by S. A. Wolfe
“Your family believes in taking the blows. Acting tough. Never, ever talking about things like fear or feeling helpless,” I say, and Marko looks a bit ashamed.
“I can’t blame my family for my bad behavior, though. What I did was all my fault.” He squeezes my hand.
I really want my hand back.
Our two untouched coffees are no longer emitting steam, and neither of us touches the large, laminated menus. Perusing the entrees and deliberating over what to eat would suggest we’re dining together, about to linger over a long meal, perhaps as two people trying to make amends and rebuild our relationship.
The waitress doesn’t return to take our order. She and every other person in the diner are aware of the ex-engagement drama going on in booth twenty-four.
“I’ve had plenty of time to think about how I let you down.” He pauses for a moment, and I see the old Marko energy, the arrogance making a resurgence. He bites his lower lip and looks at our clasped hands. Hope is making him brave. He can see a way to win this.
“I’ve also thought about us. I had plenty of time when I was flat on my back in the hospital bed and at home. Pain makes you reflect on everything in a very succinct manner. It gives you a window of opportunity where you have clarity and no doubt.”
Marko smiles. His desire for what he wants is obviously muddling his ability to understand what I’m saying. “I want another chance, Talia. I’ll make this up to you. I still love you, and I still want you to marry me. And I think you met me today because you still love me. I’ve always been in love with you.”
Always? Even when you looked disgusted when we received my diagnosis? Even when you chose not to visit me during my recovery?
“This isn’t fair,” I say. “You don’t get to come back. You can ask for forgiveness—that’s one thing—but asking me to step back into our relationship, which was nothing but a phony … a charade, it’s not even a remote possibility.”
I search my memory for a time when I may have ever resisted or blatantly disagreed with Marko, and nothing formidable comes to mind. I was such an agreeable, passive girlfriend. Until now, I didn’t see myself as that type of person.
Marko is unaffected by my resistance. “I understand I hurt you,” he says as if he’s speaking to a child. “But I never let go of the idea of us being married someday. I didn’t see other women. Never considered it.”
“Too bad. I did. I mean, not women, but I saw other men. Well, one man.” I pull my hand away from his grasp.
“You’re already dating?” His incredulous expression, as if I couldn’t possibly be dating if he wasn’t, angers me. “Aren’t you still … healing?”
“Healing? Do you mean from my surgery or from your jackassery?” I’ll have to thank Peyton for that choice word.
Marko blinks, startled by my strong language.
I sigh. I really was a passive, good girl type with him. He’s expecting the compliant, submissive side of me.
“Health-wise, I’m in great shape. And emotionally, I’m over you. I’m a different person.”
“What are you doing here?” the familiar, deep voice demands from behind me.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mumble.
Marko looks shocked at my response. Then he steps out of the booth and stands to his full height, six feet of puffed-up muscles, which is actually a few inches shorter than Peyton. Marko is in full primal mode as Peyton approaches our booth.
I’m expecting clenched fists. Instead, Peyton is balancing four pie boxes in one hand and holding his keys in the other. He looks so comically domesticated I want to laugh.
“We’re talking,” I say.
“I’m Marko Gorski. You look familiar.”
Neither man extends a hand.
“Peyton MacKenzie.”
“From the Brooklyn wedding,” I say for Marko’s benefit.
“Is this who you’re dating?” Marko asks.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Peyton says before I finish.
“We aren’t—”
“Sometimes,” Peyton says, making the conversation more incoherent for Marko to follow so that his head ping-pongs back and forth between us.
“What’s with all the pies?” I ask brightly, in an attempt to ward off the menacing cloud of testosterone enveloping us.
“Lois is having an early dinner for her book club at Swill, and she demanded I serve Bonnie’s pies. Why is he here?” Peyton studies Marko.
“This is between Talia and me,” Marko says evenly and begins to sit down in the booth again to stake his claim.
“Like hell!” Peyton drops the pie boxes, grabs Marko by the shirt collar, and yanks him hard enough to send him stumbling out of the booth and against the occupied table next to us. The two senior women gasp and save their coffee mugs, holding them high above their table. Their empty plates are knocked off the table and smash to the floor. At least they were done eating, I think to myself.
Marko shoves Peyton back. Then they both step away from the women’s table like they’re about to square off for a real fight.
I have nothing to put between them to block any punches, so I act on instinct, grabbing a handful of individual creamers from our booth and begin pelting them. My aim is good, and they flinch when the little plastic containers hit them in the face, but they basically swat them away like flies.
“Peyton!” I grab his raised fist with both hands.
Marko looks at me and steps back to stop the altercation. Another attempt to show me he’s changed.
“Peyton,” I urge again, trying harder to pull his fist down.
“Goodness,” one of the senior women says.
Pam and her husband, Mark, come running out of the kitchen to break up the fight. That’s the moment when Peyton sees himself through my eyes, through the other customers’ eyes. He releases his fist and steps farther away from Marko, raising his hands in surrender. Marko utters a string of Polish curses. I’m certain I’m the only one who understands him.
