by Jc Emery
I don’t move until our doorman, Reginald, whistles at me to get my attention. I try to follow along with what he’s talking about—wife had their baby, super cute, has colic, my dad made sure he got the beignet mix I sent him from New Orleans, my things arrived from school yesterday, the gym is being remodeled, and apparently we have a celebrity in the penthouse and they’re a major pain in the ass—but I find myself nodding half the time and struggling to keep up with the conversation. I add in my own little bits of everything here and there for good measure, but he can tell I’m not really listening.
“I’m sorry I’m so distracted,” I say, cringing at how awful I’m being. Reginald and I have always been tight. He used to cover for me when I was in high school and I’d sneak into the building later than I was supposed to, and he tolerated the fact that I spent a solid two years losing our house keys all along the Upper West Side. Poor man must have had our apartment re-keyed a dozen times.
“I’m not taking it personally. I remember being young and in love.”
“Wow,” I say. “Way to peer into my soul.”
“Girl, nobody’s peering into nothing. You spent five minutes watching a cab navigate through rush hour. Ain’t nobody got time for that.” I open my mouth to tell him he’s mistaken. He’s not, of course, but there’s a certain vulnerability that comes with admitting the truth, and I’m already feeling plenty vulnerable. “What’s this? Melanie Kincaid is speechless? Hot damn, it’s about time we found something to shut you up.”
“Okay, that’s it. Catch-up time is over,” I say and wave an arm in the air.
“Yeah, yeah.” He opens the door for me as I walk in. “Your dress was delivered this morning and is on the hook.”
“Dress, right,” I say with a nod and press the UP button at the elevators. I almost forgot about my dress for the Heroes in Action ball. As usual, I didn’t have much say in the selection and let Mom order what she wanted.
On my way up to the sixteenth floor, I think about this weekend at the beach house and what it could mean for Jameson and me. Just the two of us—isolated on the beach, with an entire house to ourselves—for a whole twenty-four hours. I might not even pack panties.
I’m so excited thinking about it that I have to squeeze my legs together to stop the embarrassing reaction I have to just the thought of having sex with Jameson. How on earth am I going to actually have sex with him if this is how I react? I’ll be done before we even really start.
The elevator doors open, and I turn down the hall and head for my apartment. We moved into this building about a month after Daddy bought the beach house. The apartment is a comfortable four bedrooms with four and a half baths and a lovely garden balcony that gives us a decent view of Central Park in the distance. It’s not the best view of the park, but it’s ours, and it cost a small fortune, so I keep that particular observation to myself. On our floor, we only have three other neighbors, whereas the higher floors have as few as one or two apartments, depending on how far up you go, and the closer you get to the lobby, the more apartments are packed in each floor. I may not care for the snooty-tooties that Daddy’s money brings, but I can’t lie and say I don’t like the perks of the apartment and the beach house and not having to worry about how I’m going to afford my rent let alone my next meal.
Next to our front door, my dress hangs on the delivery hook in a black plastic bag. I’m half-dying to know what color Mom picked out, but I refrain and toss the bag over my shoulder and let myself in. Within seconds of being in the foyer, I’m hit by the potent smell of gasoline. The entire space smells like it’s been doused in the stuff.
“Mom!” I move through the foyer and into the open great room—a large, open living/kitchen combo—where I leave my suitcase and kick off my flats before I hit the carpet. What the hell is she doing with gas? That stuff is toxic.
“Well?” Mom says, appearing at the edge of the hall on the other side of the kitchen. She has a hand towel around her neck and one of her many yoga-specific exercise outfits on. This one is a light blue, and she’s barefoot. Monica Kincaid is dedicated to many things in life—her husband, Christian, her daughters (the youngest, especially), and her charity projects—but yoga is the one thing I don’t understand. It puts her at peace, she says.
“Well?” I drape the dress bag over the island countertop in the kitchen and move around to prop myself up on one of the bar stools. God, that gasoline smell is driving me mad.
“Are we planning a spring wedding yet or what?” Mom says with a grin. Her nose wrinkles, catching the scent of the gasoline, I’m sure. “Janet and I have been taking bets.”
“God, Mom,” I say and place my head in my hands.
“No really,” she says. “Tell me.”
“Nothing happened.” Verbalizing it is even more disappointing than it probably should be. Apparently Mom and Dad were also in on Jameson and Royal’s surprise trip. It took all of an hour after they landed for Janet Hayes to text me that she wishes she could have been there. It was sweet, but then she suggested she needed to leave me alone so I could spend as much time as possible with Jameson. And that we shouldn’t be disturbed. While the level of investment our mothers have in our has-yet-to-happen relationship is borderline creepy, the support is pretty awesome. It’s a rarity to find a woman as kind and loving as Janet Hayes. Even if she doesn’t really know appropriate boundaries and likes to talk about when her sons were starting puberty . . . in all the gory details. I know more about Jameson’s solo activities when he was a kid than I care to.
“You must be joking,” she says and heads to the fridge where she pulls out a single-serve cup of yogurt. “That man flew down to that god-awful place—”
“Mom,” I protest. New Orleans never did grow on her in the four years I was there.
