One Good Thing (21 page)

“I’ll call a taxi.”

“I can take you.”

I turned on him angrily. “I don’t think you understand,” I said, being a complete bitch and not really caring. My vulnerability was too close to the surface; all my instincts screamed at me to protect myself. I was an animal cornered. “I’m done with you. You don’t really think you’re worth all that, do you?” I asked, scathingly.

He didn’t back down, even though I probably looked like Frankenstein’s monster, and I was feeling just as vengeful. Just as unloved. I pressed my palms to my forehead wearily—I didn’t want love; his or anybody else’s.

“I don’t think it’s
all
my fault,” he said. “Your ex-boyfriend wasn’t exactly charming.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I repeated.

He stared at me. And then he shook his head, a strange expression changing his face. “This is really it, isn’t it? I knew … I
knew
you were just looking for a reason. But I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“What do you mean I was looking for a reason?”

He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “A reason to get out. I’m not stupid, Dani. I couldn’t even buy tea for you without you looking like you wanted to run for the hills.”

“If I’m such an emotional wreck, what were you doing with me at all?”

“I thought if I gave it enough time, you would settle into it, you would see that loving someone wasn’t so bad. But I would have to be perfect for that to happen, wouldn’t I? I guess I just have a thing for unattainable women—it was my mistake.”

I didn’t like the bitterness in his tone. I didn’t like that he was comparing me to his fiancée. I felt like I’d failed him.

He’d
failed
me
.
He’d
lied to
me
.

“Where were you on Thursday and Friday?” I blurted out, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t ask him.

But the question was hanging over me like a specter, had been all evening, with every word we’d said to one another.

“I told you I didn’t feel well.”

My mouth set in a mulish line as he spoke. “You’re
still
lying,” I said furiously. “I went to your house; you weren’t there!”

He didn’t look ashamed at all. He didn’t look apologetic. He faced me with his chin tilted up in an obstinate manner. “So explain to me what exactly you think. I wasn’t home Thursday and Friday and I said I was. So I’m, what, seeing someone else? Which you always said didn’t matter anyway. Or maybe leading a double life with a wife and kids I have stashed somewhere?”

“I don’t know!” I shouted, lifting my hands in the air. “I don’t know! But you lied to me.”

“I didn’t think I owed you any answers. It has nothing to do with you. And you’ve made it clear that I’m just a passing thing for you anyway. Why would I tell you about my problems? So you could run off even faster?”

“Problems?” I hugged my arms around myself, tight, protective. I was feeling the cold now, deep under my skin. “What problems? Are you … you’re okay, aren’t you?”

He sighed, and it was the weariest sound I’d ever heard. His shoulders sagged as he spoke. “I’m fine. My mom is sick. No, sick isn’t the right word for it—” he broke off and then began again. “She was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of months ago. She’s been going in for treatments and I’ve taken some days off work to be there and help out. It’s always just been the three of us … ,” he said, his voice strained. He stopped.

I looked down at my shoes, my fingers digging into my upper arms until I felt pain. The Courtney he and his cousin had talked about was his mother. I felt like an idiot. When I spoke, I sounded hoarse. “Will she be all right?”

“I don’t know.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“It’s okay,” he said mildly, like nothing about our fight mattered that much anymore. And it probably didn’t. Not in light of what else he was facing. “I should have told you the truth.”

“I understand why you didn’t tell me.” But understanding didn’t make things any better. I
had
failed him. I’d failed him because I wasn’t strong enough. Not for myself. Not for another person.

I moved toward him, tentative at first, and then we just sort of crashed. He folded me into his arms, and I tried to fold him into mine, and it ended up being an awkward, grappling hold until we got everything sorted out.

I rested my head against his chest and listened to the rhythm of his heart, soaked in his warmth. I wanted to take his pain away. I wanted to help him. I wanted to be the kind of anchor I knew he would have been for me in the same situation.

But I didn’t know how and I didn’t know what to say.

“Can we go home now?” was what I whispered instead.

