Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  Lots of calls to make.

  Henry offers to do the cleanup since I already did my share of it earlier, which allows me to chat it up with my new honey for a few. When I get back inside, however, I hear Henry’s low timbre from down the hall. Reading Livvy and Ella The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

  Something about this makes my throat tighten, my eyes grow teary. I stand in the dim glow of the hallway night light listening to his every word. The voices he does for Mr. and Mrs. Beaver. The way the girls giggle in all the right spots.

  When he finishes, I tiptoe in to kiss the girls good night and say my good-byes.

  “You’re not going to stay?” He snaps off the Hello Kitty lamp in Livvy’s room and shuts the door behind him.

  His voice, his gaze holds me in my place. I feel like I did in the theater with Cliff, my stomach dropping out again, the violins playing.

  Once again, he’s caught me off guard.

  I stammer, and then: “I wasn’t planning on—”

  And he presses me, firm, against the wall, big hands gentle around my face, body unforgiving, lips soft. Hungry against mine.

  I get lost as he leans into it—one second away from going wild—but then I yank back. Adrenaline soaring beneath my skin. I’m not quite sure if I’m about to smack him, or come undone.

  “What are you—”

  “Stay,” he says. His eyes search mine.

  “What the—what about Ansley?”

  “I figured she would have told you.” He backs away, the moment gone, and my lips, my cheeks, where he held them, everywhere on my body where his met mine, buzzes with the absence of his touch.

  “Told me what?”

  “That’s over.” His tone is so matter-of-fact, so cavalier.

  “What? When? I thought you went—”

  “We did. Something was off. Like I told you.”

  “What do you mean ‘off’? She’s a great girl.”

  He nods. “That may be true, but she’s not what I thought. It’s just not going to work.”

  “And so you think you can just grab the next girl standing in front of you? I’m with Cliff now, and—”

  “Oh, you’re with Cliff.” He scoffs. Shakes his head, crazy stirring in his stare.

  “Yes.”

  And then he leans in so close that I can almost taste his tongue once again. I ache for it. Those lips. I can’t look away. Begging.

  But this time, he just stares me down and says, “Well, I think there’s some stuff Cliffy boy’s not telling you either. So there’s that.”

  He holds steady a minute and the desire deepens. A longing to close the cruel centimeter between us and get lost once again.

  But I don’t.

  And just as quickly, he’s gone. I’m watching his broad shoulders saunter down the hall, back out toward the kitchen, back out toward the light.

  I steady myself on the chair rail and catch my breath a moment.

  Did that really just happen?

  And then I make my way to the living room, to the couch. I hear him tinkering around, cardboard being bent and broken down. He’s slamming things into the trash bin. Rough.

  I want answers, but I can’t bring myself to face him again. Not now.

  What the hell is he talking about?

  I dig for my phone and see I’ve missed a text from Cliff. He misses me. Richmond is lonely.

  And I have to get the hell out of this house and figure out what’s up and what’s down because apparently the whole world’s gone sideways.

  Chapter 19

  Roger pulls out all the stops at this dinner. He takes me to a super fancy steakhouse—one of those places where everything’s à la carte and they bring the cuts of meat right out for you to choose, like you’re the king of England and only the finest of everything will do. I wave a sad good-bye to the lobsters as they wheel the cart away and am just glad I didn’t have to look my filet in its big sweet cow eyes because, dayum, I can tell it’s going to taste GOOD.

  I feel a little underdressed in a short-sleeved blazer and seersucker skirt, but Van de Kamp assures me I look great, this place is great, life is great. And I let him choose the wine because what the hell do I know beyond boxed wine and screw tops? This is not my area.

  “So this is really—wow,” I say, the first sip of whatever kind of Malbec this is awakening my every taste bud.

  He laughs. “Really what?”

  “Unnecessary. I mean, why roll out the red carpet for little old me? There’ve got to be more qualified people corporate is considering. My background is in business management, not marketing.”

