17. Klein
“Your place is nice,”Paisley murmurs as she noses through my book collection. Her neck bends awkwardly to read a book title.
Bookshelves line one wall of my living room. Paisley walks its length, her fingertips running over spines, pulling one out here and there to inspect the cover.
I wasn’t expecting company, but I’m a tidy guy. A surprise visit to my home doesn’t induce panic. I vacuum my floors, clean the dishes before they smell bad, and dust semi-regularly. I even own a throw blanket, of sorts. It’s a quilt sewn by my grandmother and great aunt, and I never throw it because it’s precious.
Despite knowing I’m a clean and otherwise socially acceptable man, Paisley perusing my shelves incites a nervous excitement. For every book spine she runs a finger down, a corresponding thrill shoots down my own.
I like her in my space. My home. Watching her learn me, my book preferences, puts a squeeze to my heart. Those red pants she wears only magnify her presence. They do things to her backside that make it hard to look away from. She walked ahead of me up the stairs to my apartment, and I missed a step and narrowly avoided a fall that would’ve made it onto my list of top five most embarrassing moments.
Paisley looks over at me, a Stephen King book in her grasp. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”
Her question is perfectly innocent, even expected given where she’s standing and what’s in her hand. She could never know how painful the answer is.
In a book, backstory is meted out, dropped like morsels along a path. A little something to introduce what made the character who they are in the present. It’s never dumped on a reader like a deluge of cold water.
Hidden backstory is what the writer knows about the character, but never shares. As of this moment, I have no plans to share with Paisley the emotional pain I endured on my way to becoming a writer. Like every other time I’ve been asked this question, I deliver the sanitized version.
“My mom read to me when I was a kid. Big books, with even bigger words. I kept a dictionary next to my bed so I could look up the meanings. She instilled in me a love for story, and”—cue the shrug—“the rest is history.”
Paisley likes my response, if her smile and hand over her heart are any indication. “That’s sweet.”
If I filled out the story, gave it sinew and marrow and muscle, she wouldn’t find it sweet. And though I have no intention of doing so, in my chest is an odd ache to tell her.
No way.
I thumb at my bedroom, saying, “I’m going to take a quick shower,” and hightail it from the room.
When I finish cleaning myself up and return, I find Paisley draped across my favorite chair.
It’s deep, the cushions thick, and the right height to accommodate me. Paisley appears to have been swallowed by it, compensating for the size difference by sitting in it sideways. Her legs dangle off the arm of the chair, feet bare and shoes lying haphazardly on the floor below her. Her head leans back on the opposite arm, a book poised in the air.
She looks like a poem, a painting, maybe even the subject of an aspiring author’s fantasy.
“Hey,” I say gruffly, walking away so she doesn’t catch me adjusting the front of my jeans. “What do you think about staying here and ordering dinner in?”
Behind me I hear the sounds of Paisley closing the book, climbing up off the chair. “Hmm,” she says, “what do you have in your fridge?”
I’m turned away from her in the small kitchen, squeezing my eyes shut and willing my erection to play nice. At least I chose jeans instead of the more comfortable option. Sweats. Those don’t hide a damn thing.
Paisley’s voice grows louder and louder behind me, until I know she’s only a few feet away. Not turning around now would seem rude. I take a deep breath, focusing on keeping my shoulders from moving so she doesn’t know what I’m doing, and turn around slowly.
Paisley is staring at me with curiosity, her gaze strong and clear, and I can tell by the look in her eyes she’s trying to work through the odd behavior I’m presenting.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod quickly, trying and failing at the attempt not to enjoy what has already become a little inside joke.
“Oh-kay,” she draws out the word. She comes closer, bypassing me and going to my fridge. “Cute magnets,” she comments, tapping a few with the tip of her pointer finger. “Who gave these to you?”
“My mom. Or my sister. It’s kind of become a thing.”
Paisley pulls one from the fridge and examines it closer. “They were pets?”
“Every dog we had growing up is now represented in magnet form.”
She replaces the magnet. “That’s really sweet.” She removes the Corgi and holds it up. “Peanut?”
She remembers the name of my favorite pet, a name I mentioned once, briefly?