“Well, he did. He flew in to see you graduate, and you two were alone for a few days. You can’t tell me you two stayed in your apartment and nothing happened.”
“Well,” I say, mimicking her, “I can and I am. We went on walking tours, a swamp tour, and ate at some of the best restaurants in the city. We walked a lot, drank a little, and almost didn’t talk at all. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and trust me, I’m not happy about it.”
“It should have been perfect,” she says. I am, for sure, my mother’s daughter. At heart, we’re both romantics and a bit dramatic. If anyone understands my disappointment, it’s my mother.
“Shoulda, woulda, coulda,” I say and prop my chin in my hand. “Are you doing something weird with gas up in here?”
“No, I thought you brought the smell in,” she says.
We both look around and sniff the air. The closer I get to the plastic dress bag, the more potent the smell becomes. Mom and I check the bag, and sure enough, the scent is coming from the plastic. Very carefully, we pull the plastic bag up over the dress. It’s a gorgeous deep purple with a beaded sweetheart neckline and a fitted bodice that closely resembles a corset. I love the color and the fine details. As usual, Mom did good.
Attached through the hollow center of a bead is a small safety pin with a note card hanging from it. The cream-colored card features a handwritten message in thick black marker that reads WELCOME HOME, LULU. The corner of the card has a drop of something on it that, upon inspection, appears to be the cause of the smell. I carefully detach the note card from the dress, thankful there’s no damage, and show it to Mom. Her brows draw together, and she nods. I throw the note card into the trashcan underneath the sink and use the room spray stored beside it to lessen the stench.
“Mom, where’d the dress come from?”
She pauses her inspection of the dress as she smooths it out to ensure it’s not wrinkled.
“Lucy’s, of course,” she says. “I’ll ask them about the note card and the smell. We’re going to have to get this dry cleaned before you can have it fitted check for damage. Oh well, at least I ordered early enough if we need to replace it.”
“Thanks.” I take the dress from t
he counter top and walk back toward the foyer and turn down the front hall to my bedroom. I hang the dress in the left side of my walk-in and try to focus on anything but that strange note and the disgusting smell of the gasoline. Lucy probably left the note, but I don’t know how she would know to call me Lulu. Only Jameson uses that nickname. It seems out of character and a little strange considering she and I barely know one another aside from the occasional ball gown that I need. Lucy’s a professional and wouldn’t touch one of her expensive gowns if she had gasoline on her hands.
“Get a grip, Mel,” I mutter and survey my bedroom and the just-delivered boxes that litter the space. I’m letting my imagination run away with itself, and that’s never a good thing.
Chapter 13
Melanie
Jameson’s text had said, SORRY, LULU. CAN’T.
“I’m walking here!” I shout over my shoulder, throwing my hands up in the air. The red-white-and-blue taxi cab picks up speed and flies around the corner just as I make it up onto the sidewalk. As strange as it may sound, this is something I desperately missed while I was in college. Sure, New Orleans has rude drivers. They even have overzealous cabbies. What they don’t have is the maddening hustle and bustle of thousands of cabs snaking through ridiculous, terrifyingly fast stop-and-go traffic, all with a daredevil disregard for their vehicles. It’s just one of those things I don’t think New Yorkers really appreciate until they’ve left.
It should have said, SORRY. DON’T WANT TO.
I’m half a block away for my first house watch volunteer shift of the summer. I had been prepared to start job hunting upon graduating, but then I realized I could do more good filling volunteer positions than I would as a poorly paid intern at a magazine or a newspaper when I don’t really need the money—at least not the kind of money those types of jobs provides. Dad could have hooked me up with the kind of internship that most undergrads would kill for, but that’s not really my thing. Dad’s the media mogul in the family, not me. It wasn’t until last summer that my goals really came fully into focus. When I left high school, I’d been so sure that I wanted to follow Dad’s footsteps and work in communications, but a few years in New Orleans changed that. I did my fair share of volunteering at a local women and children’s shelter, and after a while I realized I want to help people in bad situations.
Mine read, IT’S OK.
I even added a smiley face at the end.
Like it would help me feel less pathetic.
My bags were already packed, and I’d been to the spa for some routine maintenance.
It didn’t matter.
Helping people—that’s what I’m going to be doing at the firehouse. The more efficiently the house watch desk is run, the less the firefighters have to worry about. It’s a small but important part of the running of the house. I remind myself about all of this as I open the front door to the lobby and meet Royal’s eyes as she sits behind the desk. She’s got her long brown hair pulled back in a braid that trails down her back and a navy scoop-neck house tee with PROBY written in black marker above the department logo.
“Looking good in that uniform,” I say with a nod. Her blue-green eyes beam as she hops up with a full-fledged grin on her face.
“I’m so glad to see you!” She’s basically shouting, but it’s all good. I’m way excited to see her. It’s been almost three weeks since my graduation, and while I’ve seen her since, this is the first time I’ve seen her in her new Ladder Company threads. They barely differ visually from her old uniform, but it’s the symbolism behind her accomplishment that matters. The Hayes family has served this firehouse since it was built, and Royal is now officially the first woman to serve the house and she’s made the transfer quicker from Engine to Ladder than any man ever has. From the time she graduated training to the time her transfer was approved, it was less than a year. I’m damn proud of that girl. It’s something we have to celebrate. I need something to celebrate, something to care about. Otherwise, the incessant thoughts running a loop in my head won’t ever chill.
