How to Walk Away

by Katherine Center

  “That’s not my fault,” she said, gesturing. “I can’t be held responsible for that.”

  When Ian made it to us, he dropped the flannel shirt on the grass. His eyes were on me. “Want to show me the lake?”

  “Yes,” I said, too quickly.

  “Actually, she wants to take a nap,” Kit said.

  I swatted Kit. “I do not!”

  “I thought about the kayak,” Ian said, “but I’m worried about it tipping.”

  I was worried about my neck, too. The water in this lake was certainly not as chlorinated as the therapy pool.

  “The canoe’s fine,” I said.

  “Can I come, too?” Kit asked.

  “No,” we both said.

  Ian carried me and my polka-dot parasol down to the water’s edge, and then I waited on the grass while he moved the painted canoe into the water. Then he lifted me again and sloshed into the lake, jeans and all, and set me carefully in the boat.

  The canoe wobbled as Ian climbed in, and I felt a little jolt of fear. I hadn’t worn a life vest in this thing since I was a little kid, and this was the kind that wrapped around your neck like an airplane pillow. Of course, I couldn’t put anything around my neck—I was still wearing all my shirts with the shoulder cut out—so I just wrapped it awkwardly under my arms and snapped it tight.

  “I look ridiculous,” I said.

  Ian shook his head. “You look—” He stopped himself for a few attention-grabbing seconds before continuing on. “Resourceful.”

  “I get that all the time,” I said, putting on my sunglasses, wondering what he’d been about to say.

  It wasn’t the busy season yet at the lake. It felt like we had it all to ourselves.

  “Where to?” Ian asked, and I pointed to the far side.

  I was totally okay not talking. The paddle lapped the water, the canoe sloshed and slapped, the wind whispered. I remembered this place so well—it was so much a part of the fabric of who I was—that I could almost put myself here without being here.

  But actually being here, out on the water, alive like this—just the fact of it was breathtaking.

  I directed Ian to paddle past a hundred-year-old house, the first one built here, and I told him every ghost story I’d ever heard about it. Next, we passed the decade-old unfinished mansion that some hedge fund guy had started and then abandoned. “That one’s haunted, too,” I said. Later, we passed the spot where the sailboat races happened every July, and then the giant floating trampoline all the kids liked to row out to, and the little hamburger joint that had no parking at all for cars—only docks for boats.

  I leaned closer to the water and let my fingers dangle in. I’d dangled my fingers in this very water in this very boat in weather just like this a thousand times. The houses were the same, the clouds were the same, and even the beach where I’d been supposed to get married was the same.

  Through it all, Ian paddled a steady pace, and I let myself feel just exactly as happy as I was sad.

  I marveled at the feeling, because it really wasn’t either-or. It was both, equally strong at the exact same time.

  If you’d asked me before the crash, I’d have told you that feelings were like blocks of primary colors: You felt blue for a while, then yellow, then red. But now I saw the emotional landscape quite differently—more like the pointillism of a Seurat painting: each color made up of many other colors. Look closely, and it’s dots. Stand back, and it’s an afternoon on the lake—all the colors relying on each other for texture and meaning.

  Maybe that would turn out to be an upside, I found myself thinking. Maybe I’d see the world like an artist now.

  I could have just closed my eyes and given in to the drift. But I had a question for Ian that had been nagging me, and now that I had him alone, I had to ask.

  “Tell me something,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

  “Okay,” Ian said, still rowing.

  “Why did your business fail?”

  I could sense him tensing up at the words.

  But I was already in, so I kept going, keeping my eyes out on the water. “What happened?”

  Ian didn’t answer. Just kept rowing.

  “I mean, it was such a brilliant idea.”

  Ian was quiet for so long, I finally turned to look at him.

  “I didn’t manage things very well,” he said at last. “I neglected it too much.”

  I shrugged, like, Okay. Like that was all the answer I’d wanted.

