Second First Impressions Read online

  A bunch of kids run past me inside the bowling alley, squealing with laughter. This was a good, safe choice. I’m not good at selfies, but I manage to get myself and the bowling alley sign into the same angled shot, which will serve as proof of attendance for Melanie. I’m even wearing the designated black dress and the cool evening air feels unfamiliar on my bare arms.

  “ID,” the bartender calls out in a forbidding voice when I reach the top of the stairs.

  “Wow, okay,” I reply and hand it to him. “I’m twenty-five.”

  He checks it, rechecks it, then chuffs a laugh. “You look about twelve.”

  I’ll take being mistaken for twelve over a Golden Girls cosplayer any day. As I tuck my ID back into my purse I briefly consider getting wasted. Maybe I’ll drink straight from that bottle of green stuff back there. I’ll leave my car here all night and order my first ever Uber home. I’ll crawl up the path to my cottage behind the tortoises. Maybe they’ll eat my corpse.

  “Can I get the Frankenfries and a regular Coke, please.” Witness me, cutting loose.

  The bartender is doubtful as he looks around me. “You by yourself? The Frankenfries are designed for a group of people. It’s a very big portion. Doesn’t make great leftovers.”

  I absolutely bet Teddy will eat the leftovers when I bring them home. He’s like a vulture, picking at the carrion left behind by the Parlonis. I put my money on the counter and the transaction is completed.

  With my glass of strong black aspirin in hand, I decide on a booth. Should I go beside that group of men, or that group of women? I choose the women, probably defeating the purpose of the Sasaki Method. The bartender shouldn’t have felt so sorry for me. I have two great friends, they’re just not here.

  Oh, shit. I haven’t messaged my forum friends in . . . (I scrabble around to find the group chat) . . . nine days. I have known them for a decade. I start to type out a few sentences to them but nothing seems right. How do I apologize for forgetting they exist? They’ll be the ones I’ll be trading Heaven Sent memes with when Melanie and Teddy move on. I’ll work out how to explain my absence when I get home.

  But: They didn’t message me either.

  Worksheet out. Pencil case unzipped. Earphones in. I may as well be sitting alone in the school library. Melanie’s worksheet has a cute curling ribbon graphic as its border, and I take out a pink pencil to procrastinate. Carefully, perfectly, I color it as I think about the exercise at hand.

  Who am I, exactly? I’m changing, so it’s a fair question.

  I liked myself a lot when I was neck-deep in chlorine water. I set aside all my inexperienced floundering and just put my hand on a beautiful man’s chin. It was like a fantasy, but I lived it. I didn’t get the kiss, but knowing he wanted to is enough for me.

  I feel the booth cushion compress, I look up and Teddy is leaning his forearms on the table. He’s brought his sketchbook. He is a sight for sore, sad eyes. When I pull out my earphones, he says to me with feeling, “I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire fucking life.” As I register the ripples those words make inside me, I see he’s looking over my shoulder.

  “And an order of Frankenfries,” the bartender sets them down. “Teddy. What’s up, man.” (Of course Teddy knows everybody.) “When are you moving to Fairchild? I’ve got a friend I wanna send to you. He needs a touch-up on an old piece.”

  Teddy rubs his hands together and says to the plate, “I should be taking bookings by Christmas. Maybe leave it to the New Year so I can get settled.”

  “I’ll let him know. Bet you can’t tell, because he’s such a mess,” the bartender says to me with a grin, “but this guy is the best at what he does.” He rolls up his sleeve to show me a beautifully rendered old-style naval anchor.

  “I know he is. And he’s not a mess.” Teddy’s eyes crinkle at my indignant defense. When the bartender leaves, I say, “You always turn up at the exact moment there’s food.”

  Teddy rests his ankles against mine. “It’s uncanny how lucky I am. Look at you, doing your homework on a Friday night. Why did you look so sad?”

  “I just found out I’m not as beautiful as a plate of Frankenfries.” I rub down from bare shoulder to my elbow and he watches the movement. “And I remembered you’re moving away.”

