by Piper Lennox
“And you think that’s my fault? I told you, the material was compromised—that’s what happens when you get old inflatables.”
“They aren’t that old.”
“If something was considered ‘new’ when women were still getting the Rachel haircut,” I deadpan, “then yes. They’re old.” I shake my head; we’re getting off-track, which is probably what he wants. “Look, I know the anniversary isn’t just about that one event. You want it to go well because of the new clients we’d gain from it. I totally get it.”
“I’m not taking you off the project altogether, all right?” Only now do I see anything like sympathy cross his face. “You’ll still be there.”
“Being there to help isn’t the same as running it. Which is what you agreed I could do.” I slap down the sheet of paper in my hand. It details the entire order for the Wallmans’ anniversary party. “Listen: mimosa fountain, chocolate fountain, velvet rope partitions.”
Levi pushes out from the desk and starts away, but I follow at a clip, still reading. “Six easels—four large, two medium. Custom wrap sign, already coordinated with the print shop. And foil balloons: ‘To Another 50.’” I look him dead in the eye as he turns. “Check, check, check. I’ve already got it all marked and ready to be loaded on the trucks. Weeks ahead of schedule.”
He almost looks impressed. “You forgot staff.”
“Dylan and Chris.”
“You can’t have two temps and nobody el—”
“And Andres,” I add quickly, before he can finish. At the mention of his name, one of our full-timers looks up from across the warehouse. Levi waves him off.
“There’s also the runner,” he says.
“Runner?” I look at my list. “What runner?”
“The maroon runner the Wallmans added to the order, last week. I put a memo in the file.”
I look at his desk behind us, where the folder for the anniversary still sits. As many times as I’ve combed through it, including this morning, I haven’t once seen any memo.
Not that I can say this, of course. If I did overlook it, he’d use that as the last nail in my promotion’s coffin.
“But the Acre has runners.”
“Not in maroon, according to Uncle Tim.” He picks up a clipboard from a nearby shelf and flips through it. “You get the oil changed in your van today?”
“Yes,” I answer, jaw tight. “Synthetic. I put the receipt in the box.”
Chill, I order myself. I can’t let Levi see he’s getting to me. If I want to take over the warehouse, I have to prove I can keep my cool, not just run things.
“Fine, a runner. Maroon.” I flip the pen down from behind my ear, crouch on the concrete floor, and jot “one motherfucking maroon runner” on the sheet. “I’ll get that pulled and marked.”
“We don’t have one. Gotta rush order it.”
I drag my eyes to his. He’s trying to make me screw up, so he’ll have a valid excuse for backing out of our deal.
Well. He wants to play dirty, I’ll step up the defense.
“No problem.” I keep eye contact as I stand, slipping the pen back behind my ear. “I’ll go put it in, right now.”
He watches me back away. “Don’t you need the measurements?”
I’m by his desk now, so I scoop up the folder and jog for the door before he can stop me. “Got ’em. I mean, you said you put the memo in here. Right?”
Levi just stares. My hand’s already turning the knob. Andres opens a bay door, the echo spitting the air between us like thunder.
I’m calling his bluff. And he knows it.
“Four by twenty,” he calls, when the warehouse quiets again. “Just in case you can’t find the memo.”
I think of the day he hired me. Mom had just sold the rancher; she was leaving that night for her life on the road with Patch. I was jobless and homeless for twenty whole minutes—exactly as long as it took Levi to write up an employment offer, bitching under his breath all the while.
In the two years since, though, I’d worked twice as hard as anyone here, just to prove myself to him. I took the grunt work. I crashed on his and Lindsay’s couch for two weeks before finding my shitty little apartment, not a moment longer. I worked holidays; I worked weekends. All so he’d quit underestimating me. I never wanted a handout.
After all that, he still doesn’t see the potential. He doesn’t want to.
“Right,” I say, pulling the door open. “Just in case.” If it weren’t for the promotion in the balance, I’d lose my shit and call him out. This is lower than low. He’s setting me up to fail, just to prove himself right. Even if doing so hurts him, too.
