by R.S. Grey
The feeling is mutual. I can’t be in her presence for another second, not even long enough to see them out. I stand, scoot my chair back, and leave them there in the dining room.
My bedroom beckons. The quiet darkness is exactly what I want after a day like today. I close the door behind me, squeeze my eyes closed, and let all the collected tears fall.
In a strange way, crying only makes me feel worse. I can’t even really relish the feeling of letting go because there are so many emotions tangled together. Part of it has to do with what Charlotte said at dinner. She’s not wrong. In some ways, my marriage to Walt hasn’t been a huge sacrifice. Not really. In fact, I’ve enjoyed my life since marrying him, especially here lately. I like being in this apartment with him. I like…him. So much.
But that’s almost beside the point. My feelings for Walt don’t diminish how angry I am at my family for putting me in this position in the first place. My mom hasn’t once asked me how I’ve been since the marriage. She hasn’t thanked me for what I did for her and my dad. God, not to mention—on top of everything else—she hasn’t even changed her ways! It’s like everything I’ve done has been in vain. She doesn’t care. Not so long as she keeps getting those checks every month.
That truth seems to spring up out of nowhere, as if the pressure of it couldn’t be contained for one more moment. My feelings about my family have rattled around inside me for a long time, but I’ve been careful to avoid them.
Even now, I hate to admit the truth.
I push away from the door and crawl up onto my bed. I lie down and face the window with my hands tucked under my pillow. I feel worse instead of better after my behavior at the table. I’m sure they’re all still out there now, talking about me. My mom is probably apologizing on my behalf, embarrassed about my egregious honesty. Or, more likely, she’s apologizing to ensure those checks don’t stop coming.
A few minutes pass, and then a fist knocks gently on my door.
“You can come in,” I say, not bothering to turn back and see who it is.
It’s not necessary; I know it’s Walt.
He walks in quietly and comes to sit behind me on my bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and then he extends his arm over my hip and holds something out for me.
My wedding ring twinkles in the light seeping in through the window.
“I washed it,” he promises.
Why that makes me cry harder is a complete mystery. I roll forward and drop my face into my pillow, trying to conceal my tears.
His hand slides up my spine and comes to cradle my neck so he can brush his thumb back and forth, comforting me. Eventually, he moves his hand to my shoulder, gently rolling me onto my back. I can’t look at him, even as he leans over me. My attention is up on the ceiling.
“Please don’t cry,” he says, sounding as if he’s the one in pain.
“I’m not,” I lie with a poorly concealed sniffle.
“They’re gone now,” he says, taking my left hand so he can slide the ring back on my finger. I feel so much better with it back in place.
I thank him, and then I wait for him to get up and leave. He’s done his duty and checked on me. I don’t expect him to linger long.
Instead, he stays right where he is, waiting for me to work up the courage to meet his gaze. When I do, he smiles sadly, his dimples barely visible.
“If it helps, I don’t like my family either.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Oh yeah? So then you can tell me what I’m supposed to do now?”
“I’m sure it’ll all blow over in a few days.”
My stomach tightens in fleeting anger. “What if I don’t want it to? What if I’m sick of their bullshit?”
“Then you move on.”
I blink away tears.
“Why does that make you so sad?” he asks with a furrowed brow. “It’s obvious how much they hurt you.”
I tick my jaw, trying to come up with a better explanation than the truth.
Walt cups my cheek and wipes my tears away with the pad of his thumb. After a steadying breath, I stare him straight in the eyes and explain that, without them, I have no one.
He hums in thought. “Well then, we’ll have to get you a friend.”
I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his response.
“We’ll put an ad in the paper,” he continues.
“Walt,” I groan, trying to wriggle away from his hold.
“Fine then, we’ll get you a puppy.”
“I’m being serious.”
I reach up to try to push him away, but instead, he grasps my hand against his chest and pushes it harder against his heart so I can feel its beat.
“So am I.”
His gaze implores me to see reason.
The mood in the room shifts on a dime in that moment, with his grip on my hand both firm and caring.
I understand now what he’s trying to force me to see. What he’s too afraid to tell me.
Twenty-One
My lips part and hope fills me like helium filling a balloon. The air between us is charged with unsaid words. My gaze falls to his lips and I lean forward, off my pillow, my chin tilting up only slightly. It all suddenly feels so simple. The two of us together.
If he won’t lean in, I will.
Or I would…
If I didn’t suddenly remember the night I kissed him in the entry gallery, the night that felt so much like this. He turned away from me then and his rebuff still stings to think about, even now.
I press my lips together and glance away.
Walt notices my retreat, and he lets go of me, pushing to stand. He tells me good night on his way out the door and I stare up at him in my dark room, wishing things between us were different.
Wishing.
In the morning, he’s the first thing I think about. I toss my blankets aside and hurry into the kitchen, eager to see him. I’d like to thank him for last night. He was an unexpected source of kindness on a hard day.
