Rush Me

by Allison Parr

  “Massive networking. Alexa actually tweets really cleverly and she emailed all her grad friends about it—and I guess those departments are gossipy, because it’s made the rounds. And I have some friends who have book blogs so they’ve sent their readers this way, too. Oh, and I’ve been emailing a bunch of humor sites and seeing if Alexa can guest blog, and they’re really receptive.”

  Laurel shook her head. “Damn, you should get a job.”

  “Thanks.” I hoped that meant she thought I deserved one, rather than that my hobby had consumed me. “So should you.”

  She gave me a smile so dry it almost patronized. “No, I shouldn’t.”

  I tilted my head.

  She shrugged. “I like publishing. But it’s...I don’t know. Besides, I just found out how much Gretchen makes, and she’s been here for ages.” She took a sip of her diet soda and shuddered. “And you want it so much. I think it’s fun, but...does it make sense to work so hard when you get paid so little? I could be an assistant somewhere else and make double what Marie gets.”

  “So then what are you thinking? Would you join your dad’s company?”

  She swirled the dregs of her soda around her cup and frowned. “I didn’t take a job at the firm because I thought that would be cheating, you know? I wanted to do something on my own merit. And I was sick of him looking over my shoulder all the time.” She shrugged. “But if I’m still taking money from my parents to support myself, shouldn’t I be working somewhere where I can make that much money? Wouldn’t it be stupid to get forty-thousand a year and borrow the rest from Daddy instead?” Self-recrimination filled her voice. “And that’s assuming I got a job at Maples&Co, and what if there was only one position and I got it instead of you? That would hardly be fair.”

  I tried to phrase my next words carefully. “I’m not sure it’s about being fair. I think people do what they can to get work.”

  Her smile was unconvinced. “Yeah, but—if I don’t get the job, nothing about my life will change. I’ll still have the same apartment, and shop at the same stores, and eat the same food. If you don’t, you won’t even be able to afford to stay here. And then you’ll have to go to law school.”

  I was with her completely until the last sentence, when the inanity of our conversation struck and I started giggling convulsively. She frowned. “What?”

  I smiled, embarrassed. “This is so upper-middle class I want to vomit.”

  Her lips twitched. “Please. I’m Park Avenue.”

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  She groaned. “Now I just feel bad all over. Maybe I should do some sort of volunteer work. Didn’t you work for the Peace Corps for a year?”

  “AmeriCorps. I was in Maryland doing a literacy outreach program. Yeah.” We spent a moment picking at our sandwich remnants.

  “I don’t care, it’s still hard. Even if it sounds silly. I’m just trying to figure out what I’m doing and what makes sense and what’s right. I don’t know how to do that.”

  “I think you have to make a lot of mistakes. Though I don’t think Maples&Co was one. I’ve definitely learned a hell of a lot from them.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” She sighed. “I’m telling Gretchen this week that I’m leaving.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “So are you working with your dad?”

  “Yeah. I’m starting with HR. Don’t be too sad.” She smiled knowingly. “Gretchen likes you.”

  “But does she like me enough?”

  “You’ll do fine. You’re like that.”

  Coming from Laurel, that was the highest of compliments. Fine. I could handle fine, if it encompassed friends and music and Ryan and laughter. Just like Laurel, all I wanted was to figure life out, and I finally felt as though, in some small way, I had.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Stop him! Stop him! No!”

  “Rachael. You realize this all took place last week, right? Also, I wish you’d stop cheering for the Patriots.”

  It was a week after Eva’s show had opened, and we were watching the Buffalo Bills’ last game tapes in preparation for Sunday’s match. Well, Ryan was. I alternated between filling out online job applications and glancing up to see people I sort of recognized tackle each other.

  The nights were lengthening, and the sun fell faster and earlier each night. Now, at half past six, I could see red and orange spreading out behind the skyline. It was much more interesting to watch that than formulate a convincing argument for why I should be given an assistant editor position despite lacking three years of experience. I’d almost hammered out the perfect sentence when Ryan’s phone rang.

