16. Peter Is Woken By Falstaff
16
Peter Is Woken By Falstaff
T he night is warm for October in Chicago. Both of us are holding our suit jackets as we walk the two blocks to the high-rise Kit lives in. The Loop is never completely quiet, and the noise of traffic surrounds us as well as the voices of other couples and groups of people walking near us.
There is a taut silence between us. Kit is in his own little world, thinking god knows what, and I might as well not exist. I wonder if he’s regretting having invited me over. A better person would excuse himself and fuck off, back home or to the office, or even a hotel. But since I’m not a better person I stay, wanting my presence to impact Kristoff as much as his impacts me.
Out of nowhere Kristoff says, “I miss the smell of chocolate.”
I’ve never lived in the actual city of Chicago. I’ve grown up a dirty suburbanite in the wilds of the North Shore suburbs. The closest I’ve ever gotten is Evanston, which sits right on top of the northern edge of Chicago. Even so, I know about the smell of chocolate. Because of the Blommer Chocolate factory, Chicago has smelled like baking brownies, especially on warm, humid nights, forever. They finally closed the factory last spring, moving the operation to somewhere in Europe, and the nights no longer smell as wonderful as they used to.
“Yeah, man,” I say. “It sucks. That Karen who called to complain to the EPA of odor pollution is the hero no one wanted or asked for.”
“It’s still smells better than New York,” Kit says, making me laugh.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve never been.” Dad goes there on a semi-regular basis to oversee operations in that city, and before she got sick Mom sometimes accompanied him, but I never went with them. I’ve barely gone anywhere. To Florida for spring break in college, and only because I’d saved enough from the job I’d been working at.
Dad was a big believer in having to earn the things I wanted, as opposed to needed. It’s not a bad way to parent, I guess. I certainly didn’t end up spoiled. Not like the man next to me, who got every single thing he ever demanded.
My old feelings of resentment stir with the reminder of why I hate Kristoff, but the emotion is sluggish and dull. I’m too tired right now to deal with open animosity over an old grudge.
“You could bake your own brownies to get the same smell,” I suggest.
Kit gives me serious side-eye. “I don’t bake.”
“I could show you how,” I say before thinking that thought through.
Kit laughs, but the sound is more bitter than amused. “Oh, really? You think you can manage to wedge that in between working in a position you’re woefully underqualified for while simultaneously colluding with my father to steal my birthright?”
“It’s Dad’s birthright, not yours. Wait your damn turn.”
Kristoff’s laugh gets loud enough for people around us to give us curious looks. “If I did that, I’d be waiting forever. My father will never cede anything to me. If he passes it on to anyone, it would be you. Never, ever me.”
My reflex is to say that he’s made his own bed and now needs to lie in it but something keeps the words from spilling out. I grew up not knowing Kristoff but knowing of him. I knew he was demanding, spoiled, careless, cruel, and determined to destroy the man who’d tried to give him anything and everything. I knew all that because my stepfather had told me it was so, day after day, month after month, and year after year.
That Kristoff Minola, I’m beginning to realize, is not the same creature that’s walking beside me on a balmy autumn night in downtown Chicago. There’s a resemblance, sure, but just in passing. The thought sits in my stomach like lead.
Kristoff should be telling me to fuck off and find my own place to sleep, but he isn’t. It’s almost as if having extended an invitation to me, it doesn’t occur to him he could rescind it. And because I am not a good man, I make no move to remind him.
Once inside his home, I watch Kit greet his cats, petting them and scratching their ears and talking to them like they can understand every word. He feeds them then looks at his watch.
“I ordered pizza before we left work. It should be here soon. I hope that’s okay.”
I nod and sit down at his kitchen island. My gaze sweeps over the kitchen and reinforces my earlier impression. This is Kit’s home, not just the place where he lives. If he had a heart, this condo is where it resides.
Almost immediately I feel bad for that thought. The man is feeding me pizza and then lending me his spare bed. He’s the opposite of a heartless monster.
“Thank you. I really appreciate this,” I tell him sincerely as he puts a plate with two pieces of deep dish in front of me.
“It’s nothing,” he replies.
That’s a big lie that neither one of us acknowledges. We eat in silence, but again, it’s not strained. Kit, it occurs to me, must live in a world free of extraneous conversation. He’s used to silence, and it doesn’t seem to bother him. I’m much more naturally talkative but I’m also exhausted and have too many thoughts to process. The silence is good, though. Companionable.
After we’re done eating and Kit puts our dishes in the dishwasher, he gestures to me then leads me down a hallway. He opens a door to the left and switches on the overhead light inside.
“Here you go. The room doesn’t get a lot of use, but my housekeeper keeps it clean just in case I lose my mind and invite guests over.”
“Like tonight,” I can’t help saying.
Kit looks at me then flashes a brief, sardonic smile. “Yes, like tonight. When she comes to clean next week she’s going to be thrilled. Sleep here knowing that you’ll be making a nice woman extremely happy.”
“I live to serve,” I murmur. “Is there a bathroom I can use? I need a shower.” Belatedly it occurs to me that I could’ve grabbed clean clothes from the wardrobe in my office, but I’ve forgotten. I’ll just have to make it in extra early so I’ll have time to change.
“There’s a bathroom through that door over there. The other’s a closet. There are extra blankets and towels in there if you need them.”
“Thanks. I think I’m good.”
Kit nods his head at me in a jerky motion. “Sure. Uh, I hope you sleep okay. I’ll see you in the morning. And keep your door closed if you don’t want to wake up with a cat sleeping on your head.”
“Got it,” I say, and we look at each other awkwardly. What I’d like to do is grab Kit by the lapels of the suit he doesn’t want me to burn, push him against the wall, and kiss the fuck out of him. That’s off limits, though, at least for now, so instead I stand here like a big idiot while Kit makes an equally awkward retreat, closing the door behind him.
With a sigh and a feeling of loss for something I never had in the first place, I walk to the bathroom to get myself ready for sleep.
I’m woken by pounding on my bedroom door. The first thought that filters through my head is wondering if it’s Dad and if it is, what’s set him off this time. My thoughts go to Kristoff then I remember where I am. I also notice the banging is on the bottom of my door at approximately cat height.
I get out of bed and open the door. Outside is an extremely round orange cat. He starts to waddle past me, but I catch him easily then pick him up. It’s like hefting a soft, furry bowling ball.
“What’s your daddy feeding you?” I ask the cat. “A steady diet of cheeseburgers?”
He meows at me in response, his body thrumming with a purr like an engine badly in need of a tune-up.
There’s a noise in the hall and I glance up to see Kristoff standing there, a frantic look in his eyes. All he’s wearing is another pair of those silk pajama bottoms. I can’t make out the color in the low light but it’s something dark.
“Your cat wouldn’t leave me alone,” I say. I should probably put him down, but I like his rumbly purr.
“He’ll probably sleep with you if you leave the door open,” Kristoff says. “Sorry he woke you up. He’s got bad manners because no one taught him any better. He was a stray kitten I found outside the building. He was starving and I was sure he’d die, but as you can see, he survived. He never learned how to cat, though, and he’s only got the one brain cell. Sorry.”
Kristoff is babbling and I find it unreasonably endearing. I can’t drag my eyes away from his broad, smooth chest. I want to unwrap him like a present then taste every single inch of his stupidly pretty body. It would probably take me all night but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
“What do I have to do to get you into my bed, Kitten?”
Kit freezes, every muscle in his body coiled tight. He stands there, seemingly waiting for something that doesn’t come. Eventually he says, without much conviction, “Don’t call me Kitten.”