Sweet (10 page)

I set the stuffed paper bag down on the kitchen island and began taking things out. A large container of chicken soup with dumplings. Little cups of jello and yogurt. Some instant oatmeal he could make on the fly. He followed me and leaned against the wall.

“You know my teeth didn’t get knocked out in the accident, right?”

“I see you get sarcastic when you’re in pain. I can deal with that.”

His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t I ask you to leave me alone?”

Aim and fire. My heart skipped a beat. Of course he’d be surly. I’d known the emotional gauntlet I was walking into here, but it still hurt to hear.

“And I did,” I said evenly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you starve. Unless you have some other ex who’s going to make you dinner?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know there’s no one but you.”

I sucked in a breath. Even when he was trying to be mean, he was the sweetest man I’d ever known. It broke my heart that he felt he needed to push me away. I still didn’t totally understand why. I wanted to push for an answer, but not right now. He held himself rigid, his hands tucked in his underarms as if he were holding himself up that way. A thin film of sweat beaded on his forehead, betraying the strain it took just to remain upright.

“When are you due for your pain medicine?”

He raised his shoulder in a shrug. Then winced and lowered his shoulder more slowly.

“Come on. Time to lie down.”

I approached him, ready to coax or persuade or coerce him into doing just that. He surprised me by slinging an arm over my shoulder and leaning on me so heavily my weak knees almost buckled. He must have been worse off than I’d realized. We limped past the neat, spare living room into the neat, spare bedroom.

The dark sheets were rumpled now, instead of neatly made like the day he’d invited me over. He must have done so in anticipation of my arrival, of that chocolate torte seduction, and the care he’d taken for me broke my heart all over again. He slumped onto the bed without ceremony, sprawled awkwardly until I gently tugged him straight by each limb and pulled the sheets up around him.

I found the little orange bottles beside the sink, knocked askew. The white labels were faded and ink-stained from having been soggy, then slowly drying. I imagined him dumping them, hurriedly opening them and swallowing them down with water from the tap, no time or energy to even grab a glass. Firming my lips, I deciphered the instructions and brought him a fresh dosage.

He was already half-asleep when I returned. I nudged him awake, knowing he’d sleep more easily with the pain medicine in his system. He blinked up at me blearily, and I pushed the cup of water into his hand.

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself on one elbow and swallowed down the pills. The water sloshed to the side as his hand trembled. I took the glass and set it on the side table.

His eyes went shut, and his body sank back onto the pillows. My heart throbbed to see him in so much pain. Whatever came of us, I was glad I could be here to help in small ways. The only thing worse than watching him in pain was imagining him struggling alone.

I started to head back into the kitchen.

“Why did you come back?” he murmured.

My heart ached. I returned to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed. I flashed back to the hospital, to the edge of the thin, poorly padded bed where he’d once told me to go away.

“I couldn’t have stayed away,” I said, feeling sad and rueful all at once.

“Shouldn’t have come,” he mumbled. “Missed you.”

I’d missed him like crazy too. And worried about him, whether he was healing okay, whether my brother was hassling him. Part of me had hoped he’d open the door and smile. He’d reach for me, and I’d rush into his arms. But that was a dream. This was real. The mix of hospital smell and the musky aroma of a man who hadn’t showered anytime today or even yesterday. Him telling me I shouldn’t be here even when he clearly needed somebody. And telling me he missed me because he wasn’t lucid enough to stop himself.

What a sad mess we were.

And at least partially because of Philip. Even though Drew claimed it wasn’t about him, I knew it was. My anger at my brother petered out when I considered the facts. He would never have reacted any other way. It was like me taking away a beloved toy from a tiger and getting upset when he growled and snapped. Though whether Drew or I were the toy, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both of us.

While Drew slept, I put everything away in the fridge and acquainted myself with his apartment. Though really, I snooped. Not through medicine cabinets or anything that mundane. I sat in the armchair that looked the most used and read the book I’d brought. I stood in front of the window overlooking the city, imagining him here, holding a steaming cup of coffee before he left for work. I walked the carpet where his bare feet had trod and imagined myself welcomed here instead of intruding.

