Living Backwards

by Tracy Sweeney

  “You okay?”

  “You’re…you’re buying a third property?” she stammered.

  “Well, I imagined five—a couple bars, a couple restaurants, and I have my eye on this diner, but it’s actually not in Seattle. But yeah, just the third for now.”

  “Jesus,” she muttered. “So, wow…I...um…I actually forgot my follow-up question.”

  She flipped her pad over and ran her finger down the page.

  “So, how does this normally work?” I asked, needing to break the awkward the silence. “The article, I mean.”

  “Oh, well, it’s simple. We’ll highlight the aspect of the renovation that will best attract business—both for you and for Danielle,” she added absently.

  Once I got her to talk about the areas she was planning to highlight, the conversation flowed comfortably. I explained how I wanted to combine the feeling of a neighborhood pub with that of a gourmet restaurant. Grace’s Fire wouldn’t be the type of place where you’d need a translator to read the menu. It would be good food for everyday people.

  Before we knew it, we were driving into Tacoma.

  “God, it’s so weird being here,” she said softly, staring out the window.

  “You don’t come back often?”

  “No, I do. It’s just…weird. I forget…” she said sadly.

  We passed the site of the old Greasy Spoon where Jillian sat cross-legged on top of a picnic table and inhaled a cheeseburger.

  “Oh my God! Ink Credible Art is still open!” she exclaimed.

  “I thought you said you came back here?” It was like she was seeing Tacoma for the first time.

  “I do, but I never paid attention...I guess I just missed it,” she added. “Does Seth still run it?”

  “I haven’t been inside in years,” I replied.

  I was bombarded by images of her tattoo—the raised skin—how I wanted to feel it. Then suddenly I began wondering, in the time we’d been apart, who had seen that tattoo and touched her skin. It made me crazy.

  “Have you ever gone back? Gotten more work done?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied. “I just have the one.”

  “You?”

  “I had Seth do some work with the flames, but that was years ago.”

  When I asked him to add a few more.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that the ride to Reynolds was a veritable minefield of memories. It also hadn’t occurred to me that our route was going to take us right past the cliffs. There was no way around it without tacking an extra half-hour onto the trip.

  The conversation had lulled as we approached the area where I had parked my bike years ago. My whole body tensed as we passed the trees that lined the border. What was I supposed to say? Over here on the left, you’ll find the cliffs where you were deflowered?

  “Have you…do you ever go back there?” she asked, looking out toward the trees.

  “To the cliffs? No. Well, once,” I replied, remembering the day with Carter, and how he told me that I couldn’t throw my life away. He kicked my ass in gear, and then made me eat a biscotti.

  “Did you…bring someone?”

  “There? What? No,” I replied, outraged. “I went with Carter once after you were gone. I could never do that.”

  “I had no right to ask you that, Luke. I’m sorry. I was out of line—”

  “Jillian, if we’re going to do this, we can’t tiptoe around each other anymore. I’m here because I want to be here. If you want to know who I dated, I’ll tell you.”

  I’d obviously leave out how Vanessa broke up with me when I couldn’t manage to take her to a Green Day concert.

  “I don’t think I want to know all of that,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re not dating anyone now, though, right?”

  “No, I’m not dating anyone right now.”

  She smiled softly and fidgeted with the bracelet on her wrist.

  “I have a hard time imagining you showing up at my door and taking me to a movie. It’s so…conventional,” she said, laughing.

  “I can do convention. I can do a lot of things.”

  When I looked over at her, Jillian was opening and closing her mouth, but no sound was coming out. I had to admit that I liked knocking her off her game.

  I finally pulled down the windy road to Grace and Carter’s house. Once I parked the car, I met her on the other side, grabbing her hand and leading her up the walkway. Her fingers curled around mine as we climbed the stairs. Grace must have been watching from the window because I never had a chance to ring the doorbell. The door flew open and Grace came barreling out.

  “Luke, sweetie!” she exclaimed, pulling me in for a bone-crushing hug. She turned to Jillian and smiled widely. “Jillian, it’s so good to see you again. Come in, come in.”

  As soon as we walked through the doorway, I could smell something cooking in the kitchen. I thought I smelled sauce and fish and maybe even charcoal from the grill. It definitely didn’t smell like vegetable stir-fry.

  I led Jillian by the hand through the foyer and into the dining room, but stopped short at the sight before me.

  Placed around the perimeter of the entire table were probably two dozen different dishes—pasta, fish, chicken, beef and salad. Each plate had what looked like a laminated tag in front of it. Dropping Jillian’s hand, I moved toward the table and picked up a tag. It was laminated and had “Grandma LaBreque’s Barbeque Meatloaf” in large letters at the top. The rest of the sheet listed ingredients and possible wine-pairings. I looked up at her, not really knowing what to say.

  “I may have gone a bit overboard,” she said, laughing nervously.

  “Grace, is this the whole menu?”

  “Oh gosh! Of course not!” she replied, laughing. “It’s only the core entrees. We’ll add seasonal dishes, obviously. Oh, and appetizers.”

  “I can’t believe you cooked all this,” I said, scanning the table. “I thought we were going to talk about the food. Not actually eat it.”

