14. Christopher
fourteen
An hour before my appointment with Emma, I’m in the kitchen, playing a game of Slap Jack with Skye. Alexandra breezes through, clearly coming out of a much-needed nap, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright, and a pillow mark on her forehead. No disaster from her in the bakehouse today. That’s a win.
She grabs a glass of water and plops herself on the couch in the TV area, then flips through her baking manual. Her feet are wrapped in thick socks, and she draws circles with her ankles as she twists a strand of hair in her fingers. Her head is tucked against the back of the couch. The front part of her is turned away from me, but I can fill it in from memory. From days of stealing glances at her.
She’s frowning.
Her lips move occasionally as she repeats definitions and proof times.
She closes her eyes periodically to help her focus.
Then she snaps them back open.
Her phone rings. “Hey, Grace!”
Grace included her in her group of friends, and from what I’m hearing, she fits right in. She’s been hanging out with them—a lot. She hasn’t had dinner here in several days, at least not with me. There are occasional dents in the leftovers, though.
Is she avoiding me outside of work?
She turns halfway around on the sofa. “He’s here. Do you want to—Okay…” She settles into her initial position, her back to me. “No, we’re—I mean, I’m not going out… Okay… Oh wow…. Is she going to be okay? I see… Oh…okay… No… I don’t know… I’ll let him know. I’m here all evening. I can look after her… Sure. I’ll ask Christopher what he wants to do. You take care of your mom.” She twists her head my way. “That was Grace. Apparently, she was supposed to babysit Skye tonight?”
I grunt, “Yes.”
Skye pulls a Jack, slaps her hand on the table, and swipes up the deck of cards.
Alexandra continues. “Her mom twisted her ankle, so she wants to stay with her to take care of her and run to the pharmacy. She said you were supposed to go out? She’s asking if you could drop Skye off at her mom’s place instead of babysitting here? I can totally babysit Skye. I told her you’d let her know.”
Shit. I should just take Skye with me to that meeting. It won’t be fun for her, being at Emma’s office, but it shouldn’t be more than an hour.
“She might expect a call or a text message?” Alexandra insists when I don’t answer.
Losing interest in our card game, Skye crosses her arms. “I want to stay with Alek-zandra.”
“Aunt Shannon makes the best elbow noodles,” I argue.
Skye sighs. “If Aunt Shannon twisted her ankle, then who will be cooking?”
“It’s not all about food, bug.”
“You said she made the best—”
“Skye. Enough.”
“Whaaaat?” she whines. “Can I just please stay home with Alek-zandra?”
“Alexandra has to study.”
Alexandra stops twirling her hair, lifts her arm, and lets her thick mane cascade down the back of the sofa. “That’s totally fine with me. I’d love the company.” Her arm stays bent over her head, and she keeps teasing her hair with her fingers.
My brain is suggesting creative uses for the sofa. Alexandra’s head is perfectly aligned with my hips, so there’s that. And there’s the fact that the back of the sofa is like a cushioned ledge on which her supple body would fit perfectly, on her belly or on her back, while I—
“Daddy! Can I stay home with Alek-zandra?” Skye says, making the point that I’m no fun by stuffing the deck of cards back in its sleeve.
“If Alexandra is sure.”
“Oh I’m sure! Come here, bug,” she says, using my nickname for Skye.
“I’ll keep it to an hour, promise.”
“Take all the time you need,” she answers.
Skye hurls herself into the sofa. “Can I watch a cartoon?”
“How about… we set up an art studio,” Alexandra says.
Skye’s eyes widen.
“Come on. Paints. Brushes. The whole shebang.”
“The whole shebang!” Skye cries as she gets all her stuff out.
“Um. You sure about this,” I ask Alexandra.
“Hundred percent. Go out. Have fun.”
Fun? “It’s a work meeting. Accountant.”
Her eyes fleet to me, something weird passing through them. “Oh. Well. Like I said. Go have fun.” Something in the way she says it doesn’t sit right with me, but I don’t have time to analyze any of this. I should get ready, shower, change, get the meeting over and done with.
An hour later, I’m outside Emma’s office. The lights are out, and no one answers the door. I call her cell.
