Right Back Where We Started

by Fiona West

  SHE WAS ALREADY GONE by the time he got home that night; the night nurse, Cara, had come early, so she left early. Mrs. Sánchez was washing dishes again as he ate dinner. He’d been thinking about her advice the other night about winning Martina back. He chewed his food for a minute, thinking. Screw it. He had no pride left. This troll thing, this game they were playing, it was a good sign. And he’d apologized for his absolute stupidity after graduation night; that was a good start. But they were going to need more. He had a lot of work to do if he wanted her back. He needed help. “Can I ask you something?”

  She gestured for him to go ahead with a flick of her wrist.

  “What makes a woman trust you again? Like, if you f—uh, if you messed up?” He didn't want to swear in front of Mrs. Sánchez. She always gave him the sternest look, and it made him feel about two feet tall.

  “You are thinking of Martina?”

  No point in lying. “Yeah.”

  “It's more simple than it seems.”

  “Meaning?”

  “How do you re-build anything? One piece at a time.”

  “I just don’t even know where to start,” he mumbled. She watched him for a long moment, then pivoted to the crystal cabinet and carefully pulled out a vase and a jar of marbles.

  “Love,” she said, “it is like this. When we start out, the bank is empty. Slowly, we make deposits.” She dropped two marbles into the vase. “Little things. Kindness. Respect. Small acts of service. Every day.” She let three more fall with a plink-plink-plink. “It will tip the scales against what you did, before. When you were young and very stupid.”

  Carter choked on his dinner, laughing. “I was very stupid, wasn’t I?”

  “I could not believe how stupid. For such a smart young man to say such stupid things . . .” She leaned forward on the quartz counter on her elbows. “I thought my English must be very bad to misunderstand you like that.”

  He poked at his food with his fork, embarrassed. “I knew she was in love with me, and I was in love with her, and I didn't think anything could ruin that. I thought we were rock solid. I just didn't want to be alone, you know?”

  “For you to be together, was it impossible? Back then?” Oh, he'd tried. Even filled out an application for Oregon State. His father had been furious when the acceptance packet came in the mail. Shredded it right in front of him and didn't speak to him for a week.

  “My father wouldn’t have let me go anywhere but his alma mater.”

  Yesenia nodded slowly. “We don’t need to worry about him now. Focus on her. Honor her. Show her you have changed. Show her you are considerate . . . and not for any other reason than love.” She dropped her chin to glare at him, and he blushed.

  “That’s not even on the table, so . . .”

  “Good. Do not flatter her, do not try to buy her love. She is a proud woman, like me.” She toyed with a thick silver ring on her thumb. “With Diego, I did not care if he bought me flowers or chocolate. But if he would pick up the toys the children left out, if he would come home on time, if he would wash my car . . .” She dropped three more marbles into the vase, setting it ringing again. “Real things. Not . . . oh, how do you say it?” She rattled off something in Spanish, but he just shrugged; he didn’t recognize the phrase. Yesenia pulled her phone out of her pocket and typed in something with one finger. “Not smoke up her skirt.”

  That set him laughing and choking again, and she patted his back until he got his breath back. “Okay, I get it. Thank you, Mrs. Sánchez.”

  “Okay, honey.” She patted his hand, then turned, yawning, back to her work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A FEW NIGHTS LATER Martina and Willow were watching the Seahawks game up in the media room when Carter got home. His mother hated football . . . but apparently, she didn't remember that.

  “Who's that one, the fast one?”

  “That's Luke Wilson,” Martina said, munching popcorn.

  His mother crossed her arms over her stomach. “He's very good-looking.”

  Martina snorted. “Yes, yes, he is. They are a fine group of men, aren't they?”

  “Oh, yes,” his mother agreed, articulating too carefully. “That quarterback, too. Very fine. I see why you enjoy this. Oh, hello, darling.”

  “Hey, Mom, hey, Martina. How was your day?”

  “Excellent,” his mother said, not taking her eyes off the screen, transfixed. “We made bread.”

