Eye of the Tiger

by Melanie Greene

  "Aw, sorry, sweetie," Serena said.

  She took refuge from their pity by baiting her friends. "Well, probably it'll happen to you, too. Ol' Rocket Man in there will start delaying his launches, and there will be technical failures. Heat shields down, aborted countdowns."

  "We are always mission ready!" Dillon called.

  "And you were complaining about Evan's puns," Serena said.

  "Trust me, they weren't nearly so clever."

  "Well then, steer clear. I don't think even his being a potential tiger can make up for puns as terrible as yours," Serena said.

  "You'd better have excellent dessert for me," Nat said. "Or I'm going to rethink making Neera my new best friend."

  She wouldn't, though. Kind and smart as Neera was, Natalie was beyond committed to her existing best friends. And speaking of commitment, she had to find a way to convince her mom to stop trying to force a relationship on her. Neither she nor Evan was on the market. And when Natalie was ready to look for permanence, she wasn't going to settle for someone who was only three-sevenths of the way to being the tiger she deserved.

  Dillon brought out the brownies and Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla, the only ice cream worth stockpiling. "Fortifications. Good. Now I can complain about the actual problems in my life," Nat said.

  "You mean this meal is going to pass the Bechdel test?" Gillian asked.

  "Yes, you skeptic. Though I wish you'd stop grading our conversations. And I'm not the one who brought up the lack of tigers in my life to start with."

  "Guilty." Gill added another scoop to Natalie's bowl.

  "Acquitted." Natalie savored a bite. The brownies were still warm. "I hope I get the same leniency when I admit I need to bitch about a man. Just not in a romance-related way."

  "Let's hear the story and I'll let you know."

  "I was at that closing, dodging Mom's questions while working out a problem with the homestead exemption, which of course was the exact moment a new client called. I'd taken them through all the prelims and they were ready to list. The call went to voicemail and next thing I knew, Carter signed them."

  "Jerk." It wasn't the first complaint Gillian had heard about her fellow agent; she knew the required responses. "Oily, unethical, amoeba-brained jerk."

  "It's a Museum District single family on a side street. New roof and perfect landscaping. Very high six figures."

  "Amoeba-brained jerk covered in squirrel snot and moldy banana peels."

  Serena laughed. "Do you put yourself to sleep at night thinking up new insults?"

  Gillian's grin was feral. "Works like a charm."

  "Well, banana peels aside, it's a done deal. The owners were practically flippant when I called them back. I could tell they didn't think it makes a difference who has the listing, as long as it's someone from our office. Trust Carter to jump on board. Never mind my groundwork. Never mind that I got back to them within half an hour. They couldn't wait to get started, she said, so they signed on the dotted line of a contract I filled out in the first place."

  "That is a beyond crappy move on Carter's part." Serena offered more brownies, but Natalie shook her head.

  "Tell me about it. I know I've said it before, but I don't know if I can keep working there. I really don't."

  "Well, you found me my house, so I'm no longer invested in your being a realtor," Serena said.

  "Our house!" the eternally eavesdropping Dillon called from the kitchen.

  "Do the dishes, you," Serena replied. When he had the water running, she whispered to her friends. "My house."

  As if there was any question.

  "So are you thinking of quitting?" Gillian asked.

  Natalie shrugged.

  "Come on, talk it through. Would you want to leave real estate?"

  She shook her head, letting her eyes follow the path of the wood grain in Serena's dining table. "Do you know why I started?" Gillian had been off in grad school when Natalie got her realtor’s license.

  "Marketing degree? You're good with people? I don't know. I guess I never thought about it, sorry."

  Before they'd even met her, Gillian had been set on her own career path. Maybe because she'd been so focused on her dreams, she'd never questioned the others about their own plans. Then again, it could have been one of her layers of self-protection, along with her wry defensiveness and the suspicion with which she regarded other's motives.

