Chapter Twenty-Six

 

I stared at the pan, sizzling over the gas flame, and then back at the recipe. The picture on the screen didn't look like what was in my skillet, at all. The picture showed nice browned onions and garlic but mine weren’t nearly as dark. I glanced at the heat again, nervously before turning it up a fraction. It licked the bottom of the frying pan, making my hands sweat.

I could program myself with microscopic computers to become the greatest cook in the world, but I couldn’t make one lousy Italian dish on my own. Not over open flames. It was something I hadn’t realized triggered me until this moment.

“Come on, Emma. Buck up,” I whispered, stirring again and then checking the recipe as they cooked. I was doing everything right-ish, minus keeping the temperature hot which was screwing with the amount of time I needed to cook them before adding the wine.

I turned the heat up a little, and within a second, the onions and garlic went from barely cooking to burnt.

I winced and pulled the skillet off and turned off the burner. “Shit!”

“What are you doing?” Gilda asked, giving me the most confused stare.

“Trying to go on a date.” I sighed.

“With the fire department?”

“Actually, yes. I was sort of hoping any one of them would show up and take me out for dinner instead.”

“I thought all English women could cook.”

“They deep-fry, and I’m not English.” I grinned. “I’m from LA. We eat sushi and avoid gluten but don’t know why.”

“You sound as British as the queen, kid. I hate to break it to you, you’re English.”

“No,” I replied as the queen might and the focused on turning it off. “I am American. I’ve spent so much time in the machine, in an Austen novel, I got a bit lost.”

“Like Mrs. Delacroix?” she asked as she glanced at the baby monitor she used to keep track of Lana.

“Yeah, about that bad.”

“She’s got a problem.” Her eyes met mine like maybe she wanted to talk. “And I don't know how long I can keep on taking your money to watch her kill herself. She’s up to twelve hours now, wearing Depends undergarments in case she doesn’t hold it. I’m seventy and I don't wear them. Yet my husband on his deathbed didn’t wear them.”

“Twelve hours?” I felt sick hearing that. I hadn’t noticed her comings and goings. She wasn't speaking to me since I stopped going in the week before. And with Gilda here I didn't account for her whereabouts. Without the machine, we really didn't have anything in common. She was living in a pretend world filled with avoidances, and I was planting flowers and speaking with the zoning committee about this possibly becoming an inn and rearranging everything because, apparently, the bug was catching.

“I think you might need to have a talk with her.” Gilda gave me the motherly look.

“She won’t listen.” I knew she wouldn't. She’d been years at this and was only getting worse. “I’m afraid we have one solution and I can’t be the one to do it. I need to call her parents. This is all my fault. I made the machines and the monster.”

“Emma, that’s not how being an adult works. She chooses to go into the machine. You went in, you liked it, most likely you got crazy with it. Then I’m assuming you realized you couldn’t keep this up and left the machine. You don't go in anymore. She is making this choice, not you.”

“I know, but I feel like I’ve enabled her all this time.”

“Oh, that you’re guilty of, kid, there’s no doubt. But enabling someone isn’t making them pull the trigger. She’s doing this to herself. Have you considered rehab maybe?”

“She’ll kill herself, she has tried before. This is the only thing that prevents her from self-harm.”

“You’re speaking with a British accent again.”

“It’s hard to go back.” I forced myself to be American again.

“Just promise me you’ll figure something out for Lana.”

“I will.” I nodded at Gilda.

“What’s with the date?”

“The contractor who was working here, he wants me to cook him dinner and I’m afraid I've never been a cook. And this gas range makes me nervous, so I keep turning it down, and then the food isn’t cooking right so I turn it up and things are burning so I turn it off. I’m on frying pan number four, and I still don't have a good base to add the chicken to. I go from uncooked or browned to brunt in seconds.”

