Must Be a Mistake

by Fiona West

  “I can’t apply that to my situation.”

  “What’s your situation?”

  “Ainsley wants to have sex with me. Daniel recommended that I explain my reservations. I’m considering that advice.”

  “Communication is usually a good thing. Good practice for marriage, anyway.”

  “I don’t relish explaining myself. I don’t usually come off looking like a hero. Especially when I can’t explain exactly why.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because I don’t know!” he boomed. An older couple passing them on the street sped up, and Kyle frowned. “Maybe we should talk about this later.”

  “No, it’s okay. Look, are you attracted to her?”

  “That’s a stupid question. She’s objectively very beautiful. She’s the most beautiful woman in Timber Falls. Maybe in the whole state.”

  “Well, as long as it’s not a symptom of deeper issues between you . . . just make sure she doesn’t get the wrong impression.”

  “I’m fairly sure she’s already got the wrong impression. She had third-date expectations. She was . . . unhappy with me.”

  “So set her straight. She’s known you a long time. Surely you two won’t let something like this come between you.”

  Kyle gave him a curt nod. “No, you’re right. We shouldn’t.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  KYLE FIDGETED ON AINSLEY’S couch. He played with his keys. Anything would be better than sitting on her uncomfortable gray IKEA monstrosity, his knee bouncing uncontrollably. All it was doing was giving him time to reconsider, to doubt his decision. No. He wasn’t going to lose her over this. If this was what she needed, that’s what they’d do. She did lots of things that he needed. She hadn’t used garlic once since he’d mentioned it. Even her shirts seemed to be cotton more often on nights when they were going to be close, though that could be a coincidence. It’s not, his mind insisted. You love her. Just do this for her and get it over with. Maybe he should put on music . . . Which John was it that she liked? Was it John Legend or John Mayer? How could he have allowed this important detail to slip his mind? It was usually so faithful to trap all her little left-behind bits, all the little things she mentioned that she loved. The sound of footsteps on the stairs jerked him out of his thoughts and had him jumping to his feet.

  The front door opened, and Ainsley came in, her head down, digging through her purse for something.

  “Hey.”

  Her head snapped up, and she grinned with delight upon seeing him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Winnie let me in. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is.” She dropped her bag and hurried over to him, giving him her signature greeting of her arms around his neck. She jumped, and he caught her against him, giving her a sweet kiss. Her eyes were sparkling. “What a nice surprise.” So far, so good.

  “I made you dinner.” He led her over to the kitchen, where a steaming silver pot of red minestrone soup and fresh French bread waited. He’d thought to keep it light; he’d thought about including a salad, knowing how they both felt about the importance of vegetables, but opted to keep it simple. Who knew how their bodies would react to so much fiber; he didn’t want to be embarrassed in the throes of . . .

  “And the surprises keep coming . . .” She sniffed it. “Smells delicious, babe.”

  “My mom’s recipe.”

  Ainsley gave a gasp. “Your mom shared the minestrone soup recipe with you? The top-secret, not-outside-the-family recipe?”

  “No, I found it in her kitchen.”

  “So you stole us the recipe.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I see. Are we going to have to go on the lam now?”

  He shook his head, pulling out silverware. “On the lam?” he asked with disdain.

  She ignored him. “I can have my hair cut and dyed in an hour. We’ll travel light, set up a little roadside stand near the beach, and sell our illicit soup to weary travelers . . .”

  “Stop.” She was just making him more nervous, and their food was getting cold. The sooner they ate, the sooner they could get on with it. Or rather, get it on. “First of all, everyone knows people at the beach mostly want clam chowder from Mo’s.”

  “True.” She snagged a piece of bread and took a bite. “You think we should go farther inland?”

  “Secondly, we’re not going anywhere,” he said, steering her toward the table. “Let’s eat.”

  “Right.” She rubbed her hands together greedily. “Let’s fuel up. We’ll need the calories for our life on the run.”

  “I just said we’re not going anywhere!” he said gruffly. “Now sit down.”

