True North

by Liora Blake

  The sound of the coffeepot overflowing with water pulls me back from those memories, and I shut off the tap, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. Just a couple of tears, I realize. Not bad.

  Trevor calls on Sunday while I’m out for a run, leaving a rambling message about wanting to “check in” and to make sure I made it home safely. I listen to the message three times, trying to decipher if he wants me to call him back or what. When he left me at the hotel, there wasn’t any I’ll call you or let’s do this again nonsense. He just put his mouth against mine, made my stupid knees weak, and then sauntered off. A logical woman would have to assume it was a subtle brush-off.

  Because of my outstanding capacity for logic, I decide since he didn’t specifically state in his message that I should call him back—not to mention he hasn’t even left his phone number—I should accept the phone message as a simple gesture of human kindness. He is only being considerate. By now, he has probably seduced plenty of other women with playful and sexy banter, sweet swaying on swing sets in the dark, and kisses that could make your head explode.

  The next week I’m back in my office at the paper, studiously working on ads for a new restaurant in town; since a town of eight hundred doesn’t require much in the way of dining options, brand-new eateries come few and far between. I hate working on advertising, but Herm is too busy with the rest of the paper to worry about it, so I’m currently trying to figure out how to make pizza sound scintillating. I’m terrible at it, no matter how hard I try.

  Because I loathe trying to find my inner adman, distraction comes easily. And lately, there is only one recurring theme when my mind sidetracks. Closing the file I’m working on, I open the Internet almost subconsciously because my mind wandering means Trevor is the only thing I can think about. The logical woman I claim to be is taking a nap for a moment. You know, the one who doesn’t care one tiny bit about Trax or Trevor. Instead, that woman has been replaced by a ridiculous broad who spent last night lying in bed unable to sleep because she was fantasizing about how a certain someone might look with fewer clothes on. That annoying girl, well, she can’t help but troll the web and stare wistfully at pictures of a man who has likely forgotten all about her.

  With my legs crossed under me in the chair, I type the word “Trax” into the search engine, then pick a link and double click. The screen opens to an image of Trevor, baggy pants, baseball cap, shirt hanging open just a few inches. I cock my head looking at the picture, diverted for a moment that I had put my hands so tantalizingly close to the chest now displayed so brazenly in front of me. Shaking my head a little, I click on a few other links and collect a bunch of useless facts about a guy who’s probably having sex with a supermodel today or hitting an exclusive bar with some buxom starlet. Definitely not thinking about me or wondering what I look like with fewer clothes on. Opening a link to his music, I lean back in my chair to scroll down the lyrics, scanning through page after page of “fucking” and “bitches” and “shit.”

  I’m still staring at the screen with wide eyes when the office phone ringing sends me jumping out of my seat. I regain my composure and grab the phone.

  “Crowell Times, this is Kate.”

  “Hey.”

  “Hello.” I try to sound like I know who this is. I hate that. The way people assume you would obviously know who they are simply by the sound of their voice. It’s so egomaniacal.

  “It’s Trevor.”

  Of course. When a big deal like Trax calls you, he probably doesn’t think to announce who he is.

  “Oh. Hi. Sorry, I was a little distracted when I answered. How’d you get this number?”

  “Your agent. I figured you’d be at work now that you’re back home.”

  “Really? Did he give you my social security number, too?” Rolling my eyes, I consider the many ways in which Stephen seems to enjoy torturing me.

  “Why are you so distracted?”

  I look back at my monitor and close my eyes before fessing up. “God. This is so embarrassing to admit, but I was researching you. With the help of Google.”

  In my head, using the word “researching,” instead of “stalking,” makes my creepy ogling of his bare-chested photos less pathetic.

  “Yeah? Find anything interesting?”

  There is a twinge of concern in his voice, which he tries to cover by coughing out a stiff laugh.

  “The truth? I’m slightly concerned that I should change my phone number. Is the guy I met your alter ego or something?”

  He sighs and then grumbles a little. “The guy you’re reading about is the alter ego now. I’m not a kid anymore. I was harder then.”

  “Harder? What does that mean?” I close the website and watch the screen disappear, along with the man who was on display there.

  “I grew up on welfare, dirt-ass poor, and when that changes it makes you crazy for a while. I was only twenty when all this started, and since I came from nothing, I spent years convinced someone was going to take it from me. Ghetto logic like that drives your head so far up your own ass you can’t find your way out. Survival instinct and all that shit.”

  Because I’m not sure what to say, I only hum a quiet acknowledgement. Trevor doesn’t say anything else for a few moments, then finally, he takes a deep breath in and speaks.

  “What else?”

  “Your songs. The lyrics aren’t exactly kind and loving toward women.”

  “Most girls I’ve been with weren’t kind and loving. Before I started making money, all they did was screw with my head and sleep around on me. Now, they just want to fuck so we can live happily ever after and spend their days blowing my money.”

  I let him finish, even though the feminist in me wants to defend my gender and speak up for all women, everywhere, no matter what. The other part, the part that just wasted twenty minutes reading message boards dedicated to what cracked women think Trax’s fetishes supposedly are, wants to agree with him.

