Chapter 5
Chapter 5
A taraxia lasted for two weeks, two weeks in which Leo thought maybe his mind had finally snapped because the word kept replaying in his head. All he knew was that finding the perfect word to describe the feeling taking place inside him helped somehow, like releasing a pressure valve. He supposed this was why people went to therapy, something he had never ascribed to, to try and put words to the difficult feelings inside them. Maybe Esther would eventually find words for his traumatic childhood, lousy dating history, and cumulative work stress.
For two weeks they functioned as if they were a natural and normal part of the office. Esther worked on whatever odd project Ridge assigned to her, usually attempting to find a pattern or clue where a computer had failed. Leo hovered on the periphery, irritated to be out of the game, fascinated by her ability to see the invisible. Being a paramilitary organization, it didn’t take long for people to assign them a nickname—Sherlock and Watson. Leo was beyond chagrined to be the Watson. In his world he had never been the sidekick before, but perhaps that was why he had never played well with others—because he always insisted on being the star. Now that he had no choice in the matter, he realized it wasn’t so bad. And it wasn’t as if he brought nothing to the table. Esther couldn’t drive, was horrible at navigation, never had any idea where they were, and still had only warmed up to her coworkers the most incremental amount. By now everyone had decided to make allowances for her. Babs confessed to him one day it wasn’t so different from when they met Jane, Blue’s soon-to-be wife. She has social anxiety, too, Babs said furtively while Esther was in the bathroom.
Leo was glad they were using lenience for her quirks, but he had his doubts about social anxiety being the root cause of her issues. She wasn’t nervous, wasn’t shy, had no trouble speaking her mind when provoked. Rather it was more like she lacked a filter entirely, had no ability to temper her words to spare the hearer’s feelings. And yet, despite her inability to stop the words from coming, she was astute enough to realize the things she said weren’t correct. Leo, who spent more time with Esther than anyone, realized her heart was in the right place, even if her words weren’t. In time he hoped everyone else would realize it, too. And then he would be off the hook and able to move on to another assignment.
He was in good shape to transition away from her, so of course he had to screw it up.
He didn’t mean to get tanked, but then he never did. One drink turned into another and another. He told himself he had it under control, and then it was nine in the morning and someone pounded on his door.
He roused slowly, and then all at once. Esther. The job. Worse, The Colonel. It had finally happened; he had messed up so badly the man showed up at his house. What were the chances he could escape, could move away and start a new life? Not good; The Colonel had contacts in every country.
With dread, Leo wrenched himself from bed and stumbled to the door. He closed his eyes, took a painful breath, and opened the door.
“Esther.” She stood on the other side of the door, holding breakfast and coffee like any normal day.
“Leo,” she said. “May I come in?”
She remained on the doorstep, awaiting an answer. “Esther.”
“Leo.”
“How did you get here?”
“I called a taxi.”
“You called a taxi.”
“Yes, it was quite expensive.”
“You took a taxi to my house.”
“Yes.”
“How did you know where I live?”
“I know where everyone at work lives. I memorized the personnel files one day when I was bored.”
“You…mem…what else was in them?” he asked.
“Your social security number, military ID number, birthdate, height, weight, SAT score, college transcripts, and a bunch of notes written by former superiors. I didn’t read those, seemed too personal.”
“Right, you wouldn’t want to cross any boundaries,” he said, motioning to the empty hallway outside his apartment.
“Was that sarcasm?”
“Yes, Esther, that was sarcasm, big, fat sarcasm.”
She blinked at him. Sarcasm was beyond her reach; Leo had been careful not to use it. “Do you want me to go? I could find another taxi.”
He sighed. “No, I don’t want you to go, Esther. I want…” I want a redo on this day, on this life. I want to not be the guy who messes everything up. He scrubbed his face. “Ridge is going to love this.”
“How would he find out?” she asked.
“Because we’re not at work,” he said.
“I called and told him I would be late,” she said.
“You…call…when did you do that?”
“When you were late and didn’t answer your phone.”
“Huh.” He held up his arm. She ducked under and slid inside, holding out breakfast and coffee to him like an offering. He took them and sat at his table, such as it was, a broken heap he picked up eons ago. At least he had two chairs. Esther took the other seat uninvited and rested her face in her hands, staring at him while he chewed. He should probably be embarrassed about, well, everything. His life, his failure, his hovel apartment, his unwashed, hungover body. But there was no judgment in her gaze as she assessed him. Her expression was as blank as usual.
“Why did you come?” he asked after he polished off the exquisite coffee cake, his favorite, and tankard of coffee, made exactly as he liked it with lots of cream and sugar. As usual after she fed him, his head pounded slightly less, the day seemed less glum.
“You’re my keeper, Watson.”
He grimaced. “I thought maybe you weren’t aware of the nickname.”
“I’m aware of everything, Leo.”
“That you are,” he said, closing his eyes against the glare of the overhead light. Esther stood and turned it off.
“It doesn’t fit, though. Sherlock was the addict.”
“I’m not an addict,” he said, his tone more snappish than he’d ever used with her. She didn’t respond and the flat expression didn’t change. He sighed. “Yeah, okay, I’m an addict. But it’s under control, mostly, usually. Last night was a blip.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
His first inclination was to say no, but he remembered how much better he felt after she gave him a word. He craved release, the sort of vent those little sparks of connection gave him. “Yesterday was my father’s birthday.”
“Your father is dead,” she blurted. That information was in his personnel file, of course.
“As a doornail, thankfully. My father was…not a good man.” Which had been worse, the abuse or the neglect? Some of Leo’s earliest memories were of the pain his father inflicted. And then he left, disappearing as if he’d never existed, until Leo became a marine. Then he entered again, sick and decrepit, wanting absolution. Leo hadn’t given it. To this day he didn’t know if that was the right or wrong decision. Esther reached out and took his hand, holding on tight. “Give me a word, Esther.”
“Hamartia.”
“What does it mean?” he rasped, grasping her hand as if it were a lifeline. Maybe it was. No one else had ever sought him out, fed him, listened to his story.
“A flaw that causes the downfall of a hero,” she said.
The word was a double-edged sword. His father had been his hero because as much as Leo despised him, he also adored him. Or did she refer to him and his great and many flaws?
“Nepenthe,” she said, touching a finger to an empty whiskey bottle. “A tonic used to try and take away the pain.” She let go his hand and cupped his face. “Cingulomania.”
“What does that one mean?” he whispered, her face too close to his. He should back away, reassert their boundaries. But before he could act, she let him go and stood, turning her back to him as she began to clear the empty bottles from his counter.
“Go take your shower, Leo.”
“Don’t clean,” he said, standing.
“Of course I will,” she replied, her tone lacking inflection as usual.
He rolled his eyes at the back of her head. Cleaning was another step, another link between them. It was so…intimate.
“I saw that,” she said, tossing a handful of bottles and cans into the garbage.
“Of course you did,” he replied. He grabbed his phone and locked the door of the bathroom, leaning on it as he swiped his thumb over the device. It was nearly dead, had only enough battery to look up the word. Cingulomania: a strong desire to hold another person in one’s arms.
He set his phone down, turned on the water, and stepped beneath the spray.