It's a Date

by Jess Epps

  Suddenly my door opens and Dani pokes her head in. "Jeez, you two. You haven't had enough of each other yet? Come on, we're starving."

  “Sorry…” We get out and he pulls me close. I wrap my arm around his torso while his arm is around my shoulders, keeping me warm as we walk into the restaurant where we are quickly seated and given menus. A few minutes later, we all place a drink order and then brunch.

  “Are you going to eat my shrimp this time, ballerina?”

  "Yes," I answer. "Are you eating my bacon?" I look up just in time to see both Dani and Brannon staring with looks of surprise on their faces.

  “Possibly…” He smiles and rests his hand on my knee, before taking a sip of his Bloody Mary.

  “So…Noah, tell us how you two met?” Dani asks. She’s too curious about him. I don’t blame her though. He could make any woman squirm in her panties.

  Oh my God! I forgot to put panties on.

  Heaven help me if he finds out. He'll think it was on purpose. It wasn't—I just lose my mind when I'm around him, which I need to stop doing. I need to keep my head in this and not get in too deep. I take a much-needed drink from my Mimosa and nervously run my finger up and down the champagne flute’s stem.

  “We met on Christmas Eve actually. I went to see The Nutcracker with…” He pauses and I realize it’s his mother. I mean, kidnapper. That woman. Oh Noah, I know it hurts. He’s being so strong about this, but I can see it’s killing him inside. Moving my hand down I place it on top of his, lacing our fingers together in an attempt to reassure him.

  “And he saw me on stage. Our eyes met and I lost myself in him. I think he eye-F’ed me on stage actually. In front of everyone. Afterward, he came to my rescue when Nik was being a colossal jerk!”

  Dani scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I hate Nik. I told Heather he was bad for her. What a creep.”

  Looking down at our fingers, I fidget and start aimlessly playing with his. "Yeah, I guess I didn't listen, huh?"

  “That guy’s a motherfucking prick,” Noah says suddenly then takes a drink. He’s so tense—dammit, Dani. I know she didn’t mean to bring up something so horrible, but he was in such a playful mood.

  “Oh yes, he is. I’m glad you agree, Noah.” Dani is all smiles.

  “Baby?” I say softly and he looks at me, feigning a smile that’s not his. I run my hand into his hair and pull him down to kiss me. I want to be the slight calm in his storm. He’s brooding, and I want it to stop. I want my confident, cocky, sensual boyfriend. When his lips find mine, he kisses me hard and fast, taking my lips like he needs them to breathe. I think he does on some level; I know I can calm him down, just as he does me.

  Brannon orders another round of drinks for the table as I slide Noah’s hand up my thigh.

  I can feel his tension: it's still there in his chest and in his kiss. So I slide his hand farther. And thank God, it's working. I feel his thumb brush along my inner thigh. He's rubbing where my panty line should be. My tights usually make it easy for him to feel everything. He pauses and pulls back from our kiss. He doesn't say anything; he just stares at me, questioning. I've never used sex as a weapon before, but I'll do just about anything to keep my Greek god from being upset.

  Brannon coughs. “Should we, uh, find another booth?”

  Noah smiles his genuine smile—not one that doesn’t belong to him. “No, man, we’re good. What do you do for a living, Brannon?”

  Brannon dives into conversation while Noah pulls his Galaxy out of his pocket, typing something quickly then putting it away. My purse vibrates and I reach into it to grab my phone.

  “I run my own construction company. I don’t get dirty with the boys: I do more of the architectural work. It comes as a package deal that way. My company benefits tremendously.”

  I’m not paying attention to them as I click on his message. Baby, are you wearing panties?

  How the hell did he know?

  I quickly type out a reply and hit send. No :) enjoy your brunch.

  I watch him check his phone again and smile. You’re so beautiful today, and you belong to me.

  I reply: Yours.

  “Sounds like it could be fun. What about you, Dani? Do you dance too?” Noah asks.

  She starts laughing and almost spits out her Mimosa. "Oh no. Heather is the graceful one. I’ve always been the klutz of the family. I’m a public relations manager for a few different actors and actresses in LA. Well, I manage the entire firm that works with the stars.”

