by Brea Brown
“I was only kidding.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not.”
He knots his fingers through mine. “That’s how I deal with it, though. It still scares me, so I joke about it.”
“I know.”
“Don’t be mad, Jayne.”
I sniff and say curtly, “I’m not,” but I don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive home. When we get to the apartment, I ride the elevator with him in silence, and as soon as it spits us out into our living room, I stride to the bedroom, where I strip and then shut myself in the bathroom to soak in a hot tub of water.
He’s so sure that the answer to my problems lies on that stupid piece of plastic and metal. What if it doesn’t? What if I read through it all, and nothing comes of any of it? He makes it sound like any dipshit with an eighth grade education could make something out of what’s on there. But what if I can’t? Won’t that be the ultimate proof that I’m a hack? Or at the very least, that a gift I once had is now gone? I’m terrified to find out that I don’t know how to write anything other than the book I’ve already written, no matter how many inspirational ideas are tossed my way.
When I emerge from the bathroom, wrinkled and wrapped in Luke’s robe (which he hasn’t had a chance to wear in months, since I’ve commandeered it), he’s sitting up, fully clothed on top of the bedclothes with his back against the headboard, scratching his way through a crossword puzzle, which he immediately sets aside.
“Do you feel better?” he asks hopefully.
“A little,” I acknowledge. “Cleaner.”
He smiles. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“It doesn’t take much. Don’t worry about it.” I slide a pair of panties up my legs and under the robe. After fishing a t-shirt from the dresser, I go into the bathroom, hang the robe on the hook on the door, and pull the shirt over my head. Returning to the bedroom, I slip under the covers on my side of the bed, reach up to kiss Luke’s chin, and burrow down into my pillows. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see the worried look on his face. “Good night,” I say as normally as possible.
“It’s not even seven o’clock!”
“I’m tired,” I tell him. “Jet lagged.”
“In that case, your body would think it’s even earlier. Plus, you’ve been home for two days.”
“I know. It’s finally hitting me.” It’s true that until now I’ve been too glad to be back with him, after being out in L.A. for a week and a half, to be tired. Now… well, now exhaustion is crushing me. Reality is crushing me.
My eyes fly open. “Shit,” I mutter. “I forgot—”
“I’ll do it.” He rolls off the side of the bed and leaves the room. I hear him open the pantry. After a few seconds, a shrill beep sounds from the kitchen, where he’s pressed the “test” button on the smoke alarm with the handle of a broom. The chirp of the carbon monoxide detector’s test tone follows. I listen for the same sounds from the devices in the other rooms. Finally, he appears in the bedroom, where he jabs at the alarms on the ceiling. They dutifully participate in the nightly roll call, after which I can truly relax.
“Thanks,” I say with a sleepy smile.
“No problem.” He flicks off the lights and stands next to the bed, broom in hand. He seems ready to say something, but then he simply bends down, kisses my lips, and says, “Good night. I’m going to… stay up for a few more hours. I guess.”
“That’s fine. I’m just too tired…”
“Yeah, well if I go to bed right now, I’ll be up in the middle of the night.”
“I know. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay…” Finally, he moves toward the light on the other side of the doorway.
“I love you,” I tell him.
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and says, “I love you, too,” before pulling the door closed.
*****
Wishing to avoid another tense conversation, I wait until I hear Luke leave for work in the morning before I get out of bed. I know I’m a coward. But he’s a persistent a-hole sometimes, and I’m not in the mood to be harassed about my “career” right now. After the couple of weeks—months—I’ve had, I deserve to take at least a week off to relax and restore my energy.
And to get used to sharing living quarters with someone again.
It’s an interesting dichotomy that when I’m traveling I miss him so much, but when I return home, it takes me a few days to adjust to being around him again. I love being around him, so it’s not him so much as it is taking into consideration someone else’s wants and schedule.
