Come Undone

by Jessica Hawkins

  His shoulders loosened. “How are you?” he asked pleasantly.

  My mind scrambled to catch up with his shift in mood. I caught him inspecting the spot where the bruises had been. “Fine,” I replied nonchalantly and crossed my arms to cover my elbow.

  He tapped his foot and peered down at me as we waited for the elevator.

  “Er, how are you?” I asked.

  “Better,” he said with a beatific smile, taking a hammer to my resolve.

  ~

  He led me over to a classic black Porsche 911 so shiny and spotless, that it must have taken a deal with the devil to keep it that way, especially in this city. He opened the passenger door, and I blinked my eyes in disbelief.

  “This is your car?”

  “Yes. Get in,” he urged, and I crouched down to slide onto the leather seat.

  I eyed the interior quickly as he rounded the car and spotted, as I had suspected, the signature Turbo logo.

  “I love this car,” I said once he was behind the wheel.

  “Are you a car girl?”

  “Not really, but my dad always had a different sports car when I was growing up. I don’t really care, so long as it goes fast.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Hungry?” he asked.

  “Starved,” I replied honestly. He looked at me curiously. “Oh, I eat. You’re probably not used to that,” I murmured.

  He laughed. “You must work hard to keep such a great figure,” he commented, pulling out of the spot and into traffic.

  “Um, sure,” I said under my breath, reddening. Aside from occasional run, I never worked out. “Did you have a nice time on Saturday night?”

  “Moderate,” he replied. “I went to support Arnaud, but you were quite the distraction. I’d have rather been at your table.”

  “No doubt, considering we were a table of five women.”

  “I meant that I’d have preferred your company.”

  I scoffed. “My company? I’d say you had your hands full with - what was it? Mar-eee-ah? She must have been the most beautiful woman in the room,” I said casually, feigning interest in something outside.

  He made a noise, and my statement hung in the air. “Do I sense a hint of jealousy, Olivia?” He continued when I didn’t respond. “I am dating.”

  “You can call me Liv, you know. Everyone else does.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  I gaped and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. That always worked on Bill; he was easily sidetracked. “All right,” I relented. “So you’re dating.”

  “Is it something you wish to discuss?” he asked.

  My chest tightened as I took in his profile, letting my gaze explore his face as he concentrated ahead. The only word I could think to describe his nose was strong. It had a slight bump that ended in an acute tip. Though smoothly shaven, I could see a shadow forming. His long lashes blinked and bushy eyebrows furrowed as he focused on the road, deepening the crow’s feet around his eyes. Defined muscles strained against a crisp shirt as he shifted gears and my hand twitched, desiring to reach over and feel them.

  It was something I desperately wished to discuss. How could I tell him all the things that had crossed my mind lately, all the emotions that tore at my insides? I couldn’t. Not how I’d begun to question my marriage, how I sometimes wondered if it would be enough. He looked over at me questioningly.

  “No,” I said quietly.

  We rode in silence the rest of the way.

  ~

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Dylan.” The hostess’s sleek ponytail, low-cut top and smiling red lips didn’t seem to catch his attention, but I had to admire her effort.

  “This place is close to the site so we’re here a lot,” he explained.

  “What exactly is the project?”

  “It’s a resort hotel on the Chicago River.”

  “Dylan,” The French accent boomed from across the restaurant just as we’d sat down. I recognized the approaching man as the one David had introduced to the table Saturday night.

  “Arnaud Mallory, this is Olivia Germaine, writer for Chicago M.”

  “Yes,” he said, and I shifted uncomfortably under the same stare he’d given me at the restaurant. “I remember.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said a little too loudly, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he replied, holding out his palm and bowing his head.

  “Madame, actually,” I corrected, reluctantly allowing him to kiss the back of my hand.

  He lifted his bent head and raised his eyebrows, looking between the two of us. “I’m sorry. Madame, then.”

  “Are you going back to the office?” David asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to go and look at those light fixtures we discussed. Today. We can make a final decision when I get back later,” he said, turning his attention back to me and effectively dismissing Arnaud. Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Germaine,” David mused once we were alone. “That’s not your husband’s name, is it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I did my research,” he said with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “No, it’s not. And before you ask, I haven’t gotten around to it and you can address me however you prefer.” I smoothed a hand over my hair. “Makes no difference to me, I’ll be changing it soon.”

  “I see,” he said, smiling into his menu.

  “What’s good here, anyway?” I asked.

  “Do you eat meat?”

  “Obviously.”

  “I know just the thing,” he said, taking my menu and setting it on the edge of the table. I started to object, but something about the excited look in his eyes stopped me.

  After he’d ordered, I took a long sip of water that coated my insides. I hoped it would squelch the heat that he had ignited after his outburst earlier.

  “So David,” I started. “Tell me about yourself. What do you do in your spare time?” I asked.

  “I try to keep busy with work,” he said simply.

  “I can see that. But you must blow off steam somehow?” I instantly blushed at the accidental insinuation.

  “I sail and I enjoy a swim now and then,” he said, letting me off the hook.

