Page 51 of Playing With Matches
“For you, Sir?” she asks. I hesitate, considering whether I should ease up and have a drink tonight. I want to, but I’m worried about what might happen if I do. I’m worried I’ll lose what inhibitions I have left around Isla. It’s already taking all my self control not to drag her back to our shared suite and lock the door. The nonstop, near pornographic images in my mind are lapping away at my reserves, wearing me down like a weathered stone. The sun washing over her on the balcony? She looked almost unreal backlit like that. Her flimsy, semi-sheer dress was no match for the sun. It called out her silhouette in relief, crowned by a mane of fire. She’s like a video game goddess from my mushy, frontal-lobed, teenaged dreams.
“Jackson?” Isla says. “Did you want to order something?”
“Whiskey soda,” I say. Just one drink. I’m a full-grown man, with a fully-formed frontal lobe. I am in control of my faculties. I’m not going to lose it. I have a professional relationship with this woman. Nothing more.
It can’t be anything more.
“So I spoke to Emily today,” Isla says, while perusing the menu.
“You called her?” I raise an eyebrow. “On the loaner phone?”
“Yes,” she smooths the napkin on her lap. “They didn’t say we couldn’tcallpeople. Just that we can’t go on social media.”
I am fascinated by the symmetry of her collarbones and the way her squared shoulders appear to be double the width of her waist. Her body is a perfect combination of triangles and circles, hard and soft, sharp corners and voluptuous round–
Isla catches me staring at her breasts. Breasts sheathed in an elaborately and colorfully beaded, embroidered top. Tiny round mirrors circle each mound, reflecting the candlelight. She meets my eye and smiles knowingly. I feel my face heat. There’s no use pretending I wasn’t looking.
“That’s um – a really cool top,” I shake out my napkin and stare down at my lap as I place it there.
Smooth, Jackson.
“Thank you,” Isla smiles, looking genuinely flattered. “I got it in Morocco.” She meets my eye. “But I get the feeling you didn’t ask me to dinner tonight to talk about fashion, right?”
“Right,” I sigh, accepting my drink from the waitress. “To making matches,” I say, and we clink glasses, ice tinkling.
I take a sip, enjoying the warming burn of the alcohol as it goes down, cooled by the fuzz of the soda. Like an itch being scratched. So good.
“I have to be careful with this stuff, “ I find myself saying. “My dad was an alcoholic. I don’t drink often. I like to save it for toasts and stuff.”Why did I just tell her that?
“My mum drinks a bit too much, too,” Isla sets her drink down. “But I don’t know that she has a problem with drinking so much as that her drinking tends to occasionally create problems.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. I think that she’s not addicted to drinking so much as she is to creating drama. The two go hand in hand for her. I don’t think she’d mind giving up the alcohol, but she’d definitely mind giving up the drama. Anyways, she’s never done anything truly terrible. She’s just a pain in the ass when she’s had a few.”
“Ah well, that’s where my dad’s situation was different. He was a mean drunk, and he did do terrible things.” I feel for the small medallion on my neck. I don’t even know why I still wear it. It’s been over fifteen years. I’m just used to it being there.
I sigh and sip my drink, enjoying it less. This was not at all what I wanted to chat about tonight.
“You say his situationwasdifferent?” Isla takes a tentative sip of her drink. “Has he passed?”
“He’s no longer in my life,” I say. “Haven’t seen him since I was eighteen. No idea if he’s dead or alive.” I pick up the menu, desperate to change the subject. “So what do you think you’ll get? The short ribs sound good.”
“I was thinking scallops,” she says, following my lead.Thank God. That was close. I don’t know why I went there. I never talk about my dad with strangers. I barely talk about him with my own sister.
“So what did you and Emily talk about?” I ask casually, still looking at the menu. Of all the members of my podcast crew, Emily is the one I’ve known for the least amount of time. She’s a childhood friend of Alexis’s.
“How did you and Emily meet again? Alexis introduced you?” Isla asks, as if she’s reading my mind. It’s uncanny.
“Yes. I know Alexis from the college where I teach part time,” I say. “She and Emily grew up together.”
“She’s a good egg,” Isla smiles, reminding me of the good egg/bad egg scene inCharlie and the Chocolate Factory.I am instantly reminded of my fantasy from the diner. I can still imagine Isla saying Veruca Salt’s lines. “I want itnow! I wantyouNOW!” Not helpful. I shake my head, take a slug of my drink and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to picture anything else.
“What? Was it something I said?” Isla asks.
“I’m sorry,” I admit, eyes fluttering open. “I keep imagining you as Veruca Salt. I think it’s the accent? Maybe also the hair?”
“You really don’t have a filter do you?” she snorts.
