A Thin Line (11 page)

I ride with Preston to my parent's house and we drop off my mom. I get in the front seat as we watch her unlock the door and enter the house. She turns off the porch light, our sign that we can drive away. Preston pulls away from the curb and takes the familiar turns that lead back to the highway.

The landscape is dark, the skies are murky black. Preston guides the car through traffic with skill and ease.  He hasn't said a word in a while.

"It was nice of you to take me to the hospital. I appreciate it."

"Sure."

"And to drive my mom home. She never sleeps well up there."

"Yep."

I'm uncomfortable with his silence, his short choppy sentences, his one word answers. I would almost rather he hurl hurtful words at me than not say anything at all.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine," he answers, and doesn't elaborate.

I give up and sit back. We're a few minutes from my car, so I decide to enjoy the peace and quiet.

"I hadn't seen your dad in a while. My mom said the Parkinson's was getting worse. I didn't realize how much worse."

"Yeah."

"Makes you think. You know?"

"About?"

"Mortality." He glances over at me quickly before his eyes return to the road. "How short life is. About the time we spend on really stupid shit."

I study the side of his face, illuminated only by moonlight. Something... something on the edge of his voice intrigues me.

"Is that supposed to mean something? Now it's
really stupid shit
because you decide it is?"

Preston chuckles, shaking his head. He gives me a quick, sly grin before returning his attention back to traffic. "Everything's about you, right Angie?"

"Oh, no sir. Everything's about
you
."

"Let's... let's not."

I let my silence speak for me and stare out of the window at the pitch black night outside. In a few minutes, the car slows and Preston pulls into the parking lot at Prime, then into the spot next to my car.

I reach for the door latch. "Thank you again."

"Sure."

He nods, sitting there. Maybe it was the way he was selfless and thoughtful for once, but in the combo of the light from the moon and the street lamps along the sidewalk, I see a glimpse of the boy I used to love.

Ridiculous. Don’t get caught up in emotion
, I tell myself, shaking the thought from my head and climbing out of the car. I'm halfway into the car when I hear the window slide down and Preston call my name. I stop and lean toward his car.

"Yeah?"

"Do you mind if I stop in on your dad? Play some cards, shoot the shit."

I want to ask him why he would do that, but something tells me not to.
Let it go.
"He's not actually all that good at Poker. Either that or he lets me win."

He laughs. "I'm pretty good at poker, so we'll find out."

"Don't bleed him dry or anything."

"I'll try to cut him a break. And I'll bring him a burger."

I start laughing and get into the car and roll my window down. "Thank you, Preston. I mean it, for what it's worth. I'm trying not to question your motives or be suspicious and I hope I don't regret that. Just in case your intentions are good... thanks."

"Sure."

The window silently rises, encasing him inside the car. I know he'll sit there until I drive away, so I start the car and pull out of my parking spot. I watch from rearview mirror as the tail lights from his Benz pull out of the parking lot and turn left.

My eyes float up toward the wall clock like I don't already know that it's late, much too late to still be at the office. I haven't done much but sleep, eat and work for the last few weeks. I've been in my office or in a meeting or in court.

My pen drops into the crease of the law journal I'm scouring, looking for something,
anything
to help me settle this case I'm working–another slimy landlord and helpless tenant. We're seeing more of these every day and it's getting tiresome. My neck is tight from sitting, bent over a page, for days on end. I tip my head back and forth, working out the kinks. The joints creak and pop.

A not-so-ladylike yawn roars from my mouth. Seeing that it is one in the morning has made me even more tired. I decide that I can't do much more tonight and fresh of eyes in the morning would be so much more helpful. For the first night in weeks, I decide not to take anything home.

A
taptap
sounds at my office door. I'm surprised that anyone is still in the building. Cautious, I reach into my purse and wrap my fingers around my keychain Mace dispenser. 

"Who's there?"

"Just me," I hear through the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Come on in, Troy."

The knob turns and Troy's forehead and warm brown eyes poke into the room. Like his brother, I can tell he's smiling by his eyes.

"Hey. Are we going home any time soon?"

"I am going home right now. I don't know about you. Why are you here? Who else is here? I thought I was alone."

He steps into the room, wrestling with the door. My office is so small that having the door open cuts it in half.  He settles into the straight back chair.

"You almost were. I was here late, working on my new case. That's four, now." He holds up four stubby fingers and beams with pride. "Anyway, I saw your car still out there when I was leaving. Came back in."

I frown, feeling terrible. "Why didn't you come tell me? We have security patrol."

He shrugs his shoulders, his hands resting on his knees. "I know you're busy, got a lot of stuff going on. I didn't want to disturb you but I couldn't leave you here by yourself. I went back to my desk and worked on a few more things. I heard your mega yawn and figured you were about done. If you weren't ready to go, I was going to carry you out of here."

