Chapter 8
THE CONFIDENCE POOLSIDE was short-lived. By their next meeting, Christine’s confidence dwindled proportionally to the success of her most recent session with Professor Dryer and Rafe. The two had forced her to run through the slide deck in front of the classroom. It’d been painful at best, but at least she hadn’t fainted. She could tell the two were going out of their way to be gentle with her, but the result left her feeling infantilized and barbed. She’d made matters worse by falling into a spiral of self-pity, which is where she was when she met with Erik.
Due to his insistence, she arrived in comfortable clothing. His precise instructions stated they’d focus on the physical aspects of overcoming stage fright, and she should wear yoga pants or leggings. This led to a comment about early gym classes from Cynthia, who could never keep her mouth shut. It was pouring rain, and she showed up looking disheveled. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a bushy ponytail, and she was wearing a t-shirt from a Gardner Opera youth outreach day and a pair of Target leggings with a rip forming along the hem. In contrast, he wore a tight black James Perse T-shirt and Seven for All Mankind jeans that showed off his toned physique .
“The good news is you know your material. You’re confident in your conclusion. What’s more, you have muscle memory for the content. You discussed it with me without pause when you weren’t thinking about it.”
“Why is that good news?” She stared at him sullenly. “I know the material, but I can’t get it out in front of your chauffeur.”
“First, Garret is significantly more than my chauffeur.” Erik sounded amused. “He’s more like my Alfred.”
“Does that make you Bruce Wayne?” she asked, intentionally not pointing out the several similarities between them.
“Second,” Erik talked over her, “it means we know what we’re working with here. You’re intelligent, and if you have the muscle memory to understand the information, you just need to create another to help you convey it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Breath control. Timing. Internal meter. Your mind can already operate on autopilot, but you freeze when your body gets in the way. You said your heart races? Your palms get sweaty?”
“Yes,” Christine admitted. “By the end of the first sentence, I’m dripping with sweat. Last week, my vision got blurry.”
Erik nodded as if her words confirmed his suspicions. “Fainting, or syncope, can happen from emotional triggers like the sight of blood, claustrophobia, and even stage fright. You get afraid, and your body overreacts. Your heart starts to race, and your body sends signals to slow it down. This causes your heart rate and blood pressure to drop”—Erik opened his hands—“and you pass out. I have a theory that you’re so primed to be scared, your heart starts racing even in preparation. You’ve trained your body to go into overdrive. Today, we’ll start training your body so you don’t get to where you’re prematurely overreacting to being onstage.”
“This sounds like CBS,” Christine muttered .
“CBS?”
“Cosmic bullshit.”
Erik bit off a laugh. “Well, be that as it may, nothing else you’ve tried is working. So put on your adult pants and give it a try.”
Christine complied with the attitude of a recalcitrant teenager. Erik ignored her attitude and forced her body into the position he wanted, pushing her shoulders back. He sat at the end of the piano bench, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Now, take a deep breath,” Erik requested.
“Is this a voice lesson or presentation prep?”
“Do as I tell you. Take a deep breath.”
“This feels stupid,” she complained under her breath.
“Do you want help or not?” His temper flared beneath his words.
“Fine.” Christine did as he told her and took a deep gulp of air.
“There’s no way you’re breathing like that every day.” Erik sounded exasperated.
“I’m nearly twenty-six years old. I cannot possibly be breathing wrong!” Christine exclaimed with disbelief.
“I refuse to believe you’re a mouth breather.” Erik stood abruptly, coming within a few inches of her body space. “Here.” Without asking, Erik pressed his hand against her stomach. “Now, take a deep breath through your nose. Slowly.”
Christine felt off-kilter from his nearness but did as he asked, taking what she thought was a long breath through her nose. He was looking down at her chest and while she knew his intent wasn’t lascivious, it caused her to flush self-consciously.
Erik shook his head. “Close your eyes.” Doubtfully, Christine’s eyes met his. “Please.” Christine sighed and did as he asked.
“Proper breathing starts in the nose and moves to the stomach. Feel the breath as it goes past your stomach. Your diaphragm should contract. Your belly will expand, and your lungs fill with air.” He pressed down. “Yes, like that.”
Lulled by the sound of his voice, Christine followed his instructions without thinking about it. She remembered that night in the elevator and how his voice, smooth and melodious, surrounded her like an evocative scent. She remembered thinking it was sexy.
Good Lord, it still was.
She inhaled through her nose as he pressed down on her stomach, guiding her to exhale automatically through her mouth. The scent of his shampoo, something with lavender, tickled her nose, and she unconsciously moved closer. His palm held firm against her shirt, and it grew hot like a brand on the skin beneath. Her heart should have been racing in reaction to his touch, but her breathing kept her body’s reaction in check, though a pleasant shiver climbed up her back.
