Pre-Approved Identity Theft

by Nellie K Neves

  “Wait,” Declan continues, “Harper Sutton, she’s the daughter of the ale company tycoon. Says here she’s named after the company.” He laughs to himself. “That has to be a typo. I’m sure the company was named after her.”

  No, not a typo.

  When my mother was pregnant with me, my father decided he wanted a part of the company name to be carried on in his prodigy. Harper comes from “Devil’s Harp Ale.” No wonder I’ve always preferred Max.

  “Okay,” Joanna says as she slips back inside, “I have a whole collection of our awful campaigns from the past. I’m really hoping you can bring us into this century.” Joanna glances at the magazine in Declan’s hands and her face drains of color. “I should have put that away.”

  “It’s okay,” I insist. “It’s good for us to see other ads and how these magazines work.”

  She looks to me with wide eyes, and then looks to the article, then back to me as if trying to tell me the mess we’ve landed in. I widen my eyes and give my head a tiny shake to tell her it’s fine, they haven’t figured it out.

  Drop it, woman!

  Meanwhile, the guys watch us trying to communicate telepathically and they likely think we’ve lost our minds.

  “I’ll take those,” Declan says as he sets the magazine back where he found it. He retrieves the previous ads from her grip and shoots her one last glance. I hope he assumes women are crazy and forgets the whole ordeal.

  Chapter 18

  There’s no turning back now. I’m suited up in my yoga clothes, standing barefoot on Indigo’s mat with Declan to my right. It might as well be hurricane season and every shelf picked clean. My only hope is to hunker down, push through and hope I come out the other side.

  “Hello class,” the instructor says as she breezes through the door, “my name is Felicity. Welcome to beginner’s yoga, otherwise known as Hatha Yoga.” Her bag hits the floor and her shoes kick off and bounce from the wall. With one smooth movement she unfurls her mat and scans the crowd. “I don’t see anyone new, so let’s get right into it.”

  The class is a bit of a blur, not because I’m having fun, but because I’m so miserable that my mind and body disconnect as if I’m in a survival state trying to endure some sort of torture. At the end of class, I’m left with a collection of thoughts and gritty memories.

  Is my head supposed to hurt in downward dog? No one seems as dizzy as I am. Too much longer and I think I’ll fall over.

  How does she get her elbow up on her knee like that?

  When did we move? Am I the only one with my rear in the air?

  I suddenly hate this woman more than my mother.

  How do I breathe into my hips?

  Is Declan laughing at me?

  Is it a sin to hate your mother?

  For crying out loud, why am I sweating this much? It’s collecting like a cesspool swamp under my forehead.

  What kind of smoothie do I want?

  Why does she keep saying downward dog is a resting position? My arms are shaking.

  Wait? Extend my leg to the ceiling? Is she out of her cotton pickin’ mind?

  Oh no, I’m going down! Should I call timber?

  I don’t hate my mother, but I wish I could have a better relationship with her.

  Strawberry banana smoothie, that’s the one.

  If that chick glares at me one more time for falling on top of her, there’s going to be a brawl in here.

  She’s drawing water from a dust mine if she thinks I’m going to bend like that. Not happening, Felicity.

  Why are my feet so ugly? Wasn’t I going to get married a week ago? I didn’t have time for a pedicure?

  I do hate Felicity.

  Maybe the new guava smoothie, it looks good.

  Magnetize my knees? What does that mean? I’m not bionic.

  If I clench my cheeks a little tighter, maybe I can keep this gas in until we go back to Cobra.

  Guava. For sure guava. Wait no, strawberry kiwi.

  Is Declan staring at my butt? Is everyone staring at my butt?

  Am I doing this right? Am I doing anything right? Why am I suddenly questioning my life decisions? What has yoga jerked loose now? Besides my lower back alignment.

  Oh thank goodness she said to lay down on our mats, it’s over.

  Not over. That was a trick. And no, I can’t press my shoulders any farther into this floor without getting splinters!

