by Sally Felt
She held out her free hand and he helped her step down off the bed. The knocking sounded again. She kissed him. “I thought you were shutting up?” Halfway to the bathroom, she stepped on something and dropped the hanger, which sort of spoiled her exit. When she bent down to pick it up, she found she’d stepped on a plastic bag. She recognized it as the one Kim had had in his hand yesterday.
More knocking.
“Hang on, Kerry,” Kim yelled. He was pulling on his pants. Isabelle picked up the bag rather than leave it for someone else to step on, taking it into the bathroom and closing the door. She heard most of the conversation that followed as she tried to pull herself together.
“Kim.”
“Kerry.”
“I thought you said this was important.”
“It is. I’m sorry.”
“What the hell—Kim! Another client?” He’d seen the bed, obviously.
“It’s not like that, Kerry.”
“Yeah, you told me. You’re not dating.”
Ouch. Wait. Another? Just how many women?
Their voices dropped—Kim must have told his brother she was just on the other side of the door. Isabelle zipped and buttoned and fluffed as quickly as she could. She’d need lots more time and supplies to have a prayer of looking like anything other than a woman who had recently had a peak sexual experience.
Which was unfortunately what she was. It hadn’t seemed unfortunate sixty seconds earlier.
“Go ahead, Kerry,” she heard Kim say as she reached for the bathroom door. “Explain to me how I’m wasting my life.” The brothers’ conversation, for all it having been briefly quiet, had apparently not become any less heated. “Explain how it’s better to build something slowly and methodically than take a risk. Far better to be hemmed in by your obsessive need for certainty than dare to trust yourself—choose something with the potential to be amazing.”
She didn’t want to walk into the middle of this.
How she wished for some lipstick or a little cologne to give her an extra shot of confidence in front of Kim and his pushy brother. She didn’t. She splashed water on her face and knocked the damn plastic bag back to the floor while reaching blindly for a towel.
As she patted her face dry, she realized what Kim had said. Obsessive about certainty. Unwilling to trust.
Not said, hurled. As if they were insults. Faults.
But then anyone who could hang fifty feet in the air with nothing but a thin nylon rope between himself and certain harm would have a different ideas about trust.
And just like that, her doubts came back to swamp her.
Are we so different, Isabelle?
Her body swam with an unhappy mix of disappointment, self-recrimination for getting attached and hormones. She got on her knees to collect the contents of the bag she’d spilled—real estate leaflets, mortgage applications, a bunch of pictures of houses printed on a realtor’s stationery, with red circled numbers beside them. That was all fine. But then she found the street map with corresponding red-circled numbers.
The Austin street map, two hundred miles from here. He was buying a house in Austin?
He hadn’t thought to mention it—the man who’d gotten pissy at learning Steven had threatened her? The man who just now had proposed their next date, as if there were all the time in the world? Or did he merely assume she’d be okay with a long-distance arrangement?
Daniel’s betrayal had made good and sure she’d never be okay with a long-distance arrangement.
As she was once again about to open the door, this time to confront Kim, Kerry said, “I should have taken my time getting here. Another day and maybe you’d have moved on—found another girl with another set of problems to make you feel special.”
Another girl with another…
Another client. Another waitress. Another nubile young climber.
Another day to move on.
Of all the—
Forget the earth-shaking sex. The world-altering kisses. His jokes and smiles and way of putting her at ease. Forget even the fact she’d had to discover his moving plans by accident. She would not be just another in an apparently endless line of women.
Girls.
Isabelle tore open the bathroom door, all but spitting, just in time to see Kim’s fist connect with his brother’s jaw. She assumed it was Kim’s brother. Looked nothing like him. This other man had darker hair, including a gray-streaked beard, bonier build, taller, and wore a three-piece suit and tie.
Isabelle didn’t care.
“Moving on, Kim Martin?” she said, her voice rising. “Moving on? When were you going to tell me?”
His eyes looked a little wild. “It’s not like that, Isabelle.”
