“So you didn’t fall for his shit?”
“No,” she says, “but then he started really talking to me. I mean, really talking. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure he was really talking to me. It was more like he was just talking from his heart, and something he said kept me from kicking his butt off the porch.”
“What did he say?”
“He apologized to me,” Gigi says.
“For what?” I ask.
“For hurting you. He said even if he could get you to forgive him, that he wanted me to forgive him, too. He said it’s easier to forgive those who hurt us than it is to forgive those who hurt someone we love, and he wanted me to know how sorry he was for hurting the person I love most in this world.” We smile at each other, and she places both her hands on mine. “He told me that all I have to do is say the word, and he’ll leave.”
“I can’t believe he’d do that. He’s so stubborn.”
“He said that’s how confident he is that he’ll never hurt you again.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mae
What do you wear for a date/non-date on a Tuesday at noon in Colorado in the summer? Heck if I know! And having no idea where we are going, what we are doing, whether it’s indoor or outdoor doesn’t help matters.
On my show, I’ve learned that surprise dates have a reputation of either being fantastic or going horribly wrong. There’s no middle ground. Many engagements have started off as surprises dates. I’ve even had a couple callers who had surprise weddings which were phenomenal, but I’ve also heard horror stories. One poor guy was surprising his girlfriend with a fancy dinner on the beach, and they both got food poisoning. Another woman wanted to surprise her man with a midday date, and when she showed up to pick him up, he was with another woman. The track record is about fifty-fifty, so today could go either way.
I swear, I’ve tried on everything in my closet. I don’t want to look overeager. I don’t want to look like I don’t care. I can’t be too sexy. I can’t be too asexual. It’s an impossible scenario.
I’ve always had a more eclectic style. I think it’s because I’ve lived all over. I love hats, crazy socks, and vintage t-shirts are my kryptonite. In the summer, I do my best to go without a bra. My boobs aren’t huge, and nothing is worse than a sweaty bra, so I prefer to just go natural. But showing up braless seems like it would send the wrong message to Knox.
My undergarments are about the only clothing choice I am confident about. I’m wearing the oldest, ugliest bra and panties I can find. The bra is flesh color and unhooks in the front, sure to confuse most men, and is nothing lacy or special. The panties are white cotton and have a small hole at the waistband.
These are what you call safety underwear. No way would I take these off in front of anyone, much less a man. So while I take the pill religiously, I consider these undergarments my backup birth control!
I shouldn’t be thinking about birth control at all. I’m not sleeping with Knox. Not going to happen. Of course, he is the reason I went on birth control in the first place. One broken condom will do that to a girl! I’ll never forget the look on Knox’s face when he discovered it broke.
We were barely twenty, in college. I’m not sure what was worse for him, seeing that it broke or knowing he had to tell me it did. We sweat it out for ten whole days, wondering what if. I have to say, after the initial shock wore off, Knox was actually really great about it, assuring me that things would be fine. That no matter what, he was there for me. He let me cry, worry, yell at him. He was a good boyfriend like that. Thank God I didn’t get pregnant, but I went on the pill after that.
The first time Knox and I had sex was sweet, slow, gentle. If he was nervous, it didn’t show. I think we waited so long, he was too horny to be nervous. It was everything I wanted my first time to be. It wasn’t the horror stories I heard from girlfriends. It wasn’t so planned out that it was awkward.
One night our freshman year in college, he was in my room. My roommate had dropped out of school and gone back home, which meant I had a single room. Which also meant, Knox practically lived with me. He routinely slept over at my place, not in his own dorm.
I woke up in the middle of the night, and his arm was thrown over me. I looked over at him in the moonlight, and I knew I was finally ready. He’d been the most patient boyfriend in the history of the universe. I kissed him softly on the lips, waking him, and that was it.
Knox has a way about him that just makes you feel so loved, and that night especially, I felt he completely loved me, every part of me.
Things didn’t stay so sweet and gentle for long. We soon discovered we both liked to push the envelope in the bedroom. But no matter how kinky things got, that feeling of being totally loved never changed.
No man has ever gotten me the way Knox did. Yes, I’ve had sex since him. Yes, some of those men gave me orgasms, but it’s never been like it was with Knox. Even though I was just a teenager when we lost our virginity together, sex has never been like it was with him. Maybe that’s because no man ever knew me like Knox did.
There are things he did to me that no man has since. He loved to slip his hand under my skirt in public to get me off. He knew how hot it made me when he spanked me, smacked my pussy. No other man has ever done that to me. He knows how much that turns me on.
He knows I like it a little rough, a little dirty. Nothing crazy, we aren’t talking rim jobs, but I like the naughtier side of things. He just gets that. Most men these days are too polite in bed. I’m all for polite, but not between the sheets.
Even though we were in college, he understood my needs, my cravings. No other man has, and honestly, I don’t want to have to make that request. Excuse me, babe, would you mind tightening the nipple clamp, it’s too loose. No, thank you. Other men have given me orgasms, but never with the same level of satisfaction, never leaving me spent like Knox. The world might think there’s no one like him on the big screen, but I know there’s no one like him in the bedroom.