  He steps over that and focuses on what he can give me: one hell of a compliment.

  “You’re sublime,” he promises me and I get that pool-floating sensation. “You’ve got skin that keeps tattoo artists awake at night.” Through the steam rising off the food, he’s appraising me with a gleam in his eye.

  “I guess a totally blank canvas must be appealing.” I feel myself get bolder. “If I ever decided to do something crazy and you finally design me the perfect thing—”

  “I couldn’t do it to you. It’d be like tattooing a peach.” Not paying attention to what he’s doing, he scoops up fries heaped with what is clearly boiling hot macaroni into his mouth. It’s a bad idea. Now he’s struggling, cupping his hands over his mouth, his eyes sparkling green and brown. He’s brought himself to tears.

  I find him a tissue in my bag. “But you’ve tattooed other girls. You think it wouldn’t suit me?” He shakes his head, adamant. “I’d have to get it somewhere secret, so my parents wouldn’t find out.”

  He swallows hard. “Somewhere secret.” He literally exhales a plume of steam.

  “I haven’t even told you what I want.” I wait until his eyebrow moves. “I want the Heaven Sent logo.” Now he’s laughing and reaching back to the plate. “Teddy, if you could just control yourself . . .” I use my fork to pull a single french fry out of the stack and I blow on it.

  He leans over and bites it off my fork, because of course he does.

  “I forgot, we share everything.” I’m being sarcastic, but he just smiles, all satisfied.

  “Now you’re starting to understand.” He has a nice big drink from my glass. Apparently, we even share straws.

  “If I was out on a date, should I expect to get my own drink?”

  He realizes what he’s done. “Sorry, I’ve just started inhaling everything like always. I think I have some cash . . .” He begins fishing around in his pockets.

  I shake my head. “Keep saving that cash. You’re doing really well.” I try to pull out another fry but it’s overloaded and splats onto the table, narrowly missing my worksheet. “Meanwhile, this isn’t going well at all.”

  “I had a dream last night that I paid Alistair for my share a week before the deadline. Do you think it’s a sign?”

  I’ve heard enough about his dreams to know that things go weird pretty fast in them. “Then what happened?”

  “I knew it was a dream because he gave me my key to the front door and it was the size of a surfboard. I woke myself up trying to fit it in my pocket and I’d gotten my boxers down around my knees.”

  I laugh, even as thoughts of keys and locks distracts me. The relief of having some company has given way to nerves. I felt better about leaving Providence knowing that Teddy was staying behind. I know I don’t have to be there 24/7. I’m just more comfortable when I am.

  “I’m not sure if my homework counts now. It specifically says I have to sit alone.”

  He’s eaten probably a quarter of the plate with his fingers. “She’ll never know.” He’s got the blank sheet in front of him and he’s written my name at the top in elegant stylized script. “I’ll help. Tell me everything about you and I’ll write it down. Start from the beginning. Ruthie Maree Midona was born at . . . midnight. Or noon. Am I close?”

  I begin to gather up my pens.

  He sighs. “If you’re serious, I’ll go. I just missed you so much. I got home and your windows were dark. I followed your patrol route. I went up to your little lookout spot by the dumpsters, where you like to look at the city lights.”

  I’m mildly disturbed. “Have you been stalking me?”

  “Then I got your text. I remembered there’s this group of four sketchy dudes who h
ang out here drinking all afternoon, and I got into this panic that they’d found you sitting alone and were putting roofies in your Coke. That’s why I was so fast.” He picks up my glass and drinks from it.

  “Lucky they didn’t roofie it, or we’d both be unconscious.”

  “I worry about you, out in the world, all soft and kind. It’s horrible out here.” He goes silent and we hear bowling balls hitting pins and a child’s scream of joy. Down near the lanes there’s a lit-up cake and people are singing happy birthday.

  “The outside world is not horrible.” I have to smile at myself. How could it be, when there’s weird food and happy kids, and Teddy’s legs wrapping mine up in a hug under the table? “I think you’ve been spending too much time at Providence to think that.”

