Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (12 page)

“Looks like you’re down to half mast,
huh?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “In here, there was
plenty to keep me going, but the kitchen turned that right around.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys
who’s afraid of being naked in the kitchen,” I sigh.

“I don’t think it’s a fear so much as it
is a rational instinct,” he answers.

“So, from what I’ve observed, there seem
to be two main camps among people like you,” I start.

“People like me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “freaks. Anyway, so
are you in the camp that says that being naked in the kitchen is unhygienic or
are you one of those guys that says they don’t want to get any kind of grease
or food particles on your body?”

“’Grease or food particles?’” he asks.

I was attempting to sound like an expert,
though I lack the credentials, and I think he’s onto me.

“Or whatever,” I answer.

“I’m in the camp that doesn’t want their
junk anywhere near knives, forks, chopping blocks, meat tenderizers, bigger
knives, or salad tongs. They say most accidents happen in the home; well,
that’s one accident I’m doing everything in my power to prevent,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, “I was right about you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“You’re a freak,” I answer and take
another sip of my water.

The stress of the day coupled with the exertion
of the last half hour and topped with a good portion of that vodka bottle all
seem to land on me at once and, as I take one last sip of water and set it on
the nightstand, I close my eyes.

“I’m just going to rest for a minute if
that’s okay with you,” I tell him.

“That’s fine,” he says. “Do you want me to
go?”

“No,” I tell him. “I want you right here
with your arms around me.”

This is the problem with knowing my limits
when I drink: I always remember too much.

Damian put his arms around me about eight
hours ago and they’re still there, encircling me. For an instant, it feels
great. It feels like something I’ve been waiting for and I’m just a moderate
hangover away from feeling complete when the gravity of what happened last
night finally takes hold.

The sex complicates things enough, but the
passing out after crying after coming bit? That’s not really the way I wanted
last night to go.

When he says, “Good morning,” I nearly
jump out of my skin. Maybe I would have, if Damian’s arms weren’t still around me.

“Good morning,” I answer back.

Then there’s nothing.

I mean, absolutely nothing.

We have nothing to say to each other after
last night.

Yeah, alcohol was a brilliant idea, Emma;
really A-list thinking there.

“So…” he says.

“Yeah…” I respond.

“Do you want me to sneak out of here or
should I go out there and start fixing up some breakfast?” he asks.

I wonder: If I told him that I’d like him
to fix some breakfast and then leave, would he do it?

“Whatever would make you the most
comfortable,” I tell him.

I think I may have unwittingly put us
within striking distance of having the relationship talk and
it’s
way too fucking early, both in the morning
and
in the relationship for that to happen right now. He may have opened the door
by asking me how I wanted him to leave, but I pulled us the rest of the way
through it by letting him know the ball is in his court on that one.

Being noncommittal has managed to lead
directly to a question of increasing commitment.

No matter how he responds to my statement,
it’s going to tell me something about his desired level of commitment, and then
I’m going to feel like I’ve got to reciprocate and then he’s going to ask me
how we got from the manner in which he leaves my apartment to me telling him my
views on the modern relationship, optional allowances and accessories of said
relationship and where I fit on the spectrum between “I want to have your
children” and “You can fuck me, but don’t look me in the eyes and no kissing on
the lips.”

Right now the answer is that I don’t have
an answer. It’s still way too early to tell where this is going to go and I
haven’t even begun to shuffle through the various and often contradictory
emotions I’m feeling right now.

“Why don’t I pop into the bathroom and
then we can figure it out from there,” he says.

Well that’s just great. He doesn’t want to
tip his hand before he has an idea where I’m at.

Clever, Mr. Jones, very clever.

Then again, though, it could be possible
that he’s got to pee and I’m reading way too much into everything.

But would I be reading this much into
everything if I didn’t see some kind of future between the two of us? That’s
the real question, I think.

I mean, what happens when he comes out of
that bathroom?

He’s going to come out of there and I’m
not going to have any idea what to tell him.

I could always offer him coffee.

Coffee’s a nice way to say, “Hey, we just
had a night of passion together. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about it.”

Of course, coffee can also imply sex.

If I ask him to join me for some coffee,
is he going to think that I’m trying to get a little good morning sausage from
him?

Would it be so bad if that’s what I did?

No, things are already complicated enough.

The best bet here is for me to just wait
until he’s out of the bathroom and then go into the bathroom myself, putting
the ball back in his court.

Of course, where is it said that the
person in the bathroom can’t be the one to do the thinking?

I guess I’m the one that started this
whole thing this morning, but that doesn’t mean that I’m the only one that can
deal with it.

Chapter Ten

Metaphor and Simile

Damian

It’s been a week now since Penelope first
stopped by. It’s also been about a week since Emma and I first got together,
but that’s not really important right now.

What’s important is that I’m standing
outside the hospital where Penelope told me to meet her and I’m having some
serious second thoughts about going inside.

She was supposed to meet me out here,
right here. She told me to wait for her by the smoking area on the north side
of the building.

When it comes to smoking, Penelope is a
world class athlete.

Forget the smoke rings and the French
inhaling. That’s child’s play.