“Okay, well a good home-cooked meal for a local boy is a chowder in the winter and barbecue with salad and potatoes in the summer. Dessert is pie. I would order a pie, no point in ruining this pretty kitchen with you and a pastry recipe only to make something inedible that will likely choke the poor man. I’m gonna write down the recipe. Trust me, you cannot mess this up and I’ll order you a pie from my friend. She makes them for all the fundraisers around town. Her freezer is full of them, and you can just pop it in the oven and voila, homemade pie.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I’ll bring the frozen pie with me tomorrow. This was my husband’s favorite meal. You call that boy and tell him dinner will be served here tomorrow night at six, and he better shower before he gets here.” She winked and left the room, glancing at the monitor.

“Thanks!” I called after her.

“Don’t thank me, deal with Lana,” she called back.

I sat and contemplated what to do about Lana and made myself a smoothie for dinner.

What would I have done had I still been addicted? I would have ignored the world, ignored my health, and hoped no one noticed.

Who did I fear noticing?

The answer to that was obvious, I knew what I had to do.

But I couldn’t do it today. I needed to clean the kitchen and figure out her recipe. And figure out how to turn on the barbecue.

Fortunately, Gilda’s recipe was easy and by the next day I had it all down pat.

When it was time, I started the barbecue out back and noted I felt better about the meal. I’d made the salad in advance, as she had recommended, and had the dressing off to the side so I just had to mix the two before we ate.

The meat had marinated all day so, supposedly, there was no way I could screw it up. I used chicken so even if it cooked a little too long, it would still be better than an overcooked steak.

The potatoes were simple. I sliced them up with onions and wrapped them in tinfoil with butter and salt and pepper and put them in the oven at a low temperature. I would finish them off in the barbecue when the meat went on.

It all sounded simple.

I had even gone to the store, myself, and bought beer, flowers, and sour cream.

That hadn’t been as fun as I hoped. It was more how I imagined—feared it would be. People staring and wondering who I was. Maybe assuming I was the lady from the house on the hill.

I felt naked and my hands sweaty, but I came home with everything I needed. Mike didn't strike me as a wine guy and I wasn't a drinker. A small glass of wine with dinner was my max and only since I went into the machine where we drank wine and ale all the time.

I set the table outside. It was almost summer and the weather was sunny; not too hot but the chill in the air had lifted at last.

When the doorbell finally rang, I jumped, giving myself a once-over in the hallway mirror. I’d checked the house and myself about ten times but once more wouldn’t hurt.

My dark hair was still pinned in a large bun, it had grown back thick and lush, and then some. My makeup was simple—daytime makeup was what the tutorial on the computer called it. My tee shirt and capri-cut jeans were simple, matching the meal according to Gilda.

She said you couldn’t cook something fancy and dress down, the same way you couldn’t make a man barbecue wearing a silk dress. It sounded strict but made sense.

I loved having her around.

She’d turned out exactly as I had expected her to be, no nonsense and yet motherly. She even licked her fingers and wiped food off Lana’s sleeping face once. It was a satisfying moment for me.

I slapped across the marble in my sandals. Smiling and taking a breath, I opened the large front door. I still enjoyed the heaviness of it. The realness of it.

Mike smiled, appearing cleaner than he had before. There was no baseball hat, his hair was brushed, and he was wearing a clean tee shirt with no holes. Even his jeans looked newish. I snuck in a slight smirk when I saw his dirty work boots.

“Hey, Em.” He leaned in lowering his face, kissing my cheek. My body reacted to the kiss, leaning in. It had been a long time since a man, a real man, had done that.

I held my breath, grinning even wider as I pulled back. “Hi. I’m so glad you came.”

“Me too.” He handed me a bottle of wine. “This is for you. It’s my favorite white, which is saying a lot because I’m not much for white wine.”

“Favorite?” I glanced at the bottle, surprised by the label. It was a California white I’d never had before, or heard of. It looked trendy and it wasn’t beer or in a can. “Come on in.” I stepped back, making room.

“Thanks.” He took his boots off outside, like always, and then stepped in. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Good. I got the medical office all set up and I actually started considering maybe taking a cruise. One of the ladies at the bank downtown gave me a brochure and I’ve never been on one.”

“A cruise!” His eyes widened. “You must be feeling a lot better if you’re looking at cruises and you went to the bank.”

“Yeah, well the bank was forced on me,” I agreed, guilt hitting me.

