by Kilby Blades
“While I admire your attempts at innovative thinking, Dr. Christensen,” Huck began authoritatively, “I can assure you that I’ve read the benchmarking data on this. Most companies that invest in data warehouses find that they are 50% more expensive to implement than original planning estimates, and that they deliver only 35% of the anticipated value. Do you have any direct experience implementing a data warehouse solution for medical research?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted evenly. “But I do know that most implementation problems stem from faulty logic during the architecture stage. It would be important to hire a service provider familiar with our space, and to conduct extensive interviewing around possible future uses of the data. If we don’t set it up properly, you’re right—it will deliver useless results.”
“Is that a chance you’re willing to take with the hospital’s money?” he challenged. “I know that, from where you sit, it seems like there is an endless pool of money for the taking, but this committee doesn’t just write the checks—we’re accountable for results. Do you feel that you can guarantee results?” His cold gaze pierced her as he attempted to put her on the spot.
“If we make the right hire, and conduct a robust process…yes, I believe the end would justify the means.”
Huck nodded slowly. “Uh-huh,” he said curtly. “And do you believe that you have time to oversee that given some of the challenges you’re experiencing in other areas of your work?”
She bit her tongue then. If they were alone, she would mention that she would have plenty of time to oversee this project if he hadn’t gotten her bogged down in so many other things. But they weren’t alone, and she couldn’t say what she wanted to. The other attendees, she noticed, were watching their interaction with interest and she saw that they were fooling nobody. The tension between them was obvious. Not wanting to appear defiant, she backed off a bit, even though she knew she was right about all of it.
“I believe that we as an organization should be dedicated to taking the steps necessary toward becoming world class, without delay, if that’s our goal.” She left it at that.
By eight o’clock, she thought she would go blind if she had to read another toxicology report, thought she would go crazy if she had to comfort another distraught family, thought she would punch something if she replayed the events of that horrible meeting again. Making things immeasurably worse was the fact that a patient she’d been rooting for, a teenager who had been in her therapy group six months before, had relapsed the night before, come in in bad condition, and died. The girl, Lacey, reminded Darby of herself in some ways—she had a dead mother, a disinterested father, and was an only child. The father didn’t even cry. Not that all men did in these situations, but it infuriated her all the same. When Darby herself had heard the news, she’d gone to her office and sobbed for twenty minutes. She hated herself for having to wonder, if she ever died, whether her own father would cry for her.
She would later realize with the clarity of hindsight that she should have made an excuse and cancelled her plans with Michael, or she should have at least done something to clear her head before going straight from work to the restaurant. But at the time, she was still charged up from her day, and some part of her felt that she had to keep moving. That if she slowed down, she would fall apart.
That was why, twenty minutes after her quick shower in the locker room at work, she was sliding in across from him at Tavern on Rush, ready for a very large drink and, hopefully, for Michael to help take her mind off of things. When he leaned over to kiss her a chaste hello, she noticed that he looked as at ease and put together as usual. It irritated her for some reason—she muttered a greeting and quickly joined him for a drink.
“So was it the kind of shitty day you want to talk about or don’t want to talk about?” he asked knowingly, though kept his eyes on the menu. It was pointless—he knew the menu back and forth but always got the same thing. His redundant perusal of the menu irritated her as well.
“Don’t want to talk about,” she said somewhat tersely.
“Fuck our jobs. I don’t want to talk about mine either,” he quipped in solidarity, closing his menu abruptly. “What are you up to for Christmas?”
She gave him a look. “I’m working,” she replied ironically.
He winced, which she ignored. “What are you up to?”
“Opening presents with my niece in the morning…invited to Bex’s in-laws for dinner but I don’t really want to go. I was going to see whether you wanted to do something.”
“Like what?”
“Have a snowball fight? Watch 24 Hours of A Christmas Story on TBS? Fuck like nobody’s business? I don’t know.”
“Maybe next year,” was all she could think to say.
He changed the subject for real then, and she tried to enjoy dinner, though she knew she was being terse with him. The drinks helped. By the time their plates were being cleared, she was thinking less about work and more about blowing off some steam with Michael in bed. But she must’ve been acting strangely, because, as they stood outside, waiting for an Uber, he turned to face her, his blue eyes piercing her in that way they sometimes did when he had something important to say.
“Don’t let him convince you you’re weak,” he said, clearly suspecting that Huck was behind her bad mood. It wasn’t a bad guess—that’s what it usually was.
But that’s not what it was tonight. At least, not entirely. Her patient had died. She had to work the worst shifts over the holiday, and even if she hadn’t, she had no family left to spend her time with. And, yes, the Huck situation was still a problem that felt more painful every day. Sparked by Michael’s words, her bad mood returned with a vengeance.
“I know I’m not weak,” she said with a touch of bitterness in her voice, “…but I’m not like you, either. Nobody is like you, Michael. You’re like Teflon. Everything rolls off of you.”
He looked at her strangely.
“Is that what you think?”
But she didn’t stop to think. She was on a roll.
