by Edie Danford
“Get carried away?” I ask him, gesturing at the tool.
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Guess I did.”
“Need help?”
“Hmm. Need glue. Might do the job myself and save another trip to the hardware store.” He looks around the space. There are bins, but they’re empty. There are hooks hanging from pegboard, but the hooks are empty too. There’s a huge pile of random shit piled on top of and under the L-shaped workbench.
“Mind if I help you organize?”
His brows rise. I brace myself, ready to hear him tell me “hell no.” This is his lair and maybe he has a method to his madness—
“I’d love it if you’d organize.” He waves the tool’s handle toward an old lawn chair in the corner of the garage. “I’ll sit and watch.”
I laugh. “Oh, is that how it’s gonna work?”
“Yep. Some folks were meant to organize, others are meant to get out of their way.”
We chat about random things as I get to work. The mess isn’t really too bad, and Grandpa’s tales about fishing failures are fun to listen to. After a half hour, I’m nearly done. Mom comes out and delivers us a couple of lemonades. After receiving kisses of thanks, she announces she’s scheduled a second viewing of a house a few blocks away. She’ll take Grandma on this viewing, get her opinion.
I settle into a chair next to Gramps and we sip at our lemonades, him with more gusto than me. I’ve been having a lot of heartburn lately. Too much Tex-Mex and too little Marek.
“So your professor at University of Chicago—he as disorganized as me?”
I laugh, thinking of Mar. “Yeah. But I don’t ever let him get too bad with the messes.”
“You don’t, huh? Guess you’ll have your work cut out for you when you get home.”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes, picturing the kitchen, his bedroom, the bathroom—
“You’ll be happy as a pig in mud.”
I laugh again. “Well…” My smile fades abruptly when I remember that when I land in Chicago, I won’t be heading to Hyde Park. I’ll be heading to my empty, pristine loft in the West Loop. Where there will be zero furniture, zero company, and zero Mar-messes.
“Best feeling in the world is to be genuinely needed.” Grandpa winks at me. “Especially for a pleaser like you.”
“A pleaser?” I take a sip of lemonade. It doesn’t help the ache that’s formed in my throat.
“Someone who gets pleasure from making other folks feel good. You’ve been that way since you could walk.” He waves his hand toward the open garage door. “Following me around the yard, offering up every stick, twig, pebble you could find. ‘I help, Gwandpa,’ you’d say.” He chuckles, obviously pleased with the memory. “You were a damn treasure.”
I feel a wave of love. This visit has been hard for me, sure, but it’s been great to reconnect with my grandparents. They’d visited me once in SoCal, but I’d been so busy that the visit had been kind of a bust. I’ve made a vow to see them more often—will be easier once my mom moves down here, for sure—and I’m gonna keep it.
I sit back in the creaky chair, considering this idea of being a “pleaser.” I’ve always known that I’ve needed to be needed, figuring that what I’d lacked in my personal life, I’d gained in jobs where I got to take care of people and feel like I was an intimate part of their lives.
But after years of failing to please people, I’d started to think maybe I had it all wrong.
I’ve been figuring I’m in the exact wrong field for me, and I should become a data-entry specialist or something.
But maybe I’ve been wrong about that idea too.
Maybe I’ve been trying to please the wrong people. Maybe the reason it had felt so good, so right to work for Marek wasn’t so much because of the rules I’d made or how carefully I’d done the job. Maybe it was because I was, in fact, a pleaser and Marek was the first guy I’d ever been with, the first guy I’d ever worked for, who genuinely appreciated my efforts.
Yes, Marek is polite. Always grateful. But, also, Marek never abused the privilege of being cared for. He simply soaked it up. I could see the direct benefits of my efforts every day I was with him. I saw his happiness. He was a guy who smiled more, who looked healthier, who was willing to get out and explore. A different guy than the one he’d been when I’d first started working for him.
Is that about me being a great keeper? Or is it just…love?
