CHAPTER 20
Mr. Gusterson doesn’t answer his door, and I suspect why. He’s passed out cold. With resignation I conclude it doesn’t matter who the woman with Evan is because this is the last time I’ll remind myself of what is true. Evan and I were together one night; nothing else was ever promised. No explanations about our lives needed. In fact, if anything, the single promise made was to be nothing more.
This is you fault. You pursued him. He warned you.
The blame is all mine. I threw myself at him. It doesn’t help that Mr. Gusterson fanned the flames of doubt, leaving me confused. And it didn’t help to see Evan with another woman—a beautiful one.
I’ll give myself one more night to forget this dumb crush. I’m well beyond the acceptable moving-on period of Aggie’s rules.
I head for the freezer. After I find what I need, I plant myself on the kitchen counter with a container of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream and peel off the top. I toss it aside and dig my spoon into the container wedged between my thighs. One hundred bites and two frozen legs later, I scrape the last bit of melted chocolate from the corner.
With the spoon hanging from my mouth, I stare off into space. Behind my blurring eyes, I find Evan’s dimpled grin, the aggravating way he teases me, and the way he touched me like I was the only woman in the world. When the amazing sex crosses my mind, I shake the images off and hop down in search of something else to eat.
In the back of the pantry I find an off-limits Costco-size bag of double-chocolate Milano cookies Aggie keeps hidden here for emergency binges. I reach for them and pull them out. I stare at her name scrawled across the front in big block letters and consider the consequences for eating them. Not good. But I’m desperate, and I promise myself I’ll replace them before she returns. I rip open the bag.
With cookie crumbs covering my shirt, I accept too late that I should have trained tonight or joined Aggie and Lou. If I did, I would have avoided Mr. Gusterson, Evan, and his lady friend, and the forthcoming sugar coma.
I moan. Rubbing my aching stomach, I drag myself down the hall. I flop into bed, nestle my head into my feather pillow, and close my eyes, searching for peace. After several hours of overthinking, my brain shuts down. A miracle in itself.
In a dream I find a photomontage of torn images: a curious look from a stranger, a belly laugh of a baby with two small front teeth, a pair of well-loved red, white, and blue roller skates, then a pair of reddened and scraped knees, and later, a painful broken arm requiring surgery to reset the bone.
In the morning, my eyes snap wide after I see a little girl with dark hair break her arm. I replay the dream, trying to make sense of it. She wore the red, white, and blue roller skates while gripping the back of a bike driven by a friend. As she was hauled along, the friend rode too close to the curb. The brown-hair girl hollered right before she lost her grip on the bike and hit a mailbox, slamming her arm into the wood post.
At recalling the sickening crack of the bone and the searing pain, I flinch and sit up. I circle my fingers around my own wrist, searching for any trace of the injury. When I lift my arm to my face, I find the faintest scar etched in my skin. With all the other scars on my body, no one would ever notice this one. The outline is a silvery box drawn over my wrist bone. Is this a surgery scar? I can’t be sure, but I believe I am the girl on roller skates.
Could I be conjuring these events as a way to heal my mind and give myself some sense of a past? Or did those things actually happen? If they’re from before, I should be happy they’re trickling in this way, but it doesn’t quiet my frustration to remember more.
Yes, I could call and ask my parents, but it would fuel their hope I might return to them in body and mind, and I have no intention of doing that. At least in Chicago I can wade through the thoughts without anyone pressuring me. I can absorb the information at my own rate, on my own time, and in the solace of my own apartment without anyone acting as judge or jury.
My phone buzzes. I reach for it and swipe the face. It’s a text from Ozzy.
OZZY: Let’s talk price—hypothetically.
I text him back:
ME: Be ready at noon. I’ll take you to lunch. We can talk—hypothetically.
***
My lunch with Ozzy redirects my focus. Closing the lease deal with James will move me closer to the house. When I imagine restoring the home, my pulse races with excitement. I’m better without distractions, which with my new resolve means all men are off limits. This is a good plan. I only need me.
Linden appears at my office door with a large bouquet of pink peonies. He enters and rests the vase on the edge of my desk.
“How did you know they were my favorite?” I say, knowing full well they aren’t from him. But the joke makes him cross his arms.
“Care to explain the numerous gifts flowing through this office?”
My lips draw tight, and I stand to meet his questioning gaze. I was hoping he was too busy to notice the flowers, the gift baskets of sweets, or the boxes of Blush bath bombs James sends every few days. He’s kept his promise to dazzle me, while I’ve kept my promise to keep our relationship all business.
