by Penny Reid
But it was undoubtedly frumpy. I did not like how I looked in it.
I decided to change into one of the outfits I’d bought earlier: a dark pair of (women’s) jeans, a fitted long-sleeved, red and white rugby-style shirt with Avogadro's number on the back. I thought this was hilarious.
The lady at the store didn’t know what Avogadro's number was, but she told me I wasn’t supposed to button the placket at the collar because it was meant to be a deep V-neck; she said that leaving it open would highlight my cleavage, that it was sexy.
I glanced down at my chest, saw that just the edge of my black bra was visible. I decided leaving it unbuttoned was, indeed, sexy. However, I also decided that buttoning just one button would make me more comfortable, so I did. Glancing in the mirror I assessed myself. I was comfortable, but I was not frumpy; I also felt good about how I looked instead of merely ambivalent. I liked that I could incorporate my inherent nerdiness into my new style. I liked it all.
I’d just started pulling my hair out of the braids when I heard the front door open.
My heart wanted to race like a contestant at the Kentucky Derby, but I yanked it back, taking several deep breaths. All of the floors in the apartment were wood and creaked, so I could hear Martin’s steps as he moved through the apartment. Satisfied I wasn’t going to act like a spazz, I walked calmly into the living room while I pulled my fingers through my hair.
“Hey,” I called, searching for him, “what kind of pizza did you get?”
“Who are you?”
I turned toward the sound of the voice—a British female voice—and found a beautiful woman dressed in an expensive black skirt suit, black high-heeled boots, and long wheat-colored hair, glowering at me.
“Oh, hi. I’m Kaitlyn. You must be Emma. We spoke on the phone earlier.” I reached my hand out to shake hers.
She glanced at my fingers like she was a vegan and they were greasy pork sausages. She didn’t shake my hand.
“How did you get in here?” Her irritation was obvious, and not just because she wouldn’t shake my hand. It dripped off her…she was leaking ire.
I let my hand drop and shrugged. “Through the front door.”
She gnashed her teeth. “Who let you in? Why are you here?” She was practically snarling.
“Whoa, just, calm down for a moment. There’s no reason to be upset.”
“I’m not upset!” She yelled this.
I widened my eyes and took a step back, holding my hands up between us. “Okay, my bad. You’re not upset. You always walk into other people’s apartments and yell at their guests. This must be a normal Tuesday for you.”
Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled into something like a snarl. “You are a dimwitted—”
And, thankfully, Martin chose that moment to walk in the door. “Emma? What the hell?”
We both turned our faces to him as he swept into the living room and deposited a large pizza box and a plastic bag on a table behind the sofa, then quickly crossed to stand next to me.
As usual, he was more than just a tall good-looking guy. He was a presence. A swirling, atmosphere changing force, a magnetized center of attention—or at least he was to me. I felt my heart do a few jumping jacks and I told it to sit still.
Emma took a step back as he approached. She swallowed, looking just a tad worried, and crossed her arms over her chest. I noted she was good at masking her nerves as she lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt.
“Really, Martin? Really? You think this is a good idea?”
“Emma.” He shook his head, his jaw set, and his eyes flashed a warning. “It’s none of your business.”
“Your business is my business, and she is bad for my business.” Emma indicated to me with a furious wave of her hand.
Well, this was awkward. I thought about slowly backing away. To that end, I furtively glanced behind me to see how successful I might be sneaking out of the room without either of them noticing.
“You’re going, now. And leave the key.” Martin’s tone was low, monotone. Yes, he appeared to be angry; more than that he appeared to be disappointed.
“If I don’t have a key, how am I supposed to pick up your planning documents for the foundation? How about your sketches?”
She said sketches like most people say poop. I surmised she was not a fan of his sketches.
“We’re not talking about this now because you’re leaving.”
Her brow pulled low and she hesitated for a bit, searching his face before asking, “Does she even know what you did for her? What you gave up? Did you tell her? Is that why she’s here?”
I turned my attention back to the argument, and again my eyes widened. I stared at Emma, really looked at her, and I realized she wasn’t jealous, not in a love interest, girl longing for a guy kind of way. Rather, she was extremely frustrated—and definitely jealous—but for a different reason.
Martin drew himself straighter, his face stone and his eyes unyielding icicles. “You need to leave before I sever our partnership, because we’ve already had this discussion, you’re too fucking stubborn to listen, and now you’re really pissing me off.” He was furious and his voice was beginning to lift. I remembered facing his temper and I could see he was close to losing it now.
Emma coolly studied him for a long moment. “Fine. I’ll leave.” She reached into the satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled out a ring of two keys. “Here is your key.” She held it to him and he took it out of her hand.
Her eyes slid to mine and her gaze narrowed as she spat, “You are selfish. But worse, you are naïve and ignorant and stupidly obstinate—just like your mother.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but it didn’t matter because she’d already turned on her heel and marched out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.
