by Adele Buck
“Not hardly.”
Her eyes grew solemn again. “But we did just make a big step. And it seems like we need to take some time and make sure that this…” she shifted, pulling out one hand to pass it between them in an inclusive gesture, “…thing between us settles in. We might want some time alone sometimes. Even though this apartment is bigger than mine, with both of us here, we’d be on top of each other all the time. And you can take that double meaning right back to the shop where you bought it,” she said, poking one long finger into his chest as he started to chuckle.
“You got me. And you have valid points.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “But I’d still love to have you in my bed every night if you want. Or most nights if that’s easier for you.”
“I think I can handle that.” Cath trailed her fingers along his shoulder, her eyes thoughtful.
“What else is going on in that head of yours?” he asked, brushing her lips with his thumb.
Her eyes creased again in a tiny smile. “Not much. I’m sticky and hungry and I want a shower and something to eat. Pretty mundane stuff.”
“Well you’re in luck. I have a shower and the makings for spaghetti.”
“It’s like you’re magic or something,” Cath said.
“You just keep thinking that, sweetheart.”
Freshly clean for the second time that day, Cath stood at Paul’s sink, filling a large pot with water. Paul rummaged in the refrigerator for a jar of sauce and the makings of a salad. Though they had made meals together plenty of times in the past, this now felt intimate and oddly, endearingly domestic. Turning off the water, Cath started to lift the pot out of the sink, but Paul put a hand on her arm.
“Let me do that.”
“It’s not that heavy,” she said, shooting him a quizzical look.
“I know,” he said, kissing her and taking the pot out of her hands. “But I want to.”
Cath leaned her hip against the counter as he placed the pot on the stove. “Are you going to start laying your jacket over puddles so my precious feetsies don’t get muddy, too?”
“Don’t give me ideas, sarcastic woman,” Paul said as he turned on the flame and opened a cupboard to rummage for a box of spaghetti.
Finding a smaller pot, Cath opened the sauce jar and poured some out, handing it to Paul to put on the stove. “You’re not going to suddenly turn into one of those protective guys just because we’re giving each other orgasms now, are you? Because that would be weird. And uncomfortable.”
Setting the pot down, Paul turned to Cath and placed a hand on her cheek. “No. But if I get the opportunity to take care of you, I’d like to do that. Is that okay?”
Placing her hands on his chest, she thought for a moment. “Paul, one of the ways I value myself is for the things I can do. Not just as a professional, but on a personal level too.”
“Okay. So how would you like me to proceed?”
“I value my independence. Please don’t try to change that.”
“All this because I lifted something heavy?” Paul’s tone was light, but his eyes were solemn.
“No, because you said you wanted to take care of me.”
“But you already take care of me.”
“Maybe sometimes. But that’s also my job.”
Paul’s mouth quirked sideways. “You’ve been going above and beyond. You know how much you have saved me from myself lately, don’t you?”
Cath thought back to the last week of rehearsals, the breaks she had called when she knew he needed to get himself together, her efforts to return him to his usual directing style when he was keyed up and out of sorts. The fierce argument that had resulted. “Maybe.”
“Okay, then,” he said, stroking her cheekbone. “All I want is for that to continue, but I want to take care of you, too. Make it mutual. Make it fair. And maybe I feel even more strongly about it now that we’re more than friends. Does that make sense?”
Cath nodded. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, there was a lump in her throat and her eyes were getting misty.
Paul’s brows drew together. “Hey. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying. I’m going to go upstairs and get my pillow.”
When Cath returned from her apartment, she didn’t just have her pillow: she carried a small laundry basket almost full of items and her satchel was slung over one shoulder. Paul tried to suppress a smile at her sheepish look.
“No, I’m not really moving in,” she said. “But this stuff should make my life a little easier for the next couple of days.”
“Fair enough. So, what’s in the basket, little girl?”
Setting it down on the sofa, she said, “Oh, exciting stuff, Big Bad Wolf. Toiletries. Some clothes. Laptop. My pillow.”
“That shampoo that makes your hair smell so fantastic?”
“You like that, huh?”
Paul moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his nose in her hair. “I’ve been sniffing your head like a bloodhound with a shampoo fetish, so yeah.”
Cath laughed. “Well, then. You’re in luck.”
“Excellent.”
“The water’s boiling,” she said, pointing her chin at the kitchen where a plume of steam was making a pot lid start and hop.
“Shit.” Paul strode over to the stove. Stirring the pasta into the boiling water, adding salt, and checking the flame on the sauce, he was aware of Cath in the bedroom, presumably putting her pillow on the bed and arranging her toiletries in the bathroom. He hadn’t lived with anyone since having a college roommate and he thought that this should feel strange. Instead, it just felt right.
I need to clear out some drawers in the bureau, he thought as he pulled out two bowls and put lettuce in them. Grabbing a knife, he was about to slice tomatoes when Cath returned from the bedroom.
“I’ll do that,” she said, taking the knife and turning her attention to the salad.
