99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  “But you have been inspired. That’s good.”

  “You swim for me. I decided to try something for you.” I open a folder on my computer to show Tom my new project. “How’s this for taking photos of real shit, and of my own volition?”

  In my half-hour break at the bar, I shot an interesting reel of biker beards, tattoos, and grizzled stares. It was astonishing how quickly these dangerous-looking men submitted to my request for a portrait. “I realized how much better it is, taking photos of faces that have seen some hard times. I won’t be hounding you anymore. You’re too gorgeous.”

  He laughs like he’s flattered and his T-shirt touches my back as he looks at the portraits. I scroll through slowly. “I’m quitting there soon, but I’m glad I realized I should do this before I do. This one told me that no one’s ever wanted a photo of him before.”

  I tip my head up and watch Tom as he considers the frightening face on the screen. This is the part of my life he hates. The messy, dirty, scary place. The protector in him is desperate to pull me away, but he forces himself to exhale.

  “I’m sure he’s had a few mugshots,” Tom replies, scratching his jaw. “He’s looking at the camera like he’s never had such a beautiful girl ask to take his photo.”

  My heart skips two beats. Possibly three. “I’m going to get some sunset shots of the guys fucking around in the parking lot. Did you know that their patches mean different things, like codes? I want to shoot them. I don’t know why. I just feel like . . . collecting them.”

  “Be careful, DB. I know you handle yourself, but just—” He stops himself. “I don’t have to tell you that. What could you use these photos for?”

  “I guess an exhibition.” I hear the reluctance in my own voice. Winning the Rosburgh prize and watching Jamie work the crowd has ruined that room-full-of-people prospect for me. It’s astonishing how vivid it still feels, even after all these years. My accomplishment—arguably the peak of my career—was the result of my brother existing. Something about watching him pose beneath his own portrait had cracked something inside me.

  “I just realized that winning that prize was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It made me believe I can’t do anything without Jamie.”

  Tom leans over and snags one of Truly’s Underswears lookbooks. It turned out really well from the printers. He puts it on my keyboard. “Well, we know that’s not true. What about an art book?”

  I consider it. Tom’s so smart. “I could start posting some on social media, get a following, then try to get a book deal. I could photograph different clubs from all over the world.”

  His forearm wraps around my collarbone in a hug. It feels like an involuntary move. Like he has to. “Or you could focus on this club and be back in bed where you belong.”

  “Don’t worry, I still don’t have a passport.” I touch my fingers on the sealed envelope. “I haven’t got a stamp.” I let myself lean back on him. Just a little. I feel the pleasure purr out of him, into me, and it’s incredible what we can create together when we stop trying. I put my hand on his forearm and close my eyes.

  “You know this is the longest I’ve lived in one place since I was eighteen?”

  “I did know that. How does living in the one place feel?”

  “It feels nice. But I don’t want to admit it.” I open my eyes. “You don’t live in the one place either.”

  “No. Probably won’t for a long time.” His arm slides off me, and I’m cold.

  He changes the subject abruptly. “You’re not working tomorrow night, right? It was brought to my attention recently that I have no life.”

  “I don’t have a life either. Don’t be taking advice from someone who can’t walk up two flights of stairs or eat fresh greens before they rot.” I can admit the truth in this half-light. I stand up and try to escape this awkward confession, maybe take a dip in the fish pond to cool my embarrassed flush, but he just presses me to his body in a delicious squeeze.

  “I’m worried sick about you.” He whispers it above my head.

  “I’m okay,” I say to his flawless heart, beating so strong beneath my cheek.

  “All I want is to take care of you, but you make it so hard.”

  “I know I do. But if it’s going to feel this good, maybe I should let you fuss over me. Just a little, sometimes, when no one’s watching.”

  “You better not be messing with me.” He’s tucking me closer, threading his forearm up my back, cupping my head. “I know a one-chance offer when I see one.” He always has been smarter than me.

