One String (Lighter Ones)

Chapter 12

Marilyn

It’s difficult to concentrate on my clients’ financial profiles when my thoughts continually circle back to Ricky and his interview dinner tonight. I must be a masochist because when I woke this morning, I was more worried about him at the dinner than I was about my own feelings. Last night, it was the exact opposite. The sense of rejection was heavier than it had been seven years ago.

That long ago, I didn’t know what to feel. I’d agreed to our terms. I was upset Ricky had stuck to them, which, in hindsight, wasn’t fair to him. Last night was different. While he’d given the same no-strings speech, last night was about helping a friend, a friend I’ve never gotten over. The entire evening, from our drinks at the bar to our dinner, was enjoyable, more so than I expected. Not a minute with Ricky was boring. No discussion of languages or countries visited.

Somewhere in my inner teenage self, I imagined a path forward.

It isn’t like I’m looking for the love of my life. It’s that after years of navigating the world basically on my own, I saw the possibility of a partner. Ricky could be a partner who understands my day-to-day work and enjoys the comfort of our shared friends and family.

Finding that note on his phone was exponentially more upsetting than the fact that he never called or texted me after our one night—the one night without strings. That note next to my name meant that he not only didn’t plan to call me, but he didn’t want to answer if I called.

“Ms. James,” Klara says as she pushes my office door inward. “You have a delivery.”

I tear my eyes away from my computer screens. “A delivery?”

She comes into my office holding an envelope.

“Why not have the mail person deliver it?” I ask as I take it from her. The paper is thick and soft beneath my fingertips. There’s no address or stamp, just my name written in flowing cursive. I look up at our receptionist. “Did someone hand-deliver this?”

“Yes, ma’am. A man. He didn’t give his name, only asked if you were here and if I could take this to you.”

“Should we have it tested for anthrax?” I ask with a grin.

She lifts her hands. “I hope not.” Her smile returns. “He seemed nice enough. Handsome, too.”

“Thank you, Klara.”

“I think you have an admirer.”

“If I do, it will be the best thing to happen in a long time.”

Klara closes the office door on her way out, leaving me staring down at the envelope. Assuming it isn’t poisonous, I should probably open it. As I reach for my letter opener, a rarely used office tool, my cell phone vibrates, and I see Devan’s name on the screen. A quick look at the clock tells me that school is probably out for the weekend.

“Hey,” I say as I answer.

“I’m mad at you.”

“You are?” I ask, leaning forward, suddenly worried why one of my best friends would be mad at me, but knowing the answer in the pit of my stomach. “Devan, you can’t be mad. You’re one of my best friends.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

“Do we tell each other everything?” she asks.

Shit.

“We tell each other almost everything.”

“Marilyn, I’ve shared everything with you. You told me your first sex was with a guy at Ball State. You said he was handsome and smooth-talking and you never wanted to see him again. I believed you.”

“I never technically said he was at Ball State. You used context clues to assume that part.”

“Handsome and smooth-talking…Ricky?” Her voice goes higher as she says her brother’s name.

“Okay, that part was a lie.” It wasn’t when I said it. “Your brother is a total ass, and I’m sorry, Dev, but I’m not even going to play nice for you and Justin anymore. I hope I never see him as long as I live.”

“Oh my God!” she screams. “You like him. You really like him.”

Is she even listening?

“No, Devan. The opposite.”

“No. I know you. I lived with you for four years. If you don’t like someone, you forget they exist. Remember that guy from your calculus class our freshman year? You simply pretended to no longer share the same air. And then there was the guy our junior year you met in swimming class.”

“What an asinine class for college students.”

“Yeah,” she goes on, “but you really liked him. When he turned into a jerk, you swore you hated him. That’s what you do when you like someone.”

“I love you, Dev. Stick to teaching. Psychology isn’t your forte.”

“Justin told me what happened—what happened last night.” Her voice is quieter and pathetically appeasing.

“I’m fine. It was a good reminder of what a total jackass your brother is. I won’t forget it again.”

“You aren’t fine. Come down here for the weekend. Jill will be here for her niece’s birthday.”

I’d forgotten Jill telling me about that. “I don’t think going back to my childhood bedroom will make this better.”

“Then stay with us. We have extra rooms. I’ll have Jill come over, and the three of us can come clean about all the things we haven’t told one another.”

“I think that’s the only one, for me.” I swallow. “I’m sorry, Dev. He’s your brother. I was… Well, afterward, I was ashamed and embarrassed. He still thought of me as a kid, and honestly, when he realized he was my first, he freaked out.”

“Gosh, sounds absolutely orgasmic.”

