Lady Superior (22 page)

I still need some time to get ready. You look great.

I need time too. Need to shave.

Don’t shave.

Really?

Just shave your neck. Clean up a little. That’s it.

Roger roger.

Kristen looked at herself in the mirror. Sirens screamed to life in her mind, every logical portion of her brain sounding the klaxon of
bad idea
. Heedless, she raised her phone, snapped a selfie in her towel, and sent it to Jack with the message,
See? Still working on it. Be there at 5:30.

Pushing the phone aside, she resolved not to look at anything else he might send her. She tempted fate; better to be ignorant of the result until she was ready for it. Kristen dropped her towel and began the laborious process of getting dressed; battling changelings paled in comparison to the struggles of a strapless bra. She pulled, lifted, tucked, swept, squeezed, and cursed, cursed, and cursed some more. When finally she managed to strap herself in, she glowered at the sight in the mirror; overflowing flesh proved to be an unwelcome reminder such garments simply weren’t made for women her size. Looking down to retrieve her dress from the floor, she found she couldn’t see past herself anymore. Feeling for the soft cloth with her toes, she knelt when she found it, picking it up blind. Bundling it in her hands, she pulled it over her head and stood upright in one motion. The stretchy fabric clung to her body. Plucking at wrinkles and smoothing out any ridges, she walked from the bathroom to the full-length mirror in the back room.

She turned one way, then the other, a severe frown creeping its way across her painted lips. The dress fit worse than she remembered and an ill-fitting bra didn’t help; her own reflection made her think of an overflowing sausage casing. She tried to pull the top of the dress higher—it wasn’t meant to show that much cleavage, if any at all—to no avail. The fabric snapped right back to where it was and she regretted even trying; she knew in her heart those spaghetti straps weren’t long for the world. Turning, she looked back over her shoulder. Thanks to a lifetime of squats and lunges, the situation back there wasn’t much better.

Good God. I look like a balloon smuggler. I can’t wear this.

Kristen swept across the room to her closet. She thrust a hand into the sea of hangers, but hesitated. Why couldn’t she wear the green dress? She paid for it. She liked it. She
wanted
to wear it. Someone else might have a problem with it, but why should she care about that? It was her choice. Some days she felt like baggy hoodies and sweatpants. Some days she didn’t.

Lady Superior—she had to call herself by that name before anybody else would—sure as hell wouldn’t let someone give her grief about her clothes. Lady Superior was a badass. Kristen Anderson was a badass. The two of them could do whatever they damn well wanted to do.

Back to the mirror, she looked herself over once more and flexed, feeling a surge of confidence as solid as her biceps. She spoke to herself through her teeth, hyping herself up like her own personal trainer. “Hell yeah, Kris. You’re going to date the shit out of this guy!”

She took a fighting stance, dress stretching around her legs, and boxed the air. A jab, a hook, a hand sudden clasping her chest to stifle a painful bounce.

“God, I hate this bra.”

At five o’clock, Kristen sat in her car—it was Temple’s car, but she’d already started to think of it as hers—in the parking structure down the street from Bacchus, her happy thoughts playlist at full volume. She’d given herself extra time to get there and was glad she did; she hadn’t realized Bacchus was downtown until she left the house. The restaurant didn’t have its own parking—almost nothing downtown had its own parking—and she had nothing to do but wait until Jack showed up. She could have taken a walk along the lakefront, she supposed, but that wasn’t worth the pain of walking in heels.

Her playlist looped around to “Cameo Lover.”

This is nonstop baby, you’ve got me going crazy.

Kristen’s lips parted to sing along. The music cut off, interrupted by her phone ringing. She snatched at it with an impatient fury: Emma. Kristen hit the ignore button and her music started up again.

You’re heavier than I knew.

She opened her texts and tapped a message to her sister.
I need you to handle your own shit for just one day. Okay? I cannot help you today. If Chad is hurting you CALL THE COPS.

The moment she sent the message, exhaustion hit her like a punch in the mouth. She turned off her music, no longer in the mood, and let her head fall against the car window. Telling Emma off wasn’t the right thing to do, she was sure, and the guilt ate at her immediately. She stared through the bright sliver of light in the stone barricades of the structure, out toward the rippling blue of Lake Michigan and the sweeping white wings of the art museum on the shoreline.