“Very good. This is the most efficient way to breathe. It will also keep your throat moist, helping you when you speak. You’ve been psyching yourself out every time you get up to present, so your body is in fight-or-flight mode. By keeping your breaths slow, your heart will follow suit. If we can train your body properly, we can reset how you approach your public speaking.”
Christine was still focused on the deep breathing, but she wanted to talk and placed her hand on his, stilling the pressure. “You make it sound like my stage fright is a Pavlovian response.” She opened her eyes and was startled at how close Erik’s masked face was to hers. She could see his eyelashes and the faint white scarring on the skin beneath one of his eyes. She smelled the minty flavor of his breath. The urge to close the space between them made her heart pound, disrupting the calm he created with his voice and touch. Surely, he could feel it. Her mouth opened, and her eyes darted from his, breaking the moment.
Erik moved his hand from her stomach, and Christine backed away. She grabbed her water bottle in an effort to create space between them. As she took a sip, Erik watched her with an unreadable expression.
“I want you to practice your breathing every night for an hour in fifteen-minute increments and again while you’re going to sleep.”
Christine nodded. “What else?”
“I want you to give up caffeine. No coffee, tea, soda… nothing that can artificially increase your heart rate.”
“That’s going to be hard.” She looked at Erik and smiled at his glare. “I understand, though. I’ll cut back to decaf. Can I still have chocolate?”
“In moderation. Do you consume a lot of caffeine?”
“Coffee in the morning, sometimes a soda if I have to cram for a test or work late.”
“You’re going to have headaches for the next few days as you experience caffeine withdrawal. No Excedrin—it’s basically a caffeine pill. Make sure you drink lots of water and practice your breathing. It’ll help stave off the worst of the symptoms. So will cold compresses.”
Christine nodded, taking his advice seriously. “Rafe said something similar about caffeine.”
Erik looked up. “Rafe Cantor?”
“Yes, I met with him and my professor last week. He also mentioned coffee could cause my heart to race.”
“I see. I’m glad you have two people giving you commonsense advice. Maybe you’ll listen to him if you don’t listen to me.”
Christine looked at him, stung. “I am listening to you. I’m sorry if I wasn’t taking you seriously earlier. I promise to practice my breathing to reframe my ‘body’s response,’ as you put it, and whatever else you think will help me.”
“Good, I feared you weren’t taking this seriously.”
“I’ve been resistant, I’ll admit. What if all this is for nothing? What if we work together and I let you down?” She sat on the arm of the sofa, looking up at him with a sad smile.
“As long as you’re trying, you cannot possibly let me down.” He knelt on one knee and took her hand in his. “But if you anticipate failure, that’s exactly what you’ll get. I don’t want to waste your time with empty promises of what I can or can’t do for you. When all is said and done, you’re the one who must decide to succeed. If you decide to achieve your goals, you’ll set yourself up for success. Yes, you may fail, but if you prepare yourself to fail, that’s the only possible outcome.”
Christine contemplated the reality of his words. He was perfectly correct. Her mindset was creating a fait accompli. What was the harm in working toward the best outcome? She nodded and smiled at Erik tremulously, and his responding smile warmed her heart. Why, when he’d been both an untouchable hero and a temporary villain in her eyes, was he turning out to be such a source of comfort and burgeoning friendship?
As if on cue, a buzzer rang, breaking the warm moment. Erik’s body was tense as he stood and clicked the intercom button connecting him to his concierge.
“Yes, Joe?” He paused. “Reza? Shit. That’s right. Yeah, yeah, send him up.” Erik hung up the phone and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at her with his hands in fists. “Christine, that’s all we have time for this evening. I asked Reza to come over at 7:30, and it looks like he is” —Erik looked at his watch with an annoyed expression—“more than a bit early. ”
“Mr. Khan?” Christine blanched, remembering her last experience with him. Did Mr. Khan know about her arrangement with Erik? Would he approve? Would he bring up the paperwork?
“Yes—we had plans to…”
The elevator doors opened, and Reza entered, holding two growlers. “I know, I know you hate it when I’m early, but it’s pouring outside, and I sprinted here from the shop on Amsterdam Avenue. Did you order the pizza yet?” His gaze fixed on Christine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
“She’s not company,” Erik said quickly. “I’m helping Miss Derring with her thesis.”
“That’s still company even for a misanthrope like yourself.”
“I’m not really a misanthrope. I’m a shut-in. Very different.”
“You’ll have to explain that difference to me sometime. Is ‘not company’ joining us for Monday Night Football?” Reza Khan smiled warmly at Christine, suggesting he’d be pleased for her to stay.
Christine went from nervous to embarrassed to amused as she watched the unmistakably comfortable relationship between Erik Gardner and Reza Khan on display. Why had she assumed Erik lacked all society? Why had Reza seemed so terrifying before? It was clear to her these men had an enduring friendship. Something inside her loosened as she watched Erik unwind in his friend’s presence. Once more, she was reminded of that night in the elevator when, for a moment, he was…he was just lovely. Perhaps his kindness, his sense of humor had not been only in her imagination after all.