I could swear—nobody believes this story,
but I could swear that Penelope once managed to blow a perfectly symmetrical
figure eight that just kept growing in size until a slight breeze finally
distorted the lines out of recognition.

She just looked at me afterward, too, with
a rather self-satisfied look.

Now, she hasn’t shown up to meet me and I
think I’m just going to go.

Ed has a lot of hate for me for what
happened to Jamie, that’s nothing new. And as great as it would be to somehow
work through that and actually get to know each other without all the vitriol,
I’m not daft enough to believe that’s actually going to happen.

I’m going to go up there and either the visit
turns into an argument or he ends up keeling over at the very sight of me.

I really don’t see this working out.

“I’m so glad you came,” Penelope’s voice comes
from behind me, and I turn around.

“Hey,” I tell her. “I was just looking for
you.”

“It looked like you were just getting
ready to leave,” she says.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Sorry about that. I’m
here. Let’s do this.”

“There are a few things I should tell
you,” she says, “you know, about Ed’s condition.”

This should be a comfortable experience.

I’ve always felt weird about hearing about
other people’s health issues from a third party.

“He’s on a lot of medication right now to
try to keep his heart going until they can find a transplant,” she says, “but he’s
still pretty aware of what’s going on around him. They took the tube out of his
throat, so he’s just on an oxygen mask right now. He’s lost some weight since
he’s been here, because he can’t bring himself to eat, but his color is
starting to look better…”

She keeps going, but as she does, I start
to notice a sick feeling creeping into my stomach and I’m not sure I can listen
to any more of it. It’s not the description of Ed’s health and the apparatuses
that are keeping him alive that bothers me so much as it is thinking back to
that black bag of carved, limb-shaped tofu in its raspberry sauce.

Rita called me again today, though this
time she didn’t see it necessary at all to say anything to me. She just kept breathing
into the phone.

I assume the call was placed so I’d know
she was out there, alive and unharmed—a superhero in her own right: Stalker
Girl, the only super hero who might just end up killing you in your sleep with
a pair of tweezers and a claw hammer.

“How long do I have?” I ask.

Penelope, who had been in the middle of a
sentence talking about how I shouldn’t worry that they keep a crash cart in
Ed’s room at all times because the chances that his heart just goes, the
doctors don’t feel comfortable having Ed more than ten feet away from a
defibrillator, looks up at me and says, “I know you’re not thrilled to be here,
but the fact of the matter is that you
are
here, and I think the two of you can still make peace in the time he has left.”

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up,
Penelope,” I tell her. “I’ll do my best, but he has a lot of enmity toward me.”

Hey, I finally got to use that word in a
sentence.

Bully.

“Just having you here is enough,” she
says. “I’m just glad you came.”

Penelope takes me by the hand, and she
leads me through the lobby to the elevator, down the hall and we go until she
stops and turns to face me.

“Just go easy,” she says. “Can you do that
for me? I know he can be a hard man to love, but he’s not a bad man. Just go
easy.”

I’m not the one I’m worried about, but if
it’ll put her mind at ease… “All right,” I tell her. “Are you going in with me,
or should I go in alone or what?” I ask.

“Oh, I really think I should be in there
with you, don’t you think?” she asks.

I shrug.

It’s going to be hellish either way.

We enter the room, and Ed’s is the first
bed in the room.

“Edward,” Penelope says, “you’ve got a
visitor.”

He’s lying there, pale and visibly weak in
his bed, but when he hears his wife’s voice, he still opens his eyes. When he sees
her, his eyes brighten, almost as if the sight of her is giving him new life.

Then he looks over and finds me standing
here.

His expression changes pretty quickly.

Ed lifts his oxygen mask and, in a thin,
raspy voice, he asks, “What the hell is he doing here?”

“I thought it would be good if the two of
you talked for a while,” Penelope says. “It would be good for the two of you to
bury the hatchet. I know Jamie never liked that the two of you butted heads and
I see no reason why it should go on any longer.”

That was pretty good. I wonder if it’ll
have an effect.

“This Hollywood
fuckhead
killed our daughter,” he says.

I’m not noticing any results yet.

“He didn’t kill Jamie,” Penelope says.
“Nobody killed Jamie. She died. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

He puts his oxygen mask back over his
mouth and nose and folds his arms across his chest with the universal guy
gesture that says, “She’s going to make us talk and there’s nothing we can do
about that, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

After a few seconds, the mask comes back
up a little and Ed’s saying, “So did you actually want to talk to me or did you
just come here for the thrill of watching me wither away?”

“I really miss our talks, Ed,” I tell him.
“Everyone needs to hear some good bullshit every once in a while.”

“Me bullshit?” he asks. “You’re the one
always saying that my daughter resented me,” he seethes, “that she didn’t want
to be around me.”

“What are you talking about?” I burst. “I
never said anything like that.”

“Yes you did, you lying sack of shit,” Ed
says, “yes you did.” For a second, I’m actually a little worried that he’s
going to climb out of that bed and we’re going to have to throw down.

