“Sorry, Raylene. It’s just that I have work early tomorrow. But I had fun. Best night. And I’ll walk you to your car. Jesus, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”
Raylene looks at the button I undid and says, “Very hot.”
“Okay, let’s go!” I push her out of the booth, sort of gently, and catch our waitress, who has our bill. I sign my name somewhere on the receipt before she can hand it to me, and then make a beeline for the front door.
I’m outside in two seconds flat.
A steady flow of teenagers weave around me, talking about a slasher movie they just saw, but I just stand there, breathing like I’m in the Alaskan tundra. At the edge of the world. Free again.
Raylene hooks her arm through mine. “I am having so much fun, Ethan James. So much! My car is this way. I found street parking, how lucky is that? Are you okay?”
She gets under my arm somehow as she talks. I can’t imagine it’s a very fun place to be as I’m approaching post-soccer match sweat.
“Yeah, yeah. Great.” It’s time to manage her expectations. “Listen, Raylene. I’m going to walk you to your car, and then I’m going to head home, okay?”
And for the first time, her deer in headlights eyes dim.
It catches me so off guard I almost trip on the curb.
“Okay. Yeah. That’s okay. But we had fun, right? This is it right here. Wow. What a night, don’t you think?”
She stops in front of a white Lexus SUV, and when our eyes meet, I think she must see the truth in mine because she looks down quickly at her purse. “I guess you don’t want me to come over. That’s okay. I understand. It’s just that I got a sitter and everything.”
“Raylene?” I say. “Can I talk?”
She nods. “I know I talk a lot. Okay. Your turn.”
“Thanks.” I rub my hand over my face, still trying to shake off the heat and stench of Rock Sugar. “Why are you doing this? The cuff links. Hawaii and The Desert. Why all of that? You barely know me.”
“You were born in Fort Collins, Colorado, on August 11th. You’re mildly color-blind. You played four years of soccer at UCLA, and your favorite book is The Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield.”
“Good memory, but that doesn’t answer my question. Why all the hurry? Why me?”
Raylene’s eyes well up with tears.
Aw, shit.
“Whoa,” I say. “Raylene . . . I didn’t want to make you upset. I was just wondering if you’re actually okay.”
And that’s all it takes to break the floodgates.
“No,” she says. “No, I’m really not.”
Suddenly, she’s sobbing and I can’t understand a word she’s saying. I manage to get her keys and open her car. I don’t know what my plan is. All I know is that she’s crying so hard she can barely stand upright, and the same basic instinct that drove me to flee the restaurant pushes me to help her. To give her some privacy while she breaks down.
I get her into the passenger seat then climb into the driver’s side.
Rooting around in the backseat, I find a box of tissues. There’s also a kid’s backpack and a soccer ball back there, and I feel a lump rise in my throat because Raylene is a mom, and moms shouldn’t hurt this fucking much. Just thinking about my mom crying like this makes me mental.
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she says between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, feeding her tissues. “This is actually easier on me than dinner was, so no apologies, okay?” That gets a watery laugh, which encourages me. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah.” What else can I say? She needs help. “Yes, Raylene. I do.”
So she tells me. For the next hour, I hear about the man who was her high school sweetheart. How they married at twenty-three, had a son, and spent nine great years together before, out of nowhere, he walked out on her six months ago. She tells me her heart feels like it breaks every day, every time she looks at her son, Parker, who has no father anymore, and how the divorce is nasty, and how she’s too young to feel so used and tired, and how sorry she was again about putting so much pressure on me, on our date, but she’d been desperate for a night, just one night to get her mind off her troubles. To feel young and wanted again. And that all she really wanted was to laugh.
When she’s finished, I sit back against the seat, processing it all. My eyes wander across the street to Mia’s Prius, and I promise myself that as soon as I can, I’ll head back to the restaurant to check that she’s okay.
