He grasped my wrist in a hold as gentle as his voice. “Libby.”
Oh fuck. If he’d insisted on talking, offered some stupid, “Why don’t you tell me all about it, you’ll feel better,” commentary, I could’ve made my escape. I knew how to evade that. But just saying my name—making me look up into his eyes where there wasn’t concern or even compassion, but…affinity?
A single tear escaped.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t do this real often?”
My knees gave way then—just buckled as a wordless, choking gasp strangled my lungs so I couldn’t inhale, couldn’t exhale, couldn’t do anything but let Nick catch me just before I hit the floor.
We only just made it into the room, Nick, sliding to the floor, his back braced against the closed door as he held me, cradled in his lap. Huge gulping sobs threatened to shatter me from the inside, my chest burning and feeling like it was going to explode as I fought those goddamn tears that continued to threaten. And Nick just sat there holding me, stroking my back, and wiping away the few single tears that escaped.
“Ethan’s so…sick. I’m afraid he’s getting worse, Nick. No one’s saying for sure, but I know…he’s getting worse and nothing’s helping, but they keep saying maybe this treatment or a new drug and it doesn’t matter…it doesn't fucking matter…. He hurts and I can’t do anything except what they tell me to do and none of it…none of it helps.”
And that’s when I finally let go, bunching Nick’s shirt in my fists, and when that wasn’t enough, pounding them against his shoulders. Cotton grew wet beneath tears and sweat and spit as I raged into his chest, repeating, “I can’t do anything,” until I was hoarse and limp, my breathing as shallow and rapid as my heartbeat.
“You haven’t told me much about him.” Nick’s words ruffled my hair. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t move, other than to open my eyes. The sight of me, ragged and drained, staring back from the closet mirror was enough to make me close them again, concentrating on taking even, measured breaths, matching them to the cadence of Nick’s heartbeat, slow and steady beneath my cheek.
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because you’ve been good to me. Listened to all my shit—what I’m going through with Kath—helped me through this crap.”
A subtle sense of freedom, of release, washed over me as his hands moved to my hair and removed the elastic from the end of my braid. “None of that could’ve been easy, not with what you go through,” he said as he unwound the long strands, “but you’ve never turned away from me—even though you probably had every right to.”
“It’s not a competition. My misery doesn’t trump yours.” My voice was hoarse, muffled further by his shirt. “Besides, I told you—you remind me of me.”
I could feel the slow shake of his head, the drag of his chin against my hair. “No, it’s not just that,” he said, each word coming out slower and quieter than the last. “You see others. It’s how you are.”
“I’m no saint, Nick. Please don’t make me out to be one.”
“Not hardly. But you’re human, Libby. Why the hell do you keep yourself on such a short leash? Especially when you’re the one who told me we’re allowed to be angry?”
“Because allowing yourself to feel it and acting on it are two different things.” Tears started pricking at the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging. “And then this is what happens.”
Cool air washed over my face as he pushed me back far enough for our eyes to meet. “No es tan malo. Not when you’re with someone who gets it.”
And with that shared glance came a moment of perfect clarity.
You don’t have to be so strong around me. You can be strong, and I know you will be, but you don’t have to—and neither do I. We won’t lie to each other. Deal?
He pulled me back against him and settled himself more comfortably.
“So—tell me about Ethan.”
I took a deep breath, poked at the memories, and realized that for the first time in a long time it didn’t hurt to look back.
“He was one of my teachers at Northwestern—honors journalism—and he terrified the absolute crap out of me.”
“And turned your crank in a big way,” Nick teased.
“Yeah,” I laughed, “but I was too naïve and stupid to realize it. So instead, we fought.” I laughed again. “Well, I fought. I was so scared of him; and when I’m scared, I fight. Astute bastard that he is, he enjoyed jerking my chain at every opportunity. And I knew it and he knew it and he wouldn’t stop casting his damn lures, and I couldn’t stop myself from taking his bait. But then he went too far.”
