Want You Back

by Lulu Pratt

  He rolled his eyes in annoyance, but then quickly glanced sideways, as if pre-penitent.

  “What, what is it?” I pressed. “You’re making a face. Was I too on the money? Aw, man, if you really are sick, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be a—”

  “No, no, that’s not it,” he said, cutting me off. Fair enough. Sometimes I opened my slick mouth and it took a damn dishrag to stop it again. I’d stepped on my own toes that way more than once. Or would it be more apt to say ‘put my foot in my mouth’?

  He loosened his tie as I leaned back against the wood, and continued, “I came down here because, if you’d let me finish, I was trying to explain that I’m asking for, er, a little extra.”

  “Is it my body? You want my body, don’t you?” I said playfully. “I knew it, you’ve always been making eyes at me—”

  “Argh, Jacob! Pipe down!” he almost roared.

  Okay, that was a larger than usual outburst, but I tried not to take it personally — after all, heat makes the office boys go crazy. I mimed zipping my lips up and throwing away the key.

  “Go ahead,” I replied, upright and composed as a church lady.

  “Didn’t you just indicate perfect silence?”

  “Oh. Right. Wait a sec.”

  I elaborately motioned putting a padlock around my lips, clamping it into place and tossing a much heavier key. I think it was probably lost on Tom, but sometimes you have to do the art for the sake of the art.

  “Good,” he sighed, relieved at my momentary lapse into silence. “Now here’s the favor. I — meaning Joe and I — need you to bring a partner to Jacksonville this weekend.”

  I motioned to my lips, and Tom nodded, giving me permission to speak. I proceeded to carefully undo the imaginary lock on my lips, but Tom interrupted with:

  “Just talk, dammit.”

  I grinned. Getting under Tom’s thin skin was half the fun of our friendship. “Tom, I own Got Wood Inc. by myself, you know that. I don’t have a partner to bring. In fact, wish I had a partner. Would probably help lighten the load, proverbially and otherwise.”

  Tom’s company, Pillers, had hired my company out for two years now. I did framing for all their big jobs — condominiums, office complexes, so on and so forth. It’d been a good relationship from the jump, and it turned out it was way easier to work almost exclusively with one large company than to bounce back and forth between a variety of bosses. After all, I owned my own business because I didn’t like having bosses, period. I could manage with just one guy, especially one I liked, but any more than that and I started to chafe.

  As the jobs grew bigger, of course, I thought it might’ve been nice to bring someone else in, but then we’d be splitting the money and, though Tom paid me fairly, it wasn’t nearly enough, considering I was supporting more than just myself. On the other hand, maybe a partner could help me grow, flesh the business out.

  Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, all this to say — Tom knew that I ran Got Wood sans partner. I was beginning to reevaluate my early joke about light head trauma when he proffered an explanation.

  “Not that kind of partner, you doofus,” Tom said huffily. “The romantic kind. I assume you’re familiar with the concept?”

  “I’ve heard tell of it,” I replied distantly, the gears of my mind already turning.

  “Good. Do you have one?”

  “A concept?”

  “A partner.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “You know I don’t, we’ve covered this before.”

  Tom nodded. “I remember. Though if a guy like you can’t get a girl, we’re all screwed.”

  While Tom and I were friends, it didn’t seem workplace-appropriate now, or ever, to tell him the truth, which was that I could get a girl, just not the girl. And what was the big deal, making me think about such painful shit while on the job?

  Without going into grisly details, let’s just say there was this woman two years back who I screwed up with, in a big, royal, ‘no takebacks’ kinda way. You can’t even imagine this girl — smart, funny, drop dead gorgeous. God, even thinking of her makes my heart — and if I’m being frank, my pants — tighten. She was the sort of girl where, if you saw her standing next to me, you’d go, “What the hell is she doin’ with that bum?” And they were right. Suppose it’s for the best, for her, that things ended, so she didn’t get pulled further into my hurricane of a life.

