One Night Stand-In

by Blakely, Lauren

We should take our daily kisses like vitamins.

  No, like breathing.

  But she’s waiting for some kind of answer.

  I shrug casually. “You needed to be kissed. That simple.”

  A smile seems to tug at her lips. “Fair enough. And now we need to visit some farm animals.”

  She waggles the phone, and I peer at the location of The Cousin Sanctuary. It’s in Connecticut, but not too far away, and Grand Central is nearby.

  I google train times. “We can catch a train and go there now, be there by early afternoon.”

  Lola’s eyes seem to dance with delight. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Every time Luna mentioned it, I thought I should check it out. But I never did.”

  “Then I guess all your dreams are coming true too,” I say as I order a Lyft to take us to the train station.

  “Maybe they are.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, we’re chugging out of Manhattan.

  But we’re not simply blindly chasing a clue. Since we’re the so-called “responsible ones,” I called The Cousin Sanctuary first to make sure we weren’t wasting our time heading out of town.

  “Hey! This might sound weird,” I’d asked when a kind woman answered. “But is there any chance you have some clothes left there for Luna Dumont and Rowan Xavier? This is Rowan’s brother.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  As the train rumbles away from the city, I scan the car. It’s half full, the nearby seats filled with chattering kids and busy families.

  I lower my voice so just Lola can hear. “What are the chances they’re all on wild-goose chases too, tracking down items for friends or family?”

  “Oh, definitely,” Lola says conspiratorially. She points to a harried but happy-looking mom with two squirmy toddlers who switch seats every thirty seconds or so. Her equally exhausted-looking partner is next to her, a smile on his unshaven face. “My money is on a mix-up with their old storage unit. Their precious stuff was accidentally sold at a garage sale,” she says, making up a tale on the spot. “Now they’re taking the kids to retrieve their old clown paintings, high school yearbooks, and baseball cards.”

  “Clown paintings?” I ask with an eyebrow arch.

  “You know, those sad ones where the clowns are crying?”

  “This sounds like a horror story. Why did you pick clowns?”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re afraid of clowns.”

  “Everyone is afraid of clowns.”

  “I’m not,” she says proudly.

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “And now I know how to scare you for Halloween.”

  Her words tickle a memory. “Hey, are you still into scary books and stories?”

  “I am. I started listening to a new podcast last night about a haunted carnival. It’s awesome. Want to listen with me?” She reaches for her AirPods, but I shudder.

  “No way.”

  “You don’t?”

  “If it’s a haunted carnival, there are probably clowns in it.”

  “You can handle hearing about a clown.”

  I cross my arms, lift my chin. “Nope.”

  “Ah, I get it. You like escapist fare. You still secretly read romance novels, right?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I never read romance novels.”

  “Not publicly at least,” she says in a low, taunting voice.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you pick up my Nora Roberts when you were in my dorm once.”

  “I picked it up! Doesn’t mean I read it.”

  She nods several times, like she’s doling out nods. “Right. You only read manly books.”

  I mime pounding on my chest. “That’s me. I only read The Catcher in the Rye and Heart of Darkness and A Confederacy of Dunces. Just in case the man committee ever asks for my credentials.”

  She laughs. “I’m calling you on it. You don’t like those books. You like Nora.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, I read your Nora Roberts. But it was good. That woman can write. Also, I like A Game of Thrones.”

  “So manly.”

  “And I like Our Dumb World.”

  “The book published by The Onion? A bunch of articles?”

  “Love it. Best social satire ever.”

  She shoots me a satisfied grin. “Okay, that’s totally you. I can see how you’d enjoy parodies about the ridiculous ways of people.”

  “That’s definitely me. Clown hater, spoof lover, and occasional sneak reader of Nora Roberts.”

  She tips her forehead to a couple of guys a few rows ahead of us who are nursing blue coffee cups, haggard looks on their faces. “Your turn. What’s their wild-goose chase?”

  “Ah,” I say, furrowing my brow as I craft a tale, taking my stab at a story. “Two buddies. Their college roommate went on a bender last night after his girlfriend dumped him. He was sad and pissed, and he tossed all her things around town. Left her stuff in a series of dumpsters.” I stop, holding up a finger. “But she called him this morning, begged him to take her back, and he said yes, but now he has to get all her things back right away before she knows what went down. So he called his two buddies.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s a cruel world,” I say.

  She sighs and stares out the window. “At least we aren’t the only ones on a crazy mission.” She turns, then meets my gaze. “But I like our mission.”

