Use Somebody

by Beck Anderson

  “What are you feeding me?” Macy walks around the kitchen island, finally releasing the hem of her t-shirt.

  What am I feeding her? I get over to the fridge. “Let’s see.”

  Now, I have to say, I’m a good cook. I love impressing a girl in the kitchen. And I can improvise, too. Nothing is cooler to a girl than a guy (me) pulling a meal together from whatever crazy stuff she’s left in her fridge. I consider it Chopped, the seducing edition.

  We have a ton of beer, we have one fresh-caught cutthroat trout (that Tucker will tear my head off if I use), a carton of eggs, and leftover steak. There’s a crusty loaf of bread on the counter and a fresh tomato.

  “Bird’s nest. That’s what we’re having.”

  Macy arches an eyebrow and pulls up a stool at the kitchen island. “And that is?”

  “You’ll just have to see, won’t you?” I pull out eggs, the steak. “Can you slice the tomato into wedges?”

  “We’ll see.” She holds up the hand that was bandaged.

  I look at the wide fresh scar on the palm. “And how did you do that again?”

  Her face clouds over for a moment. Her brows knit together, the eyes go down to the counter, her lips press into a thin line. Then she looks up at me, transformed, a smile on her face and a shrug on her shoulders. “Stupidity.” She tilts her head, waiting for me to tease her or laugh it off.

  I don’t. “No, Macy, really. How did that happen?”

  “I already told you, I was helping a guest gut a fish and gutted my hand instead.”

  I lean closer to her. “Then how come every time I ask your face looks like somebody ran over JT over there?”

  Her smile drops. “I do not.”

  I point the loaf of bread at her. “No, don’t lie. I hate lies. Your face tells a different story, even if it’s just for five seconds, until you paste the fake-girl smile on. Something bad happened.”

  I swear her eyes well with tears. Then she shakes her head no, tosses her hair, like she’s shaking the memory to the edges of her mind, or clearing the etch-a-sketch of a horrible image. She’s still for a moment.

  “Lots of bad stuff happened. Life happened. This?” She holds the palm up. “This is nothing. I cut it gutting a fish. End of story.”

  It’s clear from her tone, clear that she’s not trying to lie. She’s trying to get me on board with the approved story. Trying to protect herself by putting another witness in her court. Another witness to stand up for her.

  If that’s what she needs right now, so be it. “Fine. Don’t tell me now. But don’t lie. I fucking hate liars.”

  She seizes on an opportunity to change the subject. “Mouth! You, Mr. King, need a swear jar.”

  She jumps up and starts rifling through the cabinets. In the cabinet to the left of the oversized Subzero she succeeds. “Aha!”

  She pulls out a mason jar and plunks it on the kitchen island. “Put a buck in there.”

  “What?” I’ve cracked an egg and use the shell to separate the white from the yolk.

  “You owe the swear jar a buck. Out on the river, I’ll keep track for you. At the end of the night, you come home and put your fine in the jar.”

  It hurts me to hear the strain in her voice. I answer, help her forget our earlier discussion. “Who gets the jar at the end of the week?” She’s trying so hard to lighten things up, steer the conversation far away from her. Her wounds.

  “Consider it an extra tip to your favorite river guide.”

  I point to the back pocket of my jeans. “Wallet’s in there.”

  She smirks. “I don’t think so. I’m not touching your butt.”

  I hold my hands up. “I’m covered in egg. Just grab the wallet.”

  She rolls her eyes and comes over to me. The weird scruffy dog lifts his head up, watches her. She stands behind me for a minute and lingers. I smell her and feel her warmth against my back. I take a breath in through my nose and try to exercise some restraint. “Fine.” She quickly snatches the wallet out of my pocket and pulls a bill out.

  It’s a twenty. She frowns. “No, it’s a buck for the jar.” She pulls the billfold wider and thumbs through the bills.

  “What?” I’m back to cooking. I don’t look up. I know exactly what.

  “There’s nothing smaller than a twenty in here, Mr. King.”

  I keep my head down. “Guess a twenty will have to do.”

