by Amelia Wilde
“Just you?” There was something that made it sound like he didn’t live with the usual ménage of roommates the rest of us dealt with.
“Just me.”
I tried to look unimpressed. Jared couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than me, and Porter Square, another small enclave of Cambridge, wasn’t cheap.
“So, listen,” he said. His light-brown hair flopped charmingly on his forehead as he bounced up and down. It looked very soft. “I was thinking about that date.”
I blinked, drawing a blank. Then our last meeting at the bookstore came rushing back.
“Oh, jeez,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I totally forgot to call you, didn't I?”
Jared shrugged. “No big deal,” he said. “Start of term is always busy. But I thought you might want to go out now that things are settled.”
Jared’s normalcy sounded good, especially compared to the fiasco on Friday. But still I hesitated. I was really close to finishing school, and after that, I’d have the bar exam and most likely a new job that would take up nearly all of my free time. I shouldn’t have been getting involved with anyone, drama-free or not.
“Nothing too much,” Jared pressed as he stopped bouncing. “Something casual, like brunch. Next Sunday?”
I pursed my lips, considering. Jared was in the exact same position I was; he would understand the fact that neither of us had much time. He was cute and nice. Maybe he was just the thing to put these messy two weeks behind me.
“All right,” I relented. “Sunday, it is. Can you text me the details?”
I received a face-splitting grin and couldn’t help but respond in kind. Jared’s joy was contagious.
On Wednesday, I arrived at Family Law Services to find Kieran on the phone, frowning and talking loudly. She gestured that she’d only be a minute, and waved me to the extra desk in her office.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Kieran barked to whoever was on the phone. “When are you going to learn to relax? Seriously, Brandon, you’ll do better if you just stop with the fucking bravado.”
I stiffened when I heard the name. How likely was it that she knew two men with that name?
“Okay, tell me what she says this weekend,” Kieran said quickly. “Good luck.” She hung up. “Sorry about that, Skylar. Just a friend who needed some advice.” A smirk appeared as if she were enjoying some private joke.
“Brandon Sterling?” I couldn’t help myself.
Kieran’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot that you know him.”
I nodded, hoping to God that my glass face wouldn’t betray just how well I knew him. “A little. How do you know him again?”
I knew I shouldn’t pry, but curiosity got the best of me. I knew I was the one to leave him standing on an airport curb, but for some reason, the idea of him talking to another woman—which was clearly what they were discussing—really ate me up.
“We grew up together,” Kieran said simply. “In the same building. At least, until we were twelve or so.”
“What happened?”
She looked at me curiously, and I focused on maintaining my features in the blandest expression possible as if it didn’t matter what the answer was.
“He went into foster care permanently,” she said carefully.
Right. I knew that.
Kieran observed me in the same way I’d seen her observe clients, usually to determine whether or not they were lying. She didn’t usually care if they were guilty, but she wouldn’t represent them if they lied. “His dad was a rough son of a bitch until he was locked up, and his mom was an addict. Brandon had it kind of bad, and used to spend a lot of time in my family’s apartment.”
I balked. “I’m surprised he’s okay with you telling me all of that, considering how private he is.”
Kieran shrugged. “It’s not exactly on Wikipedia, but it’s one of the worst-kept secrets in Boston. It’s why his firm devotes so much pro-bono work toward child advocacy. He actually donated most of the money to fund this center.”
I blinked, unsure of what to say. Brandon had mentioned his time in the system, but none of this.
“I think that’s why he always has a hard time with women,” Kieran continued, uncharacteristically chatty. “He just does too much, you know? Hang-ups from when he was a kid, I guess, always trying too hard to make people like him. I tell him that he’s more likable when he doesn’t go overboard with money and gifts and things, but he just can’t seem to rein it in. Attracts too many gold-diggers and scares off the good ones.”
Kieran peered at me with one raised brow, as if expecting me to own up to something. I gulped, praying my skin wouldn’t betray me now.
