by Sally Thorne
“Okay. I agree. If you get the promotion, I promise to resign. You’ve got your horny eyes on again,” Joshua adds, turning away and sitting down. He unlocks his drawer and takes out his planner, busily sorting through the pages.
“Mentally strangling me again?”
He is making a mark with his pencil, a straight single tally, when he notices me.
“What are you smirking about?”
I think he makes a mark in his planner when we argue.
“I’D BETTER GET to bed.” I’m talking to my parents. I’m also gently cleaning the two-dollar eBay Smurf I got a few weeks back with a baby’s toothbrush. Law & Order is on in the background and they are currently pursuing a false lead. I’ve got a white clay mask on my face and my toenail polish is drying.
“All right, Smurfette,” my parents chime like a two-headed monster. They haven’t worked out they don’t have to sit cheek to cheek to fit onto the video-chat screen. Or maybe they have, but they like it too much.
Dad is dangerously suntanned, bar the white outline of his sunglasses. It’s a sort of reverse-raccoon effect. He’s a big laugher and a big talker, so I get a lot of glimpses of the tooth he chipped while eating a rack of ribs. He’s wearing a sweatshirt he’s had since I was a kid and it makes me ridiculously homesick.
My mom never looks properly at the camera. She gets distracted by the tiny preview window where she can see her own face on screen. I think she analyzes her wrinkles. It gives our chats a disconnected quality and makes me miss her more.
Her fair skin can’t cope with the outdoors, and where Dad has tanned, she has freckled. We have the same coloring, so I know what will happen if I give up the sunscreen. They dapple every square inch of her face and arms. She even has freckles on her eyelids. With her bright blue eyes and black hair, tied up in its usual knot on top of her head, she always gets a second glance wherever she goes. Dad is enslaved by her beauty. I know for a fact, because he was telling her roughly ten minutes ago.
“Now, don’t worry about a thing. You’re the most determined person there, I’m sure of it. You wanted to work for a publisher, and you did it. And you know what? Whatever happens, you’re always the boss of Sky Diamond Strawberries.” Dad’s been explaining at great length all the reasons why I should get the promotion.
“Aw, Dad.” I laugh to cover the leftover bubble of emotion I’ve been feeling since the blog meltdown in front of Joshua. “My first act as CEO is to order you both to bed for an early night. Good luck with Lucy Forty-two, Mom.”
I caught up with the last ten blog entries while I ate dinner. My mom has a clear, factual style of writing. I think she would have been working somewhere major one day if she hadn’t quit. Annie Hutton, investigative journalist. Instead, she spends her days digging up rotting plants, packing crates for delivery, and Frankensteining hybrid varieties of strawberries. To me, the fact she gave up her dream job for a man is a tragedy, no matter how wonderful my dad is, or the fact that I’m sitting here now as a result.
“I hope they don’t turn out like Lucy Forty-one. I’ve never seen anything like it. They looked normal from the outside, but completely hollow on the inside. Weren’t they, Nigel?”
“They were like fruit balloons.”
“The interview will go fine, honey. They’ll know within five minutes that you live and breathe the publishing industry. I still remember you coming home after that field trip. It was like you’d fallen in love.” Mom’s eyes are full of memories. “I know how you felt. I remember when I first stepped into the printing room of a newspaper. The smell of that ink was like a drug.”
“Are you still having trouble with Jeremy at work?” Dad knows Joshua’s actual name by now. He just chooses to not use it.
“Joshua. And yes. He still hates me.” I take a fist of cashews and begin eating them a little aggressively.
Dad is flatteringly mystified. “Impossible. Who could?”
“Who even could,” Mom echoes, reaching up to finger the skin by her eye. “She’s little and cute. No one hates little cute people.” Dad seamlessly agrees with her and they begin talking as though I’m not even here.
“She’s the sweetest girl in the world. Julian’s clearly got some sort of inferiority complex. Or he’s one of those sexists. He wants to bring everyone else down to make himself feel better. Napoleon complex. Hitler complex. Something’s wrong with him.” He’s ticking them off on his fingers.