"What'd he do?"
I shifted uncomfortably. Even all these years later, the memory still left me vaguely queasy. "Assigned me to cover a brutal homicide in a wealthy suburb. Mother of two stabbed to death by the husband’s mistress while the kids were upstairs asleep.”
“Jesus.” My entire upper body lifted along with his sharp inhalation. “Why?”
“He thought I needed to toughen up. It was his opinion that feelings had no business in hard journalism while my counter was that feelings were integral to a good story. He called me a throwback New Age granola. I called him an emotionless asshole who probably enjoyed poking anthills with sticks. So he decided to give me a story so gut-wrenchingly horrible, I’d have to separate emotion from fact simply to be able to deal.”
“And?”
“And I dealt—just not the way he expected me to.”
“What’d you do?”
“Packed my bags and left.”
“Damn, girl,” he muttered as he shifted. God, I had to be getting heavy. There wasn’t any reason for me to still be on his lap; I wasn’t two, after all. Sliding to the floor beside him, I leaned back against the door with a tired sigh.
“Yeah.” I folded my hands in my lap, twisting my rose-gold wedding band on my finger. “Ran back home, tail tucked firmly between my legs, yet utterly secure in the knowledge that hard journalism wasn’t for me.”
But I’d nevertheless felt compelled to write my version of that story, even if I never showed it to a living soul. I’d written about beauty and youth, status and wealth, and how those things didn’t automatically preclude desperate acts. About how the threat of losing them could easily exacerbate desperation into evil. Then I took the printed sheets, tucked them into a folder, and hid it away.
“And you and Ethan still wound up together, how?”
“Short version is I couldn’t stop writing, so I started a blog—about my dogs initially, then advice on training dogs in general—that newspaper websites across the country started linking to. Maybe not Pulitzer material, but satisfying. And eventually Ethan ran across it.”
“And he got in touch to tell you he was proud of you.”
“God, you are so optimistic, Nick,” I said, patting his knee. “No, he wasn’t proud, he was pissed. Showed up on my doorstep yelling that even if I couldn’t stomach writing hard news, I could at least write women’s interest features if I was that into my girly feelings, but for fuck’s sake, I could do better than how to keep the dog from sniffing the guests’ crotches.”
“What’d you do?”
I laughed. “Married him.”
Of course, there was a lot in between that—even if it happened in less than two weeks. Ethan and I kept fighting until he finally shut me up by kissing me, then we finally started talking. About his opinion of my ability as a writer, the attraction that—hey, guess what—we’d both felt. About the teacher/student thing, our age difference, my utter inexperience.
“And him with enough ethics and honor to make Tibetan monks look like they have loose morals by comparison.”
This time Nick laughed along with me. God, but it felt good to remember this.
“No, seriously,” I managed before a fresh wave of giggles overtook me.
Nick patted my knee. “I believe you, Libby. The way you say it, there’s no doubt.”
Nope, none at
all. My husband, the tough, hard-boiled journalist who’d seen it all, was one of the most sensitive and honorable men I’d ever met. So honorable, he’d wanted to wait for our wedding night. I hadn’t. So I’d had to take the initiative the night we’d made love for the first time. God, he'd been terrified. And for once, I hadn’t been.
“He was so romantic, Nick. I could hardly believe it. He even asked Nora for permission to marry me.”
“That must have been something.”
“I would’ve killed her if she’d laughed, but amazingly, she didn’t. She was actually really cool and dignified about it—well, dignified for her. And she adores him.”
So many memories. Good memories. Why had I fought them for so long? My mind flipped through a photo album’s worth of memories. Big things…little things. The everyday life things. Our life as it had been. Not as it was.
“Libby”
“Mm?”
“Libby, you’re falling asleep.”