  He paused the tape and answered with a mix of familiarity and affection that meant a family member was on the other end. I didn’t have to guess which one, because his grandmother’s loud tones pierced straight through the cell and echoed across the room.

  “I saw the picture. You went out to dinner with a young lady.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I often go out to dinner.”

  “But,” his grandmother said, as I opened a new tab and searched for Ryan Carter dating. “You were smiling at this one.”

  My stomach swooped and my lips curved up.

  Ryan’s grandmother hammered him with questions as I pulled up the article in question. Only two hours old. Wow. Was his grandma tech-savvy enough to have Google alerts set up? Or did she just search his name on a regular basis? Or maybe she had a network of other old ladies who kept tabs on each other’s grandchildren and...

  Anyway.

  The picture showed us at a rooftop bar on 5th. Three of the tables around us spoke French—I suspected I had the same guidebook half the tourists had—and the drinks were expensive even for New York. But it had a view of the skyline and the bar supplied thick red cloaks to keep off the chill, and I liked doing touristy stuff.

  Still, it wasn’t a surprise we’d been caught out by a photographer there, rather than when we went for divey pizza.

  At least it was a nice picture. He was smiling at me, and I was laughing, wine glass lifted halfway to my lips.

  Now, I listened to Ryan answer his grandmother’s assault of questions, gaining my age, profession, reputation, and religion. “Is she a nice Catholic girl?”

  I rolled over on my stomach so I could stare at him across the wide living room, to where he paced in the kitchen. I raised a brow at his furrowed face, and waited as he cleared his throat. “Ah... No, no, Mimi, not really.”

  “She’s not another one of those atheist types, is she? Ryan, surely there’s someone in that city who isn’t without the Lord.”

  I watched Ryan squirm uncomfortably, peeking at me from under his long golden lashes. “Uh, you know...I’m not really sure...”

  “Well, go ahead then,” she said querulously. “Ask her. I’ll wait.”

  Ryan gave me an absolutely helpless look. “Um...my grandma wants to know if you believe in God.”

  What a question. I transferred my gaze to the window, where the pollution of this godless city had turned the sunset into a riot of softening colors. “That is a very long, complicated conversation.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, and I could read his mind perfectly: Yes-or-no would have been just fine. “She’s spiritual, Mimi.”

  “Hmm. Well. Is she a Protestant?” She pronounced the denomination with slight mistrust.

  I raised my brows. “You might as well bite the bullet.”

  “Actually...” He was irritatingly hesitant. “She’s Jewish.”

  “I suppose I am technically Catholic,” I mused into the long silence that followed. “In that I have a wide, all-embracing worldview. You know. If we’re using the word as an adjective.”

  “Oh,” Mimi finally said. To my relief, she didn’t sounded disapproving, just a little...taken aback. “How...nice.” Her tone conjured up a tiny, grey-haired Midwestern woman steeling herself in her rocker. On a farmhouse porch. Knitting a hat. “She’ll have to come for a visit.”

  “Mimi...”

/>   “At Christmas. If you’re still together—you do run through these young ladies awful quickly.” She paused while I grinned at Ryan, and started up again, sounding wary. “She can come for Christmas, can’t she? That won’t be—confusing?”

  I rolled my eyes when Ryan didn’t immediately respond. “Of course. I am a halfie, after all.”

  “I don’t know, Mimi.” Ryan said, and I sat up straighter. “Anyway, I have to go.” They signed off with mutual “I love yous.”

  I frowned, slightly insulted. “Ryan, of course I celebrate Christmas. I told you. I’m half-and-half.”

  He injected a light note into his response. “Cream-and-milk?”

  I snorted and crossed my arms.

  He avoided me, concentrating on sweeping our dinner dishes into the sink. “I didn’t realize you could be ��half’ a religion.”

  Story of my life. “Technically, I’m Jewish. But I’m not as Jewish as Abe is, and we still have a Christmas tree and go on Easter egg hunts. Why do you think I always felt so confused about Shabbats? I didn’t feel legitimate enough. So sure, I’m religiously confused, just like thousands of others, but definitely not by Christmas.”

