by Teagan Kade
“I guess…the Democrats, look, they…” But she stops short. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No, what were you going to say?”
“It’s nothing. What about you? Where do you stand?”
I decide to attack, something to get a rise out of her. “I think the current administration is doing a fine job.”
She almost chokes on her wine, placing it down abruptly and wiping her lips to speak. “You can’t seriousl—” Again, she stops, barely holding back.
“Black lives matter. How do you feel about that?”
“I think all lives matter, but…”
“But…?”
She’s flustered, fidgeting with her glass, the table cloth. I don’t know what’s going on, but this isn’t the girl I met at the party who seemed so forward, so assured of herself.
Is it the restaurant? I wonder. Is it too much? Fish out of water and all that?
I keep going. “You look at what Milwaukee did, not taking the floor in protest. The NBA postponed its entire slate of Wednesday fixtures after they refused to play. That took balls, don’t you think?”
I’d hoped shifting to sports might spark her into action, but she remains neutral.
“Everyone should take a stance against racial inequality and social injustice, she says.”
“I asked for your opinion, not a bumper sticker.”
She looks pleased—no, relieved—when our entrees arrive. “Shall we eat?”
I pick up my knife and fork. “Sure.”
I’m puzzled as I eat. Why is she acting so differently? Maybe it was an act at the party, but she seemed so certain of herself. I’ve never been led on like that, dived so fast into the deep end.
I don’t regret it. Hell, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night, or the morning that followed—any of it, really. So what has changed?
Throughout the night I try to swing the conversation back into subjective territory, but just when it seems like she’s about to get passionate about something, she pulls back. I deliberately goad her with controversial topics, but she doesn’t break. I’m not sure what she’s doing, but the attraction is starting to lose its appeal.
The food’s great, so at least that’s something, and she does seem to be enjoying herself. I just can’t help wondering what happened to the human firecracker I met before.
CHAPTER FOUR
LINNEA
Pretending to be something I’m not has taken a lot out of me. I had no idea the kind of energy I’d expend acting, and for what? I’m sensing Nolan drawing back. He knows something is up. That is not the result I was after when I decided to take the edge off my usual, more confronting self.
Nolan pulls up to the curb in front of my place, turns off the ignition with his wrist resting on top of the steering wheel. He looks across to me.
“Thanks for dinner,” I tell him, just wanting to get inside, curl up into a corner and slowly die.
“My pleasure.”
Silence hangs and I can’t take it. I don’t know what I was thinking tonight, but I can’t leave it like this. I need to fix things and fucking fast before he does a runner.
“Fancy a walk?” he suggests hopefully.
Honestly, I’m surprised he’s not shoving me out the door.
“Sure,” I reply. “It’s just a regular neighborhood, though. It’s not exactly jaw-dropping scenery.”
A smile follows that spells trouble in the best kind of way. “You’re all the scenery I need, Ms. Marsden.”
“There you go with those lines again.”
He shrugs. “Call it habit. Come on.”
He gets out and I follow. We fall in beside each other on the sidewalk. The moon is waxing crescent. It plays peekaboo through the cloud cover above, streetlights providing pools of light for us to walk through.
I struggle to control the urge to respond to some of the things he said at dinner. I’m lost, don’t know how to play this at all, so I remain silent.
Nolan doesn’t seem to mind. Before I realize it, he’s holding my hand. It happens organically. With that connection, the façade I was trying to put up drops. “I suppose I wasn’t quite myself at dinner, was I?”
He looks down. “You didn’t seem like yourself, no.”
“We’ve been on one date and you’re a Linnea Marsden expert now?”
“Referring to yourself in the third person,” he says. “You know what they say about that.”
“’I wanted to do what was best for LeBron James, and what LeBron James was going to do to make him happy’,” I reply, quoting the basketball star.
That elicits a laugh from Nolan. “I suppose the sporting elite are particularly guilty of it. It’s got a name, you know—habitual illeism.”
“What, you learn that in psychology?”
“I did, as a matter of fact.”
I’m thankful it’s dark enough he can’t see me blushing in embarrassment. “I didn’t know you were taking psych.”
He taps his head. “I’ve always been interested in what’s happening up here. That’s where the edge is. It’s what separates the truly great athlete from the rest of the pack.”
“And talking in the third person—I mean, ‘habitual illeism’—is a good thing?”
He looks at me as we step through another pool of light, his eyes glinting mystery and menace. “Generally, no. It signals a stunted intellect, the presence of psychotic personality disorders, maybe rampant egoism.”
“But…”
“But recent research would suggest otherwise, some hypothesize a distanced perspective of yourself might promote greater inner awareness and understanding.”
I figured Nolan might be smart, but I had no idea he was a walking, talking Sigmund Freud. “Keep going. You’re turning me on.”
He stops walking and stands in front of me. He takes both my hands and lifts them, looking at me directly. “What were you doing, at dinner?”
Busted, I think to myself.
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I thought maybe I’d come on too strong, too soon? I thought you’d prefer me a bit more watered down than usual, reined in?”
He smiles gently at that. “I prefer the Linnea I met last night, forward and kind of crazy, definitely not afraid to speak her mind. Can we get her back?”
