by Penny Reid
“So how did you become Martin’s business partner?”
“Well, I had access to information Martin did not. So Martin pulled me aside at one of the parties and asked me how I liked working for his father. I was careful at first, but eventually I saw that he had a plan. And, honestly, I liked the idea of screwing over Denver Sandeke—he is so awful. I agreed to stay on with his dad and pass Martin any information that might be useful. I figured once Martin trusted me enough, he would share his plans with me. He did and the rest is history.”
“Hmm…” I studied her. “You placed a lot of faith in a teenager.” Not to mention she’d just admitted to corporate espionage like it was no big deal.
“I did,” she admitted soberly. “But there’s just something about Martin, right? Do you know what I mean? He inspires confidence. People want to follow him. I thought about my position with his father and knew—other than gaining work experience—I had no growth potential at Sandeke Telecom. Denver runs it like a good-old boy’s club. I was doing the work of an executive and being treated like a 1950s secretary.”
“That does sound awful.”
“I trusted Martin and he never made me feel like he was interested in anything from me other than my brain. I can’t tell you how refreshing that was.”
“I bet.” I nodded, studying her and finding her to be sincere. Emma may have been a corporate shark, but she was a well-reasoned, capable corporate shark. I understood better why Martin had singled her out.
“What do you think of this place?” She indicated to Martin’s apartment and sipped her tea, changing the subject and issuing me a friendly smile.
“I like it. It’s very Martin.” I hadn’t thought about it until she asked, but it was very Martin. It was no fuss, but not sterile. Comfortable. It felt like a home.
I don’t think she heard me, because she followed her question with, “I keep telling him he needs to move into a better space. We can’t have dinner parties here. This apartment is…okay. But he should be in a penthouse. Did you know he picked out all the furniture himself? I tried to get him to use a decorator.” She shook her head, like he was a silly child. “Sometimes I forget how young he is, how much he still needs to learn about the corporate environment. Eventually he’ll see things my way.”
I opened my mouth to ask why he couldn’t have dinner parties in this apartment—it seemed fine to me—but then she started talking again.
“Maybe you could help me. Together we could get him to see reason. I’m sure you have a good perspective, with your parents being who they are. You’re probably even better suited to persuade him than I am.” She giggled meaningfully.
I tried to keep the abject horror I was feeling from painting itself on my face. I decided it was time for her to go.
She left when I mentioned I needed to get ready for work. Of note, she was diligently nice to me as she departed, asking if she could take me to lunch the next time I was in the city.
“I think it would be really great for Martin if you and I became friends,” she said, then added as though to clarify, “that way he won’t feel torn about his loyalty to either of us.”
I gave her a noncommittal smile and nod, but felt like she was communicating in a different language. I didn’t know how to speak corporate politics and networking.
Once Emma left, I made quick work of wrapping Martin’s presents, stuffing as many as would fit into his stocking, hiding everything under my bed, then leaving for my gig.
I tried not to let myself get caught up in the idea that Martin had established the foundation and made sweeping, philanthropic changes to his grand plan as some sort of gesture to win me back, as Emma had suggested originally. If he wanted me, the Martin I’d known would have just shown up on my doorstep and demanded we reconcile.
No. There was more to the story of the foundation. I was sure of it. Maybe it had something to do with the pretty redhead he’d been dating…
Again, this thought made me queasy and was accompanied by forks piercing my heart, so I pushed it from my mind.
I decided I would wait to draw any conclusions until after I had all the facts, after I questioned Martin.
CHAPTER 8
Chemistry of the Nonmetals
Christmas in New York is magical.
It’s also a time for drunken holiday party hookups, engaging in yelling matches with co-workers after imbibing too much holiday cheer, and sloppy make-out sessions behind fourteen-foot plastic Douglas fir trees.
By the third set of the night I felt like the audience was much more entertaining than our band. We were playing a Christmas Eve party for some huge conglomerate at a skyscraper downtown. Willis told me they were originally supposed to have a real band, but then that real band backed out two weeks ago. A real band meaning recording musicians who wrote and sold their own compositions.
And so they were stuck with us and we were stuck with them and that set a very surly, rebellious tone for the evening. Willis decided we would end our third set with I Wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones.
When we walked off stage it was the first time they had applauded, and I even heard a few whistles of appreciation.
“We’re playing punk, loud, and defiant for the rest of the night,” Janet said as she fished a cigarette out of her bag.
Abram pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and his voice was tight and angry when he spoke. “Those fuckers out there are pissing me off.”
“Agreed.” Willis marched over to Janet and put his hand out for a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoke before; in fact, I was pretty sure he’d quit several years ago.
“Katy, you want to go take a walk?” Fitzy gave me a hopeful smile. He really was cute, handsome, nice. And yet he did nothing for my pants.
