Hard Pass

by Ney, Sara

  I step aside so he can order, but he doesn’t. Simply jerks his head to the left, toward a table in the corner.

  He leads, I follow, staring at his broad back, the fabric sticking along his spine. His hair looks wet and he smells great, like he’s fresh from a shower.

  “Were you just at the gym working out?”

  He grunts, sitting. “Something like that.”

  Okayyy…

  He removes the sunglasses, watchful eyes settling on the necklace at the base of my throat. My lips. The purse I rested on the table.

  “Oh! The card!” He understandably wants what he came for. Duh.

  The giant shifts in his chair as I retrieve the Jenkins card, his legs so long they barely fit under the small, round table. I can’t imagine he’d fit inside a car.

  My fingers gingerly set the encased card in the center of the table, but he doesn’t reach for it.

  He doesn’t do anything.

  So. I do what I do when I’m nervous and unsure: I chatter. “I don’t remember you being this socially awkward at Rent on Saturday.”

  His lip twitches. Mouth slightly frowning. Bottom lip looks soft, but chapped, like he licks it a lot and could stand to use some balm. What do guys know about skincare and exfoliating their mouths? Nothing.

  I remove my gaze from his pout and it roams to his eyes.

  They’re dark, an odd shade. Not amber and not brown exactly. I have no idea what I’m saying.

  I need him to talk. To say something. And crap, I probably shouldn’t have given him the baseball card until I know he has the money.

  “Pay up,” I tell him jokingly. “You wouldn’t want Noah to be pissed you did him wrong, would you?”

  More painful silence has me shifting in the chair, the back ramrod straight and ungodly uncomfortable.

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  Oh? “And why is that?”

  “I’m Noah.”

  I’m sorry what now? “Your name is Noah, too?”

  Based on my extensive knowledge of body language, I can tell he wants to roll his eyes by his flaring nostrils. He’s frustrated with me; that much is clear.

  “No. Not ‘Noah too’—I’m the only Noah.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” Does this guy have two nicknames, too?

  “That guy you met at the police station is my friend, Buzz.”

  My mouth opens and closes like a guppy and I slam it closed, quiet for a beat.

  “I don’t understand why you’ve been lying. Are you a criminal?” Shit, what if the cash he used to pay me was stolen? Hot, they call it? Is he on the lam? Could I go to jail? What if they trace the serial numbers on the bills to track me down?!

  I notice a group of three high school boys watching us, and Noah—if that is his real name—slouches in the seat, sliding his sunnies back into place, spinning the brim of his ball cap over the front of his eyes.

  Wow. This guy has issues…

  “I’m not a criminal.” His voice is low, even, controlled.

  “But definitely a liar.”

  His jaw clenches and he turns an unflattering shade of red.

  “Did you not hear what I said?” he asks. “I’m the one buying your cards.”

  I stare at him, at the eyes I can no longer see. At the wet hair beneath his ball cap. The red cheeks and neck. The twist in his lips.

  Any other person wouldn’t care that he didn’t show up himself to retrieve the card. Maybe someone else wouldn’t even care that he didn’t properly introduce himself at the club, didn’t bother correcting me when I called—what was his friend’s name? When I called Buzz Noah in front of everyone.

  Buzz didn’t correct me, either, that asshole.

  I stare some more, heart racing. Cheeks, I’m sure, as red as Noah’s.

  Noah.

  “I felt like…” We were connecting.

  Connecting, connecting—like, on a different level than just a transaction between two people. And at the club? I felt something then, too.

  A pull. Sparks.

  How stupid. What would a guy like this want with a girl like me? No doubt if he’s hanging out with someone like that sleaze Buzz and those other huge, gym-rat-looking guys at the club, I am the furthest thing from his type.

  “Felt like what?” He pauses. “Say it.”

  My mouth opens—no, gapes. Say it? Hell no I’m not going to say it! He has no right to my thoughts. He has no right to anything and I refuse to give him any real estate inside my head.