“It’s not what you think.” I grip the side of my desk.
Linden snatches the gift card and waves the envelope in the air. “Then you won’t mind if I read this?” His brows rise.
I hustle to circle the desk. “All right, it’s what you think. It’s James Henley,” I confess.
“James Henley,” he squawks with a genuine expression of shock.
“Who—”
He cuts me off, his voice stern. “Cait, I’m giving you one warning. Close this deal and you can date whoever the hell you want on Lakeman’s staff, but not one second sooner.”
“I promise we’re on the same page.” I lace my hands at my stomach and squeeze my fingers tight.
“Good.” He scrutinizes me with a head tilt, perhaps he’s deciding if I’m telling the truth, but he gives up and storms out of the office. His response is what I expected, which is why I wasn’t broadcasting James’s advances. A soured romantic relationship could kill a deal. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen agreements fall through for much less.
This time, I don’t call James to thank him for the flowers. He knows where I stand. Though the last time we spoke for business, he never even mentioned a date. He hasn’t pressed beyond sending gifts. For the most part he’s respected my original answer with an amazing amount of decorum.
I throw myself into work, focusing on my renewed goals. My week is hectic, filled with late hours, networking events, and showing properties. By the weekend I’m ready for a long run. I’m twelve miles deep when I spot Evan and his companion. They’re chatting beside the Lake Shore bike trail on a patch of greenery near a small group of people.
Right before I alter my run to head in the opposite direction, Evan catches sight of me. He waves. I sink inside and reluctantly wave back. My first inclination is to circumvent but that would prove him right—that I can’t handle a one-night stand with him. Even if it’s a true, he doesn’t need to know.
“Hey,” he offers as I near.
“Hey.”
“Did I introduce you to Shelby?” He gestures to the girl, the one from last weekend, the one who kissed him on the cheek and ate his cold spaghetti. I stiffen as she appears beside him.
Up close she’s as perfect as I remember. Skin smooth. Body tone. She’s exuding the confidence I wish I had at all times. My blood blisters with jealousy. I rub my arm to quell the feeling.
“Nice to meet you. You must be Cait. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She waves.
I flinch. “You have?”
Evan nudges her shoulder as if to say shut up.
“My bad, I guess I wasn’t supposed to say that.” She shoots Evan a crafty expression.
“Go. Class. Now.” He directs her with playful anger.
She tries to pinch his arm before leaving, but he shuffles just out of reach. He composes himself; his hands settle relaxed on his hips. He continues, “Shelby’s my business partner. We teach capoeira here on Saturdays.”
Four things strike me. Relief is number one. She’s his business partner. Not a girlfriend. The hand that’s clenched at my heart since the day I saw her releases. Second, he’s talked about me? My heart contracts, which brings me to number three. I like it. This is bad. Very bad.
And four. “Capoeira? As in the Brazilian martial arts?”
“Yeah.” His smile crushes my heart it’s so handsome, so epically adorable. And I was doing so well forgetting him. I take a step back when he crosses his buff arms over his chest. Today he’s wearing a gray tank and loose black workout pants.
“Kinda cold for no sleeves,” I say. It’s officially fall and although it’s sunny, it’s in the fifties. His nipples are as hard as his flexing muscles, and I can’t help but remember a secret I discovered when we were together. My gaze flitters to his crotch.
“Still commando.” He shoots me a flirtatious grin. He’s either caught me looking or read my mind. Maybe both. Something inside whispers that denial would be an admission of guilt, so I remain silent. I bite my lip instead as heat sweeps my cheeks and drives its way to my ears. My gaze flashes away. A family of four passes on bikes. Seagulls flap their wings in the breeze, squawking above us.
“Wanna see?” He lifts his shirt and tugs open his pants, stepping closer. I die when my eyes dart back. It can’t be helped. Does he intend to flash me right here?
A peek beneath his clothing reveals tanned compact abs and a wide elastic band with the orange bold letters: Under Armour. As in, Under Armour underwear.
I laugh. A real laugh. An Aggie laugh. My hips rock side to side and I say, “Nice panties, liar.”
“Just trying to make you smile.” He quirks his shoulders.
“Evan!” Shelby calls, waving for him. He looks over his shoulder to her and then back at me.
“I don’t want to hold you up.” I’m doing my best to dismiss myself from this conversation and return to pretending he and his underwear, or lack of them, don’t exist.
“You should stay.”
