One Good Thing (18 page)

He was silent, searching my face and waiting for me to continue. He didn’t press, which made it easier for me to untangle my thoughts.

“It’s like love has been replaced by fear. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good as I was the first time, and it’s hard to paint with that pressure hanging over me, like an ax waiting to fall.”

He tilted his head, contemplating me. “There are worse things than failure. Lots of people fail. All the time.”

“Have you?” I asked, a touch belligerently. He was the one with the important job, who always seemed so easygoing, so in control of his emotions, so mature. So perfect compared to me.

“My fiancée left me for another guy. I guess that could be considered a pretty big fail.”

My lips parted on an indrawn breath. “Why did she leave you?”

He laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t know if I can pinpoint an exact reason. There were a lot of little things. But I think … I think part of the problem was that I always loved her more than she loved me. I didn’t see it because I didn’t want to, but she was right to break things off.”

“Are you still in love with her?” It was practically a whisper.

“No.”

I blinked. “No? How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m not in the habit of pining away for women who don’t want me. I’m not that nihilistic.”

“Showing off your vocab again?” I asked, striving for levity. We were touching upon a conversation that was too personal, too intimate.

His lips twitched. “Can I see some of your paintings?”

“Oh.” My knuckles turned white. “I guess. Why? Do you want to critique me?”

“I’d just like to see something you’ve done.”

“I’ve saved a few of—”

I was cut off by a sharp rap on the door, and before Evan even had a chance to answer, it swung open.

I sidled out of the way to avoid getting struck.

Natalie took the spot I’d just vacated. “Hi, Danielle,” she said. “I didn’t know you were in here.” She barely glanced at me before focusing on Evan. I was pretty sure she’d known all along that I was there.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need help with something.”

I watched his face, his reaction to her, but it was impassive. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

She threw an icy glance at me, like it was my fault he didn’t jump to do her bidding. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder, and I watched her stalk out of the room, petulance emanating from her in waves. I turned back to Evan.

“Sorry,” he said, and he did look apologetic.

But what exactly was he sorry for? That she’d interrupted our conversation? Or was there more going on between him and Natalie than workplace correspondence? I remembered her barbed words, the stunning accuracy of them, like a knife through the ribs.

I could just ask. The question was on the tip of my tongue.

But I’d be breaking the rules for our relationship if I asked. Or really, the one rule, since all of the little rules really boiled down to one thing—don’t become invested.

“I’ll see you later, I guess.” It was difficult to keep my voice smooth. I felt like throwing a heavy object. At his face. Or at Natalie’s face. Or at the wall. It didn’t really matter as long as something crashed.

“Did you want to come over tonight?”

“I’m busy,” I said immediately. If he’d asked me before Natalie came in it would have been an emphatic yes. But now a night of no-strings-attached sex didn’t even sound enjoyable.

He was silent for a few seconds. I held his gaze steadily. “Some other time maybe,” he finally said.

“Yeah, some other time.”

“How’s the new assistant coming along?” I asked my mom. I had her on speakerphone as I leaned back in the recliner, pulling my blanket around myself like a cocoon.

She’d called me in the middle of a bad-movie marathon.

“Not bad. You would have done better.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe.”

“How’s the guy you’ve been seeing?”

Probably banging Natalie as we speak. Rolling around on those soft sheets, exactly where I’d been. I winced at the image, almost like it was a physical pain. “I don’t know. We’re not together. I don’t keep tabs on his emotional well-being.”

A long silence. “Did you have a fight?”

“You can’t have fights with someone who isn’t your boyfriend.”

“Well … then … Sienna won an award at school.”

“That’s cool,” I muttered. “For what?”

“It was some kind of academic competition where the teachers asked trivia questions. They’re giving her a thousand dollars toward college.”

I’d never won any contests.

And now I felt horrible because I was begrudging my own sister her success. It was spiteful. And I didn’t want to be that kind of person.

“That’s great,” I said, injecting a lot of enthusiasm into my tone to make up for my selfishness.

