Consenting Adults

by J. Lea López

  “Great. I can wear orthopedic sneakers to a black tie event, right? How will they look with my dress?”

  Macie snorts and almost spits soup onto the keyboard. I start to turn away, then stop.

  “Try double E width.” I've been squeezing my feet into far narrower shoes my entire life, so why not give it a shot? My heart leaps when Macie clicks the keys and the screen fills with something other than old lady sneakers.

  Is this truly happening? Might I actually find what I'm looking for?

  I plop down in the chair next to my daughter. I look at her and she looks back at me with a mix of my green eyes and her own youthful exuberance. Though she's inherited my punk rock taste in music—and an eyebrow ring—she still has an inner princess that shines through more often than mine.

  We scroll silently down the page and I try to envision each pair peeking out from the hem of my burgundy dress. Macie puts a few styles into the virtual shopping cart for me to pick from when we're done. Black satin peep-toe pumps. Strappy rhinestone heels. On the third page, I see them. The Shoes. Macie sucks in a breath and I know she's spotted them too. She clicks on the exact pair.

  Simple, silver, T-strap stilettos. Delicate, yet bold enough to stand out against the deep color of my dress. Without speaking, Macie puts them in the cart and we look at the checkout screen.

  “I already know which ones I want,” I say.

  “Yeah. But you should get them all.”

  “Macie! Absolutely not.” For all three, the total is close to $250.

  “Mom, you have to! What if the ones you really want don't fit? You need a backup. Besides, shipping and returns are free. You can send back the ones you don't want.”

  She does have a point. How many times have I found The Shoes only to discover They Don't Fit? Every time, it seems. I pull out my credit card and hand it to Macie to finish the checkout process.

  “Hey. You still need shoes for prom, right?”

  Macie's eyes grow large and a smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. I nod at the computer.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Really?”

  “Hundred dollar limit, okay? Not a penny more.”

  “Mom, you rock.”

  At least someone thinks I do.

  “Can you burn me a copy of your Horrorpops CD when you're done?” I ask, clearing away the lunch dishes.

  “It's already on your iPod.”

  “I know. It's not for me. It's for someone at work.”

  ***

  The shoes are waiting for me when I get home from work on Tuesday. Macie is already prancing around in her glitter-encrusted platform heels. They remind me of a disco ball. I decide to try my shoes on in reverse order of desirability. The black ones are cute, but they pinch my pinkie toes a little too much to be tolerable all night. Okay, no big deal. Two more to go. A few of the straps on the rhinestone ones are tight across the instep, but not too bad. They're a little flashy, though. More Macie's taste than mine.

  Finally, the silver stilettos. The strap across the toes hits just the right spot to contain my unwieldy little toe without being too tight, and the adjustable ankle strap is comfortable. The T-strap down the center sits flush against my foot. A perfect fit.

  Macie grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet, whirling me around the living room in a frantic little dance. With the two of us giggling and spinning around in our new shoes, the moment is absolute perfection. That is, until we bump into the rickety bookcase, which sways and sends a snow globe tumbling off the top shelf onto my left foot.

  ***

  The doctor hands me a pair of crutches after showing me how to wrap the bandage nice and tight. The verdict: a nasty sprain, some swelling and a bruise, but nothing broken. I'm supposed to avoid putting pressure on it for a few days. When the swelling goes down, I can wear sneakers, but nothing else. No heels.

  “Mom, I'm so sorry.” Macie apologizes for the fiftieth time since we arrived at the Urgent Care center. She grabs my purse while I fumble with the crutches. We manage to get out to the car in twice the time it should've taken.

  “Macie, baby, it's okay. It's not your fault.” I know she's thinking the same thing I am about Saturday's gala. “You drive, okay?”

  Not even the prospect of flexing her new driving rights brings a smile to her face like it usually does. She slumps into the driver's seat and takes her time adjusting the mirrors.