It’s not just about the promotion. Managing the warehouse would mean more money, fewer hours, and a better job description than “cotton candy vendor.” Juliet would finally see I’m not some punk refusing to grow up. Maybe she’d see a future with me.
I text her tonight’s agenda: donuts and some ultra-focused attention on her. Last time proved very popular, especially when I gave her a kiss goodnight and made her taste herself. It was everywhere. On my mouth, inside. Sweeter than spun sugar.
Our arrangement has been going well, all things considered. Three weeks of almost nightly sex, always mind-blowing, usually preceded by at least a little conversation. Things are still too on the “all business” side for my liking, but I guess she likes it that way.
I hate to admit it, but my plan doesn’t seem to be gaining traction. Between that and Levi’s waffling, I’m losing patience fast.
But then she texts back, and the feeling fades. “That sounds beyond perfect. But one condition: this time, you get to come too.”
I smile. I don’t think I stop until I’m home.
14
“What’s wrong with my place? Just once in a while, not every time.”
It takes me a minute to realize Cohen isn’t joking. One ultra-horny morning before work last week, I pulled up his address and prayed he didn’t have to be at the warehouse yet. His sleepy smile when he opened the door and found me there was unbearably cute.
His apartment was not. I haven’t been back since.
I wipe the powdered sugar from the donuts off my fingers. “It has a mildew kind of smell to it, that’s all. Which isn’t your fault. The whole building has it.”
Cohen offers me the last donut; I shake my head. “My building doesn’t smell like mildew.” He breaks the donut in half and leaves the rest in the box for me, anyway. “You have some pregnant-lady super-nose.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“No,” he says, laughing as he takes a bite, “because you’re wrong.”
I elbow him and dig through the bag for more strawberry milk, my latest craving. He stutters out a protest, then stops when I pull the book from the bag.
“The Name Game,” I read. “‘Thousands of baby names and naming tips for parents-to-be.’” When I look up at him, he’s staring at the television. “You’re thinking of names already?”
He drops the last bit of his donut into the box, closing the lid. “Not thinking. More like...browsing.”
“Don’t let my family see this,” I exhale, as I start flipping through the pages. The last Sunday dinner Viola and Marco attended was quickly reduced to shouting when Dad broached the topic. Masculine versus feminine, nicknames or standalones, and the rich Brooks family heritage at stake if the middle didn’t honor my great-grandparents. By the end of the night, I’d felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and sick. When I jumped up and ran to the bathroom, the fight just kept going.
“I like surnames as firsts,” I offer, after a moment. Cohen gives me a thumbs-down.
“What?”
“As a surname-as-first survivor, I can’t allow that.”
“Oh, come on. Just because you don’t like yours—”
“It would be like me,” he interrupts, “telling you, ‘I really like literature names, let’s name the kid Gatsby.’”
I get quiet. I would never admit it, but Gatsby ac
tually strikes me as a good name.
Cohen must sense this, because he lifts his eyebrows and adds, “Or Katniss.”
“Ah,” I nod, “I see your point.” My schooldays were filled with singsong calls of, “O Romeo, Romeo.” No need to doom another generation to a name with too much history.
“Okay.” Cohen claps his hands. I’ve learned he does that quite a bit, always gearing up for The Next Step of any given task. Even when he’s sitting still, he moves: his leg bounces, or his fingers drum out a beat. Sometimes he just gives off the feeling of movement, like a wind-up toy you can only hold back but so long. “So we agree: no surnames, no literary names.”
He offers a handshake. I accept. “Deal.”
We go back and forth for a while, voting and critiquing. We pull faces at ones that remind of people we hate, or nod thoughtfully when the other explains why their choice is worth consideration. A few names we agree on instantly, like Lucy and Asher. By nightfall, as Mara waves her way out the door to start her bar shift down the street, I’ve forgotten more than half our list.