  “That may be true, but you’ve got a certain…panache.” He rolls both wrists on the word. “Your store is outperforming all the others owned by Johnson & Biddle, lots of major authors want to work with you; we recognize talent when we see it.”

  I press my lips together. I’m not good at getting compliments. Probably because there’s always—ohhhh don’t say it don’t say it…

  “What’s the catch?”

  He cocks his head, one gray eyebrow curling upward. “Catch? I’m not sure I understand, Miss Carter.”

  I chuckle. “It just sounds a little too good to be true. And when things seem too good to be true…”

  He leans over his bread plate and says with a wink, “They usually are?”

  I touch one index finger to my nose and point at him with the other. “Bingo.”

  “Not really. Just relocating, but it’s New York. That shouldn’t really be something in the negative column. Book Warehouse is taking over Johnson & Biddle and likewise all the bookstores we own, and their corporate headquarters are based in Manhattan, so—”

  “Book Warehouse? So we’re becoming more—”

  “Mainstream? Yes.”

  “So what happens to our smaller accounts? The books that give us a more indie feel?”

  He does a little seesaw with his head, drinks a hearty gulp of wine followed by a satisfied-sounding sigh. “There will definitely be fewer of them. We’ll gradually phase them out and focus on what really matters. The big boys.”

  I picture the little nook in back where we feature local children’s book authors, our collectable comic books display, the one whole wall dedicated to diverse authors, bare. Tumbleweeds blowing through.

  Replaced with Sean Riker’s smug-ass mug. The area by the register a minefield of merchandise.

  Gasp—literal Sean Riker mugs. Hats. Tote bags.

  Funko-Pops.

  I feel like Linus at Christmas, and a self-loathing crawls its way up my legs.

  Why can’t I just do things like normal people? Why can’t I just be happy with a promotion and who fucking cares what books we’re selling? What tchotchkes we’ve got? Whom we’re promoting? Steady money is steady money. New York is awesome. A job’s a job. Not everyone is so fortunate as to even have one, and I’m splitting hairs over Principles?

  Good grief.

  Once I manage to calm myself down—the melt-in-your-mouth sautéed mushrooms definitely help—I’m able to separate my morals from this. And maybe if I actually accept this position, I can do some work from within. Have more of a say about what kinds of accounts we’re bringing in and which we’re showering with attention.

  Glass half full (as my wineglass is half empty)!

  By the time our server rolls the dessert cart over, we’ve toasted for about the eighty-third time. I’m still going to need to talk myself into this job—how can I just relocate? Am I really Okay with all this? But I guess there’s time to deal with all that.

  I’m stumbling my way to the bathroom using the aid of the wall to hold me up juuuuust a tad when I spot a familiar set of shoulders, a careless tousle of the hair with which I’ve grown rather acquainted, sitting at a table.

  With some chick.

  I press my palms to the wall and watch him a minute.

  Cliff.

  He’s supposed to be in Richmond for the next two days, not here at Finnegan’s Steakhous
e. Touching all up on some redhead with a fantastic rack.

  My heartbeat slows. But it’s loud in my ears.

  Is this what Henry meant? Did Henry see him with someone else?

  I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Force an image from the other night. Make myself remember the way his arms feel wrapped around me. His skin on my skin. Push the black smoke demons who’ve already made it halfway here from the depths of hell to lash at this happy bubble I’ve created for myself. This joyous place where I can trust Cliff. Where I was right to take a leap. To dismiss Henry.

  I picture myself elbowing them—knocking them away with my purse—as I dig for my phone.

  There’s got to be an explanation. Something Cliff and I will laugh about later. Maybe he’s here to surprise me or something. Why do I always assume the very worst?

  My fingers shake as I type out the message.

  Me: How’s Richmond, kiddo?

  And the cursor just blinks there. Taunts me.

  He flinches as the phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it in his hands. Sits back and looks around. Right, then left.

