uses with her. To her face, at least. Otherwise, Hot Legs McGee works nicely.

  Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.

  “Oh!” She puts a hand over her heart. “Hello. Fraser? Were you expecting someone?” She calls over her shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  I believe in Shakespeare’s time, this was called the Whateth the Fuck moment.

  Fraser opens the door wider, and looks like I just showed up with a lit stick of dynamite and a Snidely Whiplash mustache. Big eyes, clenched jaw, the works.

  “Emma. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Oh, hold on. I’m the interloper in all this? “What do you mean what am I doing here? What the hell is she doing here?” I don’t mean to punctuate this with pointing at Gillian like we’re all in second grade, but this day’s getting more out of control with every second that passes, so why the hell not?

  Then, the cherry on top of this shit sundae. A little girl peeks around Gillian and gazes up at me. She’s got such big dark eyes, and such tousled, curly brown hair.

  Just like Fraser’s.

  “Mum, is this the doctor?” she asks, blinking up at her mother.

  Oh. Holy. Shit.

  While the four of us gape at each other, I do the only thing I can possibly do as a functioning adult woman.

  “Er. Package for you,” I say. Then, with the last of my dignity in tatters, I turn and run for the elevator.

  19

  Fraser

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody hell, and fuck everything. I don’t even remember what I say to Gillian and Anna; I take off after Emma with as much dignity as I can muster. By the time I catch up to her, the elevator doors are already closing. I throw my arm between the doors, get inside, and ride with her down to the lobby.

  She’s staring at the floor as though it’s telling her the most incredible, marvelous story, and she doesn’t want to miss a word of it.

  “What are you doing here?” Accusative? Casual? Why not go for both? She certainly bristles at my tone. Emma Brightman is not a woman to enjoy being pushed around. Normally, that would arouse me. Right now, it’s more a problem than anything else.

  “You had a real nice family tableau going on in there.” She glares at me; there’s fire kindling in her green eyes now. As Smokey the Bear used to say in the Saturday morning cartoons of my misspent childhood, only you can fight forest fires. Then he doused, stirred, and doused again. Unfortunately, any attempt to pour a bucket of water on Emma right now would only leave her more furious.

  I have no idea where these idiotic ideas are coming from. This must be what Emma calls ‘mental blather.’ I don’t know how she survives it.

  “That was Gillian, yes. And her daughter.”

  “Who else’s?” She’s narrowing her eyes now. That can only mean business.

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  Oh, she doesn’t have to answer; I’ve a very good idea, before she speaks, of who put her up to this. “Gavin told me—”

  “Why are you spending so much time with Gavin, exactly?” I snap. The doors open, and two well-dressed ladies are standing there, yappy Chihuahuas in one arm, Whole Foods grocery bags in the other. They appear interested in listening to the rest of this argument, but Emma and I exit quickly before walking out the revolving doors. The day is scorching hot, the reflection of sunlight on the sidewalks painfully blinding. As I said before, I hate this part of Los Angeles: the searing, constant light.

  “If you’d listened to the voicemail I left you, it was a miracle I got out of the break room with him without getting groped.” She frowns, and my whole vision goes red. That’s it. I’m going to drive down there, take my car up to the eleventh floor, sneak it quietly past reception, and then run over Gavin where he sits. Don’t ask me how this is to be accomplished. What the hell’s the point of having all this money if you can’t use it for insane and irresponsible murders?

  “Are you all right?” I start by comforting her as best I can. I take Emma into my arms, tilt her chin up. “Did he hurt you?”

  She must feel the tension in my embrace, because she rests her head on my chest. Instantly, my blood cools. It’s all right; everything can be taken care of. First I have Gavin fired, then I chase Gavin to the ends of the earth, then I defeat him in a test of strength and a spelling exam. It’s all going to happen exactly as I picture. Save, perhaps, the spelling.

  “He was doing his creepy little mindfuck routine.” Emma sighs, pushing away from me. The possessive, growling voice in my head wants to hang onto her. I should have protected her this entire time. I should never have let Gavin worm his way into her head. Then, Emma continues. “He also said you and Gillian had had a baby, and you ran out on her.”

  I’m expecting a confident laugh from her now. Something to dismiss such utter bullshit. But instead, I find she’s…looking up at me with what can best be described as hopeful wariness. She even plays nervously with her hair, always a telltale sign that she’s unsure.

  Of me. She’s uncertain of me.

  In some part of her heart, she believes Gavin. Or at least, she believes he could be telling the truth.

  Does she think so little of me that she could entertain that idea for a second?

  “And?” I lose all trace of a smile. I will not rush to console or relieve her. She should be adult enough to do that on her own.

  “Well. I mean, I don’t believe him. Of course I don’t.” She gives a weak laugh, but that’s still not good enough.

  “Then why did you run away like that?”

  Emma pauses, sizing me up. I feel her pulling away from me even now, into some uncertain corner of her mind. “So picture this. Your douchebag boss hits
on you, then makes up some lame-ass story about how his ex-girlfriend has a love child by your studly gentleman caller, and she’s in town trying to get money for an operation, or a disease, or whatever Dickensian cough’s going around England these days. Then you show up to laugh it off, have a drink, maybe get frisky, and what do you find? A hassled looking ex-girlfriend and a sick looking little girl. Who, let’s be honest, seems to have your hair and eyes.” She lets all of that come out in a rush. I can tell she wants me to interrupt her, but I won’t. I won’t degrade myself with this.

  I won’t give up my pride for anyone, no matter how much she means to me.

  “Fraser? What do you think?” Emma sounds so timid; she wants to be so tender.

  “Go on.” I’m as neutral as possible, and it lands on her like a blow. She keeps going.

  “Look, if you tell me Gavin’s up to some shenanigans, I’ll believe you. If you tell me he planted those two as part of a way to one-up me—like, he’s playing 4-D chess with reality or something—I’ll buy it. I just need you to look me in the eye and—”

  “And what, Emma? Tell you that I’m not the type of man to leave a woman pregnant with my child? Tell you I’m not the type to abandon a chronically ill child?” God, this really does sound like a soap opera, doesn’t it? If one of us comes down with amnesia, preferably me, it’ll be only too fitting.

  Now her cheeks are flushing. That gleam in her eyes means she’s getting angry. Good. I’d like someone to join me in feeling utterly fucking furious. “You’re the one who’s acted weird about your past. You know, with your ultimatums and your stalking to the bathroom to wash your face angrily.” She even mimes it. “Oh yeah, I’ve had a lifetime of angry removals to the bathroom. It’s the only place Mom ever gave Dad any peace. If you’d gotten out the nose hair trimmers, I’d have known we were in deep shit.”

  “You don’t own any trimmers,” I growl. Not the most eloquent I’ve ever been.

  “Look, I’m the one who got felt up by her boss, okay? I am trying to be understanding right now, Fraser, but I just need.” She pauses, her hands all but fluttering. “I don’t know. I need you to meet me halfway.”