The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6)

by Tamsen Parker

  I refuse to be a burden, though. Other people need my help, not the other way around, and Matthew has enough on his slim shoulders that I ought to be taking better care of myself and be more careful of my attitude so he doesn’t worry about me too.

  Soles planted on the floor, shifting my weight into my heels and pushing up until my knees are straight, and then putting one foot in front of the other until I’ve reached the tile of my bathroom floor. This is how I’ll get through my days until they get easier, and they will, because a man can’t live like this forever.

  *

  After my session in Los Gatos, I haul back up the 101. Usually I’d have Matthew drive me since it’s not a particularly scenic route, but I need to be away from his concerned gaze, even with the distance his reflection in the rearview mirror would provide. I’d still be able to feel him looking at me.

  I’ve also turned off my phone for a rare hour. I love my job, I love my people, I love my family—who have been calling more often these days, and it’s beginning to make me bristle. I don’t need their concern. I need to get over this, get over myself. Or perhaps I should be kind to myself. Run away for a while, and when I get back, the world will be in full color again. I could call Kenji—he’s always inviting me to Japan and I’ve never taken him up on it because I’ve always been too busy. Not to mention being his guest wouldn’t be a purely stress-free experience. Maybe that’s what I need. A jolt to put things in perspective. Perhaps.

  My neighborhood is much as it ever is when I find a parking spot on the street. Everything is right in the world. It is. Except I have to pause at the bottom of the steps up to my house because they seem daunting.

  I’m tempted to turn around, get back in the car, and drive to Kendra’s bar. I definitely have not done that a time or two in the past few weeks, hoping to catch a glimpse of Allie. Nope. Nor have I called his cell in an uncharacteristically masochistic impulse. What I actually haven’t done is call Julian to check up on him, on them, because Julian would actually answer his phone and then I’d have to hear about it. While someday I’ll delight in their pairing off much as anyone else’s I’ve orchestrated, today is not that day. Taking two months to check in wouldn’t be negligent, surely?

  I don’t head to the bar. I climb up, step by step, slip my key in the lock, and turn. It’s dinner time. Perhaps Matthew will have made me that quinoa and shrimp salad I used to like. That I still tell him I like.

  Instead of seeing an apron-clad Matthew moving about the kitchen at the end of the long hall, I hear a low murmur of voices. Did I forget I have a client? Has Peter come to pick Matthew up? This is…unexpected, and I don’t care for the unexpected. Petulance starts to crawl up my spine, which is entirely unfair to Matthew. Even if he’d tried to get in touch with me about a change of plans, my phone’s been off.

  I try to regulate my breath and my mood as I walk down the hall, but when I get to the den, my heart skips a beat. Just the one, though, because I’m nothing if not in control of myself.

  “To what do I owe this…assembly?”

  Eight people’s gazes zoom in on me, and it makes me feel as though I have one of those sniper targets on my forehead. But I refuse to get agitated. Instead, I let my eyebrow kick up. “Well?”

  Matthew stands from his place sitting by Peter’s feet. “It’s not an assembly. It’s an intervention.”

  He wrings his hands in front of his belt buckle, and I notice Peter’s big slab of a hand come to the small of his back and rub lightly, offering support. There’s a small pinprick of happiness and satisfaction, but it’s overwhelmed by a field of affront.

  “I’m sorry, did you say intervention?”

  Now it’s Glory’s turn to stand up, bouncing out of Constance’s lap as though she’s some kind of hyperactive lapdog. “Yes, he did.”

  “What precisely am I in need of an intervention from?” Crossing my arms, I curse myself. Knock off the defensive body language, Walter. Take control of the situation. Assure all of these crazy people you are, in fact, fine and send them home to lead their happy lives—their happy lives you gave to them. “I don’t do illegal drugs, I don’t smoke, my drinking is slightly more than moderate but entirely in control, I’m not a hoarder, my spending is well within my means, I haven’t been engaging in risky behaviors like unprotected sex—” Or any sex for that matter, but that’s a different story. “—or hardcore kink or driving too fast or anything of the sort. So please, enlighten me.”

