Rolling in the Deep

by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  “The drawing’s at eight o’clock tonight, okay?” He grinned hesitantly. “Make sure you watch.”

  “I’ll watch.”

  Was it a date, even, that he’d been asking me on? Or just a friendly coffee, and I was getting all full of myself for no reason?

  Maybe I made us both uncomfortable over nothing.

  “I’ll watch the drawing along with seventy billion other people all hoping to win.”

  He leaned back against the shelf. “Yeah, well. Hope never hurt anybody.”

  “That’s not true.” I paused with my hand on the cart in front of me. “Hope hurts most of all.”

  Ray went still, and looked at me for a long time.

  Then, in real life, what he actually did was say goodbye and head back to work.

  But for a brief moment, here in the present, fingers in the flower petals, I imagine something different.

  Ray pressing toward me, knocking the cart out of the way. Pushing me up against the shelf and taking my face in his hands. Kissing me. His warm stomach against mine, his hips. His tongue slipping into my mouth.

  Tampon boxes dislodging and falling around my shoulders. Sanitary napkins scattering across the floor.

  Pull yourself together, Holly.

  I know I’m only human, and it’s fun to fantasize. But at a certain point it becomes ridiculous. Kissing Ray. Winning the lottery. As if.

  Happy endings don’t happen to regular people.

  I slide the first batch of flowers into a broad vase and set them on the coffee table in the living room. Drew’s not here to enjoy the colors but they cheer me up when he’s away.

  I reach for my phone and dial Beth’s number, putting her on speaker as soon as she picks up.

  “Hey, lady. What’s up?”

  I’ve known Beth for over ten years, since we took English lit classes together at community college. She’s about as different from me as it’s possible to be—outgoing, brassy, and…How can I put this delicately? Very fond of men.

  Pretty much daily I wish I had half the bravado she has.

  I gather a smaller cluster of flowers and snip the stems lower. “Your voice sounds scratchy.”

  Beth coughs. “Yeah, well. Late night. Just woke up. How are you, pal?”

  “Whoa. Stop right there. The sun’s about to set. What are you doing just waking up? What did you do last night?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She laughs—that wonderful throaty laugh she has, so full of vibrant life.

  “Yes, I would, thank you. One of us has got to have an interesting nightlife, and I know it’s not going to be me.” I slide the flowers one short bunch at a time into a row of small vases. They’ll go on the windowsills as soon as they’re ready.

  “Never say never, my dear. There’s that guy Ray at work, isn’t there? Any developments I need to know about?”

  I’ve already decided not to tell her about Ray asking me for coffee. She’ll only lecture me for not saying yes. Beth would say yes, in my shoes. She says yes to just about everything.

  “No developments. Who were you with last night?”

  Beth clicks her tongue at me over the phone. “Fine, don’t tell me anything. See if I care. I won’t tell you about the hot French guy I slept with last night, then.”

  “What?” I pause, hands in the sink, smiling. “French guy? You have to tell. Tell me everything.”

  She laughs. “Okay, fine. He’s only in town for the weekend, to climb the Shawangunks.”

  “Ooh la la.”

  “Totally. Claude! Twenty-four hours and then he leaves the country. Perfect date.”

  “Oh my God. Only you, Beth Cody.”

  She chuckles warmly. “You coming to the garden Tuesday morning? I’ll tell you all about it then. Right now I need like fourteen coffees.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “Okay, cool. I’ll see you Tuesday bright and early.” She makes a kissing sound and hangs up.

  The garden isn’t much, but for a community space it’s pretty. Beth and I pitch in volunteer hours on Tuesdays. Other people come in at various points in the week from all over the county, and some of the local businesses have donated benches and supplies. It’s a nice place to visit—a little corner of peace in the heart of Poughkeepsie.

  For a small city right on the Hudson River—close to the Catskills and two hours north of New York City—you would think Poughkeepsie would have plenty of green space. But aside from a few stretches of patchy grass, downtown Poughkeepsie is as gray and remote as any inner-city neighborhood, full of broken concrete, empty lots, and garbage. It doesn’t help that it’s wedged in on both sides by old and new money. To the east sits Vassar College on a thousand landscaped acres and to the west a rapidly developing waterfront that lures more Manhattan tourists every day. You could walk the length of Poughkeepsie in a single afternoon, but in the center of the city, you’d think you were on a different planet. There aren’t even any jobs to be had here. I have to drive twenty-five minutes to Fishkill to work at Cogmans.

  It’s good to take a break from the brick and asphalt and get my hands in the soil once a week—I need to remember that. I wish it were more, but I should be grateful I’m able to go at all. In another life, though, I’d start a landscape business and garden full-time. I’d own a house with a vegetable patch and a hillside of wildflowers, instead of renting this tiny concrete block with barely enough space for a window box. I’d come home every day to a man like Ray.

  With his dark hair, and those eyes that look at me so closely I almost want to turn away. To turn away and also to dive right in—both at once. I never knew that was possible.

  And here I go again, with the fantasies.

  Gratitude, Holly. Be glad for what you have.

