Gravity

by Liz Crowe

  She’d been told this in no uncertain terms for so long, the mere concept of someone—of Brock Fitzgerald—looking at her in any way but clinical was so crazy as to be unthinkable.

  But yet he had done. He did it a lot. The more time they spent going to meetings, eating lunches or dinners, getting comfortable in their ongoing razzing of each other, the more she would catch him outright staring at her.

  “What? I got a booger?” she’d ask.

  “No,” he’d reply. “I like admiring beautiful things.”

  “Oh, shut up and leave me alone,” she’d always respond.

  He’d smile, look away, and they’d resume whatever discussion they’d been having about a book they were reading, or a movie they’d like to see.

  She groaned and leaned forward, willing her food not to make an ill-timed reappearance.

  Brock—he was the star of most of her dreams lately, she’d admit to that. Dreams that would start one way—fun, and funny. Gentle, and kind. Sweet, and nice. Then he’d kiss her and she’d wake up screaming.

  She was beyond redemption. She ought to set him straight and end this useless flirtation that would go nowhere. It wasn’t fair to him, after all. He ought to feel free to find a normal woman. Someone he could kiss who wouldn’t scream. Someone he could… Could make love to, without worrying that she’d flip out and start cutting herself.

  With a sigh, she got to her feet, splashed some water on her face and opened the bathroom door, only to come face to face with Brock himself. He had his hand raised, as if about to knock. His eyes were full of concern. She stepped back, hand to her throat.

  The very air between them seemed to crackle with energy. But she had no frame of reference for it. Even though she’d had sex with more men than she would ever admit. She’d done awful things, things foisted on her as a child, encouraged by her as an adult in exchange for her next pop. She had never once had a real orgasm—other than the ecstasy she achieved from cutting her own flesh.

  “I’ve never been kissed,” she whispered, wonderment at her own outspoken craziness whirling around in her brain. “Did you know that? I’m forty-two years old and…” Her throat seized up, precluding any more words.

  When he touched her face, his palm was warm and comforting. She leaned into it, wondering how long this would last, how long before he demanded something of her she couldn’t provide.

  This is Brock. He won’t do any of those things, not if you don’t want him to.

  Bullshit. He’s a man. All men want whatever the hell they can get or take by brute force.

  “I will kiss you, Kayla.” He swiped the pad of his thumb over her lips, giving her the strangest, weak-kneed sensation. “But not until you want me to.” He put his lips close to her her ear. “You don’t want me to. Not yet. Do you?”

  She closed her eyes and leaned toward him, her body yearning for something she’d never had before. Even as her mind was screeching at her to escape. “No,” she said, her voice cracking on the one word.

  He kept plenty of air between them, his gaze never leaving hers. “When you’re ready, you’ll know. And then you just tell me, okay?”

  She nodded, a single tear sliding down her hot cheek and dotting the cuff of his shirt. He let go of her, leaving her bereft and relieved at the same time. She clutched her bag to her chest, unable to stop staring at him as her mind pulled her away while her body urged her forward in ways she didn’t understand.

  “I’m not normal, Brock. I… I’ve been… I’ve done… It’s…”

  “Sh, sh,” he insisted, pulling her into a nice, comfortable hug. “We’ve all done. We’ve all been. You don’t even want to know some of the shit I’ve gotten into.”

  She sensed herself molding against him, putting her arms around his waist and marveling as she did it at her first, intimate embrace. She pressed her face into his shirt, sucking a deep breath of him—a bit of maltiness from the brewery that they all carried around with them made her smile, combined with what must be the natural smell of his skin. Her knees were shaking again but he held on tight, his mantra of “Sh…sh…it’s all right,” filling her mind and drowning out the fear.

  The sound of a clearing throat forced them apart. She swiped at her eyes and reached for her bag that she’d dropped in her haste to hug him back. But he snagged it first, handed it to her with a smile and held out his elbow. “I don’t know about you, but I might commit murder for a banana split right now.”

