After Hours (24 page)

I ran a quick analysis, trying to read too much into the booth. Was it for privacy?
Or intimacy? So Kelly could keep me all to himself, tucked possessively in his orbit?
I don’t know why I bothered trying to guess. Maybe he just hated somebody at the bar.

We perused the menus. The sex had made me so hungry, everything looked amazing. “What
are you getting?”

“There’s a chicken parm special.”

“Ooh, that sounds good.” I looked up to find him smirking. “What?”

“We can’t order the same thing. That’s what old people do, and the sort of couples
I can’t stand.”

“Like there’s anybody you
can
stand. Plus we’re not a couple, anyhow, so that doesn’t apply to us.” I said it a
little too fast, probably giving away the fact that I felt something about the topic.
What, I didn’t even know. But even having the concept of coupledom on the table instantly
made me feel all overheated and irritable, fuse primed.

Kelly sipped his beer, gaze pointed at my face the entire time.

“What?” I asked. “We’re
not
a couple. How do I even know you’re not banging like, six other women from Larkhaven?”
Or at least a couple from Lola’s. Kelly wasn’t Prince Charming, but he was employed
and interesting, with a hell of a body and a nice face, if you liked ’em mean. He
could surely get laid more readily than most any other guy in this city.

He smirked. “I know we’re not a couple. I just think it’s cute, how adamant you are
about it.”

I narrowed my eyes, faking over-the-top suspicion. “How many other women from Larkhaven
are
you banging, by the way?”

“You’re the only girl I’m banging from anyplace, right now. I’ll be thirty-nine in
a few weeks, and you work the same marathon shifts as me—I’m too fucking exhausted
to juggle more than one woman at a time. Let the twentysomethings deal with that hassle.”

“Twentysomethings like me?”

He made a face like he’d forgotten exactly how young I was. “I suppose.”

“You know
I’m
banging like, half the orderlies from the Warbler building.”

He mimed a smarmy, silent laugh and took a drink.

It felt acutely as though there was more on the table than just our beers and elbows.

So we were both seeing only each other, and now we both knew it. That put us perhaps
one serious conversation away from Kelly becoming my boyfriend, but I didn’t even
know how I felt about that anymore.

I’d never had a boyfriend who’d fixed my car, or defended my honor, or fucked my living
daylights out. Did I
want
one, if it meant admitting I needed those things?

When the waitress approached, Kelly warned, “I’m getting you the chicken.”

“Sure.”

I drank deeply, and watched as he ordered manicotti for himself, adding that, “The
lady will have the chicken parm.” I actually felt sort of flattered by the old-school
treatment. He didn’t seem like such a threat to my feminism anymore, and his be-my-bed-slave
thing struck me as a special-occasion deal, not his baseline sexual MO. I knew things
about him, things girlfriends knew—what he liked to have said to him in bed, what
brand of beer was his, how his voice sounded right when he woke up.

But no amount of intimate insider information changed the fact that he oozed
lone wolf
. He’d told me pretty straight; he didn’t think he was cut out for marriage.

Not that I was picking out dresses, by any means.

Fuck, I hated that I was even thinking about any of this shit. It had all my Mom-nerves
buzzing.

And I hated that I could already pinpoint the exact flavor of heartbroken I’d feel
if I did hear about him seeing some other woman, even though he had every right.

Worst of all, I’d known I’d wind up feeling all this crap before I even agreed to
sleep with him, yet here I was, being the sort of woman that annoyed me so much. Like
I didn’t know full well that the people who grate on us the worst are always the clearest
reflections of our own weaknesses.

What I
did
know for sure, though, was that if the
are-we-a-thing?
conversation was going to get broached, Kelly would have to be the one to broach
it. I could tell from the chaos in my head just pondering it, I wasn’t ready to lead
those negotiations.

Kelly folded his arms atop the table. The blood from where I’d scratched him had dried
to two dark smears, fresh battle wounds to add to the tableau.

I eyed his fingers, trying to imagine what it’d be like if Kelly
were
my boyfriend, and I could just reach out and hold his hand. What if that wedding
band, the one that unintentionally told women,
back off, he’s taken
 . . . What if he
were
taken, and that ring’s inaccurate message was on my side?