Martin and I stood perfectly still for several seconds. I was trying to wrap my mind around everything that had just happened and the odd verbal exchange I’d witnessed. I arranged my questions in order from most pressing to simple curiosities, and turned to Martin to gauge his mood.
His mouth was curved into a decisive frown and he was staring at the spot where Emma had just been standing.
I gathered a deep breath, preparing to pose the first of my questions, when he turned toward me. His eyes, how they moved over me, made my breath and words catch in my throat.
“You look different,” Martin said, his attention on my hips, moving to my thighs then back up to my stomach, breasts, neck, lips, then hair. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked appreciative of the changes in my wardrobe. “What’s different about you?” This question was softly spoken and teasing.
I shrugged, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I don’t know. I’m using a different moisturizer for my face now.”
His gaze met mine and narrowed. “That’s not it.”
“I switched from Crest to Colgate.” I showed him my teeth.
“No.” He smirked.
“My hair is longer.”
“Maybe…”
I lifted an eyebrow at him and wondered if he were stalling, trying to distract me from the issues at hand—such as Emma’s mention of me being the reason Martin had given up…something big.
“Why don’t you tell me what your business partner meant when she said—”
Martin turned away, drawing his heavy coat from his shoulders. “Can we not talk about that tonight? Can we just…” I heard him sigh, “can we just hang out?”
“I don’t think so. I won’t be able to focus on anything else until you tell me what’s going on.”
My eyes moved over him as he walked to the entryway closet and hung up his coat. This left him in an exceptionally well-tailored, dark gray, three-piece suit. His tie was cobalt blue and matched his current eye color.
“Kaitlyn,” Martin paused, facing me, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his crisp business shirt, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”
Th
is admission made my insides flood with warmth and I marveled at how open he was with his thoughts, how fearless. I surmised our friendship would be similar to our previous courtship; I’d never have to wonder what he was thinking or feeling about me. He would be direct and honest.
In truth, I admired this about him. I wasn’t nearly as fearless. By comparison, and especially with him, I was a feelings and thoughts hoarder.
“I don’t want to talk about Emma or her constant nagging. I want to sit on the couch, drink a beer, eat pizza, and talk about shit that doesn’t matter—and laugh.”
He looked older than his twenty-one years; his suit was partially to blame. However, he also just looked tired—really, really tired. Upon further study I saw that his color was off, paler than before; his eyes were rimmed red, the dark circles beneath giving his face a drawn appearance. As well he was sporting a stubbly, late-afternoon beard.
I studied him, his obvious exhaustion, and felt like a compromise was in order. “Okay, fine. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
He gave me a grateful, and tired, half smile. “Good.”
I held up a finger and pointed it at him. “But once you’ve recovered from your day, and you’ve had your beer and eaten your pizza, and we’ve talked about things that don’t matter, we will discuss the meaning of the ominous and mysterious conversation with your partner.”
He’d removed his suit jacket and vest, and was now unbuttoning his cuffs. “Fine.”
“Fine. I’ll get plates.”
“And beer.”
“And napkins.”
He nodded once and stumbled toward the hallway. On his way he stopped directly in front of me, paused for a moment, then scooped me up in his arms and gave me a tight hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
I hesitated as I my chest had grown tight, confusing emotion momentarily choking me. I wasn’t expecting us to be hugging friends. But then I returned his embrace because…Martin.
And also because his arms around me were like chocolate chip cookies for my soul. He felt strong, sturdy, warm, snuggly, good, right—delicious.
Yet my heart ached for him, he sounded so weary.
“Are you okay? Is something going on?” I soothed my hand up then down his back.
“No, not the way you mean. Nothing serious. I just…” I felt him exhale and relax a bit more into my arms. “I just missed you.”
Gah! Right in the feels.
***
“That’s it. I’m going to make a list of all the TV shows you need to watch.” I was sitting cross-legged on his couch, facing him and resting my head on the back of the overstuffed sofa. Martin was sprawled on the other side, holding his beer on his stomach and fighting to keep his eyes open.
“I own the Sherlock Holmes books.”
“The BBC show is awesome. Have you read the books yet?”
“No.”
“Maybe try reading them.”
“I will. Didn’t I read The Lord of the Rings?”
“Yes. But Sherlock has maybe the best sidekick in the history of forever.” I glanced behind him and found the clock on the wall. It was almost 10:30 p.m.
This conversation—about books, movies, pop culture, international current events, Internet memes, and music—was entering its third hour, although it felt like we’d just started talking, like no time had passed.
“I liked Sam, Frodo’s sidekick,” he said, stretching his legs. He was dressed in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. I tried not to notice how delicious he looked. I tried and failed. His deliciousness paired with our easy conversation was somewhat intoxicating. I was feeling giddy.
“If you like sidekicks, then you have to watch Doctor Who.” I sipped my tea and studied the tea bag. “The Doctor has several companions, which is unusual but really works for the series.”
“I think you’re a sidekick person.”
