by Lily Zante
“What drives Eli,” I say, tapping my fingers on the table. There are many things that drive him. Eli is multi-faceted and complex, and I’m certain I haven’t scratched the surface of this man. “He almost had a chance to try out for the Olympics.”
“So he did,” states Gerry, and his I-know-it-too attitude is starting to infuriate me.
“But did you know that he got beaten up by a group of guys because he threw the fight? He couldn’t take part in the tryouts because he was so badly injured.”
“Now that I didn’t know.”
I smile with glee.
“Broke his ribs, and tore up his face. He was trying to get extra money to help his sister make the rent.”
Gerry raises an eyebrow. “Tough life.”
“He hasn't had the best start in life,” I tell him.
“He was in a children's home with his sister for a year.”
I snap my head up in attention. Gerry's done his research too. “Yes, he was. I'll have the piece ready in time, and with everything documented,” I tell him, in case he thinks I'm not capable of putting together an in-depth piece of work.
Gerry is quick to reassure me. “I know you will. I have every faith in you.”
His words make me feel better. “He seems to have turned his life around,” I say. “Let’s face it, how many unknowns would get a chance to be in a fight this big?” I take a sip of my drink. It's just the thing I need to take away the edge of the Eli’s rejection. That's what his silence—ever since I returned—feels like. A rejection.
“He was young when he went to the children's home,” Gerry prompts. “I imagine he had a difficult start, a lot of boxers do. Who knows what he suffered as a child?”
I know. “Abuse leaves scars,” I reply absentmindedly. “And they’re not always visible ones.” I wipe away the condensation on my glass.
“There have been lots of rumors about Grampton House,” he tells me. “They shut the place down five years ago.”
I'm astounded that he knows this. There were rumors of abuse, but nothing was ever proven. “Are you secretly working on this assignment and not telling me, Gerry?”
This makes him laugh. “No,” he blinks, then says it again, “No.” It's the second 'no' which makes me suspicious.
“You seem to know everything I know.”
“Not everything. Stop thinking you don't know enough. You do. Cardoza was abused by who?”
“Someone at the care home,” I say.
He looks at me as if he’s waiting for me to say more.
“I’m not putting that in the article,” I state. The vodka has loosened my tongue and I wish I hadn’t said anything.
“Why not?”
“He told me in confidence.”
“It would make for a good story.”
“We're not printing it, Gerry.” I push my glass away.
“Okay, fine. Then we won't.”
“I won't,” I correct him. “It's my piece, unless you're going to overrule me and suddenly use all of my research and claim it as yours.”
He leans forward, his expression hard. “I said leave it, then. I’m only offering you advice. I’ve made my mark. I don’t need to take your work and pass it off as mine. Frankly, I’m disgusted that you would say such a thing.”
I make an apologetic face. “I didn’t mean it like that. We… we discussed a few things. He let this slip, but I know he won’t want it out.”
“That’s fine. I don't know what you take me for, Harper. I’m on your side. I was the one who pushed Merv to give you this instead of reporting on some minor cat-up-a-tree type stories. I remember in your interview you said you wanted to do some hard-hitting journalistic work, and while this might not be a story on organized crime, or something as meaty, it’s better than what you’ve been working on so far. This kid will be forgotten after this fight. He’s in the limelight only because of who he’s fighting, so make your article count. It will have a limited shelf life. Cardoza will be forgotten within a week.” He lifts his fist and motions like a boxer, only on him it looks pathetic even if he's trying to make a point. I’m embarrassed for him.
“He might win,” I say, because I don’t like the way he dismisses Eli so easily.
Gerry’s laugh indicates the opposite. “If you say so. We won’t have long to wait. Has Merv mentioned about you going to the fight?” he asks.
I shake my head. “He hasn't said a word. He probably thinks the training camp trip was enough.”
“You should come. You've done the whole piece on Cardoza, and you've done your dues at the boxing gym, and the training camp. It would be silly to not be there for the fight.”
“I'm not sure Merv will be happy.”
I don't jump with enthusiasm, partly because I'm guessing that Gerry going will be sufficient, but I don’t know what Eli's reaction will be if I went, and that's the main reason.
“I can put in a good word for you.”
I don't want him to. Gerry observes my lack of excitement. “Is it because you don't want to see Cardoza knocked out?”
“He's going to win,” I say defiantly, because even though Eli's gone all cold on me now, I still believe in him.
Gerry chokes back a laugh. “Have you seen how Garrison's shaped up for this fight?”
I haven’t paid any attention to Garrison. “Shaped up? I hope he’s trained well for it. According to Lou, he’s spent most of his time boasting that Eli's going to be easy to beat.”
“He is going to be easy to beat,” Gerry insists.
“Eli's going to surprise you all.”
As if to prove a point, Gerry whips out his phone, taps it a few times, then shoves it in my direction. I'm looking at a picture of a well-oiled Garrison flexing his muscles. The headline screams about Garrison’s unbeaten record so far.
