Triple Love Score (12 page)

When she next saw Scott at Thanksgiving, there was no sign of Kimberly, but Miranda didn’t really want to know anything about that. Surely, there would soon be a Caitlin or a Zoey or an Emily to take her place. Instead she hung back, watching him watch football, watching him help Avery get the bird to the table, watching him just be Scott. She learned that year that sometimes it is better to live in your head than in the real world, that it is better to let your dreams stay dreams instead of trying to make them come true.

Before she could sink too far into her reverie, the email alert on her phone went off. It was the account she used for Blocked Poet. Ambrose Q. Reed. “Call me,” he wrote, “now. I don’t care what time; I don’t sleep.”

“Well neither do I, Ambrose Q. Reed,” she said aloud. She dialed the phone number at the end of the email.

“Blocked Poet,” he said. “We must talk.”

Before she could offer any greeting in return, Ambrose started a stream of consciousness riff on SEO, product placement, link backs, and hardcover printing. “You got that,” he finished.

“No,” she said, “but I trust that you do.”

“No, no, no, that won’t do. You must understand this one basic thing. Your pieces drive traffic. People link them, like them, share them, would buy them printed on coffee cups to send to their grannies. There is potential here to completely create a brand. Will this be sustainable for three years? Yes. Five years? Maybe. Ten years? No. But there is no reason not to try. Do you have a lawyer?”

“My parents are lawyers.”

“Good, that’ll do. But what about Scotty-boy? You mentioned him. Lawyer, right? How do you know him?”

“A friend, not a lawyer anymore, he just said to contact you.”

“Then kiss him,” Ambrose Q. Reed said. “He just made you a lot of money.”

“Money?”

“Yes, dear, that is what all of this is about. Everyone mistakenly believes the Internet runs for free, but there are a lot of ways to tap into it if you know the right people. A B-lister, some Kardashian hanger-on or washed up Disney star can get upwards of a thousand dollars for the right kind of tweet. We’re talking a single tweet. But again, you have to know the right people.”

“And you’re the right people?”

“See! You are catching on. I’ll get that contract outlining my services to you by morning. Have your legal look it over and get it back to me as soon as possible. We might be too late for a Christmas launch, I don’t rule it out, but we can start now and push hard for Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day. Speaking of that, not to mess with your creative process, if you could whip up any love poems or tributes to mom, that would be awesomecakes.”

“Awesomecakes?”

“Yes, catching on, I see. Email in the morning.”

Then click and the line went dead.

Saturday morning was spent on the phone with Avery and Stanton trying to explain the Internet to them. It was hard. The contract outlined a variety of services and splits and publishing rights, and sorting through it made her own head spin, let alone Avery and Stanton’s. “But you write poems,” Stanton said. “On a Scrabble board?”

“Yes,” Miranda said. Then she tried to explain the entire thing to them again. Finally, she said, “Can I have Scott’s number?”

“Why do you need Scott’s number?” Avery asked.

“He’s the one who told me to start this in the first place. Maybe he can help sort it all out.”

Miranda held the number scrawled on the back of her electric bill like a sacred document. Then she chided herself for being a foolish girl with a crush. She pounded in the numbers and listened impatiently to the ringing.

Then came the knock on the door. Phone tucked under her chin, she opened the door to find Ronan holding a dozen white roses. The sight of him caused her to lose her breath for a moment. His eyes, bright blue, twinkled. She looked at his sweet, sweet mouth, and remembered the things he could do with those lips and that tongue.

“Ronan,” she exhaled, just as Scott picked up the line.

“Sorry, wrong number,” Scott said.

“No, Scott, wait, it’s me, Miranda.”

“Miranda? Is everything okay? Are your parents okay?”

“Yes, yes.” Miranda motioned Ronan to sit on the couch. But he didn’t. He set the flowers down on the entryway table and reached his arm around her, letting his fingers hook through the belt loops of her jeans.

