Pining for Perfect

by Ki Brightly

  I plant my hands on my knees, crouching down. “Hi, sweety. Where’s Mrs. Dintley?”

  “Sleepin’.”

  “Okay…. Does she usually take a nap during the day?”

  “She says she’s got a mmmmm….” The girl taps her head with a frown, then raspberries us. “She says she’s got a big headache.”

  “Migraine?” Stokely asks softly.

  “Yes!” The girl grins at him. “She’s been sleepin’ a long time, though. Daphne made dinner and breakfast. She’s not a very good cook.” The girl pouts at us.

  My stomach cramps at this information as I flail mentally. What should we do?

  A harried teenager steps up behind the little girl and shoos her back inside. “May I help you?” she inquires quietly, but there’s steel in the set of her jaw. She puts a hand to her hip in a gesture that seems too world-weary for someone her age.

  “I’m Asher, and this is Stokely. We’re here to drop off toy-drive presents… but can we help? Is Mrs. Dintley okay?”

  The girl’s mouth pinches down into a line before she whispers, “I tried to get her to let me call an ambulance, but she says she’ll sleep it off. I’m worried because some of her words are slurred. She don’t drink or nothin’,” the girl says defiantly, as if we’re about to demand answers to hard questions.

  Stokely turns away for a second, face crumpled, before he gets ahold of himself and turns back to face her. “How old is she?”

  The teen shrugs. “Seventy? I’m not real sure.”

  “At least that,” I mutter. “Her husband was around when I first started doing this.”

  “We should call someone, even if it isn’t an ambulance,” Stokely says firmly.

  I hesitate. “What if she can’t afford one?”

  “Better live to pay a bill than die alone in your bed,” he grumps, stepping back to pull out his phone.

  We stand there with the kids and wait for the whole sad mess to play out. Mrs. Dintley is carted off by the ambulance, not even aware enough to protest. Stokely turns into a statue when Social Services shows up to take the girls, but everyone is smiling, pleasant, and sympathetic.

  “They’ll go to another good home,” the policeman accompanying them tells us as he pumps my hand, then Stokely’s. “Good thing you men were here.”

  “Shuffled around,” Stokely mutters, shaking his head. “The presents!”

  We all watch the car pull away. I tense, but they’re already on their way, and we’ll never make it to the van in time to follow. The policeman claps a hand to my shoulder.

  “I’ll track ’em down. No worries.” He exchanges a serious smile with me and Stokely before he picks up the box. We watch the cop leave with a heavy, awkward silence clinging to us.

  “It’s not usually this exciting,” I say and force out a laugh like I might when I’m on air, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

  Stokely takes out his phone and checks something. “I’m done. Sorry.” He strides away down the sidewalk.

  My gut drops. “Wait!”

  He stops but doesn’t turn around. “Was that old lady a good one? Those kids seemed well taken care of.”

  “Yeah.”

  His shoulders rise sharply as he glances back over his shoulder at me, frowning.

  “There won’t be anything else like this. Usually the worst I see are a couple of cold or dirty houses.”

  He shakes his head, running a hand over his short hair. “I can’t. Can’t do this. You’re a better man than I am.”

  “Come on. No, I’m not.”

  Stokely shrugs and walks off, his arms stiff at his sides. He’s out of sight before it occurs to me I should have offered to drop him off somewhere.

  My stomach does a loose somersault that makes me nauseous. “That’s one way to fuck up a chance with someone. Make sure to poke at his worst memories. Great job, Asher.” I sigh, then force myself back to the van and delivery route, alone.

  Being by myself sucks a little more than it usually does, especially since I started out with a warm, friendly man sitting next to me.

  Chapter 6

  Stokely Zajmi

  THE WEEKEND was a pit. After the mess with Asher, I understand even less why he would put himself through that hell. Other people without terrible memories can go and spread holiday nonsense for those kids until they age out of a shitty system and can maybe get their life on track, but I can’t.

