by Penny Reid
He accepted them gingerly, shifting to the side to make sure none of them fell. “Jesus, Kaitlyn!”
“That’s right, Jesus.” I nodded. “Jesus is the reason for the season.”
This only made him laugh again while he struggled to keep his grip. “I mean—help me carry all this stuff to the couch.”
Grinning at him, I took the boxes most precariously perched and turned for the couch, stumbling a little when I caught sight of the piano and tree again. A rush of uncertain happiness spread from my stomach to my extremities.
“Do you like it?” he asked from behind me, obviously noticing where my attention had snagged.
“Is it for me?” I asked, a rush of emotion — confusion, hope, hopeful confusion — making my throat tight.
I heard him deposit his stuff on the couch and felt the heat of his body directly at my back just before his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his cheek brushing against my temple.
“Of course it’s for you.” His voice was a rumble above a whisper.
I placed my hands on his forearms and squeezed, glad he couldn’t see my face because I was overwhelmed. My hopes and my questions were assembling themselves, trying to partner up so I could begin to understand what this gift meant. I had to clear my throat before speaking.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? It’s a piano. The guy tuned it yesterday and it’s all ready for you. You should play something.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to touch it. If I touched it then I’d want to keep it and nothing in this apartment was mine to keep. And when the time came for us to part, which felt inevitable, I would lose something.
No. The piano wasn’t mine any more than Martin was mine.
So I shook my head, clearing it of these maudlin thoughts, and decided to tease him instead. “You got me a piano for your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“So I have to visit in order to play it.”
“That’s the idea.”
“So it’s blackmail.”
“It’s an incentive.”
I let my head fall back on his shoulder and looked up at him. “It’s bribery at best.”
He grinned down at me. “It’s an enticement.”
“Don’t try to out-synonym me. Let’s settle on enticing extortion.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“But you don’t have to buy me a piano in order to ensure I’ll visit. Friends visit each other. If you want me to visit, just ask me.”
His arms tightened then let me go. I felt him draw away, heard him sigh quietly. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Are we going to finish this conversation?” I turned to watch him disappear.
“Yes. But I need some scotch to finish this conversation,” he called from the kitchen.
“Scotch? Are you drinking scotch?”
“Yeah. It’s good. You’d like it.”
“Monogrammed towels, business cards, fancy watches, corner office, and now scotch. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. Are you golfing now, too? Pretty soon you’re going to retire and move to Miami.”
He barked a laugh and reappeared with two glasses and two bottles of unlabeled red liquid.
“Fine. No scotch. How about sangria?”
“Oh! I’ll take sangria.”
I moved all of his presents to the center cushion of the couch and claimed one end while he poured us both a glass and settled on the other side. The sangria was really, really good. It didn’t even taste like it had alcohol in it, except maybe a little red wine.
I sipped mine.
Meanwhile, Martin gulped his then refilled his glass.
“So…” I peered at him while he studied his loot. “Like I said, just ask me to visit.”
“I will.”
“You don’t need to buy a piano.”
He took another gulp of his sangria then set it to the side. Selecting a box, he tore through the wrapping, and said offhandedly, “I know I don’t need to buy you a piano, but I like hearing you play—and more than that stuff you play in the band. I want to hear your music, the stuff you compose.”
He grinned as he discovered what was inside the wrapping paper and held it up. “I like this. I’m going to use this when I send you letters.”
It was the lazy fisherman desk set. My chest filled with warmth, the kind caused by giving someone a gift and seeing that they love it. Plus… letters from Martin.
“Open the rest.” I bounced in my seat, caught up in the excitement of opening presents, and tossed him the hobbit soap dispenser—but I surreptitiously held back the Stevie Wonder vinyl. I felt a little weird about the record. When he’d played Overjoyed for me on the boat, it felt like he’d been trying to communicate with me. But this record was just a record, right? Or maybe it wasn’t.
I pushed my anxiety away and took a large gulp of the sangria.
He dutifully opened his gifts, smiling and laughing and just generally having a fantastic time. I soaked it all up—the wonderful feelings and his expressions of happiness—storing it for later, hoarding it for when I would need the memory. I also drank two glasses of sangria, and began to suspect it contained quite a lot more alcohol than just red wine.
“The Princess Bride?” He opened the first few pages of the book, his eyebrow lifting in question.
“You’re going to love it. It’s full of awesome sidekicks and side characters, like a giant who rhymes, and man who is hunting another man who killed his father and has six fingers, and—”
“Isn’t this a movie?”
“Yes. They’re both great, but you should see the movie after you read the book. And look,” I leaned forward, flipping the pages back to the beginning and pointing to the swirling signature, “it’s signed by the author.”
I gave him a satisfied grin, which he returned. As I sat back in my seat I was feeling warm and a little dizzy, the sangria and lack of sleep was going to my head.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I’ll read this next. Then you’ll come over for pizza and we’ll watch the movie.”
