Where We Belong

  They are nice words, but stiff ones, and I can tell she only wishes she means them. The feeling I have seems suddenly familiar and I struggle to place it, realizing that it comes during my occasional exchanges with Peter’s ex-wife. She wants her son to like me—but not too much. And of course, I must always be aware of my role, the boundary. Even if I marry his father, I’ll never be his mother. Just as I will never be Kirby’s.

  “Thank you,” I say, walking that careful line. “It’s been wonderful getting to know your daughter.”

  Your daughter, I repeat in my head, and I have the feeling Lynn is repeating the words, too, because I feel her soften a bit as she says, “You’ve been very nice to her. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “So this weekend?” she says. “Art and I are excited for Kirby. We just wish she weren’t missing prom.”

  Another text comes in from Kirby that says, Jesus. See what I deal with?

  “Prom can be overrated,” I reply, knowing instantly that it was the wrong thing to say.

  Sure enough, there is a beat of chilly silence and then—“It just makes no sense to Art and me. Why she’d want to miss such a special, special night when she already made plans and has a dress and everything.”

  Thinking of Belinda’s dress, I take a deep breath, searching for a way to change the subject.

  Lynn continues, “But that’s Kirby. She marches to her own drums. Literally.”

  Just like Conrad, I think, my heart fluttering again.

  “So Art and I are going to leave this up to her. Whether she misses prom. That’s up to her. She knows how we feel. And now you do, too.”

  “Right,” I say, choosing my words as carefully as possible. “And whatever she decides … I just want you to know that you can count on me to be a responsible chaperone. I’m not her parent … I’m not a parent at all,” I say with a release of anxious laughter. “But I will do my very best for Kirby. For your daughter.”

  * * *

  Peter calls and invites me to lunch the following morning. I accept because he is, after all, my boss, and my show is, after all, in peril. He suggests Aquavit, and I veto it because I’m not in the mood for an upscale restaurant, especially one with herring and gravlax and venison tartes on the menu.

  “Okay. You pick,” he says.

  “Burger Heaven,” I say, intentionally choosing a fluorescently lit spot that caters to tourists and midtown worker bees—two things Peter is decidedly not.

  “Burger Heaven? Really?” he says predictably. I can see him making a face over the phone.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Isn’t that a chain?” he says as if it’s a bad word.

  “Yes,” I say. “With the best tuna fish sandwiches in the city. Let’s go to the one on Fifty-fourth and Madison. One-thirty.”

  * * *

  A few hours later we are seated across from each other in a blue plastic booth the likes of which Peter hasn’t seen in years.

  “Burger Heaven, huh?” he says, sitting down at our two-top, tossing his tie over his shoulder and unfolding his paper napkin. “You really are pissed at me.”

  “Get your nose out of the air,” I say.

  “Oh—and you’re not a food snob? Right. Nice try,” he says.

  “I’m not,” I say, thinking of Kirby and her parents and feeling determined to distance myself from the relentlessly haughty opinion Manhattan has of itself. “I’m not a snob at all.”

  Peter leans toward me and says, “One tuna fish sandwich doesn’t save you on that front.” He winks at me, looking infuriatingly gorgeous, just as our waitress arrives, flips open her pad, and asks if we’re ready.

  “The lady would like a tuna sandwich,” Peter says, now more amused than ever. “With all the fixings.”

  “Plain,” I interject. “I’d like it plain. On white toast.”

  “Oh. You simple creature, you,” he whispers to me, then looks back up at our sullen waitress. “And I will have one of your heavenly burgers.”

  “With cheese?”

  “Indeed. Cheddar. And bacon.”

  “Fries?”

  “Why not.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Just water,” we say at once.

  “Tap for me. Bottled for him,” I say, and give him a triumphant smirk when he doesn’t protest.

  “Sparkling, please,” he says. “Do you have Perrier?”

  She nods, asks if that’s all, then turns on her heels to go.

