Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  Laughter erupts at the game boards. Chris coughs and looks down, self-conscious, and tugs on a torn pocket to his fatigue jacket. Near us is a cluster of dart players, guys in expensive suits, loosened ties, and what I assume are their dates, girls in silk dresses, heels. One of the men playing darts bumps into Chris but doesn’t apologize. The girls cup their hands around their mouths and look over at him. One rolls her eyes.

  I see Division One from a new set of eyes.

  “Nicky! Long time, bro.”

  I look over.

  Ezio’s waving with a beefy hand, the head bartender, the heavy-set Greek guy in his early thirties. A five o’clock shadow darkens his jaw and his widow’s peak is morphing into male pattern baldness. His shirt is black and twice-striped in a green seafoam color. Embroidered on the chest pocket is a martini.

  Ice clinks against a highball glass as I slide over a leather-padded stool; a yeasty smell floats from beer taps. Chris stands back, uncertain until I grab his sleeve and pull him closer.

  Ezio drops a cork coaster and slides an ice-cold Coors in front of me. “On the house.”

  I push the sweaty bottle aside. “Thanks. Say hello to Chris Mufson, Ezio.”

  They shake hands in an awkward, almost painful way, because Chris stares at the counter, face grim.

  “Chris is good people,” I shout. “Former military. What would you like, Chris?”

  “Sparkling water.”

  “Add a twist of lime,” I say.

  Ezio polishes a glass, eyes narrowed at him. Drawing conclusions.

  “You know Tommy Fallon?” I ask. “Third Wheeler? You see them yet?”

  “Wheelz came in the other day.” Ezio resumes drying glasses and stacking them under the bar. “You need to talk to them?”

  Something about his tone bugs me. There’s nothing casual or friendly about his inquiry. His dark eyes probe.

  “Yeah, I do. It’s business.”

  “No, Nick. It’s my business.”

  Damn.

  Deja shrew.

  Lexi emerges from the pool table and foosball section, dressed in an open white fur jacket, exposing a black dress and lots of skin. Her breasts look even larger.

  I glance over her and raise an eyebrow. “Dad pay for those?”

  Even in the low lights, it’s visible, the tiny vein popping up on her forehead. “You’re done here, asshole.” The red slash of her mouth is pulled back into a jeer. “And you’re done working on the NEW EATS contest, so there’s no Tommy or Wheelz. I lead that team now. In fact, I’m taking over pretty much everything you screwed up.”

  “You mean taking over what I built. Where’s Elena’s scarf?”

  Her eyes gleam with silvery hate. “Ezio, call security.”

  Ezio shoots me a look. “Sorry. She signs my paychecks now.”

  Translation: skedaddle.

  We make our way toward the exit. A well-suited jerk shoves Chris into the wall. He hits the edge of the dartboard, and his mouth starts bleeding.

  The jerk who pushed him has the gall to act as though he’s the wounded party. “Watch where you’re going, moron.”

  “Don’t call him that.” My adrenaline’s spiked, and introducing my knuckles to his face might feel real good. “You’re not fit to lace his boots.”

  Mudslide hulks over in a tight black suit. He picks up Chris with fistfuls of jacket and shoves him forward.

  “Can someone see these losers out?” Rolling her eyes, Lexi posts herself at the exit, blond hair curling down her back. “I don’t do chivalry.”

  Elena paced near the kitchen table, where her laptop was open. “Chris never misses a Bears game.”

  “He’s fine, Leen.” Sitting on a chair next to the table, her aunt squinted at the screen. “Having any luck?”

  “No.” She rounded the table to shut the laptop lid. Stupidly, she’d spent a chunk of her day researching his mother. Found the rather morbid “Find a Grave” site, and her gravestone. A genealogy website proved to be a dead-end, however, the online obituary led to an article about Maria, Nick’s mom, traveling with Nick Senior in Egypt.

  “You’ll find a great job. It’ll happen for you. I know it will.” Auntie Rob used a spray bottle of water to spritz the leaves of the remaining house plants. “Everything’s falling into place now. We’ve got our new home, and you can start your own life.”