  “My report is on the kitchen table. You should read it before you do anything else.” She dropped her chin to give him a meaningful look, and he raised an eyebrow. Martina pulled out her phone.

  Martina: Do. not. eat. that. bread. It is mostly salt.

  Martina: She was not in a mood to cooperate today, so we just let her bake whatever she wanted (under supervision). Mrs. Sánchez is going to throw it away once she's in bed and tell her it all got eaten.

  Carter: So you're going to blame this on me?

  Martina: That's right. Glad you understand.

  Carter: I see. Well, I don't know how I feel about that.

  With a vicious smile, Martina put her phone away. “There's food for you in the kitchen, Mr. Carpenter. Make sure you get some of that bread. It's really something.”

  “Okay, thanks. You can head home now, Ms. Lopez.”

  “We're just going to finish the game first . . .”

  He held back a smile. She'd always hated being interrupted during a game. Once, they'd had to race out during halftime to get more snacks, and they'd just barely gotten back to his house in time to see a touchdown. He'd broken the speed limit for her. It wasn't unusual for him at that time. But now? Now he saw risk everywhere he looked; it was his job. And he was good at it, but it was exhausting, especially when your mother no longer had a drop of common sense.

  “No, no. Please. I don't want to keep you. And I can't afford your overtime . . .”

  Martina glared at him. “I'd really like to stay, even unpaid.”

  “I don't think that's such a good—”

  “Oh, Carter,” his mother said, exasperated. “Just go away. Stop flirting and go away.” His mouth fell open a little at her blunt words; she didn't notice. She simply reached for more popcorn. He caught Martina's gaze over her shoulder, as she tried valiantly not to laugh. The comment didn't bother her, clearly. He took that as a bit of hope he could tuck away in his heart.

  He beckoned to her with one finger, and she got up and came to the doorway, her eyes still glued to the TV.

  “Yes?”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Huh? No, no, don’t leave Treadwell open like that! No!” she exclaimed, as she watched the Vikings receiver run for a touchdown.

  Carter made himself repeat it more clearly. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”

  Martina wrinkled her nose at him, then replied with patronizingly slow enunciation, “I work for you. Not the other way around.” That's the hurt talking. Be genuine, tip the balance. No flattery.

  “That doesn't mean I can't try to make your life easier.”

  “I'm fine, thank you,” she said, still watching the game.

  “Okay. I'll ask you again later.”

  She softened a smidgen, tearing her gaze away from the screen. “You will? Why?”

  He shrugged, resisting the urge to cross his arms. Why was this so hard? “That's just the kind of boss I am, I guess.”

  “Uh-huh.” Skepticism was dripping off her, and he smiled.

  “See you later.”

  “Undoubtedly.” She paused. “You want to bring your food up here and eat with us?”

  “I’m not interrupting girl time?”

  “Well, you are, but I think we can make an exception for you.” She winked. “As long as you don’t talk during the offensive plays and let us ogle the players all we want.”

  He grinned at her, then mimed locking his lips. He got sidetracked in the kitchen by an urgent work email, and by the time he got back with his p
late, Willow was gone, and Martina was sitting on the couch alone. We’re alone. Well, this was a step in the right direction. Though if it wasn’t end-of-the-season football, she might still be hurrying off.

  “You don’t really mind if I finish the game, do you?”

  “Nope.” He sat down on the couch, near her, but not next to her, trying to give her some space.

  On a commercial, she turned to him. “You asked if there was anything you could do for me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you mean it?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Tell me.”

  “Your mom asks for you, at dinnertime. That's a very agitated time for her anyway, and I think in her mind, you're still a kid who should be home for dinner. It would be great if you could join us.”

  “I'll be here.”

  She pursed her lips. “Okay, but it would be better if you could do every night. If it's a sporadic thing, she'll just—”

  “Martina. I'll be here. I promise.”

