Well Played

by Jen DeLuca

  I got ready for bed, and as I went to move my laptop, the screen sprang to life, and there was an email waiting for me.

  To: Stacey Lindholm

  From: Dex MacLean

  Date: September 4, 9:52 p.m.

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: My Real Name

  I’m so sorry about what you’ve been through with your mom, but for what it’s worth, I would have done the same thing. I mean, you’re talking to a guy who travels with family year-round. Family’s important, and when the chips are down there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for mine. Sounds like you’re the same way.

  That said, you make a good point about small towns and overprotective moms. I guess I can’t blame you there. But I can’t blame your mom either. Can you? Not that I’m taking her side, but you said it yourself: Miracle Baby. I take it you’re an only child too? That makes it worse, I’d think. With siblings you have someone else to blame shit on.

  Oh, and too bad, Anastasia. You can’t give me a name that feels like music in my mouth and not expect me to revel in it. The name fits you.

  I closed my laptop with a snap and pushed it away from me as though it had burned me. I sucked in a breath and it tasted like sweet relief; had I forgotten to breathe those last few moments, reading that my name felt like music? Who was this guy? How could this be the same person who hadn’t even said goodbye at the end of Faire this season?

  Benedick crawled into my lap, his front feet kneading the blankets that had been warmed by the laptop. I stroked one hand down his back, over and over, absorbing his purr and letting it calm me. When I closed my eyes those words were imprinted on the backs of my eyelids . . . a name that feels like music in my mouth . . . but the more that Benedick snuggled into me and I scritched behind his ears, the easier I could breathe.

  “Well,” I finally said to the cat, “I said I needed a life. Maybe that’s what’s happening now.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning I woke with that phrase in my head again—a name that feels like music in my mouth—and I suppressed a delicious shiver. Overnight my thoughts regarding Dex had apparently untangled themselves just fine, and I couldn’t keep a silly grin off my face as I got ready for work.

  At least at work I wouldn’t be tempted to check my phone every fifteen seconds; personal cell phones weren’t allowed, so I kept mine zipped up in my bag during the day. I itched to talk to someone about this, about the incredibly hot guy who missed me, but as friendly as I was with my coworkers, I wasn’t friends with any of them on any kind of personal level. We were grab-lunch-together friends. Go-to-happy-hour friends, at most. Not dissect-every-bit-of-your-new-potential-love-life friends.

  It was a slow morning, and by ten I was already perusing the deli menu, wondering if it was too soon to order lunch. The Reuben on the menu made me think of Emily; that was her favorite. She was probably the closest thing I had to a bestie, a real bestie, these days. She’d asked me to be her bridesmaid, right? So she at least saw me as more than a happy hour and Ren Faire friend. Maybe Emily would want to hear about this new development. Did a couple emails that made me tingle count as a love life worth sharing with your bestie?

  I could figure that out later. But for now, when I ordered my turkey and Brie panini from the deli, I also ordered a Reuben for Emily. The deli was just down the street from the bookstore, and I could use a little girl time.

  Sure enough, when I got to Read It & Weep with my bags full of sandwiches and chips, Emily was behind the counter frowning at something on her laptop. The bell over the door chimed as I opened it, and she looked up, startled, her frown melting into a smile.

  “Is there a Reuben in there?”

  “Of course there is.” I handed her one of the bags and she handed me a bottle of water before we settled into one of the tables at the back of the bookstore, where Emily and Chris, the owner, had carved out a little café area. Emily made a mean vanilla latte and Chris’s lemon squares were to die for, so the space was put to good use.

  “What brings you by?” Emily unwrapped her sandwich with all the glee of a kid on Christmas morning; she really did love a good Reuben.

  I opened my mouth to answer her but took a bite of my own sandwich instead, stalling for time. “What, I can’t just bring you a sandwich for no reason?” My voice was light, breezy. Typical—chickening out again. “Maybe I like the company.”

