Not the Marrying Kind

by Kathryn Nolan

  The pivot threw me for a bit of a loop. She was quick on her feet, which I liked. “We talk and flirt beforehand. Get to know each other a little bit. Then we discuss consent and boundaries. What they like, what they don’t. And that I’m only interested in the temporary. I might see them a couple more times after the first night, but nothing longer than that. Ever.”

  Her face softened. “Do you ever get lonely to talk to someone? Have a real conversation, like the one we’re having?”

  I tossed her a wink. “Nope. Not lonely. Just having fun, living in the moment.”

  She looked a little disappointed. And, fuck it, I was too. Because she’d drawn her line in the sand, and I got it. Different people liked different things. And I loved to flirt, but I would never lie to get someone into bed. Sleeping with Fiona after she’d been so honest couldn’t happen unless she set the terms. The possibility of those terms changing were pretty slim.

  I liked her though. Way more than the women I usually seduced for a night. I had a real good feeling we’d be fire in bed together. Like break-the-bed-fuck-on-the-floor kind of fire.

  “So this one guy you’re looking for, he’s gonna be a fan of The Red Room, right? A punk rock dude?”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the sidewalk where concertgoers were spilling out onto the sidewalk. “My parents must be taking a break.”

  “It’s barely one in the morning. They’ll go for another two hours at least, huh?”

  She cast a sideways look at me. “They’ll still be performing in whatever assisted living facility Roxy and I force them into. You can’t keep two original punks down.”

  “Pop will be right there with ’em.”

  I watched her peer through the grate, down to the people in the alley below, smoking and talking. “There was a period when my parents would drop me and Roxy off at school in the morning and they’d still have not gone to bed yet. Night owls deep in their soul.” Her fingers twisted in her lap the longer she gazed down there. “And I don’t know if they need to be a punk fan. I think they’d need to be a fan of love. Of monogamy. Of family. Some things I can let go of.”

  “You’d let go of music for love?”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Because you’re a goddamn Quinn. I saw you down there. This place, this music, it’s in your blood, isn’t it? It’s obvious.”

  Emotions fought a war on her face until finally she shuttered them. “I don’t have to be like my family in every single way, even though I love them. My priorities are transforming, fitting my life better. That means I might end up with a husband that listens to… smooth jazz. Or yacht rock.”

  I burst out laughing. She was biting her lip, refusing eye contact. “Fiona.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You don’t know me like that, Devlin. I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me.”

  “The last time I saw you, you were a crowd-surfing badass that scared people with your elbows,” I said. “You’re tellin’ me that’s not the case anymore? Because I saw you throw a number of elbows down there when you were dancing.”

  “It’s complicated,” she said softly. “I haven’t been here in almost a year. I’ve got different things to focus on right now.” When she caught my eye, she lifted her eyebrow again. “And who are you to give me shit? You haven’t been back home in seven years.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Pop, I bet.”

  I didn’t think I’d made a face, but her expression made me think otherwise. I had yet to see this woman back down from anything.

  “Pop always misses me, but he understands how I am,” I said, sounding defensive. “We talk on the phone. And I always mean to come home, but it’s expensive.”

  She propped her chin in her hand, all playfulness gone. “How is your dad really doing?”

  “Surly and stubborn,” I said quickly.

  “Every time he sees me and Roxy, he says ‘you’re both so tall now’ or something equally as adorable.”

  I crossed my arms, that nostalgic sensation back again. “Yeah, well, when he gives updates on home, you, your sister, or your parents definitely come up. Well, not you as much. I think your job intimidates my dad.”

  “Your dad covered for me and my sister a lot.” She smiled, biting her lip. “He caught me making out with boys on this fire escape like a hundred fucking times.”

  “You made out on the fire escape?”

  “All the time. What was your preference for teenaged shenanigans?”

  “Supply closet is where it’s at.”

  She laughed, tipped her head back. “I might have a vague memory. Did Roxy walk in on you once when we were like eighteen or so?”

  “Oh yeah.” I rubbed my hands together. “I forgot about that. Your sister busted down the door of the supply room with her boots and scared the hell out of me. I might have been naked.”

  “Yes, you were,” Fiona said. “I remember now. Because Roxy came home and told me she’d seen your ass.”

  “Thoughts? Feedback?”

  She zipped her lips and shrugged like an innocent. “I don’t recall.”

  Still smiling, she glanced back down at the street before sighing. I’d been ignoring the crisis Pop was in for the past few hours—had let myself be captivated and distracted by the beautiful Fiona. But $48,295 floated up into my brain, combined with the scary stack of what seemed to be overdue bills scattered all over his desk.

  Wrinkling her nose, she hooked her fingers in the metal and pulled herself up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed talking with you, it’s well past time for me to leave. I can’t be a zombie for my eight am client meeting.”

  “Fancy lawyers need their sleep,” I said, brain grabbing hold of the word lawyer. Fiona was slipping back through the window already. I went on the fritz—nervous, worried I wouldn’t see her again, worried I’d had a fever dream and Fiona wasn’t even real.

  I didn’t usually care about my interactions with women. I mean, I cared about their sexual needs, their pleasure, whatever fantasies they desired. But that was different from this roaring need to ask Fiona to get a beer with me some time.

