Unbreakable (27 page)

“But like I said, it doesn’t matter.” I sighed. “She’s engaged to someone else.”

“Oh.” Vic sat back on his heels.

“Yeah,
oh,
” I said, and the bitterness crept into my words. “And she hasn’t stopped planning the wedding, which is a pretty good answer to any question I might have.”

“Maybe,” Vic said. “Maybe not. Maybe she’s afraid to call off the wedding because she doesn’t know how you feel. Ever think of that? That she’s waiting for you to make a move?”

I nodded, my bitterness falling away on a wave of miserable resignation I barely managed to keep to myself. “I can’t do that to her. I can’t just throw that wrench into her life when I don’t have anything to offer.”
Nothing but a shoulder to sleep on and what’s that worth?
“Like I said, it’s impossible. We’re just too different.”

“If you say so,
mi amigo.
” Vic slapped me on the back. “But it ain’t true that you got no prospects. You’re going to get your GC license, and then this whole crew—except for maybe Doug—” he chuckled, “—are going to come work for you. You know that, right?”

I was about to remind him that my license wouldn’t mean anything without the capital to start my own company. I could try for a business loan, but with no assets or collateral of any kind, I didn’t like my chances. But telling all that to Vic only sounded like self-pitying bullshit.

“Yeah, I know it. Thanks, man.”

“All right.” Vic returned to the wall panel, which was spilling over with wiring. “So your birthday. How about it? Let’s go to the Sunset strip and get shit-faced.”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m not up for it. The test is on Sunday and the CPS inspection on Monday. I’ve got too much going on to waste time being hungover.”

“You’re going to do nothing?” Vic spat a curse in Spanish. “You only turn thirty once, man.”

“You only turn every age once,” I said with a grin. “I’ll call you if I change my mind.”

Vic muttered again in Spanish but relented, and we got down to work.

I threw myself into the job and the day passed quickly. Soon enough, it was time to head back to the house that wasn’t my home, and the woman who wasn’t my wife. I nearly asked Vic if his offer to get shit-faced could be bumped up to tonight instead, but I hadn’t been lying—that exam was looming and I’d be goddamned if I failed. I said goodnight to the guys, ignoring Doug Liman’s sulky glare, and drove back to Santa Monica.

The bungalow was quiet and dark and empty. Alex wasn’t home. I could smell her perfume lingering on the air and there was a note on the counter.

Out to dinner with my parents. Won’t be home until late.

~A

As if she owed me an explanation. As if the home she spoke of was
ours
.

I needed to study anyway, I reasoned, but my stomach rumbled. Normally I was pretty good at whipping something up for myself but Alex’s cupboards were still bare. I rummaged in a drawer that was dedicated to takeout menus. I flipped through a fat stack, shaking my head fondly. “Who gets sushi delivered?”

I found a relatively reasonable Italian joint that delivered hot sandwiches, and ordered a chicken parm. In the fridge, I found one bottle of IPA and vowed to make it last.

I set up my exam materials on the coffee table, and flipped on ESPN. I kept the volume low, but checked in on the baseball stats as I ate and studied the California regulations for permits, egresses, and nondisclosures.

Hours passed. When the words in the text started to blend together, I gave up on studying for the night and committed fully to Sports Center. My one and only beer was long gone and I contemplated going out for more, when Alex returned, her arms laden with grocery bags.

I jumped up to help her. “I thought you went to dinner.”

“I did,” Alex said, “but it occurred to me there’s nothing to eat in the house. At all.”

I smirked. “You plan on doing some cooking now?”

“Hell no,” Alex said, dumping a bag on the counter with a gusty sigh. “But I got bread, chips, cheese, sandwich stuff, salad stuff. More of that beer you like.”

“You’re a saint,” I said, putting the bottles in the fridge. “I was just about to head out for some.”

“Saved you a trip.” Alex smiled up at me. She wasn’t dressed for grocery shopping, but in a silky green dress that hugged her body and revealed just enough of her full breasts to make my heart stutter and my groin tighten. She was dressed for the kind of fancy dinner I could never take her to. At least, not any time soon.

