A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  After a sidewalk lunch at Gemini Bistro, Alex directed us to Fleet Feet. I was in the door before I caught on to the man and his mission: “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Nine. Why? Hey, you aren’t buying me shoes. I’ll buy them. Or I can just go get mine.”

  “No, this is my idea. I’m buying the shoes.” He looked very serious.

  “I’ll buy the shorts.”

  “Shorts?”

  “Alex, I’m wearing walking shorts and a blouse. I’m going to need more than shoes.”

  “I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have you know I thought about this outfit.” I feigned indignation.

  “Sam, I didn’t mean that. You’re beautiful.” He stopped and looked at me—really looked at me. I tucked the compliment and the look away for safekeeping.

  We wandered the store and I found everything I needed. Alex insisted on paying, and since he was being stubborn and makes far more money than I do, I let him. We then hoofed it to the Belden Stratford to change.

  If you’ve never been to Chicago, I think the Belden Stratford is the equivalent of renting an apartment at the Plaza in New York. (No, I haven’t seen it. I’ve read Eloise.) Gorgeous, I would guess; a fortune, I guarantee. Alex’s apartment is there, near the top floor with a gorgeous view of the lake. We changed quickly and were off.

  The day was perfect—mild, gentle breeze off the lake, and every moment felt charged with sunlight. Alex felt it too. The guy couldn’t stop smiling. It was an infectious good feeling.

  You can always talk more deeply when running because it feels safe. You can’t directly look at the person next to you. And you can’t hide much in so few clothes and so much sweat. Exhaustion also addles your inhibitions.

  “How is Cole?” I was really asking about him, and he knew it.

  “He’s better, Sam. I think that’s what my publisher knew—he needed to be pushed, but I was scared to do it. To push him means pushing me. That’s hard.”

  Alex then asked me about my relationship with Josh. At our first lunch I told him I had a boyfriend but didn’t add much detail, and I’ve never provided an update. It’s embarrassing. I still feel stupid. But I was completely honest. I told Alex everything.

  “. . . So that’s the end of my first real boyfriend. You know, we barely spent any time together all spring. That should have been a sign. I mean, don’t you want to be with your girlfriend?” Subtle probe.

  “I haven’t had one in so long, I can’t remember.”

  I threw him a scowl, suspecting he was deflecting or lying.

  “I’m not kidding, Sam. But, yes, I’d want to be with her every moment I could. And when separated, I’d probably think about her constantly.”

  “Then I wasn’t the one for Josh. He wanted ‘something’ from me all right, but not me. I’m pleased I came out as well as I did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “‘He imposed on me, but he didn’t injure me.’”

  “Is that Emma or Sam talking?”

  “You are so good,” I laughed. “It’s both of us. Josh didn’t touch my heart. My ego and expectations, yes, but not my heart, not my soul. I walked away whole. I liked the idea of a boyfriend more than I ever liked Josh . . . Maybe boyfriends are better in books.”

  Now Alex threw me a scowl.

  “No, seriously, most of my notions come from books, not reality.” Did I admit that?

  “Why is that?”

  I had ventured as far as I could. I didn’t want to lie, but I also couldn’t break down, and possibly ruin, this moment and this friendship.

  “My childhood wasn’t easy. I buried myself in books. I guess I’m a recovering book addict.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Deflect. Make light of something painful. And I know, by your tone and your expression right now, that it is.”

  I watched the road. “Alex, sometimes the real answers are too hard.”

  “To share with a friend?”

  “Is that what we are?” Did I ask that?

  “We may be many things, Sam, but we are at least that.”

  “Good to know. What else will we do today, friend?” I lightened my voice in hopes the subject change wouldn’t appear too abrupt.

  Alex pushed two strides ahead. I surged to keep up. “Sam, I’m irritated with you right now. I want to stop running. I want to take you by the shoulders, shake you, and tell you that I care. I don’t want you to deflect with me, and I certainly don’t want you to change the subject when we start to get real.” He glanced at me, but I refused to pull my head or my gaze from the road.