“You look incredible. I wouldn't even recognize you from before. It’s almost like a miracle. Amazing what drugs can do to save us while killing us off, huh?” He followed me into the kitchen. “I had a friend who had colon cancer and when I saw him mid treatment he looked like he was dying. Then I saw him afterwards and he was a new man.”

“It’s pretty crazy,” I agreed, needing a new subject.

“How’s Lana?”

“The same,” I offered, my brow growing heavy.

“That's too bad.”

“Yeah.” It was, but like Gilda said, she was the one making the choice. “Can I pour a glass of this for you?”

“What are we having?”

“Barbecued chicken, a Mexican salad, and grilled potatoes and pie.”

“Wow, sounds amazing. I take it you’ve been cooking up a storm.” He sat at the counter and shook his head. “But I’ll take a pass on the white wine with barbecue. Why don’t I find something from the wine rack that better suits? We need something stronger, maybe a Malbec.” He got up and walked to the butler’s pantry.

“The wine rack?” I cringed, following him. “I haven’t had a chance to pick any—”

He paused as he got there, scowling. “Emma, this is shameful. All these empty racks.”

“I have beer,” I muttered, hoping I wouldn’t be offending him.

“What kind of beer?” His honey-brown eyes narrowed.

“The Stalk. The green label was pretty,” I replied weakly.

“Stalk isn’t bad but next time get the Captain’s Daughter. It’s a weird-looking label but the beer’s decent.”

“Next time?” I smiled again.

He took a step closer. “Oh yeah. There’s going to be a next time, Em.” He lifted his hand and brushed some wispy hair from my face. “And another next time after that.” He leaned in, grazing my lips. The kiss was the sort that whispered of possibility but reeked of self-control. He gently feathered his tongue against my mouth as he pressed into me. The attempt at open-mouthed kissing was hinted at and then dropped before it could be discussed further.

He pulled back, giving me a look that suggested we were having a conversation, silently.

I swallowed hard, needing to be out of the tight pantry before I did something unladylike.

Something I might regret.

No, I wouldn’t.

But I would regret rushing it.

No.

I doubted I would regret that either.

I moved forward with each thought, flinching and then recoiling. I bit my lip, struggling with the idea of having counter sex with the man I’d come to adore. But the barbecue was running and the salad was sitting on the counter, and we hadn’t even discussed the fact we were attracted to each other. And he called me a witch once. Maybe more than once.

“Are you okay?” He wrinkled his nose. “We don’t have to rush into anything. It can just be dinner.”

“I haven’t dated in the modern times, in a really long time so I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I don’t wanna look desperate, or slutty, but I think I might be.” I listened to myself and then started to laugh.

“Trust me, Em, I am as green as you are at this. I went on one dating website for three months. In that time, I learned about something called the head-and-shoulders picture which automatically means the girl is a minimum of thirty-pounds overweight. I discovered the bootie call which means she doesn’t want you to talk and only messages you to come over after ten thirty. And my personal favorite was the girls who dated multiple guys at once. They never stopped having a profile once you started seeing them. They texted other guys on the date. Not to mention, because I’m forty-five, I’m supposed to date down in age. The girls messaging me were the same age as my nieces. I gave up. I don’t really selfie or Snapchat, and I never Insta anything.” He stepped closer again. “And I don’t think you’re slutty and even if you were, I wouldn’t care. I just wanna eat some barbecue and laugh and drink some wine, obviously less wine than I thought we would be, and maybe see if this is what I think it is.”

“Okay.” I was flushed, burning up. Desire, humiliation, and awkwardness engulfed me. But I took his hand in mine and led him to the kitchen, enjoying how real he felt.

When we got to the kitchen, I turned, pressing my lips together and pushing away half of everything I learned about being a lady in the Regency era. I lifted on my tiptoes and wrapped my arms around his neck, placing a kiss on him. It wasn’t the possibility of a kiss or a whispering of what was to come. It was a kiss, not to end all kisses but to declare feelings.

And when his arms encircled me, lifting me into his chest, squishing me slightly, I parted my lips, sliding my tongue into his mouth.

