Chapter Ten

Like with Zevi, I found myself avoiding the subject of Baron with Rachel and was decidedly uncomfortable about the fact. And when I asked myself why, it didn’t make me feel any better. There were things that would make her raise her eyebrows and press me for more information. 

At least I understood why I hadn’t told Zevi. While it didn’t make me feel any better about myself, I understood. I didn’t want him to be jealous. I didn’t want him to push me. I didn’t want him to know how out of the running he was. Which made me feel scummy and duplicitous.

My lack of telling Rachel was more worrisome, however. Zevi was understandable, Rachel was purposeful. The way she’d tip her head and say, “how old is he? Has he ever asked you what you do for work? Did he ever apologize for making you go out late? What did he say he liked about you? What did he say his intentions were?” 

I couldn’t begin to think of how to convey to Rachel how safe Baron made me feel. And how homey. Like he was the neighborhood made man. Someone who held my history. How when he touched me, he steered and I didn’t have to worry any more about where I was going or what direction to take. If she’d been a fly on the wall for our conversations she would say he was invasive and nearly a stalker. It didn’t feel like that to me though. It felt like care and interest. That he was taking the time to get to know me. She would say he’d used intimidation tactics against me. I would say that was just who he was. 

I would tell her all that and she would think I was making excuses. Or not believe that I saw him as a leader and a worthy man. That he was everything I admired and why would I not want that near me. And what was wrong with emulating someone and being romantically involved with him?

Baron had texted me once. Just to say thank you for joining him for dinner. I rather liked the old-fashionedness of that. Trying to think of how to make further contact. After nearly a week, I finished the second round of things he’d asked for. I told Rachel I was taking a long lunch. Stopped to get coffee for Baron and I, and then went to his office. 

The lights were on this time. I could hear him speaking from his office so I just sat in the front room. Listening to him talking. Holding the cardboard tray of coffee and keeping my legs still so I didn’t juggle it. 

I saw the little camera in the corner scan over me. Lifted one hand in a wave. I wasn’t actually sure if he controlled it internally, but it seemed like that was likely. I heard chair legs scraping in his office and the door creaking open. Baron began leading somebody out to the door. He nodded briskly at me without looking. 

He closed the door behind his client and then turned to me. 

“Elsbetta,” he said.

“Baron,” I answered, holding his cup out to him. 

He took it, prying off the top to check it, and then smiled at me. 

“What can I do for you today?” he asked.

“I just thought you could use a pick me up by this point in the day. I have some proofs for you to look over as well.”

“Were you looking for an excuse to come see me?” he teased.

“Yes,” I said simply, making him laugh. 

“You don’t need an excuse,” he said. “Just come to me.”

He sipped his coffee, staring down at me in the flimsy little seat. His hand in the side pocket of his jacket, the styrofoam cup dwarfed in his palm. 

“You could come over for dinner tonight,” I said, after the silence became unbearable for me. 

“You cook?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m an adult who lives alone. Who else would make my food?”

“Many people never bother to learn the skill,” he said, shrugging and being quiet.

“Well?” I finally prompted.

“That sounds wonderful,” he sighed. “But I’m buried, Elsbetta.”

“You’ll always be buried,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You can work just as well in my dining room as you can here. Finish things while I make dinner. After dinner, I can help you. Are we or aren’t we going to put our familiarity to the test?”

He laughed again, head back. I liked how when he laughed, he let loose. His voice came naturally from the very center of his chest, and his laugh did too– sounding like a rock fall. I also liked it because I never saw anyone else make him laugh like I did. 

“All right,” he said. “You’ve made yourself enough of a nuisance that I’ll capitulate.”

I grinned at him and stood up. Mission successful, I said to myself. 

When I got back to the office, I was mentally cataloging what I’d have to do when I got home. Both dinner prep and clean up. Though he kept himself very neat, his work space certainly wasn’t. I decided I wasn’t too worried about scrubbing down the house. But I did want to make him a nice working space. My ‘home office’ was actually just what had been a pantry, before my apartment was split into a duplex. I had mounted a fold-up desk to a wall and then I could shut the Venetian doors when it was strapped up. That really wouldn’t be an option for him. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if his shoulders would fit in the space, or he’d be comfortable on my little rolling chair that I slammed into a corner of my kitchen when it wasn’t in use. I did have a dining room table though, and that would be good enough for him to work at for the evening, at least. 

