Total Rush (22 page)

From within the apartment, footsteps pounded across the floor, and Gemma felt hope spring inside her. In just a few seconds, the door was going to open, and they'd be face-to-face. He'd smell the coffee and muffins, and break into that rugged smile that she loved, beckoning her inside. By the time the morning was through, everything would be worked out and they'd be back in each other's arms.

One lock clicked back. Gemma's stomach did a somersault.

Two more sprang back. Gemma held her breath.

Then the door opened, and everything fell apart.

Standing there wrapped in Sean's robe, her long blond hair shimmering wet from the shower, was a woman. She had a cell phone in her hand and a scowl stretched across her gorgeous face.

“Yes?” she asked impatiently. Behind her, the birds' squawking was deafening. “Shut the fuck up!” she yelled before her face seemed to collapse in on itself, from stress or annoyance, Gemma couldn't tell which.

“Um . . .”

“Sean's not here,” the woman said curtly. From her clenched hand came the tinny sound of someone's voice shouting on the cell phone. “I'm sorry, I can't talk now.”

She closed the door.

Gemma stood there, stunned. Who was that—? Were they—?

Gemma moved away from the door.
Sean and another woman.
She felt as though a giant invisible hand had plunged into her chest and torn her heart right out, leaving it hanging there, bruised and bloody. What a sap she'd been. Numb, she trudged back to the elevator. The sight of her own hallway drew tears as she remembered it strewn with stuffed animals, its emptiness now taunting her. How enchanted she'd been, willing to take a risk. Why had her intuition failed her?

Back in her own apartment, she made a beeline for the kitchen, throwing the coffee and muffins into the trash with gusto. She could still hear footsteps above—
boom! boom! boom!
—as the blond continued her fight with whomever was on the phone. Maybe it was Sean and they were having a lover's quarrel.
Good.
She hated her pettiness, but there it was. She didn't want to hate him, but she did. She hated them both. She slid into a kitchen chair, head in hands. Now what? The urge to wail, to just let it rip, was strong. Never, she vowed. Never again would she give her heart away so fast. If her faith had taught her anything, it was that things always happened for a reason, though the reason might not become clear for some time. There was a lesson in this, Gemma knew.

She just wished she knew what it was.

After two days
at the Blackfriar Inn, Sean had had enough. Walking through the woods, reveling in the scent of pine as shifting rays of sunshine dappled through the branches of the bare trees, his mind had returned again and again to the fire scene. He couldn't escape the boy in the hope chest. As he headed out for a final amble through the woods before going home, his thoughts turned to JJ. He'd called once to thank her for agreeing to bird-sit. It had been the perfect barter: JJ got a weekend away free of charge, and he got to go away without freaking out Roger and Pete.

He inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. At least the weekend gave him space to think about Gemma. Their timing had been off from the beginning. Then there were her friends. And the witchcraft. Part of him envied her freedom to be completely who she was, convention be damned, open to the world. But that wasn't who he was. A fantasy flashed through his mind. He was apologizing to her for the way things had ended. “I hope we can still be friends,” he heard himself saying. He burst into bitter laughter, the sound booming through the still woods, scattering a flock of starlings. He remembered a woman saying that to him and thinking, “Fuck you! You just wrecked my life and you have the gall to think I want to keep you as a friend? Screw you!”

But he did want Gemma to remain his friend.

Being with her was like opening a new book by your favorite author: You weren't quite sure what was in store, but you knew you'd like it. She was full of mystery and surprise, as sweet as she was iconoclastic. But he was toxic. As much as he yearned to maintain some kind of contact, he knew he shouldn't. Gemma deserved better than being dragged down with him into his black hole. He walked on, dead leaves crunching beneath his feet. Her last words to him had been unselfish, asking him to please take care of himself. He closed his eyes, sending a message to her.
I'm trying, Gemma, in the only way I know how. Please forgive me.

