“I’ve always thought it’d be neat to live like that,” Noelle says. “But only for like a week or so. Maybe a month. Or a summer. I don’t think I could do it forever.”
Calypso shrugs. “I did it for over twenty years.”
“Why’d you leave?” I interject.
Both women turn toward me in unison, as if I’m invading their conversation, but I don’t care. I’m curious about Calypso. I knew there was something different about her when we first met.
“It just wasn’t for me anymore,” she answers.
“Oh, come on,” Noelle huffs. “You don’t have to be diplomatic here. Tell us what really happened. We won’t judge. Promise.”
“Noelle,” I say.
My sister snaps her caramel gaze toward me, her brows lifted. “No one walks away from their entire life just because.”
“It’s okay,” Calypso says, worrying her lower lip. “We were a close-knit community, and it turned out some of the members there weren’t exactly as great as I thought they were, so I left.”
“You’re killing me,” Noelle laughs. “All right. Fine. I get it. You don’t know me. You shouldn’t have to spill your entire life story. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”
She stands up, cradling Emme, and carries her to me.
“I’m going to go,” Noelle says, “and let your friendship blossom organically and pray Crew doesn’t do anything to screw it up.”
“Great idea.” I scoop Emme from her arms.
Noelle grabs her bag and flings it over her shoulder. “Calypso, it was great meeting you. I’m going to apologize in advance for anything asshole-ish my brother might say or do in the near future. Most of the time, he doesn’t mean it.”
“Bye, Noelle,” I say, ushering her out.
Calypso grins as soon as we’re alone. “She’s a pill.”
“She’s a whole fucking box of pills.”
“I like her,” she says.
“Don’t tell her that. It’ll go to her head.”
Calypso ambles my way, her eyes on Emme. Her lavender scent fills my lungs and my fingers twitch at the thought of running my hands through her sandy blonde waves. Her hair looks soft, and it shines when it moves. I bet it feels like pure silk.
I can’t remember the last time I was able to run my fingers through a woman’s hair. Everyone here has hairspray and extensions and a million different products all working in tandem to give the illusion of healthy hair. As soon as you touch it, it crumbles like straw.
“You want to hold her?” I offer.
Calypso nods and gently takes her from me. “I love babies.”
“I see that.”
She nuzzles her nose against Emme’s cheek. “You’ll never know a purer love than this, Crew. Cherish it.”
My heart swells just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable, and I shove those emotions back down where they came from. I know they’re there. Doesn’t mean I have to feel them.
“So you really lived on a commune?” I switch the subject.
“Yeah. I did.” Her gaze rises into mine. “Do you find that hard to believe?”
I laugh. “Not at all. I just find it fascinating. Never met anyone like that.”
She carries Emme to the couch and takes a seat. I grab the recliner and swivel it around to face them.
“Did you go to school?” I ask.
“We had a private school on the grounds,” she says. “Kind of like a one-room schoolhouse. It was accredited, if you’re wondering about that.”
“Nah, I was just curious.” I clear my throat. “Did you have running water and electricity?”
Calypso laughs, startling Emme. “We weren’t Amish.”
“See, I don’t know these things. It’s why I ask.”
“Yes, we had running water. We had electricity too.”
“Did you have a leader?”
“Now you’re making it sound like a cult.” She laughs. “If you want to look at it that way, yes, we had someone who presided over the co-op. I guess you could call him a spiritual leader in a way. Everyone went to him for guidance. His family was well respected and admired.”
“Is he the one who let you down?”
Her lips part, her words suspended.
“Sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I don’t like to talk about what happened,” she says, an apology infused into her tone. “It’s not something I like to revisit.”
“Understood.”
“Anyway, I should get going.”
“Really?” I scratch my brow. “You have somewhere to be?”
“I just came over to say thanks. I didn’t plan to stay long.”
“Oh. Was kind of hoping I could con you into giving Emme a bath . . .” I flash a wink and rouse a half-smile out of her. “I mean, I could read a book and all, I guess.”
“Do you have a baby bath tub?”
“I have everything.” I roll up my sleeves, cuffing them just below the elbows. It’s an old habit that almost gets me in trouble every time I go home. My parents would flip their shit if they saw the amount of ink covering my arms. After all these years, they’ve yet to question why I wear long sleeves year-round. In the desert.
Five minutes later, we’re kneeling side by side in front of the bathtub in the hall bath. A yellow baby tub shaped like a duck is filled with a couple of inches of warm water, and Calypso is soaping up a wet terrycloth washcloth.
“You start at the top.” She runs the washcloth along Emme’s head, saturating her dark hair with soapsuds. “Top to bottom. Head to toes. Make sure you get behind her ears, between the folds of her neck, under her arms . . .”
I observe and let her do her thing. “You’re so natural at this.”
“I had a lot of practice,” she says. “Childrearing is a shared responsibility back home.”
When Emme’s rinsed clean, Calypso hands me a hooded baby towel and carefully places a dripping wet baby in my arms. Tucking in the ends of the towel, she leads us back to the nursery.