  Normally I wouldn’t use a tone so arch, but these people have earned it. The nerve of them. An intervention? Are they shitting me with this?

  They exchange glances, each of them daring the other to answer my question. Matthew, Peter, Constance, Glory, Cris, India, even Slade and Pressly. Aside from Peter and Matthew, none of them live anywhere nearby. How dare they disrupt the picture-perfect existences I engineered to come and do…what, exactly?

  Then there’s a clearing of a throat, and I notice a phone on the coffee table I hadn’t before. Matthew’s. “You’re in need of an intervention from yourself, darling.”

  “Mom?” What the hell? I point at India and Matthew in turn, the most likely suspects for having concocted this particularly humiliating aspect of this little enterprise. “You called my mother? That’s it. We’re done here. Every single last one of you. You can either stop this right this instant, and I’ll have Matthew break out some of my best bottles from downstairs. We’ll have a party and forget this ever happened, or you can get the hell out of my house.”

  They all blink at me. Maddening human beings.

  “Fine. If you insist on carrying out this ridiculous charade, I don’t have to be here for it.” I turn for the door, clenching my hands into fists, but when I get there, Peter’s slid in front of my means of egress and he’s not a small man. Taller than I am, about twice as broad, with his full beard and head of silver hair, not to mention the tatts that grace his meaty forearms—yes, he could kick my ass and looks entirely willing to.

  “Actually, you do.”

  “Peter—”

  “No. You are making Matthew unhappy by making yourself miserable, and I won’t stand for it.”

  I could shove by him—especially if I’m willing to dislocate my shoulder to do it, and why the hell not?—but suddenly Cris and Constance are bracketing him, their own arms crossed. Neither are as physically imposing as Peter, but their disapproval hits me a lot harder than Peter’s does. They do not look happy. Not that they’ve always been happy with me, but this is different.

  Constance shoves a finger into my chest. “You are going to sit down and listen to what we have to say. If you don’t, well, you know what we’re capable of. You’ve trained every last one of us, and we’re all damn fine at bondage. If we want you to stay still, you will. There’s one of you and eight of us.”

  “Nine!” my mother chimes in from the speakerphone. Jesus Christ, my mother is hearing all of this.

  I could put up a fight, but it seems the most expedient and simplest way to get out of this is to give the people what they want. Or at least appear to. A little play-acting never hurt anyone. I put up my hands in surrender and head to a chair they’ve oh-so-conveniently left open for me.

  “So what is this about?”

  India doesn’t stand up from the couch, but this has clearly become her show. “This is about you being a dumb-fuck.”

  My brows draw slightly together and up while my nostrils flare. “Okay…”

  “For someone so smart, you’re being a stupid shit, you know that?”

  “Perhaps you could tone down the name-calling? It’s not terribly persuasive.”

  “She’s right, though. You’ve got your head pretty far up your own ass.” For the love of all that is holy, they had to involve my mother in this why?

  “Would you prefer we sit crisscross applesauce and sing ‘Kumbaya’? I lobbied for the direct approach myself, but if you want to have a pity party first, we can do that.” Slade is sitting splay-legged on
a chair with Pressly tucked between his knees. She’s got her pretty manicured hands resting on one of his thighs, and she looks as if she might fall asleep any second. The only time I’ve seen Pressly look so tired is—

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d rather not be doing this at all. And I can’t believe you took time out of your busy schedule, Secretary, and dragged your pregnant wife all the way across the country to lecture me.”

  Press’s eyes pop wide, and she turns her face up to her husband’s while she hisses, “Did you tell him?”

  Their skirmish distracts everyone, because of course Pressly is in fact pregnant with their third, and everyone wants to offer their congratulations and best wishes and mazel tovs, and on and on. Annoyingly, my friends are an intelligent and stalwart bunch, and it doesn’t take them long to come back around to why they’re here.

