33
claire
I’m not sure how it starts, but by some unspoken agreement Daniel and I begin spending at least one day a week together. Because he works a rotating schedule the chances are good that the two days a week he has off will fall between Monday and Friday, when the rest of the world is at work. My schedule is flexible enough that I can spend my daytime hours any way I want, and I don’t mind working at night after the kids go to bed, because it gives me something to do.
Sometimes we meet for lunch and sometimes we run errands together. I helped him pick out new carpeting for his living room, weighing in with an opinion on my favorites, and he picked me up from the car dealership when I took my vehicle in for an oil change. We often end up at his house afterward, depending on how much time I have before I need to be home to meet the school bus. I’ve gradually become comfortable at Daniel’s; he goes about his business, and I make myself right at home. I think nothing of poking my head into his refrigerator or changing the channel on the TV if he’s not watching it. Daniel runs five miles most mornings and one day when I showed up earlier than usual he answered the door with wet hair, wearing only a pair of jeans. It took some effort to drag my eyes away from his bare chest.
I try my best not to dwell on how comfortable we’ve become with each other, and how quickly it happened, pushing away the thought that maybe it’s not okay. That under the guise of friendship we’re starting to walk down a road I said I wouldn’t travel with him.
Daniel discovered that I like to go to movies and I detected a hint of pity in his expression when I told him that I often went alone. “It doesn’t bother me,” I said. “I’m used to it.”
“Call me next time. I’ll go with you.”
“Okay,” I said. And I did. We had a great time, sharing popcorn in the mostly deserted theater. I don’t think Eat Pray Love would have been Daniel’s first choice, but he didn’t complain once. “You can choose the next movie,” I promised when it was over. “Something with a car chase or an explosion.”
“Deal,” he said.
• • •
“How can you even sit like that?” he asked one day.
I was sitting cross-legged on his couch with a throw blanket around my shoulders while I thumbed through a magazine. “What? It’s comfortable. I twist myself into much more difficult poses in my yoga class.” I continued to meet Elisa for yoga almost every morning, but so far I hadn’t said anything about spending time with Daniel.
“I can’t even get into that position anymore,” he said, setting down a bottle of diet peach Snapple on the side table next to me.
“That’s my favorite drink,” I said.
“I know that, Claire,” he said, looking at me as if I was a bit slow. “That’s why I bought some at the store the other day.”
The doorbell rings one cloudy afternoon while I’m there. Daniel ran out to grab us some lunch, and I’m not sure what to do. I walk over to the door, but there’s no peephole. The doorbell rings again. Hoping it’s just a delivery, I open the door and find myself at a complete loss for words because there’s a woman standing there. Her surprised look and her scowl tell me that she wasn’t expecting me to be here and isn’t very happy about it.
She’s wearing a business suit and looks a few years younger than me. Her brown hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail and she’s wearing an awful lot of makeup for noon on a Tuesday. She’s striking, with cheekbones that could cut glass. “Where’s Daniel?” she asks.
I’m about to tell her that he stepped out for a minute, but the crunch of tires on gravel as he pulls into the driveway saves me from having to say anything. Her head whips around when she hears the car. Daniel parks and walks toward us, paper bag in one hand, cardboard drink carrier in the other. When he reaches the front door I take the bag from him.
“Hi,” he says, greeting the brunette. “Claire, this is Melissa.”
She says hello to me and her tone is lukewarm at best.
I hold out my hand and she gives it a brief shake. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
The whole exchange is a giant ball of awkward.
Strangely, Daniel doesn’t seem flustered at all. I turn to him and quietly say, “I can go.”
He grabs my wrist and says, “No.”
The three of us go into the house. I put the bag on the counter in the kitchen and Daniel leans over and says, “Why don’t you wait in my room.”
I walk down the hallway. I know which door is his because I often pass it on my way to the bathroom. After entering the bedroom I shut the door behind me.
It’s such a private space for me to be occupying, although being inside this room with Daniel would be even more intimate. His king-size bed is unmade and from the looks of it he’s a restless sleeper. The sheets are twisted and the comforter is halfway off the bed. He’s not much for decorating either, and the walls are bare except for a large TV mounted directly across from the bed. On the dresser there are two bottles of cologne, a pile of change, and an iPod dock. I uncap one of the bottles and inhale. I’ve smelled this cologne on him before. There’s also a flashlight and a police radio plugged into chargers, but no gun. I’m sure Daniel keeps that someplace safe. A picture frame lying flat catches my eye. It contains a small photo of a baby boy, which seems so out of place among the other items. I pick it up and peer at the image closely, then set it back down, wondering who it is.
At a loss for what to do with myself, I make the bed, complete with hospital corners and fluffed pillows. The murmur of voices reaches me, hers louder than his, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I sit cross-legged in the center of the bed, but I’m uncomfortable, so I scoot up toward the headboard and lean back against it, one of Daniel’s pillows wedged behind my lower back. It feels weird to be using his bed in any fashion, but there’s nowhere else to sit. The minutes crawl by but finally the door opens. Daniel pauses, a ghost of a smile on his face, looking at me in a way that makes me wonder what he thinks about seeing me stretched out on his bed like I belong here. He eases himself down beside me, close enough that our shoulders are almost touching, and leans back against the headboard. “Sorry about that,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Was that your girlfriend?” I never asked if he was seeing someone, and I feel foolish for assuming he wasn’t. And it’s not as if I’m in a position to care if he is.
He looks contemplative but then says, “No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He blows out a breath, as if the whole situation has exhausted him. “She’s someone I used to see. I haven’t called her in a while.”
“I’m guessing she isn’t too happy about that.”
He shrugs. “It was just a casual thing.”
“It doesn’t always feel casual to women, especially if you were sleeping together.” I regret the words the minute they come out of my mouth. We never talk about this kind of thing. Never. And initiating a conversation about Daniel’s sex life when we’re sharing his bed—no matter how platonically—may not have been my best move. Now the air feels charged, as if the dynamic in the room has abruptly changed. All my fault.
“I’m not sleeping with her,” he says. “Well, not anymore.”
“Why? Are you sleeping with somebody else instead?”
Shut up, Claire.
Daniel shakes his head. “No.”
“Then why not her?” I have no idea why I’m still talking, still asking him these things. I’m even more alarmed by the fact that suddenly all I can think about is sex and how long it’s been since Chris and I made love.
“I don’t know. I’m just not really feeling it.”
“Do you date much?” I’ve never given much thought to how he spends his evenings and weekends.
“Not really.”
So maybe Daniel is lonely, too.
“How long have you been divorced?”
“A little over a year. My wife kept the house and I moved here.”
There’s more to the story, of this I’m certain, but I don’t push.
Daniel runs his hands along the comforter. “You made my bed.”
“I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“Thanks,” he says, smiling. “Come on. Let’s go see how cold our lunch is.”