All of Me

by Emily Duvall

  “I overpaid to restore the staircase,” Caleb says, ushering me over to the banister.

  “Numbers, I can do. Banisters? No clue. How much money?”

  “That’s personal.”

  Code for I’ve asked the wrong thing. “The ‘how old’ part then. That’s not personal.”

  “Might be if you asked the staircase.”

  I turn and face the stairs. “You don’t actually expect them to answer.”

  He smiles. “The stairs were over a hundred years old, but those are long gone.” His hand touches the small of my back. “You want some water?”

  “Yeah.”

  The time he spends getting his water and checking his phone is a chance for me to walk around and familiarize myself with what defines Caleb. He’s a coffee drinker and his stainless-steel fridge might be the shiniest I’ve ever seen. The house isn’t like my apartment. The colors here are browns and dark blue. They’re opposite of my white walls. Hardbound books on the shelf with tiny red lettering. I peer in closer to see Roman numerals on their spines. Cool. Numbers are awesome in any form. The flat screen is large. He’s got two big couches with a low table between. I can’t find anything distinct though. Something that would make for a good conversation starter.

  Music streams in through a speaker and I whirl around, surprised by the noise. The beat blares into my soul and overrides my concentration. “Too loud.”

  “Sorry,” he calls out from the kitchen and the music stops. He appears in the doorway with a glass of water. “I didn’t realize I had the volume so high.”

  I’m frazzled for a few tenuous beats and recover. I take the glass of water and walk over to one of the shelves, to the picture of a young girl. I pick up the frame. “Is this 10-15?”

  Caleb stops walking towards me. His eyes are wide and for a second, he looks angry. Quicker, he gets to me and grabs the frame, placing it face-down.

  My lips twist into a frown. “Does she have a name? How old is she? Why don’t you want to talk about her?” I want him to tell me. “Is she yours?”

  Caleb’s hands fly in the air and a groan escapes his mouth. “Stop. No more questions.”

  “I just want to know.”

  His hands slap over his ears like I do when there’s too much noise and he drags his hand down his jaw. When he speaks, he is quiet, and his voice is even. “Her name is Darcy and she was my daughter.”

  His hands are on his jaw and I do what my mother does when I’m upset. I splay my hands over his. “That must hurt so much.”

  Currents of breath and emotion tumble out. He nods stoically. “It does—all the time.”

  The night at Pierce’s bar comes to mind. I understand not wanting to relive bad memories. “I get that there are things you don’t want to share with me. I just wanted to know who she was. Libby used to put up photos in my house. She told me that I wouldn’t feel lonely, but they’re pictures. They’re not real. They’re depressing if you ask me. What’s the point anyway? You can’t time travel. You can never go back to that point in time and be with those people in that specific way. I wish I could meet your daughter. I’m sorry I never will.”

  He switches the position of his hands, taking mine in his. “And does her method work? Are you lonely?”

  “I’m alone when she’s not there.”

  “Alone and lonely aren’t the same.”

  “I’d like to have more friends. Even though I love my video games, it’s not like anyone ever talks back. How many friends does a person need?”

  “I don’t know. One good one?”

  “I have you and Charlotte. There’s two. I’m up one friend from last year. I must be doing something right.”

  “You do a lot right.”

  “Finally, someone acknowledges this heart of mine.” I tap my finger near my shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Caleb lets out a soft laugh and takes the empty glass from my hand. I don’t wait for him to move, I pull his face into mine and move my lips over his. I mimic what he does, parting my mouth, pushing his tongue against mine and coiling them together. Sparks flip through my belly and lower, to other places—places that wake up like a thunder bolt. My mind is numb and my temperature spikes. My heart beats crazy, but it’s different than during the whir of anxiety and sensory overload. The rush makes me flush and overheat with dampness between my legs. My nipples poke at my bra as I arch into him, curving my hands around his neck. His touch is warm and addictive. I whisper what I want against his mouth. “Do that more.”

  “You like that?” he says between breaths.

  “I just told you I did.”

  He laughs against my mouth and slips his tongue inside. His hands slide down my front, pausing to splay at my middle. We look each at each other without shame. I see the rough, uncut version of his emotions. Lower, he slides his fingers to the curve between my legs. I do the same to him. Caleb backs up like he wasn’t expecting this. “Easy there,” he says with quiet laughter.

  “I thought men wanted this, sex with no strings.”

  “We do, I promise.” His eyes and his voice confirm that and set my stomach in a tizzy.

  “Then what’s the problem? We should figure out how many times a week.”

  “You’ve got to let this happen naturally. Don’t try to sleep with me every time we kiss. There has to be a bit of build.”

  “Build?”

  My hand rolls in a circle. “Anticipation. Waiting for the moment when we know we can’t go back. And I hate to ask, but have you had sex before?”

  Heat flares from my breasts to my cheeks. Was my inexperience that obvious?

  “There you go again. You’re somewhere else.”

  My gaze returns to his. “You asked if I have been with someone before.”

  Caleb cocks his head to the side. “Don’t overthink the question. The answer simple. Yes or no?”

