by Lisa Sorbe
Who is this man? And where is my friend? Because right now, this sexy Greek god with this deep voice and hard chest and warm calloused hands (one of which is draped casually around my hip so he can pull me closer) is turning my normally sharp mind to mush.
I can’t remember why I wanted this. I mean, when you think about it, actually roll the thought around in your brain, it seems like a pretty stupid thing to want to do.
Ugh. This is all my fault. And now I’m going to have to go through with it.
“Fine.” I push away from him, and now that there’s distance between us, the noise of the club slams into me in full force.
God, I hate places like this.
The music is thumping, and I can barely tell the difference between the beat of my heart over the beat of the song. West’s mouth moves, but now that I’m not pressed against him, I can’t make out a word he’s saying.
I adjust the sequin halter top I bought solely for this occasion and can’t deny that the silky way it drapes across my skin is pretty damn heavenly. It’s just that I’d rather be wearing it at home, maybe paired with my yoga pants rather than the form-fitting pleather ones I’m sporting now.
Yesterday, after deciding to finish our long-ago created bucket list, West and I jumped into it with a sort of reckless abandon, sketching plans and making lists of the different ways we could accomplish the items before my departure mid-August.
Basically, we have two months to get everything done.
The item we’re pursuing tonight?
Kiss Ross Thomlinson…with tongue.
It may seem like an easy task, right?
Wrong.
One: I had to join facebook just to make contact. Which required West to take a photo of me so I could have a valid(ish) looking profile pic. I smiled coyly, looking away from West’s phone and feigning interest at something off screen (that something of interest was Casper peeing on a tree in West’s backyard). Then I filtered the shit out of the image and uploaded it to my page. After friending Ross and several of my Phoenix co-workers to make my profile appear more legit, I scoured his photos, making sure he wasn’t married or in a relationship before taking note of the places he liked to hang out (bump-and-grind clubs, ugh). Conveniently, Ross lives in Minneapolis and likes to let his hair down at Tight, a dance club in the old warehouse district that looks like it’s trying way too hard to be trendy. And earlier this morning, just as I was trying way too hard to decide when the best time would be to casually “bump” into Ross at Tight (again, ugh), I received a message from him, asking if I’d like to reconnect over drinks. I mean, how completely opportune, right? And while I was hoping he’d suggest something simple and more my taste, like the closest Caribou Coffee shop, Ross was quick to recommend his favorite watering hole-slash-meat market for our impromptu meet up.
Two: West and I had to drive into The Cities three hours before my “date” so I could hit the type of store that sold the sort of outfit I’m wearing right now. Absolutely nothing in my closet would have worked in a place like Tight, where the clothes and the bodies on the dance floor both hug each other like a second skin.
Three: I had to change in West’s truck, with West keeping a look out because the parking garage adjacent to the club is in a shady part of town and peeping eyes would have gotten quite a show as I slithered and squirmed my ass into these damn pleather pants.
Oh, and did I also mention I’m wearing a thong? Because these flippin’ pants show everything.
Four: I’m walking around in strappy, four-inch gold heels, and there’s nothing easy about that.
I pull out my phone to check the time before turning the ringer down and sliding it back into my little black clutch. “He’ll be here any minute. I’m should head to the bar.”
West shrugs and shakes his head, cupping his hand to his ear. He looks as annoyed by the loud music and pushing bodies as I am.
“I said,” I say, placing a palm on his chest and leaning closer, “I’m going to the bar now.” My lips brush his ear, just as his did to mine earlier, and I swear I feel a shudder ripple through him.
But he just backs away, smiling a cheesy smile, and gives me a dorky two thumbs up.
I shake my head and laugh before turning on my heels and pushing my way to the bar. By the time I get there, though, my stomach is eating itself and the Captain and Coke I ordered sits untouched in its glass. I slide onto a recently vacated stool and look around, absently twirling a strand of hair as I wait for Ross.
Could I have ignored this item on the list?
Sure.
But would it have bugged the hell out of my type-A personality to leave that item unchecked?
You betcha.
I’m not someone who knows how to flirt, nor have I ever attempted it much in the first place. I’ve only been with two men my entire life, and each of those relationships evolved organically.
There was, of course, West.
And then later, Brent. We bonded over heavy caseloads and ninety-hour work weeks, eventually taking all that pent-up sexual frustration out on each other after a particularly tough win in the courtroom. Brent drove me home and didn’t leave until the next morning.
It was easy.
But with Ross? I have no idea how to talk to him.
Turns out it doesn’t matter. Because when Ross shows up (late), he immediately launches into conversation about himself, and all I have to do is smile and nod. Ross is a thirty-year old party animal who gestures wildly as he talks, and talks more the more he drinks. I’m still nursing the same drink I had when he arrived and spend the majority of our first twenty minutes together trying not to gag from the stench of his cologne. It’s a spicy sent that I’m sure would be fine in small doses, but Ross must have bathed in the stuff before stepping out tonight.
He’s still good looking, though, with dark hair and shocking green eyes. In fact, he looks pretty much the same as he did in high school, with a slightly higher forehead and softer middle.
