by Laura Carter
Millie swoops in from the garden, carrying empty beer bottles and glasses to be refilled. Her usual Converse—today’s red—match her jeans. She calls them her “Mommy shoes”—reliable and comfortable.
“Hi. I’m Becky, obviously.” The way her words come out, babbled, I’d guess my family has her flustered. As if she’s found an emergency exit from the rollercoaster line she really didn’t want to be in, she lifts the box that she had taken from her bag outside. “I brought dessert.” She hands over the plastic container. Now I understand the bribes comment. Nice diversion, Cupcake.
My mother opens the box on the counter. Inside is a selection of Becky’s restaurant cakes that I recognize. She has decorated them just as she would if they were being served in Edmond’s place.
“These are exquisite,” my mother tells her. “They must have cost you a small fortune. You shouldn’t have. I’m just grilling tonight.”
“Oh, no, they didn’t cost anything but the price of some flour and sugar. I’m a patisserie chef. I made them myself.”
My mother and sister look at the cakes and back at Becky. “You made these?” Millie asks.
Pride fills my chest. “Wait until you taste them. The purple one is incredible.”
“That’s Drew’s favorite,” Becky says, smiling at me. We share the briefest moment, and in it, I love that she knows something about me that no one else knows. “Plus, I hear it’s a special birthday barbeque. I couldn’t turn up without a birthday cake.”
“Well, it’s very sweet of you. Son, why don’t you take your bags upstairs, and I’ll show Becky around the house and introduce her to the family.” The anxiousness I felt as we arrived is back. Becky’s opinion matters to me. I realize it matters a lot, and I’m worried what it might be.
“Which room will Becky sleep in?” I ask, trying to mask the apprehension I’m feeling.
“Your room, of course,” my mother says.
My room. They’ve really never changed it since I left for college, despite my quarterly visits. “I’ll be sleeping on the sofa,” I say for Becky’s ears.
“You don’t have to do that. This is your home. I’ll take the sofa.”
“You’re both adults.” Well, I thought it was for Becky’s ears. “Can’t you just share the double?” Millie asks, knowingly trying to cause trouble as she leaves the kitchen for the outdoor deck. I scowl when she sticks out her tongue across her shoulder.
I take the bags upstairs and find myself standing in the middle of my unchanged bedroom. Everything is blue, from the walls, to the wooden desk and the lamp that sits on top of it. Even the rim of the corkboard that’s covered in high school pictures is blue. Mortified, I unpin a few of the more tragic pictures—mostly Brooks and I flipping the bird or pulling shirtless poses for the camera. One particularly cringe-worthy one of me topless with a tie knotted around my forehead is first to be stuffed into the drawer of my desk.
Then I look around the room at the multitude of certificates and trophies that I’ve won for sports and academic honors. Some less embarrassing. Others, like the “No.1” trophy for the state spelling bee in eighth grade, more embarrassing. I contemplate hiding everything before my reputation is obliterated. I could even pretend Millie’s bedroom is mine. Pink beats the hell out of this old crap.
“Your home is beautiful.” Becky and Mom are at my bedroom door, and there’s no time for me to fix anything. So much for Drew Clooney-Harrington. More like Alfalfa from The Little Rascals.
Becky glances from my look of dread to the walls of the room. Her gaze lands on a giant poster of Melanie Finlay. The model—who was seriously hot when I was eighteen—is naked, but for the whipped cream covering her three important parts.
Becky brings her fingertips to her lips. “Cute.”
“I can only apologize. Mom, we really need to talk about you redecorating this room.”
My mother wafts a hand dismissively. “I’m just pleased you can finally understand how traumatic it is for a mother to have a randy teenage son. I’ll see you both downstairs. I need to check that Uncle Jack isn’t making charcoal of my meat.”
When we’re alone, Becky turns to me, her fingertips still pressed across her lips, failing to disguise her mocking grin.
“Come on. I was eighteen.”
“Melanie Finlay though, seriously?”
