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Chapter 4
I stop by the Murphy house to check on the progress of the closet. Tommy said it was, and I quote, “done,” but Tommy also cuts corners. I can’t completely blame the kid. He just turned twenty-one and unlike me doesn’t have any interest in building or remodeling as his life’s work. He’s here for the paycheck, and some days that means he needs a kick in the ass or a stern reminder from the boss.
I spin the knob on the front door to let myself in but it’s locked, so I reach for the key Cheryl gave me. Come to think of it, with Allie here I should knock or ring the bell.
Oh well. I’m already inside.
I don’t shout up the stairs to Tommy but instead climb the stairs to the hallway. I pass by the bathroom, guest room, and Allie’s former room, but I don’t see anyone. Swiping the sweat from my brow—it’s another scorcher, topping at around ninety-two degrees—I check the walk-in closet. It’s about the same size as the master bathroom now—big. I run my hand along the freshly spackled drywall, impressed that there are no waves or bumps. Wait. Tommy can’t drywall for shit.
“Daryl,” I call out. I poke my head from the closet at the same time Daryl peeks from around the master bathroom wall and plucks his headphones off his head. He’s wearing an honest-to-God Walkman. With a CD in it. I shit you not. He says he can’t wrap his head around iPods or MP3s.
“Nice work on the drywall,” I tell him. “Tommy con you into doing that?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is he?”
“Kitchen. He’s on break.” With a nod, Daryl vanishes again and I turn and jog downstairs. I enter the mouth of the hallway toward the kitchen, when I hear voices. Tommy’s. Allie’s.
They’re laughing. The sound from good-natured Tommy, I’m used to. The sound from Allie feels more like a hallucination, given our last interaction.
“Burke. Man.” Tommy is grinning as he gestures to my ex-girlfriend. “Do you know who this is?”
I glance at Allie to find she’s grinning as well and that stops my brain cold for a few dumb seconds. Her wide mouth is spread into an infectious smile, her teeth straight and white and perfect. Her dark eyes are ringed by a million lashes that don’t have the help of makeup today and don’t need it. She has the mysterious “it” factor famous people have. A pull that makes you want to be in her space. Her eyes brighten and her throat bobs with a silent laugh at Tommy’s question.
“Yeah,” I answer, unable to look away from her for a beat. “I know who this is.”
“So get this,” he says, enthralled. “My girlfriend and I start bingeing this show on Netflix called America’s Sweetheart over the weekend. We watched, I don’t know, four or five episodes on Sunday. Then I’m standing here and Nina Lockhart strolls into the kitchen and I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit! That’s Samantha from the show!’ ”
“To be fair, you actually said the ‘holy shit’ part,” Allie tells him.
“Right.” Tommy gestures to her as she crosses the room to open the refrigerator. “Since we started on season one, you can see how I didn’t recognize her at first. She looks the same but different, you know? You watch America’s Sweetheart, Jax?”
“A splashy comedy about four college-aged girls who hack into the world of politics and launch a campaign for one of them to become the future president of the United States?” Allie pulls a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “That’s Jackson’s favorite show.”
Tommy’s eyes flash from my face to hers like he’s trying to decide if she’s teasing or not. Or maybe he’s picking up that there’s more to us.
“Hey, can you go upstairs and help Daryl clean up?” I ask him.
Disappointment floods my employee’s expression.
“Can’t skip that step,” I remind him.
He twists his mouth like an argument is brewing, but evidently Tommy doesn’t want to start one in front of “Nina Lockhart.”
“Yeah, I know.” He pulls his shoulders back. “I was only taking a break.” He waves at Allie, thanks her for the selfie, and leaves the room.
Leaving her and me standing at the island in the center of the kitchen. Tommy was half right. She isn’t the same girl she was in season one of America’s Sweetheart. Back then she was twenty and had been on an airplane once. That was before she had a stylist and a makeup person and a trailer with her name on it. But right now, without a stitch of eye shadow coating her lids and with that playful sparkle in her eyes, she looks a lot like she did then. I understand his meaning. Her cheekbones are more defined now, her hair longer and silkier, her posture straighter and more confident.
“He’s sweet,” she says.
“He’s young.”
“You were that young once.” She pulls two glasses from the cabinet behind her and pours tea into both. No ice. Just like she used to drink it. She’s the only person I’ve met who drinks iced tea without ice. She crosses to the fridge again, tops off my glass with ice cubes before delivering it.
“Thanks.” I accept the glass and we sip in silence. Allie’s wearing a white dress under which I make out the shadow of a red bikini. It’s a great day for a swim and the pool in the backyard is perfection. Which is probably how she’ll look when she takes off that cover-up. My mind makes a pit stop to the gutter as I imagine what we used to do together and wonder if that has changed, too. If her tight, warm little body would feel the same beneath mine. If her skin still tastes the same.
I gulp my tea, and briefly consider dumping it over my head to cool down.
