by Daisy Jane
“Finally!” she gushes and I can see she’s been holding back. “And the counter tops are like, granite. Not tile or fake wood or anything. Real stone.” She nods, nose scrunched in self-approval.
“Wow, I bet it’s so nice. I’ll have to come visit as soon as you guys are all settled.”
“Definitely. And after I’m done with school and get a job, we’re going to get married.”
She stares forward for a moment before meeting my eyes. “Do you think that’s insane?” her voice is low and this is the first time I’ve heard her ask without asking if I approve of her choice. After all these years, she’s never shown doubt or insecurity until now. I doubted my bangs in 7th grade and Melody was right there to tell me, who cares what Shonna in 8th grade says, if you like them, then own it!
“It’s not insane if you want it. You want to marry Donny?” I ask.
“I do. It’s not just what you see, you know. There’s more to him. He comes off like a lazy asshole, I know. Trust me, I know,” she fiddles nervously with her hoop earring. “But he takes care of me in ways that I never had.” Her gaze goes out the windshield and I realize now we’re both just looking for all the things that we never had but always wanted. Love, security, money, all of it.
“No dream is too small. He never tells me I’m stupid. He always reminds me how much I can do. He loves me, you know?” her eyes go dreamy for a moment and it’s a way I haven’t seen her behave in ages. It occurs to me then that Melody’s been under a lot of stress for a long time, too.
“I know. You should do it, Mel. Do what you want. You’ve earned it,” I reach over and grab her hand with mine, squeeze her once before bringing my hands back to throw my long hair up into a ponytail. “I’ll miss you,” I say, smiling.
“I’m sorry about what happened with Brooks.”
I shrug. I don’t want it to cloud her happiness. “Let’s go,” I push the door open, “You can get fired but I can’t,” I toss her a playful wink and we enter the house we’d been parked in front of and get to work.
All there is for me now is work.
Once I realized my mom drank far more than what was normal and acceptable, I was too worried to leave her. Afraid that if I was gone too long, she’d drink too much, leading to me being up all night, pacing the hallways and checking her pulse, turning her on her side and making sure she stayed that way. In my mind, if I never left, I could always protect her. When my friends went to the movies or rollerblading, I stayed home to make sure I was there, in case. I still remember fourth of July weekend when I was thirteen years old.
Mom had promised to come home straight after work but instead came home at two o’clock in the morning on the fifth, not knowing where she was or who she’d been with. As soon as I heard the scratching on the front door, I knew she’d been dropped off and was doing her usual “struggle with the keys” routine. I’d pulled her in, black out drunk, and put her on the couch. After taking off her shoes, getting the sick bowl, water and aspirin, I refused to stay up and just sit by her side, nervous and anxious all night like I usually did. Instead, I stayed up the remainder of the night trying to make French macarons. I failed the first four times but with the desire to keep my hands and mind busy, I got them close. And it was that morning at 6am, exhaustion and worry the only thing keeping me standing, that I realized baking was something I enjoyed. And it kept my mind occupied from my problems.
Over the course of the next five years, I’d make nearly 1,200 French macarons and many cakes, cupcakes, sugar cookies and far more. The best part of baking out of anxiety and worry is that I never wanted to eat any of it, my stomach always the state of turmoil, waiting to see if mom would come through each bender or not. Around the time I was fifteen, Melody’s parents had split and her mom was coming to visit my mom a lot more. They partied together, leaving Melody and I at my house together. Instead of being scared alone, we baked together. And Melody fell in love with baking, too.
Mom always told me I needed to go to college. “Cookies are great but they don’t put a roof over your head,” she’d say. To make her happy, I enrolled in a junior college and spent a good chunk of money I’d earned at the Stop’n’Save buying books, registering for general education classes I didn’t want to take, and bus passes. Without a car, I relied heavily on public transportation and nothing in life makes you want to be financially free as much as public transportation does.
