Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  “Deal,” I say, smiling.

  Bumping my shoulder, he says, “Stay here. I shall return with the goods,” then walks inside the diner.

  Reclaiming my seat, I lean my head against the weathered wood and rock the bench back and forth, the old joints creaking. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of grass shavings mixed with freshly brewed coffee. Somewhere down the street a motorcycle engine rumbles to life.

  Wisps of hair have escaped my bun and cling to the nape of my neck. October in Dallas is anything but cool. Some years autumn gets passed over altogether, jumping straight from a sweltering summer into a mild winter. The leaves never even have a chance to change color before the tree branches are bare and the surrounding lawns and sidewalks are crowded with their decaying remains.

  The hinges on the diner door squeal as Wes’s head pokes out. I smile as he walks toward me with a piece of pecan pie in each hand.

  “Scoot your butt,” he says, tapping my leg with his shoe.

  I slide over, the boards scratching my skin. He plops down next to me, and for the next few minutes, the only sounds are forks scraping across porcelain and the steady creaking as we rock slowly back and forth.

  The first time we ate pie on this bench was the day Wes’s parents finalized their divorce, a couple of weeks shy of his junior peewee football tryouts. He showed up at the diner, cheeks wet and shoulders slumped, and asked if I wanted to share something sweet with him. We built a triple-decker blueberry pie sandwich and layered each slice with homemade marshmallow crème and crushed-up Heath bars. We stayed outside for what seemed like hours, planning our next great adventure and wishing on shooting stars.

  At least this part of our friendship has stayed the same.

  “So Jack said you’re moving home,” Wes says around a mouthful of pie. “Is this because of his operation?”

  I nod. “He expects me to run the diner while he recovers, which means forever. But there’s no way I’m doing that.”

  Squinting up at the sky, I think of Drew and our Sunday strolls around Chicago. How we like to find cozy spots at Millennium Park and toss day-old bread for the birds roosting on Cloud Gate. The way we hold hands as we walk along the lakefront and watch the fireworks explode over Navy Pier. When we venture to Chinatown for a picnic in the Chinese gardens.

  “At least think about it,” he says. “The diner could use some of your cooking.”

  “I can’t move back here, Wes,” I say, keeping my focus on Drew, our life together, and the things I adore about him. His boyish good looks. How he opens car doors for me and always lets me pick dessert—even pistachio ice cream, which he hates. The way his body molds against mine when we curl up in bed at night. Falling for him had been easy, comfortable, like lounging in a hammock on a summer day with a cold glass of lemonade. “I can’t.”

  “Then don’t.”

  I look at him, surprised he’d concede so easily.

  “I think you belong here, Jelly Bean. But if you want to go back to Chicago, go back to Chicago.”

  I sigh, mashing bits of crust between the fork tines. “What about my father? And the diner?”

  “Listen,” he says, licking some crumbs off his finger. “Old Man Jack’s survived without your help these past five years. I imagine he can survive a few more.”

  He’s right. Except we both know it’s not that easy, not when my father’s involved. My father’s the master puppeteer pulling my strings, and I have no choice but to obey.

  We sit silently for a few moments, me pushing pecans around my plate until they resemble a four-leaf clover and him stuffing them into his mouth, polishing off the last of his pie.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m craving a cookie.” Wes pats his stomach. “Wanna split a chocolate chocolate chip?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Wes studies me as though I’m a math equation he doesn’t understand. “When have you ever refused a cookie?”

  I shrug. Chocolate chocolate chip used to be my favorite, but now they taste too sweet, too decadent. Or maybe, like the diner, I’ve simply outgrown them.

  “Okaaay,” Wes says when I don’t respond. “More for me, I guess.”

  I laugh and pinch his side. “Maybe you should cut back before Annabelle complains about a muffin top.”

  Wes flinches, and his Adam’s apple bobs. He picks at a small hole in the hem of his sleeve, his eyes glued to a smudge on the sidewalk. When he finally meets my gaze, I’m stunned by the grief written on his face. He takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself for something horrible.

