The Secrets of Attraction

by Robin Constantine

  “So, that’s why you called Zach?”

  “I’m not sure why I called Zach. It wasn’t like one of our, you know, sexytimes calls. We talked. It was friendly. Normal. He’s already with that sophomore from the Sadie Hawkins Dance that was drooling all over him. And the thing is—that didn’t even bother me. Why would a napkin with a phone number drive me to such batshittery but I was all, like, ‘Hey, that’s great, you make a nice couple,’ when Zach told me about that girl?”

  Wren smirked.

  “What?”

  “You really don’t see it?”

  Of course I saw it, but I didn’t get it. At all. We crossed the street with arms still looped.

  “Zach’s hot and fun, but you guys never had that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “That thing where you hang on to the other person’s every word because everything they say is one more piece of their puzzle. Zach’s puzzle wasn’t that complicated. I think that’s why it was easy for you to keep your distance. Deep down you craved a bit more than that—even though you pretend you don’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’re a pretty complicated puzzle yourself. Like attracts like. The secret of attraction.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle all this angst. What would you do if you found a girl’s number in Grayson’s pocket?”

  “I trust him, maybe it seems naive, but I do. He loves being in this band—and I know he’ll probably get his share of numbers, but at the end of the night, he’s with me. And when he’s with me, he’s completely with me. So I don’t think of all the other stuff. That may be a direct quote from the Madison Pryce handbook. You should take your own advice. The guy is smitten, Mads, so what if a girl gave him her number? Fuck jealousy. It’s a waste of time.”

  “So is ‘fuck jealousy’ from the Wren Caswell handbook?”

  She laughed. “Sure. Let’s make T-shirts.”

  When I got home, I took out my leather portfolio and laid out all the pieces that I wanted to include in it. The sketch of my floor plans for an extension on our house. The logo for Yellow #5. My prize photo of the Ferris wheel from the fall. The choice photo from the Sadie Hawkins Dance. There was a pastel landscape from art class, and I’d taken a photo of my Popsicle stick version of the Hearst building to showcase my model-making skills.

  Then there was the sketch of Jesse—I wasn’t sure if I wanted to include it. Was it too personal? I guess that was what art was all about. Getting your heart and soul on the page for all to see. I’d always had such trouble drawing Zach’s face right—was it because I really hadn’t seen him? Wasn’t interested in his puzzle enough, like Wren had said? I let my eyes go unfocused as I stared at my work, dreaming up the order that I’d put them in for the most impact, wondering what pieces were strong enough to include. The process made me so unsure, but it thrilled me too.

  When I thought I knew where to start, I opened the portfolio. The Pratt application fell out. I picked it up and read over the first page, which was just a form for basic information: name, address, emergency contact. I let my focus blur, the lines becoming swirls on a white background, and dreamed of what it would be like to go there over the summer.

  Was I ready for Pratt? Is that what I really wanted?

  I knew that’s where I wanted to go after high school.

  Wouldn’t it be better to do something different before then?

  I did have a choice. I could delay going to Pratt—go somewhere and gain some experience and build up my portfolio. Sure, NJDI was smaller, but so were the classes. And if I was being upfront with myself—earning my own way would mean more to me than someone swooping in to pay all my bills. Maybe it would be a mistake to turn down the money, but it would be my mistake.

  There was a knock on the front door, then the click of a turning lock.

  “Hello?” Paul.

  “Hey, I’m in here. Why are you knocking?”

  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Didn’t want to barge in.”

  “It’s not barging if you live here,” I said, continuing with my project. He lingered in the entryway, silent for a moment.

  “Well, uh . . . I actually found another place to stay.”

  I looked up. He still had his jacket on.

  “Oh. When?” I asked, chewing on my thumbnail.

  “Today. I just thought it might make things less confusing.”

  Less confusing for who? I wanted to ask, but held back, forcing myself to look at my work again. My concentration was blown. Paul walked over and surveyed the table.

  “Feel like going for a ride?”

  “I’m sort of in the middle of this.”

  “It won’t take long. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Um . . . yeah, sure.” I grabbed my jacket, turned off the lights, and followed him out to his car.

  Our first stop was the bakery—the one with the good doughnuts. Five minutes later he returned with the telltale grease-stained white bag and drove to the park, down to the bottom by the bay. I got out of the car, bracing myself against the wind coming off the water. It felt good to be outside. Like everything that had been bothering me would expand to fill the space. What could he possibly want to show me here? I’d thought we would probably end up walking on the path by the water, but instead Paul sat on the hood of the car, fished out a doughnut, and took a bite. I leaned next to him. He held out the bag to me.

  “Can I call this dinner?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I did that.” He laughed.

  We sat and ate as a tugboat sliced through the bay. He put the bag on the hood of the car and swiped his hands clean.

  “When I was a kid, and everyone was over there playing soccer or flag football,” he said, motioning to the sports fields behind us, “I’d be over here watching those planes take off and land from Newark airport. Watch, that one is going to turn, that’s heading to Florida.” He pointed to the sky, my eyes followed.

  “Lucky.”

