The Right Fit

by Daphne Dubois

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Maxine slid her hands up his arms, resting on his biceps. “I like it,” she said. “Makes you look dangerous.” Then she raised up on her toes and kissed only his upper lip.

  Antony winced and pulled back. His hand covered his mouth protectively. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “No kissing.”

  A flash of disbelief crossed her expression. “For how long?”

  “Stitches,” he said. “Week and a half.”

  She looked pained. “A week and a half?”

  “Mad?” He tucked his head down, getting even with her height.

  Maxine pursed her lips and scrunched them to the side. Antony smiled at the familiar gesture, then a wince jolted through him as the stitches pulled on his lip.

  “I’m not mad,” she said, rolling her eyes and goofily punching him in the arm.

  “Ow.”

  She dropped her chin and became interested in studying the tile pattern on the kitchen counter. “I had this image of you walking through the door and me jumping into your arms,” she said, her finger tracing a line of grout. “And we end up in the bedroom,”—she cleared her throat—“and watch Dynasty and eat Winkies.”

  “We can still do that,”—he put his hands on her hips—“I should have brought food to make.” He nodded to her oven.

  Maxine followed his gaze but made no attempt to take him up on his offer. She was quiet for a moment and then said with a weak laugh, “If you’ve changed your mind about us, you didn’t have to throw yourself down the stairs to avoid having sex with me.”

  A hammer smacked into his chest nearly knocking him down. How could she think that? Antony put a finger under her chin, tilting her face toward his. “I want you,” he said. “With lights on. And no Frankenstein face.” Then he winked. “I promise, I’m worth the wait.” Antony felt her relax in his arms. He leaned in, using the tip of his nose to give her an Eskimo kiss. “Oui?”

  She linked her fingers behind his neck. “You’re saying we can’t have sex until your stitches come out?”

  “Oui.”

  “Or kiss?”

  “Oui.”

  “I’m ready to give you another black eye to match.”

  “You are scrappy, Ms. Dior,” Antony grinned, slipping his arms around her waist in a natural hug.

  Her cheek rested on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

  “Moi aussi.” He breathed in her shampoo.

  Still in the embrace, she asked, “So now what?”

  “We survive until stitches come out.” He managed to keep a straight face.

  There was a tease to her voice. “And then?”

  He was going to tell her that he was prepared to give her a night she’d never forget, but when he leaned back and looked into her eyes, Antony pictured how she was that first time on the park bench, all alone. Where would they be if he’d gone up to her that day?

  “And then?” she prompted, her smile beginning to falter.

  “Then, I hope, a new beginning,” he simply said. “For us.”

  Something like confusion flashed in her eyes and then her features softened. Maxine kissed his earlobe. “A new beginning,” she repeated. “Sounds like a good name for a nail polish.” They both laughed, brushing the seriousness of the moment to the edges of the room.

  She cleared her throat then squinted at his lip. “Did the doctor give you any antibiotic cream?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “You should be putting vitamin E on your stitches. You’ll scar less and it helps healing. I’ve got some you can have. What do you use for cleanser? Are you drinking enough water?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled him over to a kitchen stool. “Sit here, I’m going to give you a facial.”

  “A facial?”

  “You’ll love it, Antony!” She went to the closet by the door and began to pull out several large bags. “I have all kinds of samples, plus I’ve been working on my own formulas.”

  Antony spied the fridge. “Formulas?” he asked.

  “Essential oils, acids…” her voice became muffled as she leaned deeper into the bag.

  He opened the freezer and stuck his face in the frosty air, feeling instant relief. There was a half-empty ice cube tray. He rolled his eyes. Why do women never have a full ice cube tray? He moved a bag of frozen peas out of the way then his hand paused. Way at the back was a small container of chocolate ice cream. A label with ‘Johnny’ was stuck on the side.

  “Do you have any allergies?” she asked. “It feels weird asking you these questions.”