I look at my grandpa. The pleased smile on his face as he surveys his freshly organized workbench. The tenderness in his eyes as he shifts his gaze to me. I smile back, feeling loved and joyously wanting to give love back.
Maybe what truly matters about the dynamic between me and Marek is the happiness that blossoms between us when we’re together. The give and take that goes both ways. And that’s all the analysis that really has to happen at this point. We love each other. We’ll take care of each other.
“Did you decide when you’re gonna head home?” Grandpa asks. “I’m betting your mom will choose the house close by. It’d be a good deal for her.”
“I agree,” I say. “It needs love and is kind of a mess, but I think she should take a chance on it. And, yeah, I think I’m gonna head home tomorrow.”
“Good deal for you.”
I smile. “Thanks, Grandpa.”
I’m at the gate for my flight to Chicago. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair. Trying to decide whether I should let anyone in Chicago know I’ll be home in a few hours. Marek is the obvious choice, but I keep thinking I should wait to talk to him in person. I’d texted him to let him know I’m coming home, but I’d been vague about times. His answering text in response hadn’t been vague. This makes me so fucking happy. Tell me your itinerary the moment you get it.
I don’t want to make him think he has to rush out to O’Hare to get me. Logistics, and driving through an hour and a half of dense traffic, would definitely send him into a tailspin. I want my homecoming to be happy, not stressful.
I decide to text Cal. I haven’t communicated with him since I left, and I’m curious about whether he’s placed anyone temporarily in Marek’s household.
On my way back to Chicago today, I type. I might need a job, if you’ll have me.
He sends back: Of course I’ll have you! But you might want to consult with your professor first. Looks like he’s setting up house somewhere else? Maybe he’ll need help with that. :)
I read the message twice. Then send back several question marks, my fingers a little fumble-y.
They’re beginning to board the flight, so I head toward check-in. As I stand waiting for my group to be called, I get a long text from Cal.
Last week Marek finally sent me a response to my email asking if he wanted a temporary housekeeper. He said he was doing fine, didn’t need anyone new, and was getting rid of his too-big house. He included this real estate listing “to pass around to any clients who might be interested in a nice home.”
I hold my breath as I click on the link. Yep, it’s a real estate listing. For…holy fuck. I exhale slowly as I read. Historically significant townhouse in Hyde Park’s “Golden Rectangle” area. Easy walk to the University of Chicago campus and Lake Michigan.
Mar is selling his house? What? What?
I stare down at the photos of the townhouse as I move along with the line of folks boarding the plane. Oh man. What does this even mean?
A funky noise erupts from my throat. Funky enough to alarm the dude checking folks in. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”
I walk like an automaton down the passage to the plane. After stowing my bag and buckling up, I’m still staring at my phone.
So did you know about this? Cal sends.
No. I didn’t, I send back.
When do you get in? he asks.
I absently forward Cal my itinerary. I’ll probably have time to text or give a quick call to Marek before takeoff. But…
I look at the house listing again. Fully renovated wit
h care for period details. Four bedrooms. Five baths. Mudroom and garage. Chef’s kitchen. Au pair suite. 2.3 million.
We obviously have a lot to talk about.
I won’t call. I’ll wait and talk to him about this in person.
Marek
It’s ironically funny—no, funnily ironic—that so many of the activities I’ve undertaken since Pete left are activities that I suck at and that Pete is brilliant at. But proving myself capable of doing “life shit” has been part of my plan, so life shit has been at the top of all my agendas lately.
Shopping. Making lots of phone calls—fast and to-the-point ones. Talking to sales people. Real-estate agents. Asking friends for help. Telling certain family members (mine) to fuck off. Meeting and talking with some family members (Pete’s) for the first time.
I haven’t always been successful. Sometimes I’ve panicked and retreated to my bed or my lab. Sometimes I’ve made Zoe tell me ridonkulous jokes to cheer me up while doing these activities. But I’ve had enough successes to feel like I’m on a good path.
