Slow Dancing on Price's Pier (40 page)

“Let's go to the edge,” Garret said.

“All right,” she said, her voice blank.

The cold air blowing in from the harbor stung Garret's cheeks and made his eyes tear. At his side, Thea wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, shivering slightly, and Garret knew they wouldn't be able to stay outside very long. They walked out to the old lobster market, a warehouse that sat at the far end of the pier. In the dark, its weather-beaten boards and doors the size of truck beds seemed vaguely ominous. Beneath a single lamp, Garret leaned his shoulder against the planks, facing Thea. The building blocked some of the wind.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I heard you had a fight with Jonathan.”

“Did my mother tell you?”

Thea nodded. Her gaze slid away for a moment—a flicker of something he couldn't read.

“He wants me to choose. You or my family.”

“I know,” she said. She looked out into the distance. The water was dark as pitch tonight, all that opaque black speckled by boat lights as if by stars. “I love your family,” she said.

“I know you do.”

“I won't make you choose between me and them.”

He moved closer, took her hand, even though all he could feel was her gloves. “What if it's a choice I want to make?”

She looked down at their fingers locked together. “You can't leave them again. Not after having been away for so long.”

He sighed, and he knew she was right. He was only just beginning to see how much he'd missed—and how much he regretted—all the years of tension between himself, his brother, and his parents. And yet, some part of him was prepared to do anything to keep her at his side.

“What if we just take a break?” he asked. “We can wait a year. Two. Five—I don't care how long. Things might look different then.”

“They might,” she said, offering a watery smile. “But right now, I know this can't work. I've got my daughter to think of—she's already been through a lot this year. You've got to think of your family. It's bad timing.”

“I know.” He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment. “I think if this had happened to us when we were kids, we would have just said screw it. Eloped. Gone and bought a house out West or something and never come to Newport again.”

“But we're not kids,” Thea said, drawing back. “So it's not that easy. And I love you too much to see you cut off from your family because of me.”

For long moments, he looked at her—her brown eyes, the thick knit stitches of her hat running along her forehead, her pretty skin the color of tea. He felt the distance between them, the distance she'd wedged there, meant to lessen the pain. But he couldn't stand it—all this intentional numbness. If they were going to do this, he wanted to feel it—all of it. Everything good about what they were together and everything that made him feel like his heart was being ripped from his chest. He couldn't stand by and let her disengage—pretend this wasn't happening and that everything was going to go back to normal. He didn't want to be the only one acknowledging the pain.

“Thea . . .”

She looked into his eyes, some of the flatness already giving way.

“Dance with me?”

She hesitated: he could see the war within her, one part of her wanting to linger and savor these last private moments together, and the other part urging her to shut down her emotions and flee. He helped her make the decision. He took off his glove, lifted his hand to brush the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath drawing in, and he pulled her against him. His cheek pressed hers as he swayed with her, his arms holding her as tight as all their clothes would allow. He loved the cocoon of warmth they'd made together, tucked away in the shoulder of the lobster market. The wind's moan, the creaking boards of the pier, the clang of a hard rope knocking a flagpole—if he listened right it almost sounded like music. When he pulled back to look at her, tears had gathered in her eyes.

“Garret,” she said, his name a plea.

He kissed her. Wanted to memorize her mouth, her taste. Memories stored up for days and years down the line. She leaned into him, her lips parting beneath his, and fire rippled beneath his skin. Everything he'd ever wanted, the life he dreamed of, was locked inside her heart. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids. He held her tight and buried his face in the crook of her neck, swaying with her body. He felt the wetness of her tears against his face.

“I'll always love you,” he said, the words so important and yet so futile. “No matter what happens. No matter where I go or what I do. That won't change.”

“I know,” she said.

He kissed her again, long and slow. He felt her shivering, less from emotion than the bitter cold. He wished the evening were more gentle—a warm breeze, a pink sunset. But the hard Atlantic winter was already creeping in, and the time for bittersweet goodbyes had lapsed long ago.

He eased his grip on her, though it cost him so much. “Can I walk you to your car?”

“Please—
don't
,” she said, her voice breaking as she inched away. “Just stay here for a minute. Wait until I'm out of sight. Then—then, you can go.”

He nodded. She squeezed his hand once, her eyes full of words, brimming over, words she couldn't say. And then she turned and ran, the wind blowing her scarf behind her in the streetlight. He waited in the shadow of the building, watching, until she had disappeared.

The windows of the old Newport library shuddered and clanged, and falling leaves danced in the streetlights outside. Though the library was warm, damp drafts drifted in among the shelves of books from hidden places. Jonathan had left his coat on during the discussion—Lori Caisse had too. The little group had been talking for an hour, and the librarians were beginning to mill about the doorway, a sign that they were getting anxious to close.

“Jonathan.”

Jonathan had stood to gather his things to leave, and Lori stopped him with a hand on his arm. He smiled at her nervously. He'd never considered himself an especially handsome man: he had a long face and eyes that were a bit too close-set for his liking. But until he'd started seeing Lori every few weeks, he hadn't much cared about whether he was handsome or not. Now he found himself feeling shy under her bright and direct gaze.

“Please don't tell me that Irina failed her social studies exam,” he said, half joking. “We've been studying so much, I think that girl could probably pass a citizenship test at this point.”