  “Uh…non,” Antony shut the freezer, holding an ice cube to his lip.

  Maxine spread a white cloth over the kitchen counter and started to assemble her equipment of small bowls and a fist full of cotton swabs. She pulled her hair into a ponytail then sat him on a stool.

  Antony took in the array of tiny bottles and jars. “You are like scientist?”

  She laughed. “I love the whole science behind cosmetics.” She tilted his chin up and leaned in. “Anyone can make their own cosmetics if you have the right distributors.”

  He smiled under her touch. “Even nail polish?” he teased. “You could be fortune teller and makeup lady all at once.”

  A rosy glow bloomed on her cheeks. “I’ve been doing some research about opening my own little shop.” She turned and busied herself by unscrewing a few jars. “But it’s a far off dream, something fun to think about on rainy days.”

  “Dreams are important.”

  She stopped for a moment, her back still to him.

  “What would be best part of owning little shop?” he asked. The ice cube was melting against his lip. He put it on the corner of the towel and dried his fingers.

  Maxine turned her chin and gave him such a sweet smile over her shoulder he wished he had a photographic memory. “Making people feel beautiful,” she told him.

  He reached out and twirled the end of her ponytail in his fingers. “Don’t you mean look beautiful.”

  She shook her head. “No. When I was in high school, my Aunt Margo was going through chemotherapy for breast cancer. She’s completely recovered, but back then her hair was falling out, and she felt miserable. The hospital had a program where makeup artists and hair stylists specializing in wigs would hold teaching sessions. I went with her one time and even though I already had a dresser loaded up with makeup, when I saw the transformation in my aunt’s spirit and the other women in the room, I was completely hooked.”

  “By what?”

  “The power of makeup,” her voice picked up speed. “And how there were so many tricks to applying it different ways. There was a man who talked about style and brought in all these gorgeous wigs and clothes.” Dimples appeared on either side of her smile. “That was Carmine. When I walked into his shop years later I had no idea who he was, but he remembered me,”—she shrugged—“well, he remembered my hair.”

  “Mais bien sûr, but of course. Go for dream and open little shop.”

  “It’s not that easy,” she said. “You should know, being a small business owner yourself.”

  Antony frowned at her.

  “Or maybe not so small?” She laughed. “I guess having a towing business and garage is different than retail.”

  “Ah, oui.” He squirmed on the stool. “Different.”

  She waited a moment. Antony felt she was waiting for him to elaborate. “What would name of little shop be?” he asked.

  The tips of her ears reddened. “I’m not sure. Besides, it’s only for fun.”

  “You have name.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me,” he pressed. “Do I have to guess?”

  “No.”

  “Maxine’s Makeovers?”

  “No, that’s terrible.”

  “Mad Max Makes Makeup.”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you guess?”

  “Really?”

  “No!” She slapped his arm. “That’s a horrible name for my
store. The real name, or at least what I imagine the name would be is…”

  “Oui?”

  Maxine let out a sigh. “Beauty Full. It’s a play on words, like you’re full of beauty inside and out.” She couldn’t hold his stare. “But like I said, it’s a far off dream.”

  “C’est bon. C’est perfect.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes lingered on his mouth, and he started to feel warm. “Are you sure about the no kissing rule?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes, trying to fight the impulses and then nodded.

  “Then go in my bathroom and wash your face with warm water. I’m giving you a facial, remember?” She motioned down the hallway. “Try not to escape out the window this time.”

  “Oui,” He winked. Antony paused at her bedroom door, then pushed it open. It he hadn’t been in a fight, they would have been here right now. He glanced at the bed and frowned at the disarray.

  For someone who was planning on jumping into his arms and hustling down the hall to make love, Maxine didn’t even clear the bed off. She had piles of sweaters in various colors scattered over the spread. A box was on the floor with identical white cards spilled out face down.

