Second First Impressions Page 3

  “How old I am is none of your business.” The words I’ve ached to say to all the residents at Providence, and I blurt them in the face of a tattooed guy with a motorbike? “I paid for your gas because I thought you were in trouble. But I can see you don’t really need it.”

  “I was just psyching myself up to call my dad.” This guy scratches his jaw and I can’t read the word printed across the knuckles. “I try to fuck up during business hours, so I can speak to his assistant instead. Less of a lecture that way.”

  “I’ll give you my PayPal address. You can pay me back and I’ll find someone who actually needs the money.” I can’t write on the Parlonis’ receipt. I have one of Sylvia’s business cards in my pocket. I cross out her email and write mine. The gas station attendant gives me a grinning thumbs-up and I burn red with humiliation.

  He studies the business card I put into his palm. “A retirement villa?” His eyes spark. The irises are mixed colors—familiar, but I don’t know what they remind me of. He is holding a new laugh in. “What’s going on with you, anyway?” I cram myself into the car and lock it. “Wait, wait,” the guy shouts. Now his I’m sorry is muted and far away. I’m sorry too. Funny how fast a good deed can turn bad in the outside world, like time-lapse footage of rotting fruit.

  While I wait for a gap in the traffic, I look in my rearview mirror, praying he doesn’t try to follow. The heel of his palm pressed to his temple is universal language for, I fucked that up. At least he realizes it. Most people who hurt my feelings never have a clue they did. I just invested twenty dollars for a reminder of why I stay at Providence and tucked in my safe little forum in the far corner of the internet.

  Outside World Shields Up.

  “YOU’VE BEEN SO quiet today,” Melanie says behind me. “Did I say something, or . . . ?”

  “I got my feelings hurt a bit last night. Not by you.” I keep staring at the parking lot, watching for a car.

  After I sorted out the Parlonis and left them asleep on the couch, holding hands, I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Then I used a second makeup mirror to look at myself from behind. That guy was right: From most angles, I am an old lady. I messaged my forum admin friends Austin, JJ, and Kaitlynn. The group chat was a big chorus of outrage—what a dick, that’s so RUDE, of course you’re not old—but the reassurance didn’t feel authentic because none of us have ever actually met in person.

  “Here’s what I know. You’re a good person, Ruthie,” Melanie says so kindly. “And you don’t deserve hurt feelings. Tell me who did it and I will kill them.”

  “A complete stranger. Someone I’ll never see again.” I recheck the time and sidestep the tight squeeze of emotion in my throat. “I need to focus on the meeting. I wish I knew what it was about.”

  “I’m sorry,” Melanie says. “I know I screwed up big-time.”

  When I was up a ladder replacing a blown bulb outside the recreation center this morning, Melanie took a message for me. All she wrote down was:

  Jerry Prescott

  Today @ 3 P.M.

  Maintenance something?

  “Jerry Prescott owns Providence,” I told her, with sheer terror coursing through my veins. “You spoke to his assistant?” She shook her head no. “You spoke to the owner of Prescott Development Corporation? PDC? PDC?”

  “He sounded nice, I think,” she replied.

  I have tried everything—even an improvised hypnotism session in the darkened office—but Mel swears she can’t recall any more details than that. Jerry’s assistant never called me back.

  A motorbike turns into the parking lot.

  “Nope.” I’m looking for a rental car. The rider takes off his helmet, shakes his head back, and looks up at the office. I’d know that phenomenal head of hair anywhere.

  Chapter Four

  A sensation I’ve never felt before unfurls in my chest and now my heart is throbbing in my ears. Angry, thrilled? The guy from the gas station is here to repay his debt, or apologize for laughing at me, or to ask for more cash.

  “Oh great,” I say out loud. I don’t have time to deal with him on top of my shredded nerves. “Mel, I need you to run interference on something.”

  “I live for that,” she confirms instantly. “Can do. Point me at it.”

  But . . . my mouth doesn’t open and I don’t want to delegate just yet. The breeze picks up his hair and swirls it artfully. Just like at the gas station, he sits sideways on his motorbike and is in no hurry. There’s that bulging backpack again. I wouldn’t think riding around with everything but the kitchen sink strapped to your back would be very comfortable.