  I whisper it. “It’s only you that can fuss, though. No one else.”

  “It’ll be hard for me to fuss over you when you’re in a different hemisphere.”

  I think of the airport departure lounge and it doesn’t give me the same tingle. Bus, train, and plane routes branch out in my imagination from every international airport I’ve arrived in. All I feel is tired. “Don’t you want to go places?”

  “I’m not brave like you, Darce. When I take a vacation, I’ll start small.” He smiles like he feels foolish. “The beach in front of your parents’ house was as close as I’ve come to a vacation in years. And I didn’t even get in the water. Sad, I guess, to someone like you.” He eases back from me. “Maybe we can get a life together sometime, before you leave.”

  I didn’t expect that. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t done this in a long time. But you’re the best person I know to teach me. Let’s just go get a drink to celebrate. Two weeks into the renovation. I need to talk to you about something important.”

  I stiffen in terror. “Oh fuck. Just tell me now.”

  He shakes his head. “Trust me.”

  * * *

  IT’S OUR FAKE date night. Tom wants to talk to me about something, and I think it’s something important, and related to the sexual fog we’re blundering around in. I have never been this nervous waiting for a man.

  He’s talking to some guys at the side of the house. They are all looking up at the roof. It’s hard to get used to the fact that my house is now a group project. One of them says something that makes Tom’s head turn toward me.

  “Yeah, this is not a girl you keep waiting,” I hear him reply. “Call me if you have any problems.”

  “Don’t make me drag you,” I call out to him.

  “She would,” he says with a laugh. There’s some hand shaking and now he’s walking up the driveway to me in his clean get-a-life clothes and I think about how being an adult suits him.

  As a teenager, he was sweet and straightforward, with zero idea of his own appeal as he hauled himself out of swimming pools while every girl—and some of the boys—in the bleachers paused their music and leaned forward. Looking back on it, I was insane for him.

  Now he’s got this huge shape that I can’t get used to, all stacked smoothly into his clothes. His stomach is flat under the waist of his nice jeans and with each step the denim goes tight across the thighs. There are so many steps up the drive. By the time he reaches me, I need a defibrillator.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. What are they doing?” I watch as some ladders are unfolded against the side of the house. “They’re here on a Saturday? That’s weird.”

  He herds me up the drive. “They’re just doing some more assessing. We don’t need to be here.”

  “Well thank goodness for that, because I’m taking you out to get a life.”

  It’s funny, I almost feel like Loretta is here in this moment. If I turn my head just right, she’s at the front door, watching us. A throb of anger surprises me. She told me I should let him go. She bought me a plane ticket. What was so bad about me that I had to be removed? Before I hurt this good, pure person?

  “Let’s take a cab. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you remotely drunk.” I try to picture what he might be like with a little less self-control. Can he dance? Can he kiss?

  “I’ve got an early start,” he says, like
he does every night of his life. His hands are on my waist, I’m given a lift and a boost into the passenger seat, and by the time I’ve caught my breath from the contact we’re driving down Marlin Street.

  He glances to me. “Please don’t say we’re going to your bar. I’d like to remain alive tonight.”

  I point and he follows my direction. “We’ll go to Sully’s. Let’s have a drink, and we can practice flirting with a few strangers. And then you can bail me out of jail.” He laughs at that and I change the radio over and over. Every song is about hearts. “Have you heard from my brother today?”

  Tom sighs. “Of course I have. Many times. Your photos are the only thing keeping him from getting on a plane.”

  “What will you do if he shows up?” I turn in my seat, just to watch his profile.

  We’re at an intersection, and I watch him as he waits, one hand on the shifter. What a luxury to be able to close my eyes and feel the careful turn of the car; no squealing tire or digging my nails into the side of my seat.

  “If he shows up?” Tom considers the question. “I’ll do what I’ve always done. I’ll deal with him.”

  “That’s something I’ve never gotten. I mean, I know he’s fun when he’s in the right mood. But how is anything worth the stress he puts you through? How have you stayed his friend all these years?”

