Hanging by a Thread (16 page)

I want to throw myself into his arms. Desperately.

“You're back,” I say.

“I'm back.” He somehow frowns and smiles at the same time. “How you doing?”

I hitch my shoulders.

“Yeah. Same here.” He jiggles the bags. “I come bearing carbs. We got your ice cream and Sara Lee crap in this bag—” he holds one aloft “—and Entenmann's and chips—” he lifts the other one “—in here.”

“Oh, God. You got any idea how much food I still have in my refrigerator?”

“I can guess.” He heads back to the kitchen; I follow, telling myself I don't really want to bury my nose in that beat-up leather jacket of his. “I figure we can trade,” he's saying, “since right now you're probably wondering how on earth you're going to eat it all before it goes bad.”

Unfortunately, this is not turning out to be as much of a problem as I'd previously thought. My mouth waters as he unloads a copious supply of goodies onto my counter.

“You've been well trained.”

His movements hitch. “I remember you and Tina used to be able to really pack this stuff away.”

Only Luke could think of somebody else's pain while his own is still so raw and new. Especially as—I suddenly realize—this breakup is the first really bad thing to happen to him. For good or ill, loss is nothing new to me. I at least know what to expect, how to weather the stages. But all-in-all, Luke's led a pretty charmed life—no major setbacks, no deaths, except for one grandparent a few years ago. So this is totally new territory for him.

“Your mother put you up to this, didn't she?”

“You kidding? My mother would have a cow if she knew I was here.”

Frowning, I look up.

“Because she read me the riot act,” he says, “about how both of us are vulnerable right now.”

A moment of profound silence follows. I know what he's thinking, because so am I:
She has no idea.

“Are we ready to talk about this?” I say.

A glance, fleeting as a dream. “Are you?”

I think about it, then shake my head. “No. Not until…things are a little more settled.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought, too.”

“I don't suppose we can avoid it for much longer, though.”

“Soon,” he says. “I promise.”

I shift, folding my arms over my stomach. “So why
are
you here?”

“Because if you feel half as crappy as I do, you probably don't need to be alone right now. We're both lousy company, so we might as well be lousy company together. So—” He indicates the loot. “Any preference?”

I feel a smile tug at my lips at his perception, as our unfinished business once again disintegrates like a soap bubble between us.

“Anything with chocolate.”

Luke rips open a box of Entenmann's chocolate donuts, plunking one on each of two plates, then scoops chocolate chocolate chip ice cream into the middle. This is good—I recently read that it takes the body longer to convert carbs to sugar if you consume protein at the same time. Which confirms my long-held suspicion that ice cream is the perfect food.

“Wanna watch a video while we eat?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We grab our plates and forks and head for the living room, although he grimaces at the
Sex and the City
video case on the coffee table. “What's up with women and this shit?”

“What's up with men and pro wrestling?”

“Better than listening to nonstop whining for two hours.”

“Oh, as opposed to the grunts of rutting hippopotamuses?”

“Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about.” He thumps his chest with his free hand. “
Man
noises.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. But anyway, that's not whining. That's exploring their feelings.”

Hanging on to his plate with one hand, he takes a halfhearted swipe at my head with the other. And for some reason, I feel better. Like maybe I'll get through this. Like we're kids again and life is simple and death and mistakes and regrets are things we won't have to deal with for many years to come.

“Tell you what,” I say, settling into the sofa. “Next time I'm at your place, we can watch whatever's in season, okay? But no way, nohow is this TV getting anywhere near ESPN tonight.”

We both let my “next time I'm at your place” comment sail off into the sunset before Luke says, “Whatever happened to the gracious hostess letting her guests choose the entertainment?”

“Remember the lousy company thing?”

With a sigh, Luke drops onto the opposite end of the sofa, toeing off his sneakers and plopping his feet up on the coffee table. I hit Play and Sarah Jessica Parker prances across the screen. “So which episode is this?” he says.