I was also thinking about how I’d have to sweep away the various things littering the side of my bed– silk rollers, lotion, oil, lip mask. The nightgown and bonnet tucked under my pillow. I knew I was being both slutty and overly optimistic to be thinking of my bedroom. But purposefully or not, my mind kept sliding in that direction. 

“Good afternoon with Zevi?” Rachel asked from her office, interrupting my mental to-do list. 

“Um,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek. Of course, she'd assumed it was Zevi. He was showing up semi-frequently to have a quick bite to eat with me. Or bring me back empty jars, or drop off candy. 

I stopped biting my cheek, making the decision to stop evading her.

“No,” I called back.

“No, not nice?” she asked, standing up and looking around the doorway of her office.

“No, not Zevi,” I said. “I um… I had some work I wanted Baron to look over, so I brought some coffee too.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “How’s that going?”

“I’m glad you introduced us… Officially,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she repeated. “And how’s that going?”

“He asked me out last weekend,” I said in a rush.

“And what did you say?” she asked. 

She would occasionally put on this toneless tone, this flatness to her aspect that made for quite a poker face. When I saw that I could more clearly picture her in a courtroom. What she’d do and how she'd do it to make someone say what they ought not to. 

“I said yes,” I said. “Of course,” I added after too long a pause. 

“Do you remember when you had food poisoning?” she asked me.

I started gnawing on my cheek. Feeling the edge of an old cut starting to give. Knowing if I kept going, I’d start to bleed. Swapping to the other side.

There had been a series of dumb decisions, which I blamed on my period. I’d felt sick and miserable– I was often lightly sick and miserable, but this was worse. A date had fallen through the week before. I’d royally screwed up notes for Rachel before a convention. I was exhausted, in a great deal of pain, and having weird cravings I didn’t usually have. In a fit of pique, I got myself several cheeseburgers at a diner I’d never been to before. Which promptly gave me horrific food poisoning. 

I’d gone into work, though, so mortified by my fuck-up earlier in the week that I was trying to make up for it. I’d shown up even earlier than usual– about four hours than I could possibly expect Rachel. Hoping to both clean things up and get a head start on the next tasks as well. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop gagging and throwing up. 

There was still a little bathroom left over from the salon. A toilet, a shampooing sink, and tons of shelves that used to hold supplies. Instead of sitting at my desk, I brought my laptop into the bathroom. I lay on the floor beside the toilet, working on the laptop. When I felt the urge to throw up (approximately every twenty minutes) I simply sat up, leaned over the toilet and hurled. Then I’d lay back down on the blessedly cool linoleum and keep working.

When Rachel came downstairs, that’s how she found me, face in the toilet, hand on my keyboard. She drove me home, threatening to take me to urgent care instead, while I cried weakly, more embarrassed than anything else. 

“That taught me something about you that I had guessed,” she said gently. “I knew you were a hard worker. You’re a self-described hard worker. But I guessed at something a little more than that– something closer to martyrdom than mere work ethics. Speaking of ethics, you’re especially susceptible to leaning into the hero you’ve created. And so I told myself, ‘don’t take advantage of this, don’t run this woman down just because she’s willing to do it.’ I’ve made that mistake. I don’t want you to make that mistake.” 

My teeth worked into my cheek, but I turned away from her, pretending to roll my eyes. 

“I’m listening, sis, but I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” I said, attempting to be airy and sarcastic. 

“You expect the best from yourself and you still think everyone is better than you,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at me. Raising her voice to make me listen and pay attention to her and stop looking away. “And you have no wariness, no inborn suspicion. But Betta… don’t assume that other people don’t see what I see. And more importantly, don’t assume they won’t abuse it when they do see it.” 

“Okay-y,” I sighed, ducking my head behind my computer screen. 

I played it off, but I was uneasy. I had expected a lecture from her. I hadn’t expected that. 

By the time I got home, though, I was back to excitement. Fluttering around, making the work space. I also had guessed he’d want something more ‘traditional’ or ‘substantial’ for dinner than what I usually made. So I grabbed the bus outside the office to the nearest grocery store. Getting green beans and a tenderloin. I was pretty sure my usual ‘big salad’ or ‘mostly vegetable’ entrées wouldn’t cut it with him. Wondering idly how long it took for somebody to get used to digesting animal fat again. Not that I didn’t eat meat– I did. Just infrequently. And when I did, I was more inclined to fish than beef or pork. Just thinking about what it would be like to be doing three meals a day with him. 

When he finally knocked, I flew to the door. Later than I’d been expecting him. But then, of course, it seemed like he kept later hours than me. He probably just needed less sleep than me. 