“All of the above. Dad, put the Post-it note over the screen so she can’t see herself. She’s not looking at me properly.”
“Maybe he’s hopelessly in love with her,” Mom offers optimistically as she looks properly into the camera for the first time. My stomach drops through the floor. I catch a glimpse of my own face; I am a clay statuette of frozen horror and surprise.
Dad scoffs all over the place. “Ridiculous way of showing it, don’t you think? He’s made that place a misery for her. I tell you, if I met him, he’d have to do some groveling. You hear that, Luce? Tell him to shape up or your dad’s gonna get on a plane and have a few words with him.”
The image of them face-to-face is weird. “I wouldn’t bother, Dad.”
It’s the segue Mom needs. “Speaking of planes, we could put some money in your account so you could book a flight to visit us? We haven’t seen you in so long. It’s been a long time, Lucy.”
“It’s not the money, it’s getting the time,” I try to say, but they both begin talking over me at once, in an unintelligible combination of begging, pleading, and arguing.
“I’ll come as soon as I can get some time, but it might not be for a while. If I get the promotion I’ll be pretty busy. If I don’t . . .” I study the keyboard.
“Yes?” Dad is sharp.
“I’ll have to get another job,” I admit. I look up.
“Of course you would. You would never work for that jackass Justin. “It would be good to have her home though,” Dad tells Mom. “The books are not adding up. We need some extra brainpower.”
I can see Mom is still fretting about my job situation. She’s a penny pincher, and she’s been living on a farm long enough that in her imagination the city is a heinously expensive, bustling metropolis. She’s not far off. I make a good wage, but after the bank sucks my rent payment out, I’m stretched pretty tight. The thought of getting a roommate fills me with dread.
“How will she . . .”
Dad shushes her and waves his hands to dispel the mere thought of failure like a puff of smoke. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be Johnnie unemployed and sleeping under a bridge, not her.”
“That will never happen to her,” Mom begins, alarmed.
“Have you made up with that friend you used to work with? Valerie, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t ask her, it upsets her,” Mom scolds. Dad raises his hands in surrender and looks at the ceiling.
It’s true; it does upset me, but I keep my tone even. “After the merger, I managed to meet her for a coffee, to explain myself, but she lost her job and I didn’t. She couldn’t forgive me. She said a true friend would have given her warning.”
“But you didn’t know,” Dad begins. I nod. It’s true. But what I’ve been grappling with ever since is, should I have somehow tried to find out for her?
“Her circle of friends were starting to become my friends . . . and now here I am. Square one again.” A sad, lonely loser.
“There are other people at work to be friends with, surely,” Mom says.
“No one wants to be friends with me. They think I’ll tell their secrets to the boss. Can we change the subject? I talked to a guy this week.” I regret it immediately.
“Oooh,” they intone together. “Oooh.” There is an exchanged glance.
“Is he nice?”
It’s always their first question. “Oh, yes. Very nice.”
“What’s his name?”
“Danny. He’s in the design section at work. We haven’t gone out or anything, but . . .”
“H
ow wonderful!” Mom says at the same time that Dad exclaims, “About time!”
He puts his thumb over the microphone and they begin to buzz to each other, a hornet swarm of speculation.
“Like I said, we haven’t gone on a date. I don’t know exactly if he wants to.” I think of Danny, the sideways look he gave me, mouth curling. He does.
Dad speaks so loudly the microphone gets fuzzy sometimes. “You should ask him. It’s got to beat sitting in the office for ten hours a day slinging mud at James. Get out and live a little. Get your red party dress on. I want to hear you have by the time we Skype next.”
“Are you allowed to date colleagues?” Mom asks, and Dad frowns at her. Negative concepts and worst-case scenarios do not interest him. However, she does raise a good point.
“It isn’t allowed, but he’s leaving. He’s going to freelance.”
“A nice boy,” Mom says to Dad. “I’ve got a good feeling.”
“I really should go to bed,” I remind them. I yawn and my clay face mask cracks.
“Night, night, sweetie,” they chime. I can hear Mom say sadly “Why won’t she come home—” as Dad clicks the End button.
