Half a Love
Deb's heart sank when she saw the faint light shining from underneath her husband's office door. Her stomach rebelled, and she contemplated darting. She didn't want to talk to him-- she'd avoided doing so even over the phone. When he'd received the impersonal message on her answering machine, left safely during her busiest shift at the cafe, she knew he was avoiding her too. Business was an alibi she was grateful for; she'd stopped by the dealership tonight after the late shift, hoping to evade personal contact altogether.
Deb chewed on her bottom lip, her hand resting on the door, an escape route from a meeting that would be awkward for both of them. Sooner or later, you'll have to face him. But this wasn't the way she'd planned it. She'd expected that when they finally faced each other, it would be within the social confines of a crowded, public place, preferably somewhere neutral and noisy, where they wouldn't be able to say the things they ought to.
Dan's voice echoed in her head, a peculiar blend of condescending authority and affected concern: "Some things are better left unsaid." It was typical of Dan to recover from a heart attack mouthing platitudes as if they hadn't already been printed on hundreds upon thousands of fortune cookies. But something about the normalcy of the moment had relieved her, and she'd had to grip the arms of the plastic visitors' chair to stop herself from darting forward to kiss the familiar smug smile off of his too-pale face. The image of that smile and the malice that she knew must be hiding somewhere behind it was what spurred her on. (Near-death experience or no, her husband was still the same man she'd divorced.)
Shoulders set and chin held high, her stride deceptively self-assured, she moved towards the office. Only her white-knuckled grip on the key belied the façade, but she found the bite of dulled metal teeth into her flesh oddly reassuring. That sort of pain she could deal with; that sort of pain was easy.
She rapped twice on the glass door before entering. Keith was standing silently by Dan's desk, looking rumpled and exhausted and utterly unhappy to see her. "Deb!" he said, the exclamation false and hollow. Deb returned his weak smile with one of her own.
"Keith," she acknowledged with a curt, businesslike nod. He looked terrible, she thought, somewhat uncharitably. He wore trousers that obviously belonged to a new suit. She didn't have to look far to find the jacket, tossed haphazardly over Dan's favorite chair. He wore a white shirt that might have been crisp that morning, but was now creased and rumpled, rolled at the sleeves and re-buttoned in haste. His hair looked as if he'd been running his fingers through it, as he tended to do when he was nervous, she'd noticed. A respectable line of five' o'clock shadow traced his jaw, and a red tie hung lose around his neck.
They stood there for a moment, looking at anything but each other. Keith seemed to be focusing on something over and beyond her shoulder, and for her part, Deb took in the messy office, dully noting the empty beer bottles before zeroing in on the couch, which was draped with a quilt and a few lumpy looking pillows. She blinked. "You're sleeping here?" It had never occurred to her that Keith might not have a place to stay. She mentally kicked herself. Of course he'd sold his apartment, and it wasn't as if he could stay with Karen. She met his eyes for the first time that evening. "You should have said something."
He shrugged. "The couch is comfortable enough. I didn't want to bother anyone." He motioned for her to sit, and she did. He perched on the corner of the desk, arms crossed. "How's Dan?"
Deb gestured helplessly as she searched for words to describe the man currently occupying her husband's body. "To be honest, I have no idea what to think. He's at a clinic in Charleston recuperating, but I suppose Nathan already told you that." Keith nodded, and Deb noticed the way his mouth twisted. "I know, I know... It must all seem grossly unfair."
He glanced down at her, his gaze swimming with a familiar mixture of mischief and bitterness that she'd become all too accustomed to seeing in his eyes. "Not so much unfair as ironic."
Deb attempted to laugh, but it sounded thin to even her own ears. "So I got your message."
"Good." Keith smiled. "I was beginning to wonder whether or not you were ever going to come in."
Deb shrugged in apology. "I'm sorry, but the café has been so busy, and I've been covering extra shift--"
"No," he interrupted. "I meant just now." She must have looked startled because Keith motioned to something behind her. She turned and saw several small television sets, black and white pictures of motionless doorways. "Surveillance camera," he said.
She had the grace to blush. "Things just seem so complicated right now," she explained.
Keith was silent for long moments. Finally, he spoke. "What's in the bag?"
Sheepish, Deb glanced down at the small brown paper bag in her lap before offering it to him with a crooked smile. "It's from Karen's."
He took it from her with a muttered word of thanks and peered inside. When he looked up, he was smiling. "Blueberry muffins?" Deb shrugged. "They're your favorite, and you don't come by the café for breakfast anymore." She held his gaze. "If you're not careful, Karen might think you're avoiding her."
"You work the morning shift," he said as if that explained everything. Deb was momentarily taken aback; she hadn't expected him to be so forthcoming about their mutual evasion. "I'm not the only one dancing around this, Deb. Or do you normally stop by to sign paperwork at midnight?" His smile was gentle and understanding, and she found it easy to return.
"Touché," she said. She retrieved a pen from Dan's desk, and waved it at him. "Do you have those handy?" While Keith went over to search the file cabinets, Deb made a mental perusal of the room. Empty aluminum cans on the coffee and side tables, take-out in the trash, a game on TV with the sound muted. She was sure Dan's mini fridge was stocked with beer and empty calories. She pressed her lips together when she looked at the makeshift bed he'd been sleeping in. The couch was barely long enough to accommodate her length, much less his. She turned around to watch Keith squat in front of the filing cabinet, and she noticed the way he straightened stiffly and carefully, just as Dan did when his back was bothering him after a particularly rough day of training or a rowdy game with Nathan. Deb frowned as she took the proffered file, labeled simply "Deb."