“Good evening,” he said gravely as he came in. Once more feeling older than he was just because of the way he spoke and carried himself. 

I pointed behind myself to the table. Having also brought over a lamp to illuminate the work space.

“Do what you need to do. I’ll get dinner started,” I said. 

I started to turn to go back into the kitchen when he plucked at the yoke of the apron I was wearing. 

“I like this,” he said, chuckling as he walked by me, setting his briefcase on the table. 

I laughed, frisking away and going into the kitchen. Keeping an ear perked for him. The sound of his keyboard. Marking how hard he hit his space bar. How dead-quiet his pauses were. The soft and silken sound of the extra-fine pen he used as it tore across paper. The mellow sound of his phone frequently going off. Listening to how he turned it on the tabletop to see what it was and then slid it back again. 

I would like this, I thought. The peace and quiet and lack of loneliness of being together like this. Listening to him working. Rinsing vegetables. Pouring cream into potatoes and hearing him shift. 

“Smells like it’s about time for me to take a break,” he called.

“Just about,” I said, laughing back, peeking around the doorway at him. He’d since put on glasses that I didn’t know he had. Like everything else about him, that was supposed to project professionalism or something less primitive; it did the opposite. Looking a little too small and civilized on his face. He carefully cleaned up files and his laptop, leaving them piled on the chair beside him, and then joined me in the kitchen. Offering to grab plates and glasses and utensils. I helped him set the table, even lit a candle. I did that often enough for just myself eating that it didn’t seem all that weird. 

We sat opposite each other and I handed him a napkin. He sighed, snapping it open, just like at the restaurant. 

“This is about the treatment I was expecting from you,” he said, smiling at me across the table. “But somehow still a little better.”

I laughed nervously, ducking my head again. We ate quietly for a minute or a little less. He reached across the table, hand resting over my knuckles.

“This is good,” he said. “This is very nice.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “And I was thinking the same thing.” 

“This is certainly far preferable to eating a burrito from down the street over my desk as the rest of Main goes dark,” he said.

“I’m sure it is,” I agreed. Wondering what he could possibly be eating from that part of the neighborhood that would fill him up. 

“Far more peaceful,” he said. “More satisfying. Maybe even more productive.” 

I wiggled in my seat, flattered. Believing his praise more than anyone else because he didn’t often give it. 

“We could do this often,” I pushed gently. 

“Perhaps,” he said. 

We finished dinner leisurely. Talking about work and the day. Talking about what he was doing, what he needed to finish. He sighed, pushing his glasses up the crown of his head. 

“You take on too much,” I said, taking his now empty plate from him and piling it on mine. 

“Who else will do it, if not me?” he asked rhetorically. 

I shrugged, clearing up the table. Scooping up my apron off the back of the chair to do dishes. Handing him his work back.

“I’ll come help, if you need, after I finish clean-up,” I said. 

“Thank you,” he said, re-opening the file he’d been working on.

“Coffee or tea?” I called from the kitchen.

“Coffee, dear,” he answered. 

I almost fell into the sink over ‘dear.’ Heart pounding as I filled up the kettle for water. I heard him laughing as I finished the dishes and started grinding beans.

“What?” I said, looking out at him sitting at my table. Re-infatuated just by seeing him sitting at my little pine dinette. 

“Are you making me fresh coffee?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said, wiping my hands on the skirt of my apron, confused by his laughter. Resting his palm on his chest, he looked at me seriously for a second. In an evaluating sort of fashion that he often did. 

“This,” he said, gesturing at the whole of me with a sweeping motion of his free hand. “Is the right way to do familiarity.” 

I blushed once more and danced back to the kitchen, unable to take his gaze any more. Pulling together a tray for coffee. I sat opposite him, again, about to set out cream and sugar, when he patted the chair beside him. I got back up, so I could sit closer to him, as directed. He pushed my glass toward me, handing me the sugar first and then taking a spoonful for himself. 

“This is just right,” he said, spoon clinking against the glass. 

“Oh, I like my coffee better like this too–” I began saying.

“No,” he said, reaching out under the cover of the table and resting a palm over my knee closest to him. “I should have said you’re just right.” 

Quickly, I lay my hand on his. Because he so often only made fleeting contact, never long or deep enough for me. My whole knee cap was lost in his palm, his fingers dangling against my shin. I looked up and sideways at him, trying to decode what that searching look he was giving me was. I’d expected softness after that declaration. But no, still a studying depth in his eyes. 

“I try hard to be right,” I said. Because I knew he was waiting for a response. “I want to be the right one for you.” 