That thought was worth about ten cold showers.

I took a beer from the pack and fished a ten-dollar bill out of pocket. “For the beer. I’ll get you back on the rest tomorrow.”

“Cory…”

“Thanks again,” I said, adding a wan smile to soften my abruptness, and retreated to the couch.

Alex didn’t say a word, but resumed putting the groceries away. I heard her slam the cupboards shut and then she was standing before me, hands planted on her hips.

I glanced up at her. “What?”

“Why are you being an asshole?”

“Am I? I thought I was watching TV.”

“About the money,” Alex said. “Why can’t you let me be nice to you? Why do you have to constantly keep score?”

I shrugged. “Just trying to be a good
roommate
, is all.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t care about ten bucks for beer or twenty for pizza. It’s not important—”

“It is to me,” I said, and felt all the frustration and hopelessness rise up in me, like bitter bile. “And that’s what
you
don’t get. You throw money around like it’s nothing. It could fall out of your goddamn pocket and you wouldn’t notice. But I would. I
do
.”

“Oh, finally, here it is. We’re going to have this conversation now?” Her pale blue eyes blazed. “Look, I work my ass off for every dime I make. It didn’t just fall from the sky and land on my privileged head.”

“That’s not the point—”

But Alex was already rolling on her speech and was not about to be stopped.

“And while I’m fortunate that my father was able to put me through law school so that I could have the type of job that I do, he earned that money by working
his
ass off. So I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make me feel like a stuck-up rich bitch if I do something nice for you. You saved my life—”

“
Stop saying that!
” I thundered, slamming my beer down. White foam erupted and spilled over the table. I surged to my feet. “Every time you thank me, I want to tear my goddamn hair out. I didn’t do it so that you could pay me back in tens and twenties for the rest of my life.”

“That’s unfair and you know it.”

“Yeah, probably, but you’ve
done enough
. You talk about keeping score? I mean…is that what you want? To be in my debt forever?”

“As if I have a choice in the matter,” Alex spat. “What am I supposed to do? I’m grateful that I’m living and breathing and not shot dead by some psychotic gangster and rotting in a hole in the ground…”

“Jesus, Alex, don’t say that,” I said, the fight going out of me. I rubbed my eyes. “I just…I don’t want your goddamn gratitude, okay?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her chin thrust out stubbornly, though her voice quavered. “Then what do you want?”

I met her steady gaze and found it full of unspoken thoughts, full of something that looked like hope, and I nearly told her
exactly
I wanted.

But my own sense of self-preservation was strong, ingrained in me by years of working hard for what I had, only to watch it slip through my fingers like sand. Hope was a dangerous commodity I couldn’t afford. I’d lost too damn much already.

And what if there’s nothing between us except for her gratitude? Given what she’d just told me that seemed likely. If I told her what I wanted would she capitulate because she felt the same, or because she felt like she owed me?
The thought made me cringe, and any whisper of an answer to her question died before I could give it voice.

“Nothing,” I said. “I don’t want a damn thing but to try to get some sleep. It’s late. I’ve got a shitload of studying to do tomorrow.”

Alex didn’t move, didn’t speak. Finally, she straightened her shoulders. “Fine. Goodnight.”

I watched her turn on her heel and walk away, and I busied myself with cleaning up the spilled beer. Then I settled on the couch for what I knew was going to be a futile attempt at sleep.

And I was right.

Hours slipped by as I stared blankly at ESPN, hardly noticing when it switched from baseball scores and highlights to a bowling tournament in Sarasota.

The clock on the DVD player read three a.m. when I heard Alex cry out from her bedroom. Not quite loud enough to be a scream, but enough that I heard it through her closed door and from the opposite end of the house. Another muffled, terrified cry followed the first, and I threw off the blanket and sat up, ready to fly to her. One more sound and I would…

But there came only silence and I hung my head in my hands.
She’s right,
I thought miserably,
I am an asshole.

