Come Again

by Poppy Dunne

  Come to think of it, that’s still her personality now. Only now I find it devastatingly attractive, if mystifying.

  Justin hangs up, then sits down to look through an excel spreadsheet. “Sorry, Fras. It’s kind of a mess in here right now.”

  “It looks like work.” I mean that as a compliment. I’ve never understood how some men live without goals, without a new challenge to meet. Work is essential to happiness. Of course, Emma would say I’ve a stick up my ass. She does love that phrase.

  God damn, how do I begin to approach this topic? Should I even bring it up? Or would Justin be within his rights to kick me out and chase me down the street with a bat?

  Hardly likely. Justin was never into sports when we were young.

  “I’ve already brought over a few clients from my old firm. Including Jeff Hammer, which I know is going to piss DeWitt off.” He grins, showing a bit of teeth. “Good.”

  Justin sharked a client from DeWitt and Hoffman? And he’s smiling about it?

  “When did you leave the firm? And what kind of drugs are you taking?” It’s barely a joke. Whatever he’s on, I’d love a taste right now. Anything to get my mind off banging and losing his sister. Well, perhaps not the banging part. I’d rather hang onto that.

  Justin shakes his head, still grinning. He stops working when the sound of a child crying rings throughout the house. Must be his youngest. The screeching continues half a minute, until there’s a soft, cooing noise. Charlotte pads into the room, jostling the boy on her hip.

  “Babe, think you can pick up from the deli for lunch? I’ll call it in,” she tells Justin, wincing as the baby boy knocks his head against hers. “We’re having some technical difficulties over here. Sebastian wants to be a plane, and it’s tiring me out.” To illustrate, the child throws his arms out wide and makes a whooshing sound. Sometimes I’m not so certain I want children.

  Not unless they were Emma’s. Then I would have as many as she wants or can stand. I would sow my oats in her wild—

  Dear God, tell me I didn’t say any of that out loud.

  Fortunately, the Brightmans are too taken with the thought of lunch to pay me any mind. Charlotte even comes over and gives Justin a soft, fond kiss. Seeing them, my gut cramps. Had it and lost it, Fraser. You’ve only yourself to blame.

  After Charlotte says a polite hello to me, she bounces, or rather, flies Sebastian back to his room. Justin chuckles, going back to his email. Honestly, I can’t remember seeing him this relaxed and smiling.

  “Back to my first question. When did you leave the firm?” I sit opposite him.

  “They shoved me out.” He gives a shrug, as though it’s all very casual. “And I’m going to make DeWitt bleed for it.”

  I don’t know what kind of hobgoblin has slipped inside my old friend’s skin and turned him into such an ice-veined legal killer, but I rather like it. “I always knew you’d this murderous instinct inside you.”

  “I didn’t. You know who convinced me of it?” He looks up, his blue gaze a bit too sharp. “Emma.”

  I pause, because this might be the moment he attacks, and I’d feel rather embarrassed if he simply knocked me over in this chair. One of the reasons I’ve spent so many hours sparring in the gym is precisely that: not being mowed over by a middleweight man in a California State University sweatshirt. The scenario is specific, I grant you, but ultimately valid.

  But Justin doesn’t attack, or threaten me with legal action. Rather, he seems amused by my silence. I wonder if I’m doing that ‘shitting a brick’ face Emma liked to tease me about. She meant it in a complimentary way, I’m certain of it.

  “Come on, man. You’ve been seeing my sister for more than forty-eight hours. You think she wouldn’t hint at it?”

  Yes, Emma and her siblings have always had a close, unforced connection. As an only child, I remember having such a relationship with my invisible dragon named Lionel. Ah, the laughs we used to have, alone in my room.

  My life sounds sad, but it isn’t. Not entirely.

  “You don’t object then?” I wonder if Charlotte’s going to come in with the lunch order. I wonder if I can ever stop feeling awkward again, knowing that Justin knows how intimately I’ve now experienced his sister.

  “I think it’s great. We just haven’t told Mom because she’d turn either smug or crazy about it.” Ah yes, Delia Brightman and her Machiavellian values. Justin shuts his laptop. “Of course, now that something’s gone wrong, there may not be a point anymore.”

