Missed Connections

by Tamara Mataya

  This face is familiar, but Jack affects me so very differently than Pete. Not just because Pete’s gay and Jack isn’t. How am I? Tingly now that you’re here. “I’m good. You?”

  “Pretty good.” He closes the door behind him, treating me to a nice peek at his tight ass and the strong lines of his back beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt. God, he has nice shoulders. He pulls the bottom of his T-shirt away from his body and waves it, allowing cool air beneath—and giving me flashes of abs. “Hot out there.”

  Hot in here now too. “Yeah.”

  “Pete around?”

  Want but can’t touch. I wrestle my hormones into submission. “Nope.”

  “He still at the salon?”

  “I’m not sure. He was sleeping when I got up and then gone when I got back from my interview a few minutes ago.”

  He strides into the galley kitchen and rests a trim hip against the counter. “Had to have been a hair emergency to get him out of bed before noon on a Sunday.”

  “True.”

  “How did your interview go?”

  I smooth my ponytail in what I hope is a casual manner, feeling self-conscious about my tiny shorts and tank top. “I think it went well, but they said they had a few more applicants to go through. And they’re a little strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  How much can I say without sounding judgmental? “They’re hippies.”

  “As in cool stoners? That might be kind of sweet having them as your bosses.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I suspect there’s going to be a lot of talk of chi and auras.”

  “Ah, New Agers.”

  “Yes.” Resting an elbow on the desk, I prop my chin in one hand. “And they haven’t let the person whose job I’d be taking know she’s fired yet.”

  He grimaces. “Harsh.”

  “But I’d work there in a heartbeat if they’d have me.”

  He crosses his arms, and I try not to ogle them. “They’d be stupid not to hire you.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” His earnestness makes me smile.

  “I know you said before you couldn’t waitress, but they make awesome tips. I could—”

  “I know you have all kinds of connections, but I couldn’t work as a waitress at one of those clubs. I don’t have the coordination. There’s a reason you guys never let me carry the drinks back to the table. I’d end shifts owing more than I’d made.”

  “Fair enough. So—” he says, as my cell phone vibrates against the desktop.

  “I’ve got to get this.” I hold up my hand. “Sarah speaking.”

  “Hi, Sarah, this is Fern. From Inner Space?”

  “Hi, Fern.” It’s them, I mouth at Jack. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, I just wanted to call to let you know that unfortunately”—damn it—“our old receptionist found out we were interviewing and came in for an ugly confrontation before she stormed out, so we’re going to need you to come in tomorrow morning.”

  Wait. “You mean I got the job?”

  “Oh yes, didn’t I say?”

  I punch the air. “No! Thank you, Fern. I will definitely be there. What time do you need me?”

  “You’ll be working Monday to Friday, leaving around six. Is ten too early?”

  Too early? The firm had me start work at seven—and now I’ll get weekends off. “Ten is perfect.”

  “Great. See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.” I end the call and spring to my feet. “I have a job.”

  “Congratulations!” Jack holds his hand up, but our high five turns into an enthusiastic hug.

  And here, pressed up against his warm, muscular length, with my face to his chest, I remember why he’s off-limits. Because I want him so very much, and he’s so very wrong for me.

  But for once, I don’t care.

  I tighten my embrace and breathe deeply, holding his scent in my lungs because I want any part of him inside me right now. His hand splays across my lower back and presses me closer, but no lines are crossed except those in my mind…where we’ve already done everything. Twice. My skin’s cooled from the air-conditioning, but he’s still warm from the heat outside, making the difference even more interesting. How would those heated hands feel trailing up my thighs…

  Pulling back, I slowly drag my gaze from his chest to his face. I’ve wanted Jack from the moment I saw him six years ago at a house party, spinning records in the basement. Ten minutes later, I’d learned his nickname. DJ Madhead. My gay best friend’s identical twin.

  He licks his lips.

  Oh, Jack is sex personified and he knows it. The trouble is, a lot of other women know it too. A lot of women. Too many women.

