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“Did you …?” Except I don’t even know how to phrase the suspicions that are swirling around in my mind. “… Intervene on my behalf?”
“I can’t imagine what you think I could have done on your behalf.” His expression gives away nothing.
And suddenly I feel like I’m back in his office that day months ago when I threw accusation after accusation at him and he refused to engage. When he refused to comment on anything or admit to anything.
I wanted so desperately to understand what he was thinking. Why he did the things he’d done. How he felt about me.
But he gave away nothing. He said nothing. I wanted him to …
I don’t know. Make some dramatic sweeping declaration about how he’d done it all for me. And instead he just … lawyered everything. Broke down everything into its simplest, most logical explanation.
It was like trying to drill through solid rock using my head as a drill bit. Or maybe using my heart. That gooey center of mine that has almost no protective shell on the best of days.
That day—that conversation—nearly wrecked me.
It took me weeks to recover from him.
Oh sure, I went about my daily life. I cared for the hens. I showed up for my meetings with my advisor. I stress vomited over how I was going to put together a new practicum without adding years onto my timetable. But I didn’t enjoy any of it.
I mean, not that anyone enjoys stress-vomiting.
My point is this: I was a damn wreck after the fight Martin and I had in his office about the … well, about everything.
And I don’t think I can go through that again. I can’t once again bust open my skull trying to working my way past his walls only to find myself on the outside again.
I take a step closer to him and lower my voice, dropping all pretense of being casually friendly.
“Look, Martin, I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“I can’t pretend to be polite to you. I can’t pretend I barely know you for the sake of keeping up appearances or whatever this is.”
“That is not why I came over to talk to you.”
“Isn’t it? Because clearly you don’t want to talk about anything meaningful. You refuse to explain anything to me. So talking to you is like trying to have a conversation with a Roomba; you’re bumping into things you don’t want to talk about and then dodging out of the way.”
He doesn’t even bother to deny it.
He just gives me one of those slow blinks that leaves his expression shuttered and distant.
Despite the crowd surrounding us, I want to grab his shoulders and shake him. I want to make a scene. I want to throw a drink in his face and storm out.
Not that I would actually do that at Savannah’s engagement party.
Instead, I just keep talking in the same ostensibly calm voice. It’s the voice I’ve cultivated to soothe chickens and elderly dementia patients.
“I know we have to get along for the next month. Because you’re the best man and I’m the maid of honor. We have to be polite at least until after the wedding. But let’s keep things as distant and impersonal as possible.”
Suddenly my damn Spanx feel too tight because I’m having trouble breathing. Or maybe there’s just not enough air in this room. That must be it. The HVAC clearly isn’t rated for this many people.
Of course Martin doesn’t look like he’s having trouble breathing at all.
Damn him and his cool, collected-ness.
“It would be for the best if we just pretend we don’t even know each other. And that our one night together never happened.”
“I don’t know that I can do it.”
