A Previous Engagement (11 page)

“Who’s a big boy?” I asked him, in my official Auntie voice.

“Riwey!” came his response. Too cute, this little guy.

A pan of Kendra’s famous macaroni and cheese sat on the counter as payment for our babysitting services. Christian scooped some onto a plate for himself. He was stubborn, but not rude, so he wordlessly offered to serve me as well.

We ate in silence at the little kitchen table, one of us occasionally leaning over to pick up a car flung wide of the high chair and return it to Riley’s tiny hands. Once in a while, he’d interrupt the silence with a ‘Vrrrrrroooom!’ or an ‘Unc-Kwishen’ for Uncle Christian and an ‘Anntess!’ for me. Between Riley’s outbursts, the kitchen was eerily quiet, brimming with a palpable tension I hadn’t experienced since dinners at home with my own parents. I didn’t like witnessing it and I certainly didn’t like participating in it either.

“Come on, Riley,” I jumped up, dropped my plate in the sink and unbuckled his five-point harness. Riley reached for me, smiling, and buried his face in my shoulder. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, snuggling against me, the sure sign of approaching bedtime.

“Where’re you going?” Christian asked with his mouth full.

“I’ll give him his bath tonight. It’s been a while since we’ve played duckies,” I squeezed him to me. “Hasn’t it, my darling boy?

“Guckies!”

“Want me to do story time?” Christian offered, rinsing his plate in the sink.

“Sure, that sounds good,” I smiled weakly at him, hoping he’d just start talking already. Maybe after the little guy went to bed, we’d get somewhere. “What do you say, Riley? Bath time?”

“Yay!!” he answered, clapping his hands, and off we skipped to the bathroom.

After bath time, I dressed Riley in a diaper and his favorite tug-boat pajamas. They were warm fleece, with little feet on them, and looked cozy enough to make me jealous. I often asked Kendra to scout out adult sizes when she shopped for her son’s pajamas. Maybe footie pajamas fight insomnia—how could I know until I tried?

With Riley clean and snuggly, I turned him over to Christian for story time. They sat together in the rocking chair in the nursery, with Christian holding the book open and his little godson pointing to the pictures. I excused myself to give them privacy, but hung close by the door, mesmerized by the change in Christian’s tone and demeanor the moment it was time to play dad. I listened to him—not in a creepy way—as he read three books to Riley, doing all the voices, and then finally said, “All right, little man, it’s time for bed.”

Riley yawned in response and didn’t fuss as Christian tucked him in for the night. He tiptoed out of the room and onto the landing, where I sat pretending to read an old issue of Cosmo, stretched out across the chaise lounge. I looked up from a tell-all article on date rape drugs—don’t ask me why I read these things, I just can’t help myself—and met Christian’s eyes.

He was clearly more uncomfortable now that we were alone, nodding curtly before making his way downstairs. That was it; he just left me up there like I was the maid or something.

I wanted to yell, but obviously couldn’t if I wanted Riley to stay asleep, so I launched a heated whisper after him. “Christian!” The descending footsteps stopped.

“What?” he whispered back.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Not now, Tessie. The game’s on.”

“Screw the game.” And the whispering. I was mad enough for full volume talking at that point. “I’m coming downstairs and we’re talking this out.” I tossed aside the magazine and booked it across the hardwood floor to the top of the stairs, where my socked feet desperately attempted to stay underneath me. The Petersons had apparently just waxed the floors, making socks an unwise footwear choice. Christian’s head jerked up just as I slid past the staircase and into the wall. Honestly, one person should
not
get injured this often. I clung to the wall and breathed for a few moments. When I was confident I could make it to the banister, I tried to turn towards him. Bad idea.

Christian took the stairs two at a time to catch me in mid-air, preventing my fall to death. “For Christ’s sake, Tessie.” Irritated, and yet still kind enough to save my life, he carried me down the stairs over his shoulder. As I hung there, jostling with every step, I thought about how it felt to be a sack of potatoes. Or to be hit over the head with a club and carried back to some caveman’s—um—cave back in the early days of man. Although my rescuer’s angry grunts might have added to the latter scenario, I related best to the potatoes as I dangled there.

