by Tracy Ewens
“You’re not going to understand.”
“Try me.”
“This is who I am,” she attempted a start.
“You mean, this is who you are when no one is looking? You’re a grown woman. What is so wrong with just being you—one you—if you even know what that is?”
“No. You don’t get to do this to me, this holier-than-thou, farm boy shit. I know who I am. Maybe I just don’t choose to share it with you?” Kara stood face-to-face with him.
“See? Games.” Logan’s eyes changed and he backed off.
“Goddamn it, Logan. Stop poking and joking, like what I’m doing has anything to do with you. We’re not even a defined . . . thing, so what makes you think you can barge in here and make me feel foolish.”
He turned to leave.
Kara sat, prepared to let him. She saw no point in stopping him; there was no way to make him understand. Her heart took her back to the Christmas trees, the time they’d spent together. This was past Paris, and if she let him walk out, she would never know what came next. She took a deep breath and tried to share herself.
“When I was seven, I cut my own bangs.”
Logan stopped, let go of the doorknob, and turned back around.
“It was, of course, a mess: crooked and choppy. Mother was livid. It was the morning of some event we were supposed to go to. I don’t remember what it was, but I remember my dress. It was blue with this eyelet overlay.” Kara touched her shoulder as if she were touching the dress and then shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted to be pretty. I remember wishing I could walk through those doors and have everyone say what a beautiful daughter Senator Malendar had.”
“You were seven?”
Kara nodded.
“I’d just watched some documentary on Coco Chanel. I wanted to be different like that. So, I cut my own hair, thinking bangs were exactly what I needed. My mother almost left me at home. I was an embarrassment. I looked ridiculous, and even her stylists couldn’t fix it, that’s what she said. My father insisted that I go. There were about two dozen reporters when we stepped out of the car.” Kara picked her cup up off the counter and sipped her tea, still not looking at him. “Two of my cousins were with us. Sixteen and eighteen, blonde, both gorgeous, or at least I thought so at the time.”
“Kara.”
“Most of the picture captions wondered what my stylist was thinking, but there was one, this one”—Kara stood, her back straight as if she was facing off to defend her younger self—“it was some stupid society rag. They led with a picture of me standing by my mother. The headline was ‘Ugly Duckling.’”
“Jesus.” He moved to her, but Kara held up her hand. She grew suddenly cold, as if letting in any emotion might sink her.
“When I was twelve I got braces. For over a year, it seemed like every picture they took of me had my mouth opened and I’m pretty sure there were a few where I had food from lunch still in my braces. My mother made me carry this tiny toothbrush around to avoid such embarrassments, but they managed to catch me anyway.”
Logan said nothing. There was nothing to say; she simply wanted him to understand.
“My junior prom date, a guy I had a huge crush on, sold his story to the local paper. Not only was it intimated that I slept with him on prom night, but he hinted I was kinky. That led to the headline . . .” She watched him, knowing he could figure it out.
Logan shook his head, “‘Kinky Kara’?”
“You’ve got it.” The pain spilled out of her small laugh. “All this crap, and plenty more, can be Googled for fun. My entire life—awkward, out of sync, every mistake from zits to bad dates—is there for the world to see. I’m not saying the world is all that interested anymore, because thankfully since I’ve been in hiding, there’s not much to report.”
“Can’t your parents get some of this shit taken down? Aren’t there laws?”
“They tried in the beginning, but when that didn’t work, they put it on me. It became my responsibility to look perfect, act perfect. ‘Don’t give them anything’ became my life motto. I accepted it and became what I needed to be. I’m not telling you this so you can feel sorry for me. I’ve led a very privileged life, I know that, but that’s why I don’t share. I know who I am. I’ve spent years working on the me who lives behind closed doors.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t know. I get that it’s weird and I seem like I’m screwing with you, but I’m not used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“You. What you are, your family. I want . . .”
“What do you want?”
“I want to trust that what I’m feeling is right, safe, but I’m always reluctant to share. So, you see, I’m not playing games, Logan. I’m just keeping myself safe.”
“I understand.”
“We both went to UCLA at the same time. I didn’t know you, and you didn’t know me. I was very good at being invisible my first three years.” Kara sipped her tea again, aware of the warm cup as she cradled it in her hands. “I went to Paris for the exchange, where we met, because it was an election year and there was some buzz, according to my father’s campaign, that I was having an affair with my Humanities teacher.”
“Where do they get this crap?”
“Freshman year, I was expected to pledge a sorority. Kappa Kappa Gamma. My mother was in Kappa, so were all of her friends, blah, blah. Anyway, I didn’t rush because I didn’t want to join a sorority, but that pissed some of the Kappa girls off. I was labeled a snob. Being called a snob by a sorority was really quite an accomplishment.” Kara tried to smile. “The whole thing was stupid, but I’m sure that’s where the slutty Kara rumors came from. To be honest with you, I’d learned to ignore most of it, but this one—the affair rumor—prompted Stanley, my father’s campaign manager and an all-around asshole of a guy, to decide that I needed to be sent away.”
