Page 31 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
What a sad mess we were.
And at least partially because of Philip. Even though Drew claimed it wasn’t about him, I knew it was. My anger at my brother petered out when I considered the facts. He would never have reacted any other way. It was like me taking away a beloved toy from a tiger and getting upset when he growled and snapped. Though whether Drew or I were the toy, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both of us.
While Drew slept, I put everything away in the fridge and acquainted myself with his apartment. Though really, I snooped. Not through medicine cabinets or anything that mundane. I sat in the armchair that looked the most used and read the book I’d brought. I stood in front of the window overlooking the city, imagining him here, holding a steaming cup of coffee before he left for work. I walked the carpet where his bare feet had trod and imagined myself welcomed here instead of intruding.
I forced him awake later that night, and he dutifully drank down half a bowl of soup before drifting off to sleep again. Each morning I arrived at his apartment and made breakfast—oatmeal was upgraded to pancakes. During the day I made the calls necessary to get my business back on track. I knew that Philip could have derailed me forever if he’d wanted. Money, connections, clout. But it only took a few days to clear up the injunction so the contractors could start work again.
The evenings were the most painful, wonderful time of the day. When Drew had rested enough to be lucid for a few hours straight, I made us both a simple dinner, and we ate on a tray in his bed. We kept to safe topics: movies, music. I even offered a bumbling soliloquy on the weather in a fit of awkward desperation. The more inane the conversation became, the more depressed I felt. Watching him jack himself off, held apart, should have been awkward, but instead it had felt right. Now we were cordial, and the sky was falling over my head.
That night, I pushed through the glass doors of his condo building and waved to the doorman. I hadn’t really bribed him, unless you counted a smile and something about surprising my boyfriend with dinner. Which had been true, after all.
Upstairs I knocked on Drew’s door, counting the seconds it would take to open. How many this time? Sixty on a good night. Upward of two hundred on the bad ones. One of these days, I thought, he wouldn’t let me in.
But not today.
The door opened almost immediately to reveal him, not in his drawstring pants or loo
se-slung T-shirts, but a suit. Smooth, well-pressed fabric and a neatly done-up tie.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Going out,” he said.
“On a date?” The words sprang forth before I could reel them in.
His look was sardonic. “Give me a little credit. I’m going to work.”
Well, yes, of course he was. One step away from death’s door, and he was back at work.
“No. No way. You’ll collapse in the middle of a meeting.”
“Your confidence in me is astounding.”
“It’s been a week, Drew. I don’t care if you don’t want to be with me anymore.” A bold-faced lie. “But you can’t go running around a week after you get out of the hospital!”
His eyes clouded. “There’s something I have to take care of.” He focused on me. “And I don’t want you coming back here.”
“Drew, please. You’re not ready for this yet.” I wasn’t ready for this.
“Rose, I’m serious. You can’t come back here.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I won’t let you in. I’ll tell the doorman to call the cops if you come back.”
I took a breath and stared down at the beige carpet. The harshness was unexpected but probably what he’d needed to get through to me. I’d known this was coming, had prepared myself, but all the spit and polish couldn’t disguise that I was made of glass, and at the serious, harrowed look in his eyes, I cracked down the middle. Split in half, spilling tears and mortification where he could see, where he watched with a cold impassivity I’d only seen him use in the courtroom.
Well, look at that. In sixty seconds, I was heading down in the elevator. Two hundred, and I was leaving the building, pushing into the crisp evening air. At least I had my answer. Tonight was a bad night.
Chapter Thirteen
I waved through the large-plated windows and turned the dead bolt on the door. Katie’s mother waved back to me as her daughter climbed into the backseat. Leaning slightly on the broom, I watched them pull away.
After what had happened to Drew, I hadn’t been comfortable encouraging the parents to park across the street. Lindsey had helped me write an application to turn the meters in front of the courtyard into fifteen-minute parking zones so the parents could stop there to drop off and pick up and the girls wouldn’t have to cross the street.
Of course, my application had been denied. A new little ballet studio hardly registered in Chicago’s transportation and parking policies. I’d mentioned it to Drew one time during dinner.
A few days after he’d kicked me out of his apartment, city workers were outside my studio, painting new blue stripes over the old yellow ones. Apparently Philip wasn’t the only one with sway in the city back offices.
