Never Again, Again

Chapter 1

There should be more mistaken identities in real life. Not the Luke, I am your father type but more the you thought I was a rogue but actually I am a prince who is desperately in love with you variety. On the rare occasion that I actually meet a man that I’m interested in, he is almost always exactly who he says he is. There’s never any underlying plot twists, and definitely no bulging biceps or desperate embraces. It’s all very pedestrian and disappointing, so really, why bother? I’d much rather lose myself in a novel, something with some intrigue.

How could the mute orphan farm boy be the man I have been pining for all these years? My long-lost love. Suddenly, without knowing what she was doing, she spoke his name. Thadius…

He clutched her then, firm against his rock-hard chest, never once shifting his eyes from hers as they fell into the soft, sweet hay.

"Oh gag, Leslie."

I flinch, shoving my novel into my desk, as I look up at my manager.

I already saw it, she says. Thadius, really?

You shouldn’t read over a person’s shoulder, Aisha.

Don’t read trashy romance novels at your desk if you don’t want people to know about it.

"They are not trashy. They are passionate. This one is basically like The Princess Bride backwards! I stop when I see her raised eyebrow. Okay, so I guess they aren’t for everyone. Sorry I was reading at my desk."

It’s fine. She says, leaning against the gray wall of my cubicle. "There’s not enough going on for me to really reprimand you anyway. Just try to look like you’re doing work."

I could always read online.

That’s the problem.

What is?

Nothing. She pulls a phone out of her pocket. "Alright, I actually have some things to finish before the end of the day. Do me a favor and find something to do, the orientation manual, for instance."

I give her a flat look. Aisha and I are on the administrative team for the accounting department and we both know that my current task of redesigning the new employee induction manual is ridiculous. It’s been ages since we’ve had a new employee and there isn’t much to know about this place. It’s the business headquarters of a regional chain of booksellers in Tennessee, not an international espionage firm (those definitely exist).

Anyway, she continues. I’ll catch up with you on Monday.

Monday? Aren’t you and Nathan here this weekend? Yes, I’m friends with my boss, but we were friends before we were coworkers so it isn’t as sad as it sounds…I think.

Anniversary weekend, she replies, smiling. This weekend twelve years ago was our first date.

I thought only wedding anniversaries mattered.

Why can’t you just say, ‘aww, how cute, have fun’ like a normal person?

Aww. How cute. Have fun, I respond before grinning at her. "It is cute. I hope you do something wildly romantic and sexy. I will probably be sitting at my parents’ house trying not to develop a secret cutting habit."

You would hate doing all the laundry.

I know. Can you imagine the stains?

I’d rather not. Anyway, Nathan and I aren’t your only option, call Bethany.

Oh, yeah right, I say. She is in toddler-land.

Exactly! That is why you should call her up and see if she wants to hang out. She could probably use some adult conversation.

I shrug.

And, Aisha continues, bending over, cornering me against my chair. That way, you won’t spend the whole weekend locked away in your apartment reading silly romance novels. I open my mouth to object but she holds up a finger, silencing me. Don’t try to deny it, she says, opening my desk drawer and picking up the book. The cover shows a bare-chested man standing in hay, holding a pitchfork in one hand and a scantily-clad woman in the other. Aisha taps the embarrassing reading material like an attorney presenting evidence. You hide out in these books, Leslie, instead of getting out there and having a life.

Guilty, your honor.

I do not, I say, swiping the book back from her. Anyway, you shouldn’t be worried about it. Enjoy your sexy-time weekend and faux-verssary.

Fine, I surrender! I will leave you to your heaving bosoms and quivering members and we’ll catch up for drinks next week. Have a good weekend - and call Bethany.

Humph. Aisha means well but she should mind her own business. This is my life, if I want to cozy up at home for the next two nights then I darn well will. I ponder this for a moment and then sigh, making a note to call Bethany at lunch.

•••

Pam, I’m heading out, I call, standing in the office doorway of the one accountant who hasn’t taken a long Friday lunch. We’re required to check in before leaving the office in case there is something urgent that needs to be done, because accounting waits for no man! Pam gives me a vacant look as if she doesn’t even know who I am and couldn’t care less whether I am in the office or gone for lunch, so I turn and make my way through the maze of cubicles toward the big double doors that open into the elevator bank and freedom.

Shelby Walker Books, Memphis, TN is emblazoned in bold blue across the dark wood. For ten years I’ve been wandering in and out of these doors; the first time was when I was twenty-two years old. Aisha had been working here part time since her junior year of college and helped me get an interview once we both graduated from the University of Memphis. She had wisely gotten a degree in Business Administration, while I had chosen English Literature (oh liberal arts, you fickle mistress). A bookstore seemed like a good temporary fix. I never anticipated that it would turn into a career. Now, here I am, collating notebooks and putting together PowerPoint presentations a decade later.

