by Megan Hart
“Shelly?”
She looked up at me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
It was simultaneously the right and wrong thing to say. Shelly burst into braying sobs and sank back into her chair, then buried her face in her arms on top of the desk. It wasn’t exactly what I’d bargained for, though I should’ve known it was a possibility. I shrugged out of my suit jacket and hung it on the coatrack, then reached for the box of tissues and started handing her one after the other.
“Oh…Graaaaaace,” Shelly wailed from the hollow her arms had created to hide her face.
“Oh…I’m so…so…So!”
I settled my butt on the edge of her desk and patted her shoulder. “So what?”
“Confused!” More wailing.
Shelly had always been prone to crying under stress, but it was usually a little more restrained. She blotted her face with a handful of tissues, but they did little to stop the torrent of tears streaming down her cheeks.
“About Jared?”
“No!”
“About Duane?” I asked as gently as I could.
“No. Yes. Both.” She looked up at me. “What was I thinking?”
I handed her another tissue. “I don’t know, Shelly. That you like him? That he likes you?”
“Yes, but…Oh, bugger.” She sat up and wiped her face. With her face cleaned of the minimal makeup she wore, she looked even younger. “I’m so confused.”
She’d said that already, but I couldn’t blame her for saying it again. “Let me ask you something.”
She looked up at me, her hopeful face pressuring me to make this all okay. “Sure.”
“Are you…happy?”
If someone had asked me that question, I wasn’t sure how I’d have answered, but Shelly just shook her head. “No!”
“Well, doesn’t that tell you something?”
“It tells me a lot,” she said, and burst into more tears.
I really needed a shower and a change of clothes. And also, a beer. Or two. “Shelly, come upstairs with me, okay? I need to eat something. Not cookies,” I said before she could offer.
“Come upstairs. We’ll talk about this.”
In my apartment, she sobbed on my couch while I heated a frozen pizza and cracked open two bottles of Tröegs Pale Ale. I handed her one and changed into jeans and a T-shirt in my bedroom. Once again, my shower would have to wait. By the time I came out, Shelly had chugged down half her beer and managed to stop crying long enough to set my table with paper plates and napkins.
The oven dinged just then, and I pulled out the pizza and cut it into slices. Shelly took one but didn’t eat it, while I wolfed down mine and grabbed another. With the emptiness in my stomach subsiding, I drank some beer and sat back in my chair with a sigh.
“He’s a good guy, Shelly.” I didn’t indicate which one. It didn’t really matter. They were both good guys; I liked Jared a lot more, but then I was biased.
“Yes.” Shelly nodded and pressed a hand to her tear-swollen eyes. “I know.”
“Look, without getting into the details—”
“I had sex with him!” Shelly cried. Her chin lifted, her mouth trembling, but her voice was strong. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I just…did it!”
I swigged beer quickly to cover up the fact I’d gone briefly trout-mouthed. It went down the wrong pipe, sending me into a coughing fit. Shelly blinked rapidly and swiped at her eyes, but staved off more tears by slugging back her own beer. “I’m—”
“Surprised?” she interrupted. “Why, that he’d do it with me?”
“No, of course not—”
Shelly thumped the table with the flat of her hand. “Guys will screw anything, Grace, and besides, I told him he’d be doing me a favor!”
“I didn’t think he wouldn’t want to…sleep with you, Shelly.” Somehow the f-bomb just didn’t seem like the right word to use with my pretty little office manager. “Wait…favor?”
Her chin went higher and her mouth thinned. “Yes. I told him it would be a favor. How am I supposed to know if I want to spend my life with Duane if I’ve never had sex with any other man? How am I supposed to tell if Duane’s any good in bed if I have nothing to compare him to?”
“So…the night he hurt his ankle, you…”
“I did.” Shelly looked hesitantly proud.
I finished my beer while she eyed me anxiously. “And how was it?”
A couple more tears squirted out of her eyes but she slapped them away. “Wonderful.”
I understood very well where she was coming from. Bad enough that she’d cheated on her almost-fiancé. Worse that the sex had been so great. “You can write off bad sex. Good sex is harder to forget. Great sex? Almost impossible.”
“I thought I’d just get it over with. Then I could stop thinking about him all the time,” she said. “That if we did it, I’d prove something to myself. And I did. But the wrong thing!”
I bit into my pizza, chewing while I thought of how to answer her. “So what are you going to do now?”
“What should I do?”
“When did I become an expert on relationships?” I got up to put my plate in the cranky dishwasher. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have one boyfriend, much less two.”
“Jared’s not my boyfriend,” Shelly answered, but it sounded automatic and not sincere.
“And I’m not stupid, you know.”
I turned to look at her. “I never thought you were.”
She looked at me. “You can’t tell me you don’t have a boyfriend or someone hidden away somewhere. Do you think I haven’t figured out where you go those days you leave the office?
What about Sam?”
“Shelly, you really don’t know.”
She sniffled. “You’re not going to play bingo. I know that much.”
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m not going to meet a boyfriend.”
