by Hawkins, JD
“Wyatt? Can I ask—”
Wyatt’s phone rings and he pulls it out. A dismissive sigh when he sees who it is.
“Do you need to take that?” I say.
“It’s the boss,” he says. “I don’t know why he’s calling now, it’s—”
“Answer it,” I urge him, before he can hang up. He looks at me for a second, then gives in.
“Hello,” he says, and I gesture at my ear to tell him to put it on speakerphone. Wyatt looks reluctant for a second but he does it. “Melina’s here with me. Working on something.”
“Melina?” Jim’s voice crackles on the other side. “Great! I wanted to congratulate you both on that picture you put up today, from the Rose Garden? We’re getting all kinds of traffic to the website—I thought something had gone wrong until I saw it was all coming from that social media post. Great work, Wyatt!”
“Thanks,” Wyatt says, “but it was really all Melina’s work.”
Jim laughs. “It’s you in the picture though! Putting a pretty face on our product really seems to be doing the trick.”
I glare at Wyatt, not being able to glare at Jim himself.
“We’ve actually got a whole bunch of similar posts we want to put out over the coming weeks,” Wyatt says. “Just spent the day visiting tons of iconic Los Angeles locations—we’re at the Santa Monica Pier right now. Melina was explaining your brand identity to me and she came up with some brilliant—”
“Sounds great! I’m very excited! If we get anything like the traction we got today then I’ll be a very happy bunny. I knew pulling you in was a good idea, Wyatt.”
“Oh no,” Wyatt says, “like I was saying, it was mostly Melina’s idea—and of course her hard work and talent behind the camera, so I can’t really take any of the credit—”
“Sure, sure. Very humble of you—but we weren’t getting anything close to this before you came along.”
I pipe up, getting a little irritated now.
“I did say we should start a series of pictures that—”
“Either way,” Jim says, talking over me, “keep up the good work. I’m looking forward to our stats meeting next week.”
“Sure,” Wyatt says quickly. “See you.”
He hangs up, and I grit my teeth in frustration.
“Grr! It’s like he only hears stuff when it’s spoken by someone with a penis.”
“Different kind of talking stick,” Wyatt says, trying to get me to laugh with the lameness of the joke, but I’m too frustrated to give him even that.
“I spend a whole day—my day off, to be more precise—working my ass off and then he just dismisses me like—”
“Hey,” Wyatt says, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling me closer to him, “geniuses are never truly appreciated in their time. Jim’s a numbers guy. A suit—however many Hawaiian shirts he puts on. Of course he won’t get your talent.”
I look up at Wyatt, his words giving me some way back from my frustration.
“I know, but…” I say.
“I’d be more worried if Jim loved you—with his bad taste, that’s a warning sign rather than a credit. Ok? Everything’s gonna work out. You can trust me.”
“What about the Divinity Challenge? He didn’t even mention it.”
Wyatt shrugs. “He probably didn’t notice that part—you think he actually read all the comments? Either way, we’re getting some buzz. Let’s keep moving forward.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding along. “Yeah.”
I sigh out the last of my nerves and manage to smile back up at him as he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
Whatever the two of us have become, whatever we are right now, I’m glad we’re it.
12
Wyatt
Dodger games were some of my best childhood memories. Every year the Buchanans would get season tickets for all three families, and the parents would take turns bringing us kids to games and buying us all the hot dogs and boxes of cracker jack we could stuff our faces with. Bob loved the team more than anyone, so he’d go along to as many games as he could even when the other parents volunteered to go. The guy also never got tired of explaining the game to us, even if it meant he was so busy talking that he missed the next play. So it’s no surprise that all us kids still love baseball. And there was never the slightest chance I’d switch to the Yankees when I moved to New York: I stayed true blue.
On Sunday, the day after my photography outing with Melina, Bob surprises me, Cody and Aiden with premium box tickets that he can’t use since he’s heading out of town on business. Even though it’s a work night, the three of us jump at the chance—though I suspect it’s more for the fact that we haven’t had some time with just the guys since I came back, rather than the game itself.
Cody and I are sitting in the lounge, halfway through our first beers and awaiting the first pitch, when Aiden shows up in his typically brash manner.
“The boys are back in town!” he shouts from the other side of the lounge, drawing everyone else’s attention to us. “Sorry I’m late, had to close up at the museum. Man, we better get drunk fast—the Dodgers suck this season, but what else is new. Ha!”
He clasps hands with Cody, and then me. I stick a beer in his other hand and he gulps half of it down happily then looks out to the diamond, oblivious to the stares of the other, quieter fans around us.
“Game’s about to start! Better go grab our seats, boys.”
“Good idea,” I say, shooting apologetic looks at the bystanders. “Let’s go.”
We grab another round of beers to take out to the balcony seats and then settle in, Cody and Aiden on either side of me. We talk stats and reminisce about the good old days we had coming here as the players get out on the field and the game gets under way.
Aiden sighs as he leans back and takes the first sip of his second drink.
“Ah! This is more like it,” he says, then nudges me aggressively in the ribs. “Hey! Why the hell did it take you so long to come hang out with us? I’m starting to think you don’t love me anymore.”
