Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  A pang of guilt hits me in the chest as I look for something else. It’s a damn shame she can’t be powerful and pick up guys, but I know how this online game works. One look at a picture like that, and they can’t Swipe Left fast enough.

  I find another shot—one of her and a group of people in what must have been a Tough Mudder.

  I shudder at the thought of exerting that much physical energy.

  Or getting that dirty.

  But it’s not a tits and tank tops pic.

  And although she’s sporting some shorty-shorts, Danica looks like a badass, but a fun one. Her jersey is sleeveless, but she’s wearing a sports bra, which is holding those puppies down so they’re not the focal point of the photo.

  I think that’ll filter out some of the garbage monsters.

  Messing around with my photo editor, I add a big ol’ arrow to the pic to point out THAT’S HER, instead of leaving the guys to guess which one of these sweaty, muddy ladies dear old Danica happens to be. Best not to make them think too much—they Swipe Left for that too.

  I do the same with the rest of her gallery until what we’re left with is Tough Mudder, gleeful laughter/holding her teacup Chihuahua while it gives her tiny smooches, and scoop neck evening dress (must have been at a wedding or something).

  It’s only three pictures, but we’ve raised her stock several points, if I do say so myself.

  I barely have time to admire my handiwork, when: Ding!

  Gordon awakens with a start, eyes wide and aglow with the light from my laptop screens. “Did I—spill?” A frantic dab at his button-down.

  “You finished your wine,” I lie.

  I check the notification, and it’s a message for the girl whose profile I doctored just last night.

  “What’s he saying, ‘Elaine’?”

  I snicker. “Well…” Fingers flying over the buttons. “He says, ‘Hey.’”

  “Articulate. What’s his name?”

  “Very.” I give an eye-roll. “Doesn’t really matter yet, but it’s Joe.”

  I start typing.

  Hey you

  “Ooh, flirty. I like.”

  The phone buzzes again.

  Hey is for horses

  Gordon and I just look at each other.

  “Oh honey,” he says. “Unoriginal and misspelled.”

  I put up a one-minute finger and then type Elaine’s response.

  Are you calling me a horse?

  And before I can even get in another jokey-joke, Joe’s responded. Ding!

  IDK but if ur into horses, I’m hung like one. Wanna see?

  “Dear God.” A flicker of excitement lights his blue eyes as G scoots to the edge of his seat. “And now? The kill.”

  I cackle. Take a second before I take to the keyboard.

  And then—flash—it hits me.

  It’s elementary, really.

  That’s what it feels like I’m being reduced to anyway. About the second grade in terms of what we’re dealing with here.

  That’s okay—I believe you. I mean, you certainly have horse TEETH!

  And then I block him from Elaine’s profile.

  “Yooooo!” Gordon guffaws and I catch it again too.

  “That was mean, I admit. And I do feel kinda bad…” My gaze glazes over as I stare at the message. “But when a guy starts in with Penis right away, anything is fair game.”

  “Makes sense. Why not just ignore, though?”

  It’s a reasonable question, and I squish my face at him.

  “Rule Number 1: Always get the last word. Ignoring someone has a certain power, sure. But any guy who’s asshole enough to put his dick out there first thing wants to get a rise out of you. He deserves that extra zing, which will leave him sputtering and trying to think of a comeback, but—oops—he’s blocked. BOOM.” I shrug. “Plus, it’s just more fun.”

  “Brutal.”

  “Always.” I wink.

  And then I drop the electronic ball buster from one hand to the other like I’m dropping the mic.

  Chapter 2

  By the time work is over the next day, my feet are killing me. I limp my way to the Metro and ignore the dirty looks I get from the put-together types riding the train out to Georgetown as I shamelessly massage the day out of my arches. I hobble like my grandmother, perpetually bent from fifty years of backbreaking work as a nurse. Dramatic much? All I did was frickin’ stand for eight hours. Log ISBNs into a computer. Chase down authors and publicists by phone, by e-mail; yell at my idiot employees who can’t arrange anything right. (Except Gordon, of course.) It certainly feels like I spent a lifetime doing manual labor…

  But I digress.