  What’s she told him? “It might be something we can fix.” I say that for my pride rather than because I believe it’s true; how can Emma come back from a slight like the one I handed her? But Justin looks relieved.

  “I hope that’s true. Look, Fraser, I hope you know that what I’m about to say comes from a place of friendship.” Never a promising start to a sentence. “But you’ve been a tightass since we were kids. It was kind of exhausting.”

  Ah, there’s that famous Brightman spirit. Rip a man down to his foundation, then watch him try to build himself back up. Nice to know that such a trait doesn’t bypass the men in the family.

  “Thank you,” I say flatly.

  “I told you, I mean this as a friend. That’s why I think Emma could be good for you. Hell, after she wiped the floor with Mom on Sunday, I got an idea of just how good you’ve been for her, too.” He regards me with a cool, easy confidence. “My sister’s important to me. Anything that’s good for her is all right in my book.”

  There’s a thought I hadn’t entertained. I know what Emma’s given me—great sex, laughter, a noogie that time I threw her over my shoulder to carry her to the bedroom. Is it possible, though, that I’ve helped her in return? Given her some boost of confidence, some defiance towards her harpy of a mother?

  If I could believe that, I could believe it might be worthwhile to inflict myself upon Emma once more. Since Gillian, I’ve imagined myself as someone whose wealth and status might make up for whatever deep, unfixable character flaws he possesses. But if it’s more than that—if Emma actually needs me, if I make her better—then there might be hope after all.

  It’s more than I’ve ever dared hope: that I might be enough for someone. More than that, that I might fulfill her.

  Perhaps I’ve let what happened with Gillian warp all perception of myself.

  “Then perhaps I should call Emma.” I pull out my phone, attempting to sound casual. “Just in case she wants to talk.” Yes, calling on the phone usually signifies talking, Fraser. You’re a bloody genius.

  “But there’s one problem.” Justin steeples his fingers. “Whatever issue you and Emma had, it sounds like it was communication based. So if you want to call and talk to her, something tells me you’d better be ready to give her the truth. Whole truth. Nothing but the truth.”

  So help me God, yes, I know. I place my phone face down on the coffee table. “I’m not sure I know what to say.” It’s painful, admitting the lack of something. Some knowledge. Some instinct. “I don’t have a talent for discussing…emotional topics.”

  Charlotte emerges from the hallway, without the child this time. She sits down on the couch beside her husband, and hooks her arm through his.

  “Well lucky you, the food’s not ready for twenty minutes. So why don’t you try practicing on us?” she says.

  22

  Emma

  “The truth,” Gillian says, blowing on her cup, “is that this is the most horrid coffee I’ve ever tasted. You poor thing, I’m so sorry. This must be absolute torture every day.”

  We’re sitting in the downstairs café, two admittedly very bad French roasts in front of us. I like to load up with as much cream and sugar as possible. When I mentioned to Gillian she should try it, she didn’t believe me. Never doubt me when caffeine is on the line, folks. It’s a bet you won’t win.

  “Lucky us, there’s a Coffee Bean around the corner.” I take a sip of the brew, my heart rate skyrocketing. That has nothing to do with the
coffee, by the way. Gillian’s come to finally shed the light on whatever Fraser’s deal is. Much as I’m eager to hear, I also made us go downstairs to delay it a little bit. I mean, suppose at least some of what Gavin’s been telling me is true. What do I do then? How do I feel?

  Besides sad and horny, I mean, because for the past few days those have been my default states. Avoid that combo whenever possible, friends.

  Also, it’s hard to avoid ogling Gillian, because this woman is seriously stunning. Her sleek dark hair hangs just a little in her face. Her nails are painted coral and immaculately manicured, her lipstick done so sharply it’s like someone painted it on. Sitting across from a verifiable goddess is a teensy bit intimidating when you’re already insecure and you share an ex-boyfriend. Or maybe current boyfriend. I don’t know. I’m so confused.

  “I’m just glad Gavin wasn’t in. To tell the truth, I almost didn’t come in for that very reason.” She sighs, and lays her cheek in her hand.

