Rolling for Love

by Kate Messick

  “Joe!” Sandy exclaims.

  I give her an evil grin as a professional steps from the back and begins gushing over Sandy’s body type. Seeing Sandy distracted, I duck back out of the store before the women involve me and shoot Dillon a text.

  Joe: Do you know what kind of jewelry Sandy likes to wear?

  I start browsing windows. I know she likes nerdy stuff, but I was thinking something a little nicer. I don’t think she can really afford much. Dillon gets back to me fairly quickly.

  Dillon: Nerdy stuff.

  Joe: I knew that. I meant types of metals or sizes.

  Dillon: She mostly wears silver and thinner stuff. I think she likes things that dangle from her ears.

  Joe: She has butterfly pjs. Do you think she likes butterflies?

  Dillon doesn’t respond and my eyes catch a display full of pearls.

  Joe: What about pearls?

  Dillon: I once heard my mom tell my sister that everyone woman needs one nice string of pearls.

  Joe: That sounds like advice. I don’t know.

  Dillon: Why are you asking for my advice at all?

  I stop to think about this for a moment. Although I mostly spend time with either Dillon or Sandy, a few times now it has been the three of us. I quite enjoyed the dynamic. Dillon is also “dating” Sandy. Not that she will let us call it dating. I am honestly surprised that it doesn’t bother me. Thinking of the two of them reminds me of that moment on Dillon’s couch and my brain skids away from the memory, not really ready to process that yet. It took me a solid week to even admit that it had happened. Even longer to admit how much it turned me on. My phone dings again, reminding me that Dillon had asked a question.

  Dillon: I figured we were rivals? Do you want to give away your evil plans?

  Joe: Evil? Bros before hos, dude.

  Dillon: Sandy is not a ho.

  Joe: She’s not, but the saying stands. When she makes her choice, I plan to still have two friends.

  Dillon: Bros before hos.

  I spend a few more minutes looking around, but nothing catches my eye. I’m not in a hurry; the perfect thing has to be out there.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Reality, Buckley Air Force Base

  Most of the large buildings on base have their own cafeteria. Bigger than the office break rooms, the cafeteria in Joe’s building has a pasta, burger, and salad station along with a selection of drinks and two coffee kiosks. The room is filled with bland long tables and chairs. A few posters advertising workplace safety are the only decorations.

  Joe Smartin

  “I wouldn’t say whomever drew this has a future in art,” Paul tells me. “But every detail is correct. He or she must have a copy of some top-secret blueprints.”

  “Thanks for checking on this quietly for me,” I say.

  We’re seated in the cafeteria and I take back Sandy’s drawing. I thought it had looked familiar. During my earlier years, my job had been a little more exciting.

  “Do you know what buildings they are for?” I ask.

  “This is where it gets tricky,” Paul replies. “See, telling you that would be a security breach and though I’m happy to look and confirm without reporting – especially seeing as it was used for some game – giving you more information would be a bad idea.”

  “I get it, sorry I asked.”

  “I don’t think anyone would find out, but I would think of it on my next poly,” Paul concludes.

  I know what he means; the polygraph test is rough, the honesty sensor being set off by almost anything.

  “Are you sure they were free-handing the drawing?” he asks, double-checking.

  “I watched. Well, I watched the drawing. I couldn’t observe the battle mats.”

  “If whomever this is has that good a memory, you know my division is always looking … assuming they are law-abiding citizens who could get a clearance and came across these legally.”

  “She has a photographic memory, I believe.” I perk up. I had handed this to Paul to verify my curiosity and, if it was a government secret, to make sure Sandy wasn’t into something that could land her in trouble. I had not shown Paul this with a job in mind. “Is your division sponsoring clearances for civilians?”

  “We are not. Our funding is locked up,” he says regretfully. “However, the contracting world is always an option. People with photographic memories often have IQs off the charts. I could find you someone willing to meet with her at least and see if she would be a fit. Is she looking for work?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I answer too quickly. I want her out from under Amorino’s thumb, yesterday if possible.

