Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  I sighed and reached down to put my car in gear. It was then I noticed a blinking red light coming from inside my bag. My cell phone. I had a voice mail.

  With my foot planted firmly on the brake, I fished out my phone and dialed into my message box. A vaguely familiar voice came through the earpiece. "Hi, it's Clayton. I hope you remember me. We met at the gym a few days ago. You know . . . when you were running from the bogeyman. Anyway, I'd still love to take you out for that smoothie...or PowerBar...or maybe even a whole meal, if you're up for it. Give me a call back when you get a chance. My number is..."

  I ended the call and laughed aloud at the irony of it all. Fate definitely had a funny way of reminding you of what needed to be fixed in your life. Although tonight it seemed more like a nagging than a gentle reminding.

  Well, what do you know? I thought as I pulled out of the parking lot. It appears I have a date, after all.

  8

  Pour Some Splenda on Me

  I COULDN'T sleep that night.

  Sophie's voice was echoing in my mind. I turned on my bedside lamp and stared at my phone. Should I call her? It's not like it was the first time we'd had a fight in our twenty years of friendship. But this one was different. It stood out among all the squabbles about borrowing skirts and forgetting to return phone calls and breaking plans to hang out with boys.

  She had touched upon something. And for the life of me, I couldn't manage to let it go.

  I checked the clock on my cell phone. It was too late to call her, anyway. Besides, why should I be the one to call? She was being unreasonable and insensitive, too. She should be the one to apologize first.

  Right?

  As I lay my head back against my pillow and stared at the white stucco ceiling of my three-bedroom condo, paid for with my own, hard-earned money, decorated with my own burning desire to live in a world of whiteness and clarity, the confusion slowly began to unravel. And the walls started to close in.

  I attempted to distract myself by trying to outline shapes in the seemingly random arrangements of white cement that covered my ceiling, just as I had done so many times as a young girl, sleeping with the lights on, searching for anything that might appear recognizable and therefore meaningful. But after a few short minutes I knew that wasn't working.

  And I also knew the only thing that would.

  I had to take another look inside the box.

  I rolled onto my side and pulled open the bottom drawer of my nightstand. The drawer that served one purpose, and one purpose only: to hold the locked container that waited inside.

  I reached into the drawer and drew the small, wooden box close to me.

  It used to be my mother's. And before that, it was her grandmother's. She had kept it on a shelf, in a small alcove at the back of my parents' walk-in closet. I always loved the look, feel, and even the smell of it. The distinct cedar aroma that escaped every time I lifted the lid. It was old and worn and smooth to the touch. I would sneak into my parents' closet when I was little, carefully turn the tiny, brass key that my mom kept in the lock, and open it, reveling in its contents.

  My mother never kept anything particularly special or secret worthy in the box. A few pieces of old jewelry, a picture of my great-grandmother, and an old coin whose significance was never fully explained to me. But I liked the sensation I got when I snuck into the closet to look inside the box. Like I was uncovering something I wasn't supposed to see. I would pretend that I was an archaeologist, stumbling across some great, long-lost artifact that, if revealed to the world, would provide a solution to years of unanswered questions and unsolved mysteries.

  One time my mom found me looking in it. And in staying true to my shadowy fantasy, I was sure that I would be in some kind of trouble. Caught red-handed. Something about how I was too young to know such truths. Too innocent to be exposed to such stories that the box surely contained. But she simply laughed adoringly at me and asked, "What's your obsession with that old box, anyway?"

  I quickly shut the lid and shrugged, feeling foolish and childish for making it into something that it clearly was not. "Dunno. I just like it" was my timid response.

  My mom later gave the box to me as a gift, when I graduated from college. "It's always seemed to mean more to you than it has to me," she said.

  When I accepted the gift with a grateful smile, the simple touch of it brought back all the memories and sensations that it had evoked when I was younger. A feeling of sacredness. A treasure chest for secrets.