“Busy,” I shrug, keeping my voice casual. “Once the work settles a bit I’ll have more time. Right now it’s just been crazy.”
Cody eyes me and says, “Becca told me at game night that you’re working with Melina. At that hippie kombucha place.”
Aiden’s eyes widen, and I feel like I’m trapped by both of their stares.
“Yeah,” I nod. “It was a surprise to me, too. Kind of a lucky coincidence.”
“No shit!” Aiden says, laughing. “You working closely with her?”
The word ‘closely’ immediately brings up recent memories of our wet bodies in the shower, of her grinding hips and bouncing breasts as she rode me, of our bodies tangling as we fucked that first time on her couch.
I shrug a little and say, “Yeah…kinda close. I’m overseeing her department.”
“Don’t envy you there, man,” Aiden says, standing to try and start up a chant.
Cody looks over at me with a wry smile.
“You and Melina seemed pretty close last time I saw you guys together,” he says, with a hint of teasing roguishness.
“Sure,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “I mean, we work together every day.”
Aiden gives up on the chant and sits back down.
“What was that?” he asks.
“I was just saying,” Cody says, “that Melina and Wyatt seemed pretty tight at game night.”
Aiden looks at Cody, then at me, then at Cody, before scrunching his face and huffing air.
“Pfft! Wyatt and Melina? You think your brother’s into girls like that?” he says, slapping me on the chest. “Listen—maybe you were too young to remember—but if this guy’s keeping it between friends, there’s only one girl he’s going for: Winnie. They were all over each other when they were teenagers.”
“That’s not true—” I say, but Aiden’s got a full head of steam going.
“Dude, how could you forget? Prom,
movie dates, going to each other’s varsity games, all that. Christ, I think our parents were already half-done on the wedding plans.”
I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t that serious—”
“And I mean—come on!” Aiden says, still talking to Cody. “Melina’s cute and all, but Winnie is banging. Girl’s got a body you could torture prisoners with. You know, every time we get together I have to jerk it before I go, just so I don’t drool over her legs the whole time.”
“Shit, Aiden,” I say, shaking my head, “you belong in a zoo.”
Aiden pulls back, opening his arms wide and shrugging innocently.
“I’m just saying it how it is,” he proclaims, then directs his attention at Cody again. “If you think your brother is the kind of guy who settles for second-best, then you don’t know him like I do.”
Neither of them notices the clench of my jaw, the tightening fist in my lap. Hearing Melina referred to as ‘second-best’ touches a button in me that I didn’t even realize was there. A protective instinct that almost results in me slugging one of my best friends, as if Melina was already my girl, as if they should know that.
“Shut up, Aiden…” I say, a warning note in my voice.
“Just saying. If he’s going to get tight with anyone,” he continues, oblivious to me, “it’s going to be Winnie—I think she’s just waiting for him to make the first move. Plus, I mean, how weird would it be for him to get with Melina now?”
“What do you mean?” Cody asks.
Aiden shakes his head. “You can’t double-dip like that, dude. Date a girl and then come back years later to date her little sister. That’s, like, got to go against some unwritten rule somewhere. Like having sex with your best friend’s mom or something.” Aiden looks at me with mock-suspicion. “You’re not dating my mom, are you Wyatt?”
“Why do you ask? You noticed the way she looks at me?” I give him a leering grin, glad to be onto a different subject.
“Fuck you!” Aiden says, looking wound-up but smiling.
I punch his shoulder and he laughs.
So does Cody and I turn to my brother to quip, “And this is a textbook example of ‘things you say when you want to remain a virgin forever.’”
“Hey!” Aiden says, legitimately irritated now, me and Cody enjoying it fully. “How the hell am I a virgin? I got game.”
“You dress like one, talk like one, and the last time you brought a girl to meet us she slipped me her number under the table,” I say, laughing with Cody.
“You said you’d never bring that up again, man,” Aiden says, shaking his head but smiling.
And just like that, the topic of me dating either of the Stapleton sisters is over.
The Dodgers’ batter hits something sweet enough to sound an echoing crack around the stadium, and we all stand up to watch the ball soar into the bleachers, celebrating as it does. Aiden bear hugging the both of us and splashing beer everywhere.
We watch a few more pitches and then it’s my turn to get up and get more drinks. I go back into the lounge, and as I’m stockpiling Dodger dogs I feel a pat on the back.
“Wyatt! Didn’t know you were a Dodgers fan!”
I turn around to see Jim there—wearing a suit that makes him look a lot less odd, as if it was his real persona finally unveiled.
“Oh, hey Jim,” I say, putting the drink holder down to shake his hand. “I never did get into the Yankees back east, but—what are you doing here?”
Jim points his thumb back over his shoulder to point at a couple of other suits standing in the lounge, on their phones and not really paying much attention to the game.
“I’m just schmoozing some old banker friends,” he says in a lowered voice, “always got to be angling for more investment. Especially if things keep going the way they are. Those social media posts you put out this weekend are on fire!”
“Well,” I shrug, “it was a team effort. There’s still a lot of work to do.”