Back downstairs, safe and sound, Christian plopped me onto the couch. He pulled my socks off by the toes. “There. You know you can’t walk around this place in socks. How many times have I warned you about that?” he said, still fuming. “You could have
killed
yourself up there.”

“Sorry.” I pulled my naked feet up underneath me and tried not to cry. One sniffle and the dam broke. I started bawling, my thoughts racing about what could have happened if I’d been carrying Riley or if Christian hadn’t been right there. Kendra and Grant would have come home to find me in a heap of broken bones and blood at the bottom of the stairs. She would have screamed, maybe passed out, totally devastated. Not saying I’m some amazing person, but I don’t think Kendra would handle it well if I died in her house while watching her son. Mad or not, Christian probably would have missed me too.

I sobbed some more, embarrassed by my wimpy reaction. Christian offered me a box of tissues. As I blew my nose, he sat down next to me on the couch and pulled me against him. The fall shook me up, but that wasn’t the only thing I had to cry about. After a few minutes, I realized the backlogged tears of one stressful and hellish week were springing forth. Not having Christian around for all those days was an unpleasant experience I didn’t want to repeat.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, unable to put together any additional words. “I’m so, so sorry. Sorry.”

“Shhhh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispered into my hair. He squeezed me against him, his scent mingling with the air around my nose. I would have breathed it in deeply if I could, but the sobs kept coming.

“Why—are—you—so—mad—at—me?” I finally choked it all out, and with all the words in the right order. “I’m—so—sorry—Christian.”

He stiffened, his arm dropped from my shoulder. “Let’s not talk about this now.”

“No, we have to!” The urgency overtook my tears. I needed to say what was on my mind. “It’s breaking my heart to have you acting so—so cold toward me. I can’t stand it.”

His gaze dropped to his hands, still clutching my socks. “Please not now. I’m really not ready to talk about this yet. You were right, okay? And it didn’t work out between us. I don’t want to rehash it, I’d rather move on. Okay?”

“So you and Marcy…?”

“Stop bringing her up, Tess. It’s over with Marcy. That’s done now.” He shook his head, looking at the blank television screen to avoid my gaze. “Just leave it be.”

“I think everything worked out the way it was supposed to, Christian,” I touched his cheek, smoothing my hand across his unshaven skin. Our eyes locked and I lingered too long, his face in my hand. He looked tired and sad, now that the anger was gone, and I finally saw what he’d been hiding. He was truly heartbroken. I wanted to fix it, to be the solution for once, not just the temporary bandage. It was all right there in front of me, staring me in the face. Overcome, I leaned forward, closed my eyes.

“Tessie.” I snapped my eyes open at the sound of his voice and righted my posture. Christian sat still, staring at me, but the pain in his eyes seemed to have multiplied. “I can’t.”

I closed my eyes, nodded once, and then headed for the kitchen.  Stupid, stupid. I listened to the television turn on, the Red Sox crowd cheering wildly. I busied myself with dishes and leftovers, the mundane tasks distracting me from the grievous error I’d almost committed. I flipped through a stack of Kendra’s cookbooks for a while, just letting him be for a good hour or so. 

When I could stand to face him again, I traipsed into the living room and sat on the
other
couch. “So, are you going to teach me about this stupid sport or what?”

Just like that, we put it behind us and moved forward. I expected that night would become one of the many we just never mentioned again. Mostly, though, I was just relieved.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mr. Antonio gave Christian so much guff for missing a coffee date that I didn’t have to say a word. I just sat back and listened to him opine the importance of friendship and commitment.

“The lady, she a-wait for you, eh? And she tap-a the fingers for one half-hour! Tap-a, tap-a. She drive-a me crazy when you a-not here!”

