Love Machine

by Kendall Ryan

  With tears filling my eyes, I flee from the hotel room.

  The suite is dark, quiet, and cold when I arrive around ten thirty.

  I flip on the lights and call out. “Keaton?”

  No answer. Hoping she just fell asleep, I walk through the suite to look for her. The bottle of champagne I had the bellhop leave on the table is half-empty. The perfume of bubble bath still hangs in the air.

  She was here, all right . . . but not anymore.

  My stomach sinks.

  I check my phone and growl to myself at the multiple missed calls. It only gets worse when I read all her texts, which go from confused to clipped to seriously upset.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. She got sick of waiting for me and went home, and I really can’t blame her. She must think I’m a complete asshole.

  I have to call Keaton right now. I don’t know what to say yet, but I have to apologize and try to make sure she knows I didn’t just ditch her for no reason. Even if I can’t get her to stop being mad at me, I don’t want her to think I care so little about her.

  Her phone rings and rings and rings. Pacing in tight circles, I pick up one of the many flowers scattered around the room, only to find that it’s already started wilting.

  Finally, my call goes to voice mail. Another bad sign . . . her phone is on, but she’s not answering.

  “Hey, Keaton, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stand you up,” I rush to explain. “There was this huge clusterfuck at work. See, what happened was—” I cut myself off as I realize that if I were her, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about the details. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What matters is, I know I should have called you sooner, but I just didn’t get a chance. I’m so sorry—uh, I guess I already said that, but I really am, so . . .”

  Shut the fuck up, Slate.

  I tack on a hasty “please call me back” and hang up, wanting to punch the wall until something fractures.

  I’ve ruined everything. I missed out on an amazing night with Keaton and broke her trust in the process. What the hell do I do now? Maybe if I text her, she’ll see it? It probably won’t help, but it’s worth a shot.

  I’m almost done typing a long apology when my phone rings and Keaton’s name flashes on the screen. I almost drop it in my hurry to answer.

  “Hello? Listen, I—”

  “A work emergency?” Her tone is flat and icy. “And you couldn’t have taken one single second to text me?”

  My stomach flips, and not in a good way. It’s amazing how much power her voice has come to wield over me in just a few short weeks. She can make my heart leap with her laugh, spark electricity to my groin with a husky murmur . . . or drip ice water down my spine with her displeasure.

  “I know it sounds like a stupid excuse, but I’m not making it up.” Way to sound exactly like you’re making it up, dipshit. “I was fielding phone calls for three hours straight. I barely had a moment to breathe. The whole thing was a nightmare. Trust me, I would’ve much rather been here with you.”

  “Here? What . . .” She trails off as she figures it out. “You’re at the hotel? Look, I’m not going to go back there now. It’s already late, and I’m home in bed with Penny.”

  “I know,” I say again, uselessly. “I’m sorry. I really feel awful for leaving you here alone without even telling you what was going on. Will you at least hear me out?”

  Silence, followed by a sigh. “To be honest, I don’t really want to talk to you right now.”

  Even though I saw that coming, it still feels like a kick to the nuts. “You don’t have to. Can we meet up tomorrow?” Wait, no, that sounds like I’m asking for another bedroom rendezvous. I hasten to add, “I mean, for afternoon coffee or something.” Totally not sexy, not a date, not anything approaching intimate. The words coming out of my mouth are at odds with the purple vibrator in my hands.

  A very long pause. “I’m working late. I’ll be busy until after six thirty.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I’d meet her at three in the goddamn morning if it meant I had a snowball’s chance in hell of salvaging this situation.

  When I arrive at the café we agreed upon, Keaton is already there, sitting at a small table in the corner.

  Things already don’t look promising. Hands in her lap, one leg crossed over the other so she’s slightly turned to the side, and an untouched mug of tea sits in front of her. Jeez, it’s like I’m being interviewed. It doesn’t help that she’s still in her stern business clothes.