  “Can I have my money now?” Pay up, jerk.

  He gazes at me through those dark lenses, mouth set in a straight line.

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  Is he for real?! “What more is there? You don’t owe me an explanation as to why you felt you had to lie—we’re not friends. This is a business transaction.”

  I imagine his eyes are cold and vacant and wish I could see them. “Clearly.”

  Clearly?

  What does that even mean? The tone in which he says it has me guessing, too. Clearly this is just business, but I felt chemistry, too? Clearly this is just business, but I had fun talking about things other than this deal? Clearly this is just business, but now that I’ve met you, I think you’re cute?

  A few moments drift by before he reaches down to the waistband of his pants at a glacial pace and pulls back the elastic, revealing an envelope wedged inside. It’s as thick as the last one was, though it contains less money.

  It gets slid across the table.

  He takes the Jenkins card, its small plexiglass box dwarfed in the palm of his giant hand. Pinches it between his thumb and forefinger before spinning it a few times, still watching me from behind those dark lenses.

  “Well. You have your money.”

  Indeed I do, twenty grand of it. “Thank you.”

  “No.” He flashes the card in my direction before sliding it into his waistband. “Thank you.”

  There is so much more I want to say to this man, who seems more like a complete stranger than ever before. A man who gave me butterflies only a few days ago, but really wants nothing from me but my card collection.

  Well he can’t have it. I will find a new buyer. Noah whatshisface can stuff it.

  * * *

  “…and there’s the build out allowance we discussed, but only for this main space and the large office, which could be partitioned off into two.”

  I nod at the woman who is going to be my new landlord, the property owner of several storefronts in an old school downtown neighborhood. She’s been converting brownstones into business spaces for lots of tech startups, dot-coms, and in some cases, bloggers.

  The building is whitewashed with black shutters and a black lacquered door, the vintage house modern and up to date, its interior an ideal environment for a design center.

  Simply perfect.

  And within my budget, now that I have actual, liquid capital.

  We’re on the last lap of my walk-through before I sign my life away, i.e. sign the rental agreement. I’m about to give her more money than I’ve ever given anyone—not including tuition payments to the university. Those were student loans; this here is my money.

  “And I can paint?” The walls are gray and I think painting them stark white would make the space that much more impactful.

  “You can, once we approve the colors.”

  “White?”

  She glances over at me as she walks through another doorway, into what would be my office. “White? Yes, absolutely.”

  Excellent.

  We go over a few more details, the contract laid out on a portable table, one chair pushed in, pen resting on top.

  I sit, having read the contract over and over. My father read it too, and my Uncle Mark, who is an attorney—family law, but still able to bullet point a few changes I had to make, specifically regarding the grounds and maintenance.

  A cashier’s check for the deposit amount sits at the bottom of my document holde
r, fresh from the bank.

  I sign, having been ready for this moment since the day I moved that graduation tassel from one side of my cap to the other.

  Francesca Graziano watches over my shoulder as I add one last flourish to my signature. Sign. Date.

  Done.

  “Well!” She claps her hands. “Congratulations.” There’s a laptop briefcase on the floor and she reaches for it, the sleek bag matching her brown leather belt and high-heeled pumps.

  Francesca would fit in perfectly at Rent, even dressed for a business meeting.

  I pull the deposit out of my clutch and hold it out.

  She takes the check with a satisfied nod. “Alright then! Here are the keys. Please let me know if you need anything by contacting the property manager.”

  And then…

  I’m alone.

  Alone with my thoughts and alone with my new space.

  Mine, mine, mine.

  Okay—not technically mine, but mine for an entire year, as long as I don’t default on my rent. Ha ha.

  My phone begins buzzing and I fish it out of my bag. Claire’s face smiles back at me—she wants to video chat.

  “How did it go?”

