Red and Blue Chronicles Box Set

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Dear Bump,

It was nine in the morning when I heard some voices in the Lunds’ yard. My heart skipped three beats and I ran to the patio door. It was Saturday, and I wasn’t sure if Johan would let me play chess with him, on account of my helping Boone wreck his brain.

In the yard, Lene pushed her Cabbage Patch Kid on the tire swing Johan had hooked to the only good sturdy tree in the back. Now it looked as though Lene was giving the doll a good sermon.

My eyes jumped from one corner of the yard to the next, but I didn’t see Boone. So then he was still at the hospital. I slid the door open. “Hello, Lene.”

“Hello, Derek.” She turned around and tilted her head, watching me like a hawk. Her eyes are blue as well, but darker than Nick’s, with a hint of violet in them. “You be the daddy, I’ll be the mommy.”

“No.” I swallowed the hard knot in my throat.

“Do you wanna see my special place?”

I nearly jumped back. “No.”

“Can I see your special place?”

“No—no w—way.”

She narrowed her eyes, shrugged and went back to pushing the fat-headed baby. Fidgeting, I sat on the steps and watched some ants carry a dead ladybug across the tiles. “Is your bro—brother okay?”

“Which one?”

“What d—do you mean whi—which one? The one that—that was in the ho—ospital yesterday.”

“They were both in the hospital yesterday.”

I sighed. “Boone.”

She plucked her doll out of the tire and hitched up her shirt. She tucked the doll inside it. “Oh, he’s fine. He’s sleeping. Do you wanna help me give birth?”

“Wh—what?” My cheeks burned. This girl.

“I plan on having a C-section.”

Boy, oh, boy, Lene sure read a lot of magazines. I got to my feet. I didn’t plan on spending my day with her. She scared me. “Well, tel—tell him I went for a bike ride.”

“Aren’t you gonna play checkers with my dad?”

I stopped. “You mean chess?” I stared at my bare feet. “Yes…if he still wa—wants to.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” She squatted down and started moaning. “Oh, I’m having contractions.”

“Is he in—inside?” I asked, trying not to pay any attention to her shallow panting and facial contortions.

Lene fell back and started twitching on the grass. “Come cut my stomach like they did Cesar’s mother before the baby dies!”

I shrunk back. “No way.”

She kept lolling her head from side to side, moaning louder and louder, getting dirt in her hair. “Hurry, Derek, save me! Save our baby!”

I looked around. There wasn’t anyone listening to her crazy ravings. I found a twig and dragged my feet up to her. In one quick motion, I pretended to s***h her belly open. “The—here.”

She screamed and made like she’d passed out.

I watched her for a minute, shrugged, and went inside to find Johan. He was in the living room. And Nick was there, too, fast asleep on the couch, lying on his side with his knees curled under him, and his rosy cheek resting against his open hand. The sunlight filtered through his yellow eyelashes.

My belly burned. My throat was dry and hot. I paused by the oak chest and waved shyly at Johan. “Hello.”

Johan looked up from his big book. “Sh.” He tossed his head to where Nick rested peacefully. “Nicolai didn’t get much sleep last night.” He eased himself out of the worn armchair and went to the kitchen. I followed. Inside the kitchen, he smiled and pulled a chair out for me. “Glad you came. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. I—I did,” I lied. “Thank you.”

“Okay then. I’ll get the board.”

* * * *

Reading those lines tonight, I realized that I hadn’t played chess in over fifteen years.

Maybe it was because I never could find an opponent that could teach me life as we moved marble pieces across a board.

I was thinking of Johan Lund tonight. Him and his beautiful kids.

What had happened to me? Who had I become?

I’d grown up and caught a deadly virus called adulthood.

Following my university graduation five years ago, I became a chartered accountant and began my apprenticeship in the glorious world of finances, where I promptly maxed out my credit card on tailored suits and trendy ties. Every day, I’d doll myself up, only to sit at my computer, under glaring neon lights, sealed into a cubicle the size of a portable toilet. For six months, I crunched numbers through Excel pads, plugging data day in day out, drinking bad coffee, and sucking up to every possible asshole I thought could get me ahead. Every time I moved an inch closer to a position worthy of eight years of studying, the ass I’d been kissing would be fired or quit. The economy had begun to plummet and the first reaction from the major corporations had been to panic and scrape off a whole layer of executives, leaving us poor middle men and women picking up the slack with no financial rewards and little recognition.