  “Who’s that?” Melanie says, coming around to look. “Do you know him?”

  “He owes me money. Don’t ask.” I enjoy being mysterious, who knew?

  “But I have many, many questions,” Melanie argues. “I really wish we had the Sasaki Method agreement in place, because then I could give you some serious advice. That one’s out of your league, girl.”

  Why’d she have to say that? I am a dork. He is on a motorcycle. High school wasn’t that long ago, and I know what combinations are impossible in real life. I’ve got that familiar hurt feeling somewhere near my heart, like Melanie’s dug her thumb into a soft peach.

  “In a million years I would never—”

  Melanie advises over the top of my protests, “You’ve been walking around with hurt feelings over—actually, I have no idea what. I’m not letting you get hurt by this one. He is a Lamborghini, and you’re a learner driver. You’d tap the gas and drive into a wall. Hurting yourself.”

  “It’s really not like that. You’ve got the wrong idea.”

  “I see a bad boy. Do you see that too?” I have to nod. “You need a nice suitable man who won’t destroy your heart. Never loan money. Never get yourself hurt.” That last bit is a protective scold. Melanie links her arm through mine, squeezes, and holds tight. “Suddenly I’m glad you never go anywhere.”

  Embarrassment and the friendly lean of her shoulder on mine makes me gruff. “I’m not stupid, Mel. I can’t even imagine trying for a guy like that.”

  What a liar. I can imagine everything.

  I feel the crunch of gravel under my shoes. I’m stepping between his knees, twisting my fist gently in his hair. I tip his head back. His eyes spark with surprise, a new laugh on the tip of his tongue. He allows me to hold him in place. I make his cheeks burn with color as I tell him something honest, and I drop my mouth down to his and—

  Melanie interrupts. “I wouldn’t blame you for fantasizing.” (I try not to squirm.) “Wow, that’s some pretty hair. Maybe prettier than mine. Ugh, I hate that guy.” She drops my arm and threads her ponytail through her hands. Like he can feel her attention, he twists his black mane into a knot with an elastic from his wrist. It’s safer for the general public if he holsters a hair weapon like that. “You’re really not going to tell me how you know him? At least tell me his name.”

  “I can’t.”

  The nameless guy sits there, yawning big lion roars. A tortoise lump gets closer to his boot. He picks it up, talks to it, dances it gently on his palm, then puts it in the garden. That tortoise’s thought process is something like: He’s so big, beautiful, and funny, but why did he do that to me? I’m not actually injured, but I’m also . . . not okay?

  Maybe he’s rehearsing what he’ll say. A good speech, combined with that torso and the repaid sum of twenty dollars, and I might just get my faith in (young) humanity back. I can’t seem to take my eyes off this person.

  The clock is ticking, bringing Jerry Prescott closer and closer. I need to get myself together. “I’ll run out quickly. Just to get rid of him.”

  Melanie replies, “I’ll do it.”

  Before I reply, a late-model sedan comes into view. This is the rental car I’ve been watching for. The driver accelerates fast into the space beside the motorbike, braking with a screech. That tortoise would have been pancake-flat. A man hops out, and it’s Jerry Prescott. (I h
ave done some extensive online research/stalking, so I can say this for sure.)

  He speaks to Tattoo Guy and gives him a slap on the shoulder. Hey, man, how’s it hanging? Men are all part of one big penis club. Poor phrasing on my part. Now I’m looking at Tattoo Guy and I’m thinking the words big penis . . .

  I force myself to move away from the window and rearrange water glasses on the tiny meeting table.

  “They’re coming in together,” Melanie narrates. “Young Guy is picking up a different turtle now. He’s showing it to Old Guy, who’s mad about it. They’re walking up the path. They’re having an intense conversation. A chest poke. Can’t see them now, but they’re almost at the door—”

  “Knock, knock,” Jerry Prescott says in the doorway and I still jump. He comes inside, and Tattoo Guy leans in the doorway, an air-paddling golden bonnet tortoise in one hand and his backpack hanging heavily from the other.