  “Annabelle isn’t . . . we’re not . . . didn’t she . . .” he says, fumbling over his words. “We ended things this past spring.”

  The air leaves my lungs in a long whoosh, rendering me speechless. Wes and Annabelle are a modern-day fairy tale—childhood sweethearts hopelessly devoted to one another. Their edges fit.

  Or so I thought.

  Wes may be my oldest friend, but Annabelle has been my best friend since she sat next to me in Mrs. Hubbard’s fourth-grade social studies class with her Lisa Frank unicorn folders, all rosy cheeks and glasses and lace-trim ankle socks. We talk on the phone every week, but not once during our conversations did she ever say, “Hey, Lillie, remember Wes? That guy I’ve been slaphappy in love with since he held my hand on the Texas Star Ferris wheel in seventh grade? Well, we broke up six months ago. Kisses!”

  Why didn’t she say anything?

  “I’m sorry, Wes,” I say, biting my lip. “She never told me.”

  He kicks a stray napkin with the tip of his shoe. “It’s all right. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and I really don’t want to, either.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but then he closes it.

  “I’ve got a good one for you,” I say, remembering the joke I heard from a little boy at the airport.

  “Yeah?” I see his shoulders relax, the tension flowing out like salt from a shaker.

  “A friend got some vinegar in his ear. Now—”

  Wes clamps a hand over my mouth. “Now he suffers from pickled hearing.”

  My jaw drops open. That weasel stole my punch line. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Please, Jelly Bean. That was third-grade level,” he says with a smug smile.

  “Fine.” I cross my arms. “Bet you can’t guess this one. Why did the sesame seed refuse to leave the casino?”

  He taps his chin. “I give up.”

  “Because he was on a roll.”

  Wes laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn. I missed you. Those jokes never get old. Wait till Nick hears them.” His grin falters, as though realizing whose name he said. Nick, the one person we don’t talk about and the only one I wish I could forget.

  A fist squeezes around my heart. I’ve been so careful, tiptoeing around Nick’s memories so as not to trigger them like land mines. But now they’re surging up, pulling me under—him, bleary-eyed and exhausted, dragging into our living room after another brutal shift at the hospital. Me, desperate and pleading for him to listen, tears tumbling down my cheeks. The two of us staring numbly at each other across a chasm so wide it could never be bridged. Nick’s angry words and my whispered good-bye as I walked out the front door, leaving him behind.

  The images seem like snippets from someone else’s life.

  Proof this isn’t home anymore.

  Not for me, anyway.

  THREE

  WES AGREES TO distract my father so I can sneak away. I have a career to save and precious time has already been wasted. As much as my father would disagree, my life doesn’t stop for his whims or demands.

  I set up a makeshift office in the Prickly Pear, a café-slash-used-bookstore-slash-live-music-joint and an old favorite haunt. After ordering a large, extra foam, skim, vanilla chai latte, I claim the corner table and boot up my laptop.

  My inbox is flooded with emails, most of which are from Ben, another consultant on the product launch. He’d never miss an op
portunity to gloat, especially after he was put in charge today. In my absence, he pitched the distribution concepts to the Kingsbury Enterprises executive board. I can see him in his three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses presenting my ideas, taking credit for my hard work, gobbling up the attention like Garfield with his lasagna. I shouldn’t be shocked—he’s been after partner since starting at White, Ogden, and Morris a year ago. With my sudden departure, he’ll do anything to secure the promotion I’ve rightfully earned. I’m the one who arrives early and stays late, the one who works most Saturdays, who accepts the tedious, mundane assignments no one wants while seeking out new opportunities to develop my skill set. That position will be mine.