A warm bubble seemed to lodge itself under his heart as he found a colander and tested the pasta. He wanted to laugh with the sheer rightness of Cath being here, of them being together. Even in this tiny, impossible kitchen, they seemed to function as one person. Cath noticed his need for oven mitts and pulled them from the drawer in front of her. In turn, he broke off and washed a stalk of celery so it would be ready for her salad. All of this happened without conversation, their thanks communicated with a smile or a playful bump of the hip.
When they sat down at the table, Paul found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. They ate in silence for a few minutes, shooting each other looks as they chewed. For once, Cath didn’t seem to have anything to say either. Okay…when did things get weird?
“I can’t figure out if this is incredibly cozy and domestic or awkward as hell,” Cath said.
Paul put his utensils down, laughter nearly choking him. “Well, that’s comforting,” he said when he was able to control himself.
Cath shot him a quizzical look, her fork poised over her plate. “Really?”
“Since that was pretty much what I was thinking? Yes.”
“We’re on the same page, at least,” she said. “So. Are we awkwardly domestic? Or cozy as hell?”
“I’m going to vote for awkwardly domestic. With a side of overly self-aware dialogue.”
“Shades of Christopher Durang. Save me.” Cath rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
“There are worse playwrights,” he observed.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Sure, but are we that overwrought and neurotic?”
“No, but we’re that funny.”
The bubble in Paul’s chest exploded into relief as Cath burst into laughter.
A glorious normality settled around Cath’s shoulders as she laughed with Paul. She realized that her whole day had seesawed from the comfortable everyday-ness of the way they had always interacted to the exhilarating and, frankly frightening, novelty of…this new normal.
Face it, a wry inner voice int
oned as she slowly rotated her fork in her spaghetti. You’ve always been at least a little bit in love with him.
And that was what was so scary. Paul had thrown himself into the role of… her brain still shied away from the title of lover, but…boyfriend? He was investing himself so wholeheartedly it didn’t seem real. Wanting her things in his apartment, wanting to take care of her…it was all a bit overwhelming.
Laughing with Paul, sharing jokes and reminders of their shared past and career—that was what they usually did. That was them. It was safe and grounding.
Cath took a deep breath. “I’m glad we can still be…us.”
“Who else would we be?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…you just…”
A wry smile crept across Paul’s face as he speared salad onto his fork. “I got too possessive. Again,” he said matter-of-factly.
Cath looked at him sharply. “I wouldn’t say possessive. Exactly. Maybe.”
Putting down his fork, Paul leaned back. “I’m sorry.”
Sighing heavily, Cath speared a forkful of salad and chewed slowly. Swallowing, she pointed her fork at Paul. “Let’s just say I’m carrying a bit of baggage here.”
“I know. You’re fierce and independent. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. But being given what I wanted…a chance to make a go of it with you…it made me want to grip tight.” His mouth twisted in thought. “And if I were the guy who knows you really well advising the guy who wanted to hang on to you…”
Cath’s eyes widened. “Careful. You’re going to need medication for that multiple personality condition before long.”
“Hilarious. Anyway, if I were to give anyone else good advice on how to hang on to my best friend, it would not be by hanging on.”
“And what would you tell that person?” she asked, putting her fork down.
Paul looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes solemn. Putting his own fork down, he reached across the table, his palm up. Cath covered his hand with her own and waited as he thought.
“I guess I would tell him, ‘Don’t turn into a caveman. If she wanted to be with you, she wanted to be with you because of who you are, so don’t change that person. Make her laugh, it may be the thing she most likes to do in the world. Give her lots of orgasms and then give her room. Oh, and back off, strange dude, because that’s the guy I want to be for her.’”
Cath gave him a long look, the intermittent agitation and skittishness she had been feeling smoothing down to almost nothing.
“You’re making me nervous,” he said. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” she said. “It’s almost like you know me really well or something. I can’t think of a way to improve on that.”
“Excellent,” he said, giving her hand a final squeeze before releasing it and picking up his fork again. “Which part did you like best?”
Cath pretended to consider the question carefully. “It was a tie between laughter and orgasms.”
Paul poked at his food for a moment before replying. “Well, I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t have to choose.”
Chapter 18
Paul looked into the bathroom where Cath was brushing her hair. “Ready to face the scrutiny of a not-at-all curious or gossipy group of artists?”
Putting down her brush, Cath faced the mirror and sighed. “You sure we can’t just extend the weekend to last…forever? We don’t need to work or anything, right?”
Moving behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Unfortunately,” he said, kissing her neck, “life demands things like food and rent. So far, the best way to get those things is to go to the theater, face down the gossips, and get the job done like we always have. Then hey, presto. Paycheck.”
Turning within the circle of his arms, she slid her hands up his chest. “You would have to make sense when I’m being petulant.”
“Just my job, ma’am. Let’s go.”