  “Okay. Six o’clock.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, it's my house. I actually do know what time Mrs. Sánchez has dinner ready, since it hasn't changed in twenty-plus years.”

  “And yet, you can't manage to get yourself here by that time,” she teased, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

  “I didn't think you wanted me here.” Oof, that was too honest. She reacted like he’d slapped her, and yet, it felt good to say the truth out loud instead of hiding it.

  “I'm sorry I gave you that impression . . .” she said softly. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course.” And I’d love it if you’d forgive me, too.

  “And just so you know, I asked for Friday night off, so the night nurse will come a little early.”

  “Oh. Greg taking you out?” Please say no. Say you broke up. Say he’s boring and smells like old cheese and kisses like a fish.

  “Yup.”

  The silence was pregnant.

  “So it doesn't bother you to see me with Greg?”

  “I wouldn't say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “I'd say it doesn't matter that you're with Greg.”

  She shifted on the couch, slightly farther away from him. “You're right; as my employer, it shouldn't matter to you at all.”

  “No, that's not what I'm saying." He moved closer, and Martina held her ground. His voice was soft. “I'm saying it doesn't matter if you see Greg or not, if your heart belongs to someone else.”

  She likely did the best she could, under the circumstances, but her haughty sniff wasn't haughty enough. In fact, it sounded more like a prelude to tears. “And you think it belongs to you?”

  Yeah, he wasn’t going answer that. And since they were shoulder-to-shoulder, he didn’t have to look at her, either. He’d hit the trip wire on her temper, apparently. But yes, since I saw the look in your eyes when I apologized for my horrible father and the way I hurt you years ago. Since I see the way you look at me now, when you think I’m not paying attention. Since you put orange juice back in the fridge for me. Yes, since you asked. I do think it still belongs to me.

  “The ego on you. It boggles the mind.” Interesting. That wasn’t a denial.

  “This isn't ego. I actually have very little of that left.”

  “And yet, it's apparently growing all the time . . .”

  Carter shook his head. “I see the way you are with Greg. Friendly. Fling-y. Nothing wrong with that, but it's the tiniest shade of what we had. I know what love looks like in your eyes, and I don't see it when you look at Greg.”

  “Maybe I could. If I gave it time.”

  “Maybe,” he said, bobbing his head. “We'll see, I guess.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE HOURS TICKED BY slowly the next day. She took Willow for a long walk, even though they’d gone for a run that morning, just so she'd stop watching the clock. Because if he didn't show up . . . Whatever. It doesn't mean anything. Something had been happening to them, though. Things were . . . good. Warm. It was like massaging a stiff limb . . . she felt the muscles that had been immovable with fear and anger and a deep sense of betrayal begin to move again. Begin to flex—just a little. And that felt dangerous. The anger had been much safer. The betrayal had been a faithful reminder of what she stood to lose. The fear kept the battle lines drawn. And now, checking her phone every minute as the time crept closer to 6 o’clock, it felt a lot more like love than any of those other things.

  At 5:58, he walked in the front door, put down his bag in the study, took off his tie, and went to find them. Martina knew, because she was watching on the closed-feed cameras they’d had installed to check on Willow. She quickly hid her phone as he walked into the dining room. Harrison and Willow were already seated at the big dining room table, but Carter ignored his father.

  “Smells good in here.” He leaned down and kissed his mom’s cheek, and she beamed like she’d cooked it. “Eggplant parm?”

  Martina nodded.

  “With garlic bread?” he asked, his puppy-dog gaze pleading with her.

  “With salad,” she replied firmly.

  “And garlic bread?”

  “And steamed green beans with olive oil.”

  “And garlic bread?”

  “And chocolate coconut milk ice cream for dessert; no added sugar!”

  When his shoulders slumped and his bottom lip poked out in an adorable pout, Martina covered a giggle behind her fist, coughing to clear her throat. “And garlic bread.”

  “I knew it!” He rubbed his hands together greedily, then took off for the door. “Forgot to wash my hands. Be right back.”