“No,” she said, “it’s like that.” She pointed at the sex-induced wreckage of his bed. “And a broken desk. And a waitress who will forever be grateful for your help.” Other girls. Other clients, even. She knew it. She knew it all along.
“Son of a bitch,” she said. She opened the front door. “Go and help lots of girls in Austin. Whoop it up. Break all the furniture. Do it with my blessing, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from you, Kim Martin, it’s the importance of letting go. Consider yourself let.”
She slammed the door behind her.
* * * * *
Kim didn’t know where to look, what to do with the outrage boiling up inside him. Leave it to Kerry to push his buttons, dredging up the past, while Kim was still getting used to the idea of a very different future. His gaze darted between the still-vibrating door and his now-recovered brother.
Isabelle was gone. He couldn’t let that happen. He broke for the door. Kerry grabbed him on the way past. Only the grip on Kim’s arm prevented another not-so-brotherly punch. Kim wasn’t keen to follow up on the first such punch in nearly ten years, but Kerry was asking for it.
“Get off me, man,” Kim warned.
“Let her go.”
Kim followed his arm, shoving his shoulder against his brother, surprising Kerry into releasing his grip.
“Kim, don’t,” Kerry said. He flattened himself against the front door as if daring Kim to go through him. “She’s pissed, you’re pissed—give her some space. I’ve been married fifteen years. Trust me on this one.”
“Trust you? You’re the one that set her off. Get out of my way.” Kim grabbed the lapels of Kerry’s suit coat to physically move him.
Kerry’s hands covered his, probably trying to spare the nice fabric getting wrinkled. Too late for that. “Sounded to me like it was more about a waitress than anything I said.”
“Mind your own business.” Kim tore open the door and ran out into the breezeway. The elevator would take too long. He turned toward the stairs. Maybe he could catch her before she left the garage.
“If you love her enough to chase her, love her enough to help her,” Kerry shouted after him. “Love her enough to appraise the ring.” Kim paused, his hand on the doorknob of the stairwell door.
“You do love her, then,” Kerry said.
Kim kicked the metal door. His feet were bare, which only proved he hadn’t been thinking straight. It hurt like only steel doors could. He cursed.
“Congratulations, Kim. Now listen to me. She has a problem you can fix. Fix it. Then talk to her.”
Pain lava’d through his toes. Kerry had a point. Isabelle was still in trouble. And now she was going home to face trouble alone. He couldn’t let that happen, even if she pushed him from her life forever after—a prospect that hurt more than his foot. He pounded the door with the side of his fist, but the pain wasn’t enough to give his heart any real company. “Fifteen years, huh?” Kim said.
“Sixteen right after your birthday, should you trouble yourself to send champagne.”
“Don’t push it,” he grumbled.
“Get in here and put on a shirt. You’re scaring the neighbors.”
* * * * *
Even after a lengthy bout of screaming in the car, Isabelle was barely hol
ding it together when she got home. She wanted a long, long shower, possibly followed by a bath. And if there were water streaming down her face by then, well, it might be written off as humidity.
It ought to be humidity—she had no business shedding tears over Kim Martin. It was her own stupidity that had led her to this.
Whatever this was.
Thinking too much of him. Hoping for more from him. Projecting a future into his kisses. But any possible future would depend on separation and hours of travel.
Phone calls and texts. And wondering who else was in his life.
She unlocked the back door and had already pulled off her first shoe before she got past the mudroom. She nearly tripped over the toolbox still sitting on its towel in front of the washing machine, where she’d dragged it yesterday morning. An age ago.
Crap. She was going to have to see him again. Maybe she’d be a coward about it—arrange to be away and leave Charlie to handle the exchange.
She aimed the shoe in her hand at the kitchen door and let fly. It hit the doorframe and ricocheted halfway back to her instead of making it all the way to the dining room.
Figured.
