Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  India smiles again, but it looks forced. She glances around the restaurant. “Good to know.”

  Theo paces backward. He scrambles for more soothing conversation. The back of his legs hit the leather sofa, a piece of furniture where he and India had sex more times than he can count. His sluggish thoughts and memories of the sofa make it increasingly difficult to think about catering. “Anyway . . . at the fundraiser, I’ll ask Olivia what she did to end up in such a spot.”

  India is wearing a silky dark-blue blouse. Theo watches her delicate chest rise and fall with a sigh. “Sounds like you’re moving on . . . New job, new friends . . .”

  “India.” Theo suddenly feels sober. If he just says the right thing, right now, India will see the mistake was not kissing an old boyfriend. Though, yes, that sucked. The mistake was letting the incident end them. He hears vacillation. India misses him. She misses them. But India looks away from Theo’s limited view. She puts the phone down.

  “India, how nice to finally meet you.” Theo hears a man’s voice. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” The phone is facing the ceiling. The strange man leans over the table and shakes India’s hand. The man finds India attractive. Theo can tell by the way he cups his other hand over hers, an otherwise unnecessary gesture. The man is slightly older—polished, dressed in a suit. It’s at least a full five seconds until he releases India’s hand. Jack Daniel’s rushes up Theo’s throat. He very simply wants to kill him.

  In a reciprocal greeting, India says the name “Claude.” She glances nervously downward, into the phone.

  Claude? Theo immediately decides Claude is a snooty, tight-assed dick-wad who led hazing rituals in college. A man who would cross the street to avoid homeless people and is cruel enough to leave a dog locked in a hot car. He should not be within a mile of India.

  “Would you excuse me for one minute?” India says, picking up her phone. “I just need to finish a call.”

  In his snooty voice Claude tells her “By all means . . .” and apologizes again for being late.

  Clearly, Claude is a complete ass with no manners whatsoever.

  It’s Theo’s turn to view industrial-grade carpet as India leaves the table. Then she looks into the phone. “Theo—” Her harsh tone halts his fluttering heart. Her parting words to Claude ring in his ears—“Excuse me for one minute . . . I just need to finish a call . . .”

  “India, wait!”

  She is standing by a rack of coats, shrouded by a gray overcoat and bright floral print. “Theo, I have to go.” Her voice is low, like she doesn’t want Claude to hear her conversation. The light is much dimmer, but Theo swears he sees tears.

  “Who . . . who is he, India?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy. Claude.”

  “Nobody . . . Just a man who owns a couple of boutique hotels. They’re thinking about hiring an outside caterer.”

  “I thought your father usually handled those kinds of meetings.”

  “Theo.” Their gazes tangle. “This, um . . . this, calling me, wasn’t a good idea—even accidentally. It might be easier . . . better if you deleted me from your contacts.”

  Theo’s ass hits the sofa like someone has slammed his stomach with a baseball bat. “Delete . . .”

  “I, um . . . I’m not saying it to be mean. But it’s not like we can be friends . . .” Her voice is tight, the way it was the day she got into a fender bender on Athens Street. India was shaken, because it happened, because it was her fault. She was driving and talking to Helen, who was doing what she does best, disrupting India’s focus.

  India is right. They can’t be friends because they should be married. Theo drags a hand through his hair. His eyes are wet and his throat closes. It feels like everything around him is closing. “No . . . of course not. We can’t be friends.” Theo says this because he does not want to look like a complete loser, because he has a modicum of pride left. “Like I said, I dialed you by accident.”

  “I know. It’s okay,” she says again. Theo swears she is choking out the words. He does not want her pity. “I’m just thinking it might be easier for us to move on . . . if you can’t call me accidentally. I, uh . . . I’ll do the same.”

  “Right. Makes sense.” Theo forces a tremendous lump through his throat. “Well, good-bye then, India.” He disconnects the call before she can have the last word. Through blurry eyes, Theo stares at his phone. He will move the pictures to his computer first thing tomorrow, but he will not delete her number. He’s not ready for that. If India is so determined to forget him, let her get a new number.

