Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  “I was talking about your daughter, Griff.”

  “You little shit.” He laughs big and long—a heartier laugh than I’ve ever heard from him. It’s a great sound. It means he’s happier on the outside, that things are working out for him.

  “Hey, so, I actually have a bit of a situation I wanted to run by you. Think you could meet for lunch today?”

  “What the fuck did you do? Don’t tell me you’re back to being a dipshit or I’ll come out there and kick your pretty ass myself.”

  I laugh again—damn, but it’s good having a reason to laugh. I also appreciate his unique way of caring about me.

  “On the straight and narrow, I swear. And I want to stay that way, but I got a visit from some old friends yesterday who aren’t on the same page.”

  “Got it. Yeah, well … I’m still working this gig at the grocery store. I’ve got the ass-crack-of-dawn shift so I’ll be off around 2:00 PM. Callin’ you on my smoke break.”

  “Spending your break talking to me? Gosh, I’m blushing, Griff.”

  He curses at me good-naturedly.

  “Text me the address and I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  We’re sitting at a weathered picnic table outside the grocery store in Hyde Park. I’ve only ever visited this part of Boston to buy drugs, and I thought I was so tough back then. Now I don’t find anything rough or intimidating about the area. One of the benefits of prison, I guess. Perspective.

  “What do I do?” I ask Griff once I’ve finished giving him the rundown of last night.

  He removes the cigarette from between beard framed lips. The beard is still impressive but more trimmed now, and I wonder if that’s because his job made him do it … or his woman.

  “Nothing,” he replies with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

  I stare at him uncomprehendingly.

  “There’s really nothing you can do that won’t get you thrown back behind bars for breaking parole.” His eyes fix meaningfully on the reddened knuckles of my right hand.

  “Once you’re a con, there’s no such thing as innocent before proven guilty, and no cop will ever buy it if you claim self-defense. So keep your head down, live your life, but watch your back. If those jokers come around again, the second you see them you dial 9-1-1. And—this part blows—suck it up and take a few hits if you have to, but don’t let them catch you fighting back.”

  I nod. I’m not particularly jazzed about the idea of doing nothing but waiting, but he’s probably right. It’s the only thing I can do if I want to stay on the right side of the law.

  “What else are you up to?” he asks after letting me mull things over in silence for a minute.

  I rub a palm over my eyes, which are as dry and gritty as a desert. This newfound insomnia thing is kicking my ass.

  “I honestly have no idea. All these years I obviously thought about getting out, but it seemed so far away, unreal almost, so I didn’t think it through this far.”

  “What was the plan before your folks died?”

  I shrug.

  “I’d just turned eighteen. There wasn’t much of a plan—graduate, go to school somewhere with Mackenzie, play college football, see if I had any shot at the NFL. Maybe spend the summers doing some internships and figuring out what I wanted to do. Now … I have no idea. I should probably go back to school or something. But since I got out, I’ve been stuck in neutral. Everything seems upside down, you know? Like the whole world is a waking dream I’m stuck in—Mackenzie is the only thing that feels real.”

  Griff nods and flicks his cigarette butt into the overflowing garbage can at the end of our table.

  “You got more options than most other people who’ve been where we have—lots of closed doors for people with a record can be opened with enough money. You and I know some good guys who are barely making it out here. Don’t shit on all of us who don’t have your luck by pissing it away. You’re fighting for that second chance with Mackenzie—what are you gonna do with the second chance you already got for yourself?”

  He pins me with those espresso eyes, so dark they’re nearly black.

  “You do what you gotta do to get your head straight and then get soul searching. Get your girl, but start doing something with your life, too. Love is fuel that keeps you going, but it’s not a destination. Better figure out what road you’re on or that fuel won’t be worth shit.”

  I rub a hand over my eyes again because his words are striking me right in the feels. I don’t want to risk getting eternal shit from him by tearing up and humiliating myself.

  “Damn, Griff,” I finally say. “You’re a fountain of wisdom, Old Man. Shaina might have some competition from me if your dick is as good as your advice.”

  He mutters a curse and shoves a giant palm against my chest, not putting any force behind it but still making me sway backward a bit.

  But the mention of Shaina puts a smile on his face I can see even through that beard.

  “She’s pregnant,” he says.

  “Congrats, man!” I reach over to briefly clap him on the shoulder, happier than I’ve been about anything in a long time.

  “Thanks,” he replies gruffly. Then his eyes cloud over with worry. His eyes stray to the rundown store behind us. “Been here years and the manager still acts like I stink of prison detergent. Might have to start knocking doors for something new if she won’t give me more hours.”

