by Edie Danford
“Okay,” she says against my neck. Wetly.
She lets me lead her over to the chairs.
All right? Pete mouths.
I nod, squeezing Zoe’s fingers as she puts her hand in mine.
I settle back and watch Pete hustle down the hall, wishing I could do more, but knowing being here with Zoe is the most I can do at the moment.
Mostly we’re quiet as we wait. I make a note to myself to call people at the university as soon as I can. Zoe said that Robert, her other dad, would take care of letting family know. Robert—who is on a business trip—will be on the next plane to Chicago, but likely won’t make it to Hyde Park until very late tonight.
Five minutes later, Pete returns with a short, dark-haired woman in a lab coat. She’s Whitaker’s admitting doctor and tells us he has a bad concussion, a broken collarbone, and a severe ankle sprain. They’ll keep him in the hospital and monitor the concussion overnight.
Zoe breaks into tears again, but the doctor recites some helpful, pertinent facts, and soon Zoe’s science-loving brain is overriding her panic. She scowls, though, when the doctor suggests that she go home.
“You can call for updates,” the doctor says. “And we’ll call with any news.”
“You need some rest, sweetie,” Pete says, his voice soft. “And your dad does too.”
“I know,” Zoe chokes out, her face miserable. “He never rests anymore. Things were so quiet this morning and early this afternoon. I kept thinking, yay, he’s finally getting some sleep. And then I found him—” More tears that break my heart.
“You will come to our place,” I say. I look at Pete. He nods. “We will eat. And you can sleep in one of our guest rooms. Until Robert gets here.”
She agrees, of course. Hard for a seventeen-year-old person to refuse three very brainy, reasonable-sounding adults. And, also, she looks completely exhausted.
She says goodbye to Whitaker and then I go down to the main lobby area with her, while Pete retrieves the car from the garage.
I’m literally propping her up when the car pulls up to the pick-up area. We help her into the back seat, and she falls asleep during the short drive home.
She doesn’t want to wake, stand, or walk when we arrive, but Pete convinces her it will be warmer in the house. After we step inside, Pete asks for her phone. She hands it over and he hands it to me. “You call Robert and tell him she’s here,” he tells me. “I’ll get her settled upstairs. She needs sleep.”
She doesn’t give a word of protest.
My call to Robert is fast. I put down the phone and go to the fridge, wondering about a snack. I’m not hungry, but I don’t know if Pete has eaten. And I’m pretty sure Zoe hasn’t. I open the freezer, where leftovers are neatly stacked in labeled containers on the shelves.
While I’m deciding between something called “Pot o’ Gold Potato” and “Lazy-day Lasagna” a voice behind me says, “So none of this was on the agenda.”
I shut the door and turn to face him. I hold out my arms—I’m getting good at the gesture—and he walks into them. “Hugging,” I tell him. “We’ll go back to Old Business.”
He laughs sadly, settling his arms around me. “I think hugging is the only activity on the list we could actually get up to.”
“Is she asleep?”
“Before her head hit the pillow.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yeah.”
“Hungry?”
“Maybe.”
“How about Pot o’ Gold? I can put it in the microwave.”
“Sounds great.” He says this but his arms aren’t loosening their hold.
I stroke his hair. “You okay?”
“Mmm.” He tips his head, nuzzles my throat. “I’m okay.”
The smile he gives me when he steps away makes me believe him. And he laughs quietly at all the jokes I make while he eats his soup and I eat a few stomach-settling crackers. And he doesn’t protest when I help him with the dishes, doesn’t scold when I drop a bowl containing grated cheese on the floor.
“Maybe we need a dog to go along with our new cat,” I say as I retrieve the broom.
“They make more messes than they clean up,” he says.
“But they’re cute.” I sweep cheese into the dustpan.
“They are. You shouldn’t let me—or anyone else—sway your opinion.” He takes the dustpan from me and rinses it off into the disposal side of the sink. “If you want a pet—or anything else for that matter—you should go for it.”
