Authors: Emma McLaughlin
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Coming of Age, #Contemporary Women
Dedication (24 page)
“Try cleaning a drain shared by five guys.” He grins hopefully. I allow myself a smile, willing away my misplaced ire. “So are your shoes, like, an accessory or something?” He nods at where I clutch the sandals under each crossed arm.
My turn to blush. “No they’re a—I was just going to—”
“Carry them like a clutch or something?”
“You’re pretty versed in women’s fashion for a frat boy.”
“Two older sisters.” He shrugs, dropping onto his khakied knees as he reaches for the sandals. I hand them down and he places them on the pavement in front of my toes.
“They’ve trained you well,” I murmur, slipping my feet back in.
Leaning against a fluted column on the edge of the lawn a few hours later I am tingling with the warm buzz of many gin and tonics and first-rate, spark-laden banter. Drew cheers on the dark profiles of the guys racing drunkenly in the shadow of the Rotunda. He whoops, the vibrations moving along my side—his hand placed carelessly on my thigh like we’ve been dating for years. Memories swirl and I push them aside by focusing on the outline of a rocking chair near the center of the rolling grass. Studying how the moon glints off its finish, I feel myself grinning. I made it.
“Oh, shit!” Drew jumps up. Two runners careen to Cord’s sprawled figure, members flapping as they right him. Cord stands stunned for a moment before sending his arms into the air in a rock-on pose. Drew doubles over in hysterics. “That’s gotta hurt.”
Standing, I watch him as the laughter of the guys fades down the lawn with their retreating posteriors. “Let’s go.” His eyes widen for a beat before he slides his hand into mine. He swipes up my sandals and we walk the cricketed gardens as the red lights of arriving campus security bounce off the old brick wall. He weaves me through the grounds toward 14th Street, floating, gliding on anticipation—a narcotic I haven’t felt in so long there’s a muscle pain surrounding its release. I stand just behind him while he fishes out his keys, feeling his warmth through his shirt.
He switches on the desk lamp in his room. “Roommate’s out.”
I look around the tidied space, laundry peeking out from beneath the bed, my eyes landing on a picture taped over the desk—four blond kids jumping into a swimming pool. Two girls, two boys, one of them—“Is that Jay?”
“You know Jay?” he asks, surprised as he pulls two beers from his mini-fridge.
“How do you know Jay?”
“He’s my brother. Wait, you’re not from Newton?”
“Vermont.” I turn my back to the desk. He walks to me, leaving the bottles behind, and puts both his hands lightly atop mine where they brace me against the wood, then leans in for a sweet, gorgeous kiss.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs before kissing me again. My palms fly to his cheeks, pressing his head against mine, pressing Jake’s imprint into oblivion. His fingers slide up my bare arms and then pull me forward toward the bed. We tumble down, laughing. Drew reaches out to his nightstand, his lips still on mine.
“Wait.” I touch his arm. “I don’t think we should—”
“No, I was just going to—” He flips on his stereo.
“Right.” I blush. He smiles, his eyes drifting closed as we continue to roll into each other. I am losing myself in the ecstasy of being here, of finding how much I want this and didn’t think I ever could. The knowledge that I am not ruined. That I am wanted as much as I want. That Drew hums sweetly along with the music as he slides my jeans off. I lean back and close my eyes—the melody seeping into my senses. The melody of desire and…and…hurt and—
I bolt up, kicking him off me.
“What the fuck?” he asks, kneeling up, my jeans in his hand.
“Shhh!” I fumble for the volume, rolling it all the way up.
“You okay?”
“What is this?” I gasp, my mouth dry.
“We were hooking up.”
“No! This song! Where did you get this?”
“It’s the radio. Campus station. Uh, some new release they started playing a few days ago. You’re really freaking me out here.”
I grab my clothes up, pulling them around me as I try to stand.
“I have to…I have to…”
“Okay.” He backs against the wall.
“I just have to—”
“I’m losing, my eyes on the towering golden gods over our heads. I put my hand to your skin and you tell me come inside I come inside—”
I force sound, numbly gripping my clothes as my eyes blink for the door. “—go.”
