Center of Gravity

by Neve Wilder

  It was a Wednesday, so I knew there was no chance Rob would be in town, but I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder as we ate on the old blanket Mom had spread over the sand. Family picnic, she’d declared when I got home. She’d been doing this a lot, foisting more and more of these family outings on us that seemed reciprocally related to Dad’s worsening health. Fortunately, today was a pretty decent day for him.

  He had his legs stretched out beside me on the blanket, khaki pants rolled up his too-skinny calves.

  Lainey ran back and forth at the edge of the water, chasing the waves. Mom watched her with a half-smile playing over her lips. “I give it about seven minutes before she’s up here talking about how bored she is.”

  “Six and a half,” Dad said, tilting his glass so Mom could refill it from the wine bottle. She topped me off as well, but I wasn’t really drinking it anyway.

  “I say five and throw in some complaining about how the sand is sticking to her feet.”

  Mom laughed. “Touché. She’s at that age. In another year she’s going to be convinced I’m the dumbest person on the face of the earth.”

  “Hey, I was never like that!” I said.

  Mom lifted a brow. “You still are, sometimes.”

  “Please.”

  Her mouth turned up at my flat expression. “Exactly.”

  Dad rested back onto the heels of his hands, tilting his chin toward the sky, eyes closed, the last rays of the sun falling on his face. His jaw was shadowed with patchy stubble. He didn’t bother with a razor often these days. His whole face looked like it was sinking in on itself.

  “Your mom says you’re not fucking Rob anymore.” He studied me through slitted eyes.

  I blinked. He could still take me by surprise.

  “She didn’t say it like that.”

  “No she didn’t,” my mom echoed. “Jesus, John. No sacred cows in this family for sure.”

  “You’re such a traitor.” I turned on Mom next, trying to blow past the unease in my stomach. I didn’t want to talk about Rob anymore. I was doing my best to try to forget he ever existed.

  Mom shrugged. “I tell him everything.”

  “So who screwed up? I kinda liked the guy.”

  “You just said Mom tells you everything, so I’m sure she filled you in.” I took another slug of wine, the acid burning the back of my throat.

  “She said you were vague, and you’ve been mopey lately.”

  “I haven’t been mopey and I was vague because I don’t want to talk about it, clearly.” I continued as his gaze searched my face. “It was never a serious thing. We were just screwing around and now we’re not. That’s the beginning and end of the story. And tonight I’m going out and I will probably screw around with someone else.”

  Mom gave me a disapproving look, but Dad was still eyeing me with a studious expression. “Ah, you’ve got a point to prove,” he said, needling me. “Well, make sure you’re safe.”

  “I will. I’ll be safe all over the place.” My teeth were on edge as I stared back at him, uncertain of why we were having a disagreement, but angry about it all the same. “Is this like an old Victorian thing where you want to make sure I’m settled in case worse comes to worst? Because I’m not fucking settled and I probably never will be. I can’t seem to fucking be enough of an adult for anyone lately.” It felt good to say it aloud, to get it out, and then terrible that it was aimed at my dad. He didn’t deserve it. I knew it even as I stood and stalked off down to the water’s edge with Lainey. An immature emotional outburst. Just add it to my growing list of personal pitfalls.

  Razz wasn’t much better. For the first hour, I hovered near our table, sucking down a few beers as Sam and Max ogled, danced, and knocked back shots. When I got bored of that, I drifted toward the bar to get a water, spying Reese perched on a stool next to where I’d managed to wedge myself in near the serving well. He flicked at the screen of his phone. He was dressed down tonight, plain jeans with a bunch of designer holes in them, a tank top stretched over his shoulders, his generous mouth bunched into a thoughtful purse as he scrolled. He glanced up as I placed my order.

  “Alex, yeah?”

  “You got it. How’d you know?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen you around with Max before.”

  I nodded, uncapping my water and guzzling it when the bartender returned. “Not dancing for your harem tonight?”