  I don’t expect an answer and he doesn’t give me one.

  His fingers touch my back as we walk through the crowd and find two stools at the bar. There’s a live band doing covers of old eighties songs, and the bartenders don’t have to abuse anyone. The Devil’s End is an ashtray in comparison to this place.

  I try to keep my focus on the task at hand: showing Tom how to enjoy himself. It’s hard, because I’m nervous and he’s just staring at me.

  “Okay. Getting a life, step one: Get a drink.”

  “I think I know how to do that part,” he says, and orders himself a beer, and a glass of wine for me. The female bartender blinks fast when she registers his glory and gives me a congratulatory look.

  “I’ll pay.” I scramble, but he hands over payment.

  “I bet you pay for people a lot. But it’s my turn. Let me spoil Darcy Barrett a little.” He takes his change. “Let me get a taste of that feeling.”

  I relent and take my glass. I feel it, glowing out of him: exceptional, golden happiness. He looks at his phone, texts, and puts it on silent. Then he focuses on me.

  “Look at me, living my actual life after work.” He smiles at me and the room recedes. “I can’t believe I have no one to call back. Are you all right? You seem nervous.”

  He’s gorgeous. I want him. It’s hard to carry on a polite conversation when those are the only two thoughts in your brain. But he’s noticing my dumb silence and I need to make an effort. “I’m nervous as hell. You want to talk to me about something. I don’t do well in these mystery situations.”

  I’m feeling weirdly young and out of my depth. Weak, woozy adrenaline is in my blood. He decides to proceed like this is something we do together all the time.

  “Jamie forwarded me the selfie your mom took, after your haircut.” He scrolls back through approximately a million texts from Jamie. It’s Mom, with a tear rolling down her cheek. I laugh and the knot of tension leaves.

  “I wish she’d never learned how to take selfies. Imagine her, trying to hold perfectly still with the tear in position while she fumbled around with her phone.” I shake my head. “She sent one this morning, showing me her makeup, but look at Dad in the background. I am scarred for life.”

  There’s Mom’s impressive eyeliner artistry in the white cavernous bathroom. In the background of the shot, my dad is on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, his face pure grievance.

  “Your dad on the throne.” Tom laughs. “I don’t know how I ever found my way into such a royal family.”

  I stretch happily on my stool and dangle my boots back and forth. I have never been this happy. Could this be life for the next three months? It’s so supremely livable.

  “Tigers are very noble animals,” I remind him. His nickname from Dad has always been something that makes him a mix of embarrassed and pleased, eyes narrowing to focus on something, his face turning away.

  “I’m lucky” is all he can say, touching his fingers on the engraved watch he wears. I know he needs me to change the subject very badly.

  “Can we do this every night for the entire renovation?” I smile at his withering sideways glare. “Yeah, yeah. It was worth a try.”

  I feel the shoulder of my tank slip for the tenth time and don’t bother fixing it anymore. This bra strap is pretty enough for the real world.

  He takes my phone and looks at the picture of my parents again. “They made me realize things weren’t right with Megan.”

  “What did they say?” I am incensed.

  “They didn’t say anything. You know what they’re like,” he says, an eye narrowed in affection.

  I do know what they’re like. Growing up, the unofficial Sunday-morning motto was Door locked? Ears blocked. “It was when I was finishing their deck. Your mom was making me a sandwich, and your dad comes up behind her and kinda . . . smells her neck.” He’s embarrassed. “Forget it.”

  “No, keep going,” I say with reluctance.

  “She obviously smells so good to him. Things hadn’t been right with me and Megs for a long time. I mean, the diamond ring did help for a while. But I decided that next time I was home, I’d walk up behind her and smell her neck. See what would happen. Maybe it would rekindle the spark.”

  How very Valeska, prowling and sniffing. “And? No, wait. I’m not sure I wanna hear.”