“I haven't graded it yet.” Lori tipped her head to the side; Jonathan couldn't have looked away if he'd tried. “Why? Do you need to bring a report back to Thea when you go home tonight?”

“Do I need to . . . Oh, no. No, we're not back together,” Jonathan said. “If that's what you—I mean, if you were thinking we were—”

“Oh.” The color in Lori's cheeks rose, and she blushed the most lovely shade of strawberry Jonathan had ever seen. “I thought maybe you were back together. Maybe that's why you haven't asked me out.”

Jonathan could only stare a moment, tongue-tied. The rest of the book group had wandered out of the library, leaving them alone among the shelves and empty chairs. They stood face-to-face under the high dome, and Jonathan suddenly had the odd feeling that he was standing with her not in a library but in a place as important and quiet as church.

“Or maybe it's too soon,” Lori said. She picked up her jacket and tugged it on. “You know what? I'm sorry. It's too soon, isn't it? Wow, this is embarrassing. Just forget it—”

“Lori.” He touched her, his hand landing directly on her waist instead of her elbow. The electricity was instant, shocking. He saw her eyes go wide. “Hey. It's not too soon.”

She reached into her purse, opened her calendar—an old, brown leather planner as thick as an encyclopedia—and scribbled something down. “Here.” She handed him the piece of paper. “This is my address and number. Let's just . . . I don't know . . . grab a cup of coffee this weekend. Something low-key.”

“I can't,” he said. “I have Irina.”

“All right. Another day then. A weeknight.”

He wanted to say something romantic and intriguing. But all he could come up with was, “Sounds like a plan.”

Later, as he walked to his car, the brown, wet leaves dropping like weights around him, he couldn't ignore the charge that raced through his blood. He had never asked anyone on a date before. He'd married so young, he simply had never needed to go on a formal date. The idea that he was going on one now felt as exciting as the first time he'd stood in line for a roller coaster at an amusement park. But in some distant and shadowy part of his mind, he thought of Thea. He wondered what she was doing tonight. If she was alone.

 

 

The way Garret told the story to Jonathan was this:
I made a decision—just like you asked me to. But don't ask me to be happy about it.

The way Garret told the story to his colleagues was this:
No, I wasn't interested in the HUD project in the past. But you know me—once I lock onto something, I get it. Most of the time. Anyway, I wouldn't lie to you. I want this assignment. I love D.C.

The way Garret told the story to his mother was this:
I have to get away for a while. You know why. I don't know how long.

The way Garret told the story to himself was this:
It's not running. It's giving everyone space to breathe. It's giving me space to breathe. If I go through the motions of getting over her, then it just might happen. It just might . . .

But somewhere over Virginia, after the captain had turned on the fasten seat belts sign, Garret began to wonder if he was making a mistake. The flight had been a short one; with the flight attendant bringing an endless supply of oaky añejo tequila to his seat in first class, he'd hardly boarded the plane before the captain was telling him it was nearly time to get off. He pulled his seat upright, upended his last shot, and stowed his tray. He tortured himself with his options:
I could fly back.

But when the plane touched down and he felt the rumble of the wheels beneath him and the pressure of gravity as they lost speed, he knew that even if he returned directly to Newport, it would not feel like going home.

 

 

Thea sat in the car, waiting in a line of traffic to pick her daughter up from school on Friday afternoon in late October. All along Van Zandt Avenue, children with bright-colored backpacks were searching out their parents' cars and running energetically toward them. Thea sat listening to the news on the radio, keeping her eyes peeled for Irina. When she noticed her daughter, talking to a group of laughing girls near the stairs, she thought about beeping the horn. But Irina wasn't looking around for her ride; she was hanging out. Taking her time.

Thea opened the car door and stood. She called Irina's name and waved. Normally, she might have been more patient, but she needed to get to the shop to train a new hire. Irina glanced over and saw her mother. She turned to her friends, said something that made them laugh, then walked—in no hurry—to meet Thea. She slid her backpack on the passenger-side floor as she climbed into the car.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It's okay.” Thea checked the traffic and pulled out slowly onto the street. “How was your day?”

They went through the usual conversation—Thea prying details and answers out of Irina about her homework, her tests, her lessons for the day. The thought of Irina's stash under her bed still bothered her, and because she didn't want to hold off until Irina got into serious trouble (was she bringing the knife to school?), she'd decided that she could no longer wait to speak with Jonathan. Apparently, he'd felt that an e-mail was all that the situation called for. She would tackle this problem on her own.

“Irina,” she said sternly. “I found the box under your bed.”

Irina's eyes grew big—over-the-top innocence. “What box?”

“If you lie, you'll make this a hundred times worse.”

She changed gears fast. “So what? Who cares?”

“Where did you get the knife?” Thea asked.

Irina looked out the window. “Are you going to take it away from me?”

“I don't know. Where did you get it?”

She slumped down in her seat. “I traded with a kid at school for it.”

“What did you trade him?”

“Espresso beans.”

“What did he want with them?” Thea asked.

“Energy,” Irina said. “They make you run fast.”

Thea shook her head. “It's dangerous to give children caffeine like that. How many did you give him?”

“I don't know,” she said, annoyed. “A handful?”

Thea stopped at a red light. “Don't do that again. Understand? If I catch you giving espresso to kids, you're grounded.”

“You're probably going to ground me anyway.”

Thea drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “What about the cigarettes and matches?”