The Hard Sell

by Wright,Lulu

  Maybe that’s why I feel so surreal right now. I really didn’t expect things to collapse around me.

  Dad folds his arms across his chest and shoots me a serious look. “You want me to go beat him up? Tell me where the guy lives and me and Wilbur will get in the truck and …”

  I snort. “Dad, no.”

  Dad shrugs his shoulders again. He looks back at the Marilyn Manson poster. “I am sorry my lil Lil is feeling bad, but …” Dad drops his hat on my head. “Here’s the deal. You aren’t staying in this room forever. Curl up tonight. Play your old songs. Stare at this poster of this weird dude. Flip through yearbooks. Pet Wilbur. Please pet Wilbur.”

  He stands up. “But then you’re back in that ugly old German car tomorrow on your way to Philly. Don’t let the bastard get you down.”

  I nod. “Ok.”

  He stares at me for a second, then grins. “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “Why do bees hum?”

  I toss my pillow at him. “I dunno. Why do bees hum?”

  He catches the pillow with one hand and tosses it back at me. “Because they don’t know the words!”

  I groan, covering my eyes with my hands. Through my fingers, I spot Dad bowing. “Thank you. Thank you,” he says to imaginary applause. “I’ll be here all week, folks.”

  Mom pokes her head in the door. “How we doing?”

  Dad looks at me. “How we doing?”

  “Better.”

  “Good,” Mom says. “Get your behind out of bed and help me with the snap beans.”

  Face-licking, drooling Wilbur gets an earful of my woes. He’s not a fan of Manson, but he seems to enjoy Tori Amos and Blink 182. I show him photos I find of Ryan the Mouth-Breather. He was cute. Ditto my college boyfriend, Greg. Nice guy. We parted as pals and he still emails once in a while about his finance job in Thailand.

  I don’t even have a picture of Jack.

  I google Jack Stewart on my phone. A chiropractor in Des Moines pops up along with a soccer player in the UK and some old dude.

  Duh. That’s right. Liar.

  I google again. “Jack Hamilton” gets nothing. Same with “Jack Hamilton” and “Philadelphia.” But then I remember his Stanford sweatshirt.

  That lands me on quite a few snaps. Jack in a polo uniform. Jack at some gallery opening in NYC. Jack at a BBQ for a kid’s charity in Sacramento. I show them all to Wilbur. He licks the screen and my hand. He’s a patient listener and I fall asleep spooning him. I wake up smelling like old dog, the best smell ever.

  Mom stuffs blueberry pancakes down my throat and loads me up with enough plastic containers of home cooked food to feed all of Philly. Dad walks around the VW and checks the tires with the engraved air pressure checker, which I got for him last Father’s Day.

  Mom hugs me tight. “Love you, my beautiful girl.”

  “Put your seatbelt on and don’t go above 65,” Dad says as I climb into the car. “And remember. Don’t let ’em get you down.”

  My parents stand in the driveway and wave like they’re beauty queens on a Rose Bowl float. I watch them in the rearview until I can’t see them anymore.

  Halfway to Philly, my phone buzzes with a Brenda email. I pull over to read it. Congratulations, she says. Carol’s not coming back.

  I am the new Flash Fit Regional Manager.

  I press the cell phone to my forehead and finally, finally smile. So, there is a silver lining to this cloud after all. I toss my phone back into the glove box, ignoring the ever growing list of texts from Jack.

  I pull into a Wawa, where I order a celebratory roast beef sandwich with extra roast and extra beef. I’m still close enough to home to eat like a rural Pennsylvanian and I am not wasting the opportunity to do so. After I dump as much mayo as the bread can hold, I order more fries. Fuck yeah. I am going to suck that down with the biggest sized drink Wawa offers.

  As I sit in the parking lot enjoying my beefy indulgence, I pull my phone out of my glove box. I delete the Jack texts unread, and pull up Ricky’s contact.

  When can I try on the dresses?

  23

  Jack

  I reach out for Lily, but find only cool sheets. I open my eyes to an empty bed in my empty apartment. Because of course she’s not here. She’s gone.

  I drove her off.