  “Well, shit, that’s one hell of a job. Do you work for anyone worth mentioning?”

  “They all are, but I’d rather not drop names to my sister’s boyfriend. What about you, Noah, what do you do?”

  “Well, I just moved up to New York two weeks ago…”

  Dani stares me down. Oh crap. I forgot to tell her.

  “…And I’ve been studying for the bar exam.”

  I feel like her questions might head toward a dangerous road so I send her a text. Dani, no more questions. I'll explain later.

  I hit send and watch her fumble for her phone while Noah and Brannon start talking about sports. Her eyes flicker up and meet mine and I can tell she's not happy. She hates it when I hide things from her. But I know she understands because she puts her phone away and changes the subject.

  "Oh Heather? What color are your nails today?" Dani asks.

  Frick. Noah’s attention is swayed from baseball teams to Dani.

  “I think it’s called Hawaiian Charm.”

  Noah lifts my hand to inspect my nails. “Weren’t they covered in glitter yesterday?”

  I pull my hand back to my lap. "Yes," I say, giving Dani a death glare. Don't you do it, Dani. By the look on her face, I can tell she doesn't give a crap about what I want. A slow, evil smile spreads across her face.

  "Heather hasn't shown you her nail polish collection?"

  God, I'm going to kill her. I kick her under the table and stare. She just makes a face at me.

  “Nail polish collection? Fuck, it can’t be anything like her candy closet.”

  Yep. I'm going to kill her.

  “It can be, and it is. You should ask her to show you when you get back tonight. I believe the number of bottles she has is in the hundreds now. She even has sheets of paper with the color description, name, and a little sample of each color—for every single nail polish bottle she has.”

  I could cut out her tongue right now. Why don't we just tell all of Heather’s secrets? My face is radiating heat, I'm sure.

  He reaches for my hand and squeezes when the waitress finally brings our meal out.

  “I’ll have to take your word for it, Dani. But hell, I do know my girl’s fingers and toes are colorful when I suck on them.”

  I'm. Going. To. Die. I'm being hit from all sides. Is this embarrass-the-crap-out-of-Heather day? I take in a deep breath and shake my head. "Okay, guys. New subject."

  Noah’s lips are on mine before I can utter another word. Mmm, he tastes good. I breathe in his cologne and relax. This calming effect we have on each other is starting to come in handy.

  “Do you want a shrimp?” he asks when our lips part, forking one up from his side order.

  I nod and open my mouth. He's staring at my lips when I close down over the fork. This feels right. Us. I suddenly remember we're not alone.

  "Dani? How long are you guys staying in town?" I ask.

  I watch him through my peripheral vision as he takes a bite of his omelet, but completely ignores his shrimp and grits.

  “Uhm, I think for the week? Is that right, babe?” she asks Brannon, who nods with his mouth full of food.

  I giggle and kiss Noah’s cheek then notice that he hasn’t eaten any of his side order. “Did you get the shrimp and grits so I could steal your shrimp?”

  He just winks and I melt. That has got to be the sweetest, sexiest thing anyone has ever done for me. It’s such a small act, but it speaks volumes.

  “Thank you,” I say as I fork up a shrim
p from his plate and eat it.

  “You’re most welcome, ballerina.”

  I enjoy the rest of the meal out with my three favorite people, making small talk, trying different Mimosas and Bellinis.

  I’m grateful for each of them.

  My sister.

  My what I can only guess will be my future brother-in-law.

  And my Greek god.

  Noah

  SHE’S BEEN MINE for four weeks now. Dani and Brannon just left to head back to LA. They stayed a little over a week and helped me find an apartment—available immediately, which I’ve learned is almost an impossible task in NYC—as well as move in. I don’t live far from my ballerina. I couldn’t stand it if I did. My loft is small and simple, but it’s more than enough for me.

  Heather and I can’t manage to be apart for one night, even if we’re not strewn naked all over each other. I relish the feeling of her in my arms. She keeps me grounded and sane, especially with all this shit going on.