  Okay. That’s a promising start. “What exactly happened between the three of you? Because whatever went down, it sounds like the most melodramatic gender-swapped version of Three’s Company of all time.”

  Gillian grins. “Fraser said you were funny.” Well, that would be nice if I knew how he meant it. Funny ha-ha or funny ‘the bizarre non-sequiturs aren’t such an issue once you get to know her?’ She sighs, stirs her coffee. “Even though we weren’t right for each other, I liked how he appreciated humor in a woman. It’s a rare quality among men.”

  Okay, sounds like Fraser’s still the good guy. Point in my favor. “Want to start at the beginning, or should we Memento this? You know, fragment it up, make it all artsy but also nonsensical. Tell me you have tattoos and outdated Polaroids to help. Just so long as you didn’t kill anyone.”

  I wonder sometimes if I reference too much pop culture, but then I decide there’s no such thing.

  “You know that Fraser, Gavin, and I all went to Cambridge together. Fraser and I started dating our third year—we’d been friends for ages, but he’d always been too uptight to make a move. For a while I thought we were happy, but there was some spark missing between us. At least, there was on my end.” She sighs, looks down at her hands. “It was right to end things, but it was wrong the way I did it. God, it was so wrong.” She squeezes her eyes shut, the obvious pain of reliving a not-so-good memory written all over her face.

  I’ve made that expression before, but only when thinking about that night I ate half a bucket of Buffalo Wild Wings by myself. People have different regrets in life.

  “You, er, hooked up with Gavin?” Yes, that’s me. The lady of tact. Gillian winces, but nods.

  “Right after Fraser proposed, even. I told him I needed to think about it, and that night Gavin called. I went over to his flat, and.” She waves her hands, that gesture that says ‘insert sex scene here.’ “I’d always been so charmed by him at university, and I thought we had this forceful, almost supernatural connection. I thought it was real love.”

  “So. What happened next?” I mean, I’m already guessing who the baby daddy is, but I’d like these things confirmed. Conclusions have a tendency to trip you up.

  “Well, Gavin went back and forth between London and New York. I kept waiting for him to ask me to move with him, but it never came up. We went on like that for a year, until I found out I was pregnant.” At that, she puts her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. Damn. She’s basically playing all the hit singles from her life album How and Where I Fucked Up. This can’t be easy to do in front of a stranger, and I reach out to touch her shoulder. I don’t knock over the coffee, either, which is a plus.

  “Let me guess. He wasn’t thrilled.”

  “He broke up with me on the spot. Said what we had was fun, but I wasn’t the person to settle down with and raise a family.” Even after all this time’s gone by, the bright edge of tears is in her voice. Man, if there were ever a man to deserve a stiletto heel to the groin, it would be Gavin Walker.

  I don’t want to make her rehash all the ugly details. “So the kid I met at Fraser’s was Gavin’s?” Probably a dumb question, but you never know. Immaculate conception might be a thing.

  Gillian nods, wiping her eyes with a napkin. “He wouldn’t accept my calls. He said he didn’t want to meet her. Fraser was the one at the hospital when Anna was born, and I know it wasn’t fun for him.” She blows her nose; man, even that’s dainty. This woman is perfection. “Then, when we found out she had the heart condition—”

  “Right, this is where it tips right over into Charles Dickens territory.” Wow, could I have been more insensitive? I kind of want to pour the coffee on my head so she doesn’t have to. But Gillian laughs.

  “Something like that. We had a couple of surgeries, but it looked like a very extensive operation was the only thing that would help.” She then lists off some terms that have a lot of –itises at the end of them, and they all kind of run together in my head. I’m not the person you come to with a scrape or a bruise. “Our healthcare’s good in Britain, but the premier surgeon for this type of pediatric operation is based in Los Angeles. We had a scare about a month ago, right after Fraser had moved out here. He flew us into town, booked us an appointment, and he’s paying for everything.” She shakes her head. “And it’s not cheap.”

  So basically, Fraser Drake is the world’s greatest human being, and we all should go home because the prize has been won. And I implied to this man’s face that he might just be a terrible human being who abandoned his responsibilities. Right. This is like going up to Gandhi and saying ‘hey man, non-violent protest is great and all, but I heard you like to kick puppies in your spare time. Not convinced yet that you’re really such a good guy. Can’t be too careful, you know? So let me put this puppy right in front of you and I want to carefully observe you not kick it for the next five minutes. Then I might believe in you.’