“Sounds good.” For some reason this thought made me melancholy, a future that involved me visiting him in a few weeks to watch The Princess Bride.
With a silent sigh, I handed him his last present, feeling unaccountably nervous about the record, and grateful he’d suggested drinks before presents and conversation.
Part of me hoped that when he opened the gift he would see it merely as a record of a musician he liked. Another part of me hoped he would read more into it and tell me that he’d been wishing, too—but I wasn’t holding my breath. Martin wasn’t the wishing type. When he wanted something, he took it; or at least he was vocal about it.
If he wanted me still, then he would have done something, said something already. Therefore… not holding my breath.
He pulled back the paper, his big grin in place. Then his eyes moved over the front of the album and his grin fell away. He blinked at it. My blood pumped hot and thick through my veins and I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands. I didn’t hide though. Instead I braced myself, deciding I would take whatever came next like an adult.
He seemed to stare at the front of the record for an eternity, and when he did look at me, he lifted just his eyes. Something raw but also detached made his stare feel like a brand. He examined me. The air in the apartment shifted, became heavier, hotter.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, glancing away, his voice cool and calm. He set the record on the coffee table along with the other gifts.
I swallowed thickly and managed to croak, “What?”
“Do you regret what we did?” His gaze swung back to me, held mine as he pushed, “That I was your first? The first guy you—”
“Engaged in gland to gland contact with?”
His grimace told me he didn’t like my word choice. But the phrase had slipped out in a poo
r attempt at protecting my heart, some instinctual need to keep the conversation from becoming too serious.
Martin corrected, “Made love with.”
I stared at him, giving my aching heart a moment to settle, wondering if I should be flippant or honest. In the end I decided on being flippantly honest, because sangria made me brave, but not brave enough to risk everything.
“No. No, not at all. I don’t regret it at all. First, you are quite handsome, you know. Hot even. I’ll never regret getting me some of all that.” I pointed at him then moved my index finger in a circle, making him laugh lightly and roll his eyes.
Reluctant, slightly embarrassed laughter looked damn good on Martin Sandeke.
“And secondly, you really seemed to know what you were doing, how to make things easier, better for me. Since I was going to lose my virginity at some point, of course I wanted to lose it to an expert.”
He stopped smiling then, the merriment in his eyes waned, and his mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a frown.
“And lastly…” I started, stopped, then decided to abandon being flippant and just be completely honest—however I kept my eyes fastened to my yoga pants.
“Lastly, I was in love with you. I wanted you—and not because of all that,” again I pointed to him with my index finger, moving it in a wagging circle, “but because I wanted you, Martin, and all that you were, and how you made me feel, and how I hoped I made you feel.”
I paused, gathered a breath for courage then met his gaze again, adding, “I wanted you.”
“I was in love with you, too.”
His words made me feel like someone had deflated all my birthday balloons. I gave him a flat smile, my eyes flickering away from his, but I said nothing, because I knew he’d never actually loved me. This knowledge was now bone-deep.
If he’d loved me then he would have chosen us over revenge.
If he’d loved me as I’d loved him, then he wouldn’t be feeling platonic indifference toward me now; he wouldn’t be able to settle for being my friend. He would be struggling as I was struggling.
If he’d loved me as I’d loved him, then a Martin Sandeke google search wouldn’t have yielded pictures of him and a pretty redhead, who I was now convinced—after speaking with Emma—was his last girlfriend.
I glanced at my glass. It was empty again.
“What?”
“What, what?”
“Why did you give me that look?”
“Because I’m out of sangria.”
“No. Before you looked at your glass.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You don’t believe me.” He stated this as though the thought had just occurred to him.
I gave a non-committal shrug and reached for the bottle at my left, intent on pouring a larger glass so it wouldn’t run out quite as fast.
“You don’t believe that I loved you.” He stated this as fact and I felt the mood in the room shift from friendly to antagonistic.
“Meh…” I shrugged again. “What does it matter? It’s in the past.”
“It matters.” His rising anger was tangible.
I felt a spike of furious indignation and tried to distance myself from my feelings on the subject, because, if I didn’t, he was going to end up with a face full of sangria.
Instead I attempted to be pragmatically truthful. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m certain you liked me a lot. And it was obvious you made a valiant—but failed—effort to feel more.”
“Wow.” He breathed, then exhaled again, like I’d knocked the wind out of him. “That’s a really shitty thing to say.”
Yep. He was super-duper mad.
But I couldn’t feel sorry about what I’d said—a little twinge of guilt perhaps, but not sorry. He was the king of blunt (and sharp) honesty. He never pulled his punches. If he didn’t like or couldn’t handle my honesty then that was just too damn bad.
Regardless of the certainty of my own righteousness, discomfort and disquiet made a camp in my chest. I forced myself to look at him. “Listen, twisty britches, listen to the facts—”
“Fuck your facts.” His eyes burned like an inferno, but his voice was surprising low and quiet.
