"We should do dinner tonight," I suggest from my place in bed. He's buttoning his shirt across the room. He's learned that if he stands too close to the bed while he's dressing, I'll only pull him back in. He was only late for work that one time . . .
"All right," he answers. "I'd like that."
"Me too. What should we have?"
He takes a few steps closer to where I'm lying on the bed and bends down to kiss me as he shrugs his jacket on.
"Whatever you want," he answers with a smile. He sits on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on.
I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. After a hesitant moment, I feel his arms around me and he squeezes me tightly for a moment, his cheek against my hair. I sigh when his arms fall.
"I have to go," he says softly.
"I know," I say. "So go." I only tighten my arms around him. I feel more than hear his laugh.
"I really have to leave," he tries again. "Now."
I give him an exaggerated sigh.
"Fine," I say heavily. "Just go."
I can feel his smile.
"I'll call you tonight," he assures me.
"Okay," I say, switching from disappointed to cheerful.
He stands and I watch him leave. He closes the door behind him and switches the bedroom light off, assuming I'm going back to sleep. Whatever. I'm going to get up, shower, and head off to work. I housekeep today but it'll be my night off.
I think I'll make some Tai.
I sit in bed for a moment more and wait to hear the front door close before I try to move. I always hope that he'll decide to take a sick day and come back. He never will, I know he won't. He has to many lives to worry about.
When the door is finally closed, I just roll over and lay in the sleep warmed spot he's left on the bed. I know I have to get up soon, I just don't want to.
The pillow smells just like him: warm and good. Very good. I hate it when he leaves; I always feel so alone.
Oh well. I sigh and get up, sulk to the bathroom and shower.
There's a Post-it on my bathroom mirror. It's written in his short, slanted writing:
You work too hard. Take it easy today. Can't wait until dinner. Superman.
He signed it Superman.
Only I get to call him that.
And I don't know why he's telling me to take it easy when he's off saving the world again. All I have to do is scrub some toilets and make some beds.
Work is a bitch. The only way to beat it is to not care. I care very little when I'm at work. Not a lot can phase me when I'm cleaning other people's shit all day. I clock in, I stock my cart, I take my check list, and I get started. If a room hasn't left yet, oh well; they'll leave sometime.
Or, at least that's my attitude today. Horatio has that effect on me. He tells me to be calm, and I suddenly am. I'd have had a stroke by now without him, I just know it.
I'm on my fourth or fifth check out of the day and it's about eleven in the morning when something odd strikes me about one of the names on my list. The last name of one of the guests seems familiar. I can't place the name, though. It seems as though I should know it from . . . somewhere.
Oh, God . . .
I'm trying not to rush my paperwork. It's hard not to, knowing what's waiting for me afterwards. I resist the urge to add the words "at home" to that last thought. Her home isn't my home. I try not to push her into anything and I definitely haven't brought up the subject of living together. I like my privacy, first of all. And secondly, I don't know if she's that comfortable with me yet.
I'm going to call her.
The phone rings a few times before she picks. I don't think anything of it because she said she was going to make dinner.
"Hello?" she asks in a small voice.
That's odd. She almost sounds afraid to be answering the phone.
"Hi," I say. "How was work?"
She hesitates before she answers.
"Fine," she says.
Not fine, I think.
"Okay," I say. "Look, uh, I've got some reports to finish up here, but I should be over in about an hour."
"Okay," she says.
Something's not right. No matter what kind of mood she's in (happy, sad, angry, whatever) she's never this . . . monosyllabic.
"Okay. You want to tell me what's going on?"
Silence, and then, "I'm making dinner."
"Okay," I say. "Okay. I'll be over soon, all right?"
"Okay," she says again.
Not okay.
She hangs up the phone and I put up my end. I need to get these reports finished up and get over there. She sounded so . . . dead. Not herself at all.
I have my own keys and let myself inside. I can smell her making dinner from my place in the doorway. She's making something spicy and I have to smile; she only cooks something spicy when I'm not there to protest. I open my mouth to announce my presence and hear strange laughter from the kitchen. It sounds like Abigaile and two other people. One of them is male, maybe twenty-five, the other female, about as old as Abigaile.
