“I know how hard this is for you. I might tease, but I know what this is costing you and I’m going to pay you back. Every. Single. Cent. It means a lot to me that you’re here. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway. Partly because I mean it, but also because it’ll freak you out so badly that having dinner with my parents will look like a cakewalk.”
My heart skips a beat. I know where he’s headed. Before I can protest, he tells me, “I love you, India.”
My fingers tighten around his arms, and I nuzzle against his cheek. I clear my throat and blurt out, “There’s going to be cake?”
His stubble roughs against me as he laughs and strokes his thumbs across my stomach.
My heart swells with the sound. Not painful—delighted. His laugh, a deliciously warm antidote to the cold poison of anxiety flowing through my veins.
“Yeah, there’s going to be cake.”
“Well, if that’s the case…”
“I’ll have to learn to bake.”
“That might be wise.”
He sets me down and smooths the fabric of my swingy skirt over my hips, lingering over the worst welts with pinches and tweaks that make me suck air through my teeth. Another layer of security. He’s claimed me as his: his to mark, his to care for and cherish. We exchange a secret-keeping smile. No one needs to know this is how we say I love you.
*
He guides me up the walk and doesn’t pause before pressing the doorbell, not wanting to give me a chance to change my mind. Chimes sound inside the house, and there’s the shuffle of footsteps and a flurry of voices. The door swings open, and Mary’s familiar form greets me, barefoot and wearing a chambray shirt dress.
“India, so nice to see you again. Cris is so selfish keeping you all to himself. I’m glad he wore down under all my nagging and let you out to play.”
I can’t help the heat that creeps into my cheeks, but I will so let Crispin take the hit for this. No need for Mary to know I’ve never had a boyfriend and the last time I met a hopeful boy’s parents was in high school. And Crispin isn’t even my boyfriend. Oh, shut up, brain. Mary isn’t interested in The Complete and Unabridged Romantic History of India Burke. I settle for, “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Come on in. Mal’s finishing up in the kitchen. He’s so looking forward to meeting you. He doesn’t like to be left out,” she confides with a wink. We follow her down the hall, fingers entwined. I make a conscious effort to loosen my death grip on Crispin. So far, so good. The hall opens up into a bright kitchen, and my eyes wander around the room. I have to remind myself Mal’s in a wheelchair and I’m not going to find him at eye level.
“India.”
I’ve heard his voice secondhand on the phone, but now I’m hearing it in real life. This is where Crispin gets it. And the curly hair. A silver mop instead of dark covers Mal’s head, and devious grey eyes shine from underneath. He thrusts a hand at me, and I take it in both of mine. It’s warm like Crispin’s, but thinner, with papery skin. Mal’s not that old, but his illness has taken a toll on his body, making him brittle. His personality is anything but frail, though, and he launches into a rat-a-tat-tat of small talk: how was my trip, when do I have to leave, how do I like Kona, etc.
“Don’t you get sick of flying halfway across the ocean all the time?”
“I don’t mind. It gives me a chance to catch up on sleep. And now that the flight attendants know me, they give me extra snacks. It’s not so bad.”
“You oughta make Cris come to you. No reason he can’t pick up and get on a plane.” Well, no reason except I’ve never asked him to come. “Seeing the mainland more often might do him some good.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I catch Crispin’s eye and wonder what it would be like to have him in my apartment. Sitting on my couch. Reading a book from my shelf when he inevitably runs out of the ones he brought because he refuses to get an e-reader. Opening cabinets and drawers looking for some fancy kitchen tool I don’t have, like a mandolin or a potato ricer, because he’s cooking me dinner. It’s tempting. For a second. My boundaries may have shifted, but they’re not gone and I don’t want to blur the lines further.
Despite the hiccup of the idea of Crispin coming to visit me on my turf, my freak-out is on the downslope as Crispin gives me a quick tour of the place and continues its slip when he passes me a glass of wine upon our return to the kitchen. It’s an exercise in self-control to not chug the glass, but I make it last until the meal is served. I need to ration my liquid courage.
Dinner is the best meal I’ve ever had. I don’t know what Mal did to this fish to make it so delicious, and maybe I don’t want to. It’s surely illegal. Nothing should taste this good. I stuff myself silly and offer profuse compliments to the chef.
“Your protégé isn’t too shabby, but this was incredible. Clearly there are some secrets you haven’t shared yet. Really, Mal. It was so good, thank you.”
“Pretty, smart, and she likes my cooking. Clearly a keeper.”
Crispin shoots eye daggers of death at his father. Did he warn them against too much relationship chatter? If so, what did he say? Mary has pushed back from the table and is gathering up dishes. I move to help, but Mal swoops to my side and takes up my hand. “Guests don’t clean up in this house. Besides, I want to talk to you about free school lunches and rapid re-housing.”
I look over my shoulder as Mal drags me to the living room and Crispin mouths, Good luck.
