The Someday Jar Read online

  I can’t help but laugh. “Next time we’ll grab drinks.”

  Kit sighs. “Okay. Just promise me that cheeky girl I’ve known since grade school is still in there.”

  “She’s there.” Somewhere. “I’ve been busy.” For three years. “Did I tell you? We have nineteen listings in escrow right now. Evan Carter Realty is poised to rank number two in residential sales this quarter, in all of Phoenix. Evan’s worked really hard.”

  “You’ve worked really hard. Come out and play sometime.”

  “I will.”

  “Swear?”

  “Swear.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sounds good. And Kit, for the record, it wasn’t the Vine. It was Club 99. I rocked the hell out of that miniskirt.”

  Interstate 10 is the direct route to Phoenix Sky Harbor, but since traffic is light and I’ve a few extra minutes, I find myself steering through the side streets of downtown. I turn onto Washington Avenue and pull up curbside at the almost completed City Core construction site. Chain link surrounds the seven-acre urban complex, which combines condos and commercial space built within two sharply angled towers. I don’t know much about the project, other than I’m impressed by the architect’s vision, for he or she must’ve known that at this time of early evening, the towers’ glass captures the sun setting over Camelback Mountain and reflects on the city, dual sixty-story murals of the desert’s incredible landscape.

  I step from my car and wrap my arms around myself, grabbing hold of the fence, uncertain if I’m chilled from the hint of fall in the breeze or the memories from where I stand. The City Core is very different from the building that once stood here, the one my dad worked in when I was a kid. The one with the corner deli where he let me order my own coffee. Side by side, we spent mornings sorting through photographs of him rafting, hang gliding, rappelling, choosing the best shots for his next freelance magazine article.

  “Are these dreams from your Someday Jar?” I’d ask, holding a glossy photograph of some snow-covered mountain range, praying I didn’t sound too eager. Too much like a child.

  “Nah, I don’t need a jar.” Dad nudged my elbow with his own. “You’re my greatest adventure.”

  My heart flickered. Actually tickled inside my chest when Dad said those words. You’re my greatest adventure. I’d never felt more loved. Or more protected. The most important person in his world.

  He moved out six weeks later.

  I release my grasp on the fence as if it’s buzzing me with voltage and chastise myself for letting a silly childhood token rattle my thoughts. Honestly, what has gotten into me?

  As I drive toward the airport, my engagement ring catches the sun’s light and I think about my life. In three months I’ll be married to a beautiful man full of integrity and principle. A man who is kind to my mom, finishes my crossword puzzle, and still half stands when I join him for dinner or return from the restroom. Thanks to this man, I have a solid job with clients I adore. A stable future.

  I nudge the jar deeper into the depths of my purse. I’d be a fool to uncork the pain and splintered promises of my past. Yes, my dad is the first man I ever loved. But he’s also the first man who broke my heart.

  two

  FLIGHT #819—LAS to PHX

  DELAYED

  Delayed? Until when? The game started ten minutes ago. Another set of stacked monitors stands fifty feet away. Unfortunately, the same word flashes on the screen. DELAYED.

  I reach for my cell phone and call Evan.

  No answer.

  When his voice mail cues, I say, “It’s me. Weston’s plane is delayed. Guess I’ll wait. Just thought I’d let you know. Bye.”

  Beside the security gates, I claim an available seat in a row fixed against the wall. Next to me, a snoring older woman’s People slips from her relaxed fingers. I lean over her, angling my neck like an ostrich, toward the cheers and claps from the sports bar down and across the hall. Every square inch of the wall space is plastered with neon beer signs and TV screens. The game is tuned in on like one, two . . . three screens.

  “Go! Move your million-dollar legs.” Some fan in the bar shouts.

  “Cut right. Cut right,” yells another fan.

  Sounds like a good game.

  I glance at the Jetway. No plane.

  Okay . . . just a couple plays.