  Since then, there’d been a chick or two, I’m no slouch, but no one close to “romantic partner.” It was embarrassing, the whole thing. It wasn’t like we stood a chance in hell of getting back together — I didn’t even have her phone number or email address, and I sure as shit wasn’t on social media — so just moping around, waiting for her and acting like a wounded puppy wasn’t a very impressive approach. Did I say waiting for her? I meant… um… well, I don’t know what I meant. Something different.

  I hope.

  Anyhow, Tom’s face was spreading wide with a grin, which was never a good sign.

  “Yes?” I asked, knowing he was waiting to be goaded into a reveal.

  “Of course I knew you don’t have a girlfriend,” he said simply. “You think I don’t listen when you talk? Come on, I’m a good bro. But so here’s what we’re gonna do. I already figured you didn’t have a steady gal, so I’ve set you up with one.”

  My whole body seemed to heave a profound sigh. “No, thanks.” Tom had a lovely wife, but so far as I knew, if he were left to his own devices, he’d stray towards the exotic dancer variety of gal. Not my bag.

  “It’s just for the weekend, Jacob.”

  “I have to go on a blind date for a whole weekend?!” I exclaimed, already gearing up for a fight. “Hell no. Pass. You would do that to a friend? Sheesh, what ever happened to the bro code?”

  He waved his hands in a pacifying way, the sleeves of his suit flapping. “Oh, Jesus, no. Not a blind date, a fake one.”

  I leaned forward, crossing my arms over my chest and saying, “I don’t take your meaning.”

  “There’s a woman in the company who can go with you. She doesn’t have a date either and she’s already agreed to the whole thing. We need you both there, and this Charles guy goes in hard for the whole ‘family values’ thing. The only thing the two of you have to do — in fact, the only thing you’re allowed to do, under Pillers company policy — is pretend to be in a relationship. Makes us look good. It’s only for a few days, and she’s a pleasant young lady.”

  He paused, and took a breath, then continued, “So? What’d ya say?”

  I considered it briefly. On the one hand, this would be awkward. What do fake couples do? Fake hand holding, fake kissing? How far did I have to fake go with this woman to make it believable? Would we be required to share a bed? That would be the worst, because as a gentleman, I’d be obligated to then sleep on like a nearby chair, or the floor, because it goes without saying you cannot force yourself into the bed of a stranger, even if she is your fake girlfriend slash partner slash wife.

  If this really was just an elaborate charade for the client, who was I to say no? It was no skin off my arse. It was probably just some woman from accounting who ate bagels from mall shops and had a thing for parrots. Tom had a shitty taste in women, but he was a pretty accurate judge of character. I’m sure she was nobody I couldn’t stand for a few days. And besides, Pillers was my biggest client. This wasn’t the hill I wanted to die on.

  “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll do it.”

  Tom punched a fist in the air. “Yes, perfect! I’ll text Joe.” He pulled out his phone and began to turn away.

  “Oh, and Tom?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, back in my direction. “Yeah?”

  “Make sure she doesn’t bring any noisy birds.”

  His entire face crumpled with confusion. “What the fuck?”

  I shook my head. He wouldn’t understand the mythical woman from accounting and her flock. “Never mind. I’ll see you in Jacksonville.”

  Ch
apter 3

  Sierra

  OKAY, I HAD everything — toothbrush, make-up, clothes, shoes (both sensible and ridiculous), a book (sensibly ridiculous)… what was I forgetting?

  Shit. A hairy body brushed up against my leg and I remembered — the dog.

  I knelt down to give Ginger a pet on her scrunchy little forehead. She was a black Frenchie, and though perfectly portable on flights, not welcome to board this one.

  “Sorry,” I murmured as I scratched under her ears. “You’re not coming. But you’re gonna have so much fun with your Aunt Florence.”

  If she’s available and doesn’t hate me for giving her zero notice, I added mentally.

  I typed out a quick, pleading message to Flo, explaining that I was going out of town and could she please please watch Ginger? Flo, my best friend and informal dog sitter, was always happy to spend time with Ginger. Who wouldn’t be? Flo took her compensation in cuddles, face licks and helping to finish off any half-empty bottles of white in the fridge.