He was going to be a gentleman until I told him he didn’t have to be, not completely, and then he kissed me like he didn’t have a single other thought in his mind but devouring me.

Our tongues danced in our mouths as our chests pressed into one another. He sat me on the counter, leaning in as I wrapped my legs and hooked them into his.

We kissed until I was breathless and tugging at his tee shirt. His skin was warm against my fingers, burning me even.

He kissed and licked his way from my lips to my cheeks and neck. His fingers lifted my shirt too, dragging up and down my back, massaging.

We clawed at each other for several moments before he pulled away, abruptly. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this.” He scowled. “I like you. A lot. And I understand you were sick, and I don’t want to pressure you—”

“I wasn’t sick,” I blurted it before I thought about it.

“What?”

“It wasn’t cancer. I didn’t have the heart to tell you when you assumed.” I closed my eyes, unable to look at him as I said it, “I wasn’t sick. Lana isn’t sick. She’s an addict but she isn’t ill. Not conventionally.”

“Oh shit. You’re a couple of druggies,” he groaned.

“No.” I opened my eyes, noting he was even farther from me. “I’m a neuroengineer. My name is Dr. Emma Hartley. I’m from New York, well, Los Angeles.” I took a deep breath. “I used to own a company.” I wasn't making sense, I was panicking too hard to think.

As his face grew angrier and angrier, I hopped off the counter and offered my hand. “It’s easier if I show you.”

He eyed my hand like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen.

“Please, give me a moment to explain,” I pleaded. “Please. It will all make sense in a moment. I swear.”

His jaw was clenched so tight he couldn’t speak, but he nodded once. I dropped my hand and sauntered to the stairs. I walked up them to the medical room, pausing and slumping, not looking back at him. I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes and hot breath on me, like a dragon. “I never meant to lie. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

He was silent so I turned the handle, shaking my head at a confused-looking Gilda.

“This is Gilda. She works for us. I think you met her before. She’s a retired nurse who monitors us, well Lana, in the machines.” I turned back, hating the cold expression on his face. It was breaking my heart, my whole heart. “It’s an alternate reality based on literary works.”

“Like a video game.” Gilda tried to help.

“Right,” I winced as I continued. “We enter a reality created for us and live as the characters we love.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” He sounded lost but not less angry.

“No. Do you have a favorite novel?” I asked, defeated and desperate.

“No. I don’t read.”

“Nothing?” I swallowed hard.

“I guess when I was a kid I liked a fantasy series called A Wheel of Time.”

“By Robert Jordan.” I knew it well.

“Yeah.” He sounded so disinterested.

“If you lie back, I can show you. I promise it’s not harmful in any way. I will put you in and take you out within minutes, just so you can see what I mean.”

Gilda scowled. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Her eyes widened like she was trying to tell me something.

“Why?” he asked.

“The machine is addictive—”

“Well, that’s not entirely true. Loads of people use it and don’t have any issue.” I defended my work; I still defended it. “Lana and I had problems because we lost someone we desperately wanted back.”

“Lost someone you wanted back?” Mike folded his arms across his chest.

“My husband. I thought maybe I could find him in the story and live a life with him. I wanted to live in the story and ended up stuck there. For a while.”

“Jesus, Emma. This is sick.” He stepped back, shaking his head. “This is what you were doing? Living in the fucking filth this house used to be, covered in weird sores and smelling like death because you couldn’t be bothered to clean or change your clothes? You’re still letting her live this way? You might have cleaned the house up, but it’s still just a dirty crack shack. This is fucked up.” He turned and stormed down the hall.

“Wait!” I hurried after him. “Mike, wait. Please.” I ran down the stairs after him, grabbing his arm at the door. He ripped his arm from my grip.

“You let me think you had fucking cancer. You let me think you were sick. What kind of terrible person does something like that? A sick and twisted person. A selfish person. The fact that woman is up there, rotting away in front of you, still using that machine, and you just tried to hook me up to it, makes me think you’re not just selfish. You’re fucking nuts. I don’t need any more crazy in my life. Jesus.” He turned and stormed to his truck, slamming the door and driving off like a madman.

I dropped to my knees, hating the realness of this world and the truth in everything he’d said.