by Penny Reid
I ultimately decided I would think about Martin, but not yet. I’d wait until I was at home, just in case thinking about Martin made me cry. Also, thinking about Martin often led me to compose music. I was not above exploiting my memories of him or the feelings associated with unexpectedly seeing his face in the crowd for my own purposes. I liked to think of it as channeling my angst.
Yes, thinking about Martin later with a blank sheet of music and boxes of wine and tissues was definitely for the best.
Furthermore, I decided Abram could enjoy a nice, long car ride all by himself. I was going to take the train.
I pulled on my jacket, hooked my bag over my shoulder, grabbed another Coke from the cooler, and left via the backdoor. I didn’t feel it necessary to leave a note; rather I would call Willis in the morning and apologize for flaking out.
I was ten steps from the backdoor when I saw him, or rather, the silhouette of him. The city lights were at his back, his face cast in total shadow.
I stopped. Everything stopped, or slowed, or suspended. It was a moment out of time, a singularity.
Then Martin moved and everything started again.
My heart slammed against my ribs, making me flinch and flush as he straightened away from the corner of the building. And I regretted my decision to postpone thinking about Martin. I should have sorted through my feelings inside, because now the momentum of my emotions choked me, leaving me defenseless. I couldn’t actually form words. Martin hovered at the end of the alley, waiting, like he expected me to speak first.
But what could he possibly want to hear from me? We were together for one week and we’d ended badly. I’d purposefully avoided all mention of him—online and elsewhere. Even so, I couldn’t help but know some details. Those details told me he’d withdrawn from college last semester and moved to New York. I guessed the rest—he was doing splendidly as a boy wonder venture capitalist.
Our mutual silence stretched and I grew certain he definitely expected me to break it, like we were in the middle of a conversation and it was my turn to speak, the ball in my court. Eventually it must’ve become obvious I wasn’t going to be the one to modify the state of our conversation inertia.
He cleared his throat as one of his hands came to his jacket and he touched the front of his coat.
“Parker,” he said. I felt the single word in my bones, though it sounded like a casual greeting. But it struck a chord because I never thought I’d hear his voice again.
I shifted on my feet, also cleared my throat, and tried to mimic his unaffected intonation. “Sandeke.”
Another long moment passed where neither of us made a sound or movement. It was a bizarre situation to find oneself in for many reasons, not the least of which was all the busy goings-on surrounding us—people rushing by on the sidewalk, cars and buses and taxis whizzing behind him. I heard and felt the subway beneath my feet, the muffled music behind me, horns blaring, sirens whining. But we were still and silent.
Then abruptly, walking toward me, he said, “Do you need a ride?”
I shook my head. “No. No, thank you.”
“I have a car. Do you live in the city?”
“No. I’m still in New Haven.”
“I see…”
He stopped, now some five feet away. His gaze traveled up then down my body and he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets, his exquisite eyes remote and guarded when they landed on mine. I could see him clearly now beneath the light of the alley, and what I saw made my chest ache with the unfairness of him. I couldn’t help but devour his features, recommitting his face, both familiar and unfamiliar, to memory.
He looked older, more like a man, and there was a new hardness in his face. He also might have been an inch taller, or maybe not. Perhaps he just carried himself differently. I didn’t know how it was possible, but he felt even more imposing than he had before, and the gulf between us felt wider than ever.
This was hard. My heart hurt.
I thought I’d matured, grown from a repressed girl into a woman with an adequate amount of aplomb, worldliness; but I could see now that I still had a long way to go. Or perhaps I was always going to be part doofus. Perhaps it was in my genetic makeup to be a perpetual kid. Just standing near him made me feel like an imposter, like a poser trying to play grown up.
He was inspecting me. I could see the calculating gleam in his eyes; I was a problem that needed to be solved. I felt the heavy heat of embarrassment surge uncomfortably from my chest to my neck. Old Kaitlyn raised her hand and suggested I should hold very still and close my eyes until he got the message and left me alone, or thought I’d transformed into a large rock or a living statue.
Old Kaitlyn sure was a nut.
Whereas new Kaitlyn suspected that the chances of making it through the next ten minutes without bursting into tears were about three percent. New Kaitlyn was also very frustrated because she wanted to be over Martin Sandeke. She wanted to be able to see him without becoming an emotional pendulum.
However, both new Kaitlyn and old Kaitlyn wanted nothing to do with drama or angst or unwinnable arguments. I was over being a hot mess and wallowing. I had no idea why he was here, but every instinct told me to extract myself as soon as possible if I wanted to avoid future pitiful behavior.
I decided to embrace new Kaitlyn’s frustration. Old Kaitlyn’s suggested antics would get me nowhere. Whereas I could channel frustration into something useable, maybe even transform it into false bravery.
“Well, I’ll see you around.” I gave him a flat smile, thankful the alleyway was dim because it would mostly hide the impressive blush burning my cheeks, nose, forehead, and ears.
I moved as though to walk past him, and he quickly countered by stepping to the side, blocking my path. “Do you want to get a drink?”
“Oh, no thanks. I have a drink.” I held up my Coke as evidence, trying to keep my voice steady and polite.
