by Emily Duvall
Autism makes sense, I guess. I am not in tune with anything about the topic. A few odd kids in my high school, maybe, but we didn’t interact. To me, she’s just awkward. “The group with the blue puzzle piece logo?”
“Yes,” she answers, disheartened.
Maren looks content, taking in the sight of the skyline and the buildings. “She looks fine to me.”
Libby looks ready to blow her top. “Did you see the way they looked at me?”
“I don’t think their attention was on you.” My hands slide into my pant pockets and I rock back on my feet. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
The wind picks up and Libby shoves a section of hair out of her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I mean, when we went on that awkward date.”
She takes a slow breath. “Don’t ever mention that again.”
“Yeah, but, that’s not the point. You never talk about her at work.”
“Caleb, just go. You’re not helping.”
Maren approaches us. “I’m going to leave now. You two are taking too long.”
I feel bad for her, for Libby.
Libby looks over her shoulder longingly at the museum entrance. “Give me a few more minutes, Mare. I have to finish talking to Julie.”
What I do know is I’m as thrilled about the cocktail hour as Maren. The event is dull, and my mood is shot. I have dinner plans and work waiting for me which are far more appealing, and Libby clearly wants to stay. Maren won’t wait five minutes, let alone twenty, and I’ll do anything to get out of going back inside, even if I must use her. “This art thing is more you than me, Libby. I’ll get Maren home.”
“No. No way.” Libby shakes her head.
“Maren,” I say loud and clear. “Do you want Libby to stay at the party?”
She looks curiously at her sister and the two of them hold eye contact. “Yes.”
“Do you want to go home?” I ask Maren directly.
Maren scoffs. “Yes, a thousand times over.”
My grin is victorious and charming. “See? We both want the same thing. You win.” I usher her forward with a gentle push. “Get back in there, counselor.”
Libby glances at me over her shoulder like I’ve messed up her entire plan for Maren’s life. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am. Get out of here. Maren will show me the way.”
“I won’t be long,” she says to Maren.
“Not a kid anymore,” Maren fires back. “Would appreciate it if you would stop acting like I can’t do anything for myself.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I say before the tension worsens.
Maren mumbles something I can’t understand.
Together we leave as if we’re old friends. Maren walks ahead of me again, and I walk fast to keep up with her. “Slow down, speed walker.”
“You don’t have to walk me home,” she says without looking at me. “We both know you don’t like me.”
I cough back the truth. “I didn’t like stopping for ice cream.”
“You should reconsider next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I grumble.
Maren keeps up her pace. She says few words, unlike the way here, when she wouldn’t stop talking. She’s got a lot going on in her head and I’m not in the mood for chattiness without purpose. Any other woman would rehash the museum disaster to death and force me to break the silence. I’m the one who speaks first. “What did Reed say to you?”
“Who’s Reed?” Maren asks.
“The guy who sat next to you at the museum.”
“He asked me if I liked the painting.”
“Seems a bit…reactive for such a question. Did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t like the lines. They didn’t make sense going in all those directions.”
I hold back a shot of laughter. “You pushed him because you disliked the painting?”
“No,” she says incredulously, stopping to face me. The sunlight sets in the reflection of her eyes, deepening the shade of green. They’re captivating. “I pushed him because he said he wanted to finger me later and then he put his hand on my thigh. His fingers remind me of turkey sausages.” She shudders.
I stop her. “You’re serious? He said that?”
“Why else would I shove someone?”
“I’m not disagreeing with you. You absolutely did the right thing. Don’t for a second think you should have acted differently.” I’m fascinated by her and disgusted at Reed. I would love to punch him on her behalf. Not because I’m protective of her. I have wanted to smack Reed ever since he had sex with an intern and bragged about it.
I refocus on Maren. “If he ever does that again, punch him, and don’t miss. I’ll represent you if he tries to sue.”
She curls her fist. Her expression is lethal. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I laugh out loud. “Easy there.”
She drops her fist and calmly continues. “Why did he say that though?”
“He’s a jerk.”
“Libby’s dated a few of those.”
I laugh from the gut. She has no idea about the men Libby’s dated. Or maybe she does. Something tells me she doesn’t.
“Don’t laugh Caleb Allan. You’re one of them.”
I stop laughing immediately. “Wait. What?”
“Yeah, she’s called you a jerk so many times that I’ve lost count.”
My smile drops abruptly, and my ego runs for cover. “What else has she called me?”
“Competitive asshole. Prick. Pretentious. Lives off family money.”
“That doesn’t sound exactly like me. There’s room for interpretation.”
The sarcasm flies over Maren’s head like a rocket. “She’s afraid of you. How’s that for different?”
Where did this strong-willed, clear voice come from? Her gaze is sharp as a knife. I stop and touch her elbow. “What? She’s scared of me?”
“She thinks you’ll take her job and fire her. She says Julie likes you better because you’re handsome. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Handsome?”
My lips break into an irrepressible smirk. “I have been called gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous is used to describe a woman who is beyond beautiful. Clearly you are not a woman.” She gives me skeptical once-over. “I’m not sure the term fits with your face either.”
