Perky

by Julia Kent

  I suddenly crave a butterscotch candy.

  And then I want a cigarette.

  “Get your lemonade and cookies, my dears, for we are about to DANCE!” Philippe shouts as I turn to the cookie table, snickerdoodles a poor substitute for a Marlboro but I eat one anyhow. Parker comes back over, arms akimbo, big smile on his face.

  “Call went well?”

  “First one did. Follow-up on the guy at the restaurant who choked. He’s doing well. I ignored the second one.”

  “Why? Was it your mom?” I crack.

  His eyes widen, then peer at me with a strange fascination. “As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?”

  “I'd go out of my way to ignore her if I were you, too.”

  “It's the fifth time she's called in two days. I don't want to deal with her.”

  “Maybe it’s important.”

  “If it were that important, she could leave a message. She just wants to give me her advice.”

  “I'm Sheila,” interrupts a short, wide woman with close-cropped white hair in a pixie cut with long tapered sideburns that curl at the ends under her earlobes. She's talking to Parker, hand extended. “I would love to be your dance partner, Congressman Campbell.”

  Parker looks down. He has to. She's easily a foot shorter.

  “Hi, Sheila,” he says, giving me a look that almost includes a wink, but Parker is far too suave to do that. “I would love to.”

  “And how about you? You look like a nice prime steak in a world of chopped liver,” says the gnome. When I turn toward his voice, I find myself the recipient of an amused grin from a bald man with a long white beard, our eyes level. The grin falters slightly, a bit of the color leaving his sweaty face.

  “Is that a pick-up line? Because if so, it's really bad,” I tell him with a smile as he sips his lemonade and gives me a shaky wink.

  “DANCY!” Will shouts from across the room. “Mallory's best friends are off limits!”

  “Which of you is Mallory's best friend?” Dancy says to the room.

  All of the women raise their hands.

  Good-natured laughter fills the room, Sheila calling out, “But he's a damn fine dancer.”

  Proving her words to me seems to be Dancy's mission. He grasps my hand in his and pulls me close–but not too close–as people pair off. Everyone else in the room seems to know what to do, though Fletch looks at Fiona, then Mallory, and finally settles on Angie Muriano, whose family has run Muriano's Farm Stand and Storage for more years than anyone can remember.

  Including Angie, if my mom's stories about her creeping dementia are right.

  “We will work on the basics. You are all here for wedding dances, yes?” he asks me.

  “Yes,” I say, realizing he's peering at me with a look I know too well.

  Great. Some dude born before television was invented has seen my damn meme.

  “You look familiar,” he says.

  They all start that way.

  “Uh, people say I have one of those faces. You know.” If the old dude's eyes drift to my chest, I know he's seen the meme.

  “No. I don't know. I have a face that reminds people of someone who works at The North Pole.”

  “Santa?”

  “No. Rusty, the mechanic who keeps Santa's sleigh going. No one talks about him, but Donner and Blitzen sure do appreciate his work.”

  His hand is clammy in mine, and as the music starts, it finally occurs to me to really look at the dude, even as I'm laughing politely at his joke. First of all, he's old. Like, so old that the collagen in his skin just decided to defect outright and make a run across the border without waiting for a visa.

  Second, it's increasingly clear he is super nervous right now.

  But even if he's a bit anxious, his footwork is incredible. I suddenly realize that I've never danced with someone who knows exactly what he's doing. As Dancy gathers me in his arms, he's light as a feather with his touch but uses a hard-to-pinpoint firmness in how he guides my body through the steps. I look over to find Sheila giggling, looking up adoringly at Parker, who seems to have the same sure-footedness as Dancy.

  A pang of regret rings through me.

  I've never danced with Parker. Ever.

  CLAP CLAP!

  “Change partners!” Philippe shouts. For a comical moment, Fletch and Fiona are next to each other, a natural pair until she storms over to Dancy, grabs his hand, and shoves it onto her waist.