  But, of course, his answer just created more questions. Why would a guy with such a great idea go to all the trouble of setting up a business—inventing an entirely new business!—and then neglect it?

  I could tell just from the angle of his posture that he didn’t want to talk about it.

  I let it go.

  We weren’t here to be unhappy.

  We were here to try, at least for a little while, to be the opposite.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME we got back, the sun was going down, and Fat Benjamin, who was far more “tubby” than fat, with a plump body like a dumpling and a bushy hipster beard, had arrived. He and Kit were building the bonfire. Ian piggybacked me over to the fire and got me settled in a chair, and I watched Kit and Benjamin flirt. He couldn’t seem to stop his hands from touching her—and she didn’t seem to mind.

  Kit made us a vegetable stew in a pot on a grate over the fire. (“He’s a vegan,” she apologized, when the guys went to get more wood.) As the sun went down, the air cooled, and Ian went in for blankets. When he came back out with a stack, he also had something else under his arm.

  A ukulele.

  “You are musical!” Kit said when she saw it.

  Ian shook his head. “I haven’t played in years. But I can play ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  So he did. Serenaded me with it, really. I wrapped my blanket around everything but my burned neck, and after that, we all sat around the fire while Ian played requests and let us sing along. He messed up over and over, but nobody cared but him.

  “Don’t apologize,” I said. “You are the best ukulele player I’ve ever met.”

  Ian gave me a half-smile. “Am I the only ukulele player you’ve ever met?”

  “You bet.”

  He knew a little Bob Dylan, a little James Taylor, one Van Morrison, and a whole lotta Beatles.

  That’s how my birthday bonfire turned into a nonstop Beatles birthday luau. We sang and sang and sang. And ate vegan stew. And then, for a birthday cake, made cast-iron skillet brownies with melted marshmallows over the fire.

  “I thought we were making s’mores,” I said.

  “We’ve made a million s’mores,” Kit said. “Time for something new.”

  I’d cooked many meals in this fire pit before, and I’d celebrated many birthdays here, but I confess, as familiar as it all was, I’d never done it quite like this. Everything felt a little bit new.

  I found myself wanting to stay and stay—or, at least, not wanting to go inside.

  Ian kept checking with me to see if I was ready, and I kept shaking my head. I got cold, in my sundress, but I still didn’t want to leave the fire. Kit and Benjamin cleaned up the stew, and took the pots and pans inside to wash, and then disappeared to get up to who-knows-what kind of mischief, but I didn’t care. I loved looking at the fire. I loved feeling cold. I loved being out in the world. I loved calling out songs for Ian to play. He sang, and I sang, and I loved listening to our voices twist and wind around each other.

  Tomorrow, it would all be over. We’d wake up and drive back to real life in an ugly hospital with fluorescent lights and mauve curtains. The sooner I fell asleep, the sooner this would all be gone. And I just didn’t want to let that happen.

  Finally, Ian said, “You’ve got to be cold. I’m freezing my arse off.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He peered in. “Your lips look a little blue.”

  He set down his uke and came closer, and when he took my hands, he said, “Good Go
d, Maggie. You’re frozen solid.”

  In one swoop, he picked me up—this time, not piggyback, but cradling me in his arms. He tucked my good side against his chest, and I did my best to be easy to carry by hooking my arm around his shoulder and resting my head down against the crook of his neck. That intoxicating Ian smell. I let myself breathe it in and savor it. Then I wondered if I could just brush my lips across the nape without him noticing.

  He marched us across the yard and then into the warm, bright house, through the kitchen, and up the stairs.

  Inside was quiet, like it was empty, and I wondered if Kit and Benjamin had gone for a walk. Ian nudged lights on as he went. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated. I could feel the pulse in his neck beating.

  “Which room?” he asked.

  “At the end of the hall,” I said.

