Push

“You’re kicking me out,” he says, “and I’m surprised how much it pisses me off.”

“Sorry.” I shrug. “I’m not kicking you out, David, I’m letting you off the hook.”

“Off the hook, huh?”

“Yes, off the hook. That’s all. Now, go.”

“I won’t see you tomorrow, you know. Tuesday is poker,” he says as he walks toward the door. “I gotta pay off that fine-ass kitchen of yours.”

“Ahh, poker with the boys.” Damn, I forgot about that. Now I’m regretting letting him off the hook. His hand is on the doorknob. “Well, if you need some extra incentive to win tomorrow night,” I add, “you can just imagine me bending over my new countertop, ass up and wearing heels.”

He doesn’t turn around, but his body visibly stiffens. “That’s not incentive for me to win at poker, Emma, that’s incentive for me to throw myself at your feet.”

“Your choice,” I say. “But I think you may want to consider doing both.”

His back is still to me, and he bows his head and sighs as his hand twists the knob and opens the door.

“Good night, Emma,” he says as he walks out.

As soon as the door closes, I grab my phone and flip it open.

Good night to u too, David. And thanks...for everything.

I get no reply.

I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen to clean up. By the time I am finished, it is nearly ten o’clock. I am exhausted. I walk into my bedroom to change and see something small and dark sitting on my bed. When I get closer, I see that it’s a handgun. Holy shit. I am dumbfounded. Where did it come from? David enters my mind immediately. But so do his friends. And so does Michael. What the fuck am I supposed to do? And then I notice a note sitting next to it.

I pick up the note and see right away that it is from David. It is not in Michael’s handwriting, and even though I know that David and his friends were here all day and there is no way Michael could have gotten in, an enormous pulse of relief smacks at me.

Emma—

Do me a favor—keep this please. Put it in a drawer or a shoebox or something. It will make me feel better. I’ll teach you how to use it, if you want.

Male coworkers can go a little crazy around pretty girls (especially those quiet engineer-types). Not to mention stepfathers.

David

PS. It’s loaded so be careful.

PSS. Your pepper spray is on the dresser. I don’t need it because I’m not interested in any of those half-naked whores. Only you.

What am I supposed to do? Should this make me angry? He obviously put the gun and note here long before I offered to make him dinner. Before our conversation about jealousy. Before our kiss in the kitchen. But most importantly, it happened before he reminded me that we have only known each other four days. Then it hits me: He wants to protect me. Jesus, for the first time in my life, someone wants to protect me. Where the hell was he fifteen years ago when I really needed to be protected? He was protecting himself, of course, while I was busy trying to do the same. He was right; we are two of the same.

I have no clue how to use a gun, nor do I have any interest in learning how. Still, having a gun is not a bad idea. Living alone for the first time in my life does make me a little nervous. I decide not to make an issue of it and put the gun carefully in the back of the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I agree to be protected.

Chapter Twelve

My alarm goes off at six, and I’m not sure why, but I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand and look at the gun. It scares me to have it there, so close to where I sleep, just beneath the picture of my mother and me looking so very happy. I pick up the gun, sit up and turn it over in my hand. It’s heavier than I remember it being last night, and I’m a little freaked out about the fact that it is loaded. I imagine what it would be like to shoot it. The most important thing I know about guns—okay, one of the only things I know about guns—is that they have a safety feature. I look for some kind of button or something, and I see what I assume is a safety slide. I don’t dare touch it, though, and decide that I will definitely ask David to show me how to use the damn thing. I sure as shit don’t want to wind up shooting myself by accident.

I put the gun back in the drawer and push it closed. Then I climb out of bed, shower, dress, and have some toast for breakfast. I am out the door by six-fifty.

The morning proceeds quickly at work. Matt is there to hold my hand through the initial stages of the design process we are assigned. He’s nice enough, but there is no doubt in my mind that he is here to make sure I don’t fuck up. We make small talk while we work, but I’m only feigning interest in what he has to say. I think he’s trying to impress me with stories of his mountain biking trips through Utah and partially clever jokes about the office politics. I listen politely and answer his occasional questions, but it feels so fregging superficial. I wish he wasn’t trying so hard. I’m trying not to get annoyed with Matt, and I figure that if I just keep my comments to a minimum, maybe he’ll realize that I’m not interested and start being himself. Of course I consider that maybe this is being himself; maybe posturing is his thing. Good lord, I hope not. If it is, this fucking project had better be over sooner rather than later.

At lunchtime, I walk to the cafeteria downstairs to grab something to eat. I check my cell and see that there is a text from David. It was sent at eight-thirty this morning. I inhale deeply and open the message.

All it says is Hi.

I type my reply and hit Send.

Hi back.

Ten seconds pass until his reply arrives.