In the cozy living room, Mal and I chat away about public policy. He’s sharp, opinionated, and insightful. He takes the time to organize his arguments. He would’ve made a good lawyer. Our politics are similar so a lot of the conversation is preaching to the choir, but we differ on our thoughts about the resale of publicly financed affordable housing and go at each other tooth and nail. Despite the vociferousness of our argument and some arm-waving on Mal’s part that’s so emphatic half his glass of vinho verde ends up on the floor, it’s good-natured and fun. Crispin and Mary join us after a while, bearing trays heavy with tea and—as promised—cake.
I slice and plate the cake at Mary’s invitation, and when I’ve finished passing it out, I sit on the floor at Crispin’s feet, my shoulder buffeted by his knee. There’s plenty of room on the couch, and I catch a glance between Mal and Mary. Does this say something to them? Other than I don’t want to hunch over to eat my cake? Did Crispin’s other subs do this or make more blatant displays of their submission in front of them? Maybe slip and call him sir?
I try not to let it bother me because kneeling beside Crispin with my heels digging into the fading welts on my ass is the most comfortable I’ve been since we got here. After I’ve managed to stuff even more food in my face, I withdraw from the conversation, a spirited exchange with gentle barbs honed by years of back-and-forth. I’ve never been great at prattle, and I’ve expended my social capital for the day, if not the month. I’m tapped out.
My eyelids start to sink, and I lean my head against Crispin’s thigh. He’s solid and steady, and I’m done for when he rests a warm hand on my shoulder and strokes my neck with his thumb.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when voices rouse me the slightest bit.
“You’ve got quite the enigma there, Cris.”
“I know it.”
“You like her.”
“I more than like her.”
“It’s pretty clear she more than likes you, too.”
“Some times more than others.”
“I could say the same about your mother and me.”
Crispin’s low laugh rumbles through his body, making me stir but not open my eyes.
“I should get her home.”
“You’re welcome to stay over. Your room’s always ready.”
There’s a beat of silence in which I think it wouldn’t be so bad to sleep in Crispin’s childhood bedroom, curled up together under his old surf posters.
“We’ll go back, but thanks.”
/> There’s a twinge of disappointment somewhere in my ribcage, and I don’t understand why. Sleeping in the same bed is against the rules and hasn’t been repeated since the anomaly. I should be happy he’s respecting the borders I’ve drawn, however messed up and arbitrary they are. That’s what I want, right? But I’m not so sure anymore.
“You’ll bring her by again?”
“I hope so. I don’t think you scared her too badly.”
“Please, I’m the easy one. If she survived Typhoon Mary, she’s got nothing to fear from little old me. She’s a good match for you. Don’t let her get away or make her work too hard for it. And don’t use your mother and me as an excuse. We’d be fine. Move to California if you have to.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
There’s a hint of defeat in Crispin’s voice. Would he move to San Diego if I asked him to? Would he want to? He’s refused anyone who’s asked, and I told him I wouldn’t. I can’t imagine him anywhere but in his hideaway paradise, and I don’t want to. I like him there. I like us there—no outside forces acting on us, making things even harder than they already are.
“Well, you should get going. Put your little paradox to bed. I hope it’s the time change, not that we were too rough with her.”
Crispin wakes me with fingers running through my hair and a soft, “Mili, it’s time to go home.”
The way he’s looking at me when I open my eyes makes me melt. I’m glad I could do this for him. We say our thank-yous and goodbyes, and Mary says she hopes I’ll come again soon as she kisses my cheek in farewell.
I take a deep breath. “I’d like that.”
Chapter Seven
‡
“India!”
I swear the phone on my desk vibrates from the force of Jack’s voice. I don’t know why he bothers with the intercom. When he’s in these kinds of moods, I can hear him from down the hall.
I grab my tablet and hightail it to his office.
The scene I find when I get there… Shit. Jack needs a haircut. He looks like Bozo the Clown without the freaky dye job and if Bozo wore Armani. The tie he’d had on this morning is nowhere in sight, and his sleeves are rolled up. The pacing has started.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“You buzzed me ten seconds ago.”
“Christ,” he bites off, pulling fistfuls of hair away from his scalp. He makes a few more loops before he turns on me. “I need you to go to Chicago tomorrow.”
My heart shudders to a stop. “I thought Chow and Rodriguez were handling that.”
“They are. Correction, they were.”
Uh-oh. Chow is very good, and with Rodriguez to back her up, they’re almost as good as me. Key word being almost.
“But Slade Lewis, your friendly neighborhood henchman of Satan, is siccing his demon spawn auditors on them, and they’re flipping out. You need to manage the situation. Your flight leaves at six. Lucy’s making the arrangements.”
“Isn’t that your job? You know, name on the letterhead and making the big bucks and all?” My stall tactic is just that. There’s no way I’m getting out of this. Jack works as much as I do, and he doesn’t have room for this on his plate.
“In a few years, it’s going to be yours, so you’d best get used to it. In the meantime, if you can get this done, I think it’s time we talked about your next title.”
Next title? I’m already a senior associate. There are four of us, and there’s no one between us and Jack.
“How do you like the sound of principal associate?”
My lips part, and there’s a bloom of warmth in my chest. I like it. A lot. This is Jack making explicit what’s been implicit since I’d been here for a year: I’m the heir apparent.
“Earth to India?”