December 24, 2005
Laura’s singing on the stairs pulls me from restless sleep. I crack my eyes, squinting against the sunshine as my door flies open.
“He is a loooo—ser ’cause you are the cham—pion!”
she belts out, jogging in fists aloft, an eight-months-pregnant Rocky. Her down coat open over her pink maternity hoodie, she swings her right arm in a wild arc of air guitar. “Whew!” She looks up from her Wembley Stadium finale and pushes her hair back out of her face as I sit up. “Tell me
everything.
”
“Laura, it was…” I inhale, looking at her expectant expression, finding myself unable to put an adjective to it. “There he was. And there I was.” I hold my palms up facing each other, fingers splayed to mime the moment. “And…”
“You left him at the height of it all regretting his entire existence!”
I flip my pillow around and hold it against my stomach. “He thought I was going to do him right there on Harriman’s parquet.”
“He took you to the golf club?!” Her pert nose wrinkles.
“Prom,” I explain, the sensation of his mouth on mine suddenly vivid. I reflexively drop my face into the pillowcase, reflushing at the memory, an estrogen tremor going up the back of my neck.
“Right, continue,” she insists. As I pull my head up, she gingerly lowers herself to the bed, the next pending round of motherhood sitting low on her hips. And, right, this is not eleventh grade. This is not the night-after-of-nights-to-come. This is over. “He said he was sorry,” I offer. “Twice.” I hold up two fingers. “And he looked sorry. He sounded sorry. Mostly what I got was sorry. And then I got out of the car because he just sat there as his sexy, smoldering—”
“Sorry!”
“Yes.” I catch myself. “Sorry self, with his thumb up his ass. And…I got out of the car.” I fall back, now fully awake and fully unsure. “I got out of the car,” I repeat. Because it’s true. I blink up at Keanu. “Wait—this was all after we dropped Sam off. How did you?” I jolt back up as Laura, beaming, produces a folded piece of paper from her pocket.
“Evicted?”
Laura reads. She flips it around, revealing a Web site printout.
“
You
read E! Online?”
She sniffs. “I started when I was breast-feeding. It relaxes me and increases milk production.”
I hold up my palm. “You had me at ‘breast-feeding.’”
“Listen, this was the home page.
‘Are Jake Sharpe and Eden split? Only hours before they were scheduled to start performing their live MTV Christmas special, Eden and her entourage have reportedly decamped—’”
“Decamped?” I echo.
“‘Decamped,’”
she repeats with emphasis,
“‘From the Sharpe mansion where she was supposed to be spending the holidays cozying up to the family—’”
“That family doesn’t do cozy,” I contradict.
She shoots me a silencing look and resumes,
“‘A source close to the couple said that Jake returned home around two
A
.
M
.
last night and then
,’ quote,
‘fighting and hysteria were heard coming from the third floor.’”
“Fighting and hysteria?” My stomach drops.
She slows, tapping the paper for emphasis,
“‘Whether a lover’s quarrel or a full-scale split, this most likely means Eden’s diamond may be returned under the tree and MTV may be acting pretty Grinch-like themselves when it comes to promoting Jake’s new album.’”
She cuddles the paper to her chest like a valentine. “It’s so much more than we could have even hoped for, dreamed of, prayed up! So much better than regret!”
“But why would he—when did he?” I stammer, stunned. “They’ve been together for like—”
“Two years,” she fills in, resting her swollen fingers on my knees. “Which is, like,
twenty
in musician years.”
I push the pillow off my lap. “But why would he—”
“Because you seriously messed him up! Now he’s reportedly broken off the first major relationship he’s had in forever and she’s probably his perfect match and now he’ll wallow in lonely misery, never write another thing, go bankrupt Michael Jackson–style until he’s brought up on charges of lewd indecency in a public bathroom and—”
“
Kathryn!
Could you come downstairs
right now?
” We both look to the door.
“Kathryn?” Laura echoes. “Your mom still scares the crap out of me.”
