Bittersweet Deceit (7 page)

“Shall we
?” he said, extending his hand in front of him, beckoning me to go first.

We exited the front door and walked side by side down the street. I didn’t know what to say
, so I took another sip of the cider. My stomach roiled for a second and then it quickly past.

“Why don’t we catch some dinner before the
concert?” Stay asked as our arms swung in unison.

I almo
st expected him to grab my hand, which was a crazy. Mason standing me up clearly had muddled my sense of reason.

“
I can pick you up from the boutique at five-thirty and that should give us plenty of time.”

“Well, I—
oh!” I yelled, bending over at the waist.

He took the
cider out of my hand and laid his large, warm palm on my back. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head, wishing I
stood anywhere other than the side of the road getting ready to wretch in the bushes with an audience.

Stay
set the cider and water bottle down on the street, and then gently lifted my hair off my shoulders, holding it in his right hand. With his other, he made soft circle on my back.

Tears poured down my cheeks and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I hiccupped
once just before I divested myself of the contents in my stomach. When I stood and stepped back, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and said, “I’m not drunk.”

Stay pulled a blue
, woven handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “I know you’re not. It must be the lunch you had with Jacqs. I wonder how Sam’s feeling.”

I stared up at him and it was almost like seeing him
for the first time. Who was the man standing in front of me? I knew nothing of importance about him. Who carries a handkerchief anymore? “Um, thank you. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Not at all,” he said, still holding my hair back. He pressed the cold water bottle against my neck.

I sighed and wiped my eyes and then my mouth with the cloth. Whether it was the food poising, or Stay being nice to me, or Mason standing me up, I felt at the very edge of a major breakdown. Too shaky to drive, I tried to mull over my choices. My head hurt and my stomach roiled again.

“Are you feeling any better? Do you want some water?”

“I’m scared if I ... oh shit.” I gulped trying to force down the emotions threatening to erupt.

“Do you need to throw up again?”

I shook my head. His look held such compassion that my tears mutinied against my will. I only ever let myself fall apart when alone, or in my father’s arms when I was a little girl. I felt so exposed and embarrassed.

Stay took the cap off the water bottle and handed it to me and then walked me back toward the house.

I sipped the water slowly as I continued to cry, using the hanky to wipe my tears.

“I’ll drive you home. Where
’s your bag?”

“No,” I said,
my lower lip trembling. “I don’t cry in front of people.”

“I won’t tell a soul.” He smiled.

His expression triggered another wave of grief, causing my shoulders to shake as I tried to keep the sound in. Instead funny noises came out and I started laughing through the tears.

“It’s going to be okay
, Lane.” He helped me over to his blue Prius and we stood by the passenger door.

I took a few deep breaths and said, “I have to be at the store early tomorrow and I’m worried I might—”

“We can worry about the logistics in the morning and I’ll grab a plastic shopping bag just in case you get sick again. You might want to keep the door open until—”

“I promise not to throw up in your car.”

He winked and took off toward the house.

I
took a shuddering breath and looked around the interior of the car to distract myself from all the emotion and nausea that threatened to spill out: a stack of library books and a crimpled shirt on the backseat, a pressed, white, Polo shirt with long sleeves hung from the handrail, a paper shopping bag full of trash sat on the floor between the two front seats. The outside of the car looked clean, but the inside needed a good vacuuming.

The driver’s side door opened and Stay managed to get his long body inside. “
Your coloring looks much better,” he said, handing me my purse and a plastic bag. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Ugh.
Give me the good news first.”

“
Sam says she feels fine and has an iron stomach. She still has the keys and will open the shop at ten and said not to rush in. The bad news came from Red who said that Jacqs threw up a few times before she finally fell asleep.”

“Great,” I mumbled.

He touched my thigh and said, “Are you feeling okay enough to shut the car door?”

“Oh, yeah, yes.” I took a deep breath and sunk into the seat.

“I’ve never been to your place so you’ll have to direct me,” he said as he drove down the road away from Red’s house.

“It’s two exits up from here.”

“Is it easier to take US1 or hop on the highway?”

“Either works.”
I lay back and closed my eyes. “This car is so quiet and smooth.”

“Yes it is. It took some getting used to when I first got her.”

“Her?” I said, opening my eyes and slanting my head in his direction.

“Of course,” he said, shooting me a quick
glance. “All cars are female.”

“Even a Mustang GT with a V8 engine?”

His deep laugh filled the car. “Most definitely a Mustang, but she’s more like a dominatrix wearing red leather and holding a bullwhip.”