“We should have written them down.”
“Nah. We have time.” Cohen takes a breath, running his tongue along his teeth. “And...I guess it’ll depend on what the last name will be, too.”
The air crackles. He lets out the breath he took.
“Had to come up, sometime,” I say. I watch him adjust his watch, the ink of the swallow looking navy blue in the lamplight.
“If it helps,” he says, “I’m not one of those blowhard, ‘My kid has to have my name’ kind of guys. My mom gave us her last name, obviously.”
“Fairfield is a good name to have.” I try to stop myself from biting my lip, but fail.
“Sometimes. Kind of a double-edged sword.” He gets up and pours us each a glass of lemonade from the pitcher in the fridge, plopping two ice cubes and two straws into mine. Just the way I like it. “When something good happens to you, people tend to assume you only got it because of who you are. Not what you are. Not what you’ve done.”
I thank him and take the glass. “Any examples?”
“Hundreds,” he chuckles bitterly. “When my classmates heard about my SAT scores, they asked who I’d paid to take it for me. There was even a rumor I bribed somebody at the grading center.”
“But you’re not rich.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He takes a drink. The lemonade leaves a shine on his lips I know I’ll dream about, later. “I’m a Fairfield.”
Instead of sitting on the couch again, he takes the edge of the ottoman, facing me. “It’s okay if you want to go with Brooks. I really won’t mind.”
Until the conversation started, I assumed I would go with Brooks. Now—with his naming book still in my lap, staring at his lips as he wipes the lemonade away—I can’t help but think that Brooks doesn’t quite fit.
“What about Brooks-Fairfield?”
He smiles. “Fairfield-Brooks is better.”
“That sounds like a furniture company.”
“Brooks-Fairfield is going to get shortened to ‘Bookfairy’ or some shit, as soon as that kid starts school.”
I roll my eyes. “Bookfairy? You’re really reaching, there.”
“No, I’m thinking like a kid.” Cohen’s smile strengthens. He points at me. “You’ll see. Kids can and will make fun of literally everything.”
My laugh cramps my mouth, all the sugar pooling past my teeth. “Gatsby Bookfairy it is, then. If kids will make fun of it anyway, we might as well saddle him for life.”
“Toughen him up,” Cohen chimes, laughing so hard he sloshes his drink.
“Cohen…Cohen, I’m coming again…I can’t—”
The gasp Juliet takes instead of finishing her sentence catapults me to the edge. I pull my tongue from her slit and replace it with my erection, barely getting two pumps in before I finish. I could try and blame it on the coal-hot grip of her sex, still trembling from her orgasm, but that isn’t what triggers mine. It’s the sound of my name stuck in her throat, bobbing there when she tries to moan it again.
“I think I stopped breathing for thirty solid seconds.” Juliet gives a winded smile as I pull out. “Wow.”
“Agreed,” I pant. She leans up and kisses me, hard. For a minute I just sink into it.
For a minute, I think about staying.
“Goodnight,” I tell her, as soon as she pulls back. I clear my throat and sit up, rubbing the exhaustion out of my eyes. It’s almost three in the morning; the casual conversation portion of our night, which usually doesn’t last more than an hour, went well past one a.m. today. If it weren’t for the arrangement, already engrained like a habit, I wonder if we’d have even remembered we were supposed to be fucking.
Juliet sits up while I slip into my clothes. “Don’t go.”
I look at her.
She backpedals. “If you’re tired, I mean. It’s...it’s dangerous, driving when you’re tired.”
“Took a ride-share here, remember?”
She gathers the blanket in her hands, focusing on a damp spot we made. “Oh.”
I wave with a half-hearted smile before I go. My exits are getting smoother every day. They’re also becoming damn near impossible to start.
In the hall, instead of booking it down the stairs in case she comes after me, I lean against the door and give a long, echoing exhale.