Last night was the perfect example. When I’m on the road, it doesn’t matter what time I want to go to bed (as long as I’m not in the middle of a public appearance; that would be weird). I’m all by myself in a hotel room, and I don’t have to worry about what time it is or if my going to bed—or staying up late—is going to be a disappointment or an inconvenience to anyone else. I simply… do it.
On the flip side, when I’m traveling, nobody gives a damn what I do or when I do it, as long as I fulfill the obligations I’ve promised to fulfill. My free time is very lonely. And that’s why I get in the habit of sleeping a lot when I’ve been on the road. There’s nothing better to do. Which is ironic, considering I’m traveling all over the country and could see some cool sights. But just like when I taught at Fairfax and lived a short train ride away from our nation’s capital, I’ve discovered it’s no fun seeing all those places alone.
Now that I’m home, though, “alone” is sounding pretty good. Especially if the price of Luke’s company is talking about my gasping-for-breath writing career.
The first thing I notice when I go into the kitchen to get some much-needed coffee and breakfast is my laptop, open and turned on (albeit hibernating), sitting on the breakfast bar. The barstool is pulled out, as if inviting me to take a seat. A sticky note on the keyboard says, “Files are copied. I made a shortcut on your desktop. LOOK AT THEM! XO Luke.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, shutting the computer so I don’t have to look at his note or think about writing. I know he thinks he’s helping, but I wish he could see that he’s only adding to my stress levels.
As I’m pouring myself a bowl of cereal and waiting for my coffee to brew, the elevator bell sounds to let me know someone’s on their way up. Since it’s a Monday, I expect it’s Paulette, so I’m not surprised when she appears in the kitchen doorway a few minutes later.
“And there she is, returned from her travels,” she greets me warmly with a quick squeeze of my shoulders from behind. “You should have waited for me; I’d have whipped up some brekkie for you, Luv.”
“I’m not that hungry,” I tell her, pushing the computer out of the way so I can sit at the bar and eat while she unloads her canvas bags of groceries.
“And how was Hollywood?” she asks enthusiastically.
I smile sheepishly. “The hotel was nice.”
“Oh, you! You’ve got to get out there and see some of the sights!”
“I did, when I went to New York, and Gus went with me,” I defend myself. “That was fun. And Luke and I had a good time in Seattle. But it’s not the same when I’m alone somewhere. Plus, by the end of the day, I was so tired. I didn’t care to gawk at a bunch of big houses behind gates and walls.”
“Your publicist must be a real stick-in-the-mud to not want to hang out with you,” she posits.
I laugh. “Jules is fine. I don’t make friends easily. I’m a solitary person.”
Her expression softens as she tilts her head at me. “And who could blame you, considering…”
Before she can get all misty-eyed at the thought of my past, I swallow a bite of cereal and say, “Anyway! I’m home now. And if you love laundry, do I have a present for you!”
“Oh, goody.” Her statement sounds so sincere that it makes me laugh. Folding her empty canvas bags, she says, “It’s good to have you back, Jayne
. Luke is quite grumpy when you’re away. But don’t tell him I told you that.”
He has no one to boss around, I think sullenly before checking myself. Actually, it’s sweet that he misses me so much that it affects his moods. I grin at her. “Aww.”
“Yes. One day, before I was leaving for the evening, he told me to never again make what I’d made the night before for dinner, because it was disgusting. And then he said he’d take the leftovers to a homeless shelter, but he doesn’t like to kick people while they’re down.”
I gasp. “What?! No, he didn’t!”
She nods and chuckles. “He did.”
“What an asshole!”
She waves away my condemnation. “Ah. I knew he was simply missing you and taking it out on the only person around.”
“Yes. That would be the definition of ‘asshole,’” I insist. “Paulette, I’m so sorry.”
“No need for you to be sorry, Dear. He apologized the very next day. And he gave me Friday off so’s I’d have a long weekend.”
“Did he give you a raise, too?”