I feel my body heat just thinking about it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I’m not one who sleeps with guys easily. That’s cost me a few relationships, but who cares? If you can’t wait for me, then I don’t need you. I glance at the clock, finding it’s thirty minutes until noon. I’ve heard of many a man doing a preventative jerk off before a date. Women don’t work the same way, but I certainly don’t want to open the door thinking about sex.
Reaching into my nightstand, I grab my vibrating boyfriend. A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. And the best thing about my battery-operated friend is that I can make it last as long or be over as quickly as I’d like. I’m on a bit of time crunch today, so better make it a quickie.
I hop in bed. I’m extremely weird about the whole masturbation thing. I have to do it under the covers. I’m not typically shy when I’m in bed with a man, but something about doing this alone brings out the shy girl in me.
A vibration echoes through the room, but unfortunately, it’s not from my toy, but my phone. Choosing to ignore it, I nestle down deep in my bed, but find I am too distracted to turn it on. What if the text was important?
Here’s the thing about me and sex—I think this is true for most women. It’s hard for us to get off if something else is on our mind, and it’s not easy for us to clear our minds. Men tend to be singularly focused. I think that’s why they are better at orgasms than most women. We are raised to multi-task, and multi-tasking and sex don’t go well together.
Reaching for my phone, I see the interrupter of my playtime is Knox. Of course, it is. Crap, he’s letting me know he’s on his way, and will be early.
Flying out of bed, I toss my vibrator back in the drawer and rush to my closet. I don’t have time to be frustrated from lack of orgasm. I have to act fast. There’s no more time for indecision over what I’m wearing, so I quickly choose a floral sundress that stops right above my knee. It’s not tight fitting, but moves when I do.
I barely
have time to throw my hair up in a ponytail before Knox is knocking at my door. Taking one last glance at myself in the mirror, I throw on some warpaint, as Gigi calls it—known as lip gloss to the rest of the world. Flip-flops complete my look.
Taking a deep breath, I peek out the window before I open the door, seeing Knox waiting. He’s wearing a white button down with the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons undone and jeans. Good, our outfits go together. There’s nothing worse than being underdressed compared to your date.
Wait! This isn’t a date.
His hands go through his dark blonde hair, messing it up enough that it looks sexy and lived in. He’s still sporting slight stubble on his face, and everything about him looks perfectly sexy. He knocks again, blowing out a deep breath.
Is Knox Merrick nervous?
Surely, I don’t make him nervous. But the thought that I might makes me smile a little. He looks up, like he’s saying a little prayer. I wonder how long he’d wait for me. He pulls out his phone. I think he might be checking to see if I’ve texted him back, but he starts to type something, looking aggravated. I know it’s not for me when my phone doesn’t ding with a message.
Unsure if I should be excited or scared of what he has planned, I open the front door. Timothy and Gigi are going to get a piece of my mind if this crashes and burns. I want to apologize for making him wait, but sorry I was on the verge of masturbating doesn’t seem like an appropriate way to start a conversation, let alone to greet one’s ex.
His eyes start at my legs, slowly sliding up until he reaches my eyes. Knox has a way of looking at me that makes me have very dirty thoughts. “You look beautiful,” he says, holding my gaze.
There was a time when I would’ve discarded his compliment, dismissed it with a “this old thing” reply, but over the years, I’ve learned when someone pays you a compliment, take it. “Thank you.” And while he looks sexy as all get out, I won’t tell him. He probably hears it all the time, anyway. Hell, he has online polls naming him the sexiest man on the planet.
His phone dings, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see he’s not happy about it. “Sorry,” he says, pulling it out of his pocket. “I’m turning the damn thing off.”
“Who is it?”
“My agent, my publicist, the director—take your pick,” he says.
“You were early. It’s not quite noon yet,” I say. “Finish what you need to.”
“Not a chance,” he says, powering down his phone. “Our date begins now.”
*
Every town has one—a majestic old theater that used to show the classic films of days gone by before big cineplex and streaming services ruled the world. Haven’s Point is no different. The Royal is home to one screen. It looks like something from an old movie with its huge marquee out front and single man box office. These days, it’s mostly used for charity events, special screenings of classic movies, or corporate rentals.
Knox pulls the car right up to the curb. “You’re taking me to the movies?”
“Classic first date,” he says.
“Only this isn’t a date, and certainly not our first.”
Getting out of the car, he hurries to my side to get my door for me. I’m not sure what I thought he was planning for today, but this wasn’t it. “Let me guess, you’re the star of the movie?”
“One of them,” he says, placing his hand at the small of my back, leading me toward the entrance.
“I’m not in the mood for a Knox Merrick movie marathon,” I say. “I’ve managed to avoid seeing any of your films this long.”
“You’ve never watched my movies?” he asks, his voice quiet and low, more sadness than surprise.
I look up at him, and he’s unable to hide the pain in his blue eyes. I can tell my lack of interest in his career hurts him.
