Fire Down Below

by Andrea Simonne

  “I once thought you two were a good fit, but I was wrong. Though even back then I had some doubts—and I’m not just saying that because of what happened.”

  “Yes, you are.” Annoyed I reach under the sink for the dish detergent.

  Her eyes follow me as I fill the dishwasher with the last of the plates and then pour in the detergent. “You’re not right for each other.”

  “You haven’t seen him in years, so I don’t know where you get off drawing all these conclusions.”

  “It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen him in years. I understand what kind of person he is and I don’t want to see you make the same mistake twice.”

  I don’t start the dishwasher, but instead lean against the counter opposite her and cross my arms. “Oh really? And what kind of person is Ben?”

  She sighs. “I don’t want to get into all this. It’s not my place. You know I don’t like to interfere in anyone’s love life. It’s important that people learn from their mistakes.”

  “People? What people are you referring to? I’m your daughter, not ‘people.’” I make quotation marks in the air with my fingers. “So tell me, what’s so terrible about Ben?”

  “Nothing. He’s not terrible at all. And I think he usually means well. As far as you two as a couple though, I think history has shown that he’s too hard on you, that he isn’t accepting enough.” She looks at me. “He can be quite rigid and as I recall he preferred the idea of a committed relationship to the reality of one.”

  I stare at her. “You’re basing your opinion on what happened in the past. He’s older now. How do you know he hasn’t changed?”

  “It’s possible. Truthfully, I’d prefer you were with someone who has a generous nature, and that certainly doesn’t describe Ben.”

  “Well I think you’re being too hard on him.”

  She smiles. “Maybe so, but like you said—you’re my daughter.”

  ***

  Driving back in my car, Ben is noticeably quiet. I keep wondering if I should bring up the whole sperm donor thing. I’m not even sure what to say. At least my mom didn’t lay into him when he and my dad came back to the house for refreshments. She barely said a word to him. They were very polite to each other—aggressively polite, you might say. I guess she felt like she had spoken her mind to me, so that was good enough.

  “So did you and my dad finish building those cold frames?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “Pretty much, he still needs to get them fitted with glass. I’ve always liked your dad. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I keep thinking about the heart attack you said he had. He never mentioned it to me. How is he doing now?”

  “Very well. It happened a while ago, and he’s taken great care of himself. He hasn’t had any problems since—thank goodness. We were lucky it was a mild one and that he was able to get medical attention quickly.” I grip the steering wheel as tears come to my eyes. I still get upset even thinking about how close we came to losing my dad.

  Ben nods and then slips back into silence again. I reach for the radio dial, but move my hand away when he starts to speak. “So, uh, how did everything go with your meeting?”

  “It was fine. It’s not what you think though. My mom set that up without even telling me.”

  “Oh? You’re not interested in,” he pauses, “getting pregnant with a sperm donor?”

  I laugh a little and then sigh. “No, not really.” I explain to Ben how it came up last year and how my mom’s become fixated on the idea. “Obviously I’m getting older though and I’d like to have a child someday, so I haven’t dismissed it entirely.”

  “You’d have a baby on your own? As a single mother?”

  I shrug. “It wouldn’t be my first choice, but if it were my only choice—maybe.”

  He’s silent again, taking this in. “Things have been happening pretty fast between us, haven’t they?”

  I glance over at him, but he’s gazing out at the road. “Yes, they have,” I say evenly. A prickle of fear starts at the nape of my neck and I wonder where he’s going with this.

  “Maybe we should slow down a little.”

  “Sure.” I try to sound casual, though I’m tempted to point out to him that he’s the one that’s been pursuing me so hot and heavy, not the other way around. Luckily I’ve dealt with enough men to learn that the best thing you can do in a discussion like this is to play it cool.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I still want to be with you. But it’s been like a whirlwind. I don’t even know what sort of birth control you’re using. You’re on the pill right?”

  This time I look over at Ben and there’s no way I’m going to be able to keep my mouth shut. I feel the blood rushing to my face and I’m trying hard to control my temper.

  “Jesus, Ben! Could you be any more transparent? After all the sex we’ve been having—now you ask me about birth control? Do you honestly think I’d trick you into getting me pregnant?”

  “No! Of course not. I’m not saying that. All this talk made me realize that I’m not ready for a kid yet, not by a long shot. I wouldn’t want any accidents.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m definitely on the pill. And I definitely don’t want any accidents either.”

  I feel him relax beside me. “Don’t take it the wrong way Kate, all right? I’m not implying that you’d get pregnant without telling me. I know you’re not that kind of person.”

  “Yeah, you sound really sure about that.”

  “Well, I have to admit I was shocked to learn that you were meeting with a couple to discuss sperm donors. I had no idea you were even contemplating such a crazy thing. It occurred to me that maybe we should slow down a little. Give ourselves a chance to get to know each other again. Obviously we’ve both changed a lot over the years.”

  I pull the car up to the front of my house. “Yeah, well you haven’t changed that much. You’re exactly the same asshole you always were.”