  I spring from my seat and hurry toward the bar like a toddler running toward her mommy. “Excuse me.” I weave through the crowd formed at the entrance, stopping beside a man whose suitcase blocks the narrow walkway between tables. He’s fixated on the screen.

  A super-fast Cardinals running back plows through the Giants defense for thirteen solid yards before getting tackled.

  “First down,” the man cheers.

  We high-five like old friends.

  There’s one open seat at the bar. I step over the suitcase and wiggle myself comfy on a bar stool.

  “What can I get you?” The bartender slides a napkin in front of me.

  “Oh, nothing, thanks. I just want to catch the game for a minute.”

  “Gotta order something then.” He points at a sign behind him. PURCHASE REQUIRED FOR BAR SEATING.

  I scan the room; everyone has a drink. Those who don’t jam the bar’s entrance squinting through the glass walls like middle schoolers trying to see what the cool kids are doing.

  “Well?” he asks again.

  At that moment, the air conditioner kicks on and a cool breeze blows in my face. I once read that the recycled air in airports can be incredibly drying. Since I’m a firm believer in hydration, and really, I have no other choice if I want to watch the game, I say, “Lemon-drop martini, please.”

  Kit would be proud.

  Truth is, it’s been ages since I’ve done anything mindless and rash like Kit mentioned. Not that I want to relive my college days or dance on a bar again, but a little fun now and then wouldn’t hurt. Maybe spend a date night with Evan over a game of pool, a pitcher of Blue Moon, and saucy hot wings, teasing while I sink the eight ball into the corner pocket for a winning shot?

  The bartender places the pale yellow drink in front of me. I nibble sugar off the rim and swallow a healthy sip of the bittersweet cocktail. God, I’ve missed you.

  I lift my drink in appreciation.

  The bartender nods as he wipes a wineglass.

  Yes, of course, drinking a martini isn’t exactly what I should be doing. I should wait by the gate and review the real estate market’s daily hot sheet or calculate the company’s third-quarter tax payment. But, c’mon . . . the game’s on. Kit’s right. When is the last time I’ve relaxed? Besides, it’s only one drink. And I won’t miss Weston’s flight because hanging on the wall at the bar’s far end are blue-screened monitors. I can make out the word delayed.

  Love that word.

  I’m such an idiot. How long have I been rambling? “I didn’t mean to go on and on like that.” My words snag on my tongue and sound a bit slurred, even to myself. “I wish you would’ve stopped me.”

  “I tried,” says the man seated on the bar stool beside me.

  “Oh, you did? Sorry.” I hiccup, then quickly cover my mouth. Never again should I drink multiple lemon-drop martinis on an empty stomach in an airport bar. Number one, they are a total rip-off at eighteen dollars apiece. Number two, I wind up blabbing like a lunatic. And number three . . . whatever. I sip.

  “No problem.” He swallows a swig of beer.

  He’s not gorgeous. No chiseled model-type face and flawless micro-dermabrasion skin like Evan. There’s a crescent scar above this man’s lip and the hint of evening stubble pokes along his chinny-chin-chin. Even so, there’s a rugged attractiveness to him with his dark eyes and hair. He’s like a headstrong, one-screw-up-away-from-being-fired kind of cop I’d see in movies.

  The c
rowd roars. I glance at the screen and catch the play in action. The Cardinals are deep within their own territory, but I watch with delight as the quarterback lobs a long spiral down field. It’s a little high, but #11, Larry Fitzgerald—the best wide receiver ever—skyrockets like eighty feet in the air and catches the pass, one-handed. “Go. Go. Go.”

  The announcer calls, “Fitz’s at the thirty, the twenty, the ten, touchdown. Wow, folks, what a miraculous catch. The Fitz does it again. He goes all the way for the score.”

  Okay, so maybe my enthusiasm for the game gets carried away at times. Blame it on my football fever, blame it on the martinis, blame it on the wind for all I care, but I can’t stop myself. I jump up and down, high-five the bartender, fist-pump a busboy, and hug every cheering stranger within a fifteen-foot radius. Everyone except the man I’ve been talking with.