  “Great!” I enthuse, taking the keys from the table where I laid them and jingling them in front of my face for her to see. “Look! The building is all mine. Well, the first floor anyway.” The floor above me is another business space, but will probably remain unoccupied for a few more months.

  “How does it feel?” She’s chomping on a celery stick and I can see a Bloody Mary on the counter. What the hell is she drinking that for so early? It’s barely five o’clock.

  “It feels good. I also want to throw up.”

  “Aww, you’re a bitty baby business owner now.” She hesitates to chew. “Can I have a job?”

  I roll my eyes and grab my bag, checking to see that all the lights are off. “You have a history degree.”

  “So? I like decorating.”

  I fumble with everything in my arms and hands, including my phone, as I make for the front door and push it open. Close it behind me, the key in my hand sliding into the lock.

  One turn to the left and it’s secure.

  “Hold on a second, I’m going to pause you while I get a car.” It takes me two seconds then I’m back. “Done.” I sit on the steps of my new place, thinking if the whole business tanks, I could probably live in my office and save myself a second rent payment. Ha.

  Cough.

  Just kidding—that’s illegal.

  “You had your meeting with that Noah guy today, yeah? Have I mentioned how hot he is?”

  Only 40 billion times. “Yeah, I sure did.” I gaze down the street, wondering how much to tell her about Noah. The real Noah, not the one pretending to be him. The hot asshole whom I could not stand versus the quiet, melancholy version who wanted me to feel a certain way about the whole thing.

  What did he want me to say?

  I thought about it the entire way to my meeting this afternoon and couldn’t come up with anything. It’s almost as if he was disappointed I wouldn’t get confrontational.

  So strange and perplexing.

  “What’s wrong?” Claire is the most insightful one of my friends. We weren’t roommates freshman year and when most of the friends I had made that year were moving out of the dorms, my parents wouldn’t let me live in off-campus housing.

  So, by luck of the draw, I landed with Claire and we’ve been inseparable since. She came as a package deal, complete with Emily, Gretchen, and two Katys—one with a ‘y’ and one with an ‘ie’. We don’t see them as much since both of them moved out of Illinois after graduating, wanting to be closer to where they grew up.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Ugh, why did I just say that? It’s always a dead giveaway that something is wrong.

  “What happened?”

  It’s like she has this sixth sense. It used to drive me insane, her innate ability to find shit out, but now I’m relieved I can just say what’s on my mind and stop pretending.

  “Noah isn’t who he says he is. Yes, he had the money to buy the baseball cards from me, but the guy who picked them up—the guy you met at Rent? That was not Noah.”

  “WHAT?” Her eyes cannot get any bigger and I stand as the small, gray, compact car that’s taking me to my apartment slows in front of the curb. I bound down the stairs, lugging my purse, laptop bag, and documents folder, phone tucked under my chin.

  “You Miranda?”

  I’m already pulling the back door open. “Yup.”

  Slide in. Buckle the seatbelt.

  He begins driving and I hold the phone in front of my face again so Claire can see me. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine. You were saying?” Now she has a meat stick between her lips.

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Noah isn’t Noah, he’s someone else—go.”

  “Anyway, the guy I was talking to at the club this past weekend—the guy by the bar, whom I felt compelled to hug—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa you never told me you hugged him. Why did you hug him?”

  “Duh.” I roll my eyes and run a hand through my hair, exhausted. “He needed it. He’s pretty grouchy.”

  “So you just go around hugging strangers now?”

  I felt like I was getting to know him!

  “People were doing more than just hugging in that club, let’s be honest. That was child’s play compared to what some people were doing.”

  I see the driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, his bushy brows raised. Dammit.

  “Anyway, you hugged. Was it full frontal?”

  I laugh, and the driver laughs, despite himself and the fact that he should be minding his own business.

  “Yes? Yeah, I think it was. Maybe that’s what freaked him out.”

  “How did he freak out? Did he get hard?”

