Rolling in the Deep

by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  Holly props an elbow on the table and grabs a sugar packet to play with. She shakes it nervously. “I don’t know.”

  “Is there something that you love?”

  Her eyes fill up again. “Gardening. Flowers. You know, planting.”

  I can’t help it—I rest my hand against her cheek, and wipe a tear away with my thumb. “Why are you crying?”

  She leans against my hand. God in heaven.

  “Because…” She grabs a napkin from the table dispenser and dabs it against her face. “Because…I don’t know. I can have a house now, maybe. And there’s this community garden where I volunteer? We never have enough money for supplies. Everyone kicks in whatever they can afford, but it’s never…And now I can—”

  “You can buy the whole damn city and plant flowers on it.”

  She laughs. “Not quite.”

  “You could have your own garden.” I smile at that—at the image of her in a backyard, with a big floppy hat and a tiny little shovel. “You could, I don’t know, build other people’s gardens.”

  “Landscaping.” She sniffs, and hides a smile behind her scrunched-up napkin.

  “Right.” Her other hand taps against the tabletop. I cover it with my fingers. “You could be a landscape gardener.”

  She turns her hand over and presses her palm against mine. “And you could buy your own restaurant.”

  “Whoa. You’re right.”

  She breathes in unevenly, her gaze fixed with mine, and I realize both of my hands are on her now—one in her hair, one on her hand. I feel the gentle vibration of her body, the shaking. The emotion that moves through her. The tender and hesitant hope that feels so much like sadness.

  I want to kiss her.

  I’m scared to death. Of what’s to come for both of us, of how this will change us. Of going to sleep tonight and waking up to a life that’s utterly, entirely new.

  There’s no going back to how it was, not now.

  I know a normal person would ask why anyone would want to go back. To driving a beat-up old truck from a one-room apartment to a dead-end job at Cogmans day after day. Or before that, to slinging burgers at a run-down diner in Forest Hills.

  But that little life—that ordinary, run-of-the-mill American life—it was my life. I knew it. I understood it.

  This, whatever it’s going to be, I don’t understand.

  I don’t understand anything right now but the softness of Holly’s cheek along the palm of my hand. The blue of her eyes on mine.

  I trace the outline of her lips with my thumb, my fingertips trailing along the side of her throat. Her breath catches. Her pulse beats hard against my hand.

  I want to kiss her. To follow the line of my thumb with my tongue, to cover her mouth with mine. I want to suck in her gasp, breathe her air, taste her.

  But we’re in a fucking booth at IHOP.

  I might be out of my mind. But I’m not going to kiss Holly for the first time in the middle of a chain restaurant.

  I take out my wallet and Holly sits back, flushed and silent. She takes a sudden interest in organizing the cutlery. I drop a ten on the table, take Holly’s hand, and all but drag her out to the parking lot.

  Chapter 7

  Holly

  The evening breeze hits my skin and I realize how hot it was inside the restaurant. Or at least how hot it felt, being pressed against Ray like that.

  I don’t know how it happened—how I ended up on his side of the booth. It startled me to see him crying, I guess.

  Brett never cried like that, never showed much emotion at all besides anger and a certain kind of possessive tenderness.

  With Ray, it was like seeing Drew cry. All I wanted to do was comfort him, but then it got all twisted up. He was comforting me, and I don’t even know what for.

  What the hell kind of person cries when they win the lottery? We’re supposed to be celebrating. Getting drunk and whooping it up, calling all our friends.

  But I don’t want to call anyone. At the moment the only person I want to know about this is Ray. The only person I want to be with is Ray, and that’s terrifying.

  He almost kissed me just now. And God help me, I would have let him. Hell, I almost leaned in myself, and that’s not something I ever do. I’m far too reserved for that, too quiet. I put my head down and get my work done, and I…I wait for things to happen to me. I react the best I can. I try to be prepared.

  As if you could prepare yourself for a thing like this.