  I had Macie during my senior year in college. Her father chose not to be involved. So besides my parents, whom Macie visits in New Mexico for two weeks every summer, she and I have been each other's constant companions. She's tuned into my moods and thoughts the way a husband might be, if I had one. There have been a couple serious relationships along the way, but nothing that ever stuck. It's just Macie and me. I never realized before just how strong that's made our silent bond. She knows it was never really about The Shoes. Nonetheless, those shoes won't go to waste.

  “I'm going,” I say.

  She glances at me for a second, but keeps her focus on the road. “What?”

  “I'm going to that damn dinner if it kills me.”

  She grins, and that grin stays plastered across her face the whole way home.

  ***

  I work the rest of the week from home, treating my injured foot with ice and ibuprofen, using my crutches as much as possible. Carter drops off some of my supplies from the office and stays for dinner at Macie's insistence. She's mesmerized by the dimple, which she coaxes into permanent position on Carter's face with an endless supply of jokes and wisecracks. Maybe I should bring Macie on dates with me. I'd never have to worry about having a dull time.

  Saturday morning, I wrap my foot tight to keep any swelling at bay. Those shoes will fit tonight.

  That evening, in the shower, I flex my foot and ankle. Feels okay. A little tight from lack of use, but okay. Macie zips me into my gown: sleeveless, with a low scoop neck and high waist. The soft chiffon layers fall to the floor in the back, but are slightly higher in the front, perfect to show off The Shoes. While I finish my hair, Macie dabs concealer over what's left of the bruise on my foot.

  Before I leave, my daughter gives me the once-over and announces me fit for public consumption.

  “I already know you're awesome,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Now everyone else will have to notice, too.”

  Her vote of confidence chokes me up a little. Isn't this supposed to happen the other way around? She sends me off, joking that if I'm not back at a reasonable time, I'll have to let her stay out late on prom night. At least I think it was a joke.

  The fundraiser is at the Convention Center in downtown Baltimore. Judging by the traffic, there's also a Baltimore Orioles baseball game about to start. By the time I park and find my way to the right room, the festivities are in full swing and most of my coworkers are there. I head toward our table and Carter falls in step beside me.

  “Nice shoes,” he says.

  “Thanks. Nice—” I'm struck by the sight of him in a crisp tuxedo. Clean-shaven, too, not the usual five o'clock shadow he sports at the office. “Is that gel in your hair?”

  He flashes the dimple and extends his elbow to escort me. Our usually ultra-casual crew looks surprisingly debonair. I'm not the only one who cleans up well. As Carter and I sit down, Frank lets out a low whistle, staring past us. I look back to see Nicolette, looking like Audrey Hepburn, coming toward us. I smack Frank on the knee.

  “Have some class,” I say.

  “What? She looks good.”

  “So say that, don't whistle. And try to say it without using a stupid nickname.”

  He holds his hands up defensively. “Okay, sorry.”

  Carter raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug. Apparently my inner princess has a stiff backbone.

  Nicolette seems nervous, shifting her eyes from one person to another as she approaches. She's wearing a fitted black sheath dress with elbow-length gloves, and her hair is done up in a sleek ponytail adorned with a rhinestone clip and
her trademark pink streak. She's traded her usual nose ring for a tiny diamond stud. She looks like a Nicolette tonight.

  She comes to a stop in front of me. I smile warmly because she looks like she might pass out.

  “Is this okay?” She motions to her dress. “I've never been to a black tie event.”

  She's asking me? Really?

  “You look amazing, Nicolette.” I have to resist calling her honey, because her sudden vulnerability makes her seem even younger, and I can't help but think of my daughter. “Beautiful, really.”

  She smiles and there's no hint of the animosity she'd shown me last week.

  “Oh, and thanks for that CD, Georgia. It's great.” She walks around the table to her seat. Frank stands and pulls out the chair for her. It's funny how some people can change when you put them in fancy clothes.

  Carter leans in close to me and whispers, “I guess she finally realized she can never compete with you.”