  “What’s got you in a mood today?” she asked, sinking into her seat at the table. “Rough day of sleep?” She looked at her phone, frowning. “Wait, shouldn’t you be at work right now?”

  “I’m transitioning back to days.”

  Ainsley clapped her hands excitedly. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m usually serious.”

  “This is so great! Now we can actually do stuff together!”

  Speaking of which . . . He cleared his throat. “Yes. It’s good news. Now let’s eat, your food is getting cold.” My feet, too.

  She put down her bread. “Kiss me first,” she murmured. “When we get good news, we kiss. It’s a thing.”

  Since they were both sitting, it was easier than it sometimes was. In fact, it was so easy that he kissed her a bit longer than he might’ve otherwise. Touched her a bit more, too, since he wasn’t tired from a long night of work. Being with her was a comfort; he’d spent all day thinking about her. He relished the sweet little noises she was making now, as she climbed into his lap. Wait, no. We have to eat first. She wasn’t sticking to the script . . . which was probably unfair, because she hadn’t seen the script. Next time, maybe he would email her a copy of the night’s agenda with time for amendments. That would prevent misunderstandings like this.

  “Did Winnie say when she’d be back?” she murmured as she kissed his neck.

  “Out all night,” he breathed. Kyle nuzzled her with his nose, searching for her lips against his again, pressed her harder, and their tongues tangled like two salmon he’d once seen spawning. They were just as wet, too. Kissing was really weird; good, but weird.

  God, she was really going after him . . . It felt good. Really good. Her hands skimmed over his chest, moving restlessly. He could taste her desperation on his tongue, and guilt gnawed at him. He should’ve done this earlier. No matter. He’d do it now. Ainsley squeaked as he stood up, supporting her under her legs. She wouldn’t see the rose petals he’d scattered in the hallway if he was carrying her, but he didn’t dare stop her now. He crushed them under his socked feet as he marched down the hallway toward her bedroom. Things were moving in the right direction, and objects in motion tended to stay in motion . . . Did sex have its own physics, or did it mirror the rest of the natural world? If he stopped her now, he was fairly sure it would require some friction . . . but not the kind she was looking for. Not the kind he’d committed to if he wanted to keep her. And he wanted to keep her very, very badly.

  He’d scattered more rose petals on her denim down comforter; he’d had to make the bed first, but then he’d scattered them. He didn’t love what a slob she was, but maybe when he lived with her, he could reform her. It hadn’t worked with any other facet of her personality, but he would try nonetheless. She was clawing at his shirt as he laid her gently on the bed, and he shucked it off for her. Her hands against his skin were hot, and it ratcheted up his desire another notch. Her mouth never stopped moving against his; she probably didn’t even realize she was groaning. Poor girl. Well, she’d feel better in a few minutes, hopefully. He’d done significant research and was confident he could help her. He moved to unbutton her jeans (thank God for casual Friday; she could’ve been wearing something much more complicated), and she stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Her gaze was hazy and heated when it met his, her lips redd
er than usual from his kisses. He loved seeing her like that, and it spurred him on.

  “What are you doing?” she breathed.

  That didn’t, though.

  Isn’t it obvious? Kyle didn’t answer; he’d already decided that since he knew she wanted this very much, he didn’t need to stop unless she asked him to. Flipping her shirt up, he kissed her stomach, and she sighed, threading her fingers into his hair, gently scratching his scalp. She felt good, tasted good, even. That surprised him a little. Maybe this wouldn’t be as hard as he’d thought.

  “Kyle, honey? What’s happening here?” Now that her mouth wasn’t occupied, her brain seemed to have re-engaged as well. Crap. “Are these . . . rose petals? When did you light candles?”

