Monday will signify the start of her last two weeks at Foster’s, and I’ll have to have my performance appraisal of her work to her department head by the end of the week. Foster assigned it to me rather than Vera as Adeline has worked for me alone for the entirety of her time here, and I thank God for this favor. She’ll get glowing reviews from me and not just because I happen to be infatuated with her. She deserves the very best ratings I could give her, and my ethical conscience is at ease knowing she’s earned her way here at Foster’s.
When she enters the lobby, my heart flutters as it always does when she’s around. Her step is light, and she looks carefree and young. She’s wearing a sundress and cropped cardigan. The dress is a light sky blue with a full skirt and fitted bodice, and the cardigan is navy. She’s wearing a striking pair of ruby-red patent-leather flats, and the image of myself lifting her and pushing her against the wall as I pound into her body floats through my head as my groin tightens in want. Instead, I open the door like a gentleman, nod to our receptionist as we leave, and walk her, without touching, to my waiting car. Once we’re a block away, I stroke the soft skin of her fingers before lacing her fingers with mine.
She’s still received no job offers, hell no invitations to interview, from any firms in Chicago, and I will have to break down and beg her to stay before too long, and I will if I have to. She deserves to know how I feel about her, and there are times when we’re alone together I’m nearly overcome with the need to confess. I hear the words being spoken, and they sit on the tip of my tongue, ready to tumble out of my mouth, but I don’t utter a word. My hands clench as I will my mouth to move, and I open and close my mouth like a half-dead fish struggling to breath out of water. But the words just won’t come out.
I don’t have a single memory of my parents every uttering the words “I love you” to me, and I have not a single memory of my lips ever saying the words. Even married, I became good at not shying away when my ex-wife spoke those words to me, but I never reciprocated beyond saying, “me too.” It was the most I could muster, and now I’m bitter and angry at my parents for never caring enough about me to equip me for this.
She’s waiting for some sign from me. Caring for me terrifies her. But I also know she wants to. She’s afraid to go out on a limb with a man who picked her up in a bar and made it clear she was nothing more than a onetime event, and I don’t hold even a single ounce of resentment toward her for not throwing herself at me. She’s waiting. She’s waiting for me.
As we’re strolling around a great vintage furniture store near Market Street, I bring up dinner with my parents. She freezes midstep and looks at me. Her expression is indiscernible and leaves me vulnerable and ready to backpedal out of my words. “Your parents?”
A salesman shows up at just this moment, as they always do, and we end up buying a couch, a side table, and a lamp before scheduling delivery for Monday and leaving the store together. I want to reach for her hand, and normally I would, but my vulnerability and insecurity haven’t passed, and I’m terrified to touch her. But she’s not afraid to touch me, and as her fingers take mine the tension melts, and I turn, pulling her into my arms in the middle of the sidewalk.
We’re near enough to our favorite little café, and we walk hand in hand there for lunch, and the moment the host seats us she sets my mind at ease. “Of course I’ll go to dinner. I was just surprised they were in town. How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”
The heat I always enjoy seeing in her cheeks is suddenly creeping into mine. Very little embarrasses me in life, and usually not even my parents do, but when it comes to Adeline my upbringing pales so disastrously to hers, and I am embarrassed. I want her to think the world of me, and her soft, concerned eyes show pity instead. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate her obvious compassion, but it leaves me once again vulnerable and humiliated. “I don’t know. About two years maybe…” I murmur as my eyes drop from hers. “They’re just stopping for an evening on their way to Hawaii for a vacation.”
Her expression flashes with pain and anger. “They stop for one night to see you before going to Hawaii for a vacation?” She looks incredulous. Her small, unassuming self looks like she’s ready to fight someone for my honor.
But as her anger builds, mine does too. I don’t like that she’s upset. It’s a reminder she sees my pathetic existence, and in emotion I don’t quite understand, my anger directs itself at her. “They’re busy, Adeline. I mean, they’re stopping to see me. What do you think they ought to do, never take a vacation?” I’m cursing myself in my head even as the words fall out of my mouth. I’m angry, but she’s done nothing wrong! I don’t want her to have to fight for me. I don’t want her to see my imperfection. Her anger toward my parents is more like a judgment toward me, and yet logic tells me it’s not. I’m being irrational, but I can’t stifle it. I am hurt by her, but there’s no reason to be.
She’s staring incredulously, and I’m holding her gaze harshly, still unable to wrangle the emotions that have gotten away from me. She says nothing and eventually drops her gaze to her lap, but she’s not nearly as meek as most people believe her to be, and as her eyes slowly return to mine she shows her strength. “Your parents appear to bring out the worst in you, Jordan. I’m not going to pretend you had an ideal upbringing or I agree with the decision they made to be absent from your life. It makes me angry for you, and I’m sorry if that somehow offends you. You deserved better from them.”
My throat is tightening with her words, and tears I know nothing about prick at my eyes. I want to flee, to be away from her before she sees how human I really can be. Her emotion sparks my own, and it’s so unfamiliar to me I want to throw it in her face. Standing, I pull some cash from my pocket and toss it on the table. “I need to get some air.”
I leave without looking back, and the moment the door shuts behind me I regret it. But I don’t return. Instead I walk. I walk endlessly, trying to figure out why I got upset. Nothing she said was untrue, and I agree with every last word of it. But her pity and her anger made me feel inept. I hurt her, and I hate myself for what I’ve done. Is this the kind of man I am? Am I so lacking in assurance I lash out at her for seeing my weaknesses? She cares about me. Am I so incapable of coping with that fact I would push her away to avoid it? I love her, and she has no idea. I’ve already wronged her by withholding this, and I’m on the verge of losing her. I can’t imagine what it will take to keep her, but losing her isn’t an option.
***
As I walk to the site, I pass by Jordan’s car at the curb. I waited for nearly thirty minutes, and after paying our bill and getting his food to go, I left on my own. I’m hurt by his reaction, but oddly, part of me understands him. I imagine how I would feel if the tables were turned. Embarrassment raises the hackles; I know this better than anyone. Sometimes, biting back in anger is the only way a person can maintain some sense of control and strength. He was humiliated. I could see it in his eyes, and I know how humbling that can be. I also know how painful it can be.
When I enter the model, the foreman stops me, but I blow him off quickly, wanting only to look for Jordan. Once I’ve toured the entire condo and discovered he’s not there, I give up and return to the foreman. He brings me up to speed on what they’re doing. The trim is nearly done, the cheaper knockoff fixtures are installed, and they’ll have the hardware finished by the end of the day. Come Monday morning, it will be time to play decorator, and I want to be excited. I am excited; I just want to share it with him.
I meander about, killing time. I debate taking the ‘L’ back to the office, but I don’t want to miss him if he should arrive, but after an hour of waiting I grab my purse and my satchel bag with my samples and head toward the door. When I stop to tell the foreman I’m leaving, we both look as the door opens. Jordan enters, and his eyes find mine immediately. He looks wiped out, distraught even, and as he stares I prick with emotion, and tears threaten to spill. He approaches quickly, and he holds my gaze, saying nothing. His brow is furrowed, and his eyes are dark. He pulls me out of the room and down the hall.