by Edie Danford
A small choking sound erupts from his mouth. He drops his hands and turns to shut off the faucet. He doesn’t turn back to face me. He braces himself on the sink’s edge.
“What?” I ask, walking toward him. “What is wrong this morning?”
“I had so many goals for today,” he says to the tiled wall. “I was gonna be good, stay focused. But when you say shit like that to me, you make it so hard…”
I take a breath. I want to touch him again, but he’d walked away from me a few seconds ago, obviously needing space. I should wait before going for more kisses. “I’m making a dirty joke in my mind right now. Should I say it out loud?”
He laughs—a real laugh—and finally turns around. His cheek-cooling efforts have failed. They are a lovely shade of rose, not quite as deep as the color of his tie. The look in his eyes makes my chest feel tight. I have zero objectivity in this analysis, but I’m pretty sure even a random person would say he’s regarding me with affection. Warmth. Maybe even love.
I say, “I know my mentor would probably recommend I be denied tenure if he heard me say this, but…”
His hair looks better now. Little blond spikes have been created by my fingers. And now I want to smooth them.
“But what?” He glances at the wall clock. “We gotta get going, Mar—”
“There are some experiments, that, once you begin them, you realize are flawed. They might be based on faulty assumptions. The entire concept is wrong and there is no sense in continuing, in wasting time and resources—”
“We don’t have time to talk about experiments right now—”
“I think this dating experiment is all wrong. I don’t want to do it. We haven’t discussed endpoints. We haven’t discussed time-to-event trends or survival plots. Any analysis would be moot simply because the experiment will conclude and thus terminate any—”
“Too bad,” he interrupts loudly.
“I only want to be with you,” I insist. “You value honesty, and this is the truth.”
He shakes his head. And then he nods. And then he holds his head in his hands.
“Pete…” I step forward.
His hands fell to his sides as he looks up at me again. “What? What do you want me to say, Marek? I can’t fly by the seat of my pants—not anymore. I can’t change directions midstream. I need to stay on a path. A path we agreed on. I need this job. I like it. I want to keep it. I want to be your housekeeper, but—” He makes a strangled-sounding noise and then slowly shakes his head.
I don’t understand what he is saying entirely. Pants, streams, paths. It’s a lot.
But I do understand the strain in his voice. Once again, I’ve pushed too hard. “I suck at sticking to personal agendas—and making them. Or maybe I just suck at trying to meld my agenda with yours.”
“You don’t suck at anything. You’re going to be brilliant on this date with Steph. You are going to go out there this week, this month, and gather many sets of data. That’s what we agreed on. You do those things. And then…we can reassess.”
“Good.” I don’t like the way he’s said “reassess,” but it’s better than “no fucking way.” I pull out my phone. “You will be needing the car.”
“No,” he says. “I’m not sure of my plans after this meeting. Also, I don’t want to deal with parking downtown.” He looks down at his fancy shoes. “I’ll cab it. And you should also. That way you won’t have to worry about parking, either.”
“We can share a cab—”
“No. We’re gonna do separate activities today, Mar.” He steps close. My heart beats hard as he leans up to place a kiss on my cheek. “I know you’re nervous about this. But it will be a good thing. You’ve wanted to see this exhibit for a long time. Steph Novak is, according to people I trust, a very nice man.”
I swallow. Breathe in and out. “Tonight. When we both get home. We could have a movie-and-popcorn night since we missed it last—”
“I’m supposed to go up to Lake Woods for a party. I might work on a few things with my mom while I’m up there. In which case, I’ll stay the night and come home in the morning.”
He doesn’t sound excited by this idea. He doesn’t like family stuff. He doesn’t like when I ask about family stuff. So I say, “All right. I’ll text and give you updates and you will do the—”
“No. You will not text me during your date. If you do, I won’t read them.”
He seems insistent on this point. “Okay,” I say. “I will see you when I see you.” Very confident. In control.
