by Penny Reid
Impatient, I unzipped my pants and spread my legs. This time I imagined he was in the chair at the end of the bed; he could see me, all of me, and he was silently watching. Maybe he was dressed in his suit, his pants unzipped and open, stroking himself…
Aaaand, that did it. I came. And I had to turn my head into my pillow to keep from crying out. Though I continued the fantasy, envisioning that imaginary Martin had also reached his release and was holding my gaze as we came together.
I sobered relatively quickly, the experience leaving me spent but unsatisfied. I removed my hands from my body and turned away from the door. I pulled my shirt closed, tucked my knees to my chest and stared out the window overlooking Central Park, at the tall buildings with their twinkling lights in the distance.
A cold lump of nothing settled in my stomach. I finally understood why Abram had been trying to get me to consider a rebound guy.
A warm body. A soft touch. A gentle kiss and whisper. It would have made a difference. True, they wouldn’t have filled the void, but they would have softened the fall.
My chin wobbled and I tried to breathe normally. My eyes stung. I fought the urge to cry by biting my bottom lip fiercely, focusing on the voluntary pain I was inflicting with my teeth rather than the gaping hole in my chest that never showed signs of healing.
But then I started and tensed, because I heard the unmistakable sound of my bedroom door opening. I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut, thankful I now faced the window.
“Kaitlyn?” he whispered. Goosebumps raced over my skin at the sound of his voice, but I couldn’t speak.
Heck, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want him to see me. I felt certain if he saw my face, the front of my clothes, he’d know what I’d been doing. I didn’t want him to know. If he looked into my eyes he’d know I was still crazy for him. And if there was even a chance he’d look at me with pity, I didn’t want to see it.
So I said nothing.
I felt him move closer. He hovered at the edge of the bed. Martin set something on the side table…it sounded like a glass. My heart was hammering between my ears and I fixated on it, ignoring the urge to turn toward him and make a fool of myself, to tell him I didn’t care if he’d ever loved me. I loved him. I wanted him. I needed…
I was concentrating so hard that I flinched my surprise when I felt a blanket fall gently over my shoulders. My lids opened automatically, startled, and I found Martin standing in front of me, covering me with a duvet from the closet.
“Go back to sleep.” Again, he whispered this, his attention following the line of the blanket, perhaps to make sure I was completely covered.
But then his eyes moved to mine and our gazes collided, or at least it felt that way to me, like a head-on collision. His movements stalled then stilled. He looked surprised.
“What,” he started, stopped, then stared at me. He seemed confused by what he saw. “Are you still angry with me about Willis?”
I shook my head. “No. Just tired.” My voice was rough, uneven.
He frowned, lifted his chin slightly, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. His eyes moved over my body where it was now covered by the blanket and narrowed with obvious suspicion.
“What were you doing—”
I cleared my throat, interrupting him. “I’m tired. Goodnight, Martin.”
I turned my head into the pillow, my hair providing a concealing curtain. Especially right now, looking at him made everything harder, more painful.
He didn’t leave immediately. Several seconds ticked passed, my heart rising higher in my throat with each passing moment. But then I heard him leave—his feet on the wooden floor, the soft click of the door.
And for the first time in several months, I cried.
***
I waited until I heard Martin’s bedroom door close. After another ten minutes, I wrapped myself in a towel and tiptoed to the bathroom. My face was red and splotchy, and my eyes were itchy from my odd bout of tears. Standing under the hot spray of the shower did wonders for my peace of mind. I took my time washing my hair and soaping my body, feeling warm, soothed, and much calmer when I finally turned off the water.
Back in my bedroom I quickly dressed in yoga pants pajamas, one of my Death Cab for Cutie concert T-shirts that had been regulated to sleepwear, and my Abraham Lincoln socks. Just as I was climbing back into the bed my foot connected with something beneath it. I turned on the light and bent to peer under the mattress.
It was Martin’s stocking and presents. I’d completely forgotten about them in my sleepy—then aroused, then depressed—haze. I pulled them from their hiding place and flipped off the light switch. Clutching the gifts to my chest, I held my breath and listened for any sounds of movement coming from elsewhere in the apartment. As far as I could discern all was quiet.
Again, I tiptoed out of my room, this time intent on the fireplace. I figured I could hang his stocking somehow then put the rest of the presents on the hearth. But when I entered the living room I stopped short and my mouth fell open in surprise.
Martin had procured a tree.
It was a small, Charlie Brown type of tree, no larger than four feet tall. The baby tree was in a tin bucket draped in white lights, yet held no other ornamentation, not even a star at the top.
However, the tree wasn’t responsible for my paralysis. The reason why I was standing just beyond the hallway, still clutching Martin’s gifts, with an expression of shock and awe, was because of what the tree sat upon.
His unfussy Christmas tree rested on top of an antique Steinway upright piano. The piano had a huge red ribbon and a bow wrapped around it. I couldn’t move. It was the prettiest picture I’d ever seen. The little minimalistic tree, the classic piano with a big red bow, both sitting next to Martin’s gray stone fireplace in his warm, cozy, bookish living room. Windows on the other side of the fireplace showcased a snow-covered New York City beyond.
