High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “Hey.” I grab for it, but he avoids my hand. “I wasn’t done with those notes yet.” I sit down like I’m giving up, but then I reach for it again. He grabs my wrist.

  “Your notes will be quite helpful,” he says. “But your questions … meh.” He lowers my hand to the table and lets go. “I will, however, answer them. Yes, no, twenty-six, yes, Windsor, don’t need one, not sure, never, yes, six foot three, at the moment, not bloody likely, and someday I’ll tell you. Answered in no particular order.” He grins and hands me the pad.

  “Hilarious.” I drink the last of my raspberry beer while I scan my list of questions, trying to figure out which answers I can match up. “Okay. Your height is six three. Windsor must be your middle name.”

  “My mother’s maiden name.”

  “Like the Queen’s Windsors?”

  “Not related.”

  “And your age is twenty-six?”

  “For another few weeks. And how old are you?”

  “Twenty-three. For another few weeks. When’s your birthday?”

  “September twenty-ninth.”

  “Ohmygod. Mine too! Let’s drink to that. No wait. Wanna smoke?”

  “You mean—” he mimes taking a hit off a joint.

  “Yeah. I’ll be right back.” I start toward the door.

  He follows. “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs to get some bud. Just come with me.”

  A minute later, I take two joints and a lighter from the cleaned out candle jar on my desk.

  “You keep your weed out in the open?”

  I shrug. “Medical marijuana card. You know, for my … ahem … chronic back pain.”

  “Ah, yes. California.”

  “Here you go,” I say, handing one to him.

  “We each get our own?”

  “They’re small.” I head toward the patio door. “We have to sit outside because I don’t like my apartment to reek.”

  We smoke silently for a few minutes. “This is good stuff,” he says.

  “Include the cost under my expenses and I’ll share.”

  “Deal.”

  He finishes a minute before I do and sits with his eyes closed, smiling faintly. I hate to harsh his mellow by moving, but I’m hungry. His eyes open when I stand.

  “Chips or chocolate?”

  “Both,” he says.

  We go back inside. I load up on goodies in the kitchen and then return to the living room where he’s sitting on the floor with his legs crossed like a kindergartner waiting for story time. I drop down opposite him and dump everything between us.

  “Good stuff,” he says again. I don’t know if he’s talking about the pot or the snack food, but I’m too high to care. He grabs a handful of miniature peanut butter cups. “These are the most perfect blend of sweet and salty ever created.”

  We eat for a while, talking about our favorite junk foods, and he compares the British and American versions of similar ones. “I’ll take you to the import store next time I go,” he says. “I’m thirsty.”

  We open a bottle of wine.

  “Did you really mean it when you said you’d thank God for the rest of your life?”

  He frowns at me over the rim of his glass. “Thank God for what?”

  “That I wasn’t trying to get your attention.”

  “I have no recollection of—”

  “You know, the first time we really talked … my panties got mixed with your laundry?”

  “Ah.” He grins. “Those I remember.”

  “So, did you mean it?”

  “Obviously not.” He picks up the DVD case on my coffee table. “I live here.”

  “Notting Hill? It’s a real place?” I sound so innocent Meryl Streep would be jealous.

  He appears to be staring intently at the back of the case and doesn’t answer. After a moment, he lays it on the table, tosses back his wine, and pours more. “What do your brothers do for a living?”

  I drink the last of my wine and lie down on the carpet. “My oldest brother, Ryan, is an architect and my other brother, Scott, is a computer programmer. What about your brother?”

  “My brother is a daft prick.”

  “How’s that pay?”

  We’re pretty giggly. I don’t even care that Jeremy’s still evading my questions. He stretches out beside me.

  “I have a confession,” he says.

  “Uh-oh.”

  He laughs and lifts a finger in the air and wiggles it around like he’s writing something. I smack his hand. He laughs again.

  “What are you confessing?”

  “I had a nickname for you.”

  “Had?”

