When I See You (4 page)

"I don't know much about Austin. It's just a weird coincidence that my mother is from there and so is Ethan. And you." I lift my head and give him a pleading look, silently signaling this conversation is over.

"You don't talk about them," he says softly.

"I don't." I sigh and look at him, wary, all at once.

"That's what Ethan said."

Silence ensues. He just watches me work.

"This place is beautiful." He makes a wide sweep with his left arm around the seventies-style Frank Lloyd Wright kitchen and family room. "It's quite a tribute to them. The way you kept the era alive for them."

"Old Hollywood," I say wryly. "I sold the other house, but, this one was always my favorite growing up. Theirs, too. We used to come up on weekends from the other house. They liked the privacy. The beach. The Pacific. It was pretty magical. I want Max to have that childhood memory, too." He looks as surprised by my soliloquy as much as I am. "But as I said, I don't like to talk about them."

"So you said." His lips curve slowly into a smile.

Now, I'm caught up in his penetrating gaze, stopped again by the thought that the man is incredibly good-looking.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Henry Cavill? From The Tudors?" I ask.

"Isn't that the Henry the Eighth show?"

"Yes," I deadpan, giving nothing away.

"Do I look like him or
act
like him?"

I flush from head to toe. "Henry Cavill's character is pretty tame. He's married and
good
, most of the time." My voice drifts away. We've gotten into another strange conversation. I bite my lip.

"So. I look like the king's sidekick and behave more like Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who plays Henry?"

"You've
seen
it."

"My twin sister loves that show," he says with a laugh. "She said I looked just like Henry Cavill once, too."

"You have a twin?"

"I do."

"Wow. That's amazing. You seem like such a loner."

He gets this disconcerted look. "Diana looks like me, but she's way different. She's a successful attorney, married to one, has two kids, at almost thirty, she's done it all. Mom and Dad are so proud."

I wince at his sarcasm and feel this modicum of sympathy for him.

"Marriage is misunderstood, overrated," I say airily.

With intention, I fill another pastry bag with orange frosting and concentrate on the task in front of me. He remains silent, but I can feel his scrutiny of me. Finally, curiosity compels me to look over at him.

"So," he says softly. "Which is it? Misunderstood? Or, overrated?"

I'm caught up in his unwavering look. He's
willing
me to say something.

"Depends on what side you're on," I say. "When you''re married, you're privy to the misunderstanding. When you're not married, it's overrated." I try to smile. "You rush in, headlong, full of dreams and wishes, so far removed from reality that you never even realize you've married into a family and the Navy. One refers to you as the girl from L.A., and the other refers to you as the dependent spouse." I try to smile, but struggle with the unbearable sadness that attacks me from all sides.

"No," I say with an unsteady breath. "No one tells you about that part."

"No," he says. "No, they don't."

I can't even look at him, too afraid I'm going to fall apart in front of him. I set down the knife and head to the pantry. My whole body trembles. It's difficult to put one foot in front of the other. "Forgot something," I call out to him as I leave. "Excuse me."

Cloaked in the darkness of the pantry, I command myself to get a grip. My heart rate beats out of control and I gasp for breath. I've just revealed to Ethan's best friend my deepest reservations and resentment about this life.
My life. My marriage.

I sink to the floor and hold my head between my hands. Whiffs of sugar from my hands assail my nostrils while tremendous guilt shakes my body.

What is wrong with me? Why do I feel compelled to tell him everything?
I lean back against the closed pantry door, turn my head, and feel the coolness of the wood against the side of my face. I close my eyes.

Breathe. Stop talking to him. What is wrong with you? Why do you feel the need to tell him anything?

After five minutes, I emerge from my contrived sanctuary and re-take my post at the kitchen counter with renewed gusto and contrived nonchalance. My parents were actors. Surely, I've inherited some of their fortitude.

"Are you okay?" Brock asks.

"I'm fine."

I glance over at him. His hair has this unmistakable unruly wave to it, and it's a bit longer than Ethan's. I wonder how far out of regulation it is for the U.S. Navy. It seems to have grown a bit with this last month of leave. He smooths it back with his hand now and catches me staring at him and grins.
Charmer.
I feel the heat stain my cheeks.

"You need a haircut," I say, surprising myself and him.

"Yes. Ethan said you cut his. Would you cut mine?"

"Sure, I guess," I say with an airy wave of one hand. "I mean, if Ethan says it's okay."

I sound like a sappy housewife waiting for permission from her man. Wincing, I look over at him. He gets this bemused smile.

"Sure, I can cut your hair, since you're leaving tomorrow. You're both running out of time."

I sound ominous.

He hears it.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he says gently.

I look down in surprise at the mess I've made of some of the cupcakes. This conversation has taken another wayward turn. I swipe at my face and at the sudden onset of unshed tears with the back of my hand and attempt to concentrate.

≈ ≈

Minutes later, I direct him to the main bathroom for the scissors and a towel while I try to finish up the cupcakes. He returns with all the supplies, strips off his white t-shirt, and settles down in one of the kitchen chairs, waiting for me. I'm down to the last two cupcakes. He looks thoughtful as he continues to watch me work. I get more uneasy.
Why does he make me so nervous?
I've been around many of Ethan's friends over the years, but there's something about Brock Wainwright that makes him so different from all the others.
He looks too much like Henry Cavill. Any woman in their right mind would be anxious.
I smile at this adept self-analysis.

