12. Paisley
Klein drives a late model 4runner.I spend the majority of the drive to his mom’s house learning about his mom and his childhood. We cover the basics, like where he went to high school (Chaparral), and his childhood pet (many, he says, but his favorite was a Corgi named Peanut).
“My mom is going to love you,” he cautions, slowing as he pulls up to the house and shifts into Park. “She is already way too invested in us fake dating.”
I turn sharply. “She knows?”
“Uh, yeah,” Klein rubs at his chin. “I guess I forgot to tell you I told her. Actually, my sister told her.”
“Here I was all afternoon getting myself worked up thinking about how I was going to meet my boyfriend’s mom and what level of physical touch that requires.” I blow out an annoyed breath. “I guess all that angst was for nothing.”
“There was angst?”
I give him a flat look. There’s no way I’ll be describing the tornado that is my room after all those outfit changes. “Please do not become stuck on my usage of the word.”
One side of Klein’s cheek tugs fractionally, and I take this to mean he would very much like for me to describe my mental distress. My arms cross. Too bad.
“I figured it was safe for my mom and sister to know the truth, considering the fake dating thing is for your benefit, not mine.”
“You have a point.”
He nudges me with his elbow across the center console. “You can still show me affection. I can tell you’re dying to, and I would never deny a woman what she so desperately wants.”
“Hah!” I send him my best withering look. He doesn’t wither; his eyes dance with laughter. “Touching only when it’s required, Madigan.”
He opens his car door. “Duly noted.”
I step from the car and study the house in the light of a rapidly setting sun. It’s cozy, made of stucco, with a wall of Bougainvillea growing on trellises. In the center of the yard stands a lemon tree, its trunk painted white.
I gesture at the tree as Klein rounds the front of his car and steps up beside me on the sidewalk. “Did you use the lemons from that tree to make lemonade when you were a kid?”
“I cut them in half and sprinkled sugar on the inside, then squeezed it right into my mouth.” He smiles at the memory.
“Savage.”
“Pretty much. There are three orange trees growing in the backyard.” He glances at my neck when he says this, and I raise a hand, palming it self-consciously. There goes that odd feeling of uncoiling in my stomach, and this time, in my chest.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s do this.”
Klein uses a key to open the front door, shouting, “Mom, we’re here,” as we enter the foyer.
“Kitchen,” she hollers.
Klein leads me through the small house, past a living room with a typical couch and coffee table set up, and a fireplace with an outdated fa?ade. The smell of garlic and onion grows stronger as we go, and then we reach the kitchen. The cabinets are painted the prettiest shade of cerulean blue, with ivory handles. Klein’s mother, standing at the stove, gives something in a large pot a final stir, then turns around.
Her smile is ready, and the first word I think of when I see her is ‘warm.’ It’s followed closely by the word ‘happy,’ as she looks at her son, then at me.
“Paisley, like the pattern,” she says brightly, coming forward. Her hair is darker than Klein’s, closer to auburn.
I laugh. “Exactly.”
I extend a hand, startling when she wraps me in a hug. My limbs melt and I relax into it. I love my mother deeply, but her affection has never been this demonstrative.
Klein’s mom pulls back, her eyes twinkling. “I’m Rosemary.”
“Klein has your eyes,” I say, staring into the deep green, shot through with amber.
She winks at her son. “He sure does. But I refuse to take any responsibility for his grumpiness.”
“Hah,” I laugh.
Rosemary gestures to a four-person table on the opposite side of the room. “Sit,” she says. “Klein, pour your fake girlfriend a glass of wine.”
Her frankness takes me off guard, but the teasing grin on her face tells me she’s being sassy. With a grateful nod I accept the glass of red wine Klein sets in front of me. “Rosemary, I take it you’re ok with the plan we’ve hatched?”
“I was taken aback when I first heard about it, but then Klein’s sister told me about your sister’s choice of groom, and after that”—Rosemary shrugs—“I’d say it’s a fair deal.” She stirs whatever is in the pot on the stovetop one more time, then pours herself a glass of wine and joins me at the table. “Plus, Klein’s never been to the East Coast, or an island for that matter. Should make for an interesting story.”
“I think he’ll love it there.” I glance at Klein, gauging his reaction to our conversation. He has taken a beer from the fridge, and he settles himself in the third chair at the table, twisting off the top and taking a long pull.
“What’s not to love about alligators and golf carts?” he asks, swallowing.
I smirk. “You’ve done your research.”
“Plenty more research to do.” He points his bottle at me. “Pertaining to you.”
I sip my wine. “Tonight’s research is about you,” I remind him.