I laughed with him that time. “Such imagery. Well, your girl could use a good vacuuming.”

While we were stopped at a light, he looked around the car. He shrugged and said, “I guess. I usually wait until there’s an inch of sand.”

My mouth dropped open and then I realized he was kidding me.

“Are you a clean freak?” he asked as he drove up the north ramp to I-95.

“I do like things clean and organized. Are you a messy pers—” I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

“Are you okay? Should I pull off the next exit?”

“Why don’t you. That way if I have to, you know, you can pull over.”

“Toss your cookies?”

I put the cold water bottle to my head and said, “That’s one way of saying it.”

“Should I come up with some others?”

“Uh, I think I’ll take a pass.”

He reached over and touched my hand. “Should I head toward US1?”

Somehow he had made it through my bubble of self-
protection; because I didn’t flinch or feel inclined to swat his hand away. It actually felt kind of nice, as if he projected calming energy. “Yes and make a left on Seventh Street.” I sighed and said, “Thank you for taking me home. Between the alcohol and throwing up I don’t think I could have made it there myself.”

“Yeah and staying at someone else’s house when you
’re feeling sick is the worst. I always want my own bed.”

“And my own clean bathroom.”

“Do you like everything to be line up neatly too?”

“Yes, I don’t feel comfortable with a lot of chaos around me
. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

He fl
ashed his crooked smile. “Nothing wrong at all.”

I pointed to the right and said, “You can park in my spot.”

He turned off the engine and came around to my side
to help me up. I felt unsteady on my feet. Having consumed two and a half hard apple ciders and no dinner wasn’t helping matters. After I got my keys from my bag, Stay held his hand out for my purse and swung it over his shoulder.

“I can carry you up,” he said, reaching out to
pick me up.

“Absolutely not! I can walk. I doubt you could lift me anyway.”

“Then you would be surprised.” He placed my arm over his shoulder and wrapped his arm around my waist. “Come on, OCDC, let’s get you upstairs.”

“OCDC?
” I peered up just as he inclined his head to the side. His mouth hovered too close to mine and I quickly looked away.

“OCD is self-explanatory
, the extra C is for cute.”

“I should smack you, but I don’t have the strength.”

“You can owe me one,” he said and winked.

“Oh, is it like that for you?” I asked as he helped me hobble to the stairs.

“My grandmother had to resort to it a time to two.”

“Your grandmother?” I grabbed the railing with my free hand as a wave of nausea swept through.

He scanned my face and I knew he could tell.
“Let’s get you inside and we can talk about it later.”

“Okay.”

We climbed the first set of steps and paused on the landing.

“Do you need to sit down for a minute? You look pale.”

“I’d like to make it to my bathroom as soon as possible.”

H
e pleaded with his eyes. “Then let me carry you.”

“Absolutely not. I don’t let men lift me.”

“Okay, we’ll do it your way.”

“Fast this time, I’m feeling—”

“I get it,” he said, shouldering most of my weight.

We moved up the next set of steps
at a hurried pace and once we rounded the corner I saw Mason hovering near my apartment. My intense nausea suddenly had a partner in crime: panic.

I started shaking and hoped Stay just thought it was from feeling ill, which I did in
abundance. Mason’s sad expression pulled at my heart, but at that moment, I couldn’t worry about him. I needed to get to my bathroom quickly. He moved away before we got to my door. Stay took the keys and then held the door open for me.

I scurried into the kitchen and vomited into the sink. I didn’t have the time to make it all the way to the bathroom.

Sound became acute. I heard Stay shut the front door, remove his shoes, his soft footsteps on my white, tile floor, my phone going off in my purse, which he set on the counter causing the contents to ding against each other. His steps trailed away and then came back. He brought me a warm washcloth to wipe my mouth.

I started rinsing the sink until he said, “Leave it. Let’s get you into something comfortable and in bed.”

I stopped by the bathroom and said, “I have to wash my face and brush my teeth first.”

“Okay, tell me where to get your bed clothes.”

I held myself up against the door jam and said, “Go to the farthest panel of the closet and in there you will see a chest of drawers. Second one has shorts and the third T-shirts.”

I made quick work of washing my face
, brushing my teeth, and urinating.

He tapped on the bathroom door
and passed the clothes to me. “Where in the kitchen would I find a large bowl?”

“Lower left cabinet if you’re facing the stove.”
I sat on the toilet and undressed. Food poising had drained every bit of my energy and lifting my arms over my head was a struggle. I managed to get my dirty clothes into the wicker laundry basket.