Garrison is huge. Eli is big, powerful, ripped, but this guy really does look like a tank in comparison. All of a sudden, I'm worried.
“He’s in the best shape I've ever seen him. The Tank is a pro, undefeated through his last twenty-four fights. This fight with Cardoza is a walk in the park for him. Your man doesn’t stand a chance.”
I jolt. “He's not my man,” I retort and hand back the phone. “He has plenty of women hanging around him.”
“I’m sure he does.” Gerry glances at his watch.
“I have a few more details to add to my article, and maybe you could look over it once it’s done?”
“Shall we get another round of drinks?” he asks.
“Another round?”
“And maybe some food?”
I’m not hungry and make a face as if I’m not sold on the idea. “You said you couldn’t stay late,” I tell him.
“I had something lined up, but it’s not important. I don’t need to go. How about some finger food?” he suggests.
Why not? I don't want to get drunk, and two cocktails aren't going to do any harm, finger food would be good. “Okay,” I say, as he opens the table menu and shows it to me. “You choose,” I tell him. I hear a beep from my phone and fish it out of my handbag. My heart trips. It's a message from Eli.
Hey.
That's it? A 'hey?'
I’m annoyed, but I’m also excited. I put my phone back in my bag, and mull over what this means. Gerry orders our food, and we continue the conversation. I try to pay attention but my mind is in full-on Eli mode again.
We talk about work, and he tells me of some interesting assignments he's been on. I smile at Gerry and pretend I'm listening. And a few moments later, as if I'm addicted, I pull the phone out and text back:
Hey.
This time I place the phone face down on the table. I say something to Gerry, to show that I’m listening, and he continues talking. My phone beeps again, and I excuse myself, because it's so obvious now, and I snatch my phone again. This new message plants a huge grin on my face:
I missed seeing you at the gym.
“What’s so funny?” Gerry asks.
�
��One of my friends texted me a silly joke,” I say, lying with ease. And because Gerry looks peeved, I add, “Sorry.” And then to really prove that I'm invested in his story, I put my phone away on the table this time, but face down—even though it kills me to do this. I actively force myself to join in the conversation, even though my ears are on alert for a telltale 'ping'. It's a good thing the phone is face down, otherwise I'd be glancing at it every second.
When there’s been no beep for a while, I quickly check my phone for messages, in case I missed something, but there are no new messages. My happiness sinks as quickly as it soared.
Our food arrives as do our drinks, and we talk and laugh and soon I forget about Eli as I help myself to the food.
Gerry regales me with more stories about his life at the paper and his tales about Merv. He’s funny and engaging, and because I am determined not to be Eli's puppet, and because Gerry’s tales are truly hilarious, I soon lose myself in them.
When Gerry excuses himself to go to the bathroom, I pick up my phone and discover that Eli's sent a few messages but I didn’t hear the notification beeps:
BTW, I didn't block you.
Then there’s a good five-minute gap before the next message because he was clearly waiting for me to reply:
I didn’t mean to be rude the other day.
And when I still didn't reply, he texted:
I can be a jerk.
You know this.
Make it up to you?
The last message sets my body on fire.
It also proves to me the power of abstaining. If I had replied, I would have given in, instead, he's the one who feels he needs to make it up to me with his trio of messages. I feel as if I’ve won a year’s supply of chocolate.
“You’re still texting?” Gerry's voice snaps me out of my fantasy bubble.
“Sorry,” I say to him, and quickly type out my reply to Eli:
How do you propose to do that?
I send the text, my nerves dancing for joy.
“Those devices are a curse to the art of conversation,” Gerry states. He sounds like a middle-aged parent, irritated by a teenager's thumb-readiness. “Women seem to be the worst offenders, after youngsters.”
I wince, because now he's really showing his age. “It was Eli, actually,” I reply, indignantly. I’m itching to see his reply, and when my cellphone pings again, I can't help myself. “Sorry,” I say, even though I'm not remotely sorry.
In fact I don’t care what Gerry thinks, in spite of what he’s just said. I am bubbling with joy because Eli is back in touch:
Come over and find out.
That's one hell of a sexy text. It intoxicates me in one hit. Another text follows, with his address.
My heart literally stops beating. I hold the phone in my hand and try to dampen down the grin that threatens to slide across my face.
I see Eli’s face in my mind’s eye, I see him smile. It’s a rare thing, but in this moment it flashes across my brain as if he touched my face this instant.
I miss him all over again and I’ve forgotten everything he did. I don’t care how I felt about him up until this moment.
“You're not really present, are you, Harper?” I glance up at Gerry’s face. He doesn’t look happy.
I can't blame him because I know what it is to be the person who sits around waiting for the other person to finish their online correspondence. In effect, I'm giving him the middle finger being so consumed by my messages. I’m texting Eli because I can't resist the man who holds me captive by his texts.
“Sorry, no. This is rude of me. I'm sorry.”
I slip the phone away, determined to end the evening as best as I can.
