Caught Up In Us

by Lauren Blakely

  On the subway I checked my email for messages. But that was a mere Pavlovian response. There were no emails, no love notes, no sweet whispers at a restaurant, on the street, in public. As the train clattered through the tunnels, a quick burst of unease swept through me.

  I thought of all the jokes Bryan and I made about acting.

  We were acting in front of Professor Oliver. We were acting in front of the board. Acting as if we were nothing. But what if it was all an act?

  What if we were nothing? Because, really, we weren’t anything. We didn’t go out to dinner, to the movies, to the grocery store. We didn’t leave my building holding hands. Because he’d never been to my building. Was he using me for sex? Or, rather, sex talk? Sure, we always chatted before and after. Every day I learned something new about him. I could tell you he liked French toast for breakfast, that he was a rabid baseball fan, and that he played Words with Friends on his phone with some of the guys at the factory.

  Did that mean anything though? I didn’t know if we were a thing, or would ever be one. I didn’t want to be just a toy, a treat, an easy 900-number away. I wanted to be more. I want to be his everything.

  Then there was the looming thing I didn’t know. Why he hadn’t loved me way back when.

  The air felt colder as I emerged at Seventy-Seventh Street, as if October had taken a cruel turn into winter. Or maybe the cold was inside me, in my bones, as I found a new worry to gnaw on. I’d been having so much fun getting off that I hadn’t bothered to ask myself what was next.

  I walked up the steps of the museum, hoping against hope that I could shed this desolate feeling for the next hour.

  *****

  “I showed these around to some buyers I know, and everyone is in love with your necklaces. They think they could be the next big thing,” Claire said, looking very now in a short red linen dress that I’d seen Jessica Biel wearing while shopping on Melrose Avenue in the pages of Us magazine.

  “I’m so pleased to hear that, Mrs…Claire.” I quickly corrected myself, and she nodded in approval when I used her first name. We sat in the cafe, drinking afternoon tea in white china cups with a green vine design lacing the rim. “And, while we haven’t talked about this yet, I’d love to know more about the buyers, and who they’re buying for.”

  She grinned like a Cheshire Cat, then mentioned two names that made me want to grab a pair of pom-poms and cheer wildly. The first was a distributor that supplied to the trendiest independent boutiques on the east coast, and the second worked for one of the largest and hippest department store chains in the country — Elizabeth’s. The chain was helmed by the reclusive and rarely-seen Elizabeth Mortimer, whose mother, also named Elizabeth, had started the first store in Seattle many years ago, then steadily expanded across the country. Elizabeth’s taste was legendary; a cocktail of trendy and timeless. She stayed entirely out of the limelight though, letting her stores and their displays do the talking. She was simply known.

  I leaned back in my chair, gobsmacked. “Let me just catch my breath.”

  The smile vacated Claire’s face. “The only thing is, we’d like to see more variety.”

  I sat up straight, and pressed my lips together. The comment wasn’t quite a slap, but it wasn’t the compliment I’d hoped for. Whenever a statement is prefaced by the thing is, having said that, or however, chances are you won’t like what follows.

  “Did you have something in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I wonder if you’d consider moving beyond the idea of favorite mistakes to include, quite simply, favorites. We thought that might broaden your base, and we all seem most fond of your European stylings, and we were hoping to see more in that vein — European Favorites.”

  “So there could be My Favorites Mistakes and also My Favorites?”

  “I rather like the sound of that.”

  “I can do that. I can definitely do that.” I started flashing back to my time in Paris, then flicking ahead to the quirky little design blogs I visited each night. I’d need to cobble together my own style, of course. But inspiration often comes from looking at the work of others. Or from art, I mused, as I thought about the setting. Here we were in the belly of one of the greatest collections of art the world has ever known. “When would you and the buyers want to see them by?”

  “Soon. Very soon. I think we can get your designs into their stores if we can mix up the look and I really want to get them in for the holiday season. Which isn’t that far away. Elizabeth’s is looking for just the right style to focus its holiday jewelry marketing on.” She steepled her fingers together. The look drawn across her porcelain skin and fine features revealed nothing.

  I nodded several times. “I better go get started,” I said and I didn’t have to feign enthusiasm. Her “the only thing is” wasn’t that bad after all.

  “Actually, Kat. I haven’t even gotten to the proposition part yet.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I took a drink of my tea and waited.

  She placed her hands flat on the table, her diamond ring catching the light. “Is My Favorite Mistakes open for a small seed round of investment?”

  I nearly choked on my tea. I coughed a few times, and I could feel my face turning red as I hacked at the fancy table in the fancy cafe in the fancy museum. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to be an angel investor. Think of it as expansion capital to fund the new design work.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course. Absolutely. I’ll do it right now.” I wanted to smack myself. I wasn’t making any sense. I was so bowled over I could barely form words.

  “So is that a yes?” Claire seemed on the cusp of annoyed.

  I collected myself. “I would be thrilled. I would be absolutely thrilled to have you as an investor.”