  Get a beer with me some time? Is that what you asked someone you wanted to see again? And what if we could really use her help? She was the only lawyer I knew.

  “Max?” she asked, nudging me back to reality. She was leaning through the window, blazer on, one arm behind her.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Putting my heels back on.”

  “You danced like that all night in heels?”

  She finished moving, leaned back over. Her smile was sly and confident. “Of course.”

  “Um…” I rubbed the back of my neck. My skin itched. “This is random, but Pop… he might need your help. Legal help.”

  Her face fell. “You’re serious?”

  “Unfortunately. It’s technically the reason why I’m home. He received a notice of…”

  “Petition?”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “He’s being sued for back rent.”

  Her lips pursed. “Can you tell me for how much?”

  I passed a hand over my hair. “Like fifty grand.”

  But she was already sliding something over to me between her manicured fingernails. “That’s my card. Take it. Call me. My cell and work number are both on there. I don’t work in tenants’ rights, but I’ve got friends who do. It’s no problem, really.”

  Fiona Quinn, Associate. Cooper Peterson Stackhouse. Cream-colored with black lettering that looked sophisticated. The longer I held it, the more I noticed I still had bike grease on my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She nodded. “I’d be happy to help, really. I’d do anything for your dad, Max.”

  And because I’d had enough with vulnerability, I made a show of slipping it into the pocket on my shirt. Cocked a grin her way. “So, to be clear, you’re giving me
your number?”

  She twirled her finger in the air. “You’re really bringing that A game, now.”

  “Only the best for you.”

  She flipped me the bird with a sexy smirk. “In a couple weeks, I imagine that number will be quite busy with various potential husbands calling.”

  “You’ll need to keep this line clear for Brett,” I said with mock sobriety.

  “Goals, Max. I crush them.” Then she was gone, waving a hand from the window. “Have a good night. Good luck with all those women.”

  “Wait,” I said to myself. Leaned over until I was staring through the window. Caught a glimpse of blond hair and a sparkling tiara as she turned the corner. I blinked. Rubbed my forehead.

  I sat back on the fire escape and exhaled a big, confused breath.

  This was why I never liked coming home.

  9

  Max

  “Why aren’t you eating your sandwich?” Pop asked. “Are you sick or somethin’?”

  “Huh?” I’d been staring off over his shoulder and out the window, thinking about Fiona. He tapped my plate of half-eaten pastrami sandwich and French fries.

  “We’ve been coming here since you were a kid, and you’ve never not finished this. Can I have your pickle?”

  I slapped his hand away and yanked the plate closer. “No way, old man. Just thinking is all. Some of us are trying to save a beloved musical venue and need to come up with some ideas.”

  He ran a hand over his shiny head and sat back in his booth. The seats at the Westway Diner were red vinyl and cracked. The food was greasy and delicious. I hadn’t eaten here in seven years, but until the day I’d left this city, it was my favorite restaurant in the world. Most Sundays, Pop would take me here, especially during the first six months after he and Mom got divorced and she moved out. When I was nothing but a ten-year-old kid, terrified I had done something to cause their breakup. It was a confusing time those first years after because Pop seemed moody and frustrated. But whenever Mom called—from some amazing place or adventure—she seemed happy and relaxed. Growing up, my dad’s family used to call her firework because her personality was so sparkly. She was known for her charisma and her sense of humor, and the rare memories I had of her at The Red Room with me were filled with her charming the hell out of the visiting bands or the regular old-timers.

  I always liked those memories.

  “You got any?” Pop asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “Any what?”

  “Ideas.”

  I munched on a French fry. Slipped Fiona’s business card from my jacket, which I’d stared at from my childhood bed for a full hour before finally falling into a restless sleep. After she’d climbed back out the window, I’d listened to the rest of The Hand Grenades’ set, even though I was distracted. Kept thinking I saw her in the crowd or out the corner of my eye. I didn’t even attempt to flirt with any other woman.

  Wasn’t even remotely interested.

  Maybe I was getting sick or somethin’.

  “This is not some fully fleshed-out idea,” I said slowly. “But I happened to bump into Fiona last night. The fancy lawyer. She said we could call her for some advice. Might be a shit idea, but it’s my first one.”

  He glanced at her business card, almost smiled. “Yeah. Okay. And Fiona, she’s a good kid. She won’t, uh… you know.”

  I did know. “I think she deals with this stuff all the time, Pop. I doubt she’ll bat an eye at whatever you show her. And word of advice, I wouldn’t refer to her as a kid.”

  He nodded, sipped his coffee. “Sorry. I watched those sisters grow up at The Red Room, just like you. Sometimes I still think of her that way. Although she’s not been around in a while. Not like her.”

  “She mentioned that,” I said, tapping the card on the table. Thinking about that warring expression on her face last night, what it might mean.

  Thought about her dating a whole bunch of corporate dudes and my fingers curled around her card, almost crushing it.

  I was definitely getting sick.

  “I’ll call her after this. She can come meet us in your office, maybe?”

  “Should I clean it up?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Let her see how shitty it looks. It’ll make her more sympathetic to your cause.”