  I'm flattered he thinks so. I look at him for a long moment. It's also funny how your perception of others can change when they're wearing fancy clothes. I turn away, blushing.

  “It's not a competition.” That's one thing people get wrong about women. We're never really trying to compete with each other, only ourselves, our own insecurities.

  “If it's not a competition, why are you killing yourself in those shoes?”

  I lean to the side so my lips almost brush his ear. “If it's not a competition, why'd you slick your hair back like James Bond?”

  He laughs rather loudly, drawing looks from the rest of the table. He stands and extends his hand.

  “Think you can stand to dance in those shoes?”

  I know I can.

  After a few dances, dinner is served, then the music starts up once more. Carter takes my hand again, but when I stand this time, my foot protests. During dinner, my instep has swollen so that the strap of my shoe is painfully tight. Sasquatch is down for the count.

  “Did you bring your crutches?” he asks. I shake my head. “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No, I'm fine.”

  “You should get some ice on that.”

  “I said I'm fine.” I'm not ready for the night to end yet. It's been too much fun.

  “Who are you trying to impress?” He asks it with a smile, but it still irritates me.

  “You wouldn't understand.” I struggle to stand and walk gingerly away. Hardly the indignant huff I'd intended.

  Carter slips his arm around my waist and supports part of my weight while I limp. “You can explain it to me on the ride to your house.”

  He drives and I stare out the window. Neither of us speaks for a while. Something's been simmering between us all night, but where it was pleasant at the beginning, now it's not. I'd give anything to start over again.

  “I'm sorry,” he says finally.

  “You know, it was never about you, or them, or trying to impress anyone. I don't have anything to prove to anybody.” I pause for a moment, then add, “Besides myself.”

  He glances over at me, a serious look on his face, no dimple in sight.

  “I don't care if Frank or Nicolette can't see it, or if you can't see it, but I'm not the mousy mom people think I am. I'm a lot of fun. Maybe I'm a little crazy, too, I don't know. I'm pushing forty and I still like going to rowdy concerts, okay? I'm not all sneakers and pantsuits.”

  I take a deep breath, embarrassed at my outburst. My hands tremble.

  “Maybe I'm a little quirky, but I know how to have a good time. I'd even say I'm kind of cool, and my daughter would agree—”

  “I know, Georgia.”

  “Well I didn't! I had to prove to myself that I'm still the exciting, interesting person I used to—wait. What do you mean you know?” How could he know when I wasn't even sure?

  We pull into my driveway and Carter helps me out of the car.

  “How could I not know? We've shared an office for almost a year now. You think I could sit across from you five days a week, listening to your Irish punk bands, seeing the kind of creativity you put out, and not know all that about you?”

  We stand on the front step and he pushes a stray lock of hair from my face.

  “I like that you wear sneakers and skirts.”

  “Shut up. I don't even like it.”

  “Maybe you don't, but you don't care if anyone else does, either. The best part about you is that you never apologize for being who you are. I never thought you bought into the idea that beauty is pain, so I was surprised you did tonight.”

  I try to support all of my own weight on my feet and cross my arms over my chest.

  “I don't. The shoes fit before my foot swelled up.”

  Carter grins and I'm glad to see the dimple again. “I know. But I like the way you stick your chin out like that.”

  He leans down and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering for a few seconds.

  “Oh.” I'm a bit dumbfounded. He's right. We've been working together for almost a year. Somehow I missed the signs along the way. “I guess I've been a little oblivious.”

  “Only a little.”

  I open the door and invite him in. I have every intention of hobbling around the kitchen to make coffee, but he points to the chair and I don't argue. He takes an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a towel for me before starting the coffee. I slip my shoe off and prop my foot up on another chair.

  “Sasquatch Plays Cinderella,” I mutter softly.

  “What?”

  “In high school, my best friend named my life The Adventures of Sasquatch, and different events got chapter headings. Like Sasquatch Goes to Prom, Sasquatch Fails Chemistry. I was trying to figure out what tonight would be called.”