  Ian felt around for the hall light with his elbow, but he didn’t find it, so he just moved on ahead through the dark. It wasn’t impossible to see. There were shadows and outlines. He stepped carefully, but without too much hesitation. The door to my room was open, and the bed was just beyond it. It was lit by blue moonlight reflected off the lake.

  He moved toward it, stepped through the doorway—and then he tripped on a little rag rug at the threshold.

  He pitched forward, and then dropped to his knees. He clutched me tight to him as it happened, and then, intent on not falling forward and landing on top of me, he managed to fall backward.

  Which meant I landed on top of him.

  Fully on top. Smack-dab on top, you could even say.

  At first, after impact, we were all about figuring out if anyone was injured. Had he hit his head or twisted anything? No. Was my graft okay? Yes. My back? All fine. Was anybody in any pain? Apparently not.

  That’s when we took stock of our situation: alone, in a moonlit room by a tranquil lake, on the floor, a little breathless.

  My face was just inches from his, and we held there, frozen, for a few very long seconds, breaths churning, eyes alert. His were so dark blue, they looked black.

  So I did a crazy thing that seemed like, really, the only thing to do: I leaned down, pressed my mouth against his, and kissed him.

  Boom. I wasn’t cold anymore.

  I pulled back then, to check his expression and see what he thought—but he reached his hand up just as quick behind my head to bring me back. Another kiss. This one deeper and warmer and slower. I’d eyed those lips so much in the past weeks—and longed to touch them, even just with my fingers, to see if they were as soft as they looked. To see if they tasted as good as he smelled. And now I knew. Yes.

  “You taste like brownies,” I said, through the kiss, my mouth still touching his.

  “You taste like marshmallows,” he said back, and then he dove back in, brushing his tongue past mine.

  “I love your accent,” I said, a minute later, pulling back a little.

  “I love yours,” he said, leaning forward to catch my mouth with his.

  “I love your ukulele,” I said another minute later.

  “I love yours.”

  “I don’t have a ukulele.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I wriggled around to get a better angle, and he wound up solidly on his back, me straddling him, and my palms flat against the floor on either side of his head, bodies pressed together.

  “Are you sure you didn’t get hurt?” I asked then, still kissing him.

  “I got a little hurt.”

  “Where?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Does it hurt now?”

  “Nothing hurts now.”

  What was my goal here? Was I trying to seduce my physical therapist? I wasn’t even sure if I had been cleared for that type of thing! All I knew was, I wanted to get closer. I would have climbed inside his rib cage, if I could have. I wanted to devour him and be devoured back. Whatever tangled forest of feelings bloomed in my body every time I saw him—I just wanted to get lost in that forest and never find my way out.

  I did get lost. I brought my mouth down to his neck, nuzzling in and biting a little, and he ran both his hands up my back, stopping short, bringing his hand around on my nonburned side to guide my mouth back to his.

  For a moment, the two of us, just like that, made up the entire world. Nothing but longing, and closeness, and warmth.

  That’s why I didn’t hear Kit and Fat Benjamin clomping up the stairs. Or trundling down the hall. Or turning the squeaky old door handle.

  No. The first I noticed Kit and Fat Benjamin, they were pushing open the door and flipping on the lights and discovering the two of us down on the floor.

  “OMG!” Kit said, slapping her hand over her mouth to cover a giggle. “This room appears to be taken.”

  “Get out, Kit!” I said, in a classic annoyed-sister voice.

  “Sorry!” Fat Benjamin said, giving us both a little salute of apology.

  They stepped back out of the room and slammed the door shut behind them, leaving the overhead light on.

  “Wait!” I heard Kit say on the other side of the door. “Were they hooking up?”

  With that, all the moonlight disappeared.

  Ian blinked at the doorway where they’d just been, like he was waking up from a dream. I still sat astride him, trying to catch my breath, wondering how to get the moonlight back.

  But he was up on his elbows now. “Oh, God, Maggie,” he said, twisting sideways to move out from under me.