SORRY, LULU. CAN’T.
I push through the swinging half door and climb the steps to my station. Royal jumps up, and I give her a tight hug. I hang on too long, not wanting to let go, and sigh heavily.
I wish I could tell her everything that’s going on—or not going on—with me and Jameson. It’s just been so long and so much not telling her that now it kind of feels like I’ve spent the last year lying to her. She used to ask if something was going on between him and me, and I would always deny it. Because, honestly, nothing was going on. The idea of there ever being an us was exactly that—an idea. He’s never really kissed me. He certainly hasn’t slept with me. No, he’s slept with a few women—that I know of—since he and Lydia broke up, but not a single one of them has been me. And then there’s the fact that he’s been weird since they broke up, and I don’t know what to make of it.
It’s been six months and three weeks since he’s been single.
Not that I’ve been keeping track or anything.
SORRY, LULU. CAN’T.
“You look sad,” she says and pulls back, holding me at arm’s length as she studies my face.
“Why would I be sad? I’m home,” I say and flash her the fakest fucking smile I think I’ve ever worn. “I have you and the guys, and even Smokey and I are going to bond this summer. I just know it.”
“You’re a piss-poor liar.”
“Talk later?” I should know better than to try to lie to Royal. Aside from the fact that she knows me too well to take the bait, I didn’t even try very hard this time. I suggested Smokey and I would bond, which was the tip-off, I’ll bet.
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she says and hops down the stairs before she disappears down the hallway.
Finally alone at my desk, I check out the calendar and the sticky notes that litter the space. The fridge isn’t running as cool as it’s supposed to, and apparently Ben, one of our lieutenants, is worried about that. I grab the nearest note pad and start making a to-do list according to each task’s priority level. I’m mostly through the Post-its and organizing the information in a manageable list when Jack and Lance, our other two lieutenants, approach from the hall at the back of the house.
“Welcome back,” Jack says. His nearly pearl-white teeth shine beautifully with his smile, but it’s the chiseled jaw that draws me in. Jack Hayes is just plain handsome. It’s both a bonus and a detriment that he and Jameson look so much alike. Lance, who’s a Hayes by some kind of distant cousin thing, looks little like his relatives. The two men spend a few minutes chatting before Lance heads out, leaving Jack to tap the ledge of my desk in thought.
“What do you want?” I say in a knowing tone.
“I know you just got back in town,” he says, “and I wouldn’t ask, but I’m looking at getting Hope into a different school . . .”
“I’ll talk to Claire and see if Gramercy has any openings or if she can pull some strings.”
“You’re the best.” He shoots me a wink as he heads out the front door.
“Don’t I know it,” I say and wave him off. Claire’s been teaching at Gramercy for years now, and I bet it’s no big deal to make room for one cute little girl.
I manage to be interrupted by every single person in the house at least once before noon, including the cat. It’s just one of those days, and I’m not even here for that long today, but it’s enough to be too much. From across the garage bay, I hear Jameson’s voice, and the tour schedule I was double-checking is long forgotten. He sounds tired and grouchy, which somehow makes me feel tired and grouchy.
SORRY, LULU. CAN’T.
When we got home from New Orleans and I’d asked him to come with me to the beach house for the weekend, I thought for sure that would be the start of us. Then again, I also thought it would have been the start of us before we even flew home, and that didn’t happen either.
“Do what you want, brother,” Jameson says a little louder than necessary
as Hennessey stalks around the front of the truck.
I try to turn my head to the side just enough to get a good view of what’s going on without being too obvious. If it were any of the other guys bitching at each other, I’d be shamelessly turned and facing the action. If the Chief could provide me with a microwave, I’d pop some popcorn for good measure. I’m all about the drama that doesn’t involve or affect me, but the second it gets too close to home, I’m out and running the other way.
I find myself mindlessly rubbing the wishbone at the base of my throat. Something tugs at me to look up, and when I do, I find Jameson’s come around to this side of the truck and is leaning against it. His arms are folded over his chest, and he’s watching me. Instinct tells me to lower my hand and keep this from him. He doesn’t deserve to know I’m thinking about him, missing him, wishing he could just talk to me. He doesn’t have the right to invade my private moments like this, and yet he does anyway. As much as I object to the audience, I can’t take my eyes off him. I don’t know how long we stay there like that—silent and still—but it’s long enough that I lose myself.
After I sent him the lame-o text lying my ass off and telling him it was okay that he canceled, we haven’t spoken. Not a single text or phone call. I’ve seen him at Port of Call twice since then, and both times he didn’t speak to me or Hennessey—who was with me each time—and opted for being a creeper, watching me from across the room. I almost confronted him about it the first time, but then when I didn’t and he did it the second time, it felt like my opportunity had passed and I should just deal with it. Hennessey noticed, I know he did, but he didn’t say or do anything about it save for his one comment that Jameson had fallen off the deep end, which he refused to elaborate on.
