by Emily Duvall
I cringe. My hands flap to my sides and I ball my fists, clenching my fingers. “She shouldn’t have called you.”
“I can understand why you’re upset. I don’t like family arguments more than the next person, but I was inclined to listen. You’re a very valuable employee to the firm and she inquired about the possibility of a transfer to our location in Manhattan. Usually, I wouldn’t have taken such a call, but when I heard, I needed to hear what was going on.”
“I’m not going. My home is here. My job is here. I don’t want a new officemate.”
“Good to hear,” his tone has changed. More serious, less kind. “If you change your mind, I want to assure you that you have an office in New York at the Fifth Avenue branch. We would increase your pay by twenty percent and help with moving costs.” He slides a document across the table.
I take a minute to read the fine print. Oh yes. I do like the look of those numbers. My hands clench excitedly. I look up at Mr. Spencer. “This is unexpected.”
“Like I said, we consider your work important. Take the document, it’s yours, and you let me know if you have a change of heart. Do you have any questions?”
“Not a question, but if she calls again, don’t speak with her. I’m not happy about what either of you did.” I glance at the document with the high salary number. “Even if it got me this.”
He shifts in his chair. “I apologize, Maren. I won’t take her call again. I wanted to think about what we could offer you. Had you quit, that would be devastating to the firm.”
I return to my office thinking about this problem. Libby makes a lot of choices for me and I don’t like that she called Mr. Spencer. She’s telling everyone about the move and that I’m going with her when that’s not true.
This isn’t right.
The distraction keeps me off-task. My thoughts get stuck on Libby’s voice, a sound I’ve known forever, correcting me and getting me to do what she wants. Maren, look people in the eye. Lower your voice. Stop moving. Say Happy Birthday! Say hello when you meet someone. Shake his hand. Drop his hand, that’s long enough. Control your body. Don’t you feel anything? Don’t you care? Don’t you understand?
I understand that Libby had called Mr. Spencer and they had talked.
The numbers on the screen don’t make sense. Sunshine cuts through the window and the glare is making my eyes ache.
“Mare,” Charlotte says, suddenly at my side. “I’m going out for lunch. Want to join?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Charlotte smiles with her mouth closed. “Are you okay? You haven’t said much this morning.”
“Libby called Mr. Spencer about the move,” I can barely get the words past my lips. “Your sister would never call your boss.”
“I don’t even think my sister knows Mr. Spencer’s name.” She rests her hand on my desk and taps her nails. “That’s not right. What did he say?”
“He said I could switch offices. He had an offer like it was a done deal.”
“Seriously? You can’t go. I’d get stuck with someone like Lisa Meyers. Her office smells like fish.”
“I’m not going, but she’s not listening. How do I get her to understand this is my choice?”
“You have to keep telling her.”
“That’s not working.”
“Come up with a list of reasons why you don’t need go and show her that you’ve thought this through. She doesn’t treat you like an adult and you need to stand up to her. You’re over eighteen and you have a kick-ass job. What can she do?” Charlotte grabs a piece of paper off her desk and draws a line down the middle.
“What are you doing?”
“In one column, write the positive points of staying, and in the other, the negative.”
I take the piece of paper and grab a pen. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Reasons for Staying
My apartment
Proximity to the Metro
Work
Charlotte
Doctor K
My whole world
Reasons for Leaving
Make more money
New streets
No jogging partners
***
Everything about the move happens quickly. My parents are visiting from Florida and are sleeping in an extended stay hotel for the rest of the month. They want to pack for Libby and help with the adjustment, which they say like a dirty word. I am on my couch after work, watching a show called First & Last. The host picks three objects and the camera crew films how the object is made. Today’s items are gum, potato chips, and nails. I haven’t seen this one. I grasp my squishy ball and squeeze until my attention is focused on the program. I need a break from all the thinking about the move.
Communication is a hard concept to master. The channel of taking what’s in my heart and mixing with my thoughts, then blending them together in a way that works is a challenge. Feelings aren’t as easy to talk about as people claim. They aren’t like an equation. I’m not even sure some of them can be solved.
The move to New York is upsetting. Does anyone think I want her to leave? I don’t want her to go, but I don’t want to go with her either. My parents want me to make my own choice, but when I do, they respond with whispers and body language that say the opposite. I’m not excited about my show today and shut off the television.
I need air.
Jogging makes me feel better. My outlet, as Doctor K says, is where I can go to be myself and sort out my thoughts when they’re too much. I change out of work clothes and dress for a run with my hair clipped back and a stretchy headband to keep annoying strands out of my face.
Stepping out of the building eases my mood. My stretches are done on the grass and I get to the business of running.
The midpoint is at Founder’s Park on this bench where I can watch the traffic lights change in the distance. I’m not interested in keeping track of them today. Information overload about this move is taking up my brain space. I think I can do this, live on my own. I want to show my family I can and if I move to New York, I won’t have this chance again.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. I think about my list of reasons to stay. The most compelling one is easy. Home has never been anywhere else.
