by JD Hawkins
They look at each other, a couple taking awkward steps then stopping, a strange kind of half dance, their sense of politeness fighting with their desire to show initiative.
“How about you first,” I say, “girl with the blonde hair. Follow me.”
Sharon turns out to be right, as usual. There are more candidates that arrive. By the time I finish interviewing the first four, another five show up, then another seven. My inability to discriminate, my desire to give everyone a fair chance, means that I have every kind of person showing up to interview for the job. From a woman who worked seven years doing sales at a prestigious jewelry store in Dallas, to a guy whose only work experience was a summer spent as a parking lot attendant.
Still, Sharon was too shy to string more than two words together when I hired her, and God knows I had to start my own business because not a single company would risk hiring someone who looks and talks (and acts) like me, so I know more than anyone that a resume can lie better than a person.
I spend the whole morning talking jewelry with the candidates. Evaluating stones, polishing metals, schools of design, trends and fashions, managing stock… The backroom employee isn’t going to be selling the things, but they’re going to have to know how to treat it and judge it as good as I can if they want to work for me. And since there’s nobody who knows as much as me about gems, I’m looking for someone who’s keen and willing to learn, and who knows just how much they don’t know. That means the girl from Dallas doesn’t make the shortlist, but the parking lot attendant does.
Around lunchtime, I finish up an interview with only three people left. That’s when Sharon pokes her head into my office to tell me Mia’s in the shop.
“Hey!” I call as I step out onto the floor and approach her. She’s carrying Alison in her arms and has a shoulder full of shopping bags. “What a nice surprise!”
“I was just doing a bit of shopping in the neighborhood and—”
“Do you mind?” I tell Mia as I pinch Alison’s cheek. “I was talking to this little cutie here.”
Mia laughs and I look around for Colin.
“You three,” I say to the remaining candidates, “come back tomorrow.”
They look at each other for a second before shuffling out.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Mia says. “I just wanted to—”
“They’re here for a job,” I tell her, but I’m still smiling at Alison. “If they really want it they’ll be back. You wanna grab some lunch?”
“I literally came to ask you that,” Mia says.
“Hey, Sharon,” I say, but by the time I turn to her she’s already waving me away. I turn back to Mia. “Let’s go. Hey, gimme Alison, and those bags. I’ve got something you’ll love.”
Mia looks at me suspiciously for a moment as I take my niece from her and I answer her suspicions by handing her the keys to the Porsche. My sister always had a thing for nice cars—specifically driving them. Don’t ask me why, all I know is that her eyes light up when she sees the horse on the keys the way mine do when I see a woman in a summer dress.
I help Mia get Alison’s car seat situated, and then we’re off. I think the baby likes the car as much as her mommy does, because she spends half the drive cooing and the other half sleeping.
After a long drive Mia eventually, reluctantly, stops outside a terrace café where we take a couple of seats with a nice people-watching view of the street.
“What a car…” She’s still fawning after we sit down as she tends to Alison in her lap. “It’s so well-balanced. The back end just sticks to the road; even when you can feel it going, it’s completely under your control. And the transmission is so satisfying, those long gears…”
“All I know is, girls like it but it’s still comfortable enough for them to sit in.”
“I want one.”
“Even after it took ten minutes to fit your stroller into the back?”
“Totally worth it.”
We order a couple of sandwiches and cold drinks, and enjoy looking at Alison a while as she stares wide-eyed at the passing people.
“Actually,” Mia starts, “I wanted to ask you how things went with Hazel.”
“And here’s me thinking you just wanted to spend a little quality time with your brother.”
She smiles and thanks the waiter as the food is placed before us. A Cubano for me, and an avocado club for my sister. Meanwhile Alison just gets a bottle, poor thing.
“It’s just that… I saw her at work—” Mia starts.
“I thought you weren’t back at work yet?” I ask.
