A Thin Line-

by DL White

  I wind my way through the crowd and exit the bar into the parking lot. I'm almost at my car when I hear my name. I stop and turn around to face Preston, who is jogging across the pavement toward me.

  "So, really quick," he says, panting from that short run. "You think you're the bigger person by being nice to me, and not that I don't appreciate it, but you're not doing this for me. You're doing this for them."

  He points toward the building and the bright purple and indigo blue fluorescent sign. "We're happy for them. We're putting up with each other for them. Morgan gets her dream wedding. That's the speech you gave me?"

  I cross my arms and glare up at him. "Yeah. So?"

  "So, how about you let go of your shitty attitude and keep the politics between us away from them. You didn't have to tell them about our agreement. We could have kept that between us."

  "Preston, you saw them! They're giddy that you drove me to brunch. They see everything as a sign that we're getting back together."

  "So what? Let them have their fantasy. They’ll eventually pick up that it isn't going to happen.”

  “We broke up in high school. I turn thirty-six this year. They haven't picked it up so far. But it's not just their fantasy, is it?"

  He stands in front of me, hands on his hips. “What are you talking about?"

  "They aren't the only ones that want us to get back together. You would love that, wouldn't you?"

  “Girl…” Preston begins a long, hearty, sarcastic laugh. "If I wanted you back, I would have you back."

  "Boy... same.”

  We reach an impasse, casing each other in the parking lot. I break my gaze and step backward, toward my car.

  "I'd love to stand here and stare at you all night, but I have shit to do.”

  "Angie." I reach my car and shove the key into the lock. I lift the handle, swinging the driver side door open. Preston steps between me and the door. "Evangeline."

  "What, Preston?”

  “It’s not healthy for you to still be this furious about shit that happened almost twenty years ago. You need to let it go."

  I glare at him, sending red hot lasers from my eyes to his. Eventually, he gets the point, and with a frustrated puff of air from his lips, he backs off, unblocking entry to my car. I step forward but am interrupted by a shrill triple ring.

  It’s the ring I assigned to my mother.

  Still shooting daggers at Preston, I retrieve my phone from my bag and slide my thumb across the screen to answer it. “Mom? Is everything okay?”

  "Hi, sweetie." Her voice rings out loud and clear. "It’s not an emergency, and I don't want you to worry, but I'm at the hospital with dad."

  My heart is simultaneously in my throat and on the ground. "What happened?”

  12

  My heart is racing and I'm lightheaded. I pace next to the car while talking to my mother. My father had a seizure, so bad that she had to call an ambulance. She sounds calm, but that’s her nature. She doesn’t want to worry people. Namely, me.

  Too late. My hands are shaking. I can’t hang up the phone. The thin device is snatched from my fingers. My head pops up; I remember that Preston has been standing there the entire time.

  “Your dad?” I nod, trembling. “Where is he? Orlando General?” I manage to nod again. He pushes my door shut and hooks a hand in the crook of my elbow. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

  “I… I can…”

  I want to say I can drive myself, but I know I can’t. I can hardly walk the few feet to Preston’s car. He waits for me to lower myself inside, then shuts the door and jogs around to the driver’s side.

  While he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car with a press of a button, I stare at Preston’s profile in utter confusion. One minute, we’re biting at each other and the next, he’s tucking me into his car so he can take me to the hospital to see my dad.

  Preston slides his phone into its dashboard holder. I watch him shoot off a text to Nate, then the car pushes out of the parking lot and heads, quickly and smoothly, toward the hospital.

  My dad is a self-made man, having run his own car dealership my whole life. I’ve had to watch him, bit by bit, relinquish control of operations. He hasn't driven himself in ten years. There are days that he can't pour coffee or make a sandwich or feed himself anything other than finger food. Mom manages the dealership as best she can from home with him. Some days, his tics and tremors are hardly noticeable, well-controlled by medication. Some days he flails and shakes until he's nearly out of his mind.

