13. Paisley
Klein arriveson Saturday afternoon at 3:55.
He wears jeans, like always, but this time his T-shirt is forest green. It deepens his eye color, and requires real effort for me not to stare too deeply into them.
“You’re early again,” I chide, holding open the door.
One hand is hidden behind his back, and when I swerve left to look at what it is he’s concealing, he veers right. “Five minutes early is on time.”
“Says who?” I coax back the grin bending my lips.
“The time police.” He rocks back on his heels, eyebrows lifting. “And guess what?”
I bite down on a square of flesh inside my lower lip. “You’re the sheriff?”
Klein makes an aggrieved face. “You stole my punchline.” He moves the arm he has bent behind himself. With exaggerated fanfare, he holds out a bag of Laffy Taffy. “Maybe this will make up for my under-appreciated punctuality.”
I take it from him and step back into my house, fending off feelings as ooey and gooey as the bag’s contents.
“They’re a passable jumping off point. Come sit,” I say, leading him to the living room and settling on one end of the couch. I gesture at the opposite end for Klein.
“Do you still like that candy?” he asks, passing me to get to where I’ve indicated.
“Mm-hmm.” I try to keep my response blasé. There aren’t any heart tingles happening from that little act of kindness. Nothing to see here, folks.
Klein attempts to fit his tall frame on my couch. He turns around, giving my throw pillows an accusatory stink-eye when they stop him from sitting comfortably. He elbows one, asking, “Why do you have so many of these?”
“Because I like them.”
“Hmph,” he grunts.
“So,” I bring my legs up and tuck them underneath me. “Where should we begin?” I break into the bag of candy daintily, like I’m only eating it to be polite. But in my body, there’s a different story. I haven’t had Laffy Taffy in forever, and I can already taste its saccharine and artificial flavor on my tongue.
Klein extracts a piece of folded paper from his back pocket. “Well,” he unfolds it, hesitating as he sends me a worried glance. “I made a list of things I would probably know about a girlfriend.”
I nod calmly, but on the inside, I am trying not to freak out. Why do I find it so endearing that he made a list? I pop in a strawberry flavored piece of candy. The sugar hits my taste buds in a delightful assault.
I hold out a hand for the list. “May I see?”
He places it in my outstretched palm.
Musical preference
Karaoke song
Relaxation method
Favorite food
Clearing my throat, I push out the breathless feeling and tell myself this is only Klein being organized. Not kind, sweet, or thoughtful. Organized.
He plucks the list from my hand and removes a small silver pen from his pocket. Uncapping it, he lays the paper on his thigh, pen in the ready position.
I beat back a grin. Again. I’m having to do that a lot with him. “Are you afraid you won’t remember my answers?”
He shakes his head. “I like to study.”
“Right.” I remember that about him, the way he would drape over his desk in class, his dark blond hair sweeping over his forehead. Sometimes the tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth when he was concentrating hard.
I sit up straight, swinging my legs out from underneath me because my knees are beginning to ache. “The answer to number one is whatever is on top hits.”
Klein stares at me.
“What?” I challenge.
“Terrible answer,” he grimaces. “We are going to need to do some work on your taste in music.”
I palm my chest, pretending to be offended. “I like what I like.”
“I’m adding ‘expand Paisley’s musical horizon’ to our contract.”
My eyebrow quirks. “The one you filed with the department of contracts?”
“Bureau of contracts,” he corrects.
I start to laugh, then stifle it with a cough.
“You can laugh at my joke, Paisley.” His voice grows huskier, chin dipping my direction. “It’s allowed.”
Oh-kay. We need to get back on track here. “I’ll remember that for next time.” Glancing down at the paper, I ask, “What was the next one?”
He doesn’t have to look at his paper. He already knows. “Karaoke song.”
“Easy.” I relax back into the couch cushion. “She’s In Love With A Boy by Trisha Yearwood.”
“Never heard of it.”
My mouth opens in what is likely extremely unattractive bewilderment. “Dealbreaker. The agreement is off.”
Klein reaches behind himself, removing two throw pillows and, making use of the name, tosses them on a nearby chair. He leans back on the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “Sing it for me.”
Umm...excuse me? I sing, but terribly, and only when nobody can hear me. “That’s a hard no.”
“Come on, Paisley. There is no worse singer than I, so you’re already better than me.”
“Look up the song. It’ll take ten seconds.”
“Probably less, but I would rather hear you sing it.”
“Why, so you can take the knowledge and add it to your little stockpile of ammunition?”
His head turns and he looks at me. “What?”