“Cory…”

My head snapped up and she was there, hugging herself tightly. Her eyes were haunted, likely by the visions in her nightmare, and my heart ached for her as if I’d been shot all over again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry, but it was bad. The worst one yet.”

“Come here,” I said, my voice thick. “Come here, Alex.”

She sat beside me and I eschewed the whole shoulder bit, but took her in my arms and held her. Her pulse was quick, her breathing shallow, and she trembled as if she were freezing to death.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

She shook her head against my chest. “No. I just…No…”

“It’s okay.” I dared to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

I lay out lengthwise on the couch, taking her with me. I held her tightly and stroked her hair until her trembling ceased and she fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep. My own eyes began to close and I was helpless to fight it.

You’re what I want, Alex,
I thought, my last thoughts before I went under.
You. I want you…

Alex

I awoke on Friday morning wrapped in Cory’s arms, safe and content—and no dreams, erotic or otherwise, to mar the morning. Our argument the night before was forgiven and forgotten—it was easy to do in the face of the bank robbery nightmares. When you’ve had a gun pressed to the back of your skull, as I had, or been shot in the chest, as Cory had, little squabbles tended to lose their punch.

He went to work, and I set about running errands and making plans.

I was supposed to have another appointment with Dr. Kinley, but I cancelled. He’d given me the diagnosis I had needed—or at least supplied me with the right terminology. I had looked up Separation Anxiety Disorder online and though I really only had the one symptom—inability to sleep without the person to whom I was attached—and that was enough. I didn’t need any more therapy.

Besides, I had a promise to keep to a little girl, I thought with a smile, and I never broke a promise.

Saturday morning arrived, and I brushed off the nightmare that had plagued me most of the night, vowing not to let it ruin my day. Or, more importantly, Cory’s day.

In the kitchen, I made coffee as Cory yawned and stretched on the couch.

“So, what are you up to today?” I asked. “More studying?”

“Yep. I’m pretty sure my brain is reaching full capacity on this stuff, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

“That’s it? It’s Saturday. Not hanging with the guys tonight?” I asked as casually as I could. Of course, I had already called Vic and learned that Cory had eschewed all talk of going out for his birthday, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Nope.” He glanced at me. “What about you?”

“Mmmm, this and that,” I said.
He’s not going to mention his birthday. Typical.

But instead of irritation I felt a gentle fondness for his pride. I was reminded again that it was real, not a false front put on for the sake of etiquette, and I vowed to stop giving him a hard time when he insisted on paying me back.
Besides,
I thought, hiding a smile,
birthday presents can’t—and shouldn’t—be paid back.

“I’ve got the coffee ready,” I said, “but breakfast is going to take some time yet.”

He blinked at me. “You’re going to make breakfast? As in,
cook
?”

“Seems impossible, I know,” I said, “but my dad taught me how to make popovers when I was a kid and I thought I’d give them a whirl. It’s the one thing I know how to make. It’s the only thing I
like
to make.”

“What’s a popover?”

“You’ll see.”

He looked at me askance, a suspicious grin on his face.

“What?” I demanded. “Don’t you have a shower to take? Shoo. It’ll be ready when you’re done.”

He shook his head, laughing, and went to get ready while I labored over my mixing bowl, reading and rereading my father’s recipe, which he’d given me the other night at dinner. The light, hollow rolls rose like a soufflé in the oven, only if one got the ingredients, heat, and timing just right. My father had always been able to eyeball the amounts of eggs and butter just right, but I was out of practice. Once I got the popover tin in the oven, I peeked in on their progress every two minutes and clapped my hands in glee when they ballooned over perfectly.

I figured a man like Cory wouldn’t be satiated with only bread, and so I whipped up some scrambled eggs and sausages to go with the popovers, wincing as the sausage pan hissed and spit hot oil at me.

“The things I do,” I muttered, wiping the burning little droplets off my arm.

Cory was showered, dressed, and organizing his study materials when I called him from the kitchen. I set the breakfast bar with juice and strawberry jelly for the rolls, then poured the coffee.

