True Divide

by Liora Blake

  No matter how much I straighten my spine, it doesn’t seem to help. Tears are already brimming in the corners of my eyes. I start to speak, to tell her it was nothing, that she saved me from thinking I was completely purposeless, but before I get the words out, she grasps my hand more tightly and the pressure prompts me to stop talking.

  “Miss Lacey, my dear, I’m giving you The Beauty Barn.”

  Four hours later, I’m sitting in Matthew’s office in downtown Missoula, signing my name for what seems to be the hundredth time, and still wondering what just happened. I tried to protest. I told Ruth Ann she couldn’t, she shouldn’t.

  All I got was a terse little half reprimand that she was a million years old and could do whatever she wanted. Then she said one thing. “You earned it.”

  She gave me everything. The Beauty Barn, all the paltry cash in the business accounts, all the inventory, all the fixtures. She gave me the freaking building. She made me her beneficiary on a modest life insurance policy. I tried to tell her I had to pay something for the business, but she simply closed her eyes and waved off my protests with a tired flick of her wrist. Even though I knew she and Vernon never had kids, and she only has one spinster sister living in Florida, I never gave a thought to what would happen to her assets after she died. I thought only of how when she did, The Beauty Barn would go with her somehow, and I would have to find another job. All along, true to every bit of benevolence in her heart, she was planning to give me everything.

  After all those signatures, I’m officially a business owner now. Each time Matthew slid another paper in front of me and offered a cursory explanation, I tried to listen but couldn’t retain a word. This says you own the store. This says you own the building. This says you have rights to the business accounts. This says you own the trade name. This says you own one hundred percent of the real estate holding entity. Blah. I started thinking about that file folder of salon fantasies stashed in the back of my desk drawer, instead. And business cards. Ones that said “Owner” right under my name. In pink cursive script.

  It’s dusky already when Matthew ushers us out of his office, into a quiet hallway leading to the bank of elevators. He hands me a folder of papers and then loosens his tie a bit.

  “Are you hungry? We could grab some dinner before you head home. I know you have a long drive, but there’s this amazing new restaurant down on Higgins Avenue. Great wine list, house-made charcuterie.”

  Still dazed and fighting fatigue in my hand from all that signing, it takes a moment before I appreciate what’s going on.

  “Oh. Well, I—”

  He cuts me off with a quiet laugh. He slumps lazily into the door opening to his office, and his eyes flicker away then meet mine full-on. “I’m pretty sure Ruth Ann has been setting me up for this meeting for months now. By the time she finished telling me how beautiful, kind, and wonderful you are, I was convinced she had us registered for a china pattern already. But . . .” Smiling, he rubs the toe of his perfectly shined dress shoe across the carpet and looks down. “You’re everything she said you would be. And more. So I would love to spend some time with you.”

  Months ago, Matthew would have been perfect. The suit, the job, the look. Talking about wine lists and charcuterie. Smiling and looking me in the eye. Grown-up and gorgeous.

  But now, all those things fall flat. He isn’t wild or unrestrained; he hasn’t said the word “fuck” or talked about my ass. Evidently, I need that. I need a man who will push me to the edge and take away every comfortable thought I ever had about the perfect life. Matthew could give me the big house, the shiny car, and a credit card that magically pays itself. Still, when I look him in the eye, those warm, beautiful eyes, I don’t feel a thing. All I can do is stand here and objectively acknowledge how handsome he is and how perfect he would be for someone else.

  When I tell him thank you, but that I’m with someone, he reaches out for my hand. So soft, so smooth, Matthew is all class and polish. No rough-hewn skin, no tiny scars and patches against my palm. And, God, in feeling that perfection, I only miss Jake more.

  By the time I arrive in Crowell, it’s almost midnight. Instead of heading straight home and dropping into bed, I drive into town and unlock the store. I shimmy up and sit on the front counter, looking around at everything. All the things that are mine now.