I put the broom things away. “I want you,” I tell him as I walk back to the sink area.
His smile fades. We continue to load the dishwasher. The quiet feels awkward.
“That’s not gonna happen tonight,” he says finally, closing the dishwasher door and starting the wash cycle. “Zoe might need us. And we have to be fully aware of what’s going on when Robert arrives.”
“I agree,” I say, sitting on a barstool. “But I was talking about how I want you in my life. I want you not just to fuck you. Although, yes, I really want that too. There are many nuances to what I feel, but I realize that I’m not really—”
“I know.” He approaches me and puts his hand on my head, right above my ear. His fingers stroke. “You don’t need to worry so much about communicating, Mar. You do fine.”
I kiss his wrist. He keeps stroking for a while and then drops his hand. I don’t like the sad look on his face. I want to talk to him about what happened with my uncle. But our day has been very…full. He needs another nap.
“Why don’t you—”
“Tomorrow,” he talks over me. “Will you go out to lunch with me? I looked at your schedule. You should have some free time around one o’clock.”
“Okay. I would love to go out to lunch with you. Where should we go?”
“Pizza?”
“Okay. Pizza Capri at one.”
“It’s a date.” The word makes me smile, even though I’m worried about Zoe and Whitaker, worried about Pete’s strange mood.
Tomorrow will have some challenges, but a date with Pete will be something to look forward to. I’m about to suggest a show or a book chapter while we wait for Robert, but Zoe’s phone chimes on the counter.
Pete reaches for it, looks at the screen. “It’s Robert.”
“You answer.”
He does a very Pete-like job of being reassuring and capable, telling Robert where we are and that we’re waiting for him.
“Do you have everything ready for work tomorrow?” he asks after disconnecting.
“Um…” Work. Yes. I do have a job. A rather busy job.
“Why don’t you grab your laptop and get up to speed. I’ve got some things I need to get together for my mom.”
“Your mom?”
“Yeah. I’ve decided to help her with some marketing. For art shows and for her online shop.”
“Really? That sounds very cool. Can I see what kinds of things you’re thinking about?”
“Sometime, yeah. But right now you need to do your own work.”
“Right.”
I putter around on my computer while Pete putters around in his room.
When Robert arrives, we greet him together. He looks extremely worried. But he’s one of those men who manages to always seem…shiny? Polished. Yes. Polished.
It’s hard for me to imagine that he’d been with Whitaker for so long. Human attraction. Love. They are fascinating and frequently the data, the interactions, the outcomes, make no sense to me. But maybe they don’t have to make sense.
Zoe clings to me tightly when we say goodbye. When I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow, she lets go. Robert thanks us and leads his daughter outside.
“Do you know what we need?” Pete asks after shutting the door behind them.
“What?”
“Harry Potter. Some dragon-slaying.”
The cold places in my chest get warm. And they keep getting warmer as Pete takes me by the hand and takes me to his room.
&nbs
p; Pete
There was no, as Marek would call it, “making love” last night. And my brain—but not my body—is determined there won’t be any this morning. Not that I don’t want to make love. Making love with Marek has been the highlight of my life. The very best thing.
But we’re both zonked. Book-listening and holding each other and some kissing had been good. I was grateful for it. And I was grateful Mar hadn’t seemed to sense any desperation in my clinging and my kisses. He’d seemed happy to hold me.
I’ll try my damnedest to hold on to all those calming vibes when we eat each lunch together and I have to break my news to him.
I manage a hot bath and a cup of coffee and begin to feel semi-functional.
I start breakfast, waiting till the last minute to wake up Marek. He needs sleep and I need some quiet for thinking.
He’s a little zoned-out when I get him started on his morning routine. He keeps checking his phone for updates on Whitaker and Zoe. There’s been nothing new, but he’s experiencing some guilt over the texts and calls we’d missed yesterday. Phones and friends and his uncle hadn’t been on his agenda.