  My phone buzzed.

  Sure, she’d texted back.

  Phew. I placed my hand over my racing heart, and took a breath. It had been a long time since I had gone away for even the night.

  “Okay, Sierra,” I muttered to myself. “Now that you’re done leaving your head in a different room than your body, you all set?”

  One more scan of my luggage confirmed that I was, indeed, set. Generally speaking, it wasn’t a very fun bag. I’d packed for work, not play. Sure, there’d probably be a pool, and fancy dinners, but I was going to represent the company, which meant I had to be fairly conservative in my clothing choices. Or just choices in general. “Family values,” and all that. I’d have to summer in the Hamptons with my girlfriends some other time. For now, I settled on throwing a cute set of lingerie into the bag, as a little pick-me-up treat for myself — not like anyone else would be seeing it. Sometimes, a girl’s gotta splurge on a bit of lace.

  I arrived at the airport an hour later. On the cab ride over, my nerves about the trip itself had died down and my anxiety about the actual presentation had ratcheted up. It was mostly finished, but there were still a few things that wanted fixing.

  As my cab pulled up to the curb, I spotted Joe and his wife Amy and gave them a friendly wave. Joe nodded back, but Amy waved her hand energetically — she’d always been the nicer of the two, the sweet to his sour. They balanced each other out well, I’ll give them that, though I did wish Joe could pick up just a smidge of his wife’s cheery disposition.

  “You need help with your bag?” Joe asked as I opened the door.

  I began to say “no, thank you” but he was already popping the trunk and grabbing it, and before I could say anything, Amy was grabbing me.

  “Hi, sugar,” she said, her large, warm arms enveloping me. “Been a minute since we chatted.”

  “I know!” I replied. “But hey, we’ve got a whole weekend to catch up.”

  She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows, revealing the blue eyeshadow smudged thickly across her lids, and replied, “Sure, if Joe doesn’t steal you away the whole time.”

  Laughing, I said, “How about you pass that on to your husband?”

  Her eyes twinkled with mirth. “Why, funny you should say it, I already have.”

  She linked her arm into mine as Joe added my bag to his luggage cart, and we strode into the airport together.

  The plane ride passed smoothly. Amy and I shared some pretzels and a trashy magazine, and that was about all we had time to do before we were back on solid ground. I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment and we made our way out of the terminal.

  “Should I hail a cab?” I asked Joe and Amy, gesturing towards the line of bright yellow cars that stood in a semblance of a line.

  Joe shook his head. “Actually, I think Charles sent someone over.”

  Surprised, I replied, “Like, a car?”

  He shrugged. “Guess so.”

  He was just about to add something else when a man in a black suit standing a few yard away flagged us down with the brisk wave of a hand and a sign that read ‘Pillers.’ Ah — the mysterious driver.

  “Hello,” the be-suited man said. “The limo is parked just around the corner.”

  “Limo?!” I yelped.

  “Is that a problem?” the man asked, concern setting into his wrinkles. “Because I can—”

  “No, no,” I clarified quickly. “That’s the opposite of a problem.”

  “Excellent. Follow me.”

  The driver, as promised, led us around a corner to where a large, black stretch limo was idling.

  I pulled Amy close to my side and whispered, “Honey, this weekend may be fun after all.”

  She giggled, and we clambered in to the limo, our limbs sprawling as we tried to shift on the long leather seats. Sure, a limo’s a little flashy — I could already see my dad shaking his head — but I can appreciate luxury.

  We poured ourselves glasses of cool water from the built-in bar and settled back for a short ride.

  Suburban developments flew by past the window, large swaths of land devoted to nothing but the stale American dream. I was surprised to feel a sudden pang of yearning in my chest for the backwoods of the South, the Spanish moss that dominated everything in sight, the fireflies that would gladly rest in the lip of your mason jar. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. This, Jacksonville? Felt like it belonged on The Bachelor — it was all manufactured within an inch of its life.