While it isn’t exactly my dream job (not that I know what that is), it pays the bills and offers some security, and there is something to be said for that these days, plus, it isn’t as though the job is without perks. Namely, the 40 percent discount that employees get on all merchandise. While most of my coworkers use theirs to get cheap coffee and bad holiday CDs, I use mine to feed a more serious addiction. I can easily consume six or seven bodice-ripping, up against-the-wall, sexy-highwayman-style novels in a month without shame, well, maybe with a little bit of shame. I haven’t been able to bring myself to check them out of the library for years, who wants to deal with librarian judgment? Anyway, the employee discount is probably the only reason I can afford my rent.

Scrolling through my phone, I find Bethany’s number as I walk toward the front of the building, groaning as I step out of the cool air-conditioning and into the sticky Memphis downtown. Immediately, I pull off my Old Navy blazer and fluff out my black pencil skirt, lest the polyester lining stick to my sweaty legs and rip (yes, yes that has happened before). It is not quite May and already it feels like mid-July, hot, thick air rolling across the Mississippi Delta. Absently, I reach a hand up to my hair, knowing that the frizz will be instantaneous, each curl going haywire. I have not been blessed with that beautiful, thick curly hair that becomes even springier in humid weather, but instead have fine curls that stand straight out from my head like wings…or antennae.

Heading down the cobblestones of Main Street, I check both ways before crossing the trolley line to head toward Huey’s Burgers to pick up my lunch. Memphis is a BBQ mecca and already the air is thick with the smell of it, but there’s only so much BBQ a person can eat (though I would never say that out loud). The street is crowded even though it is late for lunch. Men and women in business suits are laughing from outdoor tables and throngs of t-shirt-clad tourists are milling about, a few of the requisite Elvis impersonators mixed in for good measure.

HUSH!

What? I say, into the phone.

Not you, Les, Bethany says, sounding exasperated. The kids.

She has two adorable (semi-monster) children: Ben, who is four, and Danielle, who just turned two.

Oh, I respond, lamely. Of course. How are you?

Is that a joke?

It’s not but for some reason I sense that I shouldn’t clarify.

Sorry, she says before I can come up with anything. The kids are making me crazy today. I swear to god, they do it on purpose. Like, I can see them getting together and planning ways to push my buttons.

Beth, I say, with a smile in my voice. "I don’t think your children are having strategy sessions in the playroom.

"You don’t know," she responds. In the background, I hear a rogue shriek amidst the sickeningly sweet sound of a children’s program.

You’re right, I say meekly, wanting to kill Aisha, I clearly should not have called. I was just going to see if you are around this weekend.

WHAT DID I SAY?!

Huh?

Not you, she says again. What did you say? Something about the weekend?

Yeah, I was going to see if you wanted to grab a drink or–

A drink? My friend, I would like to take an extended vacation in a bottle of vodka but no can do this weekend. Dennis and I are taking the kids to see the Surgeon and his wife in Nashville. This is how Bethany refers to her in-laws. Her husband Dennis’ Father is a neurosurgeon and never lets anyone forget it, even though Dennis is a cardiovascular surgeon. Apparently the head is more important than the heart.

Oh, I reply, feeling deflated. That will be fun. I’m glad that Dennis could get a break from the hospital. I didn’t really think she would be available, but suddenly the weekend seems inexorably long.

Are you alright, Les? She asks. I can hear the television volume drop and know that she is stepping into another room.

Yeah, of course, I say, forcing cheer into my voice. Just feeling a bit woe-is-me, that’s all. Both you and Aisha are gone this weekend so I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

Ah, she replies. Sorry babe, we’ll get drinks next week for sure.

Definitely, I say back with the same artificial happiness.

In the meantime, she goes on. "You could go out without us."

Oh yeah, right, I say. "With whom?

You’ve lived here your entire life, Leslie.

Yeah, but I don’t like anyone but you and Aisha. I smile into the phone as I turn the corner, heading toward the restaurant.

"We are hard to compete with. But come on, what about work? Isn’t there anyone you could hang out with? What about the little hottie-tottie you told me about, ol’ blue eyes?"

I should never have mentioned that, it’s a non-starter, forget I said anything. Just thinking about Blaine makes my face tingle…among other body parts. He is the last hire our office made before things slowed down, a twenty-eight-year-old accountant from Georgia and oh-so good looking. The perfect southern boy, with thick blond hair that is just a little too long, a year-round bronzy tan, and an endless supply of pastel shirts that he somehow manages to make look manly. If only I’d been in charge of new employee orientation when he started, than I would have had a reason to talk to him. As it is, however, I just stare at him, stalker-like from my desk.