“You’ve never been called to a battle you couldn’t win. Never met a problem you couldn’t solve. You spend more nights on the red-eye than you do in your own bed, yet somehow you’re always perfectly put together. Your hard work will get you a promotion. I’m barely holding onto my job. So spare me the advice, please. Reminding myself I’m not weak won’t do shit to fix my problems, Michael. I’m not infallible like you.”
He seemed taken aback. It wasn’t a look she’d seen on him, and before her eyes, his face hardened into a mask. As soon as she’d said the words, she’d known they’d been a mistake, but she couldn’t take them back quickly enough.
“You’re right,” he said, bitter sarcasm tainting his own voice. “ What would a god like me know about feeling pain, or love or fear, or any of the other emotions all you humans are allowed to feel?”
The car pulled up then. He looked angry, as he opened the door to let her in. Instead of following her, he bent over and leaned in.
“I’ll take a different cab. I’m going home.”
Darby didn’t go home, though she did get halfway to her house before she realized how big of a mistake she’d made. Rerouting the driver to Michael’s address, she knew what she had to do. What had been started had been her fault, and she couldn’t end the night this way. She would show up at his house and apologize—she owed him at least that. Not wanting to blindside him with her unexpected arrival, she sent him a text.
I’m sorry. I’m coming over. I’m sure you don’t want to see me so I won’t stay long. I just want to apologize the right way.
For the rest of the ride, she watched her phone for a reply, but none came.
Waiting in his apartment, five minutes turned into fifteen. Fifteen minutes turned into an hour. An hour turned into her falling asleep on his couch. The sound of elevator doors roused her from her sleep, announcing his arrival. It was 3:00AM. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes and sat upright on the couch. Wh
en she looked back up, he was watching her from across the room. His apartment was dark, but in what light there was, she saw that his anger had been replaced with something else. Though whatever it was, was still carefully guarded behind a mask.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, her voice raspy from sleep. “I was feeling shitty for reasons that have nothing to do with you. I had no right to talk to you that way.”
Her words hung between them. For long moments, he said nothing in return. She didn’t know what he wanted her to do. Maybe the best thing for her to do was to leave. She rose from the sofa then, scanning for where she’d left her coat, unhinged by the niggling idea that this might be the end. Hadn’t they said that whenever things got too complicated, or stopped being fun, that one of them would pull the plug? The thought made her want to cry.
“I forgive you,” he said in a way that sounded sincere, but still felt strange. “Let’s go to bed.”
He sounded tired, and it occurred to her then to wonder where he had been. But she was too grateful for her second chance to even consider asking. Five minutes later, they’d stripped down to their underwear and climbed into his large bed together. His body—especially his hands—were frigid even though he’d been inside for minutes by then, and she speculated that he’d been outside in the cold for a long time. He rolled her onto her side so she was faced away from him before circling his arms around to hold her tight. Being close to him again gave her tremendous relief and she held his arms as they held her. But Michael was wide awake—she could feel it in his body. Something was eating at him, and she wished she knew what.
“I’m a good actor, Darby,” he said finally, some minutes after she’d been sure he wouldn’t speak.
She didn’t respond right away.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“When I’m with you, I’m not pretending. I’m focused on being with you. It feels good to forget the other stuff. I don’t even want to think about my own shit, let alone burden you with it.”
She rolled over in his arms then, looking up at him. The lights from the city, which always cast light into his room, even in the middle of the night, dimly illuminated his face.
“Do you wish I wouldn’t burden you with my shit?” she asked honestly.
“It’s not a burden,” he said in a way that said already that he knew where she was going.
“Why would your shit be a burden?”
“You listen to other people’s shit all day,” he pointed out.
“You’re not other people.”
She watched his face closely, for a reaction, half-expecting him to formulate another logical retort. But she could see the moment he decided not to form one.
“Not tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed, and snuggled closer to him.
The next morning, when she awoke, she sensed again that he was not sleeping, and feared for a long moment that things between them still weren’t right. When he captured her mouth in a long, tender kiss, and breathed a soft “I’m sorry” at the end of it, she knew otherwise, and relished her relief.
His hands moved slowly—first on her body and then in her hair—soothing her in comforting strokes that echoed his words. She leaned into his touch, wanting to lead them back to their sacred place, wanting to complete their connection. He fucked her slowly after that, her back to his front as he whispered how good she felt in her ear. They’d just had their first fight, she realized, when he held her afterward. Not only that, they’d just had their first make-up sex.
TEN OVERDOSES. THREE OF THEM were DOAs. Four were psychotic breaks. The icing on the cake was that two psych nurses and one of her MD colleagues had been no-shows for work. She briefly entertained a fantasy of quitting, of not returning to work the next morning, Christmas morning, which would surely deliver much of the same. She had planned on decorating her tree when she got home, but at the moment, she was more than three hours late. She had to be back in just over eight hours. And all she wanted was a huge glass of wine, and her bed.