  “Hello, Mr. Prescott. Nice to meet you. I’m Ruthie Midona.” I weave through the tight office space to shake his hand. “I’m holding the fort in Sylvia Drummond’s absence.” I sound plummy and old-fashioned, a good solid secretary type in my cardigan and loafers. Oh man, I’m still wearing my reading glasses on their chain. And they’ve been noticed.

  “Oh hey,” the young guy says with easy recognition, like we’re old friends. “I had a real interesting dream about your glasses last night.”

  I decide I didn’t hear that. “And this is Melanie Sasaki, my temp.”

  “Ruthie, Melanie, good to meet you both.” Jerry pumps our hands vigorously. He’s the older version of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He has an expensive smile. To me he says, “I’ve heard a lot about you from my team back at HQ. You’re a lot younger than I expected.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  (Tattoo Guy grins broadly with his own expensive teeth.)

  I lock eyes with him. “I have a meeting at the moment, I’m sorry.” Read: Get out of here.

  “This is my son, Theodore,” Jerry says, turning to the young guy. “Come in here, introduce yourself.”

  “Hello, I am this man’s son,” Theodore says obtusely, making his father frown. “I am the infant child Prescott.”

  “Could you possibly take something seriously? Just once?” Jerry scolds him. “Put that turtle down, for goodness’ sake. I’m so sorry,” Jerry apologizes to us in a desperate hush as Theodore wanders back outside to release his captive.

  The only explanation for this visit is that I’ve majorly messed up somehow. I audit every memory of the gas station incident. I was curt and rude to Theodore, but I’d also been called elderly. Is it against PDC rules to loan strangers money? Did I scratch his bike with the car when I pulled out?

  I’m fired. That’s what this is.

  I’m fired and homeless in one deft stroke, and Theodore Prescott and his hair are walking back into the office at this exact moment to see it happen. “It’s okay,” he says, reading my murder-victim body language. “No, it’s okay, Ruthie, don’t freak out.”

  “Sorry, this is all a bit irregular.” Jerry laughs, false and bright, and it occurs to me that he’s nervous too. “We’re just dropping in to see how things are going here.”

  “Would you like to sit?” I gesture to the tiny round table and fill water glasses. Theodore hands one to me like he’s concerned.

  Melanie sits and pelvic-thrusts her office chair over to the table. “I’ll take notes.” In a sparkly notebook, mentally eating popcorn. Her brown eyes flit to Theodore approximately once every five seconds, chipping away at segments of him until she’s seen everything available. It is deeply annoying, because I wish I could do that too.

  “I like that one.” Melanie points to a tattoo on his arm. “That’s a dai-dōrō, right? A Japanese stone lantern,” she explains to me and Jerry. “They’re really beautiful when they’re lit up at night.”

  Theodore replies, “This one never lights up, no matter what I try. Are you Japanese?”

  “Half,” Melanie says, warming to the subject (herself). “My dad is from Kyoto and my mom met him when—” She falls silent when she feels my glare. “Sorry. Back to business.” She writes today’s date. I have the strangest thought: She doesn’t know about that rose on the back of his arm. That one’s mine. And I bet his lantern glows all night.

  “I’m sure you must be wondering what all this is about,” Jerry says.

  “I think I know,” I reply, and I make prolonged, unblinking eye contact with his son for the first time.

  Theodore Prescott has:

  Hazel eyes

  Little-kid freckles across the bridge of his nose

  A lot of empathy in his expression, for a thoughtless jerk

  He says, “You’ve scared her shitless, Dad.”

  I explain myself. “At the gas station, I was just doing my good deed for the day.”

  “What does she mean, gas station? What did you do?” Jerry turns on his son, his voice taking on the kind of growl-tone you’d use on your golden retriever that’s standing in the dirt of an upturned indoor plant. Theodore is clearly used to it; dopey grin, tail wag.

  I must be charitable, because I try to cover for the younger Prescott. “I was filling one of the residents’ cars with gas for them. I thought maybe, from an insurance point of view, I shouldn’t have driven it.”

  Theodore won’t allow me to take the fall. “She happened to find me in a tight spot and loaned me twenty bucks for fuel. Dad, you are looking at my Good Samaritan.” I can read the word printed across the knuckles on his left hand: TAKE.

