“What makes it spark?” I asked, a young girl with more questions than anyone ever had answers.
His bushy eyebrows smashed together as his mouth turned down in a frown. “When the right elements come together, there’s always a reaction, Max. With the right circumstance, you can build a fire.”
This.
Right here. Right now.
This is a spark.
Declan lights me up. Every kiss, every time his hand slips across my back, every twist of his head to bring us closer together, every bit of it is the pry bar against the rock. Sparks. Sparks that want to become a flame. Sparks that warm my insides and demand my full attention. It was never like this with Reg, not anywhere near this.
My body knows what to do, and I don’t know why. Even as my hands slip over his chest and twist around the back of his neck, all I can think is, Is this normal? Do people kiss like this on a first date?
Am I doing it right?
He seems interested.
How do I know if I’m doing it right?
How do I stop?
Do I want to stop?
Please never stop.
Declan’s kiss deepens and I feel the breadth of the door behind me and his body tight against me. I must be doing something right because his palms are against my face again, and I taste his hunger in every kiss.
Shouldn’t I have had this with Reg? We were nearly married and at no point in time did I feel this rush scream through my veins. We barely cleared first base for heaven’s sake.
My head is swimming, light and airy, like I’ve twisted myself up on the old tire swing and let go until the inertia tries to peel me off. My breathing is unsteady, rushed, and uneven as if I’ve been running, but I’m not. I’ve only been here wrapped up in his arms. The night feels good, cold enough to take the burn out of my cheeks. Declan’s breath is against my ear, his lips against my neck, a quick kiss before he speaks.
“Do you want to go inside?”
And it’s both feet against my brake pedal.
I’ve seen enough movies to know what he’s getting at, and since it’s the first time anyone has ever put their tongue in my mouth, I’m done with firsts for the night.
“What?” I ask.
There must be something in my voice because his grip drops and inches crop up between us that weren’t there before.
“I thought—” he stops himself short as if he knows he’s off base. Declan’s mouth remains open, locked at about half an inch, as though the words he wanted to say are wedged between his teeth.
“I talked with Fynn and he said—” Declan stops himself again because it doesn’t take much to see that it’s a dead end as well.
“That I’m easy?” I ask, and he takes another step back.
“That’s not what I said,” Declan says as his hands come up to the defensive. “I should go.”
I want to be angry because of what he’s assumed, but it’s not his fault because he doesn’t know me, he only knows Indigo. Likely she would have shoved open the door and thrown him inside by his tie.
“Wait,” I say as he turns away. “Please wait.”
His steps falter and Declan’s head drops to his chest as if he’s lost. “I’m sorry. I’ve been out of the game for a long time. With everything at the photoshoot, and then at dinner, I thought you were into me. Clearly, I read you wrong.”
It feels off to speak like this on the landing outside my apartment. If I knew it wouldn’t confuse things further, I’d invite him inside to try to talk it out.
“No, you didn’t,” I say before I can stop myself. But he turns around because it’s not bad news, so I amend my words. “I mean, I had fun tonight, and I’d like to go out again. But I’m not that kind of girl, jumping in bed after one date.”
Declan’s smile is bitter with frustration. “Forgive me, but that’s not the way they talk about you at work.”
“Maybe I want to change.” I take a step closer. “I never would have pegged you as that type either, a guy who wants a one-night stand.”
When the judgmental shoe is on the other foot, he’s not nearly so comfortable.
“I’m not that kind of guy. I’m following Fynn’s advice.” Declan shakes his head and looks out over the parking lot. “He said you’d never go for something steady, the best I could hope for was a fun night with you. It’s been a long time, so against my better instincts, I went for it.”
“Serves you right for listening to that pig,” I say. “You’re better than that.”
His eyes meet mine and for a second they are as dark as the night beyond the street lights. There’s more to him, more than I’ve seen in our time together and I want to know it all. I want to know what that spark can become.
“I told you that I’m trying to change,” I shift my weight to my other hip, “and as great as a reckless night of passion would be, maybe I’m not willing to screw this up for that.”
“What are you saying?” Declan asks slowly.
“I’m saying I want to get to know you. A kiss like that deserves a foundation to stand on, don’t you think?”
It’s silent for longer than I want to count and for a moment I worry that he might say, “Ehh, I’ve had better.”
But he doesn’t.
“Yeah, I can work with that.” And his smile returns.
He waits for my key to slip into the lock, and for me to be safe inside my apartment before he starts for the stairs again. It’s only once I lock the door behind me that I remember, he doesn’t know who I am.
Chapter 13
Someone needs to write a handbook.
Some sort of dating handbook that tells you how to go back to work with someone the day after he’s checked your mouth for cavities with his tongue. Maybe there is one and I haven’t read it. Declan is remarkably composed as we work side by side.
He’s read it. If it exists, he’s read it. Meanwhile, I’m bursting out of my skin every time he’s nearby. How do people live like this? Attraction is potent, worse than old lady perfume. I swear I’m going to crack a tooth if I keep clenching my jaw like this.