  They see his doctor for evaluation often. If he gets a new cocktail of meds, we have to wait for them to take effect. Then things are better, until they’re not. Repeat every nine to twelve months.

  My deepest fear is that this disease will take him. Dad being in the hospital isn’t anything new, but every time he goes in, I’m scared that he won’t come back out.

  I keep dialing my mother back, but the calls go straight to voicemail. I’m grateful that Preston is driving, so I can worry and frantically, manically call my mom over and over and over without driving into the side of a building.

  "Why the hell isn't she picking up?" I scream, so frustrated, I want to cry. I redial and redial and redial.

  “They block cell phone signals up there. Breathe. She’d find a way to call if he wasn’t okay.”

  Preston drops me at the entrance to Orlando General Hospital and heads to park. I sprint from the car at a breakneck pace, heading toward the elevators and punch the ‘up' button over and over. In a few minutes, the doors open and two people spill out. I jump in and press a button to go to the eighth floor.

  The doors almost close before they pop open again, and Preston steps inside.

  The Neurology Ward looks more like a hotel lobby than a hospital. The floors shine, making it easier for patients to shuffle their feet. A steel stability bar runs along both sides of the long hallway, something to hold onto if needed.

  I find room 834. Blake, Eric is taped to the wall.

  I knock quietly, then turn the knob and inch the door open. The lights are low; the TV is on. Dad is in the standard bed, but Mom is reclining in a black leather La-Z-Boy. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, angled so both of them can see it. Two nightstands flank the bed, and the lamps appear to be designer pieces, not bland hospital issue. The wardrobe is closed, as is a door that I assume is the bathroom.

  Dad’s limbs are at rest. Mom jerks awake when I touch her arm. I press my finger to my lips and whisper, "Let's talk outside."

  We step out of the room and I gently close the door. She wraps me in a hug, but her attention is on Preston, waiting in the hallway. She hugs him too. "It's so nice of you to come with Angie."

  "How’s Mr. Blake?”

  She rolls her eyes while yawning. “Fine, just cranky," she says. “I should have asked you to bring some DVDs. He's tired of TV already."

  "Mom, why didn't you call me earlier?"

  "I didn't want you to worry. It's not an emergency."

  "But I—”

  "Would have dropped everything to sit and do nothing.” Mom crosses her arms, leaning against the wall. She knows me too well. “I knew you had that wedding thing with Morgan. Your father wouldn't hear of it."

  "Okay, so what happened? Why did he come here in an ambulance?"

  "The seizure kept going and going, and I couldn't get him to the car."

  Her eyes are downcast, her lush lashes almost sweeping her cheek. The stress of Dad's illness ages her. Long lines always outline her mouth. Her skin used to be smooth, flawless. She looks so haggard. I hate that I can’t take this from her.

  “I called Dr. Quinton; he said to call 911. They had a hard time getting him on the gurney.”

  “Are they changing his meds?"

  We talk medication for a few minutes, words that probably sound alien to Preston but are second nature to us: what he's taking now, in what amount, for what symptom versus what he was taking and what it was supposed to do for h
im.

  "He's sleeping, which is a hell of a lot more than he's been doing lately. The other night—” I hear a noise inside the room, and we look at each other. "Go on in and say hello."

  Dad is sitting up in bed, on the desk side phone. “No, I don’t want a dry ass chicken sandwich. I said I wanted a burger!”

  He slams the phone back into the receiver and looks up to find us quizzically staring. "Look who it is," he says, his voice slurring the slightest bit. His tongue often seems too thick for his mouth. "Hey, baby girl."

  "Hi, Daddy." I lean over and kiss his forehead and brush my hand over the salt and pepper tufts that are striking against his walnut tone. “Why are you showin’ out up here? Giving these nurses a hard time.”

  “I want a burger. All they got is chicken. Talmbout they don’t have any beef. They can’t go get me a burger?”

  "Daddy, they have to keep you healthy.”

  "Ehhh.” He slaps a hand in the air. “My ticker isn’t the problem.”