Christian gave Mr. Antonio his full attention throughout the rant, saving his chuckles until we were alone at our table again.

“Well, Tess, I guess that’s the last time I skip out on you.” I resisted the urge to say
You’re damn straight it is
and just nodded. “Or you and your kamikaze tactics. If you hadn’t pitched yourself head first down a staircase, I might’ve stayed upset with you.”

“Well, thank God for that.” My voice sounded as flat as it felt. I watched him process my tone and choose to ignore it.

He straightened up, a fake smile on his lips, and looked at me expectantly. “So what’s new?”

“Aside from the fact that my best friend now finds it necessary to make small talk?”

“Come on, Tessie.” He tipped back his mug for a gulp of coffee, still burning hot. I was often amazed that he had any taste buds left in his mouth with all the boiling hot food and beverage he put in it. “Let’s not make this weird.”

“How shall we make it, then?” I didn’t want to sound so bitchy, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to smile to cover up for it, but the attempt was as substantially masking as saran wrap on leftovers. Sure, everything looked all glossy and shiny, but underneath it there were still dead chicken parts.

Christian reached across the table and took my hand. Sweaty from the coffee mug, his palm warmed my own, still chilled from spring’s mind-game temperatures. “I really want to move on. Like I said, I don’t want to discuss it if it doesn’t work out. I’d rather have you in my life like this than not at all.”

“Okay,” I answered cautiously. It was only an almost-kiss, not even a real one. We’d forgotten much worse before, so what was the big deal this time? “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiled. “Good. Now. What’s the latest at work?”

From that point on Christian said all the right things, did all the usual stuff. His jokes and his smiles eventually melted the ice cube that had formed around me and I relaxed, almost like normal. Let him have his few days of crazy without any recourse if that’s what it took. We walked back to my office together, since he was meeting a client one block up, arm in arm..

“Oh, you know what I was going to ask you?” He interrupted my tale of MBTA woe about a homeless man serenading his socks. That was a good story, too. “Friday dinner’s at your place this time and I—”

“Is that this Friday? Already?”

He nodded. “Should I have the fire department on standby?”

“Come on!” I playfully punched him in the arm.

“Seriously, Tessie. Stick to the microwave this time.”

“Fine. I’ll remember this when I become a gourmet cook someday. I won’t let you eat a single bite of my delicious creations.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Just you wait,” I said darkly. He raised his eyebrows in challenge. “I have to go back to work sometime today, you know. Can you just ask me your question please?”

“All right, all right. Do you think you could invite Savannah to come? I’d like to meet her again, somewhere more relaxed. I feel like I didn’t give her much of a chance the first time around. She seems really nice.”

This was it, my big moment to see how Savannah fared with the group and I hadn’t had to do much pushing after all. Actually, all it took was an almost-kiss from yours truly to scare him out of his Marcy coma and back into the dating world. I faked the most believable smile I could muster. He was still talking, but I wasn’t listening anymore, just nodding enthusiastically.

So I went back to work and stopped by Savannah’s desk and did my good-friend duty. She was so excited she nearly fell off the chair. My success, or the nearing of my success, felt pretty good. Yet, not as good as I’d imagined. Maybe once the sparks started to fly, I’d feel better.

Back in my office, amid all that piled up work, I saw that Savannah had returned my stapler with a nice thank-you Post-It note stuck to the top: “All done, thanks!! –S.” I guess she wanted an upgrade, a stapler for a man.

****

Friday arrived in a blur of focus groups, bar charts, and graphic-design nightmares, leaving me little time to dwell along the way. Things with the publication, which we officially named
The Prime of Your Life
, were going really well. I had three weeks until my giant presentation in front of the entire board of directors—eek!—but I was confident that we’d be ready. My team was working well together, meeting on a daily basis now. I spent long hours locked in a room with them, eating stale donuts, and barking orders. Every time I passed a mirror, I was afraid I’d started to look like Marty. Otherwise, my job was awesome. Never better.