  Willow leaned forward like she had a secret, her eyes bright. “He came home for dinner.”

  “Yes,” Martina smiled, patting her arm. “For you.”

  “No,” said Willow, shaking her head. “For you.”

  “For me?” Martina asked, confused.

  “Yes, of course,” Willow answered, leaning back so Mrs. Sánchez could serve her some of the main course. “Husbands and wives should eat together. I’m glad to see him making time for you.” She glared at Harrison, who smirked back at her.

  “Message received,” he said.

  Carter sat down across from her, snapping open his napkin, thanking Mrs. Sánchez in Spanish. “It’ll be nice to eat this hot for once,” Carter joked, glancing at Martina. She felt her lower lip tremble; apart from the sharp hurt of Carter not being her husband, Martina tried to piece together Willow’s line of thinking. Abandoned by her husband, Willow must have concocted a scenario in her head where Martina was also abandoned by the person she loved. Despite the delicious scent of Yesenia’s cooking, Martina’s stomach was churning and sour. She felt too hot. The tears burned behind her eyes. Because in Willow’s mind, she’d fixed it. She’d exerted her influence to get her son to the dinner table on time, to be a good partner to her daughter-in-law. To not make the same mistakes his father had made.

  “Martina?” Three of them were staring at her with matching looks of concern; Harrison, at least, was engrossed in his phone and oblivious to her distress. Someone must have asked her a question, but if they did, she didn’t hear it.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Carter was frowning. “You okay? You look sick.” He reached across the table to press his fingers to her forehead. “Do you feel like you have a fever?” That gentle care; it slayed her. Because he would be a good husband, to someone. He’d never abandon her like Harrison had Willow; look at how he’d cared for his stepmom, even when he could’ve gone on with his own life. He cared. And right now, her raw heart couldn’t take it.

  “You know,” she said, pushing away from the table with shaking hands, “I forgot to wash, too. Will you excuse me for just a moment? Willow, I’ll be right back.”

  “Martina?” She heard Carter push his chair back, and she grimaced. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry, and she couldn’t hold it back much longer. She’d be lucky if she even mad
e it into the hallway.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t wait for me.” She barricaded herself in the bathroom near the kitchen and let the tears come, pressing the fluffy white hand towel into her face to muffle her sobs.

  A quiet knock at the door had her holding her breath. “Martina? What happened?”

  “Don’t leave her alone,” she choked out. Harrison did not count as company.

  “She’s not alone, Mrs. Sánchez is sitting with her. Open the door.” His tone was firm, but gentle. “Please.”

  She threw the lock and he opened the door cautiously.

  “Did she hurt you?” he asked quietly.

  “Not with her hands,” she assured him. She blew out a long, uneven breath. “She thinks we’re married. She thinks you’ve been blowing me off for dinner, that’s why she wanted you there. Because she cares about our nonexistent marriage.”

  Carter tipped his head back to look up at the ceiling. “And we can’t correct her, because that’ll upset her.”

  “Right.” A shudder made her breath come out stuttered, and he tipped his head down to look at her. “It won’t matter what we say. She won’t remember.” She wiped her face with the towel, leaving black smudges on it.

  “Can I give you a hug?”

  She nodded, and he opened his arms just in time for her to press her face into his chest. He held her tightly as her tears slowed, rubbing her back soothingly. Then he gasped.

  “This is where you put it? I’ve been looking for days!” He pulled the pink-haired doll out from the behind the tissue box, and Martina laughed.

  “I thought you were never going to find it! I’d already decided to move it tomorrow.”

  “Ha!” He said, holding it above his head like a trophy. “I have prevailed.”

  Martina chuckled a little. “You have. Now let’s eat before it’s stone cold.”

  “Nah, I’m used to it.” He grinned at her, then before she could protest, he gathered her up again for another long hug. “Plus, I need time to think about where I can hide this that you’ll never find it.”

  She pinched his middle just enough to make him jump. “But the whole point is that it’s hidden in plain sight!”