The Perfect Blend by Allie Pleiter Page A

shadow across the ground. We’re about two feet apart, but I’m not sure if it feels like two inches or two miles. I notice little details about him, like the smattering of freckles above his cheekbones. The way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles (or grimaces). His cuff links. When’s the last time you saw a guy wearing cuff links? Who wasn’t in a rented tux? “How’d you get here?” I ask.
    Will brushes the fallen leaves off the planter edge. They tumble around each other as the evening breeze pushes them down the sidewalk. “You told me which store number. I could guess the neighborhoods you’d be willing to work, so a quick Internet search pulled up the store.”
    I giggle. “I meant how did you end up in Seattle?”
    He flushes a bit and his mouth tightens around the edges. Oh, no: wrong question. I can tell in an instant. He doesn’t answer right away, but finds more leaves to clean off the planter.
    â€œLook, I’m sorry,” I backpedal, “that’s probably none of my business.”
    â€œNo, no,” he replies quickly, and I see a flash of something dark behind his eyes. “It’s just that I was trying to decide if I should give you the quick, decent answer I give my mom or the far messier true version.” He gives a halfhearted, almost embarrassed laugh and uses a small twig to dig dirt out of a crack in the planter.
    I don’t know what to say. “How about both? Then I can pick the one I like.”
    Will takes a deep breath that seems to erase all the banker out of him. Suddenly, he’s not a banker or a teacher or anything like that, he’s just a person. A person, I suddenly realize, who is thousands of miles from home. I can’t imagine what that feels like. I’ve been surrounded by home and family from my first breath.
    â€œI tell Mom,” he says, sticking the twig resolutely into the planter’s bare soil, “that an international résumé is important in today’s financial market and that I’m gaining vital business experience.” It sounds rehearsed. Dry. Forced. Something twists in my chest.
    â€œAnd when Mom’s not around?”
    After a moment, Will folds his hands and says very quietly, “It was the most distance I could put between my father and me.”
    Ouch. I turn to look at him, but he seems unwilling—afraid, maybe—to stare anywhere but straight ahead. I notice his fingers are laced together in a tight, tense knot. “What did you fight about?” I ask carefully.
    Will shakes his head and attempts to laugh it off, but his words have far too much edge. “Everything. Life. Religion. Money, mostly.”
    â€œAll families fight.” I angle myself to face him. “Not all families need an ocean between them. What happened?”
    â€œDo you always pry like this?” His tone is defensive, but you can just see in the way he holds his body that he needs to talk about this. It’s eating at him, plain as day.
    â€œHey, I got three brothers. I’m an expert.”
    Will’s shoulders are so rigid he looks ready for battle. “Dad was what you Americans would call an idea man. Mom called him a dreamer. All I could ever see out of him were schemes.” There is enough bitterness in his words to taint all of Puget Sound. He waits for the rumble of a passing bus to subside before he continues. “My Mom came from money, from a good family. Respectable. My Dad did, too. Everyone thought they were such a smart match until Dad began to run through nearly every dime they had. Strings of sure-to-succeed ideas that proved only to be expensive failures.” Will looks out over the water, but you can tell he’s seeing England in his eyes, not Seattle. “I imagine he’s hard at work on his latest as we speak.” He picks up the twig he planted earlier and snaps it in half.
    â€œYou don’t talk?” It seems