  “But clearly you’re not ready for that. Maybe neither of us is. So I’m going to run even faster out of sheer frustration.” And he picked up the pace another notch.

  I was speechless. I can’t tell you what I thought because I couldn’t think. Another four miles and I was exhausted. We ended up laughing, because neither of us backed down, and somehow we ended okay.

  Alex didn’t press me again as we headed back to the Belden Stratford to change our clothes. I was still pondering his comment—and still am. I think more was said than what he actually said. But it’s like smoke; I can’t catch it.

  We ended our perfect day with pizza, ice cream, and a walk around Old Town—then back to the professor’s car, still safely parked on North Avenue. I drove home singing. Now I should sleep. Needless to say, after eighteen miles, I’m exhausted. But, Mr. Knightley . . . Alex cares. I’m not sure what that means and I promise not to dwell on it . . . too much.

  Sweet dreams,

  Sam

  AUGUST 2

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  Cara was taken to the Cook County Hospital emergency room yesterday with broken bones and internal bleeding. She actually gave Father John’s name and number as next of kin—and he called me.

  Oddly, I was looking at an old picture of us at that very moment. I found one last week and have been using it as a bookmark, hoping it would help me figure out my next step with Cara. I had apologized, but still felt we weren’t done. Closure? Forgiveness? Something more flickered out there.

  So I grabbed my bag, asked McDermott if I could leave an hour early, and headed the few blocks to the hospital. Father John was alone in the waiting room. He stood when he noticed me and pulled me into a hug. He whispered, “She’ll be fine, Sam.”

  “What happened?” I stepped back and looked into his sad, tired eyes.

  “Ric pushed her down the stairs. She’s got a concussion, two broken ribs, some internal bleeding, a shattered wrist, and bruising. She’s pretty beat up.” He looked like he was going to cry, but I was angry.

  “Where’s Ric now?” I wasn’t a six-year-old anymore, and I wanted a fight.

  Father John pulled me back into his arms. “Let’s focus on Cara now, Sam. She’s safe. Both of you are safe.” He took my hand and led me to a chair in the corner.

  Then I noticed that we weren’t alone in the waiting room. It was packed: mothers with crying babies, teenagers hanging over chairs like old coats, older men chatting in quiet voices.

  We reached our seats, but he didn’t let go of my hand. He started patting it like he was soothing a small child. “She had surgery to set her bones, but she’s scared. And she’s broken more than physically.”

  The nurse came and led us to Cara’s room. She looked small and fragile, with the blip beep blip of her monitors making the only noise. Father John took her hand and whispered a prayer. I stood by the door and watched. As he crossed the room to leave, Cara glanced at the door and noticed me.

  “Hi, Cara,” I whispered.

  “I’ll visit tomorrow, Cara. You rest tonight and chat with Sam. God bless you, my dear.” Father John left us.

  I crossed the room and stood next to her. “I’m sorry, Cara. Can I help? Somehow?” I waved my hands around the room, the monitor again the only noise.

  She turned to me, tears running
down her face. “Why are you here, Sam?”

  “I’m here because this is where I should be. I never gave you enough credit, Cara, and I left you when I should have helped.”

  “It happens.” She laughed, small and bitter. “No one ever sticks around.”

  “I’m changing that, Cara. I’m sticking around for anyone who means anything to me. It’s tough, but I’m learning to do it.”

  “Do I count in that group?”

  “Sure. Why not?” That’s who I want to be—a friend who sticks—sticks to Kyle, to Ashley, to the Muirs, to Alex. I want to be someone to count on—someone with permanence.

  “You won’t last,” Cara cried.

  I tentatively reached out and stroked her hair. The gesture felt too personal, but it’s the most comforting feeling in the world when you’re sad or hurt. Mrs. Chapman used to do that.

  “I thought Ric would last,” Cara said. “I thought he would marry me.”

  Poor Cara still reminded me of Lydia Bennet. Lydia thought Wickham would marry her too, and it “did not much signify when.”