“Well, see, here we go.” I gestured to him with my refilled glass but averted my gaze. “This is an example. Your language. You see no problem talking to me like that, you never did. That’s not how you speak to people you love.”
“It is when you’re passionate about them.”
“No. It’s not okay. It’s disrespectful.”
“We can’t all be frigid robots.”
I ignored this statement, obviously made with the intent to wound, in favor of pointing out the other facts. “And then you chose revenge on your father over us.”
“And you chose your mother’s career over us.”
I nodded. “Yes. Yes I did. Because it was the right thing to do.”
“And God forbid you do anything for yourself. God forbid you be selfish for one single, fucking second and give into your passion, take what you want.” This was said through clenched teeth; I could tell his temper was rising and he was struggling to keep his voice from rising with it.
“At the expense of good, innocent people? That’s not love, Martin. Love is supposed to make you a better person, love is supposed to…to…” I moved my hands in a circle, some of the wine dripping on his leather couch. I wiped at it with the bottom of my shirt as I searched for the right words. “It’s supposed to improve your character, not demolish it. If you loved me—if you wanted what was best for me—then you wouldn’t have wanted me to destroy my mother’s career due to my own selfishness.”
“I wanted you to choose me.” He wasn’t yelling, but I could tell he was barely controlling his impulse to intimidate with volume.
I responded quietly, “And I wanted you to choose me.”
He looked away, the muscle at his temple ticking, the lines of his jaw and lips severe.
I shrugged. “So I chose reason, and you chose passion, and nary the twain shall meet.”
“I chose passion?”
“Yes. Revenge against your father.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. I was passionate about that.” His words a reluctant confession as his eyes focused over my shoulder.
“It’s the love of your life.” The words slipped out before I could catch them and I wished them back immediately. It was one thing to be honest, it was another thing entirely to bare my bitterness. Martin winced like I’d struck him.
I hadn’t meant it to be mean, but it was mean. My heart constricted with a sharp ache—because I saw my blurted statement caused Martin pain. I didn’t want to hurt him. That was the opposite of what I wanted.
“Barnacles,” I said, shaking my head, trying to figure out how to apologize without sounding even more like a wicked witch. “I’m sorry, Martin. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That’s right. That’s who you see, and that’s who I am.” His tone was frosty, laden with animosity and sarcasm. “You still think I’m an arrogant asshole, and that’s all I’ll ever be to you.” This last part sounded as though he were talking to himself.
I grimaced. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Waaaay too late.” This statement was paired with a sardonic chuckle.
Another piercing stab nailed me through the heart and I felt cold and a little nauseous. “Okay, well then I’m officially the asshole. I accept the title and all the death stares that accompany it.” Again, I couldn’t meet his eyes; I busied myself by draining my glass.
“Parker.” He sighed, obviously frustrated, rubbing his hands over his face. “Can we move past this?”
I nodded, still swallowing, and eventually was able to answer in earnest—but perhaps a little too loudly and with slurred speech. “Yes! Yes, let us never speak of the past again.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Sandeke,” I leaned forward, depositing my glass on the table and tucking my legs u
nder me on the center cushion, kneeling directly in front of him, “despite my awfulness, I really do want us to be frie—”
“Are you drunk, Kaitlyn?” He cut me off, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mixture of exasperation and barely contained fury.
“No. Just tipsy enough to say what’s on my mind without overthinking it.”
“What were you doing earlier, in your room, before I walked in?”
I held very still and stared at him, a shock of flustering embarrassment crashing through me. His question was unexpected and made me chase my breath. I’m sure I looked guilty because I felt guilty. He was staring at me with contemptuous certainty, like he already knew the answer, like he thought I was a coward.
I felt caught.
Even so, I would never tell him the truth. “I…I was—”
He didn’t give me a chance to lie. “If I kissed you right now, would you remember tomorrow?”
“Why would you…why would you kiss me?” I couldn’t keep up with this conversation.
“Because you’re beautiful. Because I want to.” His gaze was on my mouth and he sounded completely belligerent; meanwhile, my heart was in my throat.
“Do you? Do you really? Or are you just tipsy enough to be feeling nostalgic?”
“No. I’m just tipsy enough to say what I want without overthinking it.” He mimicked my earlier words through clenched teeth.
I couldn’t help my next question because I needed to know, “Would it mean anything?”
“Kissing you always means something to me. Would it mean anything to you?” Despite his anger, he appeared to be choosing his words carefully.
“I guess it would confuse me. Are we…would we still be friends? After? If we kissed?” I couldn’t choose my words carefully; they tumbled out of my mouth in a mass of disoriented chaos.
He shrugged, like he didn’t care, but his gaze had turned sharp, menacing. “If you wanted to be.”
I felt his response like a punch to my stomach, because I didn’t want to be his friend, not really. I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to still wish like I wished. Yet I did want to be his friend, because it was the right thing to do. Because I cared for him. Because I wanted him to know he had a safe place.