Sugar

Chapter 8: Gwen

 It's a humid weekend in New York, and the city feels so dense that it's overwhelming, like you can't get fresh air unless you go out east. I don't have any plans this weekend besides spending time at the Simmons & Co. building to replace some furniture because damn, we've had the same couches and armchairs forever.

Jared and I told Bristol she can help if she wants, but she isn't obligated to. She told us she'll help because she doesn't have anything better to do anyway. It's not like people could go outside in this heat wave without feeling like they were dying.

I take the stairs instead of the elevator up to Jared's floor to get some exercise, and I find Bristol already there, sitting at the kitchen counter. Jared's telling her about this new vanilla ice cream he got from an Italian top chef he met somewhere, or something. Bristol lifts the spoon to her pretty lips. "Oh wow," she says. "Wow, that's good."

I try not to linger on the fact that Jared is staring at her mouth as she eats the ice cream, or that Bristol has the most beautiful lips I've ever seen, that women try to emulate with fillers but can't get it exactly right. She's dressed more casually today, in a miniskirt and a tight little top that makes her all the more distracting. I can never understand why her generation insists that wearing almost nothing is considered "fashion." Her hair's pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she looks even younger this way than when she wears those perfect blonde curls to the office. Almost cute is the word I would use.

Jared finally notices me. "Hey, Gwen, come try this ice cream."

"No thanks," I say, waving a hand. "I'm on my diet plan."

"You already look good," says Jared. He turns to walk to his office. "I have to send an email, I just remembered." Bristol and I watch him as he walks away, leaving us there alone.

"I'm so tired," Bristol uncharacteristically complains, resting her head in her hand. "This week has been so long."

"It has," I agree. I've been reviewing the case for our upcoming trial next week, and I've been worried because the attorney for the other side is Maven Russo. First of all, what kind of a name is Maven Russo, does he think he's a character in a terribly written romance novel? Secondly:

"I heard that our opposing attorney almost got arrested for almost killing his girlfriend," I tell Bristol. Just a fun factoid about Maven.

"What??" she exclaims. It's the first time I've seen her look anything but composed. "Recently?"

"Yeah," I say, taking a sip of water I got from the fridge. "About a month ago. So, I guess we know what kind of person we'll be contending with." I sigh.

"Oh, God," says Bristol. Then, as an afterthought, "Good men are so hard to find."

"Tell me about it," I say, taking a seat at the counter. I'm suddenly curious about this girl; she seems like practically a child compared to me and Jared, but she's 25, so she has probably had a lot of experience with failed relationships and successful relationships, like every woman. I hesitantly ask, "Have you ever been in love before?"

In an instant, the mask slips off her face, and her eyes are as vulnerable as I've ever seen them. It's beautiful on her, really. "I have," she says quietly. "But it... sometimes I'm not sure if it was really love."

This vague response intrigues me to no end, but I'm also concerned for her. "Keep looking, Bristol," I say. "You're a great person. You deserve someone who really loves you." I'm surprised at how genuine my remarks are. And she offers me a small smile, as if she doesn't quite believe me.

We talk about some other random things like company gossip, and Bristol seems shocked at some of the affairs and backstabbing that goes on at Simmons & Co. What can I say? Adults are no better than schoolchildren in this department. Lawyers especially can be very catty—I mean, we chose a job that allows us to interfere in other people's business and get paid for it. I feel like I can trust Bristol with this info, now that she's practically part of our inner circle.

With a sigh, I stand up from my seat at the counter. I can't forget what I'm here for—to redecorate the place. "Bristol, could you help me carry some of this?" I ask her as I walk over to Jared's foyer, where there's a stack of boxes ranging from medium to huge.

"Of course," she says, her voice professional as always. We each carry some boxes of furniture through the ornately furnished hallway and into the living room with tall windows looking out at the city. I unpack some of the boxes and lay the furniture parts on the hardwood floor. Soon, the floor is covered by table legs and chair legs and bags of small parts.

"Careful," I say. It's getting hard for Bristol to walk into the living room because there's barely any empty space left on the floor. She's carrying a few boxes in her small arms, looking behind her to avoid tripping. But even with her effortless grace, it's impossible for her to not trip in those platform sandals she's wearing. So she ends up falling on the floor, catching the box just in time to make sure its contents didn't break, and she starts laughing. I'm laughing too, feeling freer than I have in a while—her young energy is so contagious. It's suffocating being around old, stuffy male lawyers all the time, having to calculate every expression on my face and every word that comes out of my mouth, so I'm glad Jared hired Bristol as his assistant. It's a nice change around here.

But now we're in an awkward position, with me sitting on the rug to unpack the rest of the boxes, and Bristol lying on her back next to me, in nothing but that tiny skirt and that crop top that's really more of a push-up bra. The motherly instincts in me want to tell her to dress more modestly, doesn't she know she's making it easy for predators to pounce on her? With her small frame and all her milky white skin exposed—does she ever see the sun?—she's practically asking for someone to devour her. But alas, I'm her coworker, not her mother.

"Today's just not the day," Bristol says, still giggling. I look at her fondly, lying on Jared's living room floor, crossing her legs in a moment of self-consciousness.

"Where's Jared?" I wonder aloud, staring into her impossibly blue eyes. "He's making us do all his work for him."

And, speak of the devil, Jared decides to walk into the room at that exact moment, and he adopts an amused expression upon seeing me sitting on the floor, hunched over his assistant, her boobs practically in my face. I roll my eyes at the absurdity of the situation.

But I notice something of intrigue—how, the second Jared walked through the doorway, Bristol stiffened beside me, and her pupils dilated significantly, as if Jared's presence had a physical effect on her. I look between them with amusement. Jared's not that attractive, though his black T-shirt shows all the muscles of his chest and arms, or maybe it's just that I'm used to him. Maybe Bristol thinks he's the hottest man alive.

Jared's no longer smiling, and I notice, with an uncanny feeling, that the look in his eyes matches Bristol's. How can I describe it? Attraction? Lust? Even desire doesn't seem like the right word. The looks in their eyes are looks of hunger.

When I told Bristol she deserved a good man, I didn't mean Jared. Jared is much too volatile, and she would only distract him further. And they're not even in the same stage of life—he already knows who he is, but Bristol's still finding herself. And maybe, maybe a selfish part of me wants him all to myself, even though I can't really lay any claim to him. The last thing we are is a couple. Friends with benefits seems like too immature a word to describe two people in their forties, but that's exactly what we are. But I'm afraid to admit to myself that if Jared had a choice of who to take to bed, Bristol or me, he would choose Bristol every time. I mean, she practically radiates youth and fun and sex appeal.

I watch her uncross her legs and squirm as she sits up beside me, and I watch Jared's eyes darken even more.