“You’re going to meet someone,” she said with that same stubborn, anxiously hopeful look.
“Yes.” That was it, no further explanation, no matter how hopefully she looked at me.
When exactly had I become a mentor?
“Grace, please,” Shelly said. “I really could use some advice.”
I sat back down across from her. “Do you love Duane?”
Shelly nodded, but slowly. “I used to think so.”
Shit. “Do you love Jared?”
She shook her head far too fast. “No. Of course not.”
“Why of course not? Jared’s cute, he’s funny. He’s smart. And he’s a nice guy. You say
‘of course not’ like he rings church bells for a living.”
This prompted the hoped-for smile from her. “He is cute.”
“Shelly, I wish I had an answer for you, I really do. But the fact is…if I was going to give you some advice…” She waited. I faltered.
“Yes?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” I said finally, when the clock’s ticking had filled the space between us for too long. “I don’t ever want to get married or even have a boyfriend, a real boyfriend, so I’m really not the person to be giving you advice.”
“I’ve made such a mess of things,” she said. “I can’t tell Duane. It would hurt him, and he’d break up with me.”
“Probably. But maybe that’s what you want?” I suggested.
If Shelly started crying again, I was prepared to break out the vodka, but she just sniffled again and hid her face in her hands for a minute. Then she got up from the table with a sigh.
“I should get home.”
“Are you okay to drive?”
“I know I look like a Girl Scout, but half a beer isn’t enough to make me too drunk to drive.”
I’d meant her mental state, not the beer, but I laughed anyway. “I’m just checking.”
“Do you need help cleaning any of this up?” She waved a hand at the table.
“No. You go on home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”<
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She nodded and smiled, and when I got up to walk her to the door, she surprised me with a hug. “Thanks, Grace.”
I hadn’t done anything, really, but watch her cry. Protesting it would only be awkward, so I hugged her in return. “Sure. Anytime.”
She was already at the top of the stairs and I was closing my door when her voice stopped me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your dad came by when you were out.”
I sighed, slouching in the door frame. “And?”
“I told him you hadn’t had time to fix your office computer. He came up and took your laptop.”
Fury isn’t always hot. Sometimes it’s a frigid icicle slammed down your spine. “What?”
“I didn’t think you’d want him to,” Shelly said hastily. “But your dad—”
My face must have frightened her, because she ended with a squeak. “My dad. I know.”
“I told him you wouldn’t like it,” she added, backing toward the stairs. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said through numb lips, though the truth was, I wanted to strangle her. I had suddenly way less sympathy for Shelly and her romantic problems. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks,” she said, and disappeared, wisely, before I had time to come after her.
My laptop. Where I did keep records of the business expenses, all right, but also kept accounting of my own. Which included things I’d really rather not share with my father.
Fuck.
There wasn’t anything to be done now but clean my neglected apartment, and I set to it with a vengeance until the dust flew. The shrill bleat of my cell phone tore me from my mad mopping and had me diving toward it, ready to confront my father with “I can’t believe you!”
Too late, I realized it was too late an hour for the call to be from my dad, who made a point of being in bed by nine so he could be up by six.
“Who is this?” I demanded finally when the caller said nothing.
“Keanu Reeves.”
“Sure. Right. Well, hi there, Kiki. What’s up?”
“Not much. Just got finished riding my motorcycle around the world.”
The ice of my fury was melting. Just a little. “How was that?”
“Crossing the ocean was a little tough, but good thing for me, I can hold my breath a really long time.”
“Hello, Sam,” I said. “Why are you pretending to be Keanu Reeves?”
“You said you couldn’t believe me before I’d even said a word. I figured if you didn’t want to go out with me, Kiki might have a better shot.”
“Oh. I thought you were my dad calling.” A second too late, I remembered that he’d just lost his own father. I hoped the mention of mine in a less than glowing tone wouldn’t upset him.
“Nope. Just me.”
I looked at the clock. Just past 10:00 p.m. “Let me guess. The cowboy sheets are keeping you awake?”
He laughed, and ice of a different sort tiptoed up and down my spine. “I’m not in bed. Yet.
Should I get in bed?”
“Are you tired?” I was suddenly very wide-awake.
He laughed again. “Not really.”
“Don’t you have to be up for work or something in the morning?” I moved around my apartment as I talked, putting away dishes and wiping down counters.
“Me? Hell no.” Sam’s soft snort sounded amused. “According to my brother I’m a lazy-ass son of a bitch.”
“Huh. Are you?” I wrung out the dishcloth and hung it over the faucet of the sink to dry, then turned to lean against the counter.
“Nope.” Sam sounded unapologetic, though I detected a hint of tension in the answer.
“Personally, I think he’s an overworked son of a bitch. But what do I know?”
“Nothing?”
He laughed. “Tell me something. Do you think I’m an annoying pain in the ass, or charmingly persistent?”
“Well, there’s a loaded question.” In the dark I made my way without fumbling into my bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp. It was in the shape of a doll, the shade her overlarge hat. I’d had the lamp since childhood, and it cast a warm glow around the room and let me ignore its flaws.