  Her voice is soft, earnest. It weaves through me, hooking into me. Opening my heart a little more. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “You do?” Her voice wobbles. It lacks the usual boldness of Lola Dumont. But I don’t mind because what I hear is a vulnerability—the same tender side of her that formed the foundation of our friendship years ago.

  That side of her is what led to all our late nights, our talks, our bonding over art, inspiration, ambitions, and dreams. I hear the honesty in it that led me to open up to her about my family, my brother, my parents. I wasn’t raised to be that kind of guy, wearing his heart on his sleeve, sharing all his shit.

  But with her, I was that guy.

  Lola unlocked that side of me without even trying to. She was easy to talk to then, and now that we’ve peeled away our hard shells, she’s that way again.

  The question is—am I still the guy I was before? The guy who launched into self-preservation mode the second the going got rough?

  Nearly ten years ago, I wrapped steel around myself when things looked like they were going to fall apart with Lola.

  With this woman I was . . .

  Even in my head, it’s hard to say how I felt, hard to admit it.

  But I knew in my heart what was happening then.

  Why it hurt when we blew up.

  Because I’d been falling for her.

  I could easily fall for her again.

  My eyes drift down to her lap. Her hands are folded together. We’ve kissed, we’ve touched, and we’ve made each other come.

  We’ve poked, prodded, laughed, nudged.

  We’ve argued; we’ve grown angry. We’ve fought. We’ve forgiven. We’ve started over.

  We can do this.

  I reach for her hand, slide my fingers through hers, and say, “Yes. I like it too. I like it a lot.”

  She presses her lips together like she’s holding something inside. Swallowing, she whispers, “I almost don’t want it to end.”

  I squeeze her hand tighter. “Me neither.”

  I run my thumb across her palm, stroking, caressing, as the wheels rattle over the tracks, the towns whipping by.

  We’re silent for a few minutes, saying nothing, but maybe saying everything as I touch her hand and she lets me, shifting a little closer until her shoulder is against mine.

  “Lucas?” she whispers.

  “Yes?”

  “That term. Wild-goose chase.”

  There’s a question in her statement. “Yes?”

  “They aren’t successful. That’s what wor
ries me. That’s the very definition of the concept—a waste of time because the thing you’re searching for doesn’t exist, or is somewhere else.”

  “Right, but we have three things so far. We’ve found them. They do exist.”

  “But we’re not technically searching for the things. Well, we are. But the things unlock the money, the security deposit. We don’t actually know if he’s going to give us the money back when we have all the things. We don’t really know much about him except he’s their landlord. I googled him and barely found any details. All we know is he’s a landlord and a writer. But what if we collect all this stuff and he doesn’t give back their money? What if we fail them?”

  I want to say that it was still worth it because I’m having a blast with her. But that’s not the answer she’s looking for. Nor is it the answer my head can supply. My brother does need my help. I do want to help him.

  “Let’s ask the man,” I say, since Lola needs a practical answer, not a heart one. She needs me to be me, not a bit of Rowan or a bit of Luna.

  “Really?

  I let go of her hand. “We’re the responsible ones, right? It’s the responsible thing to do.”

  I grab my phone and tap out an email.

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Making sure

  Hey. So, we snagged three of the five items, but with all due respect, how do we know you’re going to give Luna and Rowan the security deposit back? Or, to put it another way, is this just a wild-goose chase?

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: No geese were harmed in the making of this chase

  I’m offended! You’ve questioned my character!

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Good to know, but . . .

  Sorry, not sorry. Just want a legit answer, man.

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: And the answer is . . .

  Actually, I’m shocked it took you so long to ask. You must be having a grand old time.

  Admit it, you’re having fun.

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Sure, but . . .

  We are. But the point is still valid. What happens when this is over?

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Have faith

  You’ll get the money back. And as a show of good faith, here you go. Presumably, you use this email address for Zelle.

  A minute later, my bank sends a Zelle notification of five hundred dollars, a portion of the security deposit, sent via my email. I blink in surprise, showing the screen to Lola.

  “Okay. That’s a relief. Because I was definitely feeling foolish,” she says.

  “You were?”

  “Yeah, like we were just running around for no reason. Like we were chasing bubbles on the beach or something.”

  “His bubbles have dollar bills,” I say, but something doesn’t sit well with me. The fact that she felt foolish. Does that mean she’s not enjoying this the same way I am?

  I return to the emails.

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: See?

  Do you believe me now? Now tell me, how much fun is it, on a scale of one to ten?

  I’m half tempted to turn to Lola, to ask for her rating. But maybe I don’t want to know if it’s different than mine. Because mine’s an eleven. But no way am I letting the Ringmaster know that.

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Rating

  It’s a five.