Today’s challenges have been up and down. First thing, I talked to Cal about Pete’s itinerary. Cal is nice, but he knows a lot of personal shit about me that I’d rather he didn’t. So speaking with him was cringe-y, as Zoe would say. Still, Cal and I chatted as if we were friends when he called to give me information I desperately wanted: Pete’s flight time.
Second thing, I’d researched balloon places that are on the way to O’Hare. There are many, many neighborhoods between Hyde Park and O’Hare. Ordering the balloon had not been a problem. But driving to the airport—the traffic was abysmal despite all my precautions—and then traveling through a suburb called Elmhurst to get the balloon, was a good test of my nerves.
And then there was the matter of getting the balloon—which was, as ordered, very large—into the small hatchback of the BMW in a stiff, cold wind. And the not-so-small matter of parking in the massive airport parking garage without freaking out. And traveling, without letting go of or breaking the balloon, to the area of the airport (which is the size of Bulgaria) where Pete might see me as soon as he comes out of the security area.
The balloon will come in handy for practical reasons in addition to romantic ones. Pete might walk by a man with a tired face, poorly styled hair, and new jeans. But he would not walk by the same man holding a very large red balloon.
I stop in a spot that I hope will allow me to see people and be out of the way. I wait. And wait. The directory says that his flight is on time. And, last time I checked, it said the jet has landed. My eyes scan the flow of people, my brain cataloging random facts. O’Hare is too big. Flying is a ridiculous way to travel. Airport food has a nauseating smell. Flip-flops are a ridiculous shoe choice for February, regardless of where you’re flying in from or to—
Oh God. There he is. Pete.
I start toward him—he’s still too far away to hear if I call out to him. I recognize his walk before I recognize his face—that graceful, rhythmic bounce to his step. He’s wearing a hat. With a bill. Dark orange with cow horns embroidered on it. A Texas thing, maybe?
As I get closer I see his eyes are very, very focused. He’s moving fast, thinking hard. One hand is clutching his phone, the other is holding tight to his suitcase’s handle.
When I get within shouting distance, he veers off to a sitting area. A huge group of people get between us. I panic, clutching the balloon very fucking tightly as I push my way through the crowd, breathing too hard, moving too clumsily. “Sorry, sorry,” I mutter.
“Pete!” He’s doing something to his phone. My own phone buzzes. I ignore it. “Pete!”
He looks up. Catches sight of me. His eyes light up. Yes. They really do. All kinds of light.
He smiles.
His gaze fixes on the balloon I’m still miraculously holding. His smile gets bigger. Oh fuck. He’s happy. Happy to see me. Despite all my mess-ups. Despite all the challenges.
“Mar!” he cries, taking a step forward.
Right as I’m about to reach him, just three short paces away, a little girl comes zipping down the thoroughfare. I register a lot of purple, hear a voice holler a name—“Emily!” I veer to avoid her. And as I veer, I stumble over someone’s wheeled case, clipping the back end of it.
My leg kicks. My arm flails as I fight for balance. Yes. This will work. I can save this—
No. Shit. I’m going down.
Arms come around me, balancing me, gathering me close. Laughter, so fucking beloved, blasts into my ear. “I got you, Professor.”
“Pete,” I mutter. “Oh God. I missed you. So much.” I press kisses to whatever parts of him I can reach. His cheek, his chin, his ear. His hat comes off, and so I kiss the top of his head. He’s still laughing, still holding me tight, when my lips finally find his.
The kiss makes every moment of pain and aggravation and frustration and consternation worth it. This kiss is as free and unfettered as his laughter. And it’s hot and messy and joyfully shared.
I think maybe we’re both laugh-sobbing or sob-laughing and, as we take heaving breaths, I pick him up and hold him like I’ll never let go. The way he holds me back lets me know he’d be good with this plan.
“Hey,” a small voice screeches from close by.
Pete’s feet settle on the floor as we turn and look down. A small kid with solemn eyes and a Chicago Blackhawks hat is looking up and beyond us. “You lost your balloon.” Message delivered, he runs off to catch up with his family.
