Fissure (20 page)

     “I didn’t buy it because it was the best by hundred thousand square foot great rooms and marble covered mini-blinds standards,” I said, stepping around the kitchen island, which was, ironically, marble. “It appealed to me because it was the best for me. By my standards.”

     “Well, I’d hate to give your ego another boost in case it should explode and go all Chernobyl on us,” she said, grinning at me from the side as she picked a frame off the sofa table. “But I have to say I’m a big fan of your standards.”

     I turned my head, flicking my ear. “That couldn’t have been what I just heard.”

     “A compliment?” she provided, nodding her head once. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s what it was, but I had a long day and an even longer night,”—for the first time since we’d entered the house, a touch of darkness targeted her face—“and I’m too tired to keep this game of wits going with you.”

     “So I guess that’s a no for a campfire on the beach tonight?” I said, teasing, but not if she would have said yes. Although I knew from the hollows darkening beneath her eyes she wouldn’t.

     “Rain check?” she asked, settling the frame back into its place.

     “Absolutely,” I said. “They’re calling for meteor showers and clear skies tomorrow night.”

     “Tomorrow night?” she said, arching a brow at me. “I agreed to stay for one night. Who says I’m staying two?”

     Another school boy smile. “You will,” I said simply. “You just don’t know it yet.”

     Her mouth popped open, a rebuke dying to make its way over to me and then her lips closed. “Too late. Too tired,” she said. “I’ll look forward to peppering you with snarky comments first thing in the morning.”

     “Now there’s a reason to pop out of bed in the morning,” I replied, heading down one of the two hallways in the house, the one opposite the hallway leading to my bedroom.  

     Most of the time, I really hated chivalry.

     “Come on,” I said, tilting my head for her to follow. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

     “I’m thinking this couch looks pretty sleep-worthy,” she said, patting the oversized pillows as she followed behind me. “Just toss me a blanket and I’m in heaven in about two seconds.”

     “You’re not sleeping on the couch,” I said, thinking it strange that a couch could look so welcoming to her. “And it will be a distant memory when you experience the perfection that is a memory foam mattress. Plus, there’s like fifty feather pillows stacked on this thing for some reason. Making the bed in the morning will be a serious chore.” Ducking into the laundry room, I grabbed one of my folded undershirts and a pair of linen pajama pants.

     “It was nice knowing you, couch,” I heard her say around a yawn, “but I’m trading you in for a nicer model.” 

     She was already turning the corner into the room I had in mind when I popped out of the laundry room. She braced herself in the doorway.

     “If this is a guest bedroom,” she said, her mouth dropping open for a moment, “I don’t want to see your bedroom.”

     “My bedroom’s nothing special,” I said, burying my shoulder into the wall. And it wasn’t, not when I knew what was now missing from it. “Here,” I said, remembering the garments in my hands. “They’ll be five sizes too big, but they’re clean. Even spring fresh from the fabric softener.” I laughed—nervously. I didn’t know I was capable of that kind of laugh.

     “Okay, I’ve seen it all,” she said, reaching for the tee and pants. “A man who folds his laundry and who knows what fabric softener is.”

     I lifted a shoulder. “My mother raised her sons to be well-rounded individuals.” And she had, although laundry had consisted of wash basins, metal boards, and soap so strong it left your hands red for a week in her time.

     “She did a good job,” Emma said, facing back into the room.

     We stayed this way for another minute, her inspecting the room like it wasn’t real, me inspecting her in the same way, before she looked over at me. Her eyes were too shiny to only be sleepy.

     “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I fought you on this, I’m sorry I was such a brat earlier, and I’m sorry you ended up having to deal with this tonight”—I’d held up my hand at the first sorry, indicating she didn’t need to go on, but she ignored me as normal—“but this is exactly what I needed tonight.” She didn’t look back into the room, or down the hall, or to the floor like she did so much of the time. She looked into my eyes without blinking.

     I held her stare until she finally looked away. “Me too.”

