Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Flynn
“How was Pilates?” Rupert asks when I poke my head into his office after changing out of my unitard.
“What exactly do you do?” I step inside and collapse onto his sofa. “I mean, you put on a suit every day. But why?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t aware there was a performance review today,” he says, leaning back in his desk chair while adjusting his loose tie.
“I think I fucked up,” I say.
“Of course, you did.” He smirks. “But you’ll have to be more specific.”
I flop onto my back, and stare at the ceiling with my hands folded on my chest. “Who died?”
Crickets.
I turn my head to look at him.
He steeples his fingers under his chin. “Why do you ask?”
“I hate that question,” I grumble, returning my focus to the ceiling. “It’s such a stupid question. Obviously if someone asks a question, they do it because they want to know the answer.”
“Let me rephrase. What makes you think someone died?”
“I was trying to figure out why your wife would want to kill herself—”
“I never said she wanted to kill herself.”
“Dude”—I sit up—“you said I needed to inspire her to live. I know I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I’m not the dumbest either.”
He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “Some people just exist. They wake, go through the same boring routine, sleep, and do it all over again the next day. And the day after, and the day after. They exist. And they do it with no inclination not to exist. But that’s not living.”
“So Mrs. Rawlings is boring, and you want me to inspire her to be more exciting?”
He studies me for several seconds before shaking his head.
“I hate being kept in the dark. That’s how I fuck up. And this morning I asked Mrs. Rawlings if she wanted to kill herself.”
He winces.
“It’s not my fault. You blackmailed me into taking this position, as if a muse is an everyday job. Then you made me think she’s suicidal, but no other explanation. You’re a shitty communicator.”
He squints at me.
I clear my throat. “Respectfully.”
“Well”—he frowns like he’s mocking me—“if you say respectfully after insulting someone, it makes everything okay.”
“Is it your son?”
“My son?”
“Did your son die? Thinking back, I had a conversation with Mrs. Rawlings about him. It wasn’t a long one. But when I asked where he lived, she said, ‘Wherever he wants.’ And that seemed a little weird. But now that I think about it, maybe she meant his spirit. Like a ghost or something.”
Mr. Rawlings twists his lips to the side for a second. “I can see how you might think that.”
“So did he die? God, I’m not trying to be insensitive. If he died, that’s tragic. But tragedy is part of life. You wouldn’t be the first people to have lost a child. But when you keep everything a secret, it makes it impossible for everyone around you not to fuck up and say the wrong thing.”
His forehead wrinkles, and I think that’s my answer. Now I feel like an asshole for a second time. If he cries, I’m outta here.
“A week after my eleventh birthday,” I say, “I was placed in a new foster home. The couple had lost their only two children in a school bus accident like a year or two earlier. I’m not sure why they thought fostering a child was a good idea.
The wife got tears in her eyes every time she looked at me.
And her husband told me to just mind my own business and stay out of the way unless I could do something other than make her cry.
Sometimes I see that same sadness in Mrs. Rawlings’ eyes. ”
“How long were you with that couple?” he asks.
“A few weeks. I made the mistake of going into their son’s bedroom and playing with his toys.”
“Then what happened?”
I pull down the neck of my shirt and point to a surgical scar. “Broken clavicle. Fell down the stairs.”
His gaze stays on my chest even after I let go of my shirt. “She pushed you down the stairs?”
“No. I tripped and fell while making a mad dash because I was afraid of what they might do. Experience taught me to assume the worst.”
His eyes shift, meeting my gaze and blinking slowly. “Our son’s name is Seth. He’s alive, but we haven’t heard from him in seven years.”
“Why?”
“Because”—he clears his throat and turns in his chair, so he’s staring out the window instead of at me—“his two-year-old son died on our watch.”
Jesus …
I run my fingers through my hair and lace them behind my head. Then I open my mouth to respond, but I have nothing. Less than nothing. What’s the response to that? It’s okay? No. The kid is dead. It’s not okay.
“Some things feel unforgivable,” he mumbles just above a whisper. “This is one of them. It’s not a misunderstanding or petty fight. He lost everything. And now we have too.”
I slowly shake my head and stand. “Mr. Rawlings, I-I can’t make this better for her or you or anyone.
Whatever you think I can do, I can’t. I’m not your son.
I can’t bring your grandson back. There is nothing special about me.
You know this. I’m a fuck-up just trying to keep my head above water.
