by Penny Reid
This admission made my insides flood with warmth and I marveled at how open he was with his thoughts, how fearless. I surmised our friendship would be similar to our previous courtship; I’d never have to wonder what he was thinking or feeling about me. He would be direct and honest.
In truth, I admired this about him. I wasn’t nearly as fearless. By comparison, and especially with him, I was a feelings and thoughts hoarder.
“I don’t want to talk about Emma or her constant nagging. I want to sit on the couch, drink a beer, eat pizza, and talk about shit that doesn’t matter—and laugh.”
He looked older than his twenty-one years; his suit was partially to blame. However, he also just looked tired—really, really tired. Upon further study I saw that his color was off, paler than before; his eyes were rimmed red, the dark circles beneath giving his face a drawn appearance. As well he was sporting a stubbly, late-afternoon beard.
I studied him, his obvious exhaustion, and felt like a compromise was in order. “Okay, fine. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
He gave me a grateful, and tired, half smile. “Good.”
I held up a finger and pointed it at him. “But once you’ve recovered from your day, and you’ve had your beer and eaten your pizza, and we’ve talked about things that don’t matter, we will discuss the meaning of the ominous and mysterious conversation with your partner.”
He’d removed his suit jacket and vest, and was now unbuttoning his cuffs. “Fine.”
“Fine. I’ll get plates.”
“And beer.”
“And napkins.”
He nodded once and stumbled toward the hallway. On his way he stopped directly in front of me, paused for a moment, then scooped me up in his arms and gave me a tight hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
I hesitated as I my chest had grown tight, confusing emotion momentarily choking me. I wasn’t expecting us to be hugging friends. But then I returned his embrace because…Martin.
And also because his arms around me were like chocolate chip cookies for my soul. He felt strong, sturdy, warm, snuggly, good, right—delicious.
Yet my heart ached for him, he sounded so weary.
“Are you okay? Is something going on?” I soothed my hand up then down his back.
“No, not the way you mean. Nothing serious. I just…” I felt him exhale and relax a bit more into my arms. “I just missed you.”
Gah! Right in the feels.
***
“That’s it. I’m going to make a list of all the TV shows you need to watch.” I was sitting cross-legged on his couch, facing him and resting my head on the back of the overstuffed sofa. Martin was sprawled on the other side, holding his beer on his stomach and fighting to keep his eyes open.
“I own the Sherlock Holmes books.”
“The BBC show is awesome. Have you read the books yet?”
“No.”
“Maybe try reading them.”
“I will. Didn’t I read The Lord of the Rings?”
“Yes. But Sherlock has maybe the best sidekick in the history of forever.” I glanced behind him and found the clock on the wall. It was almost 10:30 p.m.
This conversation—about books, movies, pop culture, international current events, Internet memes, and music—was entering its third hour, although it felt like we’d just started talking, like no time had passed.
“I liked Sam, Frodo’s sidekick,” he said, stretching his legs. He was dressed in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. I tried not to notice how delicious he looked. I tried and failed. His deliciousness paired with our easy conversation was somewhat intoxicating. I was feeling giddy.
“If you like sidekicks, then you have to watch Doctor Who.” I sipped my tea and studied the tea bag. “The Doctor has several companions, which is unusual but really works for the series.”
“I think you’re a sidekick person.”
“You think I’m a sidekick?” I glanced at him over the rim of my cup.
He peered at me. “No. I think you like sidekicks and side characters, maybe better than main characters.”
I thought about this for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I can see that. I feel like sidekicks aren’t as well developed as the main character in a story, but they’re essential in defining that main character. And the protagonist needs the sidekick more than the sidekick needs the protagonist. Sometimes the villain is just as important.”
He lifted his beer toward me and said before taking a sip, “But every sidekick and villain is the main character in his or her own story. Everyone is the main character in their own story. Even if the person is an asshole.”
This made me laugh. “Are you thinking of a person in particular?”
“No.” His eyes narrowed on me. I watched him take a deep breath, then amend, “Actually, yes.”
“Really? Who?”
“Do you remember Ben?”