I blinked once, then again, the memories receding as my reality returned. As the hotel room took shape around me, I realized my head had somehow wound up resting on Nick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, struggling to sound coherent, but every movement, from blinking to trying to lift my head, felt like I was slogging through molasses. I was so damn tired.
“Nick, no…” Instinct drove me to clutch at his shoulders, my eyes snapping open, then drifting shut against my will as he carried me toward the bed.
“I can—”
“I know you can. But let me help.”
I forced my eyes open just for a second—just long enough to meet his gaze.
You don’t have to be so strong around me.
“Okay.” I dropped my head to his shoulder, the world already fading as I repeated, "Okay."
• • •
I blinked into the dark, breathing deep as I stretched, then relaxed, just like I’d learned during the way too many yoga classes Nora had dragged me to throughout my childhood. I’d already been hovering in that foggy, not-quite-awake place for a while, content to just drift, wrapped in memories of Ethan. Of when the two of us together were as close to perfect as anything I could’ve imagined.
With another deep breath, I finally rolled to one side, snapping on the light. Just bright enough, it did the trick when it came to diffusing memories and forcibly hauling me back to the reality of the hotel room and my present. Some recollection was good, but the temptation to ignore reality and sink into memory? A little too strong right now. Good things in moderation and all that.
A muffled groan prompted me to sit up, rubbing my eyes to clear out the last vestiges of sleep. My bleary gaze landed on the chair over by the window where Nick was fidgeting, one hand reaching up to rub his neck as the other smothered his yawn.
“You stayed.”
His eyes blinked slowly as his gaze found mine. “Didn’t feel right leaving. I wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”
“But…Kath?”
“I called the hospital—she was sleeping. No point going back.”
Crossing my legs under me, I reached for a pillow and hugged it close. “What time is it anyway?” It looked like he’d pulled both layers of the heavy drapes shut, so I couldn’t even tell if there was any daylight left or if I’d lost the entire afternoon to my meltdown.
He glanced down at his watch. “Just past seven. You hungry?”
I shook my head and hugged the pillow tighter still as he frowned and sighed.
“Stubborn.”
“Um, pot, meet kettle?”
His grin was rueful. “Touché.” He stood and stretched. “Well, I guess I’ll head out. Maybe call the hospital again. See if Kath’s up for a short visit. What about you? Are you going back? We can ride together if you are.”
I shook my head. “He—” The word got caught in my throat, making me cough and try again. “Ethan hasn’t been doing well after his treatments. He doesn’t like…doesn’t want—” Helpless to find the right words, I finally settled for, “I’ll go first thing in the morning. It’s better.”
No sympathy or anything soothing from Nick. Just a simple nod of acknowledgment as he stared down at the paper he was currently scribbling something on. Tossing the pen to the table, he turned to the window, pulling back the drapes to reveal the ink dark of the early November night. November 1st as a matter of fact. El Dia de los Muertos. Not a big deal in Cuban culture, but Nora being Nora, she’d of course found deep metaphysical and mystical meaning in the ancient Mesoamerican and Aztec traditions and, as such, had co-opted aspects of the celebrations in her own unique Nora way. Generally, this amounted to an elaborate altar set up in the house and visits to cemeteries and one memorable year, a presentation to the entire elementary school in an effort to increase cultural awareness.
Thank God I was in high school by that point.
Whatever. As a kid, it meant I got to gorge myself on the sugar and chocolate skulls that were traditional ofriendas, while as an adult I’d been ever-so-slightly mocking, yet indulgent of her insistent claims that the day was meant as a celebration of life. While still gorging myself on the sugar and chocolate skulls. The last couple of years, though, I hadn’t had much patience for it—certainly, not the celebration of life aspect of it. I was too goddamn busy trying to make sure my husband survived.
“What’s this?” I looked down at the paper Nick had been scribbling on that he was now holding out to me.
“I’ll call in a few, let you know if I’m going to the hospital. Even if I do, I won’t be long. She gets tired easier at night it seems.”