  “And that one?” he said, pointing to a plane that was headed out over the Manhattan skyline. “That one’s going to France.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Can see the Air France logo.”

  I laughed, took another bite. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

  “Seems like the kind of thing a father would tell his kid.”

  I got the sense that Paul was trying to have a moment with me, something significant, parental. Had he been coerced?

  “Did my mother put you up to this?”

  He turned sharply to me. “No. I know it’s her late night; I was coming over to make dinner anyway, thought you might want some company.”

  “I’ve survived her late nights on my own for a long time.”

  “Sorry about that.” He rustled open the bag and reached in for another doughnut. Multicolored sprinkles. He offered me the bag. I shook my head.

  “You don’t need to apologize. I don’t need you to rescue me. I’m fine on my own.”

  “Rescue? The last thing you or your mother needs is rescuing. I just thought it would be nice to spend some time together.”

  I shifted away from him, kicked a phantom rock with my foot.

  “If you wanted to spend time with me, why did you find another place to stay?”

  He picked at the sprinkles on the doughnut before tossing it in a nearby trash bin. It hit the rim before falling in. He looked at me.

  “Mads, I’ve changed my mind about the summer. I’ve got a job offer in San Francisco. I’m going to take it.”

  I repeated his words in my head before asking the obvious.

  “Does Mom know?”

  “Yes.”

  “So again, I’m the last to hear about something.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Then what’s it like?”

  He sighed, jamming his hands in his pockets and stepping away from the car. “I don’t know how to do t
his. The father thing.”

  “You haven’t even tried.” My voice caught in my throat. The anger behind the words startled me. I think it startled him, too.

  “Before . . . when you asked me why I knocked?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know how to be that casual guy, the one who shows up and surprises my friend and her daughter with great meals, and gets to hang out and tell stories and come and go as he pleases. And for a little while I can pretend that there are actually people who look forward to being with me, people who matter.”

  “We do look forward to being with you. You do matter. Why leave now that you know you’re part of the family?”

  “That’s just it. Now that I’m supposed to belong there, I don’t feel like I do. You and your mother are this unit. You’re a family already and I’m—”

  “My father.”

  “But what is that, anyway? I haven’t earned it.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, maybe because it was the truth.

  “I’m not sure I can ever forgive her for something this huge,” I said. “I don’t get why she didn’t tell us sooner.”

  I zipped my jacket up to my chin, crossed my arms. It was getting a bit much having a heart-to-heart outside. I wanted to be home, putting my portfolio together. This father thing wasn’t something that could be sorted out in a night over a couple of doughnuts.

  “I was really angry at your mother, Madison. You’re right, it’s a huge thing to keep from us, but after a while, when I stopped being so pissed off about it, I realized something. She’s not vindictive. I have to believe it was hard for her, too. She didn’t tell us because she genuinely thought it was the right thing. And the more I thought about it, remembered what I was like back then, I think she was right.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Hard to admit, but . . . I didn’t want a family. I wanted to live overseas, fly jets in Europe, be unattached. I’d like to think if I’d known, I would have done right by the both of you, but I can’t be sure of that answer.”

  “But don’t you . . . You love her, right? That’s what she said to me, that you loved each other.” I felt my birthday wish slipping through my fingers.

  He looked straight up to the sky. A beat passed before he answered. “I’d always sort of hoped if I ended up with anyone, it would be her. And you. Maybe somehow, I knew all along. Remember that time in San Francisco? When we had dinner at the Italian place that served you wine and your mother took it away and I let you sneak a sip?”

  He remembered that too? “Yes.”

  “When I paid the check the owner told me I had a beautiful wife and daughter. You both had already gone outside. I was about to correct him, but I couldn’t. I just thanked him and we left, and it felt nice. I’m thinking maybe that’s why I want to go back, to be in the place where I felt the best about it.”

  “That was a great trip.”

  “I’m going to treat this job as a trial—maybe I’ll hate flying tourists around and pointing out the sights. Maybe I’ll love it. It’s a huge change, but I’m ready for something on my own terms. I can keep my feet on the ground, stay in one place for a while.”

  “But, if you want to stay in one place, why can’t it be here?”

  He shifted, leaning back against the hood. “I think this is a lot to take in—becoming an instant family, something maybe we need a little time and space to get used to. I’m not saying it’s going to be perfect, or that you won’t get angry about it all over again, but we know the truth now. And that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “C’mon, I promised your mother I’d make her penne and vodka sauce tonight. We can keep our dinner a secret.”

  I laughed. “Sure.”

  Back at the house, while Paul whipped up a meal for my mother, I pored over my work again, thinking about what he said—that we needed a little time and space to get used to the idea of us, as a family. I wasn’t sure if I believed it—that space was the answer—but what choice did I have? I guessed it was a start.

  There was a quote I remembered from my essay on Frank Lloyd Wright: Space is the breath of art. I thought I understood it—the space thing—that it could be light or dark, positive or negative. It was part of a work, though. Essential. Maybe space would help us shed a little light on what was important to us, too.

