Perky Page 3

  “Persephone, I–”

  “Well, well, well. Who do we have here?” Hasty interrupts, voice smoothed over with alcohol, resting bitch face tucked away behind the black curtain that surrounds her soul to protect it from sunlight. “Parker Campbell? Congressman Campbell? I haven't seen you in–”

  “Never, Hasty. You've never seen him,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Hastings,” she says reflexively, offering Parker her hand. “Hastings Monahan. I'm with Keating Xin Luis.” It's clear she expects Parker to know what that is. Spoken aloud, it sounds like a wine, but it's a giant venture capital firm. I only know what it is because my parents are into all that and Hasty used them as a connection to get an interview there. And now, apparently, a job.

  Hasty loves to namedrop. If you watch her face carefully, she twitches slightly on the last syllable, as if a teeny orgasm slips out.

  “You're doing great work with cryptocurrencies in China,” Parker notes, face neutral, taking her in.

  Chin up, Hasty takes him in with an impressed look. “You know your finance.”

  “I'm learning on the job.” He pauses. “Monahan? You're Mallory's sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't remember you from my visits here–” His eyes dart to mine. “Before.”

  “I was long gone by then. I have my own life in California.”

  “I see.”

  “Too bad, though. I had no idea my sister moved in the same circles as a future congressman.”

  “I had no idea I'd end up in Washington, five years ago,” he says with a shrug.

  “Bull,” I say under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your mother practically got induced so she could give birth to you on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Parker. She planned your political career since your umbilical cord was cut.”

  “I'm not in DC because of my mother,” he bristles.

  “Of course not,” Hasty jumps in, smelling blood. “You're there because you are effective.”

  “And because O'Rollins died and you're photogenic,” Will adds, appearing at my elbow. “Never underestimate the power of political man candy.” A tight smile gets flashed at Parker, a dare. His eyes meet mine.

  They say, We'll talk later.

  Mallory's next to him, grinning at me, eyebrows up. Her expression mirrors Will's.

  Lots of talking.

  Later.

  But apparently, for now, Parker stays.

  “My looks aren't what got me the seat,” Parker shoots back, but he's jocular. That private conversation they had seems to have cleared the air.

  “They certainly don't hurt,” Hasty murmurs.

  I point to her left hand. “Love that wedding-ring set, Hasty. How is Burke doing?”

  Behind Will, Mallory holds her hand up like a cat's claw and mouths, Meow.

  “My husband, Burke Oonaj,” she says pointedly to Parker, like she wants to spell it out, “is great. He just closed a nine-figure deal for some Japanese investors and is being considered for the board of two different Fortune 500 companies. He might run for office in California,” she says to Parker, nudging him in a friendly way. “Mind if I connect you two?”

  “What's he considering? Local or national?”

  “Attorney general, then maybe a House seat.”

  “Nice. Good luck to him.” Parker pulls out his card and hands it to her. “Give him this.”

  She holds it like Dobby palming a sock from his master.

  My spine starts to tingle. Dread pours through me. It comes out of nowhere, completely distinct from the conversation in front of me.

  But I know exactly why.

  And then:

  “I swear to God, it's her,” whispers a man's voice from a cluster of people behind us. We're at the edge of the small, private area where our group of ten will be sitting. I turn around to find a round table with four guys my age all sitting there in suits, various half-empty cocktail glasses in front of them.

  One looks at me and winks, then points to his phone.

  I groan. Hasty frowns at me, annoyed that I'm ruining her perfect political ass-kissing moment.

  “What's wrong?” Parker asks as I assess the situation second by second. This dinner means a lot to Mallory. Seeing Parker isn't my idea of bliss, but ghosting on my best friend at her wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner–as stupid as that name is–would hurt her.

  “Nothing.” Snickers continue behind me as I turn away.

  “Persephone.” It's the way he says my name that makes me yield.

  “That guy. Behind us. He recognized me.”