  "I wanted to travel. Be somehow involved in tourism. Guide, trip planner, interpreter. Or to go teach English in Spain or Costa Rica, anything. Be out crossing the world, finding out about people's lives, that sort of thing." She traced a particularly large whorl next to her dessert plate. "I read about a guy once, his job was to take these small groups to all kinds of festivals around the world. Mongolia's Thousand Camel Festival. The snow castles of King Matjaž in Carinthia. Five or ten people per group, and they'd get totally immersed in whatever was happening in these communities. Learn how to make traditional foods, help decorate banners or hang streamers, play games with the children. Not in a condescending, how cute kind of way, but more life's a rich tapestry, you know? They weren't appropriating or trying to impose Western beliefs. It was cultural tourism."

  Serena and Gillian both had their heads tilted to the side, listening.

  "Well, the point is, I could see myself, with the camels. It was a young, idealistic dream. I wanted to go through the world, with my heart open, bring like-minded people with me."

  "Rich like-minded people," Gill interjected.

  "Shush, let her talk."

  "Yes, I agree, tourism has a class component. So does my current job. So does yours, come to that, and you don't have to explain need-based scholarships because we all know decent public schools are a class issue and no one's getting into your elite private university without a strong education to start with. Even Serena's and Dillon's jobs aren't money-blind. Look at their client base." The couple worked together at a printing and advertising firm; she designed, he wrote.

  "Yours is more class-conscious than ours," Serena said.

  "Sure. Otherwise I wouldn't be so put out about Carter snaking a nearly million dollar listing from under me."

  "But you're tired of life not being a tapestry?" Serena asked.

  Gillian waved her question aside. "Wait, don't sidetrack her with dromedaries. How did you switch from travel to real estate?"

  Natalie forced a half-smile. "I knew you'd like the camels. But they're two-humped Bactrian camels, not dromedaries. Did you know they're one of like ten animals that can eat snow to get water? So. I had a lead on an ESL job in Costa Rica, but then my dad went through his whole triple-bypass thing, so I stuck around Houston. A friend of my mom's got me doing admin at her title company, and before I knew it, Dad was headed back offshore, and I was studying for the realtor exam between scanning closing documents and making coffee six times a day. Mom kept saying how proud she was I'd settled into such a stable job, it was so good for me."

  Serena snorted. "So good for her plans to find you a man to take care of you and give you babies, you mean."

  "She usually wasn't so explicit."

  "Usually. I like that," Gillian said. "We all know Elaine has precisely one life plan for you."

  It was true. While her mom shared Natalie's love of travel, she thought Natalie might as well live on one of those camels if it was her career. Elaine was all about domesticity. Natalie shrugged. "She is who she is; we can blame the way my Orthodox great-grandparents raised her, but she's sixty now. I'm trying to exert an influence as strong as theirs, but decades at a Reform temple haven't changed her outlook. So what chance do I have?"

  "Too complex to tackle after this much wine. Let's get back to your job. Have you given up your dreams of snow castles? Are you interested in a career change? Are you following Elaine's life lessons? Has this latest Carter-related hitch derailed you?"

  "Aren't you supposed to give students a chance to answer when you use the Socratic method?" Natalie asked Gillian, w
ho stood to gather their dessert dishes.

  "I give you a little more credit than I do my students. You can answer in whatever order you prefer."

  "So generous." Nat sighed. "I don't know if I want to change careers. I like my job. I'm talented, and organized, and people like me."

  "Good mantra. I might steal it," Serena said.

  "Dating a younger man has turned you into a real brat."

  "Hey!" Dillon peeked in from the kitchen. "She was a brat before she met me."

  "Good point. And my own point is, I know I could continue with this job for years and years, and it would be fine. I make good money, I'm used to working weekends, I usually enjoy my clients.”

  Gillian rejoined the table. "But?"

  Natalie ran her hands over the tight coil at her nape then examined her perfectly manicured nails. "Is it beyond superficial if I complain about scheduling regular facials?"

  They all laughed.

  "I know, I know. Ridiculous. And kind of...okay, it's an area where I'm too much my mother's daughter. Until I was stuck in Turkey without my hair serum and concealer, I don't think I'd gone makeup-free more than a handful of days since I was ten."

