by Lena Maye
“You have to talk about it,” she says. “That should be the new rule, since, well, you know.”
“Since you aren’t getting fucked regularly?” My fingers rattle on the countertop.
“You didn’t need to put it like that. But if you can slow down and give me the details, that would be amazing.” She chews on her glitter pen and swivels in her stool.
This whole no-sex thing must be hard on her. I sigh and spin towards her. “Is Mackie worth giving up sex for?”
She blinks at me. “What do you mean?”
“What if you can’t wait?” I try to stay sitting, even though my muscles all feel like they’re about to pop. “What if you can’t stop yourself from finding a guy to fuck in a closet?”
She flinches. “You’re attacking me, Jean,” she says, softer than I deserve.
“Why should you have to stop yourself?” I continue like the complete bitch I am. “Why do they demand so fucking much?”
“Okay.” She takes a steady breath. “Now you really need to tell me what happened. Not the sexy stuff, although I want to hear about that later. The other stuff.”
“I can’t do this girlfriend thing. Not for real. Not if he’s going to keep pushing me to—” The tightness ratchets across my chest, harder and faster than that night with Kepler. It binds me down. I struggle to breathe, coughing before I’m finally able to suck in a small breath.
Cassie sets a hand on my shoulder. “If Kepler makes you feel like this, you shouldn’t see him again.”
That statement seems perfectly logical. It’s what I would say to Cassie if she were struggling to breathe and spitting anger after spending the night with someone.
“Maybe you’re right.” My chest is so tight I barely get the words out.
She hops off the stool like she intends to give me a hug. I curl my arms around my chest. Hugs aren’t what I’m searching for. I don’t have any softness in me right now. I want to think about something else. Anything else.
“Why was Devon here?”
She freezes. “No reason.”
“Did you have sex with him?” Maybe a bit too direct, but I’m tired of wavering around the real question.
She winds a clump of hair into her mouth. “Why would you think that?”
It’s my turn to give the eye roll and head shake. “Come on, Cassie. Give me the truth.”
“I did.” She bites down on her hair. “But a long time ago. I wanted Devon to—”
“Not tell his brother.” I roll my shoulders to loosen them. It doesn’t work.
“I want to tell him first.” She drops the glitter pen and shakes out her hands. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Yeah. We’ve both got everything under control.” I shove away from the counter and the conversation. Three minutes later, I’m in shorts and a t-shirt and tying on my running shoes. I dart out of our duplex before I can take my anger out on Cassie again. I should be a better friend to her. I run along two-lane roads until the pain in my lungs drops me. Then I get up and push my feet home until I’m numb again.
The next morning, I’m late for class. But I listen and take notes like Jean does. I work on my homework in the back cubby of the library, drink my orange juice, and head to my mom’s on Thursday. Like Jean does.
She doesn’t say much besides, “Where were you last time?” I shrug and mumble an excuse about needing to rake the leaves. The dishwasher still isn’t fixed. I don’t ask. The answer will only piss me off more, and I don’t have much fuse left.
So I rake the leaves. I do the things Jean does.
And Kepler doesn’t call.
There’s not a single Post-it on my door. No texts. No calls or exhilarating pics. I don’t see him at his usual spot on the stone ledge. I try not to question why. Jean wouldn’t question. She’d just be fucking relieved.
And Kepler still doesn’t call.
I help Cassie with the fundraiser to make up for my accusations about Devon. Helping her mostly involves picking up donations for the silent auction and centerpieces, and dropping them off at the Rock Falls Country Club. Of freaking course. Scene of the after-crime.
I carry boxes by the empty buffet tables and put them where Mr. Yim instructs. He corrects my rusty Korean and offers me a glass of water. I take him up on it. Sitting with Mr. Yim and talking about Korean baseball is the only thing that makes me settle.
The next day we talk about flowers. Cherry trees and azaleas and flower festivals and what he remembers as a boy in Seoul. I listen, rapt. Only stopping him to ask about the odd Korean words I don’t know.
