Lock You Down

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "What else did you two do?" I asked, not figuring there was much to go on with a sea water shower.

  "We went to the arcade. God, it was so loud. All the dinging and sirens and kids squealing. It was amazing. I sucked at everything, but Sammy was amazing at skee-ball, something we never would have known if not for that day. Sammy had her eyes on this pair of heart-shaped sunglasses at the counter. She wanted to buy them. But, of course, they don't let you do that. They make you spend five times the amount to earn the tickets to buy the glasses. I was getting grumpy. I wanted to go get food, get home before our parents started to worry. But Sammy refused to leave until she got the sunglasses. She got them eventually. And she wore them every single day for the rest of that summer. Then she got me ice cream on the way home to shut me up about being hungry."

  "Do you think Sammy kept the glasses?" I asked when she was done, smiling, but tears were moving down her cheeks.

  "Sammy kept everything."

  "Okay. Let's find them," I said, hopping off the bed, systematically working our way through the room until we found them in a box on the top shelf of the closet.

  They were light pink, purple, and blue lenses with a silver heart-shaped frame. The kind of glasses that only worked on a young girl.

  But Reagan slipped them on her face, beamed ear-to-ear, and turned back toward me.

  "You were really good at that."

  "I can't take credit. That was all Kingston. He gave me that speech once when I couldn't decide what of my mother's to take before the rest got boxed up."

  "What did you end up taking?"

  I reached into my back pocket, pulling out a piece of silver, the pattern long since rubbed away. "This was the last quarter she had to her name. I carried it with me all those years we worked to take from the company that took her from us because she couldn't afford more treatment because they wouldn't offer her medical care. I ran my thumb over it whenever I thought about her while on a job. There's nothing left of it. But I keep it with me always. I don't rub my finger over it anymore, but I think of her when I take it out of my pocket at night, when I slip it back into it in the morning."

  Reagan's hand slipped into mine, pinning the quarter between our palms, her fingers curling over mine so it couldn't get loose.

  Then she looked up at me through those heart-shaped sunglasses and she said the words I'd been hoping one day she would.

  "I love you, Nixon. And I know, I know. It's not that long. I think men actually end up saying it first most of the time. Eighty-eight days, I think I read that in an article once. Men say it in eighty-eight days. Women in one-hundred-thirty-two. I think that is because women are afraid of seeming clingy or needy or something. I think it is kind of ridiculous that we have to hide our feelings because we're afraid someone is afraid of our love..."

  "Babe, you done blabbering?" I asked, watching as her lips curved up slowly.

  "I guess so, yeah."

  "Good. Because I love you too," I told her, my arms going around her lower back, pulling her against me, sealing my lips to hers.

  "Hey," she said, breaking away, eyes a little big.

  "Hey what?"

  "Why don't we see if we can find an earlier flight home?" she asked. "If we get back, we can make it to Sunday dinner," she added.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a woman after my own fucking heart.

  EPILOGUE

  Nixon - 3 weeks

  I was pretty sure Reagan put on this big shindig simply to make Harvey uncomfortable.

  She was hosting a viewing party for a montage of his three commercials he had filmed for Devil Tears. She'd had people in to clear out the lower level of the office building, brought in chairs, got a projector and screen, rented popcorn and slushy machines, invited just about everyone she knew, including Harvey's friends who, apparently, did not know he was going to be the new spokesperson, and were having a hell of a time ribbing him about it.

  "You're evil," I told her as she moved in at my side, handing me a glass of whiskey. An actual glass. Because Reagan refused to use plastic even for social events. Then again, it probably shouldn't have surprised me. On top of being conscious of plastic waste, she had been raised differently. There were no backyard barbecues with red Solo cups and throw-away plates. No. She'd always known catered events with real glass, with real china for chrissakes.

  "He puts on a good show, but he is just as excited about this as I am. As we all are," she clarified. "Have I thanked you for the idea yet?" she asked, bumping her hip to mine.

  "Yes."

  "Well, thank you again. I think this is going to be a huge hit."

  She'd been pulling a lot of late nights. Then, after I dragged her to bed, I often woke up to find her fiddling around with the mockups from the graphic designer for new promotional materials.

  Reagan didn't do much by halves. When she was in, she was all in. And now that she had settled things with her family, now that they had loosened up the reins a little, so focused as they were on their own project, she was running with it, doing everything in her power to make her business something she could be proud of.

  She didn't need the money.

  Which made her ambition all the more admirable in my eyes. I'd never worked as hard at anything as she did at rebranding her company.

  It was humbling.

  And I wanted nothing more than for her to succeed.

  We would soon see.

  "That better be apple juice," Reagan said, voice slipping into a mom-tone as Calvin moved over toward us, something a suspicious shade in his glass.

  "Alcohol is bad," he agreed, voice dry. "That's why we work at a whiskey company," he added. Then took a long sip of something I knew for damn sure wasn't apple juice.

  "Thanks for inviting me," Marley said, moving into our little circle. "My mom didn't want me to come on a school night, but my dad talked her into it."

  "Heaven forbid you leave the convent for a night, right?"

