Missed Connections Box Set

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Monday evening, five-thirty, a week before Christmas—what would he be doing? Grading exams maybe, or working on his research, whatever it was, wherever he did that. It was a reasonable hour to call. No reason to procrastinate.

  Still, I waited until I got home, letting the wine buzz fade off some. The outside white lights had come on with the timer, but no one else was there yet, so I went around, plugging in the Christmas tree and turning on the lamps, putting the kettle on to boil. Julie had homemade eggnog in the fridge, which she promised was salmonella free. Still, I’d looked it up and it ran about 400 calories a cup, with 18 fat grams and a whopping 48 sugar grams. I could have another bottle of wine for that, with zero fat and half the sugar.

  But I wouldn’t have that either. Instead I made myself a special herbal tea blend, measuring out holiday spices to give it a sweet and hearty flavor to satisfy my inner child. With it, I’d have one—okay, two—of Julie’s sugar cookies, which melted in your mouth like snowflakes.

  With all of that laid out, I had no reason to procrastinate any longer. Hell, if I couldn’t call up Jon Ahearn for a breezy chat, then Adelina had a point—I didn’t have a thick enough skin for the fashion business. Besides, the timing was perfect. The tea kettle whistle would provide the perfect excuse for ending the conversation if it proved to be awkward.

  Resolved, I put in my ear buds and hit his number to call.

  ~ 9 ~

  Of course it went straight to voice mail. He probably was one of those people who didn’t even turn the damn thing on unless he wanted to make a phone call. It wasn’t even his voice, just the canned message that came with the cellular account. I should count my blessings that it wasn’t a landline and one of those old answering machines.

  I waited for the beep, then recorded my breezy message. “Hi Jon. This is Amy. Amy Taylor, from Wildwood, you know. Just thought I’d call hi, to make up for not doing it—”

  A ping interrupted, the phone buzzing on the table, lighting up and showing Jon calling.

  “And there you are, calling back. Hanging up here to answer there.” I ended the call and accepted his. “Hi Jon! How are you?”

  A pause on the other end. “Hi. Someone from this number called me a minute ago.”

  “Yeah. It’s Amy. I was just leaving you a message.”

  “Amy.”

  “Yes.” I waited a moment. Awkward pause. “Amy Taylor. From Wildwood Academy.”

  He laughed. “Believe me, there’s only one Amy in my life. I’m just… surprised you called.”

  “Sorry,” I said, then mentally kicked myself for apologizing. “I don’t like surprises either.”

  “I don’t mind surprises, but I remember how much you hate them. Remember when Steve Semon popped that balloon behind your head in the lunchroom?”

  “Oh God. You would mention that. I threw up, right in front of everyone.”

  “Ha! You projectile vomited. It was pure awesome.”

  “Not for me.”

  “He learned his lesson—and you were always a sensitive person. No shame in that.”

  A pause while I thought about what to say next. This sure wasn’t cheering me up.

  “Anyway,” he said, sounding a little awkward, as if he realized he’d gone down a weird track. “What’s up?”

  “You said to call sometime, so I am.” More awkward pause. “I thought I’d make up for never calling last year, since you were so annoyed about it. So, here I am, saying hi.”

  “Hi.” He didn’t say anything more.

  I should have planned the conversation better. This going-against-instincts thing sucked monkey balls. I glared at the tea kettle, starting to burble, but not there yet. “So…how’s it going?”

  Something clattered in the background, like a piece of machinery. “Good. Finished my grading over the weekend, so now I’m getting some real work done, finally. You?”

  My life pretty much sucks. “I’m fine.”

  “Work is busy?”

  “Yeah, I’m working on some designs that Adelina likes, refining them. Mostly it’s getting stuff wound up for the holiday break.”

  “You get time off?”

  “A whole week between Christmas and New Year’s. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

  A pause. “You’re not going home?”

  “Are you kidding?” Jon had gone with me once, just for the day. He’d seen and he knew.

