“I’m a dessert first kind of guy. Seriously, why are you being so nice to me?” He lifted an eyebrow and stared down at me as I leaned against the kitchen counter.
I busied myself with straightening the folds of my skirt, so I wouldn’t lean into him or do something else embarrassing and hard to explain. “I don’t know, honestly. I guess because you make me nervous, and my response when I’m nervous is to be nice. And bake.” It’s the only reason people like me, I didn’t say. I was a people pleaser to the core.
He shook his head. We were silent for a long, awkward minute until he cleared his throat and said, “You know, you remind me of a friend.”
“Oh? Thank you.”
“How do you know that’s a compliment?” he asked.
“I suppose I don’t. Is she, like, an Ayn Rand fan?”
“No. She’s very sweet. She’s lovely.” His voice was full of love, and I bit back the jealousy that unexpectedly bubbled up.
“Yeah,” he said, blinking like he was just waking up. “Anyway, what I was going to tell you is that you remind me of my friend, and I don’t think I deserve any crisp for treating you like I have.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry I threw my phone and then thought you were wooing me with baked goods and called you ugly and dumb.”
I took his hand and shook it. “You’ve apologized a million times. It’s fine. And I promise I will never, ever try to woo you. Not even with baked goods.”
He frowned. “Okay. Fair enough.” He held onto my hand, even though I’d started to pull my arm away. Then he squeezed it briefly before dropping it. “I forgot. I have something at my apartment for you.” Oliver jogged out of my apartment and reappeared a minute later with a fluted white ceramic pie plate, with a hand-painted lowercase “d” in the center.
“Here,” he said, shoving it toward me without grace.
“This is for me?”
He shrugged. “There was a lady at the Farmers’ Market near the hospital selling them, and I thought of you.”
“You thought of me?” I said, my voice still raw with disbelief.
“I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his head and then said, “Anyway, I have to go. Do stuff.”
I grinned. “Well, thank you. I love it. Stay.”
His Adam’s apple jumped up and down with his swallow. “Gotta go.”
“You really can stay for some crisp.”
“Maybe another time, Delaney.” And with that he was gone.
I hugged the pie plate to my chest, ignoring the anxiety spreading wide across my ribs. My phone rang again.
I put down the pie plate and smiled. Maybe this was a sign. I was wrong about Oliver. Maybe I was wrong about men in general. Maybe this was the universe telling me to not turn into Emily. She was one-of-a-kind, but so was I, even if my kind was “doormat.”
And then I picked up my phone. “Hi Cliff.”
Three
Oliver
I shuffled through the circulars and bills in my mailbox when a heavy white envelope fell onto the toe of my shoe. I knew before I even picked it up that it was their wedding invitation. I pulled out my phone.
“Oliver.”
I grit my teeth. “Mother.”
“I told you I wasn’t coming to the wedding. You told me you didn’t care.”
“I know. You’ve told me many, many times,” my mother said in her charming New England accent that hadn’t abated from living in the Midwest, or, as Mother termed it, “surviving the Midwest.”
“Why did I get an invitation?” I said.
“Did you ever bother to tell your brother?” I clenched my jaw, gripping my phone so hard I was afraid the shattered screen was going to go to pieces in my hands. “I thought you were going to tell him.”
“Why would I do that? Is that my responsibility?” I heard the soundtrack to my childhood: ice clinking against her glass.
“Mother.”
“If you don’t want to go, it doesn’t matter to me. Mia isn’t even—”
“Mother,” I said too sharply, unwilling to hear what Mia wasn’t.
“If you don’t want to go to the wedding, then by all means, don’t go. But tell your brother and leave me out of it.” She hung up then, which was just as well, since there was nothing I could say to her that wasn’t obscene. I shuffled to my apartment. There was a small box of lemon squares outside my door.
Instead of settling in, I went into my apartment and grabbed my toolbox and the things I’d bought from the bike shop earlier and then made my way to the basement to Delaney’s bike.