  With a smile as wide as the flat screens on the wall, I plop into my seat, keeping an eye on the game. Fitzgerald runs the football over to the referee. “Did you see that?” I tug on the man’s sleeve. “See what he did?”

  “The touchdown? Yeah, I—”

  “No, not that.” I wave my hand. “Fitzgerald handed the ball to the referee. He always does. After every play. Instead of chucking it on the ground, forcing the ref to chase after it like other players do, Fitz gives it to him. Every time. I hate arrogant football players, don’t you?” I don’t give the man a chance to answer. “Did you know Fitzgerald used to be a ball boy for the Minnesota Vikings? He’s really nice.”

  “You know him?”

  “Well, no . . .” My voice trails off.

  “Football fan?”

  “Little bit.” I sip my martini, then shake my head. “That’s a lie. I’m a huge fan. Borderline obsessive.”

  “I can see that.”

  I giggle and focus on the curled lemon rind at the bottom of my glass.

  The man points at my business card peeking from my purse pocket and reads, “Evan Carter Realty. You work there?”

  “Yes.” I sit taller and smooth my dress, which has risen to my thighs. I meet his eyes and offer a professional smile. Perhaps he’s in the market. There’s a cozy two-bedroom loft-style in Gilbert that’d be perfect for him.

  “Real estate agent?” he asks.

  “Broker, technically.”

  “So why isn’t your name on the card, too?”

  I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. That’s a damn good question. I reach for a napkin.

  My phone, lying on the bar, chimes with a message, likely from Evan. The screen shines on my face as I check the text. It’s not Evan. It’s Stacee, our wedding planner. Evan wants to meet Tuesday, late afternoon. Please confirm.

  Setting the phone down a little harder than I intended, I say, “Did I mention we’re engaged? See. Getting married in three months.” I wiggle my three-carat, square-cut diamond solitaire ring in the man’s face. Except I lean too far and the stool wobbles underneath me, throwing me off balance. I wind up scraping his nose with the edge of my diamond before I catch myself. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” He wrinkles his nose, which now has a tiny, red scratch.

  “Evan’s so excited about the wedding.” I tear off a long strip of the napkin and curl it around my finger. “He talks with our wedding planner more than I do. They’ve made everything so easy for me, selecting the date, the venue, the food.” I tear off another corner of my napkin. “Everything is meticulously arranged. All I have to do is pick out a dress.”

  “It’s dead.”

  “What’s dead?”

  “The napkin.” He eyes the shredded mound beneath my hands. “It’s officially deceased.”

  I push the pile away and fold my hands in my lap. Why haven’t I been named broker?

  “Well, I’m sure the wedding will be flawless.”

  “Yes, it will. Thank you.” Glancing at the arrivals monitor, I still read: delayed.

  We sit in silence for a few moments, watching an ad for Kay Jewelers. After the closing jingle, Every kiss begins with Kay, I say, “You know, I disagree with that.”

  “Yeah?” He pushes the peanut bowl between us.

  “Yeah. I bet more kisses begin with an empty bottle of cheap Zinfandel.”

  He laughs, nearly choking on his beer. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he says, “Tell me more.”

  The alcohol relaxes me, so I don’t hesitate. “Well, I detest poor grammar. Irregardless is not a word. I’d rather be stabbed in the neck than watch a movie with zombies, clowns, or Cameron Diaz. Or eat anything with mustard. I had my tonsils removed when I was eight. Broke my tailbone when I was ten because apparently jumping off the top of the slide into the pool isn’t the best idea. I’ve never solved a Rubik’s cube. And you”—I point at the man—“are looking at Roosevelt High School’s senior prom queen.”

  He eyes me quizzically, like I asked his tampon preference.

  I stare back.

  What did he say his name was? Okay, so yes, maybe he’s good-looking. Early thirties, I guess. Though his sideburns are a few days away from needing a trim, his slightly disheveled hair and five-o’clock shadow are mildly appealing. Some women might even quiver when his lips curve into a half smile.