  One fine, light brow drifted up, then he cut me a small grin. “I’ve got another half hour or so.” He glanced down at his phone, then back up at me again.

  I nudged my chin at the stage. “They’re already gathering there in anticipation, looks like.”

  “Yeahhh…” He blew out a long breath, expression dimming. I wasn’t sure why. He always seemed like he was enjoying himself onstage.

  “Where’d you learn to dance like that anyway?”

  “I grew up dancing. And then strip clubs. If you’re interested in seeing more of me, I’m at Hard Ache every Friday and Saturday.” His eyes drifted over me, then blinked away. I wasn’t sure it was a come on, but if it was, I wasn’t going to acknowledge it.

  “You were in here with another guy one night. Built, tan, really dark hair with a little curl to it?”

  “Tom.”

  “Tom, yeah. What’s he about?”

  I shrugged. “Depends on how you’re asking.”

  Reese screwed his face up and matched my half-hearted shrug. “He came in here the other night. By himself. We—” He shook his head, then lifted his finger, signaling the bartender who rushed over and replaced his drink. Something clear with a sprig of mint in it.

  “He’s not a psycho or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” I didn’t want to betray Tom’s confidence, so I tried to keep it light, but Reese’s icy blue eyes were like lasers on me.

  “You’ve fucked him?”

  “No.” I laughed, surprised. “I mean, I would have. No question. He can be kind of a tool, but he’s a good guy deep down.” I debated how much I should share. “We’re just friends, though.”

  “Mm.” Reese grunted something noncommittal and then that icy stare fixed on me again. Another time, a shiver probably would have licked up my spine to be under that piercing gaze. Now, I just gave him a level look in return.

  “You seeing anyone? Because if not, I’ll be done here around 1:30.”

  I gave him a small smile. “You don’t want to mess with this right now. I’m walking wreckage and you seem like a cool guy.” I didn’t know Reese well, but I’d heard about him before. He had a rep for wrenching his boyfriends’ hearts from their chests and then leaving them out in the cold, and while I was definitely up for some mindless fucking as a Band-Aid for my current sorry state, I didn’t want to get stuck in the crossfire of Reese and Tom. Whatever the hell was happening there.

  He whistled low and gave me a sympathetic smile. “Been there. Done that. Have the T-shirt, the postcard, the tacky-ass keychain, and the bumper sticker. It sucks.” He slid off his stool, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “You change your mind, let me know. Otherwise, tell your buddy Tom to quit being a dipshit stalker and man the fuck up or fuck off.” He flashed me a quicksilver wink and disappeared into the crowd.

  I finished off my water and scoped the bar for Max and Sam, catching sight of them on the dance floor. They appeared to have found some freshman noobs. I sighed and pushed off the bar, rolling my shoulders and mustering up my give a fuck. What I needed to do was get laid. Take a note from Reese’s playbook and play it fast and loose like I used to before Rob got me all tangled in knots.

  I raked my hair back into some kind of shape and joined the bodies on the dance floor. If I couldn’t wipe Rob from my mind, I could at least barricade him with a pile of other bodies, hook up with people until the shape of him was foggy around the edges, until the way he touched me blended with the memory of someone else’s hand. I would be a sure thing, easy beyond belief. No one would even have to buy me a drink. Maybe that
was immature too, but whatever. There was no one left to judge me.

  25

  Rob

  Some people cut their hair or changed the color. Some went on a fitness kick. Some did both. Me, I was going to paint my damn apartment to try to put Alex behind me.

  As I popped the trunk of my car and started lugging the paint cans to the curb, I wished I’d picked something less work intensive. But I needed a heavy distraction and painting was the least angsty option.

  Scott passed by and then doubled back, a twinkle in his bright eyes. “Going for an overhaul, huh?”

  “Attempting to. I’m tired of looking at beige.”

  He chuckled and bent over to read the paint name off the side of the can. “Sea Salt. Is that a blue? Pink?”

