On Second Thought Page 3

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “I’m working on this thing,” she says, “where I let girls wonder for days before I call.”

  “Is that right?”

  “No, actually,” she says, “what I’m trying to say is that I dropped you off, drove back, and had coffee before I got in, took a nap, made this sandwich, and couldn’t find where I put your number. I searched my car, my couch, pockets, coat, jeans—and I just now, well, here it is. And would you believe I spent my entire Sunday wondering what you were up to? But maybe I shouldn’t share that bit of info.”

  So I say, “Wakeboarding,” aching now from smiling.

  “Athletic,” I hear.

  “Not really,” I say, wishing I could erase that nervous laugh of mine.

  Then I hear, “Can I take you out? To a movie.” And I guess I say yes and she’s like Friday? and I say sure and she says I’ll pick you up and I say where, and it hits, not then but later. Once I’ve hung up and the phone’s off and docked because shit, shit, shit, this weekend. Didn’t I just lock that date in for Jordan?

  Chapter Four

  Turn Left on Chestnut

  Rae

  When Avery gives you advice, you do the exact opposite. I know this. Which is why I’m merely half listening to her as I edge along this extraordinarily backed-up drive-through line, which is typically my moment of Zen, isn’t it?

  “I would call her again,” I hear. “Just think up some legendary excuse.”

  I reach the window. “Venti macchiato with soy, please.” Back to Avery, “Because—?”

  “Um, she’s kind of hot,” I hear before that laugh.

  “I’m definitely aware of that.”

  “This is why they always fall for you,” she says. “You’re so evasive. I would be freaking out, thinking you weren’t interested.”

  Me, thinking, well, then she canceled on me. “You’re wrong,” I say, “and no you wouldn’t.”

  “You’ve googled her?”

  “Have I ever googled anyone?” I say.

  “No. But I’m curious about this one,” she says with that tinge of secrecy.

  “You always are,” I say.

  “But you’re not?” she says.

  “Why should I be? We’re just seeing a movie.”

  “That’s so unlike you,” she says. “Remind me again where she works?”

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  “But you said she was an architect. There can’t be too many architects in this town,” she says. “I’ll find her. Want me to?”

  “Avery,” I say, thinking why is it those most ill equipped to dole out advice always seem to be the ones who do, vocally at that, and so persistently? “Hold out,” I add, paying for my drink then slipping it in the holder as I take off, and the wind drowns her monologue so much that I need to tweak the volume just in time to catch, “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?” I say.

  “That firefighter, I told you. She’s texting.”

  “Now?” I say.

  “Yes. It’s disappointing. Look,” she says, “never mind.”

  “Why are you so surprised?” I say, then flip the blinker, change lanes, hit the highway. “It’s just that you’re incompatible in that regard, right?”

  “Don’t act as if you wouldn’t care.”

  “Here I thought she was over-the-top your type,” I say.

  “She is.” Sigh. “Looks-wise.”

  “Except she’s not…”

  “Right,” she says. And I can sense she’s pretty worked up about this. “But she’s not a bottom either.”

  “And she’s not into…”

  “Right,” she says, pausing. “Should I even ask? I will. So let’s just say this was you. What would you do?”

  “Learn to top,” I say. “Not that I’d need to.”

  “Aside from the obvious.”

  “Ghost her,” I say.

  “Aside from that.”

  “You asked my opinion,” I say. “I’m not a bottom, dear.”

  “No,” she says. “You just like to rouse me.”

  “Is that what you are, roused?”

  “Call her already. I’m serious. Just say I had the most amazing time fucking you—”

  “Because that’ll impress her,” I say.

  “You know you did.”

  “I know she did,” I say. And how many times have I wanted to? Try hourly. For the past two weeks. Or nearly.

  “I had the most amazing time fucking you,” she says, thoughtful.

  “Is that what you’re texting your firefighter?”

  “Perhaps,” she says. “It’s a good line.”

  “What a lovely way to begin a relationship,” I say.

  “As if you would know?” she says.

  “I wouldn’t want to know,” I say.

  “But what if,” I hear, “what if this is the one.”

  “After one night,” I say.

  “All right, you’ve convinced me to call her,” she says.

  “I have?”

  “Don’t you think I’ve made her wait long enough?”

  “And what will you say this time?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. But I’ll let you know mañana,” she says. “And answer this time.”

  Which means I’m back on autopilot, crawling down this four-lane stretch of stop-and-go enjoying this Beautiful Mess playlist—on a track I’m really into, now on an emotional high or, I should say, low. Wondering why I would ever entertain advice from Avery. As I wait at the longest red in human history—tilting three vents, resetting my trip counter, flipping my visor, then checking when I’m due for the next oil change…everything I can possibly find to not text Madisen because, why? I’ll see her in a few hours.

  Right, so much for that. I’m sending one.

  Me: You do this thing…

  Yeah, why’d I do that? Reverting to my brief playlist as it runs its course along the next twenty or so miles of no word. I’d imagine she’s in the midst of everything and I’ve sidetracked her, haven’t I, and not in a good way.