  “Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes at me as she chewed but didn’t press further. Her eyes lit up and she reached for her bag. “You know, I was going to email you tonight. I found a couple really cool ideas for a cake that I think would—”

  “Mom and I are going to join your book club.” It was rude, I knew. So rude to interrupt Emily. But wedding talk made me think of Faire, which made me think of that email last night from Dex. And as much as I wanted to spill everything, part of me wanted to keep this new side of him all to myself. So what better than a new topic entirely, pulled directly out of my ass?

  “Book club?” Emily shook her head. “But you just joined a book club.”

  “Yes, and that book is already depressing the hell out of me. You promised more fun books, right?”

  “Well, yeah . . .” But Emily still looked skeptical. “Are you quitting April’s book club then? I think she was excited that you were joining up.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I can read two whole books in a month, you know.” How much of an airhead did she think I was?

  But Emily’s expression softened, and she tsked at me. “Of course you can. I didn’t mean that. And your mom wants to join up too?”

  I shrugged. “She said she did.”

  “Cool. I’ll add you to the list when I go back up front. I’m sending out an email blast later this week with next month’s book selection. Third Thursday of the month, is that okay?”

  “Perfect.” I had nothing going on, and Mom never went out at night so she should be free.

  “Excellent.” She went back to her beloved sandwich. “We’ll need the people, so I’m glad you two are coming. Chris’ll be heading back to Florida soon with nary a care in the world.”

  “I heard that.” Chris, the store’s owner and our ersatz Queen Elizabeth at Faire, appeared from the back room, but she didn’t look particularly annoyed. She looked at the two of us with an indulgent smile. Part of her was probably still Queen, and we her benevolent subjects.

  “You know what I mean.” Emily turned in her chair to watch Chris get her own lunch out of the café fridge. “It’s not like we have a million people in book club. Once your daughter goes back to school, and then you leave for Florida, there’s a noticeable drop in membership.”

  “There’s plenty to keep you busy.” Chris approached our little table, and we scooted over to make room. “The writing group still meets twice a month, and you have to keep an eye on them to make sure they don’t get too rowdy. Not to mention your Shakespeare reading night with the high school kids. You still doing that?”

  Emily considered the question while she nibbled on her sandwich. “Probably. I should pick a play and see if the kids want to do it again.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I forgot you did that.” Emily was an unabashed Shakespeare nerd, and she’d started a read-along of some of his works that had been well attended by the junior and senior high school students who volunteered at Faire. Most of the kids, in fact, were in Simon’s advanced placement English class. Simon and Emily really were ridiculously perfect for each other.

  “Like I said. Plenty to keep you busy.” Chris took the lid off her Tupperware and started fluffing through her salad with a fork. For all that Chris owned the bookstore, and had for years, she seemed perfectly happy to leave the running of it to Emily these days. And why not? Em was really good at it. And Chris had more important things to worry about.

  “How’s your mom doing? Any better?” I didn’t know a lot
about strokes, but I knew they could be tricky to recover from.

  But Chris’s smile was unconcerned. “She’s fine. As well as can be expected, anyway. Not any better, not any worse. But I think it helps for me to be with her.” She shrugged. “Better that than assisted living.”

  I didn’t have anything helpful to say, so I just nodded and popped the last of my sandwich into my mouth.

  But Emily’s mind was still on the store as she turned back to me. “Okay. So with you and your mom joining book club, maybe you can help me brainstorm titles, since Chris is off to Florida in October.”

  Chris snorted. “Just one more month till I’m back in the land of alligators and mosquitos.” For the past couple years Chris had split her time between Maryland and Florida in the winter, taking care of her mother in both locations. It seemed like a hell of a sacrifice, but I would probably have done the same thing.

  “And hurricanes.” I nodded solemnly while I checked the time on my phone. My lunch break was about over; I needed to think about getting back to work.