  When I reach Isla and Graham’s brownstone, it’s an oasis of espresso-colored brick. Whatever fancy coffee my girl’s got a-brewin’ catches my senses before I even hit the door, and I’m already feeling more awake, feeling better, feeling home.

  As I walk up, I catch a glimpse of Isla in the window. Her hair is more strawberry than blond these days, and it sashays down her shoulders as she sways to what sounds like some old-school Florence + the Machine tune—hard to tell because the music is muffled against the pane. I watch her eyes smile as she sings along, washing whatever it is she’s got in the sink, and my chest feels light and heavy all at the same time.

  One cleansing breath, and I can almost taste the coffee on my tongue.

  Juggling my Hemingway tote bag full of books for the girls and the bottle of vino I managed to pick up on my lunch break, I find my phone and hammer out a knock knock text.

  Isla looks up from her work and a grin brightens her whole face when she sees me on the stoop.

  Suddenly Graham’s at the door, a giant bear hug in an Ole Miss jersey, and the music’s been lowered to a mere hum in the background.

  “Hey, stranger—good to see ya.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek, and I’m thankful he hasn’t lost any of the Southern charm he inherited during college. “Guess who’s here, girls!” His dimples stand out as he calls up the stairs.

  “Uncle Henry?” one of them yells back.

  I attempt to give him a look, but before I do, I’ve got a three- and five-year-old stampeding me.

  I make the sound of a NOPE buzzer on a game show as they crash into my middle. “Sorry to disappoint you, ladies, but it’s just me. I can take back these presents if you’d rather it were Uncle—”

  Both girls squeal as I brandish my bag.

  “Did you bring Paw Patrol?” Olivia asks.

  I dig around for a sec like I didn’t, and the baby, Ella, starts to get a quiver in her lower lip. I decide I can’t tease her any longer.

  “Of course I did! Is this America?” I make a big show of it and produce three picture books like a champion.

  And then I’m engulfed in an amoeba of fingers and arms as the girls grab with their chubby little hands for all the books. Graham reaches with his giant, rough ones for my bag.

  He ushers me into the kitchen, takes my jacket, and without a hitch: “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Marry me.” I sigh.

  “He’s taken. But he does have a brother…” Isla steadies herself on the edge of the sink—That’s new, I think—but the sparkle never leaves her stare so I choose not to acknowledge it.

  “Ha! Don’t remind me,” I say instead, making big strides to meet her where she stands so she won’t have to exert herself any further.

  She swallows me in a hug.

  “Pretty spindly,” I say, faux examining one of her arms. I give her a side-eye. “But they were always spindly. You’re not fooling anybody. You’re fine!”

  She titters.

  “That’s what I keep telling her,” Graham follows suit, and everything feels normal. Light. He hands me a glass of white zin, and we’re gabbing over the island like it’s just another Friday night.

  Because it is.

  “Speaking of the brother…why is it that little Liv here”—her brown curls bounce in my direction when I say her na
me and mischief permeates those round cheeks—“thought I was ‘Uncle Henry’?” I throw them both an accusatory eyebrow.

  Isla giggles and makes for the stove. “Better check on the lasagna.”

  “Are you serious?” I leap to a stance from the wooden stool.

  “What’s wrong with Henry?” Graham’s pointy face takes on a tinge of fake hurt. “He’s the best!”

  “Yeah yeah yeah.” I cross my arms and give another side-eye.

  “Did I miss something? When’s the last time you even saw him?”

  I groan. “You didn’t tell him about New Year’s?” I bark over Graham at my friend across the room.

  She giggles into the oven and keeps shaking her head. Dismisses me with a fish-shaped oven mitt. “That was three years ago. And he wouldn’t get it.”

  “Get what?” Graham wants to know.

  Ding-dong.

  “That’s fricking him, isn’t it?” I glare at Isla, but I can feel the betrayal of a smile tugging at one corner of my lips.

  She waggles her fingers and starts a goofy hum like I had nothing to do with it.

  I drain my wine.

  As if the doorbell has made him forget his question, Graham opens the door—and with a gust of evening air comes the scent of Henry Hughes.

