by Penny Reid
We were at a light and Martin studied me for a long moment. His jaw ticked pensively and he seemed to be working through a problem of some importance. I allowed him time and silence to ponder.
At last he said, “I’m sorry.”
Or, at least I thought that’s what he said. But the chances of Martin Sandeke saying I’m sorry out of the blue felt really slim. More likely he’d said, I’m starry or, I’m a Ferrari.
I sought to clarify. “What? What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his eyes moving over my face while his lips curved into a small smile, possibly because I looked so entirely incredulous.
The light turned green and we were off. As he spoke his eyes never strayed from the road.
“I let you down, and you’d trusted me. I thought…after spring break, I thought I could wait you out. I kept expecting you to change your mind, kept thinking you were bluffing, that eventually you’d agree to see me in secret—that way we’d both get what we wanted. But when I chased you down in the student union and you told me I was ruining you…I saw that you were right and how fucking stupid I’d been to wait. It didn’t occur to me that we were over until you asked me to walk away. And when you did, I realized I was too late.”
The sobriety that accompanied an unpleasant memory and serious matters chased away my smidge of warm fuzzies, and replaced them with a simmering discontented heat and a renewed flush of discomfort. I remembered that day with vivid starkness, like it had just happened. I remembered how well he’d looked at the time, how unchanged, until I’d practically begged him to leave me alone.
And then he’d looked destroyed. His agony a tangible thing, and a mirror of mine.
I stared at his profile, really looked at him. He was the same Martin, but different. We were both so different. I wasn’t hiding in closets and he wasn’t losing his temper.
“You deserved better,” he said quietly. He sounded like he was talking to himself.
Martin pulled into the senior center and parked the car. His movements were jerky, like he was irritated with himself, or regretting his words, or the memory. Whatever it was, he was agitated and distracted as he exited the car. Meanwhile I felt incapacitated by the puzzle pieces arranging themselves in my mind.
He’d looked fine that day at the student union because he hadn’t thought we were over. And this realization made me feel hollow, because I’d misjudged him.
And he’d deserved better.
CHAPTER 11
Molecular Shapes
Martin stayed for the show, but things were tense.
Willis glared at Martin.
Fitzy glared at Abram.
Janet glared at the senior citizens. I surmised she wasn’t a fan.
And Abram…well, he played his guitar and ignored the ire.
Luckily the show was only two sets of classic Christmas hits. When it was over, most of the band went their separate ways in record time and with no pleasantries. I hoped the weighty tension was due to spending a week together almost non-stop, and we’d get our groove back after a break.
Abram lingered, taking his time packing up his bass. Once we were alone, he walked over to where I was stuffing my tie and jacket into my bag and stopped just in front of me.
“Hey,” he said, his smile small and genuine, but as always with a hint of smirkiness.
“Hey.” I peered at him through one eye. “You look like you’re up to no good.”
“Me? Never.” His grin spread as he reached for my hand and pulled it face up between us. Then he placed a small bunch of greenery tied with a white ribbon in the center of my palm.
“What’s this?” I split my attention between him and the little package.
“It’s mistletoe.” His smile became lopsided and his dark eyes danced merrily. “For granting wishes.”
I laughed, though I’m sure it was shaded with dejection, and I sighed. “You’re good people, Abram Fletcher.”
“So are you, Katy Parker.”
I stared up at him and he stared down at me. I knew he perceived my melancholy because his crooked smile became a questioning frown.
“Hey…everything okay?”
I didn’t know how to answer, but in the end I didn’t have to, because Martin picked that moment to walk into the room. Both Abram and I turned our heads at the interruption. Martin’s gaze narrowed as he assessed the scene before him, his eyes settling on where Abram still held my hand between us.
Before he could slip a mask over his features, I saw a range of emotions flicker behind his eyes, but none were permanent. In the end it was just an unreadable jumble.
Eventually, he straightened, standing taller, and his gaze meandered back to me, cool and aloof.
“Are you ready? I don’t want you to miss your train.” His tone was as flat as the line of his mouth.
“Yeah, almost.” I turned to my bag and placed the mistletoe gently in the front pocket then retrieved the gift I’d purchased for Abram and handed it to him. “Here, this is for you.”
His eyebrows lifted into sharp arches and his small, genuine smile was back. “For me?”
“Yep. You don’t have to open it now. Put it under your tree and save it for when you need a mug.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Well, thanks for ruining the surprise.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for the…other thing.”
“You’re welcome.” Abram gave me a gracious nod then lifted his chin toward the door where Martin waited, his eyes never leaving mine. “Now go. I don’t want you to miss your train.”
***
Martin carried my bag to the car, which was silly because it weighed almost nothing. But I let him because I got the distinct impression that carrying my one-pound bag meant more to him than it did to me.
Plus, he was scowling.
My suspicions regarding his mood were confirmed as soon as he pulled into traffic. He was driving really fast, and aggressively, and impatiently. I checked the security of my seatbelt.
It was one of those situations where I felt like, had we been meant for each other, then I would know the right thing to say. But I wasn’t sure whether he was upset about his sudden confession on the drive to the senior center, or if he were irritated about something else.