  “Stop distracting us, Rey. This isn’t a baby shower, this is about you.” Pressly looks dead serious, so I don’t bother to send Matthew downstairs to get bottles of champagne and sparkling cider.

  “What about me?”

  “We all think you’re being an idiot.”

  “Yes, thanks, Mother, I got that.” I’d throttle Matthew if I didn’t think he’d enjoy that.

  “But you are,” says Glory. She comes over to my chair, climbs into my lap, and wraps her arms around my neck. Her hair smells like apples, and her round little body fits snugly curled up on my thighs and against my chest. “We don’t understand why, and we’re at a loss. We want to help you, and we don’t know how. You’re the one who always puts people to rights, but you can’t seem to do it for yourself. You’re fucking this up pretty good.”

  I hug her and bury my nose into her mass of black hair, breathing her in and trying not to let my eyes water. What I want is for them to give up, to leave, to let me be. They don’t understand, can’t possibly, and while I appreciate their (entirely misguided) gesture, they need to go. “I am not messing anything up. I’ve been keeping tabs on all of my people, including all of you, and yes, perhaps I haven’t been my usual buoyant self, but it will pass. I’ll be fine.”

  I’m always fine. No need to worry about me.

  “That’s the thing, though,” India points out. “You’re always fine, and now you’re not. Even if you will be eventually, why don’t you fix it and be happy now? That’s what you’d tell us to do.”

  “That is, in fact, what you have told us to do.” Slade is irritating. Why did India invite him?

  “I’m not like you.” I wave a hand around the room, encompassing everyone, including Peter who is still guarding the door. “I don’t need a partner to be satisfied. I’ve been perfectly happy with my life. Not to mention, what would you do if I did have a partner? If I couldn’t get on a plane anytime you needed me? If I couldn’t solve your problems because I would be busy dealing with my own?”

  They look around at each other again and appear to elect Constance as their leader for this segment of the program. “We’d suck it up, buttercup. Or we’d call someone else in this room. You’re not the only one who gives decent advice, you know.”

  My pride is dinged by that statement, because I give the best advice and the idea I could be replaced by one of these jokers is laughable. Except it’s not anymore. They’re grown, responsible, loving people who’ve proved they’re capable of maintaining intimate relationships, and I should be proud of the part I’ve played in that. I’m honored, actually, that this group of incredible people have put their trust in me to the extent that they’ve allowed me to contribute to their happiness and well-being, the fulfilling of their potential. Have let me still be a part of their lives even after that’s been accomplished.

  Stubborn as I am, I can’t just listen to them. What would be the fun in that?

  “What would you have me do?”

  Glory sits up and scooches back, making room for India to sit on my other leg, their calves tangling together between my thighs. My two black-haired beauties. They may be submissive in certain contexts, but this is not one of them. Now they’re being bossy as fuck, and it’s India’s turn. “Maybe apologizing to Allie and groveling for him to take you back would be a good start?”

  “Yes, always get the sexy man to forgive you!” Every time I forget my mother is here, she seems to remind me.

  I let out a sigh. “I don’t think he wants to speak with me.”

  “Since when has someone not wanting to speak with you stopped you from speaking to them?” One of the reasons Slade is so irritating is that he has an excellent memory and he makes good points. I am friends with far too many people trained as attorneys. Must remedy that.

  “Yeah,” Glory says as she lightly kicks my shin. “Try harder.”

  The idea of seeing Allie again, hearing his voice, touching him… It’s as if something is squeezing my chest unbearably tight. I want that like I’ve wanted nothing else ever. Nothing I could possibly have anyhow.

  It occurs to me there’s one person in the room who hasn’t said a word. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Cris.”

  He shrugs from his seat on an ottoman. “Felt like everyone else had it pretty well covered.”

