Triple Love Score

by Brandi Megan Granett

She handed him a glass of Champagne as he dropped the bags at his feet.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know exactly, but it might be something big. I just signed a contract for some of my poetry.”

  “A book? Miranda that is wonderful.” He grabbed her up with his free hand for a hug.

  “No, not a book. Well maybe a book, but first a web page, I guess. It’s for this.” She pointed to the Scrabble board on the coffee table.

  He leaned over and examined the words carefully. “You had someone come over for Scrabble while I was out?”

  “No, that’s my poem. I do this.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the poem sculptures saved there.

  “That’s you? I’ve seen those! You’re Blocked Poet?”

  “Yup, and I just signed a deal to market it. I don’t fully understand, but it might get the poems out to more people. The guy with the contract, Ambrose, he seems to think it will make money.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “We should celebrate,” she said.

  “We already are,” Ronan said, clinking his glass against hers. “To words.”

  “To words,” she replied.

  C H A P T E R

  THE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS EVE passed quickly. Every time Ronan left the apartment, Miranda worked at her poems. New emails kept coming from Ambrose. Sign this. Curate a Valentine’s collection. First book drops at the beginning of February. Maybe sooner. What about Mother’s Day? He didn’t sign his emails and often didn’t use complete sentences. Miranda felt herself just instinctively saying yes. Yes. And then she would pull together as much as he asked for as quickly as possible. Bravo, he always replied. Do more. Then Ronan would return from the teen center, and they would tumble into bed or the sofa or the rug in front of the Christmas tree. These delicious days passed by in a rush of words and sensations.

  On Christmas Eve, Ronan woke up early. “I have to go into work, love,” he said. “The holidays are tough on them. There’s a lot of trouble brewing on days like today. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to leave later? I’d love to give you your present before you go.”

  “I can’t get there late and leave early to get back. I thought you wanted to see me before your flight?”

  “Aye. I want both.”

  “It’s good to want things, Ronan.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to leave right now. There’re other things I want.”

  “And you had those things last night. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Go take care of your kids.”

  “My kids? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? They’re students. Not my kids.”

  “Students, kids, you don’t want to be late do you?”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go to your parents,” he said.

  “I’ll be back in no time. We’ll have New Year’s.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said. “Under the mistletoe.”

  Miranda bundled herself for a walk into town to finally find a present for Ronan before she left for Connecticut. She thought about the classics like a scarf or maybe cologne, but none of those captured anything about how she felt or what she was thinking. To be honest, even after all of the time they spent ensconced in her apartment making love under the Christmas tree and in her bed and on the kitchen counter, Miranda was no closer to understanding how she felt about Ronan. She felt a lot of things with him; whole parts of her body that she never knew could feel pleasure lit up under his attentive hands, but her heart didn’t stir. When he left to teach his classes, she didn’t miss him. She didn’t even think about him. Instead she plunged into her work creating more word sculptures in hours than she used to in months. Her entire body purred like a muscle car’s engine, always ready for the next race. The work, the sex, it all fueled her and turned her on. She even walked faster. As she strode toward town, she felt her hips and arms sway, taking up the entire sidewalk with her gait. She smiled broadly at strangers who stepped aside to let her through.

  It wasn’t “I love you” she wanted to say. Thank you was more to the point. Thank you for these memories. For the parts of her body that now hummed with well-oiled satisfaction. For the way her brain felt clear and open. For the way she felt at ease in her own skin. For all of these things, she wanted to say thank you, yet she knew, in a way, that these things had nothing to do with Ronan and more to do with her own awakening. She had looked at him and issued it, “get out or put out.” After all these years, she had finally spoken.

  She wandered through the one department store still left in the decaying downtown. It mostly featured schoolthemed merchandise and candy, nothing unique or special or even remotely Ronan. She browsed the window of the men’s clothing store and thought a nice sweater might do the trick. But inside the store, the sweaters all felt hollow, empty, just shells of things, not anything that conveyed thank you.

