Gravity

by Liz Crowe

  She smiled and waved at him from her spot at the line of beer taps, watching as he got himself settled in, chatting with everyone around him. When she had a few minutes to spare, she leaned on the bar, taking in the spreadsheets on his computer screen. “Looks super boring,” she said.

  “It is,” he admitted. “Boring data. But necessary. I want to allocate the foundation’s funds fairly and I am inundated with requests, now that my passel of magical interns has gotten us so much damn publicity.” He shut the laptop and gazed at her. “So, about our date.”

  Kayla flinched. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been fantasizing about that very thing for a couple of weeks. But hearing him say it shot a bolt of anxiety all the way through her. “What about it?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I can’t, Brock. I’m moving into that place I told you about. The extended-stay motel thing.”

  “Those are expensive. I wish you’d let me pay…”

  She held up a hand. “I won’t. Please don’t waste energy saying any more.”

  He fiddled with his coaster. “Well, then, how about this? I’ll make us dinner at my place.”

  “No. I’m not quite ready for that yet.” But her skin prickled in pleasant anticipation of it in spite of her base knowledge that it would never happen.

  “Fine. I’ll pick up sandwiches and bring them to your new digs.”

  “You are desperate,” she said, enjoying the light flirtation. “But I thought I was getting the super-expensive dinner thing. Why can’t we just postpone that a little while longer?”

  She had her hand on the bar next to his computer. When he picked it up and pressed her knuckles to his lips, she shuddered, but not out of any fear or anxiety. Out of something else. Something she had zero frame of reference for. Something anticipatory, scary, but pleasant.

  “Because I’m done waiting. I’m ready to pick things up where we left them the night before the wedding.”

  Kayla’s mouth dried out at the sudden, crystal-clear memory of their kiss. She blew out a breath and tried to reclaim her hand but he held on tight. His eyes were shining in a way that made her warm from the inside out. “You’re terrible,” she said, for lack of anything more coherent.

  “Guilty. But also persistent. So…what are we doing for our date tomorrow eve, fair lady?” He let her go and leaned back in the bar chair.

  She crossed her arms but figured he could tell how flustered she was. “Fine. Tomorrow. Bring dinner to my place. I’ll text you the address.”

  Brock’s boyish, handsome grin widened as he propped his elbows on the bar and motioned for her to move closer. After glancing around as a stalling mechanism, she leaned into him, getting a whiff of his soapy-clean scent. “I want you to make the first move again, okay?” His whispering breath blew against her ear. He grazed the edge of her jaw with a fingertip then withdrew, opening his laptop and focusing on the screen again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As he perused the options at the local overpriced, prepared food store, Brock was shocked when he realized that he had no real objectives for the night ahead. That he honestly wanted to spend some time with Kayla, eating said overpriced prepared food and maybe some decent coffee and just…talk.

  He’d missed her. She’d been such a great sounding board while he’d gotten his feet under him as the foundation’s president. Their casual, unemotional discussions about the reality of making a damn bit of difference in the mess that was the Flint water crisis went a long way toward convincing him to toss the foundation’s first million-dollar grant in that direction. She was so straightforward, so honest about her opinions—it was a breath of fresh air.

  Air he’d been missing for too damn long, he mused, waiting for the guy behind the counter to weigh the couscous salad, the sweet potato fries, and the rest of the vegetarian crap they’d recommended when he’d stated his desire for a “full veggie meal to go”. That was one thing about her he’d have to work on. As a full-on carnivore himself, he couldn’t quite fathom life without the odd steak, pork chop, or bacon slice.

  He smiled to himself, realizing he’d done it again. He’d thought about Kayla and himself in terms of having ‘a life’ as in ‘together’.

  “Here you go, sir,” the oldster behind the counter said as he handed over a bag stuffed full of biodegradable boxes filled with various forms of non-meat dishes. “If you need a wine recommendation to go with—”

  Brock held up a hand. “No need, but thanks.”

  He whistled under his breath and placed the food, a couple of bottles of expensive fizzy Italian water and some flowers on the checkout counter. At the last minute, he indulged in an impulse buy, tossing a bar of chocolate up on the belt that declared itself ‘decadently dark and sweatshop-free’.

  “Can’t pass up sweatshop-free dessert, now, can I?” he asked the bored-looking checkout girl with no fewer than eight piercings along one ear cartilage. She pretended to smile at his lame joke. “Never heard that one before, right?”

  “Something like that. Paper bags okay?”

  “But of course.” He tapped his black AmEx, not registering the amount. “Have a great evening,” he called over his shoulder before heading for the door. He felt exuberant, ebullient, even, dare he think it, ecstatic at the thought of being around Kayla, just the two of them, for a few hours.

  He pulled up the text containing her address and transposed it into the truck’s navigation system. The evening was picture perfect. Cool, after a warm day he’d spent half in the office and half under the care of his gym buddy, pushing himself ever harder in the pursuit of pure exhaustion. Then the quick, deep-tissue massage, dip in the hot tub and short nap at home.

  All so normal, so regular-guy. As if on cue, he got a familiar twinge—the one he always got when the devil side of his brain was taking over.

