Objects of My Affection (43 page)

Daniel comes around the corner. He's dressed nicely in a polo and black jeans, carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Luce? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, hey. You're probably afraid I'm stalking you. First the office and now this.” I wait for a laugh—I mean
stalking
, that's funny stuff—but Daniel just seems baffled and, possibly, mildly irritated. I couldn't have expected I'd be given a hero's welcome. I once threw the man's original-run Beatles'
White Album
into the yard. It's a miracle he's speaking to me at all. “I'm wondering if you have time to talk.”

“I was on my way out.” He gestures slightly with the flowers, and I don't miss the meaning. He's going out on a date, and one that he's excited enough about to bring flowers, even if they are from the grocery store. I bite back a swell of disappointment. I'm too late. He's moved on. Sometimes when you throw something away, you can't get it back—somebody's already gone to the secondhand store and snatched it up, probably at a bargain price since it's tattered and worn from all the abuse you gave it.

On the chance that my shopping competitor is not yet at the cash register but still browsing around, leaving her item untended in her cart …

“Just a couple minutes?” I say.

“Okay,” he says without enthusiasm. “What is it?”

I clear my throat. A car rumbles past, emitting a wave of exhaust fumes, and on the other end of the garage, a group of twentysomething girls emerge giggling from a stairwell, dressed tartily for a night out, their stilettos tap-tapping on the concrete floor. This is not the atmosphere I imagined for delivering my declaration of love. “Maybe we can go for a walk?”

“I'm already running late—you said a couple minutes, and I—”

“No problem. But at least let's sit in my car where it's quieter. Do you mind?”

It's obvious he wishes he'd said no, but he sets the flowers on the trunk of his car and climbs into my passenger seat. Once inside, as I'm taking a second to gather my thoughts—which are scrambled by his wearing aftershave, not intended for my appreciation—he says, “What is it you want?” in the manner of someone who can't get a dreaded task over with fast enough.

Hoping to at least get Daniel's attention, I start with news about Ash. “First off, I thought I'd tell you that I didn't send Ash to California.” I'm talking to his shirt again—a polo that has an insignia of a tiny monkey head where the polo player would normally go. “It seemed like a waste of money—he didn't strike me as being that serious, and I was right. He got busted for drug possession today, so he's in jail in Tampa.”

“Wow,” Daniel says quietly. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Oddly enough, it might be a good thing. There's a chance they'll send him to rehab instead of prison. On the other hand, they might release him on bail. I'll find out more tomorrow.”

“All right, thanks for the update.” He reaches for the door handle. “You've got my e-mail, so keep me posted.”

“Wait, that's not all,” I say, agitated by his disinterest. Did I not start this conversation with the words
first off
? Does that not imply there will be a second point? At least he lets go of the handle. “I wanted to tell you again how badly I feel that I threw you out of the house like I did. It was a terrible thing to do. Really, really not fair. And I'm sorry.”

“I keep telling you, it's ancient history.”

I finally dare look at his face, into his puppy-dog eyes, which I search for some sign of possibility. But it's as if he's pulled down a privacy shade that lets me see in, but only shadows and light, so I'm forced to forge ahead blindly. “What if I don't want it to be? What if I wish it wasn't ancient history—that we weren't over. You and me.”

The sound of my swallowing nervously booms as if I were holding a microphone to my throat. After what seems forever, he turns away to face the dashboard. “But we are.”

The finality in his tone sinks any hope I might have mustered. It's over. I had him, I messed up, and—in this case—there aren't second chances.