  Still two more hours pass, and nada.

  Which is not an issue, since who responds in a few hours? Everyone, right? She’s probably in another meeting. She has those. So again, why do I listen to Avery?

  And thus continues my day until I get home and dump bags across the couch, prop feet, lift the screen on my laptop, and start googling when near me autofills as I type architecture firms, leading to such a rush because who knows. I can’t do this…

  M-a-d-i-s-e-n M-i-t-c-h-e-l-l

  Cuffing shirtsleeves while waiting on this page to load. Then my phone goes off.

  Madisen: Go on…

  Holy shit. Now what?

  Me: You did this thing the other night.

  Madisen: …

  Me: You gave me this look. Maybe you don’t remember. But if you do, tell me what it meant.

  Madisen: As if you didn’t know.

  Me: I’m not sure if I do.

  Madisen: I thought you were a rather good instructor.

  Me: My demonstration skills?

  Madisen: Yes.

  Me: Is that all?

  Madisen: Perhaps.

  Me: Perhaps?

  Madisen: What would you like me to say?

  Me: That I can swing by.

  Madisen: I’m still dressing.

  Me: Please don’t.

  I plot twelve minutes for this commute. Turn left on Chestnut. I make the light past Dunkin, a four-way, a field, and afterward I slow down into that perfect diagonal shade, those newly swept curbs. The woodsy scent of mesquite in the air. What would you like me to say?

  To a neighborhood that’s clearly going for some sort of Beacon Hill aesthetic with its one after another after the next lining the street—me, dodging an occasional dog, leash, dog on leash, ball, kid with ball. It’s just a cool vibe, magnolia lined. Fragrant. Littered in petals this time of year.

  At the second right, turn left and nerves settle in
, and I’m thinking why can’t everything in life have GPS? Like this, you know, just tell me what to do, where to go. Leaving in the occasional long way around and scenic drive, those messy detours rerouting you clear across town then back to the same road where you began. Back to this.

  Your destination will be on your right.

  Which is where I park, stalling a bit. Checking my hair, which is wrong. Then hopping the curb to a sidewalk lined in pots that are painted in every shade of white. Vanilla. Seashell. Bone. Linen. Cream. Blooms dangling. It smells of this afternoon’s rain still streaming down the lips of concrete steps.

  And I knock twice before gazing so far down the street thinking Is this it? And chill and It’s just a girl and a show and a couple hours. Barely aware when the door sucks in and, with it, every ounce of my composure.

  And all I can do is follow a spark of sunlight that angles its way across her lips, stepping back.

  But she’s pressed against me now, and I can feel her lips until I’m back on this strand of hair, looping, tucking it around, asking if she’s ready.

  And instead of answering, she’s moved to the kind of kiss that’s slipping between my knees and now hers. And I can’t let her go. I can’t—but I need to.

  “I suppose,” she says, “we should. Before I catch myself inviting you in.”

  “I’m not opposed to your inviting me in,” I say. And we sort of stay this way, wondering, I guess. At least I am. Why I feel this way. What she’s thinking. As I draw up the hem of her skirt, and she lets me. And then—

  “Neighbors,” she whispers. Pausing as if she has something to say, as if she’s considering it. I think she should. But she turns to close the door. And with the twist of a bolt, it’s painful and discouraging. As we descend the same steps and, all the while, her passing glances.

  Since, leave it to me, I pushed too far.

  Until somewhere between her front door and my car, she takes my hand and she laughs, hunched before sliding into my seat. Where I realize along the drive how much of this I’ve imagined, invented. Like how she lives. That table where she forks breakfast, drowsy while gazing out a window. I’ve imagined everything right down to what she eats as I filled my own cart last weekend at the grocery store.

  The tuck of a towel. The scruff of hair when it’s damp. The unfolding and unhanging as she slips a sleeve down, arm by arm. But here, with knees crooked, what do I really know about her?

  Beyond a few stories she’s shared—a few anecdotes now overlapping mine along the way.

  Until we’re twenty minutes in and we’re sinking deep into seats, whispering, features lit by the big screen.

  As she leans in, a wrist slack along our shared armrest.

  “But to answer your question,” she says and I peer up and there’s this glow along her cheeks and that look again, unsettled, I suppose. “I can’t live life only to please everyone else, not anymore.”

  “I never have,” I say.

  “Never?” she says.

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “Do you regret that?” she says.

  As I sink in my seat, sketching words along her knee before lifting my gaze. “Why do you ask?” I say.

  But she glances away, resigned. “So, tell me what you do.”

  “What do I do?” I say. “I’m a photographer.”

  “How does that work?”

  “I shoot magazines, catalogs, that sort.”

  “And do you like that?” she says.

  “Sometimes,” I say.

  “It must take discipline,” I hear before she’s leaning in to me and here come those nerves again. “So tell me—what’s this film?”

  “What’s it about?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Everything,” I say, “and nothing.”

  “And based on that poster,” she says, “a drama.”

