Between These Walls

by John Herrick

  “Not yet, but I’d better get around to it before the flights fill up. I get a free ticket with my frequent-flyer miles.”

  “No shortage of those,” Hunter smirked.

  “Plenty more points where those came from, for sure.” Kara took a bite of her grilled cheese. When she wiped her hands on her napkin, her fingertips left behind little butter imprints. “Do you have plans for Christmas?”

  “Mom and Dad are visiting Bryce and his family in Boston.”

  “Are you going with them?”

  “That was the plan,” Hunter said, “but when you’re between jobs, suddenly a plane ticket seems like a budget buster. I could always drive, though.”

  Once those words left his mouth, Hunter stopped. He wondered what Gabe was up to for Christmas. To his recollection, Gabe hadn’t mentioned leaving town, and he knew Gabe’s only family in town was his mother. Maybe Hunter should invite them over for fun.

  “I haven’t decided for sure if I’m going to Bryce’s house,” Hunter said. “I might keep it low key, conserve my budget, hang out with a friend in town.”

  “Who?”

  “Just a buddy. You haven’t met him.”

  At that, Kara shrugged, then sipped her wine.

  Yes, this relationship factor had gotten harder. Kara didn’t suspect a thing—neither his lack of interest in her, nor his attractions toward anyone else. And now he had allowed their conversation to drift away from anything leading to a breakup. Hunter couldn’t identify a good way to steer the conversation back onto his intended course, so the direct route seemed best.

  He looked down at his dinner, which he hadn’t touched in several minutes and had gone lukewarm, and realized his appetite had departed. He shifted in his seat, procrastinating amid the inevitable.

  “Kara, this isn’t easy,” he began, forcing himself to look into her eyes, “but I need to talk to you about something.”

  Creases formed along Kara’s forehead. An expression of concern overtook her face. Despite the music playing overhead, the space between Hunter and Kara had grown eerily quiet. Hunter could hear her swallow her wine.

  “You look so serious,” Kara said. “What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t want to do this to her, but it seemed selfish not to. Kara’s big, blue eyes had the innocence of a child. Though he struggled to maintain eye contact, he felt she deserved that much, considering he was about to break her heart. He wished she hadn’t grown attached to him as fast as she had.

  “I, um, I can’t find a good way say this, so maybe I should lay it on the table.” With a deep breath, Hunter said, “I think it would be good for us to … take a break.”

  In a split second, though anyone else would have missed it, Hunter saw something fall in her pixie stare. The first tear of the fabric upon her heart. Her eyes flinched with a look of dejection, the kind where you search for an inkling of hope—evidence that you had misunderstood what you’d heard—before giving up.

  Kara peered down at the tabletop, ran her fingernail along its diamond pattern, before looking up again. Her expression appeared hopeful but revealed hope had gotten shot in the heart.

  “By ‘take a break,’ you don’t mean … to go away together somewhere? As in a break from Ohio?”

  True to form, Kara had believed the best about him. Numbness waded into Hunter’s stomach.

  “No,” he replied, his voice above a whisper, “I mean a break … from us.”

  “Oh …”

  Hunter could understand her lack of response. Yet silence didn’t seem fitting. He felt responsible to talk, to say something, if for no other reason than to keep her from feeling self-conscious. So he trudged forward.

  “I don’t know if the answer is to take a step back and see other people—”

  “Is it something I did?”

  Hunter held out his palms to stop her from blaming herself. “No, it’s not you. I promise it’s not you. It’s me.”

  “What do you mean, it’s you?”

  He didn’t know how to answer that. After all, he didn’t even know what was going on inside himself or why. How was he supposed to find words to explain it to her?

  “For some reason, my heart can’t quite, well, get there.” When Kara blinked at that statement, Hunter hurried his next words in an effort to protect her. He could sense his sincerity coming through as he spoke. “Look, Kara, I care about you very much. I enjoy our time together. The best way I can explain it is, my heart can’t seem to get in sync with … us. Not in a way we both know would be necessary for a long-term relationship.”