  I take out my cellphone and look up the photo I snapped of Ray’s Powerball ticket. Our ticket. It’s almost eight o’clock. A live lottery drawing that I don’t win should bring me back down to reality.

  I carry one small vase at a time to each window in the apartment. Then I grab a seltzer and sit down on the couch to watch the drawing.

  After a few minutes of commercials, a low-resolution live video pops up on-screen, showing an eager young woman in a red pantsuit. Unthreatening house music plays excitedly in the background as she welcomes the invisible audience and announces that the jackpot is up to four hundred twenty-five million. The number flashes neon on the screen.

  “So get out those tickets and let’s play Powerball.”

  I sit back on the couch and sip my seltzer. The lady on-screen smiles enthusiastically.

  “Your first number tonight is nineteen.”

  I consult the screen of my phone and then abruptly sit up. Our first number is also nineteen. I don’t think it means anything unless you guess the final Powerball number, too, but still. It’s kind of fun. Maybe we’ll win a few dollars.

  “Your second number is sixteen.” I put down my drink. That’s our second number.

  The woman in the pantsuit pauses to congratulate a previous million-dollar winner, flashing his photograph briefly on the screen. My heart starts beating strangely.

  “Your remaining numbers are twenty, thirty-three, and twenty-nine. Now, remember if you match this Powerball number you are always a winner. Tonight that number is ten.”

  I sit like a statue, staring at the screen, and then I start to tremble. I look back and forth between the ticket photo on my cellphone and the numbers on the TV. Each time I look, they are the same. The TV station leaves the numbers up for a minute or two to give people a chance to double check.

  I have double-checked. I’ve triple-checked. The numbers are the same.

  “Thank you so much for joining us,” the lady on the screen chirps. “And good luck, everybody.”

  I pitch forward without meaning to and a flood rushes through my stomach and up into my throat. I make it to the bathroom just in time, and grip the toilet, retching.

  In the living room my cellphone rings an
d rings, but I can’t stand up. The room is spinning. I can’t stand up.

  The ringing stops and then starts again.

  Oh, God. Ray.

  I stumble back into the living room. The TV is blaring a car commercial. “Come on down, folks! Reward yourself—today!” I click it off, my hands shaking, and pick up the phone.

  Five missed calls. I hit send, and Ray picks up on the first ring.

  “Holy shit, Holly.”

  “Ray.” My voice is a croak. “Oh my God.”

  He starts to laugh, a bit unhinged. “I think we just won the fucking lottery.”

  “But…” I can’t seem to find words. They were there a minute ago, and now…“Ray.”

  “I know. Listen, I checked. And checked again. I checked like a hundred times. It’s our numbers, Holly. We won. I mean, there might be other winners, too, but—”

  “How can we—”

  “I don’t know, man.” He lets out a whoop, followed by what sounds like a howl. “I don’t know. But we did. We won it. Holy shit.” He drops the phone for a second and I hear it clatter across the floor. When he returns, he’s breathing hard. “We have to meet up. Can you…can you meet me at the IHOP? On Route Nine? Just for, like—”

  “What? Meet you?”

  “Yeah. So we can talk? And, I don’t know, figure this out. Figure out what to do?”

  “What is there to—” I let out one short sharp breath. And then another. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  His voice, wild as it is, steadies me. “Okay. Twenty minutes.”

  “Oh my God, Holly.”

  I manage a brief laugh. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  I hang up the phone, and for just a moment, I press my face into a couch pillow and scream.

  Chapter 6

  Ray

  The IHOP is packed. I probably should have suggested someplace quieter, but this time of night on a Saturday everywhere would be busy—unless we met at my apartment. But I doubt Holly would have been comfortable with that.

  She’s late. I know that because I got here five minutes early and since then I’ve been watching the second hand on the overhead clock, tapping a straw against the table, and jiggling in the booth seat. I ordered coffee, but I can’t drink it. At this point any additional stimulation to my system will send me rocketing through the roof.

  We just won the mother-loving lottery.

  I keep repeating that to myself, because I don’t believe it yet. How could anyone believe a thing like that? Each time I say it, I immediately panic and doubt myself, and then check the ticket again to be sure.

  I’ve checked the ticket about three hundred times.

  We won.

  I slid it into a Ziploc and pinned the bag inside my shirt so I wouldn’t lose it. Imagine losing the damn ticket, after all this? I think that happened to some guy once.

  The bag is sweating against my chest right now, and I don’t even mind because that’s how I know it’s there.

  Outside the restaurant window Holly shuts her car door and runs across the parking lot. She angles through the crowded entryway and scans the floor for me.

  God almighty, she is lovely. Her hair is down. I realize I’ve never seen it fully out of a ponytail before.

  She finds me and heads over, sliding into the booth. She’s wearing jeans and the light blue sweater she wore to work today. It’s even better without a uniform vest buttoned over it.

  We stare at each other for a while—both a little breathless, which is understandable under the circumstances. There’s a lot to say in a situation like this, an infinite number of words to exchange. We should probably start talking to each other about what happened. How we feel. What we’re going to do.

  But the fact is, I can’t get a single articulate word out.

  The waitress stops at the table with a carafe of coffee and Holly nods, inching her cup over.