  I stomp through about half a foot of fast-falling unshoveled snow toward my office, purposely taking a cross street so I won’t have to pass the radio station. When I get to work, I have my head down against the wind as I push into the comfort of the lobby.

  “Stokely.”

  I stumble a step. How does he make my name a melody? Asher stands beside the desk of our sheepish-looking security guard. Handsome as usual, blond curls an untamed, bed-mussed riot. He’s wearing nice shoes and pants that look brand-new and sit low and snug on his hips, just right. A warm, electric sun rises in my gut, stirring my groin. I rub the back of my neck, unable to rip my gaze off him.

  “I wanted to say sorry. So sorry.” He twists his mouth to the side in a small smile.

  “For what?”

  “You made it clear that our shared pasts are something that make you uncomfortable. I pushed you into it face-first.” He opens his mouth but doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. Lips pinched, eyebrows low, he looks devastated.

  My shoulders clench so tight they ache. “I could have said no.”

  “And I should have respected what you said instead of thinking… well, thinking the magic of Christmas could poof this better.” He shifts from foot to foot.

  “I like that about you. It’s what makes you fun to listen to every morning.”

  Asher tilts his head, giving me the broken puppy look. “What?”

  “Your optimism.”

  His smile turns shy, and I want to go over there and hug him. The urge takes me by surprise, but it feels good on the inside, where I haven’t felt much in a long while. He raises two coffee cups in front of him, and a rusty chuckle slips out of me.

  “Double fisting this morning? I know you get up early, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

  “Oh… oh! This is for you.” He shoves one hand my direction and I take it automatically. “Mint mocha. Holiday bliss!” He grins. “I have to get back to the studio. We have so many promotions and games going, it’s nuts this time of year. I won’t have more than six hours’ sleep till January second. Will I see you around?”

  Sharp longing shreds through my insides. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes. Please.” His voice goes soft and deep, sweet on the ear yet nothing like what goes out over the airwaves. This is something special. Something I caused. My heart swells and gives an extra-hard thump.

  I nod. He practically twirls around on toetip to dash back to work, holding his coffee far out to the side in an attempt not to slosh it.

  Iman raises an eyebrow at me from a few feet away. When did he sneak into the lobby? We both watch Asher leave. “That was painful. You need to develop a personality.”

  “I have one.”

  “And it’s stuck so far in the mud I can’t even tell it’s a stick. Cute guy hitting on you. Cute guy you like to listen to hitting on you. Maybe you should show more enthusiasm?”

  I sip the coffee. A cool burst of mint chocolate coats my tongue, tangling itself up with Asher in my mind. “Nah. He’s got my number. It would take more than a Christmas miracle to make something work out with him. He’s too busy. He’s too….” I wave my free hand. “Hopeful. Every day I see what happens when life pulls the rug out from under you.”

  Iman unlocks the door to the career search room to the right of the main lobby. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen you stay late to hand out tissues and help shine résumés.”

  I shrug, the praise sitting wrong. “That’s just what needs done sometimes. Come on. We have work to do.”

  BY WEDNESDAY the Christm
as cards lining Iman’s workstation have reached critical obnoxiousness. They’re everywhere. Every person he’s ever known has sent him one.

  I stroll over to glare at them for a few minutes until a slump-shouldered middle-aged man with panic around the tight set of his eyes walks up to the counter.

  “Can you help me? I haven’t had to look for a job for thirty years.” His face turns red, and he settles his gaze onto the sign-in sheet on the counter.

  “Can you tell me what field you were in?”

  “Manufacturing.”

  “There are quite a few companies hiring right now.”

  His gaze darts to mine, and I smile. “No shit?”

  “Let’s get you set up at a computer.”

  The panic creeps back into his expression, forcing me to laugh.

  “I’ll walk you through everything. I promise I won’t abandon you.”