I scoff. “You ladies can’t hog all the adjectives. Claiming them as your own.”
Maren studies my face like the jury is still out on the issue of my physical magnificence. “So. Tell me. Are you going to get the promotion?”
“Yes,” I answer flatly.
Her brow creases. “How though? Libby wins ninety percent of her cases. You only get eighty percent.”
She has me there. I gesture to the right and we continue around the corner to an alley-turned-into upscale shopping and dining. I can’t stop thinking about how Maren is right. Libby does win more cases than me. Maybe my good looks will be the deciding factor when it comes to Julie. One can hope.
We bypass the busy section of shops and restaurants. Maren’s apartment isn’t a far walk from the Virginia Square Metro Station, right near the George Mason University Arlington satellite campus.
Her building is new, built within the last few years, with insane property values. The exposed brick walls in the lobby create a welcome area with mailboxes and coffee tables. There’s a small area to sit and a keypad to get through to the hallway and elevators.
Maren stops. She turns. Her gaze is dead set on mine. “Do you want to get ice cream again sometime?”
There it is again, like my chest is collapsing. The air in my lungs is thick and my thoughts are swimming with memories of a small hand linked in mine. I don’t ever want to step in another ice cream shop. Not with Maren or anyone else. I frown and put an end to this discussion. “No,” I say firmly. “Can you get to your apartment
?”
“I’ve been living here for five years. I think I can manage to get to my apartment.”
I think of Reed and his awfulness towards her. She’s not my problem though. Do I drag this out and walk her to her door? Hell no.
My phone beeps and I check the message. Sara’s ready to meet. I look at Maren, she’s analyzing the door scanner for the badge like a military secret. “See you later,” I say.
“Yeah, bye,” she says without looking up.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I leave and forget about her. Sara’s waiting for me which means the night is holding promise.
Chapter 3
Maren
The keypad on the door must be broken. Even as I punch my security code in the buttons as backup, the door does not open. Since I can’t find my badge, I wonder how many people get locked out every day. The number of tenants in the building, plus seven stories, twenty units on each floor. Three hundred and forty rooms.
I blame Reed. My badge was in my bag when I left the office. It must have fallen out and everything’s messed up and I can’t get through this door and up the elevator and to my apartment. Badge, badge, badge, badge. No badge. Not here. Where is it? I can’t get into my apartment WITHOUT MY BADGE. My heart beats fast, fast, faster. I don’t like this. Badge, badge, badge, badge. My hands slap the window. I peer inside.
Anyone? Hello? Anyone here? This is a disaster. I should have stayed home. I should have suggested Libby and I go to our favorite bar, Pierce’s. Nope, never mind. I can’t go there, not after what I saw. Libby and I will need to find a new bar. Maybe I should do that now instead of waiting for all this panic to bubble up and explode. Libby clearly has gone over the twenty minutes she’d planned to stay. I get out my phone and call. And leave a message. And text.
Apartment management doesn’t have anyone in the building on duty after 7:00 p.m. This is a worse-case scenario, getting locked out. My gaze fixates on the door. I wait and watch expectantly. I knew I shouldn’t have gone to the museum. My evening would have been better, had I stuck to my instincts and gone home after work. I’d be upstairs, locked in my apartment and playing games on my iPad. Instead, I lean against the wall.
Breathe.
Deep breaths are the antidote to panic. That and the drugs. The goal is to put a barrier in my brain before I lose the delicate grip on my reaction. I’ve been practicing elongating my breaths and re-training my thoughts for years. A lady named Ms. Prentice used to come to our house and help me learn how to extinguish undesirable behaviors—like freaking out in public. Ms. Prentice, Libby, my parents, they would tell me to pay attention to my breaths. They don’t realize how difficult inhaling and exhaling can be or how suffocating it feels, which I think counteracts the point of the exercise?
Ms. Prentice hasn’t been in my life for a long time. It’s just me and my lungs now. Breathe. Long, long, longer breaths. The size of the problem is small. I’m not bleeding, and my head is attached. I repeat this mantra. Getting locked out is a solvable problem.
My racing, crazy heartbeat subsides. I’ve stopped myself from dropping to the floor and hiding in a dark corner until Libby arrives. Where is she anyway? I should have asked Caleb Allan to stay longer. My stomach does a flip. He was on my side about leaving the museum. He must not be as bad as Libby says and he did walk me home. Most men just walk away. They don’t think I notice, but I do.
I check my phone and see the sun is expected to set in one hour and twenty-two minutes. There’s nothing to do in this lobby. I leave and head for downtown.
There’s still prime sunlight at this hour. The shade is golden, not brutal yellow, and I wind around the sidewalk to the other side of the building. People are out. Cars clog the street. This is rare for me to be out like this without Libby trailing behind on her phone. I kind of like it.
My family worries about me. Libby tells me it’s the What If? What if the noise is too loud or the lights are too bright? What if someone puts me in danger? What if the restaurant doesn’t have options that I like? I can look up a menu ahead of time to see if they have my favorites: plain noodles, grilled chicken, French fries, and shrimp. Well, that one is only sometimes.
