Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  Hunched over the stove, her brother rubs at his scruffy cheeks and flings dirty-blond hair from his eyes, a guy who believes nothing will get better, a prisoner of his own hopelessness. I’m not even sure he brushes his teeth.

  Elena is aware that I’m studying him and steps in front of him. “We’re having some pipe problems, so we have to heat up water to do the dishes.”

  “Plumbing issues?” On the outside, I’m casual. Inside, I’m wanting to deploy a SWAT team of plumbers.

  Pipe problems. Foundation headaches. Dollar signs piling up.

  “We’ve been taking cold showers, too,” Mrs. Lawry adds. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. Gets the blood going!” The cat’s tail twitches as she shoos us away with a hand. “Go on, you two.”

  Chris rises from his chair too fast, and his foot catches a wooden leg. He stomps in frustration.

  Elena rushes over to him. “Chris, it’s okay.”

  Angrily he elbows her away. “I wanted one beer with my meal. One lousy beer.”

  Her face falls, and her arms drop to the sides.

  Her aunt comes around and pats him on the shoulder, face wrinkled with worry. “I know you do, honey.” She motions us toward the stairwell door.

  I follow Elena. She holds a candle as we walk down a flight of stairs to the second floor. The candle flickers wildly, and she pauses a couple of times to let the flame regain strength so it doesn’t blow out.

  “Do you have something against flashlights?”

  “We tend to run out of batteries.” She sets the flickering candle on the window ledge where it’s least needed.

  The second floor is much darker than upstairs, and there are built-in bookshelves near the window where Elena sits. The place looks like it was lifted from a Victorian library. A display of dinner plates hangs on the wall, old china that’s maybe fifty, sixty years old.

  “Chris uses flashlights and forgets to turn them off, or he misplaces them. So Auntie Rob and I keep stashes of candles and batteries all over the place. I know it’s crazy.” She rubs her arms. “We just don’t want him to feel bad.”

  “He can’t have liquor, either.”

  “Alcohol can aggravate his PTSD and mess with his memory.” She stares out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the parking lot, her blue eyes moody and dark, like the choppy waters of the Atlantic.

  “I assume he gets rehab of some kind.”

  “Used to.”

  That’s not good. I walk around the floor, peering around. Getting bleak in here. Better change the subject. “The tree union’s going to collective bargain the hell out of this place.”

  “I know. Lots of unsold books.” She lights another candle. “Well, we’re going to have a swan song. I booked a bestselling author for the holidays. Hannah Reed Colter.”

  Even with the middle name, I’m at a loss. “Never heard of her.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Because I’m the illiterate horndog.”

  “You’re not getting it, how much this old place means to me.” Arms folded over, sleeves of her pink sweater pushed up, she gazes out the dingy window panes. “This building’s had more lives than our cat Norman. It used to be a shirt factory, and they made uniforms for soldiers in World War II.” She sighs. “We made it into a bookstore. Gave away books to disadvantaged kids every summer. Donated used books to women’s shelters and military families. I’ll miss that.” She shuddered. “Now it’ll be fun and games. A sports bar.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little escapism. That’s what happens with a book, right? Escapism . . . books with Chad covers? Except you can’t eat pages. People are tired after a long day and want to have fun with their friends. Where’s the harm in that? C’mon. People eating some spicy wings, rooting for their team. People coming together, mixing it up.”

  “But it’s not a meal. That’s distraction and noise.”

  “Elena, you’re smart. Smart enough to know that your business is dying. Maybe people don’t read anymore, but they still eat. My hunch tells me that this bookstore is an ideal location for a sports bar. Everything in my gut tells me that.”

  “Be careful, Nick. That sounds awfully close to a feeling.”

  “I feel. With my hands.”

  She snorts. “Is that all you think about?”

  Yeah, I want to say. Around you, all the time.

  “All those phony ma’am’s. If my aunt can’t see through it, I sure can.”

  “Worrying about this failing business is costing her health. You ever think about that? You know she’s the lemons, lemonade type. She looks on the sunny side. She’ll think it’s the sun, when it’s an alien beam blasting apart high-rises.”

