Look the Part

by Jewel E. Ann

  “Wine?”

  I glance up from my menu. “Fuck you. I’m pretty sure you’ve ruined wine for me.”

  “Fair.” He nods slowly. “I acted childish at our last outing. I’ve gathered from your recent change in mood that it’s your turn to act childish.”

  I slap my menu down on the table. “I’m sorry I’m having trouble with this, but I am. You can sleep with me or evict me. I just don’t think you can do both.”

  He scratches his stubble-covered jaw. It’s the first time I’ve really noticed that he hasn’t shaven in a few days. “Hypothetically … and please focus on the word hypothetically because this is not an actual option, I’m just curious … would you rather stay and we never have sex again, or have sex again and find a new office space?”

  “That scenario is too emotionally detached for me to even consider it.”

  “It’s hypothetical.”

  Leaning back in the booth, I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s not hypothetical is that you’re not the only dick to ride. So if I had to choose between riding one dick and finding new office space or riding another dick and staying where I’m at … I’d choose to find a new dick—hypothetically.” I don’t really mean it, but dang! I’m pissed off about this.

  “You’re being fucking ridiculous.”

  “I am not being ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. The way you make me feel special and wanted one minute and the next you’re tossing my ass out like the trash.”

  “It’s business.”

  “It’s not business!”

  Flint looks around as the handful of patrons in the restaurant look our way.

  “I have one child to deal with, I don’t need another.” He tosses a twenty on the table and stands, slipping on his jacket.

  We haven’t ordered one thing. Is the money for my lunch? A cab? What the heck? Before I can shimmy out of the booth and grab my stuff, he’s out the door.

  “You’re leaving me?!” I button my coat as the cool air takes my breath away.

  “Yep.” He unlocks his car.

  I grab his arm and yank on it until he turns to face me. He pulls out of my grasp and bends over to get in my face.

  “I deal with bickering idiots all week. I’m trying to raise a child who feels emotionally a world away from me. The last thing I need is a manipulative woman asking for favors that are not fair to ask and then treating me like a random ‘dick to ride’ just because I have the balls to stand up to her.”

  I shove him back so he’s out of my face. “I signed a contract with you. I didn’t ask for an unfair favor. I ordered business cards with my new office address. I painted the space. I had my name put on the door and I paid for my name to be added to the sign out front, all to the tune of over a thousand dollars. THEN … my landlord gets out his calculator and adds two plus two and discovers a music therapist plays MUSIC! Now I’m stuck looking for a new place because you were too damn stupid to use your brain before you took my money and signed on the dotted line.”

  Wow. I just said all of that. And I didn’t have to think. The words have been waiting to come out, and I didn’t realize it until now.

  Here it is … the silence. We’ve danced around this issue for weeks. I’ve tried to be playful and charming, he’s tried to be polite and accommodating. But the truth is … he’s never going to let me stay, and I’m going to hold a grudge if he makes me leave. All the sex in the world won’t change it. Not dinner. Not playing the guitar with Harry. Not lunch and a movie.

  And this sucks because I genuinely like Flint Hopkins. But what sucks even more … this rental agreement and the eviction notice are my proverbial glassful of wine left on the table. It’s my trigger, and triggers hurt like hell.

  “I’ll drive you home and tomorrow I’ll have Amanda cut you a check to cover the signage and business card expenses.”

  I stare at his chest. I can’t even look him in the eye. “I don’t want your money and I don’t want a ride home.”

  “Ellen, it’s cold. Just get in.”

  I shake my head as I walk back to the restaurant. I’ll call a cab or I’ll walk, but I won’t get in his car because I just need a very long moment to find my balance again.

  *

  IT’S A BIT late for a clean break, but I catch a cab home, grab a few boxes, and drive to the office in search of something resembling closure. The parking lot is empty on this Sunday afternoon, so I park right in front of the door to make it easier to carry out my stuff.

  After I get the boxes packed and my not-so-fancy desk disassembled, I call my clients for the week and reschedule them, letting them know I’ll contact them soon with the new address. If I don’t find a new place by the end of the week, I’ll make house calls. Dad will be proud.

  My phone rings. I don’t recognize the number; it’s out of area.

  “Ellen Rodgers,” I answer.

  “Ellen, it’s Lori Willet, your dad’s neighbor.”

  “Hi.” I tape up the last box.

  “Forrest found your dad passed out in the yard. They just left with him in the ambulance. We’re on our way there too. I’ll let you know more as soon as we get there.”

  Tears prick my eyes as I cover my mouth.

  “Sweetie, are you still there?”

  “P-passed out or …”

  “Still breathing, just unresponsive.”

  “Okay … um, I’ll be there as soon as I can get there. Call me when you know more.”

  “We will. Safe travels. We’re praying for him.”

  My phone drops from my shaky hands. I grab it and swat away more tears while bringing up Abigail Hamilton’s number on my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Abigail …” I clear my throat and swallow back the flood of emotions. “It’s Ellen. I need a huge favor.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “They’re taking my dad to the hospital.” I shake with silent sobs.

  “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. The neighbor found him unconscious in the yard. I need to get on a plane.”

