Where You Go

by Claire Cain

  Um… ok. I wasn’t sure what to expect when he said he’d text—I’d guessed it would be a few days and maybe an apology for running away, but I definitely didn’t anticipate his A. ignoring what happened and B. using my cat to do it.

  Me: My cat will not be a pawn in your game to ignore that you ran away from me last night.

  I wasn’t pulling any punches–this was nonsense.

  Luke: Straight to that already, huh?

  Me: Already? Am I supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?

  Luke: No

  Me: Good. Because I’m not going to.

  Luke: Ok

  Me: Ok

  Well this was great.

  Luke: I’m sorry I freaked out.

  I waited for some kind of follow up. Some kind of explanation. Three minutes ticked away, people aged, babies were born, global warming sliced through another section of the ozone, and finally, I responded.

  Me: I’m not sure what to say. It’s ok? Of course you can freak out and run away from me whenever you need to, but I hope it doesn’t happen again. If there is a next time, I hope you’ll stay and talk to me. We’ve only had, what? Twenty-seven years of experience, give or take a few months to account for the years we were learning to speak.

  Luke: We had a solid nine-year gap of not speaking, so really, we only have eighteen years of experience.

  Me: True. Maybe that’s it. It has been a while and we’re not used to talking eye to eye, especially about uncomfortable things.

  Luke: True enough.

  Ok. So, acknowledged. Awkwardness abated?

  Luke: Yep. So I guess we need practice.

  This comment was pleasing. Practicing talking to Luke wouldn’t be a hardship, of that I was certain.

  Me: I guess we do.

  Luke: So can I come bring your cat his present on Saturday?

  I spent the next few days unpacking boxes and exploring my neighborhood and doing a little cooking. Nothing made me feel like my feet were planted like getting into my kitchen and figuring out what I was working with. I was delighted to have a gas stove again, and my oven’s temperature seemed to be accurate. These two discoveries went a long way toward making me feel settled, even though I was far from comfortable in my new surroundings. Fanning out my rainbow of spatulas in a jar of cooking utensils made me feel like I was ready to cook, ready to step into my normal routines.

  Aside from these small comforts, and having an apartment full of familiar things, it was all new. And while I was happy with the change on the surface, it was impossible to pretend I didn’t feel totally upside-down in pretty much every way possible.

  On Friday I went into my new office and met the staff, met my administrative assistant Randy (I shared him with my fellow team leaders Janie and Emily), and got a look at my desk so I could appropriately outfit it come my starting day on Monday. My job in New York had been an account lead, which meant I was the woman in charge for a given event. I walked clients through their timelines, their linen choices, their seating arrangements, their menus, what AV equipment they needed. Depending on where the event was, I coordinated with a venue’s liaison, and that person did some of the nitty gritty like selecting burgundy or black napkins and shrimp cocktail or passed hors d’oeuvres for the cocktail hour. But part of what I did to win accounts was create a vision for an event and create bids for companies, hoping my vision for their event would match their own.

  I was damn good at this. Almost every account I went after, I got. But I was in the corporate leg of the company, I rarely had time off, and I didn’t have much variation in terms of accounts. I became internally exhausted by the Fortune500 parade and the lack of flexibility or originality. Toward the end of my time in New York, I felt like everything became unbearable. Maybe it was because I knew I was leaving, or maybe it was because I was just so ready for change, or maybe it was because the oppressive heat of New York summer had begun early in June and I felt ready to say goodbye to the city and my life that revolved around work regardless of the day of the week.

  My new job was team leader, which meant I’d have several account leads under me. Well, I’d have two, one of whom I’d be sharing with another lead because I was the team leader of the non-profit department. This meant I would be overseeing what my event leads were doing and would work on a more managerial level. I had training in management from all of my schooling years, and I had managed events until I couldn’t see straight. Building relationships between companies and vendors was my thing. But if I didn’t admit I was nervous to manage another person, essentially a peer in my own field, I’d be lying. It was the next step, and the shift to nonprofit, the move to a new city, and the new job description, was all serving to create an intensity to the experience of meeting my colleagues that made the day feel surreal.