  “Yes,” I say. “There was this—”

  His hand flies to my mouth. “I don’t need the details. Unless you want to tell me.”

  “I’ve had sex five times with the same guy. We were in college. I thought we were friends, I thought he was more than that, but after we slept together he told me he didn’t want to hang out anymore. Ever since then, I’ve had a series of dates that have gone nowhere, and my kissing experiences are only slightly better than my sexual history. Libby helped me see that sex and relationships are two different things. One doesn’t necessarily go with the other. But I like having sex. I like kissing. It would be nice to do those things again.”

  “Then consider this your time to start over. Tell me what you want and what you don’t. We can be open and close, without defining every little step we take.”

  “I would rather figure out concrete terms. I want to know if we will be friends when this is over. I wouldn’t like it if you weren’t in my life.”

  “That will ruin what we have. You have to know that I am here, and I have no intention of doing anything to end our friendship.”

  I’m not sure I’m on board with this. “We’re making a plan to not have a plan?”

  “Exactly.”

  My lips twist. My heart pounds. “I need a rule, something to measure if I’m doing this right or wrong.”

  Caleb inclines his head towards mine. “I’m not kissing anyone else and I expect the same from you, if you agree.”

  “I can live with that.” I walk to the door, thinking about the potential gray areas for this situation.

  “Do you want me to give you a ride home?” he says, following me to the door.

  “Nah, I’ll walk. Good-bye, Caleb.”

  I’m distracted on the way home. The thought of kissing has me smiling and greeting anyone I pass with an enthusiastic, “Hello!” I get some funny looks, but I don’t care. I never, ever would have thought I would have a boyfriend. If Caleb isn’t locking lips with someone else, then that makes us something more than friends.

  I don’t go home immediately. I take the familiar path to the downtown, to a r
ow of restaurants, shops, and a big book store on the corner.

  The therapists started coming to my house the summer I turned four. I got rewards like bits of Airheads or gummies for responding to her demands with the right behavior. If I could sit through thirty minutes of a movie without fidgeting, I got candy. My parents had followed the same protocol and my life became a series of ‘systems’ to extinguish undesirable behavior. They had used these rules for everything from getting dressed on my own or taking a bath at night without having a major meltdown. The problem is the old systems don’t work in my new life. No one’s waiting to tell me if I’m doing this right and that’s a tough feeling.

  I want Caleb to tell me if I’m messing up. I keep waiting for a reward or a compliment or for him to say stop. What if that never comes? What if I never know how to read him?

  My thoughts are overwhelming and heavy as I step inside the bookstore. I do to the section with atlases and maps. Since I was last here, new editions have been printed. I pick out combined guides of best highways, roads, and tollways and buy those. I stop at the Bean & Bake coffee shop. Drinking coffee isn’t the best choice of a pick-me-up, but everyone is always talking about how fun a coffee shop can be and that incident in high school was a long time ago. The only display case is the one at the register with drooping cakes and pastries with crusty icing. Plus, Caleb has a coffee maker in his kitchen. I want to be sophisticated and spend time with him sitting in a place like this and drink coffee.

  “I have no idea what to order,” I say to the pimple-faced boy behind the counter.

  His shoulders slump. “Do you like coffee with milk or a straight shot of caffeine?”

  “The one with the milk, but can you make my order not taste like caffeine?”

  “Sure, no problem. Do you know what size you want?”

  I groan and roll my eyes. “No. Just pick something out for me.”

  He rings me up for a double peppermint mocha. “For here or to go?”

  “Here.” I pull a juice box from the display as backup. “This too.”

  The speakers play the music at an acceptable level and the tunes are mostly drums with interruptions of off-pitch singing. There are nine empty tables and I find a seat at the bar stools overlooking the window and poke a straw in the apple juice. They didn’t have any other options for juice, so I’m stuck with a child-size one. This isn’t fun at all. How did sitting at a café get so much hype? I’m bored. To death.

  I squeeze around the juice box and stand at the same time my phone rings. “Hello?” I say.

  “It’s your mother,” she announces.

  “I know. I saw your name on the screen.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At a coffee shop.”

  “You don’t drink coffee.”

  “I’m trying something new.”

  There’s a long pause and the sound of her breath. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Oh, okay. You know what happened when you were in high school.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. So. What do you think?”

  “I haven’t got my drink yet. There’s nothing to do here. Am I supposed to be doing something while I’m sitting?”

  “Talking and sipping your drink.”

  The barista brings me a mug and saucer with my order topped in…I poke my finger at the white substance on top. Whip cream, awesome. “Are we still shopping this afternoon?”

  “I’m ready whenever you are, if you want, I can come get you.”

  “I’ve been running.”

  “Come home first and shower. We’ll leave after. Maren,” she says, her voice changing to motherly concern. “You remember the other day when I mentioned how you have options if you don’t want to live alone?”

  “I remember,” I say miserably and recoil at the drink. The caffeine reminds me of charcoal. I put the cup down but scoop out the whip cream.

  “I thought while we’re out today we can swing by one of those places. They are for adults. You’d have a private suite with a kitchen, and you could come and go as you please. You’d be completely independent. What do you think?”