Grabbing his bag and turning out onto the hot, sunny street, Paul resisted what was his now natural urge to take her hand. It made him feel unmoored and lopsided, but they had discussed it and decided that a sharp separation of work from their “home life” was best for the production and their own peace of mind. Cath’s eyes slid toward him and he shrugged at her silent commentary.
“Yeah. I don’t like it,” he admitted.
“It’s the professional thing to do, though,” she said.
“Stop being so rational.”
“It’s my turn,” she said. “If we keep taking turns being rational, we may finally add up to one whole functioning adult.”
“My one heart’s wish,” he said, the sarcastic edge in his voice surprising him.
“Now, now. We can go back to being children once we’ve closed your apartment door against the world this evening,” she said as she opened the door to the coffee shop.
“I can’t wait,” he said, and all sarcasm was gone.
Cath stepped through the front door of the theater into the lobby, breathing a sigh of relief as the air conditioning chilled the sheen of sweat on her skin. Stepping aside, she sipped her coffee and waited while Paul stepped over to the box office to inquire about the ticket presales. His grin as he walked back to her told its own tale.
“Good?” she asked.
“Excellent,” he said. “If we manage to pull this together, we may even have something we can transfer to Manhattan. I’ve gotten some inquiries. A good run here would pave the way.”
“Ah, civilization.” Cath sighed.
“A Duane Reade on every corner,” he agreed, cocking one expressive eyebrow at her.
“No greater proof of civilization than standing on any given block and being able to throw a rock and hit a pharmacy.”
“Shall we go and look at the set?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Cath grinned at the eager look on his face. Today was the first day of rehearsals on the stage. The set would need some final adjustments, but was technically complete. Getting to work on the actual set was always re-energizing for the performers and Cath knew that Paul loved this point of the rehearsal process. What had been sketched became filled in. What had been theoretical became real.
When Paul opened the door to the house and they stepped down the center aisle, Cath felt her breath catch in her throat. Karl has outdone himself. The left side of the stage depicted a richly appointed living room, the centerpiece of which was an elaborate Victorian sofa. As she looked to the right, the set became progressively more minimal until a bare scaffold made of pipes, scarred and spattered with paint, thrust upward toward the proscenium.
Stealing a look at Paul, Cath felt her pulse race at his delighted smile. She was pretty sure she knew what a very young Paul must have looked like on Christmas morning, surveying whatever Santa had brought to his parents’ suburban Ohio home. He glanced at her, his eyes alight, his enthusiasm contagious.
“Well, just look at the lovebirds.” Susan’s sardonic voice rang out behind them. “Aren’t you as sweet as you can be?”
Cath tensed as Paul turned to the back of the house. “Susan,” he said, his voice extravagantly free of any of the tension and anger that Cath would be unable to suppress. “Early again. I’m starting to wonder if you’ve been replaced by a pod person.”
“Cute,” Susan said as she stepped down the aisle. Her eyes scanned the set and her mouth curved up. “I’m impressed. This is…very nice.”
“Hop up and explore,” Paul said, waving at the set. “Make yourself at home.”
Susan walked forward, stopping and pressing her fingers to the stage floor as she looked over the set. Looking over her shoulder at Paul, she shot him a flirtatious smile. “Give me a boost up?”
Cath suppressed a smile as Paul looked at Susan, eyes flat. “Try the stairs,” he said, nodding to the short flight at the right of the stage.
Good lord, but that woman is a piece of work, Paul thought as Susan strode toward the steps. She just never quits. What
does she think she’s going to accomplish with that? He glanced quickly at Cath to make sure that Susan’s attempt at flirtation hadn’t found what he felt sure was its true target, but she looked amused as she pulled out her script and settled in for the first run-through on the actual stage.
Susan prowled the set, examining the placement of the furniture, the access to the wings, where she had open space to move and where her options for motion were more limited. As she crouched in front of a cabinet, James and Freddie arrived together, shooting private smiles at each other. Paul pinched his lips together at the sight of the two of them. He was glad that they appeared so happy, but he also knew that yet another romance in the production was going to be an additional trigger for Susan.
To hell with it. Let her have her tantrums.
“Freddie,” Cath called. “Just in time. Let’s get the props table set up stage right.” For the duration of the run, Freddie would be the production’s assistant stage manager, Cath’s eyes and ears backstage. Freddie fished a clipboard out of her bag and followed Cath offstage.
“James, go ahead and explore the set. I want you both comfortable for the run-through.” Flicking a quick salute at Paul, James walked forward and pressed his hands to the stage floor, vaulting easily up and striding away from Susan, making for the ladder that ran up the side of the scaffolding. Climbing up to an intermediate platform, he sat on it, swinging his legs and looking across the rest of the set.
“This is really great, Paul. The crew did an amazing job.”
“They did,” Paul said, flicking a glance at Susan who appeared uninterested in who was responsible for the appearance of the set.
She must think elves make it by magic.
“Let me know when you’re ready, James. We’ll go over notes and then start from the top.”
“Yes, by all means, whenever James is ready,” Susan said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “If he’s not too tired from whatever he’s been doing this weekend with Fanny.”