  Everyone was incredibly welcoming and kind, and I felt sure some of the competition and stress that so often accompanied my position in New York might be softened here in the friendly South. So much of that competition had come from account leads working toward the promotion to team leader, and since I was now a team leader in a new company, that should be altogether removed. In theory.

  Also, Emily and Janie, my fellow team leaders, mentioned a great barbeque place we’d try for lunch the next week, and I knew I’d have fast friends there.

  “We’re so glad to have you here with us and add you to the family,” Mr. Burney said, shaking my hand in welcome. He hired me based on phone and Skype interviews, and Burney and Wilks’ compensation plan was very generous considering they also funded my relocation. I was glad that my first impressions fit with what I was expecting—a friendly, tight-knit place. This was so opposite FixEvents, and it was very welcome.

  By the end of the day at B&W I felt eager to begin. I’d gotten a peek inside my small office, which featured a light wood desk, a nice-sized window, and one wall that was floor to ceiling bookshelves. I had two chairs sitting on the other side of my desk, both comfortable and welcoming should I need to host a client or hold a small group meeting.

  As I lay in bed that night, waiting for my mind to calm itself, I felt hopeful. I liked what I saw of my job and I prayed it’d feel like home, that it’d feel meaningful and satisfying and like it was enough, or at least the beginnings of it. It had been so long since I’d felt satisfied, happy, and I’d started to wonder if feeling energized and excited by my job, by my life, was possible.

  Luke knocked on my door at eight on Saturday.

  I had done my best to avoid thinking about what our next encounter would be like. That was, of course, impossible, so what it meant was that I’d spent the majority of the last few days feeling unendingly preoccupied by thoughts of his lips, eyes, face, hands, and voice. And the rest of him. And the things he said. Oh and the whole friendship/making out conundrum. And whether he’d run away if/hopefully when he kissed me again.

  So… basically I expertly obsessed over him like I did when I was fifteen and he was better, even then, than Justin Timberlake in my eyes. Oy.

  I answered the door with Lemon draped over my shoulders. Lem was a light orange tabby mixed with something else—my theory was Ragdoll because he was more than willing to hang over my shoulder as I walked around the house. He could even sleep up there, and in winter he provided me a perfectly soft, permanently warm, purring scarf, so it worked for me. So far, the punishing gusts of A/C that cooled every indoor space of Tennessee and could only be subdued a little in my apartment, made Lemon’s love of scarf-life a clear way he was earning his keep.

  Bright sunshine burst in my door, and I squinted against it as I welcomed Luke. “Come in,” I said and stepped back to make room for him.

  He stepped in and eyed me and the fluffy mass over my shoulders. “This is Lemon. He’s unimpressed to meet you,” I said, waving one of Lemon’s inanimate paws at him. I felt a small uptick in Lemon’s purr as I set the paw down and gave him a pat on his head.

  Luke smiled and held up a small potted plant he pulled from beh
ind his back. “Catnip,” he said, obviously pleased with himself.

  “You come here as a pusher. Trying to drug my cat so you can get on his good side?” I didn’t often have catnip for Lemon, but he’d be pleased, and then annoyingly uncoordinated once he got his little feline high going. A warm feeling flooded my chest as I looked at Luke holding out the small terracotta pot. I took the pot and set it on a counter I knew Lemon wouldn’t explore any time soon.

  “Absolutely,” he said, and with one hand on my wrist, he leaned in to kiss my cheek. I closed my eyes as his lips met my face—he must have shaved that morning. His skin was smooth and soft, and he smelled so good. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee and minty toothpaste.

  “Your cat is out cold. Is he asleep?” he asked as he looked at the lump of fur, beaming at me like it was magic I wielded and not Lemon’s natural state of being that kept him on my shoulders.

