Chapter 27
27
Mothers. The greatest oxymoron of the human species. They’ll be the biggest champion of their offspring while simultaneously berating them for not folding the towels the proper way.
In spite of past skirmishes and mutual bafflement about what the other requires in an emotional capacity, we maintain open lines of communication. She calls weekly to let me know of her latest victory against the regime of the homeowner’s association. I tell her about my most recent AI response testing. Neither of us truly understands the conversation, but we try. My mother can always be counted on to act as a sounding board when I desperately need to vent my pent-up emotions. Certainly, she’s not equipped to help me solve a complex theoretical math equation, but she’s more than willing to indulge a little trash talking.
Of a very particular member of the opposite sex.
I stare at one of the now empty walls in my apartment. The same one he fucked me like an animal against. Ironically, all the while my mother rails against Peter Carrington. She’ll run out of steam eventually. Just like he did.
“Well,” she sniffs, signaling her anger is spent. “I’m just glad we hadn’t gotten to the stage of picking out card stock for wedding invitations.”
I curl my lip in disgust, knowing she can’t see me. I’ve never been the sort of woman to pine for a lavish wedding. That’s always been Mother’s dream for me. I would much prefer an intimate, small gathering. A nice dinner followed by no chicken dancing. Absolutely no smashing of cake in each other’s faces.
“Noooooooooooooooo ,” I scream internally.
I wasn’t thinking about a wedding.
I was not .
Mom planted the seed, and I mentally responded. That’s all.
Nothing to panic about here.
“Don’t you let him run you out of town with your tail tucked between your legs. Not again.” Mom’s tone goes suddenly steady enough to pull me out of my spiral. “You get twenty-four hours to lick your wounds, then you will march in there tomorrow morning with your head held high, knowing you did a better job than any of those imposter investigators who came before you.”
“I was fired, Mom,” I inform her, the first unavoidable sniffle slipping out. “I was quite literally escorted from the premises by security last night.”
Oh my God.
I was fired.
Fired!
Dismissed.
Let go.
It’s not bad enough that the man I love cast me aside, projecting his own feelings of mistrust onto me, but I’ve also lost my job because of him.
I’ve never been fired from anything in my entire life. Never even received so much as detention! And now this!
All because of emotions.
Stupid, stupid, diabolical emotions .
Mom doesn’t seem all that distressed about my current lack of employment. She focuses on enemy number one.
“Just because you can’t confront him at the office doesn’t mean you don’t know where he lives. Go over there,” she demands. “Punch him in the face. Scream at him. No matter what you choose, I want you to get the closure you deserve this time.”
“No.” I reach out to pet Isaac, who’s being suspiciously tolerant of me today. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have accused him of having a relationship with Maeve even though it was the only thing I could think of to exonerate him. I called him several times. He hasn’t picked up. He hasn’t even read a single text I’ve sent him. He’s made his choice clear. It’s game over for us.”
“Don’t,” Mom pleads, tears in her voice. “Don’t do this to yourself again, Elise. You shut down so completely the last time. I honestly worried that you’d never reach out to anyone again. One bad experience doesn’t predict the future. There’s a whole wide world out there. Someone will love you the way you deserve.”
I don’t bother to tell her that it hasn’t been just one bad experience. That it’s not about deserving, but rather about understanding. Nor do I mention there are more types of love than romantic.
I would’ve been happy for genuine friendship. With any of my coworkers. Alas, they’re still employed by Chester Biotech. I’m not. We shall have no further opportunities for camaraderie.
“I can do nothing more about Peter,” I say to right not only the conversation but my frame of mind. “I did everything I could. It’s out of my hands now.”
“He doesn’t deserve you anyway. Good riddance.”
“Not such good riddance to my source of income.” I sigh as I glance around at the apartment that was finally starting to feel like a home instead of a foreign place. “I have to find a new job. ”
“Come back home,” Mom suggests.
“Hmm,” is my only response.
Mom is right about one thing. I can’t do that again. I can’t become the agoraphobe Chet always accused me of being. I have to do better this time. If only for myself going forward.
See? Genius is just a fancy way of describing someone who learns their lessons.
Maybe not the first time, but…eventually.
The other hallmark of intellectuals is burning curiosity. About anything and everything.
And so, long after I’ve ended the call with my mother, I pace my apartment, desperate to learn what’s going on at Chester.
There’s no one I can call for an update. Even if I explain the situation, Chet won’t suddenly be willing to share information with anyone.
I could call Carly, but she and Maeve are friends. I highly doubt she’d respond positively to my theories about Maeve’s illicit behavior.
Well and truly, there is nothing for me to do but move on.
I open my laptop and begin the mind-numbing process of updating my resume.
Emotions are tricky little things. Like electrons. We’re aware of their existence, but there’s still so much we don’t know about them. While I’m a huge proponent of the concept that ignorance is bliss, my lack of knowledge in this case is infuriating.
Despite actually allowing myself to feel all my horrid emotions for the past week, I don’t feel any better about anything. I’m still as depressed as the moment Peter declared he couldn’t do this with me again.
I’ve fielded texts. Phone calls. Offers to drop by and visit. Apologies. Excuses. From Joel, Finley, Kevin, Carly, Frank the night guard—even Isaac is being disturbingly loving lately.
It’s grating on my last nerve.
The only person who should be apologizing—groveling on hands and knees, even—has remained stubbornly silent during this whole ordeal.
I gave up everything, and I’ve gained nothing in return.
Not that I believe relationships should be transactional the way Chet does, but still. It’s nice to have effort appreciated.
My relationship report card should reflect stellar effort. Straight As.
Unlike my employment history.
Fortunately, the engineering department at Pitt is very interested in expanding their AI course offerings. They want my research, and they’re perfectly content to engage in a little transactional reciprocity. I’ll bring in grant money to the university, and they’ll give me a job.
