Push(42)

The bartender comes over to take our order, and David stills his hand, laying it flat on my thigh. When the menus and the bartender are gone, he looks up at the TVs above the bar.
“Are you mad that I came to pick you up?” he asks, watching a baseball game. “You haven’t said very much.”
“Mad? No. I love that you came to pick me up. And that you brought me here. What I’m confused about is why you didn’t tell me you were coming.” It’s true, I am confused about that. I sort of feel like maybe he is trying to catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing. But that isn’t going to happen because everything I shouldn’t be doing I’m doing with him.
“I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t know that I was,” he says, turning toward me with his hand still on my knee. “Until right before, I mean.” He pauses for a minute, but I can tell he wants to say more. Then he adds, “I was worried about you.”
“Worried about me? Why on earth would you be worried about me? This isn’t about Matt, is it? Because he’s just...he isn’t worth worrying about.” Now I’m really confused. David takes his hand off my knee and skims it through his hair, over his ear to the back of his head. He looks nervous.
“It isn’t about Matt. Don’t be mad at me, okay? For looking. But, a package came for you today. It was sitting outside on the stoop, and I picked it up to take it inside for you and I saw the return address. It’s from your stepdad. And it f*cking freaked me out.”
“Jesus,” I say, “what the hell.” Now I’m f*cking freaked out, too. Why can Michael not leave me the hell alone? “What kind of package is it?” I ask, my heart in my throat. I think he can tell I am completely wigged out about this because his hand is now out of his hair and resting on the side of my arm. Just like when someone is trying to comfort a friend at a funeral. It feels awkward.
“It’s like a cubic foot. Not big at all. And really light,” he says, rubbing my arm. “Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out about it, but I didn’t want you to come home after work and find it by yourself. Plus, I’m worried that he’s gonna show up here again and do whatever it is that he does.” I can hear in his voice that he has moved into his protective mode, and once again, I feel the pull of it. I feel my own thirst for his protection. I feel a selfish need to be sheltered. To let him be my shield against whatever bullshit Michael is throwing at me this time.
“No. No. I’m glad that you came. I’m glad that you told me about the package rather than me going home to find it. Because if I had found the package myself, I would have thrown it right into the damned Dumpster. But I’m opening it when we get back. We are opening it when we get back,” I say, not giving him a choice.
“Whatever you want, Emma. I just need you to know that I meant what I said to him. He needs to stay the f*ck away from you. And I will make sure that happens—even if I have to sit in your cubicle with you all day.” I smile softly at the thought of David sitting on the floor of my cubicle watching Matt and me work together. He grins back at me, and after a brief pause, with mock disparagement he says, “Jesus, I hope I don’t have to do that.” And then he is really grinning at me, obviously tickled at the same mental image of us in a cubicle together. Except in his vision I’m sure we are doing something very different....and Matt is sure as hell not there.
“I would like to think that Michael wouldn’t be stupid enough to show up here again,” I say, “but I thought that before, and clearly I was wrong. He’s just a sick * who trips on making me feel like I’m still a child. He likes keeping people under his thumb, and frankly, he’s really good at it. He’s really good at manipulation and intimidation. I spent the better part of my childhood being degraded and humiliated by that man. And I am mortified at the thought of him still having any sort of control over me. But he does, in a way, because here I am, a twenty-two-year-old woman, still talking about him. Still making him part of my life. Still wondering what the f*ck he is going to do next. I am sitting in a bar with you, and what are we doing? We are talking about him. It makes me sick.” I am angry now, and I can feel the flush in my skin. There is a lump of rage in my chest. And I would very much like to rip it out and throw it across the room.
David is sitting next to me, looking pensive. He stands and scoots his hips in between my parted knees. His arms wrap around my shoulders, and my cheek presses into his chest. He is wrapped around me like this for a long time, right here in this burger joint. Part of me wants to cry, but I won’t. Because that would make Michael very, very happy. So instead, I wrap my arms around David and squeeze back.
When we finish eating and go back to the apartment building, the package is sitting there, outside my door. David was right; it isn’t very big. But I don’t stop at my door. I walk right past it, straight up the stairs. Two floors up, right above mine. David is a few steps behind me, and I can hear his feet pause at the bottom of the steps as if he’s confused about what to do. When I get to his apartment door, I stop to wait for him. I think his door is usually open, but I don’t want to walk in without his permission. The irony, after all, would not be lost on him. When he gets to the top of the stairs, I open the door.
I go in first, and David follows, tossing his keys and phone on to the coffee table as he passes it on his way to the kitchen. I go sit on the couch. He comes out of the kitchen a few minutes later, holding a pair of beers. He hands one to me and takes a long drink out of the other.