I felt like I was looking at an image in a magazine. If I’d seen this image in a magazine I would have paused on the page, maybe even ripped it out and filed it under my ideal life. I couldn’t move because I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay in this picture forever.
“What are you doing up?”
I yelped, jumped, and ungracefully twisted toward the sound of Martin’s voice, gulping in a large, shocked breath. I struggled to keep hold of the packages in my arms, having momentarily flailed and loosened my grip. Martin rushed forward, seeing I was just about to drop a box, and caught it with one hand while steadying me with the other.
“Oh my God, you scared me.” I closed my eyes, my heart hammering in my throat as the rush of adrenaline subsided.
His hand slipped from my waist to my shoulder, squeezing. “I thought you were tired.”
“I was. I mean, I am. But I was waiting for you to go to sleep.”
“I heard you take a shower so I couldn’t sleep.”
“You couldn’t sleep because I was taking a shower?”
He ignored my question and asked me instead, “Are you okay?”
I nodded, laughing a little, and peeked at him through one eye. “You just missed Santa Claus. He dropped this stuff off for you, but left in a huff when he found no cookies.”
He shrugged, giving me a brilliant smile. “Those bloody cookies are mine. Fat man needs a diet.”
This made me laugh harder, and we both ended up laughing together for several minutes. As the hilarity and enjoyment of our own jokes subsided, I caught Martin eyeing the presents in my hands.
“What’s all this?”
“Just some stuff I saw that I thought you might like.”
His gaze lifted, his smile growing softer as his eyes searched my face. He asked in wonder, “These are all for me?”
“Yes. But you weren’t supposed to know about them until morning. Congratulations, you’ve ruined Christmas.”
Martin pressed his lips together and gave me a look reminiscent of our time on the boat last spring, like I was per
fect and strange. “Technically, it’s already morning.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” I stepped forward and dumped the cornucopia of wrapped presents into his arms, “Merry Christmas, Martin.”
He accepted them gingerly, shifting to the side to make sure none of them fell. “Jesus, Kaitlyn!”
“That’s right, Jesus.” I nodded. “Jesus is the reason for the season.”
This only made him laugh again while he struggled to keep his grip. “I mean—help me carry all this stuff to the couch.”
Grinning at him, I took the boxes most precariously perched and turned for the couch, stumbling a little when I caught sight of the piano and tree again. A rush of uncertain happiness spread from my stomach to my extremities.
“Do you like it?” he asked from behind me, obviously noticing where my attention had snagged.
“Is it for me?” I asked, a rush of emotion — confusion, hope, hopeful confusion — making my throat tight.
I heard him deposit his stuff on the couch and felt the heat of his body directly at my back just before his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his cheek brushing against my temple.
“Of course it’s for you.” His voice was a rumble above a whisper.
I placed my hands on his forearms and squeezed, glad he couldn’t see my face because I was overwhelmed. My hopes and my questions were assembling themselves, trying to partner up so I could begin to understand what this gift meant. I had to clear my throat before speaking.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? It’s a piano. The guy tuned it yesterday and it’s all ready for you. You should play something.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to touch it. If I touched it then I’d want to keep it and nothing in this apartment was mine to keep. And when the time came for us to part, which felt inevitable, I would lose something.
No. The piano wasn’t mine any more than Martin was mine.
So I shook my head, clearing it of these maudlin thoughts, and decided to tease him instead. “You got me a piano for your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“So I have to visit in order to play it.”
“That’s the idea.”
“So it’s blackmail.”
“It’s an incentive.”
I let my head fall back on his shoulder and looked up at him. “It’s bribery at best.”
He grinned down at me. “It’s an enticement.”
“Don’t try to out-synonym me. Let’s settle on enticing extortion.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“But you don’t have to buy me a piano in order to ensure I’ll visit. Friends visit each other. If you want me to visit, just ask me.”
His arms tightened then let me go. I felt him draw away, heard him sigh quietly. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Are we going to finish this conversation?” I turned to watch him disappear.
“Yes. But I need some scotch to finish this conversation,” he called from the kitchen.
“Scotch? Are you drinking scotch?”
“Yeah. It’s good. You’d like it.”
“Monogrammed towels, business cards, fancy watches, corner office, and now scotch. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. Are you golfing now, too? Pretty soon you’re going to retire and move to Miami.”
He barked a laugh and reappeared with two glasses and two bottles of unlabeled red liquid.
“Fine. No scotch. How about sangria?”
“Oh! I’ll take sangria.”
I moved all of his presents to the center cushion of the couch and claimed one end while he poured us both a glass and settled on the other side. The sangria was really, really good. It didn’t even taste like it had alcohol in it, except maybe a little red wine.
I sipped mine.
Meanwhile, Martin gulped his then refilled his glass.
“So…” I peered at him while he studied his loot. “Like I said, just ask me to visit.”
“I will.”
“You don’t need to buy a piano.”