Downtown isn’t far and there’s a noodle place Libby and I go to on the weekend. The way to get there is mapped in my mind with points of interest along the way. The first crosswalk gets me to the busy section of the sidewalk. Starbucks, a nail salon, a computer store that smells like body odor (the customer service rep didn’t like this when I told him). Better smells are wafting from the many restaurants and my stomach growls like a beast. The evening is aglow from white lights strung back-and-forth between the buildings. The cobblestone street is annoyingly uneven and without logical patterns. I am almost deterred enough to take the long way, if not for my mind fixated on the idea of eating.
At last, I see the sign for Noodle House and all the chaos of earlier fades at the prospect of dinner.
Someone opens the door for me and I step inside. The line isn’t long with three people waiting in front of me. My senses get overloaded quickly and I need a second to adjust to the numbers spread across the digital screen, the kitchen crew banging pots and yelling orders, the customers laughing and talking, all wrapped up in loud music playing overhead. My ears react. My brain responds. Every word, lyric, and shout are amplified like two giant speakers. I need a minute to let everything come into focus.
“Miss? May I take your order?” the guy behind the counter asks.
“Plain noodles with meatballs and a large lemonade,” I respond, getting out my credit card and paying with the plastic.
Ticket number 55 is handed to me. I want to ask for a higher number. Libby’s voice reminds me the higher the number doesn’t matter, and I make my way through the eating area wondering how high the wait numbers go up in their system.
“Maren.”
Why doesn’t the restaurant utilize numbers up to 200? 300?
“Maren Cole.”
I whip my head around and my gaze crashes with his eyes. Caleb Allan, sitting at a high table. The woman from the museum sits up straight and puts down her fork. Her elbow bumps Caleb’s.
“You’re eating here,” I say.
“Obviously.” He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hungry, obviously.”
“I thought you would be full of all that ice cream,” Caleb adds. His lips are contorted in what makes me think of the word snarky. The woman next to him stifles a laugh.
“That was two-and-a-half hours ago,” I say, unflinching.
Caleb rolls his lips. “Shouldn’t you be at your apartment?”
“I lost my badge. Can’t get in without one.”
“Did you call your sister?” the woman talks over Caleb.
“She didn’t answer.” I stare back at her. “You were at the museum.”
“Yes, I was. I’m Sara Hughes. I’m a lawyer with Caleb and Libby.”
This is awesome. People to eat with. I put my drink on the table and take a seat.
Sara looks at Caleb and back at me. “I’m sorry, but we’re having dinner.” Sara points at the baskets with their food.
“Alone,” Caleb adds emphatically.
Sara cocks her head and smiles. “Do you think you can find another table?”
Oh. Yeah. Of course. I should have known. I look at their meals and how close they’re sitting. Sara’s elbow touches his. I stand up right away and collect my drink cup and my ticket. “I’m leaving.”
People have a lot of opinions on whether I feel emotions. Authors write about the depth of my understanding of sadness to happiness to compassion. Behavioral specialists analyze it. They tell others how someone like me will feel. I only know my own mind. Caleb Allan and Sara Hughes do not want me to sit with them. I do not feel good about this and that’s my reaction. It sucks to be asked to leave. I just wish I knew why.
I find another seat in the corner and sit with my back to them. I won’t tell Libby about th
is. She’ll get fired up. She’ll ask if I’m okay. If I could make money off her asking that question, I could afford to buy the rights to Countess Coins, my current favorite game on my iPad. Last night, I racked up seven-hundred points, which inches me closer to three-hundred thousand I need to get first place.
The arrival of the noodles improves my mood. I check my phone in between bites.
Libby left a message. On my way home. Wait in the lobby.
I don’t tell her where I am. I don’t want her to rush over here.
“Maren.”
I angle my head up and slurp the rest of my lemonade as my gaze travels up to his face. Caleb Allen is staring down at me, his lips parted in a grim line. I like the symmetry of his straight, white teeth. There is a sharp quality to his nose and his jaw that reminds me of grid lines on a map. I set my drink down. “You’ve got a nice face.”
He ignores the comment and looks over my half-eaten meal and grimaces. “What is that?”
“Plain noodles and meatballs. They’re great. You should try them.”
“Um—no.”
“Where’s Sara?”
“She’ll be back in a sec.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t sit with you.”
He scratches his jaw. “That’s not why I’m talking to you. Are you able to walk back by yourself?”
“Yes, I can walk,” I draw out the syllables to be funny.
Caleb does not laugh.
Sara appears from the hallway and walks right up to us, giving me a brief glance and sliding her hand down Caleb’s arm. “Ready to go?”
Caleb keeps his eyes on me.
“Why are you looking at me?” I say to him.
“Do you need me to call Libby?”
I hold up my phone. “She knows I’m on my way.”
“She’s fine.” Sara tugs on his arm. “Come on, they’re starting the music. We need to get a good spot.”
“We’ve got plans,” Caleb explains, taking her hand. “We’ll see you later.”
I won’t actually see them later. Another empty expression and one I don’t think about on my way home. I’m so glad Caleb and Sara did not decide to walk with me. The sidewalk is not meant for three people walking side-by-side and I don’t think Caleb likes me.