  She drew away from him.

  “Bananas in ice cream are an utter abomination to humanity, Fitzgerald. I think you might need help.” She found herself feeling strong after the close contact, not shaky and weepy like usual. As if some of his inner strength had permeated her, taken hold inside her. She tucked her hand into his arm.

  “Oh, honey, I need help all right.” He led her to the door and out into the lengthening shadows of a perfect West Michigan late summer afternoon. He drove them to the local Dairy Queen, and ordered a large split, “heavy on the bananas,” and double chocolate fudge and whipped cream. When he brought the thing to their tiny concrete table with a triumphant flourish, she wrinkled her nose.

  “That is disgusting.”

  He handed her a long plastic spoon and dug out a huge bite. After shoving it into his mouth, closing his eyes and making weird, ecstatic noises, he pushed the thing over to her. She scooped up a tiny helping of the hot fudge and ice cream, avoiding the banana.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, lovely lady,” he said, taking another monster-sized bite of everything.

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure that I do.”

  “So about this wedding…”

  Startled by the quick change of subject, she set her spoon down and reached over to wipe a blob of chocolate from the corner of his mouth with her napkin. It was the most natural seeming gesture in the world and neither of them commented on it. “What about it?”

  “I got my invite and am pondering my plus one.”

  She glanced up at him as she tried to maneuver a bite of ice cream out of the dish. “I’m in the damn thing so I’m going anyway.”

  “Yeah, but…” He grabbed her hand. “I see you’re gonna remain as obtuse as ever and make me do it the hard way.”

  She lifted her chin. Her ears were starting to ring and her palm felt sweaty. She resisted the urge to tug it out of his grip and wipe it on her jeans. His gaze held hers, rapt, in that damn way he had. That way she’d been trying to resist like mad in the weeks since her cutting mishap and hospital stay.

  “Kayla, would you do me the honor of being my official date for your brother’s happy nuptials up in Petoskey?”

  She frowned at him. Or at least she tried to. “I’m in the thing, like I just said. I’ll have, you know, responsibilities and shit. I may not be very much fun.”

  “You will be. It’s gonna be a great weekend.” He kept a tight hold on her hand. “I, uh, meant that, you know. About the kiss.”

  Her face got so hot she worried it might catch fire. She dropped her gaze. He took her chin and lifted her face and in his eyes she saw something she’d never, ever seen. She saw respect, and trust and honest concern.

  Not love. Not yet. Don’t rush this…thing, whatever it is.

  She smiled at him and patted his cheek. “Sure thing, handsome. I’ll be your date. But don’t think you can get away with that kissing thing just because the ambience is all romantic and shit. I’m not gonna be that easy.”

  He grabbed her hand and put her knuckles to his lips. She flinched, but the sensation crawling up her spine was pleasant. And when it hit her brain, her world seemed somehow brighter.

  Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a man. And men only want one thing from you.

  She tried to pull away but he held both her hands now, the gross, melting goop of ice cream, banana and chocolate between them. “I’m not… I…”

  He shook his head. “Kayla, stop assuming you know what I want from you.”

  She blinked fast, shoc
ked that he’d somehow figured out her deepest fear. He gave her hands one more squeeze then let her go and picked up his spoon. “My favorite stage…all melty.” He scooped a dollop of the dessert into his mouth. She watched him, frozen by her own feelings, and terrified by the enormity of what she’d just agreed to do. To be his date. To her brother’s wedding. An event that would span an entire highly choreographed set of days that would end on Saturday night with a sunset ceremony and dancing under the stars.

  She shivered, but when she dug deep into the reason why, all she saw was Brock.

  And all she heard was his promise to kiss her…as soon as she was ready.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Yo, Earth to brother. Calling my brother…hello?”