Suddenly Kelly reached between us, tapping my wrist with his finger. “Did I freak
you out or something?”

“Pardon? When?”

“I dunno. You’re all glazed over.”

“It must be the beer. Or the sex,” I added quietly, eager to steer us back to an arena
we knew how to grapple in.

“You got defensive, after I was teasing you about couples shit.”

I shivered, suddenly naked again. And in public. “Since when do you waste your time
trying to interpret emotional-chick nonsense?”

“See? It’s making you all squirrely. But I’m just saying, if that freaked you out,
don’t worry. I’m not looking to threaten to your precious feminist autonomy.”

Wait, what?
“You’re thinking too hard about this, Kel.”

“Fine. Just didn’t want to wreck what we got, if that kind of talk weirds you out.
I like this arrangement we’ve got going. I don’t want to scare it away, either. Forget
I even uttered the c-word.”

Oh
lovely
. At least that settled the uncertainty of whether or not that discussion was imminent.
I knew where we stood, now—absolutely no place special, but as a consolation, the
sex was off the wall.

I squinted at Kelly. Sometimes I felt I knew him. Other times, like now, it hit home
that we’d only met a few weeks ago.

“What?”

“I know like, nothing about you.”

“Sure you do. You know way more than most people.”

I cocked my head.

“You’ve seen me naked,” he pointed out. “Been inside my house. Heard a little about
my upbringing, and you know where I’m from. You know I wish I had a dog.”

“Yeah, I guess.” And in truth, I knew something
very
personal about him, something rough and heinous and intense, but I hadn’t heard it
from Kelly, so it shouldn’t count. “But other stuff. Silly stuff.”

“Like?”

Like stuff girls know about their boyfriends.
“I dunno. Your middle name?”

“Paul.”

“Are you a Republican?”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Independent.”

“Do you . . . Can you dance?”

“I can waltz.”

I goggled at him and he shrugged. “I went to a Polish Catholic middle school.”

“Oh my God—can you polka?”

“If a wedding demands it and I’ve had enough vodka, sure.”

“Huh.” I propped my chin on my hand. My angst disappeared, so engrossed was I in trying
to picture Kelly dancing.

Our food arrived and we chatted as we ate, and I let myself get caught up in the more
superficial details of Kelly Robak. His birthday was July twentieth. He hated sushi.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d finished a book, but we’d both read and liked
everything by Oliver Sacks, unsurprisingly. If he’d gone to college, he imagined he
would’ve studied history.

“What part of history?” I asked, wadding my napkin.

Kelly drained his glass. “American, I guess. The Civil War seems pretty interesting,
plus all the industrial stuff. Railroads and shipbuilding. Subway construction.”

If this were my boyfriend, I’d have allowed my wheels to start turning with ideas
for birthday presents.

“Better get back,” he said, standing. “It’s a school night, after all.”

I tucked my debit card inside the check presenter and went to use the ladies’ room,
but when I got back, I discovered without much surprise that Kelly had paid in cash.
He handed me my card.

“Not fair. I wanted to pay. You fixed my car.”

“Tough shit.”

I shook my head, following him to the exit.

As we climbed into his truck he asked, “You heading home tonight, or in the morning?”

I bit my lip, buckling my seatbelt. “I dunno. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stay the night so we can have sex again.”

“You don’t play games, Kelly. I’ll give you that.”

“You’ll give me all kinds of things,” he said, turning onto the street. “Just you
wait and I’ll tell you what they are.”

I rolled my eyes, but inside I smiled.

By the time we pulled up to his house, I’d succumbed to a long series of yawns. The
beer or the heap of pasta or the twelve-hour shift had done me in.

As Kelly locked the door behind us I said, “Don’t be offended if I fall asleep in
the middle of the sex.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn to come,” Kelly said, but then he yawned, too.
“Or we can give it a miss, just this once.”

Which meant what? If there was no sex imminent, did that mean I should head home,
or were going to like . . . cuddle?

“You need something to sleep in?” he asked, answering my unspoken question and filling
me to the brim with a weird, giddy energy, like I was suddenly made of kittens.