I searched my memory and quickly registered the name. “Ben Salsmar, the drugging rapist,” I supplied. “Yes. Unfortunately, I do remember him. He’s responsible for the figurative potato sack of guilt I carry around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I should have gone to the police when we got back from the Island. Instead I… didn’t.”
“Kaitlyn, there is nothing you could have done about Ben. You need to free the potatoes.”
“I overheard at the end of last year that he was arrested for sexually assaulting a minor, and I might have done something before he had a chance to—”
“Well, that’s not exactly true. He didn’t sexually assault her because he was stopped before he could do anything beyond drugging her and dropping his pants.”
I felt an immediate warm relief spread through my veins.
Martin studied me before continuing, “Just know that you couldn’t have stopped him. It would have been your word against his, and you had no evidence. But did you hear anything else?”
“Just that there was video proof.”
“Yes, there is a video. Actually, there were a few videos, from several different vantage points. He was arrested for the drugging, assault, and attempted rape. He was also expelled once the video was shared with university administration.”
I hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Was he convicted?”
“He will be. A few of the guys on the team will testify. Plus there’s the videos. His dad tried to delay the proceedings and, because of the delay, a few other girls have come forward. As of now it looks like he’ll be facing more than one rape charge.”
I felt sickened by this news—that several girls had been abused—but also heartened they had come forward. “Well, that’s good, right?”
“Yes. That’s good.”
“Well…good. I’m glad he was stopped.”
“Me, too.” Martin stared at me for a long moment and I knew he wanted to say something more. I was just about to prompt him when he said, “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that night, when you came to the fraternity house and told me what he was planning.”
I gave him a half smile. “It’s no problem. Did you ever find out who the girl was?”
“No… but thank you,” he said solemnly. Then, he added just as solemnly, “I promised you I’d take care of him, and I wanted you to know I kept my promise.”
My left eyebrow lifted of its own accord. “You took care of him?”
His expression grew cagey. “Technically, he did it to himself. I just installed the cameras…”
I studied him, guessing he’d likely been more involved than just installing cameras.
Martin heaved a heavy sigh, settling deeper into the cushions of the couch. “Like I said, everyone is the main character in their own story. Even villains.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know… Not necessarily. I mean, sometimes the story is bigger than the characters, like Jurassic Park. The Park was really the central focus of the story, and all the characters were secondary to the Park. Th
eir only purpose was to react to the Park.”
Martin yawned, set his now empty beer on the coffee table, and closed his eyes. “That’s because dinosaurs are awesome. We’re all sidekicks to dinosaurs.”
“Or dinner.”
“Or dinner,” he slurred, issuing me a sloppy nod.
I watched the rise and fall of his chest, noted he appeared to be completely relaxed. If I was very quiet I knew he’d be asleep in less than sixty seconds.
But the conversation—or confrontation—with his business partner earlier was still nagging at me. If he fell asleep I’d have to wait another day to get my questions answered.
“Sandeke,” I whispered. “Why does Emma dislike me so much?”
He shifted, his head lolling to the side, and heaved a sigh. “She doesn’t know you.”
“That’s why she doesn’t like me?”
“Yeah…if she knew…you…she’d…really like you.”
Aaaand he was asleep.
I studied him for a long moment, but knew I didn’t have the heart to wake him. He’d been so tired. As we talked I saw the tension ease from his shoulders. He needed a night off from whatever genius high-stakes shenanigans he’d been up to.
I set my tea on the coffee table, then remembered the blankets in the linen closet. I tiptoed to the hallway and grabbed one, laying it gently on his sleeping form and tucking it between his hip and the sofa cushions so it wouldn’t slip off. Standing back, I surveyed Martin. Unable to help myself, I threaded my fingers through the hair at his forehead and pushed it gently to one side.
He turned his head toward my hand, pressing against my lingering touch. The simple action, the way he instinctively sought affection and warmth made me smile sadly. I’d forgotten how lost Martin was, how completely used and abandoned he’d been by his family. In my own grief surrounding the breakup, I’d forgotten he didn’t have many friends, and trusted very few.
This made my heart hurt in a new way, one focused outward instead of inward, and I felt the weight of my childish selfishness.
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 his 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.”
