28. Eleanor
28
Eleanor
But now the reckoning is here
It has to have been 10 minutes since I last looked at the clock, right? I mean, I got lost in my thoughts for at least that long and it feels like it’s been a fucking eternity. I spit out the thumbnail I just chewed off and let my knees fall to the sides. I can’t stand it anymore. I look.
12:21 AM.
It’s been three minutes.
Ugh! Fuck this.
I jump out of bed and head down to the kitchen. I need to chop something. Or bake.
The problem with baking is that it’s too precise—too recipe driven—and I don’t have anything memorized well enough that I wouldn’t need my phone. And the problem with a perfectly diced mirepoix is that it’s busy work. It gives me something to do with my hands, but isn’t mindful enough that my brain shuts off. But it’s better than nothing, even if I’m still sick with worry and doubt and questions without answers and no way to contact anyone.
So, mirepoix it is.
The next time I look up, it’s 12:47 AM. Mac still isn’t back, but I’m sure that whatever he set out to do is done. People are… dead.
But, how many? And is he all right? Fear knots in my stomach.
No. I have to assume he’s okay. It’s the only way I’ll get through the night.
But, then, what if he is okay, and they got their guy? What happens now? Like… is this… is it done? Do I go back to…
My chest tightens and I have to hold back tears.
I put down the knife and curse the onions, wiping under my eyes .
For a moment there, I really thought I was doing a good job of not getting too far ahead of myself. Or living in a world that doesn’t actually exist; one where I get to stay here, be here with Mac, and feed these guys—who I genuinely, really like—forever.
I told myself shit like “it’ll just be easier to use the closet instead of trying to live out of the suitcase” and, “it’s really more economical to buy the 25-pound bag of flour, I’m sure I’ll get through it.” But really, I’ve been making decisions based on the assumption that I’ll be staying. That this doesn’t have to end.
And days ago, this conclusion still felt like an infinite amount of time away. I didn’t have to think about it yet. But now the reckoning is here, and I’m so emotionally invested that I’m going to be completely crushed by it.
I toss a thick-bottomed pot on the stove and start cooking the carrots, onions and celery. It may be 1 AM, but it’s never too late—early?—for a pot pie.
The pie crust is just coming together when I hear the front door open and a deep laugh fill the foyer. It echoes off the marble, sounding right next to me in the kitchen. I drop the dough and walk towards the hallway.
“—and then it’s really just a matter of a password cracking program and enough juice. Any lag might have lost us the truck.”
“What is this, false modesty? It does not suit you,” Dimitri says with a scoff. It almost sounds like a joke.
Wesley’s low chuckle sounds. “Well, what about that road closure sign? Stroke of genius—”
They stop as I step into the opening between the double stairs. Mac is hanging his coat, his back to me, and Dimitri is toeing off his boots. A bruise is forming on his jaw, purple and swollen, and blood has dripped and dried into a crusty line under one of his nostrils.
“You are still awake,” Dimitri observes. He’s looking at me cautiously, like a horse he doesn’t want to spook.
“Where’s Mac?” I look between them and don’t miss the glance they exchange. “Oh my God… Is he—” Why is there suddenly no air in this room?
“He’s fine,” Wesley says, stepping forward and grabbing my hand. “Calm down, Eleanor. Breathe. We spoke with him on the phone not long ago. He’ll be along. ”
I force in a deep breath. Wesley really does have kind eyes, and I find it easy to believe the things he says. I nod. “Okay.”
He squeezes my hand, then let’s go. He opens his mouth to say something else, but looks down and makes a face. “What’s on your hands?”
“Oh, flour.”
He claps his palms together, wiping them against each other and scattering some of what transferred to his skin. “Let’s get back into the kitchen, hmm? Perhaps a little washing up?”
“No, I’m… uh, making a pie crust.”
Dimitri snorts at that and Wesley glances over his shoulder with an expression meant to silence. Dimitri raises his eyebrows and disappears into the powder room by the entrance. I hear the water come on and assume he’s cleaning up the blood.
“Well let’s get you a drink then. Fancy some bubbles?”
When I’d go back to the counter and pick my dough back up, he ushers me towards the table. Moving fluidly through the kitchen, he grabs two champagne flutes that are so strangely shaped I know they cost a fortune. There’s a small drink refrigerator built into the cabinetry under the island and he pulls out a bottle that’s been chilling on its side.
“So… it went well?” I broach. “Seems like maybe it went well. You guys were in a good mood.”
“It did.”
“And Mac wasn’t with you? He was… somewhere else, I suppose.”
“Ah, you didn’t know. Your reaction makes sense.” He pops the top as he sits down on the opposite side of the corner next to me. “Yes, we had different parts to play, so he was at another location.”
