by Jody Gehrman
“Abby!” Before she can stop me, I pull her into a hug.
I’m an expert hugger. I used to avoid them—full-body contact made me queasy as a kid, especially with strangers—but once I figured out their function, I put my mind to perfecting the art. Turns out I’m something of a hugging savant. The pregnant version takes some slight adjustments, but the basic principles remain the same. Women love it when you clasp them full-on, no sideways, bullshit half-hugs or squeamish pelvis-tilting. They long to be contained.
“Thanks so much for inviting me,” I say into her hair.
“Welcome!” By the time she disentangles herself from the hug, it’s too late to ask my name. Her smile’s so muscular the tendons pop in her neck. “Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I gesture at the yarn-haired pilgrims, light-up pumpkins, and glittery cornucopias. “Amazing job on the décor.”
She guffaws. “Any excuse to get crafty!”
A gnome pops out of the doorway, one hand swathed in a pumpkin-colored oven mitt. He’s at least fifteen years older than Abby and half as attractive. I know from Facebook (thank you, Mark Zuckerberg!) this is Gary Lacy, the man Abby chose to produce children with. His asset portfolio must be his prime attraction. God knows Abby’s bakery, Stud Muffin, isn’t bankrolling this Ode to Conspicuous Consumption. Gary was a chemist for Procter & Gamble. Now he’s a day trader and a remote-control-airplane enthusiast.
I feel profound sadness for their progeny.
“Who do we have here?” Gary doesn’t share his wife’s allergy to direct questions. No problem. I’ve done my homework.
I shove a hand at him. “Great to see you. Gary, right?”
“Yes.” He pulls the oven mitt off and shakes. His smile says, Welcome, but his eyes say, Who the fuck are you?
“Sorry! I’m Sam.” When this produces deer-in-the-headlight stares from both of them, I push it one step further. “I went to school with Troy—at St. Andrews? Just moved to town. I’m a freshman at Blackwood. Troy forwarded me your Evite, said I should stop by.”
Relief floods their faces.
Abby nods like she knew this all along. “So sweet of you to come.”
When Gary traded in Wife Number One for Abby, Wife Number Two, he paid off Wife Number One with expensive boarding-school educations for the first set of kids, Troy and Amber. Wife Number One has a bitter, confessional blog that narrates all this in mind-numbing detail, interspersed with recipes that feature various kinds of canned soup. Troy’s two years younger than me, but I figure that won’t matter.
“We met at Parents’ Day.” I aim an injured expression at Abby. “Sorry, thought you’d remember.”
“Of course we do!” Abby gushes, putting a hand on my back and guiding me through the threshold.
Just like that, I’m in.
KATE
I’m standing in a sea of people, adrift. My hand grips my glass of wine like a lifeline. The tides of conversation push and ebb around me, swirls of laughter rising toward the vaulted ceiling. A child’s cry pierces the other sounds. She keens, her pink face contorting into ghoulish shapes. The mother swings her onto one hip, drops a kiss on the crenellated forehead absently, resuming her conversation without a pause.
I want to throttle Zoe. Why didn’t she tell me this was a family thing? Okay, maybe I should grow up, but I can’t ignore the sting of betrayal. She used to share my dread of child-friendly social engagements. Back in grad school, we got together with a bunch of girls from the English department one night, intent on getting smashed and neglecting our stacks of student papers for at least twenty-four hours. This one chick, Joni, had a kid. We were all at Zoe’s apartment pre-gaming to vintage Madonna and putting on too much makeup when Joni shows up with her six-year-old, no advance warning, just—bam!—there they are. Nothing spells buzzkill like a boundaries-free six-year-old playing with your lip gloss when all you want is a shot of tequila or seven and an all-night dance party.
Joni didn’t even give us a chance to flee. We ended up watching Disney and eating mountains of Doritos. Zoe and I bitched for days about our aborted mission.
Now Zoe’s done the same thing to me—trapped me in a family-friendly nightmare I never signed up for. I recall her evasive gaze when I asked for details about this party. That scheming little con.
Now I get it. She knew I’d never come.