  “Okay. What’s this venue all about?” he says, glancing around the restaurant.

  I shrug. Because the truth is, I really don’t know what I’m trying to prove other than to point out that he is sanctimonious and judgmental—about everything. From burger joints to secret adoptions. “So. You tell me. What’s the status of my show? I assume that’s why we’re here.”

  “Yes,” he says, smiling. “We released Angela from her contract, but I saved your show. You’re still in the eight but you get to keep Thursday and your budget was only cut by ten percent.”

  I nod and give him the smallest smile in return, acknowledging that it could have been much worse.

  “You’re welcome,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say, wondering why I’m not happier.

  “It was a very close call—without Angela. You’re really going to have to knock it out of the park—at least with those first few episodes.”

  “We will,” I say.

  “You have a story lined up?”

  “Yes. We’re going to McLean her,” I say, referring to McLean Stevenson and the death of his character after he left M*A*S*H.

  Peter smiles, getting the reference, as I quote Radar from one of my first favorite shows: “‘Henry Blake’s plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan … It spun in … There were no survivors.’”

  “And that’s one of the many reasons I love you,” he says, laughing. “I should warn you, though, the advertisers might not like the tone of her violent death.”

  “Tell them I’m great at endings,” I say.

  He shakes his head as if charmed by my innuendo. “I miss you, Champ. I’m ready for us to be us again.”

  “Which us might that be?” I say. “The power couple us in perpetual limbo at fine restaurants all over Manhattan?”

  “Don’t forget Brooklyn,” he says. “You know how I love Peter Luger.”

  I stare at him, refusing to smile.

  He glances around, accustomed to nearby patrons knowing exactly who he is, then gives me a seductive look.

  “What?” I say.

  He shakes his head, then leans across the table and grabs both of my wrists, holding them tightly in his hands. “The us in bed. Mine. Yours. Fine hotels or Super Eights. Take your pick.”

  I feel a surge of attraction that I try to resist. I pull away, but he holds on to me harder—which only makes the attraction stronger. I hate how much I love it.

  “Stop,” I say, pretending to mean it.

  He waits a beat before letting go, our eyes still locked.

  “Come home with me now,” he says. “I need to make love to you.”

  “To prove that you do?” I say.

  “You know I do.”

  I shake my head. “I have a character to kill off,” I say. “And a trip to pack for.”

  He raises his brows and says, “Where’re you going?”

  “To Chicago. I’m leaving Friday.”

  “A visit home?” he says. “Wasn’t your mom just here?”

  “I’m going to see Conrad,” I say. “With Kirby.”

  Peter gives me a smile that would make me melt if I were any less scared, his whole face lit up with surprise and approval. “Good for you,” he says with only the slightest trace of condescension. So little that I can’t really hold it against him—unless I’m prepared to hold everything against him—his career, his intelligence, his impossibly good looks. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

 
“How about us? Can we talk about us?”

  “We can talk about us when I get back,” I say, knowing that I can’t possibly think about our relationship before Chicago.

  “So we’ll talk. And then make love?” Peter asks, pushing a piece of my hair out of my face, behind my ear.

  “We’ll see,” I say, hoping he can’t see my goose bumps, and knowing there’s about as much chance of me turning down Peter as there is Conrad being okay with what I did to him.

  23

  kirby

  It’s Friday evening, the week before prom, and I’ve yet to tell Philip we’re not going. We’ve exchanged texts and voice mails and even a series of quips on his Facebook wall, but we haven’t had the chance to really talk since I made my decision. So when I finally reach him on the phone, I’m relieved and excited to hear his voice live.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask, sitting up and hugging my knees.

  He informs me in a low voice that he’s browsing at Left Bank Books.

  “Do you always go to bookstores on Friday nights?” I say, meaning the question sincerely, but worried that I sound like Belinda, mocking anything that involves voluntary enlightenment.

  “I thought there was a book signing here tonight. An author I like,” he says. “But I screwed up the dates. It’s next Friday … So I’m just kinda hanging out, reading some stuff. Wanna come join me?”