     That night, I didn’t sleep. Yet again. Although this time it was a conscious choice because I had a few errands of the Emma variety to run. Even after I’d made it back though, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t even try because, after everything, Emma Scarlett was here with me. Asleep in one of my rooms. Not even the reminders that it was due to extenuating circumstances and she was still another man’s girl could dampen my mood.

     Through a hallway of rooms, a great room, and another hallway of rooms, I thought I could make out the lazy trill of her heart over the ocean erupting below us, but I knew even with my enhanced hearing that was a stretch.

     Midway into the night, through the thoughts of Emma only rooms away, the nagging reminder of what Emma had said earlier and how I would come up empty handed in the normal department for her was starting to put a serious damper on my mood.

     The way her forehead had lined when she’d said it, I knew normal was non-negotiable in her future husband book, probably sandwiched between breathing and vertical. I wasn’t fool enough to believe I could ever live a normal life, but I could try to shift my normal meter more towards the other end, although even if I made drastic changes, the best I could give her as an Immortal bound by duty and eternity was semi-normal.
Semi
semi-normal.

     But I’d do it, even if it felt like both the world I was a member of and the world of hers I wanted to be a part of never felt in harmony with one another. Harmony was a small thing to exchange to be with Emma.

     So I was all copacetic with the semi to the second degree normal, but would she be? Would a quarter of the life she wanted be acceptable if she wanted to be with me, which I was more confused about than ever?

     One minute, she showed all the right signs of attraction: avoiding eye contact, pink flushed cheeks, the pulse point in her throat quickening when I moved closer, the smiles that formed a bit too slow, like she knew she should be fighting them, but couldn’t. These were all solid indicators that Emma was perhaps, hopefully, maybe digging on me, but there were just as many and, if I forced myself to be honest, even more signs of tell tale disdain that came my way: narrowed eyes, so many cold shoulders my face was frost bitten, avoidance eighty percent of the time, and flinching away from my touch more often than accepting it.

     I didn’t know whether I was up or down on the Emma front, but I could wait it out until I knew for sure. Emma was the kind of woman men spent their lives waiting for. So, wherever we were, I was happy to be there. Especially since, at present, it happened to be Emma and me under the same roof.

     The yellow morning light was creeping its way up my wall when I burst off of my still made bed with a renewed mission to do everything I could to be a guy worthy of Emma in the most normal way I could manage. Item number one to scratch off on that list—make breakfast.

     French toast was hitting golden perfection when I heard the pitter patter of little Emma feet coming behind me. I grinned into the sizzling fry pan.

     “So you don’t only know what fabric softener is, you can cook breakfast too?” Her voice was happy, light from a good night’s sleep.

     Sliding a spatula under a piece of bread, I flipped it a few inches shy of the ceiling.

     “Oh, I can cook breakfast,” I said, fetching a plate as I spun around, still having a foot to spare before the toast flopped to a stop on the plate. “Good morning.” I smiled at her, sliding the plate in front of a breakfast stool.

     “Good morning,” she replied, eyeing the plate with eyes I wore most of the time. So starving I’m going to start gnawing on my arm if I don’t get some sustenance eyes.

     “Dig in,” I said, waving at the plate as I settled another plate heaping with two loaves worth of French toast next to her. “I think I made enough.”

     “I think you did,” she said, laughing as she slid into the chair. “Unless you invited the rest of California for breakfast.”

     “Syrup?” I asked, tilting it over her plate.

     “Absolutely.”

     I poured until a pool of syrup had crept to the rim of the plate. “I wasn’t sure what you like to drink but I’ve got coffee, tea, juice—”

     “Milk?” she said.

     “Excellent choice, mademoiselle,” I said, skidding across the kitchen floor towards the refrigerator.

     After filling her cup to the rim, I poured myself a glass and lifted it to my lips. She was sitting there, unmoving, looking at the breakfast before her like it was a puzzle that required figuring out before it could be enjoyed.

     “You eat it,” I said, setting my milk down. “You shovel it in your mouth in unladylike quantities until your stomach can’t hold another bite. And then you give high praise to the chef.”