  Ben stares at me and then heaves a big sigh. “I’m going to go. I don’t need this right now.” He gets out of the car, closing the door behind him. If it were me I would have slammed it shut, but he doesn’t, just closes it calmly, and for some reason this infuriates me further. It’s irrational—I know—but it’s like he’s too precious or something. But then as I’m fuming about this he’s gone. He gets into his jeep and drives away before I can even get out of my car and try to stop him.

  ***

  A week goes go by and I don’t hear a word from Ben. I can’t decide if I should call and apologize or give him his space. I don’t want to scare him off.

  Finally late Sunday afternoon I get in my car and drive. I head towards Ben’s apartment figuring I’ll find out where we stand. When I get there I park, but don’t get out. I can even see his jeep on a side street so I know he’s home. The truth is that I’m not sure how to handle this. Finally I sigh and turn the engine back on.

  I find myself headed downtown and when I pass Pike Place Market, near Declan’s place, I decide to see if he’s home. He owns a condo just up from Post Alley. After finagling a parking spot on the street, I realize that Declan and I are not such intimate friends that we can drop in on each other without a phone call. For all I know he’s not even home or has a date. Most likely he’s working. If I were starting a new business I’d be working twenty-four hours a day.

  “What the hell,” I mumble and get out of the car. It’s early evening and still light outside. The streets are humming with tourists, most of them walking up from the market, so I’m moving against the crowd. When I get to Declan’s building I stop at the front door, search for his name on the list and push the buzzer.

  After about half a minute I’m ready to push it again, but then hear his voice over the intercom, “Yeah?”

  “It’s Kate, would you mind if I came up?”

  The door buzzes and I walk inside towards the elevator. During the ride up I wonder what I’m going to say to him. When the
elevator doors open Declan is already standing there.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry—is this okay? I was in the neighborhood.”

  He nods. “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s a bit unusual. I was worried when I heard you were downstairs.”

  Declan and I walk down the hall and I already feel better. There’s something about Declan that relaxes me. The second I saw him it was like I could finally breathe again.

  “I was just making some dinner,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

  “I didn’t know you cooked.” I follow him inside, my eyes going towards the large front windows. Like Ben, Declan’s apartment also has a view of the water, and although it’s not quite as spectacular as the one Ben has, it’s still cool since you can look down and see part of the Market.

  Declan gives me a wolfish smile. “I’ve been known to boil a little pasta on occasion.”

  “It smells good. Lucky me, I showed up just in time to mooch dinner.”

  “That you have.”

  His condo is a large two bedroom, open and spacious. I have no idea what he paid for it, but I’m certain it must have been astronomical. I once asked him why he bothered with the second bedroom and he said it was for all the relatives that were constantly visiting from Ireland. I’ve met some of them when he’s brought them into work. One of his cousins, along with his aunt and uncle, and then last year I met his sister Rachel and her two young daughters when they came out from Boston. I didn’t get a chance to talk with her a lot, but from what I could tell she was super nice, warm and witty—a lot like Declan.

  As I look around I notice that his place is clean, but not particularly tidy. It feels comfortably lived in with stacks of books and papers pulled into haphazard piles here and there. It’s messy, but not dirty, as my dad used to say about his office. His furniture is all clean lines and dark colors, very masculine. He makes good use of the space and his apartment has a nice sense of flow to it. There’s some kind of old fashioned jazz playing on the stereo, not that I would recognize it. I never listen to jazz, but Declan has the most eclectic musical tastes of anyone I’ve ever met. He listens to everything from Coltrane to Mozart to the White Stripes.

  I follow him over to the kitchen where he’s already sautéing onions and veggies. It smells divine and I can feel my mouth water. He lifts the pan, shakes it around a little and then reaches up for a bottle of brown liquid that he pours over the veggies. “So why don’t you tell why you’re really here?” He looks over at me. Declan is a lot like my mom in that nothing gets past him.

  I pull up a chair to the small dining room table and prop my head up with my elbows. “I’m having a rough week.”

  He nods slowly. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “No...I don’t think so. Do you have anything else?”

  “How about some whiskey? There’s a bottle of Jameson I opened not long ago.” He walks to a wood cabinet next to the table where I’m sitting. I watch as he gets out a couple of heavy tumblers. “Do you take it with ice or without?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” He grins, bemused. “I’ll give you a little ice. It’s the way I prefer it myself.”

  He pours some whiskey over a few ice cubes and hands me the glass. “Tell me what’s going on? I know it’s nothing real terrible or you’d be crying.”

  I take a sip of the whiskey and shiver. It’s like drinking lamp oil.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “Smooth.”

  Declan chuckles. “Smooth, huh? I guess that explains the grimace on your face.”

  “I’m just not used to drinking whiskey,” I say defensively.

  “Have another taste, it definitely gets smoother the more you drink it.” He heads back over to the stove and pushes around his sauce with a wooden spoon, stopping to add some pepper with a mill.

  I take another swallow, and then another. “You’re right,” I say after my fourth sip. “My mouth and tongue are so numb that it does finally taste smooth.”

  “See, what did I tell you?” He smiles at me over his shoulder.

