Blushing Pink (10 page)

Straining on tiptoe, she struggled to reach a big cardboard box that was on the shelf above her clothes. Every time her fingers grazed the box, she fell back on her heels and had to start all over again. Finally she began jumping and swatting the box closer with each bounce. "Damn this thing," she muttered, as she leaped up and achieved one very fierce swat. Too fierce—the box tipped over, spilling out its contents as it tumbled headfirst to the floor.

Letting out a startled yelp, Reese hopped out of the way before her feet were crushed by a violent storm of cassette tapes and yearbooks. She let out a laugh, dropped to her knees, and started rifling through the junk. Now it was junk—ten years ago, it was "life."

And speaking of life, it was probably an odd time to start thinking about what a mess hers had become. But she couldn't help it. She was trapped in a Ph.D. program she'd grown sick of, and she was stuck ghostwriting a book that sucked instead of
really
writing a book of her own. She was sort of seeing Kenneth, who seemed incapable of passion, and was now having passionate thoughts about Brian, whom she'd kissed once, two years ago, and who didn't seem too interested. Oh, yeah, and she'd also emasculated him in public earlier that afternoon.

Mostly, Reese felt like a fraud. She hated school, she had no dissertation, and she was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Plus, despite all her protests to her mother, she really did want to find someone who would make her life make sense.

Just then her cell phone rang.

Startled, she hopped to her feet and tried to remember where she'd left it. Following the ring, she darted across the room, lunged across her bed, and grabbed the phone from her windowsill just before the voice mail picked up. "Hello," she said, mildly out of breath, which, if she thought about it, was sort of pathetic.

"Hello, it's me," said a very calm, cool, controlled male voice. New twist. Kenneth was actually calling her on his own, not merely returning her call.

Hmm, that shows initiative.
"Hi, Kenneth. What's up?"

"Oh, not very much," he said. "And how are things with you?"

Confusing as hell. Sleep-deprived, sex-deprived,
fun-
deprived.
"Great!" she said. "Um, it's so nice to hear from you." She tucked the phone under her ear, rolled off her bed, and ambled back to her closet. Might as well work while they strained to talk.

Awkward beat of silence, followed by awkward throat clearing on the other end. Followed by, "So, how is work going?"

Dispassionate nonsequiturs, okay, so much for initiative.
"It's okay. The people are pretty weird, but—"

"What do you mean? What people?"

"Oh... you know, the people I work with at the store."

"Oh, yes, I see. No, I meant, how's your work for Professor Kimble coming along?"

Hmm...
Dispassionate nonsequiturs followed by a discussion of the ogre who was controlling her life. Boy, this phone call just kept getting better and better.

"Oh, fine," was all she said, hoping that Kenneth would take the hint and move on to topics unrelated to their graduate program.

"Well, have you finished the latest segment of his book?" he continued. "Have you encountered any difficulties, or...?"

She crinkled her face in confusion, but kept her tone neutral. "Uh, no... why?"

"No reason. I was just making conversation."

Well, it needs work, buddy,
she thought. Then she felt a pang of guilt. Kenneth meant well—he was just unpracticed. She had to keep reminding herself that that had originally been part of his allure. He had always sat so studiously in their Cold War class, with thin-rimmed glasses, taking notes diligently and appearing brilliant. She hadn't gotten to know him then, though; that was just when he'd caught her eye. They had occasion to break the ice only after they were both assigned to Professor Kimble.

In truth, she didn't know what Kimble had Kenneth working on, but knowing Kimble, it could be anything from preparing his lectures to taking some of his kitschy seventies suits to the dry cleaners. Who knew? And more to the point, who
cared
? But it was becoming clearer and clearer that she and Kenneth had little else in common to discuss.

"So is that book you're working on for him almost done, or...?"

Okay, this was just getting annoying. "Actually Kenneth..." she said lightly as she chucked a dusty Pearl Jam tape back in the box. "Do you mind if we don't talk about school? I just don't want to think about it right now." When he fell silent, she added, "I mean, just because we're on winter break and everything, you know?"

