by Penny Reid
He needed a friend, someone who truly cared about him.
I still cared about him a great deal. I was maybe (definitely) in love with him. So shouldn’t that mean I wanted what was best for him? Shouldn’t I want to see him happy? Even if we didn’t find happiness with each other?
I let my palm press against his cheek for a few more seconds before drawing slowly away, and I made a decision. I was going to give our friendship a real chance, and not just use it as a way to get over Martin Sandeke. He deserved better than that. He deserved human kindness and consideration.
I was going to shelve my persistent feelings of romantic attraction and be a good friend to him. I was going to be his safe place, the friend he needed.
CHAPTER 6
Periodic Properties of the Elements
My phone alarm announced the end of happiness (sleep). It was obscenely early in the morning. For a moment I was confused by my surroundings, but then I remembered whose apartment I was in and the happenings of the last twenty-four hours. This served to wake me up quite effectively.
It was still dark outside. My first show for the day was at a fancy tree-trimming party in a penthouse not far from where Martin lived. It would be just Fitzy and me, and for that I was grateful. I wasn’t ready to discuss rebound guys with Abram, or heroin as a viable life choice with Janet.
Tossing the covers to one side and grabbing my clothes, I planned to tiptoe to the bathroom as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake Martin at this ungodly hour.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry about waking him because he was already up and leaving his room just as I exited mine. But he was dressed in workout clothes whereas I was still in pajamas. He didn’t see me at first because his attention was on his phone.
“Martin,” I whispered—as I was prone to do early in the morning when regular speaking volume is blasphemous—wanting to get his attention before we collided in the hall.
He lifted his eyes, frowning as though he were confused by my presence, and took a step back. “What are you doing up so early? Did I wake you?”
“I have a show.” I indicated with my chin to where I held my tuxedo.
“Ah.” His gaze skimmed over me, probably taking in my sleepy and rumpled appearance.
I decided then and there that something about the way he looked at me would always make me feel awkward. It wasn’t his fault. It was just him being Martin: the shade and intensity of his eye color paired with the brilliance and acumen behind his gaze; the sharpness of his bone structure; his towering height; the graceful line of his form and movements—he couldn’t help causing my self-consciousness any more than I could help the reaction.
I made a decision to just accept it rather than fight it. Maybe if I accepted that my body would respond to him no matter what my head and heart might prefer, then I would be able to move beyond the sensations until they felt commonplace.
“You’re off to work out?” I asked unnecessarily, still whispering.
“Yeah. I meet a few guys at the Hudson boathouse and we try to get in a few thousand meters before breakfast. The river isn’t frozen yet, so we still have a few weeks. Why are you whispering?”
I cleared my throat, managed to lift my voice slightly, though it was still low and sandpapery from sleep. “I don’t know. I just always do this early in the morning. It’s like my ears aren’t ready for sound yet.”
This made his mouth curve into a small smile. He walked slowly forward until he was standing between me and the bathroom. Martin leaned against the hallway wall and peered down at me.
“I know what you mean.” His answering voice was soft, low, rumbly, and delicious. Again, I allowed the sensations of being close to him in a dark, small space and speaking with him in low, intimate tones wash over me. Accelerated heart rate, warming cheeks, fluttery stomach. No use fighting it.
I tried to redirect the conversation back to him and his morning routine. “So, you’re still rowing? That’s great.”
He nodded, his eyes on mine, but he appeared to be distracted, torn. “I could…I mean, I could cancel if you want company this morning.”
“But if you cancel how will they row the boat? Doesn’t every seat need to be filled?”
“Technically they need an even number of rowers. So, most of them—six plus the coxswain—would be able to go, but someone might have to sit out.”
“Then go row your boat. Don’t worry about me. I have to leave soon anyway.”
Martin glanced at his phone again. “I can stick around for another ten minutes. Come out here.” He motioned for me to follow as he pushed away from the wall and walked past me. “I’ll make you coffee and I have muffins.”
I watched his back while I considered this offer, and followed him into the kitchen. I deposited my clothes on the couch as we passed. He was being awfully solicitous, maybe he wanted to talk about the Emma situation.
“Is ten minutes enough time for me to ask you my questions about yesterday? What happened with your business partner?”
He shook his head, giving me his profile as he fiddled with the coffee machine. “No. No—I do want to talk to you about all that—but we don’t have enough time this morning. I don’t,” he paused, apparently struggling over his word choice, “I don’t want to be rushed. A lot has happened and ten minutes isn’t enough time to explain everything. What’s your schedule today? Could we have lunch?”
“Not unless your office is in Harlem. I have a gig up there all afternoon. Dinner?”
“No.” He frowned, turning to face me while he leaned against the counter, the coffee machine coming to life. “I have a dinner meeting tonight until late.”
“Well, I’ll be here all week. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to catch up at some point.”
He appeared to be a tad frustrated; it was plain irritation at the situation, not irritation with me.
“Thanks for the break last night. But I want to know what’s been going on with you. What have you been up to? What have you been doing? Any big changes?”