  “Well, how would you know if you liked the recipe or not?” she asked, as if it had been the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “So, I made a list of all the dishes,” she continued, grabbing two clipboards from the table. “There’s a space next to each for you to comment.”

  She handed me a clipboard and I glanced down the page—chicken milanese, white truffle macaroni and cheese, pistachio encrusted tuna—the list went on and on.

  “I made a copy this morning for Jillian, too,” she added, handing her a clipboard. “It’ll be good to have a non-biased opinion.”

  So for the next hour, we sampled the dishes while Grace followed behind us asking how each one tasted and what type of sides we should offer. After an hour, the wine Grace had been plying us with seemed to be affecting Jillian.

  “Grace, I’m not sure this coconut rice thing is going to fly,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “Coconut belongs inside chocolate or in crappy mixed drinks.”

  Grace looked more amused than offended by her comment. I also noticed that in between tastings, Jillian’s hand somehow found its way onto my arm. Whether she rested it casually on my forearm as she took a quick sip of wine or absently ran it along my shoulders, she was always touching me somewhere, and it was beginning to affect me…a lot. So much so, that when Grace asked me what I thought, my first reaction was that I thought it was time to leave so we could have some alone time. That wasn’t what she was asking, though, and I had missed the actual question.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, embarrassed that I had been caught off guard.

  “I asked if you thought the steak tips would taste better with more Worcestershire sauce,” she repeated. “Nevermind. Let me just grab some,” she added, hurrying off to the kitchen.

  “Earth to Luke,” Jillian said, waving her hand in front of my face. “Something on your mind? You seem a little…distracted,” she teased, arching her eyebrow. She’d definitely loosened up a bit.

  “Well, you’re pretty distracting,” I replied,
leaning in close. “And you seem a little tipsy already. Surprising from the girl who once carried a flask.”

  “I’m older and wiser now. Joan and I don’t party like rock stars anymore. I’m a cheap date,” she laughed.

  “This isn’t a date. Remember?”

  “True. It has some date-like elements,” she said, looking up at me from underneath her lashes. “But it’s definitely not a date.”

  “Date-like elements?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

  “Yes, well, you picked me up at my place,” she began, staring at her fingers as she ran them along the table cloth. “You held my hand. You fed me some fantastic food.”

  She stopped, looking up slowly, and I could tell she was struggling again with whatever it was that she wanted to say.

  “But if this was a date, I think you would have kissed me already.”

  I grabbed the hand that was still tracing patterns on the tablecloth and pulled her closer, wrapping my free arm around her waist. Holding her still felt familiar and foreign all at once.

  “It’s a shame that this isn’t a date because I really want to kiss you. But I imagine—since this isn’t a date—that it would be inappropriate,” I replied. My mouth was almost brushing against hers.

  “I wouldn’t want to do anything inappropriate…since this isn’t a date,” she replied. I could feel her breath against my lips. As much as I enjoyed teasing her, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to hold out.

  “Maybe we could make an exception—just this once—even though this isn’t a date,” I added, slowly, softly, barely touching her lips.

  “Just this once.”

  When I moved closer, she sighed and I breathed her in. When she moaned in my arms, I held her tighter and kissed her harder. I couldn’t get enough.

  I had forgotten that Grace had only gone into the kitchen for a bottle of Worcestershire sauce until I heard a gasp. Startled, Jillian jumped back, almost knocking over a chair.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed from the doorway, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Carry on. I’ll be in the kitchen. Pretend I’m not here.”

  As embarrassing as it was having Grace walk in while I groped Jillian, I wasn’t going to ask my aunt to hide in the kitchen just to avoid feeling awkward.

  “Sorry about that,” I laughed, nervously. “Let’s try the Worcestershire,” I added, desperate to change the subject.

  “Still hungry?” I asked Jillian, smirking. Her eyes went wide, and her face flushed more. She wasn’t thinking of steak tips and Worcestershire sauce. But with Grace in the room, there’d be no more time to discuss what was or was not appropriate for our non-date.

  Jillian took her fork, dipped it in the sauce and took a bite of steak.

  “Oh, Grace,” she groaned. “This is amazing. Luke, you need to try this.”

  I went to reach for a plate, but Jillian grabbed another piece and raised it to my mouth.

  “Here, taste mine,” she said, matching my smirk. It was my turn to feel uncomfortable as her words played on-loop in my mind.

  At three-thirty, Grace served the vegetable stir-fry, telling us that the food we had been gorging ourselves on couldn’t be considered lunch. We were already stuffed, but she was so excited about her vegetables that we had to try it. When we were finished, Jillian pulled out her notebook and recorder, and asked questions about Grace’s inspirations and favorite types of dishes. I listened to the two of them as they laughed and joked about some cook on the Food Network.

  “You’d like her, Luke,” Jillian laughed. “She’s hot, but she’d force her moots-a-rella on you.”

  “I think you just made a food joke, but I’m not even sure,” I replied, shaking my head.

  Grace however was doubled over. “Or maybe her pan-cheet-tah,” she added.

  “Wow, you guys need to take this act on the road. There isn’t enough food humor out there.”