I know that she hates it when I sneak up on her (which I will maintain that I don't, she doesn't listen for me), but I'm not sure I should make myself known just yet. I walk carefully to the kitchen doorway, half listening to the two strangers talking but mostly waiting to hear Abigaile's reaction to their words.
"Remember the time we came to spend the night at your house and your dad passed out drunk on the bathroom floor so we all had to go to the gas station at two in the morning to pee?" asked the female voice. It was high pitched and irritating.
"Which time?" asked the male. He laughed uproariously at his own joke and I heard the female join in. Abigaile let out a fake laugh that was more a sigh than anything. I know now whose father they're talking about.
"Yeah, it was good times," Abigaile says good naturedly. She sounds worn out. Maybe I should step in.
"What about when your mom brought those two guys home and we had to sleep in the garage to get away from the noise?" the female asked again.
Now I'm going to step in. I stand in the doorway, not saying a word and smile when she looks up and sees me. I've never seen her face light up like that. She practically leaps from her seat at the kitchen table and runs to me. I open my arms to her and she slams into my chest, nearly knocking me down.
"Thank God, you're here," she whispers and kisses me with gusto.
"Hey, Gale, this your p.o.?" the male asks.
She sighs heavily and plasters a false smile on her lips. She turns and laughs with these two strangers and walks to the stove to give a quick stir to whatever's in the pan.
"This is . . . Horatio," she says with some hesitation.
I step into the room. I know I have a presence; I can fill a room just by glancing around, which I do now, to let people know that I'm a force to be reckoned with. I smile in greeting to these two people who seem to know Abigaile so well.
"He's my . . ." she falters, not quite knowing what to call me. Before I can answer for her, not quite knowing what to call myself, she comes through. "He's my boyfriend, guys," she says.
There is a collective intake of breath from those present, myself included. I've never heard her say that out loud before. In fact, I wasn't quite sure that she knew what I was before now. I can't say that I've always known she was my girlfriend until this point, but I have always know that she's important to me.
"Oh, girl, we got to talk about this," the female says.
"Superman, this is Melissa and Steven," Abigaile introduces her friends.
"Superman?" Steven asks. "Gale, what is this?"
"Are you guys going to stay for dinner?" she asks them. "We're having Pad Thai." She smiles at me, the smile she saves for when she's gotten her way without working for it.
"I don't think so, Gale," Melissa says. "But call me later. Or will I just see you at the hotel tomorrow?"
"I don't think so," Abigaile says. "I've got some time off."
"Okay. Well, I'll call you later," the other girl replies.
They stand to leave.
"It was nice meeting you," Steven says to me as he passes through the doorway. Melissa only nods on her way out.
Once the front door is closed behind them, I step further into the kitchen and shrug off my jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair. I walk up behind her and stand close, feeling her shoulders tremble a bit as she removes the pan from the burner and turns off the stove. She's shaking now and turns, wrapping her arms around me tightly.
"I'm so glad you're home," she says.
Home. She's never said that before either.
"Want to tell me what's going on?" I ask.
I don't. I don't want to talk about it. But he's standing here, holding me while I break down and cry in the kitchen. And he feels so good, so solid.
"I went to work today and they were staying at the hotel and I just . . . I don't
know what happened," I say.
"Who are they?" he asks softly. His breath feels so good against my forehead.
"Kids from down the street in Lauderdale," I explain. "Steven used to baby sit me and Melissa when . . . Our parents used to be friends," is the best I can do.
He doesn't say anything, just makes that apprehensive noise he uses to let people know he's still listening. He's rubbing my back ever so lightly. It feels so good to know he cares about me.
"They just brought back a lot of stuff, you know. I'm glad you came when you did." I knew that he would chase them away. Even though I realize he had no intention of actually chasing them off, I knew they'd leave. He has that stance, that presence that just screams "I'm an authority figure in a position to put you in your place." It's a good presence.
We're just standing in the kitchen now. Dinner is forgotten and I just want to stay like this forever. I just want to be in his arms forever. I want to kiss him, so I do. He lets out a soft moan when our lips meet. I love the small noises he makes, almost like small growls.
"I love you," I blurt out. I don't think he's heard me. He's not saying anything back. Great, I've ruined the one good thing in my life.
"I . . ." I don't know how to fix this.