  “I like a woman who takes charge,” the old man says as Parker chuckles in my ear, his hands touching me, his scent filling me before I can think.

  And then he moves me, taking control, guiding my body in ways that enhance my experience of being human. The tactile sensation of being in his arms, carried through in tempo to the swelling Spanish music that is soulful yet quick, is too much.

  And too little.

  “Why are you still in town, Parker? Don't you have a country to run?”

  “I'm working with Ouemann on the new bills we're sponsoring.”

  “You can't do that from Texas?”

  His fingers stroke my back. “I can't do this from Texas.”

  I must be the color of a fire engine. So much heat races through me at his touch. At the casual sense of his body against mine. At how unbelievably good he feels. Perfect is such an anemic word to describe how it feels to be in his arms, and yet it's as close as I'm going to get using my mouth to explain this feeling.

  “Are you turned on?” he asks.

  “What? No!” I lie.

  “Your face is really flushed. And you're breathing hard. Like yesterday, in the supply room.” His grin makes it clear he’s enjoying every second of this.

  “It's an allergic reaction to your belt buckle. Maybe it's nickel?”

  “My belt buckle misses you.” He nudges with his hips.

  “That is not a belt buckle!”

  “And you're not having an allergic reaction to anything except your own stubbornness.”

  “Ah!” Philippe says, one hand on each of our shoulders. “I love the passion between you! The tension in your steps! Your hips are so wanting!”

  “So is my fist,” I mumble.

  Parker's eyebrow arches. “Kinky.”

  I punch him.

  But before my knuckles connect with his washboard abs, he catches my hand.

  And puts it on his shoulder.

  “Your propensity for violence is troubling, Persephone.”

  “So are your reflexes.”

  “You never minded them in bed.”

  I swallow my tongue.

  It doesn't taste nearly as good as his.

  Damn it.

  I'm in his arms and here we go again.

  Not again as in dancing. We've never, not even once, danced together.

  Again, though–again. Yet again I find myself in his arms. I find who I am when he touches me. I don't have to seek an identity. Or dig under layers of other people's expectations to find the core of who I am. When I'm with Parker, I know.

  I know instantly.

  I know who I am.

  It's more than that, even. I am who I am when I'm with him. His gaze, his breath, his smile, his attention, all seem to change the lens of the world so it gives me clarity. I've never met anyone else who tethers me to the truest version of myself and tugs gently on that line, giving me just enough room to breathe.

  Being near him is oxygen.

  Being beside him is power.

  Being with him–oh, how we moved mountains together. We explored universes without ever leaving our bed.

  And he explored me, in full, as if I were an uncharted land waiting patiently to be discovered.

  Once you've been loved so thoroughly and centered so swiftly by another soul, how do you live without that?

  The last five years have been a sad experiment for me.

  One with no acceptable outcome.

  Parker's hand presses my rib line, one of his thumbs in the divot where my spine rests between two thick l
ines of muscle. My nose brushes against his lapel. He's still wearing his suit jacket, the light wool infused with old cologne, woodsmoke, and the scent of a man who once took his time letting me learn how to be me, wholly me, in his orbit.

  While he revolved around me in return.

  We're twinned by circumstance, by gravity, by some unnamed force that makes me breathe him in. His charged air is a nutrient I'm so deficient in that now–as I take him in freely, his foot moving surely, his thigh brushing mine, his belly beckoning–I see how much I need him.

  How weak I am.

  Giving in to what he's told me would be so easy.

  Dropping over the edge of the precipice of his truth would be the surrender I need.

  “I'm sure there's a coat closet here,” he says into my ear. Teeth nip at my lobe, making me shiver.

  “I'm not having a quickie with you in a coat closet at a dance studio, Parker.” Then again, maybe I could get my video here? Hmmm. Warmth floods my entire body at the thought.

  “How about a longie?”

  I glare at him.

  He's relentless. “Then where, Persephone? Name your location.”