  “What? Hey, cut it out.” Brock waved Austin’s hand out of his face, annoyed that he’d been caught staring into the distance at his desk—the desk he occupied thanks to the ongoing goodwill of said brother trying to get his attention at that moment. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “Hardly. You all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Clean as a whistle. Taking my pills like a good boy, all right? You know because you make me check in every day at four-thirty, remember? Now, beat it.”

  “I will. After you tell me more about this.” Austin turned his computer tablet around so Brock could see the screen.

  Local Brewery Throws Weight Behind Clean Water Efforts, the headline blared.

  “Yeah, those kids,” he said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at the room where his interns were eternally tap-tapping away on behalf of the Fitzgerald Foundation. “They’re pretty good at the publicity shit.”

  “Don’t be modest, Brock. This story’s gotten picked up by USA Today and Huffington Post. My inbox is stuffed full of requests for interviews. Well done, my brother.”

  “Over a million hits on HuffPo,” a voice piped up from the interns’ room.

  Brock shrugged. “They speak their own language. But that’s good, right?” he hollered back in the direction of the keyboard noises.

  “Yeah, boss. It’s great.”

  He rotated the squeaky office chair back around so he was facing Austin again. “The water thing was your wife’s idea. I just ran with it. Turned those kids loose with the online and press release bits. Voilá.”

  Austin chuckled and shook his head. But Brock couldn’t take any pleasure in his brother’s kudos. Yes, he’d done all upfront legwork—reading research about the poisoned water problem in Flint for hours, talking to local officials, the pediatrician who’d made the initial discovery—and that was the interesting part. More hours spent on budget proposals to fix the problem, and yet still more on hold, waiting for the big shots in Lansing to answer his questions about what it would really take to fix the lead pipe problem in the city.

  Once he’d had all the facts at his disposal, he’d made the decision to allocate that year’s funds toward it, but not via the government. The grassroots group spearheading the clean-up had been ecstatic to receive his phone call and, not long after that, his giant donation check. He’d kept his interns in the loop at every stage and they’d worked miracles, building the Fitzgerald Charitable Foundation’s social media presence during his research period, and reaching out to the right press people to make their big announcement.

  Hence the nownational level attention being paid to his brother’s brewery’s dedication to cleaning up the water in a Michigan city much poorer than theirs. His phone had been blowing up with requests for interviews too—from as high up as The Today Show and a few others he’d never heard of but had been assured by his pack of youngsters that they were ‘awesome’.

  But it was all somehow muted. And he had no one but himself to blame for that. His anxiety over the wedding weekend had grown to near epic proportions. Now that the event itself was literally around the corner—as in, he was packed and ready to drive up to Petoskey after shoving the infants out of the office for the evening—he was having a hard time swallowing his own spit.

  What had possessed him to make it semi-official anyway? They were fine as junkie meeting and ice-cream-eating buddies. Why upset that particular apple cart?

  “So, I hear you’re Kayla Hettinger’s date for the big event this weekend.”

  He was so startled to hear these words echoing his ongoing inner debate, his elbow slipped off the edge of the desk, which compromised the fragile equilibrium of the office chair and he found himself dumped onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Jesus, dude. Nervous much?” Austin held out his hand.

  Brock rolled to his hands and knees before climbing to his feet. Ignoring his brother and the concerned stares from the peanut gallery behind him, he set the chair back on its rollers and closed his laptop.

  “Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe it,” he said, staring down at his desk, unsure why he felt the need to chat about it. He and Austin had an understanding sort of relationship. He understood that he was only tolerated if he toed the line. While Austin understood that he could spin out of control at any moment. They didn’t communicate much outside that, other than via logistics regarding Evelyn and Rose, if his presence was required to assist with either. The times Austin had saved his ass—like the last time he’d been out at the lake house where he’d find himself again soon—all went unremarked upon. He knew his own embarrassment level over them and Austin, to his credit, seemed to respect that by not bringing it up.

