It's Only Temporary

Chapter 11: Unpaid Debts (Part 3)

With a sigh, Penny turned back toward the cardboard box that she'd set down on the creaky hotel bed. Mostly clothing and shoes in this one. She wouldn't bother unpacking it for now. There were a few loose books thrown on top, though. She began pulling them out one by one:

An old college photo album....

A few of her MCAT review books....

The novel she'd been reading....

The Indigenous Fishes of the Hawaiian Islands....

Penny stopped when she came to it, and it took every grain of self-control to resist the urge to flip it open. Bad habits were awfully hard to break.

"You'll see," David had said to her, the day after Christmas two Decembers ago. "Somewhere on the island of Manhattan, there's a woman who thinks I owe her something."

He'd been wrong about that, although he didn't know it at the time. She'd still been basking in the afterglow that day - practically floating on air from the moment he stopped by her desk on Christmas Eve and handed her a gift-wrapped package.

"What's this?" she had asked. She could tell from it's weight and size that the wrapping paper contained a thick hardcover book.

"Merry Christmas."

She'd looked at it skeptically, turning the present over and over in her hands. "This seems awfully small for sporting goods."

"Just open it!" He was already in his winter coat, on his way out of the office for the evening. He watched her impatiently as she tore away the paper, and she groaned and rolled her eyes when she saw what it contained:

The Indigenous Fishes of the Hawaiian Islands:

An Underwater Field Guide

She'd flipped the book open and began thumbing through - page after page, filled with nothing but Latin names and arcane descriptions. "Acanthurus olivaceus," she'd read aloud at random. "A light grey fish with a dark grey back half. In the male, an orange stripe runs from below the eye past the ventral fins, stopping just before the fish's dorsal fin-"

The sound of his laughter interrupted her. "Really paints a picture, doesn't it?"

She'd stuck out her lower lip at him. "You couldn't have gone with the scuba gear?"

"You know, I'm pretty sure most bosses just get their assistants a coffee mug or a pencil organizer or something."

She stood up from her chair and came toward him. "You couldn't have gotten me a pencil organizer, then?"

"I've seen inside your desk. You don't really strike me as the pencil-organizer type." He'd reached out an arm and pulled her in for a hug. "Merry Christmas, Penny."

She'd rested her forehead on his shoulder and allowed eyes to flutter closed. He'd held her body against his, and she could feel his breath against her hair as he lightly pressed his lips to the back of her head. She could almost feel it again now, if she closed her eyes and concentrated - the gentle pressure of his arms around her. She could almost smell the scent of his cashmere coat collar, still lingering in the air.

She had tried to keep her voice light when he let go of her at last, but her words had sounded hoarse and strange to her own ears. "Merry Christmas," she'd managed to reply. "Thanks for the paperweight." She'd dropped the book on her desk with a thud.

He'd left her alone in her cubicle, then, and headed for the elevators. She didn't pick the book up again until after he'd gone. Only then had she flipped it open and saw the handwritten note, filling the inside cover.

Penny set the book down beside her on the bed now. She refused to read that inscription again. No need, anyway. She knew the words by heart. She could close her eyes and see them - those lines spelled out in his careful, cramped handwriting. She'd run her fingers over the words so many times the ink had bled.

Dear Penny,

Study up! Maybe I'll take you to Hawaii next year.

We joke around, but I hope you know I'm serious when I say how much you mean to me. I consider you much more than just an assistant. You went far above and beyond your job description these past few months, and I owe you more than I could ever possibly repay. I can only say thank you for being there. Merry Christmas.

Love,

David

It was sincere, she knew. She didn't doubt that he had meant it. She was always a good crutch for him to lean on, and she didn't begrudge him that.

She never had before, at any rate. Now she wondered. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe she should have listened to his rules. "Here's a rule for you, Penny. Don't buy gifts for a guy who isn't your boyfriend." What had it gotten her, really, beyond a mountain of credit card debt?

Whatever he may have given her in repayment - it wasn't enough. She couldn't go on the way she'd been living. She couldn't spend her life barely scraping by on the few spare morsels of affection he bothered to cast her way. A handwritten note. A drunken email. The scent of a coat collar. The sound of his voice over the phone, one dark December night....

It wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Because he hadn't taken her to Hawaii the next year, had he? No. Last Christmas, he'd bought her a poinsettia plant and taken a political consultant named Celia on a three-week ski trip to Aspen. Penny had planned to use the time off to fill out med school applications. This past December had been her last chance to reapply before her old MCAT scores expired. She'd had her three-week break all planned out.

But then he'd stopped at her desk on the last evening before his trip, and he'd barely even looked at her when he handed over his gift. There'd been no heartfelt note with it this time. Not even a real card. Just a folded up piece of white paper he must have grabbed out of the copy machine and scrawled a few hasty lines.

Merry Christmas Penny! Somehow we made it through another year. You know I couldn't do it without you.

He hadn't even bothered to sign his name.

And she'd spent her whole three-week break holed up in her room, in bed, with the covers pulled over her head.

It was all in the past now. She couldn't afford to wallow any longer. She needed to move forward. If looking at a two-year-old note on the inside cover of a book made her feel tempted to go back to him, then she wouldn't look at it again.

Penny picked the book up and walked it over to the trash can. She let it drop with a dull clang among the bubble-wrap and balled up packing tape.

"Good riddance," she said out loud. She swatted her hands clean and turned back to finish her unpacking.

She managed to hold out a good two hours before she tip-toed back over to that garbage can and rummaged through its contents, until her fingers closed around the book's familiar shape. She pulled it out. She brushed a few bits of Styrofoam from its cover. And then she replaced The Indigenous Fishes of the Hawaiian Islands to its usual place of honor: atop the wooden nightstand by her bed.