by Penny Reid
His mouth was a flat, stern line, and he was glaring at me.
“I see,” I said, because I did see. As Emma had suggested, Martin had truly given up revenge. I thought about telling him I was proud of him, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do so.
Sighing, Martin glanced at his plate and shook his head. “I sold the houses—with Emma’s help. She made that happen before Denver found out. I sent half the profits offshore and I donated the rest to the foundation. The foundation invested the money in SAT Systems. Emma explained to you what the foundation does, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, Dr. Patterson currently leads a think tank in Washington called Rural Education Reform. He’s dedicated his life to trying to equalize the opportunities for children in underserved areas. I know I’m not the best person to lead the operations of this foundation if I truly want it to succeed—and I do, I need it to succeed. He is a content expert and he’s passionate about the subject. I think he might be the best guy for the job.”
“So you met him through his daughter?”
“Yes. I befriended her because I wanted to meet him.” This admission held no note of an apology.
“So, you’re friends?”
I noted that Martin’s gaze was veiled before it fell away. He studied his plate, but I knew he didn’t really see it.
Finally he said, “I used Rose to get to her father. It worked. He’s probably going to take the position.”
I felt my heart sink. I thought about asking him to clarify the extent of his relationship with Rose, but ultimately I decided against it. If he wanted to tell me, he would tell me. And he wasn’t my boyfriend; we weren’t involved. It wasn’t my place to ask.
His eyes lifted back to mine; they held a new edge, like he was bracing himself for my reaction.
I shrugged, feeling frustrated but resigned to my place. “So, the foundation. You need it to succeed?”
He sighed and I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed I didn’t press the Rose issue.
Nevertheless, he answered my question. “Yes. Although the mission of the foundation is noble, ultimately I’m leveraging the work they do to make money for myself. Lots and lots of money.”
I nodded again. “I figured that out when Emma told me you’d purchased the broadcast and streaming rights for the next fifty years in underserved areas.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand that. Because, I’m never going to become a person who is selfless. If I see an idea to exploit, I’m going to exploit it.” His tone was harsh, like he was trying to communicate something of great importance to me, like he needed me to see that though he’d let go of his plans of revenge, he hadn’t suddenly become a philanthropist.
“Well then, I’ll cancel the application for sainthood I filed on your behalf.” I gave him a wry smile that didn’t quite meet my eyes, hoping he’d see I never expected him to be a saint.
But he didn’t.
“Kaitlyn…” He looked discontent, pushed his plate to the side, and rested his forearms on the table. His frown was pensive and severe. “I’m never going to be a person who thinks about honor before personal gain; it’s not second nature to me, like it is to you. I might do things in the future that you don’t agree with. But I hope that—”
I stopped him by covering his hand with mine. “Stop, listen for a second. I know you’re not perfect. No one is perfect. I know that how you were raised means you’re a survivor. You needed to be. I understand that. But revenge was a choice, protecting yourself is instinct.”
His eyes were solemn, yet I saw he understood my meaning. I squeezed his hand then continued, “You said to me a few weeks ago at The Bluesy Bean that you had plenty of logic, or reason, or something like that. But you also said that you wouldn’t mind having my self-sacrificing, martyring bullshit input either.”
“Did I say that?” he deadpanned, fighting a smile.
“Basically. More or less. My point is, this friendship is good for both of us. I make lots of mistakes. So do you. And maybe we can get to a place where we trust each other enough to be a mirror for the other person. I’ll let you know when you need more saintliness in your life. You let me know when I’m being a self-sacrificing martyr. How does that sound?”
His mouth crooked to the side as his gaze wandered over my face. “That sounds good.”
“Also, I’ll tell you when you’re crossing the line between hot young executive, and an uptight corporate sell-out.”
“Are we talking about my towels again?”
“You mean your monogrammed linens? If so, yes.”
He huffed a laugh. “They were a house-warming present from Emma.”
“I’m burning them.”
“That’s fine.”
“And I’m replacing them with Lord of the Rings beach towels.”
“That’s fine too. I don’t give a fuck about my towels as long as they dry me off.”
“Good to hear. Then I’ll also be adding some My Little Pony ones as well.”
We shared a small smile and I released his hand, taking the pause in conversation as an opportunity to steal a chocolate chip muffin. As I did so, I noticed Martin fingering his calluses, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the tough patches of skin.
I guessed he had more to say, so I prompted, “Anything else I should know? Did you get a tattoo over the last few months?”
“No. Did you?” His eyes shot to mine.
“Yes. It’s a centaur mounting a unicorn on a rainbow.” I took a bite of my muffin and smiled.
He looked horrified. “Really?”
“Maybe.”
His eyebrows jumped and his eyes automatically moved down my body, as though he could see the hideous hypothetical tattoo through my clothes.
Suddenly, catching himself, he closed his eyes, pressed the base of his palms against his forehead, and shook his head. “Actually, there is something else you should know. There’s another reason I set up the foundation instead of taking the profits directly, and that has to do with your mother.”
