Page 80 of Center of Gravity

I raked my hair back into some kind of shape and joined the bodies on the dance floor. If I couldn’t wipe Rob from my mind, I could at least barricade him with a pile of other bodies, hook up with people until the shape of him was foggy around the edges, until the way he touched me blended with the memory of someone else’s hand. I would be a sure thing, easy beyond belief. No one would even have to buy me a drink. Maybe that was immature too, but whatever. There was no one left to judge me.

25

Rob

Some people cut their hair or changed the color. Some went on a fitness kick. Some did both. Me, I was going to paint my damn apartment to try to put Alex behind me.

As I popped the trunk of my car and started lugging the paint cans to the curb, I wished I’d picked something less work intensive. But I needed a heavy distraction and painting was the least angsty option.

Scott passed by and then doubled back, a twinkle in his bright eyes. “Going for an overhaul, huh?”

“Attempting to. I’m tired of looking at beige.”

He chuckled and bent over to read the paint name off the side of the can. “Sea Salt. Is that a blue? Pink?”

“Neither. It’s a gray-green. I learned a bit about paint colors when—” I halted, the memory of Alex rushing to fill in the space where I’d left off with an accompanying drop of my stomach.

The weeks had passed with no word from him, and I hadn’t contacted him, either. Maybe I should have, but he’d asked for space so vehemently, and it didn’t sound like the kind ofleave me alonethat really meantplease chase me. He’d seemed at the end of his rope and as much as I didn’t want to let him go, I didn’t want to hurt him anymore, on top of everything else he had going on with his father. He was a dull, constant ache in the back of my mind, though. I couldn’t pass a stupid Cracker Jack box without thinking of him tossing them up into the air, swaying to one side or the other to capture them in his mouth. He superseded memories of Sean, and I wasn’t sure that was even healthy, but at least thinking about Alex wasn’t connected to a low simmer of anger. When I thought of Alex, I just felt sad and inept. Not necessarily better, but rage was a bitch to function on. Sadness, well, I was used to that gentler undercurrent.

Get a grip, Rob. Swallowing, I made myself continue. “—When I was fixing up the house on Nook Island.” The house I hadn’t been back to in weeks. I’d pushed my meeting with the property management company to the following day after Winslow’s surgery and had left it in their hands ever since. It had rented the week before last, but now I wished I’d just gone ahead and kept it on the market.

Scott eyed the growing stack of paint cans next to the plastic sacks of brushes and trays. “You want some help getting it in? I might even be charmed into helping you paint if you need an extra hand.” He flashed me a wink and grinned.

“Considering how ruthlessly you play poker, I’m not sure I’d trust your terms of exchange.”

His grin widened. “I’m very fair. I promise. I’m also a sucker for a good bottle of red and conversation.”

“I could probably manage that.” I swung a paint can into his waiting hand and we set off for my apartment. Winslow greeted us at the door, wagging his tail and yipping. He’d healed nicely and was mastering three-legged running well enough. I’d have pitied the poor guy more if he wasn’t so prideful about his hobbling. At the sound of feet in the hallway, he’d waddle and fall, then scramble frantically for the door, barking while turning indignant looks over his shoulder at me as if to say, “Can’t you hear what is happening, fool? There are humans afoot.” He’d taken on a voice in my head that fit his personality. I wasn’t sure that was healthy either, and most likely was another sad side-effect of my own loneliness, but at least we entertained each other.

“You were misnamed,” I grumbled as I pushed him back from the doorway so Scott could enter. “Should’ve called you Napoleon. You’ve got a complex the size of a continent.”

Once we’d gotten all the paint cans inside, I uncorked a bottle of red wine and we got started.

* * *

Friday was a languid fall day,the cool city air steeped with brine and car exhaust, still faintly humid with the residue of summer. The office was quiet at seven p.m. There might have been a few stragglers overburdened with files like me, but I assumed most everyone was gone.

My promotion had gone through two weeks prior, and came with a pay raise and a celebratory dinner with some of the other partners and associates. We drank champagne at a local bistro—a little too much of it. Sean had made another pass, though he was subtle about it, and I entertained it for all of five seconds before brushing it aside. But the fact I’d entertained it at all grated on me for days afterward. And I missed Alex. I thought about heading out afterward in search of a mindless hook-up, but I couldn’t muster any interest in it. In spite of all my efforts to avoid it, I was heartbroken again.

Reality settled in the following day at work. My workload doubled overnight, even though I now had an additional two members on my team. I ended up staying late most days, wondering when the sense of victory and accomplishment would stop eluding me. I was exactly where I’d always wanted to be in my career, and it couldn’t have felt more hollow.

I took a swig of cold coffee from the mug on my desk, opening another file and tabbing through my computer, gaze drifting to the darkening window as my thoughts strayed to early evenings on Nook Island: the damp breeze that came in off the ocean, untainted by the city, how the sunset streaked the sky and set it afire. It was hard to separate Nook Island from Alex, but I missed it, too. I considered returning soon, staying the weekend. I could always invite some of the guys from poker, offer it up as a guy’s weekend rather than what it truly would be—a way for me to return with a built-in defense against loneliness.

I was scrolling through my contacts, trying to decide which guys to invite, when an incoming call interrupted my progress. My heart got lodged somewhere in my throat as Alex’s name flashed across the screen. In my haste to answer the call, I fumbled the damn phone onto the floor and scrambled to hit the green button to accept even as I swept the receiver up to my ear. I spoke in a breathless croak as soon as I answered. “I’m so glad you called. I wanted to, but—”

“Rob—” he tried to interrupt me in a flat, weary drawl, but I had no intention of stopping this time.

“I thought it best if I didn’t because—”

“Rob!” His voice was choked, but that time my name came out as a command.

“Is everything all right? Is your dad—?”

“Stop talking,” Alex whispered, so I did and the line went silent. Outside my office, a door shut, keys jingled, and the quiet retreat of footsteps whispered down the hall. Then Alex spoke again.

“It’s not good. He’s not good. And I thought I’d be better about this because I’ve had so much time. Months, you know? To get used to it. But I can’t get used to watching him circle the drain. It fucking sucks.” He laughed bitterly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m supposed to do. I keep thinking I’m supposed to be a certain way or do certain things. I feel guilty all the time. Guilty if I smile, guilty if I forget for one second he’s dying. And then I remember all at once and it’s like getting sucker-punched by shame and sadness at the same time.” There was a soft gasp and he fell silent again. The thought that he might be crying did terrible, gut-wrenching things to my heart.

I waited a few beats to see if he was finished and because my heart was beating wildly at the same time it ached. It was the strangest sensation: the pure exhilaration of hearing his voice again, the damning hope of it butted up against sympathy and angst for what he was going through. I remembered it well—the feeling of drowning, the emotional flailing when it seemed as if there wasn’t enough air in the world to get through the next minute, let alone months.