Easy Love

by Piper Lawson

  “You think tragedy runs in the family?” His dark eyes glint as he holds out the mitts, and we switch positions.

  “No. And if it did, there’d be gene therapies in our lifetime to address it. To insert and delete the smallest pieces of human programming.” He raises a brow. “But I’m a scientist. It’s not my job to play God.”

  I help Jake into his sparring gloves, then I pull on the focus mitts.

  “Do you believe in God, Wesley?”

  “I have respect for what is.” I glance toward the ring, where two men are full-out boxing. “That is the opposite of respect. For life or for God.”

  Arguments should be solved with words, with insight. Not an uppercut to the jaw.

  Doesn’t mean I can’t land one, but that’s beside the point.

  “You finished?” Jake asks dryly, and I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Four.” I lean into it, ready for the jab-jab-cross-jab combination, absorbing the force of his blows.

  Another thing I appreciate about Jake is that he doesn’t look at me like I’m the walking wounded.

  I don’t need one more person giving me sympathy. Even if I’m sleepwalking through life right now, if another casserole shows up, I’m going to dump it on the floor.

  “How was your dinner with Rena?” he asks.

  I fail to put enough weight behind the pads, and his cross glances off, catching me in the shoulder. That’s going to leave a bruise.

  “She thought it was a date,” I say.

  Jake’s eyes fall closed, and I wait for the contrition. Instead, he laughs. “What happened? I have to know.”

  “Nothing of consequence,” I grind out. “She’s not interested in working with me. And while I appreciate the recommendation, she can’t help.”

  But the look on his face says he suspects something.

  I call out more combinations, and he seems content to throw his weight behind the punches. After a few minutes, he’s as sweaty as I am.

  I yank off the mitts, and he works on his gloves. I wipe my dripping face with a towel, and I lead the way toward the change room, resisting the urge to touch my soon-to-be-bruised shoulder.

  The locker rooms are the steady kind of busy, the older daytime crowd giving way to after-work set. School lets out before most employers, and I’m grateful to have beaten the rush as I duck into the shower, turning the water to cold the way I like it.

  After drying off, I stash my bag in a locker and meet Jake in the lounge.

  “I feel like I’ve gone back seventy-five years every time I walk in here,” I say to Jake.

  “It’s the carpet.”

  “No. It’s the lack of women.”

  “Women are allowed in here. They have been since the eighties. Mostly they choose not to.”

  Hard to imagine why. In the room full of dark cherry wood and Hemingway books, I drop into a leather chair across from Jake. Drinks are set in front of us. “What’re we drinking?”

  “Two parts vodka, one part lime juice, soda,” he says, taking his time with each syllable as if he’s enjoying the game.

  “Vodka gimlet.” I stir the drink, drop the lime on the napkin, and take a sip. “Not bad.”

  He shoots me a smug grin, surveying the room. “You want to be part of this world, but you hate it at the same time,” he states.

  “Why would I hate these people?” I counter. “They pay my salary.”

  “That’s why you hate them. And because the more you distance yourself from them, the more you can crow about how you rose to prominence from nothing when you win the Nobel Prize in Biology.”

  I don’t bother correcting him to say it’s the Nobel Prize in Physiology and Medicine.

  He is right about one thing. Unlike the four sections of hormonal time bombs I was responsible for educating today, I didn’t come from a neighborhood with doormen and boxwoods.

  After ten years of pursuing a single goal my entire life, I got it. But I was forced to walk away from the professor job at University of Washington when I learned my father was dying. Until I can get a new college faculty position, which is easier said than done, I’m teaching teenagers just so I can make payments on my student loans and my father’s funeral.

  I swallow the grunt. “None of my sophs can use a microscope, not to mention tell a prokaryote from a eukaryote. I think at least three kids hooked up behind the projector screen today.”

  “But you’re stuck here,” he says.

  “I’m biding my time until I can convince UW to offer me my job again.” I flex my free hand. “There’s nothing else for me to do.”

  “You’re the teacher. You could teach them something.”

  I take a drink because I’m not about to do my least favorite thing—argue a position I can’t win.

  I’m not a teacher though. I’m a researcher. I did not work eighteen-hour days for nine years of college to inspect teenagers for signs of substance abuse.

  But far be it from me to deny someone an education. My father drummed into me that it’s the most important thing you can get.

  “How’s your mom?” Jake asks.

  “She’s dealing.”

  Jake nods. He knows what it’s like to lose your father. Though the circumstances that took his father were far more dramatic than mine, and he lost his mother too, he had two brothers to go through it with him. I don’t know what’s worse: losing both your parents and having people to help you through or losing one and being a crutch for the other.

  “Get her a dog.” His voice pulls me out of my spinning, and I shudder. “She doesn’t like them? I thought she worked at a vet clinic.”

  “She does. My dad was allergic to dogs. They’re descended from wild animals we domesticated for a purpose. That purpose was not to sleep in our beds or slobber all over your house.”

  “I thought you were a biologist. You should love animals.”

  “First, I’m a geneticist. There’s a difference. Second, I don’t dislike animals. I like them playing out their role in their respective ecosystems over generations. Preferably outdoors.”

