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Authors: Melissa Simonson

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BOOK: Burning September
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“No.”

He walked closer to the painting, the outside wind ruffling the papers lightly in his hand.  “Well, you’re really talented.  It’s impressive.  I don’t know anyone who’s got as much skill.”

The only person I knew who had impressive skills in that area was currently living in a psych ward. “Caroline’s better.”

“How did I know you’d deflect a compliment?”

“Because you know everything?”  I glanced into the kitchen, unsure of what to do.  He seemed comfortable enough, and surprisingly, I didn’t want to get rid of him.  If he planned on staying a while, common courtesy dictated offering refreshments of some sort.  Tea.  Coffee.  Crumpets.  What do you feed lawyers?  “Are you hungry or something?  I was going to make dinner soon…”

“I just came from a dinner.”

I snorted.  “With the woman you hope isn’t The Empress?”

A solid, silent five seconds passed before he tipped his head back and laughed. 

I raised an eyebrow.  “You looked at that card like it was a death sentence.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”  He smacked the papers against his leg, smiling at his feet.

“What’s dramatic is how seriously you took that stupid card.”

“Well it was one of those French places.  Weird food, tiny portions.   Low blood sugar made me temporarily out of touch with my faculties.”

I clucked my tongue.  “Excuses, excuses.  Is the ‘tiny food’ thing a hint?  I can make something.”

The set of his jaw made me sure he was chewing his tongue, and both his pupils whizzed between my own. Caroline would title that picture
Man Deep in Thought
.  I often got the impression she could read minds, the way she knew the answers to my questions before I’d even gotten all the words out.  Maybe I was channeling her this time, because I read his thoughts as easily as if they’d been tattooed on his forehead. I was the too-young little sister of a murder case client.  I may have been of legal age, but what would his boss think?

“What, is that inappropriate, or something?  You’re worried about ethics?  You, the man drinking on the job?”  I couldn’t help a laugh. 

“That was light beer.  It hardly counts.  Now, if it were whiskey, that’d count as drinking on the job.  I love whiskey.”

I gestured for him to follow, calling over my shoulder as I headed into the kitchen.  “I’m fresh out of whiskey.  Might have some rum left over from the last time Caroline made mojitos.  I was thinking of making omelets and home fries.  I like doing breakfast for dinner.” 

“A woman after my own heart.”

My head was in the fridge, so he couldn’t see my smile.  “And I hate French food.”

“Amen.”

 

 

 

NOVEMBER

 

 

 

 

Hey,

It went okay with Jeff.  He spent most of the time mooning over you, which I should have guessed, and you already knew.  Got all sentimental over Burning September.  Told me how this one time at some art gallery your dress got stained with whiskey, so you just tore off the bottom and turned it into a mini, and everyone kept raving about it all night, and you told them all it was imported from France, specially made for you, when really you just got the thing from some flea market.  Then he waxed hormonal about how every time he went anywhere with you, men fell all over themselves when they saw you, but you never even noticed, that’s how humble you are.  Don’t worry, I kept a straight face.  Anyway, he went over some of the things from Critical Studies, so I think I understand a bit better.  Then I painted a bunch of stupid strawberries, and he went around taking weird photos of the living room.  Like close-ups of the healing crystals and the ruffles on the pillows.  I’m sure he’ll have them hanging on an altar in his living room any day now.  He asked if you’d be weirded out that he was over.  No idea why he’d even say that, he’s acting like you’re his girlfriend or something.   You never dated him, did you? 

Then Kyle came by, and I gave him the stuff Professor Rasmussen gave me.  I read his tarot cards since he caught me in the act.  Wonders never cease.  Never thought attorneys would be interested in that crap.  Especially not this one.  He acts like everything’s a huge joke half the time.  Hope he doesn’t act that way in court, cracking stupid jokes for the jury.  He’s hard to get a handle on, but I think I like him for the most part, and he seems to know what he’s doing. 

It’s getting to be a real pain in the ass, having no car.  I have to get up at the crack of dawn and hang out at school all day, since it’s not worth taking the bus back home when I’ve got classes all spread out during the day. 

I’ll see you tomorrow, and no way in hell am I smuggling in a ferret.

 

I closed my laptop, zoning out in the music breezeway while I should have been studying, when I noticed a pair of boots in my peripherals hadn’t moved on past the way other shoes had.

“I should file stalking charges.”

I tipped my head against the exposed brick wall and blinked up at Professor Lawlis.  He wore his oddly grim smile and a sport coat covering a wrinkled Dead Kennedy’s T-shirt.  “You can’t prove anything.  A judge’ll take one look at me and laugh you out of the courtroom.”

