by Megan Hart
And I envied him.
Meredith had told me I went for what I wanted. That I had to answer to nobody and could do whatever I liked. In a way, she was right. I mean, I had my job, and my responsibilities as part of Vic and Elaine’s household. I had bills and debts. But I didn’t have convictions, not really. Nobody would ever come to me when they were in trouble. Hell, I was twenty-six and still living in a basement, not because I couldn’t get out and live on my own but because staying there was easier than moving out.
Not exactly a picture of someone wild.
When I got to work, Meredith was convincing people to tell stories again. I knew it the second I walked in the front door and saw her sitting at her favorite table with her head tipped back in laughter. I knew most of the others by face, not necessarily by name, but everyone looked as if they were having a grand old time.
She waved at me. “There’s our Tesla!”
I lifted a mittened hand in response to the raised coffee cups. Meredith’s smile made the cold outside seem faraway, but I didn’t stop at her table. She was busy talking; I had to get busy working.
“What is it about her, anyway?” Darek said when I rounded the counter.
I pretended not to know what he meant. “Who? Meredith?”
“Yeah. Queen Meredith, sitting over there with her…what do you call them?”
“Subjects?” I offered, shrugging out of my coat and hanging it on the rack in the hall leading to the storage room.
Darek shook his head. “Minions.”
“That makes her sound like some sort of evil overlord.”
“Yeah. What is it about her?”
I paused, thinking. “I don’t know. She’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes you don’t, Darek.”
He made a noise instead of an answer. I looked across the room at Meredith, whose laughter had trilled to catch my attention. She ran perfectly manicured fingers through her honey-blond hair and it settled just right.
Again, envy.
With the late afternoon sun slanting through the glass, she was so beautiful it made my heart hurt. Not just pretty. Not just sexy, though she was surely that with that mouth, those eyes, that laugh. She was like something set up high on a shelf, made to be admired and adored. Coveted, but never gained.
I must’ve sighed, because Darek gave me a sympathetic look. “You’re into her.”
I slanted a glance his way but wouldn’t gaze at him full-on. “Look at her.”
“Oh, I am.” He put his hands on his hips. “She wants people to look at her.”
“Who doesn’t?” I tied the strings of my green apron tight around my waist and took a few minutes to run my fingers through my hair to stand it on end after it had been flattened by my knit cap. “I mean, don’t we all want people to notice us?”
“I guess so.”
I stared at her, then at him. “Don’t you like her?”
“I like her just fine.” He grinned. “Married ladies are my specialty. But you saw her first.”
I laughed. Darek was a lot of talk. In all the time we’d worked together I hadn’t known him to have a single fling with a married lady. “We’re just friends. She’s not…you know.”
“And you are?”
I shrugged and checked over the desserts in the case, noting which would need to be pulled later if they didn’t sell. “Sometimes. Once in a while. Discriminately.”
“How many?”
I turned. “What?”
Darek appeared way too intrigued. “How many girls?”
“This place,” I told him with just the barest sourness in my tone, “has really become, like, this hotbed of prurience.”
“Whose fault is that?” Darek asked, with a lift of his chin toward Meredith’s table.
“Pffft. You can’t blame her for everything. You’re the one grilling me on my sex life! I already told Meredith—”
“Yeah?” Again, he seemed too interested, all lolling tongue and wide eyes.
I put one fist to my mouth, the other at my cheek, and made a cranking motion. “Roll up your tongue. It wasn’t about girl-girl action.”
Darek appeared only faintly disappointed before perking up again. “Then what was it about?”
I wasn’t going to tell him about the Murphys. Dredging up that past stuff had already wreaked a bit of havoc on my brain. “None of your business. God, do I grill you about your sex life?”
“You could,” he said. “So…I’m just curious, Tesla, that’s all.”
“About my lesbian history?” I had to laugh at him, so typical male. “I had one serious girlfriend. We dated for about four months before she dumped me for a guitar player in a folk rock band who wore wife-beaters all year round and had a tattoo of the feminine symbol on her twat.”
His look said it all.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I thought, too.”
Darek made a face. “That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Look,” I said, suddenly disgruntled. “What did you think I had? Some long and lurid inventory of lesbian dalliances I’d trot out for you like a laundry list, complete with descriptions? A ‘Desperate But Not Serious’ sort of thing going on? Who with and how many times?”
He totally failed on the Adam Ant reference. “Huh?”
I sighed. “Never mind.”
“Sorry.” Darek frowned. “I just, you know. Thought maybe it was more exciting than that.”
I sighed again, this time in exasperation. “Why?”
“Because you just seem like you’ve had an exciting life, Tesla, that’s all. Jesus. I’m sorry!”
Wild child. I touched my throat, felt the pendant in the shape of a rainbow with a star on the end. Today I wore a black shirt with a picture of the cover of the Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers on the front—some dude’s crotch. Black leggings with rainbow leg warmers. Black ballet flats. I had glitter in my hair, but so what? Unconventional, maybe, but not that exciting.
“Well,” I said, “I’m really not.”
Darek looked over the front counter to the group of laughing customers. “Maybe you should tell her that.”