  She hit the bookstore next. There would be coffee there, and she could sit and think about it more. Her usual latte felt wonderful on her tongue with a hint of cinnamon; she sighed at the pleasure of it. A few people milled about the aisles, and the store played Christmas-inspired jazz. Miranda tapped her foot in time with the music. Poetry, she thought, I could get him a book.

  But as she scanned the familiar aisle none of the poets leapt out at her. None of them said, Ronan. Or Merry Christmas. Or I’ll miss you. Instead, these volumes, these familiar friends turned their backs to her, remained silent. Or perhaps she remained silent, unable to speak. Without Ronan there, she could no longer trace the thread that connected him to her. She knew his body and what it did to hers, but she didn’t know his mind. Even the few poems he submitted to her class were sparse renderings based on exercises—nothing any poet would share beyond the confines of a classroom. She tried to fix him in her mind—not the shape of him, but the inner workings and gears, only to come up blank. Quite simply, she didn’t really even know Ronan. She had just spent the last few weeks having sex with a stranger. The burning realization, the full weight of it, settled in her chest; her throat parched.

  She took a sip of her latte, but it had grown cold, the cinnamon now too sharp.

  As she rounded the corner by the cashier stand to throw it away, a thin purple leather volume caught her eye. Diary, read the front in a thin gold font.

  The cashier took her money and returned the diary neatly wrapped in gleaming silver paper, she added “To Lynn” on the tag shaped like a sleigh bell. A little corner of her unfolded as she allowed the idea of Christmas magic to take hold. Her mother had given her a diary in that exact shade of purple. Never after, did Miranda find one like it; that is until now.

  As soon as she pushed in the wreath-covered front door, she shouted out, “Merry Christmas!” With the holiday traffic, the trip had taken almost the full day.

  “Merry Christmas!” a chorus greeted her back from the den. Everyone was in there watching the Grinch that Stole Christmas. His big green face filled the widescreen as she entered. Lynn bounced up and flung herself about Miranda’s legs.

  “You came,” she cheered.

  “I came,” Miranda said. “I enjoyed Thanksgiving with you so much that I just had to come back.”

  “Good! Daddy said you wouldn’t. Then he said, you would. I wasn’t sure which was true. Watch the Grinch with us!”

  Miranda took a seat right next to Lynn in the oversized chair. Avery passed her a whiskey on the rocks, the good stuff from Stanton’s private stock. “I’m glad you’re home,” Avery whispered.

  “Me, too,” Miranda said. After she said it, she realized she meant it. The last few weeks melted away from her, like they were just a movie someone else starred in, and it was Thanksgiving again, only this time a Frasier fir, fully decorated with lights and clear glass ornaments, filled the front left side of the room. Lynn rested her head on Miranda’s lap.

  After the movie finished, the older generation all begged off to bed. Scott bribed Lynn into her own bed with an extra reading of the Night Befo
re Christmas. In the kitchen, Miranda picked through the leftovers for a sort of dinner and poured herself another whiskey. She sat at the breakfast nook, reading over some emails to Blocked Poet, amazed that on Christmas Eve people would still be looking at her photos.

  Then her phone buzzed. Ronan. A picture of him. Not all of him, just one key part. She blushed and put the phone down. She picked it back up. She put it down again. How could she reply to that?

  “So, show me your stuff,” Scott said.

  His voice startled her. She nearly jumped out of her seat at the kitchen counter. Her whiskey glass almost spilled.

  “My stuff?”

  “The poems. What have you sent Ambrose? He told me you sent a new bunch of poems that you didn’t put online yet.”

  “Really? You want to see them?” She took another sip of her whiskey. A big one.

  “Yeah, come on. Are they on this?” He reached over and picked up her phone before she had a chance to block the screen.

  “Is that?”

  “Is that what?” she asked.

  “A penis? You’re surfing porn in the kitchen on Christmas Eve. Now that’s something.”