  A movement behind me catches his eye. He dips his head around me to see Preston standing just inside the door. "Hey, son. Did you come with Angie?"

  "He drove me,” I tell him, pulling his attention back to me. “How long are they keeping you?"

  "A day or two." Dad suddenly looks very tired. His eyes are rimmed red and have dark circles under them. He blinks slowly, his eyes drifting toward the TV. Then suddenly he pops them wide open, and he grins. "Hey, you think I should let them electrocute me?"

  Mom clicks her tongue and hides her face behind a palm.

  "What?” Puzzled, my gaze bounces between them. “I thought they didn’t do shock therapy anymore."

  "It's deep brain stimulation,” says Mom. “It's supposed to help the most severe cases of tremors."

  I turn back to Dad. "Do you want to do that? Will that help you?"

  "They brought it up. But we won't do that unless these new meds don't work."

  "And how long are they evaluating them?"

  "We'll give it a few months, as usual." He pats my hand, the one closest to him, and says, with a twinkle in his eye, "Good to see Preston, huh? Are you two, uh..."

  "No, Daddy. Preston was…” I turn to him and offer a genuine smile and a line I know he won’t forget. “Being a nice guy. But you can probably go. I'll stay here with my parents."

  "No, no, no," starts Dad.

  "Oh, honey, no…” says Mom.

  "I don't want to strand you here," says Preston.

  "You know what you can do, Preston? Take my girls home."

  Mom and I protest. Dad raises both hands to demand quiet. "I'm going to take some more pills and go back to sleep. You don't need to sit here, listening to me snore. Come back tomorrow. Be ready to play some poker. And bring me a burger."

  Mom and I are quiet. Preston is in the corner, looking helpless. We're all staring at each other.

  "Get out!" He yells.

  I hop off of the bed and drop a kiss on his cheek. "You don't have to yell, old man."

  "People don't listen when I don't yell. Get out of here. And don't forget my burger tomorrow.”

  "I got it. Your burger."

  "And some playing cards. You know the ones I mean."

  He keeps them in a special drawer in a cabinet in the dining room. When his salesmen and other friends used to come over for poker night, he'd throw a green felt cloth over the table and get out the cards, set out some drinks and appetizers, and tune the TV to the classic soul station. It's been a long time since he hosted poker night.

  Mom gathers her things, yawning the entire time. She must be dead tired and so thankful to be going home. Preston opens the door. We file out of the room.

  "Goodnight, Mr. Blake," he says to my dad.

  "Goodnight, son," my dad slurs.

  We walk back to the elevator, past the nurses' station. The ride down to the first floor is quiet. Mom is on one end; Preston is on the other. Her face bears the oddest smile.

  After we drop Mom off, I move to the front seat while we watch my mom key the door lock and enter the house. She turns off the porch light, our sign that we can drive away. Preston pulls away from the curb and takes the familiar turn that leads back to the highway.

  The landscape is dark; the skies are murky black. Preston guides the car through traffic with skill and ease. He hasn't said a word in a while. Quiet Preston is dangerous.

  "It was nice of you to take me to the hospital. I appreciate it."

  "Sure."

  "And to drive my mom home. She never sleeps well up there."

  "Yep."

  I'm uncomfortable with his silence, his short choppy sentences, his one-word answers. I would almost rather he hurl hurtful words at me than not say anything at all.

  “Everything okay?"

  "Fine," he answers and doesn't elaborate.

  I give up and sit back. We're a few minutes from my car, so I decide to enjoy the peace.

  "I hadn't seen your dad in a while,” he says, breaking the silence. “My mom said the Parkinson's was getting worse, but I didn't realize how much worse. Makes you think."

  "About?"

  "Mortality." He glances over at me quickly before his eyes return to the road. "How short life is. About the time we spend on stupid shit."

  I study the side of his face, illuminated only by moonlight. Something on the edge of his voice intrigues me. Or tempts me.

  "Now it's stupid shit because you decide it is?"

  Preston chuckles, shaking his head. He gives me a quick, sly grin before returning his attention to traffic. "Everything's about you, right, Angie?"