The corner of his mouth tugged to the side. “I meant, do you want to go somewhere to drink? Coffee?”
My eyes cut to his. “What about your date?”
“What about her?”
“Well, would she come with us?”
His gaze searched mine. “Would you be more or less likely to say yes if she did?”
This question hurt my heart and sounded like a riddle, so I ignored it. “Nah, I have work in the morning and I’m pretty tired.”
“Work? Another show?”
“No.” I pressed my lips together, not wanting to admit I was basically restarting college in the spring, and worked as a singing barista at the Bluesy Bean. But then I decided I was being a ninny and had nothing to be ashamed of. Martin had always been meant for a different world than mine. We were opposites, we always had been, always would be.
I lifted my chin and glanced beyond him as I explained, “You know that coffee shop with the blue bean hanging over the door? The one next to the row of bars on Crown Street?” I forced myself to meet his gaze again, adding, “Well, I work there now. I’m one of the singing baristas.” I was pleased I was able to admit this without a fresh wave of embarrassment. As well, my voice sounded conversational and entirely normal.
His eyebrows furrowed, transforming his achingly handsome face into a sexy scowl. “You’re working at a coffee shop? Why?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “Why do people work? To make money.”
“Did your mother cut you off? After—”
I interrupted him, not wanting to hear what came after after. “No. Not at all. Nothing like that. I just—”
I stopped myself from explaining, abruptly wondering why we were talking at all. What was the point of this exercise in masochism? I had a nine-month-old wound that felt remarkably fresh. A dull ache had set up camp in my chest and was expanding, inflating to my throat, and pressing against my ribs.
“Listen.” I sighed as I glanced beyond him again, my eyes beginning to sting. Now that the shock was wearing off, looking at him was becoming increasingly difficult. �
��I need to go. I have a train to catch.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No, thank you.”
“Parker, let me drive you.”
“No.”
“Why not?” he asked quietly, sounding less pushy than curious.
I was about to respond with the truth, that being around him made me feel like I’d made no progress over the last nine months; that I was at a minimum infatuated with him if not still completely in love with him; that I had no desire to cry in his car. I had no desire to cry anywhere ever again.
But we were interrupted by the sound of a door closing, sauntering footsteps, and Abram tossing his arm over my shoulder.
I glanced up at my bandmate, confused by his sudden closeness. “Because she already has a ride,” he drawled.
CHAPTER 2
Acid-Base Equilibria
It took my brain five stunned seconds to engage and realize the ramifications of Abram’s appearance and announcement. In the sixth second I pushed Abram off and away.
First of all, the implication was clearly that we were together.
In order to clarify, I announced loudly, “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not dating.”
Secondly, Martin was no longer looking at my face; he was looking at the spot where Abram’s hand had rested on my shoulder.
And thirdly, my life was officially a cliché. I wondered if there were some unseen director just around the corner saying things like, Okay, cue the new love interest. That’s right, we want him to walk onto the scene at the worst possible moment.
“But you still want me to give you a ride?” Abram asked, his tone chock full of zealously good-natured solicitousness.
“No. I don’t want a ride. I don’t want any rides. No rides for this girl.” I pointed to myself with my thumbs, burning a brighter shade of red.
Martin’s eyes flickered to mine and narrowed. I was being scrutinized.
Abram chuckled and nudged me flirtatiously with his elbow. He turned his smile to Martin. Martin was not smiling.
“Hi. I’m Abram. Katy’s bassist.”
I shook myself and realized I’d made no introductions. “Right. Martin, this is Abram. He plays bass in the band. Abram, this is…Martin.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Martin,” Abram said, like it truly was a pleasure and offered his hand.
Martin’s glare focused on the offered hand—the same hand that had seconds ago rested on my shoulder—then he lifted his gaze to Abram’s. He reached forward and accepted Abram’s hand for a shake. It was one of those weird, man handshakes that last too long, and where the hands turn a little white at the knuckles.
After several seconds I couldn’t take it any longer. This was Martin Sandeke, grand Jedi Master of the short-tempered fist fight. Ye Martin of old never needed a reason to lose his temper. Granted, I hadn’t seen him in almost nine months. But the last thing I needed was Abram with a busted jaw or—worse—a hurt hand. Willis might never forgive me.
So I reached forward, pulled them apart, and tugged Martin toward the street. “Aaaand we’re done. Martin, would you be so kind as to drive me to Grand Central station?”
“You’ve got an impressive grip for such a pretty stockbroker,” Abram yelled after us.
“I’m not a stockbroker, asshole.” Martin’s voice was low and belied the intensity of his irritation; I could feel hesitation in his steps, like he wanted to turn around and show Abram the meaning of an impressive grip, so I linked my arm through his and increased my pace.
Abram’s laughter followed us as far as the street and I turned right even though I had no idea where his car was parked. Being so close to him was disconcerting and set my heart racing. We made it to the end of the block before Martin used my hold on his arm to stop us and pull us to the corner, out of the pedestrian traffic.
“Where are you going?”
I released him and took a step back, grateful for the space. “I don’t know. I just wanted to get you away from Abram.”