  “Well, you know how long things take in government.” His laughter is both genuine and painful. “And with the holidays coming up, everything will come to a standstill. Act soon or wait till after the new year.”

  “Good advice,” I respond.

  “What are your plans for Thanksgiving?”

  “I’m not flying home, that’s for sure,” I answer.

  We chat a bit longer before heading back to our respective sections. I take a moment to shred Sandy’s drawing before I get back to my desk. I hope she hasn’t gotten herself into trouble.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Reality, Thanksgiving, Sandy’s Mom’s House

  Where most cities get more affordable on their outskirts, Boulder gets more expensive. Especially as you drive toward the mountains. The cars lining the residential streets get fancier. The houses bigger. Their manicured and xeriscaped lawns tell the world their own stories.

  Joe Smartin

  “You made us run late,” Sandy accuses for the tenth time.

  “I don’t think your car would have even made it,” I laugh.

  “You don’t even know where we’re going!”

  “That’s true”.

  Sandy’s mystery Thanksgiving invite had caught my eye. No details, no addresses, no plans. I tried to let her pick me up as she requested, but after sitting in her cold, ratty car for two seconds, I promptly removed us and insisted we take mine.

  “Taking me to meet the family is a big step,” I tease. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on. I know her mom still lives in Boulder.

  “It’s not and you know it,” Sandy shoots back.

  It wouldn’t be for me; I avoid mine at all costs. But it is for Sandy, whether she admits it or not.

  “Did you ask Dillon?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

  “No, Dillon flew home for Thanksgiving. I didn’t bring it up.”

  “So, you wanted to ask him?” I press.

  Sandy waits to answer as my GPS tells us to turn left. I think it’s odd that Sandy put her address into my GPS instead of directing me. But she’s Sandy.

  “Should I just pick now?” she blurts out.

  “It depends on who you would pick.”

  “How about just friends with both of you.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about that choice.”

  “I wouldn’t be, but it would stop my fear of losing both of you and stop the questions about each other.”

  We’re driving through a residential area. I can see every detail of the red flatirons on our left in the brilliant early afternoon sunlight. I pull over and put on the parking brake.

  “This isn’t the right house,” Sandy points out. I turn so I’m facing her as much as I can in the car.

  “I can’t speak for Dillon, but you won’t lose me no matter what your choice,” I say seriously. Sandy turns to me and I lean forward and lightly brush her lips with mine. “I will try to not ask about Dillon, but I’m honestly curious what is going through your mind.”

  She blinks at me a few times and opens her mouth and closes it. She takes a breath to

  speak and then lets it out.

  “You can’t say anything that would make me change my mind,” I reiterate.

  “How about we get to my mom’s place and live through dinner, assuming all goes well? I promise I’ll talk to you
about it afterward,” Sandy pleads.

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  A few minutes later we pull up at a lovely suburban house nestled at the base of the mountain range.

  “Sandy.” A very short – even shorter than Sandy – Japanese woman answers the door. Her black hair trimmed in a bob, her skin very pale for living in Colorado. Thick rimmed glasses ride low on her nose and match the simple but crisp clothing and jewelry on her person. The smells of cooking wafts through the entryway. Sandy and her mother hug.

  “And who’s this with you?”

  “Mom, this is Joe. Joe this is my mom, Hideko Yuhi,” Sandy introduces us.

  “Those are going to be some big grandbabies,” Hideko says, eyeing me.

  I start to chuckle.

  “Mom!” Sandy looks mortified.

  “Welcome, come in.” Hideko backs out of the door. “Sandy, you know where the drinks are, so please make Joe feel welcome.”

  “I’m sorry for that … and everything that’s to come,” Sandy mumbles as we follow her mother into the kitchen.

  “You don’t need to be sorry for me,” Hideko says, clearly not missing Sandy’s comment. “Be sorry for you. Twenty-five and not even a boyfriend, no college education, part-time work in construction. You might as well be a hobo.”

