We're in Trouble

by Christopher Coake

  Jimmy laughed and took a cigarette. Well, he said, Bryan’s been telling us all how you quit. He’s real proud of you.

  Dana wasn’t surprised to hear it, but the news didn’t make her any happier.

  Our secret, all right? she said.

  Jimmy put the cigarette between his lips and patted his coat pockets. Hey, I’m not legal either. April’d have a damn kitten.

  Dana held out her lighter, but Jimmy said, Got one. He probably had his own cigarettes, too. He lit up, took a drag, and sighed. Then he leaned companionably back against the brick.

  You know, he said, I’m glad to see you here tonight.

  He glanced at her sideways and blew out a plume of smoke, half smiling. What a piece of work.

  Is that so? she asked.

  He laughed. Yeah, it is. And not just because that’s a killer dress.

  Dana could scarcely believe she’d heard him. Jimmy had gone right for her vanity, newly bruised. She had found the dress a few days earlier, shopping on a whim—she’d discovered, with a little thrill, how good she looked in it. The dress was black, with long sheer sleeves, and an ankle-length skirt slit up to mid-thigh. Probably not appropriate for a Christmas party, but its lines and color favored her, showed her off. She’d been dieting, had flattened her stomach a little; in the dress all that work seemed worth it. To teach she only wore sensible clothes; maybe once or twice a year did she have a chance to look this good.

  So why was she surprised that someone had noticed?

  And . . . hadn’t she wanted other men to notice? In the days since she owned it, if she was being honest, she had imagined strangers seeing her in it. Admiring her. Even removing it from her. The good-looking man buying ties in the next department—she’d seen him in the mirror, caught in the act of looking away, as she held the dress up against her body. Or even—she had indeed thought this—a man like Jimmy. Maybe even Jimmy himself. A man who winked at the boss’s wife when she visited the bank in her jeans and running shoes. What would a man like that think of her in a dress like this?

  Now she knew. She kept her eyes out on the parking lot.

  Thank you, she said, keeping her voice neutral. Where’s your girlfriend?

  Jimmy grinned as though Dana had done something wonderful.

  Inside, he said. Ladies’ room. There was a line—I saw my window and took it.

  Dana crushed out the butt of her cigarette. Instead of a Christmas party she should be standing outside of some fifth-year senior’s house, listening to the blare of speakers propped in a window, trying to keep track of her center of gravity. Jimmy could ask, What’s your major? She could tell him to fuck off. Or she could lean on his arm.

  Your husband’s quite a guy, Jimmy said to her.

  Thank you, Dana said—inanely, as though she’d made Bryan the way he was.

  He’s crazy about you. Dana, Dana—that’s all he talks about.

  Jimmy gave her that sideways glance again. It was uncanny—was she wearing a sign with her troubles on it? Did men like Jimmy have a radar for insecurities? Probably.

  She’d tried to surprise Bryan with the new dress tonight. My my my, he’d said, when she came out of the bathroom wearing it. A flicker in his eyes, a dimple in his cheek—and she’d felt grateful, taller, stronger. Like the old days, that was all it took. He was knotting his tie. She wanted him to drop it, to come over to her. To feel him pull her closer when he kissed her. But instead he said, You look fabulous, hon, and then went back to frowning at his crooked knot.

  And she’d seen the evening rolling out ahead of them: after the long tedium of the party she and Bryan would have to stay late, to make sure the drunk tellers all got home safely. They wouldn’t be alone again in their bedroom until at least three in the morning, and by then they would stink of sweat and stale smoke, and Bryan might very well be asleep, turned to the wall, before the dress was even off.

  She should, she knew, go inside. End this line of thinking before it extended any further.

  Instead she shook another cigarette from the pack. She started to dig for her lighter, but Jimmy held out his. Dana leaned forward toward his cupped hands. His arm pressed against hers through the sleeves of their coats. He was wearing cologne: just a hint escaped from the collar of his shirt.

  Jimmy was saying, No, I mean it. I love working for Bryan, we all do. Heck of a nice guy.

  He sure is.

  Can I ask you something, though? His eyes were glittering with secrets.

  Dana took in a breath, barely knowing what to hope for. Sure, she said.

