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Designed Intent

Chapter 13

Friday Night

"Are you hungry?" she asked against his chest.

"No."

"I'm glad you came, Bobby. I couldn't believe it when I saw you at the door."

He wanted to ask her about what had happened. He needed to know; but he already knew. Bobby had recognized the guilt on her face. He had caught a glimpse of Malcolm's move away from her. Malcolm had never looked at Bobby, afraid he would give away his guilt.

"I have to go back Sunday night."

"I know."

He looked down at her and she looked up at him. "Gleason, you know I love you. Don't you? You know I will always love you."

"I know, Love, I know."

She had responded with the nondescript response that had caused them trouble in the early days of their relationship. She did not say she loved him. He searched her eyes. What did he do?

"Do you love me? Gleason, do you love me?" He could not hide the desperation in his voice.

She looked at Bobby and said softly, "I love you, Bobby, but I worry about you. I fear what your temper will make you do someday. I was afraid of you."

Bobby let go of her and stepped away. He put his face in his hands and then he walked to the kitchen and leaned on the sink. He felt like a caged animal. He turned on the spigot and pulled up his sleeves. He bent and splashed water on his face. She watched him, wondering.

He straightened and wiped his face with the tea towel. He leaned on the sink, looking out at the darkness, his back to her, and said, "I don't want him here. I don't want him near you."

"Bobby, we work together."

He turned and leaned against the sink, facing her. He wanted to ask if they had kissed. He knew they had, but he wanted to ask her. He wanted to hear her say it. He looked at her and then crossed to her. "Did he kiss you?"

Gleason looked away sharply and pulled her throw tighter. "Bobby."

He reached for her, held her arms, bent to look into her face, and asked again, "Did he kiss you?"

Gleason did not look at him. Finally, she whispered, "Aye."

"What else has he done?" She tried to pull away, he held onto her, "Tell me what else he has done."

She had no choice but to say, "He sent me flowers."

"What else?"

"He invites me to dinner and to breakfast." She looked up at him, "I've never gone, Bobby; just the once after, after the concert. I know it was wrong. I should have asked Willow as I said I would. I was wrong. I gave Malcolm the wrong idea. I'm sorry."

"What else has he done?"

"Nothing."

He needed to ask this next question. He knew he should not, he knew he should not. Do not ask, he said to himself, you know the answer; you know she would not do that. Do not ask her. Do not! But he did, "Gleason . . . Gleason, have you, have you . . . slept with him?"

She stared up at him and it all became clear, he did not trust her. She said nothing, just looked at him. She would have slapped him if she had not been so tired. Instead, she pulled free of his hands and stepped back.

"You need to leave. Get your jacket, I'll drive you to O'Hare," she said flatly.

"No. No, no Gleason. No. Honey, I'm sorry."

She dropped her throw on the chair, crossed to the closet and took her wrap. She picked up her bag and pulled her keys from her pocket.

Bobby watched her with a rising panic. "No. Gleason, I'm not going. Let me stay. Honey, please. I'm sorry. Gleason."

She turned at the door and said, "I'm going to start the car."

Bobby stepped to the door and put his hand on it, holding it shut. "No. Stay, Gleason I want to stay. Please. Honey. Jesus Christ, Gleason, I want to stay. Don't do this."

Oh, she was so tired. Her body felt so heavy, her bag weighed a ton. And then, she didn't care about anything. He didn't trust her; he would never trust her. Why bother?

"Then stay. I don't care." She stepped away from the door, pulled off her wrap and threw it and her bag onto the sofa. She walked to the kitchen and turned off the light. She went into the bedroom and shut the French doors.

Bobby stood and watched her move. Oh, he had made a terrible mistake. How could he think she would do such a thing? Bobby picked up her wrap and hung it in the closet. He set her bag in there as well. Then, he sat on the sofa as he had earlier, forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced, looking at the floor.

Several minutes later, Gleason came through the bedroom doors and went into the bathroom. He looked up, waiting for her to emerge. He heard the toilet flush and the water run. The bathroom door opened and Gleason crossed to the kitchen sink. She filled a glass with water and headed back to the bedroom.

Bobby stood up and said, "I want to sleep with you, Gleason. Let me sleep with you."

She stopped, looked at him, went into the bedroom and shut the doors. He dropped to the sofa and sat with his head in his hands.

Gleason changed into her nightgown and got into bed. She pulled up her throw and lay under the covers, wide-awake, and thinking. How could he think I would ever sleep with another man? How could he? He does not trust me. I have never given him reason to doubt me; except for the concert, maybe, and the kiss tonight. But Malcolm kissed me. I did not kiss him. I did not return his kiss. She considered a moment, and then thought, would I have returned it if Bobby had not arrived? Gleason realized she did not know if she would have or not.

Bobby tried to stretch out on the sofa. It was shorter than the one at home, much shorter. He lay with his left leg bent and his foot on the cushion and his right foot on the floor, his left forearm across his forehead. I knew better than to ask her that, he screamed at himself. I know she would not do that. She would never sleep with another man. She loves me. She does. Nevertheless, she kissed him. She admitted that. It's him, it's that fucking Malcolm. He will not leave her alone – sending her flowers, asking her out. Jesus Christ, he knows she and I are together. Bastard.

Gleason slowly fell asleep. Bobby stayed awake, hating himself. After nearly two hours, Bobby went to the bathroom and then opened one of the bedroom doors. He saw her bundled form on her side of the bed. He entered and closed the door softly and crossed to his side of the bed. He stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Carefully, he pulled back the covers and eased himself into the bed. Gleason sighed, shifted, and then settled.

Bobby stretched out beside her. How he wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her, make love to her. But he did none of that. He breathed in her cinnamon scent, he felt her radiating heat, and he heard her slow, steady breathing. Slowly, Bobby fell asleep.

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