“You think I’m a sidekick?” I glanced at him over the rim of my cup.
He peered at me. “No. I think you like sidekicks and side characters, maybe better than main characters.”
I thought about this for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I can see that. I feel like sidekicks aren’t as well developed as the main character in a story, but they’re essential in defining that main character. And the protagonist needs the sidekick more than the sidekick needs the protagonist. Sometimes the villain is just as important.”
He lifted his beer toward me and said before taking a sip, “But every sidekick and villain is the main character in his or her own story. Everyone is the main character in their own story. Even if the person is an asshole.”
This made me laugh. “Are you thinking of a person in particular?”
“No.” His eyes narrowed on me. I watched him take a deep breath, then amend, “Actually, yes.”
“Really? Who?”
“Do you remember Ben?”
I searched my memory and quickly registered the name. “Ben Salsmar, the drugging rapist,” I supplied. “Yes. Unfortunately, I do remember him. He’s responsible for the figurative potato sack of guilt I carry around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I should have gone to the police when we got back from the Island. Instead I… didn’t.”
“Kaitlyn, there is nothing you could have done about Ben. You need to free the potatoes.”
“I overheard at the end of last year that he was arrested for sexually assaulting a minor, and I might have done something before he had a chance to—”
“Well, that’s not exactly true. He didn’t sexually assault her because he was stopped before he could do anything beyond drugging her and dropping his pants.”
I felt an immediate warm relief spread through my veins.
Martin studied me before continuing, “Just know that you couldn’t have stopped him. It would have been your word against his, and you had no evidence. But did you hear anything else?”
“Just that there was video proof.”
“Yes, there is a video. Actually, there were a few videos, from several different vantage points. He was arrested for the drugging, assault, and attempted rape. He was also expelled once the video was shared with university administration.”
I hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Was he convicted?”
“He will be. A few of the guys on the team will testify. Plus there’s the videos. His dad tried to delay the proceedings and, because of the delay, a few other girls have come forward. As of now it looks like he’ll be facing more than one rape charge.”
I felt sickened by this news—that several girls had been abused—but also heartened they had come forward. “Well, that’s good, right?”
“Yes. That’s good.”
“Well…good. I’m glad he was stopped.”
“Me, too.” Martin stared at me for a long moment and I knew he wanted to say something more. I was just about to prompt him when he said, “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that night, when you came to the fraternity house and told me what he was planning.”
I gave him a half smile. “It’s no problem. Did you ever find out who the girl was?”
“No… but thank you,” he said solemnly. Then, he added just as solemnly, “I promised you I’d take care of him, and I wanted you to know I kept my promise.”
My left eyebrow lifted of its own accord. “You took care of him?”
His expression grew cagey. “Technically, he did it to himself. I just installed the cameras…”
I studied him, guessing he’d likely been more involved than just installing cameras.
Martin heaved a heavy sigh, settling deeper into the cushions of the couch. “Like I said, everyone is the main character in their own story. Even villains.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know… Not necessarily. I mean, sometimes the story is bigger than the characters, like Jurassic Park. The Park was really the central focus of the story, and all the characters were secondary to the Park. Their only purpose was t
o react to the Park.”
Martin yawned, set his now empty beer on the coffee table, and closed his eyes. “That’s because dinosaurs are awesome. We’re all sidekicks to dinosaurs.”
“Or dinner.”
“Or dinner,” he slurred, issuing me a sloppy nod.
I watched the rise and fall of his chest, noted he appeared to be completely relaxed. If I was very quiet I knew he’d be asleep in less than sixty seconds.
But the conversation—or confrontation—with his business partner earlier was still nagging at me. If he fell asleep I’d have to wait another day to get my questions answered.
“Sandeke,” I whispered. “Why does Emma dislike me so much?”
He shifted, his head lolling to the side, and heaved a sigh. “She doesn’t know you.”
“That’s why she doesn’t like me?”
“Yeah…if she knew…you…she’d…really like you.”
Aaaand he was asleep.
I studied him for a long moment, but knew I didn’t have the heart to wake him. He’d been so tired. As we talked I saw the tension ease from his shoulders. He needed a night off from whatever genius high-stakes shenanigans he’d been up to.
I set my tea on the coffee table, then remembered the blankets in the linen closet. I tiptoed to the hallway and grabbed one, laying it gently on his sleeping form and tucking it between his hip and the sofa cushions so it wouldn’t slip off. Standing back, I surveyed Martin. Unable to help myself, I threaded my fingers through the hair at his forehead and pushed it gently to one side.
He turned his head toward my hand, pressing against my lingering touch. The simple action, the way he instinctively sought affection and warmth made me smile sadly. I’d forgotten how lost Martin was, how completely used and abandoned he’d been by his family. In my own grief surrounding the breakup, I’d forgotten he didn’t have many friends, and trusted very few.
This made my heart hurt in a new way, one focused outward instead of inward, and I felt the weight of my childish selfishness.