"But it's Friday night! You should have been out with the ladies, not babysitting me."

He shrugs again. "All I'm saying is that I was told if I ever left you here by yourself, I would lose an important appendage. Permanently." He nods, his eyebrows high on his forehead. Then starts to laugh.

"Who said that? Greg?" I'm guessing it's one of the Firm partners. "He's kind of dad-like."

"Nah. Your boyfriend."

"My boyf–” Ah, shit. “It's time to go."

I rise from my chair and grab my purse. "I can't get out of here with you in that chair."

We file out of my office and I lock the door. Troy leads us through the hallways and out the back door. Behind us, the building secures itself, evident by the glowing red light on the card access panel. We crunch through the gravel toward our cars, parked a few spaces away from each other. Troy walks with me, waiting until I get my door unlocked and open and my purse has been deposited in the passenger seat. I expect him to wave and walk away, but he stands there in the space between his car and mine.

"If you're anything like your brother, I know you're not going to leave until I do."

He nods once, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Mom and Dad taught us that. Never leave a woman vulnerable."

"Even if you can't stand her?"

"Especially if you can't stand her," he answers with a wink.

"Interesting."

"Yup."

"He really said he'd cut your dick off if you left me here alone?"

Troy looks surprised that I even know that word. "He didn't say dick, you sick fuck. Man, I see where your brain is."

"Oh shut up. I haven't had sex in–"

"
Lalalalala
," he mumbles, fingers in his ears. "Things I don't need to know."

I'm laughing and he can't help but laugh too. I feel like I haven't really laughed in months. When we finally die down, he steps forward to give me an unsolicited hug, then a gentle push to my car.

I start the car and roll my window down.  "Thanks."

"No problem. I told you, I'm on a mission."

"I meant about my dad, too. Thanks for dropping by to see him. I know it meant a lot."

He smiles, showing a mouthful of straight white teeth, made endearing by the dimples that puncture each cheek. "It was my pleasure. Your dad sucks at poker. I took so much of his money."

Dad's been out of the hospital for a few weeks. His medications seem to have him back on track and for now, we're holding off on deep tissue stimulation, or as he called it, ‘electrocution'.  I've been stopping by the house a few times a week to give Mom a break and to visit with him.

I walked into the house last week to find a rousing game of poker in progress. The green felt cloth was on the table, the multi colored chips were stacked in neat piles. There were snacks on the buffet along the wall– chips and dip, egg rolls and chicken wings, and even though he isn't supposed to drink on his medication, Dad looked pretty content sipping from a bottle of Budweiser.

At home, he often sits in a wheelchair, so he can get from room to room with some kind of speed and efficiency. His chair was parked under the table and he guarded his poker hand with the kind of secrecy one would lend to military launch codes.

Joining him at the table were Thomas, Preston and Troy. Troy and Preston were chewing on unlit cigars. Preston, in a black Fedora and knee length shorts, leaned back in his chair, one foot resting on his knee. His sneaker-clad foot tapped in time to the tune of The Whispers wafting from the living room stereo.

Preston was the surprise. Even though he said he'd stop in on Dad, I didn't believe that he would. Now he was at the house, having arranged a poker game that Dad seemed pretty excited about. It warmed my heart to see him smiling, laughing, eating, and having a good time with the guys. I slipped out the back door and let him have his fun.

"He still talks about that night. His employees don't come by very often. All the friends he's made in the industry... it's like they don't know him now."

Troy nods. "Yeah he said that. They uh... they don't like to see him sick.  But you know..."

He pauses, kicks around some gravel for a few seconds, marring the shine on his shoes. Now that he's almost guaranteed to be in court every day, he's dressing better. Our little Troy is growing up.

"He's the same guy. So he acts a little different. He has some challenges. His mind is still the same. Still the same guy in the house two doors down."

I nod deeply, grinning at his words.
Exactly
, I think.
He's exactly the same, with a few challenges thrown in.
And all I can hope for is that he'll stay that way for a long time.

"I'd better head out. I don't want to keep you any longer. Good night." I wave to him as my window rolls back up with a squeak. I shift the car to drive and pull out of the lot, headed home.

***

The following morning, I'm at the office by 8am. I have a few things I want to get off of my to-do list because I have plans that night. The wedding party, minus the bride and groom, are gathering at Preston's place to talk about pre-wedding plans.

Last week, it dawned on me that after Morgan and Nate get married, Preston and I will be the last of the single people. The pressure for us to couple up is going to be strong. That's why I'm thankful that I have eight weeks until this wedding is over. Eight weeks until I am Preston-free.