  Trevor breaks the silence. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “I just need to make sure you aren’t a mentally unstable time bomb waiting to make me the next person you immortalize in song.”

  “Did you go out with me because you need me to take care of you? You need somebody to pay your bills?”

  “It was one date, for Christ’s sake; not sure anyone should take on paying my bills after one measly date.”

  “Are you a closet singer who wants me to shop your demo for you?”

  Letting out a loud cackle, I think about how James once said my singing in the car sounds like an elk bugling.

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Do you want try to get knocked up and have my kid?”

  “What? Women actually do this stuff? For real?”

  “Yes. Answer the question.”

  “No. How did this become an interrogation of me?” A small part of me is hurt that he seems to be asking these questions with a semblance of sincerity. Like I’m a freaking groupie or something. I consider reminding him that I couldn’t even remember his name in the green room. Perhaps that would shut down his sassy line of questioning.

  “You started it.”

  “Are we done now?”

  “I’ll need a blood sample and a background check, then we’re good.” Trevor deadpans the last comment.

  I lean back in my chair, staring out the window in my office. The offices for the paper are on the third floor of an ancient building in downtown Crowell, and I can look out the window and watch the town working away from this vantage point. Looking down on the main drag, I watch people jaywalk to cross the street, parking their cars and waving hello to each other. From here, Crowell is a modern-day Mayberry, full of bright-minded optimism and quality morals. If you don’t actually live here, you might think we have it all figured out. If you do live here, you know that the town mayor just left his wife for the city manager (another man, gasp!), the town preacher spends many a Saturday night at the strip club in Langston (heavily tipping a favori
te of his named Lolita whose act involves a lot of cherry lollipops), and fisticuffs between ranchers in the co-op parking lot are not uncommon (often over bull semen—don’t ask).

  “Why are you really calling?”

  “You never called me back. I left a message on your cell.”

  “You didn’t leave your number and I’m sure your very important big-deal phone number is blocked. Also, you didn’t specifically state for me to call you back.”

  “I didn’t ‘specifically state’ it? Who talks like that? Do I need to ‘specifically state’ that I had a great time on Friday and I think you’re cool?”

  “Yes. You should specifically state that. And, specifically state if you want me to call you back. And specifically state your phone number, including the area code.”

  “Fuck, you’re demanding.” He chuckles and lets out a low sigh. “Why does that totally turn me on?”

  The sound of that sigh, the way every second of it is so audible through the phone, sends my brain straight back to the skatepark and the sensation of Trevor’s mouth next to my ear. Immediately, I need to change the subject. Although I’m not sure why it makes me so uncomfortable. Probably because I don’t understand what he’s trying to do. Seduce me? Drive me insane? Make fun of me?

  I pick another topic that feels safe. “When does your tour start?”

  “Not for a month or so.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Twelve weeks.” Something wistful in his voice makes me picture him pouting. “I can think of a million other things I’d rather be doing than touring, though.”

  Herm pokes his head into my office as I hold the phone to my ear, waving nonchalantly to let me know he’s back. It breaks the spell of Trevor’s voice and the lingering memory of him kissing my neck.

  “Like what?”

  “Surfing, riding my bike, eating cold pizza out of my fridge at midnight, making out with you, camping in the desert, lots of stuff.”

  My face is instantly hot. Before I fully realize it, I’m smiling without effort, grinning hugely at his words.

  “What was that last one?” I croak out.

  “Camping?”

  “No, the one before that.”

  “Cold pizza?”

  “No.”

  “The making-out one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about it?” Hearing the grin in his voice as he slips over every word playfully and provocatively, I let my eyes fall shut and give a small shake to my head.

  “Just wanted to hear you say ‘make out’ again. You’re all about the old-school lingo, aren’t you?”

  He lets out a gentle laugh but doesn’t say anything else. Looking up from where I’ve started doodling on my desk pad, I’m anxious to wrap this up. If I don’t, I will start to stutter and end up saying something incredibly stupid.

  “Look, I have to go; my editor is back and I haven’t even started the project I’m supposed to be working on.”

  “Do you want me to say ‘make out’ again?”

  I laugh and then exhale quietly. “No, I’m good, thanks. Once was enough.”

  After hanging up the phone, I rest my forehead on my hands. My face is still warm and the room feels stuffy. This is not possible. Absolutely not. Not in a million, trillion light years would this be a good idea.

  Rita strolls into my office. “Who was that?”

  I jump a little and turn to her. “What?”

  “Why is your face all red? Was that your agent or something?”

  “No, it was nobody. It’s just hot in here.”

  I suck Rita into talking because she loves to talk. She wants to tell me about her new kitchen counters and the way her husband insists they are too pink. Before I know it, I’ve forgotten all about Trevor wanting to make out with me.

  Almost.

  7

  Brushing my teeth the next night before crawling into bed with the TV on as background noise, I pick up the ringing phone to hear Stephen excitedly yelling my name.

  “Kate! You are my little star! You were at your finest on that show. I don’t think it gets much better than that!”