“As if you didn’t have the Backstreet Boys pinned up all over your bedroom.”
“You’re such a loser, Drew Harrington. I’d bet the real estate partners would vote for you in a minute if they could see what a freak you are.” Now she’s laughing, hard, and I can’t help joining in. She’s so damn beautiful when she laughs.
Killing that thought, I make for the door. “If you want to clean up, the bathroom is along the hall.”
“Thank you. And thanks for bringing me here, Drew. I know you don’t invite people here often.” She steps toward me. So close she’s looking up at me in her flat shoes. “I also think I know why. And, for the record, I don’t think you should worry. This home, your family, you should cherish them.”
I swallow hard. How does this woman see through me like my skin is made of glass?
“This place is amazing. I adore it. It’s so full of…love. And your family is incredibly sweet.”
Now I feel ridiculous and guilty in equal measure. I should have known she’d react this way. God, everything about this woman is good. So much better than me.
Her gaze drops to my lips, my own eyes falling to hers. I want to kiss her. Every bone in my body wants me to press my lips to hers. To feel that soft, plump flesh.
Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Her long-term relationship. My bid for named partner.
“You think my family is sweet because you haven’t met Uncle Jack yet.”
Her eyes flicker. She smiles. This time, it doesn’t fill her cheeks. “Actually, I have. He’s great, although I’m not sure he’s the best choice of chef. I think it’s possible your Aunt Kathleen did a little bottom wind when she shook my hand too.”
And on that note, I drag myself away from her and outside to the yard.
Everyone is sitting on plastic furniture around the small lawn and on the deck. Between the row of houses running parallel to ours, we can see the coastline, now lit only by street lights.
The barbeque is loaded with meat. Salads, potatoes and sauces fill the outside dining table. Wine and beer are flowing. My mother and Millie are telling Aunt Kathleen and Aunt Nellie all about Becky’s patisserie skills. Uncle Jack, Uncle Frank and my dad are standing around the barbeque—Uncle Jack in an apron that shows a naked man sporting a ripped torso. Uncle Geoffrey looks like he’s fighting to stay awake, his bottle of beer leaning to one side in his hand. My brother-in-law, Eddie, is appeasing Annalise and Timmy, playing ball on the lawn. He holds up his beer in acknowledgment.
My mother catches my eye and gives me the kind of look that says, You’re in love. “Stop it. Right now,” I tell her, my voice not sounding as determined as I mean it to. And I do mean it to sound very determined. I am not in love. That’s insane. Becky’s a great girl. I’m quickly starting to think the best, in fact. But, first, I don’t do falling in love. I do my career. Second, well, I don’t need to keep reminding myself that neither of us is looking for a relationship, and one crazy night of hot, sweaty, mind-blowing…Nope, not happening!
Ignoring her, I spend some time chatting with my aunts and uncles. When Becky comes out back, I pull up a chair for her next to mine. We eat and talk, laughing and joking through the night. After midnight, the aunts and uncles leave, the kids are asleep, my dad is also asleep—or passed out from beer and sugar, since he took out the majority of Becky’s cakes himself.
“Well, let’s get these two to bed,” Millie says, nudging Eddie, who is holding both sleeping kids on his lap.
“Us too,” my mother says through a yawn. “W
ake up, Bill, you old man.”
My dad snorts, or snores. His legs kick out reflexively when my mother tips back his chair. “Jesus, woman. Are you trying to kill me?”
After we say our goodnights, Becky and I clear the remaining glasses and empty bottles away. When I bring the trash bag outside, she is standing on the deck. Her long hair blows in the gentle breeze, her arms are folded across her chest, her head is tipped back. “It’s a beautiful night. The moon is so pretty and I can see the stars. I haven’t seen this much from the city.”
I ditch the trash and move to stand beside her. “There’s a lot less artificial light here. Do you want another drink?”
She shuffles an inch so her shoulder is pressed to my arm. I have no idea whether it’s an intentional move, but her touch warms me, even through my shirt. “That would be nice.”