  “Yes,” I say, without hesitation. “I’d love to join you. Are you in the Central West End?”

  “Yep,” he says. “On Euclid. Hurry.”

  “Why?” I ask, wondering if the store is closing soon or if he just has somewhere else to be tonight.

  “Why? I don’t know … Because I kinda miss you?”

  “Oh,” I say, grinning. “Well, I kinda miss you, too.”

  Giddily replaying our exchange, I hang up and run out the door, managing to avoid my parents, along with a fresh peppering of questions about how I could possibly choose to miss prom. Oh, I don’t know, guys, maybe because meeting three blood relatives is just a teensy bit more meaningful than watching a bunch of idiots, including one in a stolen dress, gyrate to Kesha.

  * * *

  The Central West End is only six miles from my neighborhood in St. Louis Hills, a quick drive now that rush hour traffic is pretty much over, yet it feels like a different world, and I feel cooler simply approaching the little corridor of hip boutiques and restaurants. I find an open meter right outside of the bookstore, and neatly parallel park the beat-up Honda Accord I share with Charlotte, instantly spotting Philip through the open door. He is sitting cross-legged on the floor, petting a gray long-haired cat, a stack of books beside him.

  As I get out of the car, he looks up at me with a big grin. “Hey!” he says. “Long time, no see.”

  “Hi,” I say, walking into the shop and plopping down on the floor next to him, the cat too satisfied to even glance my way.

  “Kirby, meet Spike, the world’s most literary feline. Spike, this is Kirby,” Philip says. “The world’s…” He looks at me, searching for words.

  “Well, Spike, let’s just say I’m far from the world’s most literary girl,” I confess.

  “Yeah, but she’s way smarter than she lets on,” Philip whispers in the vicinity of Spike’s free ear, the one not getting a thorough scratching. “And she’s an audiophile to boot. Best taste in music I’ve ever seen. And that’s a fact.”

  I smile, loving this compliment, as I notice he’s wearing a royal blue T-shirt that reads, in block letters: WILLIE, EMMYLOU, MERLE & LACY J.

  “I like your shirt,” I say.

  “You like country music?” he says.

  I laugh and say, “Um, that’d be a big no, but I do appreciate its crossover influence. And I gotta give it up to Merle.”

  “Oh, yeah. Spike agrees. He can rock out to ‘Okie from Muskogee’ like the best of them, but his overall taste is eclectic. Like yours.” Spike purrs, falling farther onto his back, his hind legs splayed.

  I smile and murmur my general approval of Spike. Something along the lines of him being a nice cat.

  “Yeah. He’s a good one … Did you ever meet Captain Nemo or Jamaica? Spike’s predecessors?”

  I shake my head, wondering how virtually everything out of his mouth can be so charming.

  “They were cool, too. Captain Nemo was the first. He was rescued after a near drowning incident … Hence the name. And Jamaica was named after Jamaica Kincaid. The two Jamaicas actually met when she was here for a signing…”

  I nod, deducing that Jamaica Kincaid is a writer, wondering whether she’s a famous one I should have heard of, and making a mental note to look her up later as I did with Edith Wharton after my trip to New York. I also tell myself that college or not, I really have to start reading more, especially if I’m going to be hanging with such smart people.

  “Yeah, Neems and Jamaica were cool, but I’m partial to Spike here. He’s a bold, persistent one. He knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to tell you,” Philip says just as Spike revs up with a very long, garbled, multisyllable meow.

  “See what I mean?” Philip says, smiling.

  I laugh and say, “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

  Philip and I make fleeting but meaningful eye contact, my skin feeling prickly and warm.

  “Spike did get in trouble once, though,” Philip says. “Didn’t you, Spikey boy?”

  “What did he do?” I say, grinning.

  Philip lowers his voice. “He tried to steal a furry children’s book. Swiped it right off the shelves and hid it in the back room. Got in a little hot water with the owner.”

