Sympathy for the Devil

by Christine Pope

  He shook his head. “Not right now.”

  The drinks arrived, and I couldn’t wait to pick up my margarita and take a long, cool pull at it. Nothing like the judicious application of some tequila to break the tension.

  Because I could feel it. I didn’t know for sure whether it was the result of natural awkwardness at sitting face to face with the man who had dumped me so egregiously all those years before, or whether the chemistry I’d always thought had been so good had altered subtly. Maybe it was just that we still had a whole lot of emotional baggage to deal with and weren’t sure how.

  Or maybe it was simply that I found myself wishing really, really hard it was Luke sitting across from me and not Brad.

  Typical, I thought. How many years did it take before you stopped wishing that Brad would miraculously come back into your life? And now that he’s here, the only person you can think of is Luke? Get a grip, Christa!

  “So what else are you up to?” I asked. I made a vow then and there that I would keep the conversation going if it killed me…and if I looked into Brad’s hazel eyes one more time and imagined Luke’s vivid blue instead I’d pinch myself. Hard.

  “Oh, I’m teaching a couple of anthro classes over at the local community college,” he replied. “Might as well put that master’s degree to some use. It brings in some extra cash, and I like it. A lot of the other adjunct professors have problems with the current climate, which keeps their hours below a certain level so the college doesn’t have to pay them benefits, but I don’t really need a full-time income right now, so in my case it doesn’t matter so much.” He frowned. “Although I do agree that the policy is potentially damaging.”

  “And how’s your family? Your mom?” I inquired hastily. Compelling as it might have been for the actual parties involved, I wasn’t in the mood to hear him launch into an in-depth analysis of why the tight-fistedness of the California higher-education system was hurting the rank and file.

  “Oh, fine,” Brad said, apparently oblivious to the obvious red herring. “She went through a rough time, of course…we all did…but she’s managing much better now. I think it was a relief for her to finally get the company sold, even though she really didn’t want to let go of it at first.”

  Brad’s father had been the sole owner of a company that sold high-end barbecues, outdoor fire pits, log sets, that sort of thing. I’d never really thought about how much money was actually in that business until I’d seen for myself how well his family had lived, but it had been very profitable. Probably it had been a wrench to sell the company, but it had thrived because of Mr. McAllister’s passion for his products and his hands-on approach. I doubted that Mrs. McAllister or even Brad could have kept the place operating at the same level it had while Mr. McAllister was alive, so selling it seemed to me the most logical thing to do. “Well, I can see how that would be hard,” I said. “I mean, it was your father’s baby, right? But I’m glad it all worked out in the end.”

  “Yes, and the investments we made from the sale should keep all of us going for quite a while,” Brad replied. “I’m trying to be a little picky about the projects I take on, though, because it’s not the kind of wealth that’s inexhaustible, naturally.”

  Unlike Luke’s, I thought automatically, and I really did reach down under the table and pinch my left forearm between my right thumb and forefinger. Ouch. You’d think I’d learn. “And your sister?”

  He sipped at his own margarita before replying. “Oh, she’s fine, too. She’s in her second year at San Diego State, although with the way they run that place it’ll probably be another four years before she graduates. She wants to go into sports physiology and medicine, of all things.”

  Actually, that made a lot of sense to me, since Brad’s little sister Melissa had been the sort of gung-ho athlete I found it almost impossible to relate to. I mean, more power to her and all that, but I just couldn’t get my brain behind someone who obsessed over her backhand and who entered marathons as if they were just a walk in the park. Then again, she probably couldn’t relate to me and my shopping pathologies, either.

  “That sounds impressive,” I managed to say, even though I found myself not much caring what Melissa’s future plans were. In the year that Brad and I had dated, I think she and I had probably exchanged a maximum of twenty words.

  “It makes her happy,” Brad said. He tilted his head slightly and watched me for a few seconds, then added, “It’s just killing you, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I asked, caught off-guard.

