I tried not to laugh. “Gently?”
He ignored me. “But you fell asleep in the car. And then took a shower and were sneaking around the apartment.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. I was trying to put your gifts by the fireplace.”
Again, he ignored my statement. “And I couldn’t sleep. I needed…to touch you, or have a strong drink. And then we drank and I was an asshole.”
“Because I implied you never loved me.”
Martin shifted to the side, glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and contradicted, “No. You didn’t imply. You flat out said it. And I got so pissed.”
He sounded angry now, just remembering it. I decided it was best to move the conversation forward.
“I finally read your interview from Men’s Health where you called me The One.”
“When?”
“After I got your text on New Year’s.”
He didn’t respond right away, and when he did he said, “Huh.”
He looked so handsome, lying in my bed thinking with his big head, so I brushed my lips against his. This of course led to us kissing like mad again.
When we finally pulled apart, Martin was above me once more and his breathing was labored. “Kaitlyn,” he started, then stopped.
“What is it?” I reached for him, smoothed my hands over his jaw.
I saw his chest rise with an impressive inhale before he spoke. “I did choose you. You know that, right?”
I waited for him to continue. I wasn’t certain what to make of his statement, to what—in specific—he was referring.
He shifted on the bed, turning onto his side and propping his head up, his arm bent at the elbow. His other hand gripped my hip.
“I didn’t choose anything at first, after you…left. Like I told you last week, I kept thinking you were going to agree to see me in secret. In my mind, we weren’t over, not at all. But when you didn’t change your mind, nothing about revenge or seeing my father humiliated meant anything. I saw you were right and I walked away, though I think a part of me will always want to see him suffer.”
I was quiet while he had his moment of anger. Martin’s father was a bad guy. I knew the best Martin could hope for was indifference toward the man.
Eventually, he shook himself and continued, “I dropped out of university because you asked me to leave you alone, and I couldn’t do that if I stayed on campus. But then I couldn’t let you go, even when I didn’t see you. So almost everything I did—setting up the foundation, the interviews, publicly calling my father a dickhead—was all about earning you back, earning your trust, hoping you would consider taking me back once I’d made everything right.”
I felt my chin wobble and was relieved these threatening tears were happy ones.
“Oh, Martin.” My voice was shaky, but I didn’t mind. “Did you really call your father a dickhead?”
He nodded. “They didn’t print that part, but he is a dickhead.”
I laughed, wishing the newspaper had printed that Denver Sandeke was a dickhead. But I also wished for so much more.
“I wish I’d read your interview when it was printed. I wish I’d gone back to you after our initial fight and tried to work things out, find another way. I wish I hadn’t been hiding in the closet all summer, avoiding all mentions of your name.”
“I don’t.” He shook his head with a remarkable kind of certainty, like he knew all the secrets of the past and the future.
“You don’t?”
“No. Because, even without you, I am happier than I’ve ever been. As soon as I walked away from my father, I started working on projects that interested me. You know those sketches on my drafting table? I’m inventing again. My purpose is now about what I want and not dictated by my hatred for him. If you hadn’t called me on my bullshit, then…” He didn’t finish the thought. Instead his eyes lost focus, as though he were imagining an unpleasant alternate reality.
I felt myself smile. Martin had been the catalyst for my choice to embrace my music and, as such, passion. He forced me out of my closet of expectations and purposeful obscurity. Even separated from him, I was happier in my life than I’d ever been before.
And, in that moment, I had a thought.
Maybe that’s what real love is.
Maybe love, at its essence, is being a mirror for another person—for the good parts and the bad. Perhaps love is simply finding that one person who sees you clearly, cares for you deeply, challenges you and supports you, and subsequently helps you see and be your true self.
Love, I decided, is being a sidekick.
CHAPTER 15
Strengths of Covalent Bonds
“When will you be home?”
He didn’t answer right away.
In fact, he was noticeably quiet, as though he were enjoying the question, the moment, and everything it meant.
But I knew he was smiling.
I felt my automatic answering smile, the kamikaze leap of my heart, and the igniting Bunsen burner in my pants—a trifecta of happiness and anticipation—at his silence.
The last month had been bliss. BLISS I TELL YOU!
We dated. We went on dates. I saw him almost every day. Although I hated he had such a long commute. During the week when I had classes, Martin stayed with me at my place every night. My weekends were pretty tied up with shows and work. Sometimes we stayed in New Haven and sometimes we crashed at his place in New York. Yet wherever I slept, he slept too.
But notably, we’d only made love three more times since the closet, each time he swore it was the last until we moved in together, and I was frustrated. Pragmatically speaking, it’s a crime against humanity to have a boyfriend as hot—body hot, brain hot, heart hot—as Martin Sandeke and not have the sex.
He was being stubborn, and though I’d been able to entice him a few times, he wanted to wait until we had our own place. Really, he was blackmailing my pants.
“Soon,” he responded from the other end of the phone, his voice so low and lovely, and laced with meaning, the single word a promise.
I heard the urgent vroooom of his car and pressed my lips together so he wouldn’t hear me laugh, but I was unable to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Really? How soon? Because I was thinking of running some errands.”
“Parker, don’t tease me.”
Oh…sigh.
Tonight he was coming home to our home.
Home was a really, really small one-bedroom just two blocks from the apartment I’d shared with Sam…until yesterday. The timing had been perfect because her friend Kara ended up moving into my room.
Honestly, I didn’t know what Sam was more excited about: me and Martin finally getting back together—as she put it—or the fact she didn’t have to pack up her stuff and move into a three-bedroom. Of course, she also took an alarming amount of pleasure in tearing up my chore chart.
Regardless, today was my first day in our new apartment and tonight would be our first night in the apartment together. I hoped it would be sans underwear.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, my legs feeling a little wobbly, my heart feeling a lot full. “Fine. I’ll wait for you. But soon better mean soon.”
“Soon means soon.” This was accompanied by another vroooom.
This time the sound made me frown.
“Don’t kill yourself trying to get home.”
“I won’t.”
“Remember, I have my weekly call with my parents in about ten minutes. It shouldn’t last longer than a half hour, so you don’t need to rush.”
“I won’t rush.” Just as he said this I heard his car vroooom. Before I could interrogate him about it, he added, “And I picked up dinner.”
“Oh! What did you get?”
“Tacos.”
I grinned. Over the last month he’d frequently brought New York takeout for dinner. I suspected he did this in an attempt to win Sam over. It worked. The first time he arrived with lasagna from Little Italy she forgave him for everything.
I further suspected he picked up dinner so often because it was informally exempt from my sharing expenses rule.
Upon my insistence, we’d decided to split everything for our new apartment down the middle—rent, utilities, groceries, everything. Strangely, I didn’t have to insist at all. Martin didn’t argue. I surmised he recognized how important my financial independence was to me; he understood I needed to prove to myself I could make a living as a musician.
I did mostly lose our argument about furniture though. He didn’t mind second-hand furniture, but he didn’t like the idea of pressed particle board and plastic. He liked sturdy hardwood antiques—real furniture made from real materials—Mission or Shaker style and time-period. Most of the items that ended up filling our living space—a turn of the century walnut desk, matching end tables, mirror, and chest, art deco-stained glass lamps, and a black leather loveseat sofa with two matching club chairs—were well outside of my price range.
But he valued genuine and he valued comfort. In the end I relented because we kept my mattress. Honestly, the only items I was attached to were my keyboard, my guitar, and my mattress.
As well, he kept his New York apartment. He owned it outright and it made financial sense as an investment. Plus, it was fun to visit the city (and my piano) on the weekends.