  “Oh … do you want me to book you a flight?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, I … I need you to give me something to be able to get on the plane.”

  “I don’t under—oh dear, are you afraid of flying?”

  I bite my quivering lips together and nod.

  “Ellen?”

  “Yes,” I whisper past the knot in my throat. “My mom…” this hurts so bad “…she um … died in a plane crash.”

  “Ellen, I didn’t know. I’m … I’ll … where are you?”

  “At my office. My car is here.”

  “Stay there. We’ll come get you. I don’t even want you trying to drive home. Just stay put. Okay.”

  I nod, unable to find another word before pressing End.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Flint

  “MY BACK HURTS just watching you.” Martin Hamilton laughs, leaning on the fence between our yards.

  When I returned from my disaster of a date, I changed into old clothes and got to work cutting back my plants for winter. Anything to avoid the questions I know Harrison will have once he pulls his head away from his phone long enough to really register that I’m home. I wasn’t even gone a full hour. It has to be a new record for the shortest date ever.

  “I don’t mind it yet. I suppose I might in a few years.”

  “Nah, you’re still a young guy. I’m sure you’ve got more than a few years of back-breaking work left in ya.”

  “Martin?” Abigail yells while jogging toward the fence.

  “Oh lord …” He grumbles. “I must be in trouble for something.”

  “Martin, I need you to drive me to Flint’s office building.”

  I sit back on my heels, brushing the dirt off my legs. “No one is there on Sunday,” I say, narrowing my eyes a bit in confusion.

  She shakes her head. “Ellen is there. I don’t want her driving home. Her dad’s in the hospi
tal. I need to see if I can help her get on a plane.”

  “Get her a flight booked? I can do that, I’ve got—” Martin starts to say.

  “No.” Abigail shakes her head, a slight cringe of pain to her expression. “Her mom died in a plane crash. I’m going to have to give her something really strong to even get her on the plane.”

  Fuck. Me.

  I tug off my gloves.

  “Abby, you can’t sedate her and put her on a commercial flight by herself. Are you going with her?” Martin says.

  “I’m on call. I’ll figure something out for her, but for now, I need to go get her.”

  “I’ll handle it.” I stand.

  Martin and Abigail stare at me.

  “You’ll handle what?” Abigail asks.

  “Everything.” I turn and head toward the house.

  They don’t say another word because they know from personal experience that when I say I’ll handle something, it gets handled. No questions. No hesitation.

  “Boss,” Amanda answers her phone on the first ring.

  “I need two days. And I need you to come get Harry. I’ll tell him to pack.”

  “What’s—”

  “And I need you to not ask any questions.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour.”

  On my way to the stairs, I snatch Harrison’s phone from him.

  “Hey!” He chases me up the stairs.

  “I need sixty seconds of your undivided attention.” I continue to my bedroom to throw some clothes into a bag.

  “Fine. What?” He plops down on my bed.

  “Ellen’s dad is in the hospital. I’m taking her to see him. I will be gone for two days. Amanda is coming to get you. Pack enough for two days. Don’t forget clean underwear.”

  He knows the drill. She’s watched him for me several times before when I’ve had other emergencies to handle.

  “Is he going to die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why are you taking her?”

  “Because I’m connected and she needs some special help getting there.” I hand him his phone, palm the back of his neck, and kiss his forehead. “Be good. I love you.”

  *

  Ellen

  LORI CALLS ME back. The hospital wouldn’t tell her anything because she’s not family, so I call them. It was a stroke. They’re still trying to figure out the cause, and they don’t know yet if he’ll need surgery.

  I feel numb everywhere except my stomach. There, I just feel painfully nauseous.

  How did I go from having everything to having nothing? I had two parents who loved me—who loved each other. I had a husband who adored me. We had a tight circle of friends. We were adventurous. I lived a dream more grand than most ever dare to dream. In twenty-four months, I lost it all—except my dad.

  After two years that nearly broke me as a person, a wife, and a friend, I gave Alex his divorce, loaded up a moving truck, and drove to Minnesota over three days.

  No friends.

  No family.

  Just a job offer at a hospital.

  It’s fine. I didn’t think I needed anyone until today when life kicked me on my ass, and I realized the best I could find was a colleague who could write me a prescription.

  The elevator door dings. I wipe my swollen eyes, grab my purse, and sling it over my shoulder. I jolt to a halt when Flint appears at my door.

  I glance at my phone. Where is she?

  Keeping my head down so he doesn’t have to stare at my bloodshot eyes, I murmur, “I thought you were Abigail.”

  Please leave. Please leave. Please. Please. Please.

  His shoes come into view a few inches from mine.

  “She sent you,” I whisper.

  “No. I sent me.”

  “Why?” I want to look at him, but I can’t.

  “Because you need to get to Massachusetts quickly and I can do that for you.”

  “I don’t need a hero.” I brush past him, taking the stairs to the main level with him right behind me. The tears come in unrelenting waves as I run toward the front doors. I don’t know what I’m running from.

  Flint?

  Fear of getting on a plane?

  Fear of losing my dad before I get to see him again?