  I put my glass down as a nice buzz floats through me. I feel like I’ve been dipped in warm butterscotch and the music he’s playing goes along with it perfectly. Leaning back, I rest my feet on the chair in front of me and watch as Declan continues to cook, adding the dry pasta to a large pot of boiling water and then fiddling with the stove a bit, adjusting the temperature on one of the other dishes. His kitchen is super nice and all the appliances look high end. I continue watching as he opens the refrigerator and takes out some lettuce. He’s dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a t-shirt that I can’t help but notice fits him nicely in all the right places. I look away feeling guilty. I’m with Ben now, or at least I hope so. Truth is I’m not even sure anymore. I’m curious to hear Declan’s opinion on the whole thing.

  I run my index finger over the rim of my glass. “I had a fight with Ben last weekend.” And then I give him the details, omitting the sex and waking up naked on Ben’s deck. At first he’s listening with his back to me, still cooking, but when I get to the part about sperm donors, Declan turns around, his face as incredulous as Ben’s had been.

  “Are you serious? You’re considering getting pregnant with a sperm donor?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s mostly my mom’s bright idea.”

  “I’m guessing Ben didn’t take this too well.”

  “That’s an understatement.” I finish telling him what happened—about the fight we had in the car and how Ben was suddenly all worried about birth control.

  Declan grins, shaking his head. “Poor bastard, I almost feel sorry for him. I’ll bet he never saw that one coming. Hell Kate, even I’m speechless and I thought I knew you pretty well.”

  “He actually thought I’d trick him into getting me pregnant! Can you believe that? What kind of person does he think I am?”

  Declan takes a swallow from his glass of whiskey, considering this. “Do you really think that’s what he meant? It’s not like he accused you of it.”

  “It was implied.”

  “Maybe. I’ll tell you what though, if I was dating a woman who laid this on me I’d be asking her some pointed questions about birth control myself.”

  I sigh heavily. “He’s probably going to break up with me. We haven’t spoken in a week. Plus I called him an asshole.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “You’ve called me an asshole and I’ve gotten over it.” Declan goes back to stirring the simmering noodles with a large pasta spoon.

  “I’ve never called you an asshole.”

  He snorts. “You’re always calling me an asshole.”

  “That’s different! I’m only joking with you.” It occurs to me that maybe my jokes aren’t that funny or that they’ve been misinterpreted. “You know I don’t think you’re an asshole, right? I love being with you.” I stop myself. Did I just tell Declan I loved him?

  Declan comes over and sits down in the chair where my feet are resting. He doesn’t try to push them off and I don’t offer to remove them, so they’re resting against his leg. He looks at my empty glass and then at me. “You’re drunk aren’t you?”

  “I think I might be.”

  He shakes his head, smiling, and I find myself staring at his mouth remembering that kiss we shared. His lips are sensual and I’ll bet he knows exactly how to use them. I imagine his mouth on me, on my body, and a powerful wave of lust rolls over me. I look away, embarrassed that he’ll see what I’m thinking. God, I’m probably shooting laser beams out of my eyes.

  We’re both quiet. There’s a sultry melody drifting over the sound of food simmering and the air is heavy with the smell of basil and onions. When I finally glance at Declan, he’s watching me like that night when I sketched him, considering me in a way that’s making my stomach do little flip flops.

  “What is this music?” I
ask.

  “Billie Holiday.”

  I nod slowly, listening. “It’s old fashioned, but it’s still....” I pause, trying to think of the right word.

  “Captivating?”

  “Sexy.”

  Declan smiles in agreement as our eyes linger on each other. “Let’s eat dinner. Everything’s ready.”

  He gets up and prepares bowls of green salad, plates of penne pasta with herbed vegetables and smoked sausage. There’s even rosemary bread. The food is delicious. I may not know how to cook, but I definitely know how to appreciate a good meal.

  “This is great. I had no idea you could cook like this.”

  “It’s not as impressive as it seems. I have a few dishes I make well and this happens to be one of them.” He tears off some bread, dipping it into the sauce on his plate.

  “Do you always make such elaborate dinners for yourself?”

  “Occasionally on Sunday. When I was growing up we always had a big family dinner—our Sunday Tea—and I guess I miss it sometimes.”

  “I do that too—continue certain childhood traditions on my own. Whenever I get sick with a cold I still make buttered toast and cut the pieces into small triangles, just like my mom used to. It’s comforting.”

  He swallows a bite of food. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. It’s been crazy lately, getting everything set up in the new building. I’m basically working two jobs right now, so I just wanted something that felt familiar.”

  “It must be hard having your family so far away.”

  “Sometimes. Flying back at least once a year makes it easier. We talk on the phone, do email, plus as you know they visit me.”

  “Hotel Declan,” I grin.

  He grins back, “Yeah, obviously I’ve gotten used to it. In fact one of my cousins is flying out next month, although I already warned him I won’t be around much.”

  “Are you nervous about everything? Starting a business?”

  “Nervous? No. I’ve been a little stressed trying to get us set up. Plus we have a couple of clients, so we’re already working with a deadline. Mostly though I feel exhilarated.”