I tip my head. “Glag! The balloon.” Yes. There it is floating up to the impossibly high ceiling of Terminal 1. I look at Pete. “It was supposed to be for you. To welcome you home.”
“I guessed,” he says, grinning at me, not looking at the balloon at all.
I take his hand, squeezing it tight as I analyze the distance from the floor to the end of the string. “At least twenty meters,” I murmur. “But with the right trajectory—”
“You already made the right trajectory,” Pete says, pulling me over to where his hat is lying on the floor. “Into my arms.”
I smile. “You caught me.”
“I sure did.” He picks up the hat and plops it onto my head. “Here’s your souvenir, cowboy.”
I smile. I don’t generally like ball caps, but I have a feeling I’ll keep this one forever. “Let me carry something,” I demand as he makes adjustments to his messenger bag and grips his suitcase’s handle.
“Okay,” he says. “Take the messenger bag. I don’t trust you with this many people and a wheeled bag.”
I narrow my eyes as I remove the bag from his shoulder. “Just because I nearly fell on my face and then lost your balloon—”
“I don’t need the balloon,” he says, squeezing my fingers again as we merge into the crowd, heading for an exit, I hope. “But I do need your gorgeous face. And, anyway, I now have the image imprinted permanently in my memory.” He closes his eyes. “My favorite person, waiting for me. Smiling and holding a red balloon.” His eyes open as he takes a loud breath, a little bit sniffle-y.
I bend to kiss his cheek. He smiles up at me again. And I’m realizing that his smiles seem…different. They are unhindered. Not qualified around the edges. And I immediately want to know more about the people he’s talked to in Texas, the things he might’ve been able to work through. But those discussions can come later.
“I’m here to make sure your homecoming is happy,” I say. “Or that it at least comes off with only inconsequential trip-ups and very small messes.”
More irony—I nearly trip as we step onto the godforsaken people-mover thing. An abomination of physics.
“You don’t need to worry about messes,” Pete says, keeping hold of my hand, leaning into me once I catch my balance. “They keep things interesting. And keep me occupied very satisfactorily.”
“I need you in every way imaginable.”
“And that makes things interesting too.” He winks at me. “And satisfying.”
I l
augh.
When we get to the car, I refuse to let him drive, even though I realize he’d make quicker work of the traffic and probably be less stressed. But he’s had a long flight. And I’m here to pick him up. In every nuance of the word.
After settling in to the seats, we buckle up. He looks at me. I look at him. We lean into each other and kiss. And kiss. Until my hat falls off and we’re both moaning and cursing.
“God, Mar,” Pete whispers. “You get me so fucking hot.”
“You are the only man who makes parking garages bearable,” I tell him.
“That is the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says, stroking my hair again and again.
Finally we have to give up—staring at each other and smiling won’t get us home. I start the engine and looked down at my lap ruefully.
“Hard-ons make navigating airport traffic better,” he says.
“And you know this because…?”
“Hmm. You know, I don’t remember ever having a hard-on at the airport. Weird. I’ve had them lots of other places—”
“This is a first I am glad to have inspired. We will leave it at that.”
“Cool,” he says.
He doesn’t lose his patience as I drive very slowly down to the pay-area of the garage. He holds my hand.
We talk about mostly silly things as we wait in line and then drive toward the expressway. What color my new hat is (he says burnt orange, I say orange-y-brown). Where I purchased the balloon (he’s very impressed that I found the place in Elmhurst). Whether or not my new jeans are dorky, as deemed by Zoe (Pete says 501’s are classic and can never be dorky).
After we get on the tollway, I tell him, “I have some news.”
He flexes his fingers against mine. “Cal gave me a hint.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“He gave me a hint about your itinerary. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. I am so fucking happy to see you. I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye properly.”
I squeeze his hand. “I understand why you needed to leave, to be without me for a while. For us to solve some things on our own, this was maybe a good thing. The way you left was the…kick in the pants necessary to get me moving.” My voice cracks. That day had been so miserable. I don’t think I will ever recall it and not feel a little broken.