Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [42]
—Are you okay? he asks.
I sit up quickly and avoid his outstretched hand. Uber crouches down in front of me. Lousy déjà vu splits my brain—there’s too much Tommy in this gesture—but Uber’s approach is a strictly clumsy imitation.
All I want in this moment is my bed. Knock the whole house down to the foundation, just let me sleep. I can’t take on this guy’s worries. In order to ditch him, I ask if he wouldn’t mind getting me some water.
I tell him there are paper cups in the downstairs bathroom, so he doesn’t go into the kitchen and spot Tommy. I’ve got to turn the Living machine off.
—I’ll be right back, he says.
I’m halfway up the stairs when Uber bounds after me like a young dog, water slopping out of a Dixie cup.
—I’ll try to keep this short, he says. —It’s kind of urgent. Well, not urgent. You’ll probably understand. Or maybe not. I just have to say it.
The guy’s in a complete knot, and though I don’t want to, there’s a part of me that can’t help feel sorry for him. I down the water and let the cup parachute to the foyer that’s no longer really ours. Then I continue to climb the stairs, Uber and his intentions in tow, until we reach the second floor.
—I’m not here out of convenience, he says.
—Out of inconvenience?
—You have Tommy’s sense of humor.
—He had mine.
He closes in now.
—Your mother told me they’re taking your house.
—We’ll be fine, I say.
—I haven’t told anyone this. I’m thinking of leaving the country . . . for good, he says, his voice quaking.
—I have no idea why you’re telling me this. But the media would hound you to death. You’re still under contract, right?
As soon as the question slips out I start beating myself up for caring.
—I’ll figure something out, he says.
—I hope you keep your tetanus shots up.
—What?
—The wire. That’s a pretty deep cut.
He looks embarrassed as he remembers the crown. He tries to pull it from his head, but it’s tangled in his hair. He looks frustrated, like he wants to punch someone out, himself maybe. As I help him unravel the thing, he tells me that sometimes his melancholy Irish side gets the better of him.
—But I always spring back quickly, he says.
I really don’t know how to answer Uber. I prefer to have a solid enemy, nothing dilute. This is starting to feel dilute.
I hand him what’s left of the crown and I’m aware of the sound of the trains coming from Thad’s room now. My brother starts to shriek in a happy way. I see that the ice cream dishes have been put out in the hall, as if Allison is staying in a hotel and housekeeping will be by to pick up. We are in a state of decline.
—Come with me, he says when we get to the top of the steps.
—Come with you?
—Abroad, Canada. I don’t care.
It seems everyone wants me to go ex-pat suddenly. I feel like I’ve been called up for a draft.
—There have to be other ways to get a headline, I say.
—I don’t care about headlines. It’s just, and I know this sounds corny, I’ve tried to think of other ways to say it. When . . .
—It’s not necessary. You don’t have to say a thing. Please don’t say anything.
—When I met you, I had the sense that I knew you, that I’d known you for a long time.
I lean against the wall and try to imagine how, in a handful of days, I’ve leapt out of my old life to find myself in a place of pratfalls and awkward declarations. And the funny thing is, I know this guy’s being straight with me, that his heart is suddenly on the line, and who knows, it’s possible I might even like the guy for being such a big dope if circumstances were different. But they’re not.
—You’re irrepressible, aren’t you? I say.
—At least come with me tomorrow, he says, smiling a little.—Your mother tells me you’re a good shot.
—I’m all out of skeet.
—I have skeet.
I wonder if I actually need to remind him.
—I can’t be with a man standing on my father’s grave.
I watch him wince and hang his head, about to say something.
Thad’s door opens just then and Allison slips out, looking back as she typically does, to make sure Thad will be okay without her for a few minutes.