  She waits for me to sit down before she asks, without making eye contact, “So, just what was this work emergency?”

  This is your one chance. Don’t blow it. “One of my pro league players had a meltdown so bad, his coach checked him into rehab. I had to do damage control ASAP before the morning news cycle could get ahold of something they shouldn’t.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. Is the guy okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine now. We’ll have to see if the same is true for his public image. Even with all the work I did, I probably just made the impending media shitstorm a little smaller.” I try again to look her in the eye and am relieved when she doesn’t turn away. “Still, I could have—should have told everyone to fuck off for a second so I could text you. I feel like shit when I think about you waiting in that hotel. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She gives me a small smile and even scoots a little to face me directly. But the atmosphere still feels weird. Withdrawn. Like we’re sitting on opposite sides of the café instead of one little table.

  I lean toward her, hoping she can tell I’m trying in earnest to fix everything, to put it all back the way we used to be. “What can I do to make this up to you? I could start by buying you another cup of tea.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s sweet, but don’t worry about it.”

  I blink. “Really? You sounded, uh . . .” Homicidal. “Pretty mad on the phone last night.”

  “Yeah, not gonna lie, I was super pissed. But I’m over it now.” She shrugs. “I guess I just needed a little time to chill out.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean, I’d totally understand if you—”

  “Seriously, everything’s fine. We’re cool.” With a note of finality, Keaton takes a long drink from her mug, her eyes downcast.

  It doesn’t feel fine or cool. I frown, studying her. I should be happy that she agreed to meet me at all, let alone forgive me . . . but something still feels off. Something has shifted between us. And I don’t know what it is or what to do about it, so all I can say is, “Okay. Glad to hear it.”

  She nods with a pinched smile. For a few minutes, we just sit in awkward silence with nothing but the occasional quiet slurp to fill the cavernous space between us.

  God, this is excruciating.

  Needing someone to say something, anything, I try to joke, “I was afraid I’d totally fucked things up between us. Good to know it was only partially.”

  Her pained expression makes me instantly regret my half-assed attempt at humor. “Nothing is . . . you’re not . . .” Keaton trails off.

  Then why does it feel like I am?

  She starts to reach across the table, hesitates, then rests her hand near mine, our fingertips barely touching. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I try not to. It almost works.

  “Gross income is the total income you make from work, without the taxes figured into—”

  “I know what gross income means, young lady.” Meera scolds me, swatting the air between us with an aged hand.

  I’m helping my sweet-but-fiery little neighbor file her taxes again. This was a tradition I had accidentally initiated three years ago when I first moved into our apartment building. In a casual elevator conversation, she asked me about my evening plans. At the time, she naively assumed that I was as socially (and sexually) active as the women on her favorite sitcoms.

  Reluctant to disappoint her but not brave enough to lie, I responded that I had an exciting date with my tax
forms that evening. But taxes don’t really bother me. In fact, I’m kind of a numbers person. Numbers make sense. They’re neat and orderly, and behave like I expect them to. But ever since, Meera has coerced me into walking her through the process of filing taxes.

  “Gross is just a silly word for it,” Meera says. The wrinkles of her brow deepen in her frustration as I organize the paperwork neatly in front of us.

  “You’re right,” I say with a smile. “The English language is strange like that.”

  I take another bite of coconut cake, enjoying the sweet and spicy flavors. This is our exchange. I help her with calculating figures, and she feeds me homemade Indian cuisine. It’s the perfect transaction, really. I’m great with numbers and hate to cook for myself. She’s terrible with numbers and is always seeking someone to fatten up. Win-win.

  In truth, however, I don’t mind doing Meera’s taxes with her. This white-haired wonder has an entire lifetime’s worth of wisdom. Sometimes her unsolicited advice regarding my personal life can be tiresome, like the time she gave me a shawl to cover my bare shoulders one summer morning she caught me before a jog. But she means well. With her children both living out of state and her husband gone, it’s the very least I can do to drop by.