“My mom?”
He opened his eyes again, giving me a very direct and pointed look. “Yeah. The activities of SAT Systems fall under the jurisdiction of her senate committee. But my broadcast and streaming rights do not, especially since most are for international areas. The foundation is non-profit, and isn’t regulated as one would regulate a for-profit corporation. Different rules apply.”
“Okay…”
“Meaning,” he paused, watching me intently, “meaning that you and I can have this…friendship, and your mother can’t be accused—with any legitimacy—of having a conflict of interest or bias.”
***
“You don’t have to come.”
“I want to.”
“You want to spend your Christmas afternoon at a senior center in Queens?”
Martin shrugged, switching gears. His car went vroooom.
Meanwhile I was still mulling over the information he’d detonated during breakfast. I was still wondering what the exact nature of his relationship with Rose Patterson had been. Plus I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact he’d purposefully structured his involvement with the satellite project, and established the foundation so our friendship wouldn’t compromise my mother.
I didn’t want to read too much into the action, but it seemed like this meant he’d been thinking about me, and some future relationship with me, several months ago when he’d established the foundation. And this simmering thought process twisted me up into a ball of confusion.
Because I didn’t know what his actions months ago meant for us now.
In fact, I opened my mouth to ask this question when Martin broke the silence with his own question.
“Why are you leaving tonight? Stay an extra day.” He glanced at me briefly, his question and slightly demanding statement pulling me from my thoughts. He returned his attention to the road. “I’ll take the day off tomorrow, show you around the city.”
�
�That’s nice of you, but train tickets tomorrow are really expensive. But I did want to ask you about—”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No.” I scrunched my face at him, shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be four hours of driving for you. Plus I promised Sam I’d be home tonight so we can have dinner together. She’s been alone all day, and we have a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yes. We’re going to exchange gifts, drink wine from a box, and binge watch the last season of Doctor Who.”
He nodded and I noted that the corner of his mouth was curved downward into a frown. I could tell he was lost in thought. Meanwhile I was re-gathering my courage to ask him about the foundation.
Suddenly he asked, “When are you in New York next? When’s your next show?”
“Oh, well.” I cleared my throat, flexing my fingers over my knees. “Not until the end of January, as far as I know. Plus, with school starting up again next semester and all the new departmental requirements, I might have to cut back with the band.”
“You seem…happier.” Martin’s eyes flickered to me, his gaze sweeping over my face.
His words and how he watched me as he said them, like he respected and valued me, made my chest feel airy and light. I recognized he was trying to be a good friend. I glanced down at my hands, feeling self-conscious beneath his steady and apprizing scrutiny.
“I am happy.” I nodded at this assertion.
I was happy.
Even without Martin I would be happy and this realization caused a burst of gratefulness to warm me from my head to my toes—for him, for our week on the island, and for our odd Christmas in New York.
Because I wanted him to know he’d helped me and that I would always be grateful, I continued unprompted, “I love music, I love playing it and composing it. You were right to push me. You made a difference in my life and I don’t think I’ve thanked you for that yet. So,” I glanced up, found him watching me with avid interest, “thank you, Martin. Thank you for finding me in that chemistry closet and seeing me in the first place. Thank you for helping me see myself.”
We were at a light and Martin studied me for a long moment. His jaw ticked pensively and he seemed to be working through a problem of some importance. I allowed him time and silence to ponder.
At last he said, “I’m sorry.”
Or, at least I thought that’s what he said. But the chances of Martin Sandeke saying I’m sorry out of the blue felt really slim. More likely he’d said, I’m starry or, I’m a Ferrari.
I sought to clarify. “What? What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his eyes moving over my face while his lips curved into a small smile, possibly because I looked so entirely incredulous.
The light turned green and we were off. As he spoke his eyes never strayed from the road.
“I let you down, and you’d trusted me. I thought…after spring break, I thought I could wait you out. I kept expecting you to change your mind, kept thinking you were bluffing, that eventually you’d agree to see me in secret—that way we’d both get what we wanted. But when I chased you down in the student union and you told me I was ruining you…I saw that you were right and how fucking stupid I’d been to wait. It didn’t occur to me that we were over until you asked me to walk away. And when you did, I realized I was too late.”
The sobriety that accompanied an unpleasant memory and serious matters chased away my smidge of warm fuzzies, and replaced them with a simmering discontented heat and a renewed flush of discomfort. I remembered that day with vivid starkness, like it had just happened. I remembered how well he’d looked at the time, how unchanged, until I’d practically begged him to leave me alone.
And then he’d looked destroyed. His agony a tangible thing, and a mirror of mine.
I stared at his profile, really looked at him. He was the same Martin, but different. We were both so different. I wasn’t hiding in closets and he wasn’t losing his temper.
“You deserved better,” he said quietly. He sounded like he was talking to himself.