  He grinned. “You’re such an asshole.”

  “Organization’s not your strong suit,” I said. “It’s not mine either, so at least we know where I got it from.”

  “Well,” Pop grumbled. “Staying on top of stuff wasn’t your mother’s strong suit either.”

  “Then I’m doubly screwed.” I shrugged, dodging Pop’s barb about Mom. I glanced out the window again at the people streaming by, listened to the almost musical sounds of the diner—the ding of the bell, the chirp of the register, the low mumble of people’s conversations, the bus outside, car horns, foot traffic. That ocean view in Bar Harbor had been a helluva lot prettier, but I was suddenly sucked into my surroundings, uncovering memories of this place I’d forgotten.

  “Are you gonna see Mateo and Rafael while you’re here?” Pop asked. “His new gallery is a few blocks from The Red Room now.”

  “Wait, what?” I said. “I guess the last time we really talked was…” I trailed off, tapping the card again. “Years. Fuck. I don’t know. That’s great news. I’ll go over there and see him.”

  “Did he tell you about him and Rafael, though?”

  Mateo was my best friend in middle and high school. We’d grown up together, our families close. Rafael had been his boyfriend since eleventh grade, and the three of us were inseparable those last few years before I left.

  “No. What happened?” I said slowly.

  Pop’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re engaged, Maxy.”

  I shook my head with a grin. “Goddamn. That’s great news. No, he must have… forgotten to call me. You’ve got all the hot gossip now.”

  “People tell me things. I don’t know,” he said. His cheeks were red, and he was dodging my eye contact again. “I, uh… wanted to ask you a question since you’re home for a bit. It’s a little personal.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I leaned back, draped one arm across the vinyl. He took out the smart phone I’d bought him a few years ago, even though he swore up and down he’d never, ever, ever use it. “Can you help me with something on the internet?”

  I took the phone, gave him a questioning look. “That depends. What is it?”

  “It’s a dating thing.” His voice was a little shaky. “A thing for dating. Women. Or whoever you want to date. But I’m interested in a woman that I met on there.”

  I spun the phone between my fingers and stared at my dad, slack jawed. My parents had gotten a divorce eighteen years ago, and it wasn’t like he was a monk. But his love life was as private as anything else. “You’re kidding me. You met a woman using your fucking phone?”

  Pop bit into his pickle and shrugged like I was being dramatic. “How do you meet women?”

  “We’re not talking about me here,” I said. It was too late though. Fiona surged back into my thoughts. She was the first woman in recent memory who hadn’t been swayed by my charm. She’d reduced me to a nervous guy with sweaty palms. And what did that even mean?

  “What do you need help with exactly?” I asked, snatching a fry from his plate.

  He snatched one of my fries—and his phone back. He opened his screen onto a profile. The website was called Over 60 Match. “A buddy at The Red Room told me about it. It’s for older folks only looking for something serious.”

  “Ah, Pop,” I said, leaning across the table. “You’re being for real right now.”

  “Of course, I am.” He looked embarrassed, but also pissed, and seconds away from reverting back to just grunting at me. I recognized the signs of my dad about to emotionally shut down. So I took the phone and looked at the screen he was trying to show me.

  The profile page was clean with bright colors. The profile was for a woman named Angela Robinson
who declared herself to be 67, an avid city gardener, obsessed with her grandchildren, and searching for “later-in-life love.”

  “Is this the woman that you like?” I asked.

  He reached over and tapped the far-right screen to show me her picture. Angela was a Black woman with short silver hair and a friendly smile that had me smiling in response. She wore a yellow jacket and was holding up flowers, and everything about the picture said hope.

  I looked up at my surly father who’d probably never held a flower in his goddamn life. “She’s beautiful, Pop.”

  “And nice,” he said. “She’s real nice.”

  “Are you two talking?”

  He shrugged. “Over the website, yeah. Started this week. She reached out to me. But I don’t…” He crunched some ice angrily. “I don’t know what to say to her. How to talk in a way that would make a woman like me. Not like you. You’ve always been popular. Friends, girlfriends, all your teachers used to tell me about it.”

  Honey-tongued. That’s what a woman had called me once in my early twenties—and it wasn’t necessarily for my oral sex expertise (although I was well-known for that as well). She said it had more to do with my ability to grin my way out of any difficult situation. I took it as a compliment.

  She told me she’d meant it as an insult.

  “Where do you think I get this abundance of charm, huh?” I nudged his arm.

  But he only growled a little and crunched more ice, refusing to answer. I knew why. Because he and I both knew I’d been lying about which parent it came from.

  I directed my attention back to the screen, tapping around until I landed on Pop’s page and profile picture. “Jesus Christ, you look like a serial killer in this.”

  “Stop fucking around.”

  “I’m not,” I said. I held up the phone and showed him the little picture. It was a close-up of mostly his nose and eyes, and he wasn’t smiling in it. “For the love of god, let me take a picture of you, okay? Then Angela will at least see your actual face.”

  Pop went back to grumbling while I scrolled through his profile, which wasn’t half bad. Under the section titled “Loves” he had written, “Music. And my son.”