by Laurie Boris
The sofa smelled like cheap cologne, cigarettes, and bad memories, so she offered her bed. He lay on his side atop the covers. She brought him the tea and an ice pack and sat with him a while.
She fidgeted, picking at her nails rather than the sweater he’d given her, and she vowed to take it somewhere on Monday and have the hole repaired. There were many things she could say. In her mind, they sounded stupid, overly dramatic, or too glib. Finally she settled on the simplest.
“Thank you for being here.”
His eyes blanked with surprise and then he smiled. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood. Fighting crime and rescuing maidens in distress. Although with that right hook I don’t think you needed my help.” He pulled himself up enough to sip at the tea and returned the mug to the flowered coaster on her nightstand. He looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “By the way. This place isn’t too bad.”
“You could come by,” she said. “Any time you want. I could cook for you, or we could just hang out...”
He nodded as he lay back and closed his eyes. But given the afternoon’s adventure, she doubted he’d be too eager to come back.
A few minutes later, Emerson fell asleep. Sarah removed his glasses, set them on the nightstand, and watched his peaceful expression.
Again she sprouted guilty tears, thinking about Jay’s ambushing him on the stairs.
The least she could do was make him dinner, but first she had to exorcise her apartment of the remnants of a certain black-and-blue-eyed rock star.
After putting a bottle of wine in the refrigerator to chill, Sarah tidied the living room and sprayed air freshener around the sofa. She’d been worried about what would happen if she ever had to see Jay again, if she’d be strong enough to send him packing. And she had, with no regrets, no lingering feelings, just an overwhelming desire to be rid of anything he might have left behind. She also threw away most of the things Emerson had brought back, including a broken mug filled with Jay’s cigarette butts, a cracked callus shaver, and a crushed Rolling Stones tape.
Poor sad thing, she thought, cradling the cassette in her palm.
Em must have forgotten that it used to be his.
With Jay soon erased from her living room, Sarah started dinner. She chopped onions, garlic, and green pepper into a heap on the cutting board and put them aside for later, until she decided what she would make out of them.
Then she washed her hands and touched the liquid green silk in the Victoria’s Secret bag. She still couldn’t believe he’d bought this with her in mind. Finally, after walking away from them a few times to tend to other tasks, she gave in to the urge to try them on. Sarah threw off her sweater, turtleneck, and jeans, and let the top and bottoms float over her in a fluid caress.
She convinced herself Emerson couldn’t hate her too much, if he’d bought her something so beautiful.
* * * * *
As Sarah fished out her wineglasses, the doorbell rang. Surprise launched one of the glasses from her fingers. It crashed against the counter. Swearing, she leaped backward from the shower of glass but not before the heaviest shard, the jagged base, caught the fragile fabric of the pajamas and bit her thigh.
Jay’s back.
A bead of blood oozed through the tear in the silk.
Jay’s back. With friends. With something more dangerous than a nail file and his menacing looks.
Blood spread into the tender weave.
Emerson burst out of the bedroom. “Sarah—what’s going on, are you—”
His hair was a mess; his shirttails were hanging out. He didn’t seem to know what to look at first: her in his pajamas, the broken glass, or the blood. He settled on her face. She must have looked frightened. She could see it in his eyes.
“Someone’s at the door.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Get away from there, you don’t have shoes on.”
She couldn’t seem to move. He reached for her hand. “Sarah, honey, come on. You’re bleeding. We have to stop that.”
The bell rang again. Their eyes met. “He’ll go away,” Emerson said.
He took her into the bathroom and made her sit on the toilet cover. The gash stung, even more so when he poked at it.
“There’s no glass in here,” he said. “And the cut’s not very deep. It looks worse than it is.”
Another ring. Emerson stood, with a determined expression and an outthrust jaw. As if he could save her from Jay and his imagined gang of coked-out toughs.
Sarah shook her head.
He handed her a towel. “Press this over the cut and keep your foot up against the wall, here. Don’t move.”
She held her breath. As fast footsteps thumped down the stairs, she began to cry. She’d run out of strength. Jay was back and she couldn’t deal with him, and because of him she’d ruined her beautiful pajamas and her last chance with Emerson.
The front door squeaked open and she heard Rashid’s voice.
Chapter 32
She’d completely forgotten Rashid was supposed to come over tonight and cook for her. Nice way to greet your guests, Sarah. Bleeding, a complete mess, glass everywhere, and dinner already started, for another man.
From what she overheard, Emerson was as surprised as his housemate about the dinner. She heard the tinkle of glass. Somebody must be picking up the pieces. Then she heard more muffled conversation.
She had to go explain herself. Hobbling out, she held the bloodstained towel over her thigh.
Rashid’s eyes widened.
“From the broken glass,” Emerson said.
The younger man continued staring at Sarah.
“I’m really sorry, I forgot about our dinner,” she said. “I’ve had kind of a strange day.”
Rashid helped himself to one of the Kingfishers he had brought. “So I am seeing.”
Emerson put his hand on her shoulder. “Sarah...we still have to clean up that cut.”
“I’ll tell you all about it in a minute,” Sarah said to Rashid.
