Astaire
I arrive at Starwood extra early Monday morning, my car one of three others at the parking lot.
I couldn’t take another minute in the confines of my apartment. I spent most of the weekend in a haze, consumed with thoughts dragging me from one direction to the next. I must have talked myself into calling him a hundred times, then I talked myself out of it a hundred more.
I tried to fill my hours with meaningless, menial tasks.
Laundry.
Cleaning.
Organizing.
I put on a half a dozen movies but couldn’t bring myself to finish a single one. Every time I glanced outside, I was reminded of the snowman we were going to build last week … and then the thoughts spiraled all over again.
Sunday afternoon, I bundled up and ventured out for a walk despite the twenty-two degree temps and the brutal wind. I got all the way to the Elmhurst, only to be met with changed locks and an “under new ownership” sign.
They’d mentioned selling the place, but it was never on the market as far as I knew. The least they could’ve done was send an email …
On my way back, I stopped for a hot tea at my favorite café, and then sat by the crackling wood fire to get warm and kill some more time before heading home.
Bennett’s filled my phone with messages, texts, and missed calls the last several days. I haven’t listened to a single one, but not because I don’t want to hear him out, but because I’d like a clear head before I dive back into … all of this.
I’m too emotional to think straight.
I don’t trust myself to make the right decision—whatever that may be.
I check my mailbox in the teacher’s lounge.
Make a coffee.
Ambling down the hallway, I spot the light on in Mrs. Angelino’s room. When I pass, she glances up from her desk—then glances down before I have a chance to say hi.
Nothing new.
I’m five strides away when I stop in my tracks and contemplate heading back, fixing myself in her doorway, and explaining the situation to the best of my ability.
But then I talk myself out of it.
What would I even say? I met this stranger in a bar, he saw me on a date with your nephew and scared him away? I can only imagine what Bennett told him—if I had to guess, it was something along the lines of me being a con-artist or gold-digger.
If all it takes is some third-hand false information to make her gaze avert every time we pass one another, then she isn’t worth the oxygen I’d breathe trying to explain this convoluted situation.
Besides, it’s neither here nor there.
Water under the bridge—all of it.
A strange blip on the never-ending timeline that is my life.
I unlock my classroom, flip the light on, and hang my jacket on the hook behind the closet door—same routine, only it feels different, like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe where everything’s a bit askew.
The sky outside has lightened since I got here, the sunrise painting the sky in shades of creamy oranges and purples with a section of pale blue the color of Bennett’s eyes.
They’re saying the snow’s going to melt over the next couple of days, which will make for several slushy, muddy several recesses, but I don’t mind. We’re that much closer to spring, and with spring comes rain.
I used to find it depressing until Trevor said he loved the way it washed everything clean and left things a shade greener than they were before.
I haven’t looked at the rain the same way since.
Trevor was good that way—seeing the bright side in the darkest moments.
I mark an ‘x’ through yesterday’s date on my calendar. The class Valentine’s Day party is coming up, which always makes me think of the first Valentine’s Day I spent with Trevor. We were freshmen at Indiana State, broke as a joke. We cooked a three-dollar frozen pizza and watched P.S. I Love You from a friend’s borrowed Netflix account. It was the first time since Linda’s diagnosis that I spent a couple hours free from the burdens of life. When I wasn’t working part-time at the campus copy shop and taking sixteen hours’ worth of credits per week, I was driving back and forth to Linda’s treatments and tests and appointments.
Trevor went to each and every one.
He never left my side.
Never complained.
He’d bring his laptop and his homework and he’d simply … be there.
Sometimes I think half of love is just showing up.
A cleared throat by the doorway pulls me out of my melancholic reverie.
Standing in the doorway, Honor by his side, is Bennett.
52
Bennett
“Honor, hi. Bennett, you realize class doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes …” She rises from behind her desk, tugging on the hem of her pink cardigan.
Honor skips past us, hangs her jacket and bag in her cubby, and makes herself at home in the reading corner.
“Was hoping I’d catch you.” I take my time approaching her. “Did you get my email?”
Her gaze narrows. “Email? No. I didn’t realize we were back to that.”
“We weren’t. But you weren’t taking my calls or texting me, and I wasn’t going to come to your place like a psychotic ex-boyfriend.” I sniff a chuckle, trying to keep this light. “I’d really love a chance to explain everything—in painstaking detail if you wish.”
“Not here. Not now.”
“Obviously.”
“I need to get my room prepped for today, so if we could—”
“Eulalia is picking Honor up today. She said she could stay as late as I need,” I say. “Why don’t I pick you up around four? There’s something I want to show you, and we can talk on the way.”
There’s less tension in her shoulders than there’s been the last couple of times I’ve seen her, and she isn’t crossing her arms, trembling, or avoiding my gaze.
It’s a good start.
Perhaps she needed some time to calm down and think this through.
That or she’s exhausted every emotional nerve and is immune to the way my presence makes her feel.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?” I want to make sure I’m hearing this correctly …
“Okay.”
53
Astaire
“Where are we going?” I fasten my seatbelt in the front passenger seat of Bennett’s SUV Monday after work.
He’s driving.
I’ve never seen him drive.
The onyx leather beneath me is soft and warm and flitters of snowflakes land on the hood, melting on impact.
I’m prepared to hear him out.
I’m not prepared for what comes after that.
“You’ll see in about twenty minutes.” He pulls out of my apartment’s guest parking lot and heads toward the southwest quadrant of town.
Classical music plays softly. I dial down the passenger heat and unbutton my jacket.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I read your email …”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “And?”
“It was … convincing.”
“Just convincing?”