by Amelia Stone
Taylor looked around the room. “Well, since Graham is early, and Harry isn’t here yet, we have time for you to change.” She narrowed her blue eyes at me in a silent warning even as her smile grew.
I refrained from rolling my eyes, barely. “I don’t need to change, Taylor.”
Not true, strictly speaking. I knew I looked barely one step above a homeless person, and that my ensemble was unfit for pretty much everything except scrubbing oil stains from the garage floor. I just didn’t care.
Mostly, I amended, taking in the way Graham was eyeing the hole in the hem of my sweater. Well, Daniel’s sweater. Not mine.
“Larkin,” Taylor said, as sternly as her bubbly, high-pitched voice allowed. “You cannot wear that to the restaurant we’re going to. It’s an upscale place.”
This time I let the eye roll roam free. “It’s Baxter’s, Tay. They give you paper bibs with a cartoon lobster on them. And they haven’t updated the decor since 1982.”
Graham coughed, a sound that I suspected was covering a laugh.
She widened her eyes, her smile going slightly manic. “Well, I’m sure you want to make a good impression on Harry,” she retorted sweetly.
I glared at her.
“Of course you do,” she answered for me. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me bodily, like she was about to frog-march me out of the room. “We’ll be right back, Graham. Make yourself comfortable. The kitchen is through there if you’d like something to drink.”
Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten his water in all the excitement of hot man and electric touches and he’s not my fucking date.
He nodded, and Taylor gave him another dazzling smile as she pushed me toward the hall. Just before we disappeared out of sight, I turned to look at Graham over my shoulder, intending to shoot him an apology about the water – only to find him staring out the window, his hands tugging his hair in what seemed like frustration.
Hunh. Seemed he maybe wasn’t so excited about this date after all.
Good. That made two of us.
“Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby
Edgy and dull, and cut a six-inch valley
Through the middle of my skull.”
- Bruce Springsteen, “I’m on Fire”
I paced the room, breathing slowly and deeply to try to calm the hell down.
Breathing seemed to be harder than normal at the moment, though. Ever since Larkin Michaels opened her front door.
Larkin. What an unusual name. What an unusual woman. I had a weird feeling I wouldn’t forget her name – or anything else about her – ever again.
When she’d finally answered the door, after about the seventeenth time I’d rung the bell, I had no idea what to make of her. She looked like a bag lady, with her ratty, too-big clothes and messy hair. The deep circles under her eyes and even deeper frown lines around her mouth told me she was anything but excited to go out tonight, and her conversational skills seemed rusty at best. At worst, she seemed downright surly.
But for some reason, I hadn’t been able to stop staring at her.
I shook my head, running my hands through my hair again. Taylor. I was here for Taylor. Quickly, I forced myself to remember what I liked about her, just as I’d forced myself to tear my eyes away from her roommate a few minutes ago and look at the woman I was actually here to see. Forced myself to smile at her, to feign enthusiasm for the night ahead.
I’d met Taylor at work about four months ago. She was the new executive assistant to the CTO, my boss’s boss’s boss. She sat in on a meeting one day, taking notes while my engineering team pitched a solution to the catastrophe of the week. I’d almost bobbled my part of the presentation because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Taylor long enough to concentrate. And I wasn’t the only one. Every man in the room, and even a couple of the women, had trouble focusing that day.
And I couldn’t say I blamed them. Taylor was tall, with striking, model-like beauty, and she had a beaming smile that made you feel like a million bucks when she aimed it at you. She had a sweet, bubbly personality, too, and her energy was infectious. When Taylor was around, you felt like the world was yours for the taking. And when she spoke to me, flirted with me, I felt like I’d won the Super Bowl. I was the envy of every man in our office when, after months of pursuing her, she finally agreed to a date.