“It’s easiest to dry her off here,” she says when I place Emme on her changing table. “Clean diaper. Lotion. Pajamas. I’ll make a bottle.”
I meet her in the living room as soon as Emme’s changed and dressed, and she hands me a warm bottle.
“Not so bad, huh?” she says as I rock the baby.
Emme’s eyelids drift open and shut as she fights her bedtime, hardly staying awake enough to finish her bottle.
“Baths are relaxing for babies,” she says. “You’re going to want a bedtime routine. It’s good to have them on a schedule, plus it’s comforting for them.”
Calypso sighs, her arms relaxed at her sides. She looks tired, and I almost feel bad for putting her to work tonight, but I needed her help. And I don’t think she minded.
“She’s out.” I pull a half-empty bottle from Emme’s lax lips and place it on an end table. “Easy enough.”
I lay Emme in her crib and return to the living room, where Calypso waits by the door. It’s rare that I find myself disappointed at the sight of a woman walking out my door. She’s not even gone, and already I know I’ll miss her. I don’t even know what I’ll miss about her; I just know things feel different whenever she’s around.
A little less chaotic.
“Heading out?” I try and disguise the hint of disappointment in my words.
“I assume my services are no longer necessary.” Her tired gaze drifts down the hall toward the nursery door. “If she wakes up or if you need anything, just pound on the wall.”
I laugh. “I’m not going to pound on the wall.”
“Good. I didn’t mean it,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “You can just text me like a regular person.”
Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I unlock the screen with a thumb swipe and glance up at her. “Your number?”
She rattles off ten digits, clear as day, and in she goes.
“I never give out my number,” she says. �
��But I’ll make an exception. For Emme.”
“Of course.” I’m drawn closer to her, and I’m not sure why, but within seconds I’m standing in front of her, calculating the distance between our lips and appreciating the way the top of her lavender-scented head fits right under my chin.
Calypso exhales, licking her lips and batting her exhausted eyes in slow motion. I should let her leave. I should let her get some rest. I shouldn’t be wondering what the most delicious parts of her perfect body might taste like, the way her soft flesh would feel beneath mine or the way her milky skin would look washed in moonlight.
I’ve only ever cared about two things until now: poker and winning.
I’m fucking amazing at both.
When I’m not playing No Limit Hold ‘Em or popping into a nearby poker tournament for a few hours of playtime, I’m breaking my back working on the latest flip house. For a few years, I’ve been a mid-stakes grinder, bringing in a cool six-figure income and funneling it into my real estate endeavors.
Money and numbers are everything. They’re fixed, void of emotions, and concrete.
My uncle taught me to count cards at thirteen. By fifteen, I was sitting around his poker table every Friday night getting richer by the chip. At eighteen, I played my first mid-stakes game, and by twenty-one, I was bringing in half a million a year and contemplating abandoning my last year of college.
“Is it true what Presley said, that you’ve never been to a casino?” I ask.
Calypso’s head tilts and she laughs a little. “Where’d this come from?”
My brows meet. “Let me take you. What are you doing Friday night?”
“This Friday?” A loose thread hangs from the collar of her blouse. I reach in to give it a quick tug and watch her body tense at my touch. “Probably working.”
“Get Presley to cover for you.”
“Who’s going to watch Emme?”
“Noelle.”
Her lips purse as she stifles a smile and her nose scrunches. “Really, Crew?”
“Yes.” I take a step closer, moving into her space like I own it. “Let me show you how to do Vegas.”
I’d hate for the wind to blow “Calypso No Last Name” away before she gets a chance to really live it up.
She offers a fake frown hidden behind smiling eyes. “I guess.”
I get the door. “See you Friday. Be ready by seven.”
I can’t comprehend the fact that she’s never experienced Vegas, and she’s been here for years. Those neon lights, they call to me. The flashing signs, the buskers, the jumpsuited Elvis on every corner . . .
It’s fucking magic.
This place is alive, infused with kitsch and glimmer, and it makes no apologies. Gotta respect the hell out of a place like that.
There are earth-shattering losses and magnanimous winnings. There are tourists and locals, pimps and hookers, dreamers and doers. There’s no other city with hope floating so thick in the air you can grab it by the handful.
Vegas has a soul; of that I’m certain.
“See you then.” Calypso disappears under the dark awning shared by our neighboring apartments.
EIGHT
Calypso
“Bill. Bill. Bill. Junk. Bill. Junk.” I sort the mail at work the next morning. For months, I’ve been stalking the mail carrier like some war bride waiting to hear from her overseas husband, only my overseas husband is the number one writing academy in the nation. And we’re not married. He hasn’t even accepted my proposal yet. But I love him so hard. “Us Weekly. You want it, Presley?”
“Nothing from Havenhurst?” She takes the thin, glossy mag from my hand and flips straight to the back. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to read a magazine backward. I tried it once, and it felt unnatural. Even my free-spirited soul knows there’s an order to certain things.
“Do I look like I just saw a letter from Havenhurst?” I wear a blank expression. I can’t even pretend to be optimistic anymore. Each day that passes without so much as an acknowledgement of my application tends to stuff my hope into places so deep I’ll never fully recover it all. “The day I get my letter, you’ll know. Trust me.”