  Starting her own life, indeed. She lost most of today trying to find out more about his mother. And why? He wouldn’t be happy about it. He’d be angry that she pried.

  Everything felt seismic, as though she’d been torn from the ground, a stump overturned by the roots. Soon they’d completely vacate the bookstore, their business, and their third-floor home. But where was she? Stuck like a stump and twice as useless. By now, she should have her own place, be teaching. Maybe even be married and starting a family. But she had none of these things. She had a Ph.D. that couldn’t get her hired, and worse of all, she was hung up on a man who wouldn’t commit.

  Her aunt watered a curling white-and-green pothos plant in a Spanish tile pot, carefully holding leaves to douse them. “I bet there are all kinds of interesting teaching jobs.”

  “Most all the universities have hiring freezes,” Elena said, hating the defensive note in her voice. “Or they need STEM teachers. Biochemistry and math professors. Not too much of a demand for women’s studies or history instructors.”

  “Well, you’ve got to keep trying.”

  “I am trying.” That came out uncharacteristically snotty. For God’s sake. Now she was snapping at her sweet aunt?

  Auntie Rob looked at her, eyebrows raised. She reached over to pat her hand. “We’re all under stress. This is a big change for us.”

  “I know.” Where could they be? Nick had texted three hours ago. A business meeting, nothing formal. Won’t take long. She glanced toward the shadowed living room, plant leaves curling around the rims of their pots, the sofa, the blank TV. The empty recliner. “Chris never misses a Bears game.”

  “Honey, you already said that. They’re two young men out having fun.”

  She could picture it now, the two of them in a restaurant booth, Nick in that dazzling suit, waitresses flirting or young professional women who’d send over cocktails. She’d been a witness to the “Nick daze” many times, females going into that fangirl swoon, mouths falling slightly open.

  “Darn. I had a periwinkle here. Where did it go?” Skeins of yarn were piled on top of the table’s oak surface, and Aunt Robbie poked through the spectrum of blues: powder blue, robin egg, teal, turquoise, royal, and navy. She searched the piles and then stood up. “Norman!”

  The cat lifted his head and curled back to sleep.

  She’d read about this, where men pulled away after lovemaking. They needed the separation, to retreat. In Nick’s case, head to Nova Scotia. “He needs distance.”

  “Norman?”

  “No.” Elena’s hands twisted as she paced. She wasn’t about to tell her aunt they’d had wild passionate sex last night. Of course, they’d made plenty of noise. Maybe she knew.

  It had been magical, and no other man would ever compare, those soft moist kisses that lasted throughout the night. How he’d tease her by tugging out her lower lip with his teeth, and she’d rise up on her elbows, trying to deepen the kiss, his soft laughter against her neck. He drove her wild. He was seductive and tender. Demanding, too, which turned her on beyond belief. Telling her to hold her hands above her head as his palms shackled her, and then he pillaged every inch of her body. His voice, too. That gravelly sexy voice.

  Hold still. Hmm, right there. Yeah, baby.

  Her nipples and—down there—were sore, still pleasurably numb.

  Her hands came up to rub her temples in frantic circles.

  The buzzer sounded, and Elena flew down the stairwell. Chris had probably forgotten his keys again.

  On the first floor, she squinted at the door. That’s weird, no one’s there. She scurried closer, arms huddled ar
ound herself, and peered through the glass. On the mat outside, there was a small box addressed to “The Lucky Pup.” Looked to be a woman’s handwriting. She unbolted the door and leaned into the cold to scoop it up, remarkably lightweight for one of their deliveries. Quickly she returned upstairs and tossed it on the couch. “We could start a shipping company with all these boxes.”

  Holding a knitting needle, her aunt set aside a skein of rainbow yarn. She walked over to examine the mailing label. “Odd. No postage.” She carried the box over to the kitchen table. She pushed the piles of blue yarn away, while Elena moved her laptop. It was flatter than a shoebox, and about six inches longer. “Look. Someone crossed out the Bloomingdale’s logo.”