“You will,” he says. “Have a good time.”
I stand there. Watch his fingers push a button on his suit coat in and out of the buttonhole. “But, um…”
“Yes?” I raise my eyebrows.
“You can always call or text if you need anything. Like, if something goes wrong, or if you start feeling awful, or—”
“I get it. Thank you.”
What I don’t say, of course, is that I will need him. I could send him this text right now and have it be completely true. I need you, Pete. And I could keep sending it all day.
“You will do the same?” I ask.
He nods.
I go in search of my parka and my new “non-dorky” boots. Before I leave, I step into the kitchen one last time. To see him, to say goodbye. The kitchen’s empty. I hear the sound of an old pop ballad coming through the open door to his room.
I will disappoint him and a few other people if I’m late to this date. So the only thing I can do is walk away and go meet a man I have no desire to meet.
Pete
What does it say about me that I’m more concerned with Marek’s date at the Art Institute than I am about the terms of the pricey property I’m about to get from my family?
Fab new loft? Pah. Whatevs. Don’t bore me with the details.
But the state of Marek’s nerves as he walks around looking at paintings and sculpture? OMG I want to know now.
So when my phone beeps with an incoming text from Zoe, I hold up a hand to stop one of Dad’s attorneys midsentence and looked at what Zoe’s chirping about. She might have actual news about Marek. And, what do you know? She does.
M says he’s having a good time! He even sent a selfie.
Yep. It’s a selfie. Of Marek and Steph in a traditional, heads-tilted-together pose.
He’d taken it—or I guess Steph could’ve taken it—in front of the museum by one of the humongous sentry-like lions standing guard over the front steps. One of the statues looms beyond Steph’s handsome head. The day is sunny—nice for January, for sure—and Steph is wearing shades that make his old-school-movie-star face look even more movie-star perfect. Paul Newman has nothing on this guy.
My eyes glom Mar’s smile, using all my skills to judge if it’s a “real” smile. I used to be an expert at analyzing selfie expressions—
“Pete? Pete! Put the damn phone away. Better yet, give it to me.” My dad waggles his thick fingers at me.
He’s treating me like I’m thirteen, so I roll my eyes like I’m thirteen. I shove the phone in my suit coat pocket and straighten up in the club chair. “Sorry,” I say. “Urgent message about my boss.”
Now it’s Dad’s turn to roll his eyes. His scorn is not a surprise. I know exactly what he thinks about my “job” (his quotes, not mine). He’s told me in no uncertain terms that I’m an idiot to keep working in a service industry.
When I’d moved back to Chicago, his advice to me had been to move in with him and Tracy, apply to get in to the best college I could manage—not a state school, though, because that wouldn’t meet his standards—and enroll ASAP.
If he’d stopped to think about it, he might’ve realized that me living on a stress-and-party-fueled college campus with a bunch of gunner nineteen-year-olds would not have been good for me last year, this year, or any time at all. But Dad saves his deep thinking for things other than me.
He’s never understood that I need something to do with my hands. That I need to
feel worthy on a basic human level. That I need to care for someone, make someone happy, comfortable, with the things I do for them.
Turns out making chicken stock from scratch and laundering bed linens and buying fresh flowers for a dinner table are things that fulfill me.
Dad might never be okay with these concepts, but that’s okay. It’s my life, and I have to figure out how to make myself happy.
“So basically,” the lawyer with gray hair is saying, “if you decide to sell the property, the trust provision demands that any proceeds go into the trust account. It’s like your other accounts—it will have your name on it, but any withdrawals will demand permission from your father, who, of course, acts as trust officer.”
“Of course,” I say. I like the lawyer with the black hair better—he’s less bullshitty, so I turn to him. “So the condo isn’t really mine after I sign on the dotted line, right?”
The lawyer nods. “Right. Although the trust does have your name on it. And, of course, your father is making provisions to pay the monthly condo assessment fees out of a separate account. But the money he’s set aside to finish the loft to your tastes will be yours free and clear. It will be deposited in your account on Monday.”