“You okay in there?”

“One more sec.” I scanned the bathroom and opened the door. “I think you’re right.”

“What about?” he asked as he helped me to my bed.

“I sleep on the far side.” He had placed a glass of water and the bowl next to the bed with a wet washcloth hanging over the side.

“Let’s get you settled and I’ll bring the stuff around.”

“Thank you, Stay. This is beyond the call of duty,” I said as I lowered down onto the bed with my back against the headboard.

“Not at all. So tell me
...”

“Oh, I must
have OCD because as sick as I feel I still made sure the bathroom looked clean and neat.”

He laughed and I could see the
amusement shining in his eyes. “Accepting who we are is the first step.”

“First step to?”

“Living in peace. Hey, Lainie, maybe you want to answer your phone? It keeps going off.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s the guy?”

“
What guy?”

“
Lainie, don’t. I’m not blind. The man waiting for you outside. I imagine he is also the one who keeps calling. You should know—”

“I should know?” I didn’t like the change to the tenor of his voice.

“I’m as easy going as they come, except for one thing: lying. Partly because of my belief in karma, but also because I always know when it’s happening and then if I don’t confront it, I’m put in the position of lying myself.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. You’ve been incredible
to me. It’s hard for me to let strangers in.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

“Well, I mean, oh damn.” The faucet of my tears resumed and I again felt mortified.

“I’ll get the phone,”
he said when it rang again, seemingly to let me get my emotions under control. “Here,” he said when he came back into the room. “I’ll give you some privacy.” He shut the door on his way out.

I held the phone, not doing anything right away.
Should I check the messages or just call?
I opted to call him.

Before I had a chance to say anything, a torrent of words
spewed out of Mason. “Damn, Lainie, I didn’t think you were ever going to call me back. Are you okay? Who’s that guy? Why is he in your apartment? Why hasn’t he left yet?”

“That’s a lot all at once. Give me a second.”

It’s humiliating to admit but at that moment, nauseous and all, I reveled in the fact that for once, the shoe was on the other foot and Mason got to experience some of the angst I lived with on a daily basis.

I took a deep breath and said, “I apparently ate some bad food at lunch. No, I’m not okay. I’m sick
and
I’m sick and tired of being an afterthought for you. The guy is Stay who is a friend and had the unfortunate luck to be with me when my lunch decided to relinquish its residency from my stomach. Where the hell were you?”

“Baby, I’m sorry. Victoria
had one of her meltdowns and I couldn’t get away.”

“How convenient. And when exactly did you know you would be late? You couldn’t steal to the bathroom and text me, email me, something? Do you think I’m just willing to suspend my life for you?”

“Of course not. Let me in and I can make it up to you. Send your friend away and let me come up and take care of you.”

“I don’t have my car. Stay is my way to work tom— Oh god,” I groaned and dropped the phone. I grabbed for the bowl
, pulled it into my lap and began rocking.

I could hear Mason say, “I’m coming now.”

A tap sounded on the door and Stay poked his head in. “Are you—you’re not. Do you want to try to get to the bathroom?”

“Yes, please.” His kindness made me break again. “Oh, geeze,” I muttered.

The front door flung opened as Stay helped me to the bathroom. The men assessed each other as I stepped through the jamb and away from drama playing out in my living room.

Stay glanced back at me as I started to close the door and I didn’t care for the forlorn expression on his face. I
wobbled my head and shrugged my shoulders in apology.

After being sick yet again, I flushed the toilet
and rinsed my mouth. The cold tile floor called to me so I lay down and rested my cheek against it. I couldn’t decide
which side of the door I wanted to be on. Did Mason tell Stay to leave? Would he listen? Stay didn’t strike me as the kind of man who took direction well. I had come to understand that his laid back demeanor didn’t mean passivity.

“L
ane, are you okay in there?”

I
heard Stay’s voice. For some unknown reason I felt relief. As much as I loved Mason, I didn’t want him to see me in my current state. We never had that kind of relationship, just two independent ships that crossed in the night.

“Come on
, OCDC, say something or I’m kicking the door down.” He sounded like he meant it.

“Sorry, I’m okay.” I struggled to sit up, reaching for the knob.

“You’re horribly pale again. Are you ready to get back in bed?”

“Where’s Mason?”

“He’s in the living room. He has to leave shortly.”

“You talked to him?”

“I usually introduce myself to new people. Let’s get you up,” he said, reaching out to help me. He easily lifted me to stand.