20. Dysfunctional Dance
dysfunctional dance
Mirren
Please let the man be baiting me. How do you confuse Pat Benatar songs when the reference is so spot on?
Strider
You’re too young for that reference.
Mr. Anderson, are you fishing?
Your brother is my age, but those songs are your parents’ generation. How do you know it?
My parents always had music on while we were growing up. Besides, I saw 13 Going on 30.
Um, hold that thought.
It’s not a full minute before his next message.
That movie is as old as you.
Again with the fishing. I’m twenty-seven, thank you very much.
My phone rings, and it scares me enough to fumble it, answering it as it tumbles. “Shit. Damn. Hold on.”
The chuckle that rumbles through the line vibrates along my sternum as I collect my phone.
“Hey.” I’m surprised and annoyed, so why do I sound breathless?
“Hey, baby,” his smooth, rich voice replies. “Did you have a good day?”
Not really. No.
I told my dad about you.
“It was fine.”
He’s silent on the other end of the line for longer than I’m comfortable with. “Strider?”
“That’s the last time, Freckles.”
“Last time what?”
“That’s the last time you lie to me. Next time, I’m gone.” There’s no way to describe his tone other than cold, lethal. “Wholly, completely, absolutely without another thought or another chance. Gone.”
Well, that took a turn.
I want to get my back up. I want to be angry at the way he speaks to me. And I am, but I know the other thing warring in his voice. It’s pain.
“Tell me—” I don’t offer an apology, even if I should, because it wasn’t a lie.
It wasn’t me trying to deceive so much as it was trying to not say I struggled dropping off a man I hardly know, feeling like a piece of my soul was shredded as it was ripped away from me, especially after just a handful of days.
“You’ve said it before, that you hate lies, but I want to know why.
Who lied to you? And what was it about? Your reaction is… visceral.”
His exhale is so deep and so swift, it’s audible. “I have an autoimmune condition. My body attacks my blood. It’s serious.”
Shit. If I had to guess one hundred times where he would go, I’d never have started here. I’d assumed a girl. “Okay.”
“My parents didn’t want to worry me, so they lied to me when they got the diagnosis.
I didn’t even know I was sick until I was eleven.
Years they kept me out of school, or fed me pills, or controlled my behavior through some kind of complicated half-truths.
They said they didn’t want me scared, but… ”
“Since they were probably scared.”
“What?” Surprise laces his tone.
“I can only guess, but if they were trying to make sure you weren’t afraid, they must’ve been, must’ve wanted very much for you not to worry the way they were.”
“That’s—” He pauses for a moment. “I guess that’s a possibility. I’ve never considered it.”
“It’s a guess, but I think we always protect people from what we’re afraid of, not what they might be.”
“But they lied. Repeatedly. For years, Mirren.”
“What’s it called?”
“Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia.”
That’s not good.
“I can’t abide liars,” he says firmly but quietly through the phone.
“I understand. I’m sorry. I was being casual and flippant, not trying to deceive you.”
“Right.”
Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa. “All due respect, I apologized. I don’t need a lecture or a lesson.”
“Okay.”
With nothing more than that, he disconnects the call.
Ass!
Strider
Hitting dial, I prepare for call number two. Maybe this one will be better. Call me crazy but that convo was shit from start to finish. Let’s start again.
I get voicemail. Dialing again, I get the same result.
Fuck!
Answer the phone, Freckles.
Mirren
Don’t call me that.
Answer the phone.
No. I tell you what you don’t want to hear and you hang up? Screw that.
Boy, I fucked up.
Baby, I was starting our conversation over. No lies. No big reveals around diseases. No anger.
Yeah, the no anger part was a fail. You’re pissed, and so am I.
What do you have to be pissed about?
Pissed at myself, not you.
When she doesn’t respond, doesn’t let me off the hook, I weigh my options. Annoy her and look pathetic or annoy her and look like a man who doesn’t respect her boundaries.
Goodnight, Freckles. Sweet dreams.
There’s no response. I’m left on read which is such a fuck you when what I want is connection.
I left the woman of my dreams this morning and came home to bleak and dreary. Sitting here, wishing I could be holding her, her house, my house, her apartment, a hovel—it wouldn’t matter. And now I’ve managed to piss her off so thoroughly that she won’t respond and I have no way of making it right.
Seriously, my options are to call her brother. That’s a hell no. Or send flowers. That’s a bit much on day one and comes off desperate. Flying back reeks of stalker and is eighteen steps too far. No, I fucked up and I’m stuck sitting in it.
Instead, I do what I rarely do, pour myself a stiff drink and stare at the wall.
And it’s the same position I’m in when I wake up for work this morning. Fully clothed, drink in hand resting on the arm of the sofa, crick in my neck so bad that you’d think I slept on a plywood floor.
Checking my phone for the time, I find it dead. It’s like Monday exploded all over me. I plug it in when I start the coffee and head for a shave and a shower, hoping the hot water will loosen whatever is happening in my neck and back.
It works a little, and, as I wrap the towel around my waist and put my glasses in place to grab coffee, I’m reminded about the jolt I felt when Mirren collapsed into my chest in that hotel room.
Blood flows south, and I groan, both at the sweetness and sunshine that she is, and at the mess I’ve made of things.
How long do I wait before sending another text? I’m interested. She needs to know that and that I’m not going anywhere, and not in a creepy way.
Mug of coffee poured, I check my email. It’s a bad habit, but I like knowing if there are any fires prior to getting to the office.
The problem is with more than a week out of the office, I have everything from mundane weekly reports to accounting questions to the unnecessary carbon copies to the frivolous, like next week’s Thanksgiving potluck, or “follow ups” from the conference last week..
Oh, and five hundred more just because I was gone.
No fires. No emergencies. Electric Peoria is a well-oiled machine.
I’m heading into the office when my phone rings in my truck.
“Hello?”
Mom’s soft, melodic voice comes through the speakers. “Morning, Strider. How was your trip?”
Life changing is what I want to say. “Good. It was a nice break. I’ll be paying for it all day today though.”
“That’s always the case with time off. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
Oh, it was worth it all right.
“Well, if you want to come in and sort out the crew, I wouldn’t argue.”
She makes a sound halfway between a tsk and a blowoff. “It’s yours now. Your father and I showing up would… Never mind.” She pauses and I swear I can hear the wheels turning. “Do you need us?”
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the dysfunctional dance of a sick kid with a worried mom.
“No, Mom. I’m fine. Inundated by emails and a busy week ahead, but nothing’s wrong.”
The air leaving her lungs shouldn’t be this audible. “Okay then. That’s good to hear. Have a great day, okay?”
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Did you call to see if I was okay or was there something else?”
“Oh. Goodness gracious I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached,” she continues.
Not true.
“Liam and Lorien invited us to Colorado for Thanksgiving. Can you join us?”
Shit. That’s next week.
“Let me look at my calendar. But plan on going. I’ll do what I can.” Putting the truck in park, I grab my coffee mug and messenger bag with my laptop.
“We don’t want to leave you if you can’t go.”
And there it is. “Mom, go. You and Dad enjoy. You need it, and Lorien would love to have you there to help plan the wedding. Go. I’ll figure things out.”
“But—”
“No buts. Plan it. I’m heading into work now. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Strider.” Her voice is quiet, and there’s an extra second before she disconnects.