“
Which
episode?” I rear back and look at him. “You've actually watched
Sex and the City?
”

He shovels in a bite of donut and ice cream. “Tina made me,” he says around a full mouth. “Said I might learn something.”

“And did you?”

“Yeah. That there's a damn good reason men have performance anxiety. Christ—do women really want all that stuff?”

“All what stuff?”

“You know. The sex stuff.”

“Beats me. I just watch it for the clothes.”

That gets a chuckle. “Yeah, right.”

Of course, fate picks that moment to treat us to a no-holds-barred sex scene. Samantha enjoying the hell out of herself.
Maybe this wasn't such a great idea, after all. I mean, yes, it's just Luke, but then…it's just Luke.

My cheeks get so hot I seriously consider slathering ice cream all over them. Or I would have if there'd been any left. Still, I come up with, “Okay, maybe most women don't want all of it. But I think a lot want more than they're getting.” I scoop up the ice cream residue with my finger and stick it in my mouth. “And I'm talking quality, not quantity.”

He doesn't reply. Just as well. For several minutes, we sit there in the flickering darkness, separated by the width of a sofa cushion and our thoughts, stuffing our faces with enough calories to fuel the space shuttle. Then suddenly Luke says, “It's funny. You'd think most women would care less about a guy's equipment and more about how he feels about her.”

I can't stand it. I reach over and squeeze his arm. “Most women do.”

His eyes veer to mine, his mouth lifting at one corner. He's got a small blob of ice cream on his upper lip, making him look about eight. Eight is good. Eight I can handle. It's
twenty
-eight that's giving me trouble.

There. I've said it. I could dance around this issue from now to Doomsday, and God knows, I've learned enough from past mistakes not to do something stupid—like launch myself at the man—but okay, fine, Tina's right, I'm attracted to the guy. And I'm tired of pretending to myself that I'm not. I also know—and here's where Tina's wrong—nothing's going to come of it. And that's not pretending, that's facing reality.

And from now on, reality is my new best friend.

We both turn our attention back to the screen. Another long silence follows, during which I realize that we've been watching the show for a good ten minutes and haven't so much as chuckled, even though I remember howling with laughter the first time I saw it. Not because I ever personally related (I mean, please—those chicks go through more men in two
episodes than I even know) but because of the whole single woman solidarity thing, I guess. But tonight, I suddenly do relate. At least to the quiet—and sometimes not so quiet—despair trembling at the edges of their lives.

As if I'm not depressed enough already.

I point the remote at the TV and click it off.

“Why'd you do that?”

“Lost interest.”

Luke skootches around, pushing himself back farther into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched out over the back. “This doesn't change anything between us,” he says, and my eyes jerk to his.

“What?”

“Tina and me breaking up. I know you and she are buddies and all, but I'm not disappearing just because…” He swallows. “Just because things didn't work out between her and me.”

“Oh.” He obviously doesn't know that Tina and I haven't spoken since that last conversation. She sent flowers for Leo, but she didn't call. So I guess it's safe to say we're not exactly tight anymore. “I guess I hadn't thought about it.”

“It's just…” His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, then skitter away. “It would kill me to lose both of you at the same time, you know?”

Nothing like being thought of as a spare tire.

But I smile gamely anyway, silently repeating my reality-is-my-new-best-friend mantra. Besides, it would have killed me to lose both of them at the same time, too. “It's okay. I'm not going anywhere, either. Anyway, having you around's a no-brainer. And I don't have too many of those these days.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” The air thickens between us, but for different reasons. Luke gets up, taking my dish from me and carting both his and mine back to the kitchen. I rise and follow; he's already at the sink, rinsing them off. Frances has trained her boys well. We decide which food he should take (I swear,
it's multiplying in the fridge); I wrap things up in foil, plastic, old margarine dishes and stuff the grocery bags he brought.