  And five years later I had found just the thing to keep inside it.

  It had become my own Pandora's box. Nearly empty, except for that last tiny ounce of hope.

  I no longer kept the key in the lock, the way my mother used to. I hid it underneath a thin layer of velvet fabric that lined the insides of the nightstand drawer. I had carefully peeled back the edge of the cloth and placed the key inside, locking the secret away.

  I now removed the cherished, brass key from beneath the fabric and placed it in the lock. And as I turned the key and opened the lid, the warm sensations ran through my fingertips.

  They were different sensations now that I was older and had my own secrets to keep. I no longer felt the thrill of a childhood make-believe game, saving the world with the discovery of a magical relic. But the thrill that ran through me as I peered inside and viewed the contents of the beloved treasure chest was just as exhilarating. And the soothing feeling of accomplishment that came over me as I closed the lid and placed it back inside the bottom drawer was just as satisfying.

  And like magic, two minutes later I was fast asleep.

  THE NEXT day, while lounging on my bed, I decided it was a good time to call back my new friend from the gym.

  "Hello, Clayton?" I said into the phone.

  "Yes."

  "Hi, I'm just returning your call from last night. We met at the gym the other day. My name is..."

  "Yes, hi! How are you?"

  I smiled. "Fine. A bit stressed with work, but good."

  "Yeah, tell me about it. What is it you do again?"

  I cleared my throat and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. If anyone bothered to study me carefully, it wouldn't take them long to realize that this was my "tell," the unquestionable sign that what I was about to say was a bluff...a lie. But fortunately for me, no one ever had any reason to suspect that I might lie. "Investment banking," I replied.

  "Oh, right."

  I rolled onto my side and propped my head up with my hand. "So, how have you been? How's the gaming world?"

  He sighed. "Busy. Although, I did pitch your idea for an Oregon Trail revival to my bosses."

  I laughed. "And? Did they go for it?"

  "Unfortunately, no. I was brutally rejected."

  I snapped my fingers. "Aw, that's too bad. But I suppose I'll live."

  Clayton laughed. "Good. In that case, do you have plans for Wednesday night?"

  As it turned out, I didn't have plans. And I had a strong feeling that getting out of the house would be a good idea.

  BY WEDNESDAY night, Sophie and I still hadn't spoken. Which I was still convinced was her fault for not picking up the phone to speak to me. Of course, I could just call her, but I wasn't quite ready to admit defeat yet. So instead I busied myself with finding the perfect outfit for my first date with Clayton that night.

  After spending nearly a half hour in my closet, sifting through hangers and cursing the architect who had had the nerve to design a closet this large, and therefore capable of holding far too many outfit selections for the human mind to possibly choose from, I finally decided to go with a pair of New Religion jeans that, according to my niece Hannah, were totally in style right now, and an off-the-shoulder brown sweater. My hair was pulled into a low ponytail that sat slightly to the left side of my neck. According to Cosmopolitan magazine, this updo was supposed to make your hair look somewhat messy and thrown together in a hurry. Which, after spending too much time in my closet, wasn't far from the truth.


  "I must admit," Clayton said sheepishly, as we sat in a quiet Italian café in Santa Monica. "It's been a long time since I've asked a girl out...I was very relieved when you said yes."

  I took a sip of my Chianti. "Well, then, I have to admit, I almost didn't."

  He smirked. "Why's that?"

  I placed my wineglass down and nervously picked at the edge of my cocktail napkin. "I don't really date a lot."

  "I guess, neither do I," he said awkwardly, looking down at his lap.

  "My friends are always giving me a hard time about it. So this time I thought, What the hell?"

  He lifted his wineglass in the air. "Well, then here's to taking your friends' advice."

  We clinked glasses and I silently remarked on just how good Clayton looked in the soft candlelight.