  Carter lifts my foot off the chair and rests it in his lap after he sits down.

  “How about Sasquatch Finally Notices the Guy Who's Been Trying to Pursue Her For Months and All It Took Was James Bond Hair?”

  I tilt my head back and laugh. It's an unselfconscious kind of laugh that usually only Macie can get from me. I'm laughing so hard that I don't hear Macie come into the kitchen.

  “I've got one,” she says.

  I stop laughing long enough to listen.

  “Sasquatch Snags a Hottie.”

  Carter looks at me and shrugs. “I'm fine with that.”

  “Of course you are.”

  He grins that good-natured grin, the one with the dimple, and Macie gives me a look that says what I'm thinking. It doesn't matter what this chapter is called, because it's only just beginning.

  (The Adventures of Sasquatch was first published in the 2012 anthology Spring Fevers, from Elephant's Bookshelf Press.)

  Between the Lines

  Kara gives me a quick hug-ohmygoshyoulookgreat-hangonI'llberightback as she lets me in, then disappears, leaving me in a room full of strangers. Something tells me she won't make it back to me any time soon. There are a lot more people than I expected.

  I take a deep breath and a hesitant step into the open kitchen area, scanning the faces for one in particular. I can't believe you're here. Are you nuts? That inner voice has nagged me for days, but I shut it out then. It's getting harder to shut it out now. I step farther into the room.

  “Meg!” Kara calls to me from across the room and points toward the refrigerator. “Beer, liquor, whatever you want. Help yourself.” And she's off again.

  As she leaves the room, a pair of blue eyes catches my attention. My stomach tightens. Electricity snakes down my spine, lifting my chest, tilting my hips back involuntarily. Oh god, I can't look him in the eye. I barely remember to smile before turning away and heading in the opposite direction. I need a drink.

  He's the reason I came, not Kara. I haven't seen her since our high school reunion a few years ago, and we only talk occasionally online. But I accepted the Facebook invitation to her New Year's Eve party anyway, knowing he'd be here. And now I can't bring myself to approach him.

  Just talk to him.

  Just tal
king was how it started in the first place. Kara introduced us online because we work in similar fields. Turns out we have a lot in common, but he was little more than a networking contact. At first. I have a habit of saying more than I should from behind the safety of my computer screen. He responded sweetly to my silly online flirting. After a short time I found myself going out of my way to see if he was online, or to say something mildly suggestive, knowing he'd play right along.

  I don't remember exactly when or how we slipped past a PG-13 rating, but once our conversations took that turn there was no going back. I told myself there wasn't anything wrong with opening up that way to a stranger I would never meet. We live hours apart and there was no excuse for either of us to make the trip. I was seeing someone anyway, and although it wasn't a serious commitment, I wasn't looking to date around. It was safe. I could tell Josh my secrets.

  Just thinking about those conversations makes my cheeks burn now. The chill of the open refrigerator cools my face as I choose from a selection of mostly cheap beer. There's a six-pack of his favorite beer with one missing. I slip one out of the pack and stand.

  “Should I take it personally that you ran the other way when you saw me?”

  I nearly drop the bottle at the sound of his voice. Oh shit. You should've known he would follow you, genius. I turn slowly to face him. A smile that's nearly a smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth. I bite my lip and try to remember how to breathe. How am I supposed to greet him? Hi seems so asinine. We've had conversations much more intimate than just a handshake and a Nice to meet you. But a hug is out of the question. I don't trust myself to get that close to him without losing control. Not yet.

  “Why didn't you tell me you were coming?” He makes no move toward me, like maybe he senses my anxiety. He probably does. He senses a lot of things I've never said and would never say if he didn't say them first. Or maybe he's having the same struggle with self-control that I am.

  I didn't tell him I would be here because I wanted the option to chicken out. If my conscience – or my nerves – got the best of me, I could forget the whole thing without any resentment or hurt feelings. No turning back now.