  His craggy smile carries me through the drudgery of explaining how everything works for the thousandth time and getting him logged in. But after that, when I’m not needed anymore, it’s like the presence of all of Iman’s cheer-related cardboard, those damned cards, begins to stab at me. I wish I could turn on the radio to hear Asher without having to endure the carols.

  I glance at the radio in the corner, shuffle over, and tune in to his station, hoping to just catch a bit of him, but the strains of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” flood the room. Fingers on the dial, I almost turn it off but leave it.

  I plod back to the help desk, and Iman’s standing there in a bad reindeer vest, beaming happily. I raise an eyebrow at the new stack of cards he has. “Aren’t you Muslim?”

  He chuckles, one dark eyebrow crooked. “Yes, but I’m not rude enough to turn down good cheer. Stop glaring.”

  I scowl at him, but he merely hands a card to me. My heart deflates as I clutch it. “No,” I whisper.

  Iman snorts out an amused sound. “Wasn’t me. What do you have against cards, anyway?”

  I open it slowly, slipping my thumb under the flap, and for a few seconds, I feel like I’m choking. I can’t do it. I walk to my workstation, open a drawer, and slam the card inside, my fingers trembling, my jaw tight.

  Dread powers through me, fear sparkling at the edges like an incandescent fire. “Iman, will you get rid of it?”

  Iman, mouth a solemn line, nods. “If you need to me to. Can I look to see who sent it?”

  I want to say no but nod instead.

  He retrieves the card, pulls out some sparkly monstrosity that loses glitter all over the floor, then grins. For some reason, it’s okay if he has it—that doesn’t make me feel like I’m dying—but I can’t bring myself to touch it.

  “Well?” I ask impatiently.

  “It’s from him. From Asher.”

  I close my eyes and nod. Who did I think would be sending me a card? Not any of my far-flung family, that’s for certain. Happiness and a disappointment so intense it steals my breath war inside me. “Taking my break.”

  Iman clears his throat. “I’ll get rid of this while—”

  “No.” I surprise myself when I say it. “No. Can you just put it back in the drawer?”

  Chapter 7

  Asher Banks

  STOKELY WALKS by the big windows around noon, which I’d been hoping for. “Going for a walk!” I call to Alicia as I drop my headphones and grab my coat. Struggling to get into my coat, I awkwardly lope for the door.

  “Wait! No, Asher. I hate going on ai—”

  The door cuts off her whining. I sprint outside in time to see Stokely disappearing into the little bakery down the street. I follow after him, running with my arms out to try to avoid busting my ass on the bits of sidewalk that are still icy.

  By the time I catch up, he’s already on his way out again, coffee and paper bag in hand. There’s a split second where my gut twists as our eyes meet. He’s all serious and handsome, like the swell of orchestral music in the middle of an epic movie. I half expect him to pretend he doesn’t know me, but instead he hesitates. A smile trembles at the corners of his lips, his face tinting a shade darker.

  I force my own smile. “Hi!” Stepping back, I hold the door for him, then fall into step. I shuffle away a few paces when he sends a frown my way, setting an invisible elephant loose to sit on my chest.

  “I got your card.”

  “Good! I took a guess at your—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No good.”

  My smile slips, and that elephant seems to lie down and roll around, making it difficult to keep picking my feet up. “You don’t like glitter? I know it was a weird card, but they’re getting pretty picked over.” I shrug awkwardly.

  His stern lips soften. “I don’t like Christmas.”

  I hook my hands around his elbow, making myself an anchor to get him to a stop. “But everyone likes to get cards!”

  “They’re wasteful.” He puts one foot in front of the other, essentially dragging me along, so I walk too.

  “And fun!”

  “They’re expensive.”

  I shake my head hard. “Not really. Plus they’re worth it! Especially when they’re meant to be sent to people we love.”

  He stumbles on the sidewalk, and I grab his shoulder to steady him. He stops, shifting toward me, brows low in a scowl. Anxiousness pummels at my stomach, an unforgiving fist.