Martin’s gaze swept over my face. “Why? Does he bother you often?”
“No, not at all. He’s fine, and we get along fine. I think he was just trying to be helpful, in his own weird way.”
He was still scrutinizing me as he shifted a step closer. “You two...ever…?”
I released a pained sigh when I understood what he was asking, deciding the evening had taken a sharp turn in the direction of completely preposterous. I closed my eyes, fought the urge to cover my face.
I won. I didn’t cover my face. But I did take a minute to collect myself before saying, “That’s none of your business. You said you didn’t mind giving me a ride to the station.” I opened my eyes but didn’t manage to lift my gaze above his chin. “Will you please take me to Grand Central station so I can catch the train home?”
I could tell he wanted to say more, he wanted to yell, scream, and rage, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the implications of his short fuse, why he might be angry. I reminded myself that this was Martin Sandeke, who always expected people to jump when he said so, who’d never had a problem yelling at females and males and turtles and grass and furniture. I braced for his tantrum.
Instead he took a deep breath, silent but visible in the rising and falling of his chest, and nodded. “Yes. It would be my pleasure to give you a ride to the station.”
I squinted at him, at his oddly polite words and tone. “Martin…?”
“Parker.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to say before we’re within the confines of your automobile? Anything loud perhaps?”
He shook his head and pulled his leather gloves out of his coat pocket, his tone soft, gentle even. “You should wear these. It’s cold.”
“You want to say something. What is it?”
“Weren’t you the one who always told me…”
Martin reached for one of my hands and I lost my breath when his skin came in contact with mine. I’m not going to lie, my pants went a little crazy, and my heart did a flip then thumped uncomfortably—all signs I was still intensely in lust with him. He hesitated, his thumb drawing a gentle line from my wrist to the center of my palm, then he slid the large glove over my fingers with more care than necessary. They were warm from his pocket.
When he’d slipped both gloves in place he lifted his bewitching eyes and finished his thought. “I can’t always have what I want.”
***
The car ride lasted less than fifteen minutes and was spent in wordless silence. Of note, it was also spent in a super fancy luxury automobile. I didn’t know the make or model, but the dials were in Italian, the seats were buttery-soft leather, and when he accelerated it made a really satisfying vroooom sound.
I’m not ashamed to admit I took off one of the gloves just so I could caress his taut…leather seats.
When we arrived at the station I turned to him, taking off the second glove, and said benignly, “Thank you for the ride.”
He gave me his profile as he nodded, his tone casual and polite. “No problem, any time.”
Confused by his weird politeness, and feeling remarkably empty though my heart had set up camp in my throat, I placed his gloves on the armrest between us and opened the door to leave.
Then he said, “I read The Lord of the Rings.”
I paused, my car door half open, and twisted to face him. “You did…?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat then met my stare; his was guarded, bracing. “I did.”
“What did you think?”
“It was good…” Martin’s eyes lost focus and moved to the headrest next to my face. “Slow at first. I thought they were never going to get out of that Hobbit village.”
“Ah, yes. It only took them ten thousand pages and three thousand verses of elf songs.”
He smirked. “Give or take a thousand.”
I smiled, glanced down at my fingers where they twisted the strap of my bag.
I was surprised he’d read it and wasn’t sure what it
meant, if it meant anything. I was still pondering this revelation when his next words shocked the heck out of me.
“I don’t think Frodo was responsible for the destruction of the ring.”
My gaze jumped to his and I found Martin watching me attentively, again as though he was scrutinizing me. I struggled with my bewilderment for several seconds at his referencing our conversation from so many months ago.
Finally I managed to sputter, “You…you think Sam is ultimately responsible then?”
“No,” he answered thoughtfully and then paused; he seemed to be memorizing my expression before continuing. “I think one couldn’t have done it without the other. I think Frodo needed Sam as much as Sam needed Frodo, maybe even more.”
I don’t know why, but my eyes misted over even though I wasn’t in danger of crying.
I gave him a soft smile, letting him see my pleased astonishment, and agreed quietly, “I think so, too.”
We stared at each other and I felt something pass between us. I surmised it was closure because it felt peaceful and good. We’d shared a beautiful week. Because of him I was on a new path, a path I loved. He’d woken me up, even if I was kicking and screaming the whole time, and even if it broke my heart in the process.
Maybe we weren’t meant for each other, but I finally realized that our time together wasn’t a waste. It changed me and I would always be grateful to him for that, even if we’d parted under painful circumstances.
“Thank you,” I said suddenly, breaking the moment.
“For what?”
I realized I couldn’t say, Thank you for waking me up to my passion without sounding wacko, so instead I said, “For reading the book, I guess. And for the ride to the station.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder, my hand landing on the door to push it farther open.
“Right.” He swallowed, glancing behind me. “You’re welcome.”
“I should go.”
“Right.” He nodded, giving me a flat smile and his profile.
“Goodbye, Martin.”
I paused for a second, waiting for him to say goodbye, but he didn’t. His jaw was set and his eyes were studying his rearview mirror. So I opened the door all the way and climbed out of his fancy car, shut it, and turned to Grand Central station.
