First Impressions

by Aria Ford

  I buttoned my shirt, checked my hair in the small mirror over the dining table. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either. Besides, who was going to see me before I got home?

  Then, with a mixture of regret and guilt, I slipped out of the door and silently away.

  I was sitting behind the wheel of my i8, thinking about her and the evening before, when I groaned.

  “You idiot, Scott.”

  I should have woken her. Should have thanked her. Should have at least said something! It was wrong to just slip away. But what could I say to her? Thank you for letting me take advantage of you when you were sick and helpless? Thank you for the most amazing sex of my life thus far?

  You can’t say anything, Scott.

  On the surface, I’d done all I could do. I’d run away. I put my foot to the gas and headed out into the street.

  The traffic got heavier as I neared the center of town, then thinned off as I headed in the other direction, driving through the business district and through the suburbs until I got to the one where I lived. Leafy, green and tranquil, it was a far cry from where I’d been. All the same, as I headed up in the elevator to my stylish, penthouse apartment, I couldn’t help thinking of the other night, in the small, rattling elevator where I’d kissed her.

  I wish I understood what the heck happened. It was the most remarkable thing of my life.

  It was going to remain one of the mysteries of my life. The best mystery, admittedly. But a mystery nonetheless. Back at home I changed my clothes, did the laundry, had breakfast. I was ravenously hungry and remembering why made me smile. I always was hungry after a night like that.

  Not that I ever had a night like that. Not exactly.

  I couldn’t have said what it was that made that night so remarkable. It was just…her. She was natural and down to earth and trusting. Everything I’d never had before in a life that was, I must admit, contrived.

  I sat down on the white-leather couch and opened my laptop, checking my emails. There was one from work, finalizing the details of the meeting on Monday. I scanned through it, awed at how quickly the details of my everyday life had become secondary.

  Who cares about meetings, stocks, shares? I want to be with her. All I want to do is sit here and remember that night.

  I laughed at myself. I had so much to do, so much to think about. I couldn’t let myself get lost in memories of a night that, though remarkable, would never happen again.

  “Come on, Scott,” I told myself harshly. “Get busy. Do work. You’ll forget.”

  I didn’t.

  I unpacked dishes and took the laundry out of the washing machine and tidied things. I checked my slide presentation for Monday and watered the cactus and cleaned up. I went to the gym. Everything I tried to distract myself with only brought me back to memories of her. Even in the gym, it seemed as if my body itself held memories of her, each little pull in my muscles—stiff from the cold and soaking weather the night before—reminded me of exercising the previous evening. With her.

  I found myself in the shower with a silly grin on my face, thinking about her breasts. This just wouldn’t do.

  “You know, Scott,” I told myself crossly, “you need to go out.”

  I decided to call a friend.

  “Hey! Art?”

  “Scott! How’s life?” a happy voice replied on the other side of the phone.

  “Not bad,” I said mildly. I hoped he hadn’t noticed the warmth in my voice as I said that—it surprised even me. This girl might have confused the hell out of me but she’d clearly made me happy as well. “I was wondering if you had lunch plans?”

  “Why not?” he said. I could hear he was smiling too. “Let’s meet at Artichoke.”

  “Great.”

  As I drove to our favorite restaurant—a new concept place a block away from where we worked—I found myself thinking about the fact that Art and I were both free on the weekend. Neither of us had families, while some of my buddies actually did. I am twenty-nine, I thought with some surprise. I guess a lot of people my age are thinking about that stuff.

  Seeing Art banished such serious topics from my mind. A skinny accountant of medium height with a crooked smile and masses of curly hair, Art was a great friend ever since we met five years ago. Now, he sat in the usual place in the restaurant, grinning manically up at me. I took in a deep breath, reassured by the sight of him.

  Just what I need now when I’m so confused.

  “Hey!” I greeted him.

  “Hey!” he smiled up at me with that skittish grin he always has, a bit like he’s permanently wired, except I know he’d never touch drugs. He doesn’t drink or eat meat either. I look up to him for that.

  “How’s life?” I asked, sitting down opposite him at our usual table.

  “Great,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “End-of-year reports coming up, boss driving me crazy about tax…nothing to see here.”

  I laughed. “That’s rough.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said thinly. “Now, what are we having today?” he pulled out the menu and gave it a brief glance. He always does that and he never orders anything new. It was a ritual I’d gotten used to over the years.

  We ordered what we usually ordered—I ordered salmon and he ordered the quinoa burger with tahini sauce. While we sat chatting and catching up, I noticed him giving me an odd look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re different,” Art observed thoughtfully. “Something’s up.”

  “Different, me?” I asked, then laughed. “I’m probably just stressed, Art. There’s a big meeting with my dad’s investors on Monday and I don’t want to make a mess of it.”