“Are you boys going to behave?” Pam begins to pick up the dish shards from the floor. Her husband has a big push broom in his hand. Most likely he was going to use it to break up the fight, but now he begins sweeping the shattered porcelain. Cherry filling from Peyton’s pie boxes is smeared across the white linoleum floor.
“I apologize,” Peyton says to Pam. He moves aside so she can straighten the table for the two women, who both surprisingly stay seated since they had ringside seats for the best show of the day.
“What were you thinking?” I ask Peyton.
His face flushes with embarrassment at losing control. I’m surprised Marko is so composed. If there were two likely people who would want to beat each other to a pulp with their fists, my vote would be for these two guys. Not because they’d be fighting over me, but because they both like to be noticed as the strongest alpha male in the room. I know Marko would revel in a fight, a trait I disliked in his family as a whole. Physical violence is common among the brothers and male cousins in Marko’s family, and the parents brush it off as healthy, manly character traits. As much as I hated their sexist, violent behavior, it didn’t deter me from willing to marry into their clan.
“I’m really very sorry, Pam,” Peyton says. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and slides several hundred dollar bills out. He puts them on the table, and I think I see a slight tremor in his hand.
The urge to protect him, or at least reassure him that everything is fine, is powerful.
“You don’t have to do that,” Pam says, looking at the fan of large bills.
“Please take it,” Peyton says gently. “Really, I apologize to all of you.” He looks beseechingly at Pam and her husband and the two women sitting at the table.
The rest of the customers go back to chatting and eating, and the white noise of the diner resumes, cutlery against china and the hum of conversations. It all goes back to normal because people in Hera don’t let a little barroom brawl interfere with their dail
y social hour.
Peyton tries to help Pam clean up some of the broken crockery, but I think he wants to say more. He keeps glancing at Marko. They’re both holding back.
Pam wants to defuse this situation. “I’ll bring new pies over to Swill, honey,” she says cheerily. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
Peyton gets the hint to leave and starts to walk away, but then he turns around abruptly, and another hush falls upon the room.
“You don’t deserve her,” Peyton says to Marko and then walks out of the diner.
“Nice guy,” Marko says with contempt. “He must be more than a friend. Did you fuck that guy?” he whispers sharply in my ear so no one else can hear.
I move away from him, affronted by his judgment after what he did to me. I adjust my bag on my hip so the strap rests evenly across my chest.
Marko watches me and shakes his head in disgust. “I’ve always hated that stupid telephone bag. I bought you that designer bag, a thousand bucks, and you choose this tacky phone thing over that.”
This is all an act. He hasn’t changed, and he still resents me for being imperfect and oh so flawed.
His remarkably kind behavior today was for show, manipulation. He was pretending so he could win me back. Why? I’m not sure. I still carry the defective gene, and somehow that would always be used against me if I were to be with him. That’s how Marko’s family operates. He would hold on to the Old Talia for the sake of ownership and power.
But Peyton likes the New Talia. The woman who is scarred inside and out. The woman who carries a weird purse shaped like a telephone because it is the most precious, sentimental possession she owns. Peyton likes these things about me.
Outside the diner, I abandon Marko at his car and rush across the street. I jog by the little Victorian storefront house being renovated into a library. Kim is outside talking to the contractor, and she waves as I take the shortcut behind the new library to Swill.
Peyton is in his office, sitting on the edge of his desk, putting a bandage on his forearm where some of the flying, broken china lacerated the skin. His grimace disappears when he sees me.
“He. Does. Not. Deserve. You.”
“I agree. He doesn’t.”
When those words are out, Peyton visibly relaxes.
“I was crushed seeing you with him. Everything else disappeared, and I forgot about the damn pies. I had to go after him. I had to get him away from you.”
I move closer and touch his arm. I trace my finger around the fresh abrasions that haven’t been bandaged yet.
“Why were you with him?”
“He asked if we could meet. I thought we could be friends.”
He flashes a wicked smile. “Did you now?” I’m relieved to see his humor return. “No real man would let his woman try to be friends with her former fiancé.”
“That’s the first time you referred to me as your woman. How traditionally barbaric of you.”
He laughs.
“Am I your woman?”
“You were mine the minute you ran me over with your bike.”
“I didn’t touch you.”
“You wanted to. That’s why you sideswiped my ass. You were trying to get my attention. You were already crazy about me.”
“I think I just had bad brakes. But you certainly have quite the imagination.”
“I imagine a lot of things that involve you.” He looks down at my fingers, which are involuntarily stroking his arm. I immediately remove my hand.
“Talia.” He emphasizes my name with a pause. “Tell me why you’re here. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I have a good idea. At least, I hope I’m right. I assaulted your former Polish asshole, who I’m guessing was trying to make amends with you. But you’re here with me.”
“Remember when you said I saved myself? That first morning at your home?”
“Of course, I remember. You told me about your scar. Your heart.”
“Yes. You made me believe that I was my own hero.”
“You are. You’re one of the bravest people I know, and I admire you for what you’ve been through.”
