by Lila Monroe
“What the hell is this?” Flint asks David, incredulous. David shakes his head, runs a hand through his thinning hair, and gets into his car.
“They say the terrible twos are the worst year for kids,” he says out the window as he starts the engine. “More like the worst year for mothers,” he yells, but pulls out of the driveway fast when Callie comes outside, looking like she’s going to murder someone.
“Whoa, calm down,” Flint says, putting an arm around her as David drives away, leaving two tire marks on the driveway. “What did he do?”
“Nothing. That’s the problem,” Callie says, fluffing at her hair. Up close, I notice that her shirt is buttoned unevenly, and there are food stains on the sleeves. “The problem is he does nothing! I’m with the kids all day, I cook all afternoon, and he gets in and what do I get? ‘Oh, don’t you remember, I need to go back to the office because it’s end of quarter. Why’d you make dinner?’” Callie throws up her hands and stomps inside. The kids are in their playpen, looking up with wide anxious eyes. I make some shushing noises and crouch down to wave at them. They giggle; all’s right with their world again.
“You need to take a breath,” Flint tells his sister. Callie comes over to the playpen, lifts Lily into the air, and gives her to her uncle.
“No. You know what I need? A night out.” She looks over at me and nods. “Laurel, stay there. I’m going to give Jessa a call. Then, we are all going out.” Callie’s got this wild-eyed look. I can’t tell if this is On the Town dancing with sailors kind of out, or Thelma and Louise murder and driving off the Grand Canyon kind of out.
“Ah, maybe Jessa doesn’t have the night off,” I say, but Callie’s already dialing.
“Flint, thanks for offering to babysit,” she calls, before he can even attempt to escape. “There’s dinner on the stove.” Flint looks from Lily, to me, to the kitchen.
My phone buzzes. I grab the call. Suze. Thank God.
“Hey, guess what? AmTrak’s down,” she says. “Doing anything tonight?” There’s some kind of crash from Callie’s bedroom, followed by crazed laughter.
“So glad you called. How do you feel about seeing some of the local wildlife?” I ask. “Cocktails will be involved.”
19
This will probably be a shock, but Northampton, MA, doesn’t have the world’s greatest nightlife scene. My friends at Yelp give us about five different options, and two of them are bars above bait and tackle shops. When we wrangle Jessa and Suze into the car and get downtown, our best choices are a high end Mexican grill and the Waterbury hotel. Since we don’t want to get hit on by lonely businessmen, we hoof it over to Mexican. Besides, tequila shots with dinner. Who am I to say no?
Callie is definitely not saying no. She’s dressed up in a cute little black cocktail dress, wearing bright red lipstick and enough Chanel no. 5 to drown a normal woman. I don’t think she’s been out on the town in years. The instant we get inside the restaurant, she charges for the bar like a famished water buffalo. Clearly, my job for the evening will be making sure she’s all right. And maybe having a drink along the way.
“I haven’t done this in so long,” Callie groans, throwing her head back while taking a shot. At least this is one McKay I’m not going to make stupid decisions with after drinking tequila, so I give her a shoulder pat in solidarity.
“You, ah, been married long?” Suze asks, eyes wide and slowly taking a sip of her margarita. When she called to see if I wanted to grab dinner, she didn’t expect this. I owe her one.
“Five years.” Callie sighs and puts her head in her hands. “It started out so good, you know? I mean, I love David. I know he loves me. At least, I thought I knew.” Her voice gets unusually quiet on that last sentence. Uh oh.
“Hey now, don’t say that,” I say, frowning. Questioning love is a bad, bad sign.
“But it’s true,” Callie says, sniffing and rubbing her eyes, spreading her mascara around a bit. “David’s never home. Every morning I wake up, and he’s already in the shower. Then he’s out the door before I’ve even got breakfast on the table. Then it’s me and the kids and Sesame Street all day long, until I feel like I want to bust through the TV and start throttling Elmo.” She looks panicked. “Seriously, I have dreams about killing Muppets. What kind of sick mind operates like that?”