  “The stress is normal,” he said with a grin. “I’ve known you what—five years? Never seen you not stressed…this is different.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I kept quiet. I had a good idea of what might be different, but I wasn’t letting on. Is it so obvious how happy I am?

  Meeting Jackie had made me happy. It had also disturbed me a lot. I had never had such an overwhelming reaction to someone on first meeting them. It was weird. I was half-tempted to confide in Art, except that we were in a busy restaurant and it wasn’t really a subject to discuss where the next table could hear everything we might say.

  “So, plans for tomorrow?” Art asked, taking a sip of water. Our order had arrived and I was eating methodically, enjoying the rich taste of the salmon, cooked to perfection as always.

  “Not really,” I confessed, swallowing a mouthful of the buttery salad of wilted greens that always came with the salmon. “Catch up with things, go work out, check work…”

  “The usual cheerful weekend, eh?” Art chuckled.

  “It’s peaceful,” I said defensively. Peaceful and way healthier than what I used to spend my Saturday nights doing, but I didn’t say that to him.

  “Well, I’m heading out of town for the day,” he said. He went on to detail his plans about driving into the countryside to go hiking. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to get myself talked into joining him or not, so I kept my replies neutral. He didn’t press me for information, or to accept his invitation for tomorrow, but I could see those clever eyes observing me and I knew he was trying to work out what was new in my life.

  Well, there’s not much point in guessing, Art. She’s not part of my life.

  I surprised myself with how much that thought hurt me. I regretted that she couldn’t be part of my life. Which was crazy, since I barely knew her. We finished lunch and when I drove back home I got a call from my father. I sighed.

  “Son?”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “We have to meet Stuart Jutland tomorrow. The business lunch? The proposition? Don’t forget.”

  “Okay,” I said, sighing. I actually had forgotten. That put paid to any ideas I might have had about going hiking with Art. “I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  “Okay, Dad.”
r />   I sighed and hung up. Leaned against the steering wheel for a bit while I thought about my life. My dad owned the company—an international transport company for goods—but I was supposedly a leading executive at the place. All the same, my job description seemed to be as flexible as Dad’s needs were: from entertaining business guests to keeping lists of freight ships and their different capacities, Dad had always drawn me in wherever he needed me.

  I guess the research about ships and engines and things probably shaped my love for cars. That was the only good thing I could think about it. For all that he ran me down almost every day, Dad did tend to use me.

  I guess it was tough for him after Mom left him. Dad had never gotten over that. I loved both my parents devotedly, and the divorce had been hard on me too.

  I hadn’t thought about all that stuff for years. It felt as if, after that night, my heart was slowly thawing out. All the little things I’d put on ice over the years were coming to the surface to be felt and considered for the first time.

  “Why did she do this to me?” It was weird. I wasn’t sure I wanted my heart to start waking up.

  Come on, Scott. You’re being silly. Just go home and do work and get some sleep. I pulled off into the traffic.

  As I walked up from the garage and into the sleek, elegant building where I lived, it occurred to me that, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t pursue things with Jackie anyway. I hadn’t asked her for her number. I had no way to contact her. I knew her address, but I didn’t even know the number of her apartment, for pity’s sake!

  I had no way of finding her again.

  After the gym and checking my slides and sorting out my wardrobe and cleaning the bathroom cabinet—things I’d been putting off for months—I found myself on the couch with my phone in my hands, browsing Facebook. I found myself typing her name into the search bar—I knew it was silly to try and go backwards, to try and make something happen, to hope she’d want to see me again after I just walked out and left her—but I couldn’t help it. I also couldn’t find her.

  Lots of Jackie Jeffersons popped up, but none of them were her. I tried Jacqueline, too, but no one like her showed up.

  Hell. She isn’t on Facebook. I shook my head. Come on, Scott. Stop it. Forget this. How many girls have you had in your life? Move on.

  But it wasn’t the same. That was the whole problem. It was completely different and I couldn’t forget. I would have to make myself try.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jackie

  I woke up and groaned. It was Thursday—the day after my day off. I should have felt refreshed and ready for the rest of the week. But I didn’t. I felt horrible. I rolled over and managed to get myself into the bathroom just before I was sick. I leaned over the toilet, retching dryly and thought angry thoughts.

  Great. This is exactly what I need. Now I’m sick too.

  As if, I thought, brushing my teeth firmly, I hadn’t had enough horrible surprises this month. Three or four weeks ago, I’d had that whole issue with the gang. Then the guy who’d picked me up. Then dad had got sick and I’d had to take him to the hospital. He was fine now after treatment for his lungs. Now I was sick, for Pete’s sake.

  I put the toothbrush down and stared at myself. As I often did, my mind wandered back to that night. The weird night, four weeks ago, when I’d met the guy. Scott. I thought of him often.

  “He’s probably the first guy who’s actually made me feel pretty.”

  I sighed. That explained why, every time I caught sight of myself in the mirror, or more often than not, I thought of him. I brushed a strand of mousy hair out of my eyes and rinsed my face.