Now she gets very serious. “No! And you’d better not try, either. My salary is burden enough on the two of you, now that I don’t work for the O’Sheas.” She pulls her shoulders back and straightens her shirt. “Not that I would, after the way they treated Luke. Shame on them, who have no shame. Detestable, ungrateful—”
“Well, we don’t want to share you with anyone, anyway,” I interrupt before she gets too worked up. “And your salary isn’t a burden. We wouldn’t know what to do without you, Paulette.”
This statement makes her fidget and stammer. Finally, she says, “I’ll be seeing to that laundry, then. Unless you want me to do the washing up in here first.”
I look around and note that my cereal bowl and spoon and Luke’s coffee mug comprise the “washing up.”
“No. I think I can handle putting three things in the dishwasher. But thanks.”
After she leaves, I do just that, pour myself a cup of coffee, and sit down at the counter.
Tapping the shiny cover of my new laptop with my fingernail, I bite my lip and consider the consequences of not looking at the files while Luke’s at work. He has no right to order me around like I’m some sort of freshman author under his tutelage. It’s my career. If I want to let it die, I should be allowed to let it die.
Plus, if I decide to buy out my contract, it will be a blessing for him. He won’t have any reason to stay at Thornfield, and he’ll be free to go work for a company that he respects more. Maybe somewhere in New York. Or Connecticut. I love Connecticut…
I think of the house on Marblehead that Luke’s rebuilding, mostly at my urging. Oh, yeah. That thing. I couldn’t stand the idea of a place with such important—if not always “good”—memories no longer existing. And I do want to make more memories there, but I wish there were a way for us to move it with us somewhere else.
Because when my writing career goes up in flames, I wouldn’t mind going back to teaching. You know the old saying: “Those who can’t, teach.” I never believed that before now. Now, I’m a living example.
So, again… what’s the worst that will happen if I ignore Luke’s directive to look at those writing files today? He’ll sulk. Or raise his voice. Or give me the silent treatment (no, I won’t be that lucky). I envision a bit of a rant, followed by sulking, followed by the appearance of agreeing with me while he actually tries to use reverse psychology on me to get me to do what he wants me to do.
As Paulette would say, “Oh, goody.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
To my surprise, Luke doesn’t say a word about the files when he gets home. As soon as he steps from the elevator, he glances around and asks me (the nearly-permanent fixture on the couch), “Is Paulette still here?”
I set my magazine on the coffee table. “No. She left a couple of hours ago. Why?”
He crosses to the couch in economically-large steps. “Because I want to make sure I have you all to myself,” he says suggestively.
“Oh, I see,” I flirt back. Reaching up, I let him pull me against him and wrap his arms around me. “Yes. I’m all by my lonesome.”
“Not anymore.” He grabs two handfuls of my butt and lifts me off the floor.
When I yelp and laugh, it knocks him slightly off-balance, so he steps backward to regain his footing, but his leg meets up with the corner of the coffee table, and before I know it, we’re on the floor in a laughing heap.
“What happened?” I ask incredulously.
He answers while staring at the ceiling, “Apparently, I fell down.”
His over-simplified assessment makes me giggle. “I see.”
“Well, nothing that embarrassing has happened in a while,” he points out proudly.
“No, I thought maybe you’d outgrown your coital clumsiness. I haven’t said ‘Ow’ during sex in months.” I unbutton his shirt and kiss his chest. “But I suddenly had a flashback to trying to have sex while you had that stupid leg cast.”
After a groan, he says, “Yes… I think that was the last time there were any serious injuries. That thing was dangerous.” He rubs my back. “Oh, man…! Now we’re going to have to change the OSHA sign in the bedroom. ‘Zero days since last reportable incident.’”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I whisper against his skin.
“Oh, you’re so naughty.”
I let loose a dirty laugh to match my supposed naughty nature.
He rolls me over and slides on top of me. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me, too,” I agree.
