Tapped

by Liz Crowe

  They drove the fifteen miles between her tiny world and his much bigger one in complete silence. Austin clenched and unclenched his jaw. Not a good sign, she knew. Trying hard not to be so self-absorbed, she put her hand on his thigh at one point, only to withdraw it when he flinched but didn’t favor her with a patented, Austin-sweet, green-eyed glance.

  Sighing, she sunk deeper into the leather seat, arms crossed, focusing on the concept of ‘how bad can it be?’ They were only human beings, not giant ogres, ready to devour her with one giant chomp.

  What’s the worst that could happen, really?

  But she’d feel a hell of a lot better if Austin would talk to her, fill the air with nonsense words, soothe away the terror racing up and down her spine.

  You’re already too damn dependent on him. She slowly chewed off her lipstick and stared out of the window. You are a grown-ass woman. You have a great job. You pay your bills. So what if you didn’t grow up on the hoity-toity side of town, swimming and playing tennis with Muffy and the gang at the club? How dare they even think badly of her?

  Thus worked up, she got out of the car, ignoring Austin’s proffered hand and stood staring at him for a few minutes in the glow of the lights under the fancy valet station.

  He didn’t say anything, merely met her gaze with his, hands in his suit pockets.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald?”

  She blinked, as if emerging from a daydream and saw a young kid standing by Austin’s elbow, ready to take his car keys so he wouldn’t have to be bothered driving the damn thing all the hell the way across the fucking street to park it. As if reading her mind, Austin dropped the keys into the kid’s hand then spun on his heel, heading for the front doors, currently being held open for them by a couple of other teenagers, both of them smiling, bowing, scraping, whatever else the employees of this obnoxious place did for its members.

  Stop being a bitch, Evelyn. This is Austin, not his parents. And you’re making him a nervous wreck.

  She slid her hand into the crook of his arm, relieved when he grabbed it and pulled her even closer as they stood for a few minutes in the large, marble-floored foyer.

  “I love you,” he said, loud enough for the couple nearest them to turn and stare for a few seconds before resuming their conversation.

  “I know,” she said, her knees shaking despite herself. “Can we…um, get a drink first? Maybe?”

  “Great idea.” He pulled her away from what looked like the entrance to a fancy restaurant. They ducked into an open door and she found herself in a regular bar, half-empty but for a few guys and some women in khakis and polo shirts. “The golfers’ bar. A lot less stuffy.” He indicated a plain-Jane bar stool and she slid onto it, hoping she hadn’t run her pantyhose but afraid she had.

  “Two bourbons,” he said to the bartender. “Pappy. Neat.”

  “Uh, so, you come in here and suddenly I don’t get to choose my own drink?” she asked, trying not to let her actual pique sneak into her voice.

  “Yep,” he said, his gaze somewhere over her head. “That’s exactly how it works.” He smiled, and gave light waves and nods to a few people before training his gaze on her. “Drink your drink Evelyn, okay? It’s a fucking fifty dollar pour.”

  “Oh, well then, I see.” Keeping her voice light, realizing that she was not helping things one bit, she smiled at the bartender and knocked back her ‘fifty-dollar pour,’ then put the glass down on the table. “Make it an even Benjamin.”

  The bartender glanced at Austin who nodded, before he poured another few inches of the amber liquid into her heavy rocks glass. When Austin put a hand on her shoulder, she felt herself relax. She sipped the second one, really tasting it this time, embarrassed at her childish display before.

  “Relax, baby,” he said, his lips near her ear. “It’ll be fine.”

  She nodded and put her glass down softly this time, leaning her cheek into his hand. “Fine. Let’s get it over with already.”

  He nodded and they walked out of the bar. “Don’t you have to sign something with a tiny pencil, like at a resort hotel?” she whispered, grateful for the alcohol coating her nerve endings.