  “Right. Let’s get ready for work.”

  I washed my face, showered and dressed. Did makeup. Ate breakfast. As I ate my muesli my stomach gave a queasy lurch and I thought I might be sick again, but I kept it down.

  At work, things were as they usually were. The teachers handed me the list of referrals and I saw the students, one after the other in my small, anonymous office. It was tough work. Most of them came from families who could have been textbook examples for what not to do—their stories wiped me out completely.

  I was feeling particularly exhausted that day and, when lunchtime came along I dragged myself to the tearoom feeling finished.

  “Hey,” Barbara, one of the teachers, called. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine…” I murmured. “Actually, I don’t know.” My head was throbbing and I closed my eyes, feeling myself sway back. Dammit, what was wrong with me? “Coffee,” I murmured. “I need some.”

  Barbara chuckled, then took my arm, looking into my face with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jackie?” she asked. “You look finished.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I just seem to have caught some stomach thing or something.”

  “Hell, Jacks—you probably should have taken the day off. That sounds serious.”

  “No,” I murmured, sitting down with my coffee cradled between my palms. I felt cold and shaky and the coffee, mercifully, was helping. “I think I’m okay. I don’t know what this is. It’s just that, when I wake up, I’ve been feeling sick just lately. Probably something that disagrees with me. Maybe I should cut out dairy or something.”

  “Maybe,” Barbara said. She was looking at me shrewdly. “You feel dizzy sometimes?” she asked.

  My head was pounding like a bass-player was having a go at it and I couldn’t focus. I sure was dizzy. “Yes,” I said. “Why?”

  As I said it, I realized something. Feeling sick in the mornings. Dizziness. Nausea.

  Oh, shit.

  I really thought it wasn’t possible. I thought I had a cycle as regular as clockwork and there was no way in hell anything could happen in the first week of the month. But apparently not.

  “What is it?” Barbara asked.

  “N…nothing,” I murmured. “I think I’ll just go lie down a bit. See you.”

  “See you.”

  As I dragged myself off towards the sick room, my head still aching, I found myself shaking, only this time it wasn’t fever or longing. It was concern.

  I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, could I?

  The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I should—since I was quite regular—get my period tomorrow or thereabouts. But I hadn’t had any of the usual signs. I thought about it more and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was probably right. I was expecting a child.

  Scott West’s child.

  I made a note to buy a pregnancy-testing kit on the way home—before I got myself all stressed out about this, I might as well make sure of my facts.

  I bought a kit when the day finally ended. Took it home. Used it. I thought I might actually faint.

  The result was positive.

  “Oh, my…” I closed my eyes, feeling a strange sensation in my chest that was mostly panic and horror, but a tiny, jewel-bright thread of wonder.

  What was I going to do?

  I thought about my options. I didn’t really have many. I had seen too many unwanted children to be entirely against termination—though myself, for personal reasons, I didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to think about it. Already, this tiny life below my hands—tentative, a month in the growing—felt precious to me. If I closed my eyes to imagine him or her, I could almost see the little face before me. A face that was part, Scott, part me. My heart ached.

  I do have some maternity benefits, I told myself, thinking about my options. It wasn’t as if I had no way to support myself. I was state paid, which meant I wasn’t paid extremely well, but there was leave and compensation and I could afford medical care. As far as the short term—the next five years—I would be okay. By the time my kid needed to be educated, I would have to have a better income.

  That’s in the future, I told myself determinedly. I am going to focus on the present and the next five years first.

  I knew perhaps it was bad not to take a longer view. Maybe if I did, I would consider oth
er options. Termination, adoption. Fostering. But for now, all I knew was that I wanted it to be possible to keep her. I wanted my child.

  Scott’s child.

  I sat on the bed, leaned back on the pillows. Recalled his face to my mind. I hadn’t seen it for a few weeks but I could still remember it clearly—the smooth planes of it, the chiseled bones, the eyes. I felt a tear run down my cheek. I wished I could tell him. Wished I could share this with him. Yeah, he might have used me and walked out without a goodbye, but I felt close to him. Something had happened between us that night, something I couldn’t forget.

  I cuffed away the tears, feeling angry and impatient with myself. I should forget him. He had used me.

  Scott West, you are an asshole. I repeated the phrase that kept me upright. Kept me hating him and forgetting about him.

  I needed to hate him. I needed to forget. Because, deep inside, I knew I felt more strongly about him than I had felt about anyone else in my life before.

  And now I was carrying his child.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scott

  The sound of water tinkling into crystal glasses chimed in my head, a delicate counterpoint to the burr of conversation. I looked up. My father was looking across the table at me. We were at the Halston, one of the finest restaurants in town, the wonderful view from the rooftop spread out below us. It was sunset and the sky was deep blue touched with orange and pink fire—a late summer sunset.