“Sorry, Jack. I was blinded by my name in lights. Principal associate would do.” I’d like flat-out principal better, but I won’t argue semantics. Jack’s got his reasons. “And all I have to do is go to Chicago? What’s the catch? Is Slade going to be there?”
Going to Chicago is a huge catch unto itself for me, but I’ve done my utmost to muddy the waters about why and I’m hoping Jack hasn’t noticed. To be fair, the name Slade Lewis does send a frisson of unease through me. I hate that guy. He’s the kind of sadist I don’t get along with.
“No, I’ve been assured Slade won’t be there. He should be tied up in Senate committee meetings. But you’re not going to catch a Cubs game or a Second City show. I want a clean bill of health from the four horsemen, and if you get it, you’ll get some shiny new business cards, okay? I’ll put glitter on ’em if you want.”
“Get me a Rainbow Brite decal for my briefcase, and we’ll talk.”
“How about an extra week of vacation or a raise?”
“Both?”
“You’re pushing your luck, Burke.” He dismisses me with a wave. “Get out of my sight before you piss me off. You’ll still have those numbers Greg Wu asked for on my desk before you leave.”
“Of course.” I turn to leave, but as my first Louboutin crosses the threshold, I’m held up by Jack’s voice.
“Hey, India?”
I cast a glance over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“What’s your deal with Chicago? You have an ex there or something?”
“No.” Just an imaginary line I swore I’d never cross. What, crazy talk? Me? Never. And what the fuck is this with Jack asking me a disturbingly personal question? Is this allowed now that he knows about Crispin? Or, more accurately, a guy he knows I’d been seeing and cared enough about to ditch work and fly across an ocean to be with when he was in the ICU? The man he’s smart enough to know I go see whenever I’m not here or traveling for work? This is why I never wanted to be a person in front of Jack. Too many questions.
“It seems like that city’s your kryptonite.”
Wrong again, Jack. It only seems that way because we’ve never worked in another city east of the Mississippi.
“Deep dish phobia.”
“That’ll do it.” He walks over to his liquor stash, pulling out the Macallan 25. Unlike the bourbon, this he doesn’t share. I’ve been dismissed. Again. “Oh, and P.S., you’re taking Evans.”
My hand’s on the doorjamb, and I nearly crush it between my fingers, Hulk-style, before I remind myself a principal associate wouldn’t do that. I content myself with a hard exhale and a stream of choice expletives muttered under my breath on the way back to my office.
*
“Bonjour, Tristesse.”
My brows knit in annoyance. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s the middle of the day. You never call in the middle of the day unless I’ve asked you to or there’s a problem. You don’t owe me a phone call, so shoot.”
Goddammit Rey.
“I have to go to Chicago.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. My flight leaves at six a.m.”
Rey sucks the air in through his teeth, a tic I don’t hear from him often. “You’re killing me, India. I can’t do much for you.”
“I know.” Rey’s been able to help me through some of my anxieties, train me out of them, but he’s never bothered trying with this. It’s too big, and I’ve made it a non-issue by moving here and by the rest of the way I conduct my affairs. Until now.
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to get on the plane tomorrow. I have to. Jack promised me a promotion if I can get us through this audit.”
“Little does he know the audit’s the easy part.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Call me when you get home.”
I slog through the report for Greg Wu and get up to speed on the Chicago project. They’d hired us to catch up on the annual paperwork HUD requires for every single public housing resident. It’s not intellectually challenging, but the rules change frequently and the pay is terrible, so it’s difficult to retain good staff. Hence Chicago’s two-year back-up on these
annual requirements. Chow, Rodriguez, and a few junior associates have been working round the clock to bang out half the backlog in three months.
I know they do good work—I trained them myself—but everyone makes mistakes, and these files need to be so clean they’re sterile in order to make it through the auditors. They’ve been trained by General Slade, so they’ll be eagle-eyed and obnoxious as well.
By the time I get home, the reality of what I’m going to have to do tomorrow has hit. I pour my requisite glass of wine and sink into a tub with extra bubbles. I’m going to need every ounce of comfort I can get.
I wish Rey were here. His tranquilizing properties aren’t as effective remotely. I also have a flash of wishing Crispin were here. He’d climb into my tub, put his strong arms around me, and let me burden him with my troubles.
Maybe I should call Crispin instead of Rey? The thought is a shock to my system. I haven’t thought of calling anyone but Rey since…since Hunter and I broke up. I wouldn’t have to start from scratch; Crispin is well-familiar with my river-crossing phobia. But the extent of it is embarrassing. How can a grown, educated, intelligent person believe in such crazy ideas? It’s so irrational as to be laughable. I know he wouldn’t laugh, but I’m not in a big hurry for him to think of me as more of a lunatic than he already must.
The phone lays un-dialed in my palm when there’s a soft knock at the bathroom door. Only one other person in the world has a key to my apartment, so unless this is an extremely courteous burglar…
“Rey!”
He deposits himself on the bathroom floor in his black suit, a glass of wine in his hand, long, lean legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
“Hey, PanAm.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Figured I could think as well on a plane as in my living room. Which, it turns out, is not very well. You’ve stumped me, little one. We should’ve done something about this earlier.”
“It’s not your problem. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
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