Alas, in an unfortunate turn of events for my pride, my heart has gotten the message, but my mouth, it appears, won't give up quite so easily. To the monkey-head insignia, I say, “I understand, although I'm not going to lie, it breaks my heart. I'm so mad at myself for blowing it with you. For some reason I was compelled to make this past year so awful. It's like I felt so guilty about letting Ash get into drugs, I needed to punish myself, and I dragged you into it. What's worse, I'm fully aware that if I'd let you, you would have been there for me, a hundred percent. You always were—always.” I barely stop to take in
a breath. “So, anyway, I get it—I wouldn't want me either. Especially since my life is still the same crazy mess it was before. Although
I'm
different. I really am. I'm no longer afraid to face things—believe me, I've been put to the test enough in these past weeks. That's why I'm here. My feelings are what they are, and I'm not going to apologize for them, and I'm not going to hide from them. I love you. I'm stupid, crazy in love with you. And, though it's clear you've moved on, I'm asking if you'll consider making room for me somehow in your life. I hope you will. That you and I”—I take one more breath, having reached the end of my monologue—“can be friends.”

An endless number of aching, awkward seconds pass by, then Daniel says, “No.”

I nod, crushed. All that's left is for me to go and let Daniel move on in peace, though I selfishly don't want to. I'm searching for a way to say it without quoting that poster about setting something free and hoping it comes back when I feel Daniel's lips on mine. “I don't want to be friends,” he says, and kisses me again, then again. “I'm afraid that's not acceptable.” He continues kissing me, softly, sweetly, and things inside me are popping and tingling and buzzing, and the kiss deepens, and I'm going to go out of my mind with happiness that this is happening, until eventually he pulls back. He looks into my eyes, and this time the shade is up so I see the sparkle in them that makes me go squishy inside. “But if you're willing to come up on your offer, we can figure something out.”

Things progress pretty quickly after that—this is a man I've known for years and have slept with many times before, after all. I don't exactly have to worry about seeming slutty as—tongues meeting, hands groping—we attempt to slide into the backseat and … ugh … erf … well, maybe if …

“Love this car,” Daniel says, panting with both lust and the effort of wedging himself through the tiny opening to the back, all the while working the buttons of my shirt. “But I'm thinking we need to move to a roomier location.”

“Good idea. Your car's bigger.”

He laughs, his mouth warm against my neck. “I was referring to my apartment.”

“That'll work, too.”

When we get out of the car, buttoning and retucking, I remember the flowers, still sitting on Daniel's trunk—and apparently, so does he. “Shoot, I forgot. I'm supposed to be at Andrea's.”

Andrea? He's dating one of the Andreas?
I'm torn between jealousy and curiosity over which Andrea when he says, “Oh, well, her bridal shower will have to go on without me.” He hooks a finger in the waistband of my jeans and pulls me along as he walks backward toward the stairwell. “It'll be my way of protesting. This trend of inviting men to girlie parties has got to stop.”

I
t's after midnight, and I'm lying next to Daniel, who fell asleep on his back with me nestled in the crook of his arm but then shifted as he always does in his sleep to his stomach. I'm wearing his reversible Cubs/White Sox jersey, Cubs-side out. I can't sleep, but I don't mind. This isn't the insomnia of the stressed-out lunatic that I've been for months now, but a woman who isn't ready to let what's turned out to be an incredible day end yet.

When we got into the apartment, Daniel started the tour in the bedroom. We kissed madly all the way there, loosening clothes as we went, and collapsed on the bed together in a heated frenzy. “Mmm, a bed,” I said, giving a good bounce on it. “An actual bed! Like real grown-ups have. I can't tell you how excited I am to be on a
bed.
”

We then dispensed with the talking and got down to the business of picking up where we left off—and not merely where we left off in the car. It may have been months since Daniel has had access to my body, but he clearly remembered his way around the place, showing me in no uncertain terms and with great enthusiasm that he knows exactly where I keep things and where I like everything to go.

The streetlight from outside casts a grayish glow in the room
through the closed blinds. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I do know that—though I could face it by myself—I don't have to. I stare at Daniel's face for the longest time until, tugging up a blanket, I finally give in to my body's demand for slumber. As I drift off, I burrow closer to Daniel, an arm possessively thrown over him. It is with pure greed and joy and comfort that I think,
Mine.

