Page 85 of Cakes for the Grump

He places a firm hand against the middle of my back as we get into an elevator. The manager activates it with his badge.

“After you hung up on me and stopped picking up,” Luke says, raising his eyebrow in a certain way, silently signaling we’ll be having a conversation about that later. “I flew the helicopter over.”

“You—flew—okay. But how did youknow where?—”

“We can track each other’s phones,” says Sistine, answering for him. “For emergency purposes. I’m guessing he looked up where mine was.”

We emerge onto the roof, and there it sat. A sleek, black, and white helicopter waiting patiently for its owner to return. Sistine and Adam go around to board from the other side. Luke opens the door and holds out a hand to help me into my seat. When I am settled, his arm reaches across my body to strap me in. Before he can leave, I grab him by the fabric of his shirt. “You can drive thisthing?”

“Everything else that has happened—and this is what worries you?”

“Plummeting to my death? Yes!”

“Rita.” He positions ear muffs on my head but holds them open so I can still hear him. His face is close enough to feel a warm breath against my cheek. “While your lack of faith in me is fucking bothersome, I need you to know something.”

“W-what?”

“There was no way I was going to let anything happen to you.”

What a statement. I wobble. In other words, I am approaching a dangerously close prelude to crying, but that is nonsense, for I do not cry. Never, really. Not for the longest time because experience has taught me that crying and begging someone (my father) to change or crying and praying to someone (the universe) to change your circumstances doesn’t work. You have to be fine yourself. You have to keep moving on. Put on a good face.

And yet, here is Luke.

Promising to have the power to protect me with dried blood on his mouth. My bruised employer gently clearing hair out of my eyes before putting the ear muffs fully on. Him squeezing my hand as if I’m the dire one in need of reassurance.

I gulp. Look away.

Does he realize what he is trying to shift inside me? That it’s a fortress that has been there forever. Secure. Unyielding. Built with impressive numbing agents that activate whenever the world decides to throw the next hard thing my way.

Once in the front seat, Luke activates the intercom. He’s murmuring things as he starts the helicopter. That it’s going to be okay, how short of a ride it will feel like, how I can close my eyes if I need to, and that he’ll tell me when we’ve landed.

When we lift off, it’s not fear that has me gasping.It’s another kind of free fall, this descent more slow and terrifying. What is this shaky, fragile feeling in my chest? Leftover stress hormones skittering inside me because of the overly active and very absurd night? Maybe. But then why can’t I stop looking at Luke, wanting to reach out to him or wanting to squeeze my own body until this maddening and miserable yearning feeling dissipates, leaving me once again free and unburdened like I was before I started working for him.

True to his word, it is a short ride. There is a helicopter landing pad right outside of Luke’s building. The journey back inside his penthouse is quiet, our silence only broken by Sistine once we are indoors again and standing around in the kitchen. “Well, that wassmart, wasn’t it?”

Judging by her caustic tone, I can infersmartmeans incredibly stupid in this particular case.

“I thought you didn’t want to be this person anymore,” she says. “Especially when you haven’t been like this in a very long time.Especiallywhen you claim the end is in sight. Because hasn’t this messed everything up for you, brother?”

Luke doesn’t answer.

“Was it worth it?” Sistine asks, her tone even sharper. “We could have left without consequence, but you couldn’t let it go. Curious.” For a split second, I think Sistine glances over at me, but then she’s back, focusing on Luke.

“There will be photos of you going ballistic, fighting with your sleeves up, frothing at your mouth?—”

There was no literal frothing, but accuracy isn’t Sistine’s aim.

She pokes Luke in the chest, who looks down at her attack with mild disinterest. Until she tells him she’s leaving for the night.

“Don’t—” he starts to order.

Her eyes roll. “Not back to the party. I’m going to a hotel because I don’t think I can stand being here without the urge to murder you.” She turns to the other silent, brooding man in the room. “We’re leaving, Adam.”

Before going, final words are exchanged. Luke tells Sistine to not do anything drastic, and she tells him to mind his own business. Then she requests a favor from me: “Patch him up, will you?”

“Don’t bother,” says Luke, answering for me. “Rita, are you absolutely sure you’re okay? What do you need? I’ll make you tea.”

“It’s fine,” I repeat.