  Crisp and clean as his gleaming light blue button-down.

  It makes its way to me like the curl of a finger, beckoning me closer. Both alluring and repellant at the same time because with it comes a flash of that first weekend I saw him, probably because I can’t bring myself to think of the last.

  Embarrassment floods my cheeks, my ears, and yanks my gaze to the floor.

  * * *

  The bend at my elbow is warm as it’s threaded through his arm. Henry and I do the classic wedding one-two step down the aisle toward Graham, a shorter, stockier version of the same Ken doll I’m walking with. Graham’s got a slightly darker complexion than this surfer wannabe with hair hanging just below his chin and brushing the collar of his tux shirt.

  But they have the same blue eyes. The same Big Presence.

  As we make our way toward the altar, Henry does a wave here, a point of acknowledgment there, at his relatives. Like we’re contestants on Family Feud and not in the middle of a damn wedding.

  I keep it classy and wiggle a couple of fingers at Brian when we pass his church pew, and Henry scoffs.

  “That your boyfriend?” His breath is hot in my ear.

  “Mm-hmm.” I inject the sound with Tone, because—hello—you’re not supposed to be talking when you’re walking down the aisle.

  “Hmm.” Sarcasm drips from his utterance. “Cute.”

  I roll my eyes and this is the moment the photographer captures on camera, because of course she does.

  When we reach our destination, Henry does a stupid little bow that both makes me laugh and also infuriates me just a smidge that it made me laugh in the first place. I shake my head through a smile and we go to our respective sides of the wedding party.

  After we’ve indulged Isla and done the choreographed entrance dance she forced upon us the night before, the reception is well under way. Elvis croons on in the background—“Can’t Help Falling in Love” flits on the air—and now we’re expected to go out there again for the bridal party dance.

  Henry reaches for my hand, and I think, People still do this dance with the bridal party?

  His touch is familiar. A little too familiar for my tastes—but then again, he’s been a little too familiar with me all weekend, so why should this be any different?

  We make it to the parquet dance floor, and I lace my fingers behind his neck. Catch a trace of whiskey on his breath from the shot the wedding party just did before our grand entrance.

  “You spill your champagne there, Four-eyes?” He nods down at my chest and indicates—yep—the champagne stain right smack dab in the middle of the bodice of my dress. The pale pink sateen, a few shades deeper where my drink had spilled.

  I give him a light smack on the shoulder blade. “It’s not my fault the limo bus hit a bump!”

  “Mm-hmm. Well, I suppose it’s a nice day for a White Trash wedding.”

  I smack him again, and his grip around my waist tightens; his strong fingers coil around me.

  What feels like eight hundred more verses of the song blather on as we sway kind of in time to the beat. Eight couples stuck in obligatory dance surround us—and while I don’t think we’re the worst, I do my darnedest to usurp the lead from him because Henry’s rhythm is just god-awful.

  “So, are you gonna catch the bouquet later? Marry Mr. Two-Toned Shoes over there?” He brushes his cheek against mine, stubble grazing me as he speaks directly into my ear, and a buzz ripples down my middle. I don’t actually give him the satisfaction of gasping, but it’s all I can do to keep from doing so. I rub at the spot to stop the sensation.

  “Hey!” I smack him again and can’t stifle a smile, no matter how hard I try.

  And my gaze finds Brian.

  I can’t believe Henry says this about the shoes. I’m impressed at once, and embarrassed. I feel bad that I laughed, but: those damn shoes. I had groaned when Brian picked me up. But he was so excited about them, who was I to say anything? They were just shoes. Who was going to notice? Was it such a big deal?

  Plus, we were running late.

  But now, he’s at the bar, picking peanuts out of a bowl. Chatting it up with one of his fraternity brothers. Wearing black-and-white wing tips like he’s Count fricking Basie.

  “Maybe I will marry him.” I shrug and singsong. Try to recover.

  “I guess everyone has a type.” Henry shrugs too.

  Silence that feels like forever and a half passes.

  “What’s yours?” I’m even surprised I say it.