She should cancel dinner, she was sure. Emma wouldn’t call that many times if it wasn’t important. If it wasn’t important, she’d text. How could she choose dinner with Jack over her sister? It was only the first date. There was no attachment there. Jack would be mad, but it wasn’t like she’d lose anything.

The phone rang. Kristen answered without looking. “What’s wrong?” she blurted.

Jack’s voice. “Uh, hi. Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to let you know I’m down here early. Are you okay?”

Kristen closed her eyes. He was already there? Canceling on him would be even worse now. “I’m fine. Where did you find parking?”

“My car's at O'Donnel Park. It's about a half mile from the restaurant, but it was the closest place that wasn't a parking meter.”

“Okay. Where are you?”

“I'm sitting outside the Calatrava. My car doesn't have AC and the parking garage smelled like a dirty diaper, so...”

Kristen stayed on the line, but climbed out of the car. Walking to the sliver of light, she peered out at the Calatrava—the art museum—and saw a shape that might have been him, holding a phone to his ear. The parking garage did, in fact, smell like a diaper. “I think I can see you from here.”

The shape suddenly jerked around, twisting back and forth to scan the area in front of the Calatrava. “Uh, I don't think I see you.”

“You're sitting on a bench? In the grass, next to some bushes?”

“Yeah?”

She squinted, trying to make out a few more details. Jack suddenly came into focus. She could see him with complete clarity, as if looking through a pair of binoculars. Kristen felt a surge of excitement and a sudden desire to bite him, which was weird even to her. He looked amazing. “Your phone has a navy blue case, your sleeves are rolled up, and you’re wearing a… Zenith watch?”

Kristen heard a nervous laugh from Jack’s end as he said, “Yeah, but where are you?”

“Stay where you are. I’ll be right there.”

She hung up and stuffed the phone in her little green purse. Her excitement only grew as she looked at him afar, amazed at the clarity of his image in her vision. She set her hands on the concrete ledge. A voice inside of her screamed.
Jump. Jump down. You’ll be fine. It’ll be faster.

She pushed away from the ledge with a shake of her head. Her hands were trembling and she balled them into fists to calm the tremors. Breathing in and out to gather herself, Kristen locked her car doors and set off toward the Calatrava, high heels click-clacking beneath her. Once outside the garage, the oppressive summer heat fell on her like a viper, but a cool breeze blowing off the lake soothed its venom. She pulled off her heels and strode down the sidewalk in a pair of sheer slip-on socks, every loose pebble sharp on her soles. She felt the urge to run, but made it only a step before deciding otherwise, instead walking as swiftly as her dress would allow.

In only a minute’s time, she was across the street and striding through the grass, its chilly blades soothing her feet. Jack’s head was down as she approached, staring at the phone in his hand. She rolled her eyes, but felt guilty afterwards. He should have been watching for her—she said she’d be right down—but knew she would have been doing the same thing in his place. “Hey.”

Jack’s head snapped up and he tucked the phone away, trying to pretend he’d been watching for her all along. “Hey! Whoa.”

Kristen arched a brow. “Whoa?”

Jack stood up. Kristen found the expression on his face cartoonish, like the wolf from a Tex Avery cartoon. That made her think—had she ever actually seen a Tex Avery cartoon? She was pretty sure she hadn’t. Maybe the wolf was in
Who Framed Roger Rabbit
. She’d seen that. Her moment of thought gave Jack time to gather his wits, but only a little. His dumbfounded expression became a wide grin. “Are you even real?”

She laughed. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you struck me as a pantsuit kind of lady.”

Kristen tucked a loose hair behind her ear; the lake breeze was doing her hair—her wig—no favors. “You can thank Bernice. She taught me it’s okay to own a pantsuit
and
a dress. Today, I felt like a dress. And don’t take this the wrong way, but you struck me as an I-only-own-t-shirts-with-words-on-them kind of guy. Nice watch.”

Jack blushed—Kristen found it utterly adorable—and made sure the watch was turned the right way on his wrist. “It was a graduation present.”