  As suspected, several emails are from Ben gushing over himself, bragging to the team about what a stellar job he did at the meeting. How the executive board oohed and ahhed over his extensive research and creative solutions—my extensive research, my creative solutions. But it’s his last email, written in his normal condescending tone, that makes me want to tie him down and force him to lick mold off cheese. I’m the senior consultant on the account, and yet he’s taken it upon himself to dictate duties to the team. Next to my name he’s indicated I’m responsible for an updated report on market demographics, the newest financial projections for the first-quarter sales, and a detailed roll-out schedule. He’s also added this gem:

  Lillie, while you have chosen to go on an impromptu vacation, these items must take priority, and I believe a week is an appropriate time frame for you to accomplish them.

  The nerve of this guy. I chose an impromptu vacation? If only that was the case. Maybe he’ll finally die from a paper cut or choke on a pen cap. Ordinarily I’d tell Ben where to shove his undermining attitude, but he’s copied Thomas Brandon, our boss and the head of the committee that decides who makes partner. I don’t want to further jeopardize my chances of a promotion, so I need to be a team player.

  I take a sip of chai, allowing the earthy clove and cinnamon flavors to calm me, and settle in for a long evening.

  Hours later, my back aches from hunching over the computer and my stomach is grumbling from skipping dinner, but I’ve finished Ben’s tasks. As I send off the documents, I can’t help but feel vindicated and a tad smug. Ben underestimated how much I like a challenge.

  As I am packing up my things, a buzzing noise comes from my purse. Digging out my phone, I glance at the caller ID—Thomas Brandon. I sit up straighter, pull my shoulders back, and answer.

  “I assume your emergency’s been handled?” his stern voice barks into my ear, skipping all pleasantries.

  Cringing, I say, “Not quite. I need to stay in Dallas a little while longer. No more than a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks?” The way he says “weeks” sounds like he thinks I’m a sleazy car salesman selling him a lemon.

  “But not to worry,” I say quickly. “I’ll be working from Dallas until I return. In fact, I’ve already submitted several documents for your review. They should be in your inbox as we speak.”

  “Good. I expect nothing less from you.” Thomas Brandon hates excuses and doesn’t tolerate apologies. Do it right the first time, every time, no exceptions. “I’ll permit you to remain in Dallas as long as you’re back in the office by early November, ready to hit the ground running. We can’t afford a slow ramp-up period.”

  “Why? What’s happening?” I ask, hoping it’s not a demotion.

  “Despite the unprofessional way you left Benjamin to cover today’s presentation, Kingsbury Enterprises is quite impressed with the effort you’ve put forth into their product launch thus far. They’ve asked for you personally to lead the next phase.”

  “That’s excellent, sir. Thank you.”

  “This is the firm’s biggest account, so I shouldn’t have to remind you what’s at stake if our client’s expectations aren’t met.”

  “Absolutely. You won’t be sorry,” I say, an idea forming in my mind. The diner already runs itself. All that’s needed is someone to ensure back-of-house operations—shift scheduling, payroll, communicating with suppliers, placing and tracking purchase orders—and that can be facilitated from anywhere. I could be back in Chicago by early November, working on the next phase of the product launch for Kingsbury Enterprises, all while overseeing diner business.

  It’s a win-win solution for everyone. I’ll be partner by New Year’s Eve.

  “I know I won’t,” he says in his no-nonsense, nasally voice. “In the meantime, I’ll rush some documents over to your address in Dallas so you can get started. Don’t screw this up, Lillie.” He hangs up without a good-bye.

  By the time I park my rental car on the street in front of my father’s house, the night has turned cool, promising rain. Nestled in the middle of southern Rockefeller mansions decorated for Halloween, my father’s humble two-story home stands like a stale gingerbread house. Peeking out from under a thick layer of grime, white trim adorns the brick facade. Black shutters frame windows in desperate need of a cleaning. Even some of the shingles are peeling away from the roof. I wonder how my father let it get to this state of disarray. Growing up, he took pride in having the only original house left on the block, polishing our quaint little abode until it sparkled brighter than the stainless steel counters at the diner.

  I take a seat on the worn front steps and dial Drew.

  “There you are,” he says, concern edging his voice. “I’ve been worried.”

