I trace the mouth of the beer bottle with my index finger, mesmerized with the motion and the smooth feel to the cool glass.
“So we’re not that different after all, Boston.” My voice is low. “We both jumped into something new and gave it our all, hoping it would work. Something artistic and free and open and crazy. Don’t you think so?” I lift my eyes up and meet his.
I think he’s about to agree, but then his phone trills and the moment is broken. He answers, and his face breaks into a grin. “Annalise! Babe. You comin’ ovah?”
My stomach turns. I stand up and put my beer on the table and wipe my hand on my jeans.
“Great. See you soon.” He slides the phone onto the table and frowns at my stance; I have “going to leave now” written into my posture, into the way I’m leaning toward the door.
“I guess I should get going. Thanks for the beer.” I smile, trying not to act crushed.
“You wanna stay and meet Annalise?” He raises one eyebrow.
“Well, I have to get back. I need to, um, check in on Marr. She said she had something important to tell me.”
“Your mom.” He smirks.
“Shut up. ” I roll my eyes. “That was so not funny.”
“It was hilarious,” he corrects me.
I laugh, despite myself. “Okay. It was.”
“So she was okay?” He puts his hands into his pockets and cocks his head to one side. “Marr?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “She’s a little… kooky. But she’s a good person. Just a little lost.”
“I get that.”
We stand, looking at each other, then I wake up and grab my laptop case.
“See you tomorrow, Boston.”
***
Knocking on Marr’s door is the last thing I want to do, but I promised. When she answers, my eyebrows probably indicate my surprise. Mozart is playing, and something smells like a French bakery (or how I imagine one would smell). She’s in a tight pencil skirt and a pretty top, and her hair is up and her eyes are made up smoky. She looks younger. Pretty, actually. Insightful, too, based on what she says next:
“I probably look a lot different than that night at Men Got Moves. Come in for a minute, okay, Abby?”
I enter, stepping onto a thin plastic sheet that whispers and slithers in the minuscule breeze created by my feet. Several paint-spattered ladders bear the bird-dropping debris from multiple colorful jobs, and there’s a stack of floor tiles in the corner.
“How’s the reno coming along?” I pick my way along the eel-like runner to the kitchen where the question answers itself. “Marr. This is amazing.” Her kitchen is something from a catalogue, all marble and silver and warm reddish wood, with a bowl of green apples as a vibrant exclamation. “Oh, my God.”
Marr waves her hand. “Ridiculously generous divorce settlement. I’m finally getting the house of my dreams.” She slides onto a barstool and pats the one next to her. “I wanted to apologize, Abby. And to say thanks. That night I wasn’t myself, but it was something I needed. I know I was probably obnoxious and embarrassing, and I appreciate that you and your rather sexy new boyfriend helped take care of me.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I blush, then quickly add, “And you weren’t, uh, annoying.”
She laughs again. “Please. That could be the video definition of the facial expressions someone makes when they lie. Right out of my freshman psych 101 lecture.”
I roll my eyes and tilt my head and shrug. “Okay, maybe you were a little bit… silly.”
She smiles. “You know? I never went out to a club like that. Ever. I guess I’ve been working my way, rather frantically, through some kind of bucket list ever since I found myself single.”
I don’t like thinking about Marr being older and alone, and how her husband left her for some ditzy bimbo (probably). And how she finds solace in a list that includes getting drunk in clubs with girls young enough to be her daughters. Because if I thought about that, truly pondered it, I think I’d sob for her.
Marr really must be a mind reader. She adds, “Abby. I don’t have children. Mike never—. But if I ever had a daughter? I would have liked her to be like you.”
I make a stifled sound and wave my hand in a “no, don’t” gesture, but she persists. “You’re kind. You’re smart. You took care of me. You have a generous spirit.”
She pats my hand. “Don’t feel bad for me, Abby. I’m getting my act together, and I appreciate the people who give me a hand along the way. You’re one of them.” She gets up and retrieves a gold and green striped gift bag from the counter, places it in front of my spot. “Here. This is for you. Open it.”