  “Did he push you to make you leave?”

  “He’s hated me for months.” She shook her head back and forth. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you.”

  “You don’t need to. Stop. Don’t tell me anything.”

  I chatted with Cara until the nurse kicked me out. As the Metra sped me home, a new memory flashed with each bump of the tracks. I saw the differences in Cara’s life and mine. I saw the similarities. I saw Josh and Ric, my Willoughby, her horrific Wickham. The window dressing may change, but as Austen shows us: human nature remains the same.

  I visited Cara again after work today and snuck her some ice cream. As I got ready to leave, I decided to give her some advice—not that she ever listened to me before.

  “Here it comes,” Cara groaned.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got that ‘I’m-going-to-solve-your-problems’ look.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You always thought I was too dumb, but I listened, Sam. And I know that look.”

  “Oh.” I remembered some of the ways I had dismissed her in high school. “Since you know it’s coming, here it is . . . You need to go back.”

  Cara blanched. “He’ll kill me.”

  “Not to him. To Grace House.”

  “Forget that, Sam.”

  “You’ll live in Independence Cottage—no Dr. Wieland if you don’t want to talk, no social workers, no meds if you don’t need them. It’s a safe clean place to live while you get your GED and some business classes.”

  This is her Medill—her one shot to make a new dream. I wanted her to see that, and I tried to convince her by sharing all the good things that have happened to me: Grace House, Kyle, Roosevelt University, Medill, and the Tribune. I left out Ernst & Young.

  I also told her about my letter from Hannah, whom Cara knew from our days in Charing Cottage, describing her lovely beach wedding in Maine. I contrasted that with Constance’s glamorous ceremony in New York. I wanted Cara to see a bigger world in a whole variety of colors.

  “Sounds great, Sam. You’ve done a lot, but nothing changes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sammy-girl, lots to do, but nothing to feel.” Cara whispered the words with a singsong lilt. And my nickname came out just loud enough to pierce my heart.

  “That’s too far.” I grabbed my bag as a deep, painful, red blur flashed before my eyes. “Do what you want, Cara. We’re done.”

  “Don’t leave.” She rushed the words out. I heard desperation in her voice, and that’s the only thing that made me stop.

  I turned, more furious than I’ve been in my entire life. The nickname had ignited a fire, rather than a fear, in me.

  “Do you want to go there, Cara? Do you? Because I’m not hiding anymore, and if you want to fight . . .” I paused and waited for her to look me in the eyes. “I will decimate you.” With each word I stepped closer, until I stood above her.

  Cara blanched. “I only said it to hurt you. See if I still could. I’m sorry. Please?” She took a shuddering breath, cringed with the pain, and looked to the ceiling.

  I stepped back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath myself. “I’ll stay.” I dropped my bag. “But it was too far, Cara. Don’t do that again—ever.”

  “I know.” She held my eyes for a moment before concentrating on her blanket. “I used to get so jealous of you and be glad when you shut down and went away into your head. It made me feel strong. I want to feel strong again.”

  I understood, so I stayed. But I didn’t sit, and it wasn’t comfortable. We skirted around our feelings and protected our secrets for a few minutes before I realized we were done. I reminded Cara about Grace House one more time and left, leaving my anger with her. No sense in carrying even that home.

  Maybe Cara and I will be more someday, but right now I feel closure and peace. I hope I helped her too. Maybe she’ll take my advice and return to Grace House. It will change her life and, as I’m learning, change isn’t always bad.

  It’s been quite a couple days and I’m ready for some lighter fare—which starts tomorrow night—with Alex. I didn’t tell him where I’ve been these past two days. Coward. He texted a few times, and I simply replied that I was busy with work.

  I want to share, but think of the can of worms I’ll open if I mention Cara—too many worms. Here’s the exchange from earlier:

  Alex: Where are you? 2 days too long! Don’t say you’re busy or I’ll march to Trib Tower and demand your release!

  Me: Don’t get me fired. Free now and like being missed. Such nice compliments will get you anything.