  He sighed as his shoulders slumped against the hard reality of his circumstances. Not that he was anything but grateful for it—up to and including this latest responsibility for the foundation. But at this particular moment, he was so confused and rattled about Kayla, he felt the words bubbling up his throat and spilling from his lips before he could stop them.

  “I think I love her,” he said, flopping back into his chair.

  “Hmm…that might get complicated,” Austin said, his expression sympathetic.

  “Yes, muchas gracias, Captain Obvious.” He leaned onto the desk, forehead on his arms.

  “You thought you loved Caroline Reilly, too. How is this any different?”

  A flash of anger forced him to lean back and meet his brother’s gaze. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Austin held up a hand. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “So, I’m not allowed to have honest feelings about a woman? Just because I managed to fuck everything up relative to Caroline?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Austin was standing now, his jaw clenched in a way Brock recognized. “Never mind.”

  Brock was aware that the ubiquitous tapping from the room next door had stopped. The brothers glared at each other a few seconds.

  “Brock,” Austin said. “I’m sorry. I’m not… I don’t mean to be judgmental. I swear it.”

  “Hard not to be. I get it. I’ve not been the most reliable human being on the planet most of my life.” He propped his dress-shoe-covered feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head, attempting to seem like he didn’t care.

  But he did.

  “Well, that’s not what I meant either.”

  “So, what do you mean, Austin?” He kept his face as neutral as possible while his brother wrestled with his inner judgmental guy, amused and discouraged by the whole thing.

  “Look, from what little I’ve been told about her, Kayla is not exactly without her own baggage.” Austin hesitated. Brock waited for the second half of that statement. “Pretty heavy baggage, too.”

  Brock flexed one biceps by way of showing his ability to tote said heavy baggage. Austin rolled his eyes. “Far be it from me to talk you in or out of anything, relative to the fairer sex…”

  “But?” Brock was baiting him now but couldn’t stop himself. As if he needed to hear his own misgivings about a relationship between two people as fucked up as they were spoken out loud—by someone else.

  “But shit, man, you have a hard enough time getting through some days. How could adding anothe
r person just as…challenged to that mix be anything but…a mess?”

  Brock sighed and put his hands on the desk, staring down at them as if they might answer all his questions. “Honestly? I have no idea.” He felt Austin’s hand on his shoulder.

  “I get it, though. There’s no accounting for women and what they do to us.”

  “Yeah, that. Good thing they’re soft and smell nice—to make up for the PITA factor, eh, brother?”

  Austin gave his shoulder a pat then withdrew. “I’m behind you, whatever you decide. But her brother may prove a barrier, you know. He’s a pretty protective guy.”

  “He’ll be distracted this weekend, I’m willing to guess.” But Brock’s gut churned at the thought of pissing Kayla’s brother off, regardless of his more or less virtuous intentions. “She’s no more of a mess than I am. And it’s not like I’m looking to…to…”

  Austin chuckled and slapped his back again. “Dude, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be tongue-tied over a female. I’ll take that as a good sign.”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, letting his feet drop to the floor. “But whatever I know or don’t know, it’s almost time to get on with it.” He glanced at his watch. “You guys going up tonight, or tomorrow?”

  “Rose travels best at night, so we’re gonna caffeine up and head out tonight, but not until after nine.”

  “Thanks for listening,” he said, meaning it.

  Austin shrugged. “I wasn’t much help.”

  “Nope. But you always were useless.”

  Austin grinned at him, went for a mock-punch to his jaw, which Brock mock-blocked and did the same to Austin’s gut. Man-speak for “Enough about feelings, already. Get me a beer.”

  “I’ll see you there, then. I’m leaving from here, once I toss some candy to the kids.”

  “Hey!” a voice floated out over the resumed keyboarding.

  “You know what I mean,” he called over his shoulder. “Get ready for me in there, youngsters. Time for my daily debrief. You’ll be on your own here tomorrow.”