With mom gone and Melody pursuing her baking dreams, I was left wondering what to do with myself. I could go to culinary school, too, but in three years when the debt was paid off, I’d be nearing twenty-four—most bakers have finished school and done apprenticeships by that age. Would I ever get my foot in the door? I didn’t usually even let myself think this far ahead because it just brought me stress but with Melody moving forward, it made me think. And I returned to the same thought.
All there is for me now is work.
18
Brooks
I’m so fucking mad at myself for not telling Britta about Darcy. I had plenty of opportunities—especially since I’d told her about Lucy. I’d never told any of the agency girls—including Darcy—about Lucy. No one knew I’d been married before, except my business partner. While the reasons I didn’t tell her ended up coming true, the outcome could’ve been far less detrimental had I just told her. Why hadn’t I told her? She definitely misunderstood the relationship I had with Darcy but still, I’d broken her trust after what had happened with Nolan. As it was, she’d been through such a huge amount of trauma in the last few years, all she needed was a safe place, love and care. That’s all. And I fucked it up. Omissions, I’d learned in business, are as good as lies. And no one wants to be with a liar.
She didn’t want to see me or talk to me; I know because the agency called to make sure I wanted to keep her on my service after they relayed that she tried to get me off her route. I told them to keep her on, everything was fine. She didn’t want to see me, though, so I remained away when they came last week. I knew if I said yes to having her on another route she’d be replaced. These high-end discreet services wanted girls who wanted to be there, not trouble makers. Another bump in the road would be the end of the road for her, no matter what I said or did.
Instead, I wrote her a letter then threw it away. In the week since I’d spoken to her, I found myself swimming in a very deep pool of misery. And the amount of gloom which I was experiencing surprised me. I’d only spent a handful of time with her, we didn’t know each other’s nuances and annoyances, but still, I’d fallen for her. I know I had.
The delicate way which she laced positivity into all situations—she did it without being annoying, in a way that made me see things more positively. Tutoring for free when she was in debt, offering to pay for the glass I made her break, that sweet tone she used when tracing out difficult questions. She was pure, gentle and kind and when I thought about her, I thought about all the things I thought I wouldn’t have but suddenly wanted, desperately, with her. I’d been lying in bed at night thinking of what sex had been like with her. She was wild, unbridled and real; never trying to act sexy or do things she thought I wanted. No, she moved on my body doing just what felt good, and when we were together, I could feel that she was pleased, in more ways than one. And god, she was so fucking beautiful. The subtle curves of her petite frame, the way she gasped when I took her nipple in my mouth, how fast she came for me when I finally tasted her. She was perfect and in the span of a week I managed to break her trust and turn her against me.
The years of using services to take care of my sexual needs had my relationship skills rusty. She said she didn’t want to talk to me but it’s been a week. I’d given her a week. I need to see her one more time.
I find her number in my phone and call her.
“Hello?” I’m surprised when the line stops ringing.
“Hello.” Her voice sounds tired and I look at my watch to make sure I haven’t woken her. I have hardly slept ten hours total this who
le week. It could be three in the morning as far as I know.
“Did I wake you?” I ask, seeing it’s nearly ten o’clock. I don’t let her answer. “Thank you for picking up.”
She makes a noise to acknowledge I’ve spoken, and I can imagine her on the old couch in her pink panties, hair splayed out everywhere around her, perky tits visible through her thin t-shirt. My chest tightens at the image, and doubles down when I remember she doesn’t trust me and I won’t ever get to have her in that way again.
“I just wanted to say a few things.”
“Okay,” and there’s a rustling noise behind her, like she’s sitting up. I wonder if she has that afghan on her and if she’s eaten.
“After Lucy, I just couldn’t see myself marrying again. And it took me a long time to date again,” I pour a few fingers of whiskey into a glass and lean over my kitchen counter, remembering how I took her there with my hands early that one morning. “After a couple of years of dating, I started to feel like a fucking asshole. Women wanted more and ended up disappointed when, after a few dates, I broke it off. But I just couldn’t connect with any of them. Everything felt so forced and fake.”
She makes another little noise, a cross between mmm and hmm, so I know she’s there and listening. I keep going.
