Ruin Me (10 page)

I run across the kitchen and yank a sheet of blackened cookies from the oven.

It’s Sunday afternoon and Jay wanders in from his office holding the business section of the paper.

“Everything okay? Smells smoky in here.”

“I burned the first batch,” I say. “It’s okay, there’s plenty more dough.”

Then the smoke detector blares, those hateful, mind-splitting beeps assaulting my ears. Loud noises terrify me—I fear the smoke detector more than an actual fire. I run into the other room and up the stairs. It stops shortly and I know Jay’s climbed onto a chair and disabled the battery. I go back down to the kitchen as he’s opening windows, letting the freezing outside air drift in to fix my mistake.

“Thanks.” I’m jangled, nerves buzzing like wasps. Tears come to make up for all the ones I’ve been blocking since Tuesday.

Jay hugs me while I sob into that favorite, good-smelling sweater of his. I feel his palm running up and down my back, feel the cold air on my hands and face, smell the scalded sugar. I step away when I’m calm.

“Thanks,” I say again, and wipe my cheeks on my sleeve. I go back to the counter to roll out a fresh ball of dough. Jay stands beside me and watches. I hand him the male gingerbread person cutter. The other one has a skirt and before you decorate the cookies they look like bathroom door icons. We cut out the shapes, doing our best to make them tight like tessellations and not waste the dough. I’m going to ice them when they’re cool and leave a heaping plate of them on the counter at the shop tomorrow. I did the holiday decorating there this morning and aside from the crying and the recent drama, I’m feeling very sparkly and yuletide-y. Christmas is like Bailey’s to me. It’s so sweet you don’t notice yourself getting drunk on it until you wake up with a hangover on December twenty-sixth.

Jay slides the sheet into the oven and I muster the good sense to set the timer.

“Thanks,” I say for the third time.

“I think we should have that asshole over for dinner,” Jay says, the words like a baseball flying out of the clear blue sky to hit me in the teeth.

“What?”

“I think you should ask Whelan over for dinner.”

“Dear God,” I say. “Why?”

“Because he’s a part of our lives now, like it or not.” He’s leaving something out of this answer, I can sense it.

“I sort of… I sort of assumed you’d forbid me from seeing him anymore. After what happened on Tuesday.”

“The longer he stays a taboo, the longer you’ll want him,” Jay says. “See if he’s free some night this week.” He turns away to move dishes from the drying rack to the cupboards. “Tell him to bring a bottle of something.”

I blink at his back a few moments. “You aren’t planning on murdering him, are you?”

Jay laughs. “Just ask him. He might say no.”

I feel uncomfortable. Not suspicious, just…scared. About talking to Patrick. About hearing him say he doesn’t want to ever see me again. I’m positive he’s decided that’s best in the few days since I made him an accomplice to infidelity.

After the dishes are put away Jay wanders back into his office. I stand stock-still in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring at the motion of the curtains as the breeze pushes them in. I shriek when the oven timer buzzes.

* * * * *

The gingerbread men are going over well. I missed out on Black Friday, keeping the store closed through Thanksgiving weekend, but the first few days of shopping are mall days, when shoppers want to hit a dozen stores all in one trip. People think about cards and crafts more after the initial big-picture items are purchased. Business is bustling today, Monday. The locally made stockings are selling especially well.

At twelve forty-five I get Carrie’s attention, once the lunch-hour rush begins to lag. “I have to run an errand in a bit,” I say. “Will you be okay for a half-hour?”

“Sure thing.”

At one fifteen I get into my car in the little employee parking lot behind Main Street. I drive ten minutes to the edge of town to Mullaney Lumber, a long, spruce-colored building like an airplane hangar. Rows of fresh-cut Christmas trees are lined up in front of the parking lot.

It smells good inside, like a new house. Paint and sawdust and potential. I head to the nearest apron-clad employee, a chubby man wearing a Santa hat and a down-home friendly smile.

“Afternoon, miss. Can I help you?”