  “Teddy, you can’t ask total strangers for money.” Jerry is horrified. “You should have called me earlier. What if someone knew you’re a Prescott?”

  “Teddy,” Melanie echoes in childlike wonder. She writes it in her notepad, repeating like a magic spell, “Teddy Prescott.”

  “What? Don’t I look like a Teddy?” He’s got humor in his eyes now, and that question is for me. I doubt he has it in him to be serious for more than thirty seconds at a time. He prompts me gently, “Well?”

  Does he look like a Teddy? “Uh . . .”

  I actually have a stuffed bear from my childhood called Teddy in my room right now. They both have a lot of experience sitting on girls’ beds. Bright-eyed, adorable creations made for hugging and finding in your sheets in the morning. The spark in Teddy’s eyes intensifies; he’s biting his lip, holding the laugh in. I brush some hair away from my face; my cheek is hot.

  Melanie can be relied upon for honest feedback. “Teddy is silly, you’re too old. What about Theo instead?” She’s wrong. When I’m faced with that alternative, it suits him down to the ground.

  “He’s been my little bear since he was a baby,” Jerry says, making his adult son dissolve with embarrassment. It’s luscious to witness this moment. “But yes. He’s too old for a lot of things now. Definitely time for a haircut.”

  (Melanie writes down, little bear = baby Teddy, in her notepad, and now it’s me who’s trying not to laugh.)

  “But girls love my long hair.” If he released his bun, Melanie and I would be blinded, but it’s irritating that he knows it. His eyes flick back to me like a reflex, and I realize he wants to know if I agree. He’s messing around with me. Am I a Teddy? Am I irresistible? I huff and straighten up in my seat.

  Jerry continues like he hasn’t heard that. “I’ve been a bit hands-off Providence since we acquired this place. I’ve been focused on another project.”

  “I only just found out about PDC and this place,” Teddy tells me. “I really didn’t know.” The melodrama of sitting on your bike not wanting to call your rich father who owns so many things is just something else. I look over at his backpack again.

  When Jerry notices that Melanie and I are looking worried, he says cheerfully, “Don’t worry, we haven’t made a decision on how we’ll proceed with the site yet.”

  That’s the summary I’m going to be emailing to Sylvia? No bulldozers, yet? I whisper, “Okay, well, that sound
s great.” I’m supposed to be taking care of this place, and that’s the loudest I can get?

  Teddy sighs. “Why can’t you leave things how they are? This place seems fine.”

  “Life is change,” Jerry says, and I suspect he repeats that often. “If I wanted to sit in an office and just buy and sell, I’d do that. I like being out, on-site.” Here, he bangs on the table solidly. “Talking to people and making a difference. Giving things new life. Caring about something. You should try it.”

  Teddy’s eyes blaze and his jaw squeezes. “You know that I care about something a lot.”

  “Oh, sure. Your latest brain wave,” Jerry begins, but the glance he gets from his son ends that train of thought. Too bad for me, because I was edging forward in my chair to find out what could make Teddy glow incandescent in this one moment.

  I instigate a subject change. “I’ve been following your acquisitions, Mr. Prescott.”

  He’s surprised. “Really? Call me Jerry, please.” In the background, Teddy exhales and gives me thank-you eyes.

  “That old golf course must be a challenging site. Is getting labor difficult? I have enough trouble getting our maintenance contractors to stop past here.”

  Jerry nods like he’s amazed. “You’re exactly right. It’s a nightmare.”

  “You hate golf,” Teddy says cynically.

  “It’s going to be a day spa with sixty-five self-contained cabins. Horseback riding, hiking, meditation, the works. It makes more sense to create accommodation and employment than to try to bring those fairways back to life.” Jerry looks at his son. “You could come out and see it.”

  His heir doesn’t take the job-offer bait. “Can’t wait. I need a facial.”

  “You need a residential address, period,” Jerry replies.

  Again, I step in. What is it about Teddy that has turned me into a human shield? “I can print off a dashboard for you, showing our occupancy and financial position as of Monday, eight A.M.”

  “Could you do that, Teddy? Run the financial data on a site?” Jerry says to his son. “Can you use accounting software?”