An hour later, I’d tuned everything up, attached a new CatEye light, and was covered in bike grease. I went back upstairs and knocked on the door across the hall. When Delaney opened it, her dark hair was wrapped in a knot on top of her head, her white stripe a lightning bolt in her bangs.
“Hi,” she said.
“Delaney.” I held up the empty box from the CatEye.
Her mouth popped open and then closed and then opened again before she said anything. “You put a light on my bike?”
I sighed and dusted my free hand on my pants. “And I tuned it up.”
“But why?”
“Because I broke it. Now it’s fixed.”
“But you gave me money for the repairs. I can fix my own bike. I fixed the tire myself.”
“But I already did the rest,” I said.
“Yeah, but,” she put a hand on her hip, “I was looking forward to doing it.”
“You wanted to do it yourself?” I said, still confused. “Aren’t you happy I did it for you?”
“No. I like to fix things myself. But thank you. That was very kind of you,” she said, and then she smiled a megawatt smile at me and suddenly Delaney was a lot more interesting, and pretty. I ran back to my apartment, holding up my finger for her to wait. I returned a few seconds later with the box of lemon squares, holding it up to her. “Speaking of fixing your own messes, we talked about you being too nice. Stop being so nice.”
She laughed at me, her lips curving up, causing the small red apples of her golden brown cheeks to stand out, her face transforming into loveliness, and I felt something inside my chest squeeze. “It was the least I could do, after you fixed my bike.”
“You gave them to me before I fixed your bike.”
“Yeah, well.” She tilted her head to the side and studied me. “You feeling okay?”
“Just working a lot.”
“Because you haven’t insulted me once. You might be getting sick.”
“Probably am,” I said, grinning at her, unable to rein my mouth muscles.
“Well, I’m making spaghetti and meatballs. I have more than enough. Want to stay for dinner?”
“Only if I can help.”
She motioned for me to come in, and the scent of her hit me. She smelled like roasted garlic and cooked butter. I wanted to lean in and sniff her neck, so I moved away from her and to her tiny kitchenette instead.
Sauce was splattered on the stovetop, a wooden spoon sticking out of a pot. I picked it up and dipped a finger in, and then turned to see her watching me from the archway of the kitchen. “Do you have oregano? This could use some.”
“You cook?”
“I’m a thirty one year old man who lives alone. What do you think?” I peered into the pot again. “How about a garlic press?”
“Wouldn’t a garlic press be a unitasker, Alton?”
“You’re a fan?”
“Who’s not a fan?” she said.
I shook my head and asked for the garlic press again, and she laughed. “Exceptions. Always make exceptions with Alton Brown and kitchen tools. He’s like Paula Deen. No one’s really going to make a bacon-egg-cheeseburger on a Krispy Kreme. I hope.”
Delaney opened a drawer and put the press into my palm, our fingers grazing lightly, and she jumped a little. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “Static electricity.” Then she asked, “So, are you over in your
apartment whipping up masterpieces of culinary art?”
“Just because I can cook doesn’t mean I do. It’s boring cooking for one.”
“So cook for one of your dates.”
“They’re not dates,” I said.
“But you’re cooking with me,” she said with a smile.
“Is this a date?”
“Definitely not,” she said. She eyed me and looked like she was going to ask me something, and then thought better of it. “What?” I asked her.
She took a deep breath and said, “Are all of your clothes wrinkled?”
I looked down at my clothes. My shirt had grease stains from the bike, and my jeans were ripped and dirty. “I guess I don’t really care about how I look.”
“Yeah, of course someone like you wouldn’t care,” she said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” she said. When I pressed her to explain, she shook her head and refused, and finally I gave up.
She put some garlic bread in the oven as I doctored the pasta sauce and started to roll the meatballs. “I can’t believe it,” she said after a few minutes of silently watching me.
“What?”
“I think you’ve got layers, Oliver.”
“Only a few.”