The conversation turned from Sienna to minor things—the weather, a local restaurant closing, Christmas decorations. My mom and I had always been good at small talk; the more serious things were where I started to flounder, like a suffocating fish.

“Did I tell you I ran into Sarah York’s parents the other day? The girl you used to hang out with in high school?”

“No, you didn’t tell me. What’s going on with her?”

“She’s at Yale right now. She got accepted for a graduate degree in economics.”

“Yale, huh? That’s exciting.” This time there wasn’t much enthusiasm in my voice. I didn’t even attempt it. I might feel bad about negative thoughts regarding Sienna, but I hadn’t seen Sarah York in years and she wasn’t even distantly related.

“Your class reunion will be coming up in the summer, won’t it? Maybe you’ll see her there.”

“She’ll probably be too busy at
Yale
. Anyway, I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t miss the people from high school all that much. And the ones who go will be the ones who are unusually successful so they can tell everyone about it—‘Oh, I started my own business at eighteen and now I’m a self-made millionaire at the tender age of twenty-three,’” I said in a falsetto voice.

The phone crackled.

“Are you okay?” my mom finally asked.

Was I okay? A good question, a complex question, and one I didn’t know how to answer.

So I said what I always said.
I’m fine.

And steered the conversation back to those easy, superficial things I liked the most.

*

Poe’s raven was scratching at my door again. The living room was eerily dark, flashes of lightning illuminating a room that was somehow familiar and unfamiliar. I saw the cat clock on the wall and the little set of shelves by the door, but there were things missing. The TV was gone; the mountain landscape on the wall opposite the clock had vanished. Just blank dark spaces, like nothing had ever existed there and nothing would again.

I heard the raven caw, a loud shrill sound. And my heart seemed to falter.

And then it beeped, a noise that filled the room like doomsday bells.

Beeped?

The second beep woke me; I tumbled back to consciousness with a start, trying to clear my head.

When I finally realized where I was and what day it was; I untangled myself from my blanket and nearly dove headfirst into the floor in the process. I hit the button on the intercom. “Hello?” I croaked.

“It’s Evan. Can I come up?”

I pressed the button to unlock the outer door and then I turned the knob on mine, waiting. He appeared a few seconds later.

The washed-out yellow glare of the hallway lighting slanted over him as he stood on the doormat. He had his hands deep in his coat pockets and a light snow dusted his shoulders. He wore one of those wool coats that you’d see professional men wearing in advertisements, but a gray beanie covered his head, creating a half-hipster, half-businessman vibe. It was actually a better look than I would have expected, but I had to admit lately I thought Evan looked sexy all the time.

Maybe more so now—it was the second day we hadn’t had sex. We’d talked a little bit at work, but neither of us had mentioned seeing each other.

I must have fallen asleep not long after I’d eaten dinner and then parked myself on the couch to watch a movie—the hour hand of the clock, with its swishing tail and moving eyes, pointed toward the eight.

I stepped aside to let him in, locking the bolt behind him. “This is unexpected—” I began, trying to sound like a pleasant hostess.

“I don’t like this.” He swung toward me, slipped his hands out of his pockets.

“This what?”

“This … tentativeness. I don’t think I should have to hide the fact that I want to be around you, just so you don’t get scared off. What the hell is the point of this arrangement if you don’t make use of it?”

My hands hung limply at my sides. “Are you upset?”

“Yes, I’m upset.” He yanked the beanie off his head; his hair stuck out in all directions. “You wanted to fuck. So let’s fuck. Why are you acting like you’ve changed your mind?”

“I don’t know what other things you might be doing,” I said quietly, wondering at his mood.
I
had moods, not Evan.

“Then ask me. But between sex and everything else, there’s not much that would take precedence.”

“Or you might be with someone else,” I said, and lifted my shoulders in a shrug. Like I was just stating a fact. Like it didn’t matter all that much when it was really a weight dragging me down.

“Yeah,” he said, on a laughing exhale. “That’s not likely.”