  Be still. Maybe it’s a trick.

  No, I see lavender spray. It’s finally ending.

  Oh good heavens, I’m choking on lavender spray.

  Bless my heart, I survived.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Strawberry banana, that’s the smoothie I chose for my reward for surviving. Declan chose some orange, peach, raspberry concoction and it looks like a sunset in his hand as we lean against a wall in silence.

  He knows. How could he not? My downward dog looked like a woman fighting for her life. I sip my smoothie and act nonchalant even though my insides are screaming that I have to run, the jig is up!

  “That was interesting,” he says.

  I want to ask if he's referring to my London Bridge is falling down moment, or the time I flat out refused, or the way the instructor watched me as if I were an alien.

  “You seemed a little…” he starts and bless him he’s trying to be soft about it but come on it was a one-woman circus show.

  “I don't actually do yoga,” I say.

  It sounds stupid after what he's just seen. I'm ready to tell him everything, admit the switch, but he laughs.

  “I figured you were a mat rat, came and drank smoothies in workout clothes with your bag on your back.”

  “You know me,” I try to sound like I’m joking but it's hollow.

  “Hey,” he senses my embarrassment, “you don't have to be a yogi. Exercise isn't for some people, I guess. You're the dieting type.” Declan discards his empty smoothie cup in a nearby trash can and leaves me to fume over his words.

  Dieting? Now that's funny. Maybe when my mother ruled my life, but I certainly don’t prefer it.

  “No,” I say when he comes back, “I love exercise.” It's his turn to laugh and I have to wait a moment for him to stop.

  “I do,” I insist.

  “Really? What do you do?”

  “Something a lot harder than this.” The Type A in me burbles to the surface. “I don't think you could handle it.”

  “Oh no?” Declan says and he shifts so he is directly in front of me.

  “No,” I say to see if he will move closer. He smells like sweat and frustration and why don't I hate that?

  “You tell me when and where, Maxwell.”

  I want to run my hands over his damp top because I know he's chiseled. But, no, it's wrong. I shouldn’t be pushing any of this. I’m gone in less than six days.

  “Tomorrow six-thirty in the park,” I hear myself challenge him.

  “Six in the morning? On a Saturday?” The thought almost breaks the magnetism between us.

  “See,” I duck out of his arm’s reach, “you can't handle it.”

  I leave him there, and my mother’s words echo in my mind.

  “Always leave him wanting more. Never give in too soon.”

  Sure, she was talking about the best way to become a trophy wife, but it feels right in this case.

  At least this once.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  There’s a brief moment in time where I’m sure he won’t come. There are at least a hundred other moments where I kick myself for walking out on him like a two-bit tease yesterday. But I see him on the trail and my heart picks up. Declan must really like me to be up this early on his day off.

  I raise my hand, and he nods to show that he sees me. It takes all my self-control to keep cool as he approaches. I’m more rattled than a hound in a coon’s den, but I can’t let him see that. This can’t ever be real. It’s a practice session at life before I disappear into the sunset in five days.

  “I didn’t think
you’d come,” I say as he approaches.

  “Almost didn’t.” He stops a couple feet from me. “Hard to find a sitter who wants to come over at six in the morning. Do you know the premium I’m paying to a teenage girl to watch Rory while she sleeps?”

  My giggle annoys him, and I realize he’s not a morning person at all.

  “Sorry.” I try to stifle my laughter. “I forgot you’d have to get a sitter. You didn’t have to come.”

  “After that show you put on yesterday?”

  I assume he’s talking about my yoga class exposition until he closes the distance between us and curves his palm around my hip.

  “How could I ignore that kind of challenge? You left me begging for a cold shower.”

  “Did I?” I mean to be coy as I say it, but it comes across curious and breathy. Every exchange is a minefield. I’ve been dancing around this chemistry burning between us, but one wrong move and it’s going to burn us alive.