I glance at my father. He says, “I care about you and I want what’s best for you, even if you’ve never believed that. I think this is a good way to provide for your future. In a way that employs care and wisdom.”
I smile. For once, I agree with him. I lean forward, pick up the nicely weighted pen resting next to the document, and sign on the dotted line. I look up at Dad and tell him, “I think you’re right. Thank you.”
His eyes—a nice shade of hazel—go wide.
I push my chair away from the table. Takes some effort—the thing weighs as much as Mar’s Beemer. Dad’s eyes get wary. He’s expecting me to now make a big scene, the way I’d done after high school graduation when I’d caused a huge family fight after refusing his offer of college tuition. I’d run off to L.A. instead.
Maybe he’s expecting me to rip up the contract I’d just signed. To tell him to take his condo and shove it.
Although it’s tempting—I haven’t changed that much from the guy I’d been a few years ago—I know I might need the money someday. I might get my ass sued. Or end up jobless and homeless for a while. Or want to start my own business.
I wonder whether my father would sign over the cash if I give him a business plan for Petey Poppins, Housekeeping and More.
Smiling at the thought, I reach across the table and offer a hand to the gray-haired attorney. He shakes and then I shake with the black-haired guy and do the same with my father. The attorneys don’t seem fazed. It’s normal to shake a person’s hand after giving them a valuable piece of property, right? But my dad looks like he’s ready to fall out of his chair. He isn’t used to me behaving “normally.”
He clears his throat. “Okay. Well then.” He glances at his lawyers. “We, um, have a couple more things to discuss, right, fellas?” They nodded at him in unison. He’s a big client. One who merits Saturday afternoon meetings and politeness to the gay son who asks blunt questions and has questionable manners. I’m an item for them to check off on Gary Schulz’s long list. “Are you coming by the house later, Pete? Tracy’s expecting you at the party. You could ride with me if you’re willing to wait.”
If he would’ve put it differently, maybe by adding a “Please come” or “I’d love to see you, spend some time together,” or “I want talk to you about the huge changes happening in my life,” I would have said yes.
The party he’s talking about is a hooray-our-house-sold party. Lots of friends and neighbors. I’ve been making myself wait until the last minute to decide whether I can stomach going.
The party won’t start for another few hours. Do I want to hang out and wait for my dad to finish his meeting? Do I want to call my mom to come pick me up—answer a bunch of questions and hear her sigh and moan about the loft’s terms? Take a Lyft or a cab and pay at least fifty bucks for a one-way trip to Awfulburb?
“No,” I say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I’m not up to partying with the country-club set. But I’m scoring maturity points left, right, and center today and manage to say, “I have other plans.”
Dad is apparently stunned by my relatively quiet signing of the trust document and my lack of protest about the terms. Because he doesn’t scold, he nods and says, “Okay, I’ll give Tracy your regrets.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the gift.” I tip my head toward the document on the table.
“You’re welcome. Do you know if you’ll move in? Or sell?”
“No, I don’t know yet. I kind of need to let all this sink in.”
“I have some ideas. I know you don’t want to hear them. But maybe—”
“I can’t hear them right now. But maybe give me a call and we can have lunch sometime. Sans lawyers.”
“Okay. Take care, Peter.”
“You too.”
I leave the darkened corner of the restaurant and make my way down the darkened aisle and into the darkened entryway. Happy to be making an escape, I grin at the hostess as I bundle into my overcoat and scarf. She shoots me a sparkling smile in return, and I head into the sunlight.
The club’s on Monroe—scarily close to the Art Institute as luck would have it. There’s a breeze, but the sunshine is battling for dominance over the late January chill. My shoes suck for walking, but it feels good to move as I head toward Millennium Park. I need to decide how I want to get home. But going home might be a drag.
