by Edie Danford
He nods. “All right. I can see you feel strongly about this. Now, unfortunately, I’ve gotta run to this site visit. Do you want to come by our place tonight? Have dinner with me and Bob?”
“Um, no. Thanks. I kinda need to get settled in my new place.”
“I’ll be in touch.” He walks me to the door, giving my shoulder a warm squeeze. “Hey,” he says, when we got into the reception room and his gaze snags on my stuff. “You need a ride somewhere?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to refuse, but I’m pretty damn sure that duffel is out to get me. I heave a sigh and give Cal a grateful smile. “That would be great, thanks.”
Marek
“We need a bigger dishwasher,” Zoe says. Her face is flushed and her hair is a little sweaty as she leans heavily against the counter.
I hold out my arm, bend it at the elbow, flex my biceps muscle. “I am big enough to take care of any overflow.”
She laughs. Not very long or loud. But it definitely counts as a laugh. “You kinda suck at doing dishes, Mar. You’re soooooo slow.” She picks up a plate and begins making swirling hand motions across its surface. “First you do the front. Then you do the back. Then you do all the edges. Then you repeat.”
“Yes. I do it that way because cleaning is the objective. And if you had stuck that plate into the warm, soapy water before performing that very unlike-me demonstration, it would now be clean.”
She snorts. “Can we take a break from the kitchen for a while?” She pushes away from the counter and surveys the spacious room. It has very fancy appliances. The décor is…fussy. Zoe admitted that she hates the room, but that her dad Robert had worked very hard on decorating it before he left, she couldn’t bear to change it, and so she and Whit do their best to avoid being in here very much. Which is why there are weeks’ worth of dishes piled everywhere. “I’d say it’s…halfway done.”
“More like a third, but okay.”
We walk into the living room and I suppress a groan. Why is there no real furniture in this house?
I sit down carefully on the floor pillows. Zoe sprawls on a mound of blankets in front of the TV.
She groans.
I have despair.
Pete. Interesting that I’ve never realized that the sound of my heartbeat in my ears is remarkably similar to his name. Pe-pete. Pe-pete. Pe-pete. I smile sadly. If he were here, I’d tell him. And he would say, “Um, Mar? My name is Pete. Not Pe-pete.”
I look down at my phone. I’ve managed to push him from my mind for…three minutes. Of course, during those three minutes I’d been using a variation on his method of washing dishes. So does that count? I’m not sure.
“What are you thinking about?” Zoe asks. Her eyes aren’t open.
“Time,” I say.
“Nope. You’re lying.”
“A false accusation.”
“You’re thinking about Pete. I could tell by your tone of voice.”
I shrug even though she can’t see me. “I always think of Pete. That is a given.”
She turns toward me, opening her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I don’t bother to lie, tell her there isn’t anything going on. She would see through me. But I also can’t tell her everything. One, it’s personal between me and Pete. Two, she doesn’t need my misery to add to her own. “We had a disagreement,” I tell her. “But I am working on fixing it.”
“It doesn’t look like you’re working on fixing it.”
I tap my temple. “I am.”
“Sometimes problems need more than brain power, Mar. Sometimes they need physical action.”
Astute as always, Zoe. I have, in fact, been thinking of ways to show Pete that the best solution to our current problems is to stay together, to work on them together. Things are awkward, complicated, a little scary. But I’ve overcome those things before, with Pete’s help.
Yes, Pete is going to Texas, but I believe his claim that he’ll be back. And I believe that he loves me. So, of course, there is hope. This isn’t the kind of problem I usually solve, but that doesn’t mean it’s unsolvable.
I think longingly of my lab. No clutter. No mess. The data-flows—cool green and blue numbers. My monitors’ gentle humming. Information I know well and can manipulate easily.
The last time I’d retreated from life problems and immersed myself completely in my studies, things hadn’t gone so well. I’d essentially moved in to that lab at Stanford and my body had paid the price. Also, I’d paid the price of worrying my family, and then of not being brave enough, bold enough to make the move to Chicago without my uncle’s guidance.