  “So you’re only confused by the Jewish holidays, not the Christian ones?”

  Usually I was more than happy to have a conversation muddling through anthropological musings, but not right now. “Ryan. You’re avoiding the question.”

  He sighed, and dropped down onto one of the bar stools. “It’s just—I don’t bring people home.”

  “People,” I parroted. “You mean girls.”

  “Well—yeah.”

  “Because...?” When he stayed silent, I inserted my own meaning. “Because like your grandma said, none of them last very long?”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Don’t make this about you.”

  “I’m not, I’m just trying to understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand.” He stood and turned away. “I just don’t bring anyone home.”

  “Why not? Did you have a bad experience? Or is it because you usually date society girls who don’t really do well at your farm—”

  “Rachael!” he bit off. “You might like psycho-analyzing yourself, but stop doing it to me!”

  I sat up sharply, taken aback. “Fine. Excuse me for caring.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s called being nosy.”

  “Yeah.” I stood and grabbed my purse. “And I’m pretty sure it’s called a relationship.”

  He groaned. “Rach, don’t be so touchy...”

  “I’m not being touchy. But obviously neither of us are in a good mood anymore, and I have a lot of work to do with Alexa and the book...”

  “Rachael.” He stopped me with a hand on my arm, but I refused to look at him. “Rachael,” he said again, slower, towing me toward him. He pressed his lips against my temple. Against my neck.

  My eyelids fluttered shut. He kissed them, too, and then, finally, my lips.

  It might not have solved anything. But after a moment or two, neither of us cared.

  * * *

  Two days later, I was back at Ryan’s when another call came in. This time, it was my brother.

  “I hear you have your high school reunion in a couple of weeks.” David sounded entirely too peppy for someone who had rarely cared about my school life. But then, it was Sophie’s reunion, too. “You excited?”

  To be honest, I had half-forgotten about the reunion. “I’ll be happy to see my friends.”

  “Yeah, well, listen.” David went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “Sophie wants to go into the city this weekend and buy a new dress. Like she needs one; I swear she buys a new dress for every single event. But I figured we could all get dinner Friday.”

  “Sounds good.” I mentally began drawing up a short list of restaurants.

  David beat me to it. “Great! Let’s meet at the Topical; its Sophie’s favorite. Are you bringing your boyfriend?”

  I blinked. Stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Blinked again. “My boyfriend?” I glanced at Ryan. How did David know about him? David was oblivious to my social life, as previously established. I wasn’t sure Dad even knew, since he carried the oblivious gene my brother had inherited. Well, Dad probably knew. Parental telepathy and all that.

  My brother, unlike Mom and Ryan’s grandma, didn’t want to question religion or geography, but just wanted to follow his girlfriend’s orders. “Sophie said you’d told her about him, and that she would love to meet him.”

  Oh, ugh. David would have forgotten about that time I’d stuck Ryan on the phone with him if stupid Sophie Salisbury hadn’t kept harping at it. “He might be busy,” I warned my brother. “But give me a sec and I’ll ask.” I headed back into the living room, which I’d left when I took the call. Ryan sat on the sofa, studying game tapes. I dropped down next to him. “My brother wants to get dinner Friday.” Mike punted a football across the screen. “Interested?”

  “In meeting your brother?” Dark humor sparkled in Ryan’s eyes. “Will the dreaded Sophie Salisbury be there?”

  I scrunched up my face. “Gag me.”

  He laughed. “Absolutely.”

  I nudged him with my shoulder before delivering a last caution. “You don’t have to. It’s basically just going to be an exercise in torture.”

  “Then I definitely wouldn’t miss it.”

  A smile escaped me, and I picked up my cell. “Okay. See you Friday.”

  * * *

  The Topical had opened four years ago, but it was still impossible to get a table without a reservation a month in advance. Unless, of course, the owner had vacationed in San Leandro, and didn’t mind giving the island’s PR man a table on short notice.