  “It’s not like that here,” he said, distractedly nodding and smiling at various other well-dressed people who passed them as they made their way back to the restaurant. To her surprise, he stopped and turned to her, gripping her upper arms and staring so hard at her she squirmed. “Listen, Evelyn, I… I can’t promise that it won’t be God-awful. So, I’m sorry in advance. They’re—well, she—my mother is very, um…”

  “There you are,” a soft, fading away, rich-sounding woman’s voice made him let go of her arms and turn around, blocking her view of the woman who’d spoken. Evelyn waited, trying not to freak out and run away, as he greeted his mother and his father. She tapped his arm and cleared her throat when he seemed to get frozen in place while his parents spoke briefly to someone else passing by.

  Austin stepped aside and placed a proprietary hand in the small of her back. “Mother, Dad, this is Evelyn. Evelyn Benedict.”

  Evelyn stuck out her hand and smiled, wishing she’d remembered to reapply her lipstick and feeling the woman’s very subtle but very present eye-crawl up and down her expensively dressed body. The simple gray dress hugged her curves, highlighting them in a way she hadn’t been completely comfortable with, though Austin had assured her it was classy, but sexy at the same time.

  At that moment, she felt, in a word, slutty. Especially when Maxwell Fitzgerald shot his son a look of such obvious masculine approval it made her want to puke. Instead, she took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on Austin’s mother. “I’m very glad to meet you, Mrs.—”

  “Please, my dear, call me Virginia.” The painfully thin, tall, not attractive but compelling woman kept hold of her right hand and patted it as she spoke. “And the pleasure is all mine. Really, Austin,” she said, while keeping Evelyn’s right hand in a death grip. “Keeping this lovely creature a secret. Shame on you.”

  Austin’s shoulders lost a bit of their tension and he smiled at his mother wanly, tugging Evelyn out of her grasp. “Right, well, then. Let’s eat.” He guided Evelyn quickly ahead of him, letting his parents follow behind.

  “Don’t be so pushy,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “I think we were really bonding there for a minute over how shameful you are.” She felt giddy, drunker than she should. When he pulled out a heavy chair for her, she tried to peck his cheek but he drew away. Virginia Fitzgerald raised one gray, carefully groomed eyebrow, then shot her husband a significant look. Evelyn’s mood deflated ever so slightly as she slid into her seat, feeling her face heat up and praying she hadn’t blown it with a little un-WASPY PDA.

  They ordered drinks from the hovering waiter—two more expensive bourbons for them, a gin and slice of lime for Virginia, an old-fashioned for Max. When the drinks arrived, Austin dropped the soft linen napkin into her lap as she was taking a sip. Deciding not to react—he was only trying to help her after all—she sipped and smiled and let their conversation float around her for a few more minutes.

  Austin fell silent as his father ordered a bottle of wine Evelyn knew retailed for seventy-five dollars. She could imagine what the country club mark-up might be. As she stared down at the menu in front of—one devoid of prices just like she’d read about in a book once—she felt the tears pressing against the backs of her eyes. This was not her world. She was a stranger, unwelcome here.

  As if sensing her looming panic, Austin took her hand under the table and squeezed it. She shook her head, unwilling to meet his eyes lest she burst into tears or gouge his out with her fork for making her face this reality of her stupid, useless life.

  “So, Evelyn dear,” Virginia said, after putting her second clear alcohol drink down on the table and they’d placed their dinner orders. “Do tell me where you went to school. Austin has hardly told me a thing about you or your people.”

  In the impolite pulse beat of time that followed, Austin
gave her hand another squeeze. She blinked slowly and swallowed.

  “Mother, I did tell you and your selective memory is speaking for you again,” Austin said, his voice tight with a sort of anger she’d never heard before. “Or maybe it’s the gin.” He knocked back his fourth pour of bourbon.

  “Son,” Max said in a low voice.

  “It’s all right, Maxwell,” she said patting his hand which rested on the table next to his sugary bourbon drink. “I’m sorry. I meant…tell me about where you grew up.”

  Austin heaved a teenager-worthy sigh, confusing her for a second. But she set her jaw and focused on Virginia before she spoke. “I grew up in Grand Rapids, Virginia. The Garfield Park area. I’m pretty certain you’ve heard of it.”

  The woman’s bony fingers flew to her throat. Her eyes—the same color as Austin’s if a tad faded—widened. “Well, I’m sure I…” She seemed honestly flustered for a split second, Evelyn felt sorry for her. She glanced at Austin.