  “Before I knew you.”

  I rise on my elbows and frown at him. “How could you nickname me before you knew me?”

  “Before I actually knew you. Back when you were calling me Mr. High Tea.”

  I groan and lie back. He’s never going to let me forget that. “Okay. So what did you call me?”

  “Flip-Flops.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “Not as dumb as Mr. Hi—”

  “Okay. Okay. We’re even.”

  For a few minutes, we lie there silent, just floating in the now. What Jeremy really confessed surfaces through the haze. He’s been watching me for as long as I’ve been watching him—but then why didn’t he talk to me when I tried to get his attention? Oh, wow—Mr. High Tea is actually Shy Jeremy! I lie there smiling until I feel myself getting drowsy.

  “Your black eye is healing fast,” I say to wake myself.

  “The greenish yellowish is perfectly zombieish.”

  I’m high, yeah, but it’s the way he deadpanned the three ishs in that sentence that makes me laugh until tears roll into my ears.

  “You have a beautiful mouth,” he says.

  I turn my head and look straight into his eyes—deep, deep, deep into his eyes. I could swim in those ocean eyes.

  “Sometimes your eyes are blue and sometimes green,” I tell him.

  We lie there gazing at each other for a while, and then he traces a fingertip over my bottom lip. God, I want him. But, this time, I don’t even get my hopes up that he’s about to kiss me. And he doesn’t. His hand drops back to the floor, and we just lie there face-to-face. My eyelids grow heavy again.

  The next thing I know, I’m waking with pain in my hip from lying on the floor. Jeremy’s gone. With eyes half-closed, I stumble into the bathroom to pee and then on to my bedroom. The light from the parking lot reveals his long figure flopped diagonally across my bed. I curl up into the empty space to one side of him and go back to sleep.

  Hours later, Jeremy wakes me when he sits up and groans, “Dear God.”

  He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, his palms pressing against his head. After a minute, he looks around, frowning, obviously confused because he doesn’t recognize the room.

  “Good morning,” I say. He startles, and the movement makes him groan again.

  “I didn’t see you.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “Did you beat me up again?”

  “I think it was that beer you drank.”

  He huffs a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure that was it.”

  “Could have been the beer plus the weed plus the wine, I guess.”

  “My wager’s on the peanut butter cups.” He collapses back on the bed. “Does Starbucks make deliveries?”

  “You could try making an offer one of the baristas can’t refuse.” Neither of us moves for several minutes. I’m drifting off when he curses and sits up again. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have a meeting today.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “In an hour and ten. Fuck.”

  “Go get ready. I’ll make coffee.” He bolts from the room, and I ease out of bed.

  I’m halfway through my second cup when he returns dressed in a suit and wrestling with his tie. His hair is wet and pulled back tightly—respectably. He drops into a chair at the table and gratefully accepts the full cup I hand him. I’m dyi
ng to know who he’s meeting. Is it the same person he met the last time I saw him in a suit?

  “Dress up meeting, huh?”

  “Friend of my father’s.” He drains his cup then holds it out for more. “I debated shaving.”

  “No! I mean … your beard looks nice. Neat. Not scruffy or anything.” And so damn sexy.

  He points to his eye. “Well, this doesn’t look nice or neat, but I can’t do anything about it.”

  “I think I can cover it with makeup.” I refill his cup and give it back to him.

  “Won’t makeup be obvious?”

  “Hopefully not. I’ll skip the glitter lashes.”

  While he finishes his coffee, I gather the makeup I’ll need. He turns his chair away from the table. I lay everything out and pick up my primer. The awkwardness of the situation hits me when I turn to him. I’ve never put makeup on a man before. Because of our height difference, my breasts are level with his face. I move to his left and order him to tilt his chin up. His beautiful seawater eyes look straight into mine.

  “Close your eyes,” I say because if he doesn’t, I’m afraid I’ll kiss him and embarrass us both again. It’s hard to tell how much pressure to use when you’re touching someone. I place my fingertip under his eye and brush it across his skin. A tiny thrill zips through me. My voice is breathy when I ask, “Did that hurt?”