“Okay, who told you?” Cory asked, taking a seat at the bar.

“Who told me what?” I asked innocently. I carefully pulled the popovers from their tins with a pair of tongs and put them on a plate. They had puffed up beautifully and I thought my father would be proud.

“It was Callie, wasn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. The eggs are dry, but I managed to not burn the sausages. Much.” I arched a brow. “Well? Eat.”

He laughed, shaking his head, and we ate my breakfast, which I was pleased to note was a lot better than merely okay.

“These popover things are good,” Cory said, smearing jelly on his second helping. “Watch out. People find out you can cook, and they’ll start expecting it.”

“Not going to happen,” I said. “This was a one-time deal, and aren’t you lucky?”

Cory gave me a sideways glance. “Mmmhmm. Why me, I wonder?”

I heaved a sigh and set down my napkin. “You’re no fun.”

I rose and went to my purse and withdrew a small white envelope. “I was going to give these to you later, but since you’re so insistent on ruining the surprise.” I slid the envelope over the counter and watched him take out the contents. I bit my lip. “I heard they’re good seats. A good view of the whole field, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Cory said softly. “These are good. Really good.”

I half-expected him to put the tickets back in the envelope and return them to me, but his smile was genuinely warm. Touched.

“They’re playing the Reds,” I said. “Um…Detroit?”

“Cincinnati,” Cory said, his gravelly voice low. “Thank you, Alex. I haven’t been to a Dodger game in ages.”

“Well, I hope you and Vic have a great time. Or whomever you take.”

Cory tapped the tickets on the counter like cards. “Oh, you’re not…? I thought…Oh, but you hate baseball, right?”

“Yeah, it’s not really my thing.”

“Too bad. If I take only Vic I’ll never hear the end of it from the rest of the guys.”

I made a face. “I was going to buy four tickets for that very reason but I didn’t want to be accused of going overboard. Again.”

Cory shook his head ruefully. “Okay, I earned that one. I was an asshole the other night and I apologize. Let me make it up to you. Come with me.”

“What…? To the game?”

Cory grinned. “Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?”

“I’ve never been.”

“Never?”

“No, never.” I rubbed a spot on the counter. “Is it fun? It looks so boring on TV.”

“You can’t see it on TV the same way,” Cory said, his eyes lighting up. “You gotta hear the crack of the bat, drink a beer, eat Dodger dog.” He nudged my elbow. “Come on. Go. Live a little.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“All right, I’ll go. But don’t expect me to all of a sudden start liking baseball.”

“You never know,” Cory said with a wink. “It could be your new favorite thing.”

#

Cory studied until early afternoon and then we drove to Dodger Stadium, arriving with thirty minutes to game time. I entered the gates in a kind of mild awe. Cory caught my expression.

“Pretty cool, right?” He grinned. “I can’t believe you’ve never been here before.”

“I was thinking the same,” I said. “But then, I’m not a baseball fan, remember? But mostly it’s my sixty-hour workweek. Not terribly conducive to outings like this.”

“Well, if you like it, there are a hundred and sixty-two games per season, which means roughly eighty home games you could potentially fit into your schedule.”

“Eighty?” I laughed. “I can’t imagine liking baseball enough to see eighty games. Could you?”

“Hell yes,” Cory said. “But Callie’s not a huge fan…yet. I’m still working on her. If she got into it, I would definitely want season tickets, right on the first base line. Otherwise, yeah, that’s a big time commitment.”

I nodded and glanced about. The stadium felt cavernous and smelled of popcorn and cotton candy. It echoed with thousands of footsteps and the laughing, booming voices of boisterous fans, most of whom wore Dodger blue—including Cory who wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the Dodger logo, though my eye was drawn more to the way it cut across his chest and broad shoulders.

There were a handful of red shirts in the crowd for Cincinnati, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were displaced Ohio fans, or if they actually flew halfway across the country to be here. I couldn’t imagine liking the sport enough to do such a thing, but one look at Cory’s rapt expression and I guessed it wasn’t so crazy after all.
Promise kept, Callie,
I thought, pleased with myself.
Now to fix the seats and make this perfect for him.

