by Neve Wilder
“Why not?” Alex put his packing on hold to sit back on his hands.
“See previous answer: acceptably masculine hobbies.”
“What about Pollack and Rothko? They were masculine as hell.”
“Hippies, beats, and weirdos, according to my dad.” I shrugged. “It’s not his fault. It was a different time. He had a tendency to measure life by financial success or scholarly acclaim.”
“So are you a success?”
“In his eyes, yes, I am.”
Alex canted his head to one side, eyeing me. “But what about your own?”
We were edging into territory that seemed a bit heavy for a college kid on a moving crew and a mid-level accountant on a self-inflicted work sabbatical. Then again, what else would we talk about—the weather?
“That’s more complex.” Then, to get the attention off of me, I asked, “You? You aiming to be the next Banksy?”
Alex arched a brow. “I’m kind of surprised you know who Banksy is.”
“I don’t know much, just the basics. Got accidentally sucked into a doc on him one time.” With Sean, in fact. Or, well, while I was waiting for him to finish showering once. I remembered it distinctly because he’d gotten out of the shower, glanced at the program, and rolled his eyes. “That guy’s not an artist. Just an opportunist.” As if he knew anything about art. From there, we’d gotten into a ludicrous argument that ended with him beneath me in the bed.
“I need to eat,” Alex said. “Otherwise, I just want to create something that…feels right.” His mouth twisted up.
I longed to touch that silver ring, to feel the place where it met his lip. I should have been able to remember how it felt scraping against me, but I couldn’t. And that bothered me. God, I needed to just get laid again and get it over with. And not by him.
“What does ‘right’ feel like with art?” I wondered if it was instinctive, the way I’d felt when I’d taken my first accounting course in college.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Maybe I should say…more like a legacy. Like Eames. Maybe not that big, but solid work. Work I can stand by and feel good about.”
His fingertips busied themselves creasing a piece of newsprint in a kind of chaotic, nonsensical origami. I liked his hands, wondered what he looked like when he was creating art.
“Do you have anything good so far?”
Alex laughed. “That’s basically what all four years are geared toward: a body of work. Last semester of senior year is all prep for the final, which is the senior show in the college’s gallery.”
“So you’ve got a little while, then?” There were ten years, give or take between us, I guessed. Enough that the way I’d grown up was a completely different animal than the Facebook era he’d cut his teeth on.
“In theory.” Alex seemed hesitant.
“You don’t think you’ll have enough?”
“I think I could’ve, but I dropped out.”
I found this surprising. In spite of the lip ring and the jocularity, the focused way he worked struck me as the trait of a guy who saw things through to the end.
“Why?” I asked, ignoring the fact that this was exactly the kind of personal territory that I’d meant to avoid.
“Finances are a squeeze right now. Hence the multiple summer jobs.”
“What else do you do?”
Alex abandoned the crazed origami and corralled a few figurines closer, beginning to wrap once more. “Telemarketing for a couple of weeks. That was just a temporary gig. Awful, too. It sucks talking to people who really, really aren’t excited to hear from you. Or the ones who are too old and lonely to know that they don’t need whatever it is you’re pushing. To be honest, I was shit at that job. I got too invested in the people, didn’t want to bullshit them, you know?”
I didn’t, but I could understand it, so I nodded. I liked his zest, and I had an idea he’d be just fine at whatever he ended up doing.
Alex stood up to close the box and I followed suit, ripping free a strip of tape and sealing the flaps as he held them down. I was a bit sad this would likely be our last conversation. It was the first social encounter I’d had in months that wasn’t encumbered by job talk or condolences on my parents.
“Maybe I should have gone after something more reliable. Accounting, like you.” His eyes flicked up to meet mine again. There was something playful in the action, though, almost like a wink. He was flirting now. Absolutely, if endearingly subtly, flirting. He caught his lip ring in his teeth in a sly way that threatened to undo me, so I leaned over to finish the box and moved onto the next, basking in the feeling like I’d been starved of sunlight.