  "Oh, no, sir. Everything's about you."

  “Let’s…let’s not."

  I let my silence speak for me and stare out of the window. In a few minutes, Preston pulls into the parking lot at Prime, then into the spot next to my car.

  I reach for the door latch. "Thank you, again."

  He nods. Maybe it was the way he was selfless and thoughtful for once, but in the combo of the light from the moon and the street lamps along the sidewalk, I see a glimpse of the boy I used to love.

  Ridiculous. Don’t get caught up in emotion, I tell myself, shaking the thought from my head and climbing out of the car. I'm halfway to my car when I hear the window slide down. Preston calls my name.

  I stop and lean toward his car. “Yeah?"

  "Do you mind if I stop in on your dad tomorrow? Play some poker. Shoot the shit."

  I want to ask him why he would do that, but something tells me not to. "He's not good at poker. Either that or he lets me win."

  He laughs. "I'm pretty good, so we'll find out."

  "Don't bleed him dry or anything."

  "I'll try to cut him a break. And I’ll bring him some movies and a burger."

  I laugh, getting into my car and rolling my window down. “Look…I’m trying not to question your motives or be suspicious, and I hope I don't regret that. Just in case your intentions are good... thank you, Preston.”

  His window silently rises, encasing him inside the car. I know he'll sit there until I drive away, so I start the car and pull out of my parking spot. I watch from the rearview mirror as his taillights pull out of the parking lot and turn left.

  13

  Last week, I realized that after Morgan and Nate get married, Preston and I will be the last single people standing. One by one, we’ve all coupled up, and he and I are the only two left. I'm thankful that I have eight weeks until this wedding is over. Eight weeks until I am Preston—free.

  Though, he's been so agreeable lately that I'm second guessing myself. He's doing good deeds and he’s not on my last nerve. But then I think about the Preston of the past, and I know he won't be able to help himself, and we'll be back to hurling insults and cutting each other down.

  Better to stick with the plan.

  Tonight, the wedding party minus parents, bride and groom will gather at Preston’s house. Preston does not cook, so he offered to have dinner catered. Since he is at an
all-day law conference, I am in charge of setting everything up.

  I fly through my to-do list and rush home to slip into a sleeveless sundress that falls to my knees, run a flat iron through my pixie cut, add an understated gold watch to my wrist, a pair of tiny gold hoops to my ears and a thin gold chain to my neck.

  I grab my purse and phone and get back into the car to drive the fifteen minutes to his house in time to meet the caterer.

  Pan after pan of silver trays land on Preston's kitchen counter. Soon, the house is full of the smells of a hot meal–grilled chicken and beef, roasted vegetables, diced potatoes, freshly baked rolls, and a crisp green salad. They've thought of everything, even serving dishes and utensils and a pitcher of iced tea in a dispenser with a spigot.

  I begin to work, starting with setting the table on the patio, already covered with a white linen cloth. I lay the meal out with serving utensils and go back into the house to grab dishes, silverware and glasses.

  The security system beeps. Preston appears in the opening between the house and the patio, dressed as if he's put in a long day at the office-suit, tie, dress shoes. His jacket is off, flung over his shoulder, hanging from the crook of a finger. His shirt, even at 6 pm, is wrinkle-free, as if he’d just put it on. His slacks, pressed with a crease so sharp you could cut yourself, are the flat front style he wears most often.

  For a millisecond, my body drudges up a response to him that throws me off. My face feels hot; my heartbeat quickens, my nipples stand at attention and between my thighs? Slick and warm.

  Whew, girl. You need to get laid. It's just Preston.

  "Hey," I mutter, trying to mask my dry throat and heaving chest. “We’re almost ready."

  I set the last few spots with silverware and glasses and step back, surveying my work. We’ll eat outside with the lake as a backdrop and the setting sun creating a beautiful ambiance.

  I expect him to have something to say because Preston is never speechless, but he says nothing. He stands in the open space, his eyes following my every move.