  So I’ve been hearing this rumor.

  She knew, then, what he was going to ask, and felt a surge of disappointment so strong she almost began to cry.

  She said, Go ahead.

  Is it true that—I mean, I heard that—Jimmy laughed at himself. Is it true he saved someone’s life once? That’s why . . . ? Jimmy moved his fingers up and down over his right forearm, indicating Bryan’s scars.

  Dana wondered what sort of look was on her face.

  Hey, Jimmy said, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Really.

  But she had no one but herself to blame for his asking. When Dana had been just—just a kid, five years ago, she had stood in a corner at a Sentinel dinner party and told the story of Bryan’s burns—his heroism—for the first time. Back then she had been proud. She wanted the people who worked with him to know what Bryan had done, what he was. And it was possible that the reason Bryan Macarthur was now a branch manager had something to do with that story, circulating out there in whispers. Dana and Bryan had never discussed this possibility, but she knew they had both thought it. He’d been upset—sad—when he found out she’d told.

  He’d said, They look at me differently. I’m nothing special.

  She’d told him, You are to me. Then she kissed him, deeply.

  Now she took a breath.

  It’s true, she told Jimmy. We were in college together, in Colorado. We went to the mountains on a ski trip. We were driving through a blizzard and found a wrecked car. Bryan pulled a woman out after the car caught fire.

  Dana pushed back her coat and dress sleeve. She held up her wrist in front of Jimmy and turned it.

  He and I dragged her up to the road, she said. I got burned a little, too.

  Jimmy looked at the scar twisting from her forearm down to the base of her thumb.

  Jesus, he said, leaning back. That’s pretty fucking brave.

  It happened quickly, Dana said.

  That’s a strange thing to say.

  She shrugged. He was right. She couldn’t explain why she’d said it . . . or why she’d shown him the scar, which she usually kept hidden. It was nothing—not compared to Bryan’s. Her face flushed, and she hoped Jimmy wouldn’t notice. She was lingering too long—what did she think was going to happen, anyway? What could happen? She had to end this, get back inside.

  When she looked up from readjusting her sleeve, Jimmy was leaning forward, too close.

  You’ve got some more secrets, I bet. I thought so when I first met you.

  Dana pulled back, almost by instinct.

  I’m sorry, she said. I have to get inside. Good night, Jimmy.

  She took a step, her stomach jumping, but Jimmy said, Wait, and even though she told herself to keep going, she turned around anyway.

  Jimmy took hold of her hand. He was taller even than Bryan, and she had to arch up to kiss him. His lips were cold, his breath tasting of cigarette smoke and the sting of a breath mint. He opened her mouth wide; she returned the pressure. His hand slipped down the back of her long coat and squeezed at her rear end, and for a moment she was pressed against him from her knees to her shoulders.

  Then Dana put a hand inside Jimmy’s open overcoat—his stomach, under the smooth silk of his shirt, was stony-hard—and pushed. Jimmy rocked back. He smiled and brushed a thumb wonderingly across his lips.

  What was that? Dana asked, and though she meant to sound angry, her voice quavered.
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  You wanted me to, he said.

  He was right. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted, in fact, to pull him into an empty car and do a lot more than kiss him. Since meeting Bryan she’d never kissed another man—her body felt light, her ankles wobbly.

  But she said, I’m going inside. Don’t ever do that again.

  You might change your mind, Jimmy said. He dug in his pocket and handed her a business card. She took it the same way she’d kissed him—her body acting a second ahead of her will. Don’t call me at home, he said. My cell’s there on the card.

  I’m not going to call you, she said, and dropped the card into the snow.

  He smiled, like he knew something she didn’t, and then shrugged. That’s too bad, he said, and then put his hands in his coat pockets and walked past her. You’re a very sexy woman, Dana.

  Bryan could fire you for this.

  She hated the shrillness of her voice.

  Jimmy walked backward for a few steps. Well, I guess if I have a job Monday morning, I’ll know you didn’t tell him.

  The pneumatic door wheezed open and Jimmy walked inside; the party—voices and laughter and warmth—spilled out The door closed on the noise, on Jimmy, and she was alone again.