The first time I took her out, the whole night went perfectly. It was just dinner and a movie, but it felt like the tastiest dinner and the funniest movie ever. Throughout the evening, Taylor was bright and vivacious, and she seemed to really be into me. She listened to everything I said with genuine interest, asking the right questions and validating all my opinions. She made me feel like everything I said was smart and funny, everything I did was amazing, everything I am was desirable. We ended the night with a kiss that was very nice. Very nice indeed.
And then we did it all over again two nights later. The whole week, I’d felt like I was floating on air, as cheesy as that sounds. I was positive that after years of dating, of mostly short-lived relationships that went nowhere, and even my fair share of meaningless hook-ups, I’d finally found the perfect woman. I was so pumped up that I’d started making plans, envisioning my future with her.
Until tonight, when Larkin Michaels opened the door.
Seeing her for the first time had made me forget all about Taylor. Christ, I’d almost forgotten my own name. I fumbled when she spoke to me for the first time with that rich, husky voice that I felt in places I had no business feeling it. I nearly forgot how to smile, something that normally came as natural to me as breathing. There was just something about her that punched me in the gut, leaving me short of breath and wondering what the hell had just happened.
Feeling restless, I paced her tiny living room. Shelves lined the walls, packed floor-to-ceiling with books. I was an avid reader, so I should have been in heaven right about now. But instead, I was distracted, unable to focus on any of them long enough to even read the titles.
Grunting in frustration, I walked over to the mantel, picking up one of several framed photos. This one showed Larkin in a cap and gown, and I guessed it was her high school graduation, judging by how young she looked. She was sandwiched between a man who was probably her father, and a younger man who I guessed was her brother. They all had the same blue-black hair, the same long, straight noses, and identical pointed chins. The only difference was their eye color. The men both had dark blue eyes, but not Larkin.
That was the thing that stunned me the most: her eyes were purple. It sounds fantastical, I know. I’d never seen a real, not-Photoshopped human being with purple eyes before. Until Larkin. And I didn’t think they were contacts, either. I’d spent a lot of time gawking at them – too much time, considering I was here to take out her roommate.
My fingertips ghosted over the younger Larkin in the photo, my gaze lingering on those astonishing eyes. I could hardly even describe them. My sister Ellie, the fashion guru, would be able to name the exact shade, and with her medical training, she could probably even explain how it was possible for Larkin’s eyes to be that color. All I knew was that they reminded me of the lavender bush that grew outside the kitchen window of my childhood home.
My mom had been a master gardener. Vegetables, flowers, herbs – there was nothing that woman couldn’t grow. But lavender was her favorite. She tended that bush with so much love and care, it was practically her third child. In warmer weather, she would open the window and let the calming fragrance seep inside. Eventually, everything in the house smelled like lavender: the curtains, the furniture, our clothes. My dad used to gripe that he smelled like perfume. But we all knew he didn’t really mind, because Mom loved the scent, and he loved her.
Lavender had always been special to me, too, because it reminded me of my parents, of growing up in their small house in Amityville with the garden so huge and sprawling that it took up the entire back yard. It reminded me of the people who’d offered my sister and me a home,
a family, a safe place. It reminded me of love.
When Ellie and I had sold the house last year, after Mom died, my biggest regret was losing that garden, and especially the lavender bush. In a weird way, it was like losing her all over again.
Shaking out of my morose thoughts, I set the photo back on the mantel, picking up the one next to it. It was a snapshot of Larkin, Taylor, and a guy I didn’t recognize. They were at the beach, frolicking in the waves. Taylor was holding Larkin’s arms, playfully trying to pull her away from the dude, but he wasn’t giving her up without a fight. His hands around her waist seemed intimate, possessive. His fingers fanned out across her ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. He was a man accustomed to touching her.
An unfamiliar, dark feeling whizzed through my veins at the sight of the two of them, a feeling almost like… jealousy?
What the hell?
I shook my head. Larkin was not the girl I came here for tonight. I’d spent months chasing after Taylor. Larkin’s roommate. Her best freaking friend. In other words, the girl was completely off limits.
