by Ruby Lang
He would still be leaving.
He shouldn’t fool himself into thinking it would make a difference to their situation—but it would help her, and he wanted her to be happier.
He closed his eyes. With her voice in his ears, it was almost, almost like being in the dark with her again, on the rooftop, under the night sky. “What are you doing right now?”
“I’m in Brooklyn. I’m making food, too.”
So far away, yet so close. Well, that was their relationship—if you could call it that—wasn’t it? Even her voice was a little muffled.
He asked, “What are you making?”
Her voice came more clearly over the line. “Pastelillos. After I tried the ones Mr. S made I wanted to give them a shot.”
“Those sound better than a BLT.”
“Even one made with prized tomatoes?”
“I’m a little afraid that the rest of the sandwich won’t live up to this one ingredient.”
It was her turn to laugh. He listened to the subtle clanging and scraping sounds. He closed his eyes for a minute and pretended his bacon frying was a part of it. He didn’t even mind the little sparks of pain as hot oil spit and sizzled and hit his forearms.
“Okay,” she said, “I’m getting ready to fold them.”
Another couple of shuffles and noises and then she gave a small sigh that almost quivered in his ear.
He was burning his bacon. He quickly pulled the strips out with a fork—a fork he shouldn’t be using in a nonstick pan, and dropped them onto a plate. Then he remembered he needed to toast some bread.
“How’s your folding going?” he asked, switching the phone to speaker.
“Oh, they’re beautiful.”
“I’ll bet they’re perfect and uniform, and all of them have exactly the right ratio of filling to dough.”
“Now, that is something I can take real pride in. I do make very good ones. Even when I was a kid, it was one thing I could do as well, or even better than my mom or sisters. I could sit in the same kitchen as them and we’d all fold them, and they’d talk, and I’d concentrate on making mine beautiful.”
A pause as he finally got ready to cut into the tomato Mrs. F had given him. He looked around, but all he had was a steak knife. This was like a tomato steak, wasn’t it?
He sliced into his tomato and the juicy flesh fell right onto the plate. There were seeds on his fingers and he couldn’t help licking them.
There was a silence on her end. “Did you just—”
“I’m sorry. I’m being gross. I shouldn’t eat on the phone. I’ll—”
“No, no. It’s—” He heard her swallow. “I guess I’m hungry. Or something.”
The way she said or something was what did it for him.
He put down his knife and washed his hands.
“Magda?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think about that night?”
“All the time.”
There was a little catch in her voice, a longing, the click of her tongue against her palate. She sounded so close, but they were farther away today than they had been that night.
“I think about you,” he said.
He cleared his throat. He’d never done this before. It was incredibly awkward, but he was also excited.
“I think a lot about the sounds you made.”
He could hear maybe a swallow or a quick lick at her lips. She said, a little breathlessly, “I covered everything. I washed my hands. I’m... Are we going to do this?”
“I want to—if you do.”
Another pause.
He had no impulse control when it came to her, he thought dizzily.
“I want to.”
So softly. Almost whispering.
He turned off his kitchen lights and leaned back against the counter. If he worked hard enough, he could pretend the granite digging into his ass was her hands, gripping him. No, she had propelled him into the counter, she was pressing against him.
“I want to kiss you,” he said. “I want to feel your hair getting in the way, the impatience in your whole body when you push it out of your face, the way you get a firmer hold on me when you really feel something. Like you’re righting me, telling me to stay this course.”
“I loved kissing you that night. In the hot kitchen, with the lights all off. I loved feeling your body on mine.”
He put his hand on the front of his boxers and tried to imagine the weight of her whole figure moving into him.
“Hang on,” she said. “I want to take off my shirt.”
What could he say to that?
He heard some shuffling noises. He imagined her pulling up her camisole, the fabric as it traveled over the column of her waist, over her ribs. He put his hand into his shorts now and thought about her breasts, how his mouth had felt on them.
“On the roof, I felt so free,” she said, rejoining him a little breathlessly. “We were outside and I was on top of you and I could throw my arms wide open when I—when I moved over you. This is difficult. I try to concentrate on your voice, on that feeling and I feel like I have to hunch over, to squeeze everything down to this point inside me.”
He grunted and stroked himself.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m in my kitchen and I’m pressing against the counter. That’s so awkward sounding. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
He smoothed his hand over his cock again and gripped it. “Imagine me touching you,” he said. “Down there. Imagine I’m licking my way down to your”—he squeezed his eyes shut again—“your pussy.”
He was glad the lights were out and she wasn’t here, because he was sure his entire face had flamed red—red on top of the strain of trying not to come. His hips pumped, his ass banging painfully into the cool counter. He was in his kitchen with his shorts down and jerking off—and somehow this was supposed to impress a girl. “Is it possible to die of arousal and embarrassment at the same time?”
“I guess we’re going to find out?”