“This union between the two of you is fragile,” Jessa says. She’s wearing a peasant blouse and a pair of jeans. She’s also drinking some kind of herbal tea. Which is good, since I don’t think they’ll let nineteen year olds shoot booze. Rubbing her sister’s shoulder, she says, “You need to both walk barefoot down by the lake, hand in hand. Feel the breath of the wind in your hair; sense the buds of spring lying dormant beneath the ground. Look deep into each other’s eyes, and speak the truths that sleep quietly in your soul. Once you see your lover as your other half, a person with his or her own aches and needs, then you will be able to fully give yourself over to the union of flesh and spirit.”
It is super quiet as the group tries to digest all of this. “Jessa, do me a favor as a sister,” Callie says. “Stop talking.”
“I love you,” Jessa says, kissing Callie on top of her head. Sibling affection.
“I want to be like you,” Callie tells me, laying her head on the bar, slurring a bit. Maybe she should’ve eaten her enchiladas before the third shot of tequila. “No marriage, no house. Just hours of hanging out with reality TV stars, dinner at the Ivy, dancing at the Roxy.” Callie is super well informed on how Hollywood would’ve run back in the 80s.
“More like fourteen hour days with no sex life,” I say, nudging Suze. She laughs and nudges back. Look at us. A pair of professional lady nudgers. Callie blows a raspberry as she bites into a lime wedge. Heh. Raspberry and lime. Fruit salad.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little tipsy too.
“You’ve got to help me out here,” Callie sighs. “I have to live vicariously through somebody. Usually all I have is Jessa.” She nods at her younger sister.
“This bar has a terrible ambiance,” Jessa says, waving her hands. “I sense that someone died here. No, a tree. A mighty oak gave its life, pulled from its roots so this restaurant could be built.” She takes a bite of nachos. “Mmm. The guacamole is good.”
“I don’t have much going on,” I tell Callie, trying to get back on topic.
“Crushes? Smooches? Feelings? Anything, Laurel.” Callie sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Oh my God, I’ve become that sad, sex-crazed housewife. All that’s left is for me to start popping pills and trying to seduce the mailman. How did this happen?”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Suze says lamely, trying to add something to the madness. She widens her eyes and gives me a ‘do something’ look. I sigh.
“Well, there’s this guy. He’s, um, tall,” I say, trying to think of the vaguest possible terms with which to describe Flint. Tall. Drives a car. Lives in a house. No, house is too specific. Lives on planet Earth.
“Hot?” Callie asks. Already, she’s droolingly captivated.
“Hottest,” I say without thinking. Oh, damn. I think I’ve tipped her off, but she doesn’t even blink. That’s the good thing about sisters; they only see their studly brothers as snot-nosed little brats. “We, er, had a quick thing back in LA. But it’s over now.” Suze looks at me, that knowing light in her eyes. She keeps it to herself, like a good friend, and takes another sip of margarita.
“Piece of advice: don’t try to get him back. If someone doesn’t want to be with you, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Callie sighs. “Lord, then you could maybe give the same advice to my brother. He’s still pining after this one girl something awful.”
“Callie,” Jessa says. It’s a warning. “Flowers.”
I don’t know what that code word means, but right now I don’t care.
“Flint wants someone back?” My heart starts pounding. Maybe he told Callie about me in the vaguest terms. You know? She has hair. She lives in the United States. But my stoma
ch drops when Callie says,
“Yeah, his old girlfriend. Charlotte.” She yawns and stretches. “Not to gossip, but that boy had it so bad.” Callie gets another shot of tequila and takes it without salt or lime. Okay. Maybe we want to close the tab.
“Like how bad?” I say it so casual and cool. At least, I think I do. Suze keeps looking at me, her eyes huge.
“He was going to propose.” Callie smacks her lips, enjoying the Cuervo. “Had our mother’s ring and everything. They met at Columbia, and Charlotte followed him home. At first I thought it was true love—you know, she gave up her world for him—but then she got an offer to go back to New York, and she took it like that.” Callie snaps. “Flint didn’t want to go. That was all it took. Tells you everything you need to know.”