“I missed you,” he said, nuzzling his face into her hair, his breath tickling her ear.

Miranda put a finger over her lips and tried to free herself. He wouldn’t let go.

“Just take your call,” he said. “I’ll keep myself busy.”

“What can I help you with, Miranda?” Scott said.

“Oh, sorry, someone just came to the door. I spoke to Ambrose. I need help.”

“Oh, Ambrose, excellent!” Scott’s tone brightened.

Miranda tried to swat Ronan away, but he held his ground. He dropped to his knees and began inserting his fingers between the buttons on the fly of her jeans. Miranda swiveled. He just reached around to continue. She stopped fidgeting and let him. “Well, yes, excellent. He has a lot of ideas and sent a contract. I need it to be reviewed.”

“Stanton does that all the time. What’s the problem?”

“He doesn’t understand the Internet. And frankly, I’m not sure I do either.”

“And?”

Miranda heard the nature video sound track fire up in the background.

“Lower it, sweets,” Scott said. “I’m on the phone.”

“With who?” Lynn asked.

“Miranda. Remember from Thanksgiving.”

Ronan began undoing the top bottom; her jeans were tight, and he struggled some. She brushed his hands away only to have him try again.

“Randa Panda? Tell her about Christmas, Daddy, tell her we will be in Connecticut again. Tell her Miss Avery promised we would do gingerbread houses. Tell her. Tell her I missed saying goodbye to her!”

Miranda’s heart did a leap. She stepped away from Ronan, this time just before he undid the last button of her jeans. “Please,” she whispered. “On the couch.” She pointed to the couch and stepped closer to the kitchen.

“Did you get that?” Scott asked.

“I did. But I have to say I didn’t expect it. You didn’t seem to have a good time. And I missed saying goodbye to her, too.”

Ronan flicked on the television and flipped quickly through the channels, settling on soccer.

“You did?” Scott asked.

“Yes, I did. She’s great, Scott. She’s just like you. At least the way you used to be before you disappeared. I want to know the real story.”

“Randa, it’s not so straight-forward with me and Lynn, and I didn’t want to ruin anything more between us.”

“Ruin? I don’t think anything with Lynn could ruin anything for anyone. You need to explain.”

“At Christmas. It’s easier in person.” His voice was a husky whisper.

In person, she swooned. In person.

Ronan let out a roar of Irish accented expletives at the television.

Miranda glared at him.

He pointed to the television and shrugged.

“Are you okay? Just tell me about Ambrose. What do you need?” His tone tightened. She could almost see him pulling back away from her.

“The contract. I was hoping you could review it.”

“I’m not a lawyer anymore,” he said. “I teach third grade.”

“I know, but you were a lawyer. And you understand this stuff. And you’re my friend. My oldest friend. I’ve known you since I was a baby. More than a friend.”

“More than a friend?” he asked, again in a whisper.

Miranda’s cheeks flushed. She turned her back to Ronan. “I just thought you would be able to help. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you,” she stammered.

Ronan’s team obviously did something wrong again; a new stream of invectives filled the air.

“Who is there now?”

“Someone from work,” Miranda said. “Ronan.”

“I see. I guess I can look at the contract, but I am not promising anything. Can you email it?”

“I don’t have your email address.”

“First name last name at gmail. It might take me a bit to get back to you. It’s book report grading week.”

“Book reports, eh? Must be nice to do something like that.”

“It is nice. I like being near Lynn. I like when the kids learn something.”

Another roar thundered from the living room, or maybe this one was more a cheer.

“I should let you go. Get back to what’s his name,” Scott said.

“Ronan,” she said. “But, it’s okay.”

“No, I’ve got to get dinner started.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Yup,” she said.

“Christmas,” he said. “I’ll see you then?”

“Yes, Christmas. I want to see you,” she said, her own voice a whisper now. “I really enjoyed spending time with you. And Lynn.”

“We did too, Randa. I’m sorry about how I left. It’s just complicated, okay?”