“Sure. But it’s already snowballing like crazy. We’re getting pitches from promoters who want to work with us, smaller distributors wanting more info about the product, even got a write-up on some health site. They’re really impressed by our probiotic count. Eh? Didn’t I tell you?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“That’s exactly what we want to be hearing,” I say, smiling.
“And get this! My daughter—fifteen, barely talks to me—but the other day even she buys the drink and starts asking me about it. Never showed interest in anything I sold before, but now she’s all over it because of this ‘challenge’ stuff. Even wanted to know who you were when she saw you in the pic. Let me tell you, she was pretty impressed when I said you’re working for me.”
I laugh politely.
“I should have hired someone like you ages ago,” Jim says, pointing at me. “You’re the missing link.”
“It’s not even really me,” I say with a shrug. “Melina’s the one doing the heavy lifting. It’s her photography and ideas that are getting all this—”
“Bah!” Jim groans dismissively. “Give it up with all that ‘humility’ crap. The ‘Divinity Challenge’ was your idea, wasn’t it? Though I’m not too sure about the ‘tastes like it’s good for you’ tagline…”
“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was,” I insist. “Melina’s the one with the vision. All she needed was a little encouragement. Someone to tell her to spread her wings and go with her gut. None of this would be happening without her.”
Jim looks at me with a smile, as if I’m just joking.
“Come on. It’s photography—how hard can it be? You push a button, you take a picture, anyone can do it. To be honest, I think I’m maybe even paying her too much. Guy I know says he gets all his photography done for free. Says there are hundreds of chumps out there willing to do it for a little exposure, some experience on their resume.”
I frown at him, half-stunned a little.
“That’s a pretty scummy way to do things, actually,” I say. “You want something done well, you need to pay for it. And honestly, you’re getting Melina cheap. A photographer that talented is overkill for the kind of—”
“Haha!” Jim says, slapping my arm and looking back at his suit buddies. “You’re a funny guy—I like it. Look, I’d best get back to these guys—think they’re getting bored of the game. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Don’t forget about the nine-thirty-five meeting!”
Jim marches back to his friends before I can even say anything.
Somehow this day off has turned into one of the hardest days I’ve had in a while. An employer who wants to fire Melina. A family that still seems stuck in the past, either wanting to set me up with other women or assuming I’ll get back together with Winnie. And then I’ve got my brother, who’s a little too close to figuring out what’s going on between me and Melina, while at the same time I’m struggling to figure it out myself. I’m getting the feeling that something’s going to have to give. And it might not be pretty when it does.
13
Melina
I haven’t seen Wyatt since Saturday, but he texted me last night to warn me that he’d be stuck in Jim’s meeting limbo for half the day—so I decide to carry on stacking up our social media posts by visiting the Natural History Museum by myself. I figure we could use some advertising that plays up the ‘ancient’ recipe aspect of the drink (though I deeply suspect the recipe was just some half-assed concoction a foreign snakeoil salesman fobbed off on Jim), so what better place than the museum. Plus, Aiden works there, and since he’s never been one for rules, I figure he’ll agree to sneak me into some of the cool displays.
Pretty much the only thing Aiden ever took seriously was dinosaurs. So after dropping out of college twice, starting several bands that crumbled before their first gig, and a disastrous attempt to follow in his father’s footsteps at his furniture company, it came down to a straight choice: Either Aiden would become another rich kid slacker, living off his parents’ wealth while doing nothing, or he’
d have to get a real job. Bob and Marsha were never going to settle for the former, so Aiden returned to the one thing he loved. Dinosaurs.
None of us—even his parents—expected him to last at the museum. Yet somehow it worked. He gave tours to the school kids who came, part security-guard, part information-dispenser for the prehistoric section of the museum. It turns out, when you remove Aiden’s crass sense of humor, the combination of his boisterous persona and infinite enthusiasm was a big hit with the kids.
I text him after I find a parking spot, telling him to meet me outside on the steps as soon as he can. Finding myself taken in by the elaborate details carved into the structure of the building, I take some pictures while I wait.
I zone out as I’m squatting on the platform, looking through the viewfinder to compose a detail shot of the elegant arch above the entrance, judging the best exposure for capturing the shadows across the intricate shapes. Photography becomes almost zen-like for me at times like this, the ebb and flow of tourists, schoolchildren, and museum-goers fading into the background. A focused concentration; a hyper-sensitive awareness of every infinitesimal change in light and perspective.
I guess hunters feel like this just before taking their shot, or fighters getting psyched up for a big fight. That build-up of anticipation, of delicate but powerful preparation before a decisive moment…
“Rarrgh!” Aiden shouts, his grinning face suddenly filling the viewfinder, surprising me enough to make me stumble back onto my ass.
“Shit! Aiden! You asshole!” I say, scrambling to my feet. Suddenly glad I wore rugged jeans and had my camera strapped around my neck. “I could have broken something!”
He’s too busy laughing, doubled-over, to acknowledge my anger though. I check my camera and then punch him in the shoulder, his infectious laugh making it impossible not to smile at myself, too.
