by K. A. Tucker
“That’s why I could never find him.”
“I don’t know why you kept looking,” she mutters under her breath, ticking away at lines on her order chart.
I sigh. I know she’s just trying to make me feel better, in her own way. But Christa always did judge Kyle too harshly.
I’m still hung up on the disappointing possibility that I could have been so forgettable to a guy who once upon a time meant so much to me. “Maybe he was playing one of his elaborate Kyle jokes. You know how he is. Or was, back then.” How much has he changed in thirteen years, aside from his name?
“Or maybe he was pretending because he doesn’t want to remember you,” Christa says, in typical blunt, no-nonsense fashion.
“Or maybe he doesn’t want to remember me,” I echo, a thought that had already been lingering in the recesses of my mind but I didn’t want to give voice to. I tip my head back and pour half the glass of my red wine down my throat, hoping it might help me swallow that bitter pill.
“You’re in early today.” David appears out of nowhere to charge through our building’s exterior door. He holds it open for me.
I mutter my thanks, my eyes darting to the security desk, my stomach tense with nerves. Gus is there, wearing his usual wide smile, greeting employees as they swipe their badges across the pad. The seat next to him is vacant.
It’s Monday. He did say Kyle was starting today, didn’t he?
Unless Kyle walked out of here on Friday with no intention of ever coming back after discovering that I work here.
“Who are you trying to impress?” David asks.
“What?”
He shrugs. “You just look more done up than usual.”
“I’ve worn this a thousand times.” My mother brought the figure-hugging blue gingham pencil dress back from Paris a few years ago from a designer’s trunk show. It’s one of my favorites, not that David would remember that.
“Not the dress. The lipstick.” He smirks. “You always wore that cherry-red lipstick when you were trying to get my attention.”
“I did not,” I deny. “What are you doing here, anyway?” He’s not usually in the office until just before nine.
“Had to get out of there before my date woke up. I forgot what a bad idea it is to bring them back to my place.”
It’s the first time David has admitted to sleeping with another woman since our breakup. I can’t tell if he’s lying, trying to get a jealous rise out of me. If he is, he’s going to be disappointed, because all I feel is relief. “I hope she steals everything.”
“Don’t be catty. It’s unbecoming,” he murmurs smugly.
I catch the curious glances that Calloway employees are casting our way as we pass. David and I used to start our days strolling in together like this, albeit a touch later. By noon, half the company will assume we’ve reconciled. “Don’t walk so close to me,” I warn, edging away.
“Why?”
“I don’t want anyone to think we’re back together.”
He sighs with exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Piper. I’ll see you upstairs.”
Gus nods politely as David speeds through the security gate with barely a glance, and then turns his big brown eyes to me. They’re full of wariness, the question in them unmistakable. “Good morning, Miss Calloway. You look especially lovely today.”
“Thanks.” Maybe the cherry-red lipstick was too punchy for a Monday morning, especially when I rarely wear anything beyond a light layer of gloss.
“And how was your weekend?”
“Quiet. I spent it alone.” Just me and Elton, who afforded me nothing more than a cross-eyed glare when I filled his bowl with overpriced canned cat food.
Gus seems to get my hidden meaning—that it was not spent making up with David—because I catch the soft sigh of relief that escapes him. “Good. Everyone needs a weekend to themselves every once in a while.”
“So . . .” My stomach does an anxious flip as I steal a glance at the empty seat. There’s a half-finished cup of coffee sitting on the desk in front of it, so Kyle must be here. But, after my first humiliating encounter with him, I don’t want to let on that I care one way or another, even to Gus. “Do you miss Ivan yet?”
“It’s an adjustment, that’s for sure.” Gus smiles warmly. “But people come and they go all the time. As old as I am, I’ve gotten used to it by now. I figure I’ll just be thankful for the precious time I get with them.”
Unless they were your first love and they fell off the face of the earth, only to resurface thirteen years later and not remember you at all.
Gus looks up at me expectantly, and suddenly I feel foolish for standing here, chatting him up, though it’s something I do every Monday morning. This time, however, I have an ulterior motive, and I’m afraid he knows it.
“I’ll see you later.” I wave my pass over the pad, wait for the light to turn green, and push past the metal arm.
“Have a good day, Miss Calloway,” he offers as I stroll toward the bank of elevators, the click of my heels echoing through the cavernous atrium. I absently paw at the elevator button, my gaze on my phone screen, distracting myself from my disappointment with messages. The doors open and I step forward.
And plow into a solid body.
“Excuse me. I assumed it was empt—” My words cut off as I peer up into familiar eyes. “Oh . . . hey.”
A few beats pass before Kyle responds with a soft “Hey.”
“I . . . my phone. I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit in a stammer, before clearing my throat.
His gaze flickers downward to linger on my mouth for a moment, before flitting back to meet my eyes.
That’s when I see it. The smallest upturn of his lips, the tiniest knowing smile.
It’s just for a second. It’s just long enough.
Actually, I like the red on you. Like, really like it.
I take a deep breath, as an odd mix of vindication and sorrow washes through me.
“It’s good to see you again, Kyle.”