     Her mouth lifted and she reached for her fork. “I’m not used to being the one waited on. I haven’t had someone make a meal for me, not including the cafeteria or a personal chef, in . . .” her fork stilled above her plate, her forehead lining, “thirteen years,” she said, and I half expected her to add the number of months, days, and hours from the certainty she’d said it with. “Can you believe that?”

     No, I couldn’t. Especially since that meant she’d been making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for herself and, knowing her, her brothers too, since she was a first-grader.

     Cutting a chunk with the side of her fork, she spun it around in the syrup and lifted it to her mouth. “I’m going to enjoy this.” She winked at me as she took her bite.

     I lifted my hands and took a step back. “Don’t let me interfere,” I said, tidying the kitchen to distract myself.

     “This is amazing, Patrick,” she said around another bite. “Are you sure you don’t have a chef locked in one of those cupboards?”

     I tossed some utensils in the dishwasher. “I’m positive there are no chefs, butlers, or anything of the sort around.”

     “What about of the female sort?” Emma asked, her fork pausing above her plate.

     “Um, no,” I replied, confused. “Why?”

     She waved her fork around the room. “All this,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “All you,”—her eyes looked away from me—“this kind of package deal doesn’t stay on the market. Unless it’s by choice,” she added, looking back at me.

     “It isn’t by choice,” I said, closing the dishwasher. With this turn in conversation, I didn’t need a distraction. “At least it isn’t anymore.”

     “But it used to be,” she guessed.

     I nodded. “It did.”

     “All those girls, how many have you loved?”

     Honesty, I reminded myself, before answering, “Just one.” The words tasted tart in my mouth, but less bitter and more sweet. Like a memory that was as fond as it was painful because it’s brought me to that point. To that point in life that matters.

     “And what happened?” she asked, looking just over my shoulder. “Did you break her heart?”

     That was the first time I’d really allowed myself to think about it, the first time I’d openly talked about it, but time had done me justice. The scar was healing, but still tender enough to remind me what I’d endured, what I’d lost, so hopefully, I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

     “Other way around,” I said, tapping my fist against the counter.

     “There’s a story there,” she said, watching my pulsing fist.

     I nodded.

     “Care to share it?”

     Maybe one day, but not today. “Not right now, at least not all the gory details, but I will say that now I’ve tasted love. The real kind,” I said, making no mistake about looking intentional as I looked at her. “I’m ruined for it.”

     She smiled a ghost of a smile.  “So what happens the next time you fall in love?”

     I stared at her until she acknowledged me. When she did, I held her eyes to mine and answered, “I’m marrying her.”

     She was the first to look away, distracting herself with her French toast. “Well I’m sure she’s sorry she let you get away, Patrick. I’m sure she regrets it.” She lifted her fork and dug into another bite.

     “Nah,” I said. “She ended up with a better man than me. She might regret hurting me, but she doesn’t regret losing me.” That verbalized truth stabbed me in the side— honesty was a painful thing.

     “Well I would,” Emma said, staring at her glass of milk. “I’d regret it if I let a guy like you get away.”

     Was this one of those signs, the good ones, that I needed to pick up on and run with?

     “You would?” was my profound response.

     “I’m stuffed,” she said, bulldozing over my question and hope as she shoved off the counter to a stand. “Thank you for the best meal I’ve had made for me in over a decade.”

     “You mean the only meal you’ve had made for you in over a decade?”

     She responded to my question with a smile. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

     “The world is your playground,” I said, reaching my arms wide. “Consider me your genie in a bottle. I won’t even hold you to the three wish rule.”

     She looked out the windows, where the waves were astormin’ and it was still early enough the mass of high school boys I competed for waves with would be asleep for another couple hours. Opportunities didn’t get any better for a guy who bled salt water and board wax, I knew this, but it held no sway over me. My sway had shifted to a woman with a look of concentration on her face, her index finger tapping her chin.

     “So,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What will it be?”

