by JD Hawkins
I laugh in my bed, giggling in a way I never would in public. Perhaps remnants of the giddy joy still escaping my body, the looseness of an intense orgasm not eight hours ago allowing my composure to fail.
Remembering that it’s Saturday, I wallow in bed a while, thinking of the night before. The childlike sense of play, the lavish extravagance of that much jewelry. His almost perverse pleasure in putting it on me, my easy acceptance of a role as totem. It was the sort of wild, eccentric, beautiful night that I imagined life would be full of when I was a young girl cutting photos from magazines and rewatching old Italian films. Until I found out the most wild and eccentric that most men get is a foot fetish. The most extravagant thing to happen most nights is somebody deciding to skinny-dip in the pool, and even then only with copious amounts of alcohol involved. I feel I’m often criticized for wanting more… And last night was certainly a lot.
More than that, it could only have happened with Toby, I realize. Despite all his faults, he’s certainly spontaneous and playful enough to make something like that happen. His sense of romance—that he seemed to have cribbed from schoolboy fantasies and media advertisements—might be cloying and sentimental at most times, but last night… Something seemed to come together just right. For both of us. So that even as I’m here glowing the morning after, I want to know when we might get there again. Perhaps in a different way, under different circumstances, but there, where I felt that way, where he made me feel that way.
I’m in such a good mood I don’t even check my phone once I get up, shower, and make myself breakfast. Now wanting to distract myself from the little echoes of giddy, sparkling pleasure that play across my skin as I mentally return to last night. I end up stirring my coffee for a full five minutes, smiling absently out of the window.
But there’s only so long you can spend in your mind before you find all the bad things you left there. It’s impossible to think of last night without thinking of Toby, and impossible to think of Toby without thinking of everything else. All the baggage and messiness. I start to wonder if he instigated last night as a riposte to what he presumed Asher and I had gotten up to. I begin to consider whether he’s just using my jewelry line as an opportunity to get closer to me. Then I try to decide whether I even mind if he is…
Now, when my phone rings, vibrating across the counter as I eat my fruit salad, I’m glad for the distraction.
“Morning, Harriet,” I answer.
“Hey, Maeve. I know it’s Saturday but I wanted to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, it’s maybe more of a suggestion—though it could be a question.”
“Okay…”
“I mean, I kind of think it’s just something worth considering?”
“It’s a good thing you called me in the morning,” I say, “because it sounds like this is going to take all day.”
Harriet laughs away a little of her nerves. “It’s about the launch—”
“What did I tell you about working on weekends?”
“It’s not really something we worked on. Just something Brent and I were sort of talking about.”
“Okay…” I repeat. “I’m starting to get more hyped for this idea than the launch itself.”
Harriet laughs gently again.
“Well, we figured that the best sort of marketing would be pre-launch—build up so much hype that we have customers banging down the doors once the collection comes out.”
“Go on…”
“We’ve got a real opportunity to actually create that kind of buzz. And then, imagine if it sells out? Then we really have that ‘exclusive, hot, trending’ feel. People will have to get on a waitlist while we manufacture a second run.”
“Very good—but worth calling me for on a Saturday morning, sweetie?”
“The thing is, if we’re going to really launch in three months, then we should really be going all out right now.”
She trails off at the end, as if growing more cautious, preparing. I swallow a chunk of pineapple and speak.
“I get the impression this is where I come in?”
“I mean… You are really the best advertising we have, Maeve,” Harriet says. “Even if Brent and I put together the most fantastic campaign—and we have, or, we’re trying to, at least—even with that, nothing is better for the line than you building up your profile. A great picture of you on a fashion website is worth all the ads we could buy combined.”
I almost choke on my coffee from my impulse to laugh. I cough it down and smile so wide Harriet can hear me.
“Oh honey, if you’re asking me to throw myself about town in glamorous outfits, then I suppose I must.”
Harriet shares my chuckle then continues more seriously.
“Sure. But…actually,” she says, slowing a little again, “Brent and I thought it would be even better if…”
“Yes?”
“You threw a party.”
I pause a moment, coffee still in my hand, about to take a sip. It’s not a strange or bizarre idea—and perhaps that’s what surprises me most of all.
“Hmm,” I hum, to show Harriet I’m thinking about it.
“It’s a great idea,” Harriet snaps, immediately seizing on my interest, “because having people see you at this event or that opening is, like, cool and everything, but it just shows that you’re popular. If you actually threw the event, and invited all the people you know—and I mean, you know everyone—then it would show you’re actually a pretty big deal.”
I laugh at this last bit.
“I hope you’re not using ‘a pretty big deal’ in my marketing.”
“Ha! No… Maybe we should… And also, we’ll have that big launch party, but that’s specifically for the jewelry—this is all about you—so it’s almost more genuine.”
“Nobody at an event is genuine, honey.”
“Anyway, what do you think of the idea? Maybe you could wear a few sample pieces, too.”
Nodding to myself, I say, “I think it’s good. I used to throw parties all the time, but I stopped bothering with the fuss. Plus I hate not being able to leave early.”