  “Normal is boooooring, Brock. Regular is stupid. Only losers accept the sort of day you had as something good. Only soccer dads and similar assholes think a half day at the office and a half day at the gym constitutes a decent Saturday. Jesus, man. You’re fine now. Don’t bother with those stupid pills. Let’s go out! Have some real fun!”

  He gripped the steering wheel, stiffening his arms until the noise in his head faded to something he could ignore. Normal was all he’d ever wanted. All he’d ever craved. And Kayla could give that to him. In some fucked-up, bass-ackward way they seemed to be able to give that to each other.

  He pulled out into the light weekend traffic and cranked the satellite radio to something Primus-like. Screaming filled the car, helping drown the devil in his ear, tickling him with his reminders that the only way he, Brock Fitzgerald, would ever feel good is if he were out fucking first one, then another, then another willing hottie. Not babysitting some fellow junkie, sex abuse survivor and eating—God help him—tempeh burgers.

  He touched the volume button on the steering wheel, determined to overcome this momentary lapse in his happiness. He’d not missed a dose of his pills. He’d been attending both addict meetings and therapy sessions—which had become more cheerful once he’d been able to admit how he felt about Kayla.

  When he sat at a stoplight, drumming his fingers on the wheel, the music cut out for a split second, right before the sound of an incoming call almost burst his eardrums.

  “Shit, God damn it.” He ramped the volume down before answering. “Hello?”

  “Brock?”

  His heart did a tiny stutter-step in his chest. The polite Midwesterner behind him beeped his car horn, reminding him that he’d been sitting at a green light for a few seconds too long. The car lurched forward. He swiped the sweat off his upper lip. “Hey, Caroline. How’re things?”

  “Oh, pretty good.” She sounded out of breath, or maybe excited. “How’s your bod?”

  “Fitter than ever. You really gave up on me too soon. I’m fucking Captain America these days.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said. “And the rest of you?”

  “Oh�
�” He was out of breath for no reason. The Devil was poking his temple with something pointy, reminding him that if he went over to Kayla’s tonight with his vegetarian feast, he’d be going home blue balled.

  And did he want that?

  Really?

  He slapped his cheek, trying to drive out the persistent, needling inner voice.

  “Brock?”

  “Hey, yeah. Sorry. Mosquito in the car.”

  “Oh. Well, anyway, I have some news.”

  “Oh?” Something in him wanted to hang up. To go to Kayla’s and regain his normal-guy equilibrium. To not hear Caroline’s news. “What’s up?”

  “I’m engaged!” He heard bar noises behind her then, as if she’d just walked into one, or back inside one after dropping her bombshell. Brock put on his blinker, then his hazard lights, and pulled to the side of the road, lest he risk harming himself or others due to a sudden lack of oxygen to his brain. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  He sat, hands on the wheel, staring into the now sinister-seeming darkening sky. Why wouldn’t he congratulate her? Why did he have the sudden urge to find her fiancé and kill him with his bare hands? Caroline was his. They were the only ones who understood each other.

  He took a deep breath, dragging something his therapist had once said about Caroline to the forefront of his brain—‘You and Caroline were the dictionary definition of co-dependency. And a co-dependent bond is one of the hardest in the world to break. You can’t be friends with her so don’t try. A clean break is for the best.’

  “Congratulations,” he said, sotto voce.

  “What?”

  “I said, fucking congratulations, Caroline. Jesus.” He let go of the wheel, flexing his hands which were sore from gripping it so tightly.

  “Well, hell, Brock, you don’t have to be an asshole. I thought you’d be happy for me.” He heard the teary edge in her voice and hated himself for it. Not a new sensation when it came to her. “Have you taken your medica—?”

  “You know what, fuck you, all right?”

  “Fine. I can see that I’ve called at a bad time. Sorry.”

  “No…wait, it’s not… Shit. Caro, I’m sorry.”

  She remained silent. It was the sharpest blade in her arsenal and she knew how to wield it. The realization of that made him bone-deep tired. He glanced at the clock on the media screen. “Is he a nice guy? I mean, would I approve?”

  She sniffled.

  “Caroline, spare me the cold shoulder. You called me, remember? Tell me about the lucky bastard.”

  “He’s a junior senator from Illinois. His name is Brandon Giles. We met the first weekend I was here, when I was so homesick…”

  “A rebound fuck, eh, darlin’?”

  “You’re such a colossal prick, Brock.” The bar noises faded. He heard a door shut and her sniffles got louder. “I don’t even know why I called you.”

  “Me neither. But I will say this, you’ll make a fine first lady someday, Caro.”

  “I love him. I really do.”

  “I don’t recall asking you if you did, but okay. I’m sure Senator Giles will be thrilled to know that.” He was being a dickhead but fucking-A she brought it out in him every time. “How is he in the sack, babe? I know that’s important to you.”

  “God, I hate you. You’re a selfish asshole and you always were.”

  “Yeah? Well, then don’t call me anymore. Go on and have your fancy new D.C. life. Just remember, politicians lie worse than I ever did.”