  Then India’s last thoughts echo through his head: “I’m just thinking how it might be easier for us to move on . . . I’ll do the same.” Maybe he is only hearing what he wants to hear. Maybe there is too much Jack Daniel’s in him to have heard right at all. But India left him. She could have deleted him from her phone months ago. Better still, if this is what India wanted, what is there for her to move on from?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Olivia

  On the sidewalk outside our brownstone, Rob’s chivalrous behavior continues. I am too stunned by the sudden appearance of a ghost to move. He invites Sam Nash inside, perhaps because I don’t, and guides me by the arm. We all move cagily into the living room. Rob is aware of our known history. He’s cognizant of the fact that Sam was once the love of my life. It could be that Rob believes he is not. Compared to the dizzying whirl of events, furniture seems wildly heavy and anchored. A glance passes between Rob and me. He’s as curious as I am. I sit on the sofa and Sam sits in the adjacent chair. On any other Friday night, this moment would register as a shock. But because I had coffee and bonding conversation with Sam’s son, his unlikely presence carries the foreboding of a head-on collision.

  Rob offers Sam a drink. I remain uncharacteristically mute. Sam thanks him and says a glass of water would be fine. For a second, I think he is an imposter and this is a Halloween prank, courtesy of Rob’s twisted humor. Sam asking for water is a dead giveaway. Water with three fingers of bourbon—maybe. As Rob exits I say, “I’ll have a drink too.” My gaze bounces between the two men. “Anything with alcohol in it.” Sam grins and my brain confirms his identity. Not even Hollywood could so perfectly recast his smile. My gut clenches as my mind fills with haunted memories and cherished ones.

  “How . . . how have you been, Liv?”

  “Do you mean in the past five minutes or twenty-six years?” He snickers at well-timed sarcasm. “Good—until now.” I’m immediately annoyed I have allowed even cursory insight to my emotions. Last time Sam asked how I was, it was in a hospital room. The one where I told him that there was no baby to be concerned with and he should go live his life. That’s what he was supposed to do—forever. I curl my blistered feet beneath me and sit up taller. “What are you doing here?”

  “Like I said, I came to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For the past.”

  “Our past?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I narrow my eyes and he looks oddly dumbfounded.

  “Uh, maybe I’d best back this up a little.”

  Rob returns with two drinks. A medium-size glass of water, no ice—the kind you’d offer a repairman. The one who’s asked to use your bathroom and you just want to leave. In the shorter, fatter glass is a double Macallan on the rocks. I suspect the odd beverage choice, Rob’s usual, is meant as a marital show of solidarity. I wonder if we’re supposed to share it.

  Sam thanks him for the water. His gaze stays with Rob as he delivers the Macallan. Sam is absorbing the man I’ve married. I don’t know the meter for how straight men assess one another, but I’m suddenly grateful my middle-age husband is a fitness freak, self-absorbed enough to get facial peels and use hair dye.

  “Thanks,” I say. I almost tack honey onto that, but why startle Rob with more surprise than what has descended upon our living room. My husband stakes a claim in the middle of the Oriental rug—it’s a round robin of gla
nces: Sam looking at me, my darting gaze moving between him and Rob, Rob most decidedly focused on Sam. It’s Rob’s call. He looks between the sofa, where there is plenty of room, and the chair next to Sam. He defaults to trust; my chin tips upward, poised not to fail him.

  “I’ll, um . . .” Rob glances at his watch. “I have a couple of overseas calls to return. Guess I’ll go do that.” Sam stands. “It was, uh . . . interesting to meet you.”

  “Same here.” They do not shake hands. “I . . . I’ve always wondered about the man Livy might have married.”

  Rob nods. “Oh. I just meant it’s interesting to meet a baseball icon.” He exits, though his remark zips through like a dart. I hear him head down the basement steps where his home office and man cave are located.

  Sam sits again and sips the water, putting the glass on the coffee table. He rubs his hands over denim-covered thighs. “Funny,” I say, reaching for the upper hand. “I don’t remember a nervous bone in your body.”