  She huffs and plucks one out, stuffs it in the new swear jar. “You are a piece of work.”

  “So I’ve been told. Why don’t you crack open a bottle of wine for us?”

  She shakes her head. “No thanks.” She drifts over to the mantle, looks at the fire dancing in the hearth.

  “We’ve got a ton of beer. They’re in the blue cooler over by the door to the back deck.” I wipe my hands on a dish towel and try to hustle up on the meal. She seems restless, and I wouldn’t put it past her to run out of here on me. Of course, I’d have her two little dogs to hold as ransom, but even my instincts tell me that doesn’t win many second dates.

  She shakes her head again. “I can’t. I have to work the desk after this, remember?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Not trying to get you into trouble, I promise.” I put the pan with the bread “nests” and the egg white, steak, and tomato filling into the oven.

  “We’ll see about that.” She kneels to give each a dog a scratch under the chin.

  I set a timer. “We’ve got twenty minutes. You want to give them a quick walk?”

  “Sure.” She snaps her fingers. Both dogs bounce up and go to the door. They sit like little book ends.

  “Again, impressive.”

  “Again, no comments. It’s just too gross.” She pulls leashes out of her purse and snaps them on.

  I pull the door and hold it for her. “Ladies first.”

  She walks the dogs down the steps, and we make our way around our lodge to the path by the river.

  “I have to say I’m hoping the river’s down tomorrow.” I chuckle.

  She smiles. “Trying not to repeat the tantrum-throwing?”

  “Now, I apologized. You’re not being fair.” I consider trying to defend myself more than that, but I know I don’t have much of a case.

  “Oh for the love of SpongeBob SquarePants.” She grits her teeth and stops in her tracks, motions for the dogs to sit.

  “What?” I can’t imagine I said anything to anger her. We just got started.

  “It’s Richard. Coming this way. I’m dead.” She puts her head down, waiting to be chewed out, I suppose.

  “Gorgeous evening!” I stride up to the doughy-faced man. He wears a button-down shirt, puffy Patagonia vest, jeans, and expensive Salomon off-trail shoes that, by their lack of wear, clearly haven’t been off trail. Lots of heart surgeons and accountants in LA dress like this—a cross between the prep they really are, and the Everest climber they think they are.

  He reaches out and shakes my hand. “Richard Neeley. Nice to meet you.”

  “Jeremy King. Likewise.”

  “I see you’ve met Macy. And Macy’s dogs.”

  I can hear the tone in his voice. It tells her she’s in deep shit. But the difference this time is that Macy has Jeremy “Gets What He Wants” King here as her advocate. I jump in. “Her car broke down, and despite her best efforts to put me in my rightful place as a guest, darn it all if I wasn’t the pushy Hollywood agent and insisted on driving her home to get her dogs. I miss mine like crazy. I figured I’d get my dog fix while she covered that shift someone else cancelled on you. Always accommodating, Macy.”

  His eyes go cold, and his lips settle into a thin line. “Macy knows her dogs aren’t allowed on the property. And even insistent guests shouldn’t be giving our team rides home.”

  He’s not going down without a fight. I get a little whiff of my crabby grandpa who always gave me the passive-aggressive but polite dressing down about “LA corrupting my mind and my soul.”

  I smile. Andy calls it my sharky smile. “Richar
d, I appreciate that you run a first-class resort here, and order is what makes that work. And I certainly know that you’ve had your share of entitled, wealthy dickwads—mouth, sorry Macy—try to intimidate you, or act above the rules of the outfit.”

  Richard nods, a tiny nod, in agreement. “True.” He’s about to say something else, but I don’t give him a chance.

  “But I also know that you’re passionate about the preservation of trout habitat in Eastern Idaho, and I know that Andy Pettigrew shares your passion for that. He’s loved his visits here. Enough to brave bringing me.”

  He turns his head slightly more to face me, taking his eyes off Macy and her statue-still dogs. “Uh-huh.”

  “So I could be awfully persuasive, gush about your forgiving nature when I broke all sorts of rules, how you knew Macy had nothing to do with my impulsive behavior. Andy loves stories like that. I’d remind him how the Silver Creek Conservation Fund was looking for its annual donations and looking into fisheries to fund. All that stuff that was in the brochure we got at check-in.”