  “Mom, construction can be exciting too! Just yesterday, we had cracks form in a fresh foundation - big cracks! We’re going to have to dig under it to see what’s going on. I’m really excited,” Sandy explains happily. Too happily. In fact, she’s more excited about foundation cracks than she gets in some of my D&D games.

  “And what happens when this job is over? Hmm?” Hideko asks.

  “Fine, Mom. Then I don’t have a job. Please just lay off me for one evening.”

  I can hear the weariness in Sandy’s voice and it dawns on me that maybe her mom isn’t being playful. “So, what do you do Ms. Yuhi?” I smoothly cut in.

  “I lecture in the biology department at Colorado University. And what about yourself?”

  We start organizing the groceries that Sandy brought into piles, joining ones her mom had already provided. I put on my most professional smile and begin to make small talk.

  Sandy Yuhi

  Joe is fucking brilliant. My mom sniffed out his cooking abilities pretty quick and put him in charge of the few dishes left to make. She even got him into one of her tiny aprons that only covers half his body. Especially with the apron on, Joe looks like a force of nature in my mom’s minimalistic, warm kitchen. He has tripped twice on the many stepstools Mom uses to reach the back of the counters. I bite my lip, watching him as I peel potatoes. He’s wearing jeans that fit his hips and posterior quite well. His simple long-sleeved button-down is tucked into his waist line and he, from God knows where, has acquired a turkey belt buckle.

  We open a bottle of champagne and, though I occasionally add comments, Joe has my mom completely entranced with the story of his military career. I had only heard bits and pieces of it. I hadn’t realized he entered so young or had gone through quite so much. I cut up the potatoes to boil and mash, pretty much the only thing I’m trusted with.

  “So, how did you two meet?” my mom asks.

  “He’s the Dungeon Master in the game I’m in.” I wince as I say it. I probably should have lied. But It’s never my first instinct with my mom.

  “Sandy, more of those stupid games?” My mom sighs dramatically. “And you need to change that way you say that. I read Fifty Shades of Gray. Dungeon Master has a lot of meanings.”

  I laugh at the image of my mom reading pornography. Good on her. I don’t think she has even had a date since Dad died.

  “Dungeon and Dragons is actually great for interpersonal skills and team-building,” Joe interjects. “I use some of the techniques from the game in my department.”

  “Well,” Mom says with a shrug. “If it gets Sandy out and meeting new people. She has only had one boyfriend and he was a piece of work.”

  “Mom!” Why does she have to bring all this up?

  “I’m trying to be supportive of your hobbies, as that’s all you have in life,” she states passive-aggressively. “You could be doing anything – anything – and you sit around and play make-believe and knock down drywall. It’s such a waste.”

  “I haven’t spoken in detail about it with Sandy yet,” Joe cuts in. “But I talked to one of my contacts on base and they are looking for someone with her mind.”

  I turn to Joe and scan his face. I can only see the side of it.

  “Grandbabies and a job?” My mother sounds beside herself with joy.

  “Sandy and I aren’t even dating, so grandbabies might be a little far off.” He manages to keep the response light. “But the job is real. Sandy has agreed to accompany me to the formals; if we can’t get her in for an interview sooner, she can blow them away there. I’m sure they will love her.”

  At this moment I’m undecided if I want to kill Joe or kiss his brains out. Even if the job is totally made up, he has given Mom something she can fit into her little box of success! But then he had to mention the formals.

  “Oh, I used to love the formals,” my mother smiles. “Your father was so bad at networking, sweetie; I got him both his promotions.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as Mom goes down memory lane. This was part of the reason I asked only Joe to Thanksgiving. Despite what I implied in the car. Dad was career military and they met while he was stationed in Japan. He took my mother to all the formal dances. Joe and her would have a lot in common – a lot more then mom and I anyway. The more they could chat, the less I’d have to say to disappoint my only family.