“Tell her what?” I frowned and wished for someone to come and order something, or for Joy to pop out of the back to yell at us. Anything to keep this conversation from continuing. “Oh, that. Well. It’s just a crush. It’s not like I haven’t had them before. They go away, Darek.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve never had a crush?” I rolled my eyes. “Please. I see how you look at that girl who comes in here, the one with the red hair.”
“Yeah, she’s hot. But it’s not a crush.”
“Whatever.” I waved a hand. “You gonna tell her you like her? Ask her out, maybe?”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“So you get it,” I told him. “It’s better just to crush in silence.”
He didn’t look happy about that, but he didn’t argue with me, either. Then finally one of Meredith’s admirers broke off from the group long enough to come up and order a slice of pie and another latte, so both of us had something to do and we didn’t have to talk anymore.
The rush helped, too, leaving both of us so busy we didn’t have time for deep and soul-searching conversations about the sad state of our love lives. By the time we’d gone through that, I figured Meredith would’ve left, but when I took a break to make the rounds of the shop, clearing away crumpled napkins and left-behind mugs, she was still sitting in her spot.
The sun had moved, and she was alone. She was still beautiful. Something pensive in her face as she tapped away at her keyboard made me pause. She’d pushed her hair behind her ears, in which she wore simple and elegant pearls I knew had to be real despite the size. Not Jangle Bangles, either. She might sell that stuff, but she didn’t wear it. She had faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but they didn’t take anything away from her beauty.
She caught me staring. “Hey.”
“Oh. Hey. You’re still her
e. Can’t get enough of the caramel crunch, huh?” I gestured toward the row of self-serve carafes.
“I’m fully caffeinated.” She showed me her empty mug. “But I got my money’s worth today, I’ll tell you that.”
“Joy’s going to charge you rent,” I said with a glance over my shoulder to the counter. Joy was serving Eric, actually giving him a bit of a flirtatious smile. “Jeez, that guy can make even Joy tingly.”
Meredith closed her laptop. “It’s all in the smile. I think he makes everyone a little tingly.”
“Yeah,” I said fondly, watching Eric take his plate and mug to his favorite table and lay out his paper.
“You missed some good stories today.” Meredith leaned back in her seat. “The things people get up to, you’d never believe it.”
“I’m sure I would. Want me to take that for you?” I pointed to her empty mug and the plate beside it. “How was the apple crumb?”
“Tesla,” she murmured.
I stopped with my hand halfway to the table, caught like the Tin Man with his ax up. “Hmm?”
“We should do something.”
I forced myself to take the dishes, though they rattled when I lifted them. “Like what?”
“Something fun. Out of this place.” She twitched her fingers in Joy’s direction. “Without your boss hovering over us.”
“Sure. That sounds great.” I picked up her napkin, too, faintly imprinted with her lipstick. It crumpled in my fingers. I didn’t want to throw it away.
“What time do you get off tomorrow?”
“I work early, so three.”
“How about we grab some dinner or something? Maybe hit a club?” She paused. “It’s a Friday night. You don’t have a date or anything, do you?”
“Me? Oh. No.” I laughed.
“Good,” Meredith said, as though everything had been settled. “You do now.”
Chapter 8
“You look pretty.” Simone watched me carefully as I applied eyeliner and shadow. “Can I have some?”
“You want some pretty?” I turned from the mirror to look at the kid. With her blond hair and big blue eyes, there was no question who she belonged to: Elaine all the way. But she had something of her dad in the set of her mouth when she wanted something. I held up the square box of eye shadows in one hand, my angled brush in the other. “Green or blue?”
“I like the sparkly.”
I eyed the tube of liquid glitter eyeliner. “That might be a little too much for you, kiddo. It’s messy and…”
Her baby brother could really put on the waterworks, but Simone wasn’t much of a tantrum thrower. She could throw a mean pout, though, and now that rosebud mouth turned down with such skill there was no way I could deny her. I sighed. “Your mama might be mad at me.”
More likely it would be her daddy who gave me the lecture about tarting up his four-year-old, but Vic wasn’t any better at denying Simone when she wanted something. She sighed, tiny shoulders shrugging. The pout stayed put.
“Fine. C’mere.” I put down the shadows and pulled out the glitter liner. “But you have to promise, promise, promise me you’ll take a shower later and without complaining, you hear me? Because it’s really important you wash off all your makeup before you go to sleep, anyway.”
“So you don’t get zits,” Simone said, with the sort of happy grin a kid gets when she’s having her way.
“Yep. No zits.” At twenty-six I thought I should’ve grown out of zits, but I usually had a sweet monthly reminder that that wasn’t the case. “Sit up here.”
She hopped up on the edge of my sink, her little feet banging against the cabinet beneath until I gave her a stern look and she stopped. I told her to close her eyes, then outlined the upper lids with the glitter liner. It was just cheap stuff, marketed to tweens, using the face of some ditzy pop idol, but as with all things glittery and sparkly, I loved it. So did Simone. She hummed happily as I painted a design on her cheek using a different color of liquid liner—surely her dad couldn’t complain about that, right? It was like face-painting at a carnival.