“Complicated? I think I can handle it, Scott.”

“I hope so, Randa, it would mean a lot to me.”

Ronan let out another series of foul words even a sailor would be embarrassed by.

“Me, too,” Miranda said. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he said.

Miranda listened to his breath on the other end of the phone line. She listened to the music from Lynn’s nature show. After a few minutes, the final muted click came and then silence. She held the phone to her ear straining to hear some echo of his voice still. Ronan, distracted by the game, didn’t notice her standing there. Scott’s words flitted through her, danced around her. See you. Complicated. Christmas. She looked over at Ronan. Delicious Ronan. With his count down of days and desire to be with her right now, regardless of the complications.

Y
OU HUNGRY?” Ronan asked. He clicked the game off and with two long strides he was back in front of her. He brushed her hands away from her face. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “When did you last eat? You don’t look so good.”

“I’ve eaten.”

“When?” he asked.

“Does drinking with you yesterday count?”

“Are you Irish?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Then no, it doesn’t. Can I take you somewhere?”

“Sure, let me grab my coat.”

“Love, I want to take you somewhere. Nice. Maestro’s maybe, or Prime. You’ll want to change,” Ronan said.

She looked at him. The slacks, the button down shirt. “But you don’t have to. Those places are too fancy. Expensive.”

“Miranda, I have twenty-six days left in America. I am teaching a class that runs until the seventeenth, so travelling to the Grand Canyon or the redwoods or the French Quarter is out of the question. I should have thought about those things sooner. I have approximately two thousand American dollars, which will mean almost nothing to me in Ireland given the exchange rate and inflation right now. I just met a woman I would like to fall deeper into love with, and I would like to have some fun before I go back to whatever awaits a poet with an American Masters in Fuck All Poetry in the village I grew up in. My choices right now are plumber or carpet installer. Plumber pays better but then you deal with shit all day. Carpet is hard on the knees. Forgive the speech and put on a dress or something, would you?”

Miranda considered him for a minute. Remembering the warmth of his breath on her body. His body on her body. The surprise of the illuminated manuscripts. The look in his eyes just now, so earnest, so frustrated with her and yet still willing to take her to dinner. This man in front of her right now. Not some other guy on a phone a state away.

“We could go to the Falls,” she said.

“What kind of food is that?”

“No, Ronan, Niagara Falls. I have a car. It’s only a five-hour drive, straight across the state. Have you ever been?”

“Really? That’s all?”

“You never looked?”

“I never had a car. My sister didn’t like touring.”

“Didn’t like it? Why did she come all the way here?”

“A man, I told you. We are a romantic lot. But she wasn’t suited for travel.”

“Do you miss her? Will you see her when you get back?”

“Miss them? They Skype me every day to make sure I haven’t fallen in with the wrong sort.”

“The wrong sort?”

“Catholics. Old things die hard.”

“Fair enough. Do you want to go? I’m not Catholic. I’m not anything really—that might be the wrong sort.”

“You fair lady are asking me to go somewhere. Of course, I’ll go. I’ll go anywhere you want.” He leaned in close and placed his lips on her forehead. “Anywhere.”

The kiss and his tickling breath stripped her of her words. “Let me,” she stuttered, pointing to the bedroom, “pack a few things. Do you, um, need to like pack?”

“I have things in my bag,” he said, pointing to the back-pack by the front door. “I didn’t think I was going home tonight.”

“Ronan.” She let the word out like a sharp cry, faux outrage. A smile spread across her face.

“Miranda,” he said. “I told you I am serious.”

“Oh,” she said. Her phone vibrated; another email from Ambrose with an update to the contract. She didn’t even read it; she clicked forward and sent it along to Scott.

Ronan slid into the passenger seat as Miranda quickly shoveled several weeks’ worth of coffee cups and plastic water bottles into a loose grocery store bag that already contained a coffee cup and half of a donut. “Is it like busy hands, busy mind? Dirty car, dirty mind?” he asked.