We arrived half an hour ago. Abs Lincoln, aka Raul Torres, is a no-show, at least so far. I’m wearing a short dress over gray tights. Back home in front of my mirror, I thought I looked just tarted up enough—not too slutty, not too dour. Now that I’m here, I realize my folly. Everyone here walked straight out of an Eddie Bauer catalog, so wholesome and pragmatic they look ready to run a 5K or build a school for needy children.
Zoe’s been swallowed by a cult of pregnant women. They shrieked her name and circled her the second she walked through the door. She made valiant attempts to include me in the conversation, introducing me as Her Friend the Mystery Writer. Her efforts were wasted. One of them asked how old my kids are. She blinked in confusion when I said I don’t have any. That’s when I made a beeline for the bar.
I almost spill my wine when I spot him. He’s watching me hard from across the room. In the churning sea of festive sweaters and active gear, he’s still as stone. An island. A beacon.
What the hell is he doing here? Why didn’t I wear higher heels and redder lipstick?
He crosses the room with his hands shoved into the pockets of his wool slacks. He’s wearing a ridiculous tweed vest that looks anachronistic and dapper on him. I feel an alarming blush creeping up my arms toward my neck. The closer he gets, the more my skin burns with it. He takes his time, sidestepping a knot of soccer moms and their preteen daughters, all of them casting furtive looks. He weaves past fresh-faced caterers bearing trays of canapés. They notice him, too. Not once does he shift his gaze from my face.
“You look amazing.” He says it in such a matter-of-fact way I’m not sure I heard him correctly.
“What are you doing here?” I avoid the compliment. The vast, ghastly house throbs with noise. Children run past, sticky hands outstretched like supplicants’.
His mouth twists into a knowing grin. “You saying I don’t fit in?”
I snort with laughter.
A woman near us bellows, “Gwen, honey! Don’t eat those! You know you can’t have gluten!”
A swarm of sugared-up kids races past, nearly knocking me over.
He leans close, his lips grazing my ear. “You don’t fit in either. I mean that in the best possible way.”
I’ve never stood this close to him. His proximity is terrifying, but also familiar, like I’ve dreamed this moment many times. He smells good—walnut, lemons, cypress.
“I was hoping I’d see you here.” His voice holds a note of urgency I’ve never heard before. Usually he’s laconic, his opinions tossed out lazily, like someone throwing a Frisbee on a Sunday afternoon.
The chaotic noise levels—children screaming, classical music blaring, women laughing—forces us to tilt our heads very close. “Why did you think I might be?” I get a whiff of his shampoo; maybe that’s the lemon.
“I just hoped.” He shrugs. “It’s a pretty small town.”
“I don’t know anyone here.” I frown as a girl no older than two dithers toward me on chubby legs. She stretches her hands out, fat fingers opening and closing like sea anemones. A part of me recoils. Another part of me wants to sweep her into my arms and sniff her head, drink in that deep, sweet baby smell.
“You want to go outside?” He puts one hand on my waist, blocks my vision of the toddler.
My throat tightens with gratitude. “Yes, please.”
Outside, the cool air is sweet and pure enough to drink. We pause on the back patio, under the brilliant twilight. He looks around before leading me to a small alcove at the far end of the deck with a stone bench and a fountain. The latticework enclosure drips with jasmine; the flowers give
off a heady perfume, their dying gasp before winter. We huddle in the refuge, surveying the yard. Ghastly decorations crowd together like refugees. There are scarecrows with puzzled button eyes, fake pumpkins, light-up cornucopias. For a moment, I’m struck dumb by the spectacular ugliness of it.
We burst into giggles at the same time.
“It’s so hideous!” His eyes shine with glee.
“What the fuck?” I hear footsteps, press a finger to my lips until they pass. “So damn tacky.”
“I’m not a snob, but holy Jesus,” he whispers.
“I know, right?”
When we’ve stopped giggling enough to breathe normally, he gives me a quizzical look. “So, you really don’t know anyone here? You crashing the party?”
“My friend Zoe tricked me into coming.”
“Right, Zoe. The pregnant one?”