  His words are quiet, almost as though he’s talking to himself, but they get my feels going again. From what he’s told me, the guy was basically upper management for an impressive criminal organization for almost a decade, but now that he’s out of the criminal life he’s stuck bagging groceries for minimum wage, worried over providing for a new baby. It’s fucked up.

  I’m filled with anger that’s almost refreshing because for once in my sorry life it isn’t about me and my problems.

  We part after a brief man hug complete with back slaps—his paws are so big I’m going to check for bruises later. He says I should come over to meet his girls sometime soon, and I agree, actually looking forward to it. It’s the first time in forever I’ve looked forward to anything that didn’t involve Mackenzie.

  On the drive home, my brain is churning. I would write Griff a massive check in a heartbeat, but I have no doubt he’d turn right around and shove it down my throat. He’s too proud to take a hand out. But I’ve got a shit-ton of money and a road with no destination, and I suddenly want to do more with my life than not piss on Griff or the guys who don’t have my opportunities. There’s got to be something I can do to fill my empty road while spreading the wealth a little. I’m no businessman—I only have a GED and a partial Associate’s degree I got through an online program through the prison—but maybe I can figure out a way to put all this money to use and finally do something that would make my father proud.

  14. NOT A DATE

  Mackenzie

  GRAHAM: Dinner tonight

  MACKENZIE: Is that a question?

  GRAHAM: Mackenzie Elaine Thatcher, can I please take you to dinner tonight?

  MACKENZIE: As friends

  GRAHAM: As a date

  MACKENZIE: I am free tonight and I’d like to see you, but we’re still getting to know each other again. So I’ll go to dinner AS FRIENDS

  GRAHAM: Fine

  GRAHAM: You come to dinner as a friend, and I’ll be there dating the hell out of you. Pick you up at 7pm

  MACKENZIE: Graham!

  MACKENZIE: I’m serious about this

  MACKENZIE: ??

  MACKENZIE: Where are we going? What’s the dress code?

  GRAHAM: I’m taking you somewhere nice, but wear whatever you want. You’re always gorgeous

  I click out of Graham’s text and immediately open a new message window.

  MACKENZIE: SOS! Going to dinner with Graham tonight. Can you make it home at 5:30 to help me pick an outfit?

  MARISA: I am so there.

  * * *

  “So, our goal is
to make him jizz in his pants before you even order drinks, correct?”

  I start choking on the sip of water I’ve just taken. I cough over and over and glare at her through watery eyes.

  “Geez, Ris. Warn a girl when you’re going to say that stuff! I almost did a spit take all over you.”

  Not that I’m surprised—Marisa’s unique brand of colorful bluntness is one of the reasons I love her, after all.

  She raises one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow.

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  Is that the objective we should have in mind while choosing this outfit?

  A slow smile creeps over my face.

  “Hell yes.”

  She grins too, then exhales deeply, and cracks her neck side to side as though readying herself for a huge undertaking.

  For the next hour, we dig through both of our (admittedly extensive) clothing collections. We butt heads frequently as we argue over possible outfits. The objections all fall into one of two categories:

  Marisa: “Over my dead body! Now is not the time for classy subtlety—you’ve worked hard on that hot little yoga body and tonight we’re going to show all of it off.”

  Me: “I can’t wear this! I’m four inches taller than you—this dress is so short I might as well go to dinner in my thong since everyone will be seeing my ass anyway.”

  Finally, we agree on a middle ground.

  We choose my black faux leather pencil skirt, one of my all-time favorite pieces of clothing. At first, Marisa argued it was too professional to be sexy and raised an eyebrow at the hem, which falls a couple of inches above my knees, but once she saw it on me she was sold. It fits me perfectly, molding to my backside and creating a sleek line that gives my legs an illusion of extra length, and the leather look makes it more badass than professorial. If I do say so myself, it does amazing things for my butt.

  We pair it with a shirt I bought months ago that has since been stuck in the back of my closet because I’ve never found the right occasion for it. The sweater is a muted lavender color, made from thin stretchy cotton that clings to the front of my body in a flattering way. It has a boatneck and three-quarter length sleeves, and its cropped hem lands perfectly right above the waist of my skirt so that when I move the tiniest hint of skin shows. The best part, though, is that it’s entirely backless. The fabric plunges dramatically starting at my shoulder blades.

  Even I admit that on the surface this is a more conservative outfit than I’d imagined, but the reality of these two pieces together on my body is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever worn.

  The problem with the shirt is that I can’t wear a bra with it. I have a little more going on in the chest area than is ideal for going bra-less, but Marisa makes me try these little adhesive pads that will at least keep my nipples from showing through this thin fabric.