  But it doesn’t matter what she tells me. I like listing to her talk. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “So a complicated mess of realism,” she says.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Will I cry at the end?” Will you cry?

  “I certainly hope not,” I say slipping my palm between the grip of her thighs. And maybe I’m still musing about that doorway scene—had she invited me in, how would that have gone? Flashing back to that glimpse of hair draped over the edge of my bed…

  And she’s smiling now. “What?” I say, dropping my gaze to her lips. But as the space around us dims, settles, her knee lifts, wedging against the pinch of an armrest. And we sink into a kiss that’s hidden under a blackened theater. Until she guides my palm up the center of her thigh.

  “I don’t want you to stop,” she says.

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter Five

  Delilah

  Madisen

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes,” Andi says.

  So maybe I’m a little pepped up or perhaps it’s just one of those days—translation: long—and now that it’s over, I’ve caught my second wind. On the other hand, this might have everything to do with that cappuccino I was convinced into drinking at four in the afternoon under the guise of networking.

  Who knows.

  But in any regard, I’m picturing her slouched in one of those graphic tees dating back to God knows when, and threadbare at that. Soccer shorts. Feet propped in a new pair of crew socks. And I feel like I could talk all night.

  “You’re not all right,” I say.

  “Just work,” she says, “the usual.”

  “You don’t love your job anymore?”

  “I love my people,” she says, “My job, on the other hand, is maddening. Data entry. And nobody was even there today to pull me away from the screen.”

  “Accounts Payable…I hardly consider that data entry,” I say. “And why were you alone?”

  “Trust me, it is,” she says. “And to answer your question, everyone’s out. It’s spring break. But what’ve I kept you from?”

  “Me?” Calling Rae. “Just fielding emails,” I say. “And I don’t have a brain right now.”

  “I guess I’m fortunate there,” she says. “I don’t bring anything home.”

  “I don’t mind it,” I say. “In twenty years, though…”

  “In twenty years, you’ll be retired,” she says.

  “I’ll be sixty,” I say, outraged, “just barely.”

  “I should’ve gone somewhere, you know, for spring break,” she says.

  “Is that really your scene?” I say.

  “Not exactly,” she says. “But why not? I mean, what am I waiting for? A wife, a family, then what?”

  “So what’s going on, really?”

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “So fullbacks, penalties, touchlines,” I tell her, downright impressed with myself. “Don’t I sound like I actually know what I’m talking about?”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “I’m good at memorizing,” I say, “little else.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “So if this isn’t some silly little game you lost—”

  “It’s Jenna,” she tells me. “I just wish it wasn’t so hard.”

  “I try not to think about it,” I say. “That way, I’m not disappointed.”

  “But nobody gets me,” she says, “instinctively.”

  “I thought you just met this girl.”

  “I’m talking hypothetically here,” she says. “That’s the problem—it’s always hypothetical. It’s not as if anyone ever hits me, like, bam.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Because, sigh.

  “Look, I know you don’t get it,” she says. “That’s fine.”

  “I do, sort of.”

  “I need to leave. Not that I have.”

  “But you’re thinking about it?” I say.

  “Maybe,” she says.

  “If you’re not into her—”

  “Oh, I’m into her,” she says.

  “
Well, there’s no such thing as destiny,” I say.

  “There’s someone,” she says, “I’m meant to find.”

  “There’s an infinite many you’re meant to find,” I say. “But I have to believe that.”

  “No, you don’t,” she says.

  “I do. Because, Aline.”

  “She wasn’t your meant-to-be. Aline was merely a stepping stone. Destiny’s out there,” she says. Because she likes to give me these pep talks. “She’ll live to regret this.” And sure, there’s a part of me that wants to believe them.

  “That much is seriously debatable,” I say.

  “And perhaps when she does, it’ll be too late.”

  “The problem is, you romanticize love. And it’s sweet and charming and so Delilah. But I find that rather dull.”

  “What is love without romanticizing?” she says.

  “But where’s the passion? The disagreements, the agony and arguments that always offer little reminders of all you never want to lose? Or those moments you hardly recognize who she is because she’s changed so much since you met?”

  “You’re back on Aline,” she says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When it’s meant to be,” she says, “you can do no wrong.”

  “I don’t agree with that. Because years later, it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s annoying, boring. The whole notion that anyone can find a soul mate, that someone out there knows you intuitively, instinctively. Why would I want that? It’s safe, easy.”

  “It’s not about her knowing you,” she says. “Or you knowing her. It’s more like that feeling you have, in that instant and forevermore.”

  “And what about risk?”

  “Let’s agree to disagree,” she says.

  “That glance across a room,” I add, “when no words could explain that look of knowing, because she understands exactly what you’re thinking. And she answers you without a sound. And afterward, you answer her in the same way. Not a spark at first sight. That sort of thing takes years and years of practice.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I haven’t found that.”

  “Maybe I haven’t either.”

  “You obviously have,” she says.

  “I had something,” I say. “But it’s not as if I knew what I had until we were years into it.”