The Thing About Love

by Kim Karr

  Again I ask myself, “Why is he here?”

  Unless.

  No, please no, don’t tell me something happened to Fiona.

  Hitting the gas, I floor it into the driveway as fast as I can. Once I put the SUV in park, I hurry to get Max out of his car seat.

  Rushing inside with Max on my hip and his gear on my shoulder, I take the stairs up to the main floor two at a time, and come to a screeching halt.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Holy shit!

  Coming down the stairs is all six-foot-two inches, and I mean all six-foot and two inches of Nick Carrington in his glory.

  Wet.

  No towel.

  Completely naked.

  He looks at me, only a little surprised, and mumbles, “Shit,” or something like that. I’m not really listening right now. There is so much white noise in my head that I don’t think my ears are working properly. Or my hat is on too tight.

  Wait.

  Ignore that two inches part because he is, well, to be blunt . . . huge.

  “Uncle Nick,” Max screams in delight, jolting me out of the trance I had fallen into.

  “Nick!” I scream in outrage, while at the same time relieved that nothing must be wrong with Fiona or Ethan.

  He covers himself with his hands and shrugs.

  “Nick! What the hell!” I yell.

  “Uncle Nick!” Max exclaims again with glee.

  My head jerks in Max’s direction. Instead of following suit and covering his eyes like me to shade his vision from the sight of Nick’s smooth, tanned, muscular chest, tight six-pack, and well, his huge endowment, the almost three-year-old reaches out for him.

  Traitor.

  HAVE YOU MET JACE BENNETT IN BIG SHOT?

  This emotional story will tug at your heartstrings.

  The For Sale Sold sign told the story.

  I didn’t know or care what that story was.

  On the front porch there was a number of kid’s toys. A bicycle, a Nerf football, and a pair of roller skates that looked well used. Jonah’s I assumed. The kid suddenly became real, and I considered driving right past the house.

  He was only a kid.

  Yeah, a kid that made my daughter cry.

  I didn’t leave.

  Instead, I parked my BMW on the street and opened the car door. With each step I took toward the newly painted porch stairs, I inhaled a deep breath. I could do this reasonably and respectfully. I wouldn’t accuse, I’d simply inform. The parent could then address the issue with the child.

  That sounded like the most mature approach. I felt a little proud of myself that I had calmed down and wasn’t gunning for the jugular.

  The bottom line was, I’d want to know if my daughter had made someone cry on his or her first day of school.

  When I reached the front door, it was open, and the only barrier was the flimsy screen door that if I had to guess, wasn’t locked. I could hear the Clash playing from inside, and I had to force myself not to smile. Another punk rock enthusiast. Interesting. I didn’t come across them very often.

  Standing there, I glanced inside. There were boxes everywhere. Moving in or out, I hadn’t a clue. Didn’t really care.

  Ringing the doorbell, I waited patiently and didn’t pound on door the way I had envisioned myself doing.

  The sun was shining in the direction of the door, and it was hard to see, but I could make out the shape of a woman as she came into view through the mesh. She had a large book in her hands and her face was down as if in deep concentration.

  Everything started to change the closer she got to me. First there was the unmistakable smell of lavender, a scent that made my nostrils flare in excitement, and then I saw the familiar shape of her eyes, her lips, her nose, and even the slender curve of her shoulders.

  What happened next was like one of those slow motion movies.

  I stumbled back with a jolt, and thought . . . no way.

  The woman with blond hair that hung straight at least halfway down her back struggled to open the door, and only when she did, did she raise her gaze. “Can I help—?”

  Out of nowhere, pure adrenaline raced through my veins. A thrill. An excitement I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I opened my mouth to speak, but shut it.

  She didn’t finish her sentence either. Instead, she set the book down on the table beside the door. The haphazard way she released it caused it to fall and land on the floor with a clang. The spine read, “Web Design.”

  That was not what I was paying any attention to, though. Rather, I found myself staring at the unusual pale blue color of her eyes. The color of a hot summer’s day and cool spring night. A color I’d only ever seen once before. But no, it couldn’t be—could it?

  The silence drew out. I was dimly aware of her wiping one of her hands on her jeans, but nothing else. There was a reason I was there. A wrong to right. But unable to look away from her wide, startled eyes and her half-open mouth, I couldn’t seem to recall what exactly it was.

  I took off my sunglasses to get a closer look. From the angle she was standing at I could see the curve of her ass, the shape of her tits, the plain of her stomach, and I knew, I knew for certain that this was her.

  This was Hannah.

  H. Crestfall was Hannah Michaels.

  The first girl I ever loved . . . and the one who broke me even more than I already had been before I met her.

  “Hannah,” I said at the same time she said, “Jace.”

  I nodded.

  She nodded.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice that trembled.

  Right.

  I was there for a reason, and it wasn’t to go down fucking memory lane, and it certainly wasn’t to relive the pain she caused me.

  Still trying to brush off the shock, I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Do you have a son named Jonah?” I asked, my voice slightly uneven.

  She nodded, and pushed her silky blond hair behind her ear. It was a nervous twitch I knew so well.