  I sit up in bed. My feet touch the cool floor. I wrap the sheet around me to fight the chill.

  Almost before I can think better, before I can help myself, I reach for my phone. Stare at the blank screen.

  No reply. She hasn’t even read my last text.

  Don’t do it, Jack. But I can’t help myself. Even as I command myself not to, my fingers are already moving, texting her again. Explaining.

  Pleading.

  I just need to talk to her, face-to-face. To explain myself. Why I lied.

  My body aches. My hand hurts from punching Beckman, my cheek stings from Lily’s slap—or maybe just from the absence of her hand on my cheek. My cock aches from dissatisfaction. It still wants her.

  I still want her.

  I pad into my kitchen and set a coffee pot on to brew. Then I run my hands through my hair. Curl my fists into it and tug. But even that simple gesture just reminds me of her, the way she always pulled my hair when we kissed, when we fucked.

  Fuck. I want her back. But I already know I may never get the chance. My future was written a long time ago.

  My future was written even before the day I was thrown into Texas prison. That was just rock bottom. That wasn’t the start of my spiral downward—my sinking from being the boarding school straight-edge nerd into the depths of complete breakdown. I started to ruin my life the day I jumped into the car with Uncle Barry, Dad’s youngest brother. The black sheep in the family, he had rebelled against everything that was Hamilton, everything that was polite society. He didn’t just break taboos, he was Taboo. Grandpa Hamilton went in the ground without ever speaking his name again. Knowing what I know now, I don’t blame grandpa, but at the time I thought Uncle B was so cool, so free. After a lifetime of behaving, pressing my shirts before I wore them, earning straight-As in school and straight-Fs in having a social life, I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to live in state parks and bounce around day jobs and get day-drunk on Bud Light while hitchhiking with truckers.

  Idiot.

  Uncle B left me holding the bag—literally holding the bag; a dealer’s amount of weed in front of 711 near the Texas / Mexican border. I was high as a kite, drunk too, but Uncle B had been driving. He went into the bathroom for a pit stop, asked me to hold the keys. I climbed out of the car, paced around. Next thing I knew, I had a gun pointed to my head. I thought the last thing I would see in life would be the ice machine outside a shitty convenience store in the middle of nowhere.

  I made my one call to Mom. Handcuffed to a wall, the shame tore my heart inside-out. Even more so when my mother picked up the phone and began to cry. “This is a wakeup call,” I promised her. “I swear I will change.”

  She told me she would post bail. In the background, I could hear Dad shouting.

  No son of mine …

  Shaming the family name …

  He should rot in that Texas holding cell …

  Then she hung up on me.

  I curled up in a ball in the cell waiting for my father to come rescue me. I wanted to die. Uncle B, of course, was long gone by then. I watched him as the police manhandled me into the back of their car. He ducked out of the 711 restroom, took one look at me, and hightailed it the opposite direction.

  I never heard from him again.

  I thought that would forever live in infamy as the worst day of my life, but standing here now, knowing that Lily is gone, that she’s never coming back—probably never even reading these texts I’m sending her—this is worse. She thinks I’m a liar. She thinks I am scum.

  Maybe I am.

  It’s been a long haul clawing myself out of the hole I dug. Getting Dad to trust me again. Getting Mom to smile at m
e without fear in her eyes. Without worrying what I’m getting myself into next.

  Hell, Dad didn’t speak to me for two years after the arrest. But once I started working at Hamilton, showing I was comfortable with doing brunt work, busywork, any kind of work at all, as best I could do it, all day long, pulling late shifts and long hours constantly, he started to come around. I still remember the first thing he said to me, almost two and a half years after he sent the family lawyer to meet me in that holding cell.

  We were at the Thanksgiving dinner table, all of us, the way we always do, despite the awkward tension that still hangs in the air. He asked me to pass the cranberries. Stunned, the whole table froze, Mom’s fork halfway to her mouth, Madeline jumping so hard she almost spilled water all over her lap.

  I handed him the cranberries without a word, scared if I replied he would change his mind.