“The one and only.”
“You had a lot of dogs.”
“My mom had a thing for going to the pound and choosing the dog nobody else wanted.”
“That’s sweet, but it also sounds like you had to experience a dog passing away more than most people.”
“Once I understood how much we were doing by giving them love and care in the final months or years of their lives, the grief I felt when we lost them became more manageable.”
Moisture forms in the corners of Paisley’s eyes. “I don’t know if I could do something like that.”
Her emotion has me longing to reach out to her. I cross my arms to stop myself. Would that be well-received? “You could if you understood what you were giving. You’d be surprised how much pain the heart can hold.”
“I’m no stranger to pain.”
Her voice is low, deep, almost gravely. Like me, she changes the subject before I can ask any follow-up questions. Stepping up to my fridge, she says, “I like to play this game with myself where I see what I have in my fridge and come up with something to make from the ingredients.” She looks up at me. “I hate wasting food.”
“What if all I have is,” I grab the door handle, and Paisley shuffles aside as I swing it open. “Ground beef and tricolor cauliflower florets?”
“Hmm,” Paisley taps her chin. “Do you have an onion?”
Pointing to a basket on the counter behind us, I nod in the affirmative.
She bends down to get a better look at my fridge. Do I take the opportunity to appreciate the curve of her backside, the dip of her lower back? Damn straight. “You have wine,” she smiles up at me, and her eyes narrow knowingly. “Everything’s better with wine.”
“Even tacos?”
“Tacos are magnificent on their own, but they are enhanced by a spicy red.” She pulls the ingredients from the fridge. “And yes, I caught you checking out my ass.”
“Would have been a crime not to.”
She laughs and shakes her backside at me. “I don’t blame you. It’s a nice ass.”
I chuckle and take the ingredients from her, moving around the kitchen to assemble cooking tools.
Paisley and I work side-by-side, cutting the cauliflower into small pieces and browning the ground beef. Paisley declares dicing the onion my job because it makes her cry. She looks through my pantry while I cut, coming away with a can of enchilada sauce. “Let’s throw this in there.”
By the time we’ve added chili pepper, cumin, salt, and pepper, my kitchen smells pretty damn good. I give it a taste, and lift my eyebrows in surprise.
Paisley grins. “I guess if it were terrible, you’d be frowning.”
“Taste,” I offer the wooden spoon, one hand cupped beneath to catch anything that falls.
Paisley leans in, lips parted and pressing against the tip of the spoon.
Lucky spoon.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathes, “that is delicious.” She holds out her hand for a high five. “We should be on one of those amateur cooking competition shows.”
“I’ll stick to spinning yarns.”
Paisley laughs, rummaging through my cabinets until she locates bowls. She does the same thing with my drawers until she finds silverware. I could’ve told her where to find those things, but I was busy enjoying watching her get acquainted with my kitchen.
“All right,” I say to Paisley as we settle at my small table. “Tell me about your mom and dad.”
“That’s a loaded question.” She takes a bite, pausing to chew, then corrects herself by saying, “It’s more like the answer to that question is loaded.”
Lucky for me I don’t have to go into detail about my parents. It’s not me who’s taking Paisley to a landmass accessible only by boat and having her spend the week with my mom and dad.
I stay quiet, taking another bite and waiting.
“My mom and dad are divorced. He cheated, as you know.” Her gaze flicks to mine, then back down. She takes another bite, chews and swallows, then wipes her mouth with a napkin. “You also know I caught him cheating.” She sighs, like whatever it is she’s about to say still weighs heavy on her. “We were on Bald Head Island when it happened. It was with the woman who was staying at the house next to ours. When his infidelity finally came to light, everyone sort of blamed me for what happened as a result. The divorce, and all the ugliness that went with it.”
I nod calmly, or at least that’s how I hope it comes across. My thoughts are a little more what the fuck mixed with who’s delusional enough to blame Paisley for her dad’s behavior?
“That’s awful,” I say, which isn’t enough, but I can’t think of what to say that isn’t derogatory about her father. At the end of the day, the man is still her dad, no matter what he did.