  He opens his sketchbook to a new page and begins helping himself to my pencil case. “I’m so glad you’re not on a date,” he declares quite cheerfully.

  I can be selfless and encourage him every step of the way as he saves for his share in the studio, but for me and my goals he won’t do the same. “At some point soon, I’m going to be having a romantic candlelit dinner. At the same time, you’re going to be sitting in your very own tattoo studio writing Live Laugh Love down a girl’s back in Comic Sans.”

  “That’s the most disgusting thing you could possibly say to me,” he splutters.

  I try another french fry; finally, this food volcano is safe enough to eat properly. I raise my fork. His protests die and he leans forward like he is anticipating something.

  This mix should be wrong. But every forkful is a prism of salt and flavor, the textures alternating between crispy and velvet. Luxe, melty macaroni blends into the gravy. Childhood flashbacks from smoky hot dog chunks.

  I don’t know how long I’m in this haze. All I know is, nothing in life feels that bad when I’m eating carbs and fat. Everything will work out, because of cheese. Every time I glance up, he’s smiling at me, his cheek resting plumply on his fist. The smattering of freckles across his nose are cinnamon-sweet. I’m in a pleasurable dream. He has a white haze of light around his head.

  I am possibly having a food-related stroke. I scrape up more. “What is happening to me?” I feel a wet line on my face; it’s a tear.

  “My angel, that’s heaven on a plate. I told you.” He hasn’t taken a single fry or sketched a single line during my endless gorge. “When you enjoy yourself, you really do.”

  I really should do some work. I dig through my supplies. “Actually, I might need that pencil back. It’s my only one. I need to be able to erase off the worksheet.”

  He starts sketching with it, declining the request. “I think you need to write in ink. You know who you are. Thanks in advance for the Live Laugh Love nightmare tonight, by the way. You’re going to hear me crying through the wall.” He regards me with curiosity then bursts out laughing. “You know you’re funny as hell, right? Everything you say is so on point.”

  I’m surprised and want to change the subject. “Oh thanks. So did you design all your own tattoos?”

  “You think someone else designed me? You don’t recognize talent when you see it?” He’s grinning. “I drew them, Alistair did them for me. Sometimes when he was pissed off with me he’d press extra hard. So all of it was agony.” There’s truth in the joke.

  “Do they all mean something?” He just smiles at that. “How many do you have?” It slips out before I can censor myself. How many girls have asked that same question? I get my answer.

  “I don’t know. You can count them for me if you want.” (Insert here the predictable eyebrows, sparkling eyes, sinful smile, my heart fluttering, etc.) He unhinges his jaw to eat more fries. Chewing, he says, “Tidy girls like to be nice and organized, huh?” He reaches over for my hand and begins padding my finger up his arm. “One, two . . .”

  I want to keep going and have to cover it up. “All seductive with your mouthful of mush. Hold me back.” It’s intensely gratifying to make him snort-laugh like that.

  “Want help with the worksheet? I’ll write in all your facts. We’ll circle back to your time of birth. What was your college degree?” He’s poised and ready.

  My smile fades. “My parents couldn’t afford to send me to college. I did a business administration course.”

  “Must have been some wild parties.”

  “It was one long orgy.” I’m lucky he wasn’t drinking because he would have sprayed me. “I was the youngest by twenty years, easily.”

  “Kinky.”

  I notice a woman at the bar watching us. Well, she’s watching Teddy. I guess I’ll have to get used to that, but I can’t say I’ll ever like it. “Most people were retraining for new careers. I could finally relax.” I’ve said too much there, and the memory twinges too close to a nerve. I push the plate at Teddy. “Here, eat more.”

  He won’t be distracted. “Why could you relax?”

  “I’m just more comfortable with older people.” I twist my fingers together as he just sits and stares at me, wanting more. “I got bullied a lot at school, obviously. But being in a class with adults I felt safe again.”

