I sit there, alone, and listen to the blood thudding in my ears. I stare at the place where she stood, the ghost of her perfume still hanging in the air. I stare blankly at the wall, and wonder if there’s any limit to the things I’d let her do to me. The guidebook lies open on the table, its pages fluttering in the draft.
I think of Rome, of fountains and wish coins, of the lies we tell ourselves to get through the night.
And I think of Mary Kate, and the hot, silent ache she leaves behind in my groin … because now, the wheels are in motion and there’s no turning back.
4
IS THIS REALLY LEGIT?
MARY KATE
The inside of Groundswell Coffee is always five degrees warmer than my memories of it. I step in, and the storm door thumps shut behind me, the glass rattling in its frame. Outside, it’s the color of wet cement, a sky so low you could reach up and wring it out. Inside, every surface sweats with condensation: windows blurred to a watercolor of tail lights and trudging boots, even the sugar caddies on the tables beaded with damp. The place smells like scorched coffee and something faintly medicinal—maybe the wood polish, maybe the aftershave of the wiry barista with the knuckle tattoos.
I spot Kayleigh in a back corner, wedged into a pair of mismatched chairs that look like they were salvaged from the curb. She’s all legs and elbows, the tips of her blonde hair darkening where the drizzle got through her hood. She’s pulled it into a bun so haphazard that it looks intentional. She clocks me the instant I enter, raising her mug in a mock salute, a damp ring already spreading under it on the table. I push past a couple of grad students fighting over a MacBook charger, weaving through the forest of knees and duffels, and drop into the chair across from her.
“Hey, stranger,” Kayleigh says, eyes crinkling. Her cheeks are flushed, eyeliner perfect. “I was beginning to think you got excommunicated from the land of the living.”
I fumble with my scarf, peeling it off in sticky coils, and smile as best I can. “Sorry. My phone’s been on some kind of weird battery death spiral. Plus, the apartment is…” I glance away, because the apartment is not a happy topic right now. “Let’s just say I went by to get something, and Stella was there with her boyfriend. In the nude.”
Kayleigh laughs, sharp and bright. “Please tell me it’s the skinny one. The yoga instructor.”
“God, no. The tattoo artist. He brought his equipment too.”
She snorts. “That’s so Stella. You know she’s seeing two guys, right? The other week, I came out of my room, and she was there with the skinny dude. How the hell did we get such a awkward living arrangement?” my friend giggles.
I reach into my tote for a napkin, come up with a wadded Italian worksheet instead, and try to mop the dew from my face. “I know, but it’s more than just awkward. It’s downright X-rated even at 6 a.m. sometimes. OMG, I’m a disaster,” I say as I scrutinize the damp worksheet.
“You’re a work in progress,” Kayleigh corrects. “Besides, I’m only here because you said you had hot gossip. So spill it, girlfriend. Is it something that Stella can’t know about? Are you seeing one of her boyfriends? I haven’t seen you in ages, come to think of it. It’s because you moved home temporarily, right?”
I nod. “Yes, for the time being, to help take care of my stepdad. It’s more that—well, it’s something I need advice on.”
Kayleigh leans in, her gaze sharpening. She’s always been the kind of friend who can switch from sitcom banter to full therapist mode in a single sentence. “Is this about your mom?” she asks, voice lowering.
I shake my head. “No, she’s in California now. Still texting me about her juice cleanse, still pretending she’s going to come back before summer.”
Kayleigh makes a sympathetic face, then signals to the barista with her empty cup. “Do you want anything? The guy at the register thinks I’m cute. I can get you a free refill.”
“I’ll get it. I need to move or I’ll lose circulation.” I stand, knees knocking the table, and thread my way to the counter.
The barista with the tattoos leans forward, all attitude. “What can I get for you?”
I want to say something new, something Italian and frothy, but default to old habits. “Drip, just black. Thanks”
He nods, pours, slides the cup across to me. I drop a dollar in the tip jar and stare at the tattoo on his forearm: a flayed anatomical heart, hyper-realistic. I think of Kent, of the steady thud of his pulse under my fingers, the way his hands looked splayed on the white duvet. A shiver runs through me, colder than the outside air.
Back at the table, Kayleigh has commandeered a second chair for her legs. “So,” she says, “what’s this about? Did you finally break down and buy a vibrator, or are you—wait, no, don’t tell me. You started drinking at work.”
I almost spit my coffee. “Jesus, no. Neither of those things.”
Kayleigh grins. “Then what? You’re about to burst.”
I take a long sip, let the bitterness coat my mouth. My voice drops to a whisper. “It’s Kent.”
She sits up, all playfulness gone. “Who?”
“My stepdad, Kent Robinson.”
Kayleigh thinks hard. “The doctor, right? He’s not—oh god, he’s not, like, dying, is he?”