That thought has my fork stilling midair, the realization of my words slingshotting against my brain, reverberating down into my heart.
Do I really believe no matter how badly a mom or dad behaves, they’re still your parent?
A minute ago I would’ve said absolutely not, but that errant thought snuck up on me, and now I’m not so sure.
I rest my fork on my plate, indignation spurring in my chest. My polite initial reaction is fading fast. “Actually, Paisley, that’s more than awful. That’s cruel and selfish. Please help me understand how your family blames you.”
“Not my mom. Just my dad and my siblings.” She sits back, crossing her arms. “They said it was only a kiss, and I blew it out of proportion. I can see where my brother and sister were coming from, because it was a total disruption to everyone’s lives. I get that it would’ve been easier for them if it had stayed buried.”
“Paisley, it’s not your fault no matter what anybody says. Your siblings were young and probably responded with a commensurate level of maturity, but your dad blaming you is unbelievable.” The longer I spoke, the more ardent my tone grew, and now I sound like I’m delivering an impassioned speech. But I’m not done. “He’s also wrong, and I bet he really blamed himself but his ego couldn’t take it. Has he grown up since? Apologized?” I fear I already know the answer.
“No, but maybe this trip he will. He’s kept me at arm’s length for so long, you’d think…” She shrugs, but there’s hurt behind her eyes. “So, anyway, you’ll get to see the whole fam in all their glory. My mom hates my dad, but she’s moved on. She has a boyfriend now, and he’s young. Like, young.” Paisley says this with wide eyes.
“How young?”
“He could be my boyfriend.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah. And she isn’t shy about their, uh”—Paisley searches for the word—“enjoyment of one another.”
Once again I’m nodding calmly, but on the inside I’m throwing up in my mouth.
Paisley continues. “It gets more interesting. My dad didn’t want the divorce. He claims my mom’s having a mid-life crisis and he’s waiting for her to”—Paisley makes air quotes—“come back home.”
“Then why did he cheat?”
“A momentary indiscretion. A lapse in judgment.” Paisley rolls her eyes. “Those are his words, not mine.”
“I’m sorry you were the one to find him. That’s really shitty.”
“That part gets worse, too. He knew I saw him, and he asked me not to tell. Stupidly, I listened to him, but it ate me up inside. The anxiety and guilt made my stomach hurt, and then I actually became sick. I had a physiological response to the stress of keeping his secret. I wrote it down on a piece of paper just to get it out of me, and my mom walked into my room. I tried to hide it from her, but she saw that I was nudging the notebook under a stack of schoolwork, and she snatched it up.” Paisley laughs once, an empty sound. “I think I would’ve eaten that piece of paper before I let her read it. How fucked up is that?”
“Pretty damn bad.”
“So,” Paisley takes her last bite. “My mother will be busy parading her young, hot boyfriend around in front of my father. My father will be busy making disparaging remarks. It’ll be grand.”
“That would be great in a future story.”
Paisley grins wryly. “Just change their names and locations and it’s all yours, Wordsmith.”
I finished my dinner while Paisley was speaking, so I push the empty bowl away from me and say, “The story you wrote in college didn’t go exactly that way. You changed some details.”
I don’t like bringing up The Unfortunate Thing in mine and Paisley’s past, but we can’t ignore it either. It’s there. It’s a part of us, of how we came to be the way we are with each other.
“I didn’t want to use the real details. I wanted to give it different circumstances. At the time, I thought it would help me process everything that happened. It was all still fresh. By the time I got to college, my parents divorce had only been final a few months. But writing that story did not help me like I thought it would.”
“Especially not when somebody came along and ripped it apart.” What an asshole I was.
Clearing our empty bowls, I take them to the sink and wash them while Paisley tidies up the kitchen. I’m not necessarily surprised to find myself liking her in this space typically only occupied by me, but I am surprised to find just how much I like it.
Placing the clean dishes on the drying rack, I turn around and find Paisley perched on the counter. She grips the lip of the counter with two hands, legs dangling. She smiles at me, her face open and bright, and asks, “What’s next?”
Am I crazy to be contemplating what it would be like to step between her legs? To weave my hands through her hair and ease her body into mine, pausing for a breath with our lips nearly touching?
