Page 53 of He Has Pluck
I picture him driving to his divey room in Chelsea, the place I’ve come to think of as home. Fuck. The realization slams my heart into a gear that frightens me with its ferocious pounding. There is something so wrong with me. Clutching my camera, I rush back inside the Garden to find Carlos as if he can save me from myself.
Maybe Jason will light the candle I brought to cover the musty smell of the place. Maybe he’ll look at the photos I pinned up around the room of us together and him skating. Maybe he’ll lie on the extra-large pillow I left there and wrap himself in the cashmere-soft blanket I brought to cover us at night as he falls asleep.
And then maybe he’ll dream of me, of us together the way we were, so blissful, in that bed in that little divey room.
Goddammit.
I shove through the door and Carlos is on the other side. He looks at me funny, like he wants to console me. My heart shrieks in horror, and I push past him.
“Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Back at the house, Carlos sits at my computer as usual, editing the days’ videos for the documentary I was supposed to be filming. When did I let him take over so much of the work?
“Step aside, Carlos. I’m taking over tonight,” I say.
“That’s okay. I got this. I’m sure you have better things to do. I’m sure there’s some hot hockey player who will keep you company if Jason is no longer willing.”
“Fuck off. What do you care?”
He snorts. “Once upon a time, I thought you had standards.” He turns away from the computer and looks at me, and damn. He’s serious.
“Are you actually judging me? You’re a disrespectful bastard. Because last time I checked, you were working for me and—”
“Don’t pull that respect crap on me. You need to earn respect every single day. That’s the way we’ve always operated. Or at least that’s something we used to agree on. No standing on past laurels or superficial credentials like a title.” Crap. He’s more than serious. He’s calling me out, and he’s right. “Besides, I work for Ruminski.”
“Because I told him to hire you.” I let the asinine knee-jerk reaction of my words hang in the air like a poisonous bubble waiting to drop, and I wonder when I deteriorated into an unreasonable bitch.
“I don’t believe this.” Carlos shakes his head. “He must really have you…”
I know he’s talking about Jason, and I can’t stand hearing any more truths coming from his fucking mouth—not about my relationship with Jason.
“I thought you were my friend? I thought you were here to help me?”
“Aren’t I? I enabled you to carry on your affair without Ruminski knowing about it. Wasn’t that helpful?”
I haul back my arm like I’m pitching a hardball and slap his self-righteous face. “That’s not fair. I’ve been filming and editing and working my ass off and—”
His head turns, and he covers his cheek with a hand, looking like I stung more than his face. “And carrying on with a guy who has no appreciation for any of that, or for who you are.”
“And you do? You—”
He moves in fast and kisses me.
I shove him off, my reaction automatic and strong because I don’t want his lips on mine as if they’ll spoil the taste of the kisses I shared with Jason. Fuck, I’m so far gone I don’t even know who I am anymore, or what I want.
“What are you doing?” I shout. “You don’t want me. You’re my friend.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I do want you? That I’ve never been your friend?”
My silence stuns me because I want to shout more, but instead I cry. And that’s the worst possible thing that could happen.
“I think you should go,” I say.
He nods and leaves the room. I hear him trudging up the stairs as if he’s punishing them, or maybe punishing me. Sadness permeates the air in his place, and I pace in a circle in the study and then out to the great room and through to the kitchen, but there’s no relief from it, and it’s not sadness over losing Carlos. Because in spite of everything, I know I haven’t lost him.
After all the dust settles, because we’ve known each other since undergrad and shared so many experiences, I know there’s a friendship underneath whatever else he’s harboring.