  That is nonsense, which is what my glower tells him I think. When everyone is silent and staring at him, he takes a deep breath, leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in the middle. “Look, everyone in this room owes you a debt of gratitude for what you’ve done for us. We’d all like to see you happy, and we think being with Allie would do that. But—”

  India whips around, and I can practically see the daggers shoot out of her eyes. Cris waves her off, though, and continues. “But you’re also not the only person suffering. I met Allie, broke bread with him. I saw the way he looked at you, the way you talked to each other. Never have I seen you look like you were on such equal footing with someone. Even with us, you’re kind of a benevolent dictator, which is fine. I don’t think a one of us has a problem with that, but… Goddammit, Rey. Don’t you want something for yourself sometimes? Don’t you want to give Allie what he wants, what he needs? You might not like it because it means you’ve fucked up like normal people do, and god help us all if you’re down here with the rest of us, but as great as Julian is, he’s not you.”

  Is this what it’s like to be on the other side? I don’t like it. Everything Cris is saying makes sense—and I believe him because, if India trusts him, that should be a good enough endorsement for anyone—but hell if it doesn’t hurt. As if some pokey thing is lancing through my soul. I’d wager, anyway. Not like I could say for sure.

  I’d like to give in. Like to believe everything they’ve said and let that be good enough. It’s not. There’s still this nagging feeling I cannot have my cake and eat it too. No one can have everything they want, we have to make choices, and why should I be the exception to the rule?

  There’s a nudge at my calf, and it makes me look at India. She has this incredibly stern look on her face, but it’s also compassionate. “From the moment you shook my hand at Princeton, you have made my world a better place. I don’t like to think where I’d be if it weren’t for you.”

  She spares a second to look over her shoulder at Cris, a corner of her mouth tilting, and the current of love and devotion running between them is so thick, you’d have to cut it with a knife. Maybe a machete. But she’s turned her considerable powers of concentration back to me again. “You’ve always been able to inspire faith in everyone, and it’s because you deliver. Every single goddamn time, no matter the ask, no matter the cost. You’re a fucking miracle worker. So what the hell? Take a pinch of your magic fairy dust for yourself. Make it work.”

  That’s when I feel it. If I had to specify, I’d probably say it was my spleen being jabbed. Some people concoct angels and devils on their shoulders, others have got crickets in the back of their heads. Me? I’ve got a demon who digs at my internal organs. If I am, in fact, a superhero as I claim to be, why can I not follow my own advice, which I’ve given to countless mortal
s, including some of the ones in this room? I am not about to give up my caped crusader cred, and if I’m determined to hold onto it, then I’ve got to fight to keep it. If anyone can make this work, it should be me. What the hell kind of example am I setting for my flock by moping about because I’ve forced myself to choose between my calling and a man? I’m not a priest, for god’s sake. Not of any kind that would proscribe me having a partner at any rate.

  If that’s true, though… I cringe, thinking of what I’ve done to Allie. Passed him off, made him believe I don’t love him, when in point of fact, I love him so much I’ve convinced myself I could never be good enough for him. He is likely, and rightfully, cursing my name. This has been a shabby performance on my part indeed. I’ve been unfair and, when I look at it from the angle Allie must’ve, downright cruel.

  I roll my lips between my teeth and catch myself, but not before India’s noticed. She rests her forehead on my temple and, so quietly not even Glory will be able to hear, whispers to me, “You deserve it, you know. Allie does too. You’ve always been my hero, and now’s your chance to act like one. Go get your man, Walter.”

  Then she lays a soft kiss on my cheek, and I look around at the other people in the room who have just as solid a belief in me. I’ll have to ask Matty to do a better job dusting in here because I swear there are specks of something in my eyes. Only excuse for them to be watering like this.

  So with India and Glory sitting on my lap, and the rest of the people who love me most in the world all in the same room, I give in with a clearing of my throat. I’m tired of being up on this lonely mountain top, and I think I might know someone who believes he’s worthy. I certainly do. Hopefully I won’t be too late. “Fine. I will do my utmost to win back the affections of one Mr. Allie Hart. Anyone have any suggestions?”