The next day we talk about his job. How—for some unfathomable reason—he likes the small talk and random conversations. But I guess he doesn’t work every day, because one day he’s not there and the replacement host asks me to lug silent-auction baskets into a storage room past the bar.
After they are all delivered and stacked, I pause in the hallway and glance at the photographs of golfers lining the wall. I lean close to one when I recognize familiar dimples. Mackie stands with golf clubs and a pink shirt. It takes me a long moment to realize that Kepler’s standing next to him. Because he’s smiling. Not the half smirk. A real smile.
A smile for a golf-tournament photograph, but not for me.
I organize the silent-auction baskets. Find matching cards. I focus on the tasks before me before sliding to a seat on the cement floor. The exact same color that lives in my falling dream. I pull my knees up to my chest and hug myself.
A smile.
The store room smells like dust. I drop my head on my knees. When I can’t delay any longer, I drive home. The crushing weight on my chest grows heavier with every block.
Kepler doesn’t call. And I don’t text him because every time I start to, the tightness ratchets across my chest, so fast and painful that I don’t know how to stop it.
The fundraiser approaches in a flurry of chaotic activity that helps to distract me. A little. Cassie’s so worried about her welcome speech that she hardly sleeps. I help as much as I can, but my concern is more for her than the fundraiser. I make her a batch of super-energy-sweet-potato soup. Mackie scoffs at the gesture, but Cassie slurps down three bowls.
And then, the day before the fundraiser, when I go down to heat up my morning soup, he’s there. Sitting in my fucking seat. I don’t know if that means they’re fucking—but I don’t want to ask either.
“Where’s Cassie?” I throw soup in the microwave.
“Sleeping.” He grins and drinks my fucking orange juice. “So, I’m guessing you’re dateless tonight?”
I take my half-cold bowl of ginseng soup out of the microwave. “Fuck off, Mackie.”
He’s got a plan, I know it. The first step is trying to come between Kepler and me. I stare at him over my bowl, trying to figure out his endgame.
He leaves his empty glass on the counter—not in the sink—and disappears down the hallway.
I spend the day constructing centerpieces and running errands whenever Cassie says jump. Two hours before the dinner, everything is finally coming together. I deliver the last of the boxes to the country club and race home for a shower, only to discover a police cruiser sitting outside the duplex.
Sloane’s doing dishes while wearing a brilliant red dress that dives between her boobs. When not in her uniform, she’s usually a yoga-pants-and-sports-bra kind of girl, definitely not this diva in front me with black hair piled on top of her head.
Sloane bends over to take silverware out of the dishwasher, and Mackie gapes at the diving cut of her dress. I’m about to point it out when Cassie breaks into the hundredth recitation of her speech. For once, I snap my mouth shut. This night is important to Cassie, and I won’t ruin it with my blathering.
Sloane looks me up and down and wipes a soapy hand on a dish towel. “I thought this was a dressy thing.”
“I didn’t think you were coming.” I’d asked Sloane to come weeks ago, but she’d had to work. She didn’t offer to take the evening of
f. She never does.
She rests her gun-hand on her hip. “I heard you needed a date.”
“Cassie called you?”
My red-haired roommate starts her speech over. She closes her eyes and paces with her arms extended to the sides.
“No.” Sloane reaches up to put clean glasses into the cabinet. “Kepler.”
“Kepler?” A wash of cold rushes over me. I turn to Cassie’s binder, pretending to check the Jean to-do list for anything I’ve missed. But I made sure it was done hours ago. “When did you speak to him?”
“Three days ago. I ran into him at the Pump, and he said that he couldn’t make it tonight. He said I should go. I assume the two of you talked about it.”
I glance up at her, trying to look casual. “What was he doing at the Pump?”
“Um, what people usually do there? Putting gas in his car,” Sloane says like I’m an idiot. Maybe I am.