  And I refuse to be just another car on the train. Man whores are firmly off-limits; I’ve seen what cheating can do to people. My mom tore my dad’s heart out again and again. The worst part is he always takes her back. His pride is the least of my worries. It’s the stress that she puts on his heart that worries me and reminds me to never date a potential cheater—no matter how pretty they are, or how pretty their words are. I’ve heard variations on every justification in the book from my mother’s lips.

  But even if all that changed, Jack’s rampant Peter Pan syndrome would still keep him from being an option. He’s a DJ. His office is a dance floor covered with intoxicated people. Late nights, flashing lights. How could I live like that, never seeing him? Never getting to spend more than a few hours a week or a stolen moment on a noisy dance floor? How could I compete with all the women who throw themselves at him? I want more for myself—I need more. As lame as it may make me, I need someone who’s serious about the future, about me—not just a hot guy who refuses to grow up.

  So, despite the quickening of my pulse every time Jack comes near, nothing will ever happen between us. With a sigh, I step back, breaking contact, and head to the living room, hyperaware of him as he follows and sits on the opposite end of the couch, giving me the space I don’t want but need.

  He picks up the conversation as if he hadn’t noticed the weirdness.

  “They want you to start tomorrow? That’s awesome.”

  “Definitely.” Though it’s weird that the old receptionist had to be the deciding factor in me getting hired. Maybe it just sped up the timeline and they had chosen me already.

  The door swings open and bangs against the wall. “Honey, I’m homo!” Pete calls out.

  “God, you’re such a caricature,” I call with a grin.

  “I’m a campy delight.” He and his shopping bags rustle into the kitchen.

  “Your brother’s here.”

  “Good. I could use a big, strong man to help me with these heavy bags while I freshen up. I’m sweating like a hooker in church.”

  Jack rolls his eyes at me but moves to help Pete. I follow, trying not to notice how great Jack’s ass looks in those jeans. Pete’s already deposited the grocery bags on the counters when we reach the kitchen, so I stay out of the way while Jack helps him put stuff away.

  They move with a similar grace, but Pete’s a little softer and flows more, while Jack’s like a slinky jungle cat. There’s something about the way he walks that has always hit me right in the nether regions. Other than style choices and Jack’s adorable mole, they are shockingly identical. Jack’s hair is still their natural light brown and lacks the dyed, lacquered finesse of Pete’s. Pete’s eyebrows are also more groomed, but they don’t look overdone. He’s a junior aesthetician and stylist at a trendy, upscale salon in Manhattan, and he does amazing work. I trust no one else with my hair.

  “Guess who has news?” Jack asks Pete.

  “What? Who? Spill!”

  I laugh. “I have a job! Soon, you’ll have your couch back.”

  “Thank God,” he exclaims with relief.

  I narrow my eyes. “You could sound a little less excited to spare my feelings.”

  “Honey.” He smooths an eyebrow with the tip of his ring finger, managing to look long-suffering with tha
t small action. “I love you, but if I had to see one more thong hanging over my towel rack, I was going to lose it.”

  “Pete!” My cheeks flame, and I look at Jack.

  “Please. My little brother’s seen more panties than you have.”

  Jack smirks. “You’re only three minutes older.”

  I notice he doesn’t deny the part about the panties.

  Pete grabs me in a hug. “Sweetie, I’m so proud of you!” He pulls back. “Where is this fabulous new job? Will they be paying you meeellions of dollars?”

  “I doubt it. I’ll be doing reception.”

  “It may seem like a step down with your degree, but it’s a jungle out there. That you got hired right now just shows how great you are.”

  I raise my brows. “Reception at a New Age spa.”

  “Competition?” He rears back in mock outrage.

  “No. Inner Space. They do massages and acupuncture and some crystal stuff. Yoga therapy. Nothing that makes anyone prettier. It’s the spa Naomi told us about.” Naomi was one of his client-turned-friends. She works at Inner Space and told him they were hiring, and he passed that news to me.

  He smirks. “No one makes anyone prettier than me.”