“So that’s why you went to Paris?”
Kara nodded.
“But then why were you dragged back home?”
“Story blew over. Turned out my Humanities teacher was sleeping with half of the Kappa house. The heat moved off me and my mother ordered me home to help with the campaign.”
“They just move you around like that?”
“Not as much these days, but yeah I guess to someone else, I’m still moved around. But after Paris, things changed.”
“What changed?”
“I did. I stopped going to office hours with my teachers, took some classes online if I could, and I learned. I basically learned how to handle things.”
“By locking yourself away?”
Kara laughed. “I’m not locked away, Logan. I have my job. I attend the functions I need to, and I have this.” She gestured to her studio.
“Hidden.”
“Safe.” Kara turned from him and set her empty teacup on the counter.
Logan walked past shelving underneath a massive pen-and-ink print of a wave. There were four or five table lamps in progress and a large art deco column lamp without a shade.
“What goes into your creations?”
“The lamp bases are antiques, most of them, and the rest is sea glass. I collect it.” Kara gestured to her work counter, which was old wood and scattered with pieces of sea glass.
“Is this driftwood?” Logan ran a hand along the smooth surface.
“Yes, several pieces actually. Put together by a friend of mine, Oscar. He’s a surfer. He makes boards and he made me this from pieces I collected.”
“You collected?”
“Yes. Pretty much everything in here has been touched by me in some way.”
Logan glanced back at the print.
“You?” he asked walking over to get a closer look.
“Yes, that’s me too,” Kara said, with what almost seemed like embarrassment. “I took an art class a few years ago. That was my final project. I thought it turned out nicely, so I put it there.”
/> “Nicely? Kara, it’s incredible.”
Logan took a closer look.
“I can tell it’s a wave. I love the broad strokes, but what makes up the shore here? Tiny letters, are those Japanese?”
“Very good.” She seemed a little more comfortable with him in her space.
“What do they say?”
“It’s a letter my Nana wrote to me when I graduated from college. It’s a personal note about being strong. I didn’t want people to read it, but I wanted it included, so I decided to put it in a different language. I thought the Japanese letters went well with the wave. Grady actually had it translated for me and then I made those letters the beach under the wave.”
Logan stood there struck dumb with surprise. He’d known Winnie Parker and he had even learned bits and pieces of Kara Malendar, but the woman wringing her hands as she shared herself was something altogether more. Winnie’s joy and energy mixed with the insight and maturity of Kara Malendar. All of that sprinkled with a need to connect, create. It was staggering and all Logan could do was continue drinking her in. He turned back to her work counter, needing some relief from the intensity. He needed to hear her laugh.
“Is that a welder?” he asked raising and lowering his eyebrows.
And there it was, her laughter filled the studio.
“It is. The smaller one is a soldering gun. I use both of them for my pieces.”
“Yeah, you do. Do you wear tiny shorts while you’re welding, because my teenage mind remembers a poster with that exact image.”
She laughed harder and Logan felt the world right.
“No tiny shorts.”
Logan snapped his fingers in feigned disappointment. He finished his self-tour of her space, was surprised to see Moby Dick on her bookshelf and even more surprised when she mentioned it was one of her favorites.
“I loved your lamps the minute I saw them.” He sat down in the big armchair under the window near her books. “Did you see it in the restaurant?”
“I did.” Kara dropped down on the floral couch across from him.
“And you didn’t say anything.”
“What did you want me to say? I don’t advertise what I do, Logan. The fact that you happened to buy one of my lamps—that it spoke to you—was wonderful. There was nothing for me to say.”
Logan shrugged in agreement. She had a point.
“I was incredibly flattered when I saw it,” she added with a smile.
“Oh, yeah?” He joined her on the couch.
“Yeah.”
“So, the name Winnie? Where does that come from?”
Kara smiled. “My Nana’s name.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Hey, was that R. Kelly I heard when I came in?”
Kara smiled as he turned to face her.
“It was. I’m a pretty big R. Kelly fan.”
“Really?”
“No, not really, just that song, ‘Ignition.’” She rolled her hands in a steering wheel motion, “Toot toot, beep beep. It’s one of the songs on my Roll That Body playlist.”
“Okay, any chance we can listen to the rest of that playlist?”
Kara laughed, leaning into him.
“My God, look at you.” Logan suddenly grew serious.
She put her hands to her hair, eyes wandering to her silky pants with purple-and-orange swirls. Her feet were bare, hair piled at her neck with a pencil. “What?”
Logan reached forward and ran his finger along the strap of a tank top peeking out at the neckline of her oversized sweater.
“You’re beautiful,” fell out of his mouth before he had time to remind himself women were nothing but trouble.
Kara smiled. “Actually, I’m not classically beautiful. According to my mother’s stylist, my eyes are too big for my face, my nose slants to the right, and don’t get him started on my feet.” Kara lifted her foot up like a toddler.
He slid his hands around her waist, pulled her into him, and held. Logan enjoyed sex as much as the next guy, but everything that went with it was almost as good. Every time her body met his after they’d been apart for a while, the feel of their connection was something that never got old.