  Joel has yet to contact me regarding my birth parents, so I make a mental note to call him soon.

  Coen is currently on a flight to New York City. I might not have friends in high places, but the few friends I have always have stuck by my side.

  Currently Heather is rehearsing for a showcase that her ballet company is putting on for some local charity in the beginning of February, so I’m going through a few things by myself as I unpack the last box. I realize this box must have come from Mae’s house because I don’t recognize its contents.

  The box is filled with documentation from the diner as well as bill invoices. I turn the box upside down, dumping its contents out to make sure there’s nothing that belongs to me in it before I send it back with Coen. A large white binder makes a thud on my hardwood floor. I’ve never seen it before and it wouldn’t surprise me if it too is filled with old paper bills.

  I reach for it anyway and open it. The first page is blank so I flip to the next. It’s not as much of a binder as it is a photo album—the old ones with the transparent plastic that you peel off of the sticky backing and place the pictures on it. I pause on the next page. It’s a newspaper clipping with a picture of a distraught-looking woman surrounded by microphones. Frowning, I read over the article.

  What the hell?

  It’s an article about a missing newborn.

  I flip to the next page and then the next, each of them containing the same newborn baby’s name, Amanda. The article states that the baby had been found in a New York City dumpster after being discarded by her kidnapper. I think I’m going to be sick.

  I flip to the next page expecting another article on Amanda, but instead there’s a name and year written in large black handwriting—Mae’s handwriting: “Amy — 1982.”

  I turn the old, dusty page. There’s another newspaper clipping of a young couple, obviously hurting. The article reads very similar to the first article on Amanda’s mother. Newborn kidnapped from New York City Hospital. No traces. No leads. Just fear.

  I flip through the next page, and the next, and the next until I get to a picture of a dumpster on a newspaper clipping. The title reads, “Kidnapper Leaves Newborn To Die.”

  My hands are shaking as I skim through the paragraphs of this article. Found in a New York City dumpster. Two days old. Starving, but alive. Police have noticed a trend forming from the last newborn kidnapping eleven months prior to Amy’s.

  The next page is blank, with only a name and date written on it: “Laura — 1983.” I flip through, not wanting to see faces this time. I know it’s going to be the same as Amanda’s and Amy’s stories. I stop when I reach another blank page with black writing, “Megan — 1983.”

  I flip through at least four more names, each sticking in my head: “Elizabeth — 1983,” “Sarah — 1984,” “Rachel — 1984,” and “Mary — 1984.”

  That’s what? Seven? Each of the names are followed by multiple newspaper cut-outs of their families, efforts to rescue them, fake ransom notes, and the words “serial kidnapper” everywhere.

  Fuck.

  I’m halfway through the white binder, and I can’t take this shit anymore, but I will myself to turn one last page…fucking willing it to be blank…for there to be no more names. I flip the page.

  “Noah — 1985.”

  I can't bring myself to turn to the next page. Instead I get up and pour myself two fingers of bourbon. I swallow the liquid and it burns all the way down. I then grab a beer and pop it open.

  I lose count of how many beers and fingers of bourbon I’ve had. All I know is the room is spinning and I’m pissed as fuck.

  “Disgusting bitch!” I yell as I toss the fucking binder across the room. It hits the wall and falls to the floor. I know I need to turn this shit over to the FBI, but I can’t bring myself to turn that damn page. One fucking page and I’ll know who I am. Who my parents are and where I belong.

  Time passes and I’m not sure what’s going on anymore. I’m slumped against the fridge, drinking a beer when there’s a knock on the door.

  “It’s fucking open,” I try and yell out, but I know my words are slurring together. Please be my girl. I want my girl.

  “Dude, are you fucking wasted without me?” Coen appears around the corner and I swear there are three of him, even when I shut one eye to try and focus.

  “Nah. Where’s my girl?” I’m trying to get my phone out of my pocket, unsuccessfully.

  “Shit, man, you’re seriously gone. What’s going on? Did the FBI give you more information? Did you watch the news?”