I’m surprised he remembers. I nod. “She knows I hate this kind of thing.”
‘What kind of thing is that, exactly?”
I shrug, self-conscious. “Suburban neighborhood parties where everyone’s kids play soccer together.”
“Got it.” His expression shifts, a silvery shadow moving beneath the surface.
“Don’t get me wrong, families are great.” I can hear a shard of defensiveness in my voice. “Community is—you know…” I trail off.
He laughs.
“What?”
“Breeders, man. Who needs ’em?”
I’m not sure what it says about me when my twenty-two-year-old student understands me better than the full-fledged adults inside that house, including my best friend. Or I do know what it says, and I just don’t want to admit it. I’m an adolescent girl two years shy of forty, still so selfish and stubbornly ambitious that babies fill me with dread rather than longing.
He studies me with keen interest. “You don’t think these people have something you want, do you?”
I’m thrown by this. Most of my students see everyone over thirty as background characters, their voices little more than white noise. Sam really wants to know what’s bothering me; either that or he’s doing a damn fine job faking it.
“I don’t want what they have.” I tilt my head. “But I’m supposed to, so I guess that makes me odd.”
“Damn right, you’re odd.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Thank fucking God.”
I hide my smile in my wineglass. He digs in his pocket and produces a pack of American Spirits. I watch him tap out two, hand one to me.
“How did you guess my secret weakness?” I take it from him with a bashful glance.
One shoulder barely lifts in a noncommittal shrug. He fishes a Zippo from the other pocket, flips it open. His thumb jerks, and the flame flares to life.
I put the cigarette between my lips and lean closer. He holds the lighter out, one hand cupped around my cigarette to guard against the jasmine-scented breeze.
The first lungful feels like heaven. “Do I strike you as a smoker?”
“Not at all.” He lights his own and takes a long, slow drag.
“What then?”
“It’s your hands.” His eyes meet mine. Once again I’m struck by how blue they are. They have an eerie intensity. He doesn’t just train his eyes in your direction, like most people. His gaze hooks into you like a cat’s claws, slowly contracting, razor-sharp.
I glance down. “That can’t be good, having smoker hands.”
“It’s the way they move.” There’s a soft note of rebuke in his voice. “Your fingers are very expressive. They’re never still. You’re always touching something—your hair, your clothing, your skin.”
“Oh.” It comes out startled, prim. I have to laugh at myself.
“Restless hands will never say no to a smoke.”
I hold his gaze. Time seems to lose its meaning. The moment becomes elastic, a strand of taffy, stretching gossamer-thin.
With a start, I feel a small starburst of pain. I look down, my body already jerking away before I have time to register what’s happened. My cigarette, left unattended, has dropped a clump of hot ash onto my thigh. I brush it away, embarrassed.
When I look at him again, his gaze lingers on the tiny black fleck. He looks at me, his face full of amusement. “Don’t set your tights on fire.”
“No.” My voice sounds thick. “That wouldn’t do.”
He takes another drag off his cigarette and lets the smoke out slowly. It curls toward the brilliant blue sky, sinuous and ghostly in the cold.
I look at my hands. Nobody has ever offered observations about them—not that I can remember.
It takes me a moment to realize why I feel so light-headed. I can’t remember the last time someone paid this much attention to me. His awareness of every detail—my face, my hair, my hands—rips through me, concentrated and intoxicating as heroin. He brings back wispy memories of boys from my youth, the concentration they put into earning that first kiss. The world’s started depriving me, year by year, of this particular pleasure: the hungry way boys watch from across classrooms, parties, nightclubs. I’d forgotten how delicious it feels, the way your skin prickles under the heat of their gaze. God knows it wasn’t always fun; the wrong stare can feel like a greasy hand probing, groping. But basking in the light of Sam’s eyes feels like coming home.
“Oh, God, there you are!” Zoe appears suddenly, her dark head poking around the alcove. “I’ve been looking for—” She stops short when she sees Sam.
The cigarette between my fingers is little more than a smoldering butt. I let it fall to the deck, grind it under my kitten heel. Zoe looks at it with raised eyebrows, then at me, then at Sam.