  "You should have seen how many flavors of lip gloss she had when we were kids," Serena told Gill.

  "That you remember?" It never failed to amaze Natalie how many moments of their year of sisterhood Serena had blocked.

  "You had root beer and strawberry, and the strawberry was artificial, so I could use it without breaking out." Serena was allergic to strawberries.

  "Which you found out how? I don't remember letting you borrow my makeup. Your dad always said you were too young."

  "Duh. I snuck into your make-up case while you were in the other room."

  "Told you she was always a brat," Dillon said from where he'd perched himself on a stool in the doorway.

  They shooed him back to the sink, then Natalie looked from one friend's face to the other. They were both so lovely and confident and assured. Gill would walk into the gym wearing her workout gear, and right back out afterwards, sweaty strands of hair stuck any which way across her scalp, without thinking twice about it. Serena was into her hippie-fairy girl skirts and snug shirts, but never seemed to obsess over whether her outfits obeyed the rules about dressing for her body type.

  Whereas Natalie wouldn't even buy yoga pants with a wide waistband because she'd learned early and been told often she shouldn't bisect her body with a vertical stripe. She didn't work out in makeup, but she didn't leave the gym until she'd showered, changed, moisturized, and applied lip color. To say nothing of the amount of general upkeep she did and the quantity of bottles, brushes, powders, sponges, sprays, and wands she wielded before she spent a day with clients.

  She'd made herself a very pretty, elegant bed.

  She was no longer sure she wanted to keep lying in it.

  Chapter Five

  Thanks to a decade of job changes, university, networking, and conferences, Evan had met a dozen people in the bank's downtown office before moving to Houston. Even so, his daily interactions were primarily with a whole new group of colleagues. He'd been gradually getting familiar with the interpersonal dynamics of Nineteen South. He decided to implement a tradition from Tampa, figuring if this was in truth a merger and not a take-over, parts of his corporate culture should travel to Houston.

  It would be contrary to the point to ask his admins for help. Luke, over on Nineteen West, shrugged then griped about how much trouble Evan was going to make for managers on Eighteen and the rest of Nineteen. Evan let his pirate grin inform Luke exactly how sorry he was.

  He needed an expert on the amenities of Houston.

  "Natalie East speaking."

  "It's Evan. Evan Lee."

  Her laugh was crisp and sweet and gave him a flashing image of her cheeks curving under the cat-tilt of her olive green eyes. "Caller ID. Don't start in about my greeting. I've been saying, 'Natalie East speaking,' thirty times a day for years, and I'm not likely to stop anytime soon."

  "I see someone hassled you about this before I came along." His jaw shifted a moment, wondering if it was the pilot his mom had overshared about. Made no difference who it was, not to him, but the guy sounded like a jerk. Evan couldn't see why someone as sharp and pretty as Natalie would stick with a jerk.

  "Everyone hassles me about it. Or Gillian, Rachel, and Serena, who were my college housemates, and think they make up everyone in my world."

  "Sounds like the Alice, Ben, Chloe, and Danny of my world."

  "Close enough. So what's going on?"

  Right. He'd had a point in calling. "I need a bakery."

  Natalie was silent long enough for him to begin explaining. Also long enough for him to curse himself for the fumbling way he was going about conducting a simple business-related call. "In Florida, we brought in brownies or cupcakes for our sections every Wednesday. Fancy ones, not grocery store, you know? I'm trying to do the same here, and...hang on." He glanced at the screen of his cell. It was a text from Natalie with a list of links. He scrolled through. "You just sent me five places."

  "Four, really. There are two branches of Crave Cupcakes. I'm not sure which one delivers. You did want delivery, right?"

  He laughed. "You're amazing. This city must be full of your happy clients, if you can read their minds as well as you do mine."

  "From your lips," she said.

  "I'll send a testimonial to the paper. Do you recommend any of these places in particular?" He sent her links to his work machine.

  "Crave has amazing cupcakes, the kind as large as your fist, and every flavor is decadent. Red velvet is my go-to. They do gluten free on request. Or try Dacapo if you want cookies or brownies, but check their delivery radius."