  He grinned. “You’re smiling and making all the correct responses, but somewhere in there you really wish you had the guts to rip me a new asshole for what I put you through. Am I right?”

  Well, I supposed he was, but I didn’t think I really wanted to give Brad the satisfaction of letting him know that. I suddenly recalled how I used to get annoyed by his know-it-all attitude. Had I really forgotten the way he used to say, “I know exactly how you’re feeling, Christa,” when I had known for a fact that he couldn’t possibly know for sure? A couple of times I’d just wanted to hurl something hard at his head.

  To throw him off a little, I smiled sweetly and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brad.”

  He gave me a skeptical look and drank some more of his margarita.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. What was the point in lying, after all? But the fiasco with Luke had taught me one thing: Never make a scene in a restaurant. “I’ve thought about it. But what’s the point? It’s over and done with. I thought we were trying a fresh start.”

  “We are,” he replied. “I just wanted to let you know that if you wanted to bring any of that up, it’s all right. I deserve it.”

  There was nothing like actual contrition to take all the energy out of righteous indignation. I shook my head and said, “If you really want a new asshole ripped, I’ll call in Nina. I’m sure she’s got a few choice words on the subject, since she was the one I dumped all my angst on back in the day. But I’ve gotten over it. Seven years is a long time.”

  “True.”

  Our entrées arrived at that point, and we both busied ourselves with our meals. Food is a great distraction. After a minute or so, though, Brad remarked, “You’ve grown up a lot, Christa.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I should be flattered or offended. After all, everyone wants to achieve some emotional maturity in this life, but I thought I still had a long way to go. And if that were the case, it meant I had been even more immature back then than I had realized.

  Not wanting to really go into that, I just replied, “Thanks,” and helped myself to another mouthful of blue corn chicken enchilada. I figured I’d just stick with the whole “blue” theme throughout my meal. As I recalled, blue was Brad’s favorite color.

  “No, really,” he said seriously. “I mean, I always thought you were a great person, even if you did tend to undervalue yourself, but there’s something different about you…a sort of confidence I didn’t see before.”

  Well, I guess that’s what happens when you have raging-hot sex with the Devil, I thought. Of course I couldn’t tell Brad that — God only knows what his reaction would be if I tried to convince him that the last guy I dated was actually the ruler of Hell — so again I was forced to merely say, “Thank you. Maybe it’s the new job.”

  “Maybe,” he said, but he shot me a speculative little glance, as if he thought there were something else going on but couldn’t exactly put his finger on what.

  The rest of dinner went by without incident, and afterward we decided the evening was young enough that we should go see a movie. We eventually settled on the not-so-suspenseful thriller Nina and I had passed on a couple of weeks earlier. Brad had never been the romantic-comedy type, and I delicately suggested that although I thought it was great he backed documentary filmmakers, I wasn’t quite in the mood for something that heavy on a Friday night.

  As expected, the film was a little lackluster, but at least it passed the time.
I always liked going to the movies on dates because it gave me a breather from having to come up with fascinating conversation for a few hours. Afterward, Brad suggested coffee or dessert. I still felt full from dinner, though, and wasn’t really in the mood for coffee, either. It had been a busy day for me, and right then all I really wanted to do was go home.

  Of course, that proposition was fraught with problems as well. I had told Luke I didn’t kiss on the first date, and that really was my general rule, old-fashioned though it might be. But how did you handle a “first date” with someone you’d had a long-term relationship with in the past? After all, even though technically Brad and I had maintained separate residences the whole time we were dating, the truth of it was that for a good portion of that period I’d practically lived with him. He had his own apartment, while I shared campus housing with Nina, Micaela, and Jennifer. As much as I loved them, I certainly wasn’t going to have Brad stay over at my place. Anyway, Brad and I had a past together, and telling him I didn’t think that we should kiss at the end of the evening seemed somehow juvenile and prudish.

  On the other hand, I wasn’t sure how I felt about kissing Brad. Even though I hadn’t had any contact with Luke for more than a week, it still felt like cheating.