  “It’s not porn. It’s a text message. From a friend.” She grabbed the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

  “A boyfriend? I didn’t know. You didn’t mention him at Thanksgiving.”

  “It wasn’t a thing then. And he’s not a boyfriend. I didn’t say boyfriend.”

  Scott stepped back a little, a touch of a frown creeping at the edge of his face. “If he’s not a boyfriend, why is he sending you that?”

  Miranda instantly felt fourteen again. She wished Avery would wake up and breeze into the kitchen for a glass of water or Lynn to wake up looking for her dad. Anything to get her out of this conversation.

  “It’s not like that.”

  Then something darker slipped across Scott’s face. “It isn’t serious, is it? You’re not in love?”

  Miranda took another sip of her whiskey. “Not love. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I said it’s not like that. I like being with him. But he’s leaving.”

  “That picture doesn’t look like a man who is leaving. Does the big fella have a name?”

  “Ronan. And he is leaving. He’s going back to Ireland. Student visa expired.”

  “You aren’t thinking of marrying him are you?”

  “No, God, no. I said I like being with him. But he’s leaving. Plane ticket bought. He’s home packing.”

  “And you’re here. Without him?”

  “It’s Christmas, of course I’m here. I wanted to see Avery and my dad. And Lynn, and your parents.”

  “Exactly, Miranda, it’s Christmas. Why didn’t you bring him?” Scott took a step closer to cover the distance between them. He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Though I’m glad you didn’t. I wanted to see you. And explain,” he said.

  Miranda’s phone buzzed again. She looked down and fumbled to find the off button. By the time she looked up, Scott was backing himself out of the room.

  “Never mind. I must have misunderstood,” he said. Then he turned and left.

  Miranda stayed in the kitchen for a long time after that. She kept her phone in her pocket. The ice melted in her glass, so she poured another whiskey, this time straight up. And another after that.

  C H A P T E R

  COFFEE WAS REQUIRED TO MATCH Lynn’s early morning shouts of, “It’s Christmas! Everyone up! It’s Christmas!” Only Scott seemed prepared to start the day. He was already in the kitchen, coffeepot on full blast by the time Miranda struggled down the stairs still pulling on her robe.

  He handed her a cup, sugar and milk, without words.

  “Thanks,” she said. Then they both joined the others in the den under the tree for the explosion of presents.

  Lynn tore into her presents like a tornado. Her arms wind-milled around, leaving shreds of paper in their wake. With each present unwrapped, she squealed.

  Scott sipped his coffee right next to Lynn; he glanced up and smiled at Miranda. Her cheeks burned. She lowered her head, trying to ignore the buzzing of her cell phone in her pocket. Coming here made her even more confused. She had no idea what to say to Ronan.

  “A Polly Pocket set. With a brown-haired Polly!! I love it! Thank you, Miss Avery!”

  Next came the pink ski boots and matching parka.

  “For our ski trip,” Bunny said. “We can match.” Lynn leaned over and pressed herself against her grandmother.

  “I’m going to learn to ski, I’m going to learn to ski,” she sang.

  “And look good doing it,” Linden added.

  As Lynn’s pile of gifts worked its way down to Miranda’s, Miranda suspected Lynn’s enthusiasm could not hold. She vowed not to take it personally. It was only a diary, after all. And Polly Pockets and Little Ponies have commercials. And cool packaging and online games you can play with your friends. Miranda shifted a little uncomfortably. She swirled her coffee cup around, thinking it might be the perfect time to get a second cup. Scott slid up next to her.

  “I love this part,” he said.

  “What part?”

  Lynn wind-milled through a Barbie and her horse from her grandparents. “Thank you, thank you!” she squealed again.

  “The abandon of it. She just goes for the moment. And she’s thankful for it. Right then. It doesn’t take her years to figure out what things are. She sees it and loves it, and just goes for it.”

  “We aren’t talking about presents, are we?”

  “No, we aren’t. I’m sorry about last night. I wasn’t expecting that. I had something else in mind for this week.”