  Stability floods my body. I catch the jumbled chatter of the television in the background, and I picture Drew lounging on our leather couch, his suit jacket and tie banished to the floor and his dress shirt untucked as he watches sports highlights.

  “Sorry it’s so late,” I say. “Today has been such a mess.”

  There’s a shuffle on the other end, and the background noise disappears. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Better now.” Picking at a weed growing through a crack in the steps, I launch into the day’s events. Drew listens intently, murmuring his support, as I rehash how my father expects me to drop everything to manage the diner without any consideration for my life, my dreams, while he recovers from knee surgery.

  After I’ve finished, Drew tells me he loves me and says, “What are you going to do?”

  I sigh. “I’m not sure . . . I’m still figuring it all out. I mean, obviously I’m not moving back here, but I can’t leave him right now. I need to stay until I figure out what’s going on with him.”

  “That’s understandable. Want me to come down there? I could see where you grew up. Help out for a bit.”

  Even though he can’t see me, I shake my head. Drew knows the basics of my childhood. It’s not something I’ve ever tried to hide, but I don’t speak often or openly about it either. It’s a part of me best kept separate from him and our relationship.

  “I want you here, Drew,” I say, biting my lip, “but it’s only for a little while. There’s no reason both of us should get behind on work. Besides, someone has to keep our plants alive.”

  He laughs, then lets out the cute groaning sound he makes when he’s stretching. “Did you pack enough clothes when you left this morning? Do you need me to send you anything?” That’s Drew, always so caring, so thoughtful.

  “That’d be great,” I say, and ramble off a list of items that don’t include business suits or stilettos.

  “Did you tell your dad our news yet?”

  There’s no accusation in his voice, only that hopeful sincerity I adore so much, but I still feel a pang of guilt as I say, “Not yet. With everything being so hectic around here, I thought I’d wait until after his surgery. Once life has settled down.”

  “Okay. But I have to meet your father eventually, preferably before he’s walking you down the aisle.”

  “Ha-ha. I promise I’ll tell him, but not right now.”

  “It’s going to be weird sleeping alone tonight. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.” And I do. I miss the way he leaves little
notes scattered around our apartment just because. Or how his pillow still smells of him long after he’s left for work. Or when he surprises me at the office with takeout from our favorite Thai place if I’m stuck in the middle of a project. But above all that, I miss the easiness of him, of our life together.

  We talk for a few more minutes where he rehashes his day and I complain about Ben before wishing each other good night. I put the phone back in my purse and push open the front door to a roaring crowd singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch. My father is asleep in front of the Rangers game, an arm flung over the back of the couch, a foot resting on the coffee table. From my vantage point, I can see a big toe peeking out from a hole in his sock. The television flickers, and shadows dance across the ceiling, casting the living room in a faint glow.

  My father stirs and mutters under his breath nonsensical snippets about balding watermelons and fuzzy raspberries. Laughing, I cover my mouth and creep toward the couch. By the time I bend down next to him, he’s rolled onto his side and started snoring, the sound as jagged and harsh as a steak knife. Tucking a blanket around him, I notice how he seems more like a scrawny boy I would punch on the playground as a little girl than the man who taught me to chop an onion and used potato-peeling duty as punishment. The diner has not been kind to him these past five years, and I imagine his knee giving him trouble has only added to wearing him down.

  Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I tiptoe upstairs to my childhood room. The space feels strange and smothering now, as if the pale yellow walls are closing in around me with no chance of escape.

  Boy band posters are plastered over the mirrored closet, staring me down. Medals from baking contests I won drape over the corner of a bulletin board cluttered with pictures and ripped concert stubs. The dresser and nightstand now look like dollhouse furniture next to the queen bed crowding the room where my twin used to be. I expect to find a fine layer of dust covering the desk and bookshelf, but they’ve been polished so they gleam, the scent of lemon cleaner heavy in the air. My father’s obviously been preparing for my arrival.