  “You know him?”

  “No.”

  “Then how–oh.” Parker hasn't spent the last five years having his boobs and face recognized by tweens, teens, and twenty-somethings with meme fetishes.

  I have.

  But he gets it, instantly.

  “Damn it,” he mutters.

  “Right.”

  “Want me to say something to him?”

  “Like what? You think you can ride in on your white horse now, Parker? Save my honor? What the hell?”

  “That's not what I–” Pivoting, he shears us away from the others, pulling me aside.

  “This has been my life ever since you posted that picture online, you asshole,” I say through gritted teeth. “People recognize me. They're always guys, by the way. Always. Guys who looked for free porn or sex memes online and got the thrill of a lifetime five years ago when my naked boobs were flashed everywhere with your mom’s dogs humping each other on the pillow above my head.” I yank my arm out of his grasp.

  His jaw clenches, face going tight with something that damn well better be shame.

  But I'm just getting started.

  “You wanted to see me? You kept a secret from Will for the right to stay here? Well, Parker, now you've got me. In fact, you get a front-row seat at the Perky Tsongas Humiliation Show. Every week some dudebro realizes who I am, and I get the snicker. The come on. The friend nudge. The look that says my eyes relocated to my nipples. Whatever you want to call it, I get to be the object of mockery. My parents did their best to scrub the internet of that picture, but as you can see, you left me with one hell of a legacy.”

  “I want to talk to you. To talk about what happened. You've never given me a chance, Persephone–”

  “And quit calling me by my full name! Everyone calls me Perky now!” I shout.

  “Damn straight you are,” one of the guys says, loud enough for me–and Parker–to hear.

  “What's going on?” Will approaches us just as I decide I'm done.

  So done.

  I run out the back door, Mallory calling my name, as Parker and Will walk toward the round table, a determined set to their shoulders. From behind, they could be twins.

  Good.

  Let Parker deal with the mess he's made.

  3

  This happens all the time. Being recognized.

  It's part of daily life.

  But it's not part of daily life with Parker in the room.

  People live inside their phones. Or if you're older, it's your laptop. You spend hours online, needing that dopamine hit.

  Pow pow pow it comes, scroll by scroll, like by like, share by share.

  A funny meme picks up steam like an asymptote, as Mallory says. The rise is meteoric.

  A meme that gets recaptioned over and over is even worse.

  Welcome to my world.

  Because guys who live inside their phones use that same technology to connect. To brag. To preen. That random dude in the restaurant recognized me. Pattern-matched and reached inside his brain–aka phone–and used that picture to reinforce being part of the “in” group.

  By making me “other.”

  The air outside is crisp. Fall in New England has its own taste. I want a different taste in my mouth, one that doesn't include Parker's tongue, which still lingers. Alcohol, coffee, chocolate–they would all taste better. My b
lood is begging for a nicotine fix, because a cigarette right now would solve everything, right?

  But no. I know what would taste even better.

  Revenge.

  It's bad when a failed nicotine addict can think of something she wants more than her fix.

  There's an edge to me, a rising fury that is building. No way to stop it now–the momentum is kicking in and I have to give in to it. Mallory is the epitome of calm, cool, collected, if a bit naïve and a homebody. Fiona is all soft edges and sweetness with a kickass urban fantasy hero buried deep inside.

  Me? I'm energy. Call it whatever you want, but as my organs start to synchronize, my heart, brain, and memory uniting, I reach up with my fingers and wipe Parker away. The smear of the taste of him in the corner of my lips is like nothing more than a stray bit of whipped cream.

  He's extra. A crumb. A bit of detritus.

  Something you leave behind.

  “Persephone!”

  And he's right behind me. Now.

  “You would think that a congressman, of all people, could read social cues. Leave me alone.”

  “No. I came to apologize.”

  “Finally! Then you admit it? You sent the picture?”

  “Not for that. For upsetting you now.”