  “He may be a politician, Brock, but he is more man than you ever thought about being—by a long shot.” Her voice had slid into ugly and he realized she was drunk. Very drunk. He’d know a drunk Caroline voice from however many miles he was away from her. He wondered if her fab new senator man knew his hot, redheaded fiancée had drunk-dialed her old junkie boyfriend.

  “Oh, honey, that’s a damn low bar to set for him. Don’t be so easy on the guy.” He wanted to sleep, to hang up, crank back the seat and pass out. He felt along the space between it and the console, knowing he’d once kept a stash of weed there, for just such emergencies. But of course, his meddling-ass brother must have found it and tossed it on his behalf because the damn stuff was nowhere to be found.

  Caroline was sobbing now, calling him every name in the book and then some. He sighed and slumped over the wheel as her familiar voice filled the car’s interior, swirling around, provoking the devil who was still hard at it inside his head.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw her. Not Caroline, she of the killer bod, the deep green eyes, the legit red hair—curtains and rug he knew for a fact—but Kayla. Kayla’s thin, exotic-looking face with her olive-tinted skin and huge hazel gaze. Her slim fingers, cool palm, sweet, comforting lips.

  “Okay, okay, enough,” he bellowed, cutting off the blubbering and insults. “Stop it, Caro. Cut it out. Listen to me, you need to get out of the bathroom of whatever bar you’re in, go find your friends, drink a gallon of water and get a ride home. Do you hear me?”

  She kept sniffling but hadn’t hung up yet.

  “I am sorry for being a dickhead earlier. I’m maybe just a tad bit jealous. I can admit that. If you can admit wanting to make me that way by calling me, all tuned up on a Saturday evening, just to break your glorious news.”

  He waited, forcing himself to take long breaths to calm his racing pulse. “Well? Didn’t you want me to react this way? Isn’t that why you got lit up and called me?”

  “Maybe,” she said, her voice soft.

  “Right so, here’s the thing. I’m about to go out on my first real date in what feels like centuries. With Kayla, remember? The ex-junkie, sex abuse survivor? Yeah. That. So what I need for you to do is tell me you’ll drink some water, get your ass home in a cab or ride share or call Senator Giles to come get you, I don’t care. I need you to do that. To truly move on with your life and leave me to mine.” He was panting like a dog now, sweaty and shaking in the cool interior of the truck. “I’m happy as hell for you, Caro. I hope that he treats you well, the way you deserve. Because God knows I never did.”

  “Brock…honey.”

  “No!” He squeezed his eyes shut, realizing this for what it was. Caroline, dragging him into her shit, so that she could say no to the good future senator. Making him want her in that inexplicable, sick way she always managed to do. Using him as an excuse to say no to a marriage proposal to a nice, normal man. “No, God damn you. I am not doing this anymore. I know I started it, so this is me by God ending it. I want you to be happy. Go, be that way. And don’t call me anymore.”

  As he was reaching out for the media screen to end the call, she got in her last dig.

  “Fine, Brock. I’ll do what you say. And yeah, I wanted to make you jealous. Because you’ve trained me that way, you sick fucker. I hate you.”

  He closed his eyes as the resonant beep-boop of being hung up on echoed around the inside of his head.

  “No less than I deserved,” he said, digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. The phone buzzed. A text message appeared on the screen.

  Kayla: Where are you? I cleaned and everything. Only kidding. Just making sure you’re all right. See you when you get here.

  Panting and sweaty all over again, he picked up the phone and tapped out a response.

  I got stuck at the whole paycheck store. All those free samples. I’m stuffed. Might need to reschedule tonight.

  He dropped the phone on the seat with a groan. His head was pounding. His throat dry. His dick, which had surged to attention at the sound of Caroline’s voice like some kind of pervy Pavlov’s dog, retreated, allowing blood to flow to his outer extremities once more.

  Her text appeared on the media screen in seconds.

  That’s fine. But something has me worried about you. Like my user-junkie radar is pinging, you know? Don’t come over if you don’t want to but know that if you don’t, I’m calling Austin to check in on you later.

  After about five minu
tes, he had his breathing under control. He fired up the navigation system, pulled the car into traffic and made a beeline for Kayla’s extended-stay hotel, desperation roiling around in his brain, making him sick to his stomach at the thought of not seeing her tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kayla looked up from her sketch pad at the sound of a sharp rap at the door. Surprised, and more than a little relieved, she opened it up and found Brock, fit as a fiddle, holding two big bags from the most expensive grocery store in town.

  “Dinner is served.” He strode past her. “Does this place have a microwave?”

  “There.” She pointed it out in the mini kitchen. Her radar kept pinging as she watched him dashing around, getting the meal together in near-manic fashion. Deciding to stay silent and let him calm down on his own, she opened the fizzy water and poured them each a serving over ice. She sat, sipped, and observed him, getting more worried by the minute.

  At one point, she got up and put her hands on his shoulders. He stiffened then turned to her with a wide smile, holding up two full plates.

  “Here we go,” he said, plunking them down on the small table and putting out silverware and a couple of paper napkins.

  She took a seat, picked up her fork and tried to eat. But she could sense Brock’s leg bouncing up and down and believed that she could hear his heart beating through his chest wall.