"Can I ask you something?" Brock asks.

"Uh-huh."

I bite my lower lip, feigning concentration on finishing the frosting masterpiece in front of me, although I'm actually holding my breath in anticipation of his question. A part of me already knows that it will be too intimate or too personal to actually answer.

"Are you happy?"

I look up at him. He looks genuinely concerned. I blush, recalling my deepest thoughts and revelations about marriage to him.

"Of course," I say quickly.

"Really
happy
. It's hard to have this life with Ethan when he's gone so much of the time."

It's not a question. It's a statement. A salvo.
Is he testing me? Or, taunting me?

"It's hard," I say slowly. "You've been in love, right? The fiancée?"

"Yes. It was a long time ago."

Devastation crosses his features, and then, he shrugs and slowly smiles. "I don't talk about her. Ever." He gives me this challenging look.

I nod slowly in acknowledgment and smile back.

"A long time ago still counts," I say. "Ethan's always here, inside of me."

I point to my heart; then blush again. I'm wearing Ethan's 'Sea, Air, and Land' SEAL t-shirt, but suddenly feel embarrassed at this man's close scrutiny of it.

"But does he really
see
you?"

His question catches me off guard. The disquiet in his voice reaches for me, stirring up all these insecurities about Ethan I harbor.

How does Brock know that I wonder? How does he know that I don't believe in fairy tales or happily-ever-afters anymore? Does he see my pain? Does he feel it? And, if he does, how come Ethan doesn't?

I decide to ignore him. With determination, I set my tools aside and begin scraping the frosting mistake off the remaining cupcakes with a butter knife without answering him, willing myself to get a grip and keep silent.

And, he waits. He just waits.

I have to admit, I've never met a guy who has so much patience with silence as this one. Over the past four days, this is something I've begun to notice. Brock seems to relish silence. He's comfortable with it. Whereas, Ethan and I always seem to be talking, filling in the spaces of quiet with more to say. Maybe, it's because we're always chasing time, savoring the briefest moments because being together is always so finite.

But does he see me?

The need to fill the protracted silence wins out.

"He sees me. He sees what he wants me to be," I finally say.

Now, Brock openly displays this confident look, as if he's just figured out the solution to a complex mathematical equation that I haven't even begun to work out.

"So he kind of ignores the tortured soul that you are."

His amazing insight into my psyche causes me to mess up the final cupcake. I have always had this underlying sense that Ethan disregards my inner turmoil. The grief over my parents all these years later still haunts me, and the incredible fear I carry at being left all alone is something that Ethan is the last to recognize. I scowl at him over the flower vase that sits between us on the counter.

"He doesn't ignore me. He knows who I am."

"When he's
here
," Brock says dryly. "Don't you have dreams, too? I mean, I know you love him, and God knows he loves you and Max, but what about this life and all the time he's away?"

"He knows me," I say again. "We have a good life. I have Max. I'm the head chef at an exclusive restaurant. Someday, I'll run my own place."

He gets this weird look, almost sympathetic. "Your own restaurant."

"Yes. My own place. Here in Malibu. That's the plan." I get defensive. "And, when we're together, it's perfect."

The bleakness of my reality and what I've just said begins to take hold. My hands tremble. I put down the knife again and struggle to regain my composure. Brock's perceptiveness upsets me, and the truth in what he's said reverberates at an appreciable level. It reaches for me. Ethan completely ignores the tortured part of me. And, how does Brock
know
this?

Flustered, all I can do is watch when he gets up from the kitchen table, comes over to me, runs his finger along the bowl of blue icing, and sticks it into his mouth.

All the while, somewhere, deep inside of me, something begins to give way.

"Lady, I don't think even
you
know who you are."

He grabs the cupcake with the ruined icing I had set aside to fix and begins to peel away the paper and plops the whole thing into his mouth.

"Hmmm…good. Perfect, Jordan. Just the way you are."

"I'm not perfect."

I'm uncertain as to why I feel compelled to admit this to him. I blush under his open appraisal.

"I think you are."

His face is inches away from mine. The smell of chocolate cake emanates from him. I stare at his mouth, suddenly fascinated and intrigued by the way his lips move as he slowly eats the cake and brazenly gazes back at me.

The shifting persists. I catch and hold my breath, too uncertain of my visceral reaction to him. Then, an intrinsic thought assails me from out of nowhere.
I'm attracted to him.

I look down, taken aback that I clench the decorating knife and practically wield it at him as a weapon. I glance back up at him and discern his own bewilderment as it travels across his features.

We step back from each other at the same time.

And, for once, I don't feel the need to say anything.

I dully follow his movements as he picks up his castoff newspaper and heads toward the back deck, calling out for Ethan.

"I'm not perfect," I say to the empty room after he's gone.

≈ ≈

Ethan has taken Max to Davey's house along with the extravagant
Nemo
cupcakes. Ashleigh spent a few minutes with me gulping coffee, provided a few whispered headlines about how great Brock was in bed, and then promptly disappeared. She murmured something about the need to start the laundry. I suspect what she's really doing is sitting in my car in the garage and canceling her date for tonight. When I told her that Ethan and Brock would be having dinner at Le Reve with me, she decided to cancel her plans with this new guy and join us. "Michael will keep," she'd said with a satisfied smile. "Brock is leaving tomorrow." Her introspection lasted a full thirty seconds and must have set some kind of record. Then, she shrugged and smiled at me. "He's fun," she said with a secret smile.