I gave him a half smile. “You mean any big changes I can adequately summarize in eight minutes or less?”
“Yeah. Good point.” His grin was surprising because it was somewhat self-deprecating. Self-deprecating at 5:05 a.m. looked really adorable on Martin Sandeke.
But then, that was the crux of my problem. To me, every smile looked good on Martin Sandeke. Every expression, anytime, anyplace. I simply adored his face because—despite our history and his past assholery—I still adored him.
“Well, I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes version then we can discuss in greater detail later, sound good?”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Okay, let’s see.” I sorted through the last nine months, filtering out the epic sob-fests, chronic melodramatic closet visits, and angry acoustic guitar music. “Sam and I moved off campus at the beginning of the summer. I auditioned for the band in July. I decided to change my major around the same time and take a semester—the fall semester—off school so I could audition for the music program.”
For some reason, the fact I’d switched majors felt like a really momentous proclamation, especially saying it out loud to Martin. I slid my eyes to the side to gage his reaction and I found him grinning at me.
“That’s,” he started, stopped, looking a tad overwhelmed. He leaned away from the counter and crossed to stand in front of me. “That’s fucking awesome news!”
I laughed, partly as a release of nervous energy and partly because his voice was much louder and he sounded so excited for me. Really, he sounded ecstatic.
“Thank you.” I dipped my head to the side, feeling a bit too pleased by his reaction.
“Really, this is great.” He was beaming with happiness, his smile now enormous. Obviously unable to help himself, Martin grabbed me from where I loitered at the entrance to the kitchen and pulled me into a tight hug.
I laughed at his effusive display of excitement and wrapped my arms around h
is waist. “Yeah, well, I know I want to play music and I know I love to compose, but I’m not sure what I want to do exactly.”
He leaned away, his hands shifting to grip my arms above the elbows, seemingly wanting to see my face as I relayed the rest of my thoughts.
“Do I want to teach? Write for record labels? Score soundtracks? I have no idea.” My stomach twisted with unease; my mother would be asking me about performing at her fundraiser and benefit again as soon as the holidays were over. Eventually I would have to make a decision.
Martin mistook my grimace of anxiety for nerves about switching my major, and said, “But you’ll make a lot of good contacts in the school of music, people who can help you figure out what to do next. Don’t hesitate to exploit them for their knowledge.”
“Yes. Exactly. I like the idea of expert unbiased input.”
His smile widened again as his gaze skated over my face, his eyes were positively glittering. “That’s a very Kaitlyn Parker thing to say.”
Of course I returned his smile, his happiness for me was heady and infectious. “So you mean it was an awesome thing to say?”
“Exactly.”
His coffee maker beeped or chimed or made some odd musical notation to announce that my coffee was ready. The sound was very official. Martin didn’t release me immediately and for a second I thought he might pull me back into another hug. Instead he sighed—a happy sounding sigh—and let go, moving to a cabinet and grabbing a coffee cup.
“You know, we should go out and celebrate.”
“Celebrate my switch in majors?”
“Yes. And hopefully other things, too.”
“Like what other things?”
He placed the cup on the counter in front of me, looking a bit distracted, pensive.
He hesitated before answering, but when he did his eyes were sharp and sober, and his tone told me he was a smidge frustrated. “It might speed things up if you read some of the interviews I’ve given over the past few months. Then when we have time this week to talk you’ll know…everything.”
“Sure. Fine. That makes sense.” I nodded, sipped my coffee.
This seemed to both relax him and stress him out. I watched him gather a deep, bracing breath. “Good,” he said, sounding like maybe me reading the interviews was both good and bad. Abruptly he pulled out his phone and frowned. “I’m late. I have to go.”
“Okay.” I gave him a reassuring smile because he seemed to need it. “I’ll see you later.”
Martin loitered, just looking at me, his expression unreadable. Again I experienced an involuntary reaction to his looking. And again I just accepted my body’s flutterings and warmings as one of life’s truths.
Then Martin nodded once, turned, and left.
He just…left, the sound of the apartment door shutting punctuating his abrupt departure.
I stood in the kitchen for a full minute staring at the doorway where he’d disappeared so unceremoniously. He hadn’t said goodbye.
The longer I stared the more the early morning silence felt harsh and loud, so I gave myself a mental shake—deciding he must’ve been in a hurry—and crossed to the counter where I spied the aforementioned box of muffins.
Grabbing one—and my coffee—I decided that now was a good time to start reading the interviews he’d mentioned. Now that I had food and caffeine, I didn’t need the extra time I’d allotted to secure both before my gig nearby. I left my breakfast on the kitchen table and returned with my laptop, figuring I had a good twenty minutes of reading before I absolutely had to take my shower.
I bit into my delicious banana nut muffin, pulled up my Internet browser, and typed Martin Sandeke interview into the search field.
What popped up made the delicious muffin in my mouth taste like sand.
Picture after picture of Martin and a redheaded woman wallpapered the results page—a very pretty, petite, smiling redheaded girl about my age or a little older. She was always smiling, either at him or the camera. The photos dated as far back as August and as recently as three weeks ago.