I look at her, then take out a few handfuls of crumpled tissue paper to reveal a book. “You got me a book? Marr, you don’t owe me anything.” I take it out, brush my finger along the cover. It’s a battered book of poetry entitled Soul Music.
Marr opens a wine fridge, takes out a bottle of Riesling, and adds it next to my bag and book. “I drank enough that night and you didn’t get to. Here’s some wine for you to enjoy with friends, on a night when you don’t have to babysit.” She laughs, and I laugh with her. “I know you’re a writer, so the book, hopefully you’ll like it. A friend gave it to me and it helped me make it through a couple of pretty dark nights. Once you’re ready, pass it along to someone else, if you want. Or not. It’s up to you.”
“Thanks. I will. Are you?” I ball up one of the tissues into a tight wad. “Are you doing okay after your—after your husband left?” Is that an okay thing to ask? Is it stupid?
But Marr takes the question seriously. “I’m shattered. But I have a feeling that what I’m going to rebuild will be more beautiful than anything I’ve had so far in my life. I have faith in that, Abby.”
“Why did he leave?” It’s a terrible question, probably an unanswerable one, but I can’t resist.
Marr is silent, then she says, “He wasn’t able to say. He wasn’t a complete dick about it, Abby. He cried when he told me. But when I see him look at her,” and her voice cracks, “then I understand. The way he looks at her. It’s something that words can’t comprehend or explain.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No. It’s a question I ask myself every minute of every day. Even when I’m doing something else, like—decorating,” and she gestures around the kitchen, “I’m completely capable of thinking about him, too. Seeing him in my mind with her, watching them laugh together. Wondering. But the thing is, Abby. I never looked at him that way, either. That’s the only thing that keeps me going, you know? The idea that maybe I can find that, too. That it’s not too late for me.”
“It’s never too late.” My voice is fierce and I grab her hand. “Never.”
She raises her eyebrows and gives a sad smile. “I just wish it were easier than in romance books.” She chuckles. “It must be nice, Abby, to get to write a happy ending any time you want.”
I think about that. “It’s much harder in real life. Maybe that’s why I like doing it in books so much.”
Marr holds out her fist for a fist bump, and after an awkward second, I meet hers with mine.
“To our own happy endings,” she says.
“To our happy endings,” I agree.
***
The next time I’m over at Boston’s, Annalise is there. You want to know what she looks like? Imagine the one woman you know who is so pretty you feel a stab of wistful regret every time you see her, regret that you will never in your lifetime know what it is like to have what she has. Her skin color and hair color are meaningless, because her beauty is more than the sum of her parts, it’s transcendent, it’s sung into her body and woven into her smile and her eyes, and people cross streets to walk closer to her. That’s Annalise.
This particular Annalise is blond, her hair so pale it’s almost white; her lips are lush and pink and her eyes the blue of tropical calendar pictures with sunshine embedded in them like diamonds. She’s perched on a stool be
side Boston, peering over to look at the screen, and her hand rests on his shoulder. She swings one leg and the curve of her calf transfixes me. Her smile is brilliant.
She jumps to her feet and runs over and before I know it she’s hugging me. I stiffen up and she lets go. “You’re Abby! I’m so glad to meet you. I am so grateful that you are havin’ me and Boston be in yah book. I’m literally so excited I could burst. Oh, my God.”
“Me, too.” I want to mean it. Boston looks over and I don’t know what he thinks when he sees us side by side, but I catch a glimpse in the mirror and I wince my eyes away. Compared to her, I’m brash and brassy. My brown ponytail is leaking hair like stray quills, my funky wire-design earrings look cheap next to her tiny pearls, and my thighs—God, let’s not even discuss how both of her legs could probably fit into one of my jeans legs with space to spare.
I suck in my stomach and smooth my shirt down several times, trying to match at least her exuberance. “Having you and Boston in there is going to make it a total bestseller, I’m sure of it.”