  He smiled at me. “So what’s your six-month improvement plan at the store?” he asked. I understood what he was really asking. How are you? Are you still in this? Still with me?

  We spent the rest of dinner talking about both of our goals for the store. His in keeping it traditionally focused, mine in getting it 21st-century productive, sales-wise. Mom was so happy she kept tearing up, in between topping up our wine glasses, as if she was worried we’d stop talking if we both stayed sober.

  Last Thanksgiving, the anniversary of the night we started talking again, I offered to remove my tattoo. I thought it would please him, but he shook his head, told me not to. “You keep that mark, son. Let it be a reminder to never stray again.”

  I haven’t. And I won’t.

  This last visit was the final repair in our relations. This was the walk-through to prove myself. Lily helped me with that and I didn’t hesitate to give her the credit. Dad shook my hand. That’s true leadership, he assured me in the elevator ride later, as I escorted him to his office. Recognizing talent, recognizing good ideas. He was proud I could do that and knew I could do more.

  We Hamiltons are duty-bound, instilled with our great-grandfather’s Highland stubborn willpower, and his work ethic. He built this empire, and we carry it on. It’s not just our family name resting on this company. Thousands of our employees look to us for leadership, for stability. We provide them with good jobs, steady income, benefits.

  In a few years, the burden of that responsibility will rest squarely on my shoulders. I will do everything to keep this large family business in the pink and my fellow workers employed.

  Yesterday, that all seemed perfect. More than enough for me. Because I had her, too.

  Now she’s gone, and I can’t find it in me to keep up this pace. This willpower.

  For the first time in the four years since I started, I call in sick.

  First day back after the much-needed sanity break.

  I sit at my desk and shuffle papers, but I can’t focus. The Levi’s belts hang from the wall and torture me with memory.

  Tim pokes his head in and asks how I’m doing after my idiotic stunt last night. He’s grinning. He means well. But I wave him off. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone about this.

  She hasn’t read any of my texts. Still.

  In an act of desperation, I look up Ricky’s cell in the employee registry. I dial it, and he answers on the second ring. But the moment I say, “This is Jack Hamilton,” I hear only empty silence in response.

  Well, not total silence. A few seconds later, my phone lights up again with a text message. Go to hell, liar.

  Forget it.

  I push away from my desk. I can’t distract myself here. I need to be out on the floor.

  Hoping she’ll show up for work? asks a nagging voice at the back of my head.

  Shut up, I think. No.

  Maybe.

  Yes.

  It’s worth a shot.

  Mona is at the register looking hungover. I smile as I approach her with an XL coffee from the cafe on 7. Her eyes shoot wide in appreciation. “Thanks, Mr. Stew— … Mr. Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Of course, Mona. How have sales been doing?”

  She rattles off some impressive numbers. Not quite as high as they were when Lily was here hand-selling herself, but still miles higher than Flash Fit, or anything in our Basics Department, was hitting before Lily showed up here on her first day. I smile to show my appreciation. “Well, keep up the good work, kid.”

  Mona tilts her head, eying me funnily. Oh god. She almost looks like she pities me.

  I scowl, and put on my best dismissal tone. “Have a good day.”

  I turn to leave, but Mona’s voice halts me mid-step. “Lily is on 4 trying on dresses.”

  “Okay,” I respond, my back still turned so she can’t see the expression on my face. The sudden war of confusion and fear and hope. She came back, part of my brain is shouting. But, duh, of course she did. She works here, Jack. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean she’s ready to talk to you.

  “You should go see her,” Mona replies, calling me out. God bless the kid. She sees a lot more than people realize.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply. Then I head for the elevator.

  I feel like a stalker as I dart around the grand columns of the 4th floor show room. But having caught a glimpse of Ricky on my way out of the elevator, I’m not taking any chances. I wouldn’t have expected the guy in blush and day-glo paisley socks to be almost frighteningly protective, but I gotta hand it to the guy, he knows how to intimidate a man. I don’t want to start another brawl on the floor—Dad might forgive me for punching Beckman, but if Ricky hits me for trying to win back Lily, I doubt my father will be so understanding.