She may as well be a coward. It couldn’t be worse than merely being stupid. Just because a man was kind and sweet and had a great sense of humor didn’t mean he wasn’t also a pig—look at Charlie! And just because he showed concern for her well-being didn’t mean he wanted the same things she did—things that went deeper than fun.
Respect.
Trust.
Love.
She’d been pretty sure of Kim’s respect, although having heard him disparage his brother for being methodical and productive made her wonder. Maybe one of out three wasn’t so bad, given they’d only known one another a few days.
Of course, she’d been sure of Steven’s love—Daniel’s love—and look where that had gotten her.
Was she wisely protecting herself from another Steven? Or was she a fool for giving up so quickly?
She collected her shoe and was weighing the potential satisfaction of flinging it again when she spotted an unusual flash of color in the dining room. She stalked to the doorway. Her stockpot, heavily beaded with condensation, sat on the dining room table atop a stack of bright orange dishtowels. Within it, a pair of Shiner Bock beers bobbed in a sea of melting ice. Beside it, her bud vase held a single daffodil, suspiciously similar to the daffodils she’d admired in her neighbor’s garden. And between the stockpot and the bud vase, her spare house key and a page torn from the memo pad she kept by the phone in the kitchen. She recognized Charlie’s scrawl. “Thanks, sis,” it read. “Cheers.”
She dropped the shoe to grab the sweating stockpot and haul it to the kitchen sink. What had Charlie been thinking? If he had ruined her dining room table…
She hurried back to grab the towels. They hadn’t soaked through. She made herself take a breath. And another. It was a sweet gesture, really, chilling her favorite beer for her. So he was sloppy about the finer points. That was Charlie for you—easygoing, wonderful heart, essentially clueless. To judge from this display, Gina must have forgiven him his cluelessness. She smiled.
The doorbell rang. That would be Kim and his easygoing, wonderful heart, dying to explain away what had happened at his loft. Her pulse raced at the prospect. It would make perfect sense and she’d laugh at her own foolishness. They’d fall into one another’s arms, and…
She opened the door. It was Charlie. To judge by the backpack hanging on his shoulder, Gina hadn’t forgiven him.
Crap.
* * * * *
Kim needed a shower and a shave. Cleaning up for Isabelle might even improve his odds of getting an audience. But that all presumed her anger was the most serious thing stalking her today. With her ex threatening her and possibly having broken into her house once already, Kim wasn’t willing to gamble. He settled for a speedy change of clothes in the bathroom while Kerry amused himself with the real estate flyers Kim had brought back from Austin, the flyers Isabelle had thrown into the kitchen on her way out of his life.
“None of them are what I want,” Kim said when Kerry asked whether he’d decided on anything. His stomach burned with the need to hurry in spite of his agreeing to give Isabelle a little time. “The realtor found out about this loft and assumed I’d want something in the same vein.”
“And you don’t,” Kerry said through the frosted glass door.
“I don’t. I want something that doesn’t give a damn what’s hip, something with real character. Something with roots.”
“Something that wears vintage suits,” Kerry said.
“Mind your own business.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re moving.” He hadn’t understood why Kim hadn’t let his money call the shots on Kim’s college life, either. The man didn’t get him at all.
“I love climbing.” Kerry said nothing, which pissed Kim off. He left the bathroom saying, “I do. I’ll have you know I’ve been climbing for almost two years. Teaching, too. Why the hell shouldn’t I live closer to what I love?”
“Kim, do you know how long I’ve waited to have this conversation?”
Great. Kerry was one-upping him again. Pulling the surrogate dad bit. Kim pushed past him. “I’ve got a bucket of don’t-care right here with your name on it.”
Kerry smiled, quite an event in itself. Kim always figured Kerry allowed himself two smiles a year—one for the annual family portrait and one wild card. Hard to believe he’d spend the wild card here with his good-for-nothing brother. “A bucket of don’t-care?”
“Big bucket,” Kim assured him. He searched the closet for shoes.