After nearly a year of this, this idealistic Irish boy had been about ready to quit the game.

That was when I met Nathan.

It had been at a sales conference in the Charlevoix area. Though I’d been merely a staff accountant, I’d been ordered to attend.

Nathan had been one of the guest speakers.

This was what I recalled…

As Nathan had approached the podium, the audience, which had been quite distracted, and at times, just plain rude, quieted down. He plucked the microphone out of its stand and tapped it. His voice had risen and fallen perfectly. His tone was determined, yet nuanced with sympathy for the “hard working men and women who strove to provide the customer the best experience possible.” Within moments, the tough crowd of salesmen and jaded administrative assistants had fallen into a mild stupor. Everyone seemed completely smitten with him. His powerful hand would swoop the air as he spoke of “cutting expenses and raising the bar.” His dark eyes glimmered with ambition and straightforwardness. People around me, the very same people who’d been doodling and yawning moments ago, were hunched over the tables, hanging on his every word.

Of course it helped that Nathan Ross was drop dead gorgeous.

The essence of him was a lot like a landslide. It carried you along.

And myself? What had I thought of him then?

I remember that I hadn’t slept a wink the night before, on account of the party the sales team had thrown in the next room. Nathan’s speech, though compelling and perfectly delivered, had been no match for my drooping eyelids. As he spoke of “going back to the basics, the core of customer service,” I struggled to keep my eyes open. I tried widening them every other minute, blinking and grimacing. People must have wondered if I possibly suffered from Tourette’s.

“You’re drooling on my presentation,” was the first thing Nathan ever said to me.

I’d dozed off, and at the sight of this arrogant salesman towering over me and grinning devilishly, I popped up in my chair, wiping my damp cheek with the back of my hand.

“Hey, easy now, or you’ll give yourself a head rush.” Nathan was perfectly amused.

I shot him a puzzled glance and adjusted my jacket.

His dark eyes quickly moved over me, and I remember that I flinched, as if he’d seen me in my boxer shorts. “Lunch is up in the next room,” he said. “They have gallons of coffee. Not very good, but by the looks of you, I don’t think you’ll mind.” He extended his hand out and I stared at it for a moment, then reached out. “Hi.”

“I’m Nate.” He pumped my hand as though we’d sealed an important transaction. “Nice to meet you, Derek.” I frowned. How could this guy know my name? Nathan flicked the plastic badge clipped on my jacket. “Your name tag.”

I glanced down. Right.

“So,” he asked, pulling me out of my chair as though it was the most natural thing to do, “accounting or marketing?”

That afternoon, we were tormented with more presentations, but though I’d rarely witnessed such blatant disregard for engaging talk, I was excessively alert. Because every time I turned my head, I caught Nathan’s gaze devouring my face. By the last interminable presentation, Nathan’s persistent stare had worked itself under my skin, and I began holding it with hungry eyes.

Soon the chemistry between us reached levels fit to dizzy any inhibited, guilt-tripping Irish Catholic boy. I could barely swallow. I was turned on, hiding my erection under my notebook.

When the VP of communications rolled out the projector, my will left me. I dared another glance in Nathan’s direction. I caught him mouthing the words, “I want you.”

That did it.

Nathan’s room was on the second floor and we shot up those steps, ripping at each other’s clothes. I remember how we’d nearly done it on the staircase, but we managed to make it to his room. He dropped his key card twice before he could open the door, and I huddled against him, whispering, “Hurry. Oh, God, hurry.”

That was two years ago.

Since I’d met Nathan, my life had changed. Through his mind-boggling social network, Nathan had helped me secure a job as a financial analyst with the Bank of Canada. He’d paid my school loans and put me in touch with a wonderful speech therapist, who, through grueling exercises and persistent coaching, had completely rid me of my stuttering problem (though, at times, when cornered or nervous, I did have some small setbacks).

Nathan had made my dreams come true. I owed him so much. I was very grateful to him.

What did it matter if I didn’t particularly enjoy modern art or sushi? What did it matter if I preferred a Guinness to saki? Or popcorn to soy nuts? None of these things mattered. What was important was our commitment to each other.

Yes, he worked a lot. Traveled a lot, too. But that was normal. That was to be expected. Patience was a virtue I intended on cultivating. No sense in placing blame. I’d known what the score was when we agreed to take this dive. This lifestyle didn’t come cheap, and with my less than impressive salary, my contribution was mainly domestic.

So Aunt Fran could squint at me all she pleased.

I was perfectly happy with my life.