I would make up for that failed drunken kiss so long ago. I’d make up for it tenfold.
Her eyes are on me. Watching, waiting. For what? For me to make the move? Does she want it? Does she want me? Does Paisley Royce want a struggling writer, a guy who tends bar and slings words and feels too much?
Her chest rises and falls with her breath, her breasts straining against that silk button-up shirt.
I take a step in her direction. Then I take two more. I stop a foot away from her, taking in the moment, waiting for her to say or do something that will alter my trajectory. The air between us is charged, electric, a current running over my body.
Paisley speaks. “At some point we should probably get used to kissing each other. It might be awkward if our first kiss happens in front of my family.” She blushes. “Aside from that other time when we were young and very drunk. That one didn’t count.”
“So you’re telling me you want to practice kissing?” I attempt to keep my voice neutral, like this isn’t the best news since I typed THE END on my manuscript.
“We don’t have to.” The words hastily trip out of her mouth. “If you’d rather not show any affection in front of my family, I understand. We can tell them we’re not a PDA kind of couple. It’s totally fine.”
“No.”
“No?”
I might be getting six months of pro bono digital marketing, but the real win is getting to be affectionate with Paisley.
“Practice,” I draw out the word, stepping up between her legs, my hands on the cool countertop flanking her thighs, “makes perfect. Preparation is essential to the success of any good charade.” My eyebrows rise, waiting for her response. Internally, my whole body holds a breath.
She leans closer, teasing the tip of my nose with her own. Her eyes are wide, vulnerable, waiting for me to make a move, telling me she wants me to.
With a low rumble in my throat, I say, “I think practice is?—”
A knock on my door steals my attention. I’m not expecting a visitor, and anybody who knows me knows better than to randomly drop in.
I back off, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. Disappointment colors Paisley’s expression.
I try not to stomp to the door, but I fail. Behind me comes the soft thud of Paisley hopping down off the counter.
“This had better be really fucking important,” I grumble, opening the door.
I flinch, surprised to see a familiar face. “Megan?”
“Klein, hi.” She smiles. It wasn’t too long ago that smile made me happy, and frustrated when it went away. The longer we dated, the more elusive that smile became, and the harder I worked to bring it back. Funny how something I put effort into is now something I don’t care to see.
All I care about right now is my near-kiss with Paisley. That was interrupted by my ex.
I lean against the door, hoping my irritation isn’t obvious on my face. “What’s up? Did you come across more of my books?”
“Uh, no,” she shakes her head. “I was actually hoping we could talk.”
“About?”
She swallows nervously. Nervous is not a place Megan finds herself in often. This alone has me on high alert.
Megan points into my apartment. “Can I come in? I’d rather not talk in the hallway.”
“Uh, no.” I glance behind me. “I’m busy.” I don’t know where Paisley is, but she’s staying out of sight.
A frown works its way between Megan’s eyebrows. She peers around me, searching, and her gaze stills.
I turn, thinking I’m going to see Paisley, but nothing is there.
The shoes.
Paisley’s red-bottomed spike heels lie on the ground beside my chair.
Megan clears her throat. “Your new girlfriend knows her way around shoes.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say, and I am not about to correct Megan. If we’re letting Paisley’s family think I’m her boyfriend, I sure as hell don’t mind letting Megan think the same.
Megan stands there, uncertain, then laughs softly and says, “Wow, this is awkward.”
My hand rubs over the back of my neck. “It’s not great.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have come here.”
I’m scrambling for something to say that won’t hurt her feelings, and all I can come up with is, “Probably not.” Wow, Wordsmith. Impressive.
She thumbs toward the stairs. “I’ll guess I’ll just go.”
I nod and give a halfhearted wave. “Take care, Megan.” Then I step back into the apartment and close the door.
“Umm,” Paisley says, suddenly appearing. “That was weird to witness.”
I run my hands through my hair. “Where were you hiding?”
“In the kitchen. I walked out when I heard you closing the door. Halston was right. Your ex wants you back.”
“Megan’s probably bored,” I argue, going to sit on the couch.
