It Started with a Kiss

Andrew laughs. “You’re saying not to worry about the dirty headlines, but roll with the punches and let the clients come to us?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Nick chuckles. “That’s brilliant.” Standing, he walks to the door. “Hey, Jackson?”

I glance up from that black phone screen again. “What?”

“While you have a good point, several, in fact, I wasn’t referring to the case. I wasn’t referring to work at all.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a grown-ass man. I can handle it. I can handle anything thrown my way.”

“Yeah, you’ve always been so determined to prove you can do anything, to do things on your own, to do them your way, whether it was right or wrong, but you’ve let that bleed into your personal life. And you know where that will get you?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

Nick sighs, and I see an ounce of disappointment enter his eyes. “Sitting in this office working all hours of the night to avoid returning to an empty house.”

“I’m leaving early today,” I lie. My eyes redirect to Andrew, who looks away. He’s not calling me on my bullshit because he’s above that.

“Bullshit.” My brother-in-law is apparently not above it.

I start packing my stuff because I’ll run this lie into the ground to win an argument. Argument? We’re not fighting, and they’re not my enemies. “Okay, today I’m leaving early.”

Andrew says, “It’s six thirty.”

“Not early, but earlier than usual.” They both have shit-eating grins on their faces. “Whatever.”

Snapping his fingers, he says, “I almost forgot to ask. Are you coming over this weekend?”

I’ve been going over every weekend to play with James and hang with my family—Mom, Dad, sister, nephew, and Nick. There’s just one person always missing.

I don’t think I realized how larger than life Marlow used to be until she was replaced by silence. “I’ll let you know tomorrow. I might just lay low this weekend.”

“Let Natalie know. She’s planning a cookout on Sunday since the weather will be nice.” He leaves, and Andrew gets up right after. “How are you really doing?”

“Are we going to talk about our feelings? Because I might need to pour a drink for this.”

“Your sarcasm is on point. Lots of fucking feelings buried by those comebacks.”

Comebacks . . . I grin, remembering how Marlow would always call me out on the delayed comeback. She didn’t get that arguing with her was too distracting for me to be clever.

He’s just about to leave when I hold up the file, and say, “Thanks.”

Tipping his chin, he replies, “Anytime, St. James.”

Left alone again, I read the details in the red file to compare to mine. The district attorney filing charges didn’t come as a surprise. There are ramifications when stocks and exchanges aren’t dealt with properly. The company is protected. I may not have the resolution I’m seeking yet, but the suit against me should be dropped once the paperwork is filed.

I should feel better than I do, at least more than superficial relief, but what’s a victory if you have no one to celebrate with?

Slipping my arms into my jacket, I straighten my tie and lock up for the day because fuck it, I’ll prove them wrong and leave before night falls.

I don’t call cars or use cabs much these days. I take the subway, needing to be around people who can take my mind off . . . “Marlow.”

There. I say her name out loud for the first time since I can remember. I half-expected it to sound foreign to my ears. It doesn’t. It’s smooth and melodic, natural like it’s such a part of me. Still.

The only downside to riding the subway is I lose cell service for thirty minutes while underground. Or maybe that’s a blessing. It’s the only time I leave all expectations on the sidewalk above the train station, ready to pick up where I left off when I return.

After taking the steps by two to reach the street level, I instantly pull my phone out so it can find a signal.

Missed Call - Marlow

“Fuck!” You’re fucking kidding me.

Pacing the sidewalk, I call her right back but get her voicemail.

Fuck! Fuck! “Fuck! Oh, sorry,” I tell a startled silver-haired lady clinging to a walker.

I walk the remaining blocks staring at my phone, willing it to ring again. It doesn’t, but I go over every detail of how she’s embedded into my day. Whether it’s for me or she’s doing it on purpose, I can’t escape Marlow’s fingerprints on my life.

Her stuff still takes up most of my closet, and her toiletries are where she left them. Her sneakers are lined up next to mine in the hallway, and I keep a chilled bottle of champagne in the fridge because she always believed life was worth celebrating. Even the little things.