  “Now, Meera, since it’s been three years since your husband passed,” I say carefully, “you can no longer file as a qualified widow. You’ll have to file as ‘single.’ There will be less deductions, but I’ll make sure—”

  “Single!” Meera gasps. “He may be dead, but I am still married to my husband. That is ridiculous.”

  “I completely agree, but sadly, that’s how the IRS wants you to file.”

  “Hmph!”

  Her pout is absolutely adorable, as is her devotion to her late husband. It’s sweet. But her next matter-of-fact comment stops me short.

  “You should marry that man.”

  I sputter. “What man?”

  “The nice breakfast man. He seems fond of you,” she says, on a roll now. “And he’d be a good match. For tax purposes.” With one finger, she pokes at the papers before us, smiling cheekily.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  I let Meera have her moment without a fight. It doesn’t hurt anyone. The tingle in my chest certainly isn’t uncomfortable, but I do my best to ignore it. I must be frowning because Meera’s gentle hand finds my cheek.

  “Why are you sad? Is he not a nice man?” The concern in her dark, kind eyes is heart-wrenching.

  “No, no. He’s a nice man. He’s just not, well . . .” I pause, considering how to explain the concept of a fuckboy to an eighty-year-old woman. I bet Gabby would know what to say. Only I haven’t told anyone about Slate and me, which makes this all ten times more isolating. “He’s not reliable.”

  “So he made a mistake and hurt you.” She nods, understanding in some impossible way.

  “I guess so.” I shrug. I don’t really want to get into the specifics. Her husband is gone and her children are neglectful. No way do my problems measure up in the slightest.

  “Is this the first time he has made this mistake?” she asks.

  I furrow my brow, trying to remember through our years of friendship if Slate has ever truly let me down before.

  “I guess it’s a first,” I find myself saying. “I don’t think he’s ever done this before.”

  “Then you must forgive him,” she says, patting my hand lightly. “Forgive him and let him become a better person. Or you will never grow, separately or together.”

  Meera’s words follow me out of her apartment and into the hall after her taxes are complete. Maybe she has no patience for finding the best deductions, but she has the patience to listen and dole out advice. She’s a perceptive old woman, that’s for certain.

  Slate messed up once and I let myself take it personally. Losing him as a friend would be a mistake, even if that means ignoring my feelings. It isn’t like he forced me to have these feelings. I acquired them, and I can just as easily get rid of them. Then we can go back to how it should be—Slate and Keaton, best friends. Just friends.

  I open the door, anticipating the meowing of my irritable roommate, demanding to be fed. Strangely, she doesn’t come pitter-pattering down the hall in her usual rush to greet me, Bringer of the Food. She must be fast asleep, most likely on my pillow or in my underwear drawer. That little lady has no respect for boundaries, I swear.

  Into the kitchen I go, now on complete autopilot. I scoop up Penny’s food and dump it in her dish, followed by a fresh bowl of water. My mind wanders back to Slate.

  The way he always made me feel so comfortable, even when we were exploring uncharted territory together. The way his mouth would quirk up in a playful smile when I said something that amused him. It’s crazy the things you can miss about a person.

  I realize I’ve been squatting on the floor over Penny’s food dishes, lost in thought. Where the hell is that cat?

  “Penny! Food!” I call.

  It’s a bizarre thing to say, since I’ve never had to remind her about her favorite part of the day. Slate mentioned the same had happened to him when he was on Penny Patrol. He’d found her in my room, so that’s where I go.

  My room is dark and depressing. I yank the curtains open and the sunlight streams in, warming my skin. My foot lands on something soft.

  “Oh my God, Penny! Sorry!”

  I’ve stepped on her tail. She’s sprawled out on the floor, half beneath the edge of the curtain, half illuminated by sunlight. She must have fallen asleep here, craving the rays after being confined in this dark room. I instantly feel terrible. Just because I didn’t want to see the sunlight doesn’t mean she should have missed out.