Rosemary claps her hands excitedly. “How in-depth is this research supposed to go? Do I get to break out the embarrassing baby photos?”
“No,” Klein says.
“Yes,” I counter.
“Photos it is,” Rosemary declares.
“Mom, no,” Klein says firmly.
“Klein, don’t be such a stiff. What’s a little baby butt between friends?” Her gaze shifts from Klein to me and back to Klein again. “That’s what you are, right? Friends?”
Beer bottle poised at his lips, Klein says, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Paisley, have you forgiven him for his cruel critique of your story?”
My mouth drops open.
Klein’s eyes bulge. “Remind me to tell Oliver’s soccer coach about the time Eden dropped her shorts in a public place and tried to pee on a palm tree.”
“You weren’t born yet when that happened. You can only repeat embarrassing stories if you were alive and aware enough to remember them yourself.” Rosemary pats the top of my hand. “Klein’s sister is very thorough when she gossips about him.”
I don’t have to meet Klein’s sister to know that every ounce of gossip about her brother sits on top of a gallon of love. This home has love and acceptance seeping from its walls, as if anybody who grew up here automatically absorbed those qualities.
Klein included. It must be why, after almost eight years, he still feels bad about my story.
“To answer your question, Rosemary, I have not forgiven Klein yet. But I might consider it after I see those baby pictures.”
Rosemary belts out a laugh. She pats her son’s shoulder and says, “It’s too bad she’s not your real girlfriend. I like this one.”
Klein’s lips form a grim line and he says nothing.
Rosemary puts the finishing touches on the beef stew she has made, and tells me about her job as a florist assistant at a store called Nice Stems.
“Last week we had an order for a dozen black roses. The card read, Fuck you both, you deserve each other. The delivery address was to a fancy hotel.”
“Cheating, I assume?” Klein asks, placing spoons beside the bowls he has set out.
“Safe assumption,” Rosemary responds.
“I can’t understand why someone would do that.” Klein shakes his head.
“My dad cheated on my mom,” I blurt out, immediately regretting the admission. It’s this home, I think, and its coziness. The general feeling of acceptance leeches the secrets out of a person.
Klein, bent over the table as he lays napkins out, freezes. His eyes are on me, watching. The color drains from his face. Is he waiting for me to cry? To become visibly upset?
Rosemary breaks in with a wine refill. “I’m sure that was difficult for everyone involved,” she says diplomatically.
I nod. “Yes.” I grab my glass of wine and take a long drink to nurse my vulnerability hangover.
Klein ladles stew into bowls, and Rosemary hands out chunks of crusty bread lathered in butter.
The meal is delicious. Rosemary is witty, sharing stories about Klein as a teenager. More than once I find myself thinking about how odd this all is, like taking a class about a person who just a few weeks ago I would’ve thought of only in my memory.
Rosemary does most of the talking. I pepper her with questions, and Klein steps in here or there to offer a word of defense or addition to what Rosemary has to say.
“He was a difficult teen,” Rosemary says, looking at Klein with nothing but the purest of a mother’s affection, “but that was only because he spent so much time when he was younger being?—”
“That’s enough,” Klein says, eyeing her meaningfully. Rosemary nods in immediate understanding.
My curiosity is piqued, but I know better than to pry.
As promised, Rosemary shows me a few baby pictures after dinner. “He was chubby. His dad called him Brutus.”
The mention of his father rolls easily off Rosemary’s tongue, but Klein, seated beside me on the sofa, flinches.
I pretend not to notice.
Rosemary passes me an open album. Baby Klein, sitting inside a gigantic cardboard box, stares back at me.
She taps the photo. “He liked to crawl inside there and hide from us.”
“I’d crawl inside one now if it were available,” Klein mutters.
Rosemary ignores him. “Turn the page,” she instructs. “The next one is him in the bath.”
Klein tries to close the album, but I’m too fast. I angle my body away, and the only way for him to overcome me is to reach around me.
Which he does. His hand snakes between my arm and my midsection, fingers making a desperate grab for the book.
Too bad I’ve already turned the page.
Klein’s hand falls slack. He starts to pull it away, but he pauses at my waist. Hidden by my bent arm and angled body, he squeezes my hip lightly and tugs.
He releases me just as quickly, as if it never happened, and I swallow my gasp.
Getting ahold of myself, I peer at the album. “Look at that dimpled baby booty,” I coo, and Klein sighs.
We go through a few more, until I’m positive he’s ready to come unglued.
Returning the photo album to Rosemary, I say, “That’s enough for one night. Klein’s head might explode if we keep going.”
“Fine, fine,” Rosemary says, replacing the album on a shelf. “I guess it’s almost my bedtime anyway. I’m opening the store in the morning.”