  My smile fades a bit, thinking of Belinda, wondering if Philip knows what happened. Is it possible that Belinda confessed to Jake? Could he know the story and think that I’m being as uptight as Belinda does? No chance, I think. His joke about Spike notwithstanding, I just can’t see him taking shoplifting lightly. I consider confiding the whole incident, my loyalty feeling stretched, but decide against it, just as I did with Charlotte.

  Philip must read the look on my face because he sits up, brushes his hands on his jeans, cat hair floating into the air, and says, “What’s up?” before sneezing three times.

  I ignore the question and say, “Bless you. Are you allergic?”

  He nods. “Yep. But he’s worth it.”

  I smile, thinking of Belinda again. Wondering if she’s worth it.

  “So I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say, trying to convince myself that Marian is right. Aside from the waste of money on his tux (which I’m hoping he can still cancel), no guy is going to care that much about missing prom. “Can we go somewhere? To talk?”

  “Sure,” he says. “You hungry? Wanna grab a pizza at Pi?”

  I shake my head and say, “I’m not really hungry. Could we just walk for a while? It’s such a nice night. I mean, unless you’re hungry?”

  “No. I’m fine. I’d love to walk,” he says, giving me a knowing look before waving good-bye to the clerk at the cash register, saluting Spike, and leading me back through the open door onto Euclid Avenue.

  It is just before dark, and we are both silent, wandering up the quiet, tree-lined block, until I finally say, “So about prom … I’m going to have to bail…”

  “For real?” He stops and looks at me, disappointed.

  I nod. “I’m sorry. I wanted to go but I … can’t.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Just please tell me I’m not getting dissed for some DuBourg cool boy?”

  “No!” I say, thinking of another SAT word. “That’s an oxymoron anyway.”

  He smiles as we start to walk again.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to go. It’s just that … Belinda and I are in a pretty major fight. And I think it would be awkward to go before it’s … resolved.”

  “Well, maybe it will be by then?” he says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Well, are you sure you don’t want to just
go alone? The two of us without Jake and Belinda?”

  I shake my head and say, “See, the thing is … she’s really my only good friend at school.” I watch his reaction closely, trying to determine if I’ve lost points in his eyes, but he seems not to mind this confession in the slightest. “I’m sort of a loner.”

  He nods, unfazed.

  “So I think I’d rather just skip the whole thing,” I say. “I was never really the prom type to begin with.”

  “I can see that,” he says, smiling.

  “Yeah. Belinda sort of talked me into it. And I agreed because … well, I liked the idea of going somewhere all dressed up with you.”

  “Aww. Really?” he says. “Don’t make me blush.”

  “You? Blush?” I say.

  “What, you think Asians can’t blush?” he says with a laugh.

  “I didn’t mean that,” I say, as I feel my own skin turn pink. “You just don’t seem like the type to get embarrassed.”

  “I bet you could make me blush,” he says, as if challenging me.

  “Okay,” I say, our flirting making me sweat and breathe funny. “I like your eyes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What color are they, anyway?”

  “Light brown.”

  “I think of them as topaz.”

  He gives me a shy smile, then looks back down at the ground.

  “And I like your smile,” I say as it grows. “And I think it would have been really nice to go to prom with you.”

  “Okay. I think I’m blushing now. You can stop.”

  I look at him, and sure enough, there is the slightest pink cast to his smooth, golden cheeks.

  “But I can’t go. Because of Belinda. And I have to go to Chicago anyway. I’m going to meet Marian’s parents. And my dad. Not my real dad, of course—but … the other one,” I say, swallowing nervously. “It all came up sort of suddenly. And Marian’s free this weekend—”

  “Look. I get it, Kirby. I completely understand,” he says as our arms swing in tandem. They graze, seemingly by his design, and seconds later, my hand is tucked in his, a neat fit. “I’m really excited for you—and I can’t wait to hear all about it when you get back.”