Gerry starts picking at the food again with a cocktail stick. I'm no longer hungry. Not for food. I'm hungry for Eli.
“Why aren't you eating?” he asks. “I've ordered all this food.”
“I’m not that hungry.” But it would be extremely rude of me to leave like this so I pick at some mushrooms.
The entire time, I'm thinking of Eli, and how much I miss him. It’s not like him to be this expressive. He seems softer, maybe a little sad. He sounds as if he misses me. He bared so much more of himself than I expected, and I want to believe that the connection I felt for him is something he now feels for me.
“It's impossible to even go out for dinner and enjoy an evening out when so many people are addicted to their devices,” Gerry continues. The conversation has lost its spark, and it pales in comparison to Eli’s texts.
Instead of regaling me with funny stories, Gerry’s now lecturing me as if I’m a child.
I don’t need to be here, when I have a man I am desperate to see, and who seems just as eager to see me. “I should go,” I say. “I didn't want to stay out too late.” I can't sit here a moment longer. I stare at the mushroom skewered by my cocktail stick and decide I don't want it.
My mind isn’t on food right now. It’s consumed by Eli. I want to hold him and put my arms around him. I want to do the things I've been dreaming of ever since I last saw him.
“You're leaving?” Gerry looks really pissed off, but I can't take another moment of being here with him. I pull out my purse to split the bill.
“Leave it,” he says, and calls the waiter.
“It's only fair,” I say.
“Leave it.” Gerry’s tone turns nasty. I haven’t seen him be like this before, and I don't understand why he’s so angry. We've been here for a while now, I've shoved some of the finger food down me, and we’ve had a pleasant enough evening. I want to contribute half towards the bill, but if he won't take it, there's not much I can do.
“You don't have to leave on account of me,” I say, when he seems to get ready to leave.
“And sit here all alone? No thanks. I had a date lined up this evening. One of those group restaurant meetup events,” he says, surprising me.
I open my mouth in shock. “You should have said.”
His face turns dark. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Leave it, Harper.”
“Thanks for this evening.”
We leave at the same time, and I quickly say goodbye to him the moment we're outside. But as I hail a taxi, I feel as if I've escaped.
I know this seems rude and I must seem ungrateful, but I can't explain how much this means to me. Eli texted me first. I didn’t do a thing, and now he's promised to make it up to me.
Eli wants me to come over.
Nothing else and nobody else could ever compare to that.
The taxi takes me straight to his place. It’s in a neighborhood I’m not familiar with, but I see a small rundown apartment building and my insides leap for joy.
I can’t believe I’m here.
Chapter Thirty-Two
ELI
* * *
It was easy to push her out of my mind when I was away, but the moment we returned to Chicago, Harper's in my brain again.
Nina's not around, and Lou has ordered me to slow down and start taking it easy. I’m home and have nothing to do.
We fly to New York early next week so that I have time to get used to the place. Then there’s the weigh-in the day before the fight.
Everything is coming to a head.
I’m not nervous, but I feel more anxious than I should. Being around Harper has stirred some shit inside me and the past starts to play on my mind again. I’d pushed that stuff away but it’s back in my head and I can’t afford to let it mess me up.
That’s why I need Harper. She calms me down. Not seeing her for over a week hasn’t worked out so well for me, even though I’m the one who cut her off so cruelly. Now I’m suffering for it.
The knock on my door heralds her arrival and I feel as if the sun just shone down on me and lifted my spirits. This is insane. It tells me she matters more than I want her to. I open the door, and attempt a calm welcome.
“Hey.” Harper’s standing outside my crummy apartment, in a crummy nei
ghborhood, and looking happier than she should. I didn’t treat her right, and she still looks happy. She still came.
“Come in,” I say, and immediately fold my arms because I might be tempted to reach out and touch her.
She looks smart in her dark pantsuit and white shirt. “You look good.”
“Thanks.”
“Was it only for me you dressed down?”
“I had to fit in at the gym.” I remember my impressions of Harper that first time. She was too polished, too made up, and she reminded me of a porcelain doll that could break easily if pushed. Despite what she says, she didn’t look too dressed down to me during those days, not from what I remember.
But she’s in high heels today, and she’s wearing jewelry. She looks like a model from an upscale magazine.
“Well,” I scratch my ear, “you look good enough to eat.”
She bites her lip.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, even though I think back often to our time in the sauna. It always sends me down a wrong place, though; I lie awake thinking about her pussy, her arousal, her being naked. I want that every night, and I can’t have it, not yet.
It frustrates the fuck out of me.
She’s still smiling, as if she can’t stop herself, and she clasps her hands in front of her, as if she’s afraid she might also be tempted to reach out for me.
I missed that smile. I missed that face.
She looks me over, her gaze running over my chest, my shoulders, my face, and back to my chest and my arms again.
“Miss me?” I ask, as we both stand awkwardly appraising one another in my dingy little apartment. There's no hallway. The door opens onto my living room with a table, a sofa and a TV.