“I just dropped by to see some people, and check up on a few things before—anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I saw her, and… She didn’t say much about what happened. I didn’t pry, but I could tell she was really into you.”
I shift a little in my seat and take a big bite of my sandwich so I can delay talking back. The layers of melty Swiss cheese, seasoned pork, yellow mustard, and crisp sour pickles have me groaning.
“Are you going to call her?” Mia asks.
I finish chewing, swallow, then shrug. “She’s great. Really an awesome girl,” I say.
My sister cocks a brow. “So you are going to call her?”
“How come you even tried to set me up? I mean, the last thing I need is help meeting women. You know that, Mia.”
“Not women like Hazel. She’s really sweet, and kind, and down-to-earth without being boring. You can’t tell me you’re meeting girls like her at any of your lavish mansion pool parties.”
“Sure,” I say, shrugging again, feeling a little defensive. “But…you don’t think it could get potentially messy? Me dating someone you work with? Someone you clearly like as a friend? I’ll be the first to admit I’m not an angel, Mia. What if things go bad? What if we date for three months then I decide it isn’t going to work?
“Next thing you know, you’re working with a girl who resents you for introducing her to your asshole brother. And you can’t hang out with her anymore because I might show up to a dinner party and the whole vibe will be really weird. I don’t have a good track record with women—not in that way. And the last thing I need is for you to be in the middle of one of my fuck-ups.”
I have to take a long drink of my Coke and look away now, unable to believe I’m actually saying all this—and saying it to Mia.
I’m literally doing everything I just told her I want to avoid. Here I am pretending to be the bigger man when I’m guilty. When I’ve already put Mia in the middle of one of my potential fuck-ups. And now I’m lying to her about it.
“Oh!” Mia says suddenly, as if noticing something. She looks at Alison conspiratorially. “Oh, I get it… Yeah… I see.” She smiles broadly and looks at me incredulously. I feel my heart start to beat weirdly. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
I grab a fry and try to act nonchalant. “I don’t get it.”
“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” Mia says. “You’ve found some other ‘impossible’ woman to become obsessed over.”
My instinct is to deny it, but I’ve already lied to Mia enough—too much.
“Well…maybe something like that.”
“Oh no, Toby…” Mia says, disappointed. “Again?”
I shrug helplessly, staring down at my sandwich and suddenly finding I have no appetite.
“What do you want me to say? It’s who I am.”
“So now that you’ve convinced yourself you’re in love with some unattainable woman, you’re going to pass up a wonderful girl who could actually make you happy?”
“No no,” I say, wagging my finger quickly. “It’s not love. I’m not in love with her.”
Mia continues to smile and jogs Alison on her knee a little.
“Well that’s something of an improvement over all the others, at least,” she says. “At least you’re not deluding yourself this time.”
I can do nothing but grimace, shrug, and sip my drink, almost afraid if I say anything I’ll be revealing too much, this whole conversation already a little too dangerous for me.
“But she’s unobtainable, right?” Mia says, not letting up, having her fun.
“Something like that.”
She shakes her head affectionately. “You always want exactly the thing you can’t have.”
I let out the same sigh I always respond to that same line with.
“It is what it is,” I say, forcing myself to take another bite of my food and trying to think of how I can change the subject ASAP.
“You going to tell me about her at least?” Mia says.
I look back at her, and shift in my seat, suddenly feeling like it’s too small, too uncomfortable. I stare out at the street for a while and pretend to think.
The thing is, I always tell Mia about them. The women I get obsessed with. I’ve bored her to tears over so many of them that it’ll be weird if I don’t say anything now—and the last thing I want is for this to get any weirder.
“Well…I mean…she’s hot…”
“Of course.”
“But, like…not just hot…beautiful. Like…even her imperfections are perfect. The way she moves is beautiful. Her voice is beautiful. The way she thinks even, and acts… It’s as if there’s not a single thing she can do or say that she doesn’t make beautiful… And not even just beautiful… Something more than that… It’s like she’s got this spirit… Or this passion… I’ve never seen it before… To me it’s as if she’s more alive than any other person, any other woman that I’ve ever met.