  Ricky is standing in front of a three-way mirror now, eyes on the women’s dressing room. I tiptoe a little closer and hide behind a rack of strapless, floor-length gowns.

  “Come on girl. Take a look,” Ricky calls.

  Lily emerges from the dressing room wrapped in gold lamé. God, she is so beautiful. “I don’t know,” she tells Ricky, biting her lip as she studies the gown in the mirror. She’s so sexy when she does that little pouty lip-bite. “This doesn’t seem like too much?”

  Ricky rolls his eyes. “Girl. You are going to the Gala Ball. There is no such thing as too much, mmkay?”

  She quirks a smile, and my heart beats faster just watching that expression on her face. The only downside to seeing her smile right now is that I know I’m the reason it’s hard for her to keep that smile on. I’m the reason it falters and droops away, as Ricky suggests she try on another gown instead.

  I want to be the reason Lily wears that smile every day.

  The Gala Ball, huh? My mother adores those events, but I almost never tag along. I’d rather just donate straight to the kid’s program they hold the ball to fund, instead of showing off how generous I am in front of all of Philly’s high society elite. But I guess some people like to dress up.

  Glamor has a certain allure, for some.

  I watch Lily in three more dresses before I tiptoe back to the elevator. Along the way, I turn on my phone and dash off a quick text. Hey Maddie, do you still have that extra ticket Mom got you for Gala?

  Gotta love my tech-addicted little sis. She replies in less than a minute flat, since she’s never very far from the phone. Sure thing. Want to be my date?

  Yes, please.

  You’ll need the tux, you know, she adds.

  I smirk. Trust my sis to worry about the details.

  Back upstairs, at my desk, I pull out my clipboard. Between Bart Simpson drawings is the checklist I keep of my daily goals. No matter what, I always accomplish the goals written on this. I have to. It’s the rule of the clipboard. I write the newest goal in block capitals.

  GET LILY BACK

  24

  Lily

  Jen looks like a movie star in her royal blue satin dress. Her hair is majestic; the elegant updo accents her broad cheek bones and cupid bow mouth. “How do I look?”

  “Gorgeous,” I say. “Vogue cover-worthy.”


  “Thanks.”

  Her voice isn’t the normal ring of confidence and defiance; there is a note of nerves in there. I have never her seen her anxious. “What’s up?”

  She spins around in my bedroom mirror to catch every angle. “I just realized tonight is the first time Phil will see me in an evening gown. Most of our dates have been … different. Apple picking. Rowing on the river. Old timey date stuff. Phil hasn’t seen me in much beyond casualwear.” She smirks. “And naked, of course.”

  I grin and wiggle my eyebrows. “Trust me. He’s going to love you in that dress. But, um, can we go back to the part where you let him take you apple-picking?” That is 1000% not Jen’s style. I’m kind of impressed. This Phil must be a real winner.

  She fake-punches my arm. “Shut up. Gina did a fab job on your makeup and hair, by the way.”

  Gina is a wunderkind, a wiz with glamor makeup. I can’t believe what she’s done with my face. It’s dramatic, yet still me. She found a shade of red lipstick even more perfect for my skin-tone than my go-to Red Hot Mama. It’s deeper, darker, a little sultry/vamp-girl, since this is an evening occasion. My hair is parted on the side with a peek-a-boo wavy bang. I personify old Hollywood glamor and I haven’t even stepped into my dress yet.

  As I sit on my bed in my weird criss-cross bra and no seam thong, Jen carefully takes my dress off the hanger. “Let’s do this.”

  Ricky scored me a Herve Leger gold dress that shimmers and shines. It was the first one I tried on yesterday, and I kept returning to it all day. The halter top is sexy, but dignified. I love the mermaid scoop of the skirt; it shows off my curves in all the right places. By the time I wiggle into it and have Jen adjust the top, I am shocked by the reflection in the mirror.

  I look like a goddamn goddess.

  There is a knock at the door and Jen almost jumps out of her skin. When she glances at me, she looks almost nervous. “Can you get the door so I can make a dramatic entrance?”

  Who are you and what have you done with Jen? I want to shout. But instead, I wink at her, and go to open the door.