by Julia Kent
“Bet that shuts them up,” Fi calls out.
“No.” Perky frowns. “Not all of them.” A thousand-mile stare settles on her face.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I tell them seriously. “You know, and I know, that I’ll suck it up and go to the reunion. Between my mom finding out about it, the onslaught of everyone from our class coming into town for it, and my own eternal optimist curse, I’ll go. Just don’t make a big deal about it, okay? It’s hard enough having my past thrown in my face every day now that Will’s back.”
“That bad?” Fiona asks softly.
“That good.” I set my fork down and just go for the sweet naan. “He’s even better. Ten years has made my freaking high school crush even more appealing.”
“I’m sorry,” Perky commiserates. “What an asshole.”
“He’s an asshole for turning out to be an even better human being as an adult?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense, Perk.”
“It does according to Friend Code.” She snatches the naan from me before I eat it all.
“You both know how it is. I love living here. I love our town. The downtown is where I belong. There is nothing about our area that isn’t perfect for me. I went to Brown and loved Providence, too, but it wasn’t home. This is home. I want a house here. A husband. Kids in Little League and Boy and Girl Scouts. I want to take them to Fenway Park and ride the Swan Boats and avoid Salem every October. I want to take them to the Dance and Dairy festival every August and gorge on funnel cakes and fried Twinkies. I am hooked. I was born in the just-right place.” I sigh. “But when people who left come back to visit, there’s always that sneer. Like they’re better or smarter or whatever for leaving.”
“Does Will have it?” Fiona asks.
I think about him in that suit this morning. Our conversations. The phone call.
Oh, that call.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t invent it,” Perky warns me. “It would be easy to find something negative in Will that isn’t really there.”
“Why would I invent it?”
Another look passes between Fi and Perk. “Because, Mal,” Fiona says, the self-appointed speaker of truths we hide from ourselves, “you spent all those years in high school inventing reasons why you couldn’t take a risk and see if he liked you, too. Don’t make that mistake again.”
I start to protest.
I stop.
I remember the one deep conversation I ever had with Will. The one time I thought maybe, just maybe, he was interested in me.
I stuff my mouth with sweet naan as my phone’s notifications start to ping from the dating app.
I was wrong then, and I'm wrong now.
But this is my life.
And Will Lotham’s back in it. Like it or not.
Problem is, I do like it.
I like it too much.
10
I have to go back to the office, like it or not, because Will is my client.
A client who made sexually suggestive conversation with me yesterday before my phone died.
A client who certainly seems to have been flirting with me.
A client who... isn’t here today.
I’ve tried to avoid coming to The Lotham Group, but I can’t. I need to see him for approval on renting a few antique pieces to fill in at the house. I also need an orange lacquered urn his mother has in the worst possible place in the office, but that will be perfect for a pop of color in her front entry hall.
So.
Driven to overcome my own uncertain humiliation, my perfectionistic design tendencies get in the way. You would think I’d be relieved to come into the office, grab the urn, and run off, not needing to face Will.
Disappointment, though, seeps into my pores.
And then I check my email.
My pulse leaps when I see his name in my inbox.
Out of the office for the week as we migrate from old location to new. Agents showing house. Be ready.
That’s the entire email from Will.
What's the opposite of a pulse leap? A coma? That sounds restful.
Perky and Fiona were wrong. He wasn’t hinting at more. If anything, this is a measured, cool, all-business approach.
The lacquered urn feels heavy, stupid, trivial in my arms as I walk out of The Lotham Group’s office and into the bright summer sunshine.
Okay, this is a reprieve. A break. A breather from the sudden whirlwind of having Will re-appear in my life.
This week is a chance.
A chance to prove I’m worth that stager’s commission.
And a chance to get Will out of my life by getting the house under contract as fast as possible.
The drive to his parents’ house is a blur. It’s not just a blur because unexpected tears come, but also because it’s a small town. Five minutes, tops, anywhere, unless it’s rush hour or parade day.
I get there and storm up the Perfect Path to the Perfect Door and enter the Perfect Home.
In tears.
Why?
Why am I crying?
Setting the urn down on the table in the hall, I walk in, close the front door, and make a beeline for the bedrooms. My mission is clear:
Learn more about this family.
Staging a space involves personality. My approach is the exact opposite of all those real estate advice articles about making a house as neutral as possible so potential buyers and renters can project themselves into it.
Personality matters.
People are more pliable and open than we think.
When a potential buyer or renter enters a home, yes, their headspace is all about them. Imaginations are quirky when it comes to space. We have to live in the past, the now, and the future, all at the same time. People do need to be able to imagine themselves living in a new home, but it doesn't have to be a blank space. It can be aspirational, a place to grow, change a little, maybe live a little better.
Will we be able to let go of our current space and all the joy and disappointment attached to it? Can we appreciate what we’re seeing in front of our face without bringing too much emotional baggage along?
Television shows and modern media about home living focus on that third layer: the future.
But it’s the past that really propels us into that unknown.