  I shake my head lazily and point to the binder on the floor, “That motherfucking thing. I’m in it.”

  Finally I get my phone out and unlocked, slowly typing out a message. I’m not sure how I spelled everything right, but I did. At least I think I did.

  Baby. I need you. My place.

  “Who are you texting, man? Give me your phone. You know what happens when you drunk-text. Noah, you said you wouldn’t get this drunk again.”

  “Man, fuck you. I don’t know who I am. Where’s Heather?”

  “Heather? You’re still seeing her? Damn, she must be treating you well. Come on, buddy, let’s get you off the floor.”

  I feel strong arms around me as I’m dragged across the room to the couch. Hell, I can’t even feel my legs.

  “She belongs to me—don’t you fucking touch her!” I spit out at Coen.

  “Chill, man. I’m happy for you; you truly deserve her.”

  I groan, my body deciding to fight the alcohol. Hell, the only spinning I want to feel is from her. I want her to set my world right. She’s my axis. She’s my girl. She’s not here. Where is she?

  I look down at my phone and frown when I don’t get a message back. “Did you talk to her? Did you tell her I had a fucking problem? DID YOU?”

  “Dude, you need to calm down. I haven’t even spoken to her. Here, drink some water.”

  He hands me a tall glass full of water, but my vision blurs and the glass cracks under the pressure of my hand. It shatters, but I hardly feel it as I form a fist around whatever is left of it.

  “Coen? Did they sentence that lying bitch? Did they? Is she finally locked up?” There’s red on my hands and on the couch. Heather helped me pick out this couch.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, man. Without your birth parents coming forward, they don’t have much evidence to go on for your kidnapping.”

  “I sure as hell have evidence. Hand me that damn binder.”

  “You’re going to get blood on it. Listen, we’ll talk it over when you’re sober.” He takes the beer from my other hand and fury overcomes me.

  My phone suddenly vibrates and I reach for it…see a text from Heather.

  I’m leaving practice. Is everything OK? Did Coen make it there?

  She’s the only thing that’s keeping me from losing it. Hell, I could punch the fuck out of someone right now, just like I used to in college. One motherfucker ticks me off when I’ve been drinking and the enti
re bar will know about it.

  “Dude, you have to quit drinking. Especially if she’s going to show up. The last thing you want is for her to upset you while you’re feeling like this.”

  “Shut up, dickweed.”

  “All right, man. Are you going to at least let me get those shards of glass out of your palm?

  “Don’t lay a hand on me.”

  “You got it, man. I’ll wait for you to pass the hell out.”

  Coen sits down on the other side of the room, keeping his distance from me. He learned the hard way. Don‘t mess with me or touch me. I’m not afraid to deck someone. He had a black eye for two weeks our junior year.

  My mind betrays me and goes back to the binder. Her fucking sick, psycho bullshit. I text Heather again.

  Get here.

  Heather

  HIS TEXTS ARE worrying the crap out of me. My taxi finally makes it through gridlock traffic and pulls up to his apartment building. I get out and pull my coat tighter around me as I walk inside and ride up the elevator to Noah’s floor, hating that I didn’t change and am still in my tights with just a sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. I was hoping to make a different impression when I met Coen again, but Noah's messages were making me nervous. Finally reaching his floor, I’m about to use my key when I notice it isn't locked. Walking inside, I call out as I take off my coat. "Noah?"

  “Get the fucking door. My girl is here,” I hear him yell out and moments later Coen is standing in front of me.

  “Coen? Hi. Is he okay?”

  Something inside me is screaming warnings. Something is wrong. Very wrong. The look on Coen's face is a mixture of regret and warning even though he smiles.

  "Hey Heather. Uh..." He's running his hand through his hair and avoiding my question. "He's had a few drinks."

  “What’s a few?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. He was like this when I got here. He keeps asking for you though. I’m hoping you’ll calm him down before he hurts himself further.”

  “Hurts himself? Further?”

  I look up as Noah stumbles into the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. “You hitting on my girl, asshole?” He’s bleeding, but I can’t tell where he’s bleeding from.