“Does it?” I say, unintentionally bristling a little. The mention of Charlotte unnerves me, sure. All I can see is this leggy blonde Amazon with a pencil skirt and a pink cashmere sweater. But she was following her career ambitions, and Flint didn’t fit in with that. Am I supposed to hate on another woman for choosing to work?
But the fact that Flint’s still so hung up on her…I have another shot. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, staggering to the bathroom while trying not to fall down.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” Suze whispers. We look over at Callie, who is now standing next to another table singing very loudly about the girl from Ipanema. The manager is heading our way, a big, wide smile telling us that we should find another bar.
“Don’t worry,” Jessa says, putting her cell back into her hemp shoulder bag. “I called Flint. He’s on his way.”
Twenty minutes later, Flint pulls up beside the curb in his pickup. It’s going to be a hell of a time bunching in there, but I’m sure we can all manage.
“What happened to her?” he says, looking worried as we load Callie into the cab. She’s singing about the wheels on the bus now, her lipstick smeared across her cheeks, and soon falls asleep against Jessa’s shoulder. I help Suze in, and then climb up last. I have to try again, because my heel catches in the door. I’m not drunk, dammit.
“You okay?” Flint asks, leaning toward me, concern on his face. Mmm. Sexy, stubbly face. I want to rub my hands against his face and luxuriate in the beardy bliss.
I love girls’ night out.
“We’re fine,” I tell him, grinning as he puts an arm around me and helps me in. Then he gets into the truck, and we drive away. First we drop off Suze, who gives me one perfectly raised eyebrow.
“Call me tomorrow,” she says, and waves at Callie and Jessa. “Nice to meet you.”
“Blessed be,” Jessa returns, doing some kind of yoga bow while Callie snores and drools. We drop the sisters back at Callie’s house. David doesn’t look thrilled when he sees his wife, but he lets them in. So it’s just Flint and me as we head back to my hotel.
Flint and me. Sitting in a tree. T-E-Q-U-I-L-A.
Okay, the truth is, I’m not that plastered. I just have enough liquid courage in me to play the part. “Man, I’m so glad Callie took us for that night on the town,” I say, choosing my words very carefully and articulating them nicely. It’s the ‘I’m not drunk, look how not drunk I am’ way of talking.
“I think you need to go to bed,” Flint says, sounding nothing but concerned. Yes. Bed, please. Bed would be very good. Always nice to bring a friend.
In the warm buzz of tequila, my career concerns are evaporating. It’s not like we’re going to make out in front of the whole crew, for God’s sake. A little private rendezvous never hurt anybody, did it? Man, I’ve been so uptight.
And I know exactly how I need to unwind.
We get out of the truck, and I pretend to stagger a little. I’m a master trickster. “Whoa, I got you,” Flint says, lifting me up as easily as if I were only a feather. A really big feather, of course. I don’t actually need him to carry me up the stairs and into my room. But the feel of his arms around me again is too wonderful to pass up. I let my head fall back, allow every muscle in my body to relax. Flint makes a little small talk with Mrs. Beauchamp as he climbs the stairs. Tells you a lot about how close the small town is, that she doesn’t even blink when he carries me inside. Flint manages to open the door while I’m fake swooning, and takes me over to the bed. This all feels very familiar.
The blood rushes faster in my veins, and I keep my arms hooked around his neck. He smiles down at me, his face warm with tenderness. But there’s still a spark of something in his eyes. I can sense it. I know he wants this, too.
There’ve been moments, haven’t there? Moments where he’s looked at me the way he did right before our wild hookup night. He wants to do it again, doesn’t he?
And while the terrifying images of Brian Sanderson’s self-destruction keep reverberating through my brain, I know—I KNOW—that I’m more careful than Sanderson was. I can let myself have a little fun. Just this once.
“Hold on,” Flint says, reaching down and sliding my shoes off. “It’s full service here at McKay Tipsy Transportation.” I have to let him go, reluctantly. He puts the shoes next to my bed and winks at me. “All right?”
