Authors: Liza Palmer
“You’re quite welcome. I’ve notified human resources of the promotion; they’ll be expecting you tomorrow morning to go over the promotion paperwork,” Emma says, breaking from the hug.
“Thank you again,” I say, almost to myself.
“You’re the right person for the job, Frannie,” Emma says, waving to a group of teachers. They wave back.
“And happy birthday,” I say, beaming. Smiling. From ear to ear. I can’t wait to tell . . . well, my parents. Lisa. Less Jill, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Sam. Shit, I can’t wait to tell Sam.
“Thank you,” she says. Emma and I catch up to the rest of the teachers who are gathering for her birthday. Debbie and her minions are making everyone wait outside the teachers’ lounge in the breezeway. The room isn’t ready yet, apparently. Isn’t ready yet? Put a cake on the table, sing happy birthday, how hard can it be? As I stand there craning down the hall to see if Jill is on her way and where Lisa is, and trying to act like I’m not looking for Sam, I eavesdrop on the teachers as they oozingly wish Emma a happy birthday. She’s lovely and polite in reply. I actually don’t mind being here to celebrate Emma’s birthday now.
We’re finally allowed to go into the teachers’ lounge. As we all stream in, I notice that round tables and chairs have been set up in the now-cramped lounge. Emma looks from me to a free table in the front of the lounge. The tables are set for dinner. Breadbaskets, linen napkins and the promise of a very long night. She raises her eyebrows and motions for me to nab it. I oblige. I grab three seats right across from Grady, who’s also saving two seats. I find myself seated next to Emma and an empty seat her creepy husband will eventually occupy. Jill whips open the door to the teachers’ lounge and I can read her lips from here: “What the—” She scans the room and we lock eyes. I’m pinned behind Emma and next to an empty chair.
“Grady? Who are you saving for?” I ask, leaning across the table.
“Hey, darlin’,” Grady says, his body languidly melting over his folding chair.
“Hey,” I say quickly.
“I’m saving one for my baby and then that one’s for Sam,” Grady says, pointing at the chair directly next to me. Grady gives me a quick wink. Great. My face drains of color. Jill scans the room again and motions for me to look. Martin’s saving a seat for her at another table. I don’t need to worry, she mouths. She walks over and plops down next to him. Martin wraps his arm around the back of her chair. I settle in and freeze a smile on my face. It’s going to be a long night. Emma is thanking Debbie for the amazing party. Debbie looks like she’s about to cry or try to make out with Emma. It’s a toss-up.
In an attempt to avoid being ensnared in Debbie’s inappropriate Emma fantasy, I try to insinuate my way into various conversations around the table. I stare furtively at Grady until he catches my eye. He gives me a big smile and a wink and then falls back into conversation with a couple of the architects who are seated a table over. Close enough for conversation with Grady but not with me. I resituate my napkin on my lap, recross my legs under the table and ponder whether to try the same tactic on someone else. I find Ryan at a table way in the back sitting next to that teacher who glared at me earlier in the breezeway. They’re laughing and talking, passing around the bread, pouring wine. A veritable party. I heave a long . . .
long
. . . weary sigh.
“I don’t know how you do it. Living alone just seems . . . I mean, all those different windows people could break into. Jamie told me that you and Ryan split. That you live alone. He and Ryan really hit it off at the mixer, apparently,” Emma muses. What is happening here? Jamie hit it off with Ryan? What . . . how did this evening go from totally cool one minute to completely, surreally terrible the next?
“I live in a pretty safe neighborhood,” I say, trying to put a stop to an internal dialogue that’ll surely end with me rocking back and forth in some dimly lit corner of my apartment, clutching a flashlight and a kitchen knife.
“Still. Jamie was excited to hear you’d gotten the promotion. Said that women like you are perfect for advancement,” Emma says.
“Women like me?” I ask, not wanting to know the answer. Soooo not wanting to know the answer.
“Yeah, you know. Unmarried, no family,” Emma says, matter-of-fact. What happened to the Emma I was just talking to? The door to the teachers’ lounge opens and I know before he turns the corner that it’s Sam. We need to stop talking about this right now.
Right. Now
. Grady waves him over to our table and points to the chair next to mine. Sam’s face is . . . unreadable. I act like I don’t notice he’s walking over. It’s a proud moment. A mature moment. A moment women like me are quite familiar with, to be sure.
As Sam sits down, Grady goes around the table for drink orders, motioning to the bar Debbie has set up on the far wall. I want to kiss him full on the lips for saving me, if just for a moment. I say I’d just like sparkling water, Sam asks for a beer—whatever they’ve got is fine. Emma says she’d like sparkling water for herself and a glass of red wine for Jamie.