  “Neither. It’s a gray-green. I learned a bit about paint colors when—” I halted, the memory of Alex rushing to fill in the space where I’d left off with an accompanying drop of my stomach.

  The weeks had passed with no word from him, and I hadn’t contacted him, either. Maybe I should have, but he’d asked for space so vehemently, and it didn’t sound like the kind of leave me alone that really meant please chase me. He’d seemed at the end of his rope and as much as I didn’t want to let him go, I didn’t want to hurt him anymore, on top of everything else he had going on with his father. He was a dull, constant ache in the back of my mind, though. I couldn’t pass a stupid Cracker Jack box without thinking of him tossing them up into the air, swaying to one side or the other to capture them in his mouth. He superseded memories of Sean, and I wasn’t sure that was even healthy, but at least thinking about Alex wasn’t connected to a low simmer of anger. When I thought of Alex, I just felt sad and inept. Not necessarily better, but rage was a bitch to function on. Sadness, well, I was used to that gentler undercurrent.

  Get a grip, Rob. Swallowing, I made myself continue. “—When I was fixing up the house on Nook Island.” The house I hadn’t been back to in weeks. I’d pushed my meeting with the property management company to the following day after Winslow’s surgery and had left it in their hands ever since. It had rented the week before last, but now I wished I’d just gone ahead and kept it on the market.

  Scott eyed the growing stack of paint cans next to the plastic sacks of brushes and trays. “You want some help getting it in? I might even be charmed into helping you paint if you need an extra hand.” He flashed me a wink and grinned.

  “Considering how ruthlessly you play poker, I’m not sure I’d trust your terms of exchange.”

  His grin widened. “I’m very fair. I promise. I’m also a sucker for a good bottle of red and conversation.”

  “I could probably manage that.” I swung a paint can into his waiting hand and we set off for my apartment. Winslow greeted us at the door, wagging his tail and yipping. He’d healed nicely and was mastering three-legged running well enough. I’d have pitied the poor guy more if he wasn’t so prideful about his hobbling. At the sound of feet in the hallway, he’d waddle and fall, then scramble frantically for the door, barking while turning indignant looks over his shoulder at me as if to say, “Can’t you hear what is happening, fool? There are humans afoot.” He’d taken on a voice in my head that fit his personality. I wasn’t sure that was healthy either, and most likely was another sad side-effect of my own loneliness, but at least we entertained each other.

  “You were misnamed,” I grumbled as I pushed him back from the doorway so Scott could enter. “Should’ve called you Napoleon. You’ve got a complex the size of a continent.”

  Once we’d gotten all the paint cans inside, I uncorked a bottle of red wine and we got started.

  Friday was a languid fall day, the cool city air steeped with brine and car exhaust, still faintly humid with the residue of summer. The office was quiet at seven p.m. There might have been a few stragglers overburdened with files like me, but I assumed most everyone was gone.

  My promotion had gone through two weeks prior, and came with a pay raise and a celebratory dinner with some of the other partners and associates. We drank champagne at a local bistro—a little too much of it. Sean had made another pass, though he was subtle about it, and I entertained it for all of five seconds before brushing it aside. But the fact I’d entertained it at all grated on me for days afterward. And I missed Alex. I thought about heading out afterward in search of a mindless hook-up, but I couldn’t muster any interest in it. In spite of all my efforts to avoid it, I was heartbroken again.

  Reality settled in the following day at work. My workload doubled overnight, even though I now had an additional two members on my team. I ended up staying late most days, wondering when the sense of victory and accomplishment would stop eluding me. I was exactly where I’d always wanted to be in my career, and it couldn’t have felt more hollow.

  I took a swig of cold coffee from the mug on my desk, opening another file and tabbing through my computer, gaze drifting to the darkening window as my thoughts strayed to early evenings on Nook Island: the damp breeze that came in off the ocean, untainted by the city, how the sunset streaked the sky and set it afire. It was hard to separate Nook Island from Alex, but I missed it, too. I considered returning soon, staying the weekend. I could always invite some of the guys from poker, offer it up as a guy’s weekend rather than what it truly would be—a way for me to return with a built-in defense against loneliness.