  Maybe you should stop second-guessing yourself and just see what happens, I told myself as Brad retrieved his SUV from the valet. Maybe he doesn’t even want to kiss you.

  That seemed like a remote possibility, though, judging from the glance Brad gave me after he climbed into the Pathfinder and pointed it west on Olympic. Far from not wanting to kiss me, that look told me he probably wanted a lot more. That wasn’t going to happen, though, even if I somehow managed to flush Luke from the memory banks long enough to concentrate on Brad. From what I remembered, he was no slouch in the kissing department, either.

  A light, misty rain had begun to fall by the time we got back to my apartment. We hurried over to the stairs and then climbed up to the second floor, where we both hesitated on the landing. It felt public but really wasn’t; my next-door neighbor worked nights, so I could have a hot-and-heavy make-out session there with no one really noticing. And better to kiss on the landing than to invite Brad inside. I was afraid what sort of message a suggestion like that might send.

  “Well,” I said, after I had fished my keys out of my purse. “I had a really wonderful time — ”

  And the next thing I knew Brad had taken me by the shoulders and given me a really thorough kiss. My memory hadn’t been faulty; his technique was still wonderful.

  So why didn’t I feel anything?

  Oh, I kissed him back. I knew I had to give this the old college try. My purse slipped from my fingers and fell to the ground, and I let Brad pull me against him as he continued to press his mouth on mine. He was a shade shorter than Luke, so I didn’t have to go up on my tiptoes to reach him comfortably. His lips, which should have felt familiar, could have been a stranger’s. I shut my eyes and tried to relax into it, tried to make myself respond. But all I could think of was how different he somehow felt from Luke, and how much I wanted it to be Luke kissing me instead.

  After a few seconds, we broke apart. Brad looked a little puzzled, as if he’d sensed something was wrong but couldn’t say exactly what.

  Eloquent as always, I managed to say, “Um…wow…I wasn’t expecting that.”

  His expression cleared. I could almost see him telling himself that he’d just taken me by surprise. “Well, I know about your ‘first date’ rule, but I figured we could make an exception.”

  “Oh, sure,” I replied, feeling like an idiot and a fraud at the same time. I knew I couldn’t possibly explain to Brad what was really going on, but I also couldn’t decide how best to handle the situation. However, I figured it was best to keep things where they were and leave any really important decisions for later, when I might actually have my head screwed on straight. “But I think we should leave it there for now.”

  Brad frowned slightly, but said without hesitation, “Of course. I’m willing to take it slow.”

  Well, at least that would give me some breathing space. I smiled and said, “Thanks for understanding.”

  In answer Brad leaned down and kissed me again, a little more softly this time. It was a good kiss and I knew it, but that realization only underscored the fact that the wrong man was kissing me.

  “Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked.

  Despite myself, I laughed. “That’s taking it slow?”

  He smiled. “Well, maybe not exactly, but I was hoping….”

  “Sure,” I said without thinking. Maybe it was a bad idea, but at least I could give him a second chance and see how I felt. If I had the same reaction to him the following day, then at least I’d know it was because I really had gone certifiably insane and not just that I hadn’t had time to adjust to seeing Brad again after all these years.

  “Great. Is seven still all right?”

  “Sure,” I repeated, feeling a little dazed. All I really wanted at that moment was to go inside, crawl into bed, and sleep for about a hundred years.

  “I’ll see you then.” Brad kissed me for a third time, again on the lips, but quickly — just his way of saying good-bye.

  I nodded, not sure exactly what I had done. The keys to my apartment were still in my hand, so I turned and opened the door, then said, “Good night,” before slipping quickly inside. I didn’t want him to even try to follow me, so I closed the door just as hastily and hoped it didn’t seem too rude.

  Apparently not; I heard him whistling as he descended the stairwell. That was another thing I’d forgotten — Brad was a very good whistler. Obviously he was pleased enough with how the evening had gone, even if he hadn’t been allowed back inside the sanctum.