  “Is that why you ended up at Providence? Elderly people can’t hurt you?” He thinks on that. “That’s not true. Renata isn’t strong enough to use a pepper grinder, but she’s also more lethal than a cage fighter. I’ve been studying her for scientific purposes.”

  “My parents knew my boss, Sylvia, through the church. You know how women in the eighteen hundreds just got sent to be a governess? It was like that. I didn’t apply; they basically sent me here. I really need to work out how to repackage that for when I’m telling some guy about it on a date.”

  I look over at the bar again. That girl is still watching us. I think she knows Teddy.

  Teddy’s a little indignant. “You described it just fine. Why do you need to repackage anything?”

  “That’s the whole point of this exercise. It’s interview prep.”

  “I guess you could say that you used your connections to get the job,” he suggests. “Sounds like Sylvia is a hard-ass. She wouldn’t have taken you if you were useless.”

  “I guess,” I admit. “I’m really good at my job. Please mention it when you’re talking to your dad.”

  “I’m good at my job, too. My real job, not the one where I order Gucci sweat suits online in extra-extra-extra small. Can you tell Alistair? I need to think of some way to impress the shit out of him next time I see him. I haven’t exactly been involved in the business side of the studio here. Got any good ideas, Administration Angel?”

  “Sounds like you’re going to have to hire and be a boss. Are you ready for that?”

  He’s self-conscious. “I mean, I’m not interested in being a ‘boss,’ but I want to put together a good team.”

  “Do you guys have customer accounts?” I watch as he thinks. I’ve got no real idea of what’s involved in his kind of business but I try. “If someone needed to come back multiple times to get more color done, how would you record how much they had left to pay or the quote they’d been given for the total price?”

  “We just write it down in the book.”

  “What about scheduling the appointment?”

  “The book.”

  “Payroll? Client information?”

  “I think you know the answer.”

  “Administration Angel recommends you impress the hell out of Alistair by getting a quote on a software package. Something that texts clients about their next appointment, things like that. Maybe the two locations can be linked together so you can see each other’s weekly takings. Something that can handle payroll and tax. He might say that the book is cheaper, but at least you made a suggestion.”

  “Angel . . .” He sighs, and before he can finish that thought, the woman who has been watching from her stool at the bar walks up to our table. She has something to say. As she gets closer, both Teddy and I notice something at the exact same time, judging from his intake of breath.

  She’s
really, really pregnant.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Teddy? Teddy Prescott,” the woman says, passing her hand over her full stomach. “I’ve been looking for you for the longest time.”

  His expression dials through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. He’s sighing, nodding, and mentally picking out a car seat when she erupts into cackles.

  “Oh, come on. We were together six years ago. Sorry to scare you.”

  He lays his head down on his arms and dies. To me, she mouths, Not sorry.

  I feel like I’ve had six years shaved off my life-span. “Geez, Teddy. Learn how calendars work.”

  Teddy sits up and tries to recover. “Anna. How are you? What are you doing here?” He’s staring then blinking away, fascinated and horrified by the huge drum under her skintight clothes. “Do you need us to drive you to the hospital? How many babies are in there?” He scans the floor for broken waters. His boots make scrabbling sounds on the floor.

  She ticks her answers off on her fingers. “Not in labor just yet, but my husband will drive me when I am. One baby. And I’m Brianna, not Anna.”

  Teddy replies, “Sorry. You know how I am with names.”

  “I know how you are.” Brianna is a little sad now. As an aside to me she adds, “I never thought he’d forget my name, though. I guess some people never change.”

  I begin to slide out of the booth, desperate to get away. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Thank you, but no. I just wanted to say hi.” She glances at the childish mess on our table, momentarily distracted. I know she’s estimating my age; it’s all people ever seem to do to me.

  I take a stab at lightening the tense vibe. “I’m teaching Teddy how to read, the poor thing never learned.” They both let out identical quacks of amused surprise. “He’s starting a business and has sought my services.”

  “You’re a nice girl, volunteering your time like that. He’s not a quick learner,” Brianna says with a grin, but it fades off. “You’re not with him, are you?”