“Good to see you, too, Piper,” he finally offers, his jaw tensing as he peers down at me, though his eyes show a hint of softness that wasn’t there before.
“Not Sarah?” I keep my voice light, casual, as if Friday’s slight didn’t leave a deep wound, didn’t keep my mind spinning all weekend long.
The tip of his tongue catches the corner of his mouth, where nothing but a faint scar from his lip ring remains. “Yeah. I’m . . . That was . . . Sorry about that.”
“How could you forget my name?” This time, I can’t hide the hurt.
His lips twist with thought, as if considering how to answer. “I didn’t,” he finally admits, his gaze landing on his black boots. “I was surprised and unprepared. I was . . . a jerk.”
“Yeah. You were.” And the lobby at seven thirty on Monday morning is not the place to demand a better explanation.
His broad chest lifts with a deep sigh. “So, how are you?” His voice remains cool. Does he really want to know? Or is this just a formality?
I push aside that thought. “I’m good. Great, actually.”
“Yeah, seems like it.” I detect a sardonic flavor in his tone as his hazel eyes roam the atrium’s architecture.
“And you? You seem to be doing well.” My gaze drifts over his uniform.
“Can’t complain. Rikell’s a decent company. I get benefits and holidays. You know, that sort of stuff.” He folds his arms across his chest, making his biceps look that much bigger and more sculpted in the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.
And I catch myself staring at them, for far too long. So long that he begins shifting on his feet. “How many is that now?” I nod toward the sleeve of ink, even as my cheeks flush.
He stretches his arm out in front of him, slowly turning it this way and that, as if admiring his own tattoos. “I stopped counting a long time ago.”
“I’ll bet.” I clear my throat. “Do you live in the city?”
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“Oh, yeah? Nice. We have a few buildings out there.” It’s a good half-hour commute by car—longer, by public transit—an area considered more affordable for young families and people just starting out.
“Yeah, well, we’re renting for now. We’ll see how we like it.”
We’re renting.
We’ll see how we like it.
Of course Kyle’s living with someone. He’s thirty years old. My stomach tightens as my gaze drops to his left hand. There’s no wedding band. Not even a tan line of one. An unexpected wave of relief hits me, followed by that voice inside my head, reminding me that a missing ring doesn’t mean he’s not married. Or at least madly in love with someone: that the next step isn’t inevitable.
I push that painful thought aside. “I just live a few blocks from here. With Ashley and Christa.”
That earns a high-browed look. “Christa?”
I laugh. “She’s gotten a lot better. Most of the time.”
“That’s . . . cool. I guess?” His gaze drifts to the security desk behind me, and I sense him searching for an escape. “I should—”
“Have you kept in touch with anyone from Wawa?” Was I the only one you completely shut out?
When his eyes meet mine again, there’s heaviness in them. “I’ve seen Eric a few times over the years, but that’s it.”
“Oh yeah?” Despite the tension, I smile at the mention of that goof. “We were just talking about him the other night. How’s he doing? Still a pain in the ass?”
Kyle’s eyes narrow as he studies me for a long moment. “He’s good. Listen, I should get back to work. I don’t want Gus firing me on my first day.”
“Says the guy who used to sneak off the second he saw any opening,” I tease softly.
“Yeah, well . . . That was a long time ago. Shit happens. People change.” His smile is sad.
“They do.” Sometimes for the better, and sometimes not.
But which is it, for Kyle?
I feel the overwhelming need to know. “Hey, do you want to grab a drink sometime? Or a coffee, or lunch, or whatever. You know, catch up on things.” On everything.
A curious smirk touches his lips, but it’s fleeting. “Yeah . . .” His brow furrows. “Let’s keep it simple for now. You know, stick to hellos in the morning and goodbyes at night. That sort of thing.” His voice is low and soft—almost apologetic—as he delivers me the verbal blow.
The sort of thing that strangers do. Not friends. Not even acquaintances. And definitely not what we used to be.
I swallow against the ball of disappointment growing in my throat. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”
“I think it’s best for everyone involved.” He takes a step back. “Have a great day, Miss Calloway.” He shifts around me and strolls toward the desk, his steps even and slow.
I absently paw at the elevator button again and hear the ding to announce another available car, but I don’t move, my feet weighted in place, my gaze locked on Kyle’s retreating back.
It happens just as he’s edging past Gus to take his seat. He turns and our eyes meet, and thirteen years seem to evaporate in the air between us.
Christa was right, after all.
Kyle may not have forgotten me, but he doesn’t seem to want to remember us.
With my heels kicked off and my feet propped on a cardboard filing box, I quietly watch the last rays of sun creep over the Marquee building. Its rooftop is just visible. We had the hotel signage removed as soon as the deal closed on the building. Now it sits idle, the first few floors boarded up to keep out riffraff, giving vermin free rein inside.
Maybe Christa’s right and I shouldn’t give Kyle a second thought.
Or maybe I should hate him.
For breaking my heart thirteen years ago.
For treating me so callously last Friday.
For wanting to keep me at arm’s length today.
But right now, all I have inside me are questions.
“Heading home soon?”