We say our thank yous and goodbyes to Rosemary. She hugs me, and this time I’m ready for it.
Klein pulls his mom in for a hug, and I step back to allow them room. There is nothing perfunctory about his embrace. He wants to hold his mom and show her his love and gratitude.
I’ve never seen my brother do that to our mom. The thought both saddens and depresses me. Hopefully he does it, I’m just not around to see it.
Klein opens the passenger door of his car, standing back so I can climb in. I settle in the seat, adjusting my dress that has ridden well past mid-thigh. I glance at Klein as I make the adjustment, and watch his eyes as they watch my thigh.
“Eyes up here,” I remind him, but my voice is far too throaty for the words to be much of a warning.
He closes the door with excessive force.
The drive back to our side of town is quiet. My mind is filled with thoughts, images, the feeling of witnessing firsthand a warm and loving family. My own family means well, mostly. They don’t mean harm, I know that for certain. But they’re fractured. And every one of them except my mom believes I’m to blame.
Klein’s silence is driving me crazy, making me wish I could reach into his mind, parse the contents. What is it he’s thinking?
I’ve seen his cute baby rear, yet I don’t know him well enough to know what to say right now. So I stay quiet, my thoughts locked in my head, until we pull up to my house.
He shifts into Park and I reach for the door handle.
“Wait for me, please.” He opens his door, and I watch him get out and round the front of his car. He opens my door and stands back. The filtered light of the crescent moon descends over his face.
I can’t decide if he’s more handsome with or without that sliver of moon illuminating him.
I swing my legs over the side and pause, feet dangling. It’s the beginning of May, and the night air is starting to tighten its hold on the warmth of the day. The cicadas will arrive later in the summer, so for now it is only the crickets serenading us with their intermittent chirps. A low hum from a busy street nearby simmers in the background.
Klein’s hands go inside his pockets. “Are we good?”
My head tilts. “I could ask you the same question.”
His lips purse, and he nods slowly. “I want us to be... good, Paisley. Everything we’re doing here, trying to get to know each other and act like we’re together, it’ll all be easier for me if you don’t hate me anymore.”
“We’ve been through this. I said if I got to see your baby pictures I’d forgive you for what happened.” I’m trying to make light of it because Klein looks torn up. I guess what I should really be doing is trying to understand why I care that Klein looks torn up.
He ignores my attempt at levity.
“Listen.” He takes a step into the space left open by the passenger door. I lift my feet, propping them on the bottom of the doorframe. I don’t want to break eye contact to look down and make sure my dress is covering all my parts, so I settle for assuming if I don’t feel a breeze everything is copacetic.
“I apologize for what happened in college. I never should have torn apart anybody’s story, but especially yours. I was being an asshole. If I could go back in time and change what I did, I would.”
“I appreciate that.” And I believe him, because I know at his core Klein is a good person.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nod.
“Your story... Was it about your dad? You wrote about a teenage girl catching her father cheating on her mom.”
He remembers my story?
My stomach lurches. I’m torn between remembering what it felt like to see my father passionately kiss another woman, and astonishment that Klein remembers the details of my story after all this time.
“Yeah, it was.”
“The assignment was supposed to be fiction.”
“I didn’t listen.”
Klein huffs a breath of disbelief. “Not at all.”
“I guess I didn’t make it easy on whomever ended up with my story to critique. That’s not how I saw it at the time, though. It felt good to get it out of me and onto the page.”
Klein closes his eyes slowly, shaking his head. “I said your story was overly-dramatic.”
“You called it a bad soap opera.”
Klein pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck me, that was cruel.”
“You weren’t wrong, though.” I hate admitting that. “It hurt, but the truth often does. I’m a far better marketer than a writer.” My foot taps the doorframe. “Besides, I still get to be creative, so it all worked out in the end.”
He nods slowly, a look on his face like he’s trying to decide if he accepts my words. “Last Friday night you said it’s my fault you’re in this position. What did you mean?”
I’d forgotten I said that. “I started dating Shane after the story debacle. I was really upset, and he smelled my vulnerability like a shark smells blood in the water.”
“The guy with the annoyingly clean shoes?”
“Umm…” I prefer not to spend too much time sifting through memories to think about Shane’s footwear and its level of cleanliness. “I guess so?”
“Weren’t you already dating him? He was always walking you to class like an overeager puppy.”
“You sure noticed a lot for someone who ignored me.” My eyebrows lift, challenging him to refute my claim.
“What else was I supposed to do? You didn’t respond to the text I sent after we kissed.”
My mouth falls open. “I did not receive a text.”
He gives me a come on look.
My spine stiffens. “I’m not lying!”