“But I didn’t want to be celibate. And I didn’t want to lead anyone on. And the women I dated; they didn’t want to have just sexual relationships.”
“They were looking for more,” she says, her tone wandering.
“Yes, they were. And I knew that I didn’t feel more. I couldn’t remember all of what I felt with Lucy, it’d been so long ago, but I never sparked with any of the women I dated. And I remembered the spark.”
She doesn’t say anything but I know she’s still there as I watched the seconds count up on the call timer.
“My partner suggested I use this agency and at first I said no,” I settle into a seat at the bar, having moved around the house during the conversation, nervous energy setting me adrift. “I thought I could stomach being completely alone. But I guess I’m weak. I needed something.”
“Sex,” she says flatly.
“Yes. I wanted to have sex. And Darcy was just sex.”
“I don’t understand how someone can be in your bed and make love to you and wake up next to you and you’re able to call it just a business transaction,” I can hear desperation in her voice, which has replaced the anger. She wants to understand, she’s trying, she really is. Blood flows quick throughout me, my heart beating hastily. I’m on my feet again, pacing.
“Britta, listen, I know it’s hard to understand. But really, Darcy was just so I wasn’t alone and miserable all the time. She was under contract and understood exactly what we were. We were business.”
“I’m under contract, too,” her voice is so small, I just want to scoop her up and feel her against me, kiss her head and take away her worries.
“Not the same way and you know that. Britta, I wanted to tell you about Darcy and the agency. I just didn’t want you to see me as Nolan. I would never put my hands on you or anyone else the way that he did. You know that, right?” I ask, hoping that the things I’ve shared with her are enough to make her see the truth. Just let it be enough for now and then I will win her back, win her trust, make it right, show her who I am and how much I care.
Seconds feel like hours.
“I want to believe you aren’t,” she whispers on a sob. “But I just don’t know.”
“Okay, okay,” I barter, “will you continue seeing me? We don’t have to have sex, or touch even. Just dinner at my house a few times a week. We can continue to get to know each other. We’ll start where we should’ve started in the first place. And then after a while, you can decide.”
She sniffles and then she speaks the most beautiful word I could hear, even in its reluctance. “Okay.”
“I’m not like Nolan,” I say it again because it feels like I can’t say it enough. “I like you. A lot. And you make me see the horizon, not the path behind me.”
Money or no money, the same fear lies in us all, somewhere. Mine just happened to be at the surface, flaring brightly. I’d been in love before and left before and though I was well past those emotions, I never forgot how it felt. I wanted to be with Britta, but the idea that perhaps she didn’t or wouldn’t share those feelings—it kept those three words at bay. For now.
“I don’t ever want you to think I want you for your money,” her tone is sharp, and it tells me she’s thought about me, about us. My heart settles after a flip and breathe my first relaxed breath in a week. It’s not all worked out. It’s not what I want it to be, not yet. But we’re closer than we were.
“Come for dinner tomorrow,” I say, “promise me dinner tomorrow. We’ll start there.”
“Okay,” she agrees, and its slight but there is excitement in her voice.
Progress.
19
Brooks
I don’t know if dating has changed that much or if I’m just not used to dating someone I actually give a shit about, but dating Britta is—at the risk of sounding like a twelve-year-old girl writing in a diary—magical. The days we’ve chosen to see one another are Wednesdays and Fridays, and I get to see her Tuesdays while she’s at the house. I despise her cleaning my house, I want her off my service—hell, I want her to quit that fucking job altogether. But we are moving in baby steps, to make up for the quick and somewhat disastrous start.
She insists on bringing groceries on Wednesday evening and we cook together, swaying gently to the crooning of Frank Sinatra while we talk about nothing and everything. We share our favorite authors and favorite books; she shows me a whole world of music in the form of stripped-down acoustic covers. I introduce her to the world of Lionel Richie, we slow dance together in the kitchen to classical music, and I get lost in her presence when she tells me she’s going to teach me to make French macarons from scratch, her passion gleaming in her wide green eyes.
