Page 41 of Drowning Erin

Brendan texts Tuesday on his way back from Boulder to see if I want to come over for dinner. Although he’s been texting me with updates on his mother since we got home from the hospital last Friday, I haven’t seen him in person. I know it should probably stay that way, but I can’t say no. His mother is sick, and he needs support. Besides, it’s not like something is going to happen now, under these circumstances.

In other words, I’m too weak to resist.

* * *

His place is in the heart of Manitou Springs, near his new office. He lives in the upper half of a subdivided row house—just two rooms badly in need of updating, yet way more to my taste than Rob’s shiny McMansion. This place has character: the kind of moldings they don’t put into homes anymore, gorgeous hardwood floors worn just the right amount.

He smirks as I look around. “I’m sure you’re wondering where the guest suite and billiards rooms are.”

“It’ll be adorable once you paint,” I reply, flipping him off. “I’m just relieved you took down that stupid hammock.” For many reasons.

“I didn’t,” he replies. “It’s in the bedroom.”

I feel sick and excited at the same time. And why on Earth would I be excited? It’s not like I’m going to be trying out the hammock, for God’s sake.

He goes outside to start the grill while I work on potatoes and salad. I tend to hum when I cook, so I’m in my own little world when he comes back in, not realizing he’s there until I feel his hands on my hips. His hands, just like they are, have inspired a hundred different thoughts I never should have had.

“What are you making?” he asks.

His voice is a quiet rumble, not his normal voice. His breath is against my neck, so warm and close I swear that if I leaned back only a fraction of an inch, I’d feel the press of his lips. The fine hairs on the back of my arms stand on end.

“It’s a surprise,” I say breathlessly. It’s not actually a surprise, but I don’t think I could even form the right words at the moment.

He releases me, reaching overhead to grab a plate, and that’s when I realize our moment was nothing more than him maneuvering around me in a small kitchen. Here I am so infatuated that he can’t even touch me in the process of getting a dish without me turning it into a porn-worthy moment. I really need to get a grip, but I know—just as I did years ago—that it’s far too late for that.

Over dinner we talk about Dorothy undergoing radiation therapy. Even though the margins were clear around her tumor, she wants to be certain, so she’ll start treatment after she gets back from Olivia’s race next weekend. “I can’t believe she’s planning to travel that soon after surgery,” I tell him.

He sighs. “I know, but I guess the lumpectomy was a lot easier to recover from than a mastectomy, and she says she’ll never forgive herself if Olivia wins and she’s not there to see it. Besides, she’ll have Peter there to help. I didn’t realize until all this happened how lucky we are that she has him.”

“See? There are some benefits to being in a relationship,” I chide.

He quirks a brow at me. “Really? That’s the best argument you’ve got? That I’ll have someone to take care of me if I get breast cancer?”

I sigh wearily. “Fine, Brendan. I’ll try to appeal to the only thing you care about: you could get laid all the time.”

He makes a face. “Please never mention that again when we’re talking about my mom and Peter. That’s a pretty piss-poor argument anyway. I’m getting laid a lot more often than you are.”

I stare at my plate. He’s right, of course, but Rob and I are hardly typical.

“His promotion changed things. I’m sure it won’t be like this forever.”

“His promotion?” he asks.

The astonishment in his voice forces me to meet his eye.

“I was just talking about you being on different continents for the past few weeks,” he says. “He got that promotion last summer.”

Brendan’s surprise provides me a moment of clarity. I’m still young, and for the past year, an important part of my life has been pretty much non-existent. One more item on the long list of things I’ve given up to be with Rob. That list is too long. I’m beginning to wonder if this can even be fixed.

* * *

I call Rob when I get home from Brendan’s, out of duty and nothing more. I don’t want to hear about restaurants with beds, pirate radio stations, how much fun he’s had. I don’t care.

He tells me he’s sorry he didn’t call the day before, but they were all out late, and he passed out when he got in. I didn’t even notice, but I keep that to myself. I ask if he had fun for lack of anything else to say, and he replies for mostly the same reason, I’m guessing, telling me about some shot contest they attended.

“Christina had to be—” he begins, and then his voice stops and starts, “uh, carried out.”

Christina is a common name. Just because there’s a girl there named Christina does not mean it’s the same Christina we fought about. Not the Christina who’s thrown herself at him more times than I can count. Surely it cannot be the same Christina, because he couldn’t possibly have just not thought to mention that she was there for six weeks.