He gave a choked laugh. “I remember how good you feel. How good you smell. How the insides of your thighs felt. I wanted to press my cheeks against them and rub all your wetness over me, over my face.”
“Oh, God. Ty.”
It was almost painful, how much he was panting, how loud his heartbeat seemed in his own ears. His head banged against the cabinet. “I can’t—” he said at the same time she cried, “I’m coming.”
He scrambled for a paper towel. The roll fell and unspooled across the kitchen floor. He was barely aware of a series of choked gasps over the phone.
He slid all the way down and put his forehead on his knees.
“I wish you were here,” he said.
He liked her a lot. Maybe he was even beginning to think he loved her. Everything was a mess. “This half-together moving apart thing we’re doing is really difficult.”
He was rambling. He probably wasn’t making any sense.
“You’re leaving, though.”
“And you’ve decided you can’t anyway.”
She didn’t have to say anything.
“I wish things could be different,” Magda said quietly.
Another pause. “Well. I should go. Thank you for—”
“No problem.” He winced. “I mean, I like talking to you. I like you. But yeah, I need to”—he grimaced—“get myself together.”
After he pressed the end button he sat for a while longer in the wreckage of his kitchen. He had no one to blame for this mess but himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Monday
“It’s not enough,” Keith said, dismissing the papers Magda laid out for him.
Magda muttered, “Why do people keep saying that? I am sick of hearing this.”
&nbs
p; Two reasonable offers from two great groups of people on two expensive properties, both of which had been difficult to move, both bids coming in within the space of a week. And it wasn’t enough.
She took a steadying sip of coffee—the drink Keith had loudly announced he’d buy for her as soon as they entered this Harlem cafe. “The 136th Garden Association is making a sincere offer. They’ve lined up financing and grants from corporate donors and local government. Mrs. Espinosa, who I met with last night, has been amazing—” as had Ty, whose eagle eyes had probably been all over the offer. Of course, Ty hadn’t mentioned that the group was ready to offer; yet another example of the distance between them, she reminded herself firmly.
She continued, “They’ve got a great profile in the community, and lots of people involved. It would be wonderful for the firm to broker this deal and I am sure that it would lead to a lot of other opportunities for us.”
“Most of these garden people are probably renters.”
Magda blinked. At some point, maybe even a couple of months ago, she might have not have noticed that remark. But now, she couldn’t let it pass. “Wait a minute, first of all, that’s a huge assumption based on what? And second, what is wrong with renters? Renters are my bread and butter right now. Yours, too. Remember, I’m the one who manages your database.”
“But wouldn’t you rather have brioche and jam? Caviar and crackers? We want to move this firm into doing more of these deals. You can’t do big business without thinking big business.”
She pointed at the papers. “This is what we could be. A great, motivated group of buyers who have deep roots in their community, who know all sorts of people from all walks of life. This pool, right here, is how you build a base. You told me yourself, this is a business of referrals. You could have bread and butter and fries and rice and pigeon peas and quinoa and everything in between by treating people with some respect and taking a look at their offer.”
“Magda, who have you been talking to? Who’s been filling your head with these ideas? Maybe you’ve been spending too much time up here, getting too close to the situation. You need an objective eye. That’s why we’re partners on this.”
She snorted. “If we were partners, you’d at least take my recommendation to look at this bid carefully and give the owner a clear picture of it. If you dismiss it, the owner is likely to reject it out of hand.”
If they were partners, she’d be getting as much say as he was, and she’d make as much money from any eventual sale.
She tamped the thought down. “You keep on telling me you’re giving me a chance. Well, this is a chance we’re giving each other. I’ve been skeptical, too, Keith. Remember, one of the gardeners threw a tomato at me, so it’s not like I’ve always been on great terms with this group of potential buyers—”
Body-to-body, mouth-to-mouth with one gardener, but he wouldn’t even be here in a few months. It hardly mattered.
She cleared her throat and crossed and uncrossed her legs. “But in the end, they deserve a fair shake. And I like what they do.”
Keith picked up on her wording right away. “Real estate is an investment—people think it’s emotional and that’s where they go wrong. It’s business and you should remember that, especially because it is your livelihood.”
But it wasn’t simply business.
It was personal for the people making the offers. All this land meant something to the mysterious owner of the garden; someone had left that lot alone for so many years, someone had held on to it. Keith wanted people to make logical businesslike decisions in their own interest, but not everyone did that. Her uncle certainly wasn’t, considering how he kept sabotaging any efforts to sell his grand old empty house. When it came down to it, business was personal for her, no matter what Keith wanted her to do.
But Keith was still talking. “Hey, you’re a smart girl—woman, sorry! So I’m going to remind you, you never take the first offer that comes along. Don’t sell yourself short that way. You shouldn’t make me regret giving you a chance.”
Funny how he managed to sandwich the aphorisms with threats and insults. She gritted her teeth and tried to inject some humble into her tone. She was a baby broker after all. “We’re not taking the first. We’re presenting it to the owner.”