I like the warm air. I like this time of year. Fall is my least favorite season even though Libby says she waits all year for it. Why? I have no clue. The leaves are messy like littered trash over the streets and the weather’s chilly. Summer is my speed. Sunshine, no sweaters required, and longer days. The big city up North is going to have three extra months of shitty weather.
My view is suddenly blocked, and my gaze drifts upwards, up the length of his body. “Caleb Allan,” I say, frowning. “Two first names.”
“I think we’ve established that.” He folds his arms over his chest and scowls. “I’m surprised that you run at night.”
I nod at the big orange ball on the horizon. “The sun’s still out.”
His gaze flickers to the sky. “Fine. Early evening. Whatever.”
“Whatever,” I copy him.
“Are you supposed to be out?”
“Yes, Maren can be out,” I answer with an exaggerated huff. “Are you supposed to be out?”
“I checked with my mom first.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t, I’m kidding. I barely speak to her.” He whacks my shoulder. “Are we running or what?”
“No thank you.”
He looks caught off guard. “Why not?”
“You’re slower than me.”
Caleb nods as if I’ve made a valid point. “Ever been to a horse race?”
I scrunch my nose. “No.”
“The horses run at impressive speeds.”
“How fast?”
“Up to seventy miles per hour.”
Dang. “That’s fast. How many laps do they run?”
He cocks his head. “Depends on the race.”
“What does the win
ning horse get?”
“The owner of the horse gets millions.”
I hold his gaze. “I’m working on saving a minimum of a million dollars, but several? I need to get a better job. I should get a race horse.”
The corner of his lip turns up. “You remind me of one.”
“I’m not a horse,” I say fiercely.
“Relax, Maren. I’m giving you a compliment. You’re fast. Own it. Say thank you and let’s move on.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He grins.
A rush of heat goes straight down my middle. My breath feels suddenly lighter. And his eyes are comforting. They’re not as cold as I had originally thought.
“I want to run with you,” he states forcefully.
My reaction is a yes, even if my brain says no. All that business of not wanting a running partner disappears. “Then can we go, please? This is too much talking.” This is the kind of talking that I don’t know what to say next. I take off, leaving him to follow.
Caleb keeps pace with me. I can hear his heavy breathing and his tired footsteps. I don’t let his presence distract me.
“Are you having a good day?” he says, out of breath.
“I don’t talk while I’m jogging.”
This shuts him up, which isn’t good, because now I want him to talk. This run is different. My stomach is in knots and I don’t know what to say. Did I just screw this up? I think I did. Oh no. I totally did.
He doesn’t say a blessed word the rest of the run.
We move in stride for the rest of the path, until my apartment building is in view and I decrease my pace to a fast walk. “You didn’t do half bad.”
“Are you allowing me to talk now?” Caleb sounds annoyed.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I tease, but with the heavy feeling that he doesn’t find my response funny.
He just stares at me. “Before you ban me from saying anything more, I think you should know that you’re making a solid choice to stay. You know? Fight for what you want and all that. I tell my clients the same thing. That’s what I was going to tell you before you cut me off back there.”
I shrug. “I didn’t ask for your vote of confidence.”
“Say thank you, Maren. I don’t give out many compliments.”
“And you’ve already given me two. Must be a record for you.” This time when I look in his eyes, there’s a touch of softness and my cheeks burn at the fumbling feeling inside that I said the wrong thing. “Thank you.”
“There you go. I appreciate it.”
We cross the street and hike up the steps to the platform in front of the building’s walled-window entrance. The thought of rushing through the front door and going straight to my games is less appealing. Caleb’s presence is nice. “I told myself I wouldn’t run with you again.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“I thought I liked running alone, but you’re not terrible to have next to me.”
His eyes narrow. “Please. Do not get soft of me.”
“I’m not.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” I say.
“I’m stretching.”
I look at his leg pulled back at the knee. He’s standing close to me and nerves flare up in my stomach. His skin is light like mine. His eyes are a deep brown. His lips are uneven which bothers me. A tweak and they’d be fixed, but they’re part of him. They work with his face in a way that makes me remember him. The angles of his face remind me of hexagons. No, pentagons, squares, circles. Diamonds?
“Excuse me? Maren Cole? Where are you?” Caleb says, pausing his arm midway to his ankle.
“Right here. With you.”
“Didn’t seem that way. Whatever’s on your mind must be more important than me, you know, the one you’re with.”
Heat shoots up my cheeks. “You are on my mind. I’m thinking about shapes.”
It almost looks like he’s about to smile. “You’re what? Why?”
“I’m figuring out what shape your face most closely resembles.”
He gives a stuck-up snort. “Well, don’t.”
“You don’t like your face shape?”
“Yes—No. No one really asks that.”
My heart sinks. I try again. “I want to run with you, again. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“So, just say it.”
“I want to run with you again.”
He grins. “Maybe.”
“Maybe means no.”
“No, it doesn’t. It means I don’t have an answer for you. I’ve got to check my schedule. I’m a very busy person.”
“When you want to be.”
“That’s…ah, debatable,” his words cut right through to laughing. “I am busy, for the record.”