  He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a red button-up shirt that complemented his beach-blond hair perfectly. I immediately speculated that he was from the Midwest. Los Angeles is inundated with Midwestern transplants, filling our streets with their pretty-boy faces and strong, corn-fed bodies. Although most of them are actors, all hoping to become the next Chris Klein or Ashton Kutcher.

  Zoë liked to call them "FOPTs" (fresh off the potato truck). But given their irresistible appearance, even she couldn't complain about them. Because there was absolutely nothing to complain about. They were, in a sense, flawless. They had charming good looks, sweet dispositions, and extremely good manners. That is, until the superficial values and egotistical claws of Hollywood had had their time to sink in.

  Clayton, however, with his knack for designing futuristic worlds and simulated cities, was thankfully not one of the aspiring actors, and therefore could probably be counted on to keep both his good looks and his charming personality.

  The night carried on as we shared childhood memories, high school horror stories, favorite TV shows, favorite movies, Quiznos versus Subway, tea versus coffee, Diet Coke versus regular. All the essential get-to-know-each-other topics.

  I was very pleased to learn that I had correctly identified his FOPT-ness when he told me that he had grown up in Iowa. And he was very pleased to learn that we both shared a love of karaoke.

  "I guess we know where this date is going next, don't we?"

  I grinned. "There's a bar across the street that does karaoke until two A.M."

  "The poor neighbors."

  We laughed and stood up from our table. Clayton threw a few bills down on the check presenter and then reached down and took my hand as we walked out of the restaurant and ran like giddy schoolchildren across the street toward a dark bar with one fluorescent red light illuminating the entrance.

  The bar was a complete dive. I had been there once before with Sophie and Zoë when we, on a whim, felt the need to sing the hits of Britney Spears in front of complete strangers. A whim that, thankfully for the complete strangers, hadn't resurfaced since.

  We entered to the sound of a strained voice singing "I Love Rock N' Roll" and found a seat near the stage. Clayton flipped open the book of song choices and eagerly started skimming the titles with his fingertips. "Actually, I think you should pick our first song," he said, pushing the book across the table.

  "Ah, so this is going to be a duet?"

  Clayton raised his eyebrows. "Unless you want to go up there alone."

  I quickly opened the book. "You know, I've always been a fan of duets."

  He laughed again. "Good. Then choose."

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see him watching me as my fingertips skimmed the song list. "Okay, I got it," I said, arriving at a title and silently thanking the karaoke gods that it was available.

  "What?"

  I turned the book around so he could read my selection.

  "'Pour Some Sugar on Me'?"

  I crinkled my forehead. "No good?"

  "Are you serious?"

  I pulled the book back, possessively. "Okay, okay. I'll pick something else."

  He yanked it out from under me. "No! I love that song! It's my karaoke classic!"

  I giggled and stood up. "Good then. I'll put in the request."

  TWO HOURS later I had discovered the secret to a successful first date: Def Leppard. The crowd finally booed us off the stage after three Def Leppard tributes (although, I'm sure the actual members of the band would question the use of the word "tribute"), insisting that we move on and broaden our horizons.

  "So have you had enough Def Leppard for one night?" he asked, after we returned to our table.

  I eagerly reached for the songbook. "Yes. Let's move on to Bon Jovi!"

  Clayton laughed. "I don't know. I think I'm pretty spent."

  I looked at my watch. It was 11:45 P.M. My expression turned to disappointment. "Already? But it's so early."

  "We could go back to my place and watch some TV." He shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to imply that my response to his invitation was completely irrelevant.

  Although we both knew that it wasn't.

  I shrugged back. "Sure, why not. Got any Family Guy?"

  He smiled contently. "All five seasons on DVD. I knew I liked you."