  When she’s gone, Holly adds milk, stirs, and pushes the mug aside. She covers her face with her hands and lets out a little shriek. And then we both start giggling like kids. Quietly at first. But when we look at each other and try to speak, nothing coherent comes out.

  “Hol—”

  “Oh my—”

  “What are we—”

  It’s funnier each time we try and fail, and soon we’re both hysterical, struggling mightily to keep it quiet, and failing at that, too. People start looking over at us and we try shushing each other but that only makes it worse.

  “Holly.”

  She flops her arms onto the table, face pressed against her hand, and shakes visibly with laughter.

  “Holly, seriously.”

  She peeks up at me. Her face is bright red. Her eyes are so clear and blue it almost stops my heart, which is beating wildly enough as it is. I wipe the tears from my eyes and, tentatively, reach out and touch the tips of her fingers.

  She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers turn and wrap around mine.

  The contact sobers both of us. Warm skin against skin. She clasps my hand and looks fully into my eyes, and I feel her breathing.

  “Ray, what is happening?”

  I run my fingers over her palm, over the back of her strong hand. Adrenaline whistles through my body. It courses through me and into her, and back again, a closed circuit of energy. I can’t look at her and hold her hand at the same time. It’s too much.

  I let go and press my palms flat against the table, because we need to talk now. It’s what we came here to do. I can’t let myself be distracted by…I don’t know what.

  But that’s a lie. I know exactly what.

  I want her. I want to kiss her. To take her clothes off. To make love to her.

  It’s the surreal quality of the situation that’s fast-forwarded everything in my mind. That’s brought me to this place so quickly. I’ve known her for, what—a month and a half? As a coworker. Not even as a friend, let alone a boyfriend.

  It’s not the time for thinking about sex. She’s freaked out enough already. I’m freaked out enough.

  I want some kind of release for all this panic and exhilaration, but flooding it into Holly would unhinge both of us. I know that. I sit back, trying to get a little space from her in the cramped booth. Her knee bumps into mine and I almost jump out of my skin.

  “What’s happening,” I say, fighting for focus, “is we just won a shitload of money. We won it, Holly.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  I laugh, briefly. “Yeah. It’s crazy.”

  “It changes everything.”

  I seize on to that, wrapping my fingers around the tepid coffee cup to stop myself from taking her hand again. “What does it change?”

  She gazes at me steadily. Tears spring to her eyes, but I don’t think they’re from laughing now. “Everything.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Well.” She clears her throat. “First I’ll look up Stacey Brody from middle school who made fun of my knockoff sneakers and tell her I’m a millionaire now and she can suck my dick.”

  I snort. “Multimillionaire, you mean.”

  Her eyes widen. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. That means I can buy like fifteen Lexuses.”

  “Why stop at fifteen?”

  Her face softens. “My son.”

  “Drew.”

  She smiles. “Do you know what I can do for him now?”

  I breathe in deeply, and think about how this must feel to her, as a mother. That quiets my hormones, thank God, and gets me back where I need to be—thinking of a plan. For myself and Holly both. Because it’s not just her who’s winning this money. It’s her child. She can provide for him now in ways she never could have dreamed of before. I can’t imagine how that must feel.

  I think of my own mother, of how she would have reacted to this at Holly’s age—to be relieved of the burden of working so hard for Tony and me. I think of her going on vacation, of taking a break, and it hits me so ha
rd in the chest I actually gasp.

  “Ray?” Holly reaches for my hand, and that only deepens the feeling. It spreads it out, like a wildfire, so that now there are tears in my eyes, too. On another day I might have been able to contain that. But not today. Nothing is fitting inside its container anymore. It’s spilling out everywhere.

  Holly rises and comes around to my side of the booth. She doesn’t speak. Just presses her shoulder against mine, and although it sends a seismic tremor through my midsection, it’s exactly the right thing. I lean into her for a minute, and close my eyes.

  “My mom died in December.” I wipe my face with both hands. “She would have been able to, you know…”

  “She could have been part of this.”

  “Yeah.” I move away slightly, partly to break the overwhelming physical contact with Holly, and partly so I can see her face. And she can see mine. “You know the reason I moved up here?”

  She tilts her head. “I was wondering.”

  “I’m supposed to apply to the Culinary. Mom made me promise, before she died.”

  “You’re a chef?” Holly smiles.

  I laugh a little. “Not yet. I’ve cooked a lot of plates of eggs. But I’m not a chef. I want to be. I mean, I think I do.”

  “Did you apply, then? Are you waiting to see if you’ve been accepted?”

  “I’m too chickenshit.”

  Holly snorts. “Yeah, right.”

  “No. Seriously. I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m scared as hell of failing at it.”

  “That’s honest.”

  “Yeah, well, honesty’s all I got.”

  Holly eyes me. “That and about two hundred million dollars.”

  Lord—this woman. “There is that.”

  She smiles. “Yes.”

  “And what about you?” I lean back against the wall, crammed in between the jukebox and the back of the booth. “Do you have a dream job? Or would you just retire? I mean, will you. It’s not a matter of ifs anymore, is it.”

  She huffs out a thick breath. “I guess not.”

  “What will you do?”