I make my breakfast and coffee and sit at the island, eating slowly, eyes darting to the doorway every five seconds, only to realize as I load my dishes in the dishwasher that he’s already left for the day. His empty coffee cup, turned upside down on the top rack, is proof.
I don’t see him that evening either.
I brush it off as an anomaly, but then another day passes and he’s still a shadow in the apartment. I only know he’s been home because there’s a different coffee cup loaded in the dishwasher by the time I wake up in the morning. This time, his iPad is out on the kitchen island too. He must be waking up and leaving for work at the crack of dawn and staying there until well into the evening. I remember something he said the night of the fundraiser about keeping his distance and trying not to encroach on my space.
I think he’s doing that again, and I don’t like it.
As absurd as it sounds, I’m starting to miss him.
Miss him!
A man like Walt!
I barely believe it myself.
I force myself to work, of course. I don’t have any other option. I only have three more weeks to get my collection done for Nadiya. She reached out to me by email to confirm I was on track, and I sent her photos of a few finished pieces. Thankfully, she seemed to really like them, so at least I have that going for me.
Now if only Walt would come home.
The longer we stay apart, the more I realize the arrangement between us as it currently stands won’t work forever. We’re playing a game, and it’s like reverse chicken. Instead of careening toward each other at breakneck speeds, we’re running in the exact opposite directions. The objective is simple: who can avoid admitting their feelings the longest? Who can stay away more?
It’s the dullest game in the world. So dull in fact that I’m starting to think I might be okay with ending it even if I lose, even if I’m the one with a broken heart.
It’s just that the alternative—this constant state of wondering what could happen between us—
is driving me insane.
Unfortunately, Walt’s made it impossible to end the game because he’s never home.
Friday morning, I’m sipping my coffee in the library, going over a color palette for a new piece when I get a harebrained idea to take Walt lunch at his office.
The concept is like a bolt of lightning, zinging me to life. I’m so eager, I hop off my chair and set down my palette knife, only to realize it’s barely 9:00. Not exactly lunchtime.
Fine.
I go back to work—a little sulkier than before—and force myself to be productive until around 11:00, then I rush off to my closet and flip through clothes, discarding one outfit after another for no apparent reason. I don’t even really need to change. The clothes I have on are fine, and yet still, it feels like if I’m going to show up at Walt’s work, I should be wearing something other than jeans. Not to mention, spring has finally decided to rear its head outside, so I embrace it by grabbing a soft fitted white tee and pairing it with a short wrap skirt that ties with a little bow on the left side. As always, I toss on my Doc Martens and my jewelry.
I take the time to add soft curls to my hair and dab on makeup. I like the overall vibe I’ve created. I’m trying without trying too hard. My outfit says, Oh, you exist? I’d forgotten. My insides say, Uhhh, are you sure surprising Walt is a good idea?
By 12:30, I’m out the door and heading toward a cafe down the street. I don’t think I can stomach much more than a simple sandwich, so I order that for the both of us along with a few sides the owner talks me into.
Diomedica is close enough to Walt’s apartment that I can walk there after I leave the cafe. I’m outside the glistening glass doors only a few minutes later with our lunch in hand.
The doors slide open and I stroll in, then momentarily freeze at the sight in front of me: security.
It’s like Fort Knox in here.
Employees hustle and bustle, coming and going from lunch. There are two checkpoints where employees who are entering can scan their badges then stroll past a turnstile and security guard.
I stand in the middle of the foyer, blocking traffic.
I must stand out like a sore thumb because a passing woman takes pity on me.
“Are you delivering someone’s lunch?” She points to her left. “You can head over to the help desk and they’ll get it to the right person.”
Sure, okay. I do look like I could be a food delivery person. I mean, I’m not exactly dressed for business in my flirty skirt. Regardless, her advice is actually helpful. After thanking her, I head straight toward the desk so I can explain my situation. I know I could just call Walt and let him know I’m here, but there’s a multitude of reasons why I don’t want to do that. On the surface, I want to keep my arrival a surprise. Deep down, I’m worried he won’t exactly be happy to see me. We haven’t moved so far away from the time when I was only supposed to contact him in case of emergencies. Dear lord this might have been a bad idea.
“Miss? Can I help you?”
The attendant at the help desk asks me this after I waver back and forth between leaving and staying. I’ve pivoted to and fro on my feet about half a dozen times. I’m sure I look like I’m out of my mind.
“Err…yes.” I hold up the brown paper bag from the cafe. “I’m trying to get this to Mr. Jennings.”
Unenthused, she says, “All right, hand it over and I’ll take it up.”
I flash a sort of pleading, half-crooked smile. “Is there any way I could do it?”
She chuckles under her breath like she can’t believe I even asked the question. “Sorry. No one’s allowed up unless they’ve been authorized.”
“Is that something you could help me with?”
Her expression says I’ve just made her job a hundred times harder. “Is he expecting you?”
I cringe. “Not exactly, but I do know him. I’m his wife, actually.”
Wow, saying that out loud still sounds weird. It’s like I don’t even believe it myself, which is probably why she doesn’t believe it either.