  We’re rich, Ray and me. We’re rich now. How am I going to put my head down and get through this? And why—why—is that what I so desperately want to do?

  Ray has my hand in his still. He’s pulling me toward my car, parked beside his at the back of the restaurant, the lot away from the street and dimly lit. In the growing shadows his face looks more severe. Dangerous, almost, and on some level I realize that should maybe scare me a little. We’re the only cars parked back here, and he’s clearly upset. Anything could happen.

  And, God, I want it to.

  I stop abruptly a few feet away from Ray’s truck, bringing him up short and pulling my hand from his. I bend my knees and cover my face with both hands, and half scream. Half cry.

  I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. I’m so tired of waiting.

  And I can do anything now, can’t I? I’m rich. That’s what people do when they have money. They do anything they want.

  I stand up again so fast it makes me dizzy, and I push Ray. I push him three feet backward against the bumper of his truck, and when I get him there I don’t know what to do. He’s breathing hard. I feel the air moving in and out of his chest because my hand is there, right against his heart. He breathes against my palm like he’s running and I feel it coursing through me. The energy of him, the life. His eyes flash with fear and heat, with desire. He wants it, too. He’s scared, too.

  I step forward and close the distance between us.

  “Holly.” His breath brushes against my mouth and my knees buckle. He grabs my arms to steady me. And then to pull me in. So that my thighs press against his. So that I can feel his hips against mine. I shift into him, and he hisses out a breath, and then his hands are in my hair. He’s holding me right against his mouth and it’s hotter and more intimate than any kiss I’ve ever had. Except that he’s not kissing me, not yet. It’s like he’s waiting, for me to take that last step in.

  And I do, God help me. It’s happening too fast, and everything in both of our lives is turning upside down, and this is the last thing in the world we should be doing. But I move in anyway, and touch my lips to his.

  The sound he makes—Jesus, the sound he makes before he flips us around and presses me against the truck.

  His hands grip the back of my head, sheltering it from the truck’s surface and at the same time pulling me deeper into the kiss. It’s like being dragged into a long, dark cave. Like being sucked under water. When his tongue trails hotly along my lower lip, I don’t know where I am.

  A light wind drifts across our skin—a sharp coolness against burning, burning heat.

  I press closer, and he shudders. Actually shudders, from the touch of my body. I feel its power suddenly—the way my breasts graze his chest when I move, the way that shatters his breathing.

  It seems to galvanize him. His hands, suddenly, are moving. All over my body. He slides his palms up to my breasts and he’s not gentle. Thank God he’s not gentle. When he feels me arch toward him he bends his head and bites into my neck.

  Jesus. “Ray.”

  He pulls back with effort, his hands fisting at his sides. He tries to look at me but can’t, and swipes his hand across his face instead. He drops to a crouch, and then down to his knees on the pavement.

  “God almighty, Holly.”

  I manage to sit down beside him. For several moments all we can do is try to catch our breath.

  His eyes are closed, his hand covering his mouth. That soft, beautiful mouth. His strong hands.

  H
e’s a chef. I never knew. I wonder what he’s like in the kitchen. What he’s like when he’s doing what he loves.

  “Ray…Are you okay?”

  “No.” He laughs abruptly, and risks a glance at me. “Are you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what just happened.”

  He shifts a little to face me, displacing the gravel underneath his jeans. “Maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be a dream.”

  I gesture with my chin toward the truck “I don’t usually have those kinds of dreams.”

  “No?” Ray’s eyes warm. “Me neither. Not like that.”

  “I’m sorry, Ray. For…I don’t know. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Holly.” He holds out his hand. I hesitate briefly, and then take it. “Listen to me. Don’t be sorry. Okay? Please don’t be fucking sorry.”

  I take a shaky breath. “Okay.”

  “We should talk about this, about what just…”

  “Yeah.”