“What happened to his folks?” I asked.
She furrowed her brows. “Well, his mom died a while back—overdose—and I think his dad is still in jail. Why are you so interested?”
It was a direct call to my bluff. This time I was unable to stifle the flush that covered my face and neck.
“Just curious,” I said, hoping to come off embarrassed by being put on the spot. “He’s an interesting…character, you know?”
“Interesting. Mm-hmm.”
I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not.
“Do you have that file on the Chang case?”
With that, we abandoned the topic of Brandon Sterling and turned to work. But even as I tried my hardest to focus on work, all I could see was a pair of bright blue eyes. Date that weekend, hadn’t she said? It was exactly as I’d thought—there was nothing special about our interaction. To him, I was just “that kind of girl.”
Eager to rid myself of the sinking feeling in my stomach, I took out my phone and texted Jared to confirm our Sunday brunch. I needed to stop thinking about a person I knew wasn’t any good for me.
16
I had never been on a date in the morning before, so I was unsure of what to wear when I got ready for brunch on Sunday. Jane stumbled into my bedroom with coffee and tea for me after I got out of the shower.
“I don’t know what is wrong with this boy that he thinks Sunday morning is a good time for a date,” she grumbled as she sat on my bed.
I'd been hearing that critique all weekend. Jane lay back into the four pillows stacked against my headboard. Her thin frame sank into the down.
“He’s basically telling you he has absolutely no interest in fucking,” she continued. “Does that sound like someone you want to get busy with? Someone who’s like, eh, my penis can wait. Let’s just have some scones.”
“It sounds like someone who won’t mess with me,” I replied and took a sip of tea. I set the mug on my desk and turned to the closet. I had already run product through my hair, planning to let it air dry into soft waves down my back. It was just breakfast, after all.
Jane’s short black mop, which she had dyed with a bright red streak two nights ago, was currently standing up on one side. She snuggled further into my pillows. “Why is your bed so much more comfortable than mine? It’s the same shitty, university-issued mattress. Also, I can’t believe you make your bed on a Sunday.”
I shrugged at her via the mirror in which I was trying to decide between two different sweaters, holding each one up against my robe-covered body.
“I make my bed every morning,” I said. “It gives me a sense of accomplishment with which to start my day.”
“Freak,” Jane muttered.
Her puffy eyes betrayed a long night; I hadn’t heard her come in last night at all, so I assumed it wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning.
“Which one?” I asked, turning around to compare the black slouchy turtleneck with a green cardigan.
Jane opened one eye lazily and then closed it.
“I like them both,” she said into the pillow, “for sitting by the fire with a cup of cocoa and a needle-working project.” She sighed and sat up. “You’re twenty-six, Skylar. Please tell me you own something that I couldn’t find in my grandmother’s closet.”
&nb
sp; I hugged the sweaters. “Jeez, tell me how you really feel.”
“I don’t care if this guy somehow screwed up his circadian rhythms so that he thinks night is day and day is night. A date’s a date, and those sweaters will make you look like a shut-in cat lady. A really young, cute cat lady, but still a cat lady.” She looked pointedly at my glasses. “Are you going to wear those too?”
“You wear glasses every day!” I cried, chucking the black sweater at her.
Jane pulled the sweater off her face and tossed it unceremoniously onto the end of the bed. “Yes, but I am the Asian Rivers Cuomo. The half-Korean pseudo-hipster. Every guy who asks me out probably does it a little bit because of the glasses, as they are a critical part of my appeal. You only wear them when your allergies are acting up. I know how much you like to show off those emerald beauties.”
I stuck my tongue out and threw the other sweater at her, which she kicked neatly onto the black one. Jane had good reflexes for someone who still had bedhead.
“Do you even want to go on this date, Sky?” she asked seriously.