He couldn't blame her if she didn't. He couldn't blame her for anything.

 

 

Turning the corner
onto his street, Sean tensed as it dawned on him he might run into Gemma—if not today, then some other time. The thought made him sad, mainly because he could so vividly picture his own inept reaction to such an encounter: shuffling feet, muttered phrases. He sucked at post-relationship stuff.

Approaching his building, he noticed what looked like a bulging, fractured rainbow wrapped in plastic. Coming closer, he saw it was the menagerie of stuffed animals he'd bought for Gemma. She had put them out in the garbage, a clear message. He tore open the bag, rescuing the hot pink wildebeest. He wasn't sure why, only that it disturbed him to see that particular item carelessly tossed away. He'd give it to one of his nieces the next time he was out on Long Island.

Deflated, he entered the lobby and went up to his apartment. This was not how he'd wanted his day to begin.

Letting himself in, he noticed immediately that things were pretty much the way he'd left them—only cleaner. The rug was shampooed and vacuumed, windows denuded of grime, and nary a speck of dust could be seen on any surface.

“Merry Maids were here, I see,” Sean teased, throwing his bag down and closing the door behind him. JJ's smile was friendly. At least someone was glad to see him.

“I couldn't help myself,” JJ confessed, eyes momentarily straying to the TV, where she appeared to be watching some kind of canine competition on
Animal Planet
. “I get some of my best thinking done with a dust rag in my hand. How 'bout you? How was your weekend away?”

“I'm back early. What does that tell you?”

Pete and Roger were going nuts at the sight of him. Crossing the room, he released them from their cages, watching as they joyously winged around the room, reveling in their freedom. Most women screamed when he freed his birds, but JJ seemed unfazed.
How would Gemma have reacted?
he caught himself wondering. He shook his head, clearing his mind.

“So, what did you do for fun?” he asked.

“Went shopping. Cleaned. Mainly relaxed and did some thinking.” Her eyes finally caught sight of the stuffed animal sitting by the doorway, and she looked at Sean questioningly.

“It's for one of my nieces. Go on: What else did you do?”

“That's it, really. You?”

“Hiked. Ate. Thought. Didn't sleep.”

“We're quite a pair.” Pointing the remote at the TV, she turned it off. “I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for letting me use your apartment this weekend, Sean. It really helped me clear my head.”

“Hey, I got a free bird-sitter out of the deal, so we both benefited.” He knew it was impolite, but he found himself hoping she'd leave soon. He wanted to be alone.

JJ rose from the couch, yawning. “I guess I should get going.”

“Here, I'll walk you downstairs.”

Throwing his jacket back on, he picked up her suitcase, quiet as she followed him out to the elevator.

“You know, anytime you want to talk—or anything—I'm here,” JJ stuttered awkwardly.

“You, too,” Sean managed.

“You're a good friend, Sean. I hate to see you feeling so sad.”

Sean could feel his left temple pulsing. “You're a good friend, too, JJ. But I'm fine.”

 

 

Isn
'
t this better
than sitting in your apartment crying?
Gemma asked herself as she pedaled home from a bike ride around Central Park. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she'd knocked on Sean's door and had been kicked in the teeth, and she was still feeling pretty low. But Mother Nature's amazing restorative powers helped, and for that she was grateful.

Unlike some New Yorkers, Gemma didn't stash her bike away when the weather turned cold. She enjoyed riding in the fall and winter. There was something invigorating about bundling up on a cold morning and feeling the wind slap you awake. Gliding onto her street, she was brought up short: There, beneath the awning of her building, stood Sean and the willowy blond she'd seen in his bathrobe. She hit the breaks, squealing to a complete stop. They were talking animatedly, a smile lighting Sean's face as he turned back to say something to Tommy, the doorman. She kept watching, unable to help herself. Sean hailed a cab. And before the woman slipped inside, Sean drew her into an embrace.

Gemma froze, all feelings of well-being gone.