  “Guess not.” He kind of laughed. “I thought maybe things had gotten better.”

  “People don’t change.” I sounded bitter, so I asked. “What about you?”

  “No, I’m staying put.” He sounded as if he might say something else, but didn’t.

  The tea kettle finally whistled. I took my time crossing the kitchen, letting the wail of it get loud and piercing before I took it off the heat. “My tea is ready. I’d better go. It was—”

  “You still love tea, huh? I remember you used to make it in that ancient Mr. Tea thing that was forever shorting out.”

  That memory sapped my anger. I hadn’t thought of that in years. “And you were forever fixing it for me.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “No. I took it with me to Northwestern, but it finally died an agonizing death. My roommate had a fit, saying I nearly burned the dorm down—which, it wasn’t even close to that—and I had to throw it away.”

  “And now you’re old school.”

  I’d poured the water into the ceramic Nambé pot, inserting the thermometer to check the temperature. Too hot, of course, because I’d let it boil. A few minutes to cool. “I have a gas stove now, so I use a tea kettle, yeah.”

  “Sometimes the old-fashioned way gives the best results.”

  It seemed he had some subtext under those words, but I wasn’t sure what, and he’d made me kind of gun shy of asking. “Okay, so…”

  “Have lunch with me tomorrow,” he blurted out.

  “What?” I put my hand on the counter to steady myself. Low-level surprise. Get a fucking grip.

  “I’m terrible on the phone, and now I’m afraid this has gone badly and you’ll never call me again.” He confessed all that in a rush, making me smile, then took an audible breath. “Can we do lunch? In person conversation. I want to catch up with you.”

  “Lunch, huh?” I unlocked my phone and checked my calendar. I didn’t normally take lunch, but I didn’t have any meetings or calls scheduled.

  “Or breakfast. Whatever.”

  “I run in the mornings, so I don’t really have time for breakfast. I usually catch it on the fly.”

  “Some things never change.” He paused, but it sounded expectant this time, if silence could sound like something. “Lunch? I’d say dinner, but maybe too much like a date, rather than old friends from high school catching up.”

  I laughed a little. “Can you do one-thirty? I know that’s late, but—”

  “No problem. Meet me at our café?”

  My turn to pause.

  “You used to like it there,” Jon said into the silence. “But if you don’t anymore then we could—”

  “I still like it there,” I said. I just hadn’t been in forever was all. Maybe not since the last time I went with Jon sometime in the spring of senior year. “I’ll see you there.”

  “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

  I tapped to end the call and thoughtfully pulled out the ear buds, then checked the water temperature. It was perfect.

  * * *

  When I got back from running the next morning, I actually dithered over my outfit. Because of lunch with Jon, of all people. Jon, who didn’t know silk from polyester. Still—it wasn’t an easy choice, because I wanted to look fantastic. He should come away dazzled by how amazing I looked, but I also didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. Or wear anything that smacked too much of the elites he so despised.

  I swear, I should start a fashion database with these kinds of parameters. You could select from various scenarios: occasion, food type to b
e consumed if any, intended audience, emotional impact desired, degree of self-care needed. There could be additional variables for demands of the rest of the day. Would you have to walk more than five blocks? Weather conditions, other social commitments. Of course, ideally you’d also have your entire wardrobe computerized, which—despite the version Cher had in Clueless back in 1995—is still not a thing that exists.

  In the end, I settled on jeans of Adelina’s design, so they fit like a dream and made my rear end look like someone else’s ass entirely. Definitely dazzling, but not in a flashy way that would say either money or desperation to Jon. I paired them with a form-fitting cami and matching wrap sweater of satin angora, in a cerulean that brought out my eyes. For my ass to look like someone else’s ass entirely, the Enzo Angiolini high-heeled boots were a must, even though I’d be walking significantly more than five blocks.