“You, the whole of you in this space. You’re playful, comfortable. This is who you are when no one is looking. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. You’re pretty beautiful too.” She touched her nose to his.
“Yeah? How’s my nose?”
She kissed it on the tip. “It’s cute.”
“Cute, huh?”
Kara nodded and Logan kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eloise chased after the cat with two of her party guests as Kara helped clean up the wrapping paper from her birthday party. Jake and Cotton had a beautiful home in the bungalow district that they restored from the ground up.
“Can you believe my mother actually came to a party? And she was somewhat civil.” Kara sat in one of the kitchen chairs.
“Gay is in now, honey, I’m sure Momma Malendar plays up her daughter’s gay best friend every chance she gets.” Jake rinsed off plates and put them in the dishwasher.
Kara had never thought of it that way, nor had she heard Jake say it quite like that. “So that’s what our relationship is? You’re a trendy accessory?” Her tone was serious and Jake shut the water off and turned to face her.
“Oh blazes, cut it out, of course not. I’m not even talking about us in private. I’m just saying it’s a convenient benefit and that way it’s . . .” Jake had talked himself into a corner.
Kara had seen him do it before and she recognized the look. “What? That way it’s what?” she asked.
“Allowed.” Jake touched her arm. “That’s what I was going to say, but that’s not exactly—”
“Allowed? I’m allowed? Is that what you think?”
Jake shook his head, but Kara knew that was exactly what he thought.
“I’m an adult, Jake. I do what I want.”
“I know you do, of course you do.”
“Oh my God! You think I’m a puppet. That I’m . . . them?”
“Honey, settle down, that’s not what I said.”
“Please don’t bullshit me. You never have, let’s not start this now.”
“All I’m saying is you follow protocol with your parents. I understand why, and I’m not judging. I get it.”
“And if gay wasn’t in?” Kara asked.
“Our friendship would be harder. Kara, come on. There’s an image to uphold. This isn’t anything new. I’m relieved your mother likes me and that your father finds value in our friendship.”
“Jake! Jesus!”
“What? I’m not saying we wouldn’t be friends. We might just have to closet it up like . . . well, like the rest of you.”
Kara felt the cold punch of honesty. Jake had dealt it many times before, but this one stung a little more.
“Your real laugh, your color, your glass, you, Kara. We both know that you don’t let that you out very often.”
“I’m just private.”
“I know and I understand that, but you’ve mastered hiding the best parts of yourself. I’ve gotten to see them and I’m not saying you’re only friends with me because your parents like me.”
“Good.” Kara found herself a little defensive as Eloise came running into the kitchen. Jake quickly changed the subject and they settled back into the festivities.
Driving home, Kara knew he was right, but knowing something and doing something about it were two very different things. She had been hiding for so long, she wasn’t sure how to be found. By the time she pulled into her driveway, she had replayed the last time she’d done anything completely spontaneous without thinking. Maybe it was time for some spontaneity; it was certainly time for less thinking. She sat in her car and with the help of her mother’s always present, always annoying, voice in her head, Kara ran through all of the reasons why what she was about to do was a massive mistake. She kicked her mother out of her thoughts and backed ou
t of her driveway on her way to being found.
It had been a good night. They sold out their tasting menu for Restaurant Week, received endless compliments on the carpaccio, and all tables were full until almost 10:30. Logan and Travis were exhausted. Makenna’s face hurt from smiling and if she gave out their social media information one more time, she told Logan, she was sure she would run screaming into the parking lot. Sage cut her finger about two hours into the night, but now there was so much lime juice in, it was numb. Doors locked, they all helped clean up.
“Did you see the guy at table four who kept stuffing bread into his wife’s purse? It was like one of those weird couples on The Love Boat.” Makenna leaned on the broom.
Logan and Sage stared at her, expressionless.
“What? Don’t you guys have Hulu? Paige and I watch The Love Boat all the time.”
They both shook their heads.
“You guys suck. I can’t help it if my single-mother life isn’t exciting.” Makenna swept under the bar tables. “And if I’m not up to my boot in chicken shit, I’m in the shower or at a PTA meeting or here. When am I supposed to become exciting?”
“Speaking of exciting, did you see the guy sitting at the bar alone during happy hour? Black sweater?” Sage asked while she rehung the glasses behind the bar.
“Oh, yes I did. He was hot. It’s been so damn long.” Makenna leaned up against the bar. “I’m so tired, and I really need to shave my legs, but good God, yes, I thought he was lovely.”
“Me too,” Sage hummed in agreement.
Logan looked up from rolling silverware.
“Ladies, did you two want be alone?” He laughed.
“Oh, shut up,” Sage said, “it’s so much easier for men.”
“Really? How do you figure that?” he asked.
“If a man wants to get laid, he just goes to a bar and picks someone.” Sage wiped down the back bar.
“Yeah, if a woman does that she’s a slut, but a man picks up a woman and sleeps with her, doesn’t even need to know her name, and he’s a damn hero,” Makenna chimed in.