I get him out the door with breakfast in his belly. Also fully clothed with hat, gloves, parka, and scarf in place. And serviceable computer case in his hand (he made it halfway down the block before I ran after him with it).
I’m not proud that on my morning jog, I stop for a chocolate croissant and snarf it so fast I don’t appreciate the flavor. I spend the rest of the morning tweaking new designs for my mom, coming up with marketing ideas. Mostly I think about my upcoming conversation with Marek. What I should say, how he’ll react.
Coming clean is scary, sweat-inducing, body-shaking. I keep thinking of all the meanings behind the phrase. Coming clean.
I’ve made the decision, and I need to stick to it, no matter how many times my brain cycles around to other, easier decisions, like, a) I should maintain the status quo and not rock my boat, Mar’s boat, or his uncle’s boat; or b) I should manufacture a spectacular lie and move to Cabo San Lucas.
By the time I have to walk the six blocks to Pizza Capri, my churning stomach hasn’t managed to digest my croissant. The thought of eating pizza—and the calamari Marek always orders—makes the churn turn into an outright whirl. Ugh.
He’s waiting for me at a table by the window, a big smile on his face. Those bigger smiles are becoming more common. And, fuck, today’s conversation has a good chance of making them hide away again.
“Hey,” he says as I approach the table. He makes a move to get up, maybe help me with my coat or do something even more sweet like kiss me.
The restaurant is crowded and the tables are the kind that are super-close together. So if he does get up and help me with my coat and kiss me, lots of people will have a front row seat to see how much my Professor Adorkable is taken with me. There would have been a time when I would’ve gotten off on that. A beautiful, brilliant boy digs me! I snagged one! In your face!
But now all I feel is sick and worried. Those feelings in Marek’s eyes are the real goddamn deal. I should not have been trusted with their care. And if this is the way this lunch is gonna go—every second like an eternity of doubt—oh God, I need to turn around and leave.
But damn it, I’m Marek’s friend. He deserves an explanation, the truth.
So I give him a head shake before he can rise from the banquette seat and come around the table. “Sit,” I tell him.
As I take off my gear and settle into my chair, he gives me updates on Whitaker. The concussion isn’t as bad as they’d feared, and they’ll send him home soon. He’ll make a good recovery with plenty of rest and PT.
“I’m so relieved he’s gonna be okay.”
“Yes.” Marek nods with feeling. “Zoe is already talking about making a plan for his recuperation. Including exercise and diet. Also, switching things around in the house so he can navigate with crutches.”
“Go Zoe.”
“Right? She will need our help.”
I exhale slowly. If I move away from the Hyde Park neighborhood, it will be harder to help. One more bit of mega-suckage.
The hostess shows up to fill our water glasses and tells us a waiter will be with us soon. They’re busy. “So,” I say, after the hostess scurries off.
Marek reaches across the table, smiling shyly as he nestles his fingers against mine on the white linen. “I am happy to see you.”
“I’m happy to see you.” I’m always happy to see him. When he gets home from work. When he comes down the stairs in the morning. When I catch a glimpse of him walking across campus. When he looks up at me from one of the thousands of things he reads every week. When he does amazing things for me every day—by noticing what I’m doing, by caring I’m there in his space.
“Why is there worry on your face? The news about Whitaker is good.”
“It is good. I’m really fricking thankful. But…I have some news.”
“You do?”
“Yes. My mom has decided to move to Austin. She’ll stay with my grandparents while she looks for a place to buy. And I want to help her. I’m thinking I’ll need to go down there—stay for a couple of weeks.”
“Weeks?” The word comes out of him like a panicked eep!
I take a calming breath. I need to explain this clearly, no drama. In a sequence he’ll understand. Make him see this is the right path.
“Yes,” I say. “This is a big step for her. She’s been living in my dad’s backyard for years. My dad and stepmom sold their place, and this is the kick in the pants my mom needs to make some changes.”
“In the pants…”
I smile crookedly. “She needed motivation. So I want to help her take this next step.”