She sat again on the toilet lid. Emerson’s mouth was tight and he didn’t speak, but his hands felt as gentle as a shy groom’s on his wedding night as he knelt before her and eased up the wide leg of her pajamas. He dabbed her with peroxide (she barely felt the sting) and then crisscrossed bandages over the wound to hold it closed.
“I should be going,” he said. “You ought to stay like this until the bleeding slows. If it doesn’t, have him take you to the emergency room. You might need a few stitches. But I doubt it.”
Her heart pounded. “Em...please don’t go. I need to talk to you.”
“But you have plans. I do too...in a little while. It’s later than I realized.”
The girl from the nursing home, Sarah thought, casting her eyes downward to his hand still on her thigh.
Then she looked up to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to...I mean, with Jay and all, I really did forget Rashid was coming to cook dinner. I wish you could stay. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
The hand was removed but the sensation lingered, as did Emerson’s eyes—pale, a little sad.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
Shortly after Emerson left, the bleeding stopped. Sarah, back in her jeans and a different sweater, stood in front of the bathroom mirror trying not to feel sorry for herself. Harder still was trying to forget the tenderness of Emerson’s hands on her body, and wondering if later he’d be touching the girl from the nursing home in the same way.
With a sigh, she wandered into the kitchen and found Rashid at the cutting board, up to his wrists in chopped tomatoes. She didn’t remember the role of tomatoes in curry but figured he knew what he was doing. He was slow with the knife as if he enjoyed the act and the feel of the pulpy juice and seeds on his skin. He gave her a quick, embarrassed smile and returned to his task but without the grace and sensual abandon of before. The knife skidded across the board and a hunk of red flesh landed on the floor w
ith a splat.
“I am making a mess.” He picked tomato off the tile and wiped dribbled juice from the counter with a paper towel.
She opened one of his Kingfishers and rested her elbows on the counter that backed up against the stove. “That’s okay. Kitchens are washable.”
He continued to clean. “Yes, but it isn’t my kitchen.” His movements were stiff as he rinsed the paper towel and hung it on the edge of the sink to dry. Then, still without looking at her, he returned to his tomatoes, chopping with quick precision until he’d gone through the entire bowl.
She sighed and assumed he was angry with her for forgetting their dinner, but he was trying to make the best of it. Like she was.
She hated herself for wishing he were Emerson.
“I owe you an explanation,” she said.
He dumped the tomatoes into a steaming pot containing the garlic, onions, and green peppers she’d already prepped. The aroma bathed her in familiar comfort. That and the beer were starting to make her feel almost normal.
“That isn’t necessary,” he said, his tone dismissive. “I’m here now, and I’m cooking for you, so that’s all.”
Being pushed away made her want to push back. “Jay was here.”
Rashid jabbed out the wooden spoon, flinging a piece of tomato onto the backsplash. “He did this to you?”
“No. That was me.”
“So he didn’t hurt you?”
Not anymore, she thought. “Actually, he hurt Emerson. That’s why he was in bed with the ice pack.”
Rashid’s eyes widened. “In your bed?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the only bed I have.”
“But he’s so tall. Wouldn’t he have been more comfortable on that nice long sofa in your living room?”
“Jay had been lying on the sofa, and it really smelled.”
He cocked his head.
“He was unconscious,” Sarah said. “I couldn’t just leave him on the stairs.”
“There was an unconscious man on your stairs.” He grabbed the paper towel and hunted for bits of tomato around the stove. “Perhaps, Sarah, I am better off not hearing the rest of this explanation of yours.”
He was taking this all too calmly. She slammed her beer bottle on the counter. He jumped.
“You come here expecting to make me dinner. Find your best friend with his pants unzipped and me bleeding in torn lingerie. And you aren’t the slightest bit curious about what’s going on?”
He blinked slowly at her, mouth open, but then looked away. “I think this is none of my business.”
She took a long swallow of beer while he tended his tomatoes. “Fine.” She dragged out the silence, tapping her fingers against the counter. “Then I won’t tell you.”
“That’s your decision.” Rashid stirred a while, lowered the heat, and let the pot sit while he opened another beer. He sipped at it, leaning back against the sink. Watching her. “Okay,” he said finally. “So why was this goonda unconscious on your stairs?”
She told him.
His eyebrows shot up.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Sarah said.
“Forgive me,” he said. “But I don’t think I want to see what you can do when you ‘mean’ to do something.”
“Keep cooking for me and you’ll never have to find out.”
He smiled. She sensed he was no longer angry. She felt more relaxed as well—flirty from the beer but in control. Making the best of it. She leaned over until she could smell his cologne over the garlic and onions. “What are you making?”
“Marinara sauce and spaghetti and garlic bread.”
“That doesn’t sound Indian.”
“You’re disappointed?”
Actually, she felt relieved. The last time he made Indian food she’d been up half the night with indigestion. “No,” she said. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
* * * * *
When they were ready to sit down for dinner, Sarah opened the wine, the same bottle she’d put on to chill for Emerson.
“I’ll pour,” Rashid said. “Where are your glasses?”