But when he glances at me, it's clear we both know it's not true, about nothing changing between us. It's already changed, just by Tina no longer being a factor in the equation. As long as she was, Luke was part of my life by default. But let's get real: Luke will last about as long on the open market as a six-room Riverside Drive apartment for two grand a month. And what are the chances of him hooking up with somebody willing to tolerate another woman in his life, childhood buddy or not?

Yeah, that's what I think, too.

As for that hooey from Tina, about Luke really wanting me instead of her? Right. Man can hardly say her name without choking on it, he's still so torn up about what happened.

“Guess I should get going,” Luke says, heading down the hall. “You decided when you're going back to work yet?”

Work. Blech. Yeah, yeah, I got this twenty-five grand coming, but at the rate Starr's going, I might need that for her college tuition like, next week. “Soon. Gotta figure out the day-care thing first.”

“Hey—” His jacket back on, Luke bends slightly at the knees to meet my gaze, his expression earnest. “You know, if you need anything, anything at all, I'm here, right? I mean, to help take care of the Twink—”

“We're fine,” I say, too quickly and for reasons I'm not sure I fully understand.

“What you are,” he says, straightening up, “is a pain in the ass.”

“Sweet-talker.”

That gets a smile, even if it's a little blurred around the edges. Then: “I'd better get going. Oh—by the way, Mom expects the two of you for Sunday dinner, no excuses.”

My throat tightens with emotion, for everything I've lost.
For everything, I think sappily, I still have. Frances is still my surrogate mother. She just wouldn't want to be my mother-
in-law.
Never known a Scardinare yet who didn't marry a good Italian Catholic girl and make good Italian Catholic babies.

“Sure, fine, we'll be there.”

With a wave, he's gone. And when I can't hear the sound of his car anymore, I go upstairs and check on my little girl one more time. Her somewhat smelly Oscar the Grouch strangled in her arms, she's softly snoring.

It's the sweetest sound in the whole world.

 

I wake with a start sometime later, my heart pounding. It's just beginning to get light: everything looks like a TV picture when the brightness dealie's turned too far down.

“You 'wake?” I hear beside me.

I turn and gather my wide-eyed child, as well as Oscar, into my arms. Starr's collected all the characters from
Sesame Street,
but decided—at three, mind you—that Oscar was grouchy all the time because maybe he didn't get enough love. And that it was her mission to remedy that situation. Well, she might not have used those words, but the toy definitely has that well-worn, slightly gross patina that demonstrates her devotion.

“Snuggle?” she says, skootching closer.

“Sure.” I yawn. “Did you go potty?”

She nods against my chest, then backs up to frown into my eyes, her little myopic brown ones slightly unfocused. At least, I think that's what she's doing, since my big myopic ones aren't doing much better.

“So,” she says, “now what?”

“Now what?” I repeat, stalling until something sparks to life inside my skull.

That gets a little huffy sigh. “I
mean
…what happens now? Are we gonna stay here? Are you going back to work? And
who's gonna take care of me when you do? And does this mean we definitely can't get a puppy now?”

I shut my eyes in an attempt to keep my shrieking brain from bolting from my head. When I open them again, Starr's still frowning at me, patiently awaiting any words of wisdom I might be inclined to share. Unfortunately, I'm fresh out.

“Don't know, Twinkle-girl.”

“About
any
of it?” You'd have to be here to get the full impact of her incredulity.

“Well, I pretty much have to go back to work,” I say, “since otherwise, we'd eventually starve.”

“But why do we have to buy food when people keep bringing it to us?”

I chuckle. “They won't do that forever, honey. That's just something people do when…when a family's going through a tough time.”

“You mean because Leo died.”

“Yeah.”

She rolls out of my arms and onto her back, her hands folded over her tummy. The heat hasn't kicked on yet; I pull the down comforter up over her, then wrap my arm around her, just for a second wishing there was somebody to wrap an arm around me, to make me feel warm and safe and secure. It suddenly hits me that I'd never expected, at twenty-eight, to be either a parent or an orphan. And I'm not real sure what to do with the fact that I'm both.