  “He is. That’s the only reason you haven’t been met with a rumble of disapproval and a glare,” I said, holding Lemon’s dangling paws. “Prepare yourself,” I warned him and then lifted my little fluff up over my head and walked him to the couch. He immediately settled into one of the cushions on the back, gave Luke a withering glance, and then curled into himself to sleep.

  “Well, I can’t help but feel that went well,” he said, waiting for my confirmation. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked completely at ease.

  “Yes. You’ve passed the initial ‘is he going to kill me or her’ test with flying colors,” I told him. I grabbed my purse and walked to the door. “I saw a little bakery down the street, and I’d love to check it out. That ok?” I asked, already opening the door.

  “I’ll never turn down pastries,” he nodded as he spoke and followed me toward the stoop.

  “I’m with you there, but I can’t imagine you eat all that many pastries.” I turned and locked my door. He stood about a foot away from me, and it felt like a conscious choice for him to stay at a bit of a distance. A friendly distance.

  Ok then.

  “True. I don’t eat them often. But my normal routine doesn’t include eating out all that much,” he explained as we walked out onto the sidewalk toward the café. I wondered what a normal day was like for him and felt a pang of longing to know those details about him.

  “I have a feeling you’re pretty regimented,” I said, enjoying the small breeze ruffling my navy skirt around my knees. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for just a minute to feel the sun on my face. I’d been up and out early for a run, but the day was perfect and not too muggy yet.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked, then held the door open for me and gestured for me to enter first.

  I walked in and he followed behind me. I breathed in the smell of warm baked goods and chocolate and coffee. Oh dear, this would be dangerous. Far too close to home to be effectively avoided. I mentally resigned myself to embracing a few more pounds in favor of feeding my ever-present but usually-starved croissant addiction.

  “Two please,” I told the hostess and she beckoned for us to follow her right away to a small table by the window. Luke was behind me, close enough to touch me, but notably not touching me. No warm, big hand on my lower back, and I had to work to push the disappointment away. He pulled out my chair, and I sat and scooted myself in as he sat across from me and the hostess handed us menus.

  We both perused the menu and I shut mine quickly, already knowing I’d have a croissant and coffee. I’d had baked eggs with a little cream and fresh chives earlier since I’d already gone for a run and gotten cleaned up by seven that morning. I may or may not have woken up when the sun rose that morning at six in anticipation of seeing Luke. I may or may not have had several rehearsal conversations with Lemon in which I was totally normal and charming, not awkward and babbling.

  “What are you having?” I asked as I watched him read over the options.

  “Coffee. Croissant. And probably more coffee after that,” he said. “But you haven’t answered my question.” He set down his menu and then scooted his chair in a bit more. His knees bumped mine and he reached down to feel what he’d hit. His hand brushed over my bare knee and he pulled it back as if he’d been burned. “Agh, sorry. Didn’t realize that was you.”

  “Yes, that’s me. Tiny table. Do you need more leg room?” I asked, feeling our legs threaded together under the table, a remnant of the heat left by his touch just seconds ago lingering on my knee.

  It was just a knee. It was just an accident, but there was something suggestive about touching a bare knee. Or at least my body thought so. Maybe his did too based on the way he’d snatched his hand back to avoid a third-degree burn.

  “No, uh… no, I’m good.” He cleared his throat and looked up at our waiter who’d just arrived with mugs and a carafe of coffee. We ordered and were left to fix our coffee while we waited.

  “I bet you take yours black, right?” I asked, watching as he wrapped his hands around the warm mug in front of him.

  “I do. You can’t be picky about coffee when you never know whether you’ll have stuff to put in it. I learned to drink it black during deployments because there was no choice and no time to do anything but guzzle it. After that it made sense to just enjoy it that way so I didn’t feel deprived.” He was pursing his lips a little then, like he was waiting to say something else.

  “And?” I asked.

  “And what?” He looked at me with an eyebrow raised.