  And then returns the text.

  Cliff: Busy day, but good. I’m wiped. Turning in soon. Talk tomorrow?

  I watch him slip his phone back into his pocket.

  I blink.

  Nod.

  And, just like that, my affections have pivoted once again.

  It’s why you don’t give them an inch, and that’s a new rule, which—huzzah—I’ve come up with right here on the spot! Rule Number 11: Don’t give them an inch—because they’ll take a mile.

  Every time.

  What probably looks like an insane smile leaks its way across my lips. I feel it drip slowly like the trickle of blood from a pinprick to the heart, and I realize that’s all he is anyway.

  Just a prick.

  My mind pings into overload—the smart part I’ve been suppressing for the last few days springs into action. I can’t exactly deal with this right here, right now, but I do get it together enough to collect this evidence before it’s gone.

  And I take a sick satisfaction in imagining all the things he might say in response. How creative he’ll be. What an adventure.

  I pull up the camera on my phone, zoom in as far as I can with the viewfinder, and snap a bunch of photos to send him later. His hand running up her thigh. Leaning close in a whisper.

  She titters. They drink. They kiss.

  I don’t exactly remember the rest of the meal, how I got home, what the rest of Roger and I talked about, because all I see is red. It’s not that I’m hammered; my mind’s just a bit preoccupado with what a Colossal Ass I’ve Been and How to Exact My Revenge.

  But then again, this Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride of emotion has me a bit exhausted—and sheepish—by the time I’m in bed. I pull Grammy’s afghan over me, but it does little to keep out the chill.

  I guess I’m human after all.

  My gaze trained on the ceiling, into the black, and I hear them. Feel them. The demons. They swarm. I’ve kept them locked up for too long. They’re in a frenzy of Fuck you. A frenzy of I told you so. And I just let them crash over me—devour me—because I deserve it for being so stupid.

  “Ohh, Blanchey” is all Gordon can say the next day when I emerge, hair Helena Bonham Cartering out. A touch of Marilyn Manson to my pallor.

  But I’m back to my old self, all is right with the world, and I will never be made a fool of again.

  * * *

  Hard as I try to ignore it all, it gnaws at me anyway.

  Tears at my guts as I slog my way through another day at L&L. Messes with my ability to play the part of bubbly barista that my new client, Brenda, needs me to be in order to interact with the firefighter we’ve matched with.

  Causes all my employees to speak in hushed tones when they’re anywhere in my vicinity, to rock-paper-scissors it—dare each other—to be the one to tell me the shipment numbers for the week are wrong. That the new girl botched a return and they need my key to override the register. That anything’s amiss in any way at all.

  I realize this.

  And although I’m back in armor mode, back to Classic Carter, it also stops me from answering Cliff’s texts and calls, which become increasingly panicky the longer I ignore them.

  He’s “coming back to town” Friday night and wants to know if we can get together and Is Everything All Right and Why Am I Not Responding He’s Getting Concerned and blah blah blah.

  “You gonna get that?” Gordon wants to know, eyeing my phone, which has all but vibrated itself off the desk for the ninth time today.

  I plaster on a look that I hope matches the disgust I feel about the whole thing and shrug. “Nah.”

  “What about getting the last word?”

  I think about that a minute. I’ve been breaking an awful lot of the rules lately and look where it’s gotten me. Not letting Cliff have it would be breaking yet another one.

  “I just…” And my tough-girl swagger evaporates. I sink my head in my hands. “I’m just so very tired.”

  I stay at the store late into the evening, working on the fund-raiser. Gordon and I noodled on it most of the afternoon. I’m drafting ideas for places we can hit up for items for the Chinese Auction portion. And although I kind of hate the idea, Gordon’s suggestion of a bachelor auction to end the night is pure gold. As long as he’s cool snagging the guys for it, I have no problem setting my groan factor aside for a bit to Give the people what they want.

  Heh.