He disentangled, his hands resting loosely on my upper arms. “I’ll call you a cab and wait with you,” he said.

My brows knitted together. A sliver of anxiety worked its way into my heart. “Why?”

“Because you don’t want a real relationship and I do. I can’t keep pretending that this is enough for me. It’s not good for either of us.”

My stomach plummeted straight down to my toes.

“Are we breaking up?” I asked, barely able to force the words out, my voice sounding like air.

“We can’t break up,” he pointed out. “We’re not together.”

“That’s not fair,” I whispered.

But he was silent. And it wasn’t unfair. I was the one who’d held him at arm’s length all along.

So why did it feel like I was losing something vital?

I chewed on my lower lip. “We could just be friends for now,” I said slowly. “I don’t want to leave you alone with all of this going on.”

His lips curved in a faint smile, but it was all ruefulness and no mirth. “I don’t know how well that would work—we already crossed the friendship line quite awhile ago.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, nodding and trying to look a lot more lighthearted than I felt. This was what I’d wanted. Things were getting too serious, so it was time to end it. “You
are
right,” I corrected.

But stepping back from him, putting distance between us, his arms sliding off my shoulders and leaving me cold—none of that felt right. And getting into the cab and leaving him there as he watched me from the sidewalk was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

On Sunday, I stayed in bed all day and watched a cold rain make patterns on the window and wash away the snowfall. Winter rains were the worst—they destroyed everything beautiful and turned it to sludge.

I read through some of my favorite poetry books, forcing away the rest of the world.

But I threw my book aside and snatched at the phone when it rang, not even checking the caller ID. My heart hammered away at my rib cage.

“Hello,” I said, wincing at how breathless I sounded.

“Dani? It’s Lucy.”

“Oh, hi Lucy.” I knew acting wasn’t my calling; even my attempt at being chipper fell flat.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I feigned ignorance, probably just as awkwardly as I feigned being chipper.

“Well, you were outed about your relationship with Evan in front of everyone at SLQ and then Natalie threw alcohol in your face,” she said bluntly.

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“I talked to David this morning, and he said it’s fine if you take a day or two off. But Natalie won’t be in for a few days at least. We overlook a lot of things at SLQ, but malicious alcohol throwing isn’t one of them.”

“You should probably fire her,” I said spitefully.

Lucy laughed. “Believe me, I was all for it. But it’s really the only questionable thing she’s done, so we’re giving her a second chance. If it helps, she won’t be getting any kind of pay while she’s off.”

“That helps a little,” I admitted.

“I thought it might. Well, hopefully I’ll see you at work soon.”

Drew called almost immediately after Lucy, sounding worn and hung over and apologetic. I told him it was all right. And even though I wasn’t happy about his behavior, I couldn’t blame him for what had happened after. Evan was right—if it wasn’t Drew and Natalie and an empty garage, it would eventually have been something else.

After we hung up, I couldn’t focus on my book anymore now that I’d started thinking about Evan. I wondered what he was doing, what he was feeling, if he was lonely, if his mother was better or worse.

If I didn’t watch myself, I’d end up outside his bedroom window, holding a blaring boombox above my head. Or maybe I’d just turn into one of those creepy exes and start driving by his house all the time to see if he was home. Alyssa would let me borrow her car if she didn’t need it.

In place of doing either of the above things, I went into overdrive that evening, instead, listening to even, steady rain like a lullaby as I worked on my laptop. I logged on to the help-wanted ads online and applied to all of the jobs in the area that involved art in some way, shape, or form, even if it was only the slightest connection.

I didn’t have much hope of getting them, but I wanted to try. Maybe I would be luckier this time around. Maybe there was an unwritten rule that you only got the job you wanted when you were at your most desperate.

At the end of the day, I decided not to quit my job at SLQ until I had something else lined up. I would be a mature adult, even if it killed me.

*

I hovered in the doorway of Evan’s office, hoping I didn’t look like a looming bat to any passersby.