The salesperson over the phone had told me the seats were the best money could buy this late in the season without a reservation. They had tableside service and complimentary snacks. But instead of following the signs to that section, I asked Cory for directions to the first base line.

“What, why? These are good seats.”

“But you want first base line, don’t you? That’s where you said you wanted to be for a whopping eighty games, so…?” I took his arm. “Come on. Let’s see if someone’s willing to make a trade.”

We made our way to the first base line rows, a little past the dugout, where we found two guys more than willing to try a change of scenery, especially if it meant someone bringing them beer and hot dogs all game long, no waiting in line.

Cory leaned back in his new seat, shaking his head. “I swear, you can talk your way into anything.”

“Nah. Luck of the Irish.”

Cory tweaked a lock of my hair. “Is that where you get this hair from? Straight from Ireland?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “My maternal grandparents are from Cork. Still live there, as a matter of fact.”

“Wow,” Cory said. “I’ll be you have a lot of cool history on that side.”

“We do. My grandfather still has an old Celtic shield that bears our clan name—O’Byrne –and our clan motto:
Seasfaidh mé go tréan - tá mo spiorad dobhriste.”

He stared at me for a moment, a slow, surprised smile spreading over his face. “You speak Irish? Or is it Gaelic?”

“It’s both,” I said, with a smile. “And no, I don’t speak it, but my grandfather wanted to pass that motto down to me since my mother’s an only child and I’m
her
only child.”

“What does it mean?”

“‘I shall stand firm—my spirit is unbreakable.’”

“
Dobhriste.
” He smiled. “I like that. It’s like your hair. It suits you.” A warm silence fell between us and then he said, “So. Are you looking forward to getting back to work?”

“I guess so,” I said slowly. “I thought I’d use this time to hangout with my friends, but…”

But Lilah isn’t returning my calls and would probably give me hell if she knew where I was now.

“Anyway, my best friend has been busy, and my other friends are kind of high maintenance. I guess I am too, but lately I don’t feel much like going through the effort to spend time with them. Now that I’m apart from it, it seems like all of our conversations are the same, every week.”

Cory nodded. “But your job must be missing you. I mean, I saw you in action, firsthand at my hearing. They gotta be hurting.”

“They are, a little,” I said. “I got a call from my paralegal. He says my client—the one with the mistrial—has been asking about me, but…”

“But what?”

I shrugged. “I must be enjoying this time off more than I thought.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve gotten to hang out with seven-year olds, old men in nursing homes, and now you’re at a game for a sport you hate.” Cory laughed. “The ultimate vacation.”

I smiled, not quite able to meet his eye. “I’m having a good time.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

A short silence descended, and the air between us seemed thick despite the warm twilit evening, which was rapidly turning to night.

“Hey, how about a beer?” Cory asked. “Beer and a Dodger dog?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Cory left to get the food, and I heaved a sigh. The seats around us were starting to fill up and the sun was just beginning to set. I felt the rays warm my face as the baseball players took to the field. The Cincinnati Reds were greeted with boos while the Dodgers were cheered as the stadium announcer introduced the first batter. I understood why Cory liked these seats—the players were so close, I could see the first basemen’s spit in full Technicolor tobacco brown.

Cory returned with two plastic cups of beer and two long, skinny hot dogs I was certain contained enough toxins to kill a whole lab full of mice, but that tasted better than I would have imagined. We talked and ate and drank and—sometimes—watched a little bit of baseball. I only paid attention when Cory directed my attention to some player or stat on the scoreboard, or when the crack of a bat was particularly loud, which was fairly often. By the end of the fourth inning, the Dodgers were up five to two.

Otherwise, we just talked. Not of the deeply personal matters we’d spoken of in the bank. We had stepped back into time and those topics were too intimate, especially given our current living arrangement. Instead we spoke of lighter subjects with an easy manner, as if we’d known each other for years.