After a moment he said, "Certainly, I understand."

"Thanks."

"Well, I really should get going," he said. "I just called to say hello."

"Oh... okay. Hello."
And good-bye. Story of my life
, she thought, referring to Pete. And then:
Who are you kidding? Kenneth is no Pete.

"Uh, yes, all right," Kenneth said, bordering on a stammer. "Well, good night."

"Bye-bye," Reese said, folding her phone closed, and tossing it over her shoulder. It didn't crash, so it had to have hit the hamper or the carpet—good enough.

As she carelessly hauled the junk back into its box, she heard the crunching and cracking of plastic and didn't much care. There was something nagging at her, besides her off-putting relationship with Kenneth, and besides—thanks to Kenneth's reminder—her ever-encroaching deadlines for Kimble. She knew it involved Brian, and she knew it was more than simply embarrassment over what had happened in the cafe that afternoon.

It was more biting than guilt even. It was something that conjured memories of that very special New Year's Eve—how they had clicked so well, how Brian had made her stomach drop. Today he'd made it drop again, but she supposed she hadn't fully processed it because she'd been busy making a complete fool of herself.

Now, though, she was thinking more clearly, and she had to admit that seeing Brian again had stirred a strange feeling in her... like maybe they had some unfinished business.

Right. Ridiculous. So much for thinking clearly.
She barely knew the guy. Reese sighed, and surveyed her cluttered closet, no longer anxious to clean it. Like everything else, the idea now seemed like a diversion from other things.

But she knew she wasn't tired enough to sleep yet.

Five minutes later she found herself in the sun-room, on Ally's treadmill. Reese left all the lights off so no one would be able to see her from outside as she struggled to maintain a fifteen-minute mile. The more labored her breathing became, the more disgusted she felt.
I've got to lose some fucking weight.

Fine, she'd just add that to her to-do list, which also included making a final decision about Kenneth. Should she hang on, or turn him loose once and for all? More to the point, if she turned him loose, would Mr. Stoic even
care?

After a few moments, Reese gave up on her dream of the fifteen-minute mile, and reduced the treadmill setting to "remedial."
Ah... much better.
Now she could breathe while she walked. Oxygen was good; it helped her think.

She was probably too young to be so cynical about love. But was it her fault that her last serious boyfriend, Pete, had masqueraded as the One, only to announce out of the blue that he was moving to South America to teach underprivileged kids how to read? Sometimes she really couldn't get over Pete's nerve. Albeit, those were very shortsighted, selfish times, but still. Wasn't she a little entitled? Especially after the man she'd thought she'd marry had traded a life with her for a shack in Caracas.

When the treadmill flashed
1.5 miles
across its display screen, Reese hit "cooldown."
Good enough.
As her legs slowed with the machine, a throbbing kind of relief flooded them, making the muscles feel heavy and full. She vaguely recognized the feeling, and knew enough to know it was a good thing.

Soon the walking belt had slowed to a dead crawl, then finally to a full stop. Reese remained standing, leaning her elbows on the display screen, and staring out the windows into the blackness of the night.

Her mind was still swirling with thoughts of Brian and Kenneth and Pete.
Men,
she thought futilely and unoriginally, as she stepped off the treadmill, left the sunroom, and climbed the stairs to bed.

* * *

If she kept listening to that song, she'd swear she'd cry. And since an emotional breakdown didn't scream
competent financial analyst,
crying wasn't an option at the moment.

So Angela reached over and pressed "stop" on her CD-ROM. She released a sigh that felt nothing like a release. Her chest only got tighter, and she felt even more bereft of hope—if that were possible.

Suddenly her intercom buzzed. "Yes, Cyn," she said, struggling to keep her voice neutral—and restraining herself from unloading all her sadness, unsolicited, on her assistant.

"Bryer's on line two."

"Oh—"

"Sorry, I was using line one."

"No problem. Um..." The thought of going over "the numbers" with Bryer right now made her physically ill. Or maybe it was the thirty-two-ounce black coffee she'd had for breakfast to keep her awake, because she'd been up all night, thinking, sulking, and—
surprise, surprise—
crying. "Could you tell him I went to a meeting?"

