Lisa Desrochers - A Little Too Much

It’s painful.

And the whole time I’m thinking about Alessandro and resenting Brett. It’s Thursday. This is our day. We should be out somewhere, exploring undiscovered corners of the city. Alessandro and I have a past that should make being together hard. So, how is it that being with Brett seems like so much more work?

I wonder what Alessandro’s doing today. Does he have anywhere to go?

“Auntie! Come help me,” Henri says, shaking me out of my thoughts. He grabs my hand and pulls me off the couch. I set my plate on the coffee table and let him tow me to his and Max’s room. He hands me a Lord of the Rings Lego box. “Carry that,” he says as he grabs a big tub of loose Legos. We bring them back to the family room and within minutes the awkwardness is gone and every adult in the room except Mallory, who’s gone to clean up the kitchen, is on the floor building Helms Deep.

Henri to the rescue.

It takes us almost two hours to finish it, and by that time Mallory already has Max in bed and Henri is yawning.

“C’mon, buddy,” I say, standing from the floor and pulling him up by the hand. He holds my hand tight in his sweaty little one as we walk together to the bathroom. At seven, modesty obviously hasn’t kicked in yet, because he drops his pants and pees with me standing right here. I turn my back while he finishes up, even though he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wash your hands and brush your teeth,” I tell him when he flushes. He does, then he takes my hand and tows me to his and Max’s room and pushes the door open.

The room is small, with just enough room for twin beds and a dresser between. There are Transformer prints on the dark blue walls and pencil marks on the white door frame where Mallory has ticked off their height over the years, Henri on the right and Max on the left.

“Shh,” I say as he steps into the room. “Max is asleep.”

He tiptoes all exaggerated into the room and grins at me. I stifle a giggle and follow him in. He finds his pj’s in his dresser, changes, then clamors into bed.

“ ’Night, buddy,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and kissing his forehead. “Sleep tight.”

His eyebrows press together. “What does that mean, Auntie?”

“Sleep tight?” I think about that for a second and realize it’s what Mom always used to say when I was little. No, “I love you.” No, “pleasant dreams.” Just, “sleep tight.” “I have no idea,” I tell him with a shrug.

He grins like he always does when he realizes he’s pretty damn smart.

I kiss his forehead again. “Love you.”

He rolls over and curls up on his side, facing the wall. I watch him for a minute, then stand and give Max a kiss on his sweaty little forehead before heading back to the family room.

When I walk into the room, Mallory is sitting next to Brett on the couch scanning through pictures on her iPhone, probably of the boys. He looks up at me with pleading eyes.

“So, I guess we should probably head back,” I say to Mallory, and Brett is off the couch like a shot.

“It’s been great, guys,” he says, lifting a hand, clearly relieved now that the torture is over.

We shrug on our jackets and spill out the door. It’s cold, but not cold, so the walk to the bus isn’t bad.

“You really shouldn’t come to these family things, you know,” I tell Brett as we walk.

“Cut me a little slack here, Hilary. I came all the way back to spend Thanksgiving with you.”

My feet slow and I turn to him. “Sorry.” The truth is, things have been a little strained since he got back on Tuesday. He’s been out partying with his friends, and last night he came home drunk enough that he passed out before he could get his pants off. I sat and stared at him for a long time, trying to convince myself that what we have is still working. But it’s not. Something’s changed.

He blows a long white jet stream behind him and looks at me. “Listen, let’s just go home and get naked and forget the whole thing.”

My stomach twists at the thought.

I only realize I’ve stopped walking when Brett says, “What’s going on with you? You’ve been weird ever since I got home.”

I start walking again. “I’m not being weird. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“That guy?” His tone is measured, and when I look at him, his mouth is pulled into a line.

I never should have told Brett about Alessandro, but everything that happened Monday was still so fresh when he got home on Tuesday that I needed to talk about it, so I told him about our trip to the group home. It was the first Brett even knew about me being in a home. I’ve never really shared much of my past with him . . . or anyone else, for that matter. “He’s just someone I knew a long time ago.”