He's been so nice lately that I'm starting to second guess myself. Do I really want to cut ties with him, now that we're finally getting along? He's doing good deeds and not on my last nerve... but then I think about the Preston of the past and I know, at some point, he won't be able to help himself and we'll be back to hurling insults and cutting each other down. Better to stick with the plan.

Tonight, the six of us will have dinner on the patio and drinks around the fire pit. Preston is having dinner catered. And since he is at an all-day conference, I am in charge of setting everything up. I have to be at his place at six thirty to meet the delivery.

I fly through my list and rush home to change. I slip into a sleeveless pink sundress that falls to my knees, run a brush through my short, spunky hairdo, add an understated gold watch to my wrist, a pair of tiny gold hoops to my ears and a thin gold chain to my neck.

I grab my purse and phone and get back into the car to drive the fifteen minutes to his house arriving just in time to see the caterer's van pull up into the driveway.

Pan after pan of silver trays covered with foil land on Preston's kitchen counter. Soon, the house is full of the smells of a hot meal–grilled chicken and beef, roasted vegetables, diced potatoes, fresh baked rolls and a crisp green salad. They've thought of everything, even serving dishes and utensils and a pitcher of iced tea in a dispenser with a spigot.

I sign the invoice and see them out, then get to work setting them out on the table on the patio, which Preston already covered with a white linen cloth. I lay the meal out with serving utensils and go back into the house to grab dishes, silverware, and glasses.

As I'm setting the table, I hear the security system beep and the click of men's shoes on Spanish tile. Moments later, Preston stands in the opening between the house and the patio, dressed like he's put in a long day at the office– suit, tie, dress shoes. His jacket is off, flung over his shoulder and hanging from the crook of a finger. His shirt, even at 6pm, is wrinkle free, like he just put it on. His slacks, pressed with a crease so sharp you could cut yourself, are the flat front style that he likes.

For a millisecond, my body goes back in time and drudges up a response to seeing him that I’m not used to feeling. At least, not for him. My face feels hot, my heartbeat quickens, my nipples stand at attention and my panties are wet.

You need to get laid. Get a hold of yourself. It's just Preston.

"Hey," I mutter, trying to mask my dry throat and heaving chest. I seem to not be able to breathe, for some reason. "Almost done."

I set the last few spots with silverware and glasses and step back, surveying my work. It's classy and it will be nice to eat outside with the lake as a backdrop and the setting sun creating beautiful ambiance.

"I could get used to this," Preston says, stepping out of the house. He circles the table, inspecting. My jaw clenches and I think that if he adjusts anything, I will stab him with the knife I set out to slice the beef.

His life is spared, however. He doesn't touch a thing. Instead, he turns to me and says, "This will be fun. I need to run up and change. Would you grab a red and a white from the wine fridge? Doesn't matter what year. We should let it breathe."

He turns on his heel and walks back into the house. Only when I can't hear his feet on the steps anymore do I move to grab the wine.

It's great that we're getting along, but...nice Preston is freaking me the fuck out.

Jackie and Matt are the first to arrive with a bouquet of fresh cut wildflowers.  I poke through Preston's cabinets and finally find a vase, cut the stems and arrange the flowers in it. I set it out on the table and it makes a pretty centerpiece.

Jackie is already picking at the food in the containers in the kitchen and she hasn't been in the house for five minutes. "It smells sinful in here," she says, her mouth full of roasted broccoli.

Matt nods his agreement but he's less rude, opting to keep his hands in his pockets. "The next time Preston needs anything catered let me know. I'm thinking of doing a little side business. Got a baby to pay for."

"Oh are you? We might be thinking of something for the engagement party." 

Jackie whips around to face me, her eyes round and open wide. She starts squealing and bouncing like she's about to start jumping up and down.

"Calm your pregnancy brain down," I say, before she can even ask. "Preston and I are planning the engagement party for
Nate and Morgan
."

"Oh," she says, chewing and swallowing, decidedly less animated. "I guess I get overly excited."

"What's Jackie getting overly excited about?" I didn't hear Preston come down the stairs, so the sound of his voice startles me and I nearly jump out of my skin. He slides alongside me and lays an arm across my shoulders.

"Nothing," I answer quickly. "Jackie's hungry. Let's go outside."

I slide out from under his arm and guide Jackie toward the patio. As she and Matt are seated, the doorbell rings and Kent and Brandy have arrived, bearing a bottle of wine. Preston opens it and sets it next to the red and white that I opened and set at the bar.

Over dinner, we hash out the pros and cons of a co-ed Bachelor/Bachelorette party. Kent is a salesman and Preston is an attorney. The volley across the table, with points for and against is like watching Venus and Serena play each other. Both equally as skilled, neither really wanting to obliterate the other, but not wanting to lose either.