  He stands and starts to pace, back and forth along the bumper of his truck.

  “And we…we also have to talk about what comes next.”

  I rise, too, to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that, you know, we’ll have to claim the ticket. And there are options about how you take the money. Lump sum or monthly payments, how you split it when two people buy one ticket. You’ll have to…you know, think about what you want. How you want to do it.”

  All at once something occurs to me, and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before now. “Ray.” I can’t believe I’m such a self-centered jerk.

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have to…I mean, you’re the one with the ticket. It was your idea to buy it. You don’t—”

  He stops and holds up a hand, incredulous. “Are you serious? Dios.”

  “It’s your ticket. You—”

  “Holly, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “But—”

  He shakes his head and inches closer to me. His work boot bumps against the toes of my canvas sneakers. “Do you really think I would take the money? And leave you with nothing? And then…and then kiss you like that?”

  I close my eyes. I don’t think he would, no. But this is reality. People behave in all sorts of ways. You have to be prepared for the worst.

  And I wasn’t, I realize. It didn’t occur to me not to believe the best of Ray.

  “I just…I wanted you to know you have options.”

  He grabs my hand. “I do have options, yeah. I opt to share the ticket with you, and the winnings, like I said I would. Okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Good. Tomorrow we can claim the ticket. Together. But first, I think we should talk to a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?”

  He lifts his shoulders, embarrassed. “I read the testimonials on the Powerball site. Everybody gets a lawyer to help them decide what to do with the money. Anyway, there might be other winners, too. We’ll have to figure all that out.”

  “Okay. Really? Yeah, let’s…let’s do that. Do we get the same lawyer or—”

  Ray cocks his head. “Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Yeah, you’ll probably want somebody separate, right? Just to make sure your, um…your interests are being covered and everything.”

  His voice has turned strangely formal. I pull back and release his hand.

  “My interests?”

  “I don’t know, Holly.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to do this any more than you do.”

  I watch him for a minute. I want very much to climb into his arms right now, like a child. But I can’t do that. I can’t lean on Ray, as tempting as it is. I have Drew to consider. I have, as Ray put it, my own interests to look out for.

  That’s reality.

  Ray holds my gaze. “We’ll talk tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” I back away toward my car, fishing in my pocket for the keys.

  He stands where he is, watching me. “Holly.”

  I go still, and suddenly he’s stepping forward, holding my face gently in his hands. He kisses me once, softly, on the lips, and whispers, “Congratulations.”

  I shouldn’t hug him—I should step back and get into my car. But I do hug him. I wrap my arms around his solid body and kiss the side of his hair. It smells like shea butter, like the lotion I rubbed onto my belly when I was pregnant.

  The scent stays with me all the way home.

  Chapter 8

  Ray

  As diligently as our lawyers have prepared us for this moment, it’s still a shock to walk into a room filled with cameras flashing and microphones pointed in your direction. Filled with people you don’t know calling your name.

  A man in a khaki suit stands on a makeshift stage with a blue curtain behind it, holding a giant check. It’s the sort of scene you’d imagine in your telenovela fantasy of lottery winning—cheesy and low-rent, like it was set up hastily on the floor of the DMV.

  It’s a surreal contrast to what is actually happening: the handing over of almost two hundred million dollars to a couple of Cogmans coworkers who met only two months ago. It turns out that ours was the only winning ticket.

  The only one.

  Sold at Patty’s deli, which means she’ll get a nice bonus from the State of New York.

  And after taxes Holly and I will take home over eighty million dollars each.

  Cash.

  On the advice of our lawyers, we’ve opted for a single lump-sum payment. Whatever we don’t use right away can be invested. It can generate even more money, potentially, although the concept of more at this point is vaguely ridiculous. I can’t begin to conceive of how to spend what I have now.

  And of course that’s the first question the reporters ask. After the announcer says, “I welcome Ray Lopez and Holly Ward,” and hands us the absurdly large check, we take our seats at a long table and hold a press conference.