“Like a seven layer dip?” she said.
“Maybe three layer dip. Just the beans, cheese, and sour cream.”
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“You just did.”
“I was wondering why you date so many women.” Her cheeks turned bright red and when I stepped toward her, she ducked her head as if staring at the pot of water would make it boil faster.
“I don’t really date them.”
She nodded and concentrated on the pot even more. “Okay.”
“I just…”
Her head popped up. “You just what?”
“I just want a distraction. Women are a good distraction.”
“So sleeping with women is like a hobby?”
“Hey.”
“Sorry, forget I asked. Really.” After a few uncomfortable moments of silence she added, “Oh God, if you wanted to leave right now, I would totally understand.” She put her face in her hands and squeaked in embarrassment.
I gently circled my fingers around her wrists to pull her hands away. “Delaney.” She squeaked again, looking at my hands barely holding hers. “Delaney, I don’t have many good qualities, but I’m honest. Mostly. I don’t mind if you have a question. We’re friends, right? That’s what friends do.”
“We’re friends?”
“If we’re not friends, this dinner is going to get a lot more awkward.”
“Okay, we’re friends,” she said and smiled at me again, and I dropped her hands and stepped away from her. Because she was my friend.
Delaney
Oliver stood next to me at the sink and washed the dishes, and I watched the muscles of his forearms flex whenever he handed me a plate to dry.
He stretched in the doorway to say goodnight, and his lean, long body looked so good I had to bite my lip and stare at the floor several times, inhaling calming breaths.
He was kind and thoughtful all evening. We talked about libraries and work and Prairie Glen, and he listened patiently to everything, and laughed in the right places when I wildly gesticulated, recounting the tale of the nudist in the book stacks we had to track down.
He even grabbed my waist and gave me a goodnight hug, his fingers pressing against my waist like they always belonged there.
Then he said, “Thanks for dinner, Skunk Girl,” tugged playfully on my hair and left with his box of lemon squares, and I remembered who he really was.
Four
Delaney
Emily braced her hands on the brick wall of an alleyway along my running route near the big purple Victorian. “I can’t believe you do this every day,” she said through labored breaths.
“I don’t. I run three, four days max.”
“Five! Miles!”
“It makes me feel strong. But I promise I’m not going to torture you with a weekly run.”
“You bet you aren’t!” she huffed. “I am not doing this again. You’re so speedy, too! At 5:30! AM! It’s too early!”
“I’m a morning person.” I started up the steps, only to run into Oliver climbing the stairs half a flight ahead of us.
He was wearing his doctors’ greens again, which stretched across his shoulders. He was rumpled and as his profile became visible as he ascended the open, winding staircase, I saw how hollowed out with exhaustion he was.
“Oliver!” I said to his back. He turned slowly and then gave me the slightest nod, saying, “Skunk Girl.” Then he walked down the steps to us and touched the white spot on my forehead that I usually kept hidden with my bangs. Today my hair was pulled back in a headband.
“Depigmentation,” he said, his hand clinical as it felt up into my hairline. “Vitiligo?” I nodded. “Fascinating. I thought you dyed your hair, but you’re really like this.”
I winced. Then his eyes widened as something behind me caught his attention.
I turned back to see Emily stretching and leaning on the wooden railing in her tight black Lululemon gear, her chest and neck glistening with sweat, wisps of light brown hair escaping in tendrils around her shoulders. I was a sweaty mess with plastered, damp hair, but she was a fantasy. “Who’s that?” he whispered.
“Someone with a boyfriend,” I said.
“So? I don’t mind boyfriends.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I’m a terrible person. You know that.”
“Sure.”
He looked back at me and then asked again, “What’s her name, Skunk Girl?”
Instead of answering him, I said, “Emily! Emily, my neighbor wants to meet you.”
She ran up the stairs until she was at my back and then said, “Oh. You. We’ve already met.”