  I was too busy disdainfully considering the surroundings to realize that we’d pulled to a stop.

  “Sierra,” Amy gasped. “Look.”

  She rolled down the tinted window and pointed a manicured finger at the house.

  Or rather, the mansion.

  This thing wasn’t a house. It was a behemoth that looked to be about the size of a football field, maybe larger, and stretched beyond what I could see with just my two blue peepers. The place — I don’t think even ‘mansion’ suits it, so I’ll settle with ‘palace’ — appeared to be done up in the style of Versailles — heavily washed cream bricks, a long, winding, gravel driveway, a heap of windows to let the light in. It had been incongruously plucked out of the French countryside and dropped on the coast of Florida.

  “What the hell?” I breathed, at a loss for words.

  Joe gave it a quick glance and tried his best to look unimpressed. Bless his heart. It must be hard, being a man and pretending like you don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Amy, meanwhile, was over the moon, clapping her hands together and jumping around in her set, causing it to squeak.

  “Can you believe it?” she cried. “Isn’t it just the height of romance?”

  I nodded. It would be romantic — if I wasn’t here on a business trip with my entire company, on which the fate of my employment hung in the balance. Under these circumstances, it was hard to find the joie de vivre in anything, even a fabulous home that was almost submerged in a maze of rose gardens.

  “All right, all right,” Joe interrupted, perhaps feeling inadequate in the shadow of such wealth. “Enough cooing, let’s get a move on.”

  He threw open the door and we unfolded from the car, stretching our legs in the humid air.

  The driver managed to heft all three of our bags and instruct us to follow his lead.

  We were guided through the aforementioned rose bushes, which would put Sleeping Beauty’s castle to shame, and around a small lake with lily pads and a marble fountain, which spurted water from the mouths of tiny stone fish. After a good five-minute walk, we at last arrived at the front door, a massive number that looked like it wanted a drawbridge. The doors, some fifteen feet high each with massive brass handles, swung open at the touch of the driver’s key.

  We entered, Joe with feigned comfort and Amy and I with obvious trepidation.

  “Can you believe this?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “I’d think it was a dream but my dreams don’t usually include Joe.”


  She giggled and replied, “Good.” She lowered her voice, and added conspiratorially, “By the by, your ‘partner’ will be here shortly. I’m not sure who it is, but Joe said to remind you to play it cool. You’re supposed to have been with this guy for a couple of years.”

  Nodding, I replied, “Got it. I know how to put on a show.”

  Amy grinned and opened her mouth to reply when she was interrupted by a bellow.

  “Oh, excellent,” a voice called out from the foyer. “Come in.”

  I turned my neck to follow the sound and saw at the top of the grand stairs a tall, thickly built man, maybe in his mid-seventies, with white hair, a white beard and white suit accented in bursts of yellow — a yellow watch, yellow loafers and yellow belt. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a refined, extravagant Colonel Sanders. I knew from my sleuthing that this must be Charles Forsyth III.

  “Greetings,” he thundered, his voice resonating in the cavernous space. He stood next to a painting of a young woman in eighteenth-century clothing on a swing, mid-flight, her shoe sailing through the air as she gazed at a man below her. I had no doubt it was authentic.

  “Hey,” Joe replied, business-like but not obsequious. “We’re here from Pillers.”

  “I know who you are,” he grinned. “I’m Charles — pleasure to meet you at last.”

  Joe nodded. “Pleasure is ours.”

  “Would you like to get settled in?” he asked, his fingers coming to rest on an iron balustrade.

  “Yes, please,” I interjected. Joe shot me a look but Charles smiled breezily.

  “Excellent.”

  He strode down the stairs, his loafers moving soundlessly across their marble tops, and arrived in front of us at the bottom. Now that he was on our level, I could see that my original impression of him being tall was accurate — he must’ve been at least six-seven, perhaps taller. What an unusual man, I thought. Or, as my mother would say, ‘a character.’