by Edie Danford
The walk home is ridiculously cold. We have to head straight into the wind. I should have hailed a cab, called for a Lyft. Pete demands I put up my hood, fasten all the fastenings, which, yes, makes me less cold, but it also makes me feel as though I can’t breathe.
When we step inside the house at last and begin the laborious process of unwrapping, I say, “I will start the kettle. You turn up the furnace. I don’t care about fuel bills this month.”
He nods and heads into the kitchen. It’s troubling that he isn’t speaking. But I will warm him. Warm up his body and then warm his mind to this very necessary plan I’ve made.
I arrive in the kitchen to see him making adjustments to the thermostat by the hall door. He turns to me and says, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“I’ll make tea.”
Everything in the kitchen is tidy, of course, so I’m able to concentrate on my plans as I go through the automatic motions of heating the water, preparing the tray.
I can’t decide if it’s best to talk to Jakub first, or to talk to a lawyer—a lawyer who will represent only my interests. I’ll ask friends at the university’s administrative offices about the best way to find a personal attorney. Better yet, I’ll call the law school. If President Obama had been a professor there, then it’s likely they have plenty of brilliant people on staff who can give me good advice.
Also, I’ll research the steps it will take to get married. I glance at the clock. There might even be time to do it today, if there isn’t a waiting period involved.
The water boils. I pour it into the pot and drop the tea ball into it to steep. I like using loose leaves and strainers, but Pete prefers this less messy method.
I look at the tray. Mugs. Napkins. Maybe cookies or muffins?
Shit. We hadn’t eaten lunch. I should be making lunch right now, not tea.
I open the fridge. Would he like something hearty? There are some leftovers. Soup is always good on a cold day. I don’t know his plan for dinners for the rest of the week. I glance at his closed door. He’s been in there for a while. Should I ask him? Check on him? Is he okay?
I take two steps toward the door. Stop myself. I need to relax. Be capable. Do things that won’t make him feel overwhelmed.
I open the freezer and begin examining the neatly labeled items. They’re icy cold, of course, and I take out too many at once. The ones in my arms slip and fall to the floor. One of the plastic containers cracks. One of them lands on my foot. It fucking hurts. I might’ve cursed. Loudly.
I’m trying to deal with all this when Pete approaches. His face is pale, with a greenish tinge, his eyes red.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He makes a sound that’s maybe a laugh. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
“I’m fine. You sit and have tea.” I gesture at the mess and say, “This is nothing.”
“I’ll help.” He bends to retrieve the items on the floor. “Then we can both have tea faster.”
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“No. Are you?” He raises one of the round containers—soup. “Should I heat this?”
“Maybe later.” I don’t like the look on his face. I want him to sit. To relax.
We take seats at the little table. Things seem oddly formal. He pours. He stirs in all the items I like. I usually love watching the process, how he does it so gracefully, measuring the right amounts, taking care to do it exactly how I like.
But today his care is a reminder of how unusual our relationship is. After he’d first moved in, it had taken me weeks to convince him to eat with me, to take breaks with me. I’d wanted to spend time with him as a friend from the very first. His personality. His sense of humor. His capableness. So appealing. He made things easy. Easy for me to be comfortable in ways I’d never been comfortable before.
I’d made assumptions. Of course he would sit down and have tea with me. Of course he’d spend time doing “friend” things with me. Of course he’d share his thoughts and his time along with everything else.
Based on what I’ve learned today, I’m realizing how bizarre the demands I’d made must have seemed to him. That contract he’d signed—he must’ve thought about it often. Wondered about the reasons for it. And with that knowledge, what had he thought of my relentless efforts to befriend him?
I’d been clueless. In so many ways. Hopeless. Helpless. Yes. Every kind of “-less” one could think of. My uncle and his demands had added to these “-lesses.” Had made it seem like I was a precious, delicate creature. Maybe like one of the orchids Jakub and his wife liked to grow in their house.
What had Jakub said when he’d placed a housekeeper request with Domesticated? My nephew is gullible, fragile, socially awkward. He’s a special case who needs special help.
My formerly frozen cheeks get fiery. My empty stomach contracts, turning into a tiny, knotted ball.
I know Pete is kind. I know he understands me. But still. Now that his revelations are beginning to sink in, it’s humiliating. Unbearable.
I stare down at the teapot. I’ve always thought of this place—this big, bright kitchen, his cheerful room off the butler’s pantry—as good places for him to be, for us to be together. But maybe he thinks of them differently. Maybe he thinks of them as constricting places…as a contractual prison.
When he’d said he wanted to leave—the morning after I’d oops-jizzed all over him, this afternoon at the restaurant—and I’d freaked out about the idea of him going…
If he’d wanted to leave, enough to forfeit that bonus, enough to never speak to me again, then he must have really wanted to leave.
Oh God.
Mortification is a weird feeling, both numbing and tingling. As if my limbs long to move, to flee, but my brain is sending out chemicals to my nerve-endings to stop them, screaming at me, “You are not a fragile, precious creature, Marek! You are a man. A boring man capable of occasionally clever thoughts. Come up with a few right now, why don’t you?”