His expression is pure focus as he expertly tilts the glass and fills it slowly enough that he doesn’t even have to wait for the bubbles to subside. I feel the tension easing out of my shoulders at his unbothered demeanor—he’s so calm. He clearly thinks there’s nothing to worry about.
“It was quite the reaction, Eleanor.”
I bite my lip. “I’ve been a bit”— out of my damn mind —“worried.”
He regards me over the top of his champagne flute. “Didn’t you speak with him beforehand about what was going to happen tonight?”
I wince at his gently reproving tone, and accept the flute. After a quick sip that tickles my nose and prickles my tongue, I shake my head. “Not really. But it’s my fault. Mac says he’d tell me anything I ask, I just… I didn’t ask.”
“You don’t want to know,” he guesses.
“I didn’t,” it’s part agreement, part correction. Because I’m kicking myself for it now.
My second sip is more of a gulp, but the bubbles start to go to my head and warmth spreads across my face, starting from my nose.
“That was not the fearful look of a woman who didn’t ask for details because she doesn’t care.”
“It’s not why I didn’t ask,” I say softly. “I do care.”
“I know,” he says, just as softly.
There’s a world of understanding in his look and I get the sense that he really does know. He knows that I don’t just mean that I care about the mission, or about Mac. He knows how torn I am, how much my heart aches. Maybe he even knows how scared I am about what’s going to happen next.
“I don’t know what to do.” Normally, I’d call Mel. It’s what sisters are for. Sure, sometimes they talk at you for an hour, but they’re always there when you need someone to listen to you, too.
“Do you want some advice?” he asks, spinning the flute from the base of the stem.
For some reason, that makes me smile—asking for consent before trying to help. “Sure.”
“Someone wise once said, ‘It won’t work if you don’t decide to make it work; you have to engineer it.’”
I nod, because it’s good advice and I can’t fault its truth, then I frown. “Who said that?”
“Someone wise. Don’t worry about it. My point is, you can’t do this by halves. You are either part of our world or you’re out of it. And trust me, the easier way is to just get out. But…” he pauses, takes another sip, and smiles at me, “if you’re up for the challenge, you may find that the benefits outweigh the drawbacks. ”
I finish my glass—damn, these flutes are small—and he reaches over to refill it for me. “That’s assuming he even wants me to be part of this world.”
He chuckles. “Sounds like that’s the first conversation you need to have with him, then.”
“Maybe.” I take another sip and reach for the bottle to read the label. I don’t recognize it, and it’s not French, like I was expecting. “This is really good.”
“My brother always said that a man ought not to have too many vices, but good champagne makes life worth living,” he says poetically, looking at the fine bubbles rising up the side of the glass.
“So was your brother the one who said the thing about engineering a relationship?”
There’s a beat, and he takes a sip to hide a smile. Then, a car door slams closed outside, just audible in the silence of the kitchen. “Ah, there he is. See? I told you he was right behind us,” Wesley says. He tops me off one last time and stands, picking up the half-full bottle, then his drink from the base of its thin stem. “I’ll leave you two.”
“Wesley?”
“Yes, love?”
“Thanks for waiting with me. And for the champagne.”
He lifts his glass in a “cheers” kind of acknowledgment.
I wasn’t even aware I had the capacity for so many feelings at once. I take a drink from my glass to give myself something to do as they all come swirling in like the wind through the open front door. I’m debating rising from the table—now that I’m calmer and the first glass of too-quickly-consumed champagne has gone to my head, it feels less urgent to meet him in the foyer—when he comes into the kitchen.
Mac’s smile for me is exhausted, but warm. “I just followed my nose. What are you still doing up, darlin’?”
“Waiting for you,” I reply truthfully. I lift the glass. “And having a drink with Wesley.”
“Oh? Where’d he go?”
“Back into his office. They got back a bit before you; he told me you were okay. ”
He grabs a beer from the fridge and moves to join me at the table. “We usually all have a drink together when we get back from a successful mission. Guess this one’s not quite over yet, though.”
I perk up a little. “It’s not?”
The cap of his drink twists off with a little hissing noise. “Not yet. We didn’t get him, but we set something in motion to.” He motions to the mess still sitting on the counter with his index finger extended from his grip around the bottle. “What’s all this?”
“Nervous cooking,” I say with a laugh. “I’m glad you’re home safe.”
“Me, too.” He sits in the chair Wesley vacated, and pats his knee. “Come here, I want to hold you.”
I put the flute down on the table. “Mac,” I begin hesitantly. “I’m really not a lap girl.”
He shakes his head. “Give me your foot, then. I just need my hands on you.”