The house is ice cold. Somewhere in the AC system, a piece of machinery must have malfunctioned. Before I forget, I pull out my phone and send the office manager a quick email requesting repair service, cc'ing Will. I shiver and forge ahead.
I walk up the stairs, headed for the first group of bedrooms. Bedrooms are windows into people's souls.
Bzz. Bzzz. Bzzzzzzz. My stupid phone (86% charged, thank you very much) is going nuts in my pocket. All day, I’ve been plagued with offers to screw.
Yes. That’s right. No one has asked me out on an actual date yet. They just want to fill every hole except my mouth.
Er, actually... that one, too. A few guys are really, really specific about what they want. Including pictures, and one enterprising soul even sent a flow chart.
Last time I checked, semen didn’t qualify as a dinner date.
But for some of these guys, those calories count.
Opening the app, I swipe Hell no over and over until one of the offers catches my eye.
Do you like to dance? No screwing required.
Clever pickup line. Spelled correctly, with–bonus!–punctuation. My bar is so low right now. I open the message.
Hi Deco91, he starts.
No, my username isn’t original, but that’s the point. Anonymity requires a certain blandness. If I wanted creepy stalkers to be able to find me for a good old-fashioned kidnapping, I’d call Beastman and Spatula.
I am trying to find a way to be clever and different from the troglodytes on these dating apps...
Troglodyte? Five points to the guy for using an SAT word correctly.
I’m branching out and tryin
g something new. Would you be interested in a really different first date? A dance lesson? I’m tired of coffee-shop speed dating and I have two left feet (full disclosure). Want to meet up for some fun? David. His username is NiceGuysFinish.
Huh.
David’s photo shows a vague, generic image of a broad-shouldered guy with muscular arms wearing a tight t-shirt, jeans, flip flops, and a baseball cap, walking a golden retriever on the beach. I do a reverse image search. Nope. Not a stock photo or stolen from anywhere in the photo database. Doesn’t come up as a profile picture for any public social media account. Hmmm.
What? You don’t reverse image everyone? I might be naïve about pornography film sets, but I’m savvy when it comes to sex scammers on the internet. Especially scammers I might sleep with. Bad sex is bad enough. Bad sex with someone who pretends to be someone they’re not is so much worse.
Because then you feel like you slept with someone other than the person you agreed to sleep with.
Not that I would know.
Ask poor Perky all about it, though.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Fiona.
Go for Dance Guy! she says.
I do a double take.
How do you know about Dance Guy? I ask, groaning internally. Once we name these people, they become more real, and how can I say no to someone we’ve named? It’s like feeding a stray cat in your neighborhood. Do it once and it’s yours forever.
Perk and I downloaded the app and are monitoring your account. We knew you’d ignore it, so we’re doing this for your own good.
Of course they are.
You asshole, I text back.
Except... I accidentally type that in the message box in the dating app, hitting Send before I realize my mistake.
I get an immediate reply, even before blood flow has been restored to my brain.
Normally I don’t get called names until the date’s over. This is refreshing :) , David replies.
Mortified laughter pours out of me as I hover over the reply bar, wondering what to type.
I finally decide on: I’m branching out and trying something new, too.
If you’re looking for a guy who’s a sub and into being degraded, sorry. Not my kink, he responds.
Bummer, I type back. Have to give you the boot.
Is that a dancing boot? If so, say yes. Come on. Try me. I promise I’m a nice guy.
They all say that.
I know we all say that, but the odds are that some of us are telling the truth, he adds, as if reading my mind.
Bzzzzz.
My phone makes it impossible to ignore the text. I flip over to read:
Are you flirting with Dance Guy in the app? Fiona texts.
Leave me alone. I accidentally called him an asshole because of you, I reply.
Me? I didn’t do anything!
You and Perky are assholes. I called him one instead of you.
So you blew it?
No. He still wants to go out with me.
Masochist?
Hey!
Sorry. Then again, not sure which one of you is the masochist, but go on the date! Dance with him. Then you can press against him and see what he’s packing.
I start to reply something about guns and then groan.
You want me to dance with a guy on the first date so I can use my thighs and belly to figure out how big his erection is?
I hit Send, then panic. Did I send that to David?
Closing texts, I go back to the app. Whew. Nope.
Sure, I type into the app’s messaging system. When and where?
Tonight? Seven? At Bailargo?
That’s the dance studio one town over.
It’s a date, I type back. My name is Mallory, by the way.
I was looking forward to calling you Deco91. Like a Star Trek character.
I figured I’d help a nice guy finish, I reply before I realize that’s a big old no-no.
I get a smile in reply.
Bzzzzz.
We’re Googling David. Found his LinkedIn profile. Works as a conversion consultant.
Did you hack his DNA test results to determine his percentage of Neanderthal genes? I joke.
No, but Perky says that’s a great idea!
“From erections to Neanderthal genetic material. Come on. When did finding someone to have sex with become so complicated?” I mumble, coming back to reality here in Will's boyhood bedroom.
“I don’t know, Mallory. You tell me,” says a deep voice behind me, the sound of a live human’s vocal cords shattering every speck of composure I possess.
