“Good night, Caitlin.”
The baseball game is in the top of the seventh inning when I get home, and I turn on the television in the living room as I change and start to cook dinner. Having exhausted my list of “things to do alone in LA,” I’d impulsively signed up for a two-day “California Cooking” class that starts tomorrow, and since it’s been years since I’ve actually made a meal, I’ve spent the past few nights trying to remember the basics.
I watch the White Sox win 4—3, then head across the street to stroll up and down the beach for a while. It’s hard to believe relaxing can be this difficult, but it’s a skill I’m working to acquire. I pass a handsome man about my age and we exchange smiles, though I know mine doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
I haven’t heard from Eli since our goodbye in my office, and I haven’t tried to contact him. Dorrie’s softball season wrapped up after the tournament, so she hasn’t seen him either, not that I’ve been pumping her for information.
I return home around ten, shower to get rid of the salt and sand, and lie in bed trying to read a cookbook, but mostly just watching the ceiling fan turn. How painfully ironic that when I had Eli the ceiling was a distraction, and now with nothing to interrupt my night-long staring sessions, he’s the only thing I can think about.
On Monday I arrive at the office with the tray of brownies I’d made in class yesterday, expecting that me bearing gifts will be the day’s number one surprise. I’m proven wrong the second I step out of the elevator to find nearly every desk in disarray, cables and stepladders and various unattended tools scattered across the floor.
I pick my way across the mess in red Prada heels, inching up my fitted skirt so I don’t face-plant in a pile of dust. Holes have been drilled in the ceiling at seemingly random intervals, and fistfuls of wires dangle precariously. We have walled-in offices instead of the dreaded glass, so I can’t confirm Cole’s in until I get to his door and knock.
“If you have coffee or vodka, you may come in!” he calls, just as a drill screeches to life somewhere behind me.
“Vegan brownies?” I offer, stepping inside and closing the door to mute the worst of the noise.
“You had me at brownies,” he says, grinning as he stands to round the desk. “Though I’m ready to petition for your firing for the ‘vegan’ comment.”
Turns out the cooking class was entirely vegan, something I might have known had I read the class description. I was just so desperate to not spend the weekend moping around that I’d signed up a little too hastily. Still, the class had been semi-interesting, the food semi-tasty, and these brownies... Well, anyway.
“What’s going on?” I ask, cracking open the blinds with my finger to peer into the disaster zone that is our office.
“Turns out the network wasn’t set up properly,” Cole replies, leaning against his desk and sipping a cup of coffee. “The details elude me... Actually, they tried to explain, but I stopped listening. Point is, we’ve got someone here who’s supposed to know the ins and outs of this stuff, and he’s been working nonstop since yesterday. The computers are up, printers are working, just the network connection is patchy.”
“Terrific.”
Another smile. “I set him up in the spare office next to Lorne. Seems nice enough, with the exception of the drill.”
Right on cue the drill starts up again, and Cole almost spits out his coffee in alarm.
“I’m going to put these in the break room,” I say, holding up the brownies. “Then I just remembered I have to visit a client.”
“No kidding?” Cole polishes off his coffee. “I just remembered the same thing.”
I navigate the construction site and place the brownies in the break room before grabbing a bottle of water. Of course I don’t actually have a client to meet, but I can take my laptop to a nearby café to read and get a proper brownie.
“Ah. Here she is.” At the sound of Cole’s voice, I turn to see him leading Eli into the break room. For a second, I’m too stunned to move. Instead I flash back to the night I’d almost stepped into the empty elevator shaft, the terrifying moment where I’d stood over that gaping monster, my brain somersaulting with ghastly what-if scenarios.
Eli is my what-if. And if Eli was an elevator, I’d be sprawled on the ground thirty-two floors below, legs askew, neck broken, heart shattered.
Now I brace my palms on the counter behind me, anchoring myself as best I can, hoping against hope that I appear composed and professional. Or at least not ghostly white and horrified.
“Caitlin Dufresne, this is Eli Grant, head of IT from the Chicago office. Eli, this is Caitlin. I don’t know that you two would have met back there with your fancy three-floor offices, but with just one floor here, you were bound to run into each other.”
Fuck fuck fuck. If I hadn’t been thinking about the goddamn brownies I could have put two and two together in time to avoid this. Eli looks like he’s thinking the same thing, and I use the stunned seconds to take in his dark-wash jeans and black T-shirt, a fine layer of drywall dust sprinkled across his broad shoulders.
Finally he nods. “Caitlin.”
“Hello, Eli.” I manage to sound politely indifferent, not mid-heart attack.
Cole blinks. “You two know each other? Oh, good.” He turns to Eli. “We’ve had a few random people come strolling through, so I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think Caitlin was here to steal something.”
Eli coughs out a dutiful laugh and I try to smile.
Cole continues obliviously. “Just kidding, of course. Not about the randoms, that’s a real issue. Fortunately Caitlin made brownies, and we’re pretty confident they’ll be a successful deterrent.”