“Pride and Prejudice, seriously?”
I laughed that time.
4
Alex
Running looked good on Rob. Mr. Macomb, I reminded myself, because there was a weird disconnect between trying to think of him as a client versus the man standing in front of me with nicely-toned calves and running shorts I wanted to peel off. Preferably with my teeth.
I’d been attracted to some of our clients before, had even slept with one, but they were other twenty-somethings like me, not a guy with a legit career, home, and probably a 401k. It was clear he’d lumped me into the young guns stage of life, and I was almost certain that my stubborn attraction to him was just the hazy, older guy run-of-the-mill fantasy that would go poof in a few days, just as I’d mostly forgotten him after that night in the club. Testing the waters with a little flirting had given me results that were inconclusive, but should I really have been expecting that much from a guy who was packing up his dead parents’ home? Either way, I’d looked forward to coming to work today, so there was that.
While Tom headed outside to wait in the truck, I picked up my clipboard and went down the list to make sure we’d completed everything.
The boxes of stuff Rob was keeping were stacked in the living room. We’d removed the pieces of furniture he’d wanted to get rid of and shuffled around some other pieces. I’d given him the receipts for the things he’d donated, so I thought we’d covered everything.
While I went down my list, he turned away, staring at the empty bookcases. An old set of encyclopedias was the last thing to go and I could tell he’d hesitated over those. The way his focus was glued to the shelves suggested he was reconsidering the wisdom of his choice.
“They’re useless now, but back then it was like the world at my fingertips.” I’d watched his hands as they flipped pages, turned up dog-eared corners, a kind of reverence in his touch.
“You could keep them,” I’d said. “Souvenir, decoration.”
But he’d just shrugged. “I’ve got enough of that.”
I wondered what his life was like back in the city, tried to picture him in a house or apartment. A social life, maybe a boyfriend? Maybe a girlfriend? Him ditching me at the club made more sense if I included a significant other. But it also made him a dick, and after spending more time with him today, I didn’t get that vibe off of him. He just seemed really cautious.
“Hey.” My gaze drifted up from the clipboard as I spoke, interrupting his train of thought, judging by the thousand-yard stare he gave me. “I didn’t mean anything by telling you what to do with the house the other day. That was over the line and I just thought—” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“You thought what?”
I couldn’t tell by his expression whether he was genuinely interested or if it was more of a challenge. His brows rose slightly. They were good eyebrows. A solid, dark frame for his deep brown eyes.
I pinched at my lip ring and saw his gaze slant away. He wet his lips.
“You just seem like…well you look like…” Fuck, I was going to botch this. Was botching this. Where had all my suave gone? Jesus. His brows rose higher and I thought I detected humor in the twinkle of his eyes. I was committed now, so I just said it.
“You look like you could use a vacation.”
His expression flattened out. �
�At the home where my parents passed away.”
“Well, I didn’t mean it like that, exactly—” Oh fuck me, I’d actually stammered. I clenched my teeth, inwardly cringing, and then he laughed.
An honest to God laugh that rippled through the air, that sounded like it was sourced from a fabulous dinner party after a lot of booze. It was rich and full and it sent warmth up from my toes to my gut. Instant addiction. I immediately wanted to hear it again. Even if it was at my expense.
When it died down, we were just two awkward people in an empty room again. Rob flicked one of the curtains hanging on the window. It seemed like one of those aimless gestures meant to avoid having to meet my eyes.
“I don’t hate my job, by the way.” He scratched his jawline where a solid patch of five o’clock shadow had sprouted. “There’s just a lot going on right now.”
I nodded like an idiot. “I’m sure,” I said, and because I could tell it was an uncomfortable subject, I changed gears, not quite ready to leave him behind yet. “So what’s next, then? Painting, patching, and market?”
We both looked at the bookshelves. They needed a coat of paint. The walls, too. The carpet needed to be cleaned or replaced. Things you never noticed when a house was full, but stripped bare, all of the wear and tear came through. Rob frowned and I got a sense he was thinking the same thing.