“Just a tee shirt is fine.” Oh crap, I was sleeping over and we weren’t banging, and
I’d be wearing his shirt. That sounded suspiciously boyfriend-girfriendish. And I
liked it.

“Want a nightcap?” he asked, rounding the counter.

“No, thanks. Do you have any tea?”

Kelly poked around a cupboard. “I’ve got something for colds. Lemon eucalyptus,” he
read off a box.

“As long as it’s not caffeinated, I’ll have that.”

He filled his kettle and I took a seat on a stool, watching as he poured himself a
generous shot of bourbon.

Kelly put a tea bag in a mug and leaned his elbows the other side of the counter.
“Any updates about your sister and her situation?”

“No, not really. She’s annoyed with me, so that probably means they’re united for
the moment. But I’m not worried for her safety or anything.”

“That’s what I was getting at.”

“He’s never laid a hand on her,” I added, then realized it was a lie—he’d shaken her,
if not hit her. I decided not to open that can of worms with Kelly, lest he head over
there this minute to demand reparations. I didn’t want reparations. I wanted to fall
asleep next to Kelly and forget all that. “Not that I’m defending him.”

“Hasn’t laid a hand on her
yet
.”

“No. Not yet.” Another lie. Plus I hated saying that, admitting to myself it could
one day happen. Again. He’d shoved me, after all—completely sober, as far as I could
tell. I’d provoked him, but that was no excuse. And no one provoked like Amber. It
was practically her craft. He could do the same to her. Or Jack.

Kelly filled my mug when the water boiled and slid it across the countertop, taking
a seat on the stool at the end, so we sat kitty-corner.

“It sucks that you had to grow up with that,” I added quietly. “All that stuff with
your stepdad.”

He shrugged. “Not like it’s an exclusive club.”

“No, I guess not.” I bobbed my tea bag.

“What about you?” Kelly asked. “Your mom ever get physical with you? Or any boyfriends
of hers or anybody?”

Lee Paleckas’s face popped into my head. Poor kid, getting terrorized in – and outside
his own brain. I’d gotten off easier than him, and a lot of girls who’d grown up in
that kind of disarray couldn’t say the same.

I shook my head. “My mom hated confrontation. If anything she needed to be pushier
with us. With Amber, anyhow. And she hardly ever brought men around. She didn’t like
for guys to see her as a mom. Made her feel old, I think.”

“Maybe it was for the best. Doesn’t do kids much good to meet every boyfriend or girlfriend
their single parent takes up with.”

“No, probably not.” I blew on my tea, thinking. “Were you ever mad at your mom, after
you found out about your biological dad? I’m assuming she never told you about him.”

Kelly spun his glass around on the counter. “No, she didn’t. For some reason, on my
birthdays, I’d think, maybe this is when she’ll sit me down and tell me. When I turned
fifteen, sixteen, eighteen—maybe this’ll be the birthday that makes her think I’m
old enough to hear it. But she never did. Looking back now, she must’ve figured I
didn’t need another reason to reject my stepdad. Like if I’d found out he wasn’t my
real father, things would get even nastier between us. And when he died, when I was
in my early thirties, I wondered if maybe she’d finally tell me then, but nope. Never
did.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe she’s saving it up for some deathbed confession. Better pretend to be surprised
so I don’t wreck her moment.” He shot me a dry smile, warm despite the sarcasm, then
stared down into his whiskey.

“Maybe . . .” I held in the thought, not wanting to seem too nosy. But these heart-to-hearts
with Kelly were rare, and I wanted to go deeper. Know him better, for as long he kept
that window cracked. “I’m not sure how loyal she could expect you to feel about some
guy who’d never even met you. And . . . you know. Did whatever he did. To get sent
away.” My voice had gone odd, way too casual—condemningly so. Might as well spill
it. “I know,” I added quietly.

“Know?”

“What he did. That he beat your mom up bad enough to get sent to prison.”

Kelly’s head jerked up and those eyes bore into mine, sharp and cold. “How the fuck
d’you know that?”

His tone knocked me off balance, the change as sudden and ringing as a slap. My heart
thud-thud-thudded so hard I imagined it must be echoing ripples through my tea.

“I looked it up. Online.” Christ, it sounded even lamer than it had felt when I’d
been snooping.