  “You were going to say something else,” I told him.

  “Hmm. Yes. I was going to say I bet you like yours light and sweet.” He watched to see if he was right. I reached down and took a sip of my black coffee and tried not to enjoy the fact that he was definitely staring at my mouth.

  “Black,” I said.

  “See? So much I don’t know about you.” He grinned.

  “True. I am rather mysterious,” I agreed.

  “So why do you think I’m ‘regimented’?” he asked. He took another sip of his coffee and waited.

  I held my mug to my cheek, enjoying the warmth and the earthy, bitter smell. “Are you telling me you’re not?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “So you are?”

  “No. Well, yes, I guess,” he admitted. He shifted in his seat.

  “It seems obvious. I mean… look at you,” I said, nodding toward him with my chin, my hands still wrapped around my mug.

  “What does that mean?” he asked, a self-conscious frown tipping the corners of his mouth down.

  “Come on, you are pure muscle. People who look like you don’t exactly routinely eat pastries by the dozen,” I said, knowing my cheeks would be burning red in moments. It wasn’t like he didn’t know he was attractive, and more so, that I was attracted to him. My response to him anytime he kissed me, never mind the now numerous times he’d found me tongue-tied and staring at him, would have tipped him off easily.

  “Sure. But I have to be fit for my job. If I’m overweight, I’m out. Or at least, I look like a jerk. So it’s in my interest to be this way,” he explained in a voice that almost seemed like he felt he needed to defend himself.

  “It’s in my interest too,” I said without thinking and smiled an embarrassed-to-be-caught smile back at him. He brightened at that and started to say something when the waiter interrupted.

  “Here we go y’all! Fresh from the oven, so give ’em a minute to cool. Enjoy!” And off he went again. Before Luke could return us to my blatant appreciation of his body, I changed the subject.

  “What’s it like to be back to work, but not deployed? Is it strange?”

  He finished chewing a bite, swallowed, and then said, “Sort of. It feels old and familiar at the same time. It’s crazy while you’re deployed, and exhausting and stressful, but the work feels important. All those Excels are tracking important information, all of the briefings really matter. But here, that sense of urgency is missing. That can be nice, but I can already tell I’ll get restless being back if I stay
too long,” and then he took another bite of the perfectly crusty pastry he hadn’t yet put down.

  “If you stay too long? I thought you said you’d probably have a year or so before you deploy again?” I asked, surprised by the way my stomach had dropped at the possibility of him not being around.

  “Sure, that’s the theory. There are a few options that would see me leaving sooner than the year mark. There’s always schools and TDY assignments to take—just stuff to mix up the boredom and nonsense that comes from being in garrison—not deployed,” he explained. He sipped his coffee and eyed me over the cup.

  “Ah, gotcha. Well…” I trailed off and realized I might sound strange if I just stopped talking even though I had nothing more to say, so I quickly finished, “I’m glad you have ways of making things more… interesting for yourself.” I broke eye contact then, feeling ignorant yet again.

  Interacting with this friend always made me feel clumsy and foolish. In an effort to channel the feeling away from the creeping flush of my cheeks, I focused on my croissant. I brought it, still warm, to my mouth and took a bite from one of the ends. Little wisps of pastry layered with butter-inspired air compressed between my teeth with a satisfying crunch and then give, the center layers soft and tender, just the way they should be. I closed my eyes so I could taste the perfection I was now chewing without the distraction of sight.

  “You approve of the croissants, I see.”

  I didn’t speak but instead took another bite, smiled as I chewed, and after returning the little pastried perfection to my plate, held my coffee mug to warm my hands again.

  “What have you been doing these last few years?” He sounded conversational, but something in the way he said this sounded loaded. We’d covered the basics weeks ago on our night out back home.

  “Like for work? You know I worked for the event planning agency and did mostly corporate events. Mostly fun, but eventually exhausting, hence the move here.” I took another bite of the croissant and smiled as I chewed. God bless the French.