She tilts her head and studies me. Her bullseye cop vision swings over me from head to toe. I shiver under her attention.
“I have to get dressed.” My current outfit of frayed yoga pants and a tank top isn’t appropriate for tonight’s affair, and it lets me escape her evaluation.
But of course, Sloane tails me down the hallway and into my bedroom. When I close the door, she hikes up her dress and yanks on her thong.
“Very lady-like.” I dig into my dresser for clean underwear and find only lacy black ones. Laundry took a backseat to fundraiser preparations.
“I wanted to wear something outside my comfort zone.” She keeps twisting.
“Well, it looks like you’ve succeeded.”
“This is why I don’t wear thongs to work.” She drops her skirt and plops on my bed. “Even though the polyester they make us wear puts panty lines on display. I think that’s why Darrel picks them.”
“Your sergeant has an underwear-line fetish?”
“Everyone’s got something. If there’s anything I’ve learned being a cop, it’s that.”
I pause by my dresser. “What’s your something?”
Sloane tilts her head. “Okay, maybe not everyone. But I’m the only normal person in existence.”
I snort out a laugh and dig into my closet for a dress that won’t hang off of my disappearing hips.
“You got tense when I mentioned Kepler,” she says.
I yank on the clothes in my closet. “I haven’t spoken to Kepler in a week.”
The bed creaks, but I focus on my closet. Anything too tailored will look like a pillowcase. Stretchy will show how much weight I’ve lost, which no one needs to worry about.
“A week isn’t a long time,” Sloane says. “I’ve gone for much longer without speaking to you, and I think of it as a nice vacation.”
“I love you too, eonni.”
“I’m sure he’s just busy.” She pauses. She’s probably waiting for me to argue with her, which is usually the best way to get me talking. But I don’t even know what I’d say to her. That Kepler fucked me and left me? That for the first time ever, I might have an idea of what it feels like to be dumped?
Sloane leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. “What happened the last time you spoke to him?”
And there it is. The question that burrows under my skin.
“I went over to his house, and I saw his, um, telescope.” I smile at my own distraction-joke and hold up a black dress with ruffles on the hips. It might mask my figureless self. “If you can call it a house.”
Sloane shrugs without glancing at the dress. She’s dialed into me. Uncomfortably so. “What are you leaving out? Why point out the house? Is there something about it?” Damn her coppy intuition.
“No, there’s nothing about the house.” I swallow and turn around.
“Then why bring it up?”
“I was just trying to start a conversation.”
“About?”
“Nothing.” I yank the dress over my head. I can’t tell her about the plants. She’d skip the fundraiser and arrest him.
I have to change the subject.
“We slept together,” I blurt.
“Asshole.” She leaps up and paces from the bed to the door. One of her hands goes down to grab her missing gun. “He didn’t call you.” When her hand finds nothing on her hip, she sits down and fishes in her purse. She yanks out her phone.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I launch for it. She holds her phone away, and I slide off the bed onto the floor in my attempt to grab it. Damn, my legs are so tired from all the running I can’t even catch myself. I let out a sigh, still crumpled on the floor.
“He needs to know what an asshole he is.” She offers a hand down and pulls me up. I take it and slump next to her on the bed.
“I’m sure he already knows.” I sigh. “You’re not calling him like some raging out-of-control sister. Who also happens to be a police officer.”
“I thought better of him,” she says. “For some stupid reason. Even though I’ve seen him trolloping around with all those girls who might was well have ‘Body by Mattel’ stamped on their foot.”
I swallow. “Recently?”
“Not in the last few months. But it doesn’t matter because he’s an asshole for not calling. End of story.”
“It’s not a big deal.” But my phone sits black and silent on my desk. Because it is a big deal. A huge fucking deal.