  When she shared the amount, I did everything in my power not to holler and thrust a victorious fist at the sky. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined an investor.

  “Now, the money is to be allocated solely to the business. You can’t use it to pay your rent or anything like that.” She wagged a finger at me and narrowed her eyes. She was being playful, but she was also serious. Given her tone, I felt compelled to respond with a salute.

  “Absolutely.”

  “But I do have some stipulations.”

  “Of course.”

  “First, you need to finish your MBA. I’m a big believer in the value of education, and even if this helps your business take off, you must finish your degree. Or else I’ll need the money paid back.”

  “Totally. I’m definitely finishing my degree. I’m so committed I’m beyond committed.”

  “Second, after you finish your degree and can focus solely on the business, I’ll put another round into My Favorite Mistakes at the same multiple.”

  My heart sang. Everything seemed possible.

  “Great.”

  “Third. When we first met and you mentioned the markets in Paris and all the little trinkets and charms to be had there for a steal, and when my buyers mentioned they preferred your European stylings, I started thinking…”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Paris, Mom! She wants to send me to Paris. And it’s a requirement.”

  I was on the steps of the museum, my hand cupped over my mouth even though I wasn’t truly trying to keep my voice down. How could I?

  “That is so wonderful.”

  “She’s like a fairy godmother. And she’s making me, Mom, making me, go to Paris as part of the investment. To find vendors to expand my designs. Can you please just pinch me now because I must be dreaming!”

  A group of school kids chattered noisily as they raced down the sprawling steps to the hot dog carts and pretzel vendors on Fifth Avenue. A curly-haired guy in sunglasses gave me the once-over as he walked past me. I shifted away from him, but then tensed all over, thinking he was Wilco. I scanned for him quickly, but he was already pushing through the revolving doors. I hadn’t gotten a good look, but what were the chances the guy was Wilco anyway? Besides, f
or a big city, New York was the smallest of towns and you bumped into people you knew all the time. Or, as the case may be, people who simply looked like people you were avoiding.

  I pushed him out of my mind and returned my focus to the call. “I’m going to use some of the investment for the trip and to buy the supplies. But if the buyers pick up my designs, then I’ll ramp up the business quickly and I can help pay off your loan for Mystic Landing with my revenues.”

  “Katerina, I’ve told you to stop worrying about us.”

  “Mom. I want to do this. Just let me help. I mean, I know I don’t have the money yet, but I will soon. And nothing could make me happier than helping you guys.”

  “Pssh. Enough. Tell me more about your trip to Paris. That’s what I really want to hear.”

  I shared more of the details, told her I’d come out to visit before I left, and then said goodbye. I looked around at all the people streaming in and out of the museum, then up at the darkening sky. I shook my head in amazement. I was still giddy, and didn’t think I’d come down from this high for a long time, nor did I want to. I wanted to share it with someone else. Someone special.

  Bryan answered on the second ring. “Hey,” he said in a sweet voice he used just for me.

  “I have amazing news. Where are you right now?”

  “Just finished up a meeting on the Upper East Side.”

  “I’m at the Met right now. About to do some work on a new expansion project for My Favorite Mistakes, and I thought perhaps my mentor might want to join me for a few minutes. It’s a business meeting, of course.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  *****

  The morning light reflected off Monet’s waterlilies. The brushstrokes from the Impressionist master made me think about shapes, colors and new ways of looking.

  “So I’m thinking I should totally add a line of waterlily charms to My Favorite Mistakes.”

  Bryan played along as we strolled past paintings. “While you’re at it, why not throw in some haystacks too?” He tipped his forehead to another Monet. “Your favorite painting, right?”

  My eyes went wide with the realization that he hadn’t forgotten the last time we were here five years ago. From the caramel macchiatos to Hello Kitty to haystacks, he’d held onto so many details of me. My heart felt bigger and fuller. “You remember?”

  He shot me a smile, then nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

  I wanted to wrap my arms around him and kiss him, but I resisted. “Maybe I should even get some of those melty clocks from a Dali.”

  “Or, how about just a bunch of drip mark charms from a Pollock? Because I would have to think drip marks would qualify as a favorite mistake.”

  We stopped to sit on a blond hardwood bench in the middle of the gallery, keeping necessary space between us. Bryan wore slate gray pants and a green and white checked shirt with recycled bike chain cufflinks. A tie that I longed to unknot completed the look. He rested a hand on the bench; I did the same. Six more inches and we could have been holding hands. I glanced at his fingers, and restrained every impulse to lace them through mine. This beautiful place had the bars I needed. We simply couldn’t do a thing here. There were too many people around us, tourists and school kids, couples and families.

  “So when do you think you’ll go to Paris?”

  “Claire and I talked about it and even looked up flights during our chat. I think in two weeks. Over Veteran’s Day weekend. So I won’t have to miss too many classes.”