  "I'm drooling now."

  "Houston has no shortage of dining options," Natalie said, and though she must have repeated the sentiment to every new-to-town client, she sounded as upbeat and pleased about it as Evan himself was.

  "I've noticed. Luke took me to this place for fish tacos the other day and I decided to stage a sit-in if there's ever talk of another merger."

  Mellifluous. Her laugh was mellifluous. Evan blessed his zealous sophomore-year English teacher for cramming the right word for Natalie's laugh into his head.

  "It's one of the ways this city gets its hooks into you. Have you had breakfast burritos yet?"

  "I moved here from Tampa, you know."

  "Nope, not the same. No disrespect. A fried plantain and black bean burrito can bring me to my knees, but there's nothing like a Tex-Mex breakfast burrito."

  Any straight man in the world, listening to Natalie's honey-warm voice talk about dropping to her knees, would have dirty thoughts. It didn't mean he was wavering about their relationship moving out of the friend zone.

  It also didn't get him closer to done with work for the day. Evan cleared his throat. "Let's meet for breakfast burritos sometime. I'll test your theory. Meanwhile, thanks for the leads on the baked goods. I'm going to be MVP around here."

  "It's the perfect bribe if you want your mail delivered before anyone else's."

  Eyeing his messy in-box, he said, "I'm aiming for it to also be opened, sorted, and tagged for my signature."

  "In that case, you'd better go with the cupcakes. The icing is about an inch thick."

  "Thanks, Natalie. I owe you one."

  After their goodbyes, Evan clicked though Natalie's contact info until he found her work address. The cupcake place was happy to deliver a mixed three dozen to his floor, and a half-dozen Red Velvet to her office.

  He picked up on the third ring. Natalie cleared her throat. "Hey, Evan. Sorry. It's Nat. Hi."

  "Hi, yourself. What's up?" He sounded cheerful. She regretted bursting his bubble. He'd been so sweet and generous, sending her those cupcakes. He'd brushed off her thanks, and those of her friends, who'd met for an impromptu happy hour to share her bounty. He joked off everything, but even someone as upbeat as Evan would have to work t
o maintain his composure in Houston traffic.

  "Have you headed home yet?" she asked.

  "About to get on the elevator."

  Natalie hit 'refresh' on her browser, tapping a manicured nail on her trackpad until the images loaded. "Okay, good. Listen, I've been mapping out a plan for tomorrow's clients, and I saw they started the Allen Parkway upgrades. Only five months behind schedule, not bad for them. It means you've got several blocks shut down or one-way between the bank and your house. I hoped to catch you before you got stuck in that mess. Warn you."

  She paused her ridiculous rambling and waited for him to respond.

  "Oh. Right. Thanks."

  Nat blushed. She could feel it all up her neck, a pink fire that would clash with the abstract blue and yellow pattern of her cap-sleeve wrap dress.

  "Sure. It's no problem. I'm sure you'd have figured it out on your own. But you're new to town, and you might not have alternate routes sorted out yet. It's always a good idea, in Houston, to have alternate routes. There's a lot of traffic. And construction." She took a breath she hoped wasn't audible. "And you lived in Atlanta and Tampa and probably other large cities and you have maps on your phone and you are, what, thirty-something years old? So I'll let you go catch your elevator."

  Natalie would have hung up, except first she needed to unsqueeze her eyes to find the disconnect button. She felt her cheeks and nose and chin tighten, too, in a full-face effacement.

  His voice cut through her cringe. "Thirty-one. As of April."

  She opened her eyes, one at a time, letting the red and orange lines of slow traffic blur on the screen in front of her. "Me too. April, I mean. I was thirty on the nineteenth."

  He laughed. "We have the same birthday."

  "We do?"

  "Uh-huh. We're separated by a mere three hundred and sixty-five days."

  Nat smiled, smoothing her collar. "Well, what do you know?"

  "Think we can keep the parents from realizing it?"

  “Crap, I hope so. Can you imagine?" She leaned back in her desk chair, swiveling gently back and forth.