  I nodded approvingly. I probably could have already told you he had all five seasons of Family Guy on DVD. In fact, he probably had the Family Guy movie as well. But I imagined first dates were more fun when you weren't able to read the other person like an open book. And as much as Sophie or Zoë would kill for that kind of skill on some of their dates, the novelty for me had worn off some time ago. And most of the time I wished I could just be more like my friends. So I could walk in the door of a restaurant and not instinctively point out all the men inside who were cheating on their wives – or capable of doing so. So I could order from a waiter and not be able to tell you his life story just by the way he says "Anything to drink for you?" No men-reading skills, no jaded opinions. Just... normal.

  But that was obviously a relative term.

  And for tonight I would just have to keep on pretending.

  CLAYTON AND I made it through approximately fifteen minutes of our mutually favorite Family Guy episode before he leaned in to kiss me. I didn't resist.

  He was a gentle kisser. More passion than impatience. His tongue playfully teased my bottom lip, and after a few short seconds, I was able to adapt my end of the kiss to match up perfectly with his, another useful skill I'd picked up along the way.

  Kissing is a power game. Just like dancing. The men will usually lead, but in some cases they like following. I can normally tell five to ten seconds into the kiss if he wants to be in control... and just how much control that includes. Because it's not just black or white. You lead, I follow. I think of it in percentages. Most guys kiss in an 80-20 ratio, 80 percent of the kiss being controlled and dictated by him, 20 percent left to your discretion. Which means you get to throw in a tongue thrust or a lip nibble every once in a while, but for the most part, they're in the driver's seat.

  I can imagine that's why some first kisses are so awkward, both parties trying to dictate the ratio at the same time. He wants 80-20 but she's only used to giving 60-40. It's chaos. I'm all for equal rights, women's liberty, etc., but over the years I've learned a thing or two about Mars and the men who live there. When it comes to kissing, it's like doing the tango: You just follow.

  Which is probably why tonight our kiss was far from awkward. It was damn near perfect. If I had to guess...a 55-45. But there was no time for guessing, not when his lips felt the way they did. It was the kind of kiss a woman can feel in her thighs. The kind of kiss that makes you grateful that you're sitting down. Because had you been standing up, your knees might have buckled underneath you.

  The soft moans escaping from my lips as they gently melded with his told him what kind of kiss it was. It also told him that I wanted more.

  He moaned back and pressed his tongue slightly deeper into my mouth. I reached my hand around to the back of his head and pulled him closer to me. Then his hands went for my sweater and lingered hesitantly alo
ng the bottom hemline. I threw my arms straight in the air, indicating that I wanted it off just as badly as he did. The sweater came flying over my head. My purposefully sloppy side ponytail was yanked upward and then fell back into place, now extremely more disheveled looking than the magazine had originally suggested.

  The off-the-shoulder sweater (now officially an off-the-body sweater) was tossed to the side, and I watched Clayton react to my red strapless push-up bra. Of course, this was exactly the way the wardrobe selection had been designed. To garner a reaction.

  Because in my life, the truth is... nothing happens by chance.

  Everything is premeditated.

  It keeps me in control at all times.

  If I can predict it, I can manage it. If I can calculate it, I can manipulate it. After all, Clayton was just a man, like any other man. And men are my specialty. No matter where or when I apply the knowledge.

  I knew we would end up back here. I knew he would take off my sweater. And I knew that in the next five minutes he would attempt to unbutton my jeans and lower the zipper. I also knew that in those five minutes I would let him.

  Because I was a girl who never dated.

  And therefore I was a girl who hadn't had sex in a long time.

  And therefore I was a girl who wouldn't say no to it.

  Until I heard the sound of a key in a lock. It was faint. Almost silent. Clayton was too busy pressing his fingertips against my stomach to even notice. But I noticed. I notice everything. Another occupational hazard, I guess.

  I glanced toward the front door in time to see the handle turn slowly and the door creak open.

  Clayton replaced his fingertips with his mouth as he kissed my stomach and stopped at my jeans, playfully brushing across the fabric with his lips.

  He was oblivious to the mysterious visitor. That is, until she made her presence known, in a very loud way.