I spin in my chair to find my father standing in the doorway. He’s swapped his pinstripe power suit and tie for a crisp white collared shirt—the top two buttons open—and a beige linen blazer and khaki pants. The subtle sandalwood aroma of his aftershave wafts in.
“Soon. But more important, where are you off to, Don Juan?”
The right corner of his mouth quirks. “A dinner meeting.”
Dad never goes to business meetings without a tie.
“You need to trim two months on the Marquee’s revised timelines—”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve already asked Tripp to have his team tighten it. He said he’d have something to me by the end of the week. I’m pushing for an eleven-week reduction.”
“Oh.” My dad nods slowly, a flash of satisfaction crossing his face. “Good.” He drags his fingertips along his chin in thought. I note the smoothness, even from here. Whoever he’s meeting, he shaved in his office’s restroom for her. “You and Tripp seem to be playing nice?”
“Seems so.” I grit my teeth through an innocent smile. Tripp spent the two-hour meeting this afternoon glowering at me from across the table as Serge walked me through the revised plans post city approval. If looks could kill, I’d be split open on a spit and roasting right now.
“Interesting . . .” Dad’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t think being told to shove a golf club up his ass would motivate him so well.”
Shit.
Of course the piglet went squealing all the way home.
I take a deep breath, set my shoulders, and brace myself for a tongue-lashing.
“I know you think I’m hard on you, and demanding. And maybe I am. But everything I do—everything I’ve ever done over the years—I’ve done only with your best interest at heart. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, Dad. I do.”
He sighs heavily. “Don’t stay here too late.”
“I won’t. Promise. Enjoy your dinner.”
He makes a sound and turns to leave.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Hmm?” His eyebrows rise in question.
“Please tell me this one’s at least forty?”
The smirk on his lips as he walks out doesn’t bring me comfort.
Chapter 8t
THEN
2006, Camp Wawa, Week One
“Ready for your first full day in the best place in the world?” Darian shouts, her diminutive stature looking especially grandiose from atop the picnic table. The morning sunlight is creeping over the tree line behind her, causing squints and hand-shields as both counselors and campers look on, their cereal dishes empty and forgotten.
No! I want to yell back. I could kill for a caffeine hit right now.
Darian wasn’t lying when she said yesterday would be long. Kyle and I came back from the cliff just in time to hitch the trailer to the golf cart and speed back to the pavilion. No one but Eric and Ashley seemed to realize that we’d left in the first place, and Ashley promised me she wouldn’t say a word to anyone, right before she asked why my clothes were damp.
We were shoveling our hot dogs into our mouths when the first round of children started arriving, a full hour early. Kids as young as eight and as old as fifteen piled out of their parents’ cars, many searching for familiar faces and gleeful when they found them. There were also a few with scowls and glossy eyes, pleading to go home as their frazzled parents marched them up to the registration desks.
Since then, it’s been controlled mayhem. Greeting, smiling, identifying, collecting, and leading kids to their respective cabins like proverbial ducks, refereeing them as they fought over top versus bottom bunk, getting them to the various orientation and ice-breaker activities, coaxing them into eating their vegetables, ensuring they didn’t burn their little fingers on marshmallows, and reminding them to brush their teeth and use the bathroom before lights-out, otherwise it’d be a trek in the night to the facilities.
The tears began as soon as the lights went ou
t at nine P.M. First it was Izzy—the pint-sized platinum blonde who in her eight years of life had never spent a night away from her mother. The whimpers grew to sobs, then all-out wails, as she cried about wanting to go home and about missing her dog, Otis, and her dead dog, Rose. It caused a chain reaction, and soon we had four girls crying for home and the other six crying from irritation, and Christa and me tag-teaming around the cabin for two hours, trying to get them all to settle. By the time the last whimper sounded, I thought I was going to start crying.
When Izzy woke us up at four this morning because she had wet her bed, a tear may have slipped out.
Whoever thought it’d be a good idea to give us ten eight-year-olds who are not only new to Camp Wawa, but also new to being at any sleepaway camp, deserves a punch in the head.
Or they could at least open the canteen now so I can grab myself a Coke, because I’m going to need it to get through this day. But how on earth am I going to get through this entire summer? Eight weeks, eight new sets of kids. Eighty little girls. What if they all cry themselves to sleep every night?
This must be why camp counselor looks so good on college applications—they know you’ve endured hell and lived to talk about it.
My gaze wanders one picnic table over, to where Kyle is tossing Cheerios at one of his kids’ heads. The curly-haired boy of maybe ten keeps turning to try to catch his counselor mid-toss, only to giggle at the mock-stern look and shush from Kyle, who points toward Darian as if to say “pay attention.”
Perhaps sensing my gaze, Kyle suddenly turns my way and our eyes catch. A crooked smile curls his lips and I feel a stupid, wide grin form, as I forget my exhaustion and instead focus on what his mouth felt like against mine yesterday.
I can still feel him there, still taste the mix of apple candy powder and, faintly, menthol.
Does he want it to happen again as much as I do?
Darian’s sharp claps and boisterous voice echo through the space, pulling my attention back. “And the most important thing of all, Wawa campers, is let’s have fun!”