An invitation to stare at him? Not a good idea. As I’m shaking my head, telling him no, he’s waving me forward, drawing me in. Lacking self-control, my feet step in his direction. He clears a seat for me on a small bench beneath a tree, and I sit.
“Help yourself to anything in there.” He points to a red cooler.
“Thanks.” I press my hands between my knees.
He’s jittery and unmoving for a moment. He rakes his hand through his hair before glancing around. His awkwardness reminds me of the night I showered at his place. It’s like he has something to say but can’t. Finally he gives in. “I’ve been trying to catch you this week but you haven’t been around. We need to talk about the other night. After this? Okay?”
I nod, even though it’s unclear what we need to talk about. Whatever it is has made him nervous, which in turn makes me nervous. I squirm in my seat.
Evan runs off and joins the group. They’ve formed a circle. Evan and another man step inside. Shelby gives a welcome speech and turns on some drum music with singers chanting in another language. The sound pulses through a set of small speakers on a nearby picnic table.
Evan and the man shift in a choreographed set. First they step side to side, moving to the sound the wild drumbeats. In larger sweeping movements, they slink around each other in fluid and complex steps, using kicks, spins, and jumps. But they never make contact. One man acts as water and the other as oil. Every step taken, forces the other to react, bending into impossible forms. The beauty of every articulated maneuver Evan makes mesmerizes me.
My breathing hikes and blood pressure rises. I fan my face with my hand. I’m heating up when I should be cooling down under the shade of a tree. One hand claws tense at my sides. At recalling his words, volatile energy zips through me at the possible thought of Evan reciprocating my feelings. Did he say we needed to talk about the other night? A relationship kind of chat?
My arms shiver. The harder I suck air, the tighter my windpipe clenches. Recognizing the signs of a panic attack, I stand. I raise my chin and chest, forcing in air through my nose to even my breathing. In this case it’s Evan who’s shoving me overboard, making me freak out. I turn away from him and his class and take another ragged breath.
I must leave. Now. At first I step slow, but when the distance grows, and the music from his class fades, my breathing evens, returning to normal. The sooner I return to the safety of my home, the better.
Locked inside my apartment, I press my back into the grooves of the door and sink to the floor, catching my breath. With my butt planted and legs extended, sweat pours off my chilled skin.
You’re better off alone.
I need something to erase Evan, like that one second, that one event that erased my mind. It’s with complete clarity I decide Aggie was right from the beginning. I’m afraid of anything real. Almost falling into a panic attack proves it. I thought I could handle this. I thought I was ready. A ridiculous notion I had at one point suggested I should let Evan in and tell him about my past. Ha! When there was no chance of us being together this crush was easy, but now it’s a threat.
Being with him means I would have to tell him everything, and that scares the crap out of me. Not letting anyone in has worked. Starting over has worked. Not telling has worked. I’ve been able to be me... or find out who I am without being looked at with pity. I don’t want to be that girl to him. The one who still has nightmares, panic attacks, depression, and on occasion can’t leave her apartment.
That’s someone I need to hide so I can move toward the new me: the woman who graduated at the top of her class, the woman who finishes marathons without being winded, the confident commercial real estate broker, the woman who can close any deal, the one who can stand in front a group and command their attention, and the one who can sell anything to anyone. Where I am now is not shaped by my before. It’s shaped by my after. And my after is about control, and I need to maintain control in everything. If I let Evan in, I will lose my carefully balanced power.
Except right now I’m a chickenshit. That’s where my anxious mind trails. I can’t help it. Yes, Evan might want to talk about something inconsequential. That’s a rational thought, but anxiety girl knows if that’s all it was, he wouldn’t have announced we needed to talk. Instead, he put a label on it and made it a thing we needed to do—a real thing.
Either way, I’m too nervous to find out. I’m not saying it’s right, but I needed to get away. The panic is setting in again with the overthinking and jumbled thoughts. I grip the floor. My breathing tightens. Muscles contract. I’m skittish and agitated. The lack of air is overwhelming. I shake my head in a rush to clear my mind and wipe the slate clean. I clamor to open the passageways to my lungs, lift my chin and breath through my nose. If I don’t, I might pass out.
I count to ten.
Sweat drips from my hairline. I force air through my nose, let it fill my lungs and push it out of my mouth. I call on my former therapist’s voice to enter my mind. Calm and steady and in a low murmur he says, “You can get through this. Concentrate on your breathing. In slow. Out slow. You can get through anything.”