  He smiled at her and mouthed, “I love you.”

  “I guess I’ve never really met anyone from there. Definitely never here, with Austin.” She sipped and eyed Evelyn for a few seconds. “The silly boy was forever bringing a different girl here for us to meet. I mean, until Valerie, of course.” Virginia sighed and looked wistfully at her son. “Poor girl.”

  “Mother,” he said, his voice low like a dog’s warning growl. Max drained his drink and raised a hand for the waiter. Evelyn’s pulse went whoosh-whoosh in her ears, a warning sign of an impending, booze-enabled rager. She took a deep breath, not willing to be baited by this fucking skeletal excuse for a woman.

  “Oh, I’ll bet you did know someone from there. Your housekeeper, perhaps? A gardener or two?” She sipped some water and gave Austin’s hand a squeeze.

  “Possibly, possibly,” Virginia admitted, smiling up at the waiter who’d brought their salads. A welcome lull in the conversation ensued as they chewed, swallowed, sipped, dabbed their lips with napkins and repeated it a few times.

  “Well then. Where did you spend your summers, Elaine?” Virginia finished her gin and set the glass down.

  “It’s Evelyn and I told you already, Mother. She worked every summer so she could have money for college. Not everyone in the world, much less in Grand Rapids, got to spend the months of June through August in Charlevoix. Jesus.”

  “Language, son,” Max muttered.

  “No, no, I’ve got this.” Evelyn pulled her hand free of Austin’s and propped her elbows on the table, meeting Virginia Fitzgerald’s evil expression with a serene one. “I worked at the hamburger joint at the corner of Fifth and Ballard most mornings, a dry-cleaners a few other mornings, and at a bar every night.”

  “A…bar…”

  “Mother.”

  Evelyn held up her hand and didn’t break the stare-down she was currently engaged in with Austin’s mother. “Yes. I washed dishes until I was eighteen then I got a fake ID so I could wait tables. You should have seen my ‘uniform’.” She hooked her fingers around the word and winked at Max. “Skirt up to my chin, practically. I made great…tips.”

  Virginia blinked.

  Score one for the barmaid, Evelyn thought, ready to leap up into the waiter’s arms to thank him for showing up with their food.

  The plates were all served at once—once again proving that some of the shit she used to read and scoff at as pure fantasy was, indeed, fact. Max and Austin had filets, Virginia a chicken breast with a side of brown rice—a dinner as dried-up as she was. When she’d ordered the scallops in pasta with capers and an unpronounceable olive oil, it had sounded delicious. But now, it sat there on the plate, like so much shit on toast. When she picked up her fork she couldn’t bring herself to spear one of the fat, glistening shellfish.

  Austin’s leg pressed against hers but her vision was going wonky from anxiety. After gulping down half the water in her glass to buy herself some time, she picked up her fork again. No one else was bothering with conversation at the moment. When she sensed the woman’s gaze on her, she met Virginia’s ice-cold glare, thinking Okay bitch, bring it.

  “You know, dear, if you wanted low calorie seafood, those are not the right choice.” She put a miniscule bite of rice between her lips and chewed slowly.

  “Oh, you know, I don’t really count calories. Too boring. There’s too much great food out there, after all.”

  “Well, that much is apparent,” Virginia said.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Austin said, throwing his napkin onto the table, his steak only half-consumed. Evelyn put her hand on his arm, picked up her fork again, speared a juicy scallop and put it in her mouth.

  “This really is delicious,” she said. “Thanks so much for inviting me, Max.” It was, most likely but it tasted like sawdust to her. She cleared the whole plate, stopping short of taking a third piece of the delicious bread in the wire basket between them. When the waiter arrived with his retinue to remove the plates, Virginia’s was exactly half-eaten. She sipped the wine, observing Evelyn with a contemplative, dare she think, mildly admiring way.

  She’d carried on a conversation with Austin and his father, purposefully ignoring the angry woman sitting across from her. By the time the dessert cart was rolled over, she felt almost okay, since Virginia had kept her mouth shut the rest of the meal.

  “Let’s split a crème brulee,” Austin said, draping his arm around her shoulders.

