Disclaimer: It is absolutely not mine.
Maelstrom
By Ryeloza
Part III
i.
Glenn traipses into his office one morning with a rare grin on his face, and he instantly stands like he's greeting royalty or something. Where he used to be on edge with Glenn before—fearful of the man who held his entire future in his hand—he now feels almost sickeningly anxious around his boss. Since Seattle, he's been afraid to make the slightest misstep. Since Seattle, he's been putting in twice as many hours, doing everything in his power to perform beyond reproach.
This is the first time Glenn has approached him in any sort of friendly manner in weeks, and instantly, it makes him even more nervous than usual.
"Hey," his boss says, greeting him like an old friend. Glenn likes to pretend they aren't aware of the power structure. It only serves to make the paradigm more overt. "You got a minute?"
"A minute, yeah." Glenn's grin broadens; it's the right answer.
"I have to meet with a couple of the investors this Friday. I want you to come."
"Okay."
"It's going to be dinner. Formal. Bring a date."
He tenses, this visible shift in posture that he knows Glenn must be conscious of even if he doesn't react beyond pretending to pick a piece of lint off of his shirt. Even though he shouldn't, he steps out from behind his desk, gets within an arm's length of his boss. "My wife and I…we're…uh…At the moment we're…"
Glenn shakes his head impatiently. "I didn't say bring your wife. I said bring a date. Come on, Tom. I know you traded in that broken-down oldie for a newer model, and that's fine. I get it. Now that you're making the big bucks you can get any woman you want."
He can feel the blood pounding in his head, his hands tightening to fists before Glenn even finishes speaking, and even though he's been physically violent with less than a handful of people in his entire life, now more than ever before he can feel that primal compulsion to strike beating inside of him like a steady, rhythmic percussion. It is instinctive—born of possessiveness and rage and this horrible need to protect what is his—but somehow he doesn't attack. He remains coiled tightly, ready to spring at any moment, but not moving, not speaking, not even really thinking because he is incapable of anything but raw emotion.
He is frozen in a reaction he longs to complete, but for some reason, doesn't.
Taking his silence as anything but a thinly veiled tremor of fury, Glenn slaps his shoulder companionably. "Just make sure you take off the wedding ring." He says it with a sick smile, like he's offering freedom, and then turns and walks away.
It takes him a long time to realize that he's standing in the middle of his office with his fists still clasped; even longer to realize that he feels ill, stomach churning like the rolling waves of the sea. Unsteadily, he turns and walks to the bathroom, kneels down in front of the toilet and waits for the sparse contents of his stomach to overturn. After several long minutes, he realizes it isn't going to happen, and leans back against the wall. Angrily, he kicks the door shut with his foot and then draws his knees up to his chest, leaning his forehead against them, hiding from the world.
The word coward thrums through him with every beat of his heart, but it isn't shame he feels inside. So much dirtier and wicked and terrible: it's relief coursing through him. If he had given in…If he had punched Glenn…
He is nothing without this job. Nothing.
ii.
That night he takes off at five for the first time that he can remember, goes home, washes up, cooks a meager dinner that he picks at for fifteen minutes before giving up. And the whole time, he doesn't think about the newest toll this job is about to take on his life even though the truth is that he doesn't have time to moll this over. He has to make a decision and live with the consequences, as simple as that.
Glenn will not accept him showing up with a charming grin and apologies that his wife is stuck at home with the kids or, perhaps worse, working late.
He can't take someone he barely knows, though there are women at work who have been fawning over him like they can read that he's some kind of pseudo-bachelor. The idea terrifies him, not just because showing up with someone he doesn't know well is always a risk. It's too close to betrayal, or maybe it is an outright infidelity no matter what his intentions. No, it has to be someone he knows. Someone he knows well. Someone who can smile and look pretty and the whole thing would be entirely innocent.
It leaves his sister (who is thirteen years his senior; he almost manages a laugh at what Glenn would think of that) or one of her girlfriends—logically Gaby or Renee. They're both savvy and graceful and can navigate these waters with their eyes closed. But their loyalty to Lynette is almost stronger than a blood tie; he's not sure there wouldn't be consequences beyond what he can foresee.
Besides, he doesn't want to take any of them. He wants to take his wife. Despite the fact that she is possibly the least tactful person he's ever known. Despite the fact that she's liable to say something to get him ousted from this job. Despite the fact that she's anything but demure and simpering and the type of woman Glenn expects him to bring.
Despite the fact that they're not really together and their marriage is becoming more of a memory with every passing day.
Despite the fact that they're liable to get into an argument so fierce that it might bring the entire dinner to a screeching halt.
He wants her.
He is learning the hard way that he can't always have what he wants.
iii.