And everything that comes out of my mouth is stupid, and probably hurtful even if I don’t mean for it to be.
So this isn’t going to work. I can’t be—”
“Flynn,” he says, turning toward me. “Have you ever heard the phrase, throw anything at the wall until it sticks?”
I nod.
“Well, that’s what I’m doing because I’ve lost my grandson, daughter-in-law, and my son.
I can’t lose my wife too. But that’s what’s been happening.
Every day, she continues to disengage from our life together.
Every smile feels forced. But for you, she’ll get out of bed.
She’ll go to Pilates and matinees. And for your new female friend, she’ll make tea and wear her best smile.
A real smile. I’m not asking you to replace anyone we’ve lost.” He sighs slowly, shaking his head.
“I’m just asking you to give her a new focus.
And I don’t care if you don’t know what you’re doing. Just keep … doing it.”
Screw the money. I don’t want this. My whole life has been doom and gloom. One tragedy after another. What if I give him back what’s left of the money and ask to call it even?
“If you think I’m doing a good job, then why the stupid Pilates getup? Why give me shit about the cat?”
He offers a sad smile. “Maybe you’re my muse too.”
I wrinkle my nose. “How’s that?”
Shrugging, he opens his laptop. “When I look at you, I see how far I’ve come.”
“Uh, thanks. I guess. I’m not sure it’s a compliment.”
“It’s not.” He smirks, tapping the keys. “But I wish my dad would have joked around with me.”
“I don’t need a dad,” I say.
“Maybe I’m not doing this for you.”
I sigh. What do I say to that? “Mrs. Rawlings told me to ask you if you want me to do anything else today. I think I’ve depressed her enough that she’s done with me.”
“Bring the girl back over. That’ll cheer her up.”
“Now? Her parents are in town. She’s bikini shopping with her mom.”
Rupert eyes me over his keyboard. “Lucky you.”
I roll my eyes.
“Whenever she’s free is fine.”
I nod and turn, but then I make the stupid decision to face him again to ask for his advice when deep down I know he will not offer me anything helpful. “How long did you wait to have sex with Mrs. Rawlings when you met her? If, uh … ya don’t mind me asking.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Jesus, we just went over this.”
He chuckles, closing his laptop again. “I waited until our third date.”
“So like … a couple weeks or so?”
“No. When we met, she flat-out told me she wouldn’t even consider having sex with a guy until at least the third date.
So I asked her to breakfast before she had class.
Then I waited outside of her apartment with a bag of fried chicken for lunch—date number two.
And that night, I took her for pizza and roller skating—date three. ”
“Three dates in one day?”
His grin oozes pride as he nods.
“So you had sex with her that night?”
“Bingo.” He winks and makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “When you know, you know.”
“What happened to taking it slow so a girl knows you’re interested in more than just her body?” I ask.
“Nothing happened to it. Some of us don’t have to work as hard as others.
Does your friend have you waiting longer than you want?
All in the name of taking it slow? If so, you should respect that about her.
But also … that’s probably not a good sign for you.
Some other guy’s going to shove you aside and do all the things right that you’re doing wrong. ”
Again, I roll my eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I turn and leave his office. But just in case he does know, I head straight to June’s apartment to stick my dick in her, like a flag on a new frontier.
When I get to her place, I press the buzzer.
“Hello?” she answers.
“It’s me, Juju.”
She giggles. “Don’t call me that. It sounds weird coming from you. Come on up.”
By the time I reach the top of the stairs, she’s waiting for me with the door open. “Hey—”
I cut her off with a kiss, sealing my mouth firmly to hers. Tongue sliding past her lips. She grips my arms to steady herself as I back her into the apartment and kick the door shut behind us.
A deep noise, another man clearing his throat, pulls me away from her. She gasps for a breath, brown eyes wide with surprise. Behind her, Henna and Bodhi eye us from the sofa.
Fuck my life.
“Still staying out of my daughter’s pants?” her dad asks.
June bites her lips together as if she’s dying to smile but showing restraint. Henna winks at her daughter when June stands in front of me, facing them.
“I, uh …” I rub my eyes. “I’ll come back.”
“No.” June faces me, nose wrinkled.
“Baby, let’s take a walk,” Henna says to Bodhi.
As they pass us, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, not opening them until I hear the door click shut.
“What a pleasant surprise,” June says with a little giggle.
I open my eyes. “This is not my day.”