“What’s the most important part?” I asked her, sifting almond flour over a bowl as she directed me.
“Macarons have a lot of important parts. That’s why I started with them, back when I was younger. I knew if I could perfect a macaron, I could do anything else,” she smiled and dug around in my drawers and cabinets, a strand of blonde hair dancing in front of her face.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, enjoying watching her blow the hair away from her face, her lips going pouty and edible as she did.
“Would you know where it is, even if I tell you what it is?” she smiled and continued digging, knowing full well that I don’t make use of all the things in my kitchen. The microwave and the fridge but everything else may as well not exist.
She pulled a food scale out from a cabinet and held it up like baby Simba, her eyes gleaming up at it.
“Important?”
I smiled, loving how my heart thudded wildly as I watched her move naturally around my kitchen.
“Very,” she set it down on the counter and began scooping the almond flour from my bowl, pouring it into the bowl on the scale. “You did good. This is nearly 100 grams. You always have to use a food scale because a cup isn’t 100 grams,” she shook her head staunchly as she measured and sifted sugar in her bowl. “Now we sift them together.”
We’d agreed to keep our hands to ourself while we dated and I’d been okay with restricting myself with her around only to abuse myself utterly and desperately later. But with her sweet smell of cake and body heat under my nose, the light inside her coming alive doing what she loves and how comfortable she is in my home with me… it was a real fucking test of willpower. And a stark contrast to how I felt with Darcy. I had to force myself to fuck her, so I wouldn’t be a horny recluse. And if she wanted to cook or use my home for any reason, it made me itch. My skin would literally crawl listening to her bare feet slap against the marble tile as she touched my things and existed in my space. With Britta, I never wanted her to feel like it wasn’t
hers too and I never wanted her to leave, either.
“The eggs need to be room temperature, too. Aging them,” she nudged a small elbow into my waist and while it was just a tiny jab, it electrified me. “You don’t seem to age too much so I had to explain it.” She tossed a frisky wink my way.
We finished mixing the batter and when I didn’t have piping bags, she showed me how she made them at home with no real supplies. She cut the tip off of a Ziploc bag and put a piece of rolled tin foil inside to create a tip, spooning the batter in slowly, cautiously and piped little discs of carefully measured batter on the pan. We sat on the kitchen floor—something I’d never done with anyone before—and talked about our favorite childhood memories of cookies while we waited for the oven.
She told me of the time she was eight years old, before she realized her mom had a problem, and they made chocolate chip cookies together from scratch and it was the single most perfect memory she could recall. I told her of a time that a girl gave cookies out as Valentines when I was in high school and it was the first time a girl had given me anything. She smirked at my story, then leaned forward, stopping before our lips made contact. “I hope you like sweets,” she bit her lip and leaned back, rosy cheeks and flushed chest.
Those times we cooked and baked together, I’d watch her move around my kitchen and I’d collect delicious and sinister mental images, tapping into them after she left, fucking myself recalling them. But I can’t help it. She makes me feel alive in ways I never knew were possible. And of all the dates, the ones where she baked and indulged in her passions, were the dates where she was the hardest to resist.
Fridays I cooked for her but because I don’t love cooking, we have pizza. We’ve tried all sorts of different crust recipes—cauliflower, traditional, stuffed, garlic and herb, two-ingredient. Together we chopped and diced all toppings, spreading them over our stretched dough, putting them into the pizza oven together. Though I’d done a fair amount of drinking before Britta, I’d stopped as soon as she agreed to date me. She swore she didn’t mind, she even admitted to drinking occasionally, too. But with her history and everything she’d told me she went through with her mom, it seemed like an obvious and easy choice not to drink. Instead, I bought a soda stream and we made all sorts of flavored waters and drinks, because, according to her, “carbonation goes with pizza like ice cream goes with cake.” Seeing her was the best part of every week, and talking to her was the highlight of each day. Her jubilance and positive outlook never ceased to surprise me, and when I’d comment on it, she’d chalk it up to our age difference.