  She gazes at the floor, hands curled over the windowsill. “She does make the best of things.”

  “Especially when it’s not good for her, and your aunt’s a nice lady. Understand. I’m a businessman, not a social worker. I don’t want to get screwed in this deal, and I want to offer a fair price. This building isn’t exactly in stellar condition. Already there are plumbing and foundation issues.”

  While I’ve been talking, she finds a flashlight on a built-in shelf, its dim light yellowed. Her dark head lowers, and her shoulders drop.

  I stop my pacing. “Listen. Things will eventually work out for Chris. He’s adjusting.”

  “You haven’t adjusted, either.” She looks up at me. “To your mother’s passing.”

  Now it’s my turn to look outside the window. Aside from her dark hair, she and Mama have something in common, that genuine sweet quality. Except Mama accepted her considerate nature. “Why do you hate being called nice?”

  “Because it means I’m a wimp.”

  “But you are considerate.” She hid it from her brother, cutting up his turkey on the counter and then handing the plate to him. I know she did most of the cooking and gave her aunt the easier tasks. And it’s getting harder to see this as a building, and not the people in it. “You cut up his meat so he won’t have to.”

  “I don’t want him to feel self-conscious.”

  I walk slowly toward her, and she slides past a post.

  “You’re gentle and sweet. Thoughtful.”

  “I hate being called that.” She rubbed her elbows.

  “Elena, baby, I’m complimenting you. You’re fighting yourself. Fighting who you are.”

  “Sweet,” she says through her teeth. “You might as well call me Gertie the cow and I’ll wear a frickin’ bell on my collar.”

  “Why does every woman take being sweet as an insult? Would you like it better if I call you a badass Marine?” I pull her into my arms and start kissing her. “How about you taste sweet. We’ll start there.” I stroke stray hairs from her forehead.

  “You’re the worst possible person for me, and I am for you.”

  “Salt and pepper are opposites, too, yet look what they do to a pile of scrambled eggs. When we tangle, it’s exciting.” I brush a kiss against the back of her neck, drift a lazy path across her skin to the middle of her shoulder. “Because you zing me and I can handle you.”

  “Handle me.” She’s breathing harder, irritated yet aroused. Her fists are pressed to my chest and I’m kissing her.

  “Hmm. Handle you even better with your clothes off.”

  “How about I handle you?”

  “Hell, yeah. Don’t keep me waiting.” Now we’re kissing like long-lost lovers reunited after the war. My hands are under her sweater, and this time, I get the bra unfastened. I push it up, and my hands are on her tits. They’re soft and have a perfect heavy weight, and they’re real. I scissor my fingers underneath each nipple, squeezing gently. The tips harden, and she’s panting.

  My engines go off like I’m about to roar down a drag strip.

  She groans and moves into me. Falls against me. Arms around my neck, fingers pulling on my hair.

  “Take this off. Take it fucking off.” I support her with one hand, while the other is under the pink wool, p
ushing up the hem to reveal those magnificent breasts. My hips start to buck; I want inside her, bad. I try to pull the sweater over her head. She’s resisting, but still letting me play with her breasts. She kisses me like a hungry animal and I’m going cross-eyed. My cock’s hard, almost painful hard.

  She is so beautiful, and the way she’s standing shows off those creamy globes to perfection, the tan areolas a café au lait color, the nipples hard. Ripe for the taking. I bend her over my arm and my mouth’s on her nipple, sucking. And I don’t say honey or baby like she’s anyone. She’s a work of art, soft and beautiful, something to admire as much as consume.

  “Elena.” I’m hoarse. God, I want you. It’s on my tongue, and I swallow it down, my need for her. My cock’s swollen, bursting.

  A loud rump happens on the floor above.

  The whites of her eyes expand. “Oh, no.” She tugs down her sweater and starts for the stairs.

  “Wait.” I catch her hand.

  She pushes her hair from her eyes. Her bra is twisted under her sweater in a tangled lump, and her nipples show through the wool. Her lips are a little swollen and red from kissing.

  I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman.

