The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(143)

She nodded, and sorrow shimmered in her eyes. He could see the words building up in their depths. An insight she was hesitating to share.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“I always needed to be strong for you,” she said. “Strong and still. But I was so weak after the shooting. Such a wreck inside. Maybe I couldn’t let you see me wrecked, so I went and was a mess with David. Or something. I don’t know.”

Erik stared, open-mouthed. “You could’ve been a wreck with me,” he said. But even as the words left his mouth he realized he could not think of a single time he had seen her shattered beyond her ability to pick herself up. His plans went to C and D, minimum, but Daisy’s war room left his plans in the dust. She had never cracked until the end.

As it dawned on his mind, she looked at him, her gaze still sad, but unblinking. “You only like when people behave the way you expect them to.”

He pushed his bowl away and put his forehead into a hand. A long moment of silence passed as her words pierced his skin like needles and their meaning pumped into his veins.

She f*cked up, he thought. She was f*cked up. She was young and traumatized. Weak and not in her right mind. Or maybe she just did something stupid. Either way, she didn’t act the way I expected. And I couldn’t forgive her. If it wasn’t perfect, it was useless. She cracked and I left.

She touched his wrist, breaking his thoughts. He rolled it up to her and her fingernail gently traced the daisy.

“I thought you might have gotten rid of it.”

“I almost did,” he said. “A few times. But I never followed through. I guess I needed it.”

“Like the sax.”

Staring at his wrist, watching Daisy’s fingertips, he thought about her tattoo, how the little red fish had never failed to thrill him. Every time he opened her jeans or slid her underwear down, it caught his eye like a surprise and he would think, There I am.

I have set you in my presence forever.

A quiet desire slid arms around his shoulders, gathered him close.

“Do you want tea?” Daisy asked.

He nodded, wanting many things.

She smiled at him, then pushed her kettle onto a burner and lit it. She gathered the soup pot, ladle and spatula, set them in the sink and started running soapy water. She took off the apron and set it on the counter. She was so graceful. Even washing dishes. Relaxed and serene. A grown woman at home in her kitchen. At home in the life she had created.

Loving her felt like creating something. A cathedral. Spires and stained glass and bells. But she broke one window and I indiscriminately tore the whole thing down.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Daisy said, drying her hands and coming to lean on her elbows.

“I hate what I did,” he whispered, looking back down at his tattoo.

“I hate what I did, too.” Her fingers came around his chin and she turned his face toward her. She was crying. “And I love that we’re here.” Her head came closer. She smelled like sugar. Her gaze shone blue-green like the earth. Her lips pressed his, soft and light, and she had him again.

He closed his eyes as she drew back.

Nothing man-made was perfect. Not even massive churches. A partnership wasn’t about being beautiful and adored in the spotlight, it was about incorporating the mistakes into the architecture and continuing to build something beautiful. Together.

She’s a generous, forgiving partner.

I can be one, too.

Her kiss still thrumming on his mouth, he opened his eyes. Daisy was by the refrigerator, reaching up for a cookie tin on its top. She pried off the lid and set the tin on the counter.

“I didn’t make a cake,” she said. “But I made these.”

He didn’t have to look. He had already smelled the orange zest and the faint overlay of black pepper. Thin rounds in a nest of parchment paper. Flecked with the promise of sweetness and spice. Golden and crisp with memory.

Daisy took one, put it in her palm. “Make a wish.”

This, Erik thought, and nodded at her. She pressed her finger down on the cookie’s center. A soft crunch. A decision. A truth.

“It broke into five,” she said, holding out her hand.

He took one of the pieces. “Means no wishes come true, but we still have cookies.”

They looked at each other a long time.

“I still love that we’re here,” she whispered.

“I still love us,” Erik said. And took a bite of pepparkakor.





Acknowledgements


I remember when I was young, listening to my father pick out the chords of “The Man I Love” on the grand piano in our living room. It seems some stories are meant to be written.

I declared my intention to turn this universe of characters into a book in November of 2013. Since that time, so many people have given me their unrelenting support and encouragement. To them I owe my unending thanks and all my love. With you as my friends, anything and everything is possible.

Paul Preston came back to reveal the story, tell me about Meisner technique and show me there’s more to a scene than doing what’s required. When the emotion is there and the emotion is authentic, the genuine scene ultimately follows. It works onstage. It works on the page. It works in life. You must live the truth of who you are and what you feel.

If this book is my baby, then Ami Harju is my doula. She read the earliest incarnation, separated the few chapters from Erik’s point of view and told me, “This.” She went on to read every version of The Man I Love, providing sound advice and valuable feedback. We were born to be friends. And I love us.