Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  It could have been cleared out by a maintenance man or former tenant at any point over the last forty years. Who knows?

  By the time the dust clears, it’s only Brent, Steven, and myself left in the chaos of the apartment. The door is broken, the closet is busted, and there are bits of wall and drywall dust everywhere.

  “Steven. Thank you for everything,” Brent says, shaking his hand.

  “I should have known better than to date someone I met online,” he says. “I have to check on Grandma Martha. Bethany, if you need anything, we’ll be right next door.”

  “Thanks, Steven.”

  He leaves and then it’s just me and Brent.

  “You can’t stay here.” He’s eyeing the front door, which is not only busted without a lock, it’s also covered in police tape.

  “I know.”

  He helps me pack a bag. We need to talk, but I don’t know where to start.

  He must feel the same because we leave the apartment in silence and drive over to his building.

  Once we’re there, Brent makes tea. The adrenaline rush has dissipated and now I’m brimming with exhausted confusion.

  We sit at the dining table, tea in hands, unspoken words hanging in the air between us like a lingering rain cloud. Where do we begin?

  Finally, he places his mug on the table with a quiet clunk and shifts his knees in my direction. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” I shake my head and put my mug next to his. “I’m sorry.”

  “I shouldn’t have questioned you. I knew better. I did. I do.”

  “You had every right to ask.” I clasp my hands in my lap. I want to reach for him, but I don’t want to make the first move. Why did he wait so long to apologize? Did he change his mind about me? About us?

  His hands move and for a flickering heartbeat of a second I think he’s reaching for me, but instead he picks up his mug from the table.

  “I want you to know, I’m pissed at Dad for everything he did. Not just to you, but how he’s treated me and Marc. I’m not talking to him anymore. Also . . . I’m having surgery in two weeks.” His words are rushed, like he needs to push them out as quickly as possible.

  “That’s good, Brent. I’m really proud of you.” Does he want me to be there? Does he need my support? I search his eyes, but he shifts them down to his lap.

  The questions simmer on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too scared to spit them out. What if he says no? He didn’t come over tonight to start things back up, he came over to save me from a psychopath. Would he have come if not for Natalie?

  I want to go to him. Lean on him. Tell him all about how I’m looking for jobs, unload the stress of getting Mom into rehab. And I want to comfort him, too. Support him during his dark time.

  He glances at me and then away. He fidgets with his mug, picking it up, putting it down again. Then he takes a sip. He doesn’t speak. There’s no real indication he would welcome anything more from me.

  And that’s fine.

  Maybe I need time to think over whether we’re really good for each other or if we were leaning on each other for unhealthy reasons. Because of his heart, because of my mom.

  Maybe it would be a good thing, just for a little bit, to see if we can stand on our own.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The only way to prove that you’re a good sport is to lose.

  –Ernie Banks

  Bethany

  I found a job. It’s not the best job in the world. The pay is shit. I’ll make enough to cover rent and little else. But it’s something. At least I can get Mom into rehab for the next six months. I’ll worry about how to pay for it later.

  It’s a beautiful day outside, the first real nice spring day in April, and I’m using the opportunity to stain my new door. The window is open, letting in the sun and air.

  I’m sitting on the floor inside my apartment, getting the bottom panel, when there’s a gentle knock on my doorframe.

  It’s probably Steven. He’s bringing me some pamphlets on some rare bird found in Central Park, the Kirtland’s warbler. We’ve gotten closer since the whole thing with Natalie. We can both use a friend.

  “Did you already find the . . . ?”

  My voice trails off when I see who’s standing in the doorway.

  Mr. Crawford.

  He looks completely out of place in his expensive suit and his slicked-back hair. He makes the walls look even grungier than normal.

  My mouth is agape with shock.

  I click it shut.

  “You want to come in?”

  “Want is a strong word.”

  A startled laugh escapes me. “Come on in.”

  He steps into the apartment.

  I watch while he eyes the stained carpet and shabby drapes.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No.” Awkward pause. “I just wanted a minute of your time.”

  In the living room, I sit on the edge of the couch.

  He’s still standing in the small entry and I motion for him to take a seat on the chair opposite. He eyes it like it might bite his balls off before sitting gingerly on the cushion, crouched like he’s ready to bolt at any second.

  His face is drawn, his mouth curved into a frown.

  “Mr. Crawford?” I prompt after a long moment of silence.

  “I want to offer you a job.”

  I couldn’t be more shocked if he had offered me a lap dance. “A job? My old job?”

  “Not quite.” Another pregnant pause while I wonder if I’m dreaming. “I want to offer you Marc’s job.”

  I laugh. Man’s got jokes.

  He doesn’t join me.

  I blink. “You’re not kidding?”

  “Brent was right. You know what to do better than anyone else there. You care about the help . . . I mean, employees.” He draws in a breath and releases it, some of the tension leaving his body. “Plus I need help finding my own replacement. I’m retiring. You won’t even have to deal with me anymore.”