Times like now, I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. Why I thought I was strong enough to get Juliet shaking and whimpering my name in the darkness and then just bail, when all I want in those glowing moments after is to pull her against me and feel her heartbeat return to normal. Then wake up and see her in the sunlight, roaming my hands across and inside her until I have her shaking all over again. After the orgasm ends and we’re back to being humans, the animal sides satisfied and sleeping, I want to kiss her and not have it mean goodbye.
Times like now, I really hate this plan.
“Go back in there and cuddle her or some shit, for God’s sake. You look pathetic.”
My body braces against the door, eyes flying open to the sight of Mara climbing the stairs.
“You scared me,” I breathe, pushing off to stand straight. There’s no point in saying this. She manages to startle me almost every time I come over, one way or another. I swear she does it on purpose. “Thought you had work.”
“Nope, had the night off.” Mara’s purse rattles like a junk drawer while she digs for her keys, until I remember I didn’t lock the door behind me, this time, and crack it for her. “Just thought I’d give you guys your usual block of privacy.” She pops her gum while she looks at me. “You stayed late.”
“We were talking for a while.” I edge around her and start down the stairs. “Have a good night.”
Mara laughs and shakes her head as she dips inside. “You, too, Fairfield.”
15
The first day of Juliet’s second trimester, I decide it’s time to kick the plan into a higher gear.
“You promised not to bug me,” Juliet scolded, when I showed up earlier this evening without any food—announcing that, instead, we’d be going out to eat.
“I’m not. This isn’t a date.” I pulled the bouquet of sunflowers (her favorite, according to Abigail’s private Facebook message) from behind my back. “These are friendship flowers.”
Juliet shook her head, blushing, but took them anyway. “Thank you.”
Now, as we come up to the Acre Hotel, she gives me the side-eye. “This is not where you take friends to dinner.”
“Maybe not.” I hurry around to open her door. “But I’ve never had a friend who was carrying my baby.”
The courtyard is almost deserted, blanketed in a weird summer fog that clings to the greenery as we walk. I don’t know what swooning feels like, but I’m pretty sure I’m doing it: her long, body-hugging black dress has my head churning out filth, and the smile on her face keeps my eyes riveted.
“My family used to come here every year, for the tree ligh
ting,” she says. “I’ve never seen the courtyard when it isn’t decorated.”
“Christmastime is much more impressive, I have to admit.” During the holidays, my aunt and uncle’s hotel gets a total makeover: Santa’s Village in the lobby, a gingerbread house contest, and two huge displays for coat and toy drives near the front desk. The courtyard takes priority, though. A four-story artificial tree goes up around Thanksgiving, with thousands of white lights and wicker reindeer following shortly after. Crowds gather to watch the lighting ceremony the first weekend in December; it even gets televised on the local news. Even I can’t deny that the Acre—all gold and marble, the epitome of excess—looks stunning and kind of magical, all lit up like that.
For now, though, the courtyard is filled with nothing but its usual concrete planters and animal topiaries. We stop near an elephant on its hind legs.
“I know you said it isn’t a date,” she starts, voice fading on the “but” as she takes a leaf and tears it into confetti.
“It’s whatever you want it to be.” I adjust the cuffs on my button-up. “You don’t have to think of it as a date if you don’t want to.”
She watches me closely. “What do you think of it as?”
“Long overdue.”
Juliet smiles to herself, crossing her arms as we head inside.
Maison, the Acre’s restaurant, is the type of place where a violinist or pianist is always playing, blending with crystal clinks and forks against good china. Juliet stares into the room, wide-eyed.
The maître d’ gives us a polite nod when we approach. “Let me guess: no reservation.”
It takes so much energy not to laugh at Juliet’s silent outrage, bright as a firework behind her eyes: she thinks he’s being snobby.
I flash Brent a smile. “Never.”
“Your uncle’s in the private room.” He lets the posh façade slip, just for a second, and tucks his tongue against his cheek to keep from laughing. “Would you care to join him?”
I very subtly give him the finger. “No, thank you. I’m on a date.”