  “They’re electric. Real is a hazard,” he murmured against her skin as he came back up to kiss her neck. Apparently, it had been a mistake to leave her top half unattended. If she was distracted enough, she wouldn’t ask questions or make him remember or recant what he’d said before about this. His own words slammed back into him like a battering ram: 91 percent effective. Look at Starla and Charlie. I can see us together. Can’t you? That future was what had given him pause: When his father had explained sex to him as a kid, he’d told him that he should wait until he was married. It didn’t matter now that he knew other people did things differently; an order had been established in his mind. And he found that very difficult to subvert in any context.

  “Kyle?”

  “I changed my mind,” he said, kissing back toward her mouth. “I want you.” Technically true. “I want to have sex with you. Now.” He tried to go in for another sultry kiss, but she turned her face away. Uh-oh.

  “Did you?” she asked lightly, scratching his back with her fingernails gently. “Talk me through that decision, will you?”

  “Sure,” he said, resting his body against hers, hoping to distract her again. “I thought about it, and you’re right. There’s no reason to wait.” He kissed her again, and she let him, but the heat wasn’t there. Damn it. He felt sweaty and panicky; this wasn’t going at all how he’d planned it. He wasn’t sure he could work himself up again like this anytime soon if it wasn’t going to happen tonight. And her roommate was out tonight. The pressure felt like a vise on his skull. This is it, this is the perfect time. It has to be now.

  “What about contraception? You had concerns . . .”

  “No, it’s fine. It’ll be fine.” His brain thundered at him like cannon fire at his blatant disregard for the facts. 91 percent effective. Nine in a hundred couples will become parents. Aiden was a surprise. He wanted to cover his ears against the thoughts, but he tugged at her shirt instead, losing patience. “Take this off. Come on.”

  “Okay,” she said gently, putting her hand over his. “Okay, I will take it off. But first, I want to hear that you’re ready to be a parent.”

  He tried. He tried to force out the words that he knew were a lie, but his lips just twitched and twisted, remaining firmly shut. Ainsley smiled at him, the blush on her cheeks still high.

  “Oh, honey,” she whispered, pulling him down to rest his head on her chest. He lay on top of her lush body, and she held him against her. The tension he’d felt began to retreat; their hearts and their breaths synchronized, both slowing.

  “You need this. You need me,” he mumbled into her shirt. “And I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy,” she said, stroking his hair. “I’m so very happy with you, sweetheart. I’ve never laughed so much or been fussed over with such care. Your grumpy butt is my favorite.”

  “But sex . . .”

  “‘But sex’ nothing, babe.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “You’re not doing this just because I want it. That’s manipulative and cold. I don’t want that, okay? I don’t want it. Don’t want you walking around worrying that we’ve made a person too soon, stressing out over it.”

  “Not just that,” he muttered. “It’s out of order.”

  She was silent for a moment, and he heard the uncertainty in her voice. “Because we should get married first?”

  “Yes.” He sat up, propped up on one elbow. “I’m sorry. Once I establish an order in my mind, it’s very hard to erase it.”

  “I understand,” she said, bringing his palm to her lips for a soft kiss. “It’s fine. Really.”

  He collapsed onto her again, burying his face into her neck. How had he lucked out, getting a partner like her? Tears stung his eyes, and he sniffled.

  “Kyle, honey?”

  “Our evening is ruined,” he announced, his voice thick with emotion, and he tried to clear his throat. “I’ll just go home.” He felt her cheek curve as she broke into a grin.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I know how to salvage it.” That teasing lilt in her voice . . . what was she thinking? What could she possibly—oh. Wait.

  “No,” he said, sitting up, looking around for his shirt.

  “Oh, come on. Please?” She put her hand on his arm, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “No.”

  “Not all three. Just one, just the first one. You said you wanted me to be happy. This would make me very, very happy . . .”

  “Why? Watching tiny, hairy men carry a dumb ring through mortal peril? How is that entertaining in the least?”

  “Not all of them are tiny. Some of them are human-sized.” Ainsley sat up, her hands together in a prayer pose. “Please? Please? Please?” She modulated each repetition to a different pitch, as if trying to find a frequency he could hear. “You kind of owe me.”