He chuckled, hand closing more firmly on my knee.

“That’s the sort of softness I was expecting from you,” he said, still laughing quietly. “There’s no ‘one’ Elsbetta– just right or wrong.” 

I frowned, but quickly wiped it away. 

“I do approve of how seriously you take things,” he said, turning back to work. 

“Do you need help tonight?” I asked.

“Hmm,” he said. Then pushing a sheaf of paper toward me. “Spot-check this proposal for me, dear.” 

Again, heart seizing. I stood up to get a pencil for myself to start proofreading for him. For another hour and a half we worked in silence. Mostly just the sound of me circling things, him typing. I really was just editing, but then, I’d never seen him with a secretary or assistant so he probably did have to do all of that sort of thing on his own, usually. 

I could feel a yawn backing up my throat so I stood, just to shake tiredness off and maybe get a glass of water to invigorate myself. He glanced at his watch as I did so. 

“I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said, lifting his arm to look closer at the time, casting a shadow across me, blocking the lamp light. 

“Oh, no,” I said.

“No, I have,” he said. “You’re not a monster like me, you need sleep.” 

In an impulsive rush, I bent forward and kissed his cheek. I was expecting him to shy away from me or respond in shock, but he didn’t. So I kissed his mouth and he let me. 

“Forward Elsbetta,” he laughed as I stood upright. “I’m not a second date kind of man.” 

I didn’t know if he meant he didn’t even kiss on a second date, or he was suggesting that I was offering something more. I hadn’t been. I just wanted to kiss him. He brushed his knuckles down my hip. 

“Will you be terribly disappointed if I don’t indulge in sleeping with you?” he asked. So then he had assumed I’d put sex on the table– as it were. 

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t suggesting it. I just wanted to kiss you.” 

“Mhm,” he said archly. 

I rolled my eyes. He was just teasing, I was sure, so I wasn’t going to start a pointless argument. And I was still trying to catch my breath after kissing him. Trying to remember how it felt, how he smelled. It had been too quick, and I’d done it so fast that I hadn’t kept any of it with me. 

“I think it’s time for bed for you,” he said. 

Rolling the inside of my lower lip in between my front teeth. I didn’t want to have sex with him– not yet. Someday, and maybe soon. But not tonight. But I wished he’d just stay a little while longer. Maybe just not work for a little while. Maybe just give me a little more time. Sit with me on my porch and play ‘remember when’ again. Lay with me on my couch and listen to music. Just give me some space. Not leave me alone. 

“Good night,” I said.

“You sound disappointed,” he cajoled.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’ve had a really good evening with you.”

“As have I,” he said. “But it needs to end at some point.”

I walked him to the door. Waving goodbye to him. I did feel exhausted. It was already forty minutes after when I was usually in bed. 

I went into my bathroom, cleaning my face, stripping out of my minimal “date night” clothes. Going into my bedroom and flopping into bed in my underwear. I left on the hall light. I didn’t always, but something felt vaguely amiss and it was nice to have the glow outside my door to warm me up. Crossing my elbows over my eyes, I began taking stock. 

I had been single for a while. Definitely by choice– though I liked men, I liked sex, and I especially liked having a partner. I liked having someone to share time and affection with, someone to live with and someone to live for. But I was also enjoying being alone. Learning how to do it. Learning to like quietude, setting my own routines, making only the things I wanted to eat. For the first time I was able to work without splitting my focus. I didn’t have to worry about taking care of someone and taking care of work as well. I’d gone from living with my parents to living with a man– no time to learn who I was without someone reflecting me back. 

I liked him. More accurately, I’d set my sights on him. And making him some permanent fixture in my constellation was my goal. I saw no reason why this wouldn’t be the case. Further, I sensed nor heard any rejection from him. 

I held Rachel’s apprehension in one hand and in the other a simple fact I knew about myself. I liked being second in command. I liked to have a leader to follow. I had hounded my father’s steps for years. Trotting miles back and forth across the stained concrete at the service station. Copying how he talked. The way he did things, the way he stood. Then my favorite teachers, then my favorite professors, then my ex and then Rachel. And Rachel’s apprehension was because she saw that in me. But I didn’t quite see what was wrong with that. I wasn’t the doer. I wasn’t the mover or shaker. I could be the manager though. I could be the attaché. I could be the helper. So why not find the person I most wanted to manage? Why not be the adjutant to the best general? The one who was doing the best work that I could help with? 

Was it all that bad to be the woman behind the man?