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: What will it take to get that to a ten?

  Want me to add more clues to make it a ten?

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: That doesn’t sound like your thing

  You said you wouldn’t do that.

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: You have me on that point

  True, true. I am a man of my word. And speaking of words, I must return to them because this gives me an idea . . .

  When I set down the phone, the spell is broken. The moment of holding hands has passed. We’re no longer two people enjoying a wild-goose chase. We’re two people who needed to know there was a purpose to the last twenty-four hours. A purpose beyond getting to know each other again. And we got what we needed with the partial deposit—confirmation we’re not wasting our time.

  But really, this shift is for the best. It has to be.

  Because how can you fall for someone in one day? Hell, it’s been less than twenty-four hours.

  There’s no way I could be falling for her again.

  That would be like chasing bubbles on a beach and expecting to catch them.

  That would be foolish indeed.

  * * *

  When the train arrives, we exit, but it feels like we’re not the same people who handed our tickets to the conductor an hour ago. There’s a new heaviness in the air. Maybe an awareness that any feelings might be foolish. I focus on facts instead. “So, the debate rages on,” I say. “Are alpacas llamas?”

  As we get into a Lyft, we google pictures of the animals, and since the differences are apparent – alpacas have shorter ears and are smaller in size, while llamas have longer faces—we’re not debating whatsoever. We’re agreeing as we point out the similarities.

  When we reach the sanctuary, she shoots me a wistful look. “Guess we aren’t arguing anymore. Like we did last night over how we met.”

  “Guess we aren’t like them at all.” I fasten on a smile. Not arguing is a plus, surely.

  She sighs. “Good. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to argue.”

  “I don’t either.” But while that’s true, it doesn’t feel entirely right.

  Maybe because I don’t know what I want us to be.

  Because when we exit the car, we’re not arguing, but we’re not holding hands either.

  That’s because you’re friends, you dumbass. Be her fucking friend, something you failed to do ten years ago.

  Right.

  That’s it.

  I’m fixing the mistakes of the past.

  I’m not the guy who messed around with a girl and then freaked out when she only wanted to be friends.

  I gesture to the white picket fence surrounding the farm. “Hey, have you ever considered whether this might be a haunted alpaca farm? Maybe Harrison is masterminding a horror novel.”

  Her lips curve into a grin. “I bet he is.” We walk a little more, then she says, “Lucas?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll beat up the clown if one comes after you.”

  I laugh. “What more can a man ask for?”

  And, truly, I can’t ask for anything more, because we’re back in business.

  20

  Lola

  Things I never expected to do on a Saturday with my pseudo ex, sorta lover, new friend: tour a llama and alpaca sanctuary.

  But I’m a little bit in love with the cousin camelids.

  That’s what Davina calls them, the Melissa McCarthy look-alike who runs The Cousin Sanctuary. “We grew up with both these creatures in Auckland,” she says in a light New Zealand accent. “That’s why I wanted to work with abandoned, neglected, or abused ones here when I came to the States. So many needed a home.”

  She ushers us into the barn, along the stalls, past stacks of hay, and to her “lovelies,�
�� as she calls them.

  A thick-furred creature lifts his snout at us, humming.

  “That’s Harvey. He’s just saying hi,” Davina says, then pats the animal on the nose. “He’s shameless. Always angling for a little loving.”

  I peer at the license-plate-style placard on the green gates of Harvey’s stall. It says Want to adopt me? Alpaca my bags.

  “How often do they get adopted?” Lucas asks, studying the creature cautiously, like he’s never seen an animal before.

  Davina smiles softly, sadness in her expression. “Not too often. Most people don’t have room for alpacas, or llamas for that matter. Lots of folks think they do. They think it’ll be so cute to get a little llama on a leash for a youngster’s birthday. And then a few years later, it’s all, oops, I actually have to take care of this animal. Like, with a barn. And hay! And it eats two to four percent of its body weight every day,” she says, then shifts to her normal voice. “But that’s why your brother and his belle came here. They had this idea that someday they would have a farm and take care of these lovelies,” Davina says, walking past another stall bearing a sign that says Spit happens.

  “Always dreaming,” Lucas remarks, but there’s no mockery in his voice. More an appreciation for his brother.

  Davina glances back at us. “Stars in their eyes, true. But I’m grateful for the two of them. They come out here and help. Lugging bales of hay, cleaning up, and taking care of my little lovelies.”

  Lucas nods thoughtfully, like he’s assembling this image in his mind. “I can see that.”

  We pass another stall housing a pair of black llamas nuzzling each other. The sign on the gate boldly proclaims No llama drama here.