Regardless, I felt compelled to break the silence and say something. I wasn’t okay with stunted communication between us.
“So, my mother wants me to perform at a fundraiser she’s having.” I allowed my eyes to flicker to him, watched as the hard lines of his profile didn’t exactly soften, but almost.
“Your mother wants you to perform? So she’s okay with the change from chemical engineering to music?”
“I didn’t really give her a choice to be honest. I just decided, then told them about my decision. I then started working two jobs to make sure I could cover myself financially.”
“Because you thought they might cut you off?”
I shook my head before he finished asking the question. “No. I wasn’t ever concerned about them cutting me off. It’s just, it was important to me to prove I could support myself financially, that music was my career and not a hobby funded by my parents.”
He nodded and I noted that most of the tension had eased from his shoulders. Maybe distraction had been the right approach.
“I can understand that. I mean, if you think about it, you’re more self-made than I am. All of my money, all the money I’ve invested, has come from my father, even though he didn’t willingly give it to me.”
“Does that bother you?” I tried to keep my voice low and gentle so he didn’t think I was judging him, because I wasn’t.
He shrugged but said, “Honestly? Yes. He used me. I used him. I’m so fucking tired of being used and using people. I’m…” he paused, his chest rising and falling with the silent breath, “I’m just tired of it.”
“So, stop using people,” I said before I thought better of it.
Martin glanced at me then ba
ck to the road, his expression a cross between incredulous and amused. “Just stop using people?”
“Yes. And don’t let them use you.”
I watched the corner of his mouth reluctantly curve upward as he gave an almost imperceptible head shake. “Okay… Maybe I’ll try that.”
His easy acceptance of my suggestion made me feel brave, so I pushed, “Maybe even apologize to the people you’ve used.”
I watched as his eyebrows lifted and his smile faltered. “You want me to apologize to my father?”
“Oh, hell no! Not him, never him. But maybe…Rose?”
Martin’s smile completely fell away. We were quiet for a moment and I could tell he was giving my suggestion serious consideration. Again I left him to his thoughts.
Then abruptly—and I suspected mostly to himself—he said, “We weren’t involved, but she was a friend and I did use her. She wanted to be more than friends, but I wasn’t…I didn’t. At least I was honest about that from the beginning.”
I bit my top lip because, inexplicably, I felt like smiling. It was likely the vain, selfish part of me; the part that did jigs in Grand Central Station. I was relieved, so very relieved, that he and Rose had never been involved. Because, obviously on some fundamental level, I was a selfish harpy and never wanted Martin to find happiness if I wasn’t the source of it.
But instead of giving into the smile, I suggested, “Then tell her you’re sorry and make an effort to not be that guy. Be a good friend.”
His smile was back as he watched the road, but this time it was softer. “I think I will.”
“Good.”
It was a nice friend moment for us. It felt…pleasant, meaningful. We fell into a companionable silence, the earlier strain between us seemed entirely forgotten.
Martin’s eyes darted to mine then away, and I watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m so glad you changed your major.”
I gave him a mock suspicious stare. “Why? Because I sucked at chemistry?”
“No, no. You excel at chemistry. Plus you excel at sucking…” Martin’s smile turned sly and he glanced at me. Then he winked.
The villain was flirting with me…!
FLIRTING!
WITH ME!
AFTER OUR FRIEND MOMENT!!
Hot outrage flooded my system with an unexpected violence. I couldn’t believe he was bringing up friends with benefits again after our conversation last night, after how much it had hurt me. I couldn’t do that with him. Before I could catch myself, I reached over and pinched the inside of his thigh, just above his knee.
“You’re a dirty, shameless flirt!” I spat.
“Ow!”
“That didn’t hurt, flirt.”
“I’m driving. Are you trying to kill us?” His words had no effect since he was smiling and trying not to laugh.
“No more flirting.” I crossed my arms over my chest and scooched lower in the seat, tucking my chin to my chest, seething.
I felt him eyeball me before he demanded, “Why?”
“Because it—” I caught myself, gulped a large breath of air, and glanced out the window.
The silence was not companionable. It was tense and unwieldy. I fought my desire to reach over and pinch him harder.
“Why?” he asked again, this time his tone was softer, curious.
I heaved a heavy sigh and tried to release some of the potentially irrational anger that had built a home in my chest.
“I loved you, Martin. You were my…” I had to pause again, clear my throat before I could finish. “You were my first in every way that matters, and losing what we had was a big deal for me. That month, after we broke up, I lost twenty pounds. I felt no joy. I didn’t even like cookies. Things didn’t improve and I didn’t start moving on at all until August.”
Silence stretched again. He downshifted, turned on his blinker. The car decelerated. We stopped at a light. I heard him gather a breath like he was about to speak.
Still staring out the window, I cut him off before he could. “I don’t think I’m ready for you to flirt with me. It…hurts. I need us to be one thing or the other. In between stuff just confuses me. So don’t flirt with me. And don’t suggest that we have no-strings sex.”