  Someplace with a video camera, I almost blurt out, but don't.

  Because I don't really want that.

  I want the impossible.

  I want the last five years back. I want them all with Parker.

  I want to reverse time.

  Before I can answer, Fiona lets out a surprised grunt, then a sound of alarm that crescendos as Dancy melts into a puddle at her feet, right in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Dancy!” Mallory gasps as Philippe, Will, and Fiona all flock to his side, Mal reaching for her phone, ever the pragmatist. I can see her press 9-1-1 as Parker jumps to Will's side.

  “I'm–I'm fine,” Dancy gasps before his eyes roll up and he collapses on Will's arm and the tops of both his feet, pinning him in place on the gleaming ballroom floor.

  “WHERE’S YOUR AED?” Fletch shouts, looking at Philippe and rushing to Dancy’s side.

  “DANCY!” Philippe shouts, leaping across the floor to a large cabinet, pulling out a portable defibrillator machine. Mallory runs to help him, ashen but in control, the two rushing back.

  I stand and watch, frozen.

  Parker dips his ear down and listens. “He's not breathing.”

  Will holds Dancy's wrist, then checks for a pulse at the neck as Fletch rolls something to put under his head. He lets out an expletive and gives Parker a wrenching look.

  “NO!” Mallory's seen it, too, and drops to the floor. “He has a heart condition!”

  “I know,” Philippe says, moving like a high-speed robot to get the defib machine out and ready. Fletch grabs the device from him as Philippe calls out, “He was just telling me he's having a pacemaker installed next week, so this should be safe.”

  “I'm a paramedic,” Fletch grunts. The difference between a terrified bystander and a trained medical professional is astounding. Fletch is not tentative. His movements have an economy of energy, each designed for maximum efficiency. Time is of the essence, and as I hold my breath, heart pounding in my chest and eyes on the not-breathing Dancy, a running mantra takes over my mind.

  Don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die.

  Sirens start in the distance, but too distant. How long has Dancy gone without a breath? Every second is too long.

  The doors to the studio burst open, and in runs Saoirse Cannon of all people, wearing a camera-ready red sheath dress, white tennis shoes over her pantyhosed feet.

  She's speaking into her phone and giving a blow-by-blow description of everything about the scene.

  Scratch that.

  Everything about Parker.

  Parker rips open Dancy's shirt. “No excessive chest hair,” he says to Fletch, who nods and pushes a button on the small AED.

  What does chest hair have to do with this?

  “You're sure there's no pacemaker?” Fletch says loudly as Parker uses a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe down Dancy's sweaty chest.

  “Definitely,” Philippe snaps. “I wish he'd gotten it sooner, the stupid, stubborn old–” His voice breaks as Fletch ignores him, Parker moving the sides of Dancy's shirt aside to expose space on his chest. Carefully, Fletch places one sticker from the machine just under the collarbone and one just below the heart.

  “Back!” Fletch says, Parker's hands going up in the air, Fletch sliding on his knees away from Dancy as he presses a button.

  “What's happening?” Fiona asks as the sirens get so loud, it's clear the ambulance has arrived in the parking lot.

  Dancy starts to cough, and Fletch answers her but remains completely focused on his patient. “The machine is analyzing whether to shock his heart.”

  A flurry of activity and scuffling behind me makes our group look up as an onslaught of uniformed paramedics rushes in, recognizing Fletch and coming to a near-comical halt.

  Dancy makes a groaning sound, rolling to his left, enough to make tears spring to my eyes.

  “He's breathing,” Mal chokes out. Fletch ignores us all and begins speaking in medical terms to the guys who are here to take over, the AED set aside as they confer.

  Fiona just blinks, over and over, watching Fletch without a word.

  Off to the side, Philippe is on the phone, his hands shaking, lithe body so tense, it looks like he would snap in half if you blew on him. Will and Parker stand up and walk over to me, where I just gape at them both.