He took another gulp of his sangria then set it to the side. Selecting a box, he tore through the wrapping, and said offhandedly, “I know I don’t need to buy you a piano, but I like hearing you play—and more than that stuff you play in the band. I want to hear your music, the stuff you compose.”
He grinned as he discovered what was inside the wrapping paper and held it up. “I like this. I’m going to use this when I send you letters.”
It was the lazy fisherman desk set. My chest filled with warmth, the kind caused by giving someone a gift and seeing that they love it. Plus… letters from Martin.
“Open the rest.” I bounced in my seat, caught up in the excitement of opening presents, and tossed him the hobbit soap dispenser—but I surreptitiously held back the Stevie Wonder vinyl. I felt a little weird about the record. When he’d played Overjoyed for me on the boat, it felt like he’d been trying to communicate with me. But this record was just a record, right? Or maybe it wasn’t.
I pushed my anxiety away and took a large gulp of the sangria.
He dutifully opened his gifts, smiling and laughing and just generally having a fantastic time. I soaked it all up—the wonderful feelings and his expressions of happiness—storing it for later, hoarding it for when I would need the memory. I also drank two glasses of sangria, and began to suspect it contained quite a lot more alcohol than just red wine.
“The Princess Bride?” He opened the first few pages of the book, his eyebrow lifting in question.
“You’re going to love it. It’s full of awesome sidekicks and side characters, like a giant who rhymes, and man who is hunting another man who killed his father and has six fingers, and—”
“Isn’t this a movie?”
“Yes. They’re both great, but you should see the movie after you read the book. And look,” I leaned forward, flipping the pages back to the beginning and pointing to the swirling signature, “it’s signed by the author.”
I gave him a satisfied grin, which he returned. As I sat back in my seat I was feeling warm and a little dizzy, the sangria and lack of sleep was going to my head.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I’ll read this next. Then you’ll come over for pizza and we’ll watch the movie.”
“Sounds good.” For some reason this thought made me melancholy, a future that involved me visiting him in a few weeks to watch The Princess Bride.
With a silent sigh, I handed him his last present, feeling unaccountably nervous about the record, and grateful he’d suggested drinks before presents and conversation.
Part of me hoped that when he opened the gift he would see it merely as a record of a musician he liked. Another part of me hoped he would read more into it and tell me that he’d been wishing, too—but I wasn’t holding my breath. Martin wasn’t the wishing type. When he wanted something, he took it; or at least he was vocal about it.
If he wanted me still, then he would have done something, said something already. Therefore… not holding my breath.
He pulled back the paper, his big grin in place. Then his eyes moved over the front of the album and his grin fell away. He blinked at it. My blood pumped hot and thick through my veins and I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands. I didn’t hide though. Instead I braced myself, deciding I would take whatever came next like an adult.
He seemed to stare at the front of the record for an eternity, and when he did look at me, he lifted just his eyes. Something raw but also detached made his stare feel like a brand. He examined me. The air in the apartment shifted, became heavier, hotter.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, glancing away, his voice cool and calm. He set the record on the coffee table along with the other gifts.
I swallowed thickly and managed to croak, “What?”
“Do you regret what we did?” His gaze swung back to me, held mine as he pushed, “That
I was your first? The first guy you—”
“Engaged in gland to gland contact with?”
His grimace told me he didn’t like my word choice. But the phrase had slipped out in a poor attempt at protecting my heart, some instinctual need to keep the conversation from becoming too serious.
Martin corrected, “Made love with.”
I stared at him, giving my aching heart a moment to settle, wondering if I should be flippant or honest. In the end I decided on being flippantly honest, because sangria made me brave, but not brave enough to risk everything.
“No. No, not at all. I don’t regret it at all. First, you are quite handsome, you know. Hot even. I’ll never regret getting me some of all that.” I pointed at him then moved my index finger in a circle, making him laugh lightly and roll his eyes.
Reluctant, slightly embarrassed laughter looked damn good on Martin Sandeke.
“And secondly, you really seemed to know what you were doing, how to make things easier, better for me. Since I was going to lose my virginity at some point, of course I wanted to lose it to an expert.”
He stopped smiling then, the merriment in his eyes waned, and his mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a frown.
“And lastly…” I started, stopped, then decided to abandon being flippant and just be completely honest—however I kept my eyes fastened to my yoga pants.
“Lastly, I was in love with you. I wanted you—and not because of all that,” again I pointed to him with my index finger, moving it in a wagging circle, “but because I wanted you, Martin, and all that you were, and how you made me feel, and how I hoped I made you feel.”
I paused, gathered a breath for courage then met his gaze again, adding, “I wanted you.”
“I was in love with you, too.”
His words made me feel like someone had deflated all my birthday balloons. I gave him a flat smile, my eyes flickering away from his, but I said nothing, because I knew he’d never actually loved me. This knowledge was now bone-deep.
If he’d loved me then he would have chosen us over revenge.
If he’d loved me as I’d loved him, then he wouldn’t be feeling platonic indifference toward me now; he wouldn’t be able to settle for being my friend. He would be struggling as I was struggling.