  In the dark, it seems plain, but no matter how humble, each thing in this place belongs to me. This place, Ruth Ann’s gift to me, is the sole, individual accomplishment of my entire life. I came in here day after day and did all the things I was supposed to and in the end, they all added up to this.

  Kate may have written a bestselling novel, Trevor might be a rock star, and Jake may have been on a million adventures, but now I finally have my own piece of success. To anyone else, The Beauty Barn is nothing more than a sad little store in the center of a painfully small town. To me, it’s opportunity. The possibility of creating all the things I’ve dreamed about and more.

  Here’s what I don’t do in the coming days: tell a single, solitary soul. I don’t go by and tell Kate. I don’t tell Sandi that she’s now, technically, my employee. I don’t even tell Jake.

  It’s been two weeks and I still haven’t told anyone. Maybe I’m worried that others knowing will somehow spoil it. Whether they react too blasé, or only ask what’s next, in all likelihood, no one will say the right thing. I’m guessing no one will say “congratulations.”

  And with Jake, I can only imagine he will think just one thing. He may not say it aloud, but one thought will cross his mind.

  This means Lacey is never leaving Crowell.

  15

  My birthday falls less than one week before Valentine’s Day. I know it might sound greedy, but I always wanted both acknowledged, even though they’re so close to each other. I don’t think it’s too much to hope my birthday might warrant its own special treatment. A day where I get my way on everything for a solid twenty-four hours, because that’s what birthdays are for.

  I want that, so sue me. So when I read the subject line of Jake’s latest email, my stomach drops a bit.

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  SUBJECT: Your birthday/Valentine’s Day

  Until my eyes scan the body of the message.

  Don’t freak out. I’ve combined these two national holidays only in the email subject line. I know better than to risk your ire by acting as if they might be jointly celebrated.

  Since I can’t be with you for either, I’ll have to do my best to indulge you from a distance.

  I shipped a box your way today. Inside you will find two wrapped gift boxes. Open each one on its appropriate day. No cheating. I’ll know if you opened them both at the same time—I have my ways.

  I wish I could be there. More than you know.

  x,

  Jake

  On the day I turn thirty, before I even get out of bed, I open the box covered in yellow wrapping paper printed with little colorful balloons on it. Jake’s scrawl covers the top, in red permanent marker. Little Xs and Os, with “Happy Birthday” written in block letters. “Love, Jake” near the bottom. Gah. I might frame this wrapping paper. Carefully, I slip my finger under each edge to release it.

  Plucking off a mass of pink tissue paper inside—bonus points to him on that extra touch—I find three things: A miniscule white string bikini, a pair of wedge sandals with gold embellishments, and a long, thin gold chain. Holding the chain up, I give it a once-over. Pretty, but it’s too long to be a necklace, unless I’m supposed to twist it up to layer around my neck.

  Huh. Interesting. I lay all the items out on my bed and give them another look. No card in the box, no explanation of this gift. Perhaps he’s just saying: “I know you like clothes and shoes and girly shit, but I prefer you as close to naked as possible, so here’s a compromise?”

  When I step back, the plac
ement of the gold chain, sitting between the top and bottom of the bikini, forms recognition at the front of my mind. Did he buy me a belly chain? Really?

  Apparently, he thinks he’s dating a stripper from South Beach. Or maybe this is along the lines of the cheerleader uniform fantasy. “Here, put this on and we’ll pretend you’re working your way through college. Do you want me to put some R. Kelly on while you shake your moneymaker? Guns N’ Roses? You pick, sweetheart.”

  Perhaps I should remind him I live in Crowell. Even in the middle of summer, this exotic-dancer-on-the-beach vision of his won’t be happening.

  Kate gave me a choice: birthday lunch at Deaton’s or at her place. Since we eat at Deaton’s all the time and the unwanted appearance of a certain dust storm would ruin my special day, I chose a homemade meal. I chose wisely, because when I come inside, she has a platter of cupcakes waiting for me. Because it’s my birthday, I have one as an appetizer—then another as a palate cleanser between the salad and the roasted chicken with veggies she serves for lunch.