I shrugged. “You pushed me at him. He’s nice. And cute. And not planning manipulative overtures that require him to snoop through my desk and charter planes.” I pressed my lips together, suddenly determined to put my best foot forward. “Yes,” I said, this time with more emphasis. “Yes, I definitely want to go on this date.”
Jane studied me for a few seconds before heaving a big, fake sigh and standing up. “God, you make me do everything for you,” she groaned. “Go put your contacts in, actually dry your hair, and I’ll find you something to wear.”
An hour later, I was sitting at a table at Graze, the newest hotspot in Cambridge. The place was bright and raucous on the otherwise cloudy gray day.
“You look really nice today, Skylar,” Jared said with a smile as he sat across from me.
I nodded in thanks. Jane had paired a long-sleeved, creamy lace blouse over a pair of dark skinny jeans and my black ankle boots. My hair was pulled back into a side chignon, a style that exposed the gold hoops dangling from my ears. The glasses were gone, and I’d touched up my face with a brush of mascara and some lip gloss.
“Daytime chic,” Jane had pronounced after informing me that my ass didn’t quit in these jeans. After seeing Jared’s expression when I took off my parka, I decided she was right, but I wasn’t sure if I cared that he thought so too.
“This place is nice,” I said, looking around at the bright white interior, rustic tables, and the plants hanging from the ceiling. “It’s like spring in here. I feel like I’m in a greenhouse.”
Jared nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’ve wanted to try this place for a while. It’s got a month’s wait for dinner reservations, but they said we could probably get in for brunch. So, bingo, here we are!” He leaned over and set his hand briefly on top of mine. “I’m really glad I get to share it with you, Skylar.”
I fought the urge to take my hand back and just smiled. Bingo? I could already hear Jane making Beaver Cleaver jokes in my head. Without waiting for a reply, Jared pulled his hand back and picked up his menu. I did the same.
The food was served in pretentiously small but tasty portions, and the date passed easily as we shared anecdotes and talked about school. Jared, I found out, grew up in Chestnut Hill, and his family also had a house on Cape Cod. They were classic old New England denizens; he had three direct descendants who were on the Mayflower. His father was serving his sixth term in Congress, and his mother stayed at home. He grew up with an older brother, a younger sister, and a dog named Quincy Adams.
“If you want an internship in D.C. this summer, I could probably set you up with an interview,” he said after a bite of his crab cake.
“That’s really nice of you, but I’m not really interested in politics,” I said. There was also the fact that his father was a Libertarian, and I came from a family of New York Democrats. “Thanks anyway.”
“So, what about you? You’re from Brooklyn, right?”
Maybe it was the yuppie entitlement of the restaurant, or maybe it was the golden retriever named after a U.S. president, but suddenly I felt shy about my family history. Jared was a nuclear-family WASP to the nth degree, and I was an Irish-Jewish garbage collector’s daughter whose mother had abandoned her. I felt like a piece of foggy quartz compared to a diamond.
“Um, yeah,” I said as I speared a bite of egg. “Flatbush—that’s a neighborhood in Brooklyn, close to Prospect Park. My dad works for the city, and my mom’s an artist.”
Of course, Jared latched onto her profession, which was, to types like him, charmingly bohemian. I didn’t mention that I hardly knew her.
“That’s so cool,” he said. “What kind of art?”
“Installation, mostly.”
“Oh, like Jeff Koons?”
I nodded. “Yeah, sort of. I’d say her stuff is closer to Man Ray and Nancy Spero.”
“Oh.”
Jared blinked, and I could tell he had no idea who I was talking about.
“I went to an exhibit on Andy Warhol once,” he offered weakly. “His stuff was pretty out there. Do you like it?”
I shrugged. “Art is my mom’s thing, not mine. I just appreciate the major stuff like Da Vinci and Michelangelo.”
Jared nodded in agreement and obvious relief. “Yeah, me too. Can’t argue with the Mona Lisa, can you?”