“I think it’s going to be my big break.” She turns to Boston. “Didn’t I tell you, babe?” She bounces back over to him and hugs his arm with her body. “This is fan-fucking-tastic.” She hesitates and her voice stutters a little bit. “I, um, well, when Boston said we were working with you, I bought one of yah books. Sweet Candy. It was really, really good, Abby. I enjoyed it a lot.” Her gaze is timid.
I curse myself mentally; I should have offered them the books upfront. “Oh, that’s—I would have sent it for free. Do you want more of them? I can send you files?”
“Um, okay.” Her face is pink. “I mean, I don’t have that much time to read. But you are such a great writer. Have you read her stuff, Boston?”
“No. I just Googled her and saw that she’s a bestseller.”
Annalise pokes him. “Nice seat of the pants research, babe.”
He grabs her and growls into her neck. “Don’t mess with me, Lise! You want seat of the pants?”
She screams and he slaps her on her ass and grabs her up into a kind of bear hug, and I want to vomit and run away and cry, all at once. Ick.
I stand there feeling like a complete third wheel. Finally they’re on solid ground, side by side, looking like two kids all eager at recess. I gesture to my computer. “’I’m going to expand the scenes today where my hero and heroine kiss for the first time. What are you guys doing?”
Boston’s voice is easy. “We’re goin’ to the local park with Chelle. She’s going to shoot me and Lise in the rose garden, and then by the waterfall. Those artsy-fartsy park pictures we discussed.”
Annalise nods. “I have five outfit changes and Chelle is going to do my makeup all pretty. I’m psyched.”
“Good luck,” I say. “Break a leg? Do you say that?”
Annalise laughs. “Nobody says that. Although probably some of the othah models wish I would.”
“What?” I whip my head around. “Really?”
Her smile fades. “Probably not really. But it’s pretty competitive, you know. People can be kind of rough and not too helpful to each other in the modeling industry. Lots of gossip and backstabbing and stuff. Boston and I are lucky we still work together so easy. And that we found you and this job.”
When they leave, I have a hard time concentrating at first before the words come. Later, Boston is back alone. He comes right up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m back.”
I look up at him, and his fingers wrap around my neck like ivy before he lets go a second later.
“Did it go well?” I ask.
He nods. His body is still full of energy, I can feel it coursing through him, in his touch, the way he presses and grips me. “It was wicked awesome. Chelle said these are going to be some of our best shots ever.”
I bite my lip. “I hope my words can keep up.”
He bends down to peer at the screen. “Oh, I’m sure they will. What’s this part?” He reads aloud. “Tyler pinned Lili with his blue eyes, and her heart raced with anticipation. ‘So I want to know why you don’t play in my club anymore,’ he said, his voice deceptively casual. He took a step closer and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Why you come here dressed like a nun.’
Lili flushed and gestured at her miniskirt and tube top. ‘If this is how nuns dress these days, then we’re all going to hell.’
Tyler chuckled and came closer, so Lili could feel the warmth of his body emanating, reaching hers. ‘Well, comparatively speaking. I remember you used to prance around in nothing except your silver nipple rings.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched as he met her eyes. ‘What happened, Lili?’”
“Boston. Stop.” My voice is firm, but he keeps reading.
“She averted her eyes. She wanted to say, ‘You did,’ but knew it would be a mistake to let him know she had any kind of feeling for him. He wasn’t interested in her that way. Or was he? The look in his eyes was so feral, almost ferocious. She sucked in her breath as he reached out and ran a finger over her lip, then down her neck, and gave her a knowing smile.
His voice was a murmur. ‘Did you figure out that you can drive me crazy this way?’”
“Okay. That’s enough. Seriously!” It’s so hot to hear him read the words, but I feel panic, too—it’s not ready. I grab the laptop lid and try to slam it down, but he holds it back. “Why not, Abs?”
I flush, hoping he’ll understand. “I don’t like to let people read before I edit. It’s raw. Things are going to change.” He nods and lets go, and his fingers brush against mine as both of our hands work together to close the lid.