  Acid rises in my throat. “Not interested,” I say flatly and hang up. There’s no way I would ever leave my apartment.

  Chapter 14

  Caleb

  Paul Pierce wants to meet with me privately. Sitting at a conference table with multiple lawyers and a pitcher of water is not his style. I’ve interacted with clients long enough to know when they’ll talk openly and for as much as he’s paying us, we could meet in front of a dumpster and I wouldn’t care. We are at his bar, a place with scratched wood floors and dark ceiling beams. The masculine interior is orderly with rows of pool tables and flat screens. Bottles of hard liquor sit on the bar-back and glisten in the sunlight, creating rays of color.

  The time is mid-morning and Paul pours me a shot of whiskey and pushes the glass in my direction. “Drink up, lawyer,” he says, wiping the counter with a discolored rag.

  “No thanks,” I refuse.

  He grumbles and takes the shot himself. “Pussy.”

  I’ve been called worse. I move on. “Do your employees always ask for identification prior to serving alcohol?”

  “Every bartender is expected to ask. Doesn’t mean they always do. Sometimes we’re slammed. Sometimes they make a judgement call.”

  “Three bartenders worked the night in question, including yourself.” I take out photographs of the girls. “Do you remember them?”

  “The Corrigan girl. She’s the one I remember.” His hand pauses at the height of his shoulder. “This tall. Curly brown hair. Big tits.”

  “Did you think she was underage?”

  Paul pulls the pencil from behind his ear and taps the eraser on the bar top. “Hard to tell these days. We were packed. She looked old enough and I didn’t push the issue.”

  “We haven’t been able to locate Beth Corrigan’s ID to prove the fake. Police did recover the ID’s belonging to Amanda Thorne and Ellie Regal. If we can find Beth’s, we’ll have a good shot of showing the jury all three girls were at fault. I want to prove they knew what they were doing and right now, Beth’s family claims she never showed you her driver’s license.”

  “Fucking longshot.” Paul reloads the drink for himself.

  “Were there other people in the bar that night you can identify? Someone else we can talk to? Bystanders can be useful.”

  “The other lawyers were supposed to do that. Don’t know if they did. That’s why I fired them and hired you.”

  “Looks like we’ll start from scratch. You have a security video from the night I want to see. We can identify customers who might have seen or heard something.”

  “The detectives already watched the footage.”

  I make a note about the security footage. “The detectives aren’t defending you.”

  The door to the bar opens with a heavy creak. A thick stripe of light shines over the floor, exposing flaws and cracks in the wood. Sara arrives with her laptop bag in tow and looking thoroughly out of place in her high heels and pencil skirt.

  “We’re closed,” Paul shouts.

  “She’s with me,” I say, making introductions and turn to her. “Paul’s going to give you the video from the night the girls left the bar. I want you to watch. Look for someone interacting with the girls. Between the transcripts from earlier police interviews and the camera, we should be able to identify at least one useful witness. I’ve got another meeting, so I can’t stay.”

  “Wait,” Sara says, shifting her body away from Paul. “I was hoping we could talk? About…”

  The festival is what she wants to discuss, and I don’t give an inch. Not with my client watching us with his beady eyes and sniffing me out for any sign of weakness. “I’ll see you back at the office.”

  My return to the office is met with meetings and constant emails. There’s
not a second to breathe and when I do, I think of Maren. I think of her at the festival, and how much I look forward to jogging with her. That feeling, that spark, hasn’t been there in years. It was supposed to have died. It should have been dead and long gone. I want to kiss her, to feel her, and then I snap back into reality and I don’t know what dating her—for real—would look like. She’s in my thoughts when I should be paying attention to the words on my computer screen or my client talking on the phone.

  It’s after seven by the time I walk through my front door. I go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator, and lean in, as if a meal will materialize. I loosen my tie and grab a bottle of beer. Before I take the first sip, there’s a loud knock, followed by a door bell ring. “Who could that be?” I mumble, assuming someone from the office has stopped by asking for something they could have done over email.

  I open the door and stop.

  The sight of a tall man with a thin beard is standing on my doorstep. “You’re Mr. Allan,” he says.

  “Who are you?” I say, recognizing him all the same from Libby’s going away party. Instant awkwardness comes between us. I’m not sure if he’s going to laugh or crack his knuckles and take a swing.

  “I’m Ryan Cole.” His gaze shoots to the beer in my hand. “I think we both could use a drink. Got a spare?”

  The resemblance of father and daughter is clear. Similar shaped eyes, though his are dull and brown. “Yeah, I do. Come inside.”

  “Quite a house,” he says, taking in the spacious interior and a kitchen big enough to squeeze Maren’s entire floorplan inside. “Done any of the restoration yourself?”

  Something about Ryan makes me wish I could take the credit, be a guy’s guy and all that. “No, I hired people to do the work.”

  Ryan gives the kitchen a scrutinizing check. “Lots of house for one man.”

  I don’t tell him how this residence should have been for a family of three. I never let the conversation go that far though. I remove the cap off the beer and hand the bottle to Ryan. “Interesting way to spend your evening. How’s the visit with Maren?”