I bring us each a glass of red wine and move two reclining lawn chairs to the edge of the deck. Mostly, we sit in silence, staring at the stars.
“If you had one wish, only one in the entire world, what would it be?” she asks.
“One wish?” I turn my head so we’re looking at one another. In this moment, I’d wish I could give you more than one night. I’d wish you weren’t running from a long-term relationship. I’d wish that we could spend one night together and still be friends the next day. “I’m not sure. What would you wish?”
She stares at me, her expression unreadable. I wonder if she had any of the same thoughts as me. Eventually, her eyes wrinkle as her lips tip upward. “I’m not sure.”
She moves the hand that isn’t holding her wineglass and rubs her opposite arm.
“Let me get a blanket,” I say, happy to break the intensity of the moment between us. Trying not to wonder what she was just thinking.
I open the storage unit on the decking, which usually has blankets inside but tonight is empty. “Damn it, they’re usually in here.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
I stand behind her and notice the small bumps on her skin. “You have goosebumps, Becky.”
I take a seat in my lounge chair and recline a little more. “Come here.”
Without hesitation, she climbs onto my seat and nestles her head in my shoulder. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the night sky. Maybe it’s being here that brings home how lonely the city can be sometimes. Whatever the reason, I’m more than happy to have Becky in my arms.
At some point we must have fallen asleep because I wake as dawn is breaking. I’m cold but not unbearably so. Becky is snuggled tight into my chest and her face is nothing short of divine. Her eyelids are closed. Her cheeks are relaxed. Her hair has fallen across her shoulder and rests on her chest. Knowing she’s asleep, I don’t fight the urge to press my mouth to her skin. I hold her tighter and bring my lips to her temple.
I lie awake, wondering if it would be so bad if I tried more than one night with this woman.
The problem is, I’m starting to think the risk of losing her is worse than the possibility of being distracted by her.
And she is looking for a friend. Only a friend.
For now, I rest my cheek on her head and let myself drift again.
* * * *
“Rise and shine!”
I open my eyes, and Becky darts upright on my lap at the sound of my dad’s too-loud-for-this-time-of-day voice.
“I’d bet you two could use a hot drink,” he says, holding out two cups of coffee. “Your mother put the machine on especially.”
Becky twists on my lap as she takes hold of a mug. I take the other from him but with my free arm, I stop Becky from leaving my lap. I sense her eyes on me but I decide to ignore them.
“Christ, Pops, what are you wearing?”
He looks down over his blue striped two-piece pajama set. “Ah, I knew it.” He looks at Becky and shakes his head. “Maggie said they looked good on me.”
“Christ.”
Becky slaps my chest with her free hand. “I think they look dapper, Bill.”
He holds the lapels of the ridiculous cotton shirt. “Dapper? You think so?”
“I do.”
He walks away with extra swagger in his stride.
I nip Becky’s hip in my hand until she gives me her attention. “You realize he’ll continue to wear those things now, don’t you?”
She shrugs and leans into me as she takes a sip of coffee. I could freak out right now. I’m sitting with this friend, who I brought to home to my family, and I’ve held her in my lap as she slept all night.
But I don’t need to do anything because, as if she just had the same moment of clarity, Becky freaks out. She jumps away from me as fast as the coffee in her hands will allow without spilling. “Right. Well. I. Erm. I should shower.”
“Not so fast. I’ve got bacon in the pan. You like bacon, Becky, don’t you?” my mother says, coming onto the deck with a spatula in her hand, a thin bathrobe wrapped around her own red pajamas—almost as offensive as my dad’s.
“Erm, yes, yep, bacon. Wonderful.”
She takes the chair next to mine and bores holes in me with her eyes when I smirk. Feisty Becky is kind of hot.
While we’re waiting for breakfast, Eddie comes back from an early morning, pacifying drive with my niece and nephew. The kids immediately dive on me, then Becky, then my dad. They make as much noise as is humanly possible, only pausing when they each have a bacon roll in their mouths.