This time Eli’s laugh is genuine, though he sobers when he sees the pan of chocolate squares on the counter beside me. His gaze flickers to mine, confused. I offer a small shrug and Cole excuses himself when someone shouts that he has a phone call. For a long, strained moment, Eli and I just stare at each other. I hadn’t worn a jacket with my sleeveless blouse, and with my hair twisted into a knot at my nape, I feel strangely exposed. I know I’ve been naked in front of the man, but this feels weird. I’m trying to be a new version of myself, and he can see right through it.
“You made brownies?” he asks.
“Yes. Don’t eat them.”
One eyebrow raises. “Okay.”
“They’re vegan,” I add.
The second eyebrow joins the first. “Okay.”
I inhale slowly, hoping against hope that he’ll say something. That he misses me. That the Chicago office is floundering without me. That he likes my new shoes. I need him to say something, because everything I’ve been wishing I had said or could say has fled my mind, and the silence is torture.
But he doesn’t speak, so I push away from the counter and offer him a terse smile. “Well,” I say. “Excuse me.”
“Okay,” he says as I pass.
* * *
It’s the longest week of my life. Endless days of Eli occupying our suddenly too-small office, seeing him around every corner. I avoid him as best I can, which isn’t easy because he’s everywhere, flitting from one computer to the next, connecting this, adjusting that.
I almost hang up on a client when I get distracted watching Eli patch the holes in the ceiling outside my office, T-shirt lifting to reveal the tanned swath of skin above his jeans. The spot at the base of his spine I know covers with goose bumps when licked.
I want to fire Moira, a twentysomething paralegal when she bends over to ask Eli a question about her hard drive, breasts nearly spilling out of her too-tight top, right into his face. And I want to scream when he takes an unwieldy amount of time going over the answer, no doubt enjoying the view.
By Thursday the network is fully functioning, and as far as I can tell, the only thing that needs doing i
s final coats of paint to the walls and ceiling where Eli reworked the wiring. I’m so desperate to be rid of him that I almost volunteer to stay late and do it myself, just so he can leave. I don’t, however, since I signed up for more cooking classes and tonight I need to get home and change so I can learn how to make kale salad with grilled tofu at seven thirty.
I adjust my dress and smooth my hair, reapplying my lipstick before leaving my office. It’s silly, I know, that I should be primping for someone I’m trying to avoid, but so it goes. I say goodbye to people as I approach the elevator and press the down arrow, checking my watch. 6:01. Perfect. Plenty of time to—
“You heading home?”
I freeze and slowly look over to see Eli approaching, toolbox in hand. He’s wearing khakis today, with a navy T-shirt that pulls across his chest in an unfairly sexy way. It’s just a fucking T-shirt.
“Ah, yes,” I say, when I remember he’d asked me a question. “It’s quitting time.”
He makes a show of checking his watch. “It’s six o’clock.”
I turn back to the elevator as the doors glide open. “I know.”
He follows me inside and we begin our descent. “How long are you here for?” I ask when the silence grows awkward after four seconds.
He scratches his ear, uninterested in conversation. “Hard to say.”
Another four seconds of quiet. “You know the White Sox are in town tomorrow night?” They have a three-game series against the Angels. It’s my birthday on Saturday, and I’d been thinking of going.
“Of course I do,” he answers.
And that’s it. Just...that.
The elevator stops on the ground level and I step out, ready to say something, anything to put an end to this ridiculous torture, but Eli’s not moving. He holds my stare until the doors close, giving nothing away. An insult, a scowl, hell, a punch to the kidney, anything would hurt less than this. Because the only man I’ve ever loved just traveled across the country to convince us both that he doesn’t love me back, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
* * *
When I get home from class that night I sit down at my computer and bring up the LA Angels website to look at tickets for Saturday’s afternoon game. There are plenty of great seats left, and since I’m only buying one, there’s lots to choose from. Still, I hesitate. Even though I’ll be surrounded by thousands of fans, I’ll still be technically alone, especially since I haven’t quite convinced myself to cheer for my new home team.
I go to bed without buying anything, and when I see Eli stroll past my office in a White Sox T-shirt the next day, I get a terrible idea. I mean, it’s an awful idea, and I never have bad ideas. It’s embarrassing. It could be mortifying. And still I go to the Angels website and buy two fifth-row tickets near first base and print them off. As hard as it is to believe I’ve become one of those people who wastes time at work, it’s even harder to believe my hands are shaking like I’m standing in the middle of a hurricane instead of a posh forty-fourth floor office.
I wait until I see Eli leave for lunch, then dash across the office to put the ticket on his desk. The other one is in my purse, so I’m going either way. No chance for him to invite that awful Moira to a baseball game on my birthday. Though I suppose he could, if he bought the tickets himself.
I’ve just convinced myself to march back across the office to snatch back my ticket when Eli strolls out of the elevator, takeout container in hand.
Oh no.
It’s official.
I’ve invited him to a baseball game—at least I’m pretty sure he’ll know it’s me doing the asking—and he’s going to storm in here and tear up the ticket and sprinkle the pieces all over my desk.
But Eli never comes.
He doesn’t say a word. Not a text, not an email.