  For myself, I just wished I didn’t feel so relieved. That was a bad sign, wasn’t it?

  Shaking my head, I dropped my purse on the floor and headed toward the kitchen. I was thirsty and thought a glass of water sounded like a good idea, even though I’d had a small diet Coke during the movie. Probably all those chips and salsa catching up with me.

  I stopped short in the living room, though, and stared at my MacBook in consternation. I could have sworn that I had shut it before I went to answer the door. But it sat on the coffee table, open, the forest screensaver showing a serene progression of woodland images. Had I really been so out of it that I’d just thought I’d closed the damn thing?

  Frowning, I touched the pad to deactivate the screensaver. My mail program stared back at me, even though I clearly remembered closing that window and opening Firefox. I should have been looking at the browser, not Mail. But there was my inbox — no new messages, but for some reason the email from Luke now had the little gray arrow next to its subject line, indicating that I had replied to it.

  But I hadn’t. I had opened it and read it, then closed the window. I hadn’t responded.

  Fingers shaking a little, I clicked on the “Sent Items” folder. Had some poltergeist decided to take up residence in my apartment and start playing mind games with me?

  Sure enough, a reply to Luke’s email was at the top of the list, with a time stamp of eight-fifteen. Of course I couldn’t have replied to it then — I’d been five miles away at El Cholo. And although Danny and his friends were up to a little industrial espionage and outright spying, I thought even they would draw the line at breaking and entering. Anyway, my laptop always stayed at home — it had never even been anyplace where Victor Nguyen could get his prying fingers on it. And Danny and I had worked everything out…hadn’t we?

  The mystery message turned out to be short and sweet, just three words.

  I miss you.

  I cringed when I read the email. Oh, it was the truth, absolutely, but that still didn’t mean I wanted my computer to be spontaneously sending off pathetic messages on my behalf. How the hell was I supposed to stick to my guns about not apologizing to Luke when my laptop had betrayed me and made me sound like some needy clinging
vine?

  Getting angry helped, because it kept me from being severely freaked out. Still, I wandered the apartment, checking to make sure I hadn’t left the back door unlocked (no dice), and that all the windows were securely shut. Normally I’d leave one or two open, but because of the uncertain weather I’d closed them all and fastened the latches, since one or two had been known to blow open in the past if the wind kicked up enough. My apartment was locked down tight as a drum, and if someone had forced entry they had to be a career criminal or with the NSA, because I couldn’t find any signs that anyone except me had been in the place. So how the hell had my computer sent off a reply to an email when I was miles away?

  I shivered, even though I’d left the heater on while I was gone, and the apartment was warm enough. At that same second, I heard the little chime that signaled an incoming email message. Again my heart began to beat a little faster. I rushed over to the computer to see who it was from.

  Not Luke. I saw that right away — there was no reassuring “Luke Nicolini” in the address line. It was completely blank, which was strange, since even spam has to come from somewhere. The subject line was also empty. Curiosity overcame my judgment. I clicked on the email and prayed that my Mac’s superior virus resistance would cover my ass in case there was anything particularly nasty attached to the message.

  There were no attachments. There was only one word:

  Believe.

  “Believe,” I said aloud. Now, what the hell was that supposed to mean? Believe in what? God? The Devil? The power of love? That Nordstrom would finally put that pair of Marc Jacobs boots I lusted after on sale? What?

  Of course I got no answers. That one little word just sat there, staring at me, surrounded by white space, until finally I swore and shut the MacBook so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.

  It would have been a lot easier for me to believe if I had known exactly what I was supposed to believe in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The phone rang promptly at ten o’clock the next morning. I follow the ten/ten rule (“don’t call before ten in the morning or after ten at night unless you have explicit permission or someone’s dead”), so I figured it was probably Nina checking in to see how the date with Brad had gone. Sure enough, it was her cell number on the display. With a sigh I picked up my phone and headed for the couch; I had a feeling this might take awhile.