  Marley's eyes rolled as she leaned forward, sniffing at his glass before giving Reagan a firm look. "That is alcohol in his glass. He is clearly underaged."

  "Mind your business, narc," Calvin shot back, taking a long sip as he looked right at her.

  Reagan and I shared a look, one that said we were both starting to suspect Krissy had been right about the two of them.

  "You're incorrigible."

  "And you're a captious brat," Calvin shot back sending her steely glare before swaggering off.

  "I... I can't believe he called me a brat," she said at his retreating form. "For someone who uses as many four-letter words as he does, he actually has a great vocabulary. And 'brat' is the best he can come up with?" she asked, face scrunching up.

  "You're going to take offense to 'brat' and not 'captious?'" Regan asked.

  "Well, I do tend to find fault in him. He just has so many of them. Anyway, yeah, I'm excited to see the commercial. I think this company can really go places. I mean as far as a liquor company can go anyway."

  "Gee, thanks Marley," Reagan said to the girl who clearly didn't pick up on the sarcasm. "She really doesn't mean to come off like that," she added to me as Marley spotted Calvin reaching for a bottle again, mumbling "unbelievable" before charging off to try to stop him. "She just has really lofty ideas in life."

  "She's going to have her ass handed to her in life if she doesn't rein it in a bit."

  "Well," Reagan said, watching as the two kids leaned in close, having a whisper-fight right there in front of everyone else. "I think Calvin is doing his best to prepare her for the bull-headedness she is going to face in whatever career path she chooses to go into. Oh, boy," she said, grimacing when Marley tried to grab the glass out of Calvin's hand as he rose it to drink, Calvin fighting to hold onto it, making the whiskey surge up in the glass and spill onto Marley's shoes.

  We were too far away, but we could both imagine the conversation--fight--that followed. About not wanting to smell like alcohol, about getting in trouble. The
n Calvin shooting back that she is being dramatic and needs to calm down.

  Eventually, he bent down, taking off her shoes, moving to stand, realizing she was wiping tears off her cheeks.

  The stricken look on his face was priceless. And I was a dick for thinking that since I was sure I'd had that same look on my face when Reagan cried in front of me the first time.

  He went to say something, causing Marley to turn and run barefoot out of the building. There was a pause before he jogged behind her, face contrite.

  "I don't need the commercial," Krissy said, moving in at my side. "I just want to see the end of the Calvin and Marley show."

  "You're going to have to wait a while," I said, shrugging.

  "What? Why?"

  "Because Calvin just turned eighteen," I told her. "She's officially off-limits. He might be a delinquent, but he's not stupid."

  "Damn," Krissy said, sighing. "Oh, well. The anticipation for season two always makes it all the better when it premiers. Oh, hey, Luis is here!" she declared, beaming.

  "We are going to have to pick those two up from some dive bar tonight, aren't we?" I asked as Krissy walked over to Luis, wrapping her arms around him.

  "Who are you kidding? They're going to drag us out with them. Apologize to your liver ahead of time," she added, cringing.

  "I dunno. Think it could be fun if things end up like this again," I said, reaching for my phone, finding the picture Krissy and her brother had sent me from that one night out.

  "I am going to get them back for that someday," she vowed.

  "Dunno, baby. Don't think they're the type to care if half-naked selfies get around."

  "True," she agreed, sighing. "Oh, we're ready!" she declared when the guy she'd hired to handle the technical parts of the night gave her a thumbs up. "I'll round up in here. You go make sure no one is outside."

  Marley pushed past me, running upstairs to likely wash her feet. Outside, I found Calvin leaning down near the side of the building, spraying down Marley's shoes with a hose.

  Seeing me move in, his head angled up, eyes dark. "She's so fucking pissed at me," he said, shaking his head.

  "Noticed that. In my experience, girls don't like being called brats."

  "Then she should stop being one," he insisted, stubborn in all his eighteen-year-old confidence.

  "You wouldn't be so into her if she wasn't exactly who she is," I shot back.

  "I'm not into her."

  "No? Could have fooled me. Looked pretty bent outta shape that you made her cry."

  "Just because I don't like making chicks cry doesn't mean I'm into them," he insisted, jaw getting tight.

  To that, my lips curved up, wondering if I had been as stupid as he was being. Probably. Probably more than a few times. I suddenly had a whole new respect toward King for putting up with me when I was Calvin's age.

  "Good luck with the denial game, kid. Let me know how that works out for you in the long run. The commercials are about to air."

  "I can't watch the commercials. I have to clean her fucking shoes," he grumbled.

  When I got back to the door, I found Reagan standing there, smiling at me. It was a smile I didn't quite recognize, but it was warm and interested and curious.

  "What, babe?"

  "Just thinking."

  "About?"

  "If you want to put up with that in about twenty years."

  "Put up with what? More delinquents?"

  "Yeah. But maybe ones we made."

  We hadn't done much of the long-term talking. We both figured there would be time for it, that we had other stuff on our plates at present.

  We hadn't discussed kids.

  "Want 'em if you give 'em to me," I told her, arms going around her lower back.

  "Maybe a couple I made. Maybe a couple we invite in?" she asked, tone a little hesitant.

