by Cara McKenna
“I have tomorrow off, so I’ll play it by ear. The distraction might be welcome.”
“You said you want to feel it all.”
“I do. But I don’t want to wallow in it, either. I just want to make sure I don’t half-ass this…this mourning, or whatever this is. I don’t want to white-knuckle my way through it, keeping manically busy, or cover over it with alcohol, or try to sleep through it. It deserves to be felt.” She paused, feeling like some hippy-dippy weirdo.
“Whatever you need. I’ll keep this fucker safe until you’re ready to make its acquaintance,” he said, flashing the box then burying it back inside his coat pocket.
“Deal.”
She studied him for a long time. He looked different. Perhaps it was the comparably girly setting, atop her full mattress as opposed to his king, on her turquoise comforter, in a room with regular-sized windows and a normal-height ceiling. He looked new. Handsome in a softer way than usual.
He was an attractive man, she thought, but not everyone’s cup of tea. He didn’t have a charming smile—more a cocky smirk—and his hands were rough, same as his accent and his words and his kinks. Many women would prefer a polished type, dazzling and pedigreed as that diamond, or perhaps one as smooth and dignified as onyx. Flynn was brick, blunt and abrasive and honest, with hard edges and common good looks as plain as his speech. His body was ridiculous, though. It was a nice balance. A model-handsome face capping a physique like his would look like a caricature.
For the briefest moment, she wondered what it might have looked like. Their child.
If he gets his way, I’ve got all the time in the world to find out.
“You want to be alone?” he asked, perhaps mistaking her silence for distance.
She shook her head. “No. I want you here.”
“Good.”
“I want you to spend the night, if you want that too.”
“I wanna be whatever you need.”
“You always are.” And what she needed right now was a strong pair of arms holding her, keeping her together even as the ground seemed to be crumbling away beneath her feet.
8
“Something to drink while you wait?”
“Water’s fine.” Flynn looked past the waitress to the restaurant’s front windows. He thought to tack on a tardy “Thanks” just as she turned to walk away. His etiquette was rusty, and his mood wasn’t helping.
The place wasn’t fancy, just a little Sicilian hole-in-the-wall at the edge of the North End. The food was phenomenal—he’d been here before with Laurel—but the napkins were paper and most of the entrées were less than twenty bucks. Still, if he wasn’t ordering off a board tacked above a row of registers, it felt strange.
He checked his phone. Five after. Not like Laurel to be late, but also not like Laurel to spring a last-minute date on him. They hardly ever went on dates, probably only once or twice a month. They’d been on precisely zero the past few weeks, and if he was honest, he wasn’t really in the mood. But Laurel had sounded so excited over the phone, there was no way he could’ve said no.
The period following the miscarriage had been rough. He’d done his best to be whatever she needed, but as often as not, she hadn’t seemed sure of what that was. She’d been clingy one moment, cool the next, acting as though she’d rather be away from him but denying that she did. Even when he’d seemed to be doing exactly what she needed, he’d felt lost.
She’d caught him just as he’d been leaving work today, wanting him to meet her at six. He’d been hoping to go to the gym instead, but he’d dutifully gone home and showered off the plaster dust and dressed in his least beat-up jeans and the black sweater she’d given him for Christmas, ran a cloth over his only dress shoes. Glancing around, he figured he passed, even if he felt like a rhino perched on this spindly wooden chair. Even if he was the only patron with stitches bisecting their left eyebrow. Or any other body part, come to that.
Oh fucking well.
He’d give just about anything to be back in Southie, beating the shit out of a heavy bag, feeling nothing. But if the price was letting Laurel down, he wasn’t willing to pay it.
It was mid-March, and a springy March at that. Only a few scabs of brown snow still clung to the shadier sidewalks, and the air smelled good, like winter was officially in the rearview. The sky was blue beyond the restaurant’s tall windows; the days were getting longer.
Laurel was getting stronger. Seeming more like her old self.
Flynn wished he could say the same.
I know this feeling. I’ve lived through it before.
It was grief. No mistaking it. But grief this real and this nagging, for a near-microscopic little—
A tap on his shoulder turned Flynn’s head, and there she was. Smiling, looking gorgeous. Looking happy, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail and a few inches of bare leg visible between the tops of her fancy boots and the hem of a wool skirt. Her coat was folded over her arm.
“Hey, beautiful.” He stood and kissed her cheek, pulled out the opposite chair for her.
“Hey. Thanks.” She draped her coat over the chair back and sat, letting him go through that weird charade of pretending like he was helping as she scooted her seat in.
“Didn’t see you come in,” he said, sitting.
“There’s two doors. Sorry I’m late.”
“Barely.”
“You look quite sexy,” she said, bobbing her eyebrows. “Nice sweater.”
He mustered a smile, feeling like a fraud. “Thanks. My old lady got it for me.”
“Not so old.” She pulled a menu over.
“You look hot as fuck,” he told her. Her legs drove him up a wall. Always had. He wished she wore skirts more often. It was nice to catch himself thinking it, too. The past couple weeks hadn’t exactly been erotic.