  He lifts his head up, barely a half-nod. “I see you know you’re in the wrong, Mr. King. Macy, I think it’s about time to cover that shift. If Mr. King could take the dogs to his lodge for the duration. Then straight home for the night after your shift.”

  Macy speaks up. “Thanks, Richard. I told him it wasn’t a good idea.”

  “I insisted. I’m insistent like that.” I hate how scared of him she sounds.

  Richard watches as she hands me the leashes. “And Macy, don’t forget that I’m already bending over backwards on the starter thing. You’re on a short leash already.”

  Leash. He just told her she’s on a leash. Like she’s his pet. I want to punch him in the mouth. “I’ll see you after your shift, Macy.”

  She brushes past me, and her cheeks are flushed in shame. “Fine.”

  She’s mad at me again. Great.

  I take the dogs back to the lodge and stew for the remainder of the night. Pierre Trudeau sleeps by the fire, and Justin Trudeau sleeps with his weird, wet tongue resting on my lap. I try to watch Sports Center with Tucker and explain to Andy how I came to be a dog-sitter and how he and I both came to be donors for a new Silver Creek conservation project right here in Eastern Idaho.

  Then, well after midnight, there’s a knock at the door.

  I open it to Macy. “I need a ride home.” She snaps at the dogs, and they rush to her sides. I give her the leashes and her purse.

  “You never got a chance to eat.”

  “I need a ride home, Mr. King.” She looks at the dogs.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”

  “You don’t mean to do a lot of things.” She sighs. “I know you were being nice, but I got in trouble. This is the only job I’ve ever loved. I want to keep it. Next time I won’t let you talk me into anything.”

  I walk her out to the car and give her and the little dogs a ride home.

  She doesn’t speak to me until I drop her at her door.

  “Good night, Mr. King.”

  She shuts the door in my face.

  None of this is involving the winning I am used to, and I don’t like it one bit.

  I wake up the next morning with a brilliant idea. I went to bed and stared at the ceiling for a long, long time. I cursed Richard, with his insults and his passive-aggression and his financial sway on Macy’s life. I plotted how I was going to take her away from all of his bullshit.

  Then I got stuck on the part where she was mad at me, and for the millionth time in the very short time since I had met her, how I had made a mess of things between me and her.

  At some point in the “Million Ways Jeremy King is an Ass” review in my brain, I fell asleep.

  But the subconscious brain can be a miracle worker.

  The idea I have now is brilliant in its simplicity. I will take her fishing.

  No, I haven’t lost my mind.

  The Snake River is a monster of a river where it flows into the Columbia: wide, deep, charging hard toward the Pacific. But where we are, here close to the Tetons and the Snake’s clear, cold headwaters, it actually begins as three separate branches, destined to flow into one another, but not quite yet: Henry’s Fork to the north, the main Snake, and the South Fork.

  We’ve been fishing the South Fork. I have money. I’ve decided I want to fish Henry’s Fork, one of the most famous trout streams in the country, as Evan the other guy said.

  Alone. With a guide. For the day.

  You and I both know it’s not about the trout. And I know exactly which guide I’d like to have for the day. One who may love to fish Henry’s Fork.

  I get out of the shower and get dressed and try not to congratulate myself for my brilliant idea. Actually, I spent most of the shower patting myself on the back, but now I need to put the plan into action.

  I gear up and make my way to the kitchen. I inhale a piece of toast and some coffee while I call over to the guide shop and book Macy for a private day on Henry’s Fork. Today. All day.

  Andy comes in, the first guy up. Tucker is often up and out early, but Andy’s been trying to get a run in before we hit the water.

  “Jeremy’s up and dressed and plotting something. And here I thought I was on vacation.” Andy comes over to the stove and swipes the tea kettle, pours a fresh mug, and brings it to the kitchen island to sit next to me.

  “Listen to this. Last night Macy was mad at me, right?”

  “You got her in trouble. I’d be mad.”