I’m sorry, Emma. I forgot to ask u last night how your first day went.

It was fine. Day two going good too.

Glad to hear it.

What r u doing today?

Prepping for tonight.

Poker, u mean?

Yes.

Jesus, u need to prep for that? Really?

Yes really.

Hummm. How do I get invited?

U don’t want to be.

Is there fancy food involved or something? Caviar? Shrimp cocktail?

There is no cock, or tail, involved. I promise.

I feel eyes on me as I laugh out loud in line at the salad station.

Well then, I guess I don’t want to be invited after all....

Not unless u want to lose all the money u r earning at that new job.

I wouldn’t lose a dime.

Is that so?

Yes. If I take my shirt off, no one will even notice their cards.

Now THAT would be a sight to see.

Tell me where u r going to be and u can...

Tempting...but I can’t.

Suit yourself. See u Wednesday?

Wednesday it is. I have something I want to show u after work. Can I pick u up downtown?

Yes. In front of the Union Building. 6:00. I’ll b the one in heels.

Ass up?

I’ll consider it.

When two minutes pass and I don’t get a reply, I put my phone back into my purse. I pick out my lunch and head back upstairs to eat it at my desk.

The afternoon passes uneventfully. I work with Matt for another hour or so, then I spend the rest of the day in my cubicle working out how to split a video conferencing line to forty-seven different offices. I’ve got a good grip on this project, and I feel satisfied that the whole thing is moving along perfectly. At five-thirty, I gather my things and head home. I am looking forward to an evening by myself.

When I get back to my apartment, there is a man mowing the lawn in front of the building. He looks vaguely familiar. As I am walking up to the building, digging around in my purse for my keys, he cuts the mower engine. When the silence strikes, I look over at him to see what happened, and he’s just standing there looking at me. I recognize him now. He was the one sitting on David’s bed on Saturday night. I smile a half-smile at him, and continue to search for my keys.

When I find them, I go to open the door and see that the man is standing to my left, only a few paces away.

“Hey,” he says as he continues to walk toward me, “you’re Emma, right? David’s...um, friend?” Oh, this is going to be awkward. Very, very awkward.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say tartly. He offers his right hand for me to shake, but my own hand is already occupied with the keys. He stands with his hand out for a few seconds while I open the door and prop it open with my knee. Only then do I reach across myself to offer him my hand in return.

“My name is Brad,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. David is a friend of mine. I helped him finish your kitchen yesterday. How do you like it?”

“It’s very nice. Thank you,” I say, wanting to go inside and be by myself.

“Yeah, it turned out pretty nice,” he says lightly. “David was a fucking slave driver, though. I think he wanted us the hell out of your apartment.” He is smiling at me, and I wonder if he knows precisely how true his statement really is. A few seconds pass, and I can tell he is waiting for my reply.

“Yeah, well...” I say quietly as I shrug.

“At any rate, I’m glad you like it,” he says kindly. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.” I can’t tell if it is meant as a question or a statement. “I’ll tell David that I met you when I see him later tonight.”

“Oh, you’re playing poker tonight, too?” My skin prickles. He is going to see David tonight and I am not. It isn’t envy I’m feeling—I don’t know what it is. “Where do you guys play?” I ask. Hell, if David won’t tell me, maybe Brad will.

“We play in the basement of some building. The guy who owns this building, Carl, he has a couple of other places, and so we play at one of them. It’s a shithole, but it’s private,” he says.

“Would you mind giving David a message for me when you see him tonight?” I ask. This is going to be fun.

“Sure. What is it?”

I pull off my shoe. It’s one of my favorite navy blue high heels. I hand it to Brad with a smile.

“Just give him this, and tell him I’ll need it back in time for work tomorrow.”

At first he looks at me as if I am from Mars. But then something sinks in, and a smile grows on his face. I smile back at him knowing that, yes, he probably would like a crack at me. He would have to take down David first, though, and I don’t see that happening. He shakes his head slowly and lets out a near-silent laugh.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” he says as he takes my shoe by the heel. He’s a handsome guy, this Brad, and at least as far as looks go, I can see why David didn’t want to introduce me. I hope I am not inciting a riot with my little game, but we did agree to nix the jealousy bullshit. Brad looks a little too excited with this opportunity, though, so I decide I’d better set a ground rule.

“But, you have to promise me that you won’t lead him to believe that you were the one that took it off me,” I say. “Because if he thinks for even one second that you and I did anything more than say ‘Hi’...” I raise my eyebrows and trail off, figuring that Brad knows David way better than I do. I’m sure he knows precisely what David will do to him if he thinks something happened between us.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll make it perfectly clear that I am nothing more than the delivery boy. He already beats my ass at poker. I don’t need him beating my ass for this, too.”