Kerry laughed. Truly startling. Was the man ill?
“That actually wasn’t a joke, Kerry.”
Kerry shook his head, grinning. Kim picked up the hat Isabelle left behind on his dresser. “You got something to say, Smiling Boy?” He pushed past his brother, out the door.
“If you don’t come for your birthday, Ann is going to absolutely kill me.” He looked as if he’d break out laughing again any second.
“There’s incentive,” Kim muttered.
* * * * *
Isabelle paced the living room while Charlie sat, lump-like, on the sofa. She still clutched the damp dishtowels Charlie had tucked beneath the sweating stockpot.
“You liked the flower. So why didn’t Gina? I thought women liked flowers,” he said.
How crazy was he to pick this moment to ask for ideas to soothe the woman he’d wronged? She wanted to throw him out, but he was her brother. And he’d asked—begged, really.
She took a breath and found she couldn’t expel it without battling temptation to yell.
“Gina isn’t women. She’s one woman. And this is one day.” Don’t treat her as interchangeable.
“It’s been four days,” he whined.
“She might like flowers on another day,” Isabelle explained, her blood pressure rising with the effort to be calm. “Or is there something that connects flowers with your supermarket bimbo?”
Oh, the look on his face. Somehow, he’d managed to make flowers a symbol for his infidelity. Stupid, stupid man.
“Flowers were maybe a mistake. I see that,” he said. “What can I do? I want this to work.”
“What can you do? Damn it, Charlie, tell Gina the truth.” So much for calm.
“I did. Seems to me I’d be better off lying.”
Isabelle threw the dishtowels at him, her face hot. “Tell her everything. Tell her your plans. Tell her how you feel. Show her it’s her you want and not some other client.”
“Client?”
She flushed. “Woman.” Her hands curled to fists, as if it would help her cling to the shreds of her self-control.
“How do I do that?”
“I don’t know, Charlie.” If she’d gotten in the shower first thing after getting home, like she’d wanted to, she could have missed this charming exchange.
She pulled off her wrinkled su
it coat and folded it over her arm, smoothing it with exaggerated care. It was probably due for the cleaners so it would get a proper pressing. If only her stupid heart could be so easily straightened out.
Maybe helping Charlie with his would help.
“The apartment is where you fought, so that’s no good.” She resumed pacing, waving a hand impatiently. “Take it to neutral ground. Ask her to go for a walk in the park or something.”
“Park. The great outdoors. No need for money. That’s good.” Charlie sat up straight on the sofa, paying attention.
“Find something there that gives you something to talk about—something that’s not you. A tree, a dog, a baby. Then make it about her.” She found she was compulsively smoothing her suit coat over her arm. She made herself stop. “Give her a compliment, but stay away from body parts and clothing. Make it something you love about her.”
“Like what?”
Classic Charlie, opening his mouth before he used his brain. Lucky for both of them, he clamped it shut again with obvious chagrin before she could scream at him.
“I mean, you think that will be enough?”
Isabelle sighed. “Maybe. If she wants to forgive you.”
Charlie stood up. “I hope she does. Guess I should be a man and go find out, huh?”
Tears stung her eyes as he drew her into a hug. “Be more than a man, Charlie. Be good to her. Be honest.”
She pushed him out the door, blinking rapidly until she had control of herself. No tears, even if Gina settled for a man whose idea of making up was sending flowers.
Isabelle didn’t doubt Charlie’s sincerity. But if Gina gave him another try and he betrayed her again, it would be far worse than the first time. Trust a man with a history and she’d have only herself to blame.
Isabelle liked to think she was the kind of woman who learned from her mistakes. She caught herself crumpling her suit coat in her fist and got mad all over again. At what point had this stopped being about Gina? She stormed to the bedroom.
Isabelle hadn’t learned from mistakes. Twice. What had she been thinking to go back for seconds with Kim Martin? Her body knew exactly what she’d been thinking. Her body was not in charge here. She wanted a shower more than ever.