After breakfast, Becky escapes upstairs to shower. I’ve seen her blush more during breakfast than in the two weeks I’ve known her. As I have that thought, I realize I feel like I’ve known Becky all my life. Yet there’s still so much I don’t know about her. So much I want to know.
I help Millie gather the dirty plates and mugs, and we head into the kitchen to clean up. I fill the sink with hot water—my parents never let me buy them a dishwasher—and Millie grabs a towel to dry. She’s the only member of my family not sporting outrageous nightwear, instead wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“She makes you happy.”
I keep my eyes on the plates in the sink, not needing her to clarify her meaning. “She’s a great woman. She’s fun.”
Millie raises a brow as she takes a soapy plate from me. “Just fun? Are you sleeping together?”
“Seriously, Mill?”
“Well, are you?”
“No, as a matter of fact. She just got out of a long-term relationship, and she doesn’t want anything serious.”
“And you?”
I shake my head and puff out a breath, scrubbing the next plate needlessly hard. “I’ve got a lot going on at work.”
Millie tsks. “Will you still be saying that when you’re in the grave from overworking yourself? Look, I get it. You worked hard to get where you are. Fine. But it’s like Mom says, you can have roots and wings, Drew. You have a little too much in the wings department. Maybe some roots might help balance your life.”
I stare at my sister, replaying her words in my mind. Remembering Becky’s words. Roots and wings. But roots don’t exactly fit with named partner of a Manhattan law firm.
“Even if I—” No, I won’t go there. “She doesn’t want a relationship, and neither do I, Mill. Just leave it.” Even as I say the words, I wonder how much I believe them and how much I am trying to fight what I’m starting to feel for the blonde from the bagel truck.
The sound of Becky clearing her throat draws my attention to the kitchen doorway. Even though I said the words and I meant them, even though I know she doesn’t want a relationship, the look she gives me for a fleeting moment is like a blade to my gut. She obviously overheard my conversation with Millie. I fight against my own dry throat. “You ready?”
“Yep. Ready.” There’s no emotion behind those words and the way she looks at me as I pass her to go to shower is nothing…emptiness.
* * * *
“I’m actually on South Beach Boardwalk. This is so cool.”
The awkwardness of this morning is gone as Becky tugs off her flat shoes and runs down the sand to the water’s edge. I pull off my boots, turn up the ends of my jeans, and follow after her. We stand in the water, people coming and going around us. Kids play in the sand. People eat ice cream. Kites are flying. All under the brightness of a cloudless sky—not that that does anything to warm the chilly Atlantic around my toes.
“Another thing off your list. What happens when there’s nothing left?”
“I guess I’ll have to find another reason to make you stick around.” As soon as she’s said the words, she starts walking along the shoreline, leaving me wondering whether there was an undertone to that statement or not.
I catch up to her, and we head onto the boardwalk, where I buy us waffles and ice cream from a cart. Becky douses hers in chocolate sauce—the woman really does have a sweet tooth—then we take a seat on a bench to eat.
“Your family is really great, Drew. The way you all look out for each other and take an interest in each other. God, you actually listen to each other and have fun. It’s something very special.”
I nod, guilt resting in my stomach.
“Is there a reason you don’t see them often?”
“I speak to them every week,” I say, sounding a little too defensive. “I’m busy.” I sigh. “My parents gave me everything they had when I was growing up, so I could get a good education. I don’t ever want that to go to waste.”
“That’s why you work so hard.”
I stare at waves rocking gently against the sand in front of us. “Mostly. I saw what it was like to struggle, and I don’t want that for myself. Or…”
“Your family.”
I want to tell her that I’m not a family man. That I’m not that kind of guy and I just don’t have it in me. But the words come to my tongue and get swept like a wave, silently out to sea.
“Maybe if my family had been more supportive and hadn’t wanted to just marry me off like in the Dark Ages, I’d be like you too.”
“You work at one of the best restaurants in the world, Becky. I’d say you did pretty well for yourself.”