  Chris chuckled as I got to my feet and collected the lunch trash into one of the bags I’d brought. “Hurricane season’s about over by the time I get there. That’s the best part of Florida, at least: the winters. Don’t have to worry about getting snowed in anywhere.”

  Emily groaned. “Don’t start. Your emails all last winter were bad enough, mocking us for freezing our asses off up here.”

  I threw the both of them a wave over my shoulder as I headed back to work. I checked my phone again on the walk back, but my notifications were all but empty. Just a couple comments on an Instagram picture I’d posted of Benedick over the weekend. He’d been especially cute, snoozing in a patch of sun, and frankly it should have gotten more attention than it did. But there was never any telling what the internet liked. I shoved my phone back into my backpack with a frown. I’d been hoping for another message from Dex; now that we were messaging, and our conversations were getting deep, I wanted more from him.

  It wasn’t until I was about halfway through the afternoon that I realized he’d been the last one to send an email. It was my turn to write to him. I almost slapped my palm against my forehead in the middle of scheduling an annual cleaning, but quickly got my mind back on task and filled out the reminder card. Then I impatiently counted down the minutes until the end of the day. After work I stopped for another Pumpkin Spice Latte (number four of the season so far) and sat at a table with my phone to reread his last email before answering it.

  To: Dex MacLean

  From: Stacey Lindholm

  Date: September 5, 5:44 p.m.

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: My Real Name

  Oh, yes, I’m an only child. I know I mentioned the whole IVF thing, but I don’t think I mentioned that Mom was almost forty when I was born. That’s the other part of me being a miracle baby. I think I was also her last-chance baby. No more kids after me, so they got to take alllllll their parenting issues out on me. It’s fun.

  I’m kidding, it’s really fine. My parents are great, and they’re ridiculously supportive of me. And I’d do anything for them. Which is one of the reasons I still live in Willow Creek. We’ve been a team of three my whole life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Also, you’re wrong. Anastasia was a fancy Russian princess who met a gruesome end. There’s nothing about that that fits a small-town girl like me.

  Inexplicably, tears filled my eyes when I typed that last sentence. What the hell was I doing? My friends were making real, tangible plans with their lives, while I was getting caught up in this weird fantasy spun from words and pixels on a screen. I was supposed to be getting a life, something real, and instead I was fixating on this online flirtation, letting it fill my mind and my heart.

  I hit Send and clicked out of my email app before I could think any more about it. Enough of this distraction. Time to go home and feed the cat. Time to turn my attention to my real life, instead of whatever game Dex and I were playing. I needed to get my head on straight. Stop living my life online.

  Of course, the problem was my online life was much more exciting than my real one. I needed to do something about that.

  Six

  As it turned out, I was only human, and the lure of my online life was too great to be ignored. There was an email waiting for me before I went to sleep that night, and every time I answered, Dex wrote back again. Despite my initial reluctance, my heart thrilled every time there was a new message. It was my own personal shot of dopamine, I looked forward to it every day, and he never let me down.

  After a couple weeks I started to notice his patterns. He usually wrote to me late at night, after shows were done for the day. I thought about his “wench at every faire” reputation, and it was all I could do to not ask about them. Was he still picking up new conquests at every stop? Was he having flings and then writing to me every night after they left? Or worse, after they’d gone to sleep? I imagined beautiful women, sated and happy, sleeping soundly in his bed while his face was bathed with the blue light from his laptop or phone as he wrote yet another email to me.

  But I didn’t ask. I probably could have at first, but as days became weeks, Chris left for Florida with her mother, and Pumpkin Spice Latte season gave way to peppermint mochas, it became harder and harder to bring it up. How could I? In the middle of deep conversations about fears we’d had as kids, was I supposed to slip in, “Hey, forgot to ask, but are you still banging your way across the country?”

  So I buried that one important question I feared the answer to, and concentrated on more pertinent things instead.

  To: Dex MacLean

  From: Stacey Lindholm

  Date: November 15, 10:47 p.m.