“Don’t give him a second thought,” she continues. “You had sex, and he didn’t call. That’s all you need to know. Is this why you’ve lost so much weight? You need a basket of fries with a cupcake on top. Do you not know how to eat? You’re basically incapable of keeping yourself alive.” She takes a breath and pulls up the strap on my dress. It falls down my shoulder again. Her advice is always the same: get over it, be better, solve your damn problem. Eat a cupcake. As if it’s that easy.
“Do you notice everything?” I grumble.
She nods. “Yep.”
Eighteen
I don’t like having Mackie around because he takes up my best-friend space. He holds the door open for Cassie. He sits next to her in the limo I rented for us because I didn’t want to drive my crappy car. He whispers something calming in her ear when the ride makes her tense. Kepler-distraction made it easier. I’d focused so much on him I didn’t notice Mackie stealing my best-friend duties.
But I relax a little when we pull up to the country club because they went all out for Cassie. I don’t know if that was Kepler’s doing, but apparently the costs were covered. The room is white tablecloths with polished silverware and black napkins. The centerpieces we made are pictures of children who lost their lives in car accidents over the last ten years. Cassie thought it would be overkill, but the half-page stories we’d typed out float around the room. None of the stories include details about how the children died. Unanswered questions hang heavy, a somber backdrop for silent-auction bids and mingling over wine.
Cassie flits around the room—the star of the night in a tartan dress that matches her lava hair. I watch her as Mackie rattles on about some vacation he’s taking to the Italian Alps in the summer. Next to me, Sloane encourages me to eat my bread. And her bread and some bread she snaked from the kitchen. Extra butter.
I take a few bites while Sloane adjusts herself in a way that should only be done in private.
“My boobs are going to fall out of this dress,” she announces.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t know your boobs are capable of falling anywhere.”
“Every time you insult my appearance, you might as well be talking about yourself.” She glares at me, then drinks half her water.
I pick up my glass of wine and match the size of her water swig. She tsk-tsks me.
“What?” I take another sip. “It has calories. Isn’t that what you’re worried about?”
Her lips tighten. “Kepler wasn’t a good enough lay to take the edge off you.”
I set my wine glass down. Some red sloshes a spot on the white cloth. “That was too far,
Sloane.”
“Then stop—” Her eyes flicker behind me.
“Jean.” A rough hand falls on my shoulder. Blond hair, blue eyes. Sebastian flashes a wide smile.
“Oh, Sebastian.” I examine the space beside him as if Kepler will materialize. He doesn’t. “I didn’t know you would be here.”
“Kepler didn’t tell you?”
“Um, no. But I guess that’s the theme of the night.” I take a steady breath. “This is my sister, Sloane.” I’m glad for the introduction requirement. “Sebastian is friends with Kepler.” She stands and offers her hand, all business.
“And friends with Jean,” Sebastian says.
I smile as he sits next to me. Friends. It’s nice. I like being friends with Sebastian. I try to think of the last guy I’d classify as a friend—besides Kepler—and come up blank.
I swirl my wine, and flashes of red pattern across the tablecloth. “When did you talk to Kepler last?” I look up.
Sloane’s sentence trails off. She was saying something about being a cop. All eyes zap to me.
Sebastian clears his throat. “Oh, a few days ago. Right before he left.”
“Left?” The politeness in my voice evaporates.
Sebastian nods. I squint, trying to read his expression. But he’s like a huge, stoic statue.
“Where did he go?” Sloane slips into cop voice. It’s intimidating even when it isn’t directed at me.
“Boston,” he says with a shrug, as if he doesn’t feel the intimidation. “I should get back to my table.” He rises and crosses the room towards a lone girl sitting at an empty table. She smiles up at him when he approaches.
“Wow,” Sloane says, “you got rid of him fast. I thought I had the world record on that. Telling a guy you’re a police officer isn’t exactly a turn-on.”
“Then you need to say it in a different way. Open with the handcuffs or something.” I stare after Sebastian. “Has everyone spoken to Kepler in the last week except for me?”
My head swings around the table, landing on Mackie. His only defense is the table between us, and it’s not a good one.