“He loves the Spanish reds,” Emma says, giving Grady a coy smile.
“I don’t know about a Spanish red, but it looks like they’ve got some Two-Buck Chuck back there,” Grady says, smiling.
“That’ll be fine, Mr. Davis. That’ll be fine,” Emma says, laughing. Lisa rushes into the lounge and scans the room, finds Grady, and they smile.
“Beer, baby?” Grady asks, motioning to the bar.
“You know it,” Lisa says, and walks over to our table. I have yet to acknowledge that Sam is sitting next to me.
“Hey,” I finally say.
“Hey,” he says.
“Tight squeeze,” I say, motioning to the chairs and tables that have filled the teachers’ lounge to bursting.
“Definitely,” Sam says, smiling.
“What?”
“Tight squeeze just sounds wrong,” Sam says, laughing.
“It does, doesn’t it?” I say, smiling.
“I mean . . . that’s what you open with?” Sam says, laughing more.
“I just . . . I’m just making conversation.”
“Tight squeeze,” Sam repeats, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Laughing.
“All right. Enough already,” I say, touching his arm. Warm. So warm.
“Tight squeeze. Didn’t you say that about those pizzas, too?” Sam sighs, bending forward now, eyes open. I take my hand off his arm, my fingers now resting inches from him. I smile at Emma as she settles into her seat. I hear her take a breath. Before she continues her out-of-the-blue one-woman jihad against my imagined musty life of spinster solitude, I turn to face her head-on.
“Emma Dunham, have you met Sam Earley? He owns the Earley Group. They’re working with the architects to make the school expansion project more sustainable,” I say.
“I don’t believe we’ve met formally, no,” Emma says, extending her hand in front of me and to Sam.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Sam says, taking her hand.
“Oh, please. It’s Emma,” she says, blushing slightly.
“Emma is the head of school,” I say.
“Oh, wow,” Sam says, nodding, taking his beer from Grady as he hands it across the table. Sam sets the beer down and then takes my sparkling water from Grady and sets it down on the left side of my plate rather than the more convenient and far more proper right side.
Sam continues. “Here you go, darlin’.” He knows I’m left-handed. It’s a bizarre detail to remember. When would he have seen that?
“Thank you,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips and drinking.
“Jamie is late,” Emma says, looking apologetically at the empty chair.
“Traffic, I’m sure,” I say.
On the Internet.
“He . . . we had a fight. On the phone. You know . . . earlier?” Emma says, looking back down at her lap. Sam politely excuses himself from our conversation and falls in with Grady and Lisa.
“Oh?” I ask, treading lightly.
“It was actually about what we were talking about the other night,” Emma says, still not looking at me. My stomach drops.
“Oh?” I repeat. Is this where I blurt that I was just looking for a tampon? I’ll have to do it quietly with Sam right here—
“Clara, mostly. That I missed her. I was talking about looking her up. Her art, you know? Her painting. All that? She’s so close, just right over the hill in Los Feliz. We should be seeing each other,” Emma says, her eyes finally locking on mine. Now this—
this
is the Emma I’ve come to know.
“Sure,” I say, wanting her to continue.
“I told him I wanted to start painting again,” Emma says, her shoulders back, her smile wide.
“Yeah?” I ask, smiling myself.
“He thinks it’ll just be a distraction.”
“And?”
“And I’m going to look into it anyway. I basically told Jamie as much.”
“That’s amazing,” I say.
“Yeah, it really is,” she says.
“And Clara?”
“I called her. We talked. It was . . . she’s just the same,” Emma says, unable to keep from smiling.
“Really? That sounds great,” I say, still smiling. Smiling. Smiling.
“I told her all about you, isn’t that weird? Well, she asked why I’d called, I think that’s why I brought you up. But . . . we’re going to meet for brunch on Sunday at eleven. Some place in Silver Lake. Probably serves just edible flowers or something.” Emma laughs. Her entire demeanor has changed. She’s not the same person she was two minutes ago when she was spouting Jamie-isms. It’s absolutely beautiful.
“How long has it been since you guys have talked?”
“Her oldest is eight. So, almost that long. She’s got three now. I knew that, but . . . the littlest one—” Emma breaks off.
I wait. Sam looks over. Checking in. I give him a quick wink and he smiles. Maybe I’ll invite him to Jill’s after this?
No
. Wait. I’m going to go to Jill’s and he can ask me what I’m doing. Yes. That’s it.