  She glances over as though she’s been contaminated by me, mortified. She struggles to pull the bra down, fingers reaching under her sweater. “I’ll romanticize this. I’ll make it out more than it is.”

  “Elena—” I trail behind her.

  When she reaches the second floor, she turns around to face me. “You know why I’ve not asked you for my hat? Because it’s already in your Lost and Found box, along with all the other things you’ve forgotten about.”

  Heaving breaths, Elena tugged down on the pink sweater, out of her mind. She tripped on a step.

  “Careful,” he said from the step below her.

  “I know this stairwell better than you,” she snapped. Her loose bra bubbled up under her sweater, and the reminder of what had just happened drove her crazy.

  The instant those golden eyes fixed on her, she was a goner. His physical magnetism was too much, coiling around her in a hypnotic spell, like the cartoon python she’d seen as a child. She hitched in a breath. Still dazed, shaky, aroused beyond belief.

  He’d touched her. She’d let him. She’d never let a near-stranger touch her like that; she’d have to hear a commitment of some kind, an I love you, flowers or a picnic, weeks of steady dating. Something. But she’d gloried in the heady sensation of his slightly rough hands on her, skimming her flesh, tweezing her nipples, driving her mad until she cried out. Then he covered her mouth with his, his tongue swirling around hers in an erotic torrent.

  Don’t think about it. You can’t let Auntie Rob and Chris see you like this, a hot mess. She could hear herself explaining. Guess what, family. I’ve become a brainless tramp. Mumbling, she paused on a step to refasten her bra, straining to paw at her back.

  “Careful or you’ll trip.” Nick climbed a step and somehow spun her around and lifted the back of her sweater, pulled down the loose bands and re-snapped the hooks and eyes.

  The man was faster at this than department store professionals who did bra fittings and spoke to his volume of experience. Dear Lord.

  No time to dwell on it. She opened the door to their third-floor apartment and immediately saw an overturned dining chair. They had no foyer, and the kitchenette was right next to the entry.

  The broken platter was strewn across the floor. One of the turkey’s dark legs lay next to a chair leg, while what remained of the breast section had been flipped over. Ears back, eyes closed, his striped head moving, Norman was lapping up meat tidbits and juice.

  Chris tried to retrieve chunks of the broken platter but slipped on turkey grease, almost falling on his backside. He reached out to steady himself, and his fingers caught the tablecloth, which sent dishes together in a loud clatter, nearly sliding off to the floor. In a frustrated stomp, he slid again and landed on his rear-end. “Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!” Knees drawn up, her brother hunched over and punched fists on his lower thighs.

  “Honey, it’s all right.” Auntie Rob dropped to her knees and smoothed down his collar. “It was an accident.”

  The slippery grease would’ve made anyone’s footing hazardous. She tried to reassure him. “Chris, I almost slipped.”

  But Chris was having none of it. He brought up an arm to block his flushed face, heaving in breaths through his open mouth.

  Elena’s aunt stroked the back of his head. “I don’t think he slept well last night.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” He lowered his arm and blinked red-rimmed eyes. “I want a beer. One friggin’ beer.”

  “Hey, Chris. Maybe I can drive you over to the VFW,” Elena said. “Would you like that?” They had special holiday hours for vets without families, for the loners. Although they served liquor there, a few of the men would look after Chris, help steer him toward soft drinks instead of liquor. She’d slip the bartender two twenties to be sure. “You can talk to some of the guys there.”

  “My friends are dead.” Seven years ago, Chris’s Marine unit in Afghanistan had been hit by a pipe bomb, which killed three of his closest friends and had severely injured Chris.

  “Elena.” Nick’s voice behind her, lower-pitched, stern. His hand touched her elbow.

  She pulled away from him. The pleasantries at Thanksgiving dinner had peeled back to reveal the fractures underneath. Every family had problems, but she didn’t want Nick being a witness to theirs. Given his personality and his privileged lifestyle, there would be no way he could handle this.

  “Nick, if you need to take off, that’s fine.”

  “Take off?” Nick sounded offended.