“Okay.” But he still hadn’t answered why he’d handed me a list of food items.
“My favorite stuff from room service. I don’t think either of us is up to making the effort to go out, so wouldja mind ordering?”
He stared down at me, this combination of glib and cocky that left me unsure whether I wanted to clock him one across that arrogant jaw or hug him. I settled for grumbling, “You are so unbelievably bossy, you know that?”
“Pot, meet kettle.” Even laughing, he easily managed to duck the pillow I heaved his direction. At the door he paused. His fingers curled around the handle. “And don’t forget the cheesecake. For both of us. You need to eat more.”
I looked down at the list, written in a chicken scratch that was even worse than mine, and managed to decipher dark chocolate and cheesecake down at the bottom.
So maybe not a sugar and chocolate skull, but a suitable offering nevertheless.
Nick
November 16
“Nick, you miserable sonuvabitch, how’re you doing?”
I didn’t look up from the notes I was typing into my laptop. “I’m not giving you my assessment, Bobby.”
“You wound me. I can’t just join you—one of my oldest friends—for a drink, maybe a nice meal? My treat.”
Now I looked up. He was even managing to look hurt. Pretty impressive for a guy who had a reputation as a shark even among other agents. “I’m one of the only people who’ll tolerate your ass, and you must really think this kid is something. You never offer to pay.”
“You know, try to do something nice for a friend…” Bobby shook his head as he waved a waitress over. “Yeah, doll, bring me whatever you’ve got on draft, a Reuben, double slaw, a couple kosher dills, and bring my friend here the biggest plate of ribs you got.”
As she left, Bobby took a second to admire her ass, then turned to me. “Hope you don’t mind, but you’re too fucking scrawny.”
“Who are you, my mother?” I took a drink from the sweet tea I’d gotten addicted to traveling throughout the Southeast. No alcohol while doing player assessments. “And only you would order deli in Atlanta.”
Smiling and winking at the waitress as she slid a mug in front of him and topped off my tea, he said, “They do it decent down here, and it’s the best shot I’ll have at anything approaching deli before I get back to New York. Going to Iowa next, then up to Minnesota for fuck’s
sake. And no, I’m not your mother, but I’ve known you almost as long. You’re off by a good thirty pounds.”
“Twenty of which I dropped right after I quit playing.”
“Which means you’re too fucking scrawny.”
“God, but you’re a pain in my ass.”
“Everyone needs a hobby.”
I laughed and pushed my laptop to one side. After waving for a beer of my own, we shot the shit until the food appeared.
I pulled a rib off the rack and bit into it. “By the way, don’t think I don’t know why you’re buttering me up, Bob," I mumbled around a mouthful of spicy-sweet pork. "And I’m still not giving you my assessment until I give it to my bosses first.” I sucked the bone clean and pulled another free.
“I’m not worried about it.” He shrugged. “Parker’s got some serious shit. You know it, I know it—more importantly, your bosses know it, which is why you’re here checking the kid out. You’ve got one of the best damn eyes for talent assessment in the organization.”
“I’m an eastern region scout, Bobby. I’d most likely be checking him out regardless.”
“Not with you out of commission the way you’ve been lately. If he was just another decently talented schmuck they planned to send to the bush leagues and let him skate his ass off to pay his dues, they would’ve just sent one of the other guys to check him out. Fuck it,” he said, “seeing you here is enough for me. I’ll sign him and hope he doesn’t turn into a total prick when I get him an unbefuckinglievable deal. How’s Kath?”
Normally, I’d be all about deflecting the attention or redirecting the conversation, or just plain bullshitting—I’d gotten spectacular at that skill. But this was Bobby. Who’d known me since college. And yeah, he was an agent and a shark, but he was also a friend. Probably my best friend, which would be terrifying if I didn’t know him so damn well and know that an actual heart beat beneath the shark exterior. Besides, for once this question didn’t make me want to put my fist through a wall.
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