  Too flirty? I still can’t define our relationship, and I press every now and then to see what he’ll do. Despite his criticisms about deflecting, Alex does it better than I do.

  Alex: Need a date for dinner @ Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder. Lobby 6pm tomorrow?

  Me: Can’t wait.

  So there it is. Still no clue about our relationship, but I get to go to Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder. FINALLY! That’s worthy of caps, don’t you think? I’ve probably built it up in my mind, but I’m so excited. I need to text Hannah.

  Oh . . . I gotta go. The timer buzzed. I tried a new recipe, Forty-Clove Garlic Chicken. It sounded wonderful and smells even better; but now I wonder how long I will stink. Will forty cloves of garlic wear off by tomorrow night?

  Have a good evening, Mr.

  Knightley . . .

  Sam

  AUGUST 3

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  I know it wasn’t a date—not a real date—but I couldn’t help myself. I brought a change of clothes to work so I’d be in a cute floral skirt and wedge heels for tonight’s dinner. Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder deserved that. And it was worth it. What a night!

  The small waiting area was packed when we arrived. The host studied our faces, just like I’d heard, and declared, “One hour.” I wondered if that was determined on real time or a cuteness scale. Maybe that’s why Josh never wanted to go. Unnecessarily mean, I know.

  The wait didn’t bother us. I wanted to absorb the room and the experience, and suspected an hour might not be long enough—but something caught my attention. Two couples nudged each other, looked toward us, and started whispering. Alex noticed too. He turned slightly to his right, gently maneuvering me in front of him.

  “You’re putting them in your blind spot,” I giggled. I do that a lot lately—very unnerving.

  “They’re talking about me, but they’re not quite sure.”

  My eyes trailed over to them.

  “Don’t look.” There was a flicker of panic in his voice.

  “I won’t.” And I didn’t.

  “I must seem so strange to you, like I’m afraid of my own shadow. But I don’t like meeting other people’s expectations. I never measure up.”

  “They have expectations?” My vision flicked to the couples. They were still tittering
about us.

  “Don’t be naive. Everyone has expectations.”

  Alex was clearly upset—and it surprised me. Usually he’s so composed, almost cavalier. But tonight he was jumpy, all his nerves exposed to the moment.

  I looked him straight in the eyes. “Focus on me. My only expectation is to enjoy a wonderful evening.”

  “I need an Oreo,” he quipped.

  “Glad you’re back.” I almost called him on the deflection. He’s done it to me enough times, but I sensed he needed some space.

  Once we sat down, I told Alex about Hannah’s proposal and how I’ve wanted to come here for over a year.

  “Why didn’t you say something? Or why not just come?”

  “I don’t know. I remember her saying that the booths were so private you felt alone in a crowded room.”

  Alex quirked his eyebrow.

  “I’ll kill you if you start singing.” He held his hands up, and I continued. “It sounded so special that I just wanted to land here, not orchestrate it. And here I am.”

  “Here you are.” He settled into the booth. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Not at all.” I settled in too. “Now tell me your deepest secrets. We’re alone.” I said it flippantly, then couldn’t believe it. After that scene earlier? Besides, that street runs two ways. I paled, but for once Alex didn’t notice—he was two shades paler himself.

  I rushed on. “I’m kidding. I would like to ask one thing, though.” I paused, wondering if even this was too personal right then. “How’d you come to know the Muirs so well?”

  “They took me in—adopted me in a way.” He stopped, and I thought that was the end.

  I waited.

  “I didn’t go home Thanksgiving my freshman year. Christmas either. Pops was my English lit professor, and he invited me to stay with them for both holidays. I’d already spent countless hours in his office discussing books and writing. I thought I was so smart. Really I was an angry, lonely kid.”

  “Why didn’t you go home?”

  “Dad told me not to bother, and I couldn’t afford it on my own.” Alex looked at the table. “He refused to pay any part of school if I didn’t stay in state, and I got that—state schools are cheaper. But it wasn’t about the money—it was about control. He thought I was a dreamer. A waste. Still does.”