“And it’s strange because when we’re talking…just engaging with each other, it’s different somehow. Like there’s this clarity between us. This weirdly strong sort of understanding… Anyone else…there’s that element of bullshit. Always. But with her…even when it’s an act, it’s real… It’s easy, but not like ‘give in’ easy, or ‘low standards’ easy… Like…‘This feels right’ easy… And I’m not just saying I can be myself around her… Or maybe… No… I feel like I’m my best self around her. I like who I am around her… And I think I can bring out the best in her, too… Shit… I dunno… I’m rambling…”
I look up from my sandwich to Mia to see if she bought it, but her smile’s gone. Instead she’s staring at me with a look of earnest tenderness I haven’t seen since I gave her a Miata as a gift.
“What?” I say, after half a minute of her staring at me.
“That’s the most convincing, genuine feeling you’ve ever conveyed about anyone.”
I laugh at her incredulously, pick up my sandwich then put it down again, and laugh again.
“Shit, Mia. You know me. I’m just a fucking idiot when it comes to these things. Always chasing what I can’t have so I can feel hard done-by. Gimme a week and I’ll probably be onto the next chick.”
“No, Toby,” Mia says, her voice calm and sisterly. “I don’t think you should. I think you might actually be in love this time.”
I laugh again but I can’t stop it from sounding forced and phony, so loud it draws looks from a couple of the other diners.
“Christ, Mia,” I say, smiling and gesturing at Alison. “Can we talk about how beautiful and sweet and smart my niece is instead?”
“Is she married?” Mia asks, not letting up.
“No.”
“In a relationship?”
“No… I don’t know actually. Maybe. Perhaps.”
“Does she like you back?”
“Yeah… Well… I don’t know… In the same way, not that I… It’s more like… There’s a lot of ways to like someone…”
“So what is it holding you two apart?”
I try to force another laugh but this time it doesn’t come out, only a strange half-exasperated sigh. I pick up my sandwich, grimace at it, then put it down again.
“Damn, this sandwich is dry… I’m not even hungry.” I check my watch and make a surprised face. “Shit, this has been a long lunch. Spent a long time in the Porsche… Sharon’s gonna kill me. I’d best get back…” I stand up and grab my things. “You’re okay to drive yourself back to the shop, right? I’ll just call an Uber.”
“Toby…” Mia says calmly, but I’m already leaning down to kiss Alison on the forehead, then do the same to Mia.
“I’ll catch up with you later, all right?” I say, already heading down the steps. “Just drop the keys off with Sharon when you get back.”
“Toby,” Mia says, loud enough to hear, but still calm, since she knows I’m not going to stop.
“Let me know when you wanna do this again…” I shout back over my shoulder as I sprint across the road, away from Mia, away from what she said, away from the feeling that she might be right.
14
Maeve
Men don’t plan. That’s their great weakness—and only occasionally a strength for them.
They think they plan. They tell themselves that they do. They might even tell you some version of a “plan.” But the reality is that men have desires, not plans. And they lead their in-the-moment lives eternally heading in whatever direction they think their desires lie. Like dim headlights on a dark night, they’ll follow the road—until the sun comes up and they realize they’ve been heading in circles.
Add to this the fact that men’s desires can change with the wind, and there’s rarely an excuse for a woman who knows what she’s doing not to get the better of them. I think about this as I scan my wardrobe putting together an outfit for the art exhibition I agreed to meet Asher at. Nowhere is that inability to plan clearer than on a date. Even a sophisticated, smart, experienced lover like Asher will dress to make a great impression. And I’m sure he will—but impressions based on appearances are overrated. Better to end a weak story strongly than start a bad story well.