“Admit it,” Raylene says as she smooths out the wrinkles of a used tissue and folds it back into its pre-used shape. “You think I’m a mess.”
I shake my head. “No. Just a little surprised that we went from dick indicators to divorce so fast, but I’m adjusting.”
Raylene covers her face with her hands. “Gawd. Sorry about that. It’s just that it’s been such a long time. And it feels so good to be able to touch somebody, and I guess I miss it.”
I can relate to that. Since Saturday night, I haven’t been able to get the five minutes I spent with Mia in her mom’s studio out of my mind. I scan the steps leading to the mall for her.
“Well, then admit this,” Raylene says, reassembling another used tissue. “Tonight is the worst date you’ve ever had.”
“I’ll admit it’s a strong contender. But it’s not my worst night.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “No. Not by a long shot.” But I’m not going there. I’ve experienced enough trauma this evening. If Alison comes into the picture, I’m going to need a straitjacket. So I turn things back to her.
“I’m sorry you’re going through all of that, Raylene.”
“I know you are. I can tell you are. You have kind eyes, Ethan. I noticed right away.” She gives me a sad smile and stares at the refolded stack of used tissue in her lap, letting out a long breath. “What am I supposed to do?” she says, in that sweeping what is life? way.
“Let them dry for a day, then put them back in the box. They’ll be good as new.”
She laughs, and the sound brings a rawness to my throat, because it’s a nice sound. And it’s a goddamn shame it’s so lacking in her life.
“Your son, Parker. Where does he play?” I ask.
“Oh.” She glances at the backseat and smiles like he’s there. “He was on a team in Laguna Beach, but I had to move closer to my parents so they could help out. So right now, nowhere.”
I start telling her about my team, but she interrupts me. “Thanks, but he’s not very good. He’s used to be, but now he’s scared of the ball. He actually runs away from it.”
“This is my specialty, Raylene. Bring him by. Admit it: you trust me.”
She smiles. “I’ll admit it. I do.”
I give her the details to my Dynamo practices. Then I unclip the cuff links and drop them into her open palm.
“Can you make it home okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re going back for the girl in the restaurant, aren’t you? The pretty one with the curly hair?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m too surprised she noticed anything earlier besides my stomach muscles and the exact geometry of our place settings.
“It’s okay, Ethan. I just saw you look at her a few times. Is she an old girlfriend?”
“No, she’s . . . someone I like.”
The words sound intense coming out of my mouth, and I’m zoned out as I finish saying goodbye to Raylene, pissed that I’ve somehow made this thing I’m trying to wrestle down with Mia stronger by putting voice to it.
Someone I like.
Nice fucking going, Vance. Couldn’t have said someone I work with, could you? Or someone I slept with. Or someone I split sandwiches with.
Jesus.
When Raylene leaves, I head back to the restaurant, taking the stairs two at a time. I spot Mia outside and instantly see that something’s wrong.
“Really,
Robby, I’m fine,” she says, backing away from him. “I’ve got it from here. Thank you and good night.”
Robby’s steps weave as he advances on her. “Come on, sweetheart,” he slurs. “It’s only nine o’clock.”
I walk up and touch Mia’s arm. “Are you okay?”
She gives a tiny jump of surprise, then I see her relief. “Yes.”
“Who are you?” Robby says, behind me.
I turn, making sure Mia’s behind me. “Go home, man. Your night’s over.”
He pushes out his purple chest. “What the fuck is this? You brought another guy to our date?”
“He’s right, Robby,” Mia says. “You should go home.”
“Are you kidding me? Bitch, I just bought you dinner.”
I step forward, ready to beat the shit out of him, but he puts his hands up and steps away, retreating. “I’m leaving,” he says, then looks past me. “Have a great night, you little whore.”
I surge after him, but Mia’s hand closes on my wrist. “Ethan, don’t.” She doesn’t let go, and I’m dragging her with me as I move after Robby. There’s no way I can get to Robby without hurting her. “Ethan, stop.”