I bounce my head from side to side. “I’ll have to speak to management.”
“Tell them Nolan King wants to meet, at their earliest convenience.”
We start walking again. “I’ll see what I can do, but be warned, this Linnea Marsden Company you’re dealing with isn’t afraid of controversy.”
“Fine.”
“Or letting its opinion be known.”
“All right.”
“Even if it means breaking your little heart.”
“Little?” Nolan scoffs. “There you go again. Nothing about me is little, Ms. Marsden.”
“So I recall,” I slur, conscious of myself returning.
“Do all you brothers share such sizeable…dimensions?”
“I thought you were dating me?”
“Is that what we’re doing now, dating?” I query.
We take a corner, a truck blasting past on its way to the town center. “If it’s agreeable to Management.”
I try to suppress a smile. “It is.”
The conversation swings back to the topics I dodged at dinner. This time I make no attempt to silence or suppress myself, swinging wildly between subjects and loudly proclaiming my stance on everything from the politics to gun control and animal rights.
“You’re all for animal rights but you don’t like dogs?” he laughs.
I show him the back of my right ear, the scarring. “I was attacked when I was a kid.”
“Oh, that?” he asks, trying to get a better look. “I thought that was from your days in the razor gang.”
“Har-de-har-har,” I fake-laugh. “But yeah, me and dogs don’t gel.”
“What do you gel with?” he asks.
> “Long Saturdays spent on the sofa watching ball, maybe a Diet Coke and some malted chocolate chip cookies to keep me company.”
“And a man?”
I try not to laugh. “No. No man required.”
We keep walking and talking.
Nolan jumps in when he can, seems to be enjoying himself. We don’t agree on everything, but I never get the impression he’s concerned or thinks of me differently because of what I say.
It’s quite the opposite, in fact. The more outrageous I seem to get, the more he pulls closer.
I manage to keep this up for a good hour, don’t even realize we’ve walked around the entire neighborhood twice.
We walk a bit longer, looping around the block and coming back to Nolan’s car.
It’s with some reluctance he lets my hands go, sliding his into his pockets and chewing on his lip. God damn it he looks good standing out here in the open, spicy hints of his cologne caught and released by my better senses, all kinds of wild and wonderful thoughts following.
“You didn’t want to scare me off. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you were acting so different at dinner.”
I nod, feeling like a toddler who’s just dropped a carton of eggs on the kitchen floor.
Nolan takes a hand out of his pocket, places it against my face. “Only a weak fucking fool would be scared of you.”
“And you,” I gulp, “are not weak, I take it?”
He smiles. “No.”
His hand burns there against my skin and all I want to do is get him inside, strip him bare, and have my way with him.
“I like you just the way you are, Linnea. Promise me you won’t try to be anything else.”
“I promise.”
He leans in and kisses me. It’s fleeting, barely enough, but I’ll take what I can get. I have to twist my hands together to stop myself reaching for him as he gets into his car, the window lowering with an electric whir. “I’ll see you soon.”
All I can do is nod back, the need and current inside me so strong I’m concerned it’s going to put me into shock.
I curl my lips together, can still taste him there.
I want more, so much more.
But it’s not to be.
I watch his car slowly pull away and disappear up the street.
I’m left standing on the sidewalk horny, yes, but also oddly elated. This wasn’t how I planned the night to unfold, but I’m glad it went down this way. It may not have ended with the desired result, but I have a strong feeling redemption isn’t far away.
Until then, it’s We-Vibe to the rescue.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOLAN
It’s family lunch at Dad’s place, Phoenix and Heather busy sweating all morning in the kitchen cooking up a feast.
My father, at head of the table, stands and surveys the spread, looking to Phoenix, who’s pulling a chair out for Heather. “My god, you two. You’re going to give Chef a run for his money.”
Phoenix seats himself beside Heather and smiles. “Chef’s too busy cooking mac-and-cheese for Erin to whip up anything close to fine dining.”
“Hey,” Erin shouts from the other side of the table. “That mac-and-cheese is worthy of a Michelin Star. Can you blame me?”
I look over the food myself. “To be honest, I don’t even know what half this stuff is.”
Heather starts to point things out on the table. “We’ve got a torn lamb salad here, char-grilled sweetcorn with jalapenos, a baked ricotta in the middle there with a lemon salsa made by yours truly, and the pièce de résistance, a salt-baked barramundi with braised fennel, which was all Phoenix, I might add. So please pass any complaints to him.”
Staff swoop in to serve. It occurs to me how it must look from an outsider’s perspective, this kind of silver service, but even Erin and Heather seem immune to it now.
Alissa is seated beside my father in a red strapless that’s about twenty shades too bright, but I’ve warmed to her lately, as have the others. In her own way she’s helped all of us these last couple of years—silently and without fuss. I think we’ve developed something of a quiet respect for her.
“It looks delicious.” She smiles at Phoenix and Heather. “And how’s the soup kitchen going?”
Phoenix picks up his fork and knife. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Phoenix is looking at cooking school as well,” adds Heather, “to sharpen his wider culinary skills.”