I grin and try to look as un-sordid as possible.

“I’m trying to find Patrick Whelan, but I’m not sure what department he’s in.”

“Whelan’ll be out back.” He motions for me to follow him and takes me down the fixtures aisle and through a heavy door into a cold warehouse. We walk to where some guys are unloading a pallet of boards off a forklift. I recognize Patrick by his height.

“Whelan!” the friendly man shouts.

Patrick turns and I catch his eyebrows bob up above his clear safety glasses. He leaves the project to walk over. He’s wearing a forest green hard hat and thick gloves and a work shirt with his last name embroidered above the pocket.

“Thanks,” I say to the friendly man, who does as I hope and leaves us alone.

Patrick glances around then leads me out through a back door, into the bright sunshine and the cold and the privacy.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” he says.

“How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Aggravating,” he says, making a face to match. “Why are you here?”

“You’re invited to dinner,” I blurt.

His brows jerk up again and stay there. “Am I?”

“Jay wants you to come over. And he said he’s not planning to murder you. You can think about it first, of course. But he said pick a day this week and bring something to drink.”

Patrick’s dark eyes roam all over the lumberyard. He takes his gloves and hard hat off and runs a hand through his matted hair. It looks as if he got a trim for the holiday but it’s still pretty messy, just how I like it. I breathe him in while he ponders and marvel again at how his proximity makes me flush.

“Um,” he says, putting his hat back on. “Thursday?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

“Do you know what this is all about?” he asks.

“Not really. I think he wants to clear the air. Or demystify you. I think he thinks if I see you somewhere boring, like my house, you won’t seem so…exotic. Or irresistible.” I feel my cheeks color.

Patrick shakes his head. “You are one fucked-up couple, Robin.” This time when he says it, he doesn’t smile.

I’m tempted to defend us but he’s right. “So, Thursday? Feel free to change your mind, just let me know ahead of time if possible. I’ll let you get back to work.”

He nods and motions with his hand after he tugs his gloves on. “Go around the side so you don’t get clocked by something.”

I head toward the corner of the building, looking at him over my shoulder. “I’ll see you Thursday. At seven!”

* * * * *

By six thirty-five on Thursday night, I still don’t know what Jay’s up to.

I watch him open the oven and reach in to peel the foil off the top of the casserole dish so the cheese on top of the lasagna will brown just right. He makes a kick-ass lasagna and he knows it. I wonder if he’s trying to impress Patrick or shame him by showcasing what a perfect husband he’d make. Maybe he just felt like Italian tonight.

I wander around the first floor of our little house, puttering. Not cleaning, just doing things no one will ever notice—squaring up the angles of the photo frames on the mantle and pounding the couch cushions until they’re fluffy. I’m painfully aware of my own house right now. It’s a cute place with decent furniture and neat accent pieces. It looks decorated, unlike Patrick’s, and it’s bigger than his house. I wonder for a moment if he’ll feel poorly because of these facts, but then I realize two things. Firstly, Patrick built his own house, with his own hands. He surely made it the exact size he wanted. Secondly, he probably makes more money than Jay and I combined, so it’s not as if he couldn’t own nice things if he wanted to. These thoughts flip-flop my worries, making me feel shallow and materialistic.

The doorbell rings and I abandon my self-analysis.

I open the door to find it’s started snowing again. Patrick has on his black knit cap and fat flakes are sticking to it. I see his truck parked in the driveway behind my Saab. Surreal.

“Hey there.” I step aside to let him in.

“Hey. Smells good.” He hands me a wine bottle shrouded in a paper bag. He glances at the carpet and my stocking-feet and pushes his boots off and leaves them on the front step.

And then suddenly, Patrick Whelan is in my home, standing in his gray wool socks in my living room. In Jay’s living room.

“Come on through,” I say.

He follows me into the kitchen and I set the wine on the table. Jay puts the lasagna on the stovetop and takes off the oven mitts. He turns around and looks between us.