  “We’ve covered that already. I think what I need is some time to make it up to her.”

  “Okay.” He takes a big swig of tea. “I feel like this isn’t headed in a good direction.”

  I stand up to appropriately make the big speech. “It’s not a good direction, it’s a brilliant direction. I just booked the whole day with Macy on Henry’s Fork all by ourselves.”

  He drops his head, closes his eyes, and then peeks up at me with one eye open, teeth clenched in a grimace. “This is your good idea.”

  “This is my brilliant idea. Get on board with the vocabulary.”

  Andy sighs. “When you say, ‘all by ourselves,’ you mean you and Macy.”

  “Yep. And I just booked it. It’s a done deal.”

  He stands up and stretches. “I’m going to go on a run. I want to say a lot of things, give you a lot of advice.”

  I take another piece of toast for the road. “And?”

  Andy smiles. “I’m going to say, instead, remember that this is about getting to know a person, not winning. Enjoy the day and relax. Pay attention to her. Get to know her.”

  “So you just gave me advice.”

  “Yeah, but it was about a thousand times nicer than what I really wanted to say. But do me a favor and follow it. Seriously.”

  I nod. Andy is smart. He’s smart about women. Kelly mostly hates me, at times just dislikes me, but she’s a good woman, and Andy landed her, so I take him as a person who knows about women. “Done. Today will be about Macy, and getting to know her.”

  “Good. Enjoy. I’m going to go run and try not to get eaten by a grizzly.” He pulls his hood up and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Getting to know Macy. That’s a plan I can get behind.

  I stroll over to the main lodge dressed down and ready for a day of epic fishing. The guy I talked to on the phone, Kevin or Kramer, told me to bring waders. I don’t care if I’m in a boat or on the shore or in waders, what matters here is that I have unfettered access to Macy so I can apologize (again) and get to know her better.

  I make my way inside and cross through the lobby to the guide shop. Macy is at the desk with one of the guys. She chats and smiles and looks relaxed until she spots me. Then her back arches, and she hisses at me. Not really, of course, but if her body language were any more hostile, she would morph into a black cat and take a swipe at me.

  “Mr. King.”

  “Miss Summerlin, beautiful day.�
� I turn to the scrawny one. “Good to see you again, Kevin or Kramer.”

  His freckled face contorts into a frown. “It’s Kevin.”

  “You bet.” I turn to face Macy, shutting him out of the conversation. He walks away in defeat or disgust, but I’m all eyes on Macy, so his departure is no loss.

  “You always so polite to people?” she asks.

  “I can be polite. I will work on it for the next time I see Kramer. Kevin. Evan? One of the guys. That one that just left.”

  She shakes her head. “You can’t tell any of them apart?”

  I don’t deny it. “You want me to be polite or honest?”

  I can tell she’s a tiny bit, the teeniest bit amused. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t want to tell them apart. I want to pay attention to you. I want all of my attention on you. You are who I’m interested in, Macy.”

  She rolls her eyes. “What do you need, Mr. King?”

  “I’m here to meet my guide for the day.”

  “And that is?”

  “You, of course.”

  “I’m already your guide. What did you do?”

  “You wouldn’t speak to me, so you’re my river guide, private, for the day.”

  “Private. Whatever. We’re all still on the same river.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ, Miss Macy. You and I are fishing Henry’s Fork. Hope you know it as well as the staff thinks you do.”

  She tilts her head and lets out the longest sigh I’ve ever heard. “You don’t need to do this to apologize for last night.”

  “I need a chance to apologize, and the odds weren’t good I’d get one.”

  “You’re your own worst enemy on that front. You need to stop trying to control everything. You can’t game all of it.”

  “All of what?” I watch her shift her weight from foot to foot. I make her, what, nervous? Do I literally throw her off balance a little? I’d like to think that’s a good thing. Maybe I’m different than the guys she usually meets.

  “You can’t game life. Life will play you, to be sure, but you’ve got to know the second you think you’ve got it all under control, life’ll smack you down. Especially when you’re all hubris and big pronouncements and the like. That’s when you catch the eye of fate and get pounded into the dirt.”