  Dana leaned against the brick wall for a few minutes, in shock.

  She didn’t want to return to the party, but she had to. Bryan would worry if she was out of sight any longer; even now he might be looking for her. But she fumbled her cigarettes as she transferred them from her pocket to her purse, dropping them into the dark corner. She almost didn’t pick them up—they’d gotten her into this trouble in the first place. But she knelt all the same. The cigarettes lay on an old crust of snow, next to Jimmy’s business card. She crumpled the card and dropped it into her purse; she’d throw that away inside, in the bathroom.

  The lobby was almost empty, except for a young couple Dana didn’t know, who spoke loudly and fondly at each other. Dana walked past them, down a side hall and into the women’s restroom. There was, of course, no line.

  She splashed water into her mouth and chewed a handful of breath mints; she reapplied her lipstick. In the mirror, under the fluorescents, she looked too pale. Exactly like a woman who’d just done something she wasn’t proud of.

  Bryan spotted her the moment she reentered the hall; he broke away from a knot of laughing employees to jog over. He was wearing a Santa hat that flopped against his ear, bouncing with his movements. On Bryan—gangly and tall—it looked even more ridiculous than it was supposed to. His expression was, at once, eager and sheepish.

  What is that? she asked.

  I know, I know—the tellers got it for me. And a nice pen, too. He kissed the top of her head. You’re cold, he said, drawing back.

  I was getting some air.

  His lips tightened Uh-uh. You were smoking. I can smell it.

  She tried to play it off like a joke: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Honey, you were doing so well—

  That was it—she wanted to slug him. Bryan, I don’t want to hear it.

  He looked at her, his face falling a bit. Come on, he said, his voice low. I’m only trying to help.

  What would he do if she started a scene, here? The party was his baby, one of his great achievements at Sentinel: There’s too much separation around here. We need to be closer if we’re going to get the right kind of work done.

  But why was her anger Bryan’s fault, why was anything Bryan’s fault? She was the one who’d just been groped by one of his employees.

  Before she could reply, Bryan looked over her shoulder and brightened. Dana turned and saw, to her horror, Jimmy and April approaching, coats draped over their arms.

  Hey, you two, Bryan said. Don’t tell me you’re leaving already?

  She’s got to work tomorrow morning, Jimmy said, smiling mildly into the air, squeezing April’s shoulders. April’s eyes were glittering with drink; she leaned into Jimmy’s chest as though he’d permanently bent her. She wore, Dana saw, dangling reindeer earrings with little red stones for noses.

  You know what I found out? Bryan said to Dana, beaming. These two are engaged.

  Last week, April said. She held out her hand, and Dana, trying hard not to stare at Jimmy in outright amazement, pretended to examine the ring.

  That’s beautiful, Dana said.

  Hey Jimmy, Bryan said. Let me talk at you for a minute.

  Not work?

  Only for a minute.

  Can you believe this guy? Jimmy said, to both women, and winked at Dana again. Then he and Bryan walked away a few steps, where Bryan began talking with his hands.

  He’s so funny, April said. Dana didn’t know which one of the men she meant.

  So, Dana said—because she had to say something. Have you set a date?

  Jimmy, twenty feet away, swept his eyes across her. He’d done this on purpose. A word from her and she could expose him. She ought to.

  April smiled at her question and scrunched up her face.

  Next June, she said.

  Not long now, Dana said, her throat tight. She tried to feel pity—this poor girl was clueless. Jimmy had probably fucked around on her dozens of times. Or maybe April knew, was following some blind hope that she’d be able to change him, rein him in with a ring.

  But either way, Dana couldn’t bring herself to look for long at April’s future, all the pain that was waiting for her out there. No. April was beautiful and lush, and when Dana looked at her she couldn’t help but imagine her kissing Jimmy, naked with Jimmy in all her cheerleaderish glory, the two of them lit with amber light, like in a movie. If he had this, what could he possibly want with Dana?

  He wanted her, she knew, because she was different: small and dark and slim. And, of course, forbidden.

  Jimmy just loves your husband, April was saying. I got to talk to him tonight. He’s so nice. April leaned closer, and put her hand on Dana’s wrist. Her breath smelled like wine. She said, We’re both so lucky.

