Suspiciously Obedient (22 page)

“I don’t know a lot about the details, Lydia,” he confessed. That much really was true, even if it was a bit evasive. “But I can tell you this—there is no way in hell the Michael Bournham I know and have known now for well over a decade would set some woman up to be caught on video, and then violated, viewing after viewing after viewing, by millions, if not hundreds of millions.”

“A billion is the projection CNN has.”

“Whoa,” he said, making a low whistle. “A
billion
people.” Jeremy shook his head. “He would never do that.”

“So why did Diane pipe up and say that he had?”

Now Jeremy really had to keep his cards close to his vest. “Diane was an outlier and camera-hungry. Nobody could have ever guessed that she was
that
kind of social climber, so desperate for the camera that she would lie and claim to be Mike’s fuck buddy on film.”

“Is that what I am?” she snapped.

He closed his eyes and cringed.
Ah fuck
, he thought,
better to stay silent than to say anything more.

Her wry grin cut a little inside him. “Aha,” she said simply, “that
is
what I am.” Lydia finished off her coffee and stretched back in her chair, not really paying attention to anyone or anything, eyes staring out into the horizon, where, just over the building tops, you could see a touch of ocean at the harbor.

The tension was killing him. He was affable world-traveler Jeremy, not one to play games like this.

Instead of playing games, he reached for her hand. To his surprise, she let him. The touch made his heart slow down—calmed him, in fact, though he could tell that to her it was nothing but a compassionate gesture. It was—and it was something more.

“I’m sure if Mike were here he would say that he was sorry.”

“He already did,” she admitted. “Twice. But why didn’t he say something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t he say something at my apartment in Cambridge when we realized that that producer claimed it was all set up by Mike?” Her eyes searched his. “Why?”

Jeremy shook his head, his stomach curling into a ball. “I know the answer to that.”

“Then tell me, because I really need to know, Jeremy. That question has haunted me, leading me to assume it was right, and now here you are, a long flight away from home, sent by the great Michael Bournham to watch over me—”

“I don’t know why he didn’t say anything, but I can make a really good, educated guess.”

“Then, by all means, make that guess,” she said.

He stared out into the same horizon where her eyes had just rested, trying to line up the jumbled thoughts into some sort of linear explanation that would make a modicum of sense. “Mike is very bottom line, and in the moment that you learned that, I’m assuming you were watching it on television…”

She nodded.

“He probably already had made his case…”

She closed her eyes and nodded again.

He squeezed her hand in sympathy. “Given the evidence, and the fact that you didn’t trust him or believe him, I’m sure he didn’t even try to protest—because in Mike’s world, if you don’t believe him after he’s given you his word, then it’s sheer folly to keep trying.”

“You’re saying that after the way he hurt me, he just gave up on trying? What kind of man does that?”

“The kind of man who respects you enough to say his piece and then let you go when it’s obvious that you don’t want him anymore.”

Jeremy’s words came out like pieces of glass out of his throat, some of the most authentic and rawest words he’d spoken in a decade. Psychoanalyzing and deconstructing his best friend at a time when he could be off frolicking in the beaches of Thailand, Jeremy wished that those coffees had been spiked with a shot or ten so he could finish this conversation, go back to his apartment, and have lascivious dreams about the woman his best friend loved.

You call this a vacation?
he thought.

Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over the lower lids.
Oh God, no
, he thought,
not crying, anything but crying
. Jeremy could handle fury in a woman, he could handle proclamations of love, indifference, or even infidelity. What he couldn’t handle was crying. It meant that he had triggered the tears, and the idea that he had harmed another person deeply and emotionally enough to trigger an autonomous physical response sent him running scared. He stood, needing to move, and pretending not to notice.

”So, I’m gonna go for a walk. Thought I’d go over to that giant hamburger…kitchen thing.”

“Hamburger kitchen?” she said, trying to wipe the tears out of her eyes without his noticing.

“Ham-bur-keer-ken. Hem-er…heh.”

“
Hallgrimskirkja
,” she said slowly, as though she had memorized the syllables out of a travel guide.

“Halls-grim-kick-er,” he said, fumbling again.

“The giant stone church,” she said, flatly.

“Yes, that’s it. Wanna go?”

“I’ve already been.”

“Well, I haven’t.” He reached out, palm open to the sun, arm extended to her, a peace offering. “Come with me to the giant church. Tell you what,” he said as she hesitated, “you can climb to the top and I’ll stand at the bottom, and you can spit out of one of those long, thin, tall windows in the stone structure, and we’ll see if you can hit the top of my head.”

Her face shifted to a mask of abject horror. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Pretend I’m Mike.”

She paused, her face clearly considering it. “Nah,” she said, “I wouldn’t even do that to Mike.”

“Then maybe you don’t hate him as much as you think.”

She took his hand and stood, fingers interlacing. Face to face, she was a good foot shorter than him, like most women, and so he bent down just enough for the conversation to make sense in the wind.

“I don’t hate him.”

“I know.”