“Thanks, Brad,” I say. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” he says as he tucks the heel of my shoe into the back pocket of his jeans. After I go inside, I turn to close the door behind me and see him restarting the lawn mower, the front of my shoe dangling out of his back pocket.

* * *

The next morning, I somehow manage to wake a few minutes before my alarm. I love it when that happens, and take it as a sign that I am well rested and settling nicely into my work routine. When I turn the alarm off, I smell something. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I know it isn’t a smell that belongs here. It’s an earthy mix of turpentine and tobacco. I prop myself up on my elbows and inhale again. It’s not a bad smell, just a curious one. It’s raw and masculine.

I click on my bedside lamp. I don’t see anything unusual about my room, and I begin to think that perhaps the smell is coming in through the closed windows. I swing my feet off the side of the bed and stand up. Sitting on top of the dresser, at the foot of my bed, is the navy blue shoe I had given to Brad. Shit. It means that David was here last night. Once again, I must have slept like a rock.

I pick up the shoe and smile, thinking about what David’s reaction must have been when Brad presented it to him. I’d bet my first paycheck he was pissed off, at least initially. Obviously Brad gave David my message; otherwise my shoe wouldn’t be here right now, so at least I know that Brad had the opportunity to explain how he got it before David went crazy on him. I begin to think my little stunt went off without a hitch.

I open my dresser drawer and pull out a clean pair of panties and a bra. I already have the rest of my clothes picked out for the day, and I walk over to my closet to get them out. Suddenly I understand where the smell is coming from. There on the floor next to my bed is David. He is naked from the waist up, his T-shirt bunched up underneath his head like a makeshift pillow. He is lying on his left side, his knees curled up toward his chest and his arms splayed out in front of him. I have been to enough high school and college parties to know that he is passed out drunk. As soon as I see him there, my mind deciphers the smell. It’s the whisky coming out of his pores, mingled with sexy-man-sweat and sweet cigar smoke. I suppose I should feel lucky that he didn’t puke. At least not in here, anyway.

I bend down closer. He is in a dead sleep, and I watch his chest rise and fall a few times before I sit down on the floor next to him. The birds are there, of course, twisted around his arms. I want to touch them, to lie down next to him, but I don’t. Instead, I just watch him. This is what he looks like when he sleeps. I like his stillness, his exposure. He is strangely perfect like this, asleep on my floor curled into himself.

I don’t wake him. Instead, I get my clothes out of the closet, grab both of my navy blue heels, and head to the bathroom, closing my bedroom door quietly behind me. Once I am showered and dressed, I eat a quick breakfast. Before I rush out the door, I pull a piece of paper out of my bag, write him a note, and put it on my little table.

See you at 6:00.

Chapter Thirteen

Kelsey

I am standing on Clawsen’s Bridge dressed for work in my khakis and blue polo shirt. David is late, which isn’t like him at all. Despite his rough edges, he’s always both punctual and orderly. Which is perfect, because I’m the exact same way. I suspect he’s late because he got stuck in the line of traffic going to Beth Lanko’s funeral. I think the whole town is there. Well, everyone except for us, that is. I knew Beth, but not well, so we aren’t going to her funeral. Instead, I am on this bridge waiting for David.

David and I met when my family hired him and his dad to rebuild the kitchen in our restaurant. I waitress there and hope that, when he’s ready to retire, my dad will let me take over the business. It’s just a little bistro, but I grew up with it and can’t see myself doing anything else. Plus, when David and I get married and have kids, it means we’ll be able to stay close to my parents.

Thankfully, my mom and dad both think David is a decent guy. They recognize how disciplined he is. They appreciate that he always picks me up on time and brings me back home well before my curfew. He is always courteous and polite, and despite his father’s alcoholism, David seems to have a good grip on where he wants his life to go. David is a methodical, planned thinker, and even though he doesn’t go to church or college, my folks consider him to be a part of our family. But most of all, my mom and dad recognize how important I am to David’s future. They know I am saving him. They know that our family is saving him. They see their acceptance of him as part of the Lord’s work.

What they don’t know, though, are all the details of David’s messed-up past. It explains a lot about him. About his need for discipline. About his need to be in command of his life now that he is an adult. His childhood was completely contradictory to mine. But I can’t tell my mom and dad about it because David made me promise not to.

The important thing is that I know he wants to be with me, and I love him. I’ve told him so many times, but for some reason, I don’t think he believes me. And he never says it back, which my sister says is just a guy thing. But I actually don’t think he’s going to say it at all until I agree to have sex with him.

When he found out that I am saving myself for my wedding night, he told me that he didn’t understand why. That was eight months ago, and we haven’t talked about it since. He never pushes me about it, but sometimes I think that our lack of sex is stopping him from expressing his love for me. And yet here we are, still together—not having sex.

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