  I’m staring at his lips. I don’t realize it at first, maybe because I’m moving closer and a voice in my head is screaming, No! Warning: Heartache ahead! But I’m ignoring it because I can remember that spark we had. Maybe I’m too curious, maybe I have to know what it would be like to watch that landmine explode.

  “Look, Miss ‘I Can’t’ brought a friend.” Tank’s voice breaks the spell and Declan’s hand falls away from me. “Is this ‘Mr. I Can’t’?”

  My cheeks go red in an instant. I can’t even stammer out an answer. That only goads Tank further. “Let’s warm up with some light jogging, so ‘Miss I Can’t’ can work up her excuses. Trees and back, let’s go! Today is obstacle day.”

  Declan glances at me as we start jogging. “I was wondering if you’d ever done this before, but obviously you have if he’s already insulting you.”

  “What? You thought I lied?” I ask.

  “Well yeah, you lied about yoga.”

  Out of necessity.

  “Well this is real, and obstacle days are brutal, so you better bring you’re A-game, Dec.”

  Shortening his name pleases him and the battle is on.

  “Same back to you, Maxwell.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Tank has outdone himself this time. We’re crawling under low wires, climbing over tree branches, running time relays with, of course, burpees at every check point. It’s the wind sprint shuttle run that kills me. Twenty yards, drop for fifteen pushups, twenty yards back, drop for twenty burpees, with no end in sight.

  “I told you you'd never make it,” I say as I hear Declan puffing again.

  “It's six, Max.”

  “Six-thirty, actually, past seven by now,” I correct him and he glares so I know I'm annoying.

  “My body doesn't function at this hour on the weekend unless I'm making a bottle.”

  I can't help but notice how his shirt clings.

  The sweat.

  The chemistry.

  Everything is too much and I pump out my pushups faster than I ever have.

  “Look at ‘Miss I Can't’”, Tank says from over the top of me, “today she found her ‘I can’ switch.”

  Declan laughs as he struggles through the rest of his pushups.

  “Or maybe that's why she brought her little friend,” Tank continues, “because she wanted to suck the life force out of him. Looks like he’s fading.”

  Declan’s competitive side peaks. I hear him on my heels as I run to the second station. It's tag on the playground all over again and just like the playground, I want him to catch me. I'm dying to find out what he might do.

  We drop into burpees at the same time. I’m trying to beat his rate, but the way he glides through them is distracting. He’s a machine and I’d rather sit back with popcorn and watch him work. But Tank is screaming at me again, scolding the woman next to me that has collapsed and getting after Declan for easing his pace. We have to dig deep, push hard and move even though we’re all working on cooked noodles instead of muscles.

  “Last set!” I hear Tank yell as I’m sprinting head to head with Declan for the final station. “Come on, everyone wants to see who’ll win!”

  I drop beside the cone and pound through my pushups. Declan drops a half second later. I steal a glance at him. His cheeks are red. Sweat streams over his clenched jaw and I can’t deny how gorgeous he is. Once more, I can’t understand how Indigo ever ignored him. How could anyone ignore someone like Declan?

  “Three, two, one,” Tank calls out the final count and I collapse. The scent of grass and mud filter in through my nose. Damp earth cools my hot cheeks. My breath, unregulated, wild, without my control, rises and falls over my lips. My instincts take over. I count in my head, six in, eight out, and my body relaxes against the habit of my training.

  I open my eyes and find Declan watching me, a gentle smile on his exhausted face.

  “You weren’t kidding,” he half mumbles into the grass, “that was intense.”

  “It was worse than normal.” I pin my palms beneath my chest to push myself back to sitting.

  Declan moves as if the last hour never happened. I taste my disappointment as he glances at his watch. “I have to go. Rory will be up soon, and I’m always there when she wakes up.”

  He extends his hand to me and pulls me to my feet. The sun is about to break over the trees. The day will officially come alive when it does. Declan’s hand curves around my waist until his palm stops in the small of my back. His other hand brushes the sweaty hair from my eyes. He wants to kiss me. He’s holding back because I’ve asked him to. In this moment, I’m struggling to remember why I did.