Martin pulled into the senior center and parked the car. His movements were jerky, like he was irritated with himself, or regretting his words, or the memory. Whatever it was, he was agitated and distracted as he exited the car. Meanwhile I felt incapacitated by the puzzle pieces arranging themselves in my mind.
He’d looked fine that day at the student union because he hadn’t thought we were over. And this realization made me feel hollow, because I’d misjudged him.
And he’d deserved better.
CHAPTER 11
Molecular Shapes
Martin stayed for the show, but things were tense.
Willis glared at Martin.
Fitzy glared at Abram.
Janet glared at the senior citizens. I surmised she wasn’t a fan.
And Abram…well, he played his guitar and ignored the ire.
Luckily the show was only two sets of classic Christmas hits. When it was over, most of the band went their separate ways in record time and with no pleasantries. I hoped the weighty tension was due to spending a week together almost non-stop, and we’d get our groove back after a break.
Abram lingered, taking his time packing up his bass. Once we were alone, he walked over to where I was stuffing my tie and jacket into my bag and stopped just in front of me.
“Hey,” he said, his smile small and genuine, but as always with a hint of smirkiness.
“Hey.” I peered at him through one eye. “You look like you’re up to no good.”
“Me? Never.” His grin spread as he reached for my hand and pulled it face up between us. Then he placed a small bunch of greenery tied with a white ribbon in the center of my palm.
“What’s this?” I split my attention between him and the little package.
“It’s mistletoe.” His smile became lopsided and his dark eyes danced merrily. “For granting wishes.”
I laughed, though I’m sure it was shaded with dejection, and I sighed. “You’re good people, Abram Fletcher.”
“So are you, Katy Parker.”
I stared up at him and he stared down at me. I knew he perceived my melancholy because his crooked smile became a questioning frown.
“Hey…everything okay?”
I didn’t know how to answer, but in the end I didn’t have to, because Martin picked that moment to walk into the room. Both Abram and I turned our heads at the interruption. Martin’s gaze narrowed as he assessed the scene before him, his eyes settling on where Abram still held my hand between us.
Before he could slip a mask over his features, I saw a range of emotions flicker behind his eyes, but none were permanent. In the end it was just an unreadable jumble.
Eventually, he straightened, standing taller, and his gaze meandered back to me, cool and aloof.
“Are you ready? I don’t want you to miss your train.” His tone was as flat as the line of his mouth.
“Yeah, almost.” I turned to my bag and placed the mistletoe gently in the front pocket then retrieved the gift I’d purchased for Abram and handed it to him. “Here, this is for you.”
His eyebrows lifted into sharp arches and his small, genuine smile was back. “For me?”
“Yep. You don’t have to open it now. Put it under your tree and save it for when you need a mug.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Well, thanks for ruining the surprise.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for the…other thing.”
“You’re welcome.” Abram gave me a gracious nod then lifted his chin toward the door where Martin waited, his eyes never leaving mine. “Now go. I don’t want you to miss your train.”
***
Martin carried my bag to the car, which was silly because it weighed almost nothing. But I let him because I got the distinct impression that carrying my one-pound bag meant more to him than it did to me.
Plus, he was scowling.
My suspicions regarding h
is mood were confirmed as soon as he pulled into traffic. He was driving really fast, and aggressively, and impatiently. I checked the security of my seatbelt.
It was one of those situations where I felt like, had we been meant for each other, then I would know the right thing to say. But I wasn’t sure whether he was upset about his sudden confession on the drive to the senior center, or if he were irritated about something else.
Regardless, I felt compelled to break the silence and say something. I wasn’t okay with stunted communication between us.
“So, my mother wants me to perform at a fundraiser she’s having.” I allowed my eyes to flicker to him, watched as the hard lines of his profile didn’t exactly soften, but almost.
“Your mother wants you to perform? So she’s okay with the change from chemical engineering to music?”
“I didn’t really give her a choice to be honest. I just decided, then told them about my decision. I then started working two jobs to make sure I could cover myself financially.”
“Because you thought they might cut you off?”
I shook my head before he finished asking the question. “No. I wasn’t ever concerned about them cutting me off. It’s just, it was important to me to prove I could support myself financially, that music was my career and not a hobby funded by my parents.”
He nodded and I noted that most of the tension had eased from his shoulders. Maybe distraction had been the right approach.
“I can understand that. I mean, if you think about it, you’re more self-made than I am. All of my money, all the money I’ve invested, has come from my father, even though he didn’t willingly give it to me.”
“Does that bother you?” I tried to keep my voice low and gentle so he didn’t think I was judging him, because I wasn’t.
He shrugged but said, “Honestly? Yes. He used me. I used him. I’m so fucking tired of being used and using people. I’m…” he paused, his chest rising and falling with the silent breath, “I’m just tired of it.”
“So, stop using people,” I said before I thought better of it.
Martin glanced at me then back to the road, his expression a cross between incredulous and amused. “Just stop using people?”