“Yeah. Looks like a lot more work now than I initially thought.” He reached out, hooking the corner of his thumbnail beneath chipping paint and stripping it away in a pale blue ribbon.
“I think that’s the way it always is.”
“I don’t suppose you have any good sources for painting and drywall repair, carpet cleaning, stuff like that?” He gave me a hopeful look. “I planned to do most of it myself, but…” He lost steam as he glanced around the room again.
I didn’t know if he was feeling overwhelmed or just ready to be done with the place, but I saw my chance to avoid another telemarketing job, and I took it. And maybe he had something to do with it, too. It wasn’t that he was easy to be around, exactly. But he wasn’t hard to be around either. It was difficult to explain, this kind of compulsion that wasn’t quite compulsion but more like a soft wanting.
“I could help you. It’s what, a couple of weeks of work depending on how hard you’re going at it? I can do it around my moving gig if you’d be okay with that.” I’d sure as shit rather be patching drywall than calling old ladies. “I’m pretty good with a hammer and a paintbrush.”
I beamed him a winning smile while he hedged. He shook his head with a grimace that was almost insulting. I didn’t think I was that bad to be around, and even if our previous hookup made it awkward, it was very clear that that was over and done, even if I was starting to get the idea I’d be up for a round two.
I gave it one more try. “Look, not that you owe me anything, and I know you’ve obviously got a lot on your plate, but it’d be good for me, too. I was going to look at construction gigs next instead of telemarketing.”
He rubbed at his jaw again and I let myself fantasize briefly that it was me nuzzling him, instead. I blamed it on the stoic thing he had going on. I was a sucker for it.
At last he nodded slowly and I let out the breath I’d been holding as he said, “All right, sure. Why not? It’ll save me a little money, a lot of scheduling headaches, and I can do it around work like I meant to.”
“I figured you’d gotten laid off or something.”
“Boy, that would have been the killing blow,” he said, and I didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter anyway. “No, I’m just…on semi-hiatus.”
“So you want me, then?” I couldn’t help it. I mean, I didn’t bat my eyelashes or anything, but my expression probably came across as if I had.
He blinked, his brows sharpening as he frowned. I read surprise and something else. An enigmatic flash for sure, then he closed off again. “Day after tomorrow,” he said. “And there are some ground rules.”
I waited, the edge of the clipboard poking into my stomach. Tom honked the horn once.
“None of that,” he said, circling a finger in my direction.
“None of what?” I wanted him to say it, to say something that somehow acknowledged that he felt the pull too, regardless of how we were acting on the surface.
He hesitated. “Let’s keep it on the straight and narrow. You are my employee. You show up on time, you leave on time. You give me some warning if you can’t make it.”
I put on my professional face and swallowed back the flirtatiousness that kept trying to escape. Tom hit the horn twice this time, then a third time to let me know he meant business.
“That’s not a problem.”
Rob handed me a check and his card with his cellphone number on it.
“Day after tomorrow,” he repeated. “Let me know what time will work.”
“Will do.” I bent down to give Winslow a scratch, then headed toward the door, stopping when Rob called out after me. The bright blue and red box came sailing through the air, and I had to whip my arm up to catch it.
“Consider it a bonus,” he said, then he smiled. Like his laugh, this was a different species of smile. I’d seen only tight or polite. This one still had the same reserved curve, but there was genuine warmth in it.
I stuffed the Cracker Jack into the back pocket of my shorts and left before his smile could lose its bright gleam.
“How’s the tip?” Tom asked before I was even fully in the truck. That’s how it always went with him. He was all about the bottom line, whether it was getting laid or getting paid. I hadn’t yet looked at the check, so I glanced down at it. Rob’s handwriting was neat and precise, his signature in perfect, old-school cursive. And fuck me, I was not going to get hard over a dude’s handwriting, was I?
“It’s generous.”