  “You’re the best.” Jack humors Pete like a parent humors a child, then looks at me. “So you’ll be moving soon?”

  “As soon as I find a place.” My happiness is tempered by something in his eyes I can’t define.

  “Let me know when you need help.”

  “I will, thanks. What did you want to do for supper, P?”

  He rubs his hands together. “I was going to do spag bol instead of ordering in, but this calls for celebration! I heard about a new Thai fusion place in Williamsburg. Shall we go judge for ourselves?”

  Pete’s spag bol puts Del Posto’s to shame. “Nothing’s better than your pasta—please, let’s do that instead. You won’t get to cook for me much longer,” I wheedle. “I’ll even do all the dishes.”

  “I should try to fatten you up some before you go. Lord knows what things you’ll be putting into your body while unsupervised.”

  I try and fail to keep my gaze off Jack. “Lord knows,” I agree and move back to Pete’s laptop. “Guess I should start looking for a place.”

  Plugging in my earbuds, I click on iTunes and hit Shuffle to give the boys a little privacy.

  Privacy. I’ll be in my own apartment again, with my own computer, in my own space. What a glorious concept.

  Back to Craigslist. It’s still open to the home page, and just a click takes me to the apartments for rent.

  The past six weeks have been so stressful that I hadn’t realized how much they’ve weighed on me until now. Laughter brews at the tip of my tongue, waiting to be released at the slightest nudge. The rich aroma of garlic and onions browning in the pan seasons the air. Pete’s meat sauces need time to develop flavors, and though it will be a few hours until we eat, I feel hungry for the first time in ages, my stomach no longer in knots.

  Fern emailed me with salary details. It’s way below what I made at the firm, but enough that I can manage. I find and reply to a few brokers representing affordable apartments and see one that looks perfect. Tiny, overpriced, and way out in the ass end of Brooklyn, but it’ll be a place I can call my own. It’s all finally coming together. Soon, I’ll have a job to go to and money to spend. No more scrounging and hoarding and denying myself delicious gourmet coffees and treats when I’m out and about. No more reading the magazines at the bodega and never buying them, feeling like a junkie seeking a free fix while the store clerk looks at me with judgmental eyes.

  I’ve had my envious eyes on about seventeen new, hip restaurants that have opened since I got laid off. Soon I’ll be able to actually go to them. My mouth waters.

  I am not a failure. My old boss was wrong about me.

  It’s like I take my first real breath in nearly two months. Life couldn’t get better.

  Inbox (1)

  A reply already?

  My heart stops when I see the @. It’s from some woman I don’t know, but the @ is the law firm’s name. Why would they email me? Is this like tantric karma—life saw I was happy and is now bending me over to creatively screw me because I wasn’t depressed for a whole ten minutes?

  It’s from Brenda to reception@BladeLAW.com—and Sonya has accidentally forwarded it to me. I used to use my personal email when working from home, and people grew accustomed to contacting me via both. Apparently, they haven’t removed me from the contact list. I shouldn’t read it, but it’s like creeping an evil ex on Facebook; I can’t look away.

  From: reception@BladeLAW.com

  Subject: Pest situation

  Sonya,

  We have a pest situation. Droppings are appearing around the office, particularly the lunchroom. As you can guess, Bob isn’t pleased. Call the exterminator and get them in here ASAP.

  Brenda

  My ecstatic bark of laughter draws Pete’s and Jack’s attention, and I feel like doing a small dance. Hell, I’m so freaking happy I could twerk. “Jack, are you spinning anywhere this week?”

  “I’m at Combined on Friday. Why?”

  I motion for them to read the email, loving the way their faces light up. They’re as happy as I am, having seen the way those bastards fired me like I was nothing. “Because suddenly, I feel like dancing.”

  My life couldn’t get any better than it is right now.

  Chapter 3

  Once again, I’ve made a tactical error by dressing in a black skirt, heels, and black cami/sweater combination. While perfect for the law firm and less formal than my interview clothes, the outfit makes me stick out like a sore thumb, blackened beneath the hammer of poor judgment.