  Of course, I pair the outfit with some fierce four-inch heels. If we’re outside for any length of time, my bare legs will freeze, but I’m counting on a strict car-to-restaurant journey. I decide to wear my hair up so nothing will hinder the dramatic open back.

  We even go as far as strategizing “the reveal.” I pair the outfit with a coat that falls mid-thigh and plan to already have it on when he gets here so he won’t get the full effect until I take the jacket off.

  We are evil geniuses.

  “It’s not a date,” I assert firmly as I stand before the mirror examining the final outfit. Even though Marisa doesn’t say anything, I know she doesn’t believe that any more than I do.

  Nerves rush through me and my heart starts beating rapidly. I press my palm to my chest right above its pounding, as though if I hold on tightly enough, I’ll be able to keep it safe.

  “Hey,” Marisa says softly, reading my mood shift. “Either it’s a date and you’re seducing him into your bed and your life and you guys will get married, or it’s just about getting closure and making sure he knows exactly what he’s lost. Either way, the off-the-charts sexy outfit is required. And be sure to shave everywhere.”

  * * *

  I’ve just started applying my makeup when my phone rings. Seeing “Mom” on the screen, I groan then reach over and put her on speaker.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I don’t have time for this, but if I say I can’t talk, then she’ll just ask why. I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m also not ready to tell my parents that Graham and I are—What? Talking? Occasionally starring in amateur softcore porn for any voyeuristic neighbors I have? Sobbing my eyes out while he holds me and calls me baby? —I still haven’t figured out how I feel about any of it, so I definitely can’t handle her opinion yet.

  “Hi, sweetie!” her voice trills from the counter where I’ve perched my phone. “I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I’d call and check in.”

  I multi-task, lining and shadowing my eyes while telling her a few details about the research I’m doing with one of the tenured professors. She hmm’s and oh’s at appropriate times, but I can tell she’s just humoring me.

  My parents have never really understood my decision to get a higher degree. They’re supportive, but in a placating way. Their attitude runs along the lines of: “Oh, well, Mackenzie isn’t quite ready to join the real world yet, so she’s going to spend some more time in school.” It just doesn’t resonate with them that my highly selective PhD track program is what most people consider the “real world.”

  I really love my parents, and I couldn’t have survived that dark time after Graham’s arrest without them, but we’re not as close as we used to be. Sometimes I think they still see me as that same heartbroken seventeen-year-old they treated like a ticking time bomb wrapped in an adolescent body.

  “How’s your class?” I ask to get her talking.

  Mom teaches second grade, and she begins regaling me with some recent stories about her students and school gossip.

  I glance over at the clock—now I’m cutting it close. I have to finish my hair, and there’s no way I can use my blow dryer while keeping up my end of this conversation convincingly. I cut in and apologetically wrap up the call with my mom, promising to check in soon.

  For some reason, hearing Mom’s voice has made me even more nervous about tonight. That same voice spent years disparaging Graham (or “that boy” as he became known in my house) and proclaiming I’m lucky to have gotten free when I did.

  I’m still finishing my hair when I hear knocking at the front door.

  “Shit! Ris, can you stall him for me?” I call out down the hall.

  “On it!” she replies, and I hear her walking toward the front of our apartment as I shut the bathroom door behind me.

  Only now does it hit me that I just threw Graham to the wolves.

  * * *

  Graham

  Marisa opens their front door and lets me into the living room, but Mackenzie is nowhere in sight. My girl’s feisty roommate props herself against the kitchen counter and crosses her arms while she stares me down. Suddenly I’m fifteen again, back in Westwood, picking Mackenzie up for our first date and enduring a nerve-racking ten minutes alone with her dad.

  Mr. Thatcher is ex-military and seriously intimidating, but if I’m being honest I’d take him any day over Marisa. This girl is all of five feet tall, if that, yet I’ll admit she scares the shit out of me. There’s a lot of firepower packed into those five feet. I just get the sense that she was serious the other day, and she really might come at my balls with a bat if I fuck this up.

  But she doesn’t launch an interrogation. It’s so much worse—she just stares me down for minutes on end until Mackenzie finally emerges from the hallway. I’ve never been so happy to see her. I might actually be sweating.

  “Have fun, kids,” Marisa says, her whole affect transformed from a moment ago. “Mackenzie, text if you need me. I’m babysitting for my sister tonight so I won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”

  They stare at each other for an unnerving moment, having one of those silent girl conversat
ions I can never translate. Then we head out to my Range Rover.

  I can’t read that girl. Is she on my side? Or still planning to assault me? In any case, she just made it clear we have the apartment to ourselves tonight, which currently makes her my favorite person.