A laugh comes from my throat. “It wasn’t. I bet he’d be a lot better now.” What did I just say? “Nope. That wasn’t me talking. Someone must have cut into our call.”

“Think about it. Justin and I would love to show you the things we’ve done with the house. We can sit by the fire and drink spiked cider.”

“With cinnamon?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I am,” she says. “But now that you know I am, I can get over it. Mostly, I want to give you a hug and tell you that I love you.”

Tears sting my eyes. “I could use a hug.”

Driving to Riverbend would be better than sitting in my apartment, wondering about Ricky’s dinner and feeling guilty for not following through on my promise to help him. Those thoughts remind me of the letter in front of me.

Tucking my phone between my cheek and shoulder, I open the envelope, remove the page, and unfold it. My gaze goes to the bottom of the paper. Signed—Ricky.

“Dev, I’ll call you back and let you know my decision. I have another few hours here at work.”

“Okay, I’m going to stop at the grocery store and stock up on the best drinks and snacks for girl time.”

“What about Justin?”

“He can be our sexy waiter.”

Another laugh. “Um, if you say so.”

“Call back after work.”

“I will.” We disconnect our call. I lay my phone on my desk and smooth out the page, reading the flowing words.

Dear Marilyn,

Someone told me that handwritten letters are a rarely used form of communication. I read where they are also the sincerest. It’s easy and fast to send a text message. An email takes only seconds longer. A handwritten note takes time, penmanship, and patience. That doesn’t even take into account the delivery.

I didn’t want to wait on the USPS, so I delivered this letter personally to your office.

If you haven’t stopped reading yet, I might have a chance of you reading to the very end. I told you last night that I was sorry. That’s an insignificant explanation of a complex emotion. I’m not sure the English language has a word capable of expressing my distress over causing you pain.

Hurting you wasn’t my intention—neither years ago nor last night.

The partners’ dinner means nothing if I can’t consider you a friend—or more. You see, working at Parker and Stevens would mean more to me if I knew I could see your beautiful smile, hear your glorious laughter, and bask in your presence. Without those qualities, the firm would mean nothing more than any other.

I hope you continued reading, and I hope that when I call, you will answer. If you call, I will always answer.

Yours,

Ricky

I read the letter to the end.

Yours.

Yours?

What the actual hell?

Despite my gut reaction to his sign-off, I’m ashamed to say I read the handwritten note multiple times before folding it neatly and placing it back in the envelope. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m thinking.

A look up at my screen, and I admit that the wealth perspectives and investment growth of my clients is far away from my current radar. I’m about to call it a day when there’s a knock on my office door.

Not waiting for a command from me, the door opens. While I expect to see Klara with another message, a letter or maybe more ice cream, instead, I’m met with the green stare of Bryce Perkins. My ex.

“Marilyn, can I ask you for a favor?”

I grit my teeth. “No, Bryce. It’s Friday, and I have plans.”

He comes toward my desk, wearing his business casual, pants, a sweater, and a suit coat. The aroma of his cologne proceeds him as he nears. There’s no question that Bryce is a handsome man. The truth of the matter is that, like T.J., the guy from the gym, Bryce is boring and too self-assured for his own good.

“I know it’s late notice,” he says, “but I’m supposed to attend the dinner tonight for the applicants for our new entry-level position.”

I sit taller and purse my lips. “Are you inviting me? It is a little late.” I look at my watch. “There’s only two hours to cocktails.”

His expression pinches. “How do you know about it?”

“A friend told me.”

“Are you available?” he asks hopefully.

Standing, I meet his gaze. “No, Bryce. I’m not available at the last minute to be your plus-one. What happened? Does your current flavor of the month have a broken nail?”

“Beth and I have been dating for two months. She’s coming down with something, and she suggested I ask you.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she knows we’re over as a couple. You know, you’re not a threat.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That has to be one of the worst pickup lines ever. I’m not sure why everyone thinks I’m the one to help with favors, but news flash, I’m not. I can’t possibly go with you to the dinner. I’m already attending with one of the applicants.”

“You are?”

I wasn’t a few minutes ago, but after being told I’m not a threat, hell yes. “I am, and I need to get ready—you know, in a nonthreatening way. See you tonight, Bryce.”

As he walks away, I sit back in my chair, enjoying the energy flowing through my circulation. Turning Bryce down is just the kick I need. And being told I’m not a threat is the incentive I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself.

I can be a threat.

When it comes to Bryce, I’m not interested enough not to be a threat.

Quickly, I send Devan a text message.

“I’ve had a change of plans. I’ll drive down to Riverbend on Saturday. See you then.”

Now, I need to hurry.