“No, she has to get home,” Erik said dismissively.
“Nonsense, you should invite her to join! It’s pouring outside.”
“I’ll have Garret drive her.” Erik’s tone was final and a bit cool. He turned to Christine with a polite smile that was nothing like the tender sincerity he’d gifted her before Reza arrived. “Let me call him. He’ll be happy to take you back to your apartment.”
“Thank you, Erik,” she said, confused at the change in his demeanor. She was sure there had been a moment of friendship in their previous conversation. The next moment, he turned off the warmth, and she was left in the cold, wondering what she’d done to deserve it.
“That was rude,” Reza said after Christine had left to meet the car downstairs.
“I got her a car,” Erik offered a tad defensively. “It’s not like I made her walk to the subway in the rain.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. Why didn’t you invite her to join us?”
Erik shrugged and poured a beer from one of the growlers Reza had brought. “It’s football night.”
“That’s a lame answer. You let Sarah join us sometimes.”
“Sarah’s your wife. Christine’s no one to me.”
“What the hell are you doing, Erik?” Reza asked. “Are you so determined to be alone?”
That was unfair. He knew he was a recluse by necessity, but that didn’t mean there were no people in his world. Garret and Reza were his most frequent contacts. There was his Aunt Marie and cousin Meg, who he spoke to less often but were still family. There was also his mother. He called her once weekly and talked with her for fifteen minutes—should she decide to pick up the phone that week.
And there were others, people who signed ironclad NDAs and had been well vetted by his private investigator, primarily doctors, physical therapists, and the occasional specialist. They were all pleasant enough to speak with.
It was almost enough to disguise loneliness, to make seclusion seem like a choice instead of a requirement. He’d told Christine about his enforced reading time the previous week. The truth was, he sequestered himself into various rooms of his home for set times each day to make it seem these seclusions were part of a fastidious schedule as opposed to what they really were—filling time so as not to go mad on his own.
Exercise: 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.—cardio and weights.
Breakfast: 7:00 a.m. to 7:30 a.m.
Shower and get dressed: 7:30 a.m. to 8:00 a.m.
Work: 8:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.
Lunch: 1:00 p.m. to 1:30 p.m.
Work: 1:30 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.
Reading: 5:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.
Music: 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.
And so on.
And, depending on the day, swimming, jogging, conference calls, weekly dinners with Garret, Jets games with Reza…each activity kept him from having time for self-pity and loneliness.
If there were instances where he was tempted to continue with one activity longer than the schedule called for, he denied himself. He was afraid if he gave in to his desire to adjust his daily schedule even marginally, it would all go to hell. He’d return to those dark days when he lay staring at nothing, reacting like a broken creature to anyone who dared to express concern about his well-being. His way of living was necessary to keep the worst of his demons at bay. This way, he didn’t have time to be depressed. He kept himself too busy.
Christine Derring—Monday evenings, 5:30 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.
Christine was a new calendar entry, that was all. That’s not necessarily odd. Things came up that could disrupt anyone’s schedule temporarily. That’s what Christine was, a passing addition to his life. That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy her presence, but he couldn’t let himself get too used to it, or it would derail all the work he’d done to get healthy. Variety in and of itself wasn’t a problem.
But another human being entering his fragile ecosystem could get dangerous quickly.
He liked Christine. Admittedly, he didn’t know her well yet, but she was smart, funny, and beautiful. He liked that she found inspiration in the mundane and used it to create connections others might not see. He could see her ambition, but it wasn’t unprincipled, or she would’ve taken the money he offered. Yes, she was prone to self-doubt and panic, but he admired her work ethic. Gus had always said he’d never known anyone who tried as hard as his daughter.
He wanted to know her better—and that was the problem. He wanted to see who she was outside the humor and ambition. And he wanted her—intensely. God—when he touched her stomach, he got hard, the urge to caress her all over clouding his senses. When she looked at him with those light-blue eyes, his gaze dropped to her lips. It would have been so easy to kiss her. He could have wrapped his hands around her waist and crossed the gap of inches between them…
That was the risky part—that was the part outside the schedule. At 7:01 p.m., she needed to be gone. If he invited her to stay, then she could leave without warning. There was no way she’d stay forever. She was the kind of person who’d ask for more, even if he didn’t have any more to give. Eventually, she would leave. If he lost control over that, the pain would be unfathomable.
“What do you think is happening here, Reza?” Erik finally asked his friend. “Because I see myself helping Gus Derring’s daughter as he would have wanted me to. Did you think there was something more going on?”
“And will you ever tell her you knew her father?”
There was a twinge of guilt over keeping that information private. “I see no reason to upset her. This is a short-term arrangement. By this time next year, my only connection to Christine Derring will be via the annual company Christmas card.”
“If you say so.” Reza drank his own beer, shaking his head at Erik.