“We could help you arrange it. All you’d really have to do is invite every big name you know and then be there looking glamorous.”
“Let’s talk Monday.”
“So you like the idea? It’s on?”
“It’s on.”
“Awesome. See you Monday, Maeve.”
I hang up and finish eating breakfast, feeling once again refreshed and back to my normal self. Back to my normal habit of thinking about the future so that I can forget the past.
Because I’ve never needed my self-defense mechanisms more than I do right now.
19
Toby
I could have slept for days. The restlessness in the depths of my blood that’s been there since I was a kid, that made me start a successful business alongside a reputation as a social animal, and also a sometimes insufferably hyperactive brother, is gone after that night in my shop with Maeve. It was a balm for my soul, like she’s the antidote to me.
But however much I’d like to sleep in and wallow in this feeling, I can’t. I had just enough time to pack the jewelry away, clean up, and lock down, but I worry I might have missed something. The last thing I want is for Sharon to show up and find evidence that I used the place to fuck someone. Not that it matters, and I doubt that she’d even mind—it’s just a matter of simple respect. And who can respect a guy who uses his own business as a place to do that kind of thing?
Not that I’m not trying to think of how we could do it again…
So at five in the morning I’m driving back to the shop and, sure enough, finding sweaty handprints on the mirror that I’m almost reluctant to clean off. Reliving and rediscovering the whole night as I do so. Though the place seems entirely different in daylight, in full light, or maybe just because it was never where, but who.
The backroom also needs a little tidying, after my franti
c search for a condom—the packet of which I almost miss nestled up at the bottom of one of the counters. I clean up everything as best I can, and then start checking over the accounts I rushed before Maeve had even shown up.
When Sharon arrives, we set up the shop and open. I watch her surreptitiously, in my periphery, trying to spot any signs that she notices something. Even if she did, she’s so professional and focused she probably wouldn’t reveal it. I really do need to fix up that raise for her at some point…
During a quiet moment, with only a few solitary people in the shop casually browsing, Sharon flicks through a sheet of papers and then brings them to me at the counter.
“Did you decide on who you want to hire?” she asks, her eyes scanning the resumes.
“Yeah actually,” I say, reaching over to the sheets in her hand to find one, then pulling it out and placing it on top in front of her. “This guy. Nick.”
“The parking lot attendant?” she says, looking curiously over his slim resume.
“Yep.”
“Are you sure? This girl from Dallas has so much experience.”
“No. Nick’s our guy,” I say, tapping the paper. “You give this guy a chance and he’ll pay you back a thousand-fold. He just needs a little support.”
“Hmm,” she hums doubtfully.
“Hey, you were the same, don’t you remember?” I say playfully. “Just an undergraduate who couldn’t tell silver from stainless steel when I hired you.”
Sharon laughs and rolls her eyes at me.
“As far as I remember I was the only person even applying for the job. And you weren’t exactly such an attractive proposition yourself. Some random guy who talks fast and wears Hawaiian shirts, was up to his eyeballs in debt, spending every night out until four, who suddenly decided to start a jewelry business. I honestly thought it was all just a front for something illegal the first three months we worked together.”
I smile and look back out over the shop, the browsers still looking interested in the pieces, uninterested in any help from us. I turn back to Sharon.
“How are things with you anyway?”
Still idly perusing the resumes, Sharon says, “I’m still decorating my new apartment. I’m seeing a guy who might just be long-term boyfriend material. And I’m getting very into imported teas. You?”
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Wish I could sum my life up in three sentences.”
Sharon grins and flicks her eyes up at me. “I could probably do it in one for you.”
“Don’t,” I say. “I like the illusion things are more interesting than they really are.”
“Speaking of interesting…” Sharon says, her eyes now on the entrance.
I look over to see two guys step inside, one of them a vaguely familiar face. They’re both wearing expensive shirts that would be appropriate for the office, but their collars are undone and one of them is in shades. He takes them off as he enters. They look like standard West Coast yuppies, all big money and bro-talk. Nothing wrong with that—but the last thing I’d call them is interesting.
I’m about to turn back to Sharon and ask what she means when the guy who looks familiar sees me and smiles like I’m a long-lost brother.
“That’s him,” he tells his friend, smacking him on the shoulder. “That’s the guy I told you about.”
They make a beeline for me and when I turn to quiz Sharon I find that she’s disappeared.
“Hey! How’s it going?” the familiar guy says, opening his arms wide like he’s about to embrace me over the counter. He offers his hand and I shake it.
I smile, all friendly, but when I reply, “Good, buddy. How about you?” he detects that I don’t remember him.
“It’s me, Greg Miller! You sold me a ring a few weeks back?”
“Oh right,” I say, suddenly flooded with memories. “Yeah. The guy with the beautiful fiancée and the Mustang.”
I’m remembering more than that, though. He’s the guy who was here when Maeve popped in to buy a gift for her friend. When she looked so good our typical love-hate flirtations got a little too real. When I wrangled that invitation out of her to the party where it all began…
“Not my fiancée for long,” Greg says, his smile big and genuine. “She said yes!”