I was beginning to suspect that my pants were actually my brain.
Before I could respond, Willis laughed at Fitzy’s suggestion. “Where are you going to go for a walk? On the roof? You’d be pacing a small square and shivering your nuts off. We have to be back out there in fifteen minutes, bucko.”
“No thanks, I think I need to find the ladies’ room,” I tossed over my shoulder and didn’t wait for anyone to respond. Rather, I exited the backstage area through a giant steel door in a rush because I actually really needed to use the facilities.
I walked through a window-lined hallway, the sounds of recorded music from the party following me most of the way. I stopped when I encountered elevators and a fork in the path. Shrugging, I decided to go left into a new hallway. One side was glass, looking down on an atrium several floors below. The other side was lined with offices.
Soon I found I’d gone in a circle and was back where I started. This was bad news as my bladder was sending up the yellow emergency flag and I was doing the pee-jig to keep myself together. Thankfully, I encountered a pair of intoxicated women who appeared to be on a mission. On a hunch, I followed them and sent a silent thank you to the heavens as they stumbled into a nondescript—and unmarked—women’s bathroom with several stalls.
At this point I was cutting it close, so after my business was finished I jogged back to the backstage area and rushed through the door just in time to hear Fitzy say, “She’s not even with you! Katy is none of your business—”
I halted, my eyes flickering over the scene before me. Abram was smirking at Fitzy, leaning his shoulder against the brick wall. Fitzy was standing in the middle of the room and appeared to be quite riled up. Willis was between them, apparently keeping them apart. And Janet was nowhere to be seen.
All eyes turned to me as I entered; I didn’t know quite what to do. The only person who didn’t appear to be upset was Abram. In fact, he looked positively pleased.
At a loss, I stared wide-eyed at the trio and gave the room a little wave. “Hey, guys… What’s up?”
***
Abram didn’t stop casting sinisterly pleased looks in my direction through most of the fourth set. I assumed this had everything to do with getting under Fitzy’
s shirt collar, so I ignored his antics.
But then abruptly, his expression sobered during the last song and turned irritated, his eyes narrowing on me as we wrapped up the last stanza. No sooner was I off the stage, I felt his hand on my upper arm leading me out the steel door I’d used earlier on my hunt for the bathroom.
“Where are you going? We have one more set!” Willis called after us.
“Just for a quick walk,” Abram called over his shoulder, practically pulling me behind him.
Once the door closed behind us, I demanded, “Let go of my arm, this is a very uncomfortable way to walk.”
He didn’t turn, but his hand slid down to mine. Abram threaded our fingers together and continued leading me forward.
We came to the fork in the path and I volunteered, “It’s a circle. No matter which way you go we’ll end up back here.” I was honestly too tired to give his strange behavior much consideration.
He pulled me to the right and finally spoke. “Your boyfriend is here.”
“My boyfriend?”
“The stockbroker.” His eyes slid to mine, his big jaw working, his brown eyes dark and unhappy.
I stumbled, forcing Abram to stop. “Martin? Martin’s here? Where? I didn’t see him.”
“He showed up at the end of the last set.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. Now, why would he be here? I thought you two were over.”
I tugged my hand from Abram’s and crossed my arms over my chest. My heart was racing now.
“We are over. But we’re…we’re friends. I’m staying with him.”
“You’re staying with him?”
“This week. I’ve been staying at his place in Manhattan for the week.”
Abram’s hands moved to his hips and he released a frustrated sigh. “If you needed a place to stay, you could have called me. You don’t have to stay with your douchebag ex.”
I scrunched my face, not liking that Abram was calling Martin a douchebag. I knew this reaction was silly as he’d done it before and I didn’t object. But things between Martin and I had changed. I’d always cared about him, yes. And now that I’d let go of my anger about our breakup I didn’t want people calling him names.
“Listen, he’s not a douchebag. Like I said, we’re friends. It’s no big deal.”
“And nothing’s happened?”
I grew very still, but felt compelled to ask, “Why is that any business of yours?”
He grit his teeth, his eyes abruptly dimming. “I guess it’s not. It’s none of my business.”
We stared at each other for a long moment in silence and I could see him building a virtual wall between us. He was making his mind up, having a conversation in his head, while I stood here and waited for him to give me a real response.
But he didn’t. He closed himself off, burying his thoughts and feelings, and I realized Abram and I were extremely similar.
He wasn’t fearless. We were both feelings hoarders.
He may have suggested a few weeks ago that I sleep with Fitzy, or use him as my rebound guy and whatever that entailed, because I wasn’t in any danger of falling for Fitzy. And then Abram wouldn’t be my rebound guy. He wanted to be with me, but wanted everything to be just right, just perfect, and all sorted before really putting himself out there.
I briefly wondered if the scene I’d walked in on earlier was Abram trying to push Fitzy in that direction.