“Glass. I broke the other one. Emerson must have swept me up when I was in the bathroom.”
Rashid blinked. “This is another one of your idioms?”
She realized the other meaning, another irony, for all the good it did her. It should be illegal for a man to touch a woman so tenderly and then go off to someone else. “No.” She pantomimed the motion of sweeping. “I mean he cleaned up the broken glass.”
Rashid nodded but didn’t seem convinced she meant this innocently. “Yes, he did this before you came out. Odd how he’s never been to your apartment before yet he knew exactly where you kept your broom.”
She shrugged. “I guess he just knows me well enough to know where I’d keep it.”
“This I wish for myself.” He sighed and poured wine into the two matching juice glasses she’d pulled out for him. “A woman whose broom I know where to find so I may sweep her up.”
“I’m sure your wife will let you do the sweeping,” Sarah said.
“It’s not the same.” He held her chair and then sat down himself. “And idioms aside, Sarah, we both know we’re not talking about housework.”
She felt lost in alcohol and subtext. “What are we talking about?”
He didn’t answer.
The mood changed after that. She tried flirting with him like before; it worked in fits and starts but in the end he remained wistful and for the most part, silent. She asked him what was wrong and he told her he was tired. He’d had a long day in the lab. Then she saw the sagging around his eyes and chose to couple fatigue with his lack of enthusiasm, instead of jealousy over Emerson and his broom. At nine thirty he announced that he had to get home to bed; the next morning he had a class.
The next morning would be Sunday, but she didn’t want to push. “I’ll get your coat.”
She walked him downstairs. It was raining—a cold, fine mist that made the night sky milky.
He hesitated at the door. She offered him an umbrella but he declined. For a long time neither of them spoke. The damp wood still smelled like cigarettes and Jay’s cologne.
“I’ll miss this place,” he said finally. “Even this miserable cold weather.”
Away from Emerson’s house, working downtown, she’d been out of touch with the rhythms of the school year and had almost forgotten that at the end of this semester, Rashid would be leaving. “So you’re taking the job in California?”
He let out his breath, his shoulders sagging forward. “I’m returning to New Delhi.”
“But that’s just for the wedding, right?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s going to be permanent. She doesn’t want to leave her family.”
So she can marry someone else who wants to stay, Sarah thought. “What about what you want?”
He looked smaller somehow. “It is best for everyone if I do this.”
“But you told me you didn’t want to live there. You wanted to become an American citizen, and continue your research, work on cancer treatments, why are you letting her tell you—”
“You don’t understand,” he snapped at her. His harsh tone rang through the vestibule. Then he said it again, his voice softer, his eyes pleading with her not ask him any more questions.
Yet he lingered, watching her, like he wanted them to be asked.
She waited for something to happen. Thinking that slightly drunk, in the rain, frustrated with longing, anything could.
“I should be going home, now.” Rashid burst off toward his car.
She followed, arms hugged around her chest, freezing mist beading in her hair. “Do you still even want to marry her?”
He stopped and turned. The rain spotted his glasses. “Go inside, Sarah. It’s cold.”
Chapter 33
Emerson called late the next morning and asked Sarah to meet him at the diner on Westcott. Although it was one of her favorite dives because
they served breakfast all day, she took the location as a bad sign. He would have invited her to the house if there hadn’t been things he didn’t want her to see. Inadvertent evidence of an overnight guest, for instance. Guilty looks on housemates’ faces? An orange juice glass with lipstick stains? Sarah would prefer not to be exposed to them, either. She’d slept wretchedly, thinking about him with the girl from the nursing home, and didn’t need the physical remains thrown in her face.
He was waiting at a booth when she arrived. He hadn’t ordered. This she took as a good sign. If he’d been having sex all night, he’d be ravenous and wouldn’t have waited.
But maybe he’d already had breakfast with her.
Gritting her mental teeth, Sarah flung herself into the seat opposite Emerson. “How’s your back?”
“Okay.” He smiled. “How’s your leg?”
He looked annoyingly well rested. She hated that she still felt the tingle of his hand on the inside of her thigh from when he bandaged her wound, and shot him a bitter glare. “I’ll live.”
“You’re awfully prickly this morning,” he said.
“A vat of coffee should cure that.”
He signaled for a waitress. That was another thing Sarah liked about this place. They had women of respectable ages for waitresses, in old-fashioned uniforms, without bits of metal pierced through their faces. Sarah ordered coffee and an English muffin. He asked for a cup of tea, and a bacon and cheese omelet with pancakes.
Her stomach tightened.
“So what’s up?” he asked, after one of those wonderful women brought Sarah a fat, steaming mug.
She shook her head.
“Last night,” he prompted her. “You said you needed to talk to me.”
“Did I?” She blinked at him. “I don’t remember. I must have still been upset about Jay and everything. Guess I got over it.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, looking at the table.
She forgot that verbal sleight-of-hand didn’t work on him like it worked on Rashid and all the other men she’d ever known. She gulped at her coffee. It was strong and steeled her nerves. It made her feel less like the squishy little thing she’d been the night before, as her mind tortured her with racing thoughts about losing Emerson and being unable to lose Jay.