There’s a flash of excitement low in my belly at that, then I register the words. He sounds uncharacteristically uneasy. I shift my chair back and around the corner of the table so I can better face him.
“Are you okay?” I ask, lifting my bare foot slowly and placing it on his knee.
He slides his fingers under the arch and I have to bite back a giggle—it’s maybe the only place on my body I’m ticklish. He starts squeezing, and holds out his other hand like he wants me to give him my right foot, too. So, I do. My core starts pounding—another Pavlovian response to being slightly open, spread, and near him.
But it occurs to me that he’s being almost a little… distant. He didn’t just come right for me when he entered the room. Usually, he grabs me from behind, or drops a kiss on my upturned mouth even before he says hello.
And he only further confirms my suspicions as he avoids my eye when he says, “I know tonight was different than when I killed that guy in the steam room. I wasn’t sure you’d let me touch you again, knowing what I did.”
My head whips up from its slight downward tilt, as I’d been watching his huge hands dwarf my perfectly-normally sized feet. I’m shocked at the admission, then contrite. That’s my fault. I made him feel that way. “I’m sorry. ”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t say it to make you apologize. And you shouldn’t apologize for not being okay with what I do.”
I inhale, take a sip of the champagne to center myself, and prepare to dive into Wesley’s advice. No doing this by halves. “Tell me what happened. I want to know.”
He eyes me, searching my face, then resumes his careful kneading of the arches of my feet. “Rossi is in hiding, so we have to try to draw him out. We got control of the weapons shipment; it’s sitting in a warehouse where no one would ever think to look. It’s going to really piss off the buyer, and Rossi will hopefully take it personally. Well, the stealing and what I did. I stayed behind after the truck left to… send a message.”
I know what that means. “And how many people did you—”
“Three. And all of them were Rossi’s top guys. Real scumbags.”
I raise my brows. “Only three?” then, realizing how that sounded, I make a face. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Yeah, only three. I left the others.”
A chill shoots up my spine. He left witnesses? “Why?” it comes out barely above a whisper. I’m so afraid of the answer, and I’m not even really sure why.
His hands travel up from my feet. Still using a stiff massaging motion, he slides under my heels and circles my ankles. “Because I could. Because someone reminded me that I held people’s lives in my hands and that I have a choice not to become a monster.”
I swallow hard, surprised to find my throat thick with emotion. “I didn’t say all that,” I choke out.
He smiles a little and it’s an odd expression—the corners of his lips still point down. “You did, just not using those exact words.”
It suddenly feels like my skin is too small for my body—I’m soaring, flying towards him and somewhere above us both, reveling in the feeling of importance and worth. His fingers anchor me, though, as they dig into my calves. He finds a tight spot, applies pressure, and I bite down on a moan.
My head is so full of thoughts, each one vying to be the first one on my lips. What comes out is, “I was so afraid tonight. I was afraid you’d get hurt—”
“I’m usually pretty far from the action,” he says, releasing one of my calves to take a drink from his beer. “I still have to be on my game and secure my spot, but I’m not in as much danger as Dimitri is, for example.”
That actually does calm some of the swirling panic. “I was also afraid,” I inhale and throw back the rest of the glass for courage, “that you’d succeed.”
He grimaces. “I know you don’t like—”
“No, wait, let me… I meant because if Rossi is dead, there’s no more reason for me to stay here.” I chance a look up and find him staring at me, eyes intense. His fingers stop moving. “I’m just… um… I mean, can we just pretend like it doesn’t have to end?”
“You want to pretend?”
“I don’t want to think about everything else.”
“Everything else?”
“Like what happens when I leave? You don’t live here, you’re renting. You probably move all over, and even if you did want to bring me along, I can’t imagine that’s a good idea for either of us…” I trail off, hoping he’ll jump in and let me off the hook. He doesn’t, so I clear my throat. “Let’s just pretend like we’re going to figure it out and make it work. Let’s pretend like there isn’t a time limit. Okay?”
He resumes rubbing my legs with a secret little smile on his lips. “Eleanor, let me ask you something. Do you want to figure out how to make it work?”
I bite my lip. More than anything. The worst emotion I had in that awful mixed bag was the paralyzing fear that I’d have to give him up. There's still this insidious worry that he’s going to tire of me eventually, and leave me at some point… But that future heartbreak can be future Eleanor’s problem.
“Yes.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” His tone is final. Decided. “Come on, it’s late.”
He finishes his beer while I clean up my mess, and we climb up the stairs and into bed. For the first night since we started being intimate, we don’t have sex. We just lay there, cuddled, holding each other. And the wall I’d started trying to build around my heart comes crumbling back down.