I felt a smile of ironic understanding claim my features and I exhaled a small laugh, realizing that if I wanted bravery and honesty, it was going to have to come from me.
“Look, I think I like you. And I think you like me, too. I don’t need a rebound guy. In fact, I don’t need any guy. But I would like a partner. I would like to be part of a team.”
Abram’s cold expression didn’t change but I did see something pass behind his eyes, a flicker of acceptance, of understanding.
He cleared his throat, his gaze moving to the carpet then back to mine. “It’s none of my business, I know. But we’ve had, at least I’ve had, a really good time with you this week. So, what are we doing here? Are you back with your ex?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Are you over him?”
I hesitated, my attention moving to a spot behind Abram as I thought about the question, how to answer it honestly. “I don’t know. He was my first everything. I’m starting to think it’s not possible to ever truly get over that person, the first person who made you feel like… But maybe it is possible to move on.”
He was silent for a beat, then acknowledged quietly, “I get that. I know what you mean.”
We gave each other quick, commiserating glances and flat smiles. I twisted my fingers while he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Katy…do you want to be over him? Do you want to be with me?”
My eyes collided with Abram’s and I saw it cost him something to ask the question. As much as I wanted to respond, Yes, I want to be over Martin. Yes, I want to be with you, I couldn’t. Because my feelings were so much messier than a yes or a no.
He nodded, just a subtle movement at first, as though I had spoken, as though I’d already given my answer and he was processing it.
Before he got too far ahead of me I rushed to clarify, “I don’t like feeling this way. I don’t like being stuck in limbo and wanting two completely different things. Yes, I want to be over Martin. I know he’s moved on, as he’s had a girlfriend since we broke up—at least one that I know about. And, honestly, I don’t trust him not to hurt me again. But part of me feels like things aren’t finished.”
“That’s just you wishing.” He didn’t look upset, he looked resigned. “But I get it. I do. Because I didn’t feel like things were finished with me and my ex. I hadn’t moved on and I kept wishing things could be different.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No. I was a coward.” He uttered this with no bitterness, just a matter-of-fact assessment of himself.
“When did you stop? When did you feel like things were finished?”
“Not ’til recently. Not until I met you.”
I sighed. His words, made with his powerful and deep voice, his soulful brown eyes, caused my heart to ache.
“Abram—”
“Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re still wishing?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Abram gave me a sardonic smirk and shook his head, his eyes teasing but also a little sad, like he felt sorry for me.
“You and I are a lot alike, Katy.”
I returned his smirk and shrugged at my weakness. “I don’t know how to tell him. I feel so paralyzed. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
Abram closed the distance between us and threw his arm over my shoulder, tucking me close to his broad chest and steering us back for our last set.
“If he hasn’t moved on and he’s wishing too, then you need to put him out of his misery and tell him what’s going on in your head. Be brave.”
“Ha! Says Abram. Self-professed coward.”
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “But if he has moved on, you need to know for sure. Because then you can move on, too.”
***
Martin was in the audience. He was standing by the bar and was surrounded by people. I spotted him almost immediately when we took the stage; I explained away this phenomenon to myself, reasoning that he was several inches taller than everyone else.
But really, I found him so fast because he was Martin. I think my blood chemistry had changed when we were together, because locating him in the crowd had been exceptionally easy.
His eyes lifted and found mine, and he held them until I looked away. I felt his gaze on me for the duration of the set. At first it was distracting. But then I settled into it, accepted it, and it began to feel oddly comforting.
When we finished the last song I think we were all surprised at the round of applause we received. The nig
ht had not started well, but Janet’s idea of punk and rebellion seemed to do the trick. I lifted my attention to the audience, again my eyes immediately finding Martin. He lifted his cell and gestured to it. I interpreted this to mean, check your phone.
Backstage, Fitzy was waiting and jumped between my bag and me. “Hey, so, you want to grab a drink?”
I walked around him. “No thanks. I’m really tired.”
“And she’s got someone waiting for her,” Abram chimed in, pulling on his heavy coat.
Fitzy glanced between us. “Who? You?”
“Nope.” Abram’s eyes met mine and I was impressed by all the different sentiments I saw there: humor, regret, acceptance, exhaustion, and a subversive pleasure in giving Fitzy a hard time.
I checked my phone, saw that Martin had sent me two messages; the first provided directions on where to meet him. The second read,
Martin: Don’t go out with the band, I’m driving you back to my place. I haven’t seen or talked to you all week.
I frowned at this second note, felt like it was an unnecessary addition. The more I studied the text, the more it looked like a command. I rolled my eyes. Typical Martin. I quickly typed out a response.
Kaitlyn: You’re not the boss of me.
Martin: I know. But sometimes I act like I am.
Kaitlyn: Why?
Martin: Because you like it.