  He considered sipping his wine, then decided against it.

  “Maybe it’s a proximity factor,” Hunter said. “With the travel your job requires, you’re rarely in town.”

  “You never mentioned this before. Suddenly it became an issue?”

  “Not suddenly. But consider how little we see each other. Thinking long term, is that enough for us to build a lasting relationship?”

  “So, this is my fault?” Her expression turned from hurt to confusion. “My career has become a problem?”

  “No, it’s not your fault. And your career hasn’t become a problem. I’m just saying—wondering—if that lack of connection makes it harder, at least for me, to … get there. I know how important your job is to you, and it should be. I can’t ask you to change your career in order to suit me. That wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  Hunter found this scenario all too familiar. Regardless of how deep or shallow his romantic relationships, he managed to sabotage them every time. Maybe, beneath the surface, he was scared of being found out.

  More likely, however, his need to sabotage his relationships were tied to proximity. But though he had told Kara he struggled with lack of proximity, Hunter wondered if the opposite was true: Perhaps he feared proximity. If he allowed a woman to get too close, she might find a way to his heart.

  Despite his desire not to be attracted to the same sex, was it possible he didn’t want a woman to find a place in his heart?

  That notion took Hunter aback. Now that he thought about it, whenever he sabotaged a relationship, though he felt a sense of failure, he also felt relieved. Ending relationships removed a load of pressure from his shoulders as he tried to sort through the feelings he repressed and make sense of the commotion inside his soul.

  Nonetheless, those self-sabotages left him confused. They left the females hurt and, perhaps, more confused than he.

  Kara certainly looked that way.

  But wasn’t this route, bringing closure to their relationship, more compassionate than stringing her along?

  “Is there someone else?”

  Kara’s words startled him. Hunter kicked himself for allowing his thoughts to drift.

  “Huh?”

  Kara leaned closer. She looked him straight in the eye. Her eyes now possessed pointed determination, one which sought answers. “I said, is there someone else?”

  “No,” he answered, his voice firm, “there’s no one else.”

  Technically, that seemed true, Hunter told himself. He and Gabe had only had one date—if you could call it a date—to test the waters. Neither he nor Gabe could define what existed between them. Therefore, Hunter didn’t know if there was someone else. Even if he were to fall in love with Gabe, Hunter didn’t know how far he could allow himself to dive in.

  Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of guilt because, in his heart, he knew he had told Kara a little white lie.

  Yet he couldn’t tell her the whole truth. He wanted to, but he hadn’t confided in anyone about this, and it was his personal issue to wade through. Kara would understand if she knew the dark truth, but Hunter wasn’t ready for anyone to know—because as soon as they did, he knew his life would turn upside down.

  Kara appeared stunned. She must have felt humiliated. After all, his words had caught her off guard. But what else was he supposed to do? Let her waste her life by living a lie with him?

  Once again, Hunter felt the respo
nsibility to fill the silence. He had started this mess; navigating their way through it was the least he could do.

  “Maybe after the holidays pass—in the new year—we can talk about where things stand,” Hunter suggested, an effort to soften the blow rather than an authentic proposal. Even to Hunter, as he listened to himself, his words sounded lame.

  Kara just stared at him, pursing her lips, prolonging the moment—a moment Hunter wished would come to a merciful end.

  Hunter continued to fill the vacuum of silence. “Maybe we need to see other people to—well, maybe we’re not as compatible as we first thought.”

  Oh geez, he was making it worse, he could sense it. He wanted to shut his mouth and quit insulting her intelligence. He knew her well enough to know she could see through these emotional bandages.

  Verbal clumsiness aside, Hunter had entered this evening concerned about Kara, not himself. But regardless of what he said tonight, she would interpret his words and actions as a personal rejection. She wouldn’t recognize the larger story at play.