“Congratulations, buddy.”
“And that ring, with the rubies… You were totally right. Totally.”
“She liked it?”
“She loved it,” he almost shouts. “Seriously, I’ve never seen her so happy. She’s like a different woman. Let me spend the whole weekend fishing. We haven’t had a single argument since. And in the bedroom… Man, it’s like when we first met. Better.”
I give him a humble shrug. “Doesn’t seem so expensive now, huh?”
“Best investment of my life,” Greg says, shaking his head.
I laugh, and notice his friend looks a little less talkative, a little unsure, as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing there.
“So what can I help you with today?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Greg says, turning and smacking his companion on the shoulder again. “My friend here needs your help.”
“Matt,” his friend says, offering his hand.
I take his hand and say, “Nice to meet you. Toby.”
“He’s planning on proposing to his girl soon,” Greg explains to me, then turns to his friend. “Go on. Show him the pictures.”
Reluctantly, as if his friend dragged him to a fortune teller rather than a jeweler’s, Matt pulls out his phone, carefully brings up a picture and shows me.
Unlike Greg’s soon-to-be, Matt’s girlfriend looks like she’d struggle to enjoy a sunny day, let alone a fine piece of jewelry. Still, I play along, asking him a few questions and talking things through with him, eventually landing on a few options. All the while Matt hems and haws over the price, the look, his girlfriend’s apparent dislike of anything too “fancy.” Greg’s enthusiasm is the only thing keeping me from letting Matt pick whatever gumball machine ring he’d pick otherwise.
After half an hour of grueling decision making, convincing, and doubt allaying, the guy eventually settles on a sleek piece with a princess cut diamond, and I hand him over to Sharon to finalize the sale and wrap it up. As she does, Matt starts talking to her with an enthusiasm he had none of when talking about his future wife.
Greg stays with me at the other end of the shop, casually hanging out at the counter as if we’re at the bar.
“Hey,” he says, leaning over, “so what’s your deal? You married?”
“Far from it.”
Greg chuckles. “A player? I’ll bet all the ladies want to date a jeweler, right?”
“Most know I can’t afford half the pieces I sell.”
“I only ask because I know this woman that you’d—”
“Sorry, buddy,” I interrupt quickly. “I’m not interested in getting set up.”
“You gotta see her first,” he says, already flicking through his phone. “She’s my wife’s cousin.”
“Really, I appreciate the offer but—”
This time Greg interrupts me by putting the phone in front of my face, and it’s the woman in the photo who stops my thoughts in their tracks. If his fiancée was a dime, her cousin is the whole dollar.
“She’s something else, right?” Greg says with a smile, seeing how struck I am. He flicks through a few more photos, each one even more impressive than the last. “What do you think?”
His question resonates somehow. I’m thinking a lot of things. I’m thinking about how weird it is I feel almost guilty for looking at her, as if my loyalties are already taken. I’m thinking about why it is that gorgeous women like Hazel and this guy’s cousin-in-law are being thrown at me and yet I can’t muster up anything more than a keen look. I’m thinking about Maeve again—and then thinking about why every other beautiful woman just makes me think even harder about Maeve. I’m thinking a whole bunch, but all I end up saying is, “She’s hot. But like I said, I’m not r
eally interested.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Greg looks at me like he’s confused for a moment and I decide to give him a little more.
“I get you’re trying to repay me for the help with the ring,” I say, “and I appreciate the offer—your wife’s cousin is a real knockout. But the thing is… I’m kinda… I got someone else on my mind these days.”
“Oh, I see,” Greg says, nodding. Then, in his newly friendly manner, says, “How’s that going for you?”
I look at him and laugh.
“‘How’s that going for me…’” I repeat, as if thinking about that question for the first time. “To tell you the truth, buddy, I don’t even know if it’s going, or not at all.”
“Does she know you’re into her?”
I shrug and wince as if to say “doubt it.”
“Then don’t tell her,” Greg says confidently. I frown at him and he continues. “You gave me advice, now I’ll give you some—don’t tell her. When things get all weird and uncertain, you gotta let the woman make the moves, give the signs, all that. Trust me, dude.”
I look at him as if scrutinizing the source of the info rather than the info itself. Especially since he’s telling me the opposite of what Hazel did, and I felt a lot of sense in what that other woman told me. I wouldn’t really trust this guy with anything more than the keys to park my car—and even then, only if he wore the uniform.
But then again, this guy is about to marry a woman way out of his league, while the object of my desire went home with another man just this week. I might know how to get a woman into bed, but when it comes to anything more? I’m learning just how little I do know. And when it comes to Maeve, I may as well be trying to decipher an ancient language.
“Anyway, dude,” Greg says, snapping me out of a strange, staring mood that I didn’t even realize I’d sunk into, “thanks a lot for the help. Maybe I’ll come in again sometime—get something for myself.”
“Any time. Catch you later. See ya, Matt. Good luck.”