He drives over to the house that night because it's still early and he's afraid that if he waits even a day he'll change his mind. The long summer days mean that the sun is just setting, the sky darkening into that sleepy bluish-purple before it descends to black, the moon already hanging eagerly in the sky. Penny sits on the steps with a book in her lap, her hair forming a protective curtain around her. When he steps out of the car, his breath catches in his throat for a moment as she gracefully tosses some of it behind her shoulder, this grown up movement that she doesn't even make consciously, and it is only the fact that she still has bruises on her shins from the carelessness of childhood that reminds him that she's not an adult yet.
Yet.
Time slips by faster than he can see.
There's no way she hasn't been aware of him from the moment he pulled up the street (she is hiding behind a book the same way her mother does when she's angry or annoyed), but it isn't until he's standing right in front of her that she spares him a glance. "What are you doing here?" she asks, and he's not sure if it hurts more or less that he can hear the pain behind the indifference she's so desperately trying to project.
"I need to talk to your mom about something."
"She's inside."
It's a dismissal; she's already buried in her book again. It doesn't stop him from ruffling her hair as he passes, though she tenses at the action in a way she never did before. He pretends it doesn't bother him, goes into the house, and immediately wishes he had sent Penny inside to beckon her mother out.
The instant the door shuts, five pairs of eyes are on him, the nuances of their depths impossible to decipher beyond surprise. Except hers. He could read hers from the farthest reaches of space if someone asked him to. And though ambivalent, there is nothing good there for him to find. For the first time in his life, he is an intruder in his own home.
It's on the tip of his tongue to fumble through an apology. To admit he should have called first. To crack a joke about interrupting poker night. The words come and go so fast, and they're instinctive defenses to the distinct chill in the room. The problem is that he's too tired—too anxious—to dance with her tonight.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks bluntly, and it's so not him that he thinks he shocks her into nodding in agreement. She stands as her friends exchange less-than-subtle looks, and the two of them disappear into the other room, shutting the door firmly behind them.
It's awkward to begin with. Probably more so because he's openly gaping at her, rememorizing every living shade of her that can never truly be remembered or dreamed of or pictured. His imagination is so flat, such a poor substitute for the reality of her, and he never realizes until he's standing before her after being apart for too long.
Too long used to be a few hours. A few days.
He hasn't seen her since that day in the grocery store when he was nothing but anger and bitterness. He's not sure what he is now beyond desperate in too many ways to count.
"What's going on?" she asks. He can't begin to dissect how carefully neutral she's keeping her voice, and like a fool he tries to mimic her.
"I wanted to ask you if you'd have dinner with me on Friday," he says, so stupidly not even bothering to consider his words. It's like a collision he doesn't see coming. He's still speaking as her eyes light up, and it's impossible to stop midstream. "I have to meet with some investors at work and…"
It's at that moment that he realizes what he's done. It's at that moment that he registers the spark in her eyes, even as it instantly dies, beaten down in the cruelest fashion. His chest tightens uncomfortably. "I would really like it if you were there," he finishes weakly.
"Oh."
"I mean, I need to bring a date, and I want it to be you. Not because…I mean it's not just because of work…Because I was told to…" He's bumbling, the closest he's felt to his old self in (if he's honest) months, and hating himself for it every step of the way. It's so disgustingly juvenile; so not the type of man she's going to respect or want to be with.
She's deceptively impassive to everything he's saying now, and even though he has no idea what she's thinking, he knows her well enough to realize it's nothing good. When she finally cuts him off, it's a merciful death. "Sorry, I can't," she says, and it would be so, so simple to leave it at that.
But fuck, nothing has been simple between them in ages.
"Can't or won't?"
Her eyes narrow as though she's mad at him for bringing up the distinction. "You don't want me there. I'm not going to smile and pretend that everything is okay in front of a bunch of strangers."
He hadn't expected her to (maybe he had?). Maybe it didn't fucking matter to him, so long as she was there (probably another lie).
"I have to bring someone," he says.
"Well it's not going to be me."
They study one another. It's so cold and calculating, like water thrown on a fire, dousing any spark of heat or life. It had never once occurred to him that she would say no, and he's not sure why.
"I have guests." It ends any discussion. She turns and leaves the room, and he follows obediently, doesn't spare her a glance as he walks out of the house even though all he wants to do is look back at her.
He barely echoes his daughter's goodnight.
A/n: Sorry I've been MIA for a little while; I just spent a week driving across the country and didn't have much time to write. I've been working on this chapter on and off for a few days, and I'm still not sure if it's entirely the way I want it, but if I tinker with it much longer, I'm afraid it's going to morph too far from what this story is intended to be. I do hope you all enjoyed it.
Feedback would be warmly, warmly welcomed. It always helps, and I always appreciate it.
-Ryeloza