  “Don’t be mad,” I croon, reaching down to scratch her butt. The little monster loves her butt scratches, and that’s usually enough to win her back after an accidental tail-stepping.

  She doesn’t move.

  My heart thumps with panic.

  “Penny?”

  The doorbell rings. My eyes, red and teary, crack open.

  I’m curled up on the floor in my room, next to Penny. The small patch of sunlight is gone, and the carpet feels cold against my skin. I must have dozed off, my cell phone resting limply in my hand. It’s been about forty minutes since I called Slate, barely coherent through the sobs. I hear the door open.

  “Keaton?” His voice travels down the hall.

  “We’re in the bedroom,” I croak.

  I’m glad I thought to leave the door unlocked. The last thing I want to do is leave Penny. I run a finger along the soft padding of her paw. She would never let me touch her perfect little paws before . . . It feels intrusive, like I’m taking advantage of her. I curl my hand up in a fist, punishing myself with the sharp dig of my nails into my palm.

  The door creaks open. Slate takes a sharp breath at the sight of me curled up on the floor next to my dead cat. He holds his breath before releasing it in a deep sigh.

  “Hey, Keat,” he says, his voice like a soft blanket. I want him to cover me with his softness.

  My eyes fill with tears. I don’t look at him. “Hi.” My voice sounds unfamiliar to my own ears, distant and broken.

  He enters my line of sight, kneeling beside me. His eyes are full of emotion as he stares at Penny’s lifeless body. He reaches out a tentative hand to brush the hair off my tearstained face, then he helps me up into a seated position. Without asking, I lean my head against his collarbone, needing something firm to keep me grounded here in the moment.

  “Do you know what happened?” he asks.

  “No.” I sniffle. “I just found her like this. I left the curtains closed. I never do that because I know how much she likes the sun.”

  “Keaton, this isn’t your fault,” he says softly, tucking my hair behind my ear. “She was old, and she lived a good life.”

  “I know.” I sigh. “But it still feels terrible.”

  Slate kisses me softly on the crown of my head. I soak in the compassion of the gestu
re through my whole body.

  “I’m going to take care of her, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  About an hour later, I’m still on the floor. Only now I’m in the kitchen, sitting cross-legged on the tile. Before me waits Penny’s dinner, untouched.

  The tears simply won’t stop. I didn’t know I had this much water in me. After Slate left to take sweet Penny to be cremated, I pulled myself up off the floor and came in here to make some tea. Now the tea is cold, over-steeping in a mug on the kitchen counter.

  I remember how gently he lifted Penny off the carpet, how carefully he wrapped her in a soft sheet, and how softly he placed her body into the box. It was a shoe box for a pair of boots I impulse-bought online. I could have spent that extra money on healthier food for Penny, or maybe taken her in for a checkup. I hadn’t taken her to the vet in a while. Why hadn’t—

  The front door creaks open. He’s back.

  “Keaton? Where are you? Oh, hey.” He spots me on the tile. The box is gone. “You’re on the floor again.”

  “Yeah.” I sniff, wiping the residual snot from my sore nose.

  Slate pulls some napkins off the table and offers them to me. When I don’t take them, he carefully wipes my nose with the softest corner he can find.

  “There.”

  “Thank you.” I sigh. I’m a mess. I can’t even look him in the eye, so I just place a hand on his closest knee.

  “Hey, just a little snot. No biggie.”

  I can hear his smile. I would smack his arm if I had the energy.

  “No, I mean, for taking her—”

  “I know, Keaton.” He places a soft, tender kiss on my forehead.

  A strangled sob escapes my throat, shaking my whole body. He wraps his arms firmly around me, holding me upright as if I’ll turn to dust if I let myself collapse to the floor. I fall deeply into the embrace, leaning my entire body weight on him. Both our bodies shudder with the quaking of my grief.

  “I came in here—to—make tea.” I try to speak through the gasps. “But then—her food—she didn’t—”