“Are you?” he double-checks. “You seem… tense.”
This observation makes me stiffen.
“Like that,” he asserts.
I try to relax. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’d be better if you’d shut up and finish what you started,” I allow.
“Alright, then.” Without further hesitation, he follows my orders.
Who’s pulling rank now?
*****
Quite a while later, Luke pulls on his underwear and hops up from the floor. On his way to the kitchen, he asks casually, “Did Paulette happen to make anything for us to eat for dinner?”
Drolly, I reply while donning my t-shirt and panties, “No, I told her we didn’t want any disgusting food that we wouldn’t even feed homeless people.”
He freezes with his back to me but then spins on his heel to face me. Eyes wide, he says, “I can’t believe she told you! I told her not to tell you!”
I laugh at his humiliation. “You are such a dickhead. How could you say that to her?”
Wincing, he explains, “It slipped out, okay? I was in a horrible mood, and… and… Jayne!”
“Luke!”
“It was seriously the grossest thing I’ve ever eaten. Worse than anything I’ve ever cooked.”
“That’s saying something.”
“Exactly! I think she made a mistake when she was measuring ingredients, or something. Distractedly, he scratches his nipple. “I’m not even sure what it was supposed to be. Some sort of meat and vegetable concoction, but it was, like, bitter…? Or something.” He makes a face as if he can taste it right now. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure she never made it again, whatever it was.”
“I hope she spit in the next thing she cooked for you.”
“Hey! I apologized and gave her an extra day off.”
“Too little, too late. I bet she cried herself to sleep when she went home after you insulted her cooking.”
“You’re trying to make me feel like a jerk.”
“You are a jerk,” I proclaim, joining him on his walk into the kitchen. I open the fridge and start taking out sandwich fixings and placing them on the counter.
He pulls the sandwich bread from the breadbox and works at the twist tie. “Okay, so I wasn’t very diplomatic about it, but she knows that’s not my strong suit. I was being honest! How would you have told her?” Without wai
ting for me to answer, he accuses, “You probably wouldn’t have said anything, and then she would have kept making it for us, thinking we liked it. At least with my method, we know we’ll never have to eat it again. You should be thanking me for saving you from the horror.”
I wrap my arms around his upper arm and watch around his shoulder as he slaps meat and cheese onto two pieces of bread in front of him. “No mayo for me,” I tell him and then say, “I’ll tell you what. You be Paulette, and I’ll be you.”
“What…?” He sounds skeptical but intrigued.
“We’ll role play, and I’ll show you how to be nice.”
“Mmm… role playing. Kinky.”
“Be serious!” I implore him while not doing a very good job of it myself. “So… how did this topic come up? Who started the conversation?”
He thinks about it while pressing the top slices of bread on our sandwiches. “She did. She—”
“No! Show, don’t tell.”
Shooting me a dirty look for throwing in his face one of the most worn-out editor’s commands, he nevertheless says in a high quasi-English accent, “There’s chicken soup simmering on the stove, Lyook. I’ll pop round to the shops in the morning to get something a bit heartier for tomorrow night. The weather’s turning cooler.”
“Your English accent sucks.”
“I would never say that to her!”
“Shut up. I’m saying it to you!”
“This was your idea, so stop breaking character.” He slaps my sandwich onto a plate and holds it out to me.
I take it and say in a deep voice, “This looks great, Paulette. Thanks.”
“You make me sound like a doofus.”
“Shh!” I slap his arm and continue, “Speaking of food, the dish you made last night…”
“Yes?” he replies, slipping back into character. “The Alpo Surprise? Did you enjoy it, Lyook?”
I rub the back of my neck and then bring my hand around to cover my mouth and hide the grin I can’t suppress.
He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “If you liked it, I can make that once a week for you and Jayne. I’m sure she’d love it!”
Recovered somewhat, I clear my throat and intone, “Actually, Paulette, it wasn’t my favorite.”