His advice and assistance had been welcome—they’d made sense. Jakub was a smart man and he loved me in his way. But if I’d been paying attention at all, I would’ve realized that he was overstepping, protecting me when I didn’t need protecting.
If I’d been braver back then, I wouldn’t be dealing with this wretchedness today. Of course, I wouldn’t have met Pete either.
Life is so very confusing. I rub hard at my eyes. Doing is definitely better than thinking at the moment.
“Speaking of physical action…” I stand, take a big breath. “We need to get back to work. Robert will be here to pick you up in half an hour.”
“Ugh. I can’t move.”
“Then don’t. I will keep working on the kitchen while you rest.”
She moans. “’Kay. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Don’t worry. Just rest.”
I refill the sink with hot, soapy water. Roll my shoulders. Start in on the next pile. Pots and pans now. We’ve been soaking them, starting with easier jobs first.
I begin to hum, channeling Pete, wishing for one of his playlists. If I knew more about music, I could make him a playlist, send it to him. That would be action.
What else would be action? What else would show him there is hope, so much hope?
Balloons. Red balloons. Yes. I will ask him to watch the movie that inspired him when he’d been so unhappy. We can watch it tonight.
Maybe I, too, will get a tattoo. How even did one go about getting a tattoo, selecting an artist? Research. I will put it on my research agenda for tomorrow.
I’m thinking very hard about all these things, so hard I don’t realize how much time has passed, and so I’m surprised when there’s a knock at the kitchen door. I look up to see Robert’s face peering at me through the glass. I dry my hands and call for Zoe.
After sending her off with Robert and agreeing to a time to meet again, I hurry home, eager to discuss things with Pete. I’ll fix him a light supper and then we can watch the movie in the best spot—his bed, the laptop sharing a place on both our laps.
We’ve had a shitty day—the shittiest—but that doesn’t mean the night has to suck.
My coat is halfway off as I enter the mudroom. I hang it up, calling out, “Pete?”
No answer. I grimace as I realize how chapped my hands have become. Forgetting gloves after washing dishes for hours is something I deserve a lecture for.
“Pete?”
The kitchen is quiet. Too quiet. I realize that the fruit bowl rarely talks back to me. And that the new pot rack hanging on the wall only speaks when it’s rattled. And that the refrigerator chimes only when it’s impatient.
My heart is pounding. Erratically. Some beats pound against my ribs, some in my ears and throat. Pete’s door is ajar. I push it open.
The sound I make isn’t a word in any language.
He’s gone.
He’s left some things—the flowered comforter, a couple photos on the wall. But he’s gone. I know it. Know it well enough that I don’t torture myself by going to look at his empty closet.
I stumble to the bed. Pull out my phone.
Where are you? I type, my eyes blurring, my fingers shaking.
I hate the sound of my sawing breaths as I wait. He hasn’t said goodbye. Is he at his mom’s? Or is he somewhere else? He hasn’t told me where he�
�s going, where this new loft is. He hasn’t given me a chance to come up with new and better ideas for making it okay for him to stay here. With me.
I don’t have to wait long. He’s a kind person. I’m at my new place.
Can I come over?
His reply is faster this time. Yes. But not tonight. Okay? Maybe in a couple days.
I scrub at my face. Stupid fucking tears. But won’t you be in Austin in a couple days?
Oh. Right. I will. You can come over when I get back.
When he gets back? No. Just…no. That will be too long!!!!!!
You’ll be okay.
I don’t respond. Does he really think I’ll be okay? In what way will I be okay?
He knows how much I need him. He knows how busy my schedule is this coming week, knows how much I will need him to get me through the day. He knows how hopeless I am without him…
Oh shit.
Yes. He knows. He knows too well.
Pete has said he wants to take care of his messes. Not mine. He needs time. Not me badgering him for help. Not me virtually sobbing at his feet.
