Nate moved to pick up one of the white plastic bags, and the handles slipped right through his left hand. He tried again, focusing, but the weight tugged his fingers open, a carton of Ben amp; Jerry’s rolling onto the floor.
Janie called across the counter, “Need a hand?”
“No thanks.” He reached with his right hand but found it shaking.
Cielle and Jason were playing around, enacting a sword fight with Red Vines. Sweat dripped from Nate’s forehead. Nausea swept his stomach. He reached again.
Janie, at the fridge now: “Everything cool?”
“I got it,” he said. “No problem.”
The bag came an inch or two off the tile and fell, the jar of peanut butter bouncing free. He stared at his fingers in chagrin, Cielle and Jason’s laughter washing over him from behind.
He straightened up and said gruffly, “Cielle, come put this away.”
“You’re right there, Dad.”
“Just
Janie’s head swiveled in his direction, taking in his face and then the fallen groceries. He pretended not to notice.
Crossing to the pizza, he flipped open the lid. Hawaiian style-pineapple and Canadian bacon. “Aren’t you a vegetarian?” he said flatly.
“Oh,” Jason said. “Yeah. Except for bacon.”
A round of looks was exchanged.
“What?” Jason said. “Think about it. What makes everything good? Bacon. A BLT. Bacon. Salad? Bacon. A baked potato-”
“Right. Bacon. I get it.”
“I figure if I just eat bacon, I can be a good vegetarian. Oh-
Somehow they got through the afternoon, keeping clear of the front windows despite the pulled blinds. Sitting on the floor leaning against the sofa back, Nate dozed off in the fall of sunshine near the wall of glass, Casper curling across his thighs the way he had as a puppy, his paws and rump spilling over the sides; it had never occurred to the dog that he’d ceased being lap size years ago.
At some point between sleep and waking, Charles made a brief appearance, stroking Casper’s fur with a bloody hand missing two fingers at the knuckles. “A bacon-eating vegetarian,” he said. “If you don’t punch that douche, I’m gonna.”
“Okay,” Nate mumbled. “Do it when I get up.”
When he came to, it was dark; they’d agreed to keep the lights mostly off in the house so as not to attract attention. He slid out from under the heap of warm fur, Casper emitting a rumble of irritation.
With two spoons and one bucket of Cherry Garcia, Cielle and Jason were zoned out in front of the television. Nate paused by the doorway and took them in, the light flickering over their faces, turning the room into an aquarium, peaceful and blue. Their hands were intertwined on the cushion, and there was something about it so youthful and unconscious-chaste, even-that Nate skipped a breath. Cielle’s spoon scraped the bottom of the empty container, and she peered down and said, “Rats.”
Jason’s spoon, en route to his mouth, paused. He moved it across to Cielle, and she took the last bite of ice cream. “Thanks,” she mumbled through a full mouth.
He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.
Their eyes never left the screen.
Nate felt the faintest softening of the verdict he’d been carrying around since Shithead Jason’s first appearance. Maybe, just maybe, these two weren’t a universe apart from a young couple playing house and serving each other Eggos in a tiny Westwood apartment.
Nate drifted back down the dark hall in search of Janie. The light in the master bathroom was on, and he found her sitting on the lip of the tub, clutching tweezers, focused on her hand. A bottle of rubbing alcohol stood within reach on the sink.
She looked up and smiled. “Glad you got some sleep.”
He came closer and took in her knuckles, shiny from striking the door to the garage during Yuri’s assault. The diamond engagement ring had bitten into the flesh, bruising her finger. It struck him that she had spent the morning tending to everyone else’s wounds and no one had taken care of her.
He took a knee before her. “Lemme see.”
She put her hand in his, giving it a little southern-belle flair. He tilted it toward the harsh light of the vanity. Embedded in the pale white dermis, a scattering of splinters.
He moved her ring around so he could take stock of all the splinters.
She frowned down at Pete’s ring. “It’s in the way, isn’t it?” She tugged the ring off and threw it. It clanged off the sink and wall, then rattled around on the tile for what seemed an unnaturally long time.
“They can consider it rental money for the house,” she said. “Now get on with it.”
He stuck out his hand. “Tweezers.”
“Tweezers.” She slapped them into his palm.
He looked at her. “This is gonna hurt.”
“I know.”
His grasp was suddenly, inexplicable steady. He worked at the splinters, her delicate hand jerking in his. “I’m sorry,” he said.
And then, “I’m sorry.” And, “I’m sorry.”
He extracted the last one and reached for the alcohol and a bag of cotton balls that had fallen into the sink basin. He doused one of the balls, which shrank with the moisture, and then he was dabbing gently at the tender underskin of her hand. Janie bit her lip; her eyes watered; her bare feet twisted this way and that.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
And then it was done, and he kept her hand and he stayed there on one knee before her, his eyes downcast, and he was still saying it, the words having migrated to another meaning: “I’m sorry. I’m-”
She stilled his mouth with a kiss.
Tender and soft. And then less tender, less soft.
He rose awkwardly to a half crouch, and she leaned back on the tub, parting her legs to let him nearer. Their lips stayed attached as if they were afraid to break apart. Then they were standing, shuffling together toward the dark bedroom, knocking knees and half tripping, and she fell back on the mattress, one hand hooking the back of his neck to pull him closer, closer.
Rolling. Twisting. Pants tangled on ankles. The warmth of her laid bare against him-thighs, stomach, arms matching flesh to flesh, zippering up into one body. She gripped him tight, ankles crossed at the small of his back, her nails breaking the skin of his shoulder blade. Her mouth at his collarbone, blurring the words: “Why’d you make me wait so long?”
After, they lay, a cross section of legs and arms, breathing hard. Her blinks grew longer, and then she was asleep. Basking in the silent glow of her, he tried not to think of the seconds slipping away, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Chapter 41
As they ate cereal on the couch the next morning, a text arrived from Abara: 9PM. TRAVEL TOWN, GRIFFITH PARK. LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE NO 3025. The phone made its solemn rounds, from Nate to Janie to Cielle to Jason.
“Guess we’ll know something tonight,” Janie said. “One way or another.”
The rest of the day, they stayed holed up in the house like fugitives, which Nate supposed they were. Though he did his best not to fixate on the upcoming meeting, he grew more antsy as night fell, his mood exacerbated by Cielle and Jason. The honeymoon had ended, and again they were quarreling like … well, teenagers.