  After lunch, Kate disappears into the kitchen and returns with the standard-issue lit candle stuck in the center of what will be my third cupcake of the day. Despite Trevor being a musician and all, they refrain from singing, thankfully. I do have to make a wish, though. As that tiny little flame flickers out under the gust of my wish-fulfilling exhale, I ask for what I really want.

  Jake. A grown-up life. Potential. A future at The Beauty Barn that is of my own making. Things that, without the whimsical and hopeful power of birthday wishes, may not come true. At least, not all at once.

  Kate pushes a flat box festooned with a simple red ribbon my way.

  “Happy birthday, Lace.” She juts her chin in my direction while handing Nic off to Trevor. I hesitate and finger the bow. Kate snorts. “Come on, open it. When we were kids, you used to rip gifts open like they were on fire.”

  Strangely, I feel like I should shove the gift away and tell Kate about Ruth Ann giving me The Beauty Barn. Right now, before I lose my nerve again. But when Kate grins and points at the box to prompt me, I look away and tug on the end of the ribbon to pull off the top lid.

  This seems to be the year for cryptic gifts, because inside is only a glossy, full-color brochure with a white sandy beach on the front. When I lift it up, a small part of me hopes to find a gift card or something underneath. Nothing. I try to keep my face neutral as I flip the pages of the pamphlet.

  “Thank you. It’s very . . . colorful.”

  Kate snorts. “That isn’t the gift, silly.”

  Trevor slips back into the room with Nic in his arms. He makes a pointed gesture my way and looks at Kate as he does.

  “She doesn’t look excited. Why does she look like we signed her up for a marmalade-of-the-month club or something? I thought you said ten days in the Caribbean with Jake would be Lacey’s dream vacation?”

  My eyes skitter between Trevor, who looks slightly annoyed, and Kate, who just presses a palm to her forehead. “That’s because I hadn’t told her yet.”

  “Oh. What the fuck are we waiting for? We ate lunch, did the whole candle-wish thing. Let’s do this.”

  “Good God, I love you, but will you ever manage to demonstrate an iota of patience?” Kate tugs on Trevor’s free hand until he’s close enough to rest his fingers against the back of her neck.

  With a little exasperated sigh, she points to the brochure still in my hand.

  “Ten days, you and Jake, St. Lucia. Private jet, the works. Trevor said some very famous rapper I’ve never heard of got married at this resort, so it must be classy. Everything’s arranged. Sandi will cover the store while you’re gone, and Jake will fly in a day or so before on his plane. The private jet will show up the morning you leave—with another pilot. Although, I’ll tell you, Jake did not like the idea of being a passenger instead of the pilot on the charter flight. At all.”

  I haven’t said anything yet, so Trevor probably still thinks I’m disappointed. But he would be wrong. This is my flabbergasted face. Floored. Flummoxed.

  Kate continues, likely to fill the awkward silence from my side of the table. “You leave next Thursday.”

  Flipping through the brochure again, when I get to a page that shows an impossibly beautiful couple standing on a veranda next to an infinity pool, I pause. The woman is jauntily holding a fruity drink in one hand, while wearing a white string bikini, with wedges and . . . a belly chain. Before I can stop it, a giggle tumbles out.

  Le sigh. Jake.

  The laugh clears my head a bit and I find my words finally. “God, I don’t even know what to say. Thank you? This is too much, really.”

  Kate grins and tells me it’s nothing, that they wanted me to celebrate my thirtieth properly. When I turn to Trevor, he’s rocking gently on his feet to keep Nic happy, and I shake my head, because this happening is all his doing. Bestselling novelist or not, this kind of gift has rock-star bank account written all over it, so Kate certainly didn’t pony up on the bill for this.

  “Seriously, Trevor—”

  He holds a hand up to stop me. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course, yes, but it’s too much.”

  As he turns away to saunter off, Trevor calls back. “Don’t sweat it. You’re family and I think Jake’s cool. Happy birthday.”

  Three days later, I open my Valentine’s Day gift. A larger box than the birthday gift was in, this one is covered in shiny red foil wrapping paper. Pink tissue paper again, but a handwritten note is placed on top.