I
'm back at Marva's house shortly after ten, a little later than I'd told her I'd check in with her. I hadn't realized at the time I'd be coming from Daniel's place. He sent me off with an egg breakfast in my belly—cooked on a stove! in a real pan!—and wearing a borrowed Foo Fighters T-shirt, which I needed because several of my shirt's buttons didn't survive last night's activities. We've made plans for me to be back in time for a
late lunch
, which I hope is code for “sex.”

Will is at the kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee and texting, when I let myself in. “I see you've let her out of your sight. You must be feeling confident.”

“Exhausted is more like it,” he says, not glancing up from his phone. “I slept on the floor next to her bed—the woman snores like she swallowed a running chain saw.”

“But otherwise it went well?”

“She's alive.”

“That's a start. Where is she? I want to get the phone number of her lawyer.” I've already talked to an officer at the jail where they're holding Ash. Although I could bail him out now, if I'm hoping to strong-arm him back into rehab, the officer said it's to my advantage to leave him there and get a lawyer in ASAP to propose the deal.

“Office,” Will says, and it's like old times, Will texting and barely bothering to talk to me. I'm already getting nostalgic about leaving this place.

I'm at the office doorway, about to give my usual knock announcing that I'm there, when I stop short. Marva is standing, her back to me, stirring a large brush in a can of paint set on a tabletop. This must
be from the box of old supplies Niko brought in because I bought her only tubes of oils, but no matter. She's going to paint again! I barely want to breathe for fear of disturbing her, and I'd stop the whooshing of blood through my veins and arteries, too, if I could. What a moment this is. After all Marva's been through, she's going to start fresh, creating this new painting and, in daring to do so, creating a new life for herself.

“As you can see, I am still here,” Marva says, not turning around. “As promised.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. Please, keep on with what you were doing. I'm just stopping by to get the lawyer's phone number, but it can wait.”

“Of course it can't,” she says, leaving the brush in the can as she crosses to her desk. Bending down, she rifles through an old-fashioned Rolodex and tugs out a card, handing it to me. “I've already called and told him to take good care of you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. I woke up itching to get to this but held off, figuring you'd want to be here for the big moment.” She goes back to the paints.

“I do!” I say, grateful she thinks enough of me to allow me to be there when she sets brush to blank canvas. I watch as she steels herself, lifts the brush, then turns and sets it down to create a large streak of white—right across
Woman, Freshly Tossed.

Whaaaaaat?
“What are you doing?!” I bolt up to her, wanting to snatch the brush from her hands but fearing the splattering would cause further damage. The streak runs across the middle of the painting, directly over the chests of both the man and the woman.

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm painting,” Marva says cheerily. “Well, this is only primer, but it's a start.” She dips the brush again and strokes it across the painting—this time covering their faces—as Will rushes into the room in a panic, drawn by my cry.

“What the—,” he says, letting us fill in our own expletives.

“Will, look at what your mother is doing!” I say, sounding like a tattling little sister. “Stop her! Talk some sense into her! If we act fast enough, maybe it can be fixed. Maybe—” I stop talking because he's
not moving but, rather, has collapsed in laughter, leaning against the doorframe, as if watching his mother ruin an extremely valuable painting—which he bought for her—is the funniest thing he's ever seen.

“Am I the only one around here who hasn't lost her mind?” I say, throwing my hands in the air.

“Now, now,” Marva says, “I thought you wanted me to paint again, and here I am, painting. There's no reason to waste this perfectly good canvas.”

“But there's a blank one right next to it! Please,” I plead, “I understand all you've been through with that painting, and that it brings back sad memories, but that doesn't mean you have to destroy it.”

“Oh, I'm not destroying it.” She lays down another sweep of primer, then steps back to admire her handiwork. “I'm giving it a second life.”

I
hand my car keys to the valet driver.