“You are good to do so. But I will miss you terribly. Maybe I could come down with you to... Where is Austin? In Texas, right?”
“Yes.” I take a breath.
I knew this would be hard. But a worried-yet-hopeful Marek in real life is way more gutting than the one in the practice convos I’ve held in my head.
I wish for wine. Wish for pills. Wish for strength. “Um, this brings me to my next bit of news.”
His fingers grip mine harder. “You aren’t thinking about staying in Austin?”
“No. No. I’m coming back. But because my father and stepmother are moving down to Georgia, they’re selling their properties in the Chicago area.”
“Properties? They have—had—more than one?”
“There’s the house in Lake Woods. And they invested in some buildings with my stepbrothers. Some new loft conversions in the Loop, among other things. They’ve decided to sign over a loft to me. Sort of.”
“An apartment downtown.”
I nod. “It’s in a building where one of my stepbrothers lives. The space is done, but needs finishes. I can choose whatever I want, I guess.”
“A loft.” His expression is unsure.
He doesn’t know how to react because he can’t tell how I feel about any of this. And that’s probably a good thing. I don’t want him to know how anxious I am. How fearful. I’m not going to be able to fake happiness here at all. Which is good, because honesty is what I’m going for. Come clean.
He looks down at our joined hands. He doesn’t release his grip, but his fingers feel warmer, maybe a little sweaty, and the smile lines have disappeared from the sides of his mouth.
I’ve begun to sweat under my warm clothes. I’m feeling dizzy, sick. I have to get this over with, or I’ll pass out before being able to tell him.
“I’m going to move into the loft as soon as I can. And I want to ask Cal at Domesticated to reassign me.” The words come out fast, faster than I’d intended, but they’ve bubbled up and popped out and now I can’t take them back.
The sound Marek makes is horrible. A deep moan. The words don’t hit him like popping bubbles; they hit him like a punch. Like someone nailed him in a tender place that’s already deeply bruised. His fingers go lax.
My
ears hum loudly, but not as loud as the clanking dishes and conversations around us, too close to us. The woman at the table beside ours casts a look of concern our way.
I immediately regret my idea to do this in public. I’d thought it would make things easier. Easier to be straightforward, to control emotions. But the idea is colossally stupid. I must’ve been thinking about all the times guys have dumped me, or times I’ve done the dumping. But Marek, this situation, isn’t anything like what I’ve experienced in the past.
Marek doesn’t have masks he wears in public. He doesn’t know how to shield his emotions—not more than a few seconds at a time, not with me.
And, goddamn it, I am not fucking dumping him. Despite the wishes of his manipulative, ass-wipe uncle.
“Marek.” I tug at his fingers, pulling his hand so his knuckles rest against the table. I stroke his palm, his wrist. “I’m not saying that I want to stop seeing you.”
His eyes meet mine, and, oh God, they’re more bruised than that sound he just made.
“I’m not.” I take a breath and try again. “There are probably better ways to tell you all this, but it’s kinda complicated and I—”
He makes another choking sound.
Fail. Oh shit.
“I can’t…” His voice breaks. He gives the lady next to us a quick glance. She glances back. I scowl at her. Marek shakes his head and says, “I don’t think—” Another break.
“Come on.” I stand abruptly, grab my coat from my chair and his from the banquette next to him.
He looks around like he doesn’t know where he is. Lost. A foreigner in a foreign land. Maybe I’ll have to learn Czech in order to get him up and out of here.
What words will he understand?
“Mar,” I whisper. “I need to give you a hug. Hold you.”
That gets him moving. And it also gets the pain-in-the-ass eavesdropper next to us smiling.
“Yeah,” I mutter at her. “We’re not breaking up. What? You think I’d do that to him? Look at him.”
She shakes her head, all, tsk, tsk.
Poor Marek looks shell-shocked as I help him with his coat. I apologize to the hostess as we leave—at least we hadn’t ordered.