  “Is this one of those prank shows?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not a prank.” He rattles off a starting salary and benefits package.

  I almost pee my pants.

  “Come to the office tomorrow morning and we can negotiate your contract and go over expectations.”

  He stands and steps toward the doorway.

  That’s it?

  “Wait.” I stand in a panic.

  He stops just in front of the doorway.

  “Have you talked to him?”

  He shakes his head.

  “The surgery is next week.”

  “I know. He won’t talk to me. And he’s right to be angry. I lost both my boys because of my own stubbornness. Don’t make the same choices I did.”

  “He loves you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be so upset. He just wants to know you care about him more than the business. You should tell him.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  With one last nod, he leaves.

  I sink back down to the couch.

  A job? A freaking major job. Do I want it? I might be good at it. Like, really good. And the first month’s salary alone will pay for Mom’s rehab. And a new place to live. A nice place with new furniture and clean walls.

  Can this really be happening? I don’t know whether to laugh or crap my pants.

  Only one thing would make it perfect.

  I pick up my cell phone and scroll through my contacts. My thumb hovers over Brent’s name. Brent Hottie McHotpants.

  Maybe he’ll tell me to get lost, but then I’ll know and I can move on.

  No chickening out now. I push the call button, but it goes straight to voicemail.

  Disappointment floods through me.

  I’m sure he’s busy, what with everything going on and surgery coming up.

  I’ll try him again later.

  ~*~

  Later never happens. Between signing up
for the new job—haggling with Mr. Crawford for something that actually involves a little work–life balance—and getting Mom into the rehab center, I don’t have a moment to breathe until a week later.

  Mr. Crawford and I are working late one night going over résumés in the conference room together when he drops it on me.

  “The surgery is tomorrow morning.”

  Surprised, I look up from the paper in my hands to find him watching me from the other side of the mahogany table. “Are you going?”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His chin drops into his chest. “You should go. I’ll cover things here.”

  “Are you—?”

  He clears his throat. “What did you think about the third quarter sales reports from last year?”

  I know he’s avoiding the topic. But it’s progress that he brought it up at all.

  We don’t talk about it again until we’re leaving for the evening.

  “So I’ll see you Thursday?” he asks, brows lifted.

  Tomorrow is Wednesday.

  “Thursday,” I agree.

  It’s kind of like Mr. Crawford has been replaced by an alien. Not the same person I used to work for. Although he still makes sexist comments occasionally, and the staff is still terrified of him, he doesn’t fire me every day and he stops himself when he realizes he’s done something offensive. He’s more subdued. Quiet, almost.

  Bright and early the next morning, I show up at Mount Sinai and find the waiting room for surgical procedures. It’s so early, there’s hardly anyone there. Except one familiar couple.

  “Gwen?”

  “You made it!” She immediately wraps me in a hug before pulling back. “How are you? How is the apartment? Brent told us about all the madness. I can’t even believe how much we’ve missed since we’ve been gone.”

  She moves back so Marc can give me a side hug.

  “How is he?” I ask. I can’t answer questions until I know.

  “We haven’t heard anything yet. They said it would take about four hours.”

  I nod, but I knew they wouldn’t have info on the surgery yet. That’s not what I was asking.

  Gwen takes my arm and leads me to the seats they were occupying in the corner of the light blue waiting room. “He was nervous and I think he hoped you would be here before he went in.”

  “I didn’t know what time. I tried to call him. I didn’t know you guys were back.”

  She nods. “His phone has been off. Too much press and things going on, it was stressing him out more. He thought if you wanted to see him, you would show up at the apartment.”

  “I would have but . . . Mr. Crawford hired me to take over your old job.” I nod to Marc. “He’s retiring.”

  “Wait. My dad?” Marc interjects.

  “Yeah.”

  “Dad is retiring? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. He’s really changed, Marc. I think everything that happened with you and now Brent woke him up.”

  “From the coma he’s been in for the last thirty years,” he mutters.

  Gwen nudges him with her arm. “We should call him.”

  “You should,” I say. “He thinks you all hate him.”

  Marc’s mouth tilts and he nods. “Well, we kinda do.”

  “Maybe it’s time to start over,” Gwen says.

  He kisses the side of her head. “You’re the angel on my shoulder.”

  “Always.”

  Ugh they’re so cute I want to barf.

  I update them on everything from my viewpoint—since they probably already heard most of it from Brent—while they were gone, skimming over some of the more personal details involving Brent and I, but it’s clear they already have an inkling.

  After I answer their multitude of questions, Gwen tells me all about their time in Europe and the pics she got of some indigenous culture in Pakistan. By the time we’ve exhausted nearly everything we could possibly talk about, over an hour has passed but we still have time to wait.

  As time ticks on, I get more and more anxious about how the surgery is going until I think I’m going to scream.