He did a palms-up.  “It’s always the quiet ones who wind up doing the most damage.”

Ha.  Not in Caroline’s instance. 

I closed my notes and climbed to my feet.  “Do I really bother you?” 

His thin lips crunched together, almost disappearing into his stubble as he shook his head.  “You don’t have a class?”

“Not for a few hours.”

“Why don’t you go to a coffee shop or something? It’d be more comfortable.”

“I don’t have a car and didn’t feel like walking in this heat.”

“Well.”  He glanced around the empty hallway.  “I guess the polite thing to do would be to invite you into my classroom.”

“You don’t look like the type who follows common courtesy rules.”

“No.  And I’m not usually the type who takes in stray puppies.”

“I’m starting to get a little insulted.”

“Nothing wrong with puppies.  They’re cute.”  He heaved out a sigh.  It seemed like hard work.  “Well, come on in, then.”

And I almost felt like a stray puppy, following him inside and down the flight of stairs to the heart of his classroom.  

“How come you don’t have a car?” he called over his shoulder, left leg thumping hard every other step.  “You live in the dorms?”

I didn’t have a car because the police had impounded Caroline’s under the guise of it being some type of evidence.  I knew there wouldn’t be any.  What car wouldn’t have trace amounts of gasoline in it?  But arguing with cops had turned out to be less than fruitful.  “My car’s been impounded for a while.”

“Can’t pay to get it out?”

I snorted.  “No.  The police impounded it for evidence.  It was my sister’s car.  I probably couldn’t get it out if I tried.”

“Can’t your sister?”

“She’s…” I sank into the first row of seats.  “She’s at Breakthrough Recovery Center.  She tried to kill herself.  They think she burned down her ex’s house when he was inside.  That’s why they took her car.” 

“Hmm.”  He lowered himself slowly into a lone swivel chair at the head of the classroom.  “Good reason to have to take the bus, I guess.” Like it was just one of those things, arson and murder.  Unfavorable yet unsurprising. 

“Yeah.”  I dropped my backpack and massaged the tender valley it had carved into my shoulder blade.

He shifted in his seat, cracking his neck.  “How old is your sister?”

“Twenty-five.  She went to this school, too.  Art major.”

He grunted.  “An
artiste
.  What’s her name?”

“Caroline.”

“If I bothered to watch the news, I probably would have heard something about her situation.”

“I don’t know.  I don’t watch much news, either.”

He crossed thick arms over his chest, chin resting on his sternum, appraising me beneath bushy eyebrows. I joined the staring contest, hands in my lap.  Idle conversation never came easy for me.  It seemed like he was the same way.  I couldn’t tell if he expected me to say anything, or if he’d just fallen asleep with his eyes open.

Finally, his eyes drifted away from mine to the corner of the room, where his desk sat, pristine and looking practically untouched.  “Can you go behind my desk and grab something for me?  I’d do it, but,” he knocked on his fake leg, “I’m a cripple.”

“What is it?” I kicked my backpack out of my way and got to my feet.

He shrugged.

I crossed the room, circled his desk, and couldn’t stop a smile once I saw what he’d propped against a bank of drawers. 

“You’re getting the beat up one,” he said as I shouldered both guitars by their straps.  “I’m taking pity on you, but not enough to give you my EVH Stealth.”

 

***

 

I never dated Jeff, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks we did.  Men aren’t the wisest creatures.  You hang out with them a few times and suddenly they’re asking where the relationship is going.  I always thought that was generally the woman’s line.  Did he say anything about his online magazine?  It’s kind of a start-up, but if he asked you to submit some pieces it’d be good exposure for you.  Learn how to work with the people you’ve got, Kat.  Everyone has their uses.  I’m sure it won’t be long before he’s asking to take you to gallery openings, studio visits, whatever.  There’s always tons of people you can meet there, more contacts to make.  It’s not all about being talented.  More often it winds up coming down to who you know. 

Maybe it’s that I’ve never really spoken to him, but I’m still thrown by Sir Cavanaugh, Esquire’s behavior.  He must like you or something.  I mean, come on, tarot cards?  That’s a lame excuse to hang around.  I’d say what the hell is he thinking, crushing on an eighteen-year-old girl, but it’s not exactly uncommon.  But what man wouldn’t have a crush on you, never mind age.  It could be useful somewhere down the road.  Be careful what you tell him, though.  Tread lightly.  I don’t know much about lawyers, but what I do know is they’re slippery.  Not a favorable descriptor.  I suppose it’s entirely possible you’ve found the nicest of the bunch, but reason states otherwise.  I wouldn’t trust him implicitly if I were you. Next time he comes over to moon over you, how about you ask him what the fuck his problem is, ignoring his own goddamn client? 