  “Something else?”

  “I wish you weren’t seeing someone.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Never mind. You’re right. It doesn’t matter,” he said, looking off to where Lynn had positioned Barbie’s horse with the My Little Ponies.

  Just then, Lynn exclaimed, “Randa Panda, it’s perfect.” Lynn held the diary aloft in both hands. “It even has a lock! Daddy, you see that, a real lock with tiny keys. Now I can write anything I want, and you can’t read it.”

  “That’s true. A diary is for your own private thoughts. Though if you ever need anyone to read anything, I’d be happy to,” Miranda said.

  “Of course I will. Thank you, Randa! Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Miranda couldn’t help but smile; the whiskey headache didn’t even hurt as badly anymore.

  “Didn’t you have one just like that?” Stanton asked. “I think your mother gave it to you.”

  “I wrote my first poem in that diary,” Miranda said.

  “Was it purple like mine?” Lynn asked.

  “Yes, it was. And I took it everywhere I went. I even wore the key on a string around my neck.”

  “I want to do that. I will write poems and wear the key and take it everywhere.” Lynn jumped up from the pile of wrapping paper and ran to hug Miranda. Nothing could have prepared Miranda for that exquisite sensation. She squeezed Lynn tighter, inhaling the fruity scent of her shampoo and the candy cane she snuck from the tree when she thought Scott wasn’t looking. “I’m glad you like it, sweetie,” Miranda whispered.

  “I love it, Randa. Maybe I’ll be a writer just like you.” Lynn said.

  The breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon helped her hangover, but the buzzing of her phone didn’t. Finally, she pulled it out of her pocket, trying to think of what to text Ronan. Maybe a Merry Christmas and that she would call him later. Only she didn’t want to call him later. She wanted to stay in Connecticut and make gingerbread houses. She wanted to watch Linden and Stanton play the Pretty Princess game Santa brought Lynn. She wanted to finish her conversation with Scott.

  But the text messages weren’t from Ronan. It was Danielle. Call me. Over and over and over again. Call me.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the others at the breakfast
table. She saw Scott wince as she rose, then avert his eyes from hers.

  The phone rang its weird overseas ring almost a dozen times before Danielle picked up.

  “Miranda,” she said. “Finally. I need to ask you something.”

  “Something? Something that required twenty text messages. Are you okay?”

  “Yes and no. Just let me ask you. I want one thing to go the way it’s supposed to, okay? Okay?”

  “Okay.” Miranda could tell by the watery sound of Danielle’s voice that she had been crying. Not just a little crying, but hours of crying. She could see in her mind’s eye the face of her best friend with red blotches on her forehead and cheeks, her eyelashes framing her eyes in stark, watery relief. “What is it? What do you need?”

  “Will you be my bridesmaid? This week?”

  At first Miranda hoped she had judged wrong, maybe those weren’t tears of sadness she heard. Maybe it was all okay, just the phone connection overseas. “Yes, of course. But this week?”

  “Your passport is good, right? You keep that ready. I know you keep that ready.”

  Miranda smiled. Danielle knew her too well. “I do keep it ready. When do I need to get there by? But wait, you aren’t pregnant or something? Omar’s family isn’t making this a shotgun wedding are they?”

  Then her friend began to wail. Not cry. Not sob. But wail. Through the breaks in her crying, Danielle struggled to get out the words. All Miranda could make out was growth and uterus.

  “Wait, you have something wrong?”

  “Yes,” Danielle said. She sucked hard at her breath and sighed. “The doctor says there is something wrong with me, and that in my condition I can’t travel or work for many months. They said I need to go to the American hospital as soon as possible. Omar is marrying me, so that I can stay in the country and get the treatment without losing my job and my visa. He says he loves me and wants to marry me, but I think it is just to be nice. But I don’t care. I can’t care. I’m stuck anyway.”

  “Oh, Dani, he does love you. He’s loved you for years. He’s just been afraid of his family.”