I look at her, but it takes me a second to actually see her.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I hear myself ask.
She hesitates. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
I take her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
I load her into Jason’s Jeep without even stopping to consider it. Mia gives me directions to her place, and we’re both quiet on the ride.
Part of me feels good about what I did with Raylene, like maybe I helped her. The other part is pure self-hatred. What was I thinking, leaving Mia alone with that fucking idiot?
Finally, I can’t stand the silence anymore.
“Did that shithead touch you?”
“Not really,” she says smoothly, like she’s been waiting for my question. “I mean he tried. I guess he did enough to shake me up a little, but you saw where we were. There were people around. He wasn’t going to do anything . . . real.”
For a while, all I can do is hang onto the steering wheel and make sure I don’t get us into a car accident.
I lose time after that. I’m on the freeway, then I’m pulling into her parking spot. I cut the engine and stare at the steps to her apartment.
I can’t stand myself.
I want to find Robby and hurt him. Really hurt him.
And I can’t look at her.
She’s about to get out of the car and disappear into her apartment, and my only chance of getting through that is by pretending the walkway in front of me is the only thing that exists.
Then I break my own rule and look at her, because tonight can’t end like this. There’s just no fucking way I’m letting that happen.
“Do you want to come up?” she asks. “Maybe we can hang out a little bit. You know—talk about tonight and—debrief?”
“Yeah. I want come up,” I say.
But the truth is, I need it.
Chapter 27
Mia
Q: Do you like big crowds or more intimate settings?
Inside my apartment, I drag Ethan past the dog pile of friends and neighbors piled on my sofa watching American Horror Story and head straight for my bedroom.
Usually, I love my roommates, the warmth and chaos of living with this ever-changing tribe of friends and friends of friends. But tonight, I just want to seal myself into a quiet place, even if it’s with a person who makes me ache just to look at him.
I switch on the bedside lamp and flop down on my comforter. Mashing all my pillows together behind me, I stretch out and gesture for Ethan to have a seat on the high-backed chair by my desk. What I really want is for him to come sit on the bed, pull me into his arms, and look at me in that way he does—like he sees me, like I’m more than just a pair of breasts and a socket in search of a plug. But that way madness lies, so I’m also relieved when he turns the chair around and settles into it.
I watch him take in the gossamer drapes, the white stenciled butterflies on the soft gray walls, and my video equipment stacked on a leather bench at the foot of the bed. Then his eyes come to rest on me, and emotions flit across his face quicker than frames in a film reel. It seems like he’s taking this useless night as hard as I am.
He holds out his hand, and I can’t help myself; I take it. It’s warm and perfectly rough, and I can feel the life of him beating against my skin.
“You really okay, Curls?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
But sitting here, so close to him, with Robby’s ugly words churning in my head, I realize I’m anything but okay. A hard knot of resentment settles in my stomach, and I can’t decide if it’s toward Robby or Adam Blackwood or Ethan for giving me a glimpse of something so right and then snatching it away again.
I try to let that go, and say, “Guess we both picked winners tonight, huh?”
Ethan shrugs and withdraws his hand. “Raylene was okay.”
I gape. “What? She was a lunatic!”
“She’s just . . .” He runs his long slim fingers over the top of the chair, measuring his words. “I don’t know. Lonely.”
My face heats. Suddenly, the thought of spending another minute with him, rehashing the events of our evening, chatting like colleagues, feels as appealing as chewing sand. I don’t want to marvel over how fair and compassionate he is. How kind. It’s too much. I can’t sit here so close to Ethan, in my bedroom, and know that I’ve got any number of RobbyDTF’s in my future while this sweet, thoughtful person is completely off-limits.
Working to keep my tone level, I say, “I’m sorry. I know I invited you up, but I think I need to just chill here on my own.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “I wasn’t—”
“I just need to take a shower and curl up for a bit. I’m fine.”