Emma continues. “She named the littlest one Emma.” She is beaming.
“I just . . . that’s beautiful. Congratulations. Seriously,” I say.
“I never thought of myself that way. Someone you would name your baby after,” Emma says, her voice hushed.
“Well, you should certainly start to,” I say, smiling.
“Yes, maybe I will,” Emma says, smiling from ear to ear. I smile back. Her joy is contagious. This is turning out to be a pretty decent night after all. Bit of a rough patch there, but we seem to be back on track now.
Emma continues. “So, Sam, where are you from originally? The accent . . .”
Sam looks up. “I’m originally from Shelby Forest, Tennessee,” Sam says. I’m watching him talk and just smiling.
“Shelby Forest . . . isn’t . . . weren’t you saying earlier that Justin Timberlake was from there?” I ask. I immediately blush.
“You mean J. T.,” Sam says, correcting me.
I laugh. “
Ha!
”
“Oh, is that what people call him?” Emma asks.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s from there,” Sam says.
“I educated Sam earlier about calling Justin Timberlake ‘J. T.,’ ” I say, trying to explain. Sam laughs.
“Oh, you two know each other?” Emma asks. Sam and I stop. Like two errant kids caught laughing in church.
“We do,” Sam answers.
“Oh,” Emma says, nodding.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says, giving me a quick sidelong glance.
“Everyone? Everyone, can I have your attention?” Debbie announces, lifting her glass of champagne. “I wanted to thank everyone for attending tonight’s little gathering in honor of Emma’s birth—”
“Oh, can we wait?” Emma asks, interrupting. “Jamie—Jamie’s my husband—he’s still on his way. He’d hate to miss the toast!” Emma pleads, laughing nervously.
“Oh . . . of course. That would be . . . I’m so sorry for rushing into it!” Debbie says, now considering performing hara-kiri on herself right there. Sam asks me to pass the bread. I oblige, making eye contact with him a bit longer than either of us is comfortable with.
“Butter, too?” I ask him.
“That’s customary,” Sam answers, his hand outstretched, his drawl making me feel somehow naughty.
“You could have asked for . . .” I trail off, searching the table for other condiments.
“You’re in too deep, Reid. One could say . . . a tight squeeze,” Sam says, buttering his bread, his mouth an impossible smirk.
“Ha!” I say, letting my head fall back, my hand resting on his arm. I’m unable to keep myself from touching him. He’s within touching distance; he shall be touched. He’s lucky I’m not grabbing his crank right now. The night is young.
“You’re oh-so-predictable,” Sam says, laying his hand on top of mine. It’s as if we’re choosing who’s going to be first up at bat, for crissakes.
“Here’s Jamie! I want him to meet you two,” Emma says, urging Sam and me to stand and shake hands, once again, with the mythical Jamie Dunham, the future Norman Mailer. I begrudgingly take my hand from beneath Sam’s as we all stand. I look at Sam in confusion. Why has Emma singled us out for this auspicious introduction? He just smiles and shoos me along. The entire teachers’ lounge swoons and beams at the happy couple.
Jamie is wearing a striped shirt under a heavy blazer that hangs on his tiny frame. The weather is cool, but certainly not cool enough to warrant so heavy a coat. I imagine it’s because he has zero fat on his bones. Probably gets cold a lot. Or it’s just his demeanor incarnate. Jamie’s dark hair is “accidentally” tousled to perfection. His pale skin is delicate and transparent. He resembles a brittle dauphin from somewhere back in the annals of French history. He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers and a little pink gift bag that probably contains the Hope Diamond. Jamie approaches the table as Emma, Sam and I stand. Emma smiles at me and Sam and then back over at Jamie. She’s glowing and animated. We return Emma’s smile and I extend my hand to Jamie, fake smile in full effect. I hate that I have to shake this weirdo’s hand and smile. It’s one night.
Fine
. Sam stands just behind me, waiting for his turn to meet the petit dauphin.
Jamie ignores me completely and brings up the little pink gift bag. I lower my hand and will myself not to look around at my colleagues who’ve just witnessed Little King Jamie completely disregarding me. Great. So, we’re going to keep up with the whole pissed-because-of-the-snooping-through-the-bathroom thing. I take a tiny step back just in time to see a black handgun emerge from the little pink bag. And before it registers—
crack
. Blood. On me. On the wall. Emma is lifted off her feet and lands like a sack of potatoes a few feet back. My ears are ringing. I can’t stop saying Emma’s name over and over again. My voice is far away and muffled in the aftermath of the deafening gunshot.