“But clearly you’ve got some emotional investment in it. But you have to wait, you have to learn to be patient in this game.”
That was when she snapped.
“I do actually know a little something about waiting for the right thing to come along and about deferring what I want, Keith.”
She didn’t love this job, especially right at this moment. But she could be good at it given the chance. As Ty had pointed out, she was working. She was being responsible and thinking through the consequences. If only more people could see it.
But Keith was still spilling the pearls of wisdom, and she was starting to feel like the swine. “I like a pretty garden, too. I’m always telling clients to get a couple of plants—nothing too unruly.”
“Oh my God, Keith. It’s not about some greenery.” She took three deep breaths. “We’re still obligated to show it to the seller, no matter how you feel about the offer.”
“Well, I’m saying we don’t have to push it too hard. Just...leave it in her hands. Don’t try to make it look sweet.”
“You’re going to have me send it?”
“Yeah. If it comes from me she’ll think I’m pushing for the deal. If I delegate it to an assistant, it’s not important. I’ll send you her email address.”
“Can I at least get a phone number to follow up?”
“I don’t want you harassing our client. She’s an older lady.”
“I won’t pester her. I want to talk her through it.”
“No. Email. That’s it. And you cc me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
Keith nodded and left, saying, “This is for your own good.”
Friday
Ty was coming out of the subway when he saw the missing Byron, looking hale, if sweaty, as he ate a rainbow coco helado.
Ty stood there a minute, blinking as people pushed past him on the stairs. But it wasn’t the ghost of Magda’s escaped uncle. The man was leaning casually against a wall, enjoying an icy treat, and acting as if he hadn’t worried Magda by disappearing or crushed her dreams of selling the townhouse and getting out of some of her debt.
The fucker.
“Sir,” Ty said, because he couldn’t very well call the man Uncle Byron. “Mr. Jackson. I’m Tyson Yang. I’m—” your niece’s not-so-young man? Except he wasn’t, was he? “We met at the 136th Street Garden last month. You gave us a generous donation.”
Byron looked Ty up and down. He noted the neat work trousers, the briefcase, the rolled-up sleeves. “Well, you better not be asking me for more because you seem to already be doing better for yourself, young man.”
Right. Byron was clearly fine. He wasn’t confused. He hadn’t been mugged or hit on the head. He wasn’t being held hostage by a group of mutant, pizza-eating turtles who lived in the subways.
Ty was determined to let Magda know her uncle was enjoying a nice break in the neighborhood. But he should probably get Byron to contact her first. He took in a deep breath. “Mr. Jackson, your niece has been looking for you. She’s very worried about you.”
“Worried about me running off without getting her money, you mean.”
“No, she’s anxious about you. She blamed herself for pushing you too hard.”
Byron blinked at that. “It’s not that easy to push me where I don’t want to go.”
“I’ll say,” Ty said.
“What was that?”
It had been a long day. His boss had asked Ty to consider commuting remotely when he moved to Portland, and while sensible Ty might once have jumped at the chance at steady, familiar work, this new Ty t
ried to imagine what it would be like to move to a strange place and work from home, not having friends to goof off with in the break room, or to haul dirt for, or help with the squash vines.
Wow. His friends were really all old garden ladies.
Plus, the last thing Ty wanted to do was talk about moving. He’d been avoiding the topic with—well, almost everyone, especially with Jenny. To be fair, right now he also didn’t want to talk about work, or the garden, or any reality past a shower and a cold drink. He was sweaty and he’d planned to change out of his work clothing and go and avoid his email. The collective still hadn’t heard back on the offer. He hadn’t talked to Magda, but he felt like he couldn’t contact her—he shouldn’t really. She was mixed up in this garden sale; even now she could be recommending that they work up a counter bid to ask for more money—money that the gardeners didn’t have. And if that wasn’t enough pressure, in front of him was this man who’d gone missing when someone offered him a pile of money for a house he didn’t live in anymore.
So while Ty hadn’t called her after their last—erm—warm exchange, he couldn’t stop thinking about her, worrying about her. Hoping for her sake that she was getting what she wanted.
Although if Byron was here on the street instead of in some lawyer’s office signing some papers then clearly that wasn’t happening.
“This is none of my business,” Ty said curtly. “But if you won’t contact your niece, I will. I want her to know that you’re doing great. Or at least, you seem to be the same as ever.”
Byron crumpled up the tiny cup that held his coco helado. He threw it in the garbage. “You clearly have something to say to me.”
Ty stared at Byron for a few seconds more.
Then he sighed. “It’s been a long day for me and I’d like a cool drink. Why don’t we go somewhere there’s air conditioning and sit down?”
“Are you buying?”
Ty rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
They found a cafe on Frederick Douglass. Ty ordered sparkling water and some fries. He texted Magda to let her know he was with Byron and gave her the address. Byron got a beer. They sat in silence for a while.