  Fern resembles a dull flower in an oatmeal-colored kaftan and green leggings. Her gaze starts at my tight chignon and wanders down to my four-inch heels. “I’m for expression in all its forms, Sarah, including through fashion choices, but we’re really trying to go with a relaxed vibe here. We want the clients to feel welcomed, at home. People will come in for massages dressed in sweats and no makeup, seeking respite from the trappings of vanity.”

  “So you want me to dress in something less formal?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to, I don’t know, casual it up a bit. Just to blend with the rest of us. We’re all about harmony. What you’re in is very discordant.”

  “I’ll be sure to dress more casually tomorrow.”

  She waves her hand. “Wear whatever you want.”

  Just not business attire. What if this is what I want to wear? “So, are jeans okay?”

  “Just read the energy and flow with it.”

  Riiight.

  She straightens a pile of papers on the desk. “Anyway, we figured we’d show you the booking and billing system while Ziggy’s in with a client.”

  I glance around to be sure we’re the only two in the reception area. No one else is in sight, so I have no idea why she keeps saying “we.” “Sounds good.”

  “You’re used to computers, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, just play around with it. I’ve got to run to a meeting.”

  “Wait, you’re leaving?” I’ve been here for exactly twenty-three minutes, and she’s leaving me on my own?

  “I’ll be back at eleven thirty, and Ziggy will be done with his client at eleven. Plenty of time for you to get to know the booking system.” She smiles and grabs my shoulders. “You’re smart. I have every faith in your ability to do this.” She disappears out the front door in a cloud of sandalwood and lemon verbena.

  My gaze bounces from the Himalayan rock salt lamp on the wooden table to the large amethyst geode by the front door. A small stack of organic living magazines is nestled beside a pile of affirmation flip cards with finger labyrinths printed on the back. Apparently, they’re soothing.

  I could use a few cups of soothing right about now. What the hell am I supposed to do if someone phones or comes in or… No. I sit in the chai
r behind the computer and wiggle the mouse to take it out of sleep mode. Fern left because she thinks I’m capable and intelligent. Maybe it’s a test, maybe it’s an opportunity—either way, this is my chance to shine. This is nothing compared to the tasks the partners had me do.

  The certainty in Fern’s voice, the trust, is humbling and helps stave off the panic that I’ll do something wrong. I can do this. It’s just a piece of software, and I have a secret weapon: the Internet. I Google the name of the program and read the FAQs twice. There’s a forum that discusses some common bugs and shortcuts.

  By ten forty-five, I’m practicing scheduling fake appointments, shifting them to different days and times, and deleting them like a pro. As long as I stick to the basics and no one wants to get fancy, I’m functional.

  Ziggy zooms out of a therapy room at eleven on the dot and speeds by me, a sky-blue blur. “Bathroom.”

  Oh.

  “Hey.” A fifty-something woman in capris and a peasant blouse steps up to the counter. There’s no automatic bell to alert me when someone enters or exits Inner Space. I’ll have to remember that when I leave the desk. “I have an appointment with Ziggy at eleven fifteen?”

  I pull up Ziggy’s day and hope she’s in the schedule so I don’t look like a dumbass. “What’s your last name?”

  “Tina.”

  “That’s your last name?”

  “No.” She blinks at me a few times.

  I so haven’t had enough coffee to be dealing with this. “What’s your last name?”

  “Tina. Graham?”

  Ziggy’s schedule does show Tina in at eleven fifteen. Allowing myself a small breath of relief, I smile at her. “He’s just finishing up with someone. Would you like to have a seat?” I motion to the row of sage-green pleather chairs.

  “Sure.” She wanders over to the cooler, where packets of herbal tea and real cups are set up—disposable cups were not an option, Fern informed me. Tina pulls up on the red handle, then jiggles it. “There’s no hot water.”

  “You’ve got to sort of push it straight back before pressing it down.”

  She jiggles it harder. “It’s not working. I think it’s broken.”