  He lowered his voice, but looked straight ahead. “Speaking of missing. I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

  My stomach flipped. I wanted to brush my lips against his, to run my hand over his arm. To let him tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. Tenderly. He would do it tenderly. “Same here,” I said.

  “Kat.”

  There was something new in his voice. Something softer, more vulnerable. Something like love, perhaps? My heart trembled with hope at the possibility. I ached for him to feel the same way. I was falling for him again, and I couldn’t bear the thought that I would be smacked hard with the I have to go again. Of course, I hadn’t uttered a word about feelings this time around, and I supposed I could walk away from this strange us with some shred of dignity. I could protect myself from feeling that kind of hurt again. But at this point, even without the contact, even with the rules, I was all in.

  He shifted gears. Back to banter. “So, you’re going to Paris, you’re going to find new designs, and make more necklaces and be a superstar, right? That’s the plan? And I can say I knew you when?”

  “Ha. I honestly just want to make enough money from My Favorite Mistakes to help out my parents. Mystic Landing isn’t doing well.”

  “I didn’t know that. You hadn’t mentioned that.”

  I shrugged. “I’m pretty good at keeping some things buttoned up.”

  “Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help. I do know a thing or two about running a business.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.

  I gave him the rundown, then said, “They’ve been trying everything to drive more traffic to the store. And, frankly, I just want to help them pay off the loan so they can have some breathing room, you know? Things have got to pick up soon. I just want to buy them some time.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm what?”

  He stared at a Monet again, but he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was simply gazing off in the distance and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He looked back at me. “It might not be a traffic issue.”

  “But there aren’t as many customers.”

  “Right. But maybe the solution isn’t in driving more traffic. Sometimes it’s something else.”

  “Well, let me know when you figure out what that is.”

  “Would it be okay with you if I visited the store?”

  I furrowed my brow. He couldn’t be serious. “You would do that?”

  “Of course. I’d love to just take a look around, and see if I can come up with an idea. Their daughter Kat is my protege after all. It seems the right thing to do,” he said, and leaned a tiny bit closer to me without touching.

  “That would be above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Consider it done, Kat.” Then he said my name again as if it were a strange object he’d never seen. “Kat. What’s the story with Kat? Your parents didn’t actually name you Kat, did they?”

  “Like that’s so implausible?”

  “It’s like a writer’s name. A made-up name. It has to be short for something.”

  “Didn’t my brother ever tell you?”

  “Never.”

  “Never ever?”

  “I swear.”

  “So guess then.”

  “Ah, so it is short for something.”

  I nodded.

  “Here’s what I think. I think people guess first that it’s short for Katherine, or Kathleen. Or even Kathy.”

  “They do.”

  “And then, they guess Katie, or Kaitlin or even Katalina.”

  “Those are next.”

  “And then the slightly more adventuresome guess Katrina or Katya.”

  “Katya? You do your homework.”

  The gold flecks in his forest green eyes shimmered with playfulness. “But, I don’t think any of those are right.”

  “They’re not.”

  He leaned his shoulder closer to me. “You’re Katerina.”

  He pulled away to gauge my reaction. My eyes were big and wide and sparkling. They said everything.

  He pumped his fist in victory. “Damn. I impress myself.”

  “You should be since I’ve never told anyone the name and haven’t used it.”

  “Why not?”

  “My mom always wanted me to be Kat. My dad said I needed a real name, so they named me Katerina. But no one ever called me that. So I’ve always been Kat. Funny, because now my mom calls me Katerina.”

  “Kat is a perfect name for
you. But so is Katerina. Did you ever think about using it?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I got used to Kat. Once you’ve had a weird name, you just don’t give it up when you’re older. It becomes a badge of honor. Like you made it through life with people saying ‘Here, kitty, kitty’ or ‘Cat got your tongue?’”

  Bryan laughed once. “Tongue.”

  “Tongue?”

  He leaned closer without touching. “So many things I want to do with my tongue.”

  I smiled knowingly at him. “Like what?”

  He downshifted his volume. “Like taste you.”

  I lowered my eyes, as if that small act would hide the way sparks flew inside me.

  “Right here? At the museum?”

  “Here. There. Anywhere. I think about tasting you all the time.”

  “You do?” The sparks became fireworks, crackling and zinging.

  “Sometimes when I’m in a meeting I have to force myself to focus because I’m thinking about burying my face between your legs.”

  “I guess our minds are never really on the meetings.”

  “I’ll sometimes imagine everyone else is gone, and I’m in a conference room just with you, and you’re in a chair. Maybe even the power chair. And you spin around. You’re wearing a tight white blouse and a short skirt and you call me over, and all you do is point to the edge of your skirt.”

  “And what do you do then?”

  “I get down on my knees and push up your skirt and go down on you.”

  “I bet that makes it really hard to focus at meetings.”

  “Incredibly hard.” I raised an eyebrow and followed his gaze to his pants. I wanted to press a hand against him.

  “What if I put my computer bag on your lap right now as a shield? Would you touch yourself?”

  “Right here? On the bench in the middle of the Impressionist Gallery?”