The miscarriage was one thing of course. Pain, both physical and emotional, had consumed her, and being the strong one had consumed him in return. Even now, with the physical business of it done and Laurel seeming all but normal, he wasn’t ready for sex yet, himself. She might like to go on about his lack of squeamishness when it came to the female body, but he was intimidated by the whole prospect. Not grossed out, just…worried. Worried he might hurt her. Worried she’d cry. Worried he’d fuck it all up, and on the other end worried they’d never get back there, never be the same again.
But something about the skirt and the boots gave him the thinnest sliver of hope.
“Why the getup?” he asked.
“I have my reasons.” She was wearing makeup, too. Mascara, and the stuff you put on the lids that Flynn could never remember the name of. “I’ve worn nothing but jeans and pajamas and my work clothes for two weeks,” she said. “I guess I got sick of looking at myself.”
“Well, you look awesome.”
She blushed, visibly, even in the low light. “You too.”
The waitress arrived with two glasses of ice water and greeted Laurel. “A drink for you?”
Laurel scrambled for the wine list. “Oh, let’s see… Whatever you’d recommend that’s red and dry and less than eight bucks a glass…?”
“Ignore the bit about the price,” Flynn cut in.
“I can personally vouch for either the Syrah or the Round Pond cabernet,” the waitress offered.
“Syrah, please.”
“Do you two need a few more minutes with the menus?”
“Yes, thanks. No rush.” Laurel flashed a big smile. For obvious reasons, she was exceedingly nice to wait staff and always bullied Flynn into tipping way more than he normally would.
Once the waitress was gone, he said, “Haven’t seen you drink in ages.”
“Yeah, I haven’t. Not since before the test. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t self-medicating, but since I feel pretty good today, I figure why not?”
Lucky you. He caught himself, shamed by the petty thought. “Good for you.”
“How was work?” She was just a little off, he noticed. Nervous? Gu
ilty?
“Same old shit,” he said. “Minus the usual workout. Tell me about your day.”
Oh, there it was—that smile. Definitely nervous. “It was…good.”
“You look like you got somethin’ to share. Spill it.”
She bit her lip, pink cheek going round, making his belly all warm. “Well, I applied for two more jobs.”
“Nice. Where?”
“Both on the T, or close to it. One’s downtown, the other’s in Malden. That makes seven I’ve applied for this week.”
“Fuckin’ fantastic. You interested in either of them?”
She shrugged. “Enough. Anything in my field is what I’m after. No more being picky,” she said, sitting up straight. “I used that as an excuse for way too long.”
“Well, good job.”
“Thanks.” She was doing it again, looking all cagey.
“What?”
She leaned in, the end of her ponytail brushing the table. “I got invited to interview.”
He blinked. “You did?”
She nodded, any cool act she’d been mustering gone in an instant. “I did.”
“Where?”
“A place I applied to last week. It’s a biotech company in Kendall Square—there’s an opening for an entry-level mechanical engineer, and the salary’s pretty great. I mean, not that I’ll get it necessarily, though I did do my degree project on the same sorts of systems they specialize in…”
He let her go on, not taking in much of the specifics but getting swept up in how excited she sounded, how hopeful and hyper and awake. Nice to get pulled out of his own gloom for a couple minutes.
Her wine arrived just as she seemed to be winding down. She raised the glass with a cheesy-ass, expectant smile.
Flynn lifted his water and they toasted. “That’s fucking phenomenal, honey. Well done.”
“Thanks.”
“Dinner was already on me, but now we’re both required to get dessert.”
“Dinner ought to be on me,” she said, voice turning soft and private. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around lately—”
“Hush. When’s the interview?”
“Friday. Hence the skirt. I needed to make sure I had an outfit worth turning up in.”
“They’re not wastin’ any time. You must be a catch.”
“Or they must be desperate.”
He shot her a stern look. “Knock that shit off. They’d be lucky to have you. Just make sure your boss is a fugly old fucker, that’s all I ask.”
She laughed. “I’ll be sure to ask about that during the interview.”
“Wish you’d told me over the phone. I’d have found you some flowers.”
“Save them for when I actually get a job.”
“I know just the kind. The stinky white-and-pink ones.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Oriental lilies.” Her favorites.
“That’s what I said.”
“You know what you’re ordering?”
“No clue.”
“Me neither.” She handed him a menu. “Let’s focus, shall we?”
He scanned the options, not taking much in.
She’s moving on. And so she should. Moving on from the grief and confusion and pain, and it seemed liked she’d dodged a bout of deeper depression to boot. But as she moved on, Flynn felt as if he was still stuck at square one, shell-shocked and helpless.
Suck it up, asshole. This whole situation… It had been her decision from the very start, her body that would’ve assumed the work of a pregnancy if she’d decided to keep it, and in the end, her body that bore the torture of the miscarriage. He got no say, and that was how it should be.
Though he couldn’t help but feel like the last man at the wake, alone with the casket while his ride home pulled away from the curb and left him behind.
9
Laurel doubted she’d ever eaten a meal half as delicious as tonight’s. The secret ingredient was relief, she supposed—relief that her body wasn’t hurting anymore, that she was finally free of maxi pads and backaches and that nagging feeling of tenderness, more emotional than physical.