He shakes his head. “Can I get a word in here, Mia?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Go ahead.”
He gets up and comes over to sit on my bed, which makes everything ten times worse. I have to fight tears and the urge to throw myself on top of him.
When he looks at me, his eyes are soft and deep as night. “Listen,” he tells me. “I need to apologize for the other night. I sounded like an asshole, and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
You’re hurting me now, I want to tell him. Just sitting here and not being able to touch you hurts.
“But it’s the right thing,” he finishes. “We both have a great opportunity at Boomerang. I don’t want to jeopardize that. For either of us.”
“I get it,” I say. All this time I’ve wished for the opposite of that tool Kyle, someone who knows what he wants. Who makes a choice and stands by it. I should have been more specific. “And it’s fine. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, okay?”
I feel his reluctance to leave as a palpable force between us. But he stands and crosses to the bedroom door. “Okay,” he says quietly. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. “See you tomorrow.”
Cookie, Rhett, and Adam have flown out to Vegas for a pre-planning junket, which means Intern Gulag is now Party Central. True, it’s at least partially my fault, as today’s employee catnip came in the form of piping hot Fatburgers. What can I say? I’m the Pied Piper of food bribery.
Vanessa—from IT, I think—and Trent from Customer Relations have created a gnarly obstacle course of coffee filters and Styrofoam cups and compete, blindfolded and in rolling chairs, to reach the last burger, placed like a victor’s trophy, atop the copy machine in the corner.
“You are my new best friend, Mia,” Vanessa tells me, and tugs down one side of her blindfold to cheat her way through a hazardous switchback.
I get my little Canon Vixia out and train it on them while they bump each other off-course, laughing and grabbing at each other’s chairs. Watching them stirs an inkling of an idea inside me, something I can use for the Boomerang booth presentation.
&nb
sp; Maybe when I put the film together, I can slow down the scenes. Give it a dreamy, romantic quality. I’m not quite sure yet what I want to say, but maybe it’s that fun can be meaningful, that something can be short-lived but still worthwhile.
I think of my mother telling me I need to “play” and turn the camera on Ethan, who clicks away—two-fingered—at his tablet keyboard. We’re being careful with each other today, but mostly it’s all right.
Without looking up, he asks, “What are you doing there, Curls?”
“Nothing. Just ignore me.” I zoom in, getting a close-up view of his face, of the rare strands of gold-blond hair mixed in his with the caramel brown and of that little scar over his brow, curved like the indentation made by a fingernail. I move to his full lips and the dimple on his chin, which I see now is off-center by just a millimeter.
Even taken separately, every part of him contains this raw, imperfect beauty. I understand why my mom wanted to take pictures of him, though this Ethan is a lighter one, with sun from nearby windows haloing his skin and creating tiny sine waves on his sweeping dark lashes.
A mottled shadow fills my lens, startling me, and I pull away from the viewfinder to see Paolo grinning down at me. He hops onto the corner of my desk—the spot he’s now claimed as his rightful habitat.
“How’d the dates go, kids?”
“Well, I guess I’d rank it right up there with the time you tried out that ménage-à-trois joke on Cookie.”
He winces. “Oooh. Rough.”
“Yep.”
“Okay, I’m gonna hook you up today, Mia, and no arguing, got it?”
“Got it.” I sign into my Boomerang account and hand him my tablet. A blind monkey couldn’t make a worse choice than I did.
While he scrolls through my options, I walk around and shoot more of Vanessa and Trent, who have cleared off the long kitchen island and now seem to be using tiny Pippa from the Art Department as a kind of human curling stone.
“You won’t fall, we promise,” Vanessa assures her, but sure enough, she goes careening off the end of the counter on the third pass and ends up sprawled on a case of paper towels.
“Foul!” she cries weakly from the floor.
“She meant you won’t fall on the ground,” Trent says, and hoists her to her feet.
Boomerang Page 13
