Chapter 50: Skylar

Even after two caipirinhas I was still miserable, gnawing on an egg roll while Mitch and Magda conversed in Spanish. Magda laughed uproariously at some joke that was so over my head it may as well have entered the stratosphere.

I was drowning in loneliness and my only life-preserver was to think about literature. I thought about how when Jane Austen and the Brontës wrote their novels, they had to hide their “female” concerns away, into the dark and vague nooks of their prose, because if they couldn’t appeal to a general (i.e. male) audience, then how would they ever gain respect or notoriety? I sat there, positive that I also had to hide, just like Jane, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. If I were to show my true feminine heart, surely Mitch would deem it too common, too much like juvenile chick lit compared to Magda’s more mature and sophisticated literary fiction. After all, she understood the male mind and how to manipulate it.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced after an hour or so. I stood from the couch, dusting fortune cookie crumbs off my sweater.

“But it’s not even ten,” Mitch said.

“I’m tired.”

I walked away before either of them could respond. I went upstairs to my room, a sigh of relief escaping my lips as soon as I closed the door behind me. Thank God. I would stay here all night; there was no way I was getting up with Bijou for a 3:00 a.m. feeding. Let Mitch do it and we’d see how he felt after staying up late drinking with Magda.

No sooner had I changed into my nightshirt when I heard a knock. I opened the door a crack and peeked through. Mitch stood there.

“I came to say goodnight,” he said.

“Not necessary.” I aimed to shut the door, but his hand jolted out and aborted my mission.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You barely said anything all evening.”

“Because you and Magda spoke Spanish the whole time!”

He stepped towards me, opening the door, and filling up its frame. “Not the whole time. But I’m sorry. I miss speaking Spanish and Magda is my oldest friend. That’s just what we do.”

I jutted out my chin, meeting his eye, signaling that I didn’t forgive him, “How long is she staying here?”

“That depends on you. It’s your condo, after all. How does three days sound?”

My conversation with Mom this afternoon seemed years ago. It was unfathomable that Mitch knew nothing of my plans to give him everything. “I guess I can’t really say no.”

“Thank you, Skylar.” The corners of his mouth gently pulled into a smile as his eyes turned hazy with affection. “Hey, what were you thinking about all evening as you sat there, moping on the couch?”

“I wasn’t moping.”

His laugh was like whiteout, erasing the smudges and misplaced words from my dark emotions and making them light, easy to understand. “Okay, whatever you say.”

I glanced down at my oversized nightshirt, suddenly aware that I wore no bra underneath, and what’s more, my bare legs were exposed. “I thought about literature.”

His eyes crinkled as his smile relaxed. “Really?”

“Really.” I hesitated momentarily, fearful to trust him after this disastrous evening, but he stood there, gazing at me, like he understood me completely, like he accepted my quirky mind and damaged soul. “Mitch, do you ever feel like you’re a fictional character, like your story is still being written? Because I do. I feel that all the time, and then it’s like anything is possible.”

Mitch took a breath so deep that his broad shoulders sagged. I was conscious of his long-sleeved thermal shirt, of how multiple trips through the washer and dryer must have softened it, and how rewarding it would be to touch it, mostly because I’d also feel the warmth of his skin emanating from underneath.

“I guess I always feel like anything is possible. I know that it is.”

“What do you mean?”

He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “I experience stuff… like Jo Beth…” his voice quietly trailed off until silence relaxed over us both.

“What about Jo Beth?” I whispered.

Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and I got the sense that when he opened them, he hoped to see someone besides me standing in front of him. “Nothing,” he stated. “Just me being crazy.”

A panic button pushed inside me as words from Jo Beth’s final voice mail came whooshing back. Mitch is insane…I can’t trust him…He CANNOT be a good father to my baby.

I stepped back and put my hand on the door to shut it. “You should probably get back to Magda,” I said. “If you need linens for the couch, they’re in the hallway closet.”

“Okay,” he said, slightly miffed at my abrupt change. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Good night.” I started to close the door and he began to walk away, but I called after him. “Mitch!” He turned. “Don’t worry about getting up with Bijou tonight. I can do it.”

“What do you think?” Gavin asked me. We were at a gallery opening, looking at a sculpture of a giant hand with its thick fingers spread apart.

“I don’t understand.”

He flicked his bangs from his eyes. “What’s to understand?”

I cocked my head, examining it. “I mean, is it waving? I don’t think so, but it’s not doing anything that hands normally do. It’s not holding anything, or flipping us off, or pointing, or punching, or caressing, or well… anything. It’s just a static hand. What’s the point?”

“Maybe existing is the point.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“Not for you, maybe.” He looked self-consciously around the small space, like he was worried that the artist was there and I’d just offended him. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’m hungry.”

