The Baumgartners Plus One

“But here I am.”

“I can't wait for vacation.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and he slipped an arm around her.

He sighed. “Tell me about it.”

They kissed again, more intimately this time, and my stomach did that flip-flop thing. I didn’t know if it was jealousy or what, but whenever I saw them like that, my whole body responded like a guitar being tuned, wound slowly to its breaking point.

“You know, I should get going.” I started gathering my book bag, shrugging on my coat.

Doc frowned, looking from my half-eaten roll and back to me. “You don't have to leave on my account.”

“No, it's not that.” I waved his words away, as if he wasn’t the reason at all. “I told Mason I would meet him at the apartment.”

“You did?” Carrie looked at me in amazement, her jaw dropping.

I shrugged, trying to avoid her gaze. “He wants to talk about our future. Whatever that means.”

Carrie frowned. “Sounds ominous.”

“Or promising,” Doc countered, catching my gaze and giving me a little smile.

I shook my head sadly. “Probably the former.”

“Dani.” He reached for my hand and I let him have it, feeling the warm pressure as he squeezed. “I don't bite.”

“I know.” I flushed, looking over at Carrie. How was I supposed to handle this, holding her husband’s hand in the middle of the coffee shop while she watched? She didn’t seem to care and he didn’t seem to care. Why was it such a big deal for me?

“I'm sorry I make you uncomfortable,” he prompted.

“It's not you, it's…” I pulled my hand away gently, reaching for my bag. “It's the whole situation.”

Doc leaned his elbows on the table, his gaze steady, curious. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

“I gotta go.”

I escaped out into the cold, not looking back. The walk home was long and I trudged the whole way, knowing Mason wouldn’t be there for hours. He’d said five but I didn't expect him until six and he didn't actually arrive until seven. I heard the putter of his moped out back while I was finishing up a Lean Cuisine-oriental chicken. I quickly dumped the tray in the garbage and tossed my fork in the sink, nudging Jezebel out of the way to open the back door.

“Hey.” He tucked his helmet under his arm, unzipping his jacket. He looked good.

He always looked good. It made my chest hurt.

“Hi.” I waved him in and shut the door, joining him at the kitchen table. “So what's up?”

I knew it was something. He never called, and if he showed up, it was always unannounced, sneaking in and out of the apartment like thief. When he left me a stiff message on the machine saying, “We need to talk,” I knew I had to be on my guard.

And I was.

He put his helmet on the table, leaning back in his chair. “I've been thinking about this Italy thing.”

I stiffened, prepared, but for what, I wasn’t quite sure. “And?”

“I can't go with you.”

I nodded. This was nothing new. “Okay.”

“But I don't want you to go.” He worked the strap on his helmet nervously. Snap, unsnap. Snap, unsnap.

“Now we're right back where we started.”

“I know.” Snap, unsnap. “There has to be a way to fix this.”

I shook my head, nudging Jezebel under the table with my foot. She was purring, heading for Mason, getting ready to say hello. “We've been saying that for over a year.

Long before my going to Italy was even a question.”

He lifted his gaze to mine. “We could try therapy again.”

“We didn't do anything but fight in therapy.” I was just pointing out the obvious.

The guy his parents had paid for hadn’t done either of us much good. He had an office that smelled like patchouli and sat in a chair that squeaked every time he shifted in it.

Mason and I sat on an equally squeaky brown leather couch while the therapist nodded and asked, “How did that make you feel?” every time we said something. It felt useless, like talking to a mirror.

Mason tried a smile. “At least we were talking.”

“Yelling,” I countered.

He tried again. “Communicating.”

I snorted. “I don't know if I'd call that communicating.”

“What if we got back with each other? If we moved in together again?”

“Do you want to?” That suggestion took me aback. I sat and contemplated it, having Mason back here. What would that be like? What would we be like together?

The memory of him in my bed was too close.

He reached across the table and took my hand. “I want you.”

“I want you too.” It was barely a whisper. I looked down at his hand covering mine and knew it was true. I’d always wanted him, even when I convinced myself I didn’t. But the gap between us was much wider than the expanse of the kitchen table, and I wasn’t sure it was so easily bridged.

“Let me back in.” He didn’t beg or plead, but I heard the longing in his voice.

“It's your house too. More, really, since your parents pay for it.” I brought it up like a shield to put between us. It was a sore point, one of those things we’d always argued about, even before Isabella.

“That's not what I mean.” He sighed. “The other day, we were…it was almost like before.”

I swallowed, shaking my head. “It will never be like before, ever again.”

“I want to fix it.” Now he really was pleading. I didn’t look up, didn’t want to see if the emotion choking his voice was in his eyes. “That's all I want. I want to turn the fucking clock back. I want her back. I want you back.”

I pulled my hand slowly away, leaving his alone clenched in a fist in the middle of the table. “It's not possible.”

“You think I don't know that?” he choked. “You think I don't spend every minute of every day hating myself for not being able to save her? Save you?”

I tried to make myself as small as possible in the chair. “I don't need saving.”

“The hell you don't.” He slammed his fist on the table, shaking it and making Jezebel startle against my feet.

“I don't know what I need,” I told him honestly.

Mason pressed his palms flat against the table. “You don't need to run away, that's for damned sure.”

“I'm not running away.” I folded my arms and tried not to glare at him.

“Yes you are!” He threw up his hands, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been running away since it happened!”

“I was mourning!” I snarled, feeling a headache beginning to throb behind my eyes.

“You think I wasn’t?” he snapped back. We were both glaring now. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be in pain too? You think I left first? Fuck you! You've been gone since she died!”

I took a deep, shuddering breath, leveling my gaze at him. “Her name is Isabella.”

He cringed like I’d hit him. “She was my daughter. I know her name.”

“She is your daughter,” I corrected softly. “So why don't you ever say it?”

“She's gone, Dani.” He put up his palms- I give up. “I can't bring her back.”

“I know that.” God knew, that was something that never left my consciousness.

“But why do we have to pretend she never existed?”

“I didn't let them take it down, did I?” he hissed, waving toward the bedroom door.

“All her things are still in there just like you wanted them-like a…like a shrine!”

I swallowed and blinked at him, trying to keep my voice from shaking and failing miserably. “That's why you left.”

“No.” He sighed and tried to look away but our eyes locked together and wouldn’t let go. His voice came out as hoarse as mine. “I left because of everything…because it was all broken. You were broken. I was broken. And I