“I’m home,” she says.
That’s weird. “Be right there. I misunderstood. I thought—Never mind.”
Emma lives in a big ass house she kept after her divorce. It’s outside of town, up on a hill, and you get there by a long dirt road covered in snow November through April. At least it’s been plowed today. But I’m over half an hour late for my appointment.
“Hey,” she says as I get there.
“Hey.”
There’s soft music and candles in the dining room.
“Shit. You’re expecting company. Sorry I’m late. I won’t be long, promise. Just need to look over those taxes.” I throw my coat on the hooks she has in her mudroom, take my shoes off, and head for her kitchen.
She lays her hand on my arm. “Come here, silly. You’re the company.” And she walks me to her living room.
There’s cheese on a board, two glasses of wine, a bottle of red. “Caroline here?” I ask, already knowing what her answer will be. I thought we were done with this shit. Guess not.
She smiles and bends over, grabbing the bottle of wine. “She’s at her dad’s. It’s just the two of us.” Yup.
She hands me my glass and we clink. “Happy Valentine’s,” she says.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
“God it’s good to be without the kids, right? I mean, I love my daughter and she’s my whole life but… well, she’s my whole life.”
Awww Christ.
She kicks off her shoes and scoots up next to me on the couch, her legs under her knees, which hikes her skirt up almost to where it would be indecent.
I reach for cheese and scoot farther away when I sit back.
But I think I know what’s coming. It wouldn’t be the first time. I run a hand through my hair, as if that’s going to help me figure how to get out of this.
My phone dings with the ringtone I’ve programmed for Alexandra. I pull it from my back pocket. It’s a photo of Skye painting, her tongue sticking out, focus written all over her face. I smile.
Emma clears her throat.
“Sorry,” I say and put my phone away.
“Was that the sitter? Is everything okay?” She scoots closer to me.
“Alexandra’s looking after Skye.”
“Ouch. Living the dangerous life.”
“What do you mean.”
“Nothing. Nobody’s perfect. Just saying, seeing how poorly she does at a baking apprenticeship she applied for, you gotta wonder how she fares at looking after your kid. You should—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m pretty sure, now, that Alexandra was forced to take the apprenticeship, and I respect her for that. For not being afraid to up and leave on very short notice. For leaving the big city life for the middle of nowhere. For trying to learn a skill she clearly has no talent for. Maybe even no interest in.
For still working hard at it.
Forget respect her. I admire her for that. “She’s great with Skye.” That’s maybe the most important part of it all, as far as I’m concerned.
“Well, brownie point.”
Okay. I gotta rip that Band-aid off.
“Look, Emma. You’re an amazing woman, a good friend, and a great accountant.”
She sighs and sets her glass on the coffee table with a loud clank. “I get it,” she bites out. She stands and smooths her skirt, grabs my file, and sits at the dining room table. “Alright, then. Let’s look at this.”
We go over my taxes for the next hour or so, maybe less. It feels like fucking forever.
Her eyes are shiny, and I feel bad for her. I really do. I believe everything I told her. She’s a great woman, and she deserves someone great in her life. That someone cannot be me. I feel nothing but friendship and respect for Emma.
I don’t feel anything else, and I don’t want to take advantage of her.
Sure, I’m lonesome, and she must be too. It’d be easy for me to slide into her bed. Right this minute, actually. She’s attractive and she has a lot going for her.
We’re finally done with our taxes. We both stand awkwardly. She licks her lips and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Chris. You mean a lot to me.” Before I know it, her head is on my chest, and she squeezes me.
“Sorry, Emma. I can’t be that person for you.”
“That’s why I love you. You’re so honest.”
I gently push her away. “Emma. You don’t love me. We’ve been through that already. Come on.”
I wonder if it’s cyclical with Emma. We do have this uncomfortable conversation every couple of years, after all.
I move to put my coat on.
“Can we still be friends?”
“Of course. Just friends, right.”
She hugs me again, and I pat her back in what I hope comes across as a friendly gesture, no misunderstanding.
Then I head home to the one woman I don’t want to be just friends with.