“Okay,” Declan slides a report over the conference table where we’ve been working and taps it with his pointer finger, “this group’s main complaint was Eve’s blonde hair. There was a strong inclination toward the ad and the main idea. Three women worried about the outfits the models wore, and our non-drinker was unimpressed by the whole thing, but we expected that.”
Focus! I’m screaming at myself in my head. What’s wrong with me? I worked by his side last week and I was fine. Now, because of everything that happened last night, I’m dropping things, I’m stuttering, I’m imagining what it would be like to go hunting for double pronged file folders in the supply closet with someone like Declan.
“It seems like the dark hair is important. Maybe they find her more mysterious,” he says, and it brings me out of the fog I’ve wandered into. “I’ll talk to the agency and see if they can send over some brunettes.”
“Darker,” I say and my hand touches the fringe of his hair just behind his ears, “more like yours.”
Declan’s eyes close and I watch his jaw go slack yet tense all in the same moment. It’s the first indication I’ve had all day that he might feel some of the pressure I do. As quick as it comes, it vanishes.
“Okay,” he clears his throat, “I’ll ask for both, and I’ll drag in a new focus group, see who they prefer out of the new line up.”
“Perfect.” I rub my sweaty palms over the front of the black pencil skirt that clings to my legs. “Great work.”
He wants to say something. I feel it in the way he stacks the same papers over and over again, but this isn’t the place and we are both too professional for our own good. Before the awkward silence can crush me, I escape toward my desk.
“MAXWELL!” I hear the name and respond with short, rapid steps toward Mr. Garnet’s office where he bellows for me.
“Yes, sir?” I ask as I push the cracked door open.
>
There’s a file pinned between his thick fingers. Beads of sweat collect on his forehead and extend into his receded hair line. “What is this? And I want the truth.”
Words aren’t easy because my mouth is completely devoid of moisture. “I—I—I’m honestly not sure, sir. Which file is that?”
“Napa,” he snaps. “I need answers, Maxwell.”
My eyes widen. Declan turned in what we’d worked on. I wanted to run it past a focus group first, see if they responded the way we’d hoped, but maybe time had run out. I glance over my shoulder toward Declan’s desk, desperate for his help.
“No, I don’t want to hear from Declan. I want your answers. Who came up with this new ad?”
This is it. I rode my instincts and they were completely off. I’m losing my job. Indigo is going to tell my family where I’m at. Everything is my fault.
“Me, sir. I mean, Declan and I worked on it together, but the crop was my idea.”
He’s thinking about what I’ve said, and I don’t know why he’s hesitating. “If you’re lying to me, Maxwell, all I have to do is ask Declan…”
“I’m not, sir, I swear.”
The file slaps against his desktop. “Nix turned in the option they’d been working on and the client nearly walked. Declan accosted them in the lobby and showed them what you’d come up with.” My boss’ head shakes as if he can’t believe it. “They were floored.”
I don’t mean to gasp, but I can’t believe it either. “They were?”
“All of it. The shoe, the pearls, the dining options, all racy enough to hit their target audience, but not enough to look trashy. I mean, I know I came down on you because you pushed the line and I never would have thought that this would work, but I don’t know, maybe I should have listened to you in the first place.”
I’m glad he doesn’t wait for me to talk because I’m still speechless.
“Maxwell, I’m glad I didn’t let you go. Whatever vision or epiphany you had, this is the version of you I want to keep.”
“Yes, sir,” I say before I turn to leave.
If only Indigo could be here to see this. A heaviness drizzles over my heart. I’ve finally found where I belong, and I can’t stay. Only one week left. Can I fit a lifetime into a week? Not sure. But I’m going to try.
∞ ∞ ∞
Knowing I have to make an appearance at yoga, I change into Indigo’s active wear after work and leave for the gym. I’m there early for class and I watch the group before ours go through the motions. They’re choreographed in the way they move, long arms, long legs, grace and elegance. I’ve never laid claim to any of that.
“Indigo! So glad to see you,” a voice calls from behind me. When I turn, I find a girl with a bag slung over her shoulder, a yoga mat protruding from the top. Her strawberry blonde hair is fastened messily atop her head as if she’s just run out of the house, but I bet she labored over it forever trying to get it to look that way. By the way she’s staring at me, it’s safe to say I’m supposed to know her. Her head tilts and I worry she’s seeing the cracks in my identity. My eyes dart all over the lobby, trying to see something that might distract her, someone who might want to talk to this mystery woman and bail me out of my mess. Then I see her, or rather the strawberry blonde’s picture. She’s the instructor, Cambria.
“Sorry I’ve been missing, Cambria. It’s been hectic at work.” It seems like a valid excuse as I say it, but how do I know? I’ve only had a job four days.
“Well as long as you’re front and center tonight, that’s all that matters.”
Front? My pulse races at the idea. I glance over my shoulder at the class and I swear they’re all inverted, balancing in some pose that’s probably called the Angry Turkey or the Blissful Acrobat.
“I think I’ll stick to the back,” I say. Another woman joins us and my words make her laugh.
“Right, the front row diva in the back. That’s hilarious, Indie.”