“Or she realized she made a mistake,” Paisley counters.
“Too bad.” I settle in and weave my fingers together behind my head. “I’m someone else’s boyfriend now.”
Paisley rests that fine ass of hers on the arm of the couch. “The deal was that you’d be my fake boyfriend on Bald Head Island. Not here.” A playful look wrestles over her features. “Is this violating some kind of location clause in the contract?”
I shrug. “The provision wasn’t made. Moot point.”
“Moot point?”
I nod.
Her nose scrunches. “I think I dislike the word ‘moot.’”
“Moot,” I try it out, then say it twice more. “Agreed. I hate it.”
“Strike it from the English language.”
“I don’t have the authority.”
“You’re a wordsmith. Of course you do.”
Our banter makes me a happy man, makes me laugh and feel a lightness in my limbs that I like having there. “So stricken,” I say, deepening my voice.
I work to keep the wistful smile from sliding its way onto my lips. My mind cannot believe this is the moment in which I’ve currently found myself. I’m in my living room, watching Paisley perch on the arm of my worn couch, one arm behind her propping her up. Her hair falls down her back, her silk shirt shines in the indirect lamp light, and those red pants cling to each curve and dip of her lower half.
She is stunning, and you know what happens when you’re stunned? You cannot speak.
That is precisely where I’ve found myself.
Paisley twirls a lock of that pretty blonde hair around her finger. “What happened between you two? If you don’t mind me asking. You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious.”
“Why? Are you sussing out the possibility of an untenable fatal flaw?”
Paisley wiggles her eyebrows. “Maybe.”
Unhooking my hands from the back of my head, I adjust myself so I can face her more full-on. “Megan and I dated for a little over a year. Things were going well, and then she got a job in finance. She changed after that, which I didn’t mind so much because she’s about four years younger than me and just starting out in her first job. The changes were subtle at first.” I rub my chin, parsing through my memory to find an example. “She stopped saying fi-nance and started pronouncing it fin-ance.”
Paisley crooks an eyebrow.
“I know it sounds like a non-issue, and it was. But it built on itself from there. She’d mention people she was meeting, but their names had iterations. Alexander became Alex. Robert became Rob. She started going out for regular happy hours.” I hang my palms in the air between us. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, because it was subtle. I started picking up on hints, like how Alex was going skiing for the weekend and had invited a group of them along. Things like that. We began spending less time together because she was building a robust social life outside of me. She never invited me. I felt like an afterthought.”
“Geez, Klein. That’s awful.”
“I spent a good portion of our relationship feeling bad. One day I decided I’d had enough. I broke things off, and she looked relieved. She didn’t want to be the one to do it, I guess.”
Funny how hurt I was at the time, and how over it I am now.
“I can’t imagine choosing Alex and Rob over you,” Paisley says their names with disdain.
I smile gratefully. “I appreciate that.”
“Sounds like she regrets it, too. What do you think changed?”
“Moot point.”
Paisley’s nose wrinkles. I laugh.
“I’m going to take off,” she announces, pushing off the couch. “I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.” She strides to her shoes, sliding her feet into the high heels with practiced ease.
Like the baseball hat she wore the day of Oliver’s soccer game, I’ve most definitely found a new move I find dangerously sexy.
I wish I could rewind time, take us back to the moment we were in my kitchen before the spell was broken, when I was only seconds away from kissing her senseless. Holding her in my arms would be a full body exhale, something I’ve waited a very long time for. An opportunity I never believed I would be presented with again.
I get up to open the door for her. “Thank you for coming to my soccer match. Or, trying to make it there, I mean.”
“Thank you for dinner.” She pats my chest on her way out the door. It is a careful, perfunctory touch. I’d like to trade it in for something far better. “See you around.”
Instead of continuing down the hall, she turns and looks back at me. “When this is over, and we’re back from Bald Head Island, you can call her. Your ex. If you want to.” She shrugs in this adorable way, like she knows she’s talking too fast. “Find out what changed. By that point, you’ll only be my client.”
She turns and walks down the hallway before I can say a word to the contrary.
I want to tell her I don’t like that idea. I am officially rejecting her suggestion.
HARD NO.