“Nope,” I said, even though I actually hated the Mona Lisa. I didn’t think he’d want to know that. “Have you seen it?”
“Oh yeah!” Jared said enthusiastically. He seemed grateful that I’d given him another familiar topic to discuss. “When I was traveling in Europe after college. Backpacking with some friends.”
He then launched into a story about the hostel where he stayed in Paris, and I listened, relieved I didn’t have to answer any more questions about my family.
Jared walked me back to my building, holding my hand loosely as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I only wished that I felt like it was a natural thing to be doing.
“I know I’m not saving the world or anything,” he was saying as he talked about the job he was planning to take at his grandfather’s firm next year. “But I don’t know if that’s so important. If we give away our hard-earned dollars, it makes other people lose the desire to work hard, don’t you think? In a way, I’m helping them more by helping myself.”
I couldn’t disagree more. Jared was nice, but his ignorance of his own entitlement was becoming more irritating by the second. I also didn’t see how being handed a job at your father's congressional office demonstrated work ethic.
After two hours of listening to him, I was more than ready to be done with this date. I wanted to get out of these tight jeans and talk to someone who didn’t make me feel like I had to censor myself.
“Skylar?”
I blinked. “Yeah?”
“I said, I had a really nice time."
“Oh!” I said. “Yeah, me too. Thanks for brunch. You didn’t have to pay, you know.”
“I didn’t mind.”
Jared pushed back a stray lock of brown hair that had fallen from his neat coif. He took my other hand and tugged me closer. I watched with distant fascination as he closed his eyes and leaned in, his lips in a half smile with the knowledge that he was going to kiss me and that I would like it. He was so expectant that I didn’t have the heart to avoid it. It wasn’t until his lips were pressed on mine in a chaste, closed-mouth kiss that I finally closed my eyes too.
It wasn’t the worst kiss in the world, but there was something missing. Or someone, my conscience niggled. Someone blond. And tall. And with incredible blue eyes and soft, passionate lips. Someone who was not kissing me now.
I counted the seconds until it was over. It took four.
Jared smiled. “So, when can I see you again?”
“Well, I have classes and clinic all week,” I said, feeling shifty and noncommittal. Jared was a perfectly nice, handsome guy. This d
idn’t have to be that complicated. “I’m not sure.”
“Friday night work for you?” he pressed, holding my hand just a bit tighter while he lingered.
I looked down at our joined hands. I just wanted to get out of the cold. And while I couldn’t have said why, something made me feel like Jared wasn't the kind of person who took rejection easily.
“Sure,” I relented. “That should work.”
“I’ll call you,” he said confidently and leaned in for another peck on the cheek. “See you later, Skylar.”
“Okay,” I said and turned to unlock the door to my building as he walked away.
Once upstairs, I changed into an infinitely more comfortable outfit of stretchy black pants and a gray flannel shirt and settled on the couch to finish reading for the weekend. After working steadily through the afternoon, I found myself with a rare free evening. Jane was out with a study group at the library until late, and I ambled about the apartment, uncharacteristically bored and with nothing to distract me from the one thing—or person, really—I had been trying not to think about. No matter what I tried over the last few days, I had not been able to get Kieran’s description of Brandon out of my head.
I hardly knew him. That was the reality. A poor kid from the south side who’d been neglected and abused by his drug-addicted parents. You didn’t need to be a psychologist to guess there would be some attachment issues there. No wonder he had tried so hard. People like that usually had a hard time accepting that others would like them just for who they were. Sometimes it turned the person into a manipulative, untrusting shit, but a lot of times it just came out with insecure actions that didn’t fit the social circumstance. So, which was Brandon?
The thought of all of our interactions together felt completely disorienting. We were doing everything backward. I had spent the night at his house before I’d barely known his first name. He’s treated me like an employee after I’d already quit working for him. We’d…well, he had done things to me most people reserved for at least after they’d actually gone on a date together.