My whole body is on fire. “All right,” I say, hearing how throaty my voice sounds. I slide my arms around him again, slowly. He doesn’t pull away as I kiss him. His mouth is warm against mine, and the smell of him, the musk of his cologne, the wood from his workshop, it drives me crazy as he folds me into his arms. Every molecule in me seems like it’s on fire. His kiss is scorching, melting everything inside of me.
And just like that, he breaks it off.
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “That was a real jerk move on my part.”
“What?” I say, feeling bewildered as he slides off the bed, apology written all over his face. “No it wasn’t. It’s all right. It’s fine, everything is fine.”
“No, it’s not. You’re drunk, and taking advantage of that would be terrible. And you’ve seen how complicated things get when we…jump into things.” He shrugs.
“Flint—”
“I don’t want to keep having the same morning-after talk, about how we won’t do this again. So let’s just not. Let’s act like adults.”
His words feel like an elbow strike to the gut during Krav Maga sparring. No, worse. I’m so bowled over by being called an immature hornball that I can’t even speak.
Flint, seemingly unaware, moves toward the door. “You rest up, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns the knob and slips out before I can say anything.
I flop back onto the bed, replaying that moment over and over, trying to figure out where I went wrong, and how it all went south so fast—or didn’t go south at all. Ha. Get it? Funny me. But none of this is funny, actually. What if I just ruined everything with Flint? What if now he just thinks I’m that girl who likes to hook up when she gets drunk?
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. Dammit, what have I done?
20
The next day, I slink into work, popping a couple of aspirin and generally feeling humiliated. The bright sunlight makes my temples throb, and I groan. Why didn’t I get a pretend hangover to go with my pretend drunkenness? It’s official. I have no tolerance for tequila. Flint’s already hard at work when I step up next to him. Jerri, who’s been talking a shot through with him, walks down the hill with Raj to discuss something.
Flint looks at me. We have a moment alone. “I wanted to apologize about yesterday,” I start, but Flint instantly waves his hand.
“Don’t even think about it. Forgotten,” he says. “I’m amazed you’re able to stand this morning.” He smiles at me again, that wonderful, kind smile telling me that he doesn’t feel like he missed an opportunity. That whatever irresistible pull I’ve felt between us this whole time was all in my head. That I didn’t need to worry about repeating the Brian Sanderson fiasco, because it was never going to happen. Flint turns and cheerfully walks off, yelling to one of his men. I go over to the craft table and pour myself a strong
cup of coffee. So. That’s it, then. No big deal. Already forgotten.
Somehow, that feels so much worse.
A few days later, I’m starting to lose my mind. Every shot brings us closer to the end of our show. Closer to the time when I have to leave on a jet plane, all my words unspoken. I’d sort of hoped that there’d be a problem with construction, something that might delay us a little longer, but Flint and his crew are doing the perfect job, and the house is almost completed. They’re sanding the wood, or massaging it, whatever happens when they’re close to the finishing stage.
I’m standing with a cherry danish in hand, watching as Jerri and the crew are about to finish shooting for the day. Flint’s on the front stoop of the house, waiting to go inside. This is the moment before the ‘big reveal’ of the interior to the audience.
“All right,” Flint says to the camera. “The moment has arrived.” The camera follows him over the threshold, into the house, and then…
“Cut!” Jerri yells. Flint and the guys come back outside. She nods. Her cheeks are bright red from the cold, but she looks pleased. “All right, I think that’s the best we’re getting of the sun for the rest of the day.” She nods at the sky, where the light’s been blanketed by a sudden fleet of clouds. “McKay, I’m going to want some extra footage tomorrow, so be sure to get your beauty sleep.”
“So I’ve become a—what’d Raj call it? Lumbersexual?” he deadpans. Jerri laughs hard and pats his shoulder as she turns and heads down the hill. Flint and the others walk with her, joking and clowning around. He grins and nods at me as he passes, then leaves without a second glance. Just me up here, all alone with my rogue danish. Too bad we didn’t get more of an interior shot. I would’ve loved an excuse to wander inside.
Well, what the hell? It won’t hurt to just peek my head in. The house is solid as a rock. And after everything Flint’s drilled into us about laying a proper foundation, it better be. I open the front door and enter.