“That’s the problem,” she said wistfully. “How on earth can I still be wrapped up in a guy who I slept with in the office and who didn’t tell me that there were cameras running the entire time? And oh, yeah, by the way,” she said sarcastically, “who happened not to be the guy I thought I was sleeping with, and who ended up being so famous that the video has now penetrated even the farthest Inuit villages, where cell phones are a feature.”

“You know that?” he asked, impressed.

“No, but I’m guessing. Why isn’t Mike here?”

The question made ice water run through him. He hadn’t even asked himself that question. “I…uh, I…uh…uh…I…” he stammered.

“I don’t know, either,” she said, her face tipping to the right, breaking eye contact. “He sent you, but he himself didn’t come here. Was it that he assumed I wouldn’t welcome him?”

“I think there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface than any of us can understand, but I don’t know the answer, Lydia, and I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “That’s the first time you’ve said that.”

He blinked. “Yeah, it is.” Why hadn't he said it before?

Her phone rang just as Jeremy was convincing her to go to Hallgrimskirkja. It was Krysta.

“Hi,” she said, a little too chipper.

“What's going on?” Krysta said in the same silly, singsongy voice.

“Oh, nothing,” Lydia gave back.
Why not play this game?
It was so much better than admitting what was really going on.

“I don’t know what's wrong with you,” Krysta said, “but I hope everything is okay.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Lydia changed her tone of voice. “It’s just that I'm kind of busy right now.”

“Busy in a good way or busy in an
oh thank God you called me Krysta because you're saving my ass
kind of way?”

Both,
she thought. “Not really…either of those,” she lied in response.

“But something is going on,” Krysta finished for her.

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, whatever is going on if you need an excuse just tell them that your best friend is having a horrific problem with a guy and desperately needs hours of conversation to talk her down.”

“
You do
?”

“No,” Krysta sighed. “I wish I did but I'm just trying to give you a good excuse.”

“Oh.” Lydia tempered her reaction. It would have been thrilling if Krysta
had
met such a guy and let go of her crush on Caleb. Then again, Lydia had enough excitement in her love life for the two of them. “So, why did you call?”

Jeremy’s presence quickly faded as Lydia walked toward the edge of the rooftop garden and stared out, her face against the wind.

“Just checking to see how it’s going there.”

“Well, I was thinking about going to Hallgrimskirkja.”

“Halls
what
?”

“The giant church here in Reykjavik—it’s sort of a touristy thing.”

“Oh… didn't you tell me you went there last week?”

“Yeah, I did,” Lydia said, nodding. She realized that Krysta couldn't see her.

“Lydia, what's really going on?” Krysta said furiously.

“I'm here with a guy right now.”

“
Oooooh
,” Krysta said. “A guy?”

“Not a
guy
.” Why wouldn't she tell her the truth about Jeremy? What was it that she was holding back? This was Krysta, for God’s sake—it was her best friend. There was no reason to hide the fact that she was here enjoying a cup of coffee with Jeremy, who had just asked her to go sightseeing. It didn't make sense and yet, deep in her gut, she knew it wasn’t time to say anything. Her gut had been just about the only thing she could trust other than Krysta, and so as the two fought each other, she wasn't quite sure which one should win.

If something in her couldn’t trust telling Krysta about Jeremy's presence, then what did that say about the fact that he was here at all? The past few weeks were a jumble and she felt like a live wire, just beginning to settle down until he appeared. Yet, she was grateful for his presence and so the mishmash of emotions left her unmoored.

“It sounds like I'm catching you at a bad time,” Krysta said, “so, let me just finish off with this—your mom is super disappointed that you're not around more and so she’s decided to apparently adopt me as her surrogate daughter.”

Lydia felt like clapping. “Oh, thank God, her attention could finally be split between me and someone else.”

“Yeah,” Krysta said. “It’s a little claustrophobic but she’s really sweet.”

A pang of homesickness struck Lydia in the heart. “I know.” She had to agree.

“So, while you're there whooping it up with your new guy, whatever-his-name-is”—
Jeremy,
Lydia thought—“just remember the people you left behind, okay?”

“Oh, Krysta,” Lydia groaned, her voice filled with regret and sympathy. “I’m not forgetting you.”

“I know you’re not, but it sort of feels like it because you’re impossible to reach and you’re living this exotic European life now and I miss seeing you every day at work.”

“I miss seeing you too,” Lydia said plaintively. If she wasn’t careful she’d have to bite her lower lip hard enough to stop the tears, letting the pain overwhelm the emotion. “I’ll be home soon.”

“
Months
from now, Lydia. That's what you told your mom.”

“I know. It’s only a five-hour plane ride. Planes go both ways.”

“You told your mom that, too,” Krysta said flatly, “and those plane rides are $900 roundtrip.”

“Not if you catch a good sale.”

“Lydia, you know that I can’t afford to just hop on a plane. I’ll get there eventually,” Krysta added, “but for now, it’s phone and email.”

It was the first time Krysta had hinted at struggling with the fact that Lydia was going away. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Jeremy playing with his phone, clearly bored. She needed to make a decision.