  Antony looked at the blank cards and was inspired. He went to her bedside table, looking for something to write with, but there was only a fashion magazine, cotton candy flavored lip balm, and an empty glass. Opening the top drawer, he found a pen clipped to a newspaper crossword puzzle, completely filled out in ink, perfectly.

  “Bring out a facecloth with you, okay?” her voice sang down the hallway

  “Oui,” he said distractedly, tapping his chin with the pen.

  He wanted to keep the phrases simple but clear enough to let her know how he felt. Antony was impressed with how romantic he’d become. He’d never made flashcards for anyone.

  Je t’adore

  Embrasses-moi—Kiss me. Perfect for when his stitches come out.

  Tu es belle

  He wrote the next phrase automatically. Je t’aime. “I love you,” he whispered, or at least he loved being with her and loved what they were becoming.

  “Antony?” her voice was closer. “Please don’t tell me you’ve gone through the window again.”

  “Ici,” he said, jumping up, tucking the cards behind his back. He met her in the hallway just as she was coming to the doorframe.

  “This will be fun.” She smiled. “Wait, where’s the face cloth? Never mind I’ll get it. You go back on the stool.” Then she called over her shoulder. “Maybe we can order a pizza or something?”

  “Uh-huh,” Antony sat on the stool and flipped through the cards again. “Oh shit,” he whispered, seeing the fancy scrolling on the other side of the cards. He thought they were all blank. Then he studied the words. The stool felt like it was tipping on its side. His English was able to decipher enough to uncode what he was looking at—a wedding invitation.

  Maxine’s wedding invitation.

  Maxine Nicholls and Johnny Delong

  along with their parents…

  pleasure of your company on June 29…

  Antony felt like he was getting punched by Bachlahov all over again. Maxine would be married to another man in four months.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Maxine blinked and a pile of empty Winkie packages came into focus. She was lying on the bedroom floor with one of the old sweaters under her head like a pillow, wedding invitations were strewn around her. Her fingers were still curled around her phone, now long dead. A headache prompted her to replay last night.

  When she’d come into the room for the face cloth, she panicked at the mess of invitations on the floor. She’d been so preoccupied about Antony making it through the snow storm, she’d completely forgotten to clean up her earlier mess. Then she heard the front door slam.

  Maxine raced to the kitchen and saw the invitations on the counter. She called him right away, but her fingers were shaking so badly she dialed the wrong number. The second attempt went straight to voice mail.

  “I’m not engaged,” she’d blurted out after the beep. “We broke up months ago. Please, Antony. Call me.” She hit the stop button and dialed again, but this time the message would not come on—he’d turned off his phone. For the rest of the night she kept hitting the redial button until she fell asleep.

  Maxine read the clock on the bedside table, it was mid-morning. She couldn’t remember what day it was. Friday? No wait, it’s Saturday. Antony flew home last night.

  Dusting Winkie crumbs off her shirt, she crawled over to her phone charger and plugged it in. There was one message waiting for her.

  “Maxine? It’s Beverly. Are you all right? You were scheduled to work today. Just give us a call as soon as you can. I hope everything is okay. Bye.”

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  Maxine called back immediately; giving the excuse she had the flu and had slept through her alarm. She ended the call with a promise that she’d be all right to make her next shift.

  For the rest of the day, Maxine moved about the apartment like a sloth, her fully charged phone in her hand the whole time. When the phone finally rang, she thought she was hallucinating when she saw his name on the caller ID.

  Ace.

  “Antony? I’m not engaged. We broke up. I haven’t even seen him for six months.” She paused to take a breath. “Please, come over.”

  “You still have invitations. His ice cream.”

  Maxine’s mouth opened, but only a creaking sound came out. How could she explain the hold Johnny still had over her for reasons she didn’t fully understand herself.

  “Why?” Antony’s voice was hard.

  “I…I don’t know.” Maxine put a hand to her stomach. “Please, come over,” she repeated.

  “You love him?”