“Someone who’s back,” he says in that same tone.

“He’s leaving as soon as he sorts his shit out.”

“And you don’t want to screw around with him?” he asks, a cynical edge to his voice. “For old times’ sake.”

“No!” I stop and glare at him, wrapping my arms around my middle. “Christ, Brett.”

He glares back at me a second before pulling his phone from his pocket and answering it. “Yeah.”

I start walking again, but not before I hear a woman’s voice shrieking out of the phone.

“Yeah, sounds good. See you in a few.” He jogs to catch up with me. “So, that was Rob. He’s getting some guys together for poker tonight.”

Unless he’s started some serious hormone therapy, there’s no way that was Rob. “Fine.”

“So, I’ll probably just head straight over there.”

“ ’Kay.” I have no clue why I don’t call him on his lie, except that something about the direction we seem to be going scares me, and it’s more than just losing my Broadway in. Maybe if I ignore it, we can just be how we’ve always been.

Because Brett’s safe. And the alternative isn’t.

I WOKE UP for a sec when Brett rolled out of bed and left for the airport at ass o’clock this morning. The next thing I know, it’s three hours later and Creed’s “My Sacrifice” is blasting out of my phone. I reach for it on the nightstand without opening my eyes—which is stupid, ’cause all I manage to do is knock it onto the pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The clothes muffle Alessandro’s ringtone and I think about letting it go to voice mail, but then he’d probably just call again. Why is he calling at nine freaking o’clock in the morning, when any normal person should still be sleeping? Is he canceling on me? I roll onto my stomach and drag myself to the edge of the bed, scooping it off the mound. I hit connect and lift the phone to my ear. “What?”

“I obviously woke you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I croak. “Are we still on for today, or what?”

“We are,” he says. “But I’m going to need you until four. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Where are we going?”

“You know I’m not going to tell you that, but I will tell you it’s on the Lower East Side, not too far from Club 69.”

“I’ll just bring my work stuff. Eleven, still? At Argo?”

“Yes. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

WHEN I WALK into the Argo Tea with my tiny white Filthy McDermott’s T-shirt and ass shorts in my bag, Alessandro is waiting at a table near the window.

He pushes my cup toward me. “We need to leave in a few minutes.”

“Aye, Aye, Captain,” I say, throwing up a salute.

That gets a smile. “Sorry if I sound like a drill sergeant.”

“Well, you do. You’ve been barking orders at me all morning.” For some reason that comes out sharp, even though I thought I meant it as a joke.

His brows press together. “Are you okay?”

Am I? I feel this antsy, frustrated feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t really know why. “I don’t know.”

“Anything I can help with?”

I haul a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

He bites a corner of his bottom lip. “If it’s about me, Hilary, you know all you have to do is ask and I’ll leave you alone.”

Is it him? Or is it everything else? Honestly, when I’m with him is the only time this feeling seems to go away. “I’ll let you know.”

His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Your boyfriend was home this week?”

I nod and sip my tea so I don’t have to look at him, because, at his words, the frustrated knot in my stomach contracts painfully.

“How was your visit?”

My eyes slip to him and his gaze is intense, like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “Fine. It was fine.”

He nods slowly and I’m not sure whether the expression that slips over his face in that second is relief or chagrin.

I finish my tea and stand, needing to move. “Lead the way, Captain.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, we climb out of the subway onto Grand Street, and I can’t help but flash back to the last time we were here, after Club 69. I remember how mad I was at him then . . . at everything really, and I realize how much that anger has melted away in the month since then. Is that my problem? My anger fueled me, kept me strong. Am I losing my edge?

Or was my anger just a crutch—a way of keeping people at arm’s length so no one would ever know how broken I am?

He guides me down Grand Street with a hand on my back. “I never told you how impressed I was with your composure that night,” he says as if he was hanging out in my head, a casual observer of my thoughts.

I bark out a laugh. “Because a couple of kids thought I was a hooker? I looked like a whore.”

“You looked stunning.” His voice is low and thick, tightening all the muscles below my waist.