  “Glad you liked it.” I mumble through the toothpaste in my mouth, spitting into the sink and rinsing my mouth.

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “What? No, I didn’t fuck him! Christ, you think a little TV exposure turned me into a complete slut?”

  “Hey, a little sluttiness wouldn’t kill you. And, if you’re going that route, he’s the one to go there with.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but nothing happened.” Shutting off the light in the bathroom, I shuffle out to the bedroom and flop onto the bed with my free hand pushing the hair off my forehead, noting how the mere mention of slutty behavior and fucking Trevor makes my skin go a few degrees warmer.

  “He took quite a liking to you. Is that why his manager wanted your contact info? Maybe you should work that.”

  “Stephen, I’m going to end this conversation now. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Kate, you’re hot. I mean, really, you’re a hot chick. I can see why he got all flustered and shit. He doesn’t know you really, so all he has to go on is your looks—he’s completely unaware what a pain in the ass you are.”

  “Good night, Stephen.” I hang up the phone, shut off the TV, and head to bed. Hoping no one else watching the show will notice the connection between me and Trevor the way Stephen did.

  I’m only able to delude myself for a few days before Lacey storms into my office on her lunch break from The Beauty Barn.

  “Hey, Lace, what’s up?”

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Pray tell, what have I done now?” I roll my eyes innocently.

  “I was on my way home from work, listening to the radio, and they’re getting ready to play a song, guess by who?” Lacey is tapping her foot impatiently, like a living, breathing, annoying metronome.

  “I don’t know. Backstreet Boys? Air Supply? You know I don’t listen to the radio much.”

  “Trax.”

  I spin around in my desk chair and grab a file out of my credenza drawer so that I conveniently have my back turned to her.

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, before they played the song, they babbled about Trax being rumored to have a new girlfriend. A writer. From Montana. The girl that was shamelessly flirting with him on Hal Abrahms’s show. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  I turn back to face Lacey. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to say that this is gossipy bullshit. I want you to say it’s impossible you’re having some fling with this guy!”

  “Well, I don’t think I would call it a fling. I mean, we talked on the phone, we went to dinner, we kissed once—wait, twice, actually.”

  Lacey’s irritating foot tapping stops abruptly. Her face goes entirely slack for a few seconds before she clenches her jaw closed, then groans out, “Oh. My. God. You kissed him?”

  “What is your problem? You’ve never given a crap who I date before.”

  “That was before my sister started going out with a thug. A rich and famous thug, but still!”

  “Trevor is not a thug. At least, he’s never acted thug-like around me.”

  “ ‘Trevor’? Are you kidding me? You’re on a first-name basis with him?”

  “Calling someone ‘Trax’ sounded like a joke to me.”

  “What are you two doing? Are you dating?”

  “No. We’re just . . . Jesus, I don’t know.”

  “Let me get this straight. I’ve tried to set you up with a ton of great guys. Bankers, lawyers, even a doctor, but you would rather go out with this guy?”

  “I didn’t ask you to set me up with any of those guys. You took it upon yourself to do that.”

  “What about Kevin? He was a nice, decent guy, who really liked you. But you dumped him because he was, as you put it, ‘weird to the tenth power.’ Kevin’s
weird, but this guy is normal?”

  “Kevin was weird. He used to bring his own silverware to restaurants, he wouldn’t use a towel more than once, and he arranged his socks in order of wear. That is weird.”

  “Every time I turn around you are doing something crazier and crazier, Kate. Just when I think you’ve gotten it together, you do something like this. What would James think? What would Dad think? Or even Mom?”

  Rising up from my desk, I’m consciously trying to keep my fists to myself. Standing directly in front of her, my jaw clenched, I seethe, “Lacey, it is none of your business who I choose to date. But since you asked, Dad would have wanted me to be happy. Period. Just happy. And, Mom, well, after she bailed on us, I kind of stopped worrying about what she might think.”

  Lacey takes a small step back from me and crosses her arms over her chest protectively.

  “But, for your own good, don’t ever ask me in that tone what James would think. That’s way out of line. Now, unless you want to go to lunch and talk about something else, I suggest you leave.”

  Lacey turns around and walks out of my office in a huff, stomping her feet with far more emphasis than necessary—after all, I’m the one getting grilled like a sidewalk tramp, so if anyone is entitled to huffing and puffing dramatically, it should be me.

  Despite Trevor’s phone call, I don’t really expect him to keep in touch with me. Even if the idea of returning to LA for The Evelyn Summers Show and possibly seeing him again has kept me awake at night more than once.

  So when the texting starts, it really messes with my head. The first time, I’m lying in bed at home reading when my stupid cell phone chirps.

  Are you aware that a baby whitetail fawn has approximately 300 spots?

  What? I have to read it a few more times and then confirm who it’s from again. I’m positive he sent this to the wrong person. Although, who would he have been sending it to instead? Who in his inner circle would need or care to have this information? Simon? Not likely. I debate, again, if this communication requires a response. Setting the phone down, I look at it, still confused. A few minutes later, it chirps at me again.