  “Really, Austin,” his mother interrupted. “Let the girl order for herself.” Evelyn opened her mouth to make what she hoped was a funny, just-us-girls comment before Virginia let her final verbal arrow fly. “Might I suggest the fruit plate, Evelyn?”

  Max closed his eyes and knocked back the rest of his wine. Austin rose and held out a hand. Evelyn took it and stood next to him. “Mother, Dad, this was…about what I expected. And that’s not good, just for the record. Come on, Evelyn,” he said, handing her the pashmina off the back of her chair. “We’re leaving.”

  Trying to stay silent, even though she knew bottling up the massive head of rage steam she’d been building for the last hour and a half did not bode well for the rest of their evening, she tucked her hand into his elbow. “Thanks for dinner,” she said. “I’d go for that one, Virginia.” She pointed at a decadent-looking chocolate cake. “I hear the sugar might be good for your soul.”

  Max smiled at her, then said, “You’ve said enough for one night, Virginia,” to his wife, before Austin steered her out of the busy restaurant and into the blessedly cool night air.

  They drove to her place in the same sort of silence as before. She kept her fingers knotted together so tightly they hurt. The wild race of her thoughts made her breathless. She was, truly, a pariah. She would never, ever fit in with him and his ‘people’.

  With a sigh, she leaned her head against the window, allowing a single, hot tear to slide down her cheek.

  Stupid Evelyn. Letting yourself think you could make this work—poor little rich boy Austin and his Porsche and his Lake Michigan summer house and his mother fucking country club.

  She startled when he covered her entwined fingers with one, warm palm. They were at her apartment and she had barely registered the trip. When he turned off the engine and started to climb out, she put a firm hand on his leg. “No. Don’t bother.” She got out and started for the front door of her shabby, shitty building.

  She sensed him walking a few steps behind her and she was thankful for it, but not at the same time. This was never going to work and it was up to her to end it. She turned to face him outside her door, the words, “I’m sorry, Austin. But we should just end this now,” on her lips.

  But the sight of him—her man as the words formed in her brain—made her hesitate. The long, lean lankiness of his, the huge green eyes, thick brown hair, patrician, too-perfect features—they belonged to her fucking man. She took two handfuls of the stiff front of his white dress shirt and dragged him to her, meeting him eye-to-eye in her sky-high heels. “You…” she
began. She could smell his subtle cologne and that sent her spinning back to their first hours together, in her car, selling his damn beer.

  He waited, not saying a word, not moving. She slanted her lips over his, shoved her tongue into his mouth and demanded everything she could of him without speaking. He met her halfway, pressing her against the door, shoving his thigh between her legs, pinning her hands up over her head.

  She broke the kiss with an audible sound somewhere between a moan and a grunt of frustration. Her head ached. Her eyes burned. Her chest felt empty and full at the same time. So empty…and only one thing would fill her right now, drive out the painful sense of non-belonging and of wanting to have made a good impression so badly it infuriated her she hadn’t—no matter the reason.

  Yanking her hands out of his, she gripped his shirt again, tightly. “I want you to take me inside and fuck me so hard I forget this entire evening. You up for that?”

  Please say yes. Please don’t leave me.

  He reached behind her, opened the door, picked her up and carried her inside by way of an answer. He made good on her demand, and then some. But the action was angry, brutal, and raw. When she’d woken up to an empty bed, an impotent rage had filled her again. She stomped into the kitchen, wrapping her ratty robe around her naked body. Pulling up short when she spotted him making coffee, or watching it brew, or something, his head hanging low between his shoulders. When he met her eyes, she had her first inkling of the depths of his frustration with his family and the loss of his twin brother.

  She hesitated, the angry words drying up in her throat.

  Go to him, her inner nice person urged. Be there for him.

  She waited for a split second. Long enough for him to brush past her. “I’m going home,” he muttered. She grabbed his arm. “Don’t, Evelyn. I’m not in the mood. I can’t reassure you every fucking second that you’re beautiful and loved and perfect.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She kept pulling him until he had her wrapped up tightly and she had her arms around his waist. They stood for a long time, as the coffee maker burbled and burped up the morning’s caffeinated magic. “I’m sorry. I love you, Austin. I swear it.”