  “Don’t use your knitting needle, Auntie Rob. There’s a box cutter in the junk drawer.”

  “Never mind. I’ve got it.”

  Elena moved to the refrigerator for a cold bottle of low-cal peach iced tea. Hand curled around the handle, she shot a glance over the open fridge door. “Want anything while I’m here?”

  “Elena.”

  Her aunt’s tone was grave. Urgent.

  “What?” Her heart started pounding. Elena shut the refrigerator door and joined her aunt near the table.

  Aunt Robbie had frozen in front of the box, her fingers touching her open mouth. She turned her head to avoid looking down at the white tissue spread open.

  Elena sucked in a breath.

  It was the Hermes scarf, shredded at the ends. Almost as though the silk had been pulled apart by some kind of machine, thinned to threads.

  Underneath it was a toilet brush and yellow Latex cleaning gloves.

  Elena fisted her hands. “That bitch.”

  “Who? I’ve never heard you talk about another woman like that.” Her aunt looked alarmed.

  “I’m tired of giving some women a pass because they’re my ‘sisters.’ No more excuses. Not for Mom or her. Just because they behave like a bitchy stereotype doesn’t make it any less true.” She rolled her eyes. “Dear God. I can’t believe I just said that. Lexi Jasper did this. Remember her?”

  Her aunt stared at the open box, fingering the damaged scarf. “Is she jealous?”

  Their eyes met. Her aunt’s eyes were sober. Probing.

  She shook her head. “I’ll take her to small claims court.” Furious, she reached in her pocket for her phone to text Nick about it. Then she shoved it back into the pocket. He hadn’t answered her last text; why would a new message make a difference? He wouldn’t leap over a bar and yell: “The love of my life just texted me. Gotta go, everyone!”

  She gathered the tissue and pressed it back over the scarf, and slapped the box flaps back down. “Where is he? Where?”

  “Elena, sweetie—”

  “Auntie Rob, I’m not a sweetie. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve long finished my degree and I have no job prospects. No relationship. No nothing.” She put her face in her hands. “What I am is stupid.” She looked at her. “I slept with him, okay? I gave in. Now I’m like this scarf, I’m pulled apart. I knew better.” She felt overwhelmed and had to stop the roaring in her ears, so she placed her hands over them. “Nick’s so hard on himself. Maybe that means he can’t care about anyone else.”

  “I think he cares.”

  “Auntie Rob, you always try to make things better. There is no making this better. The only reason he ‘liked me’ up until now is that I wouldn’t put out.”

  “Elena Glynn. That’s so cynical.”

  “And because I—held out—I’m unusual to him. I’m weird. Strange.”

  “You are not strange.”

  “I mean I’m a novelty to him. But now that we’ve been together, that I’m a conquest, he’ll move on. He can’t—love someone. Not yet. I used to think Nick was like Narcissus. When Nick looks into the pond, he sees his father.”

  “It can’t be easy, trying to fill a famous father’s big shoes.”

  “I met him, his father. It was . . . so embarrassing.“ She shuddered. “He’s not a very warm man. And he’s—”

  “What?”

  “Competitive with Nick. Sick competitive.”

  Boots stomped on the stairwell.

  They both froze and looked at the door.

  The two women are waiting for us as we enter, Auntie Rob pulling on the hem of her blue cotton shirt, Elena considerably more dressed than when I left her this morning, in jeans and a loose sweater. Shaking her head and muttering.

  The third-floor apartment’s cleared of its decorations, only the furniture and plants remain, and it looks spare, like a pioneer home. Chris’s dinner sits on the stove, the glint of foil stretched taut over a plate. My stomach issues an S.O.S. because I haven’t eaten in hours.

  On the kitchen table is a stockpile of blue yarn, a closed laptop and an open box with white tissue hanging out. Something shredded inside. A warning beep faintly registers, but I can’t get to that yet, there’s an upset female staring at me.

  Chris continues to bleed at the corner of his mouth.