  “The last thing I got from my mom,” he grumbles so quietly I almost miss it.

  “What was?”

  “Christmas card.”

  I don’t care that we haven’t known each other long. I launch myself at him, do a little hop to wrap my arms around his neck, and hold him close. He’s warm enough that I recognize I was cold before. There’s a sploosh nearby. A few hot splashes of liquid hit my shin, sending me crushing closer. He chuckles as he pulls me in tight. We stay that way for a minute, comfortable, warm. I rest my cheek on his chest.

  My stomach goes hot with a crawling neediness that shivers over my skin by the time he lets me go. We step away from each other. Our eyes meet for a moment, and there’s a combination of emotions there, still a little angry, maybe happy to see me?

  Should I?

  Reaching out, I take his hand. He squeezes it back. An unexpected light-headedness has me listing to the left. It wouldn’t take much more than a holly leaf to knock me over.

  I start walking to try to outpace the feeling, and he laughs, stooping down to scoop up his empty coffee cup from the ground. He tosses it into the garbage nearby before following me. We pass the radio station with Alicia bebopping around the control room. She shakes her head at us but grins, her pink highlights up in Princess Leia poms on the sides of her head, the rest of her hair cascading around her shoulders.

  I squeeze his hand. “Is your mom still…?”

  He shrugs, shaking his head. “She was an Armenian immigrant. I was a mistake.” I drag him a little closer when he says that, but he laughs, shaking my hand loose to sling his arm around my shoulders. “I think she must have gone back at some point. I’m not sure.”

  “Your dad?”

  “I assume he gave me my first name,” he says, casting a quick, searching glance at me along with a wink.

  I grin back. “Rough.”

  We’re nearly back to his office building before he clears his throat. “You?”

  “Never knew ’em. Mother or father. I’m okay with it. I’ve heard a lot of crappy stories, but my foster parents were okay. They had their own kids.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “There were differences, little things, but they tried. Apparently my mother is alive somewhere and would never sign off on an adoption, and the Allisons were nice but not willing to go into debt to have me permanently, so they never pursued it.”

  “Won the throwaway lotto.”

  “Yeah.”

  Stokely opens the door to the lobby of his building.

  “So no cards next year?”

  He glances over his shoulder on his
way inside. “If you’re around that long, you can send one.”

  An excited warmth tickles through me to bloom in my chest. “I have to go to a party tonight. Do you have plans?”

  He stops and turns toward me, back propping open the door. “No.”

  “Would you like to accompany me?”

  Stokely looks down at his tapping toes, then back up. “What kind of party?”

  I shove my hands into my pockets awkwardly. “For the station. It’s our office party, actually. We’re having it downtown at the Brewerie. The one near the train station.”

  He nods with a small smile.

  I grin back. “Meet me there at seven?”

  “I can do that.” Stokely hesitates for a second and then steps forward to tug me into another hug. I bury my nose in his collar, inhaling sweet musk. He shivers when my nose brushes his neck.

  The warmth of his soft skin follows me around for the rest of the day. Back at the studio, I smile to myself as I program in all of the Christmas songs for the afternoon lineup. Only forty-two songs before I can go home and get ready to spend the night with Stokely. If I’ve been good enough this year, maybe it will be all night. My stomach melts at the thought.

  “Who put a diamond in your stocking?” Alicia asks as she strolls into the room.

  I shrug, but she doesn’t let me get away with that, bopping me over the head with her clipboard. “Fine. Stokely’s coming with me tonight.”

  She cackles and dances in place. “I knew it!”

  Basking in the glow of her excitement, I’m tempted to delete a few songs to see if it will make the evening arrive faster. Instead I save everything and slip my headphones over my ears as the On Air sign flashes.

  “This is Asher Banks wishing you all a merry Christmas. I hope you all have a few nice surprises waiting for you this year because I certainly had one.”

  Chapter 8

  Stokely Zajmi