I take a sip of the tea and hope that I can keep it down. “You made it perfectly,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Pete—”
“Mar—”
We speak at the same time. We both laugh nervously.
“You go first,” I say.
He nods, but he doesn’t speak right away. His hands curve around his mug, but he doesn’t drink. “Shit,” he says. “I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just say it. Don’t worry about reactions.”
His mouth turns down. “I kinda have to worry, Marek.”
“I am okay now. I solemnly promise not to freak out.”
“I’m afraid I can’t explain things any better than what I told you earlier. I need to move out.” He swallows loudly. “I don’t want to marry you.”
This hits harder than it should. I’m beginning to understand why he thinks the idea is silly, but what he’s said is still a rejection, and it’s a very final-sounding rejection.
I don’t make horrible noises or fling the tea items to the floor. I don’t scream or make demands.
I sit still for a few moments, and then I make myself say calmly, “Okay. You don’t want to marry me. I understand. And I won’t keep you here if you want to leave. But I can’t—I must draw the line at firing you. I won’t do it.”
The clock in the hallway ticks. The refrigerator hums. My heart beats hard.
“Do you want to know something that’s freaking me out?” he says finally.
“Yes. I don’t want you to freak out. I want to help—”
“When I left Hollywood, I had to deal with lots of the same shitty issues I’m dealing with today.”
I raise my eyebrows. “A dorky man begging you to marry him?”
He doesn’t smile. His lips twitch in an entirely different way. I hate the sadness drowning out everything between us. “No. My boss—Tony Vrettos—he’s a very powerful man in Hollywood. People agreed to do things for him, to sign contracts, t
o draw huge salaries, because he knew exactly what to dangle in front of people’s noses. How to tempt them with their own weaknesses.”
“Like my uncle did when he first met you?”
“Yes. And the brilliance of the manipulation is that because people had agreed to certain terms on their own, when bad shit happened, they blamed themselves, not the manipulator.”
I nod. “Pete…”
“Yeah?”
“Did this man—your boss—did he hurt you? Assault you?”
He shakes his head. Slowly. “It was consensual, mostly.”
My stomach flips. “What does ‘mostly’ mean?”
“He was a prick. Arrogant. Demanding as fuck. But other times he could be charming and nice. Caring. Generous. It was hard to switch gears as fast as he did. And sometimes… Well, sometimes I missed gears, or, um, I didn’t want to switch them, you know? And I wasn’t the only one he ran over with demands. I witnessed bad shit he did to other people. Other people witnessed bad shit he did to me. None of us did anything about it. We wanted to keep our jobs. And worried that if we were fired, we’d be blacklisted, never hired again.”
My heart is forming new cracks and it’s hard to speak. “You couldn’t tell anyone? Your boss’s boss, or a… a human resources person?”
His laughter is horrible in its sadness. “My boss’s bosses were network bigwigs. I wouldn’t have known where to start. I’m not named Paltrow or Jolie. I couldn’t have even made an appointment to see those guys. And, if I had, what would I have said? ‘Hi, I’m Tony Vrettos’s PA and the guy who fucks him on occasion.’ And then try to explain that sometimes when we had sex, he got mean, or maybe a little too rough. And to ask them to please ignore my social media accounts where there were all kinds of naked pictures and fuckboy drama posted everywhere. To please leave my family and my friends out of it. Can you imagine what they would’ve said?”
“I’m so sorry, Pete. That sucks. So much. No, I can’t imagine it. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
This is the history I’ve wanted to know much more about, but have been, and still am, frightened to hear. I’ve been waiting until he’s ready. And I’ve been trying to brace for the pain. Now I know any bracing I’ve done will not hold. I don’t know how to help him with this.
I say the only thing I can think of. “Maybe there are resources for someone in your position outside of the Hollywood business. Counselors or attorneys who specialize in workplace harassment—”
He holds up a hand. Then lets it fall as he speaks again. “I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but I’m not totally stupid. Those things have occurred to me before. I’ve had a couple years to think about all of it. It’s exhausting. Depressing. Maybe someday I’ll be able to take next steps that might make things better. But for now…” He shrugs.
“For now you have to deal with my horrible uncle. And me, who has been the opposite of helpful.”
“I meant what I said in the restaurant,” he says. “I’m not breaking up with you. And I didn’t bring up my old job because I wanted to make us both feel worse. I still want to be your friend. I want that—need that—more than anything else.”
“Okay. Yes.” The soreness growing in my throat makes it hard to speak.
“I think that love—and friendship—should happen outside of business decisions, contracts, money. But I’ve learned that sometimes you can’t control that shit. And so I’m gonna have to abide by the rules of the contract. I brought this on myself this time, with my eyes wide open. I can’t risk going to court, can’t risk the damage to my future or my family.”
“There is another way, of course.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“You can keep your job as my housekeeper. In the meantime, I will hire a lawyer and renegotiate the contract. Things can go on as before. Except we will keep Jakub out of our relationship.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t keep the job, Mar. Not anymore. Maybe this will sound selfish—it is selfish in many ways—but I need to take care of me for a while and not you. Take care of my messes, as you put it so well once.”