  “Well, Four-eyes, the naughty librarian thing typically does it for me.” He takes a moment, I’m guessing to let that sink in.

  My face warms.

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” I break his pointed silence.

  “But since you’re into Zoot Suit Riot over there, I guess I’ll have to settle for—” He whips me around and points me in the direction of Isla’s cousin Emily. “Her,” he says, “or—” He whisks me in the opposite direction, but my updo is so anchored by a small army of bobby pins, it doesn’t faze it at all. “That little hottie over there.”

  “Sue Ellen?” One loud ha escapes my lips. “Sue Ellen would not have sex with you.”

  He yanks back and quirks an eyebrow toward the glittering crystal chandelier. “Uh, challenge accepted?”

  All at once, I realize we’re the only two left slow dancing. The song has changed—some country pop abomination we haven’t noticed because we’re arguing.

  The horror.

  I back away. “She’s a virgin,” I say. “Iron clad.” And my hands fly to my big damn mouth as soon as it registers. “Wow, two glasses of champagne, one shot of whiskey, and apparently I’m a terrible friend.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Four-eyes. My lips are sealed.”

  * * *

  Henry endures the same barrage of hugs to the gut from Olivia and Ella that I did. His eyes crinkle at the corners in what looks like pure joy and he takes a knee, lets them crawl all over him. In that (probably) two-thousand-dollar gray suit. He scoops an arm around each of them and pops to a stance, and they give off the fizziest little giggles I can’t help but catch as well.

  I’ve never wanted kids, but for some reason this makes my uterus skip a beat.

  He’s good at this.

  It’s infuriating.

  I clear my throat.

  Everyone is still basking in happy family mode when Henry looks up and suddenly his gaze meets mine. He loses his grip on Ella for a split second—either that or she squirms and I’ve imagined it. Regardless, satisfaction curls its way across my lips. But he recovers just as quickly as he (may have) slipped. Bounces her higher on his hip, much to her squeals of delight.

  He gives a squint like he know
s me from somewhere, and then: “The White Witch, right?” he deadpans, and a shot of cold, white winter zaps me at his reference to that night I am begging my brain not to revisit.

  “Har har,” I say with an eye-roll. “Graham’s conservative smoker brother Henry. Great to see you again.” Sarcasm drips onto my ballet flats.

  If he can be obnoxious and aloof, I can be obnoxious and aloof too.

  “Smoker?” Isla gasps from the kitchen.

  “Sorry—not in front of the kids.” I pat them on their heads.

  “So inappropriate.” Henry tsks and ribs me with his Ella-wielding elbow.

  After they do the catch-up thing, we’ve had a few glasses of wine, and the kids have been put to bed, we settle in around the dinner table and the discussion turns to politics.

  It’s hard to avoid in D.C., but I usually don’t mind.

  Which is to say, I don’t mind when it’s politics I agree with.

  Isla and Graham are doing that thing where they’re saying they’re only fiscally conservative, while socially liberal, but that’s a load of crap. The Reagan calendar tacked up in the kitchen and pro-life bumper sticker on Graham’s Range Rover say otherwise. Which is fine, and it’s not that I can’t hear opinions contrary to my own, but I don’t feel like getting into it when I’m outnumbered like this. Especially not with Isla. Especially not now.

  Henry is surprisingly silent—I would have thought he’d want to throw his Very Important Two Cents right in—but he doesn’t.

  I just keep drinking.

  However, when our president comes up and the gloves really come off, my jaw is tight. Graham starts in on socialism this and un-American that, and I have to unclench at least enough to say Something.

  “He’s the most ‘fiscally conservative’ Democrat we’ve had in office.” My fork crashes to my dessert plate too loudly.

  “How do you figure?” He gestures wildly with his wineglass, and instead of listening to him, I watch the Chianti slosh and narrowly miss leaping out to its own demise as he speaks.

  Which is fine because they don’t await the answer to his question either. They don’t really care what I have to say. I suppose I’m that way when I’m with my own kind and there’s a voice of dissent too. They’re so caught up in patting each other on the back for being of like minds that they forget all about me and my Opposing Views.