  I’ve learned enough from the makeup artists at shoots and shows to do my face to maximize my good features without looking like I had much on. Jon was probably one of those guys who thinks he likes women better without makeup. Putting some curl in my hair, I left it hanging loose. I studied myself in the full-length mirror I’d tacked to my closet door. One day I’d have a real one, maybe even a three-way mirror. I looked good enough to be confident.

  If Jon wasn’t dazzled, it was his own damn fault.

  “Damn girl,” Ice said, lounging in the doorway, then smothered a yawn. “Your ass looks amazing in those jeans.”

  Mission accomplished. “They’re Adelina’s new line. If you’re good, I’ll try to snag you a pair for Christmas.”

  Ice ruefully patted her hip. “Aren’t all your samples like size six—or less? I’ll never fit into them.”

  “She’s doing a plus-sized model promotion, so I’m sure there will be an eight, at least.”

  A baleful glare rewarded me for that. “An eight is ‘full-sized’?”

  “You know the industry.”

  “Besides I need a twelve. Maybe a fourteen.”

  I frowned at her. “No way.”

  “Way,” she glumly corrected. “I’ve gained twenty pounds this semester. I’m considering moving myself to the couch in the living room and never getting up again. You all can just bring me food and shore up the supports in the cellar.”

  Now I looked more closely. She had on the Ritu Kumar jacket she loved so much she wore it as a robe, and she had an unhealthy puffiness to her. Her hair lay stringy over her shoulder and I tugged it. “When was the last time you washed your hair?”

  “September,” she retorted, yanking it out of my hand. “I’ve been busy, studying.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Aside from the occasional hour or so spent on meaningless sex? Pretty much.”

  “Oh, honey,” I pulled her into a hug, and she melted into it, clinging with the artless affection of a little kid. “What’s wrong?”

  Ice’s natural serenity and easy enjoyment of life’s pleasures made her seem wise in a way that might not necessarily be real. Even as an eighteen-year-old freshman she’d seemed ages older than I was, so much more certain of her place in the world. Lately, though—maybe since Charley hooked up with Daniel and fell blissfully in love—Ice had seemed ever so slightly unanchored.

  “Oh, nothing.” Ice pushed away and wiped tears off her face. “I’m probably premenstrual, and I’m exhausted. I’ll be better in a few days.”

  “When are your exams over?”

  “Thursday. Let’s plan to get liquored up.”

  The day before the Exposition Way party—why not? “I’m there.”

  She gave me a reasonably saucy smile, though it was clearly forced. “Eggsellent. I’ll ping the others and see if they can make it, too.”

  “If not, though, the two of us can do it up,” I assured her.

  Putting up her fist, she bumped my knuckles. “Single gals unite!”

  “Ice?” I said to her back, and she looked over her shoulder. “Take five minutes to wash your hair—you’ll feel better.”

  She smiled, a little rueful, a little sad. “Some things can’t be fixed just by putting a pretty face on them.”

  ~ 10 ~

  The morning went by in a crazy blur. Everyone wanted something from me, which got in the way of getting my own work done. One of them, a tall redhead named Kelly, camped firmly at my desk at twelve-thirty, her warm blue eyes clamped expectantly on me while I gathered details for the January show.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I have to have finalize the copy before I leave.” Kelly handled all the promotional copy for Adelina, and wrote science fiction and fantasy in her “spare time.” She’d been married to another woman for twenty years—a bit over three of them legally according to Illinois state law—and planned to take off that evening to travel for a solstice celebration at a family cabin in Ontario. “Lyssa would kill me if I’m not ready to walk out the door at five.”

  “I understand,” I told her absently, clicking the file to copy to email. Then I gave her a sharp look over my monitor. “The needing to finish—not the desire to travel to some tiny cabin and freeze to death.”

  “I’ll have my love to keep me warm,” she replied with a happy smile. “Having Lyssa all to myself is worth it. Wine, sex, and nummy food. Perfect celebration of life renewed.”

  “Even after all this time?” I asked her. “I don’t mean to pry or be an ignorant cis-het girl, but I sometimes wonder if it’s different between women.”