  “Yeah. Well. Me and my body have been through quite a bit.” Sam clears his throat. “Regret and humility are still new to me.” My ears tune to the unlikely admission. Sam Nash, in addition to being free-spirited and fun-loving was also a cocky son of a bitch. Most everything about him camouflaged that last fact, though it is clear in my memory. “I’ve been sick this past year. Very sick.”

  As only Sam Nash can do, cockiness fades, melting under the warmth of my sudden concern. “Sick. I’m sorry.” But a flush of adrenaline rushes me. If my life-altering past has showed up to tell me he’s going to die, I’ll kill him. “Sick how?”

  “Leukemia.” Sam removes his ball cap—which to me is still an extension of his body—revealing a head full of hair. It’s wavy and thick, the brown salt and peppered. That would be the surprising part, except for the fact that it’s the hair on Theo’s head, less the gray. I squeeze my eyes shut. Then my gaze turns questioning. Sam doesn’t look sick. “I almost didn’t make it,” he says. “Can you imagine that—Sam Nash succumbing to a disease?”

  “That wasn’t alcohol related?”

  “Agreed. I mean, seriously, Livy. You didn’t think I’d end up parting this world by cliff diving or . . . I don’t know, maybe by wrapping a four-by-four around a tree?”

  “You did that.” And the empathy in the room defaults to me.

  He rests his elbows on his knees and focuses on my empty fireplace. “Right. Sorry. I’m still working on thoughtless remarks.”

  “You have a ways to go.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “Have you come here hoping to recall the more vague, less sober parts of your past? Maybe you’re writing a memoir.” I take a gulp of the Macallan and silence a gag. How does Rob drink this shit? “Could be that you’re fuzzy on the extreme highs and lows of your life. Maybe you were right to come. I’m a great choice for a refresher.”

  “Yeah. It, um . . . That very thing made you first on my list. When my trip to Boston came up, it seemed like fate was tapping me hard on the shoulder. You weren’t hard to locate.”

  “So I’m not even the point of your visit. How very flattering.”

  “You don’t—” His lips purse. “It took a lot to come here, Liv. I didn’t know what I’d find or if you’d just slam the door in my face. I have meetings at Brandeis, a coaching position. When that happened . . . I knew I had to take the chance. Sorry if that’s not white knight enough, but we’re really not living in that moment anymore, are we?”

  “Yes, and you fell off the horse the first time around.” I deviate from our past, which I’m still trying to fit into the present. “Didn’t you win a World Series or something? As my husband alluded, he was fascinated when it came up.”

  “He, uh . . . he seems like a nice person . . . your husband.” The expression on Sam’s face flattens. “What does he do?”

  “Rob’s a lawyer on paper, but he doesn’t practice. He’s in finance . . . investments. Real estate, small companies, other . . . ventures. He, um . . . he buys things, sells off some. Makes money . . . or not. Starts over.” My explanation is vague. The Wellesley house is the most in-depth conversation we’ve had in recent memory. The mental footnote makes me think of my mother. I clamp down on a smile, envisioning her shock if she knew Sam Nash was sitting in my living room. He reads my mind.

  “Your parents. How are they?”

  “My father’s dead,” I say matter-of-factly. “Cancer.” Sam’s eyes widen. “Sorry . . . I mean, you just said you were sick and . . .”

  “No. It’s not that, I just thought you were going to say he had a heart attack.”

  “Why? So you could say ‘I didn’t know he had a heart?’” He doesn’t reply, but we both laugh. Sam focuses on his water glass. “My mother,” I offer more soberly, “she still lives in the Wellesley house.”

  “Sorry about your dad.” Sam clears his throat and sips the water. “Did, um . . . Did the two of you ever . . .”

  “Make peace? Find common ground in the gift we share?” I shake my head. “Though I did play for him while he was dying. It probably sounded like submission.”

  “They knew how to enforce control, make an impression . . . Or they liked to think they did. And that house, I’d never seen anything like it . . . or maybe it was your parents, people so determined to . . .”

  “Turn me into precisely what they wanted?” He nods. Sympathy and history nudge me. I recall how acutely Sam did not fit into their plans. Honestly? I had no idea my mother could be so cunning, insulting without ever saying anything directly. “You know, I’m from the South too, Sam . . . It’s amazing, the obvious distinction between social class. Even nowadays—old money versus trailer trash . . . College athletics, you say? So fascinating; the opportunity to attend school predicated on the ability to toss a ball about . . .”