  By the time Grace and Jillian finished gossiping about Food Network hosts, it was already getting dark, and it was time to head home.

  “I hope I’ll get to see you again soon, Jillian,” Grace said, pulling her in for a hug.

  “Well, with food like that, I think I’ll be at the restaurant every night!” she exclaimed. “You’re going to get so sick of me.”

  “Never,” she replied, with a wink.

  “Bye, Grace,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Thanks for everything.”

  As soon as we headed back down the winding road, an uncomfortable silence fell over the car. I’d spent the last three hours waiting to be alone with Jillian. Now that we finally were, I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, she broke the silence.

  “Well, I’m glad I brought my camera. The picture of the dining room tasting is priceless,” she said, laughing. “She’s too much.”

  “God, that wasn’t even the half of it. You should’ve seen her when the first book came out. She held a book release party and was cooking for days.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that,” she added, wistfully.

  At times when I looked at her, I felt like she was still the girl I knew all those years ago—silly and frustrating, teasing and watching me squirm. Then there were times I looked at her and could barely see that girl. The most striking difference between Jillian as a teenager and Jillian now happened at times like this. She was so confident and ready to take me on when we were kids. There was never any fear or uncertainty. Now, even when she joked around, there was an underlying sadness. It would peek through when we were quiet. It showed on her face now.

  “Me too,” I replied.

  “It was good to see her, though…as embarrassing as it was there for a little while. I felt like a teenager getting caught sneaking around.”

  “Better my aunt than your dad and his gun. Do I still need to worry about that?”

  “Not unless you’re skulking outside my window at three in the morning.”

  “Well, I was hoping that won’t be necessary anymore.” I was hoping for an invitation inside.

  She shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to me, and I smiled. She understood exactly what I meant.

  “I had a really good time today,” she finally said.

  I could see that she was looking at me, but I kept my attention on the dark road ahead.

  “I’m glad. Grace was excited when I told her you were coming with me. She’s…excitable.”

  “That’s an understatement, but…I didn’t mean that I had a good time with Grace today. I meant I had a good time with you.”

  “I had a good time with you, too,” I replied, glancing over to her quickly.

  If I wanted to survive the drive back, I couldn’t dwell on how badly I wanted to be in Seattle already, and how much I wanted to touch her again. The tension would kill me. I knew I had to get her talking. So, I asked about Meg and Nate, and she filled me in on their wedding plans, including the ship they rented for the ceremony in February. Jillian suffered from motion sickness and was convinced she was going to be the first one to throw up. She asked about Carter and told some crazy stories about New York—some seemed to contradict others. I chalked it up to nerves. She made me nervous, too.

  I found it hard listening to the things that happened while she was in college. Everything she mentioned—no matter how minor—reminded me that I wasn’t there. I wasn’t mad at her, though. I just hated that we wasted so much time.

  When we began to approach the city, I had a decision to make. I would need to veer off in one direction to take Jillian to her apartment, and another if I didn’t take her home, and I really, really didn’t want to take her home. Well, I did…but to my home.

  “So…I could drop you back at your apartment if you’re tired. Or if you’d like, we can get a drink or something…maybe go to the bar or back to my place…” I winced because I knew I was stammering like an idiot.

  “That sounds perfect, actually…but I don’t think I’m up for going to the bar,” she replied. “So, maybe your place? If that’s okay?”r />
  Yeah…it was okay. It was better than okay.

  So instead of taking Jillian home, I drove to my place knowing full well that I wasn’t doing it to get her a glass of wine. I was much more interested in the “or something”.

  The minute the car stopped, I reached over, sliding my hand behind her neck and pulling her closer. After spending the last three hours thinking about nothing but kissing her, I needed less thinking and more doing. I wasn’t capable of waiting anymore.

  It felt so good to just kiss her when I wanted to and not think about all the bullshit from the past. It felt so good when she kissed me back. It felt even better when she started to move out of her seat and lean over toward mine. And the best when she tried to crawl into my lap. Unfortunately, the space in my car wasn’t conducive to that particular maneuver and we ended up wedged in the driver’s seat.

  Laughing, I opened the door, pulling her out of the car with me—still kissing her as I attempted to close the door and stand on my tired legs. We swayed back and forth until I leaned her against the car. She pulled away from me, panting, and smiled, and I just knew I was going to ask her to stay with me. I needed her to stay with me.

  “I think you need to take me upstairs now, Luke,” she said, breathlessly. And I thought so, too.

  I grabbed her by the hand as we walked into the building, laughing like kids, and headed straight for the elevator.

  “Hey, Luke,” George said from behind his desk. George, the overnight security guard, clearly wanted to be introduced to Jillian. It would have to be some other time, though. I was sure he’d understand that I was in a bit of a rush.

  “Hey, George, did you catch the Huskies game?” I asked as we waited for the elevator. “It’s going to be a good year.” Small talk was the key here. Don’t engage.

  “You can say that again. Have a good evening,” he added with a smirk. George, a Boston native as well, had already not-so-subtly grilled me about Jillian after seeing her leave two weeks ago. I could practically sense his hand twitching to give me a high five.