When I can make my fingers move, I type, Yes. I’ll be fine. Have a good trip.
I click off the phone immediately. I don’t want to see his response. I don’t want to beg. I don’t want to know anything about where he’s staying—if he lets me know the address, I’ll be on my way over before I have my coat zipped.
I leave the room quickly. I don’t realize I’ve shut the door behind me until I hear it slam. My gaze zips around the kitchen. The tea kettle. The new bag of tortilla chips on the counter. The gleam on the dishwasher’s panel.
No. Can’t be here either. Maybe tomorrow.
I gently set the phone on the island. No throwing. No flailing.
I walk down the hall past the tick-tick-tocking clock. I hold the banister tightly as I climb the stairs. I take a shower in my too-spacious shower stall. I put on pajama pants that have been softly laundered, neatly folded. I crawl into bed—the sheets are scented of the soap Pete likes, not Pete himself.
If I pull the duvet over my head and wallow into the pillows and try unsuccessfully—for hours—to quiet my shaking body, only I will know.
I am alone.
Chapter 14
Pete
How long had Cal predicted it would take before Marek decided he couldn’t live without me? Two or three days?
I look at the calendar on my phone. It has been three weeks since I’ve talked to Marek. And when I go home to Chicago—on a date I still have to decide on—I won’t know if I have a job or not.
I’ve heard from him plenty, but we haven’t talked. Every couple days Marek sends me pics of random things from home. A gargoyle from one of my favorite buildings on campus. A picture of the fancily swirled latte he’d ordered at the coffee shop. A gif of a huge, throbbing heart on Valentine’s Day.
Then a few days ago, he’d sent me a text that had made me feel happy and horrible: I’m doing okay. I miss you but I am managing to clean many messes on my own. You can come home any time. I will be here waiting.
My guy is being brave. But I recognize the ache of being missed and missing someone—I feel it constantly.
Zoe has sent me texts too. All about Marek. Mar got more new clothes! Jeans! They make his ass look HAWT. (She’d sent it with a meme of a hippo wearing jeans—ha.) Mar made me and Dad dinner. It was GREAT. (She’d sent it with a meme of a casserole morphing into an H-bomb exploding.) Mar met someone new and you’re gonna be SO JEALOUS. (She’d sent a picture of Mr. Bean with that one.)
Entertaining, for sure, but I want real news. I want to see and talk to my friends, damn it. I re-grip the phone, thinking I need to break down and actually send Marek a meaningful text, something that isn’t just an emoji heart or kissy-face. I change my mind and start to call him. His voice—I want it so bad. But my finger hesitates. Again.
Gah. I fucking hate this. I throw the phone onto the sofa next to me. Shove a colorful throw pillow over my eyes.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
I stifle a sigh. I don’t feel like talking to my mom. We’ve spent the morning looking at two more houses. We have similar taste. She actually cares about my advice. The realtor thought we were “a dream” to work with. Even so, Mom is driving me nuts with her indecision. Does she want three bedrooms or two? Does she want a pool, or would maintenance be a hassle? Does she want to be close to downtown, or closer to her parents in the burbs?
Yes, it’s true that they’re all good questions. But still. Decide already.
“He’s got the grumps again,” my grandma says from her spot at the kitchen table. She’s working a crossword and randomly calling out clues. Mom gets almost all of them. I’m hopeless. I have too many grumps to do the damn crossword.
My grandparents’ house has an open floor plan that guarantees zero privacy unless you pull my grandpa’s fave trick—go out and mess around in the garden. Like, all day.
I glance at Grandma. She’s wearing a kick-butt lime-green mumu with melon-colored embroidery. Her mules are hot-pink. Her smile is just as bright, and impossible not to respond to with a smile back. When I’m capable of smiling. Which today I’m not.
“I miss Professor Adorkable,” I say. Grumpily. “I’m allowed to have the grumps.”
Mom picks up my phone and sets it on the coffee table. Then she settles onto the couch beside me. “I’m sorry, Petey. I know this visit has been tougher than you expected. But you know you have my support.”