That makes me smile. I’m overcome, a joyful warmth bringing me close to tears. “That,” I say shakily, pointing at him. “You say things like that, and it makes me—”
He stands up from the edge of the desk, and in one step, he swallows every inch of space between us.
“It makes you what?” he asks, looking down at me, patiently waiting.
“It makes me want to believe you. It makes me want to try …”
“Try what? Come on; get the words out.”
“To try with you. I’m considering what you said.”
He smiles.
“But I want to take it slow, Peyton. Like actual dating. Not sleeping at your house.”
“I can date.”
“Dating without sex.”
“I can do that.”
“I’m not so sure, but I like that you keep trying to impress me with romantic gestures.” I gaze at him and my heart swells. “Keep trying. Please keep trying.”
“I will.”
Talia
IT’S BEEN FOUR WEEKS of dating. Actual dating, along with furtive stolen kisses when we see each other at the restaurant, and lengthy texts when we are apart. It’s like a bloom of first love.
I haven’t spent the night at Peyton’s home. We haven’t had sex, and Peyton isn’t suggesting it. He’s following my lead and letting me see another side of him, the not-so-cocky version of the teenager he may have once been, less confident about girls but terribly romantic and sweet in his own way.
Unless Finn is staying at his house, Peyton has dinner at my place every night after work, and my mother gets to cook for everyone. Her kitchen, her rules, her dinners. Gavin is often there, too. Aleska seems to be enjoying the male presence in the household again. It’s giving her more freedom to go out at night, knowing we’re there to keep our mother company.
We’re halfway through summer, and we both have businesses that depend on the influx of thousands of tourists. It’s the time of year when a work day is more than fifteen hours, but we make time to be alone each and every day, even if it’s just a ten-minute conversation in the parking lot of Swill.
Peyton has committed himself to Swill and Finn. He takes one day off each week to bike the trails with Finn. On the other days, he brings Finn to Swill, where Finn entertains himself by exploring the equipment in the brewery as Zander teaches him about the beer-making process. Peyton and Finn also spend much of their time overseeing the machinery being installed for the new bottling division. And Finn likes hanging out in the great hall before the dinner hours, getting served mock cocktails and drawing with Jess, who still escapes to the restaurant for quiet, personal time away from home. She gave Finn his own sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils. Everyone, especially Peyton, was surprised that Finn looks forward to sitting down with Jess a couple of times a week for two-hour drawing sessions.
I signed on three new summer clients, big families with rambunctious young children running underfoot in large, expensive, new homes built by Carson’s firm. It’s a win for both me and Aleska. My menu has expanded to include dishes that accommodate even the pickiest of toddlers.
Word has spread, and now I have a waitlist. It’s much more work, so Aleska hired two new employees, a young man to work with her cleaning crew and a woman with professional cooking experience to assist me.
It’s an old-fashioned courtship. Peyton is the person I’m most excited to see every morning when I walk into work, and he’s the man who kisses me passionately every night before we say our goodbyes.
When he wraps his hands around my waist, I wonder how long I can hold out. I want to be naked, in his strong embrace, in his bed. As if he senses everything I’m thinking, his arms tremble slightly when he holds me. Our bodies press together briefly. The lust and desire are intense.
>
Peyton is the one with willpower. He gently pries my body from his and gives me a quick kiss, leaving me to fantasize about him until I can fall asleep.
What we don’t discuss is my ever-present doubt. The doubt Peyton knows I still harbor. He’s trying diligently to show he’s honorable and dependable, wanting to eradicate the distrust that was put in place by my father and Marko. If Peyton feels like he’s being judged unfairly, he doesn’t say so. He lets our relationship unfold slowly with romantic gestures, like handwritten notes left in the side pocket of my purse or slipped into my apron pocket before I arrive at work. It isn’t poetry that he writes, but kind, loving words to: Sunflower. I realize now that it was a name he bestowed upon me, and only me. Sometimes I find small gifts, like a pot of basil in hand-thrown pottery positioned next to my workstation or a single sunflower stalk trapped under my windshield wiper. His gestures seem endless. He took me at my word that he would keep trying, and it keeps me in a heady cloud of swooning.
So, why am I still afraid?
By now I should be giving in to him and this romantic relationship completely without any reservations. Most women would, right? They would accept how much time Peyton has invested in being prime boyfriend material and his transformation from the egocentric man whose only true loves were work and sex into a man who puts all his effort into caring for his son … and me. I am the only problem. I’m the one who can’t believe this is real. Or, if it’s real, then surely it won’t last.
When will I stop being the doubter? When will I believe or trust fully, without an ounce of uncertainty?
“Where are we going?” I ask, plucking some french fries from the takeout bags between us. It’s my day off, and Peyton is spending a rare lunch break with me. He picked me up at my house, stopped at BooHoo Burgers for my once-a-month junk food feast, and is driving me through familiar territory.
“We’re going to your favorite place.”
“My favorite place or your favorite place?”
“Mine would be my bed, and it misses you. However, it’s confident you’ll be back. Eventually. I hope.”