“Kaitlyn, I’m doing this all wrong—”
“Then stop. Just,” I glanced at him, allowed a hint of pleading to enter my voice, “stop confusing me. Be a good friend.”
He nodded solemnly, his jaw working, and returned his attention to the road. Once again, tension hovered and surrounded us, permeating the inside of the car.
I tried to push the melancholy from my mind. I tried and failed. Therefore I felt remorseful relief when we pulled up to Grand Central five minutes later.
He opened my car door and helped me affix the large backpack in place. He remarked on the size of the backpack. We loitered for a few moments at the trunk of his car, continuing our benign discussion until uncomfortable conversation gave way to uncomfortable silence.
I stared at my shoes for five seconds then forced myself to look at him in the eye.
“Well,” I said louder than necessary, nodding for no reason, “I guess I’ll see you later.”
His jaw ticked as his eyes moved between mine, searching. “Yeah…”
I stuck out my hand, gathering a bracing breath and feeling some unknown emotion rise in my chest, making it tight. He hesitated, then fit his hand in mine. Neither of us shook our combined hands. We just stood there, our hands suspended between us, sharing a strange stare.
“When will I see you?” he asked.
“I’ll call you when I have the dates for our next show in the city. Maybe we can grab pizza.”
He nodded, not exactly frowning. “We could watch The Princess Bride.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“And you can visit your piano.”
I gave him a half smile and moved to withdraw, but he tightened his grip, halting my progress. I glanced at our hands then back at him.
“I have to go.”
“Right.” He nodded again, again not exactly frowning; he let my fingers slip away, took a step back, and repeated, “Right.”
“Goodbye, Martin.” I reached into his trunk for my sleeping bag, my gaze flickering to his once more. He wasn’t looking at me. His hands were in his pockets and his attention was on his shoes. I waited for a beat.
When he said nothing, I turned and walked toward the station. But this time, because I felt oddly and irresistibly compelled, I looked back.
He was still there, right where I’d left him, and he was watching me walk away. So I waved. He waved back, stuffed his hands in his pockets, but he made no move to leave.
After a long moment, I tore my gaze from his and entered the building.
CHAPTER 12
The Atomic Theory of Matter
After no contact for a week, during which I tried my best to ignore all non-friend feelings for Martin, I received a very nice text message from him on New Year’s at exactly midnight. It read,
Martin: I wish you were here so we could start this New Year together.
It was painfully sweet.
And confusing.
I didn’t reply right away because I didn’t know what to say. Was that a friend message?
My heart was scrambled and tangled in my chest, and I had difficulty sleeping because I was obsessing about his text. I waited until the next morning to respond. In the clear light of day I read his message again. Pragmatic and sober Kaitlyn decided I’d inferred way too much from the simple message of well wishes, and I opted to tap out a benign and friendly reply.
Kaitlyn: Happy New Year! I wish you’d been here so I could show you your new towels. Look for “An Unexpected Party” to arrive this week.
I stared at my screen afterward, but then set my phone aside when he hadn’t replied after ten minutes. Really, it was the perfect friend response. I couldn’t figure out why it made me feel so lame.
I didn’t know h
ow to navigate these waters with Martin. Yes, I was doing this blindly. But I realized late in the afternoon on January first—after reading his text message at least twenty times—that I was not following my heart. Eventually I meandered to my keyboard and tried to arrange music as a conduit for my chaotic feelings.
A thought began to form, that felt suspiciously like the beginning of a plan, which I assumed was the start of a decision. I was going to have to come clean with Martin. I was going to have to put it all out there, all my messy and disorganized wishes, and be brave. I was in the limbo of uncertainty and I was tired of it.
“I’m giving you my copy of Cosmo. Can you put it in the kitchen when you’re finished?”
I blinked at Sam’s sudden appearance in my room then at the copy of Cosmopolitan she’d just tossed on my bed.
“You’re giving me your copy of Cosmo?”
“Yes. To borrow. There’s a stupid quiz I want you to take on whether you and your best friend are compatible.”
“If it’s stupid then why do you want me to take it?”
“So we can make fun of it later. Also, remember my friend Kara? The one we went dancing with? The one who needs a place to stay?”
“Ah, yes. The potential new roommate.”
“That’s the one. Let me know what night next week we can all get together so you can interview her and share your chore checklist. We need to make a decision soon.”
I studied Sam for a bit as she thumbed through our mail. “Sam…do you like the chore checklist?”
She shrugged, not looking up. “It doesn’t bother me. I know you like it, but you’re a lot tidier than I am. Dirty dishes don’t give me hives.”
With that statement she meandered out of my room.
My eyes drifted back to the magazine on my bed; a heavily photoshopped and airbrushed model graced the cover—more a manufactured pixilation than an actual person. I twisted my lips in distaste at her unrealistically long legs and the unnatural curve of her waist and boobs.
Basically, magazines wanted Jessica Rabbit—the animated character—not real women. Heck, even supermodels weren’t good enough anymore. Real women didn’t sell magazines. Unrealistic and unhealthy images of female beauty sold magazines. And in this men were not to blame, because the female readership dictated and perpetuated the cycle of dysfunction, not men. Women.