  Jake chuckles, raising his glass. “You’re a special brand, Wesley.” We both take a drink. When he sets his down, he asks, “How are the finances?”

  The hospital bills that came with two rounds of chemo add insult to injury. We have a payment plan, but when I add those—which I insisted on helping my mom with—to my student loans and some other debts…

  There’s no way a teacher’s salary is going to dig me out any time soon.

  “Let’s go over this,” he says, as if he can read my thoughts. “You need money. Convincing funders to buy this DNA dating idea means selling them, nonexperts, on your work. Rena’s the person to help you.”

  I think back to the earlier part of our conversation, though admittedly, it’s harder to remember the part before she kissed me. “She doesn’t get it. Her eyes glazed over when I described what I do.”

  “That’s why she’s the person to help you. She understands money, she understands human nature, and she can figure her way out of anything.

  “One time at my brother Aiden’s party, the band didn’t show up and everyone was going to leave. She convinced everyone silent parties were the new thing in Europe and made a game of swapping secrets instead. And that’s how everyone ended up talking about Reid’s mom’s alcoholism instead of Aiden’s lack of birthday entertainment.”

  I’m reluctantly impressed. “When was that?”

  “They were twelve.” He snorts, and I shake my head. “Her family had no qualms about sending their two kids to Baden, were at all the same parties as mine. But unlike most of the kids from school, Rena never cared about trips or cars or having the latest shit.

  “Trust me as someone who deals in precious gems for a living—she’s the real deal. Let Rena help with your program.”

  Still, I’m resistant to the idea of working with her. Maybe because she’s younger and I’m used to the academic system, where most people who stand to teach me
something are gray and seventy.

  Or it’s the fact that she kissed you, you felt something, and it’s messing with your head.

  “You’d have to be a dumb fuck not to take help,” Jake says, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you a dumb fuck?”

  I lift my glass and toss back the rest of the drink in one gulp, the alcohol and sugar playing on my tongue, burning down my throat.

  Some days, I wonder.

  3

  Rena

  “I understand you weren’t happy with where we landed on the campaign, Brad,” I say during the video call in the conference room at work that’s empty save for me and about a hundred succulents and grass plants arranged to cover the wall behind me like a blanket. “I’ll try again.”

  The man on the screen, a middle-aged exec dressed as if he’s pretending he’ll be twenty-five forever, looks pained. “You don’t understand the direction we’re going. This isn’t about anatomy. Our clients value comfort. Their bodies are their temples, and this part of their body? It’s extremely important and valuable.”

  I swallow my groan. I’m already eating a shit sandwich. Don’t ask me to drizzle garbage aioli on top. “And I understand that. I’ll have a new campaign direction to you in a week.”

  “That’s not going to work. We’ve already signed with another agency.”

  When he hangs up, I shut my laptop harder than necessary and sit back, tugging on my ponytail. My fingers brush the end of a plant, and I barely rein in the impulse to rip a piece off it.

  Last night after leaving the restaurant, what I really wanted to do was change into a T-shirt and boy shorts, curl up on the couch with my skunk Scrunchie, and watch Pretty in Pink with a ten-dollar rosé that fixes problems great and small.

  Instead, I went back to my office, scrounged for change for the subway to get me to my parents’ place, where I got my car back. Then I argued with someone from the bank until midnight trying to get my credit card reinstated and attached to one of my own accounts.

  This morning I was at the client’s office at 8 a.m., figured out who his assistant was, and talked her into booking me a follow-up meeting with him this afternoon. Now, it’s official. Despite the weeks of work I put into landing them, and the fact I basically promised on paper that I would, it’s not going to happen.

  And it’s about to get worse.

  I go to my boss’s office and knock on the door with the enthusiasm of a repeat delinquent summoned to the principal’s office.

  Daisy looks up.

  She’s thirtyish but has one of those classic faces you know will be ageless. Her dark hair is cut in an angled bob, and her hazel eyes shine with intelligence. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but what she does is deliberate. Tasteful.

  I hear she’s had a couple of stalkers. And why not? My boss is gorgeous and brilliant and gutsy. She also knows what it takes to start and grow a business in this city.

  “Rena. Nice work on end of quarter. I look forward to seeing your work on the new client’s campaign.”

  “Yeah. About that.” I tug on my ponytail again. “I might have overstated the degree to which they’re our client.”

  Her brows lower in concern. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I thought we had them. We don’t.”

  Daisy shifts forward, leaning her elbows on the desk. “That’s a six-figure account.”

  “I know.” She doesn’t yell, but the intensity in her expression makes me keep talking. “I tried to talk to them about it. They won’t reconsider.”

  The phone rings and she glances at it. I wish she’d answer but she hits a button to send it to voicemail before meeting my gaze.

  “Two things. One, the paperwork we have exists for a reason. Being vague”—it’s decent of her not to say “lying”—“isn’t tolerated. I appreciate optimism, but not on my financial statements.

  “Two, I realize there’s an adjustment period, but I expect you to be able to service our clients. This business isn’t built on landing every client, but there’s a balance between giving them what they want and what they need. You will figure that out.”