  “No.”

  I dot on the primer and blend it as gently as possible before starting with the color correcting concealers—pink on the green spots and the lavender on the yellow. It’s going well until, apparently, I press too hard on a particularly sore spot because he jumps and his right hand flies out and up—right between my thighs. I gasp.

  His eyes fly open at the same instant he jerks down the wandering hand. “Excuse me,” he says.

  My responding “uh-huh” comes out more breath than word because his hand hit the bullseye with just enough pressure to set my girly parts singing hallelujah. And please don’t let him look sideways because my nipples are praising him too.

  “Close your eyes,” I say quickly.

  He obeys. We both take deep breaths. I glance down. I can’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure his hands are now clasped over his crotch to hide his body’s reaction. I don’t think either of us expected this makeup session to turn into foreplay. I force myself to think of my mom so I can get back to work.

  First a microthin layer of translucent mineral powder goes over the colors I applied, followed by skin-toned stick concealer, and finally a layer of mineral powder concealer. I pick up my biggest makeup brush and the translucent powder again. “Don’t freak. I’m going to lightly powder the rest of your face to blend this in. Hold your breath.” Swish, swish, swish. “Done.” I hand him a mirror. “No greenish yellowish zombieish now.”

  He checks his reflection and smiles. “Nice job. Thank you.” He hands back the mirror. “I didn’t want the mistaken notion that I’m pub brawling carried back to my father.”

  I nod. His father spies on him?

  He stands. “Well, I’ll see you later. Thanks for the coffee and the makeup … and everything.”

  Ah, yes, the everything that wasn’t quite everything, but I hope soon might be. Mixed signals are not what I usually get from guys, but Jeremy is driving me crazy with them. All those glances he thinks I don’t catch. The many ways he finds to touch my hand, or arm, or shoulder. But when I kissed him during the rice incident, he acted like that was the furthest thing from his mind. Am I going to have to give him a push?

  CHAPTER 15

  Jeremy stops at my door on his way back from the meeting with his father’s friend, but declines my invitation to come inside. From the tightness around his eyes and mouth, I’d say that meeting did not go well.

  “I need to spend some time at the fitness center today,” he says, “and then I’ll finish editing the last chapter and send the rest of the book to you this evening.”

  “Cool.”

  “I thought I should explain why we won’t … I didn’t want you to think …”

  I smile to show I know what he’s trying to say. “It’s fine, Jeremy. I have some shopping to do anyway.”

  “Good.” He sounds relieved, but the smile he returns seems forced. He starts up the stairs.

  “Jeremy.” He retreats a couple of steps so he can see me. “Did the makeup fool him?”

  “I imagine so. He didn’t mention it. Thanks again.”

  Since he’s made it clear he wants to be alone, I probably should mind my own business, but … “Is everything okay?”

  Another fake smile. “Yes.” He turns away and then back again, not smiling. “No. It’s not. But it will be.”

  Yay! We’ve made some kind of progress in communication. I think. “Enjoy your workout.”

  He nods and continues up the stairs.

  I wasn’t really planning to shop today, so I go back to the movie I was watching. A couple of minutes later, I hear Jeremy shouting. Continuing with my decision not to mind my own business today, I mute the TV and go to the patio door. Evidently, he’s on the phone, and he must be in his bedroom because I can’t really make out the words, but the tone is clear. I resist the urge to run to my bedroom to see if I can hear him better from there. I respect his privacy on the serious things. Still, I hope he tells me what this call is about. I think I already know who he’s talking to—his father.

  The shouting stops a minute or so later, and a couple of minutes after that he leaves the building. I can’t imagine how awful it must feel to be estranged from your parents. I turn off the movie and call my mom. It’s Monday, so she may be working. After my father died, she started doing bookkeeping from home for a few clients.