“Do you ever say you’re busy when you’re not?”
He angles his head and his eyes become thin. “Yes,” he says with a note of caution. “Sometimes, to get out of dates.”
“Why not just tell your date you don’t want to go out?”
“I do.” He shifts his arm over his chest. The sun hits his eyes, turning them a rich, hypnotic brown.
Annnd smash, the effect happens before I know what to do with the thought. Caleb’s eyes, his mouth, his presence…Is my heart beating faster? What would it be like to kiss someone like him? A flood of wants and needs runs through me. I can’t even process it all. “Whatever you say.” I go back to thinking about the shape of his face. “Definitely oblong.”
Chapter 6
Caleb
Sara and I sit outside listening to the Friday night jazz concert. Outdoor seating at the restaurants are packed due to the warm weather, clear skies, and music. Sara checks her phone, waiting to be needed at work, and I sip the pale ale, waiting for the alcohol to smooth over the bitterness corroding my veins. Libby’s job promotion kicked-off major self-loathing that I haven’t been able to shake. I can’t shake it because this goes deeper than this moment. I have felt this way for much longer. Maybe this is because of the young family across from us with their daughter, seated in the stroller and kicking her chubby legs. The reminders are tiny and powerful. They’re so dangerously random that I can’t prevent them. They attack and steal my breath. But this is always how it is leading up to the day she died. I turn away before the family thinks I’m creepy, staring at their breathing, very much alive, little girl.
But maybe this is more than Darcy. Either way, I can’t ignore how I have done this evening a hundred times before. I look at Sara and her calm composure. She has every box checked from unprecedented looks to intelligence and she always has the hard truth waiting for anyone who will listen. She is also like every woman I have dated. This used to be what I had looked forward to, sitting here, letting the night slip away to music and drinks. I’ve been at this proverbial seat before, with some other woman. They’re all the same when I want exceptional. So, what the hell do I want?
This city has been my scene for the last ten years. The buildings and their mix of brick and stone exterior. The crab cakes and blue crab sandwiches. This beer I’m drinking from a local brewery. What if I exchanged all that I know for another city? Should I leave the firm? Change course? Venture into bigger waters with another firm? Starting over at another company takes time and I’m not willing to be a pawn and work my way up. I’ve done that. I’m on course to be like Julie Hockley with my last name on a building. Correction. I was on track.
Julie’s fingers must be burning because I check my messages and find Julie has written. She’s officially assigning me as lead counsel to the new case. The one involving the owner of Pierce’s bar. New client or not, I’m still not over getting passed up for a promotion.
The inner hostility fades with each slow sip of beer, but I know I can’t continue like I am. This new case might be another golden ticket. Not likely though. Opportunities like New York are rare and before I can convince myself I’ll get over this, I’m struck with one irritating thought.
I
’m bored.
Sara glances up from her phone. She tugs her hair back over her shoulder. “Libby’s leaving me with a mess. Doesn’t she know I’m already putting in seventy hours a week?” Her eyes take in the band like she’s just remembered there’s music. “How long do you want to stay?”
I tap my finger on my glass to the beat of the bass. “Are you in a hurry?”
“I’m not really feeling the music.”
I lift my glass, so she can see it’s nowhere near empty.
She looks accusingly at the amber liquid. “We can stay until you’re done.” She grumbles and runs her hands through her long hair. “I can’t stop thinking about Libby’s promotion. Am I wrong to think you should be the one to go?” She shakes her head. “I wish I was the one packing up my apartment.”
I raise my glass a little. That makes two of us. “So, go. See what happens.”
“Easier said than done.” She glances at her phone, swipes the screen and writes a message. When she’s done, I have her attention. “This is a good time for us to talk. Ever think about what New York could mean for us? What if we both packed up our places and moved together?”
I choke on my beer.
“I’m kidding, Caleb. You should see the look on your face—you’re upset about the promotion.” Her hand covers mine. “We all are, but what’s with you lately? You’re distracted and moody.”
All the above. No way I’m spilling my thoughts. “I’m acting no different than I always do.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
I sigh too quickly. Here it comes.
“Next time I stay over, I’m going to leave a few things.”
When I’m right, I’m right. I give a noncommittal nod. “Don’t think that’s necessary.”
A woman walks by, pushing a stroller with a toddler twisting back and reaching for her mother. Why is it every little girl with brown eyes has eyes like Darcy’s? Sara’s gaze follows the duo. “We don’t have to talk about this now. Look at her, probably gave up a six-figure salary to deal with runny noses. I never want children. What about you?”
Darcy’s smiling face fills my heart like a gunshot to my chest. Her death hits me like a bullet lodged deep beneath my skin. The pain spreads fast and fierce. Like a reflex, my mouth stiffens against the beer glass and I look away from Sara’s scrutinizing gaze until I can breathe. It’s just the time of year, I tell myself. I should have known better than to pretend I used to lead a different life. Nobody at the firm knows, not even Julie, and I intend for my past to stay buried below the ground. “No children for me either.”