by Jules Moulin
Lizzie had loved him. He was her hero.
She then abandoned her online life and turned her attention to drama instead, auditioning for plays at Duke that spring.
She didn’t get parts in Bat Boy: The Musical or Othello, but she sewed costumes and painted sets, and that summer, she came home transformed: no more nights staying up late, staring into the glow of the Dell. Instead, she went to bed by eleven and woke up at six to run ten miles. She put the Guy Fawkes mask away.
Ally didn’t know how to feel. About the change. If she was truly relieved or not.
Hollywood? Acting? After she’d majored in foreign relations? After she’d wanted to secure the free world?
—
When Jake awoke, he found his T-shirt and jeans dry and warm, folded on the table next to the couch. He found Ally down in the kitchen, apologized, and thanked her. They strolled from the kitchen toward the front door.
“No nose job,” Ally said. “She cannot get this nose job.” Now that she had him alone and sober. “She needs a man—an older man—not you—and not Ted—to tell her she’s beautiful as she is. This—Marty—you want me to meet. He could do it. She talks about him. Is he a big deal? Could he influence her?”
“Yeah, he could,” Jake said, nodding.
“It’s the dad thing. She’s insecure. On some level.”
“So come to the party and I’ll get Marty to talk to Lizzie. About her nose. Deal?”
“Deal.” She unlocked the door. “Can I bring Ted?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Wait,” Ally complained. “He’s an investor. Maybe—”
“No Ted.”
“Why not?”
“Because. I’m taking you out.”
Ally took a breath and lifted her head around in a circle. “Jake! You’re dating my daughter!”
“What? I am not!”
“She thinks you are!”
“She doesn’t even like me!”
“Yes! She does!”
“She thinks I’m a bore. Lizzie is funny. She needs someone funny, someone like, I don’t know, James Franco.”
“Who?”
“No one. Never mind. Look. When I figured out who she was, that was it. I set up this dinner. I never touched her. She thinks I’m gay. She asked me yesterday if I’m gay. We are not dating.”
“Either way, I have to tell her.”
“I don’t care! Tell her! I’ll tell her! You know what she’ll do? She’ll laugh. She’s an amazing—amazing—girl. I don’t date girls.”
Ally considered this. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s make a bet. If she thinks it’s funny—which she will—you come to the party. I leave New York on Friday night.”
“Fine,” Ally said. “We both tell her, and if she’s okay, if she’s not crushed, I’ll come.”
“Good. And Marty will say he loves her nose. Marty loves it. I love it. We all love her nose.”
“But you can’t take me out. I’m—involved.”
“Where’s your ring?”
Her ring? “Ted comes.”
“Ted stays home. This time we’re doing things my way.”
Ally grimaced. “You know I’m forty now, Jake? Forty-one?”
“Thanks for the sleep, the coffee, dinner. You ready?”
“For what?” Ally said begrudgingly. Jake slid on his cap, pulled the rim low, and slipped on his shades. He swung the door open. Ally gasped.
Out on the sidewalk, a crowd of paparazzi erupted. Flashes flashed. They all yelled at once. “Noah! Noah! Noah, over here!”
Ally stepped back and Jake closed the door. “I’ll send a car Wednesday. Eleven o’clock.”
She was confused. “Eleven in the morning?”
He smiled. “No. Eleven at night. That’s when the party starts, Professor.”
NINE FINAL PAPERS SAT on the ottoman. Tucked in a chair, red pen in hand, Ally started to try to read them. Which one first? She wasn’t sure: “Nin, the Major Minor Writer?” “Anaïs and the Younger Man?” “Nin and the Narcissist?” “Lies and Liasions?”
She couldn’t decide. Boxes surrounded her. She worked in the room and used it for storage. She’d discovered some childhood clothes recently, Christmas dresses and patent leather shoes. A red velvet coat lay across a box, waiting for Lizzie to try it on. It might fit, Ally thought, staring at the coat. Lizzie, at ten, was taller than Ally had been at twelve.