Right behind me. He's right behind me. The primitive part of my brain signals to me that I’m about to be eaten by a velociraptor. I grab the nearest object I can, lifting a crystal football trophy over my head as I step forward, impulses set to away.
Screaming at the top of my lungs, I jump on the bed, knees unlocked and thighs ready to lunge. I inventory my situation with lightning speed:
* * *
I am alone.
In an empty house.
No one knows I’m here.
A man is threatening me.
* * *
So I do what any sane woman would do.
Hurl the trophy at his head.
SCORE! Heavy lead crystal and sheer panic combine really well when it comes to weaponizing them to stay alive.
Unless you’re Will Lotham.
“OW!” he shouts, arms up to defend against his own Most Valuable Player trophy attacking him. You know how in movies a moment like this is captured in slow motion, as if the victim lives through it on a time delay?
The exact opposite happens to my adrenaline-filled bloodstream. Time speeds up.
Blood runs pretty damn fast, too.
“Jesus, Mallory, what the hell?” he grunts out, holding his right hand against a spot on his scalp above his ear. Our eyes meet. His are outraged, full of pain, and instantly, I feel awful.
But still very, very pissed.
“Don’t ever come up behind me like that! You scared the hell out of me!” My knees go weak. I’m standing on the bed, the mattress soft enough to make it hard to balance as stress hormones turn my joints into silly putty.
“You didn’t have to give me a concussion!” He winces.
“I thought you were a velociraptor!”
“Do I look like an eighty-million-year-old beast with lightning-fast reflexes that loves to tear flesh off people?”
“How would I know? I haven’t seen you for ten years!”
“What are you doing in my bedroom? Turning my inanimate objects against me?”
“I’m–I’m–” Of course, I can’t tell the truth about why I’m in here. I pivot and move close to him, worried about the blood dripping down his jaw line, staining his shirt. “I need to look at that.”
“You are not touching me. You’ve done enough damage.” He flinches, but doesn't step back. I’m close enough to smell his cologne, the scent mingling with fresh blood, my nose filled with my own adrenaline-fueled fear that is winding down.
“Will, you need a first aid kit. Where is it?”
“Bathroom. Through that door.”
Skittering over to the next room, I rummage through drawers until I find the kit, part of my brain admiring the exquisite vanity from Waterworks. Finding a washcloth, I wet it with cool water and return to find Will sitting on the edge of his bed, glaring at the trophy like it was all the crystal football’s fault.
“At least she didn’t drop to the floor and kick me in the balls,” I hear him mutter to himself as I enter the room.
“If I had, you’d have deserved it,” I tell him matter of factly, bending before him and looking up at his face. “I’m sorry.”
“You're telling me I deserved it but you are also sorry in the same sentence?”
“Complexity is the hallmark of being a mature human being.” I carefully dab the cut with the wet washcloth as he winces.
“Then you’re the most mature person
I know, Mallory, because you’re exceptionally complex. Always have been.”
My heart has been pounding like crazy from fear, but as Will’s words wash over me, it picks up the beat, dancing a new set of steps that are unfamiliar, exhilarating.
Always have been. That implies he’s paid attention to me across time.
What does that mean?
Carefully, I reach for his hand, the one pressed to the head wound I created, and as our fingers touch, he sucks in a deep breath. I assume it’s from pain, and make a sound of compassion. He lets his hand drop, and I quickly press a big square of gauze to the cut.
“I am truly sorry,” I whisper, wincing as I look at his split flesh. I did that to him. Adrenaline rushes through my blood again, like a sugar high after eating baklava at my favorite local Greek restaurant, Athena's Delite, and as much as I'm still crazy upset by what I thought was an attack, I'm starting to realize how much I really hurt him.
“It's okay,” he says through gritted teeth, but he doesn't pull away from my touch. Being allowed to atone for what I've done to him takes some of the sting out of my sense of horrified remorse.
“It's not okay.” With my spare hand, I get an antiseptic swab ready.
He sighs, green-blue eyes twin gemstones that shift in the sunlight. “At least you know how to defend yourself when some strange man attacks you in his own home.”
I laugh, a bubbly sound that surprises me.
“That’s some arm you’ve got,” he adds, Adam’s apple bobbing as it’s obvious he’s fighting pain.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from a quarterback.” His hair is dark and thick, falling in handsome waves against his scalp and ear. Being this close to him means I see all his edges clearly. The collar of his shirt against his neck, the small whorl of hair that spirals behind his ear. The way his cologne has faded since he last showered, the scent mingling with a very human scent, skin and oil and pheromones all blending to make a warm, tingly sensation begin between my legs, traveling up to my nipples, which tighten in response.
I swallow, hard. If I had an Adam’s apple, it would look like a slot machine lever in a casino.
“The wound,” I say, clearing my throat, as if that will do anything to stop the bass drum between my legs, “is small. Looks like I hit you with the corner of the base.” The cut is L-shaped and deceptively tiny. So much blood from such a small tear. His hair follicles are clean and even, as if he were genetically engineered. As I peer at his scalp, I move in closer, standing up slightly.