  Dana stared at her.

  Jimmy and Bryan came back over to them then, Bryan laughing heartily, and Jimmy smiling broadly at Dana.

  You guys be careful going home, now, Bryan said.

  Goodbye, April said, shaking Dana’s hand. It was so nice to meet you.

  Congratulations, Dana said. Then she shook Jimmy’s hand coolly.

  See you around, Jimmy said, grinning.

  I’m sure you will, she said, hoping that in this light no one could see the color in her cheeks.

  AFTER JIMMY AND APRIL left, Dana retreated to a comer, drinking another eggnog and trying not to be noticed. She watched Bryan work the room, traveling from one laughing knot of employees to the next. They all loved him. And they should—Bryan loved all of them. Dana tried not to think of Jimmy, of the feel of his stomach under her palm. But she could remember it with tremendous clarity, just by closing her eyes.

  Half an hour later Bryan returned to her.

  Hi there, he said. I’m sorry. Okay?

  He bent to kiss her temple; she turned her head. She couldn’t help herself.

  I’m sorry, too, she said quickly. I—I’m not feeling well.

  What is it? Bryan moved in close to her, putting a hand on her waist. Honey?

  My stomach. I drank too much.

  Bryan began looking around—trying to spot, she guessed, the bathroom, or a chair where she could sit. His Santa hat jingled.

  She touched his elbow. Honey, I’m sorry—but can you run me home? I don’t think I ought to drive, and I have to lie down.

  His eyes widened. She had to admit a grim little satisfaction in screwing up his careful plans. Or else why would she have asked?

  Yeah, Bryan said. Umm—let me talk to Dave and Mary—

  Okay. I’ll go sit in the car, all right? I’m sorry.

  Now she meant it. Bryan looked frantic.

  Outside the snow was falling heavily; the sculpted bushes growing against the brick of the reception hall were alr
eady prettily frosted. Dana moved carefully across the parking lot, steadying herself on the hoods of other cars, half expecting Jimmy to pop up from the shadows, smirking and beautiful. By the time she was inside the car, she had the shivers. She turned on the heater and sat with her hands in her armpits, watching her breath curl smokily against the passenger window, and through it, the snow piling up on the hood of the next car over.

  But this was only Ohio snow—only a tease. Dana had grown up in Colorado, where the snow didn’t fuck around. She missed the mountains in winter, the acres of hip-deep snow that would never be tracked up, dirtied with slush.

  The snow had been a lot worse than this, the night of the accident. That was for sure. It piled up on top of a coating of ice, riding winds that swirled over the caps of mountains. That was another thing you almost never saw in the Midwest: the kind of snowstorm that frightened you, that spawned disasters.

  She’d kissed another man. Jimmy had kissed her, and she’d kissed him back, and then she’d pushed him away.

  Bryan opened the door and folded himself behind the wheel. How you doing? he asked.

  Better. She waved her hand. Fresh air.

  We’ll get you home, Bryan said and stroked her knee. His voice was regretful. He was thinking, maybe, that he’d have to hold her hair out of the way while she puked into the toilet. His hand lingered a bit on her knee, his thumb moving in circles. She put her hand over his and pressed down. Maybe she could convince herself the kiss hadn’t really happened. Bryan didn’t deserve any of this: what she’d done, what was in her head.

  It had been a kiss, nothing more. In the end Dana had brushed off Jimmy in the right way.

  Maybe when they were home, she could make amends. She would tell Bryan she’d lied about being sick. Maybe she’d pull him down on the bed before he went back to the party. She wouldn’t even take off the dress.

  Dana leaned her head against the seat while Bryan put the car into gear.

  No, the dress would come off. Bryan had a thing about her belly. If it happened—if—he would end up sitting in front of her on the bed. He’d kiss her navel, then stretch his long neck and lick at her nipples, and sigh: I love you, Dana. He’d say this three times during lovemaking. In the vicinity of her belly and breasts, and then when he entered her, and again when he was coming. As though, if he didn’t, Dana would roll out of bed, aghast. Each time he’d say it, he’d meet Dana’s eyes, checking.