  Kyle pulled on his shirt and ran a hand through his hair to straighten it again. “Fine. One movie.” Ainsley tackled him back to the bed, squealing her happiness, and even though his heart warmed to see her joy, the squealing seemed excessive.

  She took his face in her hands and gave him a loud smack on the cheek. “Kyle, you are going to lose your virginity tonight. Your Lord of the Rings cherry is about to be popped.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ON WEDNESDAY, AFTER school, Ainsley dropped by Bilqiis’s apartment to hang out. She hadn’t seen her much since the grocery store incident, and she wanted to find out if anything like that had happened again. She had connections in the community; she could do something about it. She set her bag on Bilqiis’s couch, then dropped herself into a chair at the kitchen table. It was quiet. Too quiet.

  “Where’s Fawzia?”

  “Oh.” Bilqiis carried a ceramic pot of tea to the table and set it on a folded towel. “Today, she learned some sad news. She wanted to be alone.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “One of the children in her class will have a birthday party this weekend. She invited all the class except Fawzia.”

  Anger sparked hot in Ainsley’s chest. “Do the parents know? Surely they don’t condone that kind of . . .”

  Bilqiis looked at her sadly, still smiling. “It is the hardest thing for me,” she said softly. “Mr. Zane is difficult, too, but this kind of hurt, exclusion . . . people she thought were her friends proving otherwise. It is harder. Hard to see her suffer. I know how she feels.”

  Ainsley did a little bit, too. Not to the same extreme; her own exclusion was due to her own social stupidity . . . but Fawzia? What had she done? This sweet, energetic girl who loved to just run? What could she possibly have done to deserve being the only one not invited? She wanted to invent excuses for these parents . . . perhaps they thought their food wouldn’t be something Fawzia would like or be allowed to eat, knowing that Islam had certain dietary conventions. But really, if they’d just asked, they’d have learned that nothing they planned to serve would likely cause a problem. They just didn’t want her there. And they didn’t care if she found out that she wasn’t invited.

  “May I talk to her?”

  Bilqiis nodded, sipping her tea, gesturing with her head toward the hallway with the bedrooms. “Please, go ahead.”

  Ainsley quietly crept down the hall and knocked on the young girl’s door.


  “What, Hooyo?”

  “It’s Ainsley,” she said, then remembered Bilqiis’s rules about addressing adults. “It’s Miss Buchanan.”

  “Come in.”

  Light from the hall flooded the floor of the dark room as she opened the door. A poster of a young Black woman wrapped in an American flag and holding an Olympic medal featured prominently above her bed. The rest of the furnishings and the plain brown sheets didn’t seem to fit Fawzia’s rainbow sense of style whatsoever, and the country-style log cabin quilt felt more appropriate for an eighty-year-old than an eight-year-old. Fawzia sat tucked in the corner of the room, clutching a unicorn pillow, her eyes puffy and red.

  Ainsley sat on the edge of the bed. “Who’s that on your poster?”

  Fawzia’s mouth dropped open. “Allyson Felix. You don’t know Allyson Felix, Miss Buchanan?”

  “I guess not. Can you tell me about her?” Ainsley surveyed the wall; there were other pictures—some in hijab, some not, all black, all women, all athletes.

  The girl hopped up, the pillow forgotten. “She went to the Olympics at eighteen and won second in the 200 meters. That’s what I want to do.”

  “You want to take second?” Ainsley teased gently, and Fawzia shook her head, holding back a smile.

  “I want to represent Somalia in the Olympics, even if I do it as an American. I want to be like Samia Yusuf Omar. She was sixteen.”

  “That’s a big dream,” she replied, not adding for a refugee. It was a big dream for anyone, frankly. But if anyone could pull it off, she believed Fawzia could. She’d made the mistake of challenging her to a footrace at the beach and been soundly trounced; the kid was like nothing she’d ever seen, even barefoot on the sand. It was like her legs took on a different state of matter when she ran; she was liquid. She flew. “I didn’t know Somalia had ever had athletes participate in the Olympics.”