  “That's not how apologies work. You have to say you're sorry for the soul-sucking chest wound you caused five years ago before you're allowed to apologize for being a creepy wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner stalker.”

  “I didn't know there was an apology protocol. Duly noted.”

  My fists curl, chest rising and falling with a rapidity I despise. I don't want to move in front of him. Breathe before him. Every movement holds the potential to reveal my emotions. I'm a sitting duck here, under a microscope, Parker's gaze so direct with expectation.

  Now? Why now?

  “You cannot seriously think you'll get away with this, Parker.”

  “Get away with talking to an old friend?”

  “Get away with being an elected official who stalks his old flame. One social media comment and you're toast.”

  “I'd imagine you're an expert at being on the receiving end of that.”

  “Because of you! How dare you make a joke like that?” All the air in my lungs is flattened by his fading grin.

  “It wasn't a joke.”

  “Then why did you smile?”

  “It was a smile of empathy, Persephone.” He steps closer to me. My fists tighten again. “What happened to you was awful.”

  “And your fault!”

  “No. No, it wasn't.” The slow shake of his head, adult and mature, reasoned and contemplative, makes me seethe.

  “STOP IT!” I scream, able to handle his surprise appearance, able to handle some jerk in there recognizing me, but wholly unable to have Parker Campbell, the love of my life, treating me like I'm some sad woman deserving of pity for not believing he didn't ruin my life.

  Finally, finally, Parker looks around, clearly concerned for the first time in his crazy pursuit of me that someone will see the scene we're making.

  And for whatever reason, it's his look around that makes me really lose my temper.

  “Do you understand? I’ve spent five years hating you! Five years building this identity inside me around how I’ve been destroyed by you! How you hated me so much–no, worse than hate! How you had so little respect for me that you would post that picture online and not care that it ruined me.” I thrust my fingers into the hair along my brow and pull up, as if that will somehow clear my head.

  It doesn’t.

  “You haven't lived through what I've lived through, Parker. You didn't have to hire attorneys and sit in a room with five associates staring at a picture of your bare breasts, day in and day out, analyzing all of the legal strategies while my nipples said 'Hello!' with your mom's dogs going at it in the picture.”

  So help me God, if he laughs, I'll kill him.

  He doesn't.

  “Thousands of notifications every day. Being tagged over and over. Made fun of online, shamed, turned into an international joke. I had to cut my hair, dye it different colors, hide out at my mom and dad's house, come crawling back home with my tail between my legs because you...” the sob starts, deep in my throat, “...because you released a picture that guys like that,” I thumb toward the restaurant, “guys like that think is hilarious.”

  “Persephone, I–”

  “And you're a lawyer!” I continue, as if he hasn't said a word. “Have you ever thought about what it was like to copyright my own picture as a legal maneuver to get these websites to stop using it? It was taken on my phone and sent to you, so the lawyers determined I held copyright. You and I made a split-second, impulsive post-sex decision together, and then I had to sit there for months–years!–and go over it with achingly shameful precision. We were dissected. Hell, one eager summer intern at the law firm spent days using Photoshop to determine examine the dog's penis for some legal reason I still don’t understand!”

  He grimaces and rubs his eyes, blocking out the visual.

  The weight of my words drags down the air between us, as if our pain invented gravity itself. Inside that restaurant, my dear friends are entertaining their guests, who are showing up for this ritualistic dinner that celebrates the joining of two wonderful people.

  Meanwhile, Parker and I are mourning the death of the very same connection we once had.

  He forces me to look him in the eye, bending just enough at the knee for his thighs to pop against the fabric of his dress pants, the clear outlines of thick muscle distracting me for a split second.

  Until he speaks.

  “How do you think I’ve felt all these years, trying to get you to believe me? You ghosted. Poof. Disappeared on me. Stopped answering calls, blocked me online, turned me into a monster I never was. Do you know how that felt?” Outrage and lust light up his eyes. This was a hallmark of any given conversation with this man. Reality.