The truth? They both treat me so much like a visiting celebrity, a complete and utter success. Their bragging to their friends is frankly ridiculous. When I go home, I feel like a fraud.
As I rinse my face, I try to ignore my Bad Daughter Guilt by deciding on the items I would take if I have to live under a bridge. Sleeping bag, knife, umbrella, a yoga mat. I can sleep on it AND do yoga to keep myself nimble. I could get all of my rare Smurfs into a fishing tackle box.
I have the copy of Joshua’s desk planner on the end of my bed. Time to do a little Nancy Drewing. It’s disturbing that a piece of Joshua Templeman has invaded my bedroom. My brain stage-whispers Imagine! I guillotine the thought.
I study the copy. A tally—I think those are the arguments. I make a note of this on the margin. Six arguments on this particular day. Sounds about right. The little slashes I have no idea about. But the X’s? I think of Valentine’s cards and kisses. None of those are going on in our office. This has got to be his HR record.
I fold up my laptop and put it away, then brush my teeth and get into bed.
Joshua’s jibe about my work clothes—my “weird little retro costumes”—has prompted me to find the short black dress from the back of my wardrobe to wear tomorrow. It’s the opposite of a gray ankle-length shift dress. It makes my waist look little and my ass look amazing. Thumbelina meets Jessica Rabbit. He thinks he’s seen small clothes? He ain’t seen nothing.
Little runts like me usually come across as cute rather than powerful, so I’m pulling out all the stops. The fishnet tights are so fine they feel like soft grit. My red heels that boost me up to a towering five-feet-five inches.
There’s not going to be a single mention of strawberries tomorrow. Joshua Templeman is going to spray his coffee out his nose when I walk in. I don’t know why I want him to—but I do.
What a confusing thought to fall asleep with.
Chapter 5
Falling asleep with his name in my head is probably the reason for my dream. It’s the middle of the night, I’m lying on my stomach and I press my cheek into my pillow. He’s braced over me, pressed against my back, warm as sunlight. His voice is a hot whisper, right in my ear as he twists his hips to grind himself against my butt.
I’m going to work you so fucking hard. So. Fucking. Hard.
I get a full impression of his heaviness and size. I try to push back against him again to feel it again, but he mutters my name like a reprimand and crawls up higher, his knees straddling my hips. His fingertips smooth along the sides of my breasts. His exhale steams against my neck. I can’t get a decent lungful of air. He’s too heavy and I’m too turned on. Sensitive, forgotten parts of me blaze to life. I scratch my fingertips against the sheets until they burn with friction.
The realization that I’m having a dirty dream about Joshua Templeman suddenly jars me and I teeter on the edge of waking, but I keep my eyes shut. I need to see where my mind takes this. After a few minutes, I sink back in.
I’ll do anything you want, Lucinda. But you’ll have to ask.
His tone is that lazy one he sometimes uses when he looks at me with that certain expression. It’s like he’s seen me through a hole in a wall and knows what I look like, down to my skin.
I twist my head, and see his wrist braced by my head, the sleeve of a business shirt loose with no cuff link. I can see an inch of wrist; hair, veins, and tendons. The hand bunches into a fist and the mere thought of him being overcome makes me clench inside.
I can’t see his face. Even though this may destroy everything, I roll over onto my back, the blankets and sheets beginning to twist me up. I’m tangled up in his arms and legs. I realize I’m turned on, and the realization that I am probably wet hits me as I look into his brilliant navy eyes. I let out a theatrical gasp of horror. A husky laugh is his reply.
I’m afraid so. He doesn’t look sorry.
There’s so much delicious weight, pressing me down. Hips and hands. I move against Dream-Joshua sinuously, feeling him bite back a groan, and I realize something shocking.
You want me desperately.
The words echo out of my mouth, true and undeniable. A kiss on the pulse in my jaw confirms what I already know. It’s stronger than attraction; darker than wanting. It’s a restlessness between us that has never had a true outlet, until now. The cream sheets are blazing hot against my skin.