She’d gone to see her gyno a few days earlier, to make sure the miscarriage had run its course. Everything had looked good, considering, and while she’d been there they’d inserted an IUD, as she no longer trusted the Pill any farther than she could spit one. As a bonus, the IUD didn’t rely on hormones, which was bound to be better for her moods.
Mixed with the relief was excitement. I have an interview. Something about the miscarriage—or the scary, brief reality of the pregnancy—had lit a fire under her ass. She’d applied for more jobs in the past two weeks than she bet she had in the six months preceding them. This was the first interview she’d been offered in all that time. She wasn’t foolish enough to get her hopes up, but just scoring an invitation felt big.
She looked to the driver’s seat, at Flynn’s stoic face lit by the dash and the chasing streetlights, gaze nailed to the road. Fists at ten and two. Which was a little odd, as half the time he drove one-handed. He seemed strained, in fact. She’d been so wrapped up in her good news, she’d failed to notice until now.
“You missing your workout?” she asked.
“No way I was passing up a date with you. Especially not with something to celebrate.” Pretty words, but his tone was strange and flat and off, like an instrument missing a string.
She nearly asked if he was okay, but held her tongue. She was guarded, she knew that, as guarded as Flynn was normally forthcoming. She’d never known him to hold back, and she was at a loss for how to approach him.
You’re overthinking it. Approach it the Michael Flynn way. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, just tired.”
Liar. “I’m only going to ask this one more time—are you sure?”
He looked her way. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
His eyes sought the road. “You know how I get when I don’t blow off steam after work. That’s all.”
“Oh, sorry. Is it too late to—”
“I’m fine.” He said it too quick, too gruff.
Laurel watched the scene streaking by her window—brick and ocean and sleeping steel cranes and more brick—for the rest of the drive, triumph forgotten, worries settling in like old friends around a smoky bar.
It’s been over two weeks since we’ve had sex. That couldn’t be helping his anxiety. Still, the thought buoyed her some; she felt strong again, stronger than before the pregnancy, even. No doubt he was waiting for her to initiate, after what she’d been through. Well, no problem there. She’d be happy to peel the sweater off him when they got back to his place, remind herself that his body was for more than merely holding her, those hands capable of feats far less kindly than marathon back rubs.
He parked behind his building and they slammed their doors in the quiet night, the rest of South Boston feeling as though it had gone to bed, though it was barely eight.
How much am I up for, tonight?
Probably not role-playing. She didn’t want to go there until she felt him return to her, his usual self.
His usual self. It occurred to her then, Flynn was the most consistent person she’d ever known. He didn’t have mood swings, not unless bloodlust and horniness counted. He got annoyed now and then, but he never went quiet like this. She supposed most people did, and of course he was entitled to, but something about it… It was unnerving. It felt as though he were made of stone as they rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Cold and silent.
He let them into the apartment and eased up the lights. Laurel had brought her overnight bag and she tossed it on the loveseat. Force of habit from these past couple of mopey weeks urged her to pull out her pajamas and get comfy, but she caught herself. Not tonight. She was wearing a skirt, after all. It’d be a shame not to get fucked in it.
Flynn was unlacing his shoes at the couch and she passed by on her way to the bathroom, leaned down and plan
ted a kiss on his temple. He kept his eyes on the task. That taste of coolness dug the worry hole deeper, but she forced it from her mind as she brushed her teeth and her hair, dabbed her shiny forehead with a wad of toilet paper.
She looked how she felt—lit up and alive. Maybe a little nervous and rusty, but more awake than she had in so, so long. She’d show Flynn that she was better again. Show the both of them that her body wasn’t a fragile, fractured shell in need of kid gloves.
The red towel was folded on the shelf above the toilet. She eyed it. No, no goring. Not tonight, anyhow. She flipped off the light and fan.
He was still on the couch when she exited, perusing a piece of mail, its ripped envelope in one hand.
“Riveting news?” she asked.
“Mm?”
She plopped down beside him. “Your mail. Anything thrilling?”
“Nah. Gas bill.”
“At least those’ll be getting smaller, now.”
“Mm.”
He hadn’t looked at her once since they’d gotten in, had he? In a blink, she realized what must be going on—he was feeling insecure. What Flynn himself called “Uptown Girl Syndrome.” How working-class guys could be real dicks if they were involved with women who outpaced them, education- or profession-wise. Plus Flynn had told her before he’d wanted to be more than a construction worker, once upon a time. He’d wanted to do what she’d trained to, basically, to be a civil engineer or an architect. Maybe her good news, her chance at a career, was giving him blue-collar angst.
She knew better than to ask. If that was the culprit, best to go with carnal distraction, rather than make a big deal of it.
“May I?” she asked, plucking the bill from one of his hands, the envelope from the other. She set them on the coffee table and leaned close, rubbing his chest.
He accepted a kiss—at first stiffly, but softening in seconds, rewarding her with a hot sweep of his tongue. She felt her body soften in reply, relief morphing to excitement. Much as she’d needed to keep herself protected since the miscarriage, kissing this way instantly felt right, felt essential. She’d missed their sexual bond more than she’d realized.