  Lacey,

  Since Valentine’s Day falls on a Sunday, I know you don’t have to work. I fully expect you to spend the day in bed, OK? I can’t be there with you, doing a series of very Valentine’s Day–ish things (like awkwardly serenading you with one of Jack Johnson’s revolting love songs or performing some sort of sensual massage that would most likely do nothing but creep you out), so I’ve handpicked a few things I thought you might enjoy in my absence.

  Just so you know, I’m pretty sure the kid that rang me up at Target wanted to be my Valentine when he saw my purchases. There was no explaining it, so I just let him eat me up with his eyes. He was a good-looking kid, I was flattered . . . but I’m taken.

  You and me in St. Lucia. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the fact I’ve never been there. And that resort definitely does NOT look like it rents by the hour. Can’t fucking wait to see you in that barely there bikini.

  Jake

  Underneath the tissue paper? A bag of frosted animal crackers. The latest copies of InStyle, Glamour, Cosmo, and Elle. Three romance novels with bare-chested guys in soft focus on the cover. A cowboy, a fireman, a Navy SEAL. One bottle each of body butter and bubble bath, both honey and coconut milk scented. A bottle of the prettiest shade of robin’s-egg-blue nail polish from butter London. One lavender aromatherapy candle.

  I flop back into the pillows on my bed and grin at the ceiling for the next five minutes. Eventually, once I’ve stared aimlessly and let my mind wander long enough, I decide to start this nearly perfect Valentine’s Day with a bath. My foot nudges the now-empty gift box when I go to shimmy off the bed, and when it shifts, a tiny thunk sounds from inside. Peering inside, I move a stray piece of tissue paper off the bottom and spy an eight-pack of AA batteries. I let it rattle across the bottom of the box before picking it up for inspection. Once I have it in my hands, I feel a small piece of notepaper taped to the back.

  Just two words and a smiley face:

  FOR GERARD

  The day before we head to St. Lucia, Jake arrives but doesn’t come straight to my place. Instead, he meets up with his uncle Rick and the new Mrs. Uncle Rick at Lonigan’s for a beer. Whether it’s out of another sense of familial obligation or just the sheer morbid curiosity of getting a look at the stripper-turned-happy-housewife, I’m not sure, but Jake has promised to provide a detailed account of the entire night once h
e gets here.

  When the front door creaks open, I’m already bounding down the stairs two at a time and trying not to slip in my stocking feet. At the bottom, I stop and take him in, hoping for and expecting him to grab me up in the kind of bear hug he does quite well. Jake hugs like a dying man trying to hold on: he doesn’t embrace gently or timidly, he latches on and squeezes until you think all your organs have been mushed together in one giant lump. And I kind of love it, even if it makes breathing properly a little difficult.

  Tonight, though, it doesn’t look like he’s in a hugging mood. I barely get a half smile when his bag thumps to the ground in the entryway and he lets his shoulders slump under the release.

  “Hey.”

  Not sure how one word can sound so exhausting, but in Jake’s hushed and tense voice, the tiny syllable seems to require tremendous effort. I tilt my head and narrow my eyes.

  “Uh-oh. That sounded awfully pouty. In a manly way, but still, mopey-mopey.”

  Jake slips his coat off and tosses it on top of his bag. He shrugs and runs his hand through his hair. Stepping off the stairs, I close the distance between us and slide my arms around his waist. His arms stay at his sides and the lack of response from him stings a little. Jake pulls my arms away but takes one hand in his, pulling us into the living room to flop heavily onto the couch. I crawl up and nestle in as close to him as I can.

  “Do you want a beer or something? Have you eaten?”

  He groans. “Fuck, no. No more beer. I drank three of those watery piss High Life things Rick likes, trying to play along, and I already have a headache. I also ate approximately nine hundred pretzels, trying to soak up the beer, so I’m not hungry.” Jake’s head falls to rest on the back of the couch.

  “How is Rick? The wife?”