I still have to move to a new city, though, so I can’t skip over the adjustment to a new living space. In the interests of making the transition easier on myself, I’m sitting in the middle of the kitchen with myriad items spread out before me.
I hold up the sandwich maker that Joel brought as a gift for my housewarming party and ask Isaac, “Does this bring me joy?”
He shows me his butthole.
“Right. I’ve never even used it.”
Into the donation box it goes.
“What about this one?” It’s the pizookie kit that Maeve brought.
On second thought, I don’t even know what a pizookie does. I’m also not too emotionally stunted to admit that I hate Maeve. I also hate myself for not suspecting her sooner. In hindsight, she threw up plenty of red flag behaviors. I throw the box into the donation pile.
How could she have harmed so many people this way? For what reason?
With a resigned sigh, I set myself back to the task at hand. My apartment won’t magically pack itself.
I hop up so quickly at the sound of a knock on my door that I have to grab onto the kitchen island to quell my dizziness.
Isaac stares at me questioningly.
“It’s lunch!” I tell him instead of admitting that I’ll gladly, literally jump at any distraction from this abysmal task. “The pizza I ordered for us, remember?”
He stalks down the hallway, all too aware that I won’t be sharing pizza with him.
I blindly open the door and thrust a few bills forward to the delivery person.
“Would you…like me to do a strip tease for you?”
I choke on nothing at the sound of Peter’s deep, raspy voice.
I choke harder at the sensation of his warm hand wrapping around mine. He pushes away the money I’m dumbly shoving against his chest.
His hazel eyes are dark and entirely too serious when he murmurs, “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll do anything you ask for free.”
“You—what? No!” I sputter. “I’ll pay you to leave!”
“No, you won’t,” he insists, his voice growing impossibly deeper as he herds me inside my apartment far enough to close the door behind him. “Because you’re dying to know what’s been going on at Chester for the past week.”
Damn him. He’s right.
That doesn’t mean I have to suffer physical contact. He has deeply, deeply hurt me. Again. I put healthy distance between us before crossing my arms over my chest .
“What’s been going on at Chester this week?” I parrot back as a question. Calmly. Neutrally. No rasping, deep, sexual undertones in my voice, nope.
He raises his eyebrows. His mouth twitches with the faintest movement before he smooths his expression. “Does the name Daisy Newhouse mean anything to you?”
“No,” I respond immediately while staring at the floor. “Should it?”
He sighs heavily enough to make me glance up. “Apparently, she’s best friends with Maeve Blackwood.”
I scrunch my nose. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Peter blinks at me—even, emotionless, everything I tried to be in the past and failed at. “Maeve sold highly valuable Chester designs because Chet Goulding wouldn’t sleep with her best friend.” He frowns. “Or, maybe because he slept with her best friend.”
I blink at him, too. “What?”
He tips his head to the side, studying me with an oddly soft yet sharp gaze. “Can we sit? This is a long, convoluted story.”
I glance at the living room where my furniture used to be. It’s always easiest to sell big items on the internet. Not so much the random kitchen gadgets.
Peter follows my gaze. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes.” I nod. Lick my lips. Swallow. Clutch my hands tightly. “I’ve had to find employment elsewhere.”
He also nods. Rolls his lips between his teeth. Strides toward the kitchen and glances around at the half-full packing boxes, his hands perched on his hips. He’s wearing the sweatpants again. “I’ll help you pack then.”
In lieu of getting distracted by the human equivalent of peacock plumage, I return to my station in the kitchen then sit cross-legged on the tile floor. I’m also acutely aware that he’s not bemoaning the loss of my presence in this shared city. Instead, he’s offering to help me leave sooner.
Clearly, he meant what he said before. We’re over. He can’t do this with me anymore.
“My main goal today is decluttering,” I inform him in lieu of breaking down into gut-wrenching sobs. Though I’m trying to feel my emotions instead of repressing them, I’m acutely aware that my feelings won’t change his mind. “I’m currently at the sorting stage.”
He nods as he sits in a similar position nearby. “What are the parameters?”
I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the pile of kitchen gadgets instead of indulging in a peep show of his crotch. “Does it bring me joy?”
He chuckles. “Really? Not…do I ever actually use this item?”
“What’s wrong with asking if it brings me joy?” I cross my arms over my chest again.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, but he can’t hide the smile in his voice. He picks up a hand mixer. “Does this bring you joy?”
“The idea of it does. I’d like to make my own cupcakes. Someday.”
Without further discussion, he places it in the box that’s clearly labeled KEEP.
“And this one?” He holds up a corkscrew.
“Yes.” I sigh. I might not be a big drinker, but the promise of a nice bottle of wine as a reward for all my packing efforts gives me something to look forward to this evening.
And so, it goes.
Peter holds up items. I pass judgment. A task that would have taken me the entire day on my own goes by in an hour.
I glance around at the empty kitchen, shocked to find that we’re done. “Wow. Thank you. You’re much more helpful than a cat. ”
He shakes his head as a rueful smile plays with his lips. “One more item to choose.”
I furrow my brow as I stand to inspect the space. The cabinets are all open and empty. Nothing remains on the countertops, island, or floor. “There’s nothing left.”
He mutters, “I hope to hell that’s not true.”
Before I can make sense of his external internal monologue, he stands, too. He places my hand on his chest and asks me directly, “Keep or give away?”
I pull back from his touch, the carefully packed emotions that I’ve stowed away in the past hour threatening to break free of their little mental box. “You don’t belong to me, Peter.”
He chuckles darkly. “Oh, yes. I do. I suppose the only question left to ask is…do I bring you joy, Dr. Fowler? Even the faintest hope of future joy?”