You disappoint me, Leslie. I’m supposed to be living vicariously through you, my single pal, and you’re giving me precious little to work with.

Sorry, I won’t pimp myself out for you.

A true friend would. What about Jessica Abrams? I’m sure she would be happy to meet for a cocktail. Word on the street is that she just moved back.

Oh please, Jess Abrams? I didn’t think we liked her. I mean, I know we hung out with her all the time but she was always so fake, remember?

"In high school. Give me a break, it’s been almost fifteen years. Anyway, it would be perfect, she is newly single and you are–"

Still single. I finish for her.

Yes, she says. You two can go out and scam on guys. My god, that sounds so fun.

No dice, I say, not wanting to let her imagine anything more. Jess Abrams has a deal-breaker bigger than her rotten attitude hanging over her head. Do we remember who Jess Abrams decided to date our first summer back from college?

"Oh my god, seriously, Les? He dated lots of girls after you broke up."

I know. He was, and probably still is, a man-whore.

Please. He was a teenage boy, a hot teenage boy, I might add, who had been with the same girl his whole life. Of course he was going to get around a bit.

I scoff. "I didn’t."

There is a long pause on the phone before she goes on. Anyway, you do realize that Jess has been married and divorced since then, right?

Yes I do, but unfortunately, she is forever tainted.

Good god, Leslie, this thing you have with him has gone on long enough, hasn’t it? Bethany is speaking to me with the tone of voice she usually reserves for reprimanding her son Ben and I don’t appreciate it one bit.

"You, of all people, know that it hasn’t gone on long enough. You were there from the beginning, you know what an arrogant and irritating person he is."

"I have known you both for more than twenty-five years and I am telling you it is enough. He was one of your best friends, our best friends, she says, correcting herself. We spent our childhoods hanging out, we had sleepovers, binge-watched VHS movies, went to roller-skating parties."

Bethany–

He was your first boyfriend, your high school sweetheart, for heaven’s sake!

My stomach is clenching, anger vibrating through me.

Hush your mouth, I snap, sharply. It doesn’t count when you are children, my frontal lobe was not yet fully developed. I had no idea what I was doing.

We were seventeen not eight, she responds.

I let out an aggravated huff into the phone. Teens don’t count! I shout before remembering that I am on the street. Anyway, I can barely remember the details, I lie, lowering my voice. "It was an irrelevant event in my life–he was an irrelevant event in my life."

"Yeah right, you were each other’s first loves, and shouldn’t I know? I was always the third wheel with you two. Graduation screwed things up, I get it. But Les, everyone is traumatized by high school, it is time to move past it."

"PAST IT? There is a slight shrill in my voice that I work to contain, forcing myself to smile at the elderly couple walking by. I turn toward the brick wall next to me and continue in a furious whisper. He blew me off, dropped me like a bad habit. I was completely and utterly decimated by him. It took me years to get over it. And every summer, I had to watch his steady stream of girlfriends coming and going out of his house while I sat at home miserable."

Hey, I was with you at that home a lot of the time so don’t drag me into your sad little drama.

You’re right. I’m sorry, you just…you can’t defend him. You know I get worked up when it comes to him.

Worked up? Bethany sounds incredulous. You get irrational. I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, your parents are still best friends with his and yet, you have managed to barely speak to him in what? More than a decade? What is it about Sino Fiorelli that scares you so much?

It isn’t fear, I say. It’s hatred.

I hear Bethany sigh through the phone. Well, okay, have it your way. Don’t call Jessica because she deigned to date Sino thirteen years ago. I hear the noise of the children pick up as Bethany moves back into the living room.

Good to chat anyway, I say. Enjoy your trip to Nashville.

I’m sure we will, she responds. "I’m just thrilled to have an extra set of–OH THAT IS IT. TIME OUT IS HAPPENING!"

A wail erupts through the telephone.

Les, gotta run–we’ll catch up next week.

Before I can reply, she hangs up. I slip the phone back into my purse as I open the doors to the restaurant and walk toward the hostess stand, still feeling slightly shaky with adrenaline.

Welcome to Huey’s–oh hey, be back in just a sec, the adorable teenage hostess says, bouncing toward the bar to get my order without even asking my name…I may come here too often.