His nervous fiddling drew Kristen’s eyes to his arm. Even the earlier picture hadn’t done him justice. He had strong arms. Hairy, but not a sasquatch like Todd. Her gaze drifted up his arm to those broad shoulders and the hint of a lean and muscled chest beneath his shirt. Upwards, she looked at his blue eyes—almost crystalline in the summer sun—and his gaze snapped to hers at the same moment. He looked sheepish, realizing he’d been caught looking at her, not knowing she’d just done the same. He looked away and so did she, both standing in an awkward silence until he broke it. “Sorry dinner is so early, I know five-thirty isn’t prime time for a romantic meal, but it’s Saturday and—”

“It’s fine. Like I said, I can’t stay out late. Besides, it's my fault. I sprung it on you, and you managed to get a reservation at the best restaurant in town with no notice on a Saturday.”

“It's the best restaurant in town?”

“According to the Internet, it is.”

“Then I take it all back. I'm not sorry. I'm a miracle worker.”

Kristen flashed a lopsided grin. “Don't get ahead of yourself. We haven't eaten yet. Let's walk?”

Jack held out his hand. “Sure. Want me to carry your shoes?”

Kristen looked at them dangling from her fingers. “Nah. I got it.”

They stepped off of the grass and onto the sidewalk together and set up Lincoln Memorial. They walked alongside each other, briefly collapsing into single file now and then to dodge cyclists and opposing foot traffic—beach goers and festival attendees, distant music from the fairgrounds thumping the air. Like Todd, Jack stutter-stepped with his long legs to match Kristen’s pace. She felt bad about it, but couldn’t change the length of her legs. If they were running, she could match any pace, but one can only walk so fast before looking stupid—or having their strapless garments end up around their waist.

As they went, they drew the eyes of passersby. Kristen knew it, and from a glance at Jack, he knew it, too. He side-eyed everyone the same way she did. She struck up small talk to block it out; discussing weather and the news, and when conversation drifted to Maiden Milwaukee, she directed it straight back to the weather. There was rain in the forecast. Oh, really? It doesn’t look like it. They’re always wrong, anyway. Rain would be nice, though.

Their walk took them from Lincoln Memorial back to O’Donnel Park, a stairwell crawling up the side of the parking garage bringing them up to Milwaukee’s iconic Sunburst—a sculpture of orange-painted steel girders arranged in a vague star shape—and up Wisconsin Avenue to Mason. Looking down Mason, Temple Financial loomed in the skyline, but they crossed over to Prospect instead, and down to the Cudahy Tower.

The Cudahy Tower was a simple white building of sixteen stories, its architectural style something Kristen wanted to describe as art deco, but knowing nothing of architecture, instinct urged her to call everything in Milwaukee art deco. The building predated World War I and its aged brick and terra cotta showed. Kristen imagined it would have been considered immense in its day. The age and simplicity of the Cudahy Tower made Bacchus an oddity: it looked like a quarter of the Tower went missing and was replaced with a perfectly modern, single-story glass greenhouse, as if the world itself had glitched and crammed two buildings together.

Pretty, though.

Kristen slipped her shoes back on before following Jack inside the Tower. By the way his eyes flicked around the lobby, she could tell he had no idea where he was going, but he feigned enough confidence to find the restaurant. Despite being a little early, they were greeted and seated quickly, introduced to a perfectly professional and forgettable waiter who gave them “a minute to think about” their order. He addressed Jack as Mister Jahoviak.

Jack Jahoviak?

If the rhyme wasn’t bad enough, it had alliteration, too. Awful, she thought. Just awful.

Jack leaned across the table and whispered. “I think we’re the best-dressed people in here.”

His voice made Kristen realize she’d been in a daze since they walked in and wasn’t entirely sure why. Fish out of water, she supposed. She wasn’t used to dining in nice places and didn’t know what to expect. Glancing around the dining room, she found it surprisingly modern and understated. The seats were leather, the tablecloths white. Each table bore a slender vase holding a few white lilies. Glass floor-to-ceiling wine racks were laden with bottles and the room smelled of good food—she couldn’t place what it was, just
food
—and natural sunlight flooded through the windows. Jack was right about their clothes; the five-thirty crowd was more the booths-with-friends variety than the table-for-two. The restaurant was quiet, the conversation a susurrus punctuated by short bouts of laughter and the clinking of plates, glasses, and silverware.