     Planting her finger over her chin, she spun my direction. “I want to lounge on the beach this morning, and by lounge I mean my only physical undertaking will be flipping from front to back, no games of Frisbee, no building a sandcastle, no beach volleyball,” she said, knowing me too well. “Lounge,” she reiterated. “And I’ll go from there. Who knows, maybe this afternoon I’ll feel ambitious enough to take a leisurely walk down the beach.”

     “Done,” I said, grabbing her empty plate and sliding it into the dishwasher. “Should we go get changed and meet back here in T minus ten?”

     “Government super assassin, for sure,” she said. “Who talks like that other than someone with a license to kill?”

     “Uh, awesome people,” I said, lifting my hands at my sides.

     “Sure.” She winked, making an okay sign with her hand.

     I rolled my eyes, slamming the dishwasher door closed as she turned to head back to her bedroom.

     “Em, hold up!” I shouted down at her.

     She spun around, raising her hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot.”

     I gave her a
really
look. “For someone who possesses such wit, you have a terrible sense of humor.”

     Running to the front door, I grabbed the myriad of bags overtaking the walkway. “I picked you up a few things to make your stay at Casa de Patrick more comfortable,” I said, balancing the dozen bags between both arms as I turned the corner of the hallway. “I knew you didn’t have any of your own stuff and you girls don’t exactly pack light, so . . .” She was shock silent, staring at me like I was the bearded lady. “What?” I asked, checking to make sure everything that should be covered was still that way.

     “You picked up a
few
things?” she said, her eyes wide.

     “Okay, so maybe it’s more than just a few, but that’s how it started out. I thought I’d get you a toothbrush, toothpaste, some deodorant, that kind of thing,” I said, fumbling for words.

     I’d gone to six different stores at the crack of dawn to find just the right lip balm because I was falling in love with her. I was smart enough, or coward enough, not to admit this in my justification. “But then a few things turned in to a few hundred. I know how you girls are when you pack. It’s like your motto is
expect the worse and pack accordingly.
”

     She wasn’t saying anything and I was getting all self-conscious standing in the hallway with an armload of girlie things, so I passed by her to drop the bags on her bed.

     She followed behind me, still eyeing me like I was unstable.

     “All right,”—I clapped my hands, rocking on my heels—“I’ll see you in a few.”

     “Princess gummy vitamins?” she said, pulling a box from the top of one of the bags. Grinning at me, she turned to another bag. “A Clinique three step skin care kit?” she said, shuffling deeper. “Perfume with a name I can’t pronounce, but in the prettiest bottle I’ve ever seen?” Now she really started tearing through the bag, like it was Christmas morning. “A Chi flatiron? A cashmere bathrobe? Ugg slippers?” Now the dubious questions were turning into something that more resembled shrieks. Pulling a white box out, she hung it in front of my face. “This was your idea of a toothbrush?”

     “You’re Stanford’s star volleyball player,” I said, making an innocent face. “I couldn’t risk you having an elbow injury from manual toothbrush overuse. It’s a long road to recovery from there that’s left more than one Ivy League athlete camped on a corner begging for change.”

     She shoved at me playfully, putting the Sonicare toothbrush aside, before going to the next bag.

     “Oh my gosh, Patrick,” she said, pulling out the oversized rectangular box. “This is a laptop. An expensive one.” She stared at it like it wasn’t real or as if it was about to vanish.

     “Correct you are,” I said, hoping I sounded as chill as I didn’t feel. “Now before you tear into me, I want to build the case in my defense first.” Looking at her, where her eyes were still glued to the box, I added, “Think you can manage that?”

     Her head bobbed once.

     “So I noticed you’re a fan of the spiral ring notebook, and I respect your deference for note taking methods that date back to the crustaceous period.” Her face didn’t change, my attempts at humor wasted. “If you’re a hardcore paper and pen note taking junkie, then just sell the thing and blow the money on a lifetime supply of notebooks. But if you’re not a member of the anti-technology movement and have been laptop-less due to . . .”—how did I say this without sounding like an ass?—“being economically impaired at this time in your life”—mission failed, I sounded like a total ass—“then maybe you can give it a whirl. Plus, my selfishness of wanting my partner to have the best so we could get the best grade factored into the purchase.”