  I’m effectively the worst.

  “Listen, I’ve got to run. Anna’s at the doctor, and I want to be there when they finish up.” She stands up, sliding her purse up her shoulder. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but I think Fraser cares about you a great deal.”

  A great deal. That’s British for ‘madly, passionately in love.’ I feel my cheeks burn, and my insides go all molten. Like a decadent chocolate dessert, I mean, not like magma. That would be messy.

  And this situation is messy enough right now. “Will you be okay?” I don’t know what makes me ask that, other than I have no idea how Gillian copes.

  “Anna’s going to be all right, which is more than enough for me. And I just started seeing a man back in London, in case you’re afraid I’m trying to move in on your territory.” She winks, and I hem and haw and pretend to be looking for something in my purse, because I’m both flustered and relieved. “Hope I see you around.”

  We shake hands, and I go back upstairs with my stomach fluttering nervously, and my head spinning. I don’t recommend trying this at home; very discombobulating. Casey’s waiting, perched on the edge of her chair when I sit. “So. Who’s the father? And who’s the jerk?”

  “Gavin gets both titles.” I boot up my computer just for something to do, and pull out my phone. Maybe Fraser texted while I was with Gillian. Or maybe I should text him and tell him I talked to Gillian. Or maybe she’ll text Fraser, and then he’ll text me, and then I’ll text Gillian, and we’ll go on like this until we die.

  Casey whistles. “Girl, this is serious dirt. A love child’s one thing, but an abandoned love child with a serious but treatable illness? You could do major damage to his reputation here.”

  And oh, isn’t that tempting. But right now, Gavin Walker is the furthest thing from my mind. Fraser hasn’t texted or called. How the hell do I approach him now? Walk up and say sorry for casually insinuating he was a monster? Is there enough make-up sex in the world for something like that?

  And am I willing to try for that amount? Ready and willing.

  With a s
igh, I skip over to my Instagram page. If nothing else, I can see what pictures Blaire’s been posting of her little poufy dogs. That gives me something to live for. Yes, that’s the most depressing thing you’ve heard today. Revel in the fact that you’re not me.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I think I need to check with Fraser,” I tell Casey while I scroll through my feed…and then stop. I feel my eyes about to pop out of my skull, and stand up. I stand because if I don’t, I’d probably fall off the seat and roll across the ground.

  “You’ve got a serious case of crazy eyes. What’s going on?” Casey gets up and peers over my shoulder. By her startled gasp and her rousing, “Oh holy shit,” I know I’m not hallucinating this. Though I wish I were.

  Lily’s posted for the first time in a couple of days. It’s a selfie, because of course it is. She’s wearing a turquoise bikini, sunglasses on, and she appears to be lounging poolside. That in itself isn’t such a shock. Lily makes bikinis and poolside lounging look like an art and something of a business. What’s really startling—in fact, horrifying—is the person lounging alongside her.

  Gavin’s bare chested, and also wearing sunglasses. He leans in to Lily, their heads almost touching. The smirk he gives is textbook douchebag. I don’t see where his hand is in the shot; I just pray it’s not touching my baby sister.

  Under the photo, I read Lily’s message:

  SO SO BLESSED to be discussing #career with my amazing #agent. If you don’t work it, you don’t own it. That’s what George Washington said. SO TRUE. For all the haters, this is #livinthedream #acting #palmsprings #hollywood #selfie #poolstagram #georgewashington #famous #actresslife

  This is followed by a stream of emojis.

  “I can’t believe you came out of the same womb,” Casey mutters. “Gavin doesn’t even represent talent, for God’s sake.”

  “Mom used to joke that they found me under a table in an AM/PM. The older I get, the more I hope she’s telling the truth.” I put the phone down and rub my eyes. So that’s why Gavin hasn’t been in for a couple of days. He’s been squiring my little sister around Palm Springs. And yes, I’m using ‘squiring’ with as much anger and self-righteousness as I can muster.