“Why—” My voice cracks and I clear my throat angrily. Damn it. Stupid words. “So many times I have asked you to let me take care of you, to let me help—”
“I was being paid to take care of you! I take pride in my job. It’s hard and rewarding work. And I wanted to earn my big paycheck.”
I nod. “I get that. I respect it.”
“And that brings me back to my original point.” He pushes his mug away. He hasn’t taken a sip, or I would give him a hot refill. “No matter how many rules we come up with, no matter how many we ditch, I can’t work for you if we’re having sex. If we’re going to have a sexual relationship, or try to be together beyond work friends, I can’t earn a paycheck from you while that’s happening. It’s a hard line I should never have crossed, even with you.”
“Pete, you know I could never think badly of you for that. Black and white rules can rarely apply to anything on this planet or beyond.”
He snorts. Brushes at his cheek. “You are a very good and generous person. Not everyone is. My point is—I can’t ignore my feelings anymore. And that’s why I can’t marry you. Because marriage shouldn’t be about finding fast solutions to complicated problems. We shouldn’t get married because we feel panicked about your uncle. Marriage isn’t a way to clean up a mess.”
“Yes. I agree. We should not panic about my uncle. And marriage should be about love. You said you love me. And you know I love you.”
A tear spills down his cheek. I reach for him. We should’ve forgotten about tea. We should have gone into his room. Crawled into his bed and held each other. That’s how this conversation should have happened. In each other’s arms.
He puts his hands up, stopping me before I can touch him. “I do love you, Marek. But I worry that maybe my love fucked things up for you—that maybe I took care of you in a way that made it so you didn’t see how strong you could be on your own. Without me. Without your uncle. You’re strong. Creative and capable. And… And, God, I hope you love me enough to let me go.”
“Let you go.” My back thunks hard against the chair.
He’s serious. This is happening. Pete is going to leave me. He’s going to get up and walk out and—
“Don’t look like that. I am not abandoning you. I promise. We’re still friends.”
But it does feel like he’s abandoning me. I can’t control the feeling. It’s like watching the most promising experiment, the most promising results, every factor and detail hopeful and double-checked—and now it’s fucking failing. And it’s my fault, but I can’t control it, can’t stop the data from flat-lining.
“I—” The soreness in my throat is taking over my body. Everything is painful. “I don’t know if I can live here without you.”
He stares at me for a moment. And then his eyebrows draw together. Impatient, maybe angry. “Oh my God. Please, Marek. You can live here. You can take care of yourself. Your dickwad uncle has made you feel differently. I spoiled the shit out of you, and that didn’t help. But I know you. You will be okay, and do a good job with most things, on your own.”
I nod. He’s probably speaking the truth. But my heart and my head—they aren’t listening to reason.
All my heart hears is, Pete is leaving. Pete won’t be here. Pete will be somewhere else far from you. And my head is telling me, You are a selfish asshole. You are making the man you love feel like shit.
“And, yes, you have every right to contact a lawyer. To discuss shit with your uncle. I hope you do. I hope you start taking care of yourself that way. That fucker in California screwed you over, but he doesn’t have to keep screwing you over, you know?”
I nod. This is him making sense again. I’m hoping it will register in my head meaningfully later, when I can function again beyond nodding.
He keeps talking. “I want you to think about my request. It still stands. If you can be brave enough to ter
minate the contract—to tell your family that you no longer require my services, and I don’t care what reason you give, really—then we’ll be free to see each other without stuff hanging over our heads. That would be easier and faster than lawyers.”
He’s waiting for me to respond. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I will think about this further. Of course.” It will be the only thing I think about.
“Thank you,” he says.
I make myself ask another horrible question. “When will you be going to Austin?”
“My mom has movers coming in a couple days. So I’ll probably go up to Lake Woods tomorrow and help her pack. She’ll put it all in storage until she finds a place.”
I want to ask if I can help. But he’ll say no. Better not to ask. I swallow and say, “Okay.”
“I’m going to talk to Cal—tell him what’s happening. He might have some advice. And he can send someone to help out with household stuff if you need it.”
“Okay,” I say again. It’s apparently all I can manage. I’m making him feel horrible. I need to think of a way to make this better—
My phone chimes. It’s on the counter, which seems a marathon-distance away.
Pete springs up to get it. Rescuing me without thinking. “It’s Zoe,” he says, looking at the screen. “Do you want me to answer?”
“No. No, I’ll take it.”
Pete nods.
“Hello,” I say absently, my eyes still on Pete. He hovers near the table. And I think that if he begins to clear the tea things, go through all his usual motions to clean up, I might do something drastic. My arm might do its uncontrolled sweeping-motion thing and everything will end up on the floor. Or maybe I’ll take him in my arms and pull him down on my lap, hold him captive, kiss him ruthlessly until he agrees to marry me.
And maybe I’m dreaming. I’m Professor Adorkable. Befuddled. Distracted. I only do drastic things by accident. I study supernovae, but I’m not one myself.
Pete doesn’t clean up. He walks into his suite.
I listen to what Zoe has to say. Make what I hope are good responses.
After we hang up, I go to find Pete. He’s dealing with laundry, taking things from a basket, folding them, piling them on his bed.