  Finally, the surgeon emerges. She’s all professional and unsmiling and fear pierces me. What if something horrible happened? But when we stand to greet her, her mouth finally moves into a small upward tilt.

  “Everything went well. He’s in the CV-ICU and they’re removing the ventilation now. He’s still under sedation but should be more awake soon. He won’t be completely aware, but I know he would like to see a familiar face. Only one person can go back now.”

  My heart sinks. Marc should go. He’s his brother. I’m just a friend. Barely that.

  Marc nudges me. “She should be there.”

  “And you are?” the surgeon asks.

  “Bethany,” I say, glancing back at Marc in confusion.

  “His fiancée,” Gwen says.

  My mouth pops open. “I’m—”

  “You should take her back now just in case.” Marc pushes me again and I shoot him a look.

  The surgeon doesn’t seem to notice the interaction, thankfully. “Right this way.”

  We’re buzzed through a set of doors and then she leads me down a winding maze of turns and corridors to the room.

  She leaves me in the white-walled room with Brent and a nurse who is pushing buttons on the machine next to the bed.

  He’s awake, gaze lowered, but his head lifts and when he sees me, he smiles. “Hey.”

  He’s okay. I can see he’s okay and he’s going to be fine even though there are wires attached to him and a large bumpy bandage over his chest, but my eyes still fill with tears.

  I move to the bed and grasp his hand.

  His eyes are glazed, movements slow. His head trails down to our clasped hands and then back to my face.

  He smiles sleepily. “You’re an angel.”

  I chuckle. “Hardly.”

  “Sexy angel. Are you here for me?”

  “Yes. I’m here for you.”

  “I’m so lucky. You’re so beautiful. Who are you?”

  The nurse laughs. “He’s still pretty out of it.”

  “I can tell,” I say.

  “He might fall in and out of sleep for a bit. There’s some water here if he gets thirsty. I’ll be back to check on him in about thirty minutes. Push the button if he needs anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  She leaves and when I turn back to Brent, he’s gazing at me with a light in his eyes.

  “You’re so stoned.”

  “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That seems right.” He stares down at our hands, rubbing the tops of my fingers with his thumb. He yawns. “Don’t leave me again.” His eyes flick to mine, serious for a brief moment before they fall shut and his body relaxes.

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  All of life is about fixing what you fucked up.

  –Karen Kilgariff

  My Favorite Murder minisode 4

  Brent

  My eyes are weighed down with sand. Grainy. Uncomfortable. My mouth is dry. My chest hurts. I blink my eyes open and stare at a textured white ceiling.

  Everything is sore.

  Light filters in from an open door around the edge of a light blue curtain.

  I’m in the hospital.

  Memories rush back. Surgery. Waking up in a different room.

  Bethany.

  Bethany.

  I glance up and find her in the chair next to me, slumped over, one hand stretched out onto my bed near my fingers.

  She’s going to have a crick in her neck.

  My hand moves over hers and I squeeze gently.

  “Angry cinnamon bun.” She jerks to wakefulness on a gasp.

  I chuckle. “Having interesting dreams?”

  She blinks at me. “You’re awake.”

  “I’m here.”

  “How do you fee
l? Do you need the nurse?”

  “Just some water would be great.”

  There’s a cup on a tray nearby and she holds it up for me to take a sip.

  “Better?”

  “Better.”

  We stare at each other for a few long seconds. She looks tired and rumpled and her hair is sticking out in about a thousand directions. And she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever woken up to.

  “Your dad was here,” she says. “Gwen and Marc, too. They all went to get some food but should be back soon.”

  “Marc and Dad went to get food together? Willingly?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Crawford is retiring.”

  “That’s . . . what?”

  She chuckles and her hand turns in mine, linking our fingers together. Is she being affectionate just because I’m in a hospital bed, or does it mean something?

  “Yes. It’s shocking, but your dad is really leaving the company. I mean, he’s still an owner, but he’s leaving the work part to others.”

  “But the company means everything to him.”

  “You and Marc mean more. And it was the only way he could show it. And he’s giving me Marc’s old job.”

  My jaw drops. “What? That’s amazing, B.” I squeeze her hand. “He couldn’t have picked a better choice.”

  She bites her lip and her gaze dips. “I tried to call you.”

  “You did? My phone’s been off.”

  “I know.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Gwen told me. I wanted to tell you that . . . I miss you.”

  The lingering pain in my chest lightens with her words. “I miss you, too. I wanted to tell you that night, after the whole thing with Natalie. But I didn’t want to take advantage after what you had just gone through.” It nearly killed me to stay quiet, to not take her in my arms and beg her to promise she’d never leave. But if she’d said yes, then woken up the next day and looked at me with regret? Or worse? “And I didn’t want pity, or for you to take me back out of some sense of obligation.”

  Her head shakes at my words. “It would never be like that.”

  “Then can we start over?”

  She shifts in the seat. “I don’t really want to start over.”