And I don’t see him for the rest of the day, either, so there’s no way to gauge his reaction. To know if he even found the ticket, though I’d placed it right on top of his keyboard so he’d have to move it to get any work done. To be honest, I don’t even know why he’s still here, since the office has been restored to its former glory, the network is running smoothly, and all he appears to be doing is handling IT questions on a case-by-case basis. I casually asked Cole if he knew Eli’s plans, and he told me Joseph Morgan said we could have him “as long as we need him.” What does that even mean?
What he’s most definitely not doing is acknowledging my offer, leaving me to wring my hands like a silly schoolgirl, wondering whether or not he’ll show on Saturday, and if I’m an idiot for wanting him to.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He’s not coming.
This is the worst. I wasn’t brave enough to wear my White Sox gear to Angel Stadium, opting instead for a tank top, jeans and a ponytail. I optimistically bought two beers when I arrived, shooed three people away from the empty seat beside me, and dejectedly drank the second warm beer in the top of the fourth.
The fans are out in full force today, and the Angels are reminding everyone why they have an eight-game lead in the division. They’ve already hit three home runs and lead the game 7—2. The heat and the beer make me a little maudlin—okay, fine, maybe it’s the combination of it being my birthday and being stood up—and since I’ve never been one to dwell on a losing cause, I promise myself I can go home if I stick it out one more inning.
The Angels chase the White Sox starter, and now Mendez, the relief pitcher Eli thinks needs to improve his slider, takes the mound. I watch him warm up, feeling more than a little sorry for myself. I smile wryly when I see him throw the slider. I’m not an expert, but it looks good to me. And when he strikes out the first two batters using the pitch, I sit up a bit straighter.
The third batter triples and the catcher jogs out to talk to Mendez. “Come on,” I mutter as the next hitter, the Angels’ DH, steps up to the plate. Mendez retires him with a fly ball and I nod, satisfied. The easy inning seems to cheer the White Sox players, who get four consecutive hits in the top of the fifth, cashing in three easy runs. Mendez holds the Angels in the bottom of the inning, and the 7—5 game is suddenly a lot more interesting.
I’m seated in the middle of the row, the murmur of the crowd loud enough that he’s two chairs away before I hear Eli’s firm, “Excuse me. Excuse me, please.” I whip around to see him approach, meeting my eyes for a second before he folds himself into the seat beside me.
“You came,” I say dumbly.
He’s got a bottle of water in his hand, and he twists off the lid and drinks deeply before responding. To an onlooker it might seem like he’s just making me wait, or completely ignoring me, but I know he’s choosing his words. I just hope they’re the ones I want to hear.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
What?
I turn back to the game, more than a little taken aback. Perhaps wishing he’d simply show up was too simple a wish. I order myself not to dwell on this—if he’s come out merely to punish me, I’m not up for it. I’ve already apologized for the phone incident, and enough is enough. I can’t keep paying for my crimes—or Stella’s.
Fortunately the game is a nail-biter, the score jumping back and forth until a breathless top of the ninth leaves the White Sox with a one-run lead. The Angels fans are on their feet in the bottom of the inning, cheering on the heart of the order as they get two runners on with two out. I’m on my feet for an entirely different reason, anxiously hoping the White Sox defense can hold them, then ready to zip out the opposite end of the aisle no matter the outcome, because despite my best effort, I’m painfully aware that Eli is both mere inches and a million miles away.
The batter gets hold of a fastball on the outer part of the plate, hitting a deep fly ball to the left field corner. Fans are screaming, the players are rounding the bases...and the left fielder comes out of nowhere to make a diving catch. G
ame over. White Sox win. The deflated fans are in a hurry to leave and I snatch up my bag to join them, halting when Eli’s fingers encircle my wrist to keep me in place. I peer back at him and he looks at me, gaze obscured behind his sunglasses, then sinks into his seat without releasing my arm. After a second I take my seat, and we sit there, not speaking, as the stadium empties.
Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he says, “Happy birthday.”
I’m so startled by the words all I can muster up is a stupefied “Oh.”
His lips curl slightly, recognizing my surprise. “Yeah. Oh.”
And then nothing.
“Eli,” I begin, prepared to tell him I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been hoping desperately for some sort of merry reunion, but this in-between, this ridiculous relationship purgatory, is more than I can handle. I’ve never been in love before, and this is exactly why. It changes people. It makes you think about someone else instead of yourself, and you lose sight of who you are. It makes you happier than you knew possible, then fucking miserable. It’s not worth it.
“And I’m sorry,” he adds.
I blink. A grand total of seven words, and I can barely understand half of them. “What?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m sorry. For...Chicago.”
He’s been holding my wrist this whole time and now when I try to free myself, he lets me. “Which part?”
He scratches his jaw. “All of it?” he tries. “None of it? Just the middle? The end? The worst parts?”
“What are you doing here, Eli? Here at the game, here in LA? Why... Why are you doing this?”
He takes a deep breath. I watch his chest rise beneath his White Sox jersey, wait as he picks at an imaginary hangnail. “You were right,” he says eventually. “What you said before. I let what happened with Stella and what other people said about you influence how I felt.”
I open my mouth to interject, but he doesn’t stop.
In Her Defense Page 29