  “No, Claire, he did not get hard—he got gone.”

  “Eh?” Claire does this Canadian schtick when she’s confused, and she’s doing it now, accent and all. Ridiculous.

  “I know. It was weird. I hugged him, he left, end of story. Except…” My voice trails off, like I’m addressing a group gathered ’round a campfire, regaling them with my horror story. “He wasn’t who he seemed to be.”

  “Who did he seem to be?”

  “Claire! Focus.” Sheesh, it’s impossible storytelling with her around. “Today I met him because I needed…” I look up and lock eyes with the driver again—I’m not about to tell him I went to make a drop and collect twenty grand. He’d either rob me blind or drive straight to the police station. “To give him that thing he needed.”

  Claire nods knowingly. “Yes, yes, the thing.”

  I’m glad she’s playing along—this dude cabbing me around doesn’t need to know my business, even though he’s hearing literally all of my business.

  “The guy who shows up is not the Noah I’ve met before, so I think the guy from the club—who never told me his name—is just there to pick up the thing for his buddy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Claire is nodding frantically, chewing meat sticks and washing it down with Bloody Mary.

  “I say, ‘Oh! What happened to Noah?’ And he’s all, ‘I AM NOAH.’”

  Okay, fine—I’m taking a few creative liberties, but that’s basically the way it all went down and the point isn’t the way I retell it; the point is he lied.

  “What?!” Claire is shouting and probably scaring the shit out of her cat in the process. “Get out!”

  “Yes. And then I go, ‘So you’re a LIAR?’ And guess what he did, Claire? Guess. Well I’ll tell you what he didn’t do. He did. Not. Deny it.” I’m rambling almost frantically, anxious to get the story out.

  “You mean. To tell me. He did not deny lying?” Claire is aghast at the thought! Claire tends to lie about mostly anything that will get her into any kind of trouble. “So then what?”

  “Pfft, I took my money, said,
‘Deuces bro,’ and I left.”

  That gives Claire pause, and she stares, meat dangling from her lips like a cigar. “You did not say that.”

  “No, but I wanted to.”

  “Ugh, I hate when you do that! You give me this buildup and I get so excited and it’s just you being dramatic.”

  “Well what the hell was I going to say? He didn’t have to tell me at all. He could have lied about his name today, too, but he told me the truth.”

  “Well there’s something to be said for that, too. Why do you think he told you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And it’s true—I don’t. Her guess is as good as mine.

  “Maybe he wanted you to know the truth because he likes you.”

  Okay, that was not my guess.

  The car I’m in is almost to my apartment complex, so with one hand, I begin gathering my things.

  “He doesn’t like me. He barely spoke when we were sitting there. It was all brooding and grunting and he let me leave without defending himself.”

  “Would it have mattered?”

  “Yes!” No. Maybe? “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you said you felt a tingle in your lady business on Saturday after you talked to him.”

  “Claire!” I pointedly shift my eyes toward the back of the driver’s head. Though Claire can’t see him, she knows I’m in an Uber and knows he can hear everything she’s saying. “Could you not?”

  “You know I’m right. You had a party in your pants and you wanted to invite him.”

  She needs to stop.

  Instead, the car stops. She goes on as I thank the driver, climb out, and head toward the front door of my building.

  “Look, all I’m saying is—since you started this passion project of yours, you have had zero time for yourself. It’s all interviews and hiring and looking at office space. Which I get! I love that you’re doing your own thing. But one day, after you work your ass off, you’re going to look around and realize you didn’t take time for yourself.”

  I punch the elevator. “You’re being super dramatic. I take time for myself. I went out on Saturday! And I would have loved to stay and flirt with that guy, but he left, Claire. He left. Not me, him.”

  She’s quiet because she knows I’m right; I sucked the wind right out of her preachy sails. She lets out a thoughtful “Hmmm” and looks to the side then back at me. “But why though? What happened before you hugged him?”