  She didn’t give him a reassuring smile. Couldn’t soothe his puffed-up outrage right now. “Chris, how about talking to Kyle?” She gestured toward the counter. “My phone’s over there, Auntie Rob.” She’d stored dozens of phone numbers related to Chris and her aunt—physicians, counselors, friends. She had more of those kinds of numbers than she did her own friends.

  Elena accepted her phone from her aunt’s shaking hand and scrolled through the contacts. How had the name been filed, under K for Kyle or H for Hotchkiss?

  “How about some nice cool water, sweetie?” Aunt Robbie went to the fridge and pulled open the door. “Or I could mix you up some cranberry and pomegranate juices. Nice and tart over ice. You love that.”

  “I want a beer.”

  “We don’t have any, sweetie.”

  “I’ll go buy some.”

  They’d have to do everything in their power to keep him home before he’d lit out for some pub. When he was in a mood like this, he had a super short fuse. He’d had two outbursts at local bars, and thankfully people had been compassionate, due in part to the bookstore’s standing in the community and people knowing Chris was a vet. Bartenders would make discreet calls to her that Chris was “having a bad night,” and she’d go pick him up.

  She waited as the phone rang on the other end to Kyle’s cell phone. “Do you want to go lie down for awhile?”

  Chris shook his head violently. “I want a fucking beer. Is that too much to ask?”

  A sob lodged in her throat. She’d never be able to leave them. It was a dream, a full-time teaching job. What would happen if Aunt Robbie went into insulin shock, or Chris raged like now? Her mother had abandoned them. She’d never do that. Feeling a sting of tears, she threw down a dishtowel onto the floor, intent on swabbing up the mess.

  She pulled back just as suddenly.

  Nick had sopped up the mess and had picked up most of the jagged pieces.

  “Chris,” he said. “Hey, buddy. How about we go watch the game?”

  Chris stopped, blinked a few times. The wild, angry look faded from his eyes.

  “C’mon.” Nick reached out to help steady Chris to his feet. “We’ll go sit where it’s a little cooler.”

  Elena stood with her aunt and watched the two young
men shuffle into the living room.

  Nick ducked his head to sneeze.

  “Norman.” Auntie Rob hoisted the gray tabby. “Next time you get out, I’m throwing the book at you.” She winked at Elena, who was crouched over the floor. “C’mon.”

  They walked down the short hallway to her aunt’s bedroom, walls painted a soft blue, furnished with quilts and needlepoint pillows, two matching cream ceramic lamps. Dozens of books and magazines were stacked next to the maple-stained bed. On the bedstand were affirmation and prayer books and a worn Bible with a gilded book edge, a copy her grandmother had given her.

  Her aunt bent over and Norman hopped to the floor, padded over to his bed and curled up. Her aunt sat on the bed and patted the space next to her.

  Elena joined her, pulling absently at her hands.

  “He needs more rehab. Something.” Her aunt stared at her lap, looking tired in the direct lamplight.

  “I know.”

  “I’m selling. All the stress of this business. Something always breaking down.”

  “Let’s try one more year.”

  “Elena. You can’t admit it.”

  “What?”

  “Nick’s good with Chris.”

  “He could be manipulating us—”

  “You’re trying to demonize him because you like him. Your mother did this to you, made it hard for you to trust people.”

  “I trust people.”

  “When was the last time you had a girls-night-out? When? Or had an actual date? When was the last time your brother had any fun?” Her aunt shifted a little and patted Elena’s knee, her hand red and chapped from too many sinks of dishwater. “Nick reminds me a little of . . . how he used to be.”

  Doctors repeatedly told them to never, ever compare who Chris was today to his past self, and they’d worked hard to forget what he was like before Afghanistan. Chris the wisecracker, smart and funny. He’d talked about law school at Northwestern and settling in Virginia, outside D.C. He’d wanted a family and enough property for a couple of horses.

  Elena’s gaze fell to her aunt’s lap. One of her forefingers had cracked open, the skin was so dry. Elena was always after her to moisturize, but Auntie Rob would put it off, like she did salon touch-ups and buying new clothes. She worried about everything, Chris especially. Maybe Nick was right. Add in the bookstore to those worries, and the price was her diabetes.