“Hey! How’s it going?” My voice sounds too perky.
“Just thought I’d let you know, that friend I mentioned? He’s here.” She casts a sideways glance at Sam. “But I hate to interrupt.”
“Sam Grist.” Sam transfers his cigarette to his left hand and offers Zoe his right. He’s unfazed, his expression bland as he squints through a cloud of smoke. “We met a few weeks ago. I suggested the denim overalls.”
“I remember. Kate’s student.” Her gaze slides to me. Anyone else would see only polite interest there, but I read the question like it’s stamped on her forehead: What the fuck are you doing?
“Thanks for the cigarette.” I put a hand on Sam’s arm. I hope it looks teacherly, but who do I think I’m fooling? It’s Zoe. “I should probably mingle.”
“You do that.” He flicks the cherry from his cigarette, tosses it into the bushes and takes a step away from me, then another. Without the heat of him near me, the air feels like icy mist against my skin.
“See you later, Sam,” Zoe calls to his back.
He doesn’t turn around.
Zoe gives me a long look. She produces a tin of breath mints from her coat pocket. I take one obediently. Neither of us says anything.
Finally, I break the silence. “What? Just say it.”
“Nothing!” Her face expresses it all too clearly, though. The quirk of her lips. The tilted eyebrows. I hope you know what you’re doing.
SAM
You’re listening to the guy across from you, but you’re bored. It’s clear from the way you cup your chin in your hand. It’s not an engaged chin-cupping. It’s more a Christ, when can we pay the bill and flee? chin-cupping.
Raul. I can only imagine the tales of restaurant-ownership he’s regaling you with. You’re trying to be polite. You’re attempting to maintain a receptive, interested grin, however thin. I see the way you’re sucking down your wine, though. I see the tired strain at the corner of your eyes, the nervous way you tap your finger against the edge of your glass, as if counting the seconds.
This guy is king-douche-bag-level self-absorbed. I’ve clocked his mouth moving through my binoculars for a solid seven minutes.
You deserve so much more, Kate. I abhor Zoe for thinking you’d settle for this guy, even for a night. I mean, yes, he has thick black hair that sweeps up from his forehead in a stylish, offhand way
. His suit looks expensive, and he wears it well. I haven’t gotten a good look at his feet, but I’m guessing pricy Italian loafers are involved. Still, this is all textbook Lover Boy stuff. You can’t take him seriously.
I shift my position, trying to ease the pins and needles in my feet. Surveillance isn’t comfortable. Thank god you two sat at the window. I’m crouched in a damp alley again, this time between a bookstore and a coffee shop. The Dumpster I’m leaning against smells of coffee grounds and rotting meat.
The man is still talking. God, how do women do it? I realized long ago the key to winning any girl’s heart is listening to her. Most guys suck at it. That’s even more appalling when you think about how sex-starved most men are, and how they could have three times as much pussy if they’d just shut their mouths. Best-kept secret.
In my boredom, watching you watch him, my mind drifts back to Eva. She’s the one who taught me to listen. It was valuable training to get at fifteen. I remember her small, pale face, her wild hair. The feral look in her eyes.
Vivienne and I were passing through Wyoming that winter, crashing one night at a KOA near Jackson Hole. At the campground, Vivienne started flirting with a hairy Rasta dude who called himself Phoenix; we moved into his yurt on this big hippie commune the next day. It’s not like we were headed anywhere, anyway. We were drifting, like we always did, wandering from town to town like dandelion fluff caught in a light breeze.
That’s where I met Eva. Her parents were hippie freaks, back-to-the-land types. They grew all their own food; she was raised in a tepee. I’m not making this up. The commune was a hundred-acre parcel they called The Mercury Ranch. You’d have to see the place to understand Eva’s peculiar brand of unselfconscious innocence. The people there lived as they liked, without regard for social customs or taboos. They wore clothes or didn’t, depending on the weather and their leanings. The land pulsed with anarchist moodiness—the sense that anything could happen at any time, and probably would. In the sleepy, quiet peace there lurked the constant possibility of danger. Mercurial.