Besides, she seemed to be perfectly at home in Handsy’s arms. Her head was turned to gaze adoringly at him, her eyes creased in a smile. It was obvious she knew him well, and I wondered who he was. Ex-boyfriend, maybe? Certainly not a current one, or she wouldn’t be going on a double date with a stranger. And he definitely wasn’t family, either. There was no fucking way that his hands on her were innocent.
But whoever he was, her face, her smile, even her body language practically telegraphed her love for him. She looked so happy, so unlike the sad woman with the haunted eyes that I’d just met.
Because those eyes, a soft purple with flecks of gray and blue, now held enough sorrow and weariness to knock an elephant on its ass. The shadows under them, a darker purple than her irises, spoke of numerous sleepless nights, and I wondered what kept her up at night, what had put that sadness there.
And weirdly, I began to wonder whether I could help banish some of that sadness, maybe even reignite the fire in her eyes. Just from those old photos on her mantel, I could tell that happiness transformed her whole face, her whole body, even. Larkin Michaels was not a conventionally attractive girl; her features were more striking than classically beautiful. But her smile, from what I saw in those images, made her look positively incandescent.
I shook my head again, trying to talk some sense into my clearly addled brain. I didn’t even know the girl. I was not responsible for her happiness. Besides, I reminded myself for what felt like the millionth time in the last ten minutes, I was here for Taylor. No matter how poleaxed I was by her roommate, I at least owed the woman I’d been seeing the courtesy of my attention tonight.
The doorbell rang, and I heard Taylor’s voice call out from the back of the house. “Graham, could you be a love and get the door?”
I shouted back an affirmative reply as I headed to the front door. When I opened it, an older man stood on the front porch, looking up at me in confusion as he wiped sweat from his brow with a grotty handkerchief.
“I’m looking for Larkin?” he said in a thin, reedy voice. “Do I have the right house?” He leaned back to check the house number. “Yes, that’s right,” he mumbled. “Number 108 Suffolk Lane.”
I frowned. “You’re Larkin’s date?” I asked, unable to keep a note of pure what-the-fuck from my voice.
I looked down at the dude in front of me. He was short, probably not much taller than Larkin herself, and he had to be fifty if he was a day. His hairline had receded so far it was almost nonexistent. Plus, he was so skinny I was surprised the heavy wind hadn’t blown him away. I snorted as I took in his gigantic Tom Selleck-style moustache. Maybe all that lip fuzz was weighing him down, anchoring him in place.
His small, darting brown eyes and pronounced nose kind of reminded me of a rodent as he introduced himself. “Harry Jones.” He stuck a clammy hand out, and as I shook it, I made a mental note to wash my own hands before we left.
“Graham Morris,” I replied, staring at him in disbelief.
This was the guy Taylor had set her best friend up with? That seemed a little cruel. I mean, I’m sure he was a nice enough guy, but Larkin was way out of his league. Not to mention, about half his age.
Then again, who was I to say whether this guy was a bad idea? I didn’t know either woman very well, but I had to assume that Taylor was capable of choosing someone suited to her friend. And who knew? Maybe Larkin was into older men. Way older. Like, her dad’s age.
The grabby guy in the photo was about her age, though. And he’d obviously known her intimately.
That thought left me with a sudden, unfamiliar urge. It felt almost like I wanted to punch something, and I found I had to grip the door until it passed.
I was being ridiculous. For one, Larkin was a virtual stranger to me, and this sudden, bizarre fixation with her was way out of line. For another, I was not a violent guy. Like, at all. I might look like a bruiser, but I was more of a let’s-talk-it-out kind of dude. And I was painfully conscious of my size, and how other people perceived me because of it. I made damn sure I never used my height or bulk to intimidate, threaten, or dominate anyone. Especially not anyone smaller than me.
Only the worst kind of scumbag did shit like that.
Besides, Taylor was a genuinely nice person, from what I’d seen so far. She wasn’t likely to set up her best friend with a total loser. This Harry dude surely had lots of great qualities.