  We were so real together. No need for pretense or games. I could be me and he could be himself.

  No sugarcoating.

  No b.s.

  I guess we still have that.

  So here we go.

  “I cannot believe that you didn’t do this to me, Parker. I can’t. I can’t believe you never released that picture.”

  “Can't, or won't?”

  “Won't.”

  He lets out a huff of frustration.

  I move in, getting right up close, trying to ignore the sudden heat trapped between us.

  “Hey! HEY! I'm the victim here, you asshole. You don't get to be dismissive of my experience! And besides, buddy, you passed the difference between can't and won't a long, long time ago. You don't get to judge me.”

  “But it’s true, Persephone! I never released that photo.” His hand goes to my wrist. Knowing his blood beats inside skin touching mine makes me even blunter.

  And hotter.

  And maybe... weaker.

  So I yell.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Don’t call you by your name?”

  “You’re summoning a ghost from the past. The woman I was. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved who’s called me Persephone.”

  I can't tell him he's the only man I've ever loved, period.

  Jaw dropping slightly, he breathes through parted lips, his clean-shaven chin making me want to kiss it, to inhale his aftershave, to feel the warm, smooth skin against my neck, to be so close to him.

  “So you did love me?” The words come out like crema on top of a perfectly pulled shot of espresso, so unexpectedly beautiful.

  “Of course I did. Of course I do.” I am no longer in control of my mouth. I lost control of my heart so, so long ago. “God, Parker, I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me.”

  “Do? As in present tense? What am I doing?” He moves closer, knowing damn well what I’m feeling, but forcing me to say it.

  “Making me hope.”

  “Hope for wha
t?”

  “For you. For you, Parker. There. I said it. Happy?”

  “No. I won’t be happy until you let me kiss you again.”

  The slap isn't planned, any more than the punch was earlier. He takes it, eyes on mine until they aren't, my hand burning, my hips rotated in from force, so much that I fall forward into his arms.

  “If slaps and punches are what it takes to get you into my arms, I'll take it,” he murmurs in my ear. “Anything to get you to listen to me. Please listen, Persephone. Please. ”

  “Who says I'm listening to you?”

  “GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!” Will roars as the back door to the restaurant bursts open like the bulls being let loose at a bullfight, the thick metal door ricocheting off the brick wall, almost chopping someone in half. Mallory teeters through on her high heels, followed by Fiona, who looks like the bastard child of Stevie Nicks and Khaleesi, flowing dress and long, wavy hair a platinum hippie-punkass weapon for my side.

  “What the hell, Will?” Parker shouts as the man charges, moving with sure foot and livid glare.

  To his credit, Parker holds his space, spine straight, body loose but primed.

  “She just slapped you, man. That means you back off.” Will's palms go flat against Parker's chest but he holds, wrists capable of the pure strength it takes to shove a two-hundred-pound, six-three man built like Parker Campbell, former nationally ranked wrestler.

  “Will, stop!” Mallory cries out, grabbing his elbow. “He's a congressman! I think it's a form of treason to hurt him. Perky's already done it. I can't have my best friend and my fiancé in jail at the same time!”

  “Nah,” Parker says, staring Will right in the eye, daring him. “It's just a bad idea. Assault is assault, whether your target is bought and paid for by lobbyists or not.”

  The edges of Will's lips twitch.

  Damn it. There goes Parker.

  Pulling out the charm.

  “Thank you, Will,” I say, inserting myself between them as Mal peels one of Will's arms off Parker, using as much precision as a vehicle owner with a new registration sticker to add to a license plate. “I appreciate the help.”

  He tenses. “So he was bothering you?”

  “Not the way you think.” I tap his shoulder. Deeply protective eyes meet mine. I know Will's not just playing a role. We've become friends in the year or so since he and Mallory started dating. I also know that a part of him is protecting Mallory, really.