We left and walked down the block to a new fusion restaurant that Gavin insisted we try as part of our “date night.” I let him do the ordering, and as we ate appetizers and salad everything was fine, but once the main course arrived, his mood shifted.

“How long is Magda staying?” he asked.

“Mitch said it would just be a few days.” I pushed a piece of sushi into my mouth and chewed. If nothing else, that was an excuse to not talk about Magda.

“I’m surprised you’re letting her stay.”

Mouth still full, I shrugged.

“I know you’re hiding something,” he said. “You should tell me everything.”

I swallowed down the last bit of raw salmon. “What do you mean, everything?”

“Everything!” he nearly shouted, which in the noisy restaurant, barely registered as loud. “You were so sure he was guilty. You were even more sure of Magda’s guilt. How can you be so calm while sharing a roof with them both?”

Raising my water glass to my lips, I took a sip, letting the cold liquid distract me. “All I can say is Mitch is different than how I thought he’d be. You’ve sort of gotten to know him; I’m sure you understand.”

Gavin said nothing. He did not take a bite of his quinoa tabbouleh nor did he take a drink of his artisan root beer. He just leaned forward and stared at me until I started to squirm.

“What?” I finally demanded.

“You’re into him.” Gavin stated this as irrefutable fact.

“No.”

“You are.” Finally, he moved forward and picked up his fork, but he just used it to push at his food. “I mean, he’s very good looking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. Objectively, Mitch is a handsome guy.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Yes, he’s tall, dark, and handsome, but that doesn’t mean he’s my type and it doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him. And I’m not.”

Gavin let his chin drop and now his eyes were focused on his dinner plate. He managed to gather up bits of quinoa, but his fork’s journey from plate to mouth was uninspired and he chewed his food like it was rubber.

“Gavin, come on. Don’t be like this.”

He took a swig of root beer to wash everything down. “You’re not coming to Chicago with me, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Skylar. Just say it. You’d rather stay here, with Mitch.”

Why did my choice have to be between two men? Per Jo Beth, men were nothing more than disruptions, sure to set my life off track. Except, she’d liked Gavin and she’d loved Mitch, so was “choosing myself” even a possible resolution to this story? Plot twists danced in my mind, and I realized that to exit this scene gracefully, I must compose a Pulitzer Prize-worthy answer. I decided to stick as close as possible to the truth—to the truth that wouldn’t hurt him. “I can’t hate Mitch,” I said. “Jo Beth loved him and he’s Bijou’s father. I wasn’t counting on feeling close to him, but I do, and I won’t apologize for that.”

Gavin’s eyes grew watery and he blinked a lot, letting his focus be anything but me.

I continued. “But I don’t trust him and I can’t leave yet, because of Bijou. I have to stay here for her.”

“Your mom could take care of Bijou.”

“Jo Beth wanted me to.”

His sigh was wide, in through his nostrils and out through all his pores. “You let Jo Beth decide everything for you when she was alive. Now that she’s dead, why does she still call the shots?”

I lurched back as if he’d slapped me. “I should let you call the shots instead?”

Gavin twisted up his mouth and furrowed his brow. “I want the best for you, Skylar, which is more than Jo Beth could ever say. It’s also more than Mitch or even your parents can say. You’re my priority and I’m telling you not to trust Mitch.”

“Okay, putting everything else you just said aside, I already told you that I don’t trust Mitch.”

“Right.” He laughed bitterly. “Do you know that he and Magda are just after Jo Beth’s money?”

My head spun at his arrogance, at his assumption that he knows more about my situation than me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know that they’ll do anything to get what they want—even if that means hurting you.”

“Gavin, do you really think I hadn’t considered those possibilities myself? I’m not as naïve as you believe. I just don’t happen to agree with you.”

He shook his head. “Please, Skylar. Come to Chicago with me. For your own good, you have to get away from Mitch and Magda.”

I should grab this opportunity, this opening for the truth. Both my mom and Mitch were right; the sooner I broke things off the better, and the less Gavin would ultimately be hurt. “Look,” I said, my voice heavy with regret, “Gavin…”

“Wait!” He dropped his fork, reached for my hands across the table, and squeezed my fingers with a startling intensity. “Don’t. Don’t tell me no, not yet. I understand that you’re probably not coming to Chicago, but you don’t need to tell me tonight. Let me believe you’re still considering it, that you’re still giving us a chance. And if not, at the very least, promise you’ll take what I said about Mitch seriously. Promise not to trust him.” His eyes bore into mine. “You owe me that much, Skylar.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering all the times Gavin had been there for me. How had I repaid him? With betrayal and with lies. He was right; I owed him that much and way, way more. I opened my eyes and nodded simply, easing my hands from his grip. “Okay. I promise.”