Or maybe not, I thought as the guy rudely pushed past me into the house. Inwardly I grumbled, but outwardly I merely frowned at him, deciding I would give him some slack. For now.
“Have you met Larkin?” her date asked abruptly as he turned to me. He stuck his thumbs in his belt loops, pushing his pelvis out, and my nose wrinkled involuntarily.
I cleared my throat. “Uh yeah, just now.”
He peered up at me, narrowing his beady eyes. “Well?”
I shrugged. “Well?” I repeated, not sure what he was getting at.
He huffed. “Is she packing?”
“Packing?” I frowned. What the hell was he talking about? Was he trying to ask if Larkin was a gun owner or something? Was he some second amendment zealot? Or some anti-second amendment zealot?
“Yeah, you know,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him at chest level. “Decent rack?”
My mouth actually popped open, I was so shocked. I may have made a snap judgment that this guy was not good enough for Larkin for all the wrong reasons – namely, his looks – but it turned out I was not too far off base after all. He wasn’t just ugly and short and old. He was a dirty fucking creep.
But now that he mentioned it, Larkin did have pretty nice boobs. Even that hand-me-down sweater hadn’t been able to hide them.
Great. Now I was the dirty fucking creep.
“Well?” he demanded, when I didn’t immediately answer.
I stepped back, needing a bit of distance from him. “Have some respect, man,” I spat, feeling more than a little disgusted. “A woman is more than a piece of meat.”
Especially this woman. With her clothes, her hair, her perma-scowl, with her entire “get lost” vibe, she went out of her way to discourage ogling. She’d made it abundantly clear that being sexy was not her top priority.
Besides, it was obvious that something or someone – my money was on Handsy – had put her through the wringer lately. She didn’t need this fucking guy leering at her all night.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a stubby finger. “But good size breasts are essential for lactation. My future children will of course be breastfed.”
I blinked. Okay. That was a swerve I hadn’t seen coming.
“Plus big tits are hot,” he continued, flashing me an oily smirk. “And my mother says my future wife has to have good breasts. It’s on her list of requirements.”
Wow.
I was silent for a beat, unsure how to respond to that. There
were so many things wrong with this conversation, starting with his mother, detouring at the idea of Larkin being his future wife, zig-zagging to his taste in boobs, and stumbling back to his fucking mother. I had no idea where to even start.
Eventually, I decided to just ignore the last couple of minutes and change the subject. Because this guy was clearly coocoo for Cocoa Puffs, and I just did not engage with crazy. You couldn’t ever predict what they would do. Maybe he was harmless; maybe he was capable of crafting a shiv from his belt buckle in less than a minute. You just couldn’t tell.
“I’m going to get some water. You want some?” I asked, in a nice, non-threatening tone, making sure both my hands were visible to him.
“Only if it’s locally-sourced bottled spring water,” he sniffed. “I won’t drink anything else.”
I couldn’t even answer that. I just blinked at him, bemused, before turning toward the kitchen.
As I left the room, I decided that this old loon would not have been my pick for Larkin, not at all. I’d have chosen someone younger, for instance. Someone with a better personality. Someone who wasn’t in his mother’s thrall. Maybe even someone who was actually taller than her.
“And definitely someone who isn’t batshit insane,” I muttered as I washed and dried my hands at the kitchen sink.
Someone like me, in fact. Someone exactly like me.
I grunted as I reached into the fridge, grabbing two bottles of water. Not someone like me, I reminded myself. I was here with Taylor. Larkin was none of my damn business, and interfering with her date was not what I’d signed on for. It was way more confrontation, way more drama, than I wanted – tonight or any night.
I glanced at the label on the bottles as I headed back to the living room, noting that the water had been sourced from a half-dozen mountain springs in Maine and wondering if that was local enough. Then I rolled my eyes. Was I really worried about the origin of a bottle of water? On behalf of a man who’d stepped straight out of 1987, retro misogyny and all?