Time seemed suspended, stretched out, as I watched him. He looked tired; darkness padded the soft skin underneath his eyes. My chest tightened at that sign of vulnerability. I watched his long fingers glide over the keyboard.

I stepped forward tentatively. “Hey.”

His expression became guarded as soon as he looked up and saw me.

I managed a weak smile and clasped my hands loosely in front of my waist. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice had that raspy, sleepless quality to it. “How are you?”

Was this what being a mature adult meant? Acting polite and indifferent when your heart felt like it was being shredded? If it was, adulthood kind of sucked. Maybe Peter Pan had had the right idea … but then again, I really liked sex (with Evan at least), and I was assuming even Neverland didn’t have that. So there were some definite perks to adulthood.

“Good,” I muttered. “I wanted to tell you … you can let me know how your mom is doing. I mean, if you want to. I’d like to know. But not if it makes things harder for you.” I gazed at the checkered pattern on the linoleum floor. “That was it, really.”

He stared at me for so long I didn’t think he would reply. I’d just started to turn when he said my name.

I swung back toward him. “What?”

He hesitated and my fingers tightened around my hand. “She’s not doing very well. I mean, the chemotherapy is making her sick. Which isn’t unexpected. But it’s tough to see her like that.”

I let out a slow breath and closed the door before I stepped forward, taking a seat on the other side of his desk.

“How long do the treatments last?”

“She has a couple of months left between the actual treatments and then the recovery periods. I …” He stopped and then started again. “If she doesn’t live, I don’t want to remember her like she is now. But I will. And it will just get worse; she’ll be sick from treatment and then the cancer will take over.”

“Unless she gets better,” I said tentatively.

“The doctor told my dad and me that the five-year survival rate for what she has is about fifty percent. My mom wasn’t there when she told us—she said she didn’t want to know.”

“I can understand that. I might not either, if I was in her place.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning his arm on the desk. He kept his eyes focused on his hand. “Sometimes I worry she’ll feel so bad she’ll just give up.”

“She won’t,” I said with a strange certainty.

His gaze lifted.

I cleared my throat. “She has you.” But I was feeling a little ridiculous. I didn’t want him to think I’d spent the last few days pining for him. But maybe I had been pining—was thinking about someone nearly every waking moment considered pining?

“Am I worth the effort?” he asked, a slightly wry smile on his lips.

And then I didn’t worry what he thought because this wasn’t about me. It was about helping Evan. I knew he would do the same if our situations were reversed. “Yes, you are,” I said quietly.

My hand crept forward touched the back of his in an awkward, tentative gesture of friendship.

“I hope you’re right,” he said.

I maintained the contact for too long, too long to be entirely innocent. But I missed the feel of his skin against mine. Was it possible to become addicted to someone’s touch? The longer I touched him, the more I felt like I was trying to get a last hit. Or at least what I assumed a drug addict trying to get their last hit felt like.

Eventually, reluctantly, I drew back.

“I was thinking about stopping by the bar after work … if you wanted to talk more,” I said, leaving the statement dangling.

He probably didn’t care. I wasn’t sure if I’d helped him at all, or if having a listening ear was enough to make him seek me out after what had happened between us. And to be honest, I wasn’t entirely certain of my own motives. I wanted to be there for him, as a friend, but was that all I wanted? Or did part of me just want to be close to him?

There was a moment’s pause. And then, “I’ll see if I can make it.”

So a few hours later, I sat myself down on a barstool, waiting to see if Evan would show up. His noncommittal answer hadn’t given me much to go on.

I was staring at the door when the bartender stopped in front of me. “What do you want?”

I cast a quick glance at the specials, which were now on holiday red and green cardboard with some tinsel for a border. “Uh … just a Coke.”

“Are you a designated driver? It’s free if you are.”

“No.”

His eyebrows drew together like he wondered what I was doing by myself at a bar if I was just going to drink soda. Once he brought my drink I paid him and tipped, pretty generously after he made me feel self-conscious, and wandered to the back of the bar, intent on finding a secluded place where I could still observe the entrance.