“Neither am I!”
We exchange defiant stares.
He breaks first. “One was sent. I promise.”
“Do you have evidence?”
“I deleted your number.”
“Harsh.”
“I didn’t want to be tempted to make an even bigger fool of myself if I had too much to drink and called you or texted you.”
I shake my head, flummoxed. “If I’d received a text, I would’ve answered it.”
His hands go into his pockets as he absorbs my claim. He nods once, accepting it, and says, “Tell me how clean shoe guy was my fault.”
The news that Klein tried to reach out to me after our kiss is still sinking in, but I manage to arrange my thoughts enough to say, “Objectively, I understand nobody forced me to date Shane. Or take him to Raleigh and let him meet my family. Which eventually led him to liking it enough to move there for a job after we broke up, and then run into my sister and fall in love with her.” I picture Sienna’s stunning cheekbones, her rosy lips and typical pleasant demeanor. “I even understand why he fell in love with her. Who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful and sweet?—”
“And a few lychee martinis turn her into a fan of male strippers.”
“She let loose last weekend. You’ll see once we get to the island, she’s really different than how she was when you met her.”
“She’s marrying your ex-boyfriend, and here you are defending her.”
I bristle. “So?”
He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Forget I said anything. Family is complicated, right?”
I finger the hem of my dress. “Sure is.”
There’s a different sound right then, like a thump of air, and an owl settles in a nearby tree. Yellow eyes stare at us. “Creepy.”
“It’s a sign I should quit while I’m ahead.” Klein steps aside, allowing me space to exit the vehicle.
I gather my purse and step out. “I had my Klein lesson tonight. When are you going to start your Paisley lessons?”
Klein leans back, letting the car catch him. “Do you still separate your MMs by color before you eat them?” A cocksure smile appears on his face.
I blink hard, grappling with how him remembering details about me makes me feel. “Yes...”
He dips his chin at me, like he’s saying there you go. “I guess I already know one of your quirks.” Pushing off the car, he motions at my house. “I’ll walk you to your door.”
I point at my door, only thirty feet away. “That door right there?”
He sighs at my passive argument.
“Fine,” I murmur, throwing up my hands as I deny the flutter of pleasure rippling through me. Might I have a thing for chivalry?
I pivot, and Klein matches me step for step. Halfway to my door, I feel a press against my lower back. A guiding palm I don’t need, but… Oh. I want it. I like it.
Miracle of miracles, I make it to my front door without melting. Unlocking the door, I push it open an inch and turn back to Klein.
He drops his hand from my back, putting a bit of space between us. His tall frame blocks the porch light, casting an ethereal glow around him. Does he know how handsome he is? He must. How could he not?
Clearing my throat, I force thoughts of his heavily-fringed green eyes from my mind. “Thank you for walking me up,” I say, prim and proper. “It was very gentlemanly of you.”
One corner of Klein’s mouth quirks, like my forehead is transparent and he can read my thoughts like a book. “Get used to me being a gentleman, Paisley.”
“Let me guess. That’s how your mother raised you to behave?”
“Yes, but also because you deserve to be treated that way.”
Instead of saying thank you like I should, my gaze meets the floor. I’m not sure how to stand before a compliment delivered so brazenly.
Maybe Klein senses my unease, because he keeps talking. “I have a lot more to learn about you, Paisley. How about Saturday afternoon, before my shift? I’ll come over.”
A thrill races through me. “Saturday works.”
Quiet falls over us, until he points at my door. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re inside and I hear your lock turn.”
I fight a smile. “So if I walked inside but forgot to lock it, you’d?—”
“Sleep on your porch.”
I chuckle. He can’t be serious. This is his poetic, writer’s soul talking.
“Don’t worry, Wordsmith. I’ll make sure you get your quality beauty sleep.” Pushing open the door, I step inside and turn around.
“Good night,” I say, allowing an extra lilt in my voice.
From Klein comes a single, heavy exhale between closed lips. “Good night.”
The door closes. Out of sight, I press a hand to my chest and release a held breath in one long, slow stream. My head droops, my muscles thawing. The tension from the mental and emotional tightrope I walk with Klein is on par with?—
“Paisley.”
His voice reaches through the door, surprising me enough to elicit a surprised yelp. “Yeah?”
“Lock the door.” He sounds bemused.
Grinning to myself, I reach out and flip the lock loudly.
The night falls quiet, and then his car engine roars to life.
Dazed, I make my way to my room and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Klein, who I believed never looked my way in that class we were in together, remembers the way I’d empty my bag of MMs onto my paper and group them by color.
Why, after all this time, did he retain that unimportant detail?
And why, oh why, do I like that he did?