I sit down on the bench next to the door and tug on my blouse, trying to get some cool air down my shirt. I’m boiling, either from the weather or my conversation with Bethany. I still can’t believe she had the gall to bring up Sino Fiorelli. Well, to be fair, I guess I brought him up, she just mentioned Jess Abrams. Oh god, how disturbing. I can’t believe I had the gall to bring up Sino Fiorelli. I’ve done such a good job of forgetting (ignoring) his existence ever since his parents retired to Florida and he moved to New York City for a job in finance. So cliché, Sino. I used to see him once or twice a year on big occasions but I’ve managed to avoid him the last few times.

I realize that, perhaps, there is a slight bit of irrationality to still being bitter about a high school romance but what can I say, I’m a Scorpio, we don’t forgive. Anyway, it wasn’t just a broken heart, Sino destroyed my sense of trust. One minute we were something and then the next minute…I shake my head, I’m not going to dwell on this for the millionth time. The point is, I’m not interested in knowing him anymore and I don’t ever intend to be. Sino Fiorelli is dead to me, whether Bethany thinks he should be or not.

Here you go, darlin’, the little blond says, handing me my bag. Have a great weekend. We’ll see you Monday!

I shove my novel over to one side of my purse, making room for my burger. At least Thadius doesn’t have plans this weekend.

•••

I lean back, giving a shifty glance toward Blaine’s office to see if he is in there, but the room is empty. I had been hoping to waste the last fifteen minutes of the day staring at him but so much for that plan. It’s not quite 6 p.m. and I haven’t had a thing to do for over an hour. I pop my head up over my cubicle wall, Office Space-style, to see who else might be lurking about. Maybe I can make a run for it. If I do, I can get to Mom and Dad’s Friday night dinner early, thereby meaning that I can leave early. This thought is all the motivation I need to grab my blazer and dash for the doors.

It’s not that I don’t love my parents, I do. I even like them a lot of the time, but they are just so exhausting. As my mother is always saying we are not cut from the same cloth, which is weird since, technically, we are. The point is that I am very different from my parents, a fact that seems to never cease in frustrating them. They are desperate for me to be adventurous and outgoing like they are but I’m just not. They can never understand that my idea of a good time is to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and a good book. I don’t need to be surrounded by people and I don’t want to travel constantly like they do. Especially since I spent half my childhood being dragged all over the world with them; I’ve already been everywhere. Travel enriches your life, my father tells me. And while I’m sure that is true, staying put has been working out just fine as well.

I slide into my car in the parking garage and rearrange my rearview mirror so that I can fix my hair and makeup. If I come in looking like a slob, Mom will absolutely comment on it. She can’t help herself. Actually she probably could, but she won’t. I whip out my battery-operated curling brush and flip it on while I wipe stray black eyeliner from underneath my eyes. I stare at myself, analyzing the features of my face: cheekbones that aren’t quite high enough, a nose that is just a smidge big, lips that aren’t as plump as they could be. Turning away from the mirror, I silently damn Cosmopolitan magazine and air-brushing. I know I’m not an ugly girl but I’ll never be the type to stop traffic, not like Aisha with her beautiful bone structure and almond-shaped eyes or Bethany with her thick blond hair and legs up to her ears.

I pick up the curling brush and try to tame my Medusa-like tentacles. In mid-curl, with half of my hair flipped upside down over my face so that I look like Cousin It, I hear a knock on my window.

Is that you under there, Leslie?

Panic rushes through me as I hear the voice. Of course it’s Blaine.

What? I yell, which is apparently the best response I can manage as I drop the curling brush, getting it irrevocably tangled in my hair (and probably singing it) while simultaneously trying to appear normal. Get it together. I attempt to casually detangle the device, but that sucker isn’t moving so I simply click off the heat and smooth my hair back as though it is totally fine that there is a large, phallic object dangling from my head.

I glance through the window at his bemused expression (ohmagodheissocute). He has rolled up the shirt sleeves of his pastel green dress shirt and his sunglasses are hanging by University of Georgia croakies, his floppy hair falling in his face. I feel my mouth go dry. He bends down slightly, making the motion for me to roll down the window. Oh right, I suppose rolling down the window would help in facilitating a conversation. I ram my shoulder hard into the door, making him jump backwards slightly.

No, no, I say loudly. Don’t worry, it’s just what I have to do to get the window open.

Ah, is all he says as he watches me working all my muscles to crank it down.

My car is ancient, a hand-me-down from my mother. Actually, I am only seven years older than it, a fact I wear like a badge of honor. I keep imagining that one day I’ll meet a man who will find me stranded on the side of the road. He will be tall, dark, and handsome and automatically know what is wrong with my malfunctioning vehicle and how to fix it…there on the street, without tools. He will respect me for keeping such a fine piece of machinery running for so long (okay, so it is a Nissan but this is my fantasy) and we’ll have a moment of perfect comprehension. We will then make wild, passionate love in the backseat of the car (which will magically be comfortable and romantic) before he professes that he can’t live another day without me. Or something like that…I haven’t thought about it that much.