Now I’m standing in my walk-in closet, perusing my large coat collection, thinking about how I want this evening to end. As friends? Or as lovers? A peck on the cheek and a distant ambiguity that’ll test how much he’s into me? A proper kiss and a goodbye that’ll further the sexual tension between us? The cold hard truth is that a date with a suave, handsome guy like Asher would have left me in no doubt just a short while ago. I’d want to end the night fucking him.
It’s all there in front of me, my clothes like a map that’ll guide me through the evening. I could have him staring at my breasts every time I talk so that it doesn’t matter what I say, or compel him into my ideas with dangling earrings that draw attention to my mouth. I could force him to play the gentleman by dressing like a lady, bring out his sillier side with something shockingly colorful, or wear a dress that will remind him we’re all animals and simply wait until he starts acting like one.
I go for something conservative. A cream skirt and white blouse, a long Burberry trench—leaving all the attention on a pair of spectacular leather riding boots with a series of buckle fasteners down the sides. It’s a quick decision, a rash decision. I tell myself it’s a classic outfit that leaves open all possibilities. I tell myself it’s not too boring for me, that I’m not trying to dampen my possibilities or downplay my sexuality. I tell myself a lot of things so that I don’t have to deal with the nagging thoughts that threaten to emerge if I spend any more time thinking about it.
I’ll live this evening like a man, in the moment, going with the flow, without a plan. That’s it. That’s what I’m doing. There’s nothing else to it.
Asher insisted on picking me up, even though I prefer neutral territory for the first strike of the evening. I’m still finishing off my makeup when I hear his car pull up in my driveway. He’s early. I like that. Some men think it’s cocky to show up late, but real courage is a man who isn’t afraid to show how eager he is.
He sends me a message to let me know he’s waiting outside. A relaxed message, as if he’d be willing to wait all night if need be. I don’t make him wait quite that long, and soon head outside. He steps out of the car as I approach,
looking absurdly hot; certainly more than even my rather fond memory of him at dinner last week. His shoulder-length hair behind his ears, still a little wild, but sexy enough to work. His fresh shaven face only enhancing his manliness by revealing a jawline like a monument. Most striking of all is his outfit. A low neckline shirt beneath a black long coat, crimson pants, and worker boots. Most men attempting to make it work would look like a transplant from a nineties teen drama about a goth kid. But Asher looks like an incredibly sexy Byron-esque poet who would be as comfortable at an underground European dance club as he most assuredly will be at the art gallery.
“Wow,” he says as I approach.
“Wow yourself.” I smile back, instinctively reaching out to touch and appreciate the fabric of his coat. “I love this… I’d wear it myself.”
“Maybe you will by the end of the evening,” Asher says, with perfect tone and timing, so that I impulsively return his knowing gaze.
“Where did you say you worked again?” I ask as I walk around to the passenger side. He steps ahead of me to open the door.
“Here and there,” he says, before he rounds the vehicle and gets in. “Movies mainly. And producing most of all. But I’ve done it all in my time.” He starts the car and continues talking as he drives. “I’ve been behind the camera, in front of it…”
“A jack of all trades.”
Asher laughs, and instantly reminds me of what a nice, caramel-rich laugh he has.
“Always passionate about what I do, though. And these days that’s the only thing that matters.”
I smile forward at the road. “I agree.”
After about a minute of a deliciously tense silence, Asher says, “You know, I’ve got a confession to make…”
“Oh?”
“This artist we’re going to see. Jane…”
“Jane Murdoch.”
“Yeah… Thing is, I have no idea what she’s about. Never seen her art before in my life. I mean, I’ve heard the hype—who hasn’t. But as for the art…”
“She’s European,” I explain, “but she’s spent the past decade in New York. She’s done a fantastic job of treading the fine line between hot enough to command high prices, but never quite getting big enough to become passé. She gives great interviews, but not many, and very rarely. It doesn’t hurt that she’s photogenic, either.