  I’ve agreed to do most of the talking, for Holly’s sake. She’s uncomfortable with the cameras, with the fanfare and spotlight, and I don’t blame her. It’s Drew she’s thinking of, and the unwanted attention he’ll have to contend with.

  We drove to the lottery commission offices in separate cars. Holly is wearing a conservative navy dress, her hair pulled back in a clip—trying, I think, to be as nondescript as possible. I’m wearing a tie, because I know my mother would kill me otherwise.

  It’s the same tie I wore to her funeral.

  “What will I do with the money?” My voice sounds far away. I inch the microphone closer. “Well, it’s all very new. I don’t think either of us has had time to think yet about what comes next.” I try to smile in Holly’s direction, but she’s looking at her hands folded on the table. Her face is very pale.

  A young reporter from the Poughkeepsie Record stands up in the back of the crowd. “Did you think you were going to win?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “You must have made plans, though. Daydreams, right? About what you would do if you did win?”

  I glance at Holly. “My guess is we’re both thinking about our families, and what we can do for them now. And the charities we can donate to. The…people we’ll be able to help.”

  I sound like an idiot. I glance at the lottery commissioner. Is it time to leave yet?

  “Ms. Ward.” The Poughkeepsie Record guy remains standing. “You have a child, right?”

  Holly stiffens beside me. I realize belatedly that I’ve opened the door to this question by mentioning our families. Shit.

  I drag the single microphone closer to my face. “We both…um…both Holly and I would very much like to be as private as possible through this process. I’m sure you—” I clear my throat. “I’m sure you can understand that. Not…I mean, not wanting to mention our particular family members, especially the kids.”

  The reporter all but rolls his eyes, but he backs off. “You both work at Cogmans, right?”

  “Well…” I smile. “For now.”

&n
bsp; That gets a big laugh from the room. Another reporter pipes up. “Not going to keep your job, then, eh?”

  I let out a brief laugh. “No. Holly?”

  She smiles slightly, and shakes her head. Everyone laughs again.

  I give a pointed look to the commissioner, who steps in front of the table and begins to wrap things up. He makes sure to invite the reporters to the Powerball website where our “story” will soon be available to the general public.

  As we rise and exit the room, reporters and camera people rush out behind us and try to grab individual interviews.

  “Mr. Lopez. Mr. Lopez.” The Poughkeepsie Record guy steps into my path and shoves a minirecorder in my face. I’m trying to turn him down politely when Holly slips out a side door and disappears.

  I change tactics, clearing my throat loudly to attract the attention of the press that remains. The least I can do is give her a five-minute head start out of the parking lot.

  “I just want to thank everyone for coming out today to meet us. And thank the whole Powerball operation for giving us this amazing opportunity. Everyone’s been really nice, and we’re grateful, as you can imagine.”

  “Mr. Lopez, hey.” A reporter is here from NY1, I see now—my favorite morning news guy from Staten Island.

  “Hi, Roger!” I say, genuinely grinning. “Never thought I’d be interviewed by you. That’s so cool, man.”

  By the time I’m done joking around with him and dodging any serious questions from anybody else, Holly is long gone.

  I say my goodbyes and thanks to everyone at the commission office, they confirm that the money will arrive in my bank account in about ten days, and I jump in my truck and head home.

  Alone.

  Somehow, it’s anticlimactic. Like I’ve gotten used to the excitement already and now regular life—the simple act of driving down the highway—is flat and unremarkable. As though I deserve, now, to have only remarkable things happen to me.

  Or maybe I just miss Holly.

  This morning Tony helped me find a lawyer. By the time I met with her and got myself in order, Holly’s lawyer had already contacted me with a request to cease contact until we’d had a chance to draw up a contract. That hurt a little, I can’t lie. But lawyers don’t trust someone’s word of honor, I know that. It’s best for both of us to have something in writing.