  “Oh?” I said distractedly as his shirtless image popped into my head. I remembered how in college, the swimmers had always had the best bodies. Figures, I thought.

  He leaned in on his elbows. “How about you,” he paused and looked at me mockingly, “Liv?” His tone was sensual and his eyes concentrated. I blanched and reached for my ear, but his hand bolted out and caught my wrist. I froze. He released it slowly and eased back into his chair, looking to me expectantly.

  “Well, there’s work,” I said. Duh. “I spend most of my free time with . . .” My voice trailed off when Bill’s face came to mind. “Gretchen and Lucy. Normal girl stuff.” I shrugged. “I read, and I volunteer at the local shelter. You know, when I need a dose of reality.” When he didn’t respond, I continued timidly, trying to read his strange expression. “Do you like dogs?”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “My family dog is sick, and it’s been really tough,” he divulged.

  My heart pulled with the instinct to console him, but I thought better of it. “Do you ever think about getting your own?”

  “No,” he said, looking out the window. “I don’t have the time. Hopefully one day though.” Turning back to me, he added, “Canyon. His name is Canyon.”

  I smiled and raised my water glass. “To a speedy recovery,” I said and clinked his glass. I was rewarded with a smile.

  The waiter set down two juicy, stacked burgers with leafy side salads. I hurriedly devoured my salad and looked up to find him grinning at me.

  “Hungry?” he asked, echoing his earlier inquiry.

  “Well, yes . . .” I stopped, embarrassed.

  “What?” he prodded.

  “Actually, I hate salad, but my dad always made me e
at it.”

  “You know your dad isn’t here, right?”

  “Mhm, but I feel like I have to eat it anyway, before I can touch anything else. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud,” I shrugged.

  “Interesting,” he mused, nodding. “Delayed gratification.”

  “Hmm?” I asked, chewing a forkful.

  “Nothing, just soaking up everything I can about the elusive Olivia Germaine.”

  I felt my face heat and, in an attempt to slow down, unceremoniously stabbed a couple leaves. “Well, don’t. We’re here to discuss you. How long have you known Arnaud?” I asked.

  “Since I started with Pierson/Greer. Eight years maybe.” I went to pull out my notepad, and he touched my wrist. I drew back, startled by the unexpected contact.

  “Let’s just talk, we can do that later.”

  “All right,” I said, willing my heartbeat to slow. “So Arnaud, he’s also an architect?”

  “He’s the other senior architect. A brilliant one, actually.”

  “Oh.” So he’s not going anywhere, I thought. “Is he married? Single?”

  “Why?” David eyed me suspiciously. “Are you considering him for the article also?”

  I almost choked in response. “God, no.” I said, shaking my head. “I was just trying to soak up . . . your world, or whatever.”

  He laughed. “He’s single. Eternally.”

  “Must be a hazard of the job,” I muttered.

  “It is,” he responded with a straight face. “We work a lot. Developing a relationship can be tough.”

  I nodded understandingly. “Are you looking for something serious? Is that why you agreed to do the issue?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve been ready to settle down for some time, work makes it hard though. Women say they can handle my schedule but they always want more. It’s not really the reason I decided to play along, though.”

  I took a big bite and chewed slowly, trying to decide if I was irritated by his choice of words. “Bill works a lot too, and the firm is always sending him out of town. He’s a lawyer,” I added. “But I guess you knew that. Probably because he doesn’t have kids, he’s one of the first people they turn to.”

  His lack of response caused me to look up from my food. He looked thoughtful as he examined his plate.

  “So, if I were interviewing you, the next thing I might ask is where you went to college.”

  “Yale for undergrad, and then Architectural Association in London.”

  I felt suddenly inadequate.

  “You?” he asked.

  “Oh, Notre Dame.”

  He smiled. “My father went there. It’s a great school, isn’t it?”

  “Mine too.”

  “Well what are the chances? Wonder if they know each other?” Dimples formed at the edges of his mouth as he grinned.

  “What does he do, your father?” I asked.

  “He’s retired now, but he was a CEO.”

  “Of?” I asked even, though I knew the answer.

  “GQS.”

  Why did I ask? How do you respond to that? “That’s . . . that’s a good job.” He looked at me and we started laughing.

  “It was,” he agreed. “They just moved back to Illinois a few years ago.”

  “How did you like London?” I spat out before he could ask about my parents.

  “It’s beautiful. One hell of a place to study architecture. Have you been?”

  “With my parents as a child.”

  “What do your parents do?”

  “My dad is a consultant in Dallas, and my mother is a novelist.”

  “Is your mother a novelist in Dallas?”

  I shook my head and tried to avoid his intensifying stare.

  “Divorced?” he asked. I nodded. “When?”

  “Right before high school.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  I cleared my throat, wiped my mouth with a napkin and shrugged.

  “How did you end up here?” he asked.

  “I chose Notre Dame because of my father, and because it was the best school I was accepted to. Gretch was going to University of Chicago so I liked that we wouldn’t be far. After graduation, Lucy and I moved here to live with Gretchen.”

  “Did you always want to live here?”

  “Actually, no. I thought I would end up in New York City.”