  Subject: PSL Final Tally!

  Fourteen. I had fourteen Pumpkin Spice Lattes this year. My sorority sister Monica guessed thirteen, so I sent her a Starbucks gift card as a prize. In my head she’s still nineteen—well, we both are, dyeing our hair pink for breast cancer awareness. She’s a psychiatrist now, officially much smarter than me. How did that happen?

  Sometimes I think about time, and what we do with it. I turned twenty-seven last month, so I’m inching closer to thirty, and what am I even doing with my life? I look at my friends on Facebook. Friends from high school who grew up and moved away. Friends from college who went on to brilliant careers. At one point we were all in the same place; we theoretically got the same basic start in life. I look at what they’ve accomplished. And then I look at me. Part of me thinks that I really screwed up by staying here. But when my mom got sick all my priorities shifted.

  Here’s what I won’t tell Mom, though. It was like that first heart attack jump-started her into getting old. What an awful thing to think, right? I mean, my parents have always been old. Older, at least. Mom was thirty-eight when I was born. She was in her forties when I started school, while all my friends’ moms were much younger. So it’s something that I’m used to. But then she had that heart attack. I can’t tell you how . . . old she looked in that hospital bed. That was the thing that got me. My mom, who’d always been the strongest person I knew, the person I went to with every single problem of my life, was suddenly this frail little thing that I wanted to swaddle in bubble wrap.

  Now that she’s better I could get on with my life, of course. Start that fashion merchandising career that I’d intended. But an internship in New York at twenty-seven is a lot different than an internship at twenty-two. Those connections dried up long ago, and I have no idea how to find new ones. Not to mention, every time I think of leaving I think of my mom in the hospital and how helpless she looked. What if it happens again? What if it’s worse, and I’m not here? I mean, yeah, Dad’s here, and he took great care of her before. But he’s not getting any younger either. I feel like I should be close by. I love them so much, and they love me.

  You know, love songs say crap like “love will
set you free,” but lately I’ve been thinking that love is more like a cage. The most beautiful cage, with gold filigree and diamonds on the bars. But a cage nonetheless.

  To: Stacey Lindholm

  From: Dex MacLean

  Date: November 16, 01:30 a.m.

  Subject: Re: PSL Final Tally!

  Checking my email isn’t something I usually do on faire weekends. There’s so much going on here at the grounds that email is usually a “during the week” thing. But I have to say that I like this new habit of writing to you before I go to sleep. It’s the perfect way to end my day.

  Fourteen is a lot of pumpkin spice lattes. Is there maybe a support group you can join?

  I had to think about that for a minute: love is a cage. I think you’re on to something, but at the same time the idea makes me sad. Something as glorious and powerful as love shouldn’t make you feel caged in. I wonder if what you’re seeing as a cage is obligation instead of love. They can look the same, especially when it comes to family. It’s hard to break free from that, and some people never do. Says the guy who tours the country with his extended family on the Ren Faire circuit for a living.

  You sound like you feel trapped, and it’s totally understandable. I can also relate. Not just because this particular stop is a much smaller Faire that doesn’t provide hotel rooms. And that’s fine: we have an RV that we can camp in, and in a pinch I sleep in the back of my truck. But this part of North Carolina had an unexpected cold front, so camping wasn’t as pleasant as it usually is. It’s the last weekend here, though, before we move further south, so I’ll survive.

  But for how much longer? Like you, I’ve been thinking more and more about the passage of time lately. And wondering how much longer I can live this lifestyle. I’m not twenty-one anymore, when traveling the country and sleeping in the back of a pickup was an adventure. But now that I’m thirty-one (hitting thirty wasn’t as painful as I anticipated, BTW, you’ll do just fine), I’m more likely to wake up with a backache, and insist on contracts at festivals that include hotel rooms. No more of these small-time places that want us to just work for tips. We’ve been doing this too long for that.