  But catching up on all the crap I’ve let slide during my two-day discretionary period of idiocy and getting things sorted and in their place both give me more of a sense of order in my tangled brain as well.

  Just as I’m closing up, I get an update from Graham that Isla’s still not home—she seems to be fine, but they’re still running some tests—and so my mind takes off faster than the Metro at who must be babysitting at their house.

  I think back to our last conversation there in the hall. Right after he kissed me.

  He knew about Cliff.

  Henry knew.

  And suddenly my singular goal is to find out what he knew and why he knew it.

  Why Ansley hasn’t gotten back to me yet when I returned her calls.

  And Henry’s the only one who can shed some light on any of that.

  So I hightail it over to the house to get some answers.

  Henry’s in basketball shorts and a tee when he opens the door. He’s the epitome of casual, face a day or two unshaven as well, but that’s only in looks. In demeanor, he’s anything but comfortable. His shoulders tense as the recognition sets in. His mannerisms, clipped.

  “The girls are already in bed,” he says, not really meeting my gaze, and I try hard to be disarming with what I’m putting out there. If he won’t look at me, however, I’m not going to be able to work any magic.

  “Oh good.” I take extra care to be soft in my tone. “Are they doing okay?”

  “They’re fine. They don’t really get what’s going on.”

  I press my lips in a thin line. All this stupid guy drama in my life doesn’t compare one iota to what Graham and Isla are dealing with. My gaze falls. I feel so small. Like the plastic puppy Happy Meal toy I see discarded on the floor.

  “That’s probably better,” I say, for lack of anything better.

  We’re still lingering in the doorway, but I’m afraid to ask if I can come in because he seems about a sneeze away from putting a fist through the wall. And I hate that it’s because of me.

  Instead, I improvise. Try to find common ground.

  “How are they liking Narnia?” I venture, attempting to catch his gaze on that one.

  The first hint of a smile cracks his tight jaw. Score!

  “They love it.”

  But it’s all he offers.

  “Well, listen.” I talk with my hands. Muster some semblance of courage. “You’re actually the one I wanted to see. Can I…I hope I’m not interrupting…”
>
  His eyebrows crawl up his forehead in what looks like This oughta be good fashion and he finally backs away and opens the door more than the Jehovah’s Witness sliver.

  I follow him into the living room, his gait heavy and controlled like some kind of beast on the hunt, and then we spend what feels like an eternity seated on opposite sides of the room.

  He’s stretched out in the oversized chair, and I take up residence on the love seat. The only sound besides the quiet murmur of the TV is his fingertips drumming on one arm of his chair.

  Well, I did it, I’m here, so there’s nothing left to do but come out with it.

  I allow a deep exhale. “You were right.” I play with the tassels on a throw pillow.

  “About?” He looks up, expression innocent but somewhat unreadable.

  There’s something in his tone that tells me he knows exactly what I’m talking about, because it’s Henry. He always knows with me. It claws at me a little under the skin—I’m not buying the oblivious act—but things are weird with us right now, so I decide to let it slide. He’s got his reasons for playing dumb, for being walled, same as I.

  “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” I snort.

  And there’s that laugh of his, the first bit of warmth he’s allowed into this interaction. “Absolutely not,” he says and chuckles on, light and balmy and comforting as the summer wind. “Is that hard for you to admit? That someone else is right?”

  “Shut up.” I throw the pillow at him, and he catches it with quick fingers.

  “How’d you find out?”

  I lift an eyebrow his way. “I thought you didn’t know what I was talking about…”

  “Are we going to keep doing this, or are you going to tell me what you came here to say?”

  Confirmation.

  And it takes everything I have to eke out the words. I don’t know why humiliation presses down on me, on my vocal cords like a vise, but it does. I don’t want to admit I’ve been a fool. Especially not to him. But there’s no escaping it and he knows anyway, so there’s really nothing to feel so embarrassed about, I guess.