  The discomfort of that long-ago Christmas is vivid. Sam had never been on an airplane or north of the Mason-Dixon Line. I didn’t imagine my smooth-talking boyfriend could be so out of his element. My father was first to make an impression. Ten minutes into the car ride from the airport to our house, I thought it might be kinder to drop Sam in a crime-ridden Roxbury neighborhood. He could have held his own there. Between my parents’ icy reception and a lifestyle he’d only seen on TV, he was like a trapped animal, woefully out of his natural habitat. Eventually, Sam escaped through a bathroom window. I found him hours later, miles away, in the closest corner bar. Sam sits up straighter. I imagine we are reliving the same memory. He switches subjects.

  “Been married long?” His gaze moves around the room. He is looking for family photos, perhaps ones that include children. I swallow down the irony and more Macallan. He spots the lone wedding photo behind my head; it sits on a marble-topped table.

  “Six years.” I tuck a thatch of hair behind my ear. “Rob and I married a little later. I was busy with other things.” Then I eyeball Sam. “My first marriage left a bad taste in my mouth.” I clear my throat. “Your glory days . . . a World Series win, right? Didn’t you do something in spectacular Sam Nash fashion?”

  “Uh, yeah. Ninth inning.” His tone reverts to the younger Sam I recall—the one who fed off glory moments. “Giants last at bat. Pitcher before me loaded the bases, no outs. A hit and the Giants would have won.” I nod, frowning, waiting for the Sam Nash heroics that never touched my life. “I struck out the side.”

  I force the frown the other way. “So wouldn’t that be the focal point, the thing of interest? The thing that matters most if you’re recalling biographical memories?”

  “I’m not writing a memoir. While a World Series win is a nice highlight, it’s the only one.”

  “Sam, you’re going to have to be more specific. Surprise again. You’ve caught me off guard. Is your visit in reference to our overall past? Or just the extreme memories of—us?”

  “When I was sick, my prognosis wasn’t good. In fact, it was pretty grim. My brother . . . You remember Tate?”

  “The only person more unpredictable t
han you? Hard to forget.” Tate once blew into Winston-Salem like a vortex of debris-filled air. He said he needed a place to crash. He consumed every bit of food in Sam’s apartment, ran up his phone bill, and ordered cable porn. He left, stealing what little money Sam had in his wallet. “In comparison, he did make you look sedate.”

  “He hasn’t changed much. Doc Bogart . . . Bogey, he’s a leukemia specialist. According to him, Tate was my best shot—siblings are by far the most realistic possibility for a bone marrow match. Tate and I lost track about eight years ago. I hired a PI to find him. He traced Tate all the way to Washington State before the trail went cold. Anyway . . . lucky for me, I didn’t need him. Long story short, the chemo treatments got me into remission. That was six . . . almost seven months ago. It’s taken time to restart my life . . . Understand that I might actually have one.”

  “So you’re cured.” It’s my turn to sit up taller. Whatever my mixed feelings about Sam, I do not want this to be his fate.

  “Bogey says cured is a relative term with leukemia. But my remission is holding, and my most recent test results are better than expected.”

  “I see.”

  “I realize it’s a lot to take in, Liv. But this fresh at bat, it got me thinking what I might fix. What I might do better.”

  With the Macallan in hand, I point an index finger at Sam. “And so what, after I grant you absolution, you’ll move onto Africa, spend your good health and second chance feeding starving children, maybe hammering nails for Habitat for Humanity.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  The grin emerges. “I’d forgotten the hell-on-wheels attitude of Olivia Klein. Don’t fuck with her. You were the only person . . . woman, who ever saw right through Sam Nash bullshit.” I simper at the remark and information Sam has unwittingly offered. No one has taken my place—not in that sense.

  “Look, it’s been a long time. But you know me well enough to get that I’m a good-intention sort of guy. Altruism, on the other hand, is not a good fit. I had a near-death experience. I didn’t have a personality transplant.”