  Paul poked his head into the dining room. “You sure you don’t want any of this?”

  “No, I’m good. Are you guys eating in here? Give me a minute to put this away.”

  “We can eat in the kitchen when your mom gets home. Hey, how’s the application for Pratt coming along? Did you send it in yet?”

  “I’m rethinking Pratt for the summer.”

  He leaned against the doorway, and folded his arms. “Rethinking?”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I want to be there yet, I think I’d like a little more experience first. I’m going to try for that scholarship to the Design Institute, like I planned. I mean, that’s okay, right? I appreciate your offer—the money—but could I put that toward—”

  “It’s there for when you need it, Mads.”

  “Thanks.”

  I continued packing up my work. The sketch of Jesse was on the end of the table. I picked it up to put it away, taking a moment to look it over. My heart warmed. Had I let enough space come between us? Why was I so afraid of opening up to him? Was it really easier to push him away? All at once I wanted to see him, to apologize for being so weird. I slipped the sketch into my portfolio and ran upstairs to grab Jesse’s jacket.

  “Paul, I’m headed out for a while, I’ve got my phone,” I said, thundering down the stairs. I didn’t wait to hear his reply.

  TWENTY-TWO

  JESSE

  MUGSHOT WAS SLOW ON WEDNESDAY NIGHTS. There was a study group in the one corner commandeering the crushed-velvet chairs, and a couple sitting close to the window, holding hands, in their own world. I was alone and kept looking at the clock. There was less than an hour to go and I could shut down. I’d already cleaned a few of the pitchers, and restocked the paper products. I didn’t mind not being busy because it gave me more time to focus on my song.

  I stood at the counter, bent over my notebook, frustrated at the scribbles on the pad. I’d been trying to figure out a way to describe her eyes in the song, but yeah, that wasn’t happening. And it was too cheesy. Madison would not like cheesy and this was for her, even though I couldn’t tell her that. Learned my lesson at the Whiskey. But she’d know. Although at this point I wasn’t sure if she was going to the battle. I wasn’t sure where we stood at all.

  A shadow passed across the counter and I looked up. I’d been so involved in the song that I hadn’t noticed someone come in.

  “Hannah.” I glanced behind her, at the door, waiting for Duncan to appear, but there was no one. She smiled.

  “Hey, Jess,” she said. Her hair was in a braid to the side, her volleyball warm-up jacket zipped to her chin.

  “What’s up?”

  She leaned on the counter, looking into the bakery case. There was next to nothing left—mostly crumbs. Her eyes found my notebook and she glanced across the page. I closed it fast, then tucked it on the shelf below the register.

  “Hmm, new song?”

  “What are you, a spy for the enemy?” I kidded.

  “Pfft, as if,” she said. “Are you working on something new, though?”

  “Maybe,” I offered. “Where’s Duncan?”

  “Where do you think? Where he’s been for the past three months—rehearsing.”

  “Decided to sit this one out?”

  “I can only take so much,” she said, “and Lot Twenty-Three smells like feet.”

  I laughed. “Are you sure that’s not just Kenny’s band you’re smelling—oh!”

  “That was bad.”

  “Yes, but it had to be said. What can I get you?”

  “I’m in the mood for one of your peppermint mochas.” />
  “Sure.” I grabbed a to-go cup and attempted to do the Tanner flip-thing that he’d perfected.

  “That’s to stay,” she said.

  The cup fell just out of my grasp and bounced onto the floor.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, thought I could sit with you till closing. Do you think . . . maybe you could give me a ride home?”

  “Er, sure, why not?”

  “Great,” she said, smiling. “Hey, I like your hair. What made you do that?”

  “A friend suggested it,” I said as she took a seat at the table I used to consider her “usual.” I got to work on her mocha.

  When we were together, Hannah closed with me a lot. She’d sit with a book or work behind the counter with me, pouring coffee or filling baked-goods orders. The last time she’d helped me we stayed a half hour after closing and messed around in Grace’s office. It was a memory I’d put out of my mind until this moment. She kept looking at me. I concentrated on the drink. Maybe she just wanted to be friends. Could I do that?

  I didn’t get that jangled-nerve feeling—the one that felt like every moment I looked at her, it physically hurt. It helped that Duncan wasn’t with her, but even thinking of him, or the two of them together, didn’t jab me the same way it used to. I brought her drink to her table.

  “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

  “Working.”

  She looked around. “Oh, yeah, you’re swamped. C’mon. Sit a minute.”

  She pushed out the chair across from her with her foot.

  “Now I know you must be doing some recon for the enemy,” I said, sitting down.

  “No, but if you want to ask me anything I can tell you.” She wiggled her eyebrows and took a sip of her mocha. “Perfect, as always.”

  “Are they doing the original song?”

  “Yes, but it’s not as good as they want it to be. Kenny’s sort of a . . .”

  “. . . tyrant,” I finished.

  “Yeah, that. They’ve been practicing every day. If I tell you something, you have to swear to keep your mouth shut,” she said.

  “Who would I say anything to?”

  “I mean it, Jess. Just swear on the VW, or your Fender or something.”