  I shifted onto the floor beside him as he stood and turned to scoop me up.

  He lifted me to the bed.

  I held on to a doomed little hope that maybe we were just moving to a more comfortable location.

  But once he had me securely settled, he turned away and walked to the window. He touched the curtain idly for a minute, delivering his signature silence. Finally, when he spoke, he said, “Maggie, I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You didn’t do anything. I kissed you.”

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you back.”

  “Because,” I guessed, “messing around with patients is against your code of ethics?”

  Ian was pacing a little bit now.

  I tried again. “Because if Myles ever finds out, you’ll lose your job?”

  “If Myles ever finds out, I’ll lose my license,” Ian said. “But that’s not it.”

  “What, then?”

  “It wasn’t fair to you.”

  There was nothing I wanted more than to be back in his arms. “I think it was fair. I think it was very fair.”

  Ian shoved his hand into his hair. “You’re not qualified to judge.”

  “I’m not what?”

  He turned to look at me for the first time. The overhead light seemed awfully bright. “You’re not in a fit state to judge.”

  “You’re saying I don’t know the difference between what’s fair and what’s unfair?”

  “I’m saying—”

  “Because my fiancé crashing a plane that I didn’t even want to go anywhere near and paralyzing me while he walks away without even a Band-Aid? Obviously: unfair. You coming here and playing ‘Happy Birthday’ on the ukulele and giving me the best kiss of my entire life? I’m going with fair on that one.”

  “That’s just it. It wasn’t the best kiss of your entire life.”

  I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “It wasn’t?”

  “You just thought it was.”

  “Pretty sure that’s the same thing.”

  But he shook his head. “When a person goes through something like what you’ve just gone through, when your whole world is ripped apart, it takes a long time before you can see things clearly again. Months. Years, even. The trauma leaves you vulnerable in ways you can’t even feel. I know all about this. I’ve been trained on it—read textbooks, taken tests. It’s against my code of ethics for a reason, Margaret—a good reason. To protect you.”


  I was Margaret now? I noticed tears on my face, but I had no patience for them. I smeared them off with my sleeve. “I don’t care about any of that.”

  “But I have to. For your sake.”

  “But you—” A big, shaky breath interrupted me. I hesitated to go on, because it felt like a big thing to admit. But I had to try. I had to at least speak honestly. I took another breath, and said it: “You are the only thing I look forward to all day long.”

  He closed his eyes in what looked like a wince. Not the effect I’d hoped for. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The things you feel about me mean that you are not safe. I shouldn’t have come here. I knew there was a risk this might happen.”

  So he knew I liked him before he came. I pulled in a ragged breath. “Don’t you like me at all?”

  Ian shoved his hand into his hair again. Then he walked to the bedroom door, turning those navy-blue eyes to settle them right on me. “I hate everybody,” he said. “Except you.” He pulled the door open to leave, then added, “And that’s another reason you’re not safe.”

  “Are you leaving?” I asked. He was clearly leaving the room. But I meant, “Are you going back to town?”

  “No. Of course not. I’ll stay the night to look after you.”

  “I don’t need looking after.”

  “You want me to leave Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee in charge?”

  Not really, I supposed.

  He continued. “I’ll make sure you get back safe tomorrow.”

  “You’re not going to switch me to some other PT, are you?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  I couldn’t even imagine anybody else. “I don’t want another PT.”

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  “Are you still going to come for tutoring?”

  “Yes, if you like. But I’ll come after supper—just to keep things clear.”

  “No goofing around?”

  He shook his head. “It’s best.”

  What could I say? It’s not best, it’s worst? There was no way to win. He had decided I wasn’t qualified to know what was right for me. And from the sound of things, he didn’t trust himself too much, either. Was he rejecting me? Was he uninterested? Could you kiss a person like that and not feel something, at least? I knew there was longing there—but maybe it was just a general longing for anyone at all. Maybe he was so lonely, any live girl would do—even a broken one like me.