  My stomach growls loudly like it wants top billing.

  Her jaw is locked so tight that when she speaks, her mouth hardly moves. “Do the other brawlers look as bad as you two?”

  “I asked to go along, Leen,” Chris cuts in. “I asked.”

  “Nick, looks like you were hurt, too,” her aunt says.

  “I’m okay.”

  “What happened?” Elena demands.

  “Some jerk pushed me.” Chris won’t meet her eyes. “Nick tried to help.”

  “Where?”

  “Division One,” I say.

  She breaks her fierce eye contact and her head drops.

  Smiling awkwardly, her aunt steps in front of Chris and me, gesturing toward the table. “Come sit, Chris, your dinner’s waiting. You sit too, Nick. We’ll get the first-aid kit and some ice. Have you eaten?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “He doesn’t want to eat with us because that might mean he has to be sociable. He wants no involvement.” Elena crosses her arms. “That about it, Nick?”

  Oh, joy. First a near-miss collision at Div1, now a female sharpening her claws.

  She motions for me to follow her down the narrow hall to her tiny bedroom, a faded quilt neatly tucked around a twin-sized bed, needlepoint pillows. Blank walls, and brighter paint where a poster had been. “Excuse us,” she says over her shoulder. “Nick and I need a moment.”

  Once we’re in her room and the door’s shut, I make the mistake of glancing at my watch.

  “Please. Extend me the courtesy of paying attention.”

  “Sorry.” I look at her.

  “He can barely handle one beer. Or don’t you remember Thanksgiving?”

  “He ordered seltzer water.” I rub at the skin between my eyebrows. “It was crowded. I tried to keep an eye on him.”

  “Apparently not a close enough eye.”

  “You can’t protect him forever, Elena. You don’t have magical powers where you can see him or your aunt at all times. Prevent bad stuff from happening.”

  “I’m his sister. In case you don’t get that, that means we’re related and care about each other.” She presses her hand against her chest. “We have each other’s backs, and yes, that usually implies some degree of protection.”

  “You’re not upset about Chris.” I come up behind her and stroke her hair. When I try to put my arms around her waist, she pulls free.

  “Lexi sent back the scarf. She destroyed it.”

  “Two for two.” I thread fingers through my hair. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “I don’t want—”

  I palm the air. “I get it. You want that one. What is this? Nick-Can’t-Win-Day? I went there for a reason tonight, not to pick up girls, which is what you think.”

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking. And you don’t care.”

  “I do care. It’s just that . . . “ I used to have friends there. “It’s like what Mama said about seeing the same movie.” />
  “The same movie?”

  “I’m not the rich guy’s kid anymore.” I rub my eyes. “The remodeling is going to be the easy part. I’ve still got to hire the right people. Line up the health inspectors, beverage distributors, other suppliers. And marketing and promotion’s going to cost some bucks. I’ll be working seventy, eighty-hour weeks once the doors officially open. No relationship can stand that kind of strain.”

  She sits on the edge of the bed and holds a pillow on her lap, moving her fingers over its needlepoint texture. “So I make three for three.”

  “Elena. Let’s be practical here. Neither one of us is settled. Let’s figure our lives out first, until I’ve made my first mil, and you’re commenting on a History Channel special.”

  She twists her hands in her lap. “I don’t need to be on TV to be happy. I don’t need to go viral.”

  “And I get that. You’re moving on, though, you’re looking for a teaching job. Which you should. You’re an incredibly bright girl.”

  “Don’t compliment me. Especially as you’re dumping me.”

  “I’m not—dumping.”

  “Dumping, breakup, ending. Conquest. Does it matter?”

  She isn’t shrieking or bawling. She’s not curling into herself like a victim. Instead, she’s pragmatic, speaking in the quiet voice that makes other people stop screaming and listen. Until I see her hand shake, I almost think she isn’t affected at all.

  I step over to the old dresser, cleared of its perfume bottles, mementos, and photos.

  She looks up at me. “I think hardships and challenges are when we need others the most. Hardships draw people together.”