  A breath whooshes out of me. “I’ll make this up to you. To the company.”

  I turn and stalk back to my desk, my heels clicking on the pale floor. Our second-floor unit is a redone factory building. It’s beautiful, but today I’m not seeing it.

  “Well?” Kendall peers over the top of the half wall separating our spaces when I return to my desk. “Did you get back into their good graces?”

  “They’re not selling grace. They’re selling balls.” I flop down into my chair and reach for the brand new bottle of antacids I’d bought on the way in this morning, fighting with the childproof seal.

  “Don’t forget their line of other products,” she says as I grab two pills and pop them back, no water. “Smooth, which keeps male nipples from chafing.”

  I recap the bottle and shift back in my chair, peering up at my colleague over the top of my monitor. “Because on the list of priorities for the world to solve, male nipple comfort is at the top.”

  She laughs, and with her red hair tucked up in a bun and her freckles, she looks like a teenager. Like me, she’s midtwenties.

  Unlike me, she has a kid, a preacher for a father, and an endless sense of wonder for the world.

  “How’d it go with Daisy?” she asks.

  “I think I’m on strike two.” Strike one was the risk she took hiring someone without experience in this industry.

  Though I’d done PR for a top record company in Philly, it was different from selling consumer and relationship products in New York. Plus, my previous employer had a bumpy road. It wasn’t my fault, but it made my resume less impressive than some other applicants working for growing companies.

  “But you’re still in the game. That’s all that matters.” Kendall winks.

  I don’t know how she does it. It’s ridiculous how seriously that company takes themselves. Thought if I’m honest, what bugs me more is that I didn’t understand what the hell they wanted.

  I wasn’t an academic genius. Classes were hard for me. I managed to wrangle solid enough grades in high school, plus a few that had my placement advisor raising her eyebrows, to get into UPenn. But the working world has been a refreshing revelation. I can figure things out, and it doesn’t matter if I can do math or write essays.

  I’ll figure this out too.

  I have to.

  Kendall’s eyes light up. “On a better note, how was your date?”

  Oh, God.

  My date.

  “I’m trying to forget it,” I mumble.

  “He was terrible?”

  “I was terrible.” I debate whether to fill Kendall in, but I need to tell someone. “Apparently, it wasn’t a date. He wanted to meet about his company. And I sat through an entire dinner without figuring out that he was there for my professional opinion.”

  “Whoa. That sounds awkward. When’d you find out?”

  I reach for one more antacid because things are better in threes. “After I kissed him in the hallway of the restaurant and asked him to come back to my place.”

  Her eyes go round, and at least one of us is entertained.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I basically met the guy, shared four oysters with him—which I made him buy—then asked him to fuck me. Which he passed on, might I add.”

  The worst part was that on my way home, all I could think was whether I was so out of it—or desperate—I missed all the signs? That I threw myself at a guy whose interest in me stopped above my neck?

  It was a special brand of humiliating.

  My mother would’ve died, then come back to yell at me, then died again.

  “He must’ve been cute,” Kendall prompts.

  And that’s half the problem. If he hadn’t been Jake’s age, with those gorgeous eyes and the kind of composure that made me want to get under it, I wouldn’t have plowed through the warning signs and leapt right off Confide
nce Cliff and into Gratuitous Gorge.

  Still. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I’m not getting anything right, and that bothers me way more than the fact that I jumped the guy.

  “I know what you need.” My friend’s face brightens. “Goat yoga. We can go right after work. They walk all over your back. It’s super cute.”

  This must be the latest in Kendall’s string of try-anything experiments.

  “People walk all over us,” I point out. “The difference is they pay us for it. The last thing I need this week is foot-and-mouth disease.”

  “You’re thinking of hoof-and-mouth. Hand-foot-and-mouth is what Rory brought back from daycare. Don’t worry—he doesn’t have it now.”

  My gaze drags back to the framed photo on her desk. “Maybe I’ll get a charm lesson from Rory while I’m babysitting.”

  “He doesn’t charm. He cooks.”

  “Isn’t he eight?”

  “Yeah. Right now he’s into French cooking. I tried to keep him on Julia Child, but he’s discovered Gordon Ramsay. Now he makes a damn good béarnaise—under supervision, of course—and swears with a British accent. My parents have decided we’re all going to hell.” Kendall sighs. “So, what’re you going to do about clients?”

  “Find some new ones.”

  I’m already hunting online, using search terms for relationship products, intimacy products, even lingerie.

  “Daisy has a killer contact list,” she points out. “Did she say you couldn’t use it?”

  “No. But it feels like cheating. We can do way better than any of the other advertising firms, and you know it. The campaign we did for that small lingerie company helped double their sales in a single quarter.”

  The slogan “Your man’s rough around the edges. Your lingerie shouldn’t be,” converted thousands of women into superfans and spawned a viral social media campaign with its own memes.

  Advertising seems glamorous, but the company who comes up with the marketing rarely gets kudos, except for the few awards handed out annually, in which you’re competing with campaigns for Budweiser and Spanx and Coca-Cola.