I’ve only seen Jay and Patrick interact a handful of times. Usually it’s at the Tap, where Jay’s always made a point of offering to buy Patrick a beer, an unspoken debt for him possibly saving my life all those years ago. Except for that day Jay went to Patrick’s to talk about this arrangement, I don’t think they’ve ever exchanged more than a dozen polite words on a given occasion.

“Hey.” Jay steps forward with perfect confidence to shake Patrick’s hand. “You can hang your coat by the door.”

Soon enough, I’m pouring three glasses of wine as Patrick takes a seat at the table. Jay sets down three plates and the parmesan cheese shaker, two big forks and one small one, a roll of paper towels. He sits across the table from Patrick, me parked between them, apropos of farce.

Patrick looks to each of us as I serve myself.

“So,” he says. “Robin said you aren’t planning to murder me.”

Jay smiles down at his empty plate a moment. “No. Although the idea has some appeal.”

“I don’t see why I’m here,” Patrick says, stripping the veneer of sociability right off the entire evening.

Jay shrugs. “Just a bit of a summit. Thought we could all use a little air-clearing.”

“Am I here to have the law laid out about how you think this is going to work?” Patrick asks, looking openly impatient as he dishes out his food.

“I don’t know how this is going to work,” Jay says. “If you think this is fucked up,” he says, waving around the serving spoon Patrick hands him, “try being on my side of it.”

“I wouldn’t let my woman mess with some other man if I was you,” Patrick says, damn cold.

My eyes volley between them and I gulp nearly all my wine before they’ve even touched theirs. Amid the squeaks of forks against plates, they continue their manly caucus.

Jay nods at me. “I love her, and I’m going to marry her. You saved her life and now she wants you—she needs you—to fuck her brains out. For whatever reason. She seriously can’t control it. And I love her more than I love the idea of her being faithful to me, so I’m going to have to let you.” Jay digs into his food, having said what he needed to.

Patrick eats, too, brow furrowed. I suspect he’s wondering the same thing I am. Does Jay mean Patrick should fuck my brains out
tonight
?

“Pass the paper towels,” I say.

Patrick does and he says to Jay, “Then what? What happens after me and her…” He trails off.

“No clue.” Jay shrugs. “I don’t want to share her, trust me. We’ve been happy for four years. I’m hoping the more she gets to know you, the less she’ll need you. I think she’ll get bored with you and maybe realize how good she has it at home.”

“I know how good I have it,” I say quietly, ignored.

“But she’s mine,” Jay reiterates. “And if you want her, and she wants you, I’m going to be a part of it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, mouth full.

“I get to watch,” Jay says after a pause. “And you have to watch us,” he adds to Patrick.

Patrick’s normally hooded eyes go wide, so wide you can see white all around his brown irises for a second. There’s a pouch of food in his cheek where he froze in mid-chew, and he swallows and sets down his fork. I wait for him to push his chair back and storm out of the house, but he reaches for his wine instead, downing half of it.

“When?” he asks.

I wouldn’t be more shocked if he’d challenged Jay to pistols at dawn.

“Tonight,” Jay says.

I think something insanely banal, just then. I think,
Thank goodness my period’s not due for a couple days.

Patrick nods. “Fine. Where?”

“Here,” Jay says. His territory, I think.

“Fine,” Patrick says again.

The men tuck into their food, me vibrating with adrenaline between them. My intuition is tugging frantically at my sleeve, demanding my attention, but I kick it away. The rest of the hurried meal passes in silence and Jay stands up first, taking his plate to the sink. When he comes back he pulls me to standing by the arm. I can sense Patrick’s hackles rise, perceptible as a dog growling.

Jay takes hold of my shoulders, his eyes darting over my face. They look green tonight. His hands slide up to my neck and he kisses me. Regular kisses at first then deeper. Cinematic kisses—deep and smooth and meant for Patrick as much as they are for either of us. It takes me a few seconds to relax into it but when I do, I melt like butter.