  “Does he attend The Preston School?” I asked to be one hundred percent certain.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, he does. Why are you asking?”

  There was no invite inside, and it was for the best. I’d regained my balance by then and went for the jugular. “He’s in my daughter’s class, and today he said something to her that made her cry.” This time I kept my voice even, calm.

  Her narrowed gaze raked over me in an accessing manner that told me she didn’t appreciate me being at her front door. “What is it you think he said to her?”

  I ignored the sarcasm that dripped from her voice, and remained calm. “He told her that her hair looked like she’d plugged herself into a light socket, or something along those lines. I thought you might want to know that he was bullying someone.”

  “Jonah has the sweetest disposition, and I doubt he would ever say anything like that.”

  “Are you calling my daughter a liar?” I asked.

  The physical trembling was hard to ignore, but the step she took closer to me was even harder not to notice. “Are you calling my son a bully?”

  That wasn’t my intention, but she was pushing my buttons. Without realizing it, I puffed my chest out. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

  Her eyes, those blue eyes, blazed, and she put her hands on her hips. “Still the same old big shot, huh, Jace. Think the world revolves around you.”

  A white-hot fury rose up from somewhere deep within me from a place I had buried it long ago. Once it did, I couldn’t stop it, or my reaction to her words. “Screw you, Hannah,” I bit out, and turned to stomp down the stairs.

  “Jace,” she yelled.

  Every hurt I ever felt from that day so long ago came back to me, and I had to ignore her. Unable to fight my emotion, I tuned out whatever else she was trying to say to me. I didn’t want to hear it. I knew I had come here about our kids. I also knew this wasn’t about us. But as soon as she called me a b
ig shot—that’s what it became.

  I tried to take a deep breath as I stormed toward my car with my words echoing in my head.

  Screw you.

  AND ALSO: A LOOK INSIDE WHAT READERS

  ARE CALLING THEIR FAVORITE KIM KARR BOOK EVER

  This book is guaranteed to warm you up from the inside out.

  Just the mere suggestion of karaoke gets everyone’s heart pounding. Whether it’s out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person’s frame of mind at the time.

  The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling—it’s a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.

  With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.

  To be honest, I can’t believe I even agreed to do this.

  Then again, Bar On is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight. This Chinatown lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.

  Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it’s one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning. She looks like Megan Fox. For a second, I wonder if she is.

  She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit younger, though—my age, I’d say. “Do you mind if I get by?” she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.

  Definitely not Megan Fox.

  Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.

  Ouch!

  I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.

  “Come on,” my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. “Sandra found us a table.”

  India leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.

  Fantastic.

  The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment’s name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Sandra. “Are you sure you want to sit this close?”

  She hands me a menu of songs. “Yes, this is going to be great.”

  “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is coming to an end and once I’ve slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.

  This must have been their spot.

  All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age. Immediately, I can tell by their walk that they are definitely Upper East Siders. Prep school, riot club types turned Wall Street wolves would be my guess. You know—the kind of guy your mother warns you about.

  The type I should have stayed away from.

  The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits, too. Hmmm . . . either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it’s a Thursday night. An office party, maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn’t stop.

  He’s cute. Really cute.

  At least he doesn’t seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he’s too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. “Cam,” he calls out. “Don’t bother with her.” His warning is too late, though, because this Cam, whose white, rumpled shirt and dark hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by that Megan Fox look-alike who practically ran me over minutes ago.

  Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.

  In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”

  Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.

  Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.

  Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”

  At that her eyes light up.

  Minutes later I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”

  Okay, I can do this.

  I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I’ve been drunk.

  Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.

  The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.

  The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.

  I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.

  This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.

  It’s how I hope to find myself.

  My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.

  More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”

  God, I hope that’s true.

  There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.

  Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.

  Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.

  The sting of the word still hurts.

  Sebastian was wrong. Is wrong—I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to prove him wrong. No, scratch that—I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I
may not be boring, but I am bored.

  I need a change.

  To find myself.

  The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I’m leaving.

  I still can’t believe I’m doing it.

  When my best friend, Maggie, suggested on the phone, “Why don’t you quit your job and move out here with me?” I nearly broke out in hives.

  I thought, why would I do that?

  My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, and a fiancé. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my fiancé, well, he wasn’t mine anymore.

  Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-four and a half, I can afford to make a change. I’ll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.

  I have nothing to lose.

  If Laguna Beach isn’t the place for me, then I’ll come back to New York. And if I have to, I’ll grovel to get back my old job at the fashion house. My soon-to-be-former boss might be an ass, but he knows my value to the company as a designer.

  Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it’s over, I’m the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys our mothers warned us about have reoccupied their seats, leaving us homeless.

  “Let’s sing another one,” India suggests, practically jumping at the idea. India is—no, as of today, was—my coworker at Kate von Frantzenberg. We’ve been friends since we both started there right out of college. She’s married to a great guy named Elvis—yes, Elvis. And she, like Sandra, saw me through the dark times following my breakup with Sebastian.

  Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. “You guys go for it,” I tell her. “I’m going to use the bathroom and I’ll hop in when I’m done.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” she calls to me.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.