"Okay," Cyn said, "I'll tell him you'll call him this afternoon."

"Make it tomorrow. Actually, next week."

Cyn paused and said, "Okay. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, fine," Angela lied, feeling fresh tears sting the backs of her eyes. No, she would not give in; she would not break down bawling to her assistant just because she was a friendly face, a pleasant person, and a fellow woman. No, she
couldn't.

"Thanks, Cyn," she said quickly, before she could change her mind, and pressed "off."

She spun in her chair to face her monitor, and stared at it, loathing everything she saw. It was a good job—in a prestigious, money-making sort of way. But it also filled her with dread every morning.

She didn't know exactly when the dread had started. After she'd graduated from college she had been an enthusiastic, capitalistic hopeful, like every other finance major. And with every promotion she'd achieved over the years, she had become only more committed to her work—to
numbers.

Oh, brother.
She was thirty years old, her personal life had frozen to lifelessness, and at work, it was numbers. How pathetic. Hell, if she was already depressed, she might as well turn her music back on.

She hit "play," and as soon as Angela heard Torising, "You're right next to me, but I need an airplane," a tear rolled down her cheek, because it reminded her of the night before.

She and Drew had gotten home from dinner with the family and said about ten words to each other before they'd changed for bed. And then things
really
took a nosedive.

"Do you like this new lampshade?" Angela had asked, sliding under the comforter and into bed beside him. (A decadent king-size bed, the springs of which, she knew, wouldn't squeak all night. Talk about depressing.) "It was on sale... I just thought it would be cute."

"Yeah," he said, glancing at the lamp on the nightstand. "It's nice."

"Thanks, really? I just thought it would be a nice change. The yellow goes with the wallpaper well, I thought."

"Mmm-hmm," he mumbled, and switched on C-SPAN.

She kept smiling at him, beaming, really, as if this
weren't
a pathetic conversation, but he didn't seem to notice. A few moments passed before her smile evaporated, and her hand started itching to give him a good smack—an urge she'd gotten a lot lately. She was fairly certain she wouldn't act on it.

"So... did you like the dinner?" she asked. "Mom gave me the recipe. I could make it for us sometime."

"What? Oh, yeah, it was good," he said, still watching the TV. She looked up to see what was so damn enthralling. So
news coverage of a soccer game is more interesting than me. Thanks, jerk.
She plastered another smile on her face.

Trying to inch closer without being obvious, she shifted her shoulder and just barely brushed her knee against his side. In response, her sullen husband remained stationary and unaffected. This marriage was getting to be hell on her ego.

Sucking in a breath, she looked up at the ceiling, silently pleading,
God, please make this man normal again, that is, if you're not too busy.
Then she glanced back at Drew, and that was when she noticed him tugging at the collar of his T-shirt.

He tugged again.
Oh, no.
He looked hot, constricted. A mental and emotional flag went up. Could he be feeling strangled? Short of breath? Oh, God, was he in pain?

"Honey, do you feel okay?" she asked, suddenly concerned, and reaching for him.

He held up his hand to stop her, but she ignored it. "I'm fine," he said.

"Okay, it's just you look a little hot, or—"

"Angela, I'm just getting comfortable. Can we not call in the National Guard on that one?" Then he settled back in on his pillows, and turned the volume up on the television.

Frustrated, Angela sighed, and slid out of bed.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I forgot to take out my contacts," she replied, not even looking back at him. She went into the bathroom and flipped on the switch. The room filled with bright white light that always made her look pale and cellulite-y. Well, it didn't exactly
make
her look that way, but it never created a flattering pretense she could live with, so that was just as bad.

She reached for her contact solution, and came across Drew's medication. She usually reminded him, but tonight she hadn't because she didn't want him to get annoyed with her. Now she was rethinking that concept. Could she really just take a chance that he'd forget? No, she loved him too much to take that chance—even if men were the most ungrateful creatures on the planet when it came to things like love.