  As I push through the front door, a strangled sob breaks free, followed by two arms around my waist. Flint turns me toward him. My knees buckle, and he lifts me up like a child. I wrap my arms around his neck and drown in grief and fear.

  In long, controlled strides he carries me away. I don’t let go, not even when he lifts me into the back of a vehicle. It starts to move, but he’s still holding me. I don’t know who’s driving. I don’t care.

  “Open your mouth,” he says.

  I hiccup on my sobs as I open my eyes that are already swollen to the point of pain. “Why?”

  Before I can object, he shoves a dropper into my mouth.

  “Yuck!”

  He pulls my head into his neck and rubs my back.

  Flint force feeds me this nasty liquid three more times before the vehicle stops. I’m tired … or dead. I don’t know but I feel even more numb than I did before—and lifeless, yet I can hear voices, I just don’t register what they’re saying. When I blink open my eyes, I see a few people, and wide open space and … a small plane. Panic tries to overtake my body, but everything feels slow to react.

  Just when I start to wiggle in protest, Flint shoves more nasty shit down my throat and something like earmuffs press to my ears. Muffled echoes and … Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 in E-Flat Major is all I hear. I close my eyes. My fingers feel the ivory beneath them. It’s so beautiful … like I’m dancing … weightless … and that’s when I see my dad. A measuring tape draped over his neck.

  “Elle, bring me my pins, please.”

  I hand him the blue cushion and spin in circles with my red hair flowing behind me as Chopin plays from the turntable. The gentleman being fitted for a suit grins at me in the mirror.

  “She’s going to break all the boys’ hearts,” he says to my dad.

  “That she is … just like her mama.”

  “I’m going to marry my prince, Daddy.”

  “Only if I deem him worthy, my little princess.”

  I twirl around some more. “I’m going to play music, Daddy.”

  “I know, darling.”

  I stop and watch my daddy shift the man’s suit a little this way, making a mark in one place, pinning material in another place. I love watching my daddy, and I love watching the men in the mirror grin at me and smile in admiration of the suits my daddy makes for them.

  “Ellen …”

  Chopin. Why did Chopin stop?

  “Ellen …”

  I peel open my eyes.

  “Drink this.”

  Flint scoots me off his lap and fastens my seat belt. “Here.” He hands me a bottle of juice.

  I look out the window of the vehicle, at first not recognizing much in the darkness, but then a few familiar buildings pass by and I know where we are—Falmouth, Massachusetts. “Oh my God. How did I get here?”

  “Music therapy.” Flint gives me a small smile.

  I shake my head.

  He shrugs, looking out his window at the road. “There may have been a few medicinal herbs involved.”

  He drugged me. I remember seeing that small—no, tiny plane. It doesn’t matter. Reality of this whole situation seeps back into my mind. My dad …

  “Drink.” Flint nods to the juice.

  Untwisting the cap, I drink it.

  I don’t wait for the vehicle to completely stop before jumping out with a slight wobble to my legs and rushing toward the emergency entrance.

  “Jonathan Anderson.”

  I need a room number. The stroke unit. Anything other than that look—the one followed by she’ll have a doctor come speak with me. I’ve been with families who get that look, get that diversion. It only ever means one thing.

  The nurse gives me a room number.
r />   Thank you, God.

  It’s after eight at night. The nurse finds a doctor to give me an update before they let me see him. He’s asleep. I expected as much. But he’s alive.

  “You can’t leave me, old man.” I laugh with tears sliding down my cheeks as I take his hand in mine. “I was going to come see you. You didn’t have to have a stroke over it.”

  More tears.

  “I love you. I need you. If you leave me …” That’s all I get out. It hurts too much, but I know he knows. We’ve never let our emotions go unspoken.

  “My darling girl, the words I love you only hurt the people who refuse to set them free. So when you feel it, say it.”

  “But, Daddy, what if I don’t mean it?”

  “Feelings are our greatest compass. They will always lead you to the truth.”

  “I’m scared of the truth, Dad,” I whisper.

  When the nurse comes back in to check his vitals, I go out to the waiting room. I don’t know if Flint’s there. Maybe he got me to Massachusetts and turned around to fly home. In the history of long days, this is number three. The first was my mom’s plane going down. The second was the day Alex went missing after the avalanche. I need this outcome to be better.

  He’s still here.

  I stop at the entrance to the waiting room. Flint’s leaning against the wall by a window, focused on the screen to his phone. He’s a mess—his hair has given up on the gel, his long-sleeve shirt is wrinkled and half untucked. I think there’s a hole in his jeans, and he’s wearing the same sneakers he had on the day we got carried away in his greenhouse.

  But … he’s here.

  And as if he knows I’m standing here staring at him, he looks up.

  I try to muster something resembling composure and gratitude, but it’s really hard to do while my heart waits for permission to beat again—until my dad wakes up.

  “Thank you.” I swallow hard and rub my lips together. They’re salty from being bathed in tears all day. “That’s really inadequate.” I grunt a painful laugh. “I don’t remember everything, but I’m pretty sure you put me on a private jet. I don’t know how you did it.” I shake my head. “But thank you feels so pathetic.”