The People We Keep(92)
— Chapter 50 —
“So, just because you and Robert are all lovey dovey and whatnot doesn’t mean you can’t be my date for the Pride costume ball, right?” Ethan says.
He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom while I get ready for a shift waiting tables at the restaurant. Robert is short-staffed for lunch and I promised I’d fill in.
“Of course not,” I say, leaning into the mirror to put mascara on. I didn’t realize he knew about me and Robert. It’s not that I specifically wanted to hide it from Ethan, it’s just that no one wants to feel like the odd man out, and he’s still sad about Ivan. He puts on this brave face and thinks I don’t notice, but he’s working on a new painting and it’s all dark mean blues and crashes of red. Even though it’s abstract, I know what it’s about. Plus, I have no idea if Robert feels the same way I do.
“Of course not, you can’t be my date?” Ethan asks. “Or of course it doesn’t mean you can’t be my date?”
This, I know from experience, could go on forever. It’s a game we play, talking ourselves in circles. Normally I love to twist words with him, but I’m in a hurry. I fell back to sleep with wet hair after my shower this morning and now it’s sticking out in weird directions. I stop the game by saying, “Ethan Turner, my dearest darling, there is nothing in the world I would love more than to be your date. In fact, being your date would make me the happiest girl in the whole wide world.”
“Good,” he says. “Me too.”
“You’re the happiest girl in the whole wide world?” I say, grinning.
“Yes,” Ethan says. “It’s a date.”
“Deal. But only if you buy me a corsage.” I quit trying to make my hair look right and just pull it all up in a ponytail. “Hey, who says Robert and I are all lovey dovey?”
“Robert,” Ethan says, smiling big.
My face flushes and I know Ethan can see me turning red.
“Yeah,” he says, tugging my ponytail. “He’s got it bad for you.”
* * *
When I get home from my shift, there’s a blond wig and a silver beaded dress with tags from the vintage store artfully arranged on my bed, even though the ball is still two weeks away. I try the dress on. It hangs tight at my waist; the skirt swishes and twirls. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn. It fits perfectly.
— Chapter 51 —
Robert makes me dinner at his place. I think Ethan is a little miffed he’s not invited, but he’s trying hard not to let it show. He says it’s good that I’m going to Robert’s, because he can use the time to paint. He likes to work on his canvases at different times of day so he can get all the layers just right. I think he burned the blue and red one. I came home one day and there were ashes in the fireplace and the house stunk of burnt plastic. He didn’t say anything about it, so I didn’t ask, in case it was something he needed to keep private.
The new painting he’s working on is abstract too. Full of brown curves and squiggles. It doesn’t really look like anything, so I don’t get how he’ll know when he’s done. I don’t ask, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I like it, even if I don’t understand what it’s supposed to be. Something about it is soft and sweet.
When I get to Robert’s, he opens the door before I even knock, hands me a plate loaded with lasagna, and says, “Do me a favor. Run this to Ethan. He never remembers to stop painting to feed himself.” I bring the plate back to Ethan and we swoon over Robert and how kind he is.
Ethan plasters a kiss on my cheek. “Go on your date already, silly girl! I won’t wait up.” He sits down with his plate of lasagna to study his painting while he eats.
* * *
Robert has a stillness to him. Even when he’s moving around the kitchen, chopping cucumbers for the salad, or pouring wine in my glass, there’s nothing frantic about it. Everything is purposeful, like what he’s doing at that moment is the only thing he could possibly want to be doing.
I feel like I can tell Ethan every little bit of myself. Every inch of my brain, even the stupid stuff, and he always wants to hear it and he always understands. But with Robert, I don’t talk much. My words feel heavy when I do. Gestures have more meaning. His fingertips grazing the back of my hand. A look. It’s calming. It leaves me with room for my own quiet.
When Robert sits at the table with me, he smiles, and I smile back, and it’s comfortable and exciting at the same time. The lasagna is gooey, with layers of mushrooms and smoked sausage.
“So,” I say softly, “I heard this rumor that you like me.”
“Do you think it’s true?” he asks. I like the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
“Yeah,” I say. I kick at his boot under the table. He grabs my ankle with both his legs. We eat dinner with our feet entwined.
We eat until our plates are clean, soaking up sauce with big chunks of rosemary bread Robert made from scratch. I don’t drink my wine. It stays on the table, mocking me. Ethan doesn’t drink anymore either. We can’t.
“Is the wine too dry?” Robert asks when he pours himself a second glass.