As she stepped into her kitchen from the garage, two smells hit her immediately. One was garlic, the other hard liquor. Michael appeared, having heard her come in. She hadn’t expected him, but she was instantly glad that he was there. He had obviously cooked for her, but what? She mustered a tired smile. It was then that she noticed the glass in his hand. It was a champagne coupe, but instead of being filled with sparkling wine it held something creamy that was almost gone.
“I know you have to work tomorrow,” he began, “…but I wanted to give you your Christmas present.” He gestured to her kitchen counter, and she saw the wide, short box, wrapped beautifully in red and white striped paper that reminded her of a candy cane. It was slightly iridescent and sported an elaborate red bow.
She looked back up at him with a watery smile, because her day had been that shitty and to come home to this was everything she hadn’t known she had needed.
“I got you something too. Let me grab it.”
Two minutes later, she returned to the kitchen with a shiny red gift bag with red and white tissue paper poking out of the top. He poured her something that turned out to be delicious—a Brandy Alexander, he explained. Growing up, his uncle had made them every holiday.
“Open it,” he smiled, handing her the box.
“You too,” she said shyly, hoping that he would like his gift.
She stalled on opening what he had gotten her in order to observe his reaction, and was gratified by his shining smile when he pulled out the first item—boxer briefs that read “Muggle in the streets, wizard in the sheets.”
“Can you imagine?” she asked playfully. “That fancy British underwear company you buy from had never received a request to have custom silk screening put on one of their garments, let alone in Harry Potter font.”
He laughed. “I love them.” He ran his eyes over them for long moments, before meeting her eyes. “They’re perfect,” he said, beaming at her and she felt extreme satisfaction. He rummaged around in the bag for the remaining items—Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, a Honeyduke’s Chocolate Frog, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, and a cornucopia of other confections. All were from Harry Potter, and given his sweet tooth, she had guessed correctly that he’d think the novelties were fun.
“Thank you,” he said still beaming as he kissed her lips.
She finally opened her own gift. It was a large stack of letter papers held by a simple binder clip. She realized from the cover sheet that it was a screenplay. The title read “Before Midnight”. It was signed in a silver sharpie, in messy cursive. “It’s time you find out how it ends. –Richard Linklater”
Michael had gotten her the printed manuscript of the final installment in her favorite movie series, the one she hadn’t dared to finish. And he’d had it signed by the writer and director, just for her. After recovering from her gaping surprise, she hugged him fiercely, scarcely comprehending what he might have done to obtain this on her behalf.
“This is amazing,” she breathed into his neck. “Thank you,” she said and found herself nearly tearing up once again.
Michael fixed her a creamy cocktail and sent her to relax on the sofa with her drink. He had, indeed, been watching A Christmas Story as he’d waited for her to return. Knowing how well she loved comfort food at the end of a cold and horrible day, he had made steak frites with a peppercorn cream sauce. They watched together in front of the television until he saw her eyes lull and gently hustled her to her bedroom. When she felt him begin to tuck her in, she realized that he meant to leave, but she didn’t want that.
“Stay,” she said simply.
And he did. He stripped down to his underwear and slid into bed behind her, holding her in a way that was exactly what she needed.
“Merry Christmas, cupcake,” he murmured into her hair before kissing her neck.
“Merry Christmas, babe,” she returned a minute before drifting off to sleep.
“IT’S BEEN TOO LONG,”
Darby said, smiling into Shirley Whitlock’s eyes a moment after they embraced in the secluded bar. They were at The St. Regis at two o’clock on a Tuesday—it was Darby’s day off. “Sherlock”, as she jokingly called the older woman, had called that morning to say it would be a good idea if the two of them met. Darby wouldn’t have taken a call from most of her father’s staffers, but she had always liked Shirley and didn’t hold it against her that she worked for Frank.
She hadn’t needed an explanation to gather why Shirley wanted to meet. “Researcher” was code for “investigator”—Shirley had served in that capacity for Frank Christensen for years. From what Darby had heard, Frank’s place on the ticket was becoming more secure. She had no doubt that Shirley’s call was the result of marching orders to get Darby aligned with the campaign.
“There’s something you should know up front,” Darby said after they had caught up a bit and ordered drinks. “I gave Frank a hard limit—three events a year, whether he’s campaigning or not.”
“Good luck getting him to stick to that.” Shirley said flatly.
“Good luck getting me to make any exceptions,” Darby retorted. “Whatever he’s sent you here to do, you can tell him I decline.”
Darby grabbed a small handful of wasabi peas with her fingers.
“He didn’t send me,” Shirley revealed, giving Darby a pointed look. “I came myself. I’m here with a heads up.”
Suddenly insecure, Darby slid a pea into her mouth. “A heads up about what?”
“Your boyfriend? Michael Blaine?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Whatever he is, he could be trouble.”
She wasn’t worried yet. Campaign staff liked to make mountains out of molehills.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, reserving her alarm.
She knew that Michael did not share her father’s political views and figured that the optics of being with Michael would threaten the illusion of Darby’s solidarity with her father. Darby almost welcomed the opportunity to see this difference acknowledged. Her own disagreement with his views was part of what had caused her to limit her willingness to participate in his campaigns.