I turn to look back up at Blaine, my face flushing as he drapes an arm over the roof of my Sentra and flicks his hair out of his eyes. Suddenly, I am really hoping my car breaks down on the way out of the garage.

Sorry, I say, doing my best to sound normal and nonchalant instead of spastic and nervous. I got sideswiped a few years ago and it did something funky to this side of the car.

Sure, he says, smiling. Swoon. You know you could have just opened the door.

Haha, right, I respond with a forced laugh. I’m an idiot. Um…so what’s up?

Oh nothin’ much, he responds, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Just seeing what you were up to, you know, find out what your big plans were for the weekend. He laughs awkwardly, "I didn’t realize that rolling down your window was such an ordeal. I mean, a crank window. Epic."

I feel my face burning with embarrassment…and probably from the curling brush.

Yeah, well, I say brusquely. We can’t all have expensive, fancy cars. I was trying to sound light and humorous but immediately realize that it came out shrewish when I see his face.

Oh Leslie, he stammers, I didn’t mean to–I mean, nothing against your car. I had just forgotten about crank windows- - it’s actually really cool. I–damn-sorry, I didn’t mean to come off like an asshole!

And I didn’t mean to make him feel like one. What is wrong with me? You didn’t, I say, quickly, waiting and hoping he’ll say something else, maybe continue his train of thought about the weekend.

Anyway, he says, standing back up, whatever moment we were having ruthlessly butchered by my anti-suaveness. I guess, uh, yeah, have a great weekend, Leslie. I’ll catch up with you on Monday. Again, sorry!

No really, I say, a sad little note of desperation in my voice. It’s nothing. Have a great weekend! I slump back into my seat as I watch him walk off into the dark corridors of the garage.

That exchange is a perfect example of why I’m better off reading books: I choke. I’m a choker, and, in real life, the grand duke masquerading as the chauffeur does not find it charming.

Chapter 2

I park in of my parents’ picture perfect house and take a deep breath in preparation before grabbing my purse and walking up the little stone pathway that runs through the yard and toward the door. The house is darling, a white, two story with green trim. There are pink azaleas on either side of the porch and a nice dogwood tree blooming. It looks like a Southern Living magazine cover. No one would guess that such lunatics live there. Before I even touch the bell, the door swings open.

Why you always want to ring the bell like this? You can just use your key, non? My French father leans forward to kiss me on both my cheeks. He hasn’t lived in France for almost 40 years, but he still hasn’t lost his accent or his manners.

Hey Dad, I say as we exchange kisses. I know I don’t have to ring but I’m never sure what I’ll get on the other end if I just open the door.

My father gives me one of those nonchalant Parisian looks and shrugs, pushing up the sleeves of his dress shirt; he retired five years ago but is still always in his business attire of navy slacks and white collared shirt. Ouais… he says, trailing off. This is the casual version of oui, pronounced whey, and is one of his favorite words to use for any situation – excitement, uncertainty, sadness. It’s multifunctional.

He takes my blazer, draping it over the railing of the stairs before ushering me from the entry hall into the enormous wood-paneled living room that is the heart of the house. My parents love to entertain and this is where all the action takes place; it’s huge, with high ceilings and big picture windows, and a fireplace at the end that gives it a cozy feel.

I look past the brown leather couches and glass coffee table toward the mahogany dining set that’s in the back corner of the room, surrounded by windows that look out over the patio and garden. Just like the exterior of the house, the tasteful décor gives few hints of their eccentricity. I squint my eyes to look more closely at the table and notice that there is a miniature statue of Kali, Hindu goddess of destruction, sitting in the middle as the centerpiece. And there it is. I guess we are either having Indian food tonight or burning the house down.

So, how ya goin’? My father asks me, morphing into his Antipodean accent.

I try to suppress a smile, it might be by accident but I’m pretty sure he clings to all his foreign slang on purpose to sound cool. My father was on an engineering contract and my mother was doing a year abroad when they met in Australia. They lived there for almost a decade before moving to Memphis, my mother’s hometown. I spent my entire childhood awash in cultural confusion and adventure competition. They can never decide which one of them has had a more interesting life…mine doesn’t even merit a participation trophy.

I’m good, you know, the same ol’, same ol’, I respond, wondering why my mother hasn’t appeared yet. I don’t like surprise attacks. Not much changes in a week, Dad.

"This