“So this Tyler dude and this Lili. They’re gonna fuck now, right?”
I blush, but I meet his eyes and my voice comes out low and sultry. “Yeah. They are gonna fuck, Boston. And it’s going to be rough and dirty and wicked awesome.” I smile because I used his words from before, and he laughs, but then his gaze hardens into something predatory.
“Does she tease him before she lets him have her? Does she make him so crazy for her touch that he’s about ready to go fucking wild?”
I can barely breathe. “They’re both on the edge, Boston. All they need is one match and they’ll light up the sky like the Fourth of July.”
Then I laugh, because I wanted to be sexy but it rhymes and it’s kind of funny how I said it, and then he laughs too, and the intensity of the moment swells and deflates softly, like a balloon—not burst, just releasing the air like a sigh, a soft breath of wind.
“I’m going to get some water, okay?” I head to the kitchen and grab a bottled water from his fridge, and marvel at how comfortable I feel doing this. I like hanging out in his home, being welcome there, belonging there. It makes me feel cool, I think, like an insider. “You want one?” I call, but he doesn’t answer, and when I come back, he’s sitting at the desk reading my story—again!
“Boston!” I blurt out, and he turns his head slowly and grins.
“I told you not to look.” My voice is irritated.
“I don’t normally take direction real well.” He’s looking me up and down and the tension is back, just like that.
“Well, stop. I’ll let you read when it’s done.”
He wiggles his eyebrows but gets up and puts his hands up in the “don’t shoot” position. “Sorry.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet.”
“Scout’s honor.” He crosses his hand over his heart.
“Really? You were a boy scout?”
He laughs. “Nope. I was the guy stealin’ their lunch money.”
“You’re so bad.” But I’m smiling. “Such a bad boy.”
“I am.” His voice is low now, a growl. “I’m definitely the one your mothah warned you about, Abby.”
I meet his eyes. “I don’t need any warnings.” I take a deep breath.
He takes a breath, too. “So. Here we are again. End of the day. Just you and me.”
“Yup.” I nod, an unnecessary move, but my body needs it. If I can’t
do the dance with him that my limbs crave, I need to get the anxious energy out in other ways. He’s tapping his fingers on the chair, thrum, thrum, thrum. The silence between us stretches and bends and I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“I like it that you work here, Abby.” His voice is low.
“You do?” My eyes jump, latch onto his. “Why?”
“Why?” He blinks, rubs his hand across his mouth. “Well.” There’s a pause. “Maybe I like knowing that someone’s here, you know? That you’re here. That the place has something lively in it, something beautiful for me to come back to.” Red stains along his jaw and he jams his hands into his jeans pockets. “I don’t know a lot of girls like you, Abby. So intelligent. Funny. You’ve got what it takes to make it and I guess, I like knowing that you’re doing your—stuff—here. In my house. A book that I’m part of, now.”
I swallow. “I like being here. It’s, I get a lot of work done. My ideas flow, here. I feel good.”
He nods. “Good.”
My heart is soaring and breaking at once. I like that he feels this way about me, but if only, oh, if only his words had included things like “sexy” and “can’t stand not touching you.” I like being a modern-day almost-muse, I suppose. I just wish—
“So I should keep working here, then? You don’t mind?” I feel lightheaded.
“I don’t mind at all. I love—it. Having you here, I mean. Please. Stay.” He throws his hands open, as if offering me the entire room.
“Then I guess… I’ll be back tomorrow. Eight a.m. Ready for work.” I try to give a good friendly smile, but it’s quivery.
He walks me to the door. “See ya, Abby.” His voice is tender, and then he pulls me in for a hug, and then his lips graze mine before he pulls back. “Drive safe.”
Chapter Six
When I arrive in the morning with my usual latte supreme, there’s a note on the door with my name scribbled on it.
“Hey Abby. I had to run to the photo shop to get a new backdrop I ordered. Key’s in back under the mat, go on in and make yourself comfortable. See you soon.”
Boston Page 7