But hey, look at you, juggling two different guys in one night.  I’m so proud I could burst. 

P.S, you’re being a buzzkill about the ferret thing.

 

***

 

I always study in the same position:  feet propped on the coffee table, laptop balanced on a ruffled pillow atop my lap.  It means serious business, this position, always has.  Caroline used to laugh whenever she’d swing through the front door and find me that way. 

Ladies and gentleman, the nerd in her natural habitat,
she’d announce, wriggling out of her heels, one hand clenching the doorknob. 
Don’t let that blonde hair fool you, folks, she’s as geeky as they come.  She’s read Proust, for God’s sake.

But no Caroline stood in the doorway, mail between her teeth, animated eyes a magnet for me.  Just my boring history research paper staring accusingly from the laptop screen.
Write me or suffer the consequences.

Well I was pretty used to suffering and consequences, so I switched over to Google Chrome instead, telling myself I’d actually use the search terms French Revolution, but knowing it wasn’t likely.

The French Revolution was Caroline’s favorite. 
It was a bloodbath
, she’d say. 
Heads rolling around in the street.  But Marie Antoinette never said that whole let them eat cake bullshit. God, now I want some cake.
  

I closed my eyes, pressed my fingertips into my lids hard enough to see red.  Something to erase the picture of my sister from my mind.  When I finally blinked them open, they landed on The Empress, face up on the coffee table.  The only woman to ever scare Kyle Cavanaugh, Esq.  I’d pulled that card again during my last self-tarot reading.   

And since I had a browser open, I typed his name into the search engine, tacking on
Orange County Public Defender.

Hundreds of results, but at the top of the list was Singer & Harrison, listing the man in question as an associate.  I clicked the link anyway, expecting it to be someone else with the same name, but the headshot didn’t lie.  Dark blond hair.  Blue eyes.  Slight dimple in the chin.  His education information confirmed it, too.

My fingertips tingled, poised over the keyboard. 

Kyle Cavanaugh had graduated summa cum laude at USC and moved on to Yale Law, I learned.  He’d passed the bar in 2012, found a home at Singer & Harrison immediately afterward; had been there ever since. No public defender gig, no working in the prosecutor’s office a few years for experience’s sake. 

He had an email, though.  [email protected].  What a great way to get the thoughts
you’re a despicable fucking liar
across.

I cooked for this man, and he lied right to my face.  I’d never cooked for anyone except Caroline.  He sat at my kitchen island for hours afterward, telling me how he bartended in college, how it sucked because only the hot female bartenders got huge tips.  The only times it was worth the bother had been during bachelorette parties.  That moving to the east coast for law school had been hell on his west coast internal temperature.  He’d wear parkas in October, everyone thought he was nuts. 

So I’d told him about that time I stayed out later than I’d meant to one night when I was seventeen.  Caroline scoured Facebook looking for posts to do with teen parties in the area, found the promising ones, and pounded on three different doors before she found me. 

Jesus Fucking Christ, Kat,
she’d exclaimed, arm wrapped around my shoulders as she towed me to her car. 
I need to know where you are when you’re out this late.  Especially when you’ve borrowed my favorite earrings. And FYI, Natural Ice?  Classless.  God, babe, have you got a lot to learn.

And then at the fair later that summer, how some unshaven, old drunk guy stumbled over to the blanket I sat on, tried to start a conversation.  Caroline had left to get coffee, and the expression she wore when she returned to find him sprawled next to me could have added more flames to the wildfires burning far beyond us.  That look was as dark as the ash wafting through the Santa Ana winds.

Oh my God, I’m so sorry
, she’d lied, after dumping the entire large, steaming coffee on his back.  He hadn’t heard her approach. 
I didn’t expect anyone to be sitting here with my daughter.  Too busy checking my texts, I guess.  Is there something I can help you with?
And the guy had actually believed we were just that, mother and daughter. 
Beer goggles
, Caroline had explained later.
I guess they work in reverse, too.  He actually thought he was worthy enough to even look at you. 

And the man
lied
to me?

What are you talking about, Katya?
  I imagined Kyle saying in an infantilizing tone, that stupid self-impressed smile on his face. 
I never lied.  Never confirmed my public defender status, now did I?  Are you usually this short-tempered?

I can’t believe you,
I typed into an email headed Kyle’s way.
There was me, thinking maybe you weren’t a goddamned prick.  I guess that’s why your shoes look so expensive; a public defender couldn’t afford them.

I considered sending another message with the same general idea to Caroline but thought better of it, slamming my laptop closed, tucking it under my arm as I stalked up the staircase. 

BOOK: Burning September
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