I forced him awake later that night, and he dutifully drank down half a bowl of soup before drifting off to sleep again. Each morning I arrived at his apartment and made breakfast—oatmeal was upgraded to pancakes. During the day I made the calls necessary to get my business back on track. I knew that Philip could have derailed me forever if he’d wanted. Money, connections, clout. But it only took a few days to clear up the injunction so the contractors could start work again.

The evenings were the most painful, wonderful time of the day. When Drew had rested enough to be lucid for a few hours straight, I made us both a simple dinner, and we ate on a tray in his bed. We kept to safe topics: movies, music. I even offered a bumbling soliloquy on the weather in a fit of awkward desperation. The more inane the conversation became, the more depressed I felt. Watching him jack himself off, held apart, should have been awkward, but instead it had felt right. Now we were cordial, and the sky was falling over my head.

That night, I pushed through the glass doors of his condo building and waved to the doorman. I hadn’t really bribed him, unless you counted a smile and something about surprising my boyfriend with dinner. Which had been true, after all.

Upstairs I knocked on Drew’s door, counting the seconds it would take to open. How many this time? Sixty on a good night. Upward of two hundred on the bad ones. One of these days, I thought, he wouldn’t let me in.

But not today.

The door opened almost immediately to reveal him, not in his drawstring pants or loose-slung T-shirts, but a suit. Smooth, well-pressed fabric and a neatly done-up tie.

I blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Going out,” he said.

“On a date?” The words sprang forth before I could reel them in.

His look was sardonic. “Give me a little credit. I’m going to work.”

Well, yes, of course he was. One step away from death’s door, and he was back at work.

“No. No way. You’ll collapse in the middle of a meeting.”

“Your confidence in me is astounding.”

“It’s been a week, Drew. I don’t care if you don’t want to be with me anymore.” A bold-faced lie. “But you can’t go running around a week after you get out of the hospital!”

His eyes clouded. “There’s something I have to take care of.” He focused on me. “And I don’t want you coming back here.”

“Drew, please. You’re not ready for this yet.” I wasn’t ready for this.

“Rose, I’m serious. You can’t come back here.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I won’t let you in. I’ll tell the doorman to call the cops if you come back.”

I took a breath and stared down at the beige carpet. The harshness was unexpected but probably what he’d needed to get through to me. I’d known this was coming, had prepared myself, but all the spit and polish couldn’t disguise that I was made of glass, and at the serious, harrowed look in his eyes, I cracked down the middle. Split in half, spilling tears and mortification where he could see, where he watched with a cold impassivity I’d only seen him use in the courtroom.

Well, look at that. In sixty seconds, I was heading down in the elevator. Two hundred, and I was leaving the building, pushing into the crisp evening air. At least I had my answer. Tonight was a bad night.

I
waved through
the large-plated windows and turned the dead bolt on the door. Katie’s mother waved back to me as her daughter climbed into the backseat. Leaning slightly on the broom, I watched them pull away.

After what had happened to Drew, I hadn’t been comfortable encouraging the parents to park across the street. Lindsey had helped me write an application to turn the meters in front of the courtyard into fifteen-minute parking zones so the parents could stop there to drop off and pick up and the girls wouldn’t have to cross the street.

Of course, my application had been denied. A new little ballet studio hardly registered in Chicago’s transportation and parking policies. I’d mentioned it to Drew one time during dinner.

A few days after he’d kicked me out of his apartment, city workers were outside my studio, painting new blue stripes over the old yellow ones. Apparently Philip wasn’t the only one with sway in the city back offices.

The girls preferred to wait in the courtyard for their parents to pick them up, and I couldn’t really blame them. The fall weather was crisp and lovely, piling dry, orange-hued leaves onto the cobblestones.