She should have been reading.
Why wasn’t she reading? That coat reminded Ally of her first kiss. Her first real kiss.
Chase Fenton had left the foyer to help his mother with something upstairs. Ally was standing in first position, practicing pliés, waiting for Claire.
Gazing down at her patent leather shoes, she decided she was too old for Mary Janes. Thirteen! she scoffed, and still in buckles? Claire had to buy her a new pair soon. Without straps. She had to.
Chase’s father, Mr. Fenton, stumbled from the powder room singing and happy. Some carol. He saw Ally, straightened his tie, tucked in his shirttails, and teetered to her. He looked dazed. “Leaving, Ally?”
“Yes, Mr. Fenton.” The red velvet coat hung over her arm.
“Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know.” She looked toward the kitchen. “Saying good night?”
“Well,” he said and staggered close. “It’s nice to see you. Honey. It is. We should see—more of you.” He reached his arms wide, threw them around her, and pulled her in close. Then he pulled back and kissed her, parting her lips with his tongue.
Ally was stunned.
She’d been waiting for a kiss. She had been sure Chase would kiss her that night, if they could steal a moment alone. They’d talked about it in math class. He’d sent her a note: “We’re kissing. Tonight.”
But Mr. Fenton kissed Ally at the Christmas party. Not Chase. He kissed her, stumbled off, and forgot a minute later.
Ally remembered. Her first kiss. Her first French kiss. Her first French kiss with a senior partner at Goldman Sachs.
When she got home, she took off her shoes and handed them to Claire. “Goodwill,” she said. “I’m too old for these.” She ran upstairs and called Anna. “Yuck!” she said, laughing. “His actual tongue!” She could still taste the gin.
—
Ally looked up from the red velvet coat. She heard the sound of a lawn mower. Or she thought she did. The smell of freshly cut grass wafted in. Someone—someone was mowing her lawn. Jake? She got up to check.
—
In the backyard, Jake slowed down and cut the engine as Ally walked up through the soft green grass. “What are you doing?” she asked, laughing.
“What does it look like?”
“Jake!”
“What?” He wiped his brow, covered with sweat. The day was unusually hot for late May, already in the seventies. Jake was barefoot, in jeans, and bare chested. He’d taken off his shirt. “I want to do this.”
“But why?”
“You need it. This house, this yard . . . needs help. I want to cut back that stuff near the door. It’s safer that way. And maybe some sensor lights? Ever thought of that?” He looked unhappy with the state of the yard.
“Thank you,” said Ally. “Really?”
“Why not? This is how the Bean boys roll.”
She could only smile. How could she fight him?
“Foreplay begins by mowing the lawn.”
“Foreplay?” she said. “I thought you were leaving!”
“Taking out the garbage. Opening the door. Putting down the lid without being asked. Treat your lady like the queen she is.”
“Your lady? I’m your lady?”
“Mine for the moment. Total ownership. All my brothers are ha
ppily married. Works for them. You don’t agree?”
Ally shrugged. “I don’t know, Jake. What do I know? Look at my life.”
Jake smiled. “Listen, you fold your towels in thirds. That’s class. We fold our towels in half at our house. You’re doing great.”
Ally laughed and studied him.
Why did she feel as if she’d known him for years?
“That fence, the links, sticking out there?” Jake pointed to the chain-link fence that bordered the yard. “I want to fix it. I’ll do my work. You do yours. I’ll meet you in the shower in ninety minutes.”
Ally stood there, hands on her hips. “So I’m supposed to—go back upstairs—read all about Gore Vidal and Henry Miller—while you’re here naked and sweating? Please!”
“You can do it,” Jake said facetiously. “I believe in you. Go.”
She looked at the mower. “You shouldn’t push that around in bare feet. You could lose a toe.”
“You could,” Jake said. Yanking the pull cord, he fired up the blades.