  “Are you free tonight?” he asks, and I only nod because I don’t trust my voice. “Come to my place? At five? I’ll text you the address.”

  I nod again and have to consciously pin my eyes to his gaze so I won’t stare at his lips.

  “I want you to meet Rory,” he says.

  It’s a big deal. He doesn’t let anyone meet her, and I feel the guilt building in my chest. This is all too real for him, and it can’t be. Indigo is coming back. I’ll be leaving soon.

  Declan kisses my cheek and lets me go. “That’s how you say goodbye, Max.”

  And he’s right. My mother was an idiot, because as he walks away, I’m certainly wanting more.

  So much more.

  A whole lifetime more.

  Chapter 19

  Maybe it’s suicide, but I walk, only this time I wear flats. I’m guessing we’re doing dinner at Mario’s again. I can’t imagine he wants to stray too far from Rory when she’s with the sitter. I wear a little green dress with a high collar. If I’m meeting his daughter, it’s not about sex appeal, and I don’t need my mother’s voice in my head to tell me that.

  His apartment is across the street from Mario’s. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was close. Golden light gleams off cars and windows, a signal that the day is ending and the night is pending. Though I’ve noticed that it feels as though the sun sets early because the tall buildings create a false horizon.

  I stop outside his building and hesitate. It has to be wrong. It’s not an apartment building like Indigo’s, it’s a nondescript five story box of brick, one red door at the front, and nothing much beyond that. I check the address three more times before I pull open the red door and start climbing stairs.

  There are two law offices on the bottom floor. The next floor up I swear I smell the telltale signs of a hair salon, but no sign to show for it. The third floor is an open space, hollow, bare. There are exposed brick walls and steel girders from the floor to ceiling, but no sign of life. I still doubt that I’m in the right place and check his text again. On the fourth floor, I see two doors, one marked #401 and the other marked #403. Declan said in his text that he was in #505, so I climb the last flight of stairs to the top.

  It’s the only door at the top. It’s humbling to admit how much my legs have hated the climb. Declan’s muffled voice filters through the door. He sounds like a father, stern, but full of love. It’s
what I always imagined a father should sound like. It’s what I’ve seen in movies and shows I’ve watched, nothing like the disconnect I’ve experienced.

  I knock once. A squeal splits the air, and footsteps scurry away from my intrusion. Declan’s moves near the door, then pauses, as if he’s taking a deep breath before opening the door.

  This is a big deal for him. I mean, I understood that it was big, but now as I’m thinking about it, a single dad who doesn’t date, who’s falling for this girl at work and wants to introduce her to his daughter.

  Oh my stars, what have I done?

  The panic descends and once more I’m considering climbing out a window, but I’m five stories up and he’s opened the door.

  “Hey Max,” he says as if we’re old friends and not at all like we met a week ago. “Any trouble finding the place?”

  Declan is wearing his suspenders, but they are loose at his waist instead of strapped over his shoulders. He’s got a tie wrapped around his neck as if he can’t decide if he’s wearing it or not. His hair is gelled. A cologne he’s never worn before catches my attention. Technically, this is our second date, but when I look at him it feels as though I’ve known him forever.

  “It was an adventure,” I admit. “Not quite what I expected.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, “but we can’t all live at the Palisades like you. Come on in.”

  I step into the space and can’t help but let my gaze roll over the entirety as if I can memorize it and tuck it away for a treat after I’m gone. It’s industrial, that’s my first thought. An open floor plan with no walls to separate the living room, kitchen, dining area, with floor to ceiling windows on the far side. It’s the same hollow space I saw on the third floor, but filled with couches, cabinets, and all the amenities to make it feel like a home. The exposed brick walls add to the masculinity, and just over the couch is a loft with stairs. Blankets tumble from the edge of what I assume is a bed, but the loft is hidden enough that I can’t tell for sure. A floating staircase is pressed against the far wall. Exposed steel pipes glimmer in the dying light of the sun along the back wall.