“I let it slip that I looked you up on the internet, and then I saw you mentally tucking it away for later use. Gunny sacking, I believe that’s called. And,” I widen my eyes at him, “you made sure to tell me looking me up was the last thing you wanted to do.”
The comment still smarts.
He sits up, bending a knee and bringing it between us. He’s so big that he takes up almost the entire cushion. With an expression of utter seriousness, he says, “I said it was the last thing I wanted to do. Not that I didn’t do it.”
The clarification hits its mark. “You looked me up?” What a relief to know it wasn’t only me haunted by him. By what we could have been if we’d talked after that kiss, or at all during that semester.
His arm has been resting on the back of my couch, and he bends it now, pinching his bottom lip between two fingers as he considers how to say something. “I looked you up twenty-two times. And every time I did it, it was the last thing I wanted to do because I knew it would lead to nothing but regret.”
I mirror his posture. Mere inches separate our knees. “Regret? About the story critique, you mean?”
His lashes are long and full and his eyes are laser focused on me. “Sure,” he answers slowly, and I’m almost positive it’s a partial truth.
“I’ll have to remember you’re a wordsmith. I’m not used to paying special attention to what people are saying. Usually words are words, but with you—“ my head tilts, “I get the feeling they’re more.”
“Words are everything.” He speaks clearly, strength pulsing in his tone. “I’m willing to put myself on social media for the chance to have my work out in the world. My words.”
“But isn’t that exactly what you’re already doing with your book? Allowing people into your mind? Your heart? That sounds a hell of a lot more intrusive than posting on social media.”
“They’re characters.” He taps his head. “I made them up. A work of fiction. All resemblances to persons, places, or things, both living and dead, are entirely coincidental.”
“Thank you for reciting your copyright. No, but seriously, think about it. Maybe this will help you wrap your mind around the idea of being on social.” I sit up straighter, excited. I’d rather Klein be receptive to our marketing initiative, or at the very least not despise it. “Authors put a piece of themselves into their work, even when they write fiction. It’s like...the book is a woven piece of art. What are those things called? With a loom?”
“Tapestry.”
“Right, that. It’s like you’re sitting at a loom, and you’re looming.” I mime weaving.
He laughs.
“And you’re inserting microscopic pieces of your soul into the words. Onto the pages. Then you’re giving it away, to whomever picks up the book. You have no control over that. You do not know who’s picking up your soul vis à vis your book.” My shoulders lift, hovering near my ears for a second before dropping. “It’s not all that different from social media.”
“Social media is performative. I hate that.”
“Don’t be performative. We talked about this. Be unapologetically honest.”
“While posting about fake dating you?”
“Yes. Tell the world this is fake.” I tap his knee. “Just don’t tell my sister. Or her friends. Or my brother. Or my parents. Or my ex.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds. “But have you considered the possibility they might somehow come across my account?”
“I have. And I don’t think it’s likely to happen. The platform has two billion users. And while we’ll strive to give your account traction and make it one to follow, it will be within the right space and for the correct audience. My family does not fall into that category.” About this, I’m certain. I climb off the couch. “I feel like having a glass of wine. You?”
Klein shakes his head. “I’m good. I’m headed to work pretty soon.”
“Do you want something to drink? Water?” I bat my eyelashes. “Kombucha?”
He smiles. “No, thank you.”
I indicate for him to follow me, so he gets up and trails behind me into the kitchen. “What’s it like working in a bar like that?”
“Loud,” he answers, wandering over to my collection of cookbooks. “Do you cook?”
I answer with a nod as I’m on tiptoe, pulling my favorite wineglass from a top shelf. A small part of me wouldn’t mind Klein coming up behind me and reaching for the glass. Would he brush against me, his front to my back? Would I feel his chest pressing into my shoulders? I remember all too clearly what it felt like to have his heated chest under my seeking hands. Sloppy or not, I liked having Klein under my palms.
He stays put, and that’s a good thing. This situation has the potential to be messy enough. Why throw gasoline on an inferno?
Taking the bottle of wine from the fridge, I pour half a glass and turn around, leaning back against the lip of the counter.
I’m stunned, but only briefly. Is this really Klein in my kitchen? Asking get-to-know-me questions so we can pull off a week of fake-dating hijinks?
I swallow a mouthful of wine. “What was the next question on your list?”
“How do you relax?”
“I guess that depends on what kind of stress I’m experiencing. If it’s just the everyday stuff, I watch videos of people making fancy ice.”
Klein’s eyebrows cinch dubiously. “Fancy ice? You mean like nugget ice or the square cubes?”
Pulling my phone from my back pocket as I walk closer, I tell him, “Prepare to be amazed.”