“So, how long have you been in The Cities?” I ask, trying to look like I care about his answer. Truth be told, I’m more conscious of West, who is sitting at the opposite end of the bar and chatting it up with a pair of redheads. Of course he would attract attention, wearing roughly the same thing he was wearing the night we went mini golfing. He’s the most casually dressed guy here; while the others don tight t-shirts and slacks that accentuate their backsides, West looks like a lone ranger, rugged and fresh like some sun-kissed cowboy straight from the shower after a long day in the field.
West stands out wildly from the rest of these A-holes, quite a few of which have found a way to brush up against my backside and cop a feel even though it’s completely obvious I’m here with another guy.
Ross doesn’t even notice my eyes straying to the other end of the bar. His eyes are trained to my chest, my neck, my lap, then back to my chest. Slipping him the tongue tonight is going to be easier than I thought; he’s a dog in heat.
“A couple years,” he replies, answering my question. “After college, I worked down in Chicago for a while. Which was wild, let me tell ya.” He takes a pull from his beer, shoulders shaking with some wild memory I’m not privy to.
Before he can bore me with the details, I rush on. “And where did you go to school again?”
“University of Iowa. Attended on a football scholarship. As you probably could’ve guessed,” he says, square teeth flashing behind a cocky smile. He reaches out and casually lays a hand on my knee while taking another pull from his bottle.
I nod, forcing a smile I hope looks authentic while biting back the reply that no, I didn’t guess because I’ve had better things to do since high school than stalk aging football players.
Especially one who, later in life, has become a straight up playa.
Tight is his field of choice now and, like it or not, I’m in the game.
“I feel like I’ve just betrayed every little girl who dreams of growing up and becoming something other than a
Kardashian.” I pull off my heels and drop them to the floor of the truck. “What did I ever see in that guy? If I had a time machine, I’d go back to when we were making that stupid list and tell my eleven-year old self to swoon over someone else.”
“You’re so dramatic,” West says, steering us out of the parking garage. It’s an hour drive back to Wolf Lake, and I plan to nestle into the side of the door and sleep. Though it didn’t take much energy to seduce Ross and get the kiss, extracting myself from his arms was a whole other story. It eventually took feigning food poisoning, pressing my hand to my mouth and retching, to get away.
I’m not proud of it.
And don’t go feeling sorry for Ross; I wasn’t the only woman he had his eye on tonight. I’m sure he’ll find someone before last call to help him warm his bed.
The thought makes me feel greasy.
“God, I need a shower.”
West smiles, though it’s tight-lipped. He hasn’t said much since I we left Tight, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s tired or he didn’t want to leave. One of the red heads I saw him talking to earlier was trying to get cozy with him, and I can’t help but wonder if he would have rather stayed.
“Sorry if I cock blocked you tonight,” I say, keeping my voice light like I’m joking—when what I’m really doing is feeling him out. Not that I care or anything. I’m just curious, is all. Just making conversation. Yep. Nothing more…
West chuckles, though it’s a shadow of his usual laugh. He flicks his blinker as he switches lanes to pass a slow moving mini-van. “You did not cock block me.”
Hmm. So he wasn’t interested in the red head.
Interesting.
“So,” I say, drawing out the word. “Are you still seeing Candy, then?”
“Nah. We, uh,” his lips twitch, “didn’t have much in common.”
“Really?” I say drily. “I’m shocked.” West throws me a look, to which I feign innocence. “What?”
But he doesn’t say anything, just returns his attention to the road.
We ride in silence for a while, neither of us bothering to turn on the radio. This isn’t, of course, something new, this sitting next to each other in quiet acceptance of the moment. West and I have always been able to find just as much comfort without words as with them.
But there’s one thing that’s been nagging at me all night. Since I crashed his date with Candy, really. And although I know it’s probably not something I have the right to bring up, especially with the taste of another man still lingering on my lips, I can’t help but ask. “So,” I say, breaking the silence, “have there been any women that you have had something in common with? You know, over the years or…” My voice seems loud after the stretch of quiet, and I let the words trail off.
West exhales, the long breath mingling with his laugh. “You want to know how many women I’ve been with, is that it?”
“No!”
But yeah. That’s exactly what I want to know.
West has the ability to turn heads without even trying. I can’t imagine he’s spent the last twelve years sitting around like a choir boy. The fact that he’s thirty and still single is pretty damn hard to believe.
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Well, I didn’t sit around pining over you, if that’s what you want to know.”
Ouch.
“I guess I deserve that,” I say, wrinkling my nose and cringing.
“Laney.” West glances at me, reaching out to tug on the sleeve of the fleece I threw over my halter after leaving the bar. “What happened between us…” He pauses, sighing. “It was a long time ago. It’s done and over with. We’ve both moved on, been with other people. I’m not angry about it. Not anymore. It’s in the past.”
He shrugs, like the memory of us means absolutely nothing to him.
I bite my lip and nod, surprised when this news unsettles me more than if he’d said he was still furious with me.
The fact that he’s not angry, that he’s okay with what happened back then, means he’s over me.
West is over me.