“Can I see some ID?” she asks with one cocked brow.
Ah, crap.
I haven’t changed my last name. According to my license, I’m still Elizabeth Brighton.
I tell her this, and she frowns. “Without some way to verify your identity, I can’t just let you up. I could give him a call?”
She starts lifting the phone and I scurry forward, holding out my hand as if to block her. “No, no. Don’t do that. It’ll ruin the surprise. Here, let me…” I glance around me, trying to find something that could help. My eyes lock onto a newspaper lying forgotten in a seating area near the windows. I snap my fingers.
“You can look us up online!”
“What?”
“Yeah, look up our wedding. There are photos of us and everything.”
“This isn’t exactly standard protocol,” she says, thinning her lips as she wakes up her computer by toggling her mouse.
I cringe. “I know. I hate to ask you to do this. I just thought it’d be fun if I surprised him.”
She types something on her keyboard and then leans in to study the screen, glancing from it, to me, then back to it again.
“What did you say your name is?”
“Elizabeth Brighton,” I say, before spelling it out for her as well.
“Did you two get married at the courthouse?”
I smile. “Yes. I should be wearing a cheetah print dress in the picture?”
“Well that’s definitely you,” she says with a laugh and a shake of her head. “All right. Hand over your ID so I can scan it in and then I’ll have someone escort you up.”
A few minutes later, I stand shoulder to shoulder in an elevator with a beefy security guard. Well, not exactly shoulder to shoulder. More like shoulder to hip. The guy is massive. He’s easily four times my size and only interested in doing his job. His eyes are focused straight ahead. His thumbs loop through his belt. His mouth is unsmiling. He doesn’t seem to want to speak, so I don’t press him.
The elevator arrives on the twentieth floor, and then we step out together.
“This way,” he says with a nod of his head.
We turn left, heading down a short hall that opens up to a large antechamber.
I follow after the security guard, slightly amazed at how beautiful everything is up here. There’s none of the starkness of the lobby. Here, the walls are paneled and painted a glossy gray blue. Plush leather chairs sit around low-slung coffee tables with trendy unlacquered brass chandeliers hanging overhead. There’s art too: sculptures and large-scale paintings. One in particular depicts a ship on rough waters. I’d love to get a closer look if I had the time.
The security guard waves me forward impatiently, toward a desk positioned in the center of the room where a pretty blonde woman sits, smiling up at me. She’s wearing cool aquamarine glasses and a black headset. When she slides it off, I catch a small hearing aid tucked discreetly behind her ear. Her fingers are covered in rings and her sweater has a tiny succulent embroidered over her heart. It’s clear she loves plants. Her desk is littered with them. One ivy in particular is starting to wind down the leg of her desk.
“Thanks, Ted,” she says, waving to the security guard.
He nods at us both before heading back toward the elevators.
“So you’re Elizabeth,” the blonde woman says when I turn back to face her, making no attempt to hide her once-over of me.
I force a smile even though I feel slightly caught off guard.
“Oh, duh, sorry. I’m April,” she adds with a huge smile. “We talked on the phone a while back? I’m one of Walt’s assistants. I man the desk.”
“April!” I say as the pieces click into place.
She laughs. “Yup.”
“Cool. It’s nice to put a face to the name.”
“Ditto. I mean, I’ve seen the photos of you and Walt, but I mean, yeah, I can totally see it now that you’re here in person.”
I frow
n like I’m missing something. “See what?”
She shrugs. “Just…the whole thing.” She waves her hand up and down the length of me. “I can see why he stuck that huge rock on your finger. I mean look at that thing. Is it heavy?”
I brush my thumb over my ring self-consciously. “No. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I’m not sure if he told you, but he picked it out himself. Had me set up the appointment with the jeweler, but that’s it.” She shrugs. “I think he did a really good job.”
I nod, unsure of what I’m supposed to say to that bit of information.
“Right, well, I won’t keep you. Looks like you’re on a mission.” She nods toward the pair of paneled mahogany doors to the left. “Head on in.”
I gulp like I’m about to face the boss at the end of a video game. I look from the doors back to April as if hoping she’ll be able to help me somehow, but she’s already turned back to her computer.
Great.
I force my feet forward one step at a time until I reach Walt’s office.
I’m about to turn the handle when I think better of it and knock instead.
“Come in,” Walt says, his voice barely audible through the thick doors.
I turn the handle and push the door open to find my husband sitting behind his desk, his attention on his computer.
“Elizabeth,” he says, without even looking up at me.
He’s not the least bit surprised to find me here, which means someone called up to alert him of my arrival. I’ll bet it was the security guard downstairs. Clearly, her loyalties lie with the man signing her checks. Can’t say I blame her.
“Are you busy?”
“I’m always busy,” he says, typing something.
His response irks me into action. I step into his office fully, close the door behind me, and retort with, “Well too bad.”
“Is that lunch for me?”
“It might be—if you’re nice.”
His gaze finally flits to me, and he unravels a lopsided smile. “I’m always nice.”
I snort to prove how off base that comment is.