  I was scrolling through my contacts, trying to decide which guys to invite, when an incoming call interrupted my progress. My heart got lodged somewhere in my throat as Alex’s name flashed across the screen. In my haste to answer the call, I fumbled the damn phone onto the floor and scrambled to hit the green button to accept even as I swept the receiver up to my ear. I spoke in a breathless croak as soon as I answered. “I’m so glad you called. I wanted to, but—”

  “Rob—” he tried to interrupt me in a flat, weary drawl, but I had no intention of stopping this time.

  “I thought it best if I didn’t because—”

  “Rob!” His voice was choked, but that time my name came out as a command.

  “Is everything all right? Is your dad—?”

  “Stop talking,” Alex whispered, so I did and the line went silent. Outside my office, a door shut, keys jingled, and the quiet retreat of footsteps whispered down the hall. Then Alex spoke again.

  “It’s not good. He’s not good. And I thought I’d be better about this because I’ve had so much time. Months, you know? To get used to it. But I can’t get used to watching him circle the drain. It fucking sucks.” He laughed bitterly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m supposed to do. I keep thinking I’m supposed to be a certain way or do certain things. I feel guilty all the time. Guilty if I smile, guilty if I forget for one second he’s dying. And then I remember all at once and it’s like getting sucker-punched by shame and sadness at the same time.” There was a soft gasp and he fell silent again. The thought that he might be crying did terrible, gut-wrenching things to my heart.

  I waited a few beats to see if he was finished and because my heart was beating wildly at the same time it ached. It was the strangest sensation: the pure exhilaration of hearing his voice again, the damning hope of it butted up against sympathy and angst for what he was going through. I remembered it well—the feeling of drowning, the emotional flailing when it seemed as if there wasn’t enough air in the world to get through the next minute, let alone months.

  “There’s no protocol, Alex,” I hesitated around his name. I hadn’t said it for weeks and what had almost come out was an endearment. Baby, sweetheart, some simplistic expression of the affection I still felt for him that would never be enough. I’d screwed myself out of the right to call him anything. “There’s no right and wrong. You just do the best you can—which sounds completely trite, but that’s all there is.” I listened to his quiet inhales, and then a larger breath. I imagined him nodding on the other end of the line. Or maybe he was shaking his head.

  “I didn’t call you about
that, though. That’s not what I want to talk about. It just sort of came out.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly, then waited. I had no idea what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t what came next.

  “I want to get off. I need to get off. I need something to—I need you to get me off.”

  “Right now? You want me to come there and—” I would have. I was already reaching for my keys.

  “What? No!” he bit out. “Right now. Over the phone.”

  I went silent, trying to work through what he was asking of me. I remembered this feeling, too, the need for release at any cost—a five minute distraction, some break from reality even if it was temporary and meant nothing. Hadn’t I done the same thing before, funneled my own grief over my mom straight into Sean, driven him relentlessly, desperately into the mattress and after him, strangers whose names I didn’t care about? One of those had been Alex, that night in the club.

  I closed my eyes, trying to rein in the plummeting sensation that coursed through my body. He didn’t want me back. He just wanted me to get him off, to give him a minute or two of relief before he pushed me back out of his life again. I wanted to laugh because it was so terribly heartbreaking. I deserved it. I was certain of that.

  “Alex, I don’t think you—”

  “You’re doing it again. Stop thinking you know what I need and just do what I’m fucking asking. Or don’t. Can you do that or should I just find someone else?”

  Electricity crackled up my spine and rooted itself in my rising blood pressure. I wondered if he’d called any other numbers before mine. With my fingers clenching in a fist, I forced myself to take a deep breath that shook when I exhaled, clearing my head of everything but the present moment. Just help the guy out. You owe him that.