  Hunter stopped talking. Just stopped short. Folding his hands on the table, he let his gaze fall to his knuckles, which he rubbed in an effort to distract himself from the mental acrobatics in his mind.

  Steel drums continued to fill the room, this time with a Caribbean rendition of “A Holly Jolly Christmas.” In spite of his efforts, Hunter realized, he couldn’t have picked a worse place for Kara and him to part ways. So sprightly and sweet, Kara seldom spoke an unkind word. Knowing he had broken her heart made him feel awful.

  Kara looked away, focused on the flames that lashed inside the fireplace. When she returned her attention to him, he lifted his head and their gazes met. A film of tears had rinsed over her eyes. From the way Kara tensed her jaw, Hunter could tell she had used all her might to force the dam to remain in place. He would never see her cry.

  Finally, Kara spoke.

  “So this is it?” Resignation, thick as coconut oil, dripped from her voice. “We’re done?”

  Hunter wanted to reach out and hold her, offer her comfort, but he no longer possessed that privilege. At this point, he was the last individual from whom she’d desire consolation.

  Hunter held her gaze once more and absorbed her brokenness.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  Kara bit the inside of her cheek, her habit when she grew nervous, then nodded.

  “Hunter, please take me home.”

  CHAPTER 27

  On Friday afternoon, Hunter rapped his knuckle on the door to Ellen Krieger’s apartment. He’d left his coat and tie in the car. Dressing in a suit today had given him a surge of confidence he hadn’t expected to return while out of work.

  No answer. He knew Ellen often spent weekday afternoons working in her apartment, so he gave the door knocker a couple of thunks. From somewhere within, he heard the words, “I’m coming, one sec!”

  When she answered the door, she appeared frazzled, her face flushed a dark shade of pink. Dressed in jeans and a white apron, strands of hair had escaped her brunette ponytail. She looked like she’d stuck her fingernail into an electrical socket.

  Hunter took a step back and extended his arms toward her, palms out, to feign a reaction of fear. “What happened to you?!”

  “Come on in,” she said with a gesture of her head. “Lock the door behind you,” she said in afterthought as she made a beeline for her tiny kitchen.

  Upon entering her dining room, Hunter’s attention settled on a table filled with what looked like entrées and side dishes in progress, all uncooked and sitting in disposable serving pans. To his right, he perused Ellen’s kitchen and found the counters littered with cutting boards and containers, as well as celery, carrots and other raw vegetables, two of which he couldn’t identify by sight. He noticed stalks that looked like overgrown green onions. Had Ellen called them leeks?

  Ellen took her position at the counter beside her sink, where she resumed mincing an onion on a wooden cutting board. Two wadded dish towels, one dry and one wet, sat within reach on the counter. To Ellen’s left, a waste basket stood in sentry position, guarding her leg.

  “Never mind the mess,” Ellen said. “It’s my busy season. Everybody’s holding their holiday parties. Thanksgiving, Christmas … in between Thanksgiving and Christmas …”

  At first evaluation, Hunter thought the scene looked like a disaster. But upon second glance, he began to recognize a semblance of organization. Vegetables sat beside vegetables; items destined for the oven or refrigerator sat near each other. When he realized Ellen had set an authentic plan into motion—and, having savored her cooking, he knew what the end result would be—Hunter had to admire his friend’s forethought and stamina. She had endured this type of pressure for more than a year.

  Hunter flicked the leaf of a celery stalk, then crossed his arms. “I’d say the whole holiday season landed in your apartment at once,” he snickered.

  “I have two catering jobs this weekend: a small company party tomorrow night, and a social function on Sunday evening. Each one requires two entrées and several side dishes.” With her knife, she gestured to his hand. “And don’t touch the celery without washing your hands first, unless you’re ready to lose a finger.”

  Hunter didn’t acknowledge her remark, but chuckled to himself. “Sounds like a full menu. What about desserts?”

  “Those too. And of course, they wanted different menus, which means I can’t make larger batches and split them between the two jobs. So today, I’m getting as much prep work done as I can. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be baking like crazy.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you had an assistant for large jobs?”