  “Hi, Mom. Are you busy?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait. What do you have in mind?”

  “I just want to come over.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll go to Scrumptious to get some pastries, and we’ll have a tea party.”

  “On my way.” I hang up with tears stinging my eyes. A tea party is what I used to beg for when I was a little girl.

  My mom has lived in the same house for twenty-seven years. Until I moved into my apartment, it was the only place I’d ever lived. It’s comfortable to be here, but uncomfortable at the same time. I love that I know every inch of the house and yard and have so many happy memories attached to them. But no matter how hard I try not to, a part of me reverts to being a child when I’m here. Partly that’s because my mother hasn’t changed a single thing in my room though I moved out over a year ago. That’s touching, but it’s also sort of creepy. It’s like the ghost of Chelsea past is waiting to suck me back in. The sad thing is, except that I’m not still working in that damn deli, I haven’t really moved forward since I moved out.

  When I walk in the front door, my mom calls from the kitchen. “In here, sweetie.”

  Like I’ve done a zillion times, I set my purse and keys on the table by the door and join her. She’s plating an assortment of pastries from a pink bakery box and the tea is already made—Earl Grey by the scent. How does she time these things so well?

  “Jeremy gave me the day off,” I tell her.

  “Let’s take this to the garden.” She hands me the plate and picks up the tea tray. “The roses look heavenly right now, and the scent is divine.”

  Divine and heavenly are words my mother uses often. Both describe her garden today. At this time of day, the garden patio is shaded, cool, and fragrant. I take a mini cream puff from the plate while she pours the tea. Without asking, she adds sugar and cream to my cup and hands it to me. This is just like the old days, except the ratio of milk to tea has changed as I’ve gotten older.

  We sip our tea in pleasant silence. This neighborhood is totally soundless compared to my apartment complex. I’ve just swallowed the last of my second cream puff and reached for a raspberry tart when she speaks.

  “So, what’s your problem with Jeremy?”

  I freeze with the tart halfway to my mout
h. “Who said anything about Jeremy?”

  “First word out of your mouth when you walked into the kitchen.”

  “I was just explaining why I wasn’t working.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Explain why you’re shoveling in sugar.”

  I set down the tart. “You’re the one who bought all these.”

  “I knew you needed comfort food.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but tears are threatening, so I think better of it. Instead, I take a gulp of my tea followed by a huge bite of the tart.

  “Is he not happy with your work?” she asks.

  “No. I mean, yes, he likes almost all of my suggestions.” She’s talking about marketing, and I’m talking about feedback, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll probably like my marketing plan too.

  She sets down her cup and leans forward, wanting to take my hand, but they’re both full, so she places her hand on my knee. “You’ve fallen in love with him.”

  I’m not really surprised my mom knows. I don’t think I’ve ever hidden anything from her for long. I take another bite of the tart. After I swallow, I make a request disguised as a comment. “Gabi doesn’t know.”

  “Our secret,” my mom says and pats my knee. She sits back in her chair. “And, obviously, you haven’t told Jeremy.”

  “How do you know? Maybe I told him, and he didn’t care.”

  She smiles. “I know how you take rejection, sweetie.”

  Revenge is how I react to rejection. Just ask the jerk who ditched me at Winter Formal 2005. “No, I haven’t told Jeremy. I can’t. I need this job. I like this job.” I hold out my cup, which she takes and refills. “And I don’t know how he feels about me.”

  “With all the time you spend together?” She hands me a mini éclair.

  I shake my head and take a bite. “He’s—” She’s got that don’t-talk-with-your-mouth-full glint in her eyes, so I pause to chew and swallow. “He’s hard to figure out. I think he likes me—I mean, I know he likes me. But maybe that’s all.” I turn my head away, pretending I’m only checking out the hummingbird feeder, but a tiny sob gives me away.

  In seconds, my mom has set my plate and cup aside and wrapped her arms around me. Sometimes it feels good to be a child again.