You’re tied up in fucking knots over me. I feel hands sliding along my body, weighing curves, buttons popping and seams unfurling. I’m being peeled, inspected. Teeth bite, and I’m being eaten. I have never had anyone burn for me like this. I’m shamefully turned on and even though I’m on my back, the look in his eyes confirms it’s me who is winning this game. I try to tug him down to kiss me, but he evades and teases.
You’ve known all along, he tells me and his blazing smile tips me over the edge. I tremble awake. I jolt my hand away from the seam of my damp pajamas, my face burning red in the darkness. I can’t decide what to do. Finish the job, or take a cold shower? In the end, all I do is lie there.
The hanging shape of my black dress at the foot of my bed is menacing and I stare at it until my breathing slows. I look at my digital clock. I have four hours to repress this memory.
IT’S SEVEN THIRTY A.M. on a Cream Shirt Day. The reflection in the elevator doors confirms my trench coat is longer than my tiny dress, so I look like a high-class call girl, en route to a hotel penthouse with only lingerie on underneath.
I had to get the bus today. I could barely climb from the curb onto the first step without showing my underwear, and as the doors closed behind me, I knew this dress was a catastrophic lapse in judgment. The enthusiastic set of honks from a passing truck as I teetered up the sidewalk to B&G confirmed it. If Target were open this early, I’d duck in and buy some pants.
I can get through this. I will need to remain seated for the entire day. The elevator doors open and of course Joshua is at his desk. Why does he always have to be at work so flippin’ early? Does he go home? Does he sleep in a morgue drawer in the boiler room? I suppose he could ask the same of me.
I was hoping I’d have a minute or two alone here in the office to get settled in for a long day of remaining seated. But there he is. I hide myself behind the coat rack and pretend to rifle through my handbag to buy myself some time.
If I focus on the dress as my main issue, I can ignore the flashbacks to last night’s dream. He lifts his eyes from his planner, pencil in hand. He stares at me until I begin to untie the belt on my trench coat, but I can’t continue. The blue of his eyes is even more vivid than in my dream. He’s looking at me like he’s busy reading my mind.
“It’s cold in here, no?”
Mouth pursing into a kiss of irritation, he waves his hand in circles as if to say Get on with it. Fortifying myself with a deep breath, I take
off the coat and hang it on my special padded hanger. I feel the friction of the tiny fishnet diamonds between my thighs as I walk toward our desks. I’m pretty much wearing a swimsuit.
I watch his eyes drop to his planner, dark lashes making a half-moon shadow on his cheeks. He looks young, until he looks up and his eyes are a man’s, speculative and hard. My ankle wobbles.
“Wowsers,” he drawls, and I watch his pencil make some kind of mark. “Got a hot date, Shortcake?”
“Yes,” I lie automatically and he puts the pencil behind his ear, cynical.
“Do tell.”
I try to perch my butt nonchalantly on the edge of my desk. The glass is cold against the backs of my thighs. It’s a dreadful mistake but I can’t stand back up now, I’ll look like an idiot. We both stare at my legs.
I look down at my bright red heels and I can see faintly up my own dress, the tiles are polished so bright. I let my hair fall across my eye. If I focus on this stupid dress, I can forget how my brain wants him to lick me, bite me, undress me.
“What’s up?” For once his voice sounds normal. “What’s happened?”
I pick vaguely at an irregular diamond on my thigh. The dream is surely written all over my face. My cheeks are getting warm. He’s wearing the cream shirt, soft and silky as the sheets in my dream. My subconscious is a deviant. I try to make eye contact but chicken out and manage to saunter around to my chair. I wish I could saunter out of here, all the way home.
“Hey.” He says it more sharply. “What’s up? Tell me.”
“I had a . . . dream.” I say it like someone might say, Grandma’s dead. I sit down in my chair, pressing my knees together until the bones grind.
“Describe this dream.” He has the pencil in his hand again and I am like a terrier watching the motion of a knife and fork. We start playing Word Tennis. Whoever can’t think of a reply first loses.
“Your face has gone all red. All the way down your neck.”