“What time is it?” I swing my feet to the floor.
“Eight thirty.”
“I’m not late yet.” I take the printout from her, scanning through it. “I guess I really won,” I murmur.
“Won? Are you kidding? You can take every last one of
these
down.” She flutters her fingers toward the array of gold debate trophies above the headboard. “And stick
this
”—she flicks the paper between my hands—“up in their place.”
“Kathryn! NOW.”
“Coming!” I slip my E! Online diploma into the pocket of Mom’s nightgown. Laura descends the stairs with me at her heels, slowing as we take in what awaits us.
Mom and Dad stand at the open front door by their packed suit-cases, gazing in alarm out to the porch where a late-forties-ish, well-heeled blonde looks—between the cell phone headset she’s muttering into and the massive Atlas-size ledger she’s reading from—as if she’s coordinating the launch of a space shuttle from our lawn. Her head whips up at our approach. “Fuck me,” she barks into her headset as Laura and I take the final stair. “She’s pregnant. Tad, I need the medical team—I need tests. Pronto.”
Mom turns to me, her tight expression telegraphing that we are on a sixty-second countdown to Principal Hollis. I quickly join her in the doorframe. “I’m sorry, but who
are
you?”
“Jocelyn Weir.” Dad passes me the red business card with distaste.
“I work for Jake.” Clasping the ledger to her chest, she tugs her fingers up into the sleeves of her silk Chanel duster.
“And based on your manners, I’m assuming you’re a relation as well?” Mom states more than asks.
“You have
no
idea what kind of
shitstorm’s
been dropped in my lap this morning—what?! No! No! STOP! Not the panty photos, the sex tape, Christ!”
Mom tightens her grip on the doorknob. Dad tightens his grip on Mom. Jocelyn Weir tightens her grip on the wire dangling from her ear and holds it to her mouth. “Tad, you tell Eden’s people not to even go there or we’ll have that tape running in Times Square by noon.” She turns her focus to Laura. “Katie, I need a glass of water, filtered, no ice—lemon if you have it, but only if it’s organic.”
“I’m Kate Hollis.” I step onto the porch, pulling my hands into my sleeves.
Jocelyn’s face momentarily relaxes with relief. “Oh, God, fantastic! Kill the medical team, Tad.” She pushes a buttery chunk of hair out of her eye line. “Okay, so, Katie, here’s the deal. You’re the girl in the songs, yadda-yadda-yadda. I can get,
maybe,
a day of press out of that, max—what? Whatever, Tad! I’m not talking about fucking France—I’m talking domestic! Jesus.” She shakes her head, looking at me for professional commiseration, which I do not give. “Eden is
the
story, she gives me
years
of material:
InStyle
wedding, MTV series, adopted babies from Third World countries, joint albums, a Christmas special. Get it?”
“No.”
Laura impatiently pushes through my parents, joining us on the porch. “Is he just sick? Is he literally green with nausea? Paint a picture for us.”
Jocelyn adjusts her headset.
“Is he?” I ask. “Green?”
“Katie.”
“It’s Kate.”
She fixes her gaze on me. “Okay, Kate, here’s your part,” she pauses for dramatic affect. “There is no you and Jake.”
I am dumbfounded. “
This
is what he sent you to tell me?
I
rejected
him,
” I retort as I step back, beyond bristling. “Last night, that’s how it went down.” I turn to my parents. Laura nods emphatically. “
I
got out of the car.”
Mom beams proudly.
“Well done, bun.” Dad palms my shoulder.
“That’s fantastic!” Jocelyn smiles to the full extent her dermatologist will allow. “So, I repeat, Kate, there is no you and Jake.”
My face sets in disgust. “He really sent you here to reject me, so as to unreject himself, so he can have the final rejection?”
“No relationship of any kind,” Jocelyn barrels on.
“None,” I confirm. “This is pathetic. When you talk to him, tell him I think he’s pathetic.”
Clasping the leather-bound tome with one arm, Jocelyn swipes her free hand definitively. “No—future—to speak of.”