My temper flashes because I don’t need her help on this.
“I think I pulled something today,” I say. “I was only coming by to say hi.”
Cambria reaches out to stop me, but I feel my feet driving me away from her. I can’t do yoga. At least not Indigo’s yoga. Is there a beginner class that involves touching my knees instead of my feet? Maybe some gentle stretching of my fingers and toes? I dash behind the next corner and press my back against the wall as if playing a game of hide and seek.
I made an appearance, isn’t that enough at this point? I sigh because that wasn’t an appearance, it was a disaster. I shut my eyes tight and remind myself that this isn’t my life. So what if she loses her front row spot? It’s not like it’s the end of the world, and at least I saved her job.
Learn a little gratitude, Indigo.
I’m arguing with her in my head and it does nothing to improve my mood. I’m in desperate need of a pick me up. I open my eyes and see the smoothie bar.
Bingo.
My work ID gets me that fantastic discount again and I keep the mat bag slung over my shoulder as if I’ve actually finished some strenuous workout.
Whatever. I did my workout with Tank this morning in the park at six am. I didn’t see any of these dainty ballerinas there pounding out twenty pushups or doing squats until they fell to the ground. Nope. That was me.
I could do the meditation part, not the way the some of them do it with their eyes closed thinking about their grocery list and all the muscles that feel like they’ve ruptured. No, I actually meditate.
It started in high school. I failed out of the pageant circuit for the third time, and my mother had laid into me as if I were a terrorist on the most wanted watch list. I felt myself drifting away. I could hear her, see her, and yet I remained above her, disconnected from all the venom she spewed over me. That was the beginning, my own personal sanctuary in my head. A place I could go that was all mine. No one could touch me there, cross legged, door locked, arms lax and resting at my lap as I focused on my breathing. I read up on methods and technique, and then learned how to center myself in the midst of a storm. In the last few years I’d let the practice lapse, but many times when life became more than I could handle, it never took much to disappear into that place again.
The other class is getting out now and I’m a quarter of the way through my strawberry banana protein smoothie. I push my fingers up into my ponytail to muss it a bit. No one looks good after a workout, not even perfect Cambria, or uber perfect Indigo. Satisfied when a strand of hair falls over my face, I cross my legs and try my best to look tired. It’s not hard.
“Indi—” he catches himself and corrects, “Max. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
My eyes widen as I stare over my drink. “Declan?”
His smile spreads, and I light up inside. What is it about him?
“Hey, yeah, I came from yoga. Are you headed into Cambria’s class?”
“Um—” There are no words to bail me out of this. “I walked on the treadmill today. Still a little tender from my long trek to the restaurant the other night. Blisters.” I keep my voice small and childlike, hoping it will garner sympathy.
He’s too smart for that.
“Yoga would help with those sore muscles, and you should be avoiding shoes while you have those blisters, Max.”
He’s right. It’s all a valid argument. But I’m stuck on Max. I love the way my name sounds coming from his lips.
“Yeah, silly me,” I add. “Maybe I’ll take tomorrow off.”
Declan is looking me over, taking me in, nothing professional in his eyes at all. “You could join me in Ruby’s class on Friday. I’m not as advanced as Cambria’s class, but it could be fun.”
I can’t help but wonder if he wants to see me bend and twist so he can evaluate a few more of my attributes, but it kinda sounds like a date and I’m tempted.
“I buy the smoothies after,” he says and I’m sold.
“Yeah, that sounds fun.”
He winks as he turn
s to leave, but he shakes his head like he’s worried I might think he’s a dork. It may be true, but he’s the sexiest dork I’ve ever met.
∞ ∞ ∞
I toss Indigo’s mat on the couch. I lock the apartment door. I don’t bother with the lights, not yet. My mind is a whirlwind. Thoughts of Declan, my mother, my future, even Reg are circling and swirling and demanding every ounce of my attention. If I let it continue it will swallow me whole in a pit of anxiety. Every worst-case scenario will play out on my mind’s stage until I’m paralyzed in fear. My knees crack as I drop to the plush rug. It won’t go that far. I won’t let it.
My eyes fall shut. My breath turns inward, no longer innate or on reflex. I learned long ago how to control the exact rhythm. Six counts in, eight counts out, every new sequence relaxes a different pairing of muscles. I’m melting into my breath, finding peace, searching out the glow at my center. It moves me beyond the embarrassment at the gym, beyond the stress of work, and most importantly beyond the reach of even my parents and their all-consuming control. My limbs hum with the same vibration as the rest of my being— all in sync, all one breath, one sigh of relief that this world, despite its best efforts, can’t control me.
Somewhere though, somewhere in the deepest corners of my mind, I feel the clock ticking down.
Seven days left.
Chapter 14
“Maybe someone should threaten to fire you every week,” Mr. Garnet says as he looks over my latest notes from the Devil’s Harp campaign. “I’ve never seen you get so much done, or this fast, at least not of this caliber.”
I’m trying not to let my pride show because my mother told me it makes me look like a stuffed turkey, but nonetheless, it feels good to succeed.
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