  “Really?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “You’re so close. Why not move?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said, shaking my head.

  “How so?”

  “Boring stuff. What else ya got?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where - ”

  Spain, I thought, not needing to hear the end of the sentence.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. You?”

  “Yes you do,” he countered, narrowing his eyes at me.

  Can’t a girl have any secrets? Why does he ask so many questions? I continued chewing leisurely, studying the way he studied me. “I don’t have time to think about that. Besides, Bill doesn’t like taking vacations.”

  “That’s a shame. I guess I wouldn’t like fantasizing about surfing perfect breaks or gorging on oysters if I knew it wasn’t going to happen.”

  I stopped mid-chew. Damn. I can totally envision him sporting a surfboard, sucking down an oyster . . . . I clenched my jaw.

  “Anyway, wherever it is you have hiding in your head, you’ll get there. You seem like a girl who knows what she wants.”

  “I’m hardly a girl,” I bristled, surprised by the assessment. Although these days I felt close to a self-indulgent child, walking the tightrope between fantasy and reality. But I couldn’t tell him that.

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Well, Mr. Dylan, I fancy that’s not a very polite question.”

  “I see. Is politeness something you look for in a gentleman?”

  “Is that not a defining characteristic of the gentleman?”

  “Touché. Is politeness something you look for in a man?”

  I stopped myself from gulping. “Hey now. Leave the personal questions to me. And I’m twenty-seven, anyway.”

  “Well. You are a baby.”

  “Why, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-four.” I had thought as much. “I’m ancient,” he added.

  “Not even.” I waved my hand and took a sip of water. I shut my mouth but my curiosity was piqued. Bill was just thirty, yet David seemed older and more distinguished. And until Bill, my only experience with an older man was when I’d lost my virginity to a junior in college when I was a freshman. Something told me this was different.

  “That was one tasty burger. I’m so full,” I said, making a face.

  “Really? I could eat another one.” I laughed when I realized he wasn’t joking. “I’ve got this,” he said, pulling out his wallet.

  “Oh, no,” I insisted. “I might even be able to expense it,” I chirped. “Beman would be thrilled to - ”

  “I’ve got it.” His tone was stern.

  “No, really - ”

  “Olivia,” he said with that same authority that had caught my attention before. I shrank in my seat.

  “Is this because I paid for our drinks at Jerome’s?”

  “You didn’t. Sherry didn’t charge us. Something about me looking upset and that I could use a break.”

  I gaped at him. “Did you . . . ?”

  “What?” he asked innocently.

  I blinked furiously, trying to decide if I should laugh or scream.

  “You think I went home with her because she comped my bill?” His laugh filled the restaurant. “Relax,” he said. “I’m not as bad as you think. She did get a decent tip though, thanks to you. Don’t pull that again.” I nodded mindlessly, feeling like I had no choice but to obey. I watched him settle the bill, surprised at how natural his company had been. Despite his jesting, I felt comfortable, as though we’d been longtime friends. It was just one more thing to feel confuse
d about.

  ~

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take the Riverwalk. You can see the hotel from there - it’s part of the charm.” I followed as he led the way and soon we were winding our way along the water. There was so much more I yearned to ask him, to know about him, but we walked in easy silence, and it was equally as pleasurable.

  The sun was high. Fluffy, dense clouds spotted the sky. The Chicago River gleamed with the reflection of the sun, as if it were covered in gold sequins. There was a slight chill in the air and it felt nice; everything seemed like it was just as it should be.

  “That’s it,” he said. I tilted my head back and took in the imposing building. I had seen it before because it was impossible not to notice. It started with a slate grey base and seamlessly faded into steely grey mirrored glass. The building defied logic by curving outward along one side, dipping in and then bowing out again slightly, almost like the letter ‘B’. “What do you think?”

  “It’s something else, David.”

  “Is that good?”

  I turned my body so I was facing him, shielding my eyes as I glanced up at his face. I searched for a hint of humor but saw none. “Do you really need me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  I turned my head back, squinting against the sun. “It’s unexpected. I love how it’s all glass so it reflects the blue of the sky and the water, but . . . there’s this sort of silver sheen to it, right? Against the stone slabs – what color is that, graphite? It’s almost . . . fluid?” When I realized I was rambling, I became self-conscious. “This isn’t exactly my area of expertise,” I finished, blushing.

  “No, you’re right,” he said, shaking his head quickly. “I’m sorry. I just love watching you talk.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and started toward the entrance while I stared after him. “Coming?”

  I jumped to attention, taking long strides to catch up. Large palm trees sprung from the ground, greeting us as they lined the walkway. “Palm trees?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “This will all be grass,” he said, motioning toward the empty lots by the entrance. “And,” he continued, lighting up, “this will all be open. The lobby is entirely glass with sliding doors that will stay open during the warmer months.”

  I walked over and touched the stone, surprised at how rough it felt, despite its smooth appearance. I remembered the contrasting feel of the cool marble of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Clean grey edges and long rectangular windows structured the front of the hotel. I had visions of waves crashing and foaming against black sand beaches.