I know this sounds incredibly arrogant, but I never thought he would be.
“Well, good. That’s good to hear.”
I shift in my seat, bringing my knees to my chest as best as I can in these godawful pants, and lean against the door. The window is blissfully cold, and my breath fogs the glass as I stare into the blackness beyond. It’s started to rain, and the soft thud of the wipers against the windshield coupled with the hum of the tires sing homage to the ache in my chest, matches the hollow beat of my heart.
When West says my name a short while later, I pretend to be asleep.
It’s been a little over a month since my mother’s funeral, since I buried my last living relative, and I’m finally reaching the end of the string of casseroles that flooded in during that brief consolatory period. And I haven’t heard much from anyone since. They’ve all gone back to their lives, my mother’s death just a blip on their radar.
Except for West, of course, who has been out of town on business the last few days and is expected home sometime tonight.
Though I’ve grown accustomed to his presence around the house, I haven’t been the least bit lonely since he left. Actually, let me rephrase that: I haven’t had time to feel lonely. West left Casper with me, and the four-year old Labrador has more energy than a rambunctious two-year old child. I’ve taken him with me on every morning run, adding another mile onto my usual five, and the dog is still climbing the walls by the time mid-afternoon rolls around.
Now, sitting crossed-legged on the patio recliner, I scoop up the last forkful of the chicken enchilada dish I unfroze two days ago and watch him chase a butterfly and then a bee—
“No, Casper, leave it!”
—before getting sidetracked by a leaf…and then, after catching that, discarding it for the rope toy I bought him during a trip to the pet store on our first day together. He finally settles down in the grass, the sun glistening off his shiny black coat and giving him the slick appearance of a goofy seal.
Once I determine he’s given up on the bee, I move my plate to the side table and grab our list, our bucket list, and give it a once over. The floppy hat I’m wearing is shielding my eyes from the sun, and I draw the paper closer so it falls under the brim’s shade.
In the week we’ve been doing this, we’ve knocked off two items: kissing Ross, of course (shudder), and watching every Evil Dead movie (that we weren’t allowed to watch back then) in one night. The movies were more campy than scary. Still, I didn’t argue when West asked if he could leave Casper here for the night because he had to drive into Minneapolis early the following morning to catch his flight. Nor did I mind when Casper climbed into my bed, circling three times before curling into a tight ball and leaning heavily into the crook of my knees before going to sleep.
And where he’s been sleeping every night since.
I’m scrolling down the list when my phone buzzes with an incoming text, and tear my eyes away long enough to see that it’s West, letting me know he’ll be in later than he thought and would it be all right if I kept Casper another night? I reply back that it’s no problem, because even though Casper is a wild child, the crazy mutt has burrowed his way into my cold dead heart. I think I may even like him better than West.
So I tell him.
The phone immediately rings.
“So,” he says, the whir of city background noise rushing in with his voice, “that must mean that you really like him. I mean, given that I’m your absolute favorite person and all.”
“Um, yeah. No.”
West laughs, though the rush of traffic drowns out some of his amusement.
“Where are you?” He mentioned that he was heading to Chicago, with a stop over in Wisconsin before heading home. I can’t imagine why; West told me he builds cabins and, as far as know, there aren’t any backwoods in Chicago.
“Grand Rapids.”
“Michigan?” I ask, sur
prised. He didn’t mention that on his itinerary.
“Yeah. Chicago didn’t pan out. This was sort of a last-minute thing. But,” he says, “I think I finally found what I was looking for.”
“And what would that be?”
“I…” West hesitates, and for the first time during our call reluctance falters his words. “I’ll tell you when I know for sure.” He pauses, covering up the glitch in the conversation with a laugh. “Don’t want to jinx it.”
He sounds so far away, with the rumble of some distant city clogging the line between us. I’d grown so accustom to the sounds of Phoenix—the wail of sirens, the street noise, the cacophony of voices rising and falling on the bustling walkway beneath the windows of my condo, the blustering rush of traffic that, minus the car horns and the obscenities hollered out of drivers’ windows, often remind me of the swooshing winter winds back home—that hearing the familiar chaos now is a searing reminder that I’m only here temporarily.
That West and I are only temporary.
Our friendship, at least in the intimate way it’s been evolving since my return, will come to a screeching halt when I leave in August. Sure, with things like texting and emailing and Skype, we’ll have the ability to keep in touch. But even the most devout relationships have a way of becoming distant in time, despite the technology one has at her fingertips. The likelihood of ever seeing West again after I leave here is on par with winning the lottery or being struck by lightning. I mean, it could happen, but the chances are pretty damn slim. Because I won’t have any reason to return to this sleepy town; I’ve built a life in a city that’s so far removed from the peace and quiet of Wolf Lake that there’s absolutely no way to bridge the two.
I can’t have both. I can’t have one without compromising the other.
And even if I did decide to try, it’d be disaster. It’s impossible to be in two places at once. And while I can’t actually split my body down the middle, I’d most certainly be shredding my heart, metaphorically cleaving it in half like a piece of meat on a cutting board, each severed slab too weak to survive on its own.