She signed the first several papers without really reading them, registering only key words like "estate" and "management" and "permission." She was sick of legal papers, after months of an as yet unfinished divorce. When she finally reached the pay rolls, she did a double take. "You're paying Nathan too much." She tried and failed to keep the accusation from her voice. She hadn't been happy when she'd heard that Keith had hired Nathan at the dealership; she'd been anticipating the day Nathan would knock on the door of his real home, asking for money and admitting he'd made a mistake. If she hadn't been so apprehensive about seeing Keith, she would have demanded an explanation weeks ago.
Keith moved to look over her shoulder at the sheet. "That's the standard salary for an assistant sales-associate."
Deb shrunk away from him, momentarily startled by his proximity. "It's too much," she repeated. "He never should have been hired in the first place."
Keith sat in the opposite chair, considering her with one hand propped beneath his chin. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she pulled the file closer and pretended to read the rest of the expense account.
After a few long moments, he spoke. "Someone would have hired him, Deb. It might as well be me, so I can keep an eye on him."
The debits and credits and balances blurred. "And how might he be?" she asked nonchalantly, each word punctuated by a pause during which she initialed off on an expense.
"Happy," Keith said without hesitation. She looked at him then, façade of disinterest abandoned, hoping he'd quail under the weight of her glare. She blinked several times to keep the tears she hadn't yet allowed herself to cry at bay. Keith continued, "He's happier than I've ever seen him, Deb."
Happier than Dan and I could ever make him. A tear slid down her cheek, and she watched as Keith's hand moved reflexively against the arm of his chair, his jaw twitching. Deb knew he'd wanted to wipe away the tear. She knew he wanted to comfort her, but was afraid to do so after what had happened the last time she'd cried in his arms. The boundaries of their friendship had been redrawn since that night, and Deb wondered as she watched him if he was laughing inside too- laughing at the irony that giving into loneliness once was keeping them lonelier now.
She wiped her own tears with the back of her hand and finished signing the file. She closed it and pushed towards him, recapping and replacing the pen before standing to leave. "I should go."
"Deb, wait..." Keith reached for her, and they both flinched at the contact; he dropped her arm like it was a hot brick. He hesitated, as if he were carefully weighing his words. "You said before that things were complicated." He took a deep breath before continuing. "But they aren't. It's all very simple. You're Dan's wife. I'm his brother. You're Karen's partner. And I…" Keith fumbled for words.
"And you're in love with her." Deb finished, her voice high with anguish. She buried her face in her hands. "And she's my friend," she said helplessly. "God, Keith..."
Keith stood, and for a minute she thought he was going to put an arm around her, but he put his hands into his pockets instead. "We made a terrible mistake," he said. "It's as simple as that."
Deb nodded as she hugged herself, trying to fend off a truth that was unbearable: the last time she could remember feeling safe and happy-- the last time she could remember feeling loved had been a mistake.
She moved to go, but Keith was in her way. "Deb," he started. "That said, I need you to know that I care about you," his voice cracked slightly. "I care about you and Nate very much. And you were a big part of the reason that I decided to come back." And he hugged her then, and she was grateful for the warmth even if she didn't believe him for a second. Liar, she thought. She'd seen his face that night as they'd dressed quickly and silently. He hadn't even been able to look at her, and she knew how hard coming back must have been. Keith was a lot of things, and she knew he was even a little bit masochistic. But he wasn't selfless, even though sometimes he did a pretty good impression of it. She squeezed once, twice before pulling away.
She smiled at him. "I'm glad you came back. Seeing you that night at the hospital meant a lot to me, and to Dan too." She regretted saying Dan's name the minute it tumbled awkwardly over her tongue. You're not supposed to talk about the elephant in the room, she chided herself. She guessed Keith felt the same way, because he flinched visibly at his brother's name. She reached out and brushed his arm in silent apology. "I'd better get going."
He walked her through the showroom towards the front doors, and she followed silently, feigning interest in a curvy new import so she could pretend she didn't notice the way his new suit fit him in precisely the right way right there. Or how when he held the door open for her, his hand naturally found the small of her back. Keith's masculine courtesy was so different from Dan's insincere gallantry, and a rush of heat flooded her cheeks as memories of the other ways Keith was intimately unlike Dan bubbled to the surface. Humiliated, she mumbled a hasty good night.
"Don't be a stranger," Keith had called, and she'd waved to him as she'd driven off. She blasted The Rolling Stones all the way home. "Love can be sad, but half a love is twice as bad."
This was written directly after the season premiere and is mildly prophetic in that I essentially picked up on an obvious plotline: Nathan being hired by Keith, and Deb not particularly appreciating it. Always looking for fellow Deb/Keith fans. I'm "caitlinuga" at Live Journal. Stop on by. Rolling Stone lyrics from "Can I Get a Witness?" as I remember it to the best of my mildly retarded ability.
Constructive criticism is printed, highlighted, pored over and cherished. Reviews are my muse's sustenance. Thanks for reading!