Mistakes were made. Maybe the first mistake had been calling my ex-wife on Friday night, or, even before that, opening the door to Michael Beck. Circumstances had forced my hand, though. He had fallen, broken his laptop. I couldn’t have left him lying there.
Contrary to what I was sure he thought, I’m not a monster.
But Googling him, reading his blog, watching his stream, and giving him two thousand dollars—those were clear-cut mistakes. And when he had reappeared today, looking so puffed up with anger and embarrassment, and trying to return my money, I had agreed to let him write the profile. That was a mistake, too.
Calling my ex-wife, though—I saw that for what it was. I was giving myself permission to reopen the door to Michael Beck, because I didn’t have anything else left in my life. I didn’t have a relationship with my son. I didn’t have a career. I only had my parents and sister, and they weren’t enough these days. Not nearly.
I sat in my office, waiting out the time I supposed it would take to make a call. Really, I needed a few moments away from Michael. But then, after a minute, I realized I did have a call to make.
Beth answered promptly. “Cal?” She sounded upbeat. She probably hadn’t expected to hear from me after my furious voicemail about the journalist.
“Beth, hi.”
“Great to hear from you. What’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s about the profile, you know—”
“Perfect. I’m glad you mentioned it. The magazine just emailed me a new list of journalists. Your pick, Cal. Can I forward it over? Don’t give up on this.”
“That’s the thing.” I drummed my fingers on the desk. I wasn’t at all embarrassed to be changing my mind. I liked surprising Beth (and stressing her out a little). It wasn’t fair for the stress to flow in only one direction. “I want that Michael Beck kid.”
“Come again?”
I licked my lips. “The journalist from Friday, the one from Colorado.”
“Yes. I talked to the editor. You won’t ever have to—”
“No, I want him on the profile, Beth. No one else. Let the magazine know, will you please? Let them know there was a misunderstanding.”
I smiled miserably at the ensuing silence. How sad, to get my kicks like this.
“That ... works. Okay. Michael ... Beck.” She was typing aggressively. “Perfect. I’ll call the magazine now.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Let’s not change things again, okay?” She switched to her serious tone. “We could lose their interest, or come off as—”
“No more changes. I’m not that fickle.”
“Great. Good. Happy to hear this, Cal. Keep in touch.”
“Will do.” I ended the call and left the office.
What I had told her was true: I wasn’t fickle.
Barefoot, I strolled across the deck and searched my property for Michael. Maybe he had done the smart thing and headed for the hills—but no, there he was, stumbling through the tall grass on the southern edge of the lake. He did not belong in nature. Not yet, anyway. I would have to see what I could do about that.
The wind rolling down the mountains dragged his hair across his face and tore at his coat. Today, he had opted for a plain black hoodie, probably because his game T-shirt had gone over like a lead balloon. The poor guy; he must have felt like he couldn’t win with me. And I had been cruel to him on Friday. Even today, I knew I was behaving strangely. I needed time to get used to his presence.
He caught sight of me and swerved toward the deck.
I motioned for him to stay by the lake. “I’ll come down,” I called. Maybe things would be easier outdoors. I ducked inside, stuffed my feet into unlaced boots, and pulled on a wool coat. For whatever reason, Michael seemed to like dressing half his age, though it didn’t look bad. The quirky style suited him.
I strolled down the rocky slope to the lake.
“This place is beautiful,” he said, squinting against the wind.
“I agree.” I kept my distance, picking a path beside the water. A cigarette would make a good excuse to stay away from him, so I lit one.
“How long have you smoked?” He tried to walk with me. I forged ahead, my longer legs and surer footing outpacing him easily.
“Four years, give or take.”
“Ever since you moved here, then?”
He had done his homework, apparently. “Yes, that’s right. I’m guessing you know I have a son.”
“Uh, I do, yeah. Sorry, I—”
“Well, I wasn’t about to smoke around him.”
“No. That makes sense. Sorry.” He had embarrassed himself by admitting to researching me. That was part of his job, but he was too much of a novice to own it. I filed away that information. The fact that he wasn’t a seasoned journalist worked in my favor. It would make him easier to handle.
“Does it bother you?” I gestured with the cigarette.
“Not at all. I like the smell. They’ll kill you, though.”
“I don’t mind.” I smirked. “I know where I’m going.”
“You’re ... pretty spiritual, right?”
I turned back toward the house. Outside, I was fast realizing, I had two choices: Charge ahead of him while he scrutinized my every move (I could feel his eyes on me) or slow down and let him walk beside me, which was too close for comfort. Inside, at least, I could install him on the couch and go wherever I wanted.
“If, by ‘pretty spiritual,’ you mean a Christian, then yes.”
“That’s interesting.” He continued trying to catch up, even on the hill. I heard him puffing behind me, his coat rustling furiously.
“Not as interesting as you might think.”
“Well, you don’t meet many”—he inhaled raggedly—“fundamental Christians nowadays, or people who subscribe to one particular—”
“Don’t overexert yourself, Michael.” I rounded on the deck stairs. I wanted to laugh, but that would have been rude.
“I’m fine.” He flashed a beleaguered smile and trudged up to the railing.
“You don’t work out,” I recited, “you level up.”
“Exactly.” He sagged against the house. “Do you work out?”
His nonstop questions were not unlike his efforts to keep up with me: Futile, pitiful, overeager, and obvious. “Look,” I said, “let’s not get into everything today, okay?” I kicked off my boots and shed my coat on the kitchen table. He made a beeline for the couch. I brought him a glass of water, which he sucked down in several swallows. “You have two months to work on the article, right?”
He nodded, struggling out of his jacket.
“That’s a long time. You don’t even have your materials today.”
“True. Yeah.”
“So, let’s figure out a schedule and exchange contact info and call it a day.” I dropped a pen and notepad on the coffee table and walked away.