“You’ll have time for that?” asks Dad, the perennial party pooper.
Phoenix nods, bottom lip upturned. “I think I can made it work,” he says, elbowing Heather lightly. “At least with this one by my side.” He leans over to kiss her on the cheek.
“I haven’t even started eating and I’m already gagging,” says Peyton beside me, Erin elbowing him in return.
“Ow, babe,” he jerks back. “What was that for?”
Poor Erin simply shakes her head in return. I don’t know how she does it, putting up with Peyton’s singular peculiarities.
Dad takes his plate from one of the staff and starts to interrogate Peyton on his move to the Patriots. “I hear you’re looking at a new apartment.”
“Erin’s going for a job with the New Yorker, which she’s going to get, because she’s a King, so we thought it might be handy to move closer to the action.”
“The New Yorker, hey?” nods Phoenix. “Nice.”
“Yeah,” Erin replies, “it’s a great opportunity. I really think I can bring something unique to the table over there.”
“Bummer Titus couldn’t be here,” muses Peyton. “Did you see his last game, Dad?”
“I did,” nods King Senior. “Still a bit of work to do on the outfield, but he’s coming along nicely.”
“He’s not a house you’re renovating,” Phoenix cuts in. I know there’s still a bit of animosity between him and our father over quitting basketball, though Dad’s slowly getting used to the idea—emphasis on ‘slowly’.
“You’re right. Boston’s lucky to have him,” Dad smiles. “And he has provided me with the most gorgeous granddaughter in the world.”
Phoenix hands his plate to Heather. “I think you mean Titus and Maya provided Amelie, or do you need a birds-and-bees refresher, dear father?”
“From you?” Dad laughs. “Son, it wasn’t until you were sixteen you realized babies didn’t come out of an asshole.”
“Jesus!” we all cry in unison.
“I’m trying to eat,” I continue, placing another forkful of the salt-baked barramundi into my mouth. Suffice to say, the master chefs have done it again. I almost want to hit up the soup kitchen for the food alone.
Dad’s right about one thing, though. Amelie, Titus and Maya’s daughter, is the cutest thing you’ve ever seen with her big cornflower-blue eyes and pinchable cheeks that turn even a human cinder block like Stone King into a marshmallow. She’s crazy for her grandfather—god knows why—with Alissa happy to undertake babysitting duties whenever Ti and Maya decide to grace us with their presence. But the curly hair? I’ve still got no idea where that came from.
The conversation turns to me. “And what are you up to, bonehead?” asks Peyton, “besides acting all secretive and shit. I know you. Something’s up.” He looks to Phoenix, who nods in agreement. “Spill.”
I place my utensils down and lean back in my chair looking around the table.
Erin eyes me. “Oh. My. God. You’re seeing someone.”
Phoenix narrows in as well. “You’re right. He is. I’d know that twinkle in his eye anywhere.”
“You guys know nothing,” I laugh, though it’s far from believable.
“Who is she?” asks Peyton, perfectly serious. “We’re going to find out one way or another.”
He’s not wrong on that point.
Ah, to hell with it. “Her name’s Linnea.”
Phoenix looks confused. “Her name’s sequential?” he asks, clearly thinking of ‘linear’.
I shake my head. “No, it’s Li
nnea. L-i-n-n-e-a.”
My father’s clued in. “Linnea, you say. What’s her last name?”
I pull in a deep breath before answering unsure where this is going to go. “Marsden. Linnea Marsden.”
He waves his knife at me. “Yes, yes, she plays basketball at the Academy, right? Center?”
I don’t want to give out too much information. “That’s right.”
“I’ve seen her play. She’s got a real future.” I expect him to put a dig in at Phoenix, but to my surprise he holds his tongue. “How did you meet?”
“At a party.”
“Tight with the information,” smiles Peyton, “but don’t worry, baby brother, we’ll do our own research.”
“If you’re looking for nudes, you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” I tell him.
Erin elbows him again in the side. “As will his wife.”
Peyton turns to her. “Babe, you give me everything I need. How could I want more?”
“Now I am the one gagging,” adds Phoenix from the other side of the table, Heather nodding in approval.
“Save it for New York,” she says. “We’re simple country folk here.”
“Speak for yourself,” says my father, smiling at Alissa, who seems unusually caught up in the lamb salad.
He returns his attention to me. “Has your girl decided on a WNBA team then?”
Damn it. I thought the subject might have dropped, but if it’s sports-related and my father’s around…
“Ah,” unsure how to answer, I reply, “I imagine she’s looking at her options.”
“When do we get to meet this lovely lady?” asks Erin.
I swallow hard because this is all becoming a bit too real. I’m surrounded by swooning, sickly lovebirds and it’s kind of making me nauseous. “It’s not that serious.”
“Yet,” adds Phoenix.
“We’re taking it slow, seeing what happens. Casual, you know.”
Phoenix and Peyton, the dirty bastards, high-five across the table. “Oh, we know,” they reply, which earns them both elbows from their respective partners.
“So we’re not going to be adding another Mrs. King to the clan then?” asks my father, and I’d love to be sucked away into a nice big hole right about now.