Those leaves were inevitably tracked into the studio, so I had grown accustomed to sweeping the springy marley floors while I considered the day, like a line drawn and new balance tallied. We’d had two new signups that day. A good thing for a brand-new business.

Parents could sign up for month-to-month contracts, but so far everyone had chosen the discounted six-month rates. A very good thing, considering the guaranteed cash flow for me and the commitment it showed on their part.

After three weeks of renovations, To the Pointe had opened with a single class of five girls made up of friends of friends through my dance troupe. Since then, I’d had five more signups, and I was currently looking at the best schedule for splitting the girls into two classes.

I threw myself into the studio, but there was one indulgence I allowed myself. The same outlet that had kept me grounded for years: dance. Some people danced to be seen, a beautiful flame casting shadows as it moved—others just needed to burn.

The final strains of “Clair de Lune” filtered through the speaker in the corner. I flicked half the lights off, setting the studio in shadows. This wasn’t for me to be seen, not by an audience or an instructor. It was to feel.

The allure of ballet wasn’t about the melody or the art—it was the form. My body was fluid with the music and yet held rigidly within the bounds of predetermined movements.

Thoughts of the studio or worry over Drew’s recovery blew away, replaced by the thick clouds of physical strain. I felt free running through the pas de basque I’d done a thousand times.

When the music ended, I continued for a few minutes more, invigorated by the slight ache in my calves and accompanied only by my breath and the shudders of the mat.

I moved into gentle stretches, slowly loosening the tension of the day. I’d found a lovely tension in my hamstring when the phone rang. Easing out of the position, I circled the small glass merchandise counter that held shoes and leotards for sale and picked up the cordless office phone.

“To the Pointe. Can I help you?”

A brief silence on the other end. “Hi, I heard you’d just opened in my neighborhood.”

My breath caught in my throat at that low, familiar voice. It raised the hairs on my neck, that lovely tenor, and a longing ran so deep I feared it would split right through me.

When I didn’t respond, he continued with a casualness that didn’t disguise his uncertainty. “I was wondering if I could take a tour of the place.”

My heart was beating too fast, and the light sweat from my workout had turned to ice. Stalling, I said, “We’re closed.”

“It so happens I know the owner. I was hoping she might make an exception. You see, I was supposed to come by sooner, but I got a bit…detained.”

My vision blurred at the wry humor in his voice. He was always like that—able to make a joke out of anything, but not mocking. Not cruel. He found humor in the irony of life, found a way to be gentle and quiet in a city teeming with random violence. Even his rejection in the hospital had been painfully kind.

Only later, in his apartment, had it stung.

I swallowed back the excess emotion—the sorrow I’d felt for his injuries and my hope at what this phone call might mean. The place of hurt and waiting where my heart had lived these past four weeks. I wanted to stay angry at him, but all I could think was: how much have you hurt? How alone have you been?

My voice came out wobbly, falling short of the casual self-possession that came so naturally to him. “She understands that accidents happen. She was just worried about you. And…she missed you.”

“Ah, Rose.” A small crack in his voice, a husky declaration of intent. “I missed you too.”

I wiped at the tear on my cheek. “Are you better? Are you well?”

“Almost. I’m almost healed, but I walk with a limp. Like an old man now. Is that going to be okay with you?”

A watery laugh was his answer. “We can match, then, because you know my knees are ruined anyway. We can hobble around together.”

“Hobbling? I don’t know about that. The spinning thing you just did looked graceful to me.”

I straightened. “Where are you?”

“Picking up where I left off.”

Breathless, I ran to the window. Sure enough, he was standing across the street. My heart lurched at the sight of him through the glass, so similar to that horrible night. The sky was clear and unusually bright, casting a milky glow across his face.

H
e leaned against
his car, one arm slung across the roof of the Lexus, the other holding his cell to his ear. The picture of casual nonchalance and not a car in sight, yet I had to stop the words in my throat.
Look out. Be safe. I love you.

Because God, I did love him. Hadn’t I always? Inevitable, eternal, whether he bade me leave or stay.