  I mean, I’m not dead. I can find other men attractive. It’s not against the law or anything. If I weren’t in love with Evan, I might even notice that under this man’s charcoal-colored shirt, his abs look harder than this steel bar stool I’m sitting on, which, by the way, has completely numbed my ass.

  “No shit?” He flicks a peanut shell off the bar and signals the bartender for another beer.

  “No shit, what?”

  “Prom queen?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  He shrugs.

  I snatch the peanut bowl from his grasp and cradle it with my hands.

  He laughs, reaches over my arm, and pops another peanut into his mouth.

  Murmurs from the bar crowd shift my gaze toward the game. “Watch the blitz.” I scream. “The blitz!” Seconds later, and exactly as I feared, a Giants linebacker barges through the Cardinals offensive line and flattens the quarterback. “I told you.” I wave my fist at the screen, then turn toward the man. “I told them.”

  “You did.” He reaches for his ringing phone. “Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  He swivels his bar stool around. “Hey. How are you?” His voice sounds sweet. Interested. Sincere.

  Afraid he’ll think I’m eavesdropping, I call the bartender for another drink. Quickly, of course, so I can eavesdrop.

  “Trevor, he’s good?” the man says. “How’s the project? Excellent. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow. Okay, love you, too.” He slides his phone into his pocket and spins toward the bar.

  “Your family?”

  “Yeah. Trevor, he’s seven and has been working on a science project for a couple of weeks, trying to determine if plants grow differently with microwaved water versus straight from the tap. He made a chart and everything. He’s clever, that kid.”

  “Sounds adorable.”

  “Yeah, he’s cool.”

  “Your turn,” I say, cracking a peanut shell in half. “Tell me something.”

  “Okay, well . . . irregardless of what you say, I love mustard. And, I, too, was crowned prom queen.”

  “Whatever.”

  “All right. Let me think.” He picks at his beer label. “I make a killer apple pie, never remember birthdays, and know a guy who has this weird quirk. He sniffs whenever he’s bugged by something.”

  “Sniffs?”

  “Yeah, he’s great to play poker with. I always know when he has bad cards.”

  I laugh and reach for the ChapStick in my purse. As my fingers brush against the Someday Jar, an image of my dad’s face floats through m
y mind. “You know, my dad was kinda quirky, too, prattling off random Irish sayings all the time.”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “B’fhearr liom thú ná céad bó milch.”

  The guy scrunches his face in confusion.

  “I prefer you to a hundred milk cows.”

  “A hundred milk cows?”

  “Yeah, it’s a compliment.”

  “Milk cows is a compliment?”

  “Yes.” I playfully smack his forearm.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Totally sure?”

  “Yes.” I’m smiling. Smiling a lot. Then it hits me.

  My hand still rests on his arm.

  I jerk my hand away. Jesus, Lanie. Get a grip. You’re flirting with this man. Flirting.

  The bartender slides over the other martini I forgot I ordered. I take a massive gulp, swallowing half.

  “You like to drink?”

  “No, not normally. Actually, I’m supposed to pick up Evan’s associate, some guy I’ve never met, and his plane is delayed. Speaking of which, what time is it anyway?”

  He checks his watch. “Nine thirty.”

  “Nine thirty?” I practically scream. “Are you sure?” My eyes dart toward the TV. Two SportsCenter commentators discuss the game’s highlights with an empty field behind them. The football game is over. The bartender arranges liquor bottles and only a couple of patrons remain, their beers nearly gone.

  I confirm with my phone. Nine thirty. How did three hours pass without my realizing it? A pang of clarity socks me in the gut as I glance at the monitor and though I struggle to focus, all the flights display arrived.

  Shit.

  “Listen, I’ve gotta go.” I slide off my bar stool, tip my glass, and slurp the last sip of my expensive-yet-delicious concoction. A little more juice pools underneath the lemon garnish at the bottom. I tilt my glass high and tap at the base.