And suddenly it registers that this is a negotiation. “Okay, Jocelyn, let’s get to the point. I’ll sign your nondisclosure, or whatever, but only
after
he pays my friends their royalties.”
Laura jabs a fist. “Right.”
Jocelyn’s mouth twists, her voice steely. “There is nothing for you to sign, and that other discussion is not on the table.”
I turn to Laura as she shakes her head in disbelief. “So if this isn’t about a nondisclosure, what
do
you want? A framed photo of me keening in wounded heartbreak?”
Jocelyn pulls a folded sheet of lined paper from her pocket. “I personally needed to get clear on a few things, because Jake can be shortsighted and my job is to keep him focused on the big picture. You have helped me with that, and I am grateful. Now, the reason I am here is that he entrusted me with giving you this, which you are to take a look at and then give back to me so I don’t find it on eBay five minutes from now. Understood?” Her manicured fingers extend toward me.
I grab the paper. “You were right, Mom, it’s probably a song. Another goddamn song. Where I get out of the car, but with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.” As everyone watches I tear into the folds, braced for Jake himself to rise up out of the creases and take it all back, his apology, his desire—
“What if I never left? Meet me in the daylight. J.”
Laura rips the paper from my fingers and reads it before it’s passed from Mom to Dad. “Thank you.” Jocelyn plucks it from his hand and sets a lighter to it, dropping the flaming tail in his coffee. “Fantastic. We’re through. So, I was never here. This never happened. That’s a wrap.” Jocelyn charges down the steps as a white van with
AMERICAN EAGLE AIRLINES
emblazoned on the side pulls in with my restored luggage.
“Perfect timing.” Mom starts to move from the open door toward the staircase as Dad sets his fouled coffee on the railing and picks up the bags by his boots. “Kate, we’re leaving in
half
an hour,” he says as he carries them past the hole I dug in the zinnia bed.
“There’s toast for you on the counter, and if you could strip your sheets that would be great,” Mom calls back over her shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Laura!”
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hollis,” Laura shouts up the stairs. “Have a great trip!”
“Wait,” I whisper, my head reverberating with his question as a man gets out of the van with my bag and a clipboard. But nobody stops. Dad signs the release, dumping my wheelie in their trunk. “Wait,” I say. “Wait!”
Jocelyn stops at her car door without turning around.
“I think I need to see him,” I call out.
“No,”
Laura gasps. Dad slams the trunk. The van peels away. Mom tears back down the stairs.
I hold my tensed palm up as she approaches. “I’ve got the counterargument covered, thank you.”
“We just talked.” Jocelyn stalks back up the drive, Dad on her heels. “You understood your role.”
“You’re not coming?” he balks.
Mom steps onto the porch. “You agreed, we’re leaving for the airport.”
Jocelyn tugs out her earpiece. “Listen to the mother.”
I drop my head back, unable to look at their confused, hurt faces. “Listen, everyone, I appreciate how involved in this you all are, but I can’t just…”
“You can
just
,” Laura cries. “That’s the whole point! Of course
now
he wants to see you! Of course
now
it’s all about you! But you got out of the car, Katie!
You got out of the car!
”
“Good, that’s good,” Jocelyn strides toward me. “I like that. Yes, this is not your vehicle. Get the fuck away from the car!” Her gold bangles make a discordant clang as she motions to Laura. “Good, what else you got?”
“I did get out of the car, I did.” I look from Mom, Dad, and Laura’s alarm to Jocelyn’s ire. “I—I—don’t know. Sometimes, not often, maybe once a year, I’ll have been on a bad date, or something, or something that seemed like it was going to be a thing turned out to be a nonthing and I’m driving home and it’s late.” I try to take a deep breath against my tightening chest. “I’ll turn on the radio and look for him.” My gaze lands on the porch banister and I leave it there. “And I’ll let myself pretend, for just a minute, that he’s singing to me. Just to me. And I wonder if I’ll
ever
feel like that again.” My stomach twists as I watch the color drain from Laura’s pregnancy-flushed face.