“Not one?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I’ve made eleven movies in five years,” he says. “You never watched one?”
“It hurt, Knox,” I admit. “I didn’t want to spend two hours watching the person I lost. It’s not that I’m not proud of you. I am, more than you know. I just couldn’t put my heart through that.”
Gently, he takes my hand. “You were with me in all of those movies. I’d read a script and wonder if you’d like it. If you’d tell me to take it or not. I’d need to deliver a line about love or loss, and you were always my inspiration.”
My heart starts to flutter in my chest just like it used to, so I make a joke to break the attraction. “Next you’re going to try to convince me that you thought of me during sex scenes.”
He leans in to my neck. “Sex scenes are much too boring to think of you during.”
I turn my head slightly, our eyes meet, his lips inches from mine. It would be so easy to kiss him right now. It would be the easiest mistake I’d ever make.
*
Cassette
Knox to Mae
Age Sixteen
I love you, Mae.
I know we’ve said that to each other before. But this time I mean it in the more than friends way. Next time I see you, I don’t know that I’ll have the balls to say that to your face right away.
I mean, I guess I should kiss you first, for real, but the thing is, I don’t need to kiss you to know that I love you. Guys are always talking about how far they got with some girl. My friends are losing their virginity left and right. I’ve never even kissed you, except that one when we were six, and that doesn’t count.
This cassette is going all wrong. I should’ve just told you about the horror that is Honors Chemistry. My teacher asked my dad out on a date! Can you believe that shit? My dad turned her down cold. I think my grade is suffering because of it. He hasn’t been on one date since my mom died. Ten years. Not one.
I told him he could. That I wouldn’t be upset. As long as it wasn’t my teacher. He laughed at that. He told me he promised my mother forever, and he intended to keep that promise.
So that’s my promise to you, too. Forever.
I don’t need to kiss you first, or get to second base, or anything else. Although I definitely want those things. I lay awake thinking about those things. But I don’t need them to know I love you.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Knox
Middle row, middle seats, we sit in the theater. Normally, I prefer an aisle seat, but since we’re the only ones in here, it really doesn’t matter. I rented out the whole theater for this special showing. I don’t have popcorn, sodas, or snacks. This movie isn’t long enough for all that. Movies are sometimes made solely for entertainment purposes. Other times, movies are meant to make you think.
This time?
This movie is made to help her remember.
That’s what the best movies do. They help us remember what it’s like to be a kid, or fall in love, or lose someone. Sure, some movies are purely for fun. I’ve made all kinds of movies—action flicks, drama. Comedy and straight up romances aren’t in my wheelhouse, but my favorite movies to watch and to star in are the ones that make people feel something.
I turn around slightly, raising my hand in the air for them to start the show. The title, Unfinished Love, rolls across the screen with a picture of Mae and I when we were six, the summer we met.
Her head whips around. “What did you do?”
“What I do best,” I say. “Make a movie.”
“Of us?” she asks.
“Us,” I whisper.
Her face is priceless as she turns back to the screen. I don’t need to watch the film. I’ve seen it at least a hundred times in the past two days, editing it, making sure it was perfect. I didn’t want it to come off like a cheesy home movie. I wanted it to read like a classic love story.
So far, I think I succeeded in that mission. Imogen watched it this morning and left with tears in her eyes. That was one of the conditions she set for helping me. She had to see the movie first, and she had veto power. Without passing Imogen’s inspection, Mae wouldn’t be
in the seat next to me.
Once I collected pictures and keepsakes from Everly and Imogen, and all our cassettes from my place, I had Ben piece it all together with my help. Ben is a wannabe director who’s interned on a few movies I’ve worked on. He jumped at the chance to help me, knowing I’d put in a good word for him for future projects. That’s how Hollywood is—you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.
Mae grabs my hand when some drawings we made as kids flash on the screen. One touch from her only makes me want more. More time, more memories, more of her hands on me, and mine on her.
Our teenage voices from our cassettes fill the theater. “Oh my God,” she whispers, covering her mouth. “I forgot about that.”
The song we danced to at prom, pictures from the yearbook, snapshots from our life together float over the screen, our voices giving them life. She leans forward, captivated by our story. It’s a journey of love and friendship, and it’s not over.
Not even close.
I’ve sat in many premieres wondering whether my performance would resonate with the audience, whether they’d enjoy the movie, but I’ve never been more nervous in my whole life than I am right now. Movie critics can be hard, and audiences can, too. I can pour my heart and soul into something for months and months, live and breathe a character, and have it ripped to shreds, or classified as a flop because it doesn’t bring in enough money. It hasn’t happened often, but as disheartening as it may be, it’s easy compared to this.
Mae can’t just like this movie. She has to feel it in her heart. It has to make her forgive me. This movie has to give me a second chance.
That’s what I want. When I first heard her voice on the radio, first called her show, I told myself it was just to get in touch, see how she was, hopefully be friends again. I’m man enough to admit that was me hedging my bets, not wanting to scare her off, or get my heart stepped on. But it’s so much more than that. I want her. It’s that simple.
Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel) Page 8