I needed to do something with my hands. I shoved them in the pockets of my—I glanced down—flannel pajama pants with yellow smiley faces. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice my sad choice of attire. “Why?”

“If I were with someone else, I’d probably just be thinking about you, which wouldn’t be fair to anyone.”

“Oh,” I breathed, rather stupidly. A little too pleased. “Alyssa’s out, but I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

He grinned, the easy smile I was familiar with, his shoulder relaxing slightly. “Are you telling me I’m on a time limit?”

“Well, we don’t have to do anything, but I thought, you know … it sounded like you want to, and I wouldn’t mind … ,” I trailed off. I’d never known anyone else who made me feel alternately confident and awkward, and both with the same ease.

He didn’t respond to my stammering mess. He simply folded me into his wool coat and the scent of his skin enveloped me and we kissed. At one point, when he had me draped over the couch, I imagined how embarrassing it would be if Alyssa walked in on us, but then he was moving inside me and the whole world could have blown apart and I wouldn’t have cared.

*

“Do I get to see some of your paintings?” he asked later.

We were sitting next to each other on the couch with the TV on, huddled under a blanket, a bag of popcorn resting on my lap. It was a little too much like a date, but I couldn’t force myself to move away from him.

He was warm and he smelled fantastic, and I was still suffused in the postcoital glow. The lack of willpower wasn’t my fault.

“Now?”

“Unless you don’t want me to.”

I felt the familiar nervousness take hold of my stomach, the same feeling I always had when someone saw one of my paintings, but this time it was about tenfold. For some reason, Evan’s opinion mattered more.

Slowly I pulled my pajama bottoms and T-shirt back on before rummaging through the hallway closet, sending dust spiraling through the air. As long as I just grabbed some artwork and gave it to Evan without thinking, I would be fine. Once I started to think I started to worry. And then I started to doubt.

I didn’t look to see which old paintings I’d picked. I just shoved a few of them in Evan’s general direction and then disappeared into the kitchen without looking at him.

My hands felt restless. I clanked around in the cupboards, making a lot of noise, deciding to make some decaf coffee just so I had something to do.

I spent an inordinate amount of time getting the water to exactly the four-cup mark, and then I carefully measured the ground coffee into tablespoons, breathing in the rich, dark scent.

“Are you hiding from me?” Evan called from the living room.

“I’m making decaf,” I said.

He appeared a few feet away from me. “You’re really good, Dani.”

I paused, the spoon hovering over the filter. “You’re not just saying that to avoid upsetting me, are you?”

“No, I mean it,” he said, leaning next to me on the counter. “Maybe I could hire you to do my portrait.”

“You wouldn’t be able to sit still for very long without trying to seduce me,” I said.

“Well, maybe.” He smiled. “But I do think you’re really talented.”

We listened to the crackle of the coffee brewing as the aroma filled the kitchen. Evan took my hand, played with each finger one by one.

“I think your biggest obstacle is yourself. You psyche yourself out.”

“I’m good at that,” I said. “If
that
were a career, I’d be set.”

The sputtering of the coffee machine died down. He reached forward to pluck some mugs from the open cupboard and then poured two cups. I went to the fridge and pulled out the carton of half-and-half. We moved like clockwork around the kitchen. Like we’d been doing it for years.

“Recite another poem for me.”

“I don’t know any others by memory,” I said, fiddling with the carton. “At least not the whole thing.”

“Then say a few lines.”

“Aren’t you demanding?”

He flashed me an easy grin. “I like to hear your voice. I like the confidence it brings out in you.”

Well … it was difficult to deny him anything when he looked at me like that. And said such perfect things.

“Okay.” I closed my eyes briefly, sorting through my options, and then focused on the mug in my hands as I spoke.

For a few seconds after I was done, all I heard was the ticking of the clock.

“I don’t even like poetry,” Evan said, somewhat ruefully. “But I think I could listen to you for hours.”

I cleared my throat. “That’s Edna St. Vincent Millay. Sonnet 42.”

He sipped his coffee. “It was kind of sexy.”

“She had a pretty sexy life.”