“There. What do you think?”
She twisted to peer in the mirror, brow furrowed. She looked more like her dad when she did that. Critical. Then she grinned. “I like the flower!”
“Good. Now,” I said, lifting her down and patting her on the rear, “scram, kid, I gotta get ready.”
“You’re going on a date,” Simone crooned in a sing-song voice. “Right? That’s what Daddy told Mama.”
“Oh, did he?” It was my turn to frown then. Just a little. I glanced at myself in the mirror.
“Yep.” In the glass, Simone’s reflection shrugged, barely interested.
“Well…sure, I’m going on a date.”
“Are you gonna kiss him?”
I turned to look at her. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“TV,” Simone said blithely.
“You should read more,” I muttered, which was ridiculous, since the kid wasn’t even in preschool. “Now go on. Get out of here. I’m busy, kid.”
She did reluctantly, my date preparations apparently more interesting even than the television. From upstairs I heard the pounding of small feet and the cries of welcome—Vic was home. I’d probably have to face him, too, before I went out.
Sure enough, I found them all in the kitchen when I emerged from the basement. Elaine, her belly leading the way as she moved from the pot of mac-n-cheese on the stove to the table, gave me a once-over, but said nothing. Vic, on the other hand, snorted softly and shook his head. But he didn’t say anything, which told me a lot—there were times in the past when he’d have been unable to keep his mouth shut. Marriage had mellowed him.
“Have a good time,” Elaine said as she plopped a spoonful of yellow noodles on Max’s plate. “Be careful.”
I laughed. Just going on this “date” felt like the opposite of careful. “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”
“We’ll leave the light on for you,” Vic said.
“Oooh, you and Tom what’s-his-face from Motel 6.” I paused to squeeze Vic’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Cap said your car will be ready tomorrow.” Vic held up his plate for his own portion of macaroni and gave me a long, steady look. “I can give you a ride to the shop in the morning, if you want.”
It was his way of asking if I planned on coming home. Number one, it wasn’t really his business. Number two, I doubted I’d have a different offer. Three, I had my brother’s car anyway, so I just smiled and winked at him, a response guaranteed to drive Vic batty. Elaine laughed, though. For someone who loved him enough to marry him and have his babies, she surely did like to tease.
It was good for him, to be teased like that. And to be loved.
“Later, gators,” I said, and was out the door before any grubby hands could streak my clothes.
* * *
Meredith had called it a date, and I assumed she’d meant it whimsically. Still, I’d dressed accordingly. My heart beat faster, my palms a little sweaty, and I felt as much anticipation as if it were a date. Maybe more.
We’d agreed to meet at The Slaughtered Lamb because, according to Meredith, they had a shepherd’s pie to die for, and live music. Some Irish band I didn’t know. It was tucked neatly off a side street and not part of the Second Street strip of bars and clubs, so while I’d been there once or twice, it wasn’t a place I hung out in regularly.
Meredith did, apparently, based on the way the guy at the door greeted her and the waitress smiled when she showed us to our table. Meredith settled into her seat and pulled off her leather gloves with the sigh of a woman grateful to be out of the cold, while I thought seriously about leaving my mittens on to disguise the sudden trembling of my fingers.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Meredith said when the waitress had handed us our menus and left. “I love the scarf.”
It wasn’t anything fancy, just a strip of teal silk I’d tied to one side of my throat above the boat neckline of
my peasant blouse. I touched it, though, when she admired it.
“Very fifties French sailor,” she said. “Very Audrey Hepburn.”
That had been the sort of look I was going for, with makeup to match. “Thanks.”
And after that, it was fine.
Most of it was her way. How easy she made it to be with her. She was different here than she was in the Mocha. A little less bright, a little softer, her voice more a murmur, so that I had to lean across the table to catch what she was saying, though I never had any trouble hearing her laughter.
I liked making her laugh.
“See,” she said, when I’d finished describing to her the situation with my brother and his roommate. “You have a great talent for telling stories. I don’t know why you’re so hesitant to join in at the Mocha.”
“I don’t want to share my secrets with strangers. Then they wouldn’t be secrets anymore.”
“Why’s it have to be a secret?” She smiled.
I drew my fork through the mashed potatoes left on my plate. She’d been right about the shepherd’s pie. “I have to face those people every day at work. I don’t want them knowing about my sex life.”
“We don’t only talk about sex. We talk about lots of things.” Meredith had eaten only half her food, and now she pushed her plate away with her fingertips.
I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin and thought of how she’d left the imprint of her lips behind on the one I’d eventually tossed in the trash. “What is it about secrets and stories you like so much, anyway?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked knowing things about people. I guess you could say…I’m a collector.”
“Of what?”
“People,” Meredith said. “Interesting people.”
“How do you do that?” I asked, meaning to sound light, but realizing I was leaning closer again.
“I watch them for a while, see if they look interesting. You can’t always tell at first.”
I nodded. “Of course not.”
“So I talk to them. See if they don’t seem stuck-up. If they’re cool, I get them to tell me about themselves. People like talking about themselves, Tesla.” She paused. Smiled a bit reproachfully. “Most people do, anyway.”