  “I don’t know from experience, but I think it is,” she replied with great earnestness. “Like, you don’t see women proposing in flash mobs so much. That’s really the guys—gay and straight—liking to make a show of it.”

  “That’s not exactly why I asked,” I answered, chagrined at the reminder.

  “Didn’t mean to bring up gross memories.” She leaned over and patted my arm. “Anyway, I think between two women it’s easier, because we talk about our feelings. That’s how it looks from the cheap seats, anyway.”

  “How did you propose—or did Lyssa?”

  “We were walking in a park and she was telling me about how she got fake-married to her best friend when she was kid. And I said, ‘I would like to be married to you, why don’t you marry me?’ And then we pretended it was just a joke but really, it wasn’t.”

  “Then what?

  “Then we got married at the university’s Young New Democratic Party—Canada’s leftist party—Rocky Horror Picture show fundraiser.”

  “That can’t have been legal.”

  “No, this was 1989. We weren’t legal no matter what back then.” She paused, thoughtfully scanning the list on her notepad. “Honestly, we did and didn’t know how serious we were at the time. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I did. “You were friends, so that made it an easy transition.”

  “More or less, anyway. Why? Tell me you’re not thinking about getting back with Brad.”

  To avoid answering immediately, I finished adding the last attachment. “There. Everything is in your email. And I think there’s no getting back with Brad, but why do you say it like that?” I began to wonder if no one had liked Brad. If so, it annoyed me no end that no one had said so until after we broke up. Well, no one but Jon.

  “You’re a doll.” She stood. “I guess if the sex was amazing or something, you could go back to dating him. Clearly he’s not the guy for you though. Maybe you should try a woman.” She waggled her eyebrows playfully at me.

  “Between you and Adelina, I’m starting to think only the lesbians get happy-ever-afters.”

  Kelly nodded seriously. “Legit.”

  “Alas,” I sighed. “Not enough cock there for me.”

  “Have you ever met a strap-on?”

  I snort-laughed. “Seriously—why do you say he’s not right for me?”

  She gave me a funny look and pushed up her elegant, horn-rimmed glasses. “Elementary, my dear cis-het girl—because you said no.”


  “But I don’t know why I said no,” I protested.

  She shrugged. “Sure you do. You didn’t want to marry him. End of story. Get out there and look for someone else.”

  * * *

  Everyone wanted me to find someone else, as if they thought I could just turn my back on what I’d had with Brad and begin anew. Like I could just go out and buy a new puppy to replace my dog who died. Come to think of it, if my old dog had died, no one would suggest I get a new puppy this fast.

  Clearly losing a possible fiancé got less respect than losing a beloved pet. Said something right there.

  I walked into the café exactly at one thirty and scanned for an open table, certain I’d have beat Jon, who might be brilliant at math but somehow could never calculate how long it took himself to get anywhere. Sure enough, he was nowhere in sight, so I caught the hostess’s eye and pointed at the two-top by the window. She nodded and I seated myself, keeping my coat on for the moment until I warmed up. I’d opted for my lighter, burgundy leather bomber jacket, because it looked amazing on me and I’d needed the confidence boost. That’s what matters in fashion—how you feel about yourself, even though it was too freaking cold out for the thin protection it afforded.

  For my new year’s clothes budget, I really needed to prioritize getting a tailored winter coat with a decent lining. Did such a thing exist? Maybe I should design one.

  I ordered a pot of tea—their holiday blend, which sounded lovely and festive—and perused the menu. Usually I made myself only look at the salad section, but I’d never gotten around to eating actual dinner the night before. And, fortunately for my figure, the morning had been busy enough that I’d never gotten to the break room to raid the holiday goodies everyone dragged in to foist off on their unsuspecting colleagues. Still, all of that left me ravenous enough to decide on the roasted turkey croissant with cranberry spread. Probably I should have it on a lower-fat bread, but—