  Adoption mattered to her. Of course it did. She'd been adopted. Luis had been adopted. Sammy had been adopted. They'd never have been able to be a family if not for that.

  "Whatever way they come to us," I assured her. "Hopefully, we don't get one of those smartasses," I said, jerking my head toward Calvin behind me.

  "Oh, Nixon. I'm pretty sure that any kid of yours is going to be a smartass. You're just going to need to resign yourself to that fact."

  She was probably right.

  And I was excited to someday find out.

  Reagan - 6 months

  "It's, um, it has a lot of character," I said, trying to choose my words carefully.

  Nixon had called me earlier to say that our house hunt was officially over, that he found the perfect place for us.

  We'd long ago decided that his place was too small for more than him, and that mine didn't have what we wanted to have for the long term. A yard. More bedrooms. Room to grow.

  I'd handed off the task to Nixon since he knew more about foundations and electrical and whatnot than I ever would. We agreed to visit the ones he liked most out of the lot when he narrowed it down.

  I thought we'd visit at least half a dozen houses.

  Then he'd come home to tell me he'd found the one.

  I wasn't prepared for it.

  And by that, I mean I was not prepared for Nixon's dream house to be hideous.

  There was no other way to describe it.

  It was hideous.

  A two-story colonial with a sand-colored brick front, an assortment of atrocious wallpaper, crumbling tile that should not have ever been sold in shades of pink, mint, and yellow, with wood paneling, and a shocking lack of windows.

  As diplomatic as my words were, as hard as I was trying to mask my disgust, Nixon knew me too well. He rocked back on his heels, lips curved up into a smirk. "You need to stop looking at the surface shit. Wallpaper gets stripped off, wood paneling gets ripped out, new tile, new paint, a couple more windows, finish the basement and the attic. It's a massive house. It has good bones. It just needs a little fixing up."

  "I think your opinion of 'a little fixing up' and mine vary a lot," I told him, nodding toward the floral backsplash in the kitchen. Floral. Who had floral tile in a kitchen?

  "Come on, you haven't seen the best part," he told me.

  And no, no I had not.

  But his excitement had me curious as he led me toward the mossy and molded back porch.

  Admittedly, the back yard was nice. It needed some seeding, some gardens, a few trees. But it would be a great yard for kids someday.

  "I mean, yeah, the yard is nice. It's just not... what?" I asked, seeing his smile stretch wider.

  "You're not looking, babe," he said.

  "I am looking at the yar... oh," I said, my breath whooshing out of me.

  I'd been too focused on the one-acre-sized square.

  And not what was behind it.

  Our backyard butted up to Charlie and Helen's.

  "Well then," I said, sharing his smile. "You're right. This is the one."

  Nixon - 1 year

  I wanted to wait.

  Until the crazy died down with her brand suddenly becoming the best selling whiskey on the market, knocking down the previously best-known brand out of its decade-long reign.

  And then I wanted to wait until the trial was over.

  She'd been a nervous wreck the entire time, constantly on the phone with Lo, getting coached, getting talked off ledges.

  In the end, she didn't end up having much to worry about. By the time she got on the stand, not a single person in that room thought the man was innocent with all the other witnesses, all the other statements.

  And then, of course, there had been Olivia and Marvin--the owners of the house where the party had taken place--with their irrefutable security footage that showed Michael red-handedly slipping something into the wineglass he handed off to Reagan.

  His lawyer--wearing an Armani suit and Rolex that cost more than my car--had argued until he was red in the face, but not a single person in the room was swayed.

  It was only the first in
several civil cases against Michael.

  And then the big one.

  The one that involved a forty-something-year-old him and a girl who had been underage.

  The statute of limitations was on their side. And after a string of lesser convictions, the judge and jury had nailed his ass to the wall.

  He would get out.

  Sexual criminals usually did.

  Because our system was fucked.

  But when he did, he'd be a lot older, and a fuckuva lot poorer.

  It would never make up for what he had done to all those women and girls. And it would never bring Sammy back, but it was something.

  It was some justice for the victims and their families.

  But it wasn't the right time before all that was settled. Until it was the only important thing to have on our minds.

  I'd been planning it for months, having secret meetings with the Mallick women and Krissy to try to figure out what the right kind of ring would be for her.

  Simple.

  That was the general consensus. And I had to agree. Reagan always went minimal with her jewelry. And almost nothing that stood out.

  In the end, I went with a square-cut diamond on a plain gold band.

  We all agreed--it was perfect.

  Then I had made the plan, talked to some people, got them to agree to it.

  She knew nothing about what we would be doing. Which led to a nearly thirty-minute-long tantrum about not knowing how to dress for it if she didn't know where we were going.

  In the end, I grabbed her a red sundress because it was my favorite, threw her a pair of her flats, and dragged her with me to the car.

  "You know," she said, eyes bright, smile sly, "I think you are taking this peach fetish of yours to an extreme," she declared, standing in the row between peach trees.

  I'd rented out the orchard for the day.

  It was stupidly expensive.

  But we were allowed to take as many peaches as we wanted.