“We have?” His voice was low and gruff, likely his mating call timbre. I rolled my eyes at his body going into seduction mode, even after he’d obviously just come back from another night shift, his blue eyes bloodshot.
“When my girl here moved in. You threw a phone at her, remember?” Emily gestured her thumb toward me. “What’d you call her? Skunk Girl? That’s really original.” Oliver frowned.
Emily turned on the stairs and jogged back down saying, “I’ll see you later, Delaney. I hope you kick Jackass in the nuts!”
When I heard the front door click, I pushed past him on the stairs, not saying a word, embarrassed Emily saw me being called Skunk Girl. “Delaney, wait. Wait.” Oliver pounded the stairs until he’d caught up with me a few steps from the third floor. “I’m sorry. Again. Jesus.”
I leaned against the door, out of breath from the fast jog up the stairs to escape Oliver. “It’s no big. Really.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stuck out his lower lip and then said, “How come I keep seeing you so early in the morning?”
I gestured to my running shorts and sweaty t-shirt and said, “Sherlock, what do you think?”
“But it’s still dark out.”
“Don’t worry, there are no cars out. This is Prairie Glen, not L.A.”
“Cars? What about maniacs and rapists?”
I had to laugh. I shook my head. “Um, there are no maniacs and rapists running after me in the streets. I swear. I’m safe.”
“No, listen, you have to be careful.”
“Oliver…”
He stood so close the toes of our shoes almost touched. “Delaney, you can’t run in the dark. It’s unsafe. Just like you can’t ride a bike in the dark without a light. I would have sworn you were the type of girl who followed every rule, but you really have no concern for your own safety,” he said.
I felt his breath on me and said, “Apparently not.”
“Well, don’t be an idiot. Don’t run in the dark,” he growled. He actually growled at
me.
“I’m not. Listen, it’s none of your business,” I said, and then I slammed my door in his face. I slumped down on the other side, shame filtering into my chest cavity, filling every crevice.
I had to stop being nice to Oliver, and remember that he was just like Cliff. All men were like Cliff. They didn’t want me. They wanted the Emilys and the Ursulas of the world. The Kelseys. I shuddered, thinking of Cliff and Kelsey standing together, entwined, and then I stood up, resolved to not talk to Oliver again.
Later that evening, I was sitting on Emily’s green sofa with my feet in wool socks, eating out of a Ben & Jerry’s pint. “He didn’t even remember me!” Emily said, her spoon in the air, waving around manically as she ranted. “He was hitting on me. And he didn’t even care that I’m with Sam!”
Ursula rested her head on my shoulder. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, almost no makeup, and still looked pretty much perfect, maybe because her sweatshirt was Manic Pixie Dream Girl cute, pink with glitter, and her curly blonde hair was in one of those braids that twisted around her head. Ursula could pull off things that stopped looking good on the rest of us in fifth grade. She was like a model for adult orthodontia, skewing the norm.
She snuggled into my side. “My cousin sounds like a jackass. Jackass is a jackass.”
“Exactly! He is! And he calls her Skunk Girl. Like he’s so perfect!” Emily put her spoon in her mouth then, but her face was still red with rage.
Ursula patted my leg. “I’m so glad you came back to Prairie Glen. Emily’s rants are so much more tolerable with you to share the burden.”
“Hey,” Emily said around her spoon, but I just laughed and said, “I know, me too.”
“I know it’s a horrible thing, but I am so glad Cliff was a cheater,” Ursula said. Emily shot her a glare, and Ursula said, “It’s selfish. I can’t help it. You’re my family. You and Emily. And I missed you.” She squeezed me.
“You could have visited me any time in LA,” I said, dipping my finger into the bottom of the Cherry Garcia.
“Ugh. And stay with Cliff? No thank you.” Ursula wrinkled her nose.
“I’ve gotta say, you were always this little wilting flower with Cliff. I’m glad he’s gone, too. He was no good for you,” Emily said.
Lost and Found Page 4