I’d told Marek that I likely wouldn’t be home until morning. Why had I said that?
I’d said it because I don’t want to be there when Marek gets home. I don’t want to know what time he arrives. I don’t want to know the details of his date with an accomplished, all-that attorney who has represented marquee cases for LGBTQ rights and given zillions to dozens of worthy causes in this city. For selfish reasons, because, yep, honestly I’m jealous as hell. But for unselfish reasons too.
I’m worried about Marek—that kiss we’d shared this morning had been so far from “just friends” that it was laughable. And I’d ignored the truth in his voice when he’d said he didn’t want to follow through on the “experiment” he’d embarked on.
I plant my ass on a sunny wall by the Crown Fountain. I pull out my phone, both hoping for and dreading more news about Marek.
No new texts. No new photos.
I stare at the one he’d taken with Steph. I hadn’t been able to interpret his smile when I’d looked at the pic earlier. But as I look at it again, I’m sure.
Mar’s smile is not saying, “OMG look at this incredible man standing next to me in front of this amazing place I’ve always wanted to visit!”
Nope. It’s saying, “I’m being good. I’m trying. I will gather data as I promised.”
I trace the curve of his smile with my thumb, and then delete the pic. I’m in the habit of deleting pictures as soon as I get them now—I’ve posted pictures on social media for good and bad purposes in the past, and I’ve learned those hey-look impulses can lead to regrettable shit you can’t ever take back.
In this instance, though, I simply don’t want to see a trying-too-hard version of a smile on Marek’s face ever again.
I’d sent similar selfies to friends in the past—hundreds of them, probably. Look at me! I’m with a hot guy having the time of my life! I’m happy, happy, happy even though my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I’m good, I’m great, can’t you see?
I put the phone away and shoot a glance in the direction of the Art Institute. It’s a big building, lots of wings, lots of art, lots of people. Marek’s likely overwhelmed. I picture him wandering from room to room, trying to appreciate beautiful things as he battles his social anxiety.
And I abruptly wish that I had slammed five cocktails at my dad’s club.
Because damn. What had I been thinking? Making rules for Marek’s social l
ife. Setting up scenarios for how Marek is supposed to act, forcing choices that make him uncomfortable, miserable.
Data sets? Really?
I hadn’t been thinking. I’d been grabbing at him with greedy hands. Drinking down his warmth and friendship and caring like the thirstiest guy on the planet. Sure! If this goofball idea lets me kiss the fuck out of you guilt-free then let’s go for it!
But the guilt will always be a factor with me and Mar. I’d signed a contract with his uncle, I’d taken money, I’d made promises to care for Professor Marek Janos. And then “caring” had morphed into something much bigger, something big enough to crash through all the boundaries I’ve tried to set.
And if there are no more boundaries, no more rules, what did that mean? If Marek is my friend way more than he’s my client…
I stand. I’ll splurge and take a cab back to Hyde Park.
I need to make some changes. I need to talk to Marek. When he gets home from his date, I’ll be there waiting for him. If I value our friendship, I need to tell him about that goddamn agreement with his uncle.
If I have to quit working for him, I’m gonna blow the nondisclosure rider sky-high, anyway. There’s no way I’ll forget him, cut off all contact with him.
Because it’s God’s truth that Marek is a friend I never want to lose.
I’d been a mature, responsible adult earlier with my dad and I’d survived.
Maybe it’s time to be a mature, responsible adult with Marek. Maybe quitting the job where I take care of him, will, in fact, be the best way to take care of him.
Chapter 9
Marek
I’m not sure if I can call my date with Steph Novak a success.
I’d managed to arrive on time. I’d been able to smile and introduce myself and not get terribly confused by the logistics of the museum’s busy entryway.
The art, which was amazing, and Steph’s kindness, which was considerable, had allowed me to view the exhibit enthusiastically and make several comments. Steph’s conversational skills were stellar, and that had helped too. He’s an interesting man.