  “She smelled wrong to me. Not bad, but just . . . wrong. She pushed me off and told me I was sweaty. I realized then it wasn’t going to work anymore. We were never going to be like your parents, retired, still in love. I’ve never just . . . electrified Megs, and she deserves that.” He’s clearly been holding in that confession. “She and I talked all night and agreed. She’s been sadder about the ring, actually.”

  “Did she give it back?” Jamie said she hasn’t. Tom nods yes. Now I don’t know who to believe. Ordinarily it would be no contest, but right now, he’s carefully looking away over my shoulder at the crowd, not meeting my stare.

  “You must miss her so much. I know what it’s like to lose someone who’s been a part of you for so long. I mean, it’s obviously not the exact same thing.” I cringe a little. I really haven’t given him much support. “Are you doing okay, since breaking up with her? You can talk to me, you know. As a friend, anytime.”

  “You haven’t lost your brother. And yeah. I miss her a lot. But just in a habitual way.” He deliberates for a minute. “She’s dating someone else already.”

  “What?” I say it too loud and outraged. My mind fills with angry hornets. There’s no one else but him worth having. But I have to moderate myself. “Okay. How do you feel about that?”

  “I feel . . . fine. I know I should feel something when I think of her with him, but I just don’t.”

  I remember his inhale at my shoulder on that first morning of the renovation and the way he held it. The warm exhalation blowing down my tank. Did I smell right? I decide to forge on ahead with our evening.

  “I said we’d practice flirting with strangers tonight, but what’s going on? No one wants us. You’re so gorgeous, Tom.” I wonder if I have the stomach to watch him talk to another woman. “And I really might have made a mistake with this haircut.”

  I notice Tom’s sneaker is planted on the bottom rung of my stool, his leg forming an obvious barrier.

  “Weird,” he says, deadpan. As his amusement fades, a new worry filters across his face. “Flirting with strangers. How am I supposed to remember how to do this?”

  “Just wing it. Be your usual perfect self.” I nudge his foot away. I’ve got to try this. I’ve got to give him a chance to see what life after Megan is like.

  We swivel away
from each other until the crowd blends again, fresh faces move forward, and a girl looks over. She’s a petite little darling. She smiles at him, and he tentatively smiles back.

  No. I don’t have the stomach for it. I make eye contact with the smiler and mouth, Fuck off. She does.

  “Put your foot back,” I instruct, and he laughs in response, a flash in his expression like he’s thrilled, down to the gut.

  In my ear he says, “You little animal.” And not like it’s a bad thing.

  I pour wine into my mouth. “Just practice flirting on me, so I don’t end up on death row.”

  Tom spots something or someone. There’s a frown on his brow, then he turns back to me with an idea in his eyes. He puts a hand between my legs and drags my stool closer until I’m in the frame of his spread denim thighs. It’s the best seat in the goddamn house.

  The warmth of his skin engulfs me and the noise from the room recedes. His hand cups my jaw; my face is tilted and he speaks into my ear.

  “Don’t look now.”

  Chapter 17

  The room could be filled with red smoke and clowns for all I care. My jaw is in his palm and I’m not moving it. “Don’t look at what?”

  “Vince is here. With someone else. Blond, early twenties. He’s seen us.” After trailing his fingers down my throat, he hands me my wineglass. It’s the smooth move of a consummate womanizer. That’s how I know it’s fake.

  “Oh,” I say after a beat. My heart is sinking because I know what Tom is doing. He’s a good friend, putting a little protective padding on my ego. A set of muscles to flirt with. A kitty-cat’s scratching post. “Yeah, this is his local. He’s here almost every night.”

  “Is that why you brought me here?”

  “Relax, baby,” I tell him, and link my fingers into his and squeeze. “You’re not part of a revenge plot. You’re the beautiful, irreplaceable Tom Valeska and I am the luckiest woman alive to be sitting between your thighs.” I get a ping of triumph when his worry is replaced by amusement and he looks down at our legs. “Consider me electrified.”