“I said basically the same thing that your
wife just said,” I tell him. “I told you that Jamie didn’t like that we’ve
never gotten along. Ed, would it be the end of the world if we were to have one
conversation where neither one of us tries to push the other one off of a
cliff?”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you,” Ed
says. “You’d love to come in here and say you fixed everything right before the
old man keeled over. That way, you’d be the hero and I’d be the old fart that
was wrong about everything all along, well I’m not buying it and you shouldn’t
be selling it.”

“Penelope, I’m sorry, but I really don’t
think this is going to work,” I tell the only friendly face in the room.

“Give it a chance, you two!” Penelope
shouts. “Listen, if the two of you can’t speak with each other with some kind
of respect, then why don’t you both shut your mouths and just listen.”

I’m perfectly fine with that arrangement.

My phone starts to ring, but I press the
mute button through my pocket. Ever since that first heavy breathing call—which
I was very surprised to find out is a real thing, by the way—Rita, if that’s
really her name, has been calling me on the hour, every hour, and as I glance
at the clock I’m kind of wishing will fall from its place and just put Ed out
of my misery, I’m reasonably certain it’s her.

If not, I’m sure whoever’s calling will
leave a voicemail.

“Now, do the two of you remember that one
Christmas dinner where I’d forgotten to go out and get the sweet potatoes?”
Penelope asks.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Ed says, “but
I’m not going to bear listening to the sweet potato story one more God damned
time.”

The way he says it is kind of mean, but I
actually agree with the sentiment.

The story of the sweet potatoes is that
Penelope thought she’d forgotten to get sweet potatoes for Christmas dinner,
but after enlisting Jamie’s help and my help and Ed’s help, we discovered that
she actually had a bag in the pantry all along.

The end.

I know she likes to tell that story
because it’s one of the few times that all four of us were together and nobody
was arguing.

Actually, as I think about it, Ed and
Penelope were arguing about whether or not sweet potatoes were actually
traditional Christmas fare or not, but it wasn’t the hate-fest that Ed and I
have so long enjoyed.

“Fine,” Penelope says. “Just think about
how much the two of you have in common, though. You both love movies. That’s
something, right? Damian, what’s a good movie you think Ed might like?”

“I have no idea,” I answer quickly.

I think we’re getting a bit off topic, but
Penelope is trying anything to get us to find some common ground.

“We both loved Jamie,” I tell her.

“That’s true,” Penelope says, “and that’s
the most important thing of all.”

“You couldn’t have supported that child
even if everything had gone off without complication,” Ed says.

“Ed,” I scoff, “even when I was trying to
do the normal life thing, I still had a couple hundred thou in the bank at any
given time. I don’t know exactly how much you think a baby costs, but—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he
says. “Supporting a child isn’t just about money. It’s about your whole life.
Every moment of your life from the moment that child is born is about that
child and for that child. That was never you. You were always more content to
just go on acting like responsibility was a four-letter word.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting that
from,” I tell him, “but I always took my responsibilities seriously when it
came to your daughter and the baby.”

Ed laughs. “We’re never going to make any
progress here because we don’t know the same language. Sure, what you’re
speaking sounds like what I’m speaking, but apparently, you do not understand a
damn word that I’m saying. Now, I’m old, I’m sick and I’m tired. If I ask
nicely, do you think you could find it in your heart to get the hell out of my
room?”

Sure, Ed. I can do that.

I turn and walk out the door.

Yeah, I’d hoped for things to go
differently, but I didn’t expect it. I have a pretty solid memory and in every
single memory I have where Ed and I were the same room, if we were talking to
each other, we were talking down
to
each other.

“Damian, wait,” Penelope calls behind me.

I’m almost to the elevator, but I turn and
wait for her to catch up to me.

“I can’t talk to him, Penelope,” I tell
her. “I’ve tried. Look, I’m sorry he’s sick, I really am, but I don’t think
that’s going to change a decade of him hating me.”

“I know things didn’t go so well,” she
says, “but you’ve got to promise me that you’ll try again.”

“I already
have
tried again. I’ve tried dozens of times over the years to find
some sort of inroad with him, but to Ed, I’m always going to be the guy that
not only tried to take his daughter away from him, but the guy who actually
succeeded in every possible sense,” I tell her.

She bites her lip and I’m feeling a little
guilty.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I said that in
the heat of the moment, but you know that’s what he thinks of me. We’re not
going to work through that in a couple of hospital visits.”

“Then keep trying until he’s dead,”
Penelope says. “The way things are looking, that shouldn’t be too far off,
anyway, so if you’d just put forth that small investment, you’d make an old
woman very happy. I can’t defend the way he talks to you. It’s not fair what
happened to Jamie and it’s not fair that he’s been making it harder on you all
these years, but I know both of you so well and I love you both so much—I’m
sure that if the two of you could just get past your differences for even a few
minutes, you’d find that you’re a lot more alike than either of you would ever
admit.”

“Penelope,” I tell her, “you know I’d do
anything for you, but I don’t see the point in this. He’s always going to hate
me. I don’t know what else there is to say on the topic. That’s just how it is
and how it always has been.”

“Please,” she says. “I don’t have that
many people left in my life, and I’d hate for two of them to lose their last
chance to make peace.”