The Space Between Us. Megan Hart
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when she wanted something. She sighed, tiny shoulders shrugging. The pout stayed put.
“Fine. C’mere.” I put down the shadows and pulled out the glitter liner. “But you have to promise, promise, promise me you’ll take a shower later and without complaining, you hear me? Because it’s really important you wash off all your makeup before you go to sleep, anyway.”
“So you don’t get zits,” Simone said, with the sort of happy grin a kid gets when she’s having her way.
“Yep. No zits.” At twenty-six I thought I should’ve grown out of zits, but I usually had a sweet monthly reminder that that wasn’t the case. “Sit up here.”
She hopped up on the edge of my sink, her little feet banging against the cabinet beneath until I gave her a stern look and she stopped. I told her to close her eyes, then outlined the upper lids with the glitter liner. It was just cheap stuff, marketed to tweens, using the face of some ditzy pop idol, but as with all things glittery and sparkly, I loved it. So did Simone. She hummed happily as I painted a design on her cheek using a different color of liquid liner—surely her dad couldn’t complain about that, right? It was like face-painting at a carnival.
“There. What do you think?”
She twisted to peer in the mirror, brow furrowed. She looked more like her dad when she did that. Critical. Then she grinned. “I like the flower!”
“Good. Now,” I said, lifting her down and patting her on the rear, “scram, kid, I gotta get ready.”
“You’re going on a date,” Simone crooned in a sing-song voice. “Right? That’s what Daddy told Mama.”
“Oh, did he?” It was my turn to frown then. Just a little. I glanced at myself in the mirror.
“Yep.” In the glass, Simone’s reflection shrugged, barely interested.
“Well … sure, I’m going on a date.”
“Are you gonna kiss him?”
I turned to look at her. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“TV,” Simone said blithely.
“You should read more,” I muttered, which was ridiculous, since the kid wasn’t even in preschool. “Now go on. Get out of here. I’m busy, kid.”
She did reluctantly, my date preparations apparently more interesting even than the television. From upstairs I heard the pounding of small feet and the cries of welcome—Vic was home. I’d probably have to face him, too, before I went out.
Sure enough, I found them all in the kitchen when I emerged from the basement. Elaine, her belly leading the way as she moved from the pot of mac-n-cheese on the stove to the table, gave me a once-over, but said nothing. Vic, on the other hand, snorted softly and shook his head. But he didn’t say anything, which told me a lot—there were times in the past when he’d have been unable to keep his mouth shut. Marriage had mellowed him.
“Have a good time,” Elaine said as she plopped a spoonful of yellow noodles on Max’s plate. “Be careful.”
I laughed. Just going on this “date” felt like the opposite of careful. “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”
“We’ll leave the light on for you,” Vic said.
“Oooh, you and Tom what’s-his-face from Motel 6.” I paused to squeeze Vic’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Cap said your car will be ready tomorrow.” Vic held up his plate for his own portion of macaroni and gave me a long, steady look. “I can give you a ride to the shop in the morning, if you want.”
It was his way of asking if I planned on coming home. Number one, it wasn’t really his business. Number two, I doubted I’d have a different offer. Three, I had my brother’s car anyway, so I just smiled and winked at him, a response guaranteed to drive Vic batty. Elaine laughed, though. For someone who loved him enough to marry him and have his babies, she surely did like to tease.
It was good for him, to be teased like that. And to be loved.
“Later, gators,” I said, and was out the door before any grubby hands could streak my clothes.
Meredith had called it a date, and I assumed she’d meant it whimsically. Still, I’d dressed accordingly. My heart beat faster, my palms a little sweaty, and I felt as much anticipation as if it were a date. Maybe more.
We’d agreed to meet at The Slaughtered Lamb because, according to Meredith, they had a shepherd’s pie to die for, and live music. Some Irish band I didn’t know. It was tucked neatly off a side street and not part of the Second Street strip of bars and clubs, so while I’d been there once or twice, it wasn’t a place I hung out in regularly.
Meredith did, apparently, based on the way the guy at the door greeted her and the waitress smiled when she showed us to our table. Meredith settled into her seat and pulled off her leather gloves with the sigh of a woman grateful to be out of the cold, while I thought seriously about leaving my mittens on to disguise the sudden trembling of my fingers.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Meredith said when the waitress had handed us our menus and left. “I love the scarf.”
It wasn’t anything fancy, just a strip of teal silk I’d tied to one side of my throat above the boat neckline of my peasant blouse. I touched it, though, when she admired it.
“Very fifties French sailor,” she said. “Very Audrey Hepburn.”
That had been the sort of look I was going for, with makeup to match. “Thanks.”
And after that, it was fine.
Most of it was her way. How easy she made it to be with her. She was different here than she was in the Mocha. A little less bright, a little softer, her voice more a murmur, so that I had to lean across the table to catch what she was saying, though I never had any trouble hearing her laughter.
I liked making her laugh.
“See,” she said, when I’d finished describing to her the situation with my brother and his roommate. “You have a great talent for telling stories. I don’t know why you’re so hesitant to join in at the Mocha.”
“I don’t want to share my secrets with strangers. Then they wouldn’t be secrets anymore.”
“Why’s it have to be a secret?” She smiled.
I drew my fork through the mashed potatoes left on my plate. She’d been right about the shepherd’s pie. “I have to face those people every day at work. I don’t want them knowing about my sex life.”
“We don’t only talk about sex. We talk about lots of things.” Meredith had eaten only half her food, and now she pushed her plate away with her fingertips.
I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin and thought of how she’d left the imprint of her lips behind on the one I’d eventually tossed in the trash. “What is it about secrets and stories you like so much, anyway?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked knowing things about people. I guess you could say … I’m a collector.”
“Of what?”
“People,” Meredith said. “Interesting people.”
“How do you do that?” I asked, meaning to sound light, but realizing I was leaning closer again.
“I watch them for a while, see if they look interesting. You can’t always tell at first.”
I nodded. “Of course not.”
“So I talk to them. See if they don’t seem stuck-up. If they’re cool, I get them to tell me about themselves. People like talking about themselves, Tesla.” She paused. Smiled a bit reproachfully. “Most people do, anyway.”
I thought of the group she gathered around her at the Mocha. I was