They looked so pretty, the two of them, so young and vibrant and suited.
My heart thundered between my ears and I forcefully shut my laptop, blinking rapidly at nothing in particular. This wasn’t like seeing him briefly with the brunette at my show last week. This was very different. All those feelings I’d been trying to avoid for the past nine months, the fear of irrefutable evidence that he’d moved on, seeing Martin with someone else, were finally realized and made my chest feel vice-grip-tight.
And yet, as I sat there, having my freak out, calming my breathing, and staring at nothing, a little voice reminded me that he’d texted me the day before and stated he didn’t have a girlfriend. He wouldn’t have lied to me, not when it would be so easy for me to discover the truth. And besides, Martin hadn’t ever knowingly lied to me before, he wasn’t a liar.
Perhaps she was a friend. A really good friend. A friend who he’d been photographed with a lot, since August. A friend he saw all the time.
Then another little voice asked me why it mattered, because he and I were over. And that little voice made me immeasurably sad.
I briefly contemplated opening the laptop and continuing my search. But instead, I decided I didn’t have time to contemplate Martin, the pretty redhead, and my jumbled feelings on the matter and still make it to work on time. I could always go back to the search later if I was feeling brave enough.
I gulped my coffee and threw the muffin away, then grabbed my laptop and clothes from where I’d discarded them earlier. I had all morning to consider my next course of action. There was no need to make myself late.
***
The tree-trimming party was fine.
I spent the entirety of the three sets obsessing about the pictures of Martin and the redheaded girl. But the time obsessing was ultimately productive as I came to the conclusion that I was definitely not ready to read his interviews or see the pictures. I knew my limitations, and seeing Martin happy with someone else—even if he didn’t have a girlfriend now and they weren’t together anymore—was not in my wheelhouse. Not yet.
I had no desire to read about his relationship status via the Internet.
I decided that my questions about his business partner and her insinuations, as well as my new questions about the girl in the pictures, would just have to wait until Martin and I found the time to talk. I felt good about this decision. Less ragey—ragey because I couldn’t think of an equivalent real word to describe what I was feeling—and flustered. More in control of my mental state.
The show in Harlem with the entire band was also fine.
Although things between Janet and me were still frosty. Willis called us on it and wanted to know what happened. I think she expected me to air her dirty laundry—telling him about the drugs and her druggie friends—but I didn’t.
Instead I told Willis that she and I were having a disagreement about whether Jimi Hendrix or Jimmy Page was the most influential guitarist of the modern rock era.
He said he understood, as we both had good points, but that we needed to work through our differences like a knife cutting peanut butter…or mayonnaise…or something else that didn’t make any sense. He really had the nuttiest analogies.
Once he walked off, Janet turned her glower back to me, but it wasn’t quite as hostile. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“You know what.”
“Why would I? It’s none of my business. You want to ruin yourself, that’s your business. But I don’t have to watch you do it.”
Her glower softened into a suspicious glare. “Why are you so weird about this stuff? Did something happen to you?”
“No. But the fact you think I’m being weird because I have no tolerance for heroin is a bit distressing. The truth is, I have very little patience for people who choose to waste their potential and destroy themselves in the process.”
“Hmm…” The glare melted
away, leaving only an uncomfortable frown. “See now, I completely disagree. Heroin helps me see the world differently, it opens up my mind. It makes me feel free. It doesn’t destroy me, it improves me.”
I shrugged noncommittally, because her words sounded crazy. I’d never done drugs, so I couldn’t comment with any authority on her personal experience. Plus we had fifteen minutes until show time; now was not the time to point out all the extensive research that proved heroin destroyed peoples’ lives. Plus, you know, it kills people.
Instead I pulled my bowtie from my bag, excusing myself to the ladies’ room. I could have affixed my bow tie in the backstage area, but Abram had just entered and I found his presence highly distracting. And agitating. I was avoiding him.
He liked me. I knew that. His suggestions I get a rebound guy notwithstanding, I wasn’t so clueless that I could miss the giant neon sign he’d dropped on my head last Saturday. According to Abram, he’d been waiting for me to see him, to notice him.
The more I thought about his words, the more they reminded me of similar sentiments expressed by Martin in the past.
It occurred to me that perhaps I’d been so busy hiding, trying to keep myself from being seen, that I hadn’t been paying adequate attention to the world around me. I was the one who wasn’t seeing others clearly. Maybe I needed to stop focusing inward and start paying attention to what was in front of my face, starting with Abram.
I was never going to be a jump-in-feet-first, flash-the-Mardi-Gras-crowd-for-beads kind of girl. I knew it would take me some time to actually do anything about Abram. But I was now willing to entertain the possibility.
***
Yes, I was spending the week with Martin on an island. But that was basically where the similarities to our spring break week ended.
After our pre-dawn chat Wednesday, I saw him zero times over the next few days. When I woke up in the morning, Martin had already left. By the time I came home, Martin was either already asleep or not yet home. I hadn’t talked to him other than a daily exchange of handwritten notes.