  “I pay a Kent State student to help when needed, but she called yesterday to bail on me.”

  Ellen stopped working. Her shoulders drooped as she took in the spread of food, her eyes roaming from left to right, then right to left.

  “What was I thinking?” Ellen shook her head. She compressed her lips so tight, they disappeared from view. “Why did I agree to all this? This is insane.”

  “Looks like you’ll need an extra oven or two.”

  “Don’t laugh. I was going to hit you up for yours tonight after dulling you with a few glasses of wine. Brendan plans to help out tomorrow. Believe me, he’d be thrilled to help me take over your kitchen if it stops me from going bitchcakes on him this weekend.”

  “You can help yourself to my kitchen if you need it,” Hunter said. “No alcohol required.”

  With the blunt edge of her knife blade, Ellen slid a mound of onion shavings from her cutting board into a bowl, then resumed mincing.

  “How’s the job hunt going?” she asked.

  “Wrapped up an interview a few minutes ago, right before stopping here.”

  “No wonder you’re all dressed up. You could use a tie though,” she said with a wink.

  “I left it in the car.”

  Ellen stopped mincing and wiped her brow against her shoulder, which left a dark spot on her shirt fabric. She’d broken a sweat in the process? She was under more pressure than he’d figured. Ellen protracted her exhale to twice its normal length and scanned the array of food once again.

  “You’re hired,” she blurted.

  “What?”

  Reaching into the cabinet beneath her sink, she retrieved a white apron identical to the one she wore. One quick whip to unfold the apron, then she waved it before Hunter as if to tantalize him.

  “Say hello to this little guy. He’ll help you make your next rent payment. You’re gonna help save my ass.”

  With that, she tossed the apron to him, which he caught before he could give it a second thought.

  “I don’t do aprons.”

  “Do you want to get tomato juice splattered all over that sexy outfit?”

  “But I don’t know much about cooking. Nothing official, anyway.”

  “I’ll teach you what you need to know. I’ve always wanted to give you orders.”

  Hunter ro
lled his eyes, followed by his sleeves. He lifted the apron’s loop over his head.

  “Fine,” he joshed, “but only if we work naked under the aprons.”

  “Don’t make me go bitchcakes on you, Carlisle. I’m surrounded by knives.”

  * * *

  An hour later, the kitchen felt more crowded to Hunter, if that were possible. He worked beside the sink while Ellen worked several feet away, at the opposite end of the counter. So far, she had assigned him simple tasks like washing and cutting vegetables. He had minced onions and diced tomatoes. Now he julienned peppers, slicing them into thin, vertical strips of green, yellow and red. He’d never thought about how many ways you could cut vegetables into pieces. Left to his own devices, he would have chopped them up and thrown them into the mix without a second thought.

  Ellen had also taught him a cutting technique whereby he curled his fingers atop the vegetable as he held it with his left hand, which allowed him to rest the blade of the knife against his knuckles and slice faster while avoiding injury. At first, the technique felt awkward, but after several minutes of practice, he had grown more comfortable. The feeling of progress sent a rush through him.

  “I knew you were an awesome cook,” said Hunter, “but I never knew the details that went into it.”

  “It’s an art form.”

  “Green peppers are definitely the new Monette.”

  “You mean Monet?”

  “Whatever,” he winked. “But it makes me realize I never asked you much about it. I’ve just devoured your—your art, I should say—and moved on.”

  Hunter noticed Ellen had grown less flustered since he’d agreed to help her. He could sense that tension had dissipated from the kitchen. Between ovens at her apartment, Brendan’s apartment, and Hunter’s home, she assured him everything would come together on time.

  “What keeps you busy when it’s not the holiday season?” Hunter asked.

  “I get lots of orders for cookies, specialty cakes and cupcakes, giving the corner bakery a run for its money.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve got a store location. How does word get around about you?”