  Potatoes cut and boiling, I excuse myself to set the table. Mom’s house never changes. Her Japanese heritage and minimalistic décor choices clash horribly with the opulence of American Thanksgiving. But that was my parents, opposites in every way, and Dad had loved Thanksgiving. Food’s done not too soon after my mom’s first horribly exaggerated story and we take our seats, all our cooking efforts spread between us.

  “May I say grace?” Joe asks.

  “Of course, it’s the man’s place,” my mom agrees. “It’s so nice to have a man around again.”

  My mother is old-fashioned. We don’t see eye-to-eye on her statement, but I don’t want to say grace so I’m not going to begrudge Joe. The three of us hold hands and bow our heads.

  “Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful. It’s a time to remember those we lost but will never stop loving. It’s a time to be grateful for what we have and let go of what we want. This year I’m especially thankful for my friendships with Sandy and now Hideko. I’m thankful for the roof over my head and the job that lets me pay for it. And I’m thankful for the little things that I take for granted.”

  I feel a tear slip from my eye and my mother’s hand tremble where it holds mine. Joe’s grace is simple but heartfelt. Mom and I spend so much time not getting along at this point, maybe I should be grateful for what I have. I could have lost both my parents. We look up at each other; my mother also has tears in her eyes.

  “I miss your father. I just so badly want you to be someone he would be proud of,” she says.

  “He already is.” It doesn’t matter what I do. Dad would have been proud. I know that inside of me. Mom just nods, not wanting to start an argument, and looks at Joe.

  “That was beautiful.” She wipes the tears from her eyes with a napkin and I do the same. “It’s not a big turkey but, Joe, please do the honors of carving the first piece.”

  Joe takes up the carving tools and begins to cut into the turkey. I stand and put on Dad’s favorite CD. The Beatles dance around my mom’s simple dining room. I hate this room and its conflicting memories. It’s where mom chastised my choices. Told me I needed to make friends. I needed to do something with my life. But before that, it was where Dad helped me with school projects. Told me to always be proud of my amazing memory. Where we had family dinners, back when I had a real
family. The table is quiet, each of us in our own space, but peace never lasts long.

  “I forgot your juice,” my mother announces abruptly. She stands and goes to the fridge.

  “What juice?” I ask suspiciously.

  “I found this recipe online; it’s supposed to help with fertility,” my mom’s voice floats over from the fridge.

  My eyes bug and I give Joe a pleading look. I can see his face turn red from holding in a laugh and he drains his champagne.

  I raise my voice. “Mom, I’m on birth control.”

  “So then, you are sleeping together,” my mother says happily as she walks back towards us with two small glasses of a greenish-brown substance. “I got a juicer. Hopefully, Joe is juicing you too,” she says suggestively.

  “Mom!”

  This time, laughter does rip out of Joe and I turn beet red.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Reality, Lynda and Steven’s house

  Lynda and Steven’s house opens to a large living room covered with toys and half-folded laundry. The dining room is off the living room to the right and has a large formal dining table with a window overlooking their snow-covered backyard. A long china cabinet, actually full of china, rests only slightly dusty along the other wall. Another side opens to their clean but cluttered kitchen. Kids’ art and family portraits dot the walls and a feeling of belonging fills the air.

  Steven Byrd

  Strider has drawn a map in the dirt on the ground, lit by firelight. A few pieces of Goliath’s epic bursting out of stone are scattered across it, the gargoyle himself displeased with our lack of response to his drama. Our circular argument begins again; no one wants to do the same thing.

  “Look it's really just three … four … options,” I explain. I emphasize each one with my delicate, perfect finger. “One: rescue wino’s kid and piss off the Kaatses. Two: try to make goodie-goodie with the Giilans at the distillery, the family we’re pretty sure owns Estes Park at the moment. Three: attack a guarded encampment of supplies that we think have been confiscated by the Kaatses that will probably earn us bonus points with the Giilans. Four: piss off and go somewhere else.”