  I loved publishing. But sometimes it just didn’t seem fair, the perks other people received.

  The maître d’ showed me to my brother’s table when I arrived. David sat on the same side as Sophie, his arm draped around her, his fingers trailing up and down her skin. Their faces were bent close to each other, noses almost brushing, and as I neared I could hear their murmured conversation. “I love you,” David said.

  “I love you,” Sophie answered.

  Their lips smacked together.

  I might have thrown up a little in my mouth.

  “Hi, guys.” I tried not to sound overly disgusted. David looked up and grinned, and then unfolded from his chair and crushed the breath out of me. I didn’t mind. Then I turned to Sophie, who gave me that same bright smile she’d doled out over Rosh Hashanah. Under my brother’s beaming eye, we exchanged a limp-armed, weak embrace. Her perfume made my head spin. She was a danger to oxygen.

  “I thought you were bringing your boyfriend,” Sophie said as we sat down. Didn’t she have any other conversational gambits? Even work. Seriously. Or the weather. We could take about the biting November winds.

  “He shouldn’t be too late. He was just held up by practice.”

  “Is he a doctor?” David asked, and I realized he’d thought I’d meant his practice. “Mom must be pleased.”

  “No, he’s not. How was your drive up?”

  “That rain,” Sophie complained, brushing a strand of platinum hair from her forehead. “I swear to God, it poured the entire time. What a disaster. If it rains next weekend—” She broke off, shaking her head.

  Yeah, I bet Sophie would really give it to the weather gods if it rained on her reunion.

  Sophie dominated the conversation as we waited for Ryan, which was how I learned about her yoga poses, and her new car, and how much money she would make when she sold her apartment, because, you know, that might happen any second...

  I sat up, glaring at my brother. Was she dropping the hint that they were moving in together, or dropping hints that he should suggest it? Or—worse—propose?

  Inconceivable.

  David interrupted one of these hints a minute later. “Holy shit. Is that Ryan Carter?”

  Sophie’s irritation at being interrupted vanis
hed. “Really? Where?” She leaned forward to see. “Oh my God, that’s totally him. What’s he doing here?”

  Only great restraint kept me from saying, “Eating, I bet.”

  Ryan stood talking to the maître d’, but not, apparently, about where his table was. Ryan wore his easy-going, friendly celebrity expression, and the maître d’ made those universal hand gestures that implied plays. So quickly I almost missed it, Ryan’s eyes flicked away, scanning the room. He avoided making contact with all the faces craning towards him, like little needles pointing North. I bit back a smile. Maybe I should go rescue him.

  My brother beat me to it. “Should I go say hello to him?”

  Confused, I turned back to my brother. “What? No, I’ll—” I stopped. Come to think of it, I hadn’t mentioned Ryan’s name. “Since when are you so interested in football?”

  “Not just football,” my brother explained patiently without looking my way. “The company’s interested in anyone like Carter. Celebrities who need a place to relax away from their fans would love San Leandro.”

  I tried not to laugh. “That’s a great idea. Why don’t I go ask him?”

  “Wait, no. Rachael!”

  Smirking, I crossed the room before my hissing brother could make a fuss. One of the waitresses, hanging around with the apparent desire to lead Ryan to his table—my table—scowled at me, but I ignored her. The maître d’ noticed me next, and made to hustle me away from his prime customer.

  When Ryan looked up and saw me, he smiled.

  My stomach faltered.

  That smile killed me.

  The maître d’ recovered from my rude interruption. “If you’ll tell me the name of your party, Mr. Carter.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off me. “This is my party.”

  The staff melted away.

  “Everyone’s so appalled I dare approach you,” I murmured. “Makes me want to ask you to sign my chest.”

  His eyes sparkled with blue fire, kindling the same flame deep in my belly. “Really.” His gaze lowered to the lacy camisole peeping out beneath my cardigan. His smile spread slowly, like dawn over water. “Got a pen?”