Here she'd had a lovely morning, had done something nice for herself, and how had the Goddess rewarded her? By smacking her upside the head with a vision from her own personal hell! Feeling sick, she turned her bike around and quickly pedaled off in the other direction. She would go to Frankie's.

 

 

“
Are you pulling
my pistol? He's screwing someone who looks like Malibu Barbie?”

Gemma nodded.

“That's pretty fast if you ask me. He must have been nobbing her all along.”

Gemma grimaced, hating Frankie's penchant for brutal truth. Phrased that way, it made her relationship with Sean sound insignificant, a mere blip on the radar screen of his life. She watched as Frankie tried to bluff her way through making some grilled cheese sandwiches. Many of the tasks of daily living seemed to elude Frankie, including food prep. Gemma had no doubt her friend would subsist completely on Diet Coke, cigarettes, and Balance bars if she could get away with it.

Frankie awkwardly turned the sandwiches in the frying pan. “Shit—why is the butter smoking?”

“Turn down the heat.”

“Here, you cook it.”

They switched places, Gemma relieving Frankie of her spatula. “Maybe I should move,” Gemma muttered.

“What are you, nuts? You're living in a great apartment in a great building and you're paying peanuts for it!”

“Yeah, but—”

“ ‘I don't know if I can handle running into them,'” Frankie mimicked, knowing exactly what Gemma was going to say.

“Bingo.”

“Screw him,” Frankie railed. “Don't let him drive you out! Don't let him win.”

“It's not a war, Frankie.”

“Well, it should be! Goddamn asshole hurts my best friend? He deserves death.” She sidled up to Gemma at the stove. “Can't you put a spell on him? Make sure that every cab he hails for the rest of his life passes him by or something?”

“I would never do that.” She pressed down on one of the sandwiches with the spatula. “Though it is tempting.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Business as usual, I guess, with the added bonus of hoping I don't run into them. And worrying about my grandmother.”

“Yeah, what's up with that?”

“Michael's working on getting her an appointment with one of the top geriatricians in the city. She's forgetful, moody . . .”

“Maybe it's PMS,” Frankie joked.

“I wish.”

“Keep me posted, okay?”

Gemma nodded, while Frankie went to the fridge. “Know what I think you should do about Sean?” she asked, pulling out a carton of milk.

“What?”

“Kill him.”

Gemma laughed.

“No, seriously. Hire a hit man. I bet you anything your cousin Anthony knows some people who know some people. Take him out. Smoke him. Arrange for him to sleep with the fishes. Put a cap in his ass.”

“You're nuts, you know that?”

“Yeah, but I made you laugh, didn't I?”

“True.”

“So, any movement on the Uther front?” Frankie asked casually as she took a slug of milk directly from the carton, then put it back.

“I'll do it this week, I promise. It'll give me something happy to focus on.” Gemma mulled this over as she slid the crisp, golden sandwiches onto two waiting plates. Playing Cupid's assistant always made her feel better. It would help take her mind off things. “What do you want me to do if he says he's not interested?”

“He won't,” Lady Midnight replied.

 

 

“I never got
to ask you: How did your Battle of Hastings reenactment go?”

Gemma handed Uther a cup of chamomile tea, sliding back onto the stool beside his. Half an hour into tarot lessons she always took a brief ten-minute break, having learned over the years that most people's attention span couldn't last a solid hour. Uther was the exhausting exception, but she took the break anyway. Her goal was to slip Frankie's phone number into his hand by the time the ten minutes were up.

Uther looked so pleased to be asked about his reenactment it almost broke Gemma's heart. “It was fantastic,” he raved. “I was part of King Harold's shield wall. I had to pretend to get hit in the eye with an arrow.”

“Wow. That must have been . . . painful.”

“Painful but rewarding.” Uther sipped his tea. “We might tackle the Battle of Agincourt this summer.”

“Sounds great.”