Tom reached out for the check and snatched at it just as I laid it across my lap. I grinned and he rolled his eyes at me before focusing on the mirrors as he eased the truck out of the driveway. “One day you’ll give up.”
“Never say die.”
He laughed as he put the truck into drive and eyeballed the check, expression brightening when he saw the numbers.
“Man, I figured him for a cheapo the way he was so uptight.”
“I think he’s just going through a rough time.”
“Going through a rough time,” Tom mimicked. “Like you know him.”
“It’s just an impression. You can get an impression of a person.”
“Uh huh. I don’t think that’s all you’re getting.”
My shoulder hitched up. “He’s a good-looking guy.”
“You can’t bone all of our clients, dude. It’s not professional.”
I flapped my hand. “You’re one to talk. And I only boned one.” And in my defense, the guy was a student at Holly Brook I already kind of knew. We’d flirted through ten boxes’ worth of packing to move him from dorm to frat house. The amount of Greek T-shirts he had was obscene. His mouth had also been obscene. Best tip I’d gotten to date. But it wasn’t worth a repeat.
Rob didn’t strike me as the type for a one-night stand, which was my forte. Much less one with me, seeing as how he’d already made his point about keeping things professional.
“Besides,” I circled my finger in Tom’s direction. “You were ready to drop trou over Ms. Kemper.”
“Ms. Kemper?” Tom’s brows knit in confusion. I waited. Then he remembered and nodded, eyes lighting up as he nipped in his lower lip. “God, yeah. Tennis skirt lady. She had so much fucking china.” It had taken us hours to newspaper and bubble wrap what seemed like eighteen sets of heirloom china. She’d had a name and story for every pattern. I’d found it interesting, but Tom’s eyes had glazed over as he’d stared at her legs.
Once we were back at the office, the truck secure for the day, and all of the checks turned over to Franklin, our boss, we checked the board to see what was in store for us Monday.
Tom hovered over my shoulder, snapping
cinnamon gum in my ear. “Oh hey, a straight-up junk haul.” He said it as if we’d hit a small jackpot. Since it was still the early part of summer, we’d been doing a lot of apartment moves as seniors shuffled off to their new lives.
After scanning the schedule for the rest of the day, I did some quick mental calculations and texted Rob with my availability. He pinged me back immediately with an okay and I couldn’t resist a reply: Have a good rest of your weekend. Enjoy some Pride and Prejudice.
Twenty minutes later and still no reply. I guess he was serious about that straight and narrow business.
After dinner, I stood in the garage, contemplating the pieces I had so far: experimental figure studies in bronze, a ton of discarded plaster casts, polished wood replicas of body parts. All of it was as directionless as I was. For weeks I’d been avoiding coming in here. Boxes of stuff from my dorm room were crammed along the back wall amid bikes, rakes, and shovels. College interruptus.
I picked up a chisel and considered taking it to the naked hunk of wood I’d put on one of the work tables a month ago. Then I put the chisel back down. Every one of my teachers had something to say about inspiration, mostly along the lines of keep showing up and it would come. I didn’t know if mine was going to come back, especially now that there wasn’t a fire under my ass in the form of classes. To me, art was about making sense of the senseless or the reverse. But I was struggling to make sense of anything when I was in the middle of it. I wanted to fix what was broken back inside the house, not carve some wood blob that didn’t fucking matter anymore.
I flicked off the light and left the garage behind, returning to my basement room and crawling in bed to stare at the ceiling. In spite of having gotten off last night with some rando outside The Tap House, I was still stressed and horny. They went hand-in-hand for me, one feeding the other. I thought of the frat boy from a few weeks ago, but Rob kept showing up in the picture, unkempt and put together all at once: flashes of his head thrown back in the club, the ecstatic parting of his lips juxtaposed with the guy who’d debated a stack of encyclopedias while wearing a studious frown, one fist pressed to his mouth. Was he a take-charge kind of guy in bed or more of a sedate passenger? In the club, he’d hinted he was the former.
