9
Maxim
God, I thought they’d never leave. Our friends spill into the street, leaving the faintest echo of their laughter and conversation behind. I can tell David’s into Kimba. I wish him luck, but I’m too preoccupied with a second chance I never thought I’d get. Can it be called a second chance when there was never a chance before?
I’m still, on some level, processing that the girl I was so drawn to four years ago is this even-more-beautiful-than-before woman here in Amsterdam, in my favorite brown bar, watching me with the same kind of stunned excitement buzzing through my body.
“Your friends are nice,” Lennix says, popping a triangle of gouda into her mouth.
“They’re not.” I laugh. “But they were on their best behavior tonight. They can fake it when pretty girls are involved.”
“The night definitely took a turn when you guys came around.” She smiles, pushing a chunk of straight black hair behind her ear. “It’s spring break and they’re looking for hook-ups, so your friends might get lucky. Well, not with Viv.”
“I hope not with you. I was kind of hoping I’d have you all to myself.”
She doesn’t laugh. Or smile even. She looks up from the cheese board and levels an intense stare at me.
“Is that what you want?” she asks, her voice more casual than her eyes. “A hook-up?”
If she’s asking if I want to fuck her, then of course. If she’s asking if that’s all it would be . . . who knows? Nothing ever felt typical where this girl was concerned. Not the way we met. Not the things I learned about her. Not the way her image, her voice, that throaty laugh would revisit me in the middle of a lecture or even while I was kissing someone else.
“I want to get to know you,” I tell her, answering and not answering as honestly as I can. “Tell me what’s been happening with you the last few years.”
“Yes, well, let’s see. I was, as predicted, grounded until graduation.”
We share a quick glance and a chuckle.
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “I wouldn’t want my seventeen-year-old daughter getting bitten by dogs and tear gassed and stuck in a holding cell with a bunch of grown men and prostitutes.”
“I didn’t get bitten by a dog.” She surprises me, reaching out to push up my sleeve and touch the scar on my forearm. “You did.”
Her fingers on my skin make my breath shorten and my body harden. Really? One touch and I’m ready to blow?
“So from grounded to graduation.” I stroke my fingertip over her thumb where it still rests on my forearm. I don’t miss the quick catch of her breath, but I keep talking. “Then college?”
“Uh, yeah.” She traces the labyrinthic pattern of my fingerprint. “Arizona State.”
“Major?”
“Public service and public policy, with a concentration in American Indian studies.”
“Cool.” I squeeze the hand still resting on my arm. “What do you want to do?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. Maybe get my master’s. I’ve been offered a pretty prestigious fellowship, which would require I serve in some field-related area for a year, or I have a great job offer from a firm in DC.”
“What kind of firm?”
“A lobbying firm. For some reason, I think I may end up in politics.” She eyes me closely. “I remember you went to Berkeley. That was . . . undergrad?”
“Undergrad and my master’s. I just finished my PhD in climate science.”
“Wow. So Doctor Kingsman. I would never have guessed.”
“What would you have guessed?”
She squints one eye and hums, considering. “Business maybe?”
“I double majored in business and energy resources engineering at Berkeley, so you’re not far off there.”