“YOU SLEPT WITH MY mother?” Lizzie asked, shocked. She stared into space, eyes wide, trying to parse and file this confession. “You and my mother had actual sex?”
It was Tuesday morning. They sat at the bar at Bubby’s in TriBeCa.
Jake was nursing a mug of coffee and eating his way through a basket of biscuits. Deeply hungover, he nodded at Lizzie. The Grey Goose people had paid him to attend a party that morning, starting at midnight, ending at five. Now it was ten and he cupped his hands around his coffee as if it might keep him from floating away.
“That’s why she called!” Lizzie said. “She called me a hundred times yesterday!”
“Could you keep it down?” Jake asked kindly. His head was pounding.
“I’m sorry, but this is too incredible.” Lizzie was delighted.
“Call her back. She wants to talk.”
“I cannot believe I missed this.”
“What?”
“There had to be clues . . .” Her thoughts raced back over Saturday night: Jake’s arrival, Ally’s reaction. Then she remembered. “She ran! When you met! When you shook hands!”
“What?” Jake bit into a greasy biscuit.
“She bolted upstairs! She totally freaked! I cannot believe— How stupid am I?”
“That’s your—that’s your takeaway?” he asked as he chewed a buttery bite. He put down the biscuit and picked up his mug. “That’s your concern? That you didn’t somehow . . .”
Lizzie only half listened. Excited, she pulled her purse from the bar and took out her phone. “Wait, so she knows?” she asked, distracted.
“She knows what?”
“That you’re telling me now?”
“Yes.”
“You talked?”
“We did.”
She shook her head. It was all too great. She texted Weather, fingertips flying over the touch pad. “Weather is going to love this . . .” She put the phone down on the copper-topped bar and turned her attention back to Jake. “I cannot believe she screwed a student.”
“Screwed?” Jake cringed and placed his mug back down on the bar. “It wasn’t screwing.”
“But you were her student! She’s so naughty!”
“No, she’s not.” He looked away and motioned to the barkeep to refill his coffee. “But you’re okay? You’re not upset?”
Lizzie checked her phone. She couldn’t stop smiling. “Upset? No. I mean, it’s vile.”
“Why is it vile?”
“Because she’s my mom. Do I have to explain?” She slid off the barstool.
“She is your mom, but she is a woman.”
“No kidding. Can you buy my juice? I have a thing. I have to bounce.”
“Sure, but . . . there’s a part two.”
“Oh, Weather!” Lizzie cried and picked up her phone to show him the text. “Weather wrote back: ‘Badass Mom!’” Lizzie’s fingertips flew in response. “Weather worships my mom so much . . . She is so in love with my mom . . .”
Jake took his chance. “Me too,” he said.
Lizzie glanced up and smiled but kept texting. She didn’t hear him.
Jake said it louder. “I am in love with your mother too.”
She heard him that time and looked up to see him, sheepish and blushing. All the laughter left her eyes.
Jake, again, cupped his mug in prayer.
Lizzie stopped texting and put the phone down, back on the bar. Then she thought better, picked it up again, and put it away, back into her bag. She slipped back onto the barstool and sat there, eyebrows furrowed. She moved a bracelet up and down her wrist. Finally she turned and said, “You didn’t know? That we were related? Until you saw her?” She sounded hurt.
“Yeah,” said Jake. “We were both surprised.”
Lizzie nodded. “That’s your story?”
“My story?” Raising his eyebrows, he shook his head. “I didn’t . . . put it together.”
Lizzie squinted. She didn’t believe him. “But you knew Hughes. You knew Providence.”
“It was ten years . . . ago.” Jake shrugged and looked at her, eyes wide, over his mug. “You called her Mom.”
Lizzie studied him. “You know,” she started, “just because you act—sort of well—in front of a camera—doesn’t mean—”
“What? What? What do I have to—have to—say—to make you believe me?”