But then it’s me who’s amazed, or maybe dumbfounded is the better word, because I’m so close to Klein now that his scent overwhelms me. The warmth coming off his body is distracting. Disarming.
Shaking my head and forcing myself to behave, I bring up the video, then press play. “This is my favorite one. She has seventeen molds, and she keeps them organized in her freezer.”
Thirty seconds later, the video is over. “But why?” Klein asks. “What does she do with them now? Does the flower shaped ice go in pink lemonade? Does the diamond shaped ice go in a top-shelf vodka tonic?”
I squint at him. “You’re weird.”
“I need to know what she does with it.”
I smirk. “You mean you need a resolution to the story she has presented in a thirty second short form video?”
“That”—he points at my phone—“is not relaxing. Too many unanswered questions.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you do to relax? I’m sure it’s not always easy to deal with drunk people at night, and sling words during the day.”
“Easy,” Klein shrugs. “I watch videos of dogs throwing temper tantrums.”
Now it’s my turn to have pinched and dubious eyebrows. “Dogs throwing temper tantrums?”
Klein extracts his phone from his pocket, excitement twinkling in his eyes. He copies me by saying, “Prepare to be amazed.”
He pulls up a video and offers me his phone. “Dom sent me this yesterday.”
I’m already smiling and we’re only three seconds into the video of a golden retriever lying on what appears to be an asphalt street, refusing to get up. The owner stands a few feet away, holding onto the leash and attempting to coax him from the ground. A young girl walks by, sparking the dog’s interest enough to make him stand up and lick her hand. Relief takes over the owner’s face as he believes they will now be able to continue their walk, but the dog lies right back down. The exasperated owner finally bends down on one knee, scooping up the dog who at this point could pass for a sack of potatoes. The owner staggers away as upbeat music plays in the background.
Klein slides his phone back into his pocket. I take a step away, inserting some space between us now that we’ve exchanged silly videos (and he’s one-upped me).
Appraising eyes on me, he says, “You should see your smile right now. You look way happier than you did watching ice being made.”
I wipe the smile off my face. “You’re seeing things. I’m not smiling.” Except I’m literally fighting a smile while saying it, and Klein’s knowing look makes it even harder to keep a straight face. I take another sip of wine. “What was your final question on your list?”
“Favorite food.”
“Tacos.”
“That feels like a gimme.”
“A gimme?”
“Everyone’s favorite food is tacos.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Tacos.”
I roll my eyes. “I guess it’ll be easy for us to choose a restaurant sometime.”
Klein glances at his watch. “Speaking of restaurants...” He pushes off the counter. “I better get going.”
I nod, but find I don’t want him to go. Do I enjoy his company? Our conversation?
Geez. I’m going to have to watch out for that. No need to muddy the waters.
I walk him to the front door, holding it open for him while he steps through.
He stands on the threshold, hands tucked in his pockets. “It was nice getting to know you. A little, anyway.”
“It was only a little nice getting to know me?” I tease.
He offers a lopsided smile. “I mean, we’ve hardly broken the surface.”
Disregarding his words with a wave of my hand, I say, “Nah. I’m boring. There’s not much to know about me.”
He arches an eyebrow. My breath sticks in my throat as he captures a lock of my hair, pinching it between two fingers. “I think you’re very wrong about that.” My hair glides through his grasp, his finger turning in a circle so my hair spirals around it.
Then he drops it. And lopes off. Just like that.
No goodbye. No backwards glance.
Inside my house with the door closed, I spy his short list lying on the couch where he’d been sitting. I swipe the paper, tracing my finger over his neat handwriting.
When I agreed to the idea of Klein being my fake date for the week, I’d only thought about it on a surface level. The logistics, and what each one of us will get out of it.
I didn’t consider what it would mean for me to get to know him, or how it would feel to let him know me.
I like it.
And I don’t care for that.
Are you awake?
Yes. How was your shift? Any more lascivious acts in the parking lot?
I told you nothing happened with her.
Sure, sure.
You’re stubborn.
As are you.
I stopped for tacos on the way home. It made me think of you.
How thoughtful.
And then I realized you never told me much about Clean Shoe Guy.
Uhh ok??? He has a name.
Satan, correct?
Close. Shane.
What do you want to know?
Do you still carry a torch for him? Just trying to ascertain what exactly I’m getting myself into when I arrive on the island.
I’d rather chew off my own big toe than have a remotely romantic experience with Shane/Satan ever again.
I bet you said the same thing about me after our bad kiss.
We were barely adults when that happened. I forgive us.
So no lingering feelings for the ex, then?
What do you get when you multiply zero by a zillion?
Zero.
Bingo!