  Slowly, with a long breath in followed by a huge exhale, Mallory looks at Parker, her eyes increasingly weird, like she's watching something distasteful unfold before her eyes.

  “What?” I finally choke, creeped out by her expression.

  “Why do people always nearly die around Parker?” she asks.

  A bright light blinds us, the click clack of camera crews setting up a tripod making us turn. A flash of red fills my field of vision, and then we hear:

  “Texas Congressman Parker Campbell just assisted in saving the life of...”

  “Oh, God,” Parker groans as Saoirse positions herself in front of him, arm extended as she's about to ask him for a comment. He's sharp, though, and knows he can't escape. She's fine-crafted a situation that leaves him the loser if he does.

  But no one actually wins in this situation.

  Other than Saoirse.

  “–it's Chris Fletcher who is the real hero here,” Parker says, pointing to Fletch, whose look of grumbling astonishment makes him look even more like a bear than usual. “Chris is the one who stepped in and saved Mr. Dancy.”

  “It's just Dancy!” Dancy weakly gasps from the gurney as he's taken away.

  Mallory laughs with relief, then claps her hands over her mouth, mortified by what she thinks is impropriety.

  Just a few minutes ago, Parker's “belt buckle” was stroking my belly, and now Saoirse is stroking his ego, ignoring his attempts to divert attention. She’s connecting this newsworthy bit to the last and back to Congressman O'Rollins, then ending with the two new bills he's co-sponsoring.

  Instead of looking weary, Parker goes grave, serious and concerned, adding a comment about the importance of AED devices and how public health initiatives and education can save lives.

  It's perfect synchronicity.

  Saoirse thinks so, too, but not in matters of policy, her hand going to his elbow as the camera snaps off, full attention on Parker as a man.

  Not Parker as a news subject.

  “You're just a one-man lifesaving show, aren't you, Parker Campbell?” she asks rhetorically, her Texas drawl coming out in a sultry flirtation that makes me want to choke her to death with an oversized homecoming mum.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks flatly. “You rushed in the building like you were stalking me.”

  “Stalk? What a strange word to use. I'm a journalist. We report the news.”

  “You report on Parker like you're a bounty hunter on a reality television
show,” I crack before I can stop myself.

  She ignores me and returns her attention to her target. “You weren't complaining when I took you to that reception and hooked you up with the envoy you needed for–”

  The rest of her words become Silly String in my mind, because she said everything I needed to hear with the words I took you to that reception.

  They're still socializing.

  Together.

  Every shred of sympathy I had for Parker, every wavering bit of my mind that wondered whether maybe–just maybe–I've been wrong all these years, disintegrates.

  Poof!

  Before I realize it, I'm stomping out of the ballroom, away from the chaos of women comforting each other, of Philippe gathering Dancy's coat and what appears to be a cane, of Mallory and Fi calling out for me. Fletch looks up as I leave, and I swear he's the only person with a face that isn't judging me. A throng of camera people blocks the path behind me as I leave, crowding around Parker, Will, and Fletch, the sound like the past whooshing forward.

  I need a cigarette.

  I need a body-sized nicotine patch.

  I need a break.

  14

  I would like to take you out to dinner, the text from Parker says, the cursor for my reply winking at me like it's hitting on me, too. I just got a text from Mallory that Dancy is fine, recovering at a Boston hospital, and I'm glaring at my nemesis.

  No. Not Parker.

  Worse.

  I'm in my cottage behind the big house, staring at a pack of Marlboros, willing myself not to touch them.

  Yes, real cigarettes. My generation is all about the vaping, but there's something about a good old-fashioned cancer stick shoved between your tight, angry lips that a vape pen just can't replicate.

  Parker's text couldn't come at a worse time.

  I would like world peace and to eat 5000 calories a day and not gain weight, I reply, grasping the ciggies, flipping the hardpack's lid up. The tangy scent of slow, painful death triggers all my cravings.