“First, stop stammering,” Lizzie snapped with condescension. “And second, there’s nothing you can say. I know you’re lying. You weren’t surprised when you shook her hand.”
“Come on. I was—”
“Stop,” she said forcibly, cutting him off. “Stop. It’s insulting. Do you think I’m dumb? I skipped grades twice and finished school at sixteen. I did Duke in three years. My IQ is higher than ninety-nine percent of the population’s. Point six.”
Jake said nothing.
Lizzie continued. “I threw myself at you—for a month. I offered to spend the night with you—at your hotel—for three weeks. Please. You used me to get to my mom. Admit it, Jake. Stop lying and act like a man. Just admit it. I know the truth. There’s no need to—”
“Fine!” he blurted out. “I was in love with her ten years ago! I thought I still was, but I wasn’t sure, and I am! You’re right! I did it! I lied! I’m sorry!” he said.
Lizzie leaned on the bar and smiled. That was all. She wanted to break him. She wanted to win and she did. That was it. “Good,” she said, forgiving him instantly. “Actually, it all makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” Jake said bitterly.
“You and my mom. You’re both good-looking. You’re both criers.”
“What? I’m not a—”
“You both have that sincerity thing, which is so Nick Drake and annoying. You’re sweet. You’re both shitty liars.”
“That’s true,” Jake agreed.
“In fact, you may be perfect for each other!” Lizzie laughed. “How weird is that?”
Jake studied her for a moment, remembering the weekend in Providence. “You know, we met when you were ten.”
“We did?” she said. This was a morning filled with surprises. “You just keep rocking my world.”
“Your mom hired me to build a bunk bed. For your birthday.”
“You built that?”
Jake smiled. “I put it together.” He sipped his coffee. “Man, you two are nothing alike.”
“Yes, we are.” Lizzie slipped from the stool again. “No one thinks so ’cause I’m tall and gorgeous and she’s short and, you know—”
“What? Pretty? Smart? Sexy?”
“Yup. See? I told you we are.” She reached into her bag and took out her phone. “I have an audition. I have to bounce.” She texted Weather again. They were meeting.
&
nbsp; “For what?”
“A cam-girl thing, but don’t tell my mom.” She leaned in and took a last sip of juice. “Wait. You talked. Does she love you? My mom?”
“No. I didn’t admit it—to her.” Jake straightened up. “Cam girl, like—?”
“Does she love you? Do you think she does?”
“I don’t know.”
She reached for her wallet inside her purse. “I’m doing the reach. You buying breakfast?”
“Yeah, I got it, but, Lizzie, wait. What kind of cam girl?”
“The only kind.” She slipped her bag over her shoulder. “You should tell her. See what she says.”
“Like—sex-cam girl?”
“It’s only an audition, and Weather is coming.”
“Why would you—do that?”
“To buy my nose.”
“Wait. Can we—talk? Before you go? About this?”
“No. I’m late.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. She flew down the ramp. “All those clues!” she called across Bubby’s. “I love this life!” She pushed through the door.
Jake, alarmed, hailed the barkeep to bring his bill. He reached into his bag, pulled out his phone, and dialed Ally.
ALLY AND JAKE STARED at the ceiling. Steam rose and pinked their cheeks.
They were both naked in a hot bath, Ally lying on top of Jake, her back against his chest, the back of her head resting on his shoulder.
He ran a tiny bar of soap over her body as if he was playing a Ouija board. “You think you’ll get married?” he asked as he circled her belly with the tiny pink bar.
“Oh my goodness,” Ally said, closing her eyes, luxuriating in his soft caress. “I can’t date, much less get married . . .”
“Why not?” he asked, switching hands and moving the soap to her left breast. He circled it around, then moved it back down and across her waist, taking it again with his right fingers.
“Logistics,” she said. “I make seventy thousand a year . . . fifty after taxes . . . I’m on my own . . . College will be, I don’t know, thirty-five, by the time Lizzie goes . . . per year . . . I can’t afford a babysitter.”