  Impossible to answer in one word.

  “We can’t be together if you love him.”

  “I can’t do this over the phone, Antony. I need to see you in person.”

  He let out a long sigh. “I’m going to Chicago. Maybe this is good…to be apart. I’ll call when I’m back.”

  The next two days passed in a blur. Maxine went to work at the spa, hiding dark circles under her eyes with layers of makeup. Beverly, sweet and intuitive, had ordered gluten-free vegetarian pizza for lunch for them to share.

  She tried to convince Maxine to go to yoga class with her after work. “It connects your body and mind,” she said.

  “So does pizza,” Maxine said. After she ate the last slice, she took a taxi to Carmine’s. He was waiting for her on the antique settee with a pitcher of gin fizz cocktails. The floor lamps were on, creating a cozy glow in the store.

  “I’m so stupid,” she said, for the hundredth time. “Why didn’t I clean the invitations up?”

  “Why didn’t you throw them out?” He rolled his eyes.

  “Johnny represents a chunk of my life. I can’t pretend that it didn’t exist.”

  “It’s not about amnesia, honey.” He took a drag from his electrical cigarette. “It’s about letting go of the past.”

  “Said the man who sells vintage clothing.” She pushed herself off the settee and roamed the racks, letting her fingers brush against the fabrics. Velvet, tweed, silk, mink…the textures sent tingles up her arm. She craved his touch. A horrible hollowness blew through her. She may never feel him again. The cruel reality of it all hit her hard. The tears she’d been fighting the past few days burst out of her.

  Carmine came to her side and hugged her, the ice cube in his drink clinked against the side of the glass. He let her finish, then offered his handkerchief. Carmine always carried one.

  “Look at that,” he said, pointing to the red strapless dress in front of them. “I think the universe is telling you something.”

  “That I share the same measurements of a famous drag queen?”

  “Ambrosia Dellagio had this great quote he would always leave with the audience right before his finale. ‘Live with the expectation that you
deserve to be happy and you’ll make choices that result in happiness.’”

  Maxine stiffened. “That’s what Johnny did. He took whatever he wanted to make himself happy, regardless of how much it hurt me.”

  Carmine finished his drink. “Do you really think that if Johnny hadn’t had an affair you’d still be together?”

  “I don’t know.” But in this moment of stripped egos and exhaustion, Maxine had to admit that on some level she secretly knew they’d never get married, or maybe she’d resigned to a life of mediocrity, thinking Johnny was the best chance she had at happiness. She closed her eyes. “No.”

  Carmine squeezed her shoulder. “You’d give that dress curves Ambrosia could only dream about.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  He puffed again and made an expression of bored misery. “I feel like I’m giving a robot a blow job.”

  “That can’t be satisfying.”

  “For neither one of us, honey.”

  ****

  Six days and three hours, Maxine thought, watching Westley fuss with the camera tripod in her living room. That’s how long it had been since she last spoke with Antony. Her hope was warping into delayed frustration. She hadn’t even put on new nail polish. The old color from last week was chipped around the edges now.

  Stuart repositioned a large fern he’d brought in front of the brick wall while Westley angled the floor lamps. He took a practice shot then looked at the digital camera lens, one hand cupped around the image.

  Maxine leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter. Her phone was peeking out of her purse, now piled under all the pre-shot makeup paraphernalia. A dull ache tried to distract her, but she pushed it away. “I like the fern,” she said to Stuart.

  “You can keep it,”—he shrugged—“I stole it from my boss’s office.” He spied the romance paperback on the table beside a pile of Cosmopolitan magazines. “Waiting for Fate?” He flipped the book over and read the passage on the back. “Orphaned as a teen, twenty-six-year-old Fate Delaney is struggling to keep top grades in med school, while holding down a part time job. When thirty-year-old, self-made billionaire, Chadwick Williams arrives in Emergency with kidney failure, he puts up a million dollars online to find a suitable donor.”