I tear the end off an envelope and slide out the bill, following suit with the others until I have a decent-sized pile to take to my office. I haven’t looked at the books in weeks, but there should be enough to cover these.
“They’re idiots if they reject you.” Presley’s eyes widen and squint as she examines her nail beds. “I’ve read your work, and you’re a fab writer. No one has a voice like yours. It’s like you have a magnifying glass honed in on the human condition. You notice everything, and you see things from your own little Calypso lens. Honestly, you don’t even need them. Ever considered that?”
“It’s a legitimacy thing,” I say. “Something to put in my author bio someday. Only the greats have attended Havenhurst. Only the greats teach at Havenhurst. If you were a painter and you had the opportunity to study under Picasso or Renoir, wouldn’t you do everything you could to make it happen? Wouldn’t you at least try?”
Presley shrugs, chomping on neon green gum as her nose wrinkles.
“I still think you don’t need them,” she says. “Who cares how Fancypants Writer and Literary Snob McGhee tell you to write? You should write like Calypso. The world doesn’t have a Calypso yet.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better, and I appreciate it,” I say. “But let’s talk about something else. Who’s on the cover of that magazine?”
I don’t care about celebrities. In fact, I couldn’t possibly care less than I already do. But anything’s better than dwelling on my assumed rejection from Havenhurst Academy.
She holds up the glossy cover and squints at me. “You really want to talk about Kim and Kanye?”
“Not really.”
“Okay then.”
“I’m losing the business,” I blurt. Now’s as good a time as any. “Whether or not I get into Havenhurst, this place is closing.”
She tosses the gossip rag aside and leans forward. “Come again?”
“My balloon payment is due in three months. I don’t have the money.” I pick at my nails. Ripping at a peeling piece of cuticle is better than staring into Presley’s disappointed gaze. “I failed. My business is failing.”
“There’s got to be something you can do.” She nibbles on a painted thumbnail, her forehead wrinkled. “Can you take out more ads or something? Want me to spin a sign on the corner?”
“Can’t afford ads, but I’d spend money to watch you spin a sign.” We lock eyes. I need to be serious for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Pres. I failed you. I failed this place. I feel awful about it.”
“You didn’t fail,” Presley says. “You put in sixty hours each week just to keep the lights on. You pay us more than minimum wage when you don’t even have to. I don’t know how you pay yourself a salary at the end of the day, but Calypso, you didn’t fail. You tried. That’s all that matters.”
I laugh, because a pep talk from Presley is the last thing I expected when I walked in the door this morning.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“I never knew you were a motivational speaker.”
“Me neither.”
We both sigh. “I’m so sorry, Pres. I wish I could keep this place open forever.”
“Me too. I love it here. I love working with you. You and Bryson are a second family.”
Presley and Bryson are my only family.
“So what’s next?” She stands straight, her shoulders pressed back. “What’s after this?”
“Couldn’t tell you.” I pick up a copy of Great Expectations and flip through it. “Do you ever play that game where you ask a question, flip through a book and put your finger on a random word to get the answer?”
Presley laughs, her eyes crinkling. “Um, no.”
I place the book flat on the counter and let it fall open to a random spot. With closed eyes, I swirl my fingertip above a
page and stop at a random word.
“Wife,” Presley says.
I open my eyes. Sure enough, my fingertip is pressed against the word “wife.”
“Oh, my God. What does it mean?” she laughs.
I slam the book shut. “It’s just a silly game. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Out of a hundred thousand words, your finger lands on that one?” Her head cocks sideways. “You’re getting married. That’s your next move. That’s what’s next for you.”
“Never.” I slide the book as far away as possible and fish my office keys from my bag. Enough chitchatting.
“Never say never.” Presley bounces on her tiptoes. “Never know when some guy’s going to walk in here, ask you on a date, and sweep you right off those little brown Birkenstocks.”
I stop halfway between the register and my office door when I suddenly recall Crew’s invitation to go out Friday night.
“Oh, that reminds me. Can you work Friday night?” I brace myself for an interrogation.
“You always work Friday nights,” she says.
“I know, but I have plans.”
“You never have plans.”
I spin to see her giving me a sideways glance.
“Yes or no?” I take another step toward my office.
“Of course,” she says. “But whatcha doing, hmm?”
“Crew wants to treat me to a night on the town.”
She slaps the counter. “A date? I thought he had a girlfriend or whatever.”
“No. He’s single.”
“And he asked you out?”
“It’s not a date. We’re just going . . . out.”
“So he is single.” She lets that mull for a moment. “It’s a date.”
I shake my head, biting the inside of my pursed lips.
“Calypso.” Presley hooks a hand on her left hip. “He asked you out on a Friday night. That’s a date.”
“Anyway . . .” I drift further away.
“Can I help you get ready that day?” she calls after me. “You can stop in the shop before you leave. I’ll do your hair and makeup. I can bring some clothes for you to try on.”
“Stop,” I laugh, my hand on the knob of my door. “I don’t want it to be weird. He’s going to think I like him if I get all gussied up.”
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