“And you have mine and Grandpa’s too,” my grandma calls from the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I say. I mold my palm to the edge of the cushion, playing with the silky-rough texture of the chenille. Yeah, in some ways this visit had been tough, but in some surprising ways it’s been…good.
When they’d come to pick me up at the airport—my grandparents and my mom—I’d been kind of a disaster. The first thing I’d told my mom, when she’d checked out my face and I’d seen the worry hit, was, “I don’t want to do this again.” The memories of arriving in Chicago after quitting my job two years ago had beaned me in the head like a fully loaded Samsonite.
So instead of clamming up and praying the pain would go away quietly, I’d climbed into the backseat of my grandparents’ sedan, and I’d admitted a few things. About Marek—because talking about Marek made me feel good despite all the heartache. And I’d told them I was worried that I was in a fucked-up bad-decision-making cycle when it came to jobs.
They’d listened. They’d fed me donuts in the shape of Texas when we’d stopped for a snack on the way home. And I’d felt good about their support—good enough that I’d passed out on the sleeper sofa and slept for nine hours after arriving at their place.
What I hadn’t realized, though, was that they’d done more than listen. My grandpa, who’d worked as an administrator at the University of Texas, had called some student-therapist friends. A couple of them had called back the next day and had expressed availability for talking.
Mom, Grandpa, and Grandma hadn’t pressured me to immediately make an appointment, but Grandpa had offered to go with me to one of their offices and introduce me. I think I’d surprised them, and myself, when I’d agreed to the offer.
Of course, miracles hadn’t happened after I’d sat and talked for an hour with a therapist. Every weight hadn’t disappeared from my shoulders, and the ever-present knot in my chest hadn’t loosened much. But I’d felt a tiny bit of hope. And, for the first time, I felt like I might have some tools to work with.
Over the last couple weeks, I’d met with the therapist a few more times, finding it helped to lay out all my shit to someone who wasn’t a friend or family or coworker or boss. And it for sure helped to try to separate the problems I’d faced on the job from my other problems.
My old boss had been a fucking asshole. My hang-ups about acceptance and being useful might have made me more vulnerable to his fuckery, but they were not justification or a cause of it. I felt like u
nderstanding these concepts was a good first step. And the therapist had given me the names of some counselors to contact in Chicago, a couple of them located in Hyde Park.
And, Jesus, did I ever want to talk everything over with Marek.
I can hear his voice in my head. We solve problems together, Pete. Then they don’t seem so bad.
I snatch my phone from the coffee table. “I know it’s hard to witness me actually being careful about decisions,” I say to Mom and Grandma. “It’s hard for me too. But I need to give this situation with Marek some time. I’m not running the show in his household anymore. I’m not trying to control what happens.” I say all this like I’m trying to convince myself it’s true.
Mom clears her throat and says, “Well, you are kind of. In a way.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What do you mean?”
“You left his townhouse, right? Came here. Told him it was up to him to decide how to proceed?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I did. Because doing those things meant I was staying out of it.”
“Okay, hon. Okay.” She pats my knee and gives her mother a knowing look. Grandma gives her a knowing look back.
“If you have any advice, give it!” I yell.
“No advice,” my mom says, holding up her hands. “Right, Mom?” Another glance at Grandma. They’ve obviously discussed strategy for how to deal with my cranky ass.
“Nope,” Grandma says.
“Fine,” I say, wrenching myself into a standing position. “I’ll go ask Gramps.”
Grandma laughs as I head to the sliders that lead out to the deck. “Good luck on that, sweetie.”
I find my grandpa in the garage. It’s two-and-a-half stalls and they only have one car, so much of the space is open. Part of it is a workshop and storage area—although right now it mostly looks like a disaster. Grandpa is holding what looks like a weeding implement that’s broken into two pieces. His right hand holds the handle, his left holds a mini-pitchfork-looking thing.