“I’m serious.”
He sounded serious, so I gave him a serious answer. “Why do you keep calling me?”
“Because I want to see you again, and showing up on your doorstep seemed to freak you out. I have to tell you, though, I might resort to standing outside your window with a boom box pretty soon.”
“That desperate, huh?” I sank lower onto the pillows, crushing them beneath my head and wriggling until I’d made a nest for myself.
“Yes.”
That simple answer forced a sigh from my lips, and I didn’t bother trying to joke with him.
“Oh, Sam. Why?”
“I think that should be obvious,” Sam said.
I rubbed a hand across my forehead and stared up at the shadows on my ceiling. “You’re unbelievable!”
“I do think,” Sam said loftily, “that’s where we began this conversation, isn’t it?”
I rolled onto my side to look at my alarm clock. “Might be a good place to end it, too. I have to go to sleep.”
“Grace.” Sam’s voice went scratchy and seductive, and my body responded instantly. “I can’t wait to see you again.”
“You only have to wait until tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“It’s not good to want something so much. You know that, right? You’ll only be disappointed.”
“I’m a big boy.”
As if I could forget. “Good night, Sam.”
He sighed. “Won’t even throw me a bone?”
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got one, anyway.” And laughing evilly, giving me a mental image again of him naked and erect, he hung up.
Dammit.
Chapter 12
Horror feast had described itself as “Eight movies too terrifying for the general public,” but we’d only get to see three. I hoped they weren’t too terrible instead of too terrifying.
“Hi.” Sam waved at me from the sidewalk. “I already bought the tickets.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I invited you.”
“I wanted to make sure we got them. There was a long line.” He bounced a little.
I looked around and saw no line, but with Sam giving me that grin I wasn’t going to argue.
“You look like…”
“Like my brother beat the crap out of me?” He grinned again.
I looked at the fading shiner on his eye, the slightly puffed lip. “Yeah. You really got into a fistfight with your brother?”
He laughed and looked a little ashamed. “He started it.”
“Yeah. I bet.” I couldn’t stop myself from reaching to touch the bruise on his cheek, just lightly. “Does it hurt?”
“Nah. Not so much anymore.” Sam shrugged. “C’mon. Let’s go in.”
Inside, he insisted on paying for the popcorn and drinks, which came in outrageously sized cartons and were, the clerk ensured us enthusiastically, “refillable.”
“Refillable, God.” I looked at the nearly gallon-size cup. “I’ll float away.”
“Hey, six hours of movies means a lot of popcorn and drinks.” Sam winked with his good eye.
It was nice, actually, this dating business with him picking up the tab, even though it felt a little odd. We settled into seats in one of the multiplex’s smaller theaters. So far the crowd hadn’t filled in many of the seats. We got a primo location in the center in front of the open row where wheelchairs could park—we could put our feet on the railing and Sam did at once. He tossed popcorn into the air and caught it neatly in his mouth, a trick I wanted to emulate but couldn’t manage.
“Good thing it’s refillable,” I said after my fourth attempt sent popcorn into my hair but not between my lips.
Sam chuckled. “Yeah. Here.”
He offer
ed me a kernel, which I took from his hand after only a moment’s hesitation.
“So what are we seeing, anyway?” He rustled open the plastic wrapper on the ridiculously large box of nonpareils that was only half-full.
I checked the flyer I’d picked up at the desk. “Dead Spot, Maternal Instinct and SlipKnot.”
“Never heard of any of them.”
I handed him the paper, but he waved it away. “Nah. Doesn’t matter, does it? This way, I won’t be spoiled.”
The theater filled slowly. The atmosphere was rowdier than a normal showing, but I guessed a lot of the people were also here for more than one film, the way we were. Lots of people had huge vats of soda and popcorn, too.
When the lights dimmed and the first preview began, Sam leaned over to me. “Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Can I hold your hand?”
I turned to look at him. “Why, do you think I’m going to be scared?”
That smile. Fuck, that smile! “No. But I might be.”
I offered my hand. “Okay. If you insist.”
Sam took it and settled down lower in his seat with a smug look. I squeezed his fingers hard, and he looked over at me and winked. Halfway into the first movie, I figured out Sam hadn’t been trying to be winsome. Though the film was a predictable slash-and-gash about teenagers lost in the woods and hunted by the standard-issue homicidal maniac, Sam jumped at every scare. He sunk lower and lower in his seat, his fingers gripping mine.
“Do you want to leave?” I whispered when he’d leaped so high he’d scattered popcorn.
He looked surprised. “No, do you?”
“I thought maybe—”
He shook his head. “No.”
Maybe he was being manly and brave. Maybe he had a masochistic streak. Whatever it was, watching Sam was more entertaining than watching the movie. When the credits rolled and the lights went up, he let go of my hand and stretched.
“Did you like it?” I sounded amused, and he heard it.
“Yeah. It was okay. You?”
“I thought there were some pretty big plot holes.” Dissecting the movies was a big part of the appeal, but I wasn’t sure Sam was up to being the Ebert to my Siskel.
