Leanne Davis - Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

by Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

  We pass several booths and I get myself into a pissing contest with Will after the girls goad me and say I could never beat their dad at the small Shoot the Duck game. Well, as it turns out, Will’s history as a Special Forces soldier… yeah, I can’t compete with that. I spend a butt load of money and have nothing to show for it but my wounded pride. Natalie steps up to the plate, being a cop and all, and soon beats Will. She takes a lot more pleasure in showing me up than in beating Will, who graciously gives her the victory. I finally win by sheer luck at one of those toss-the-coin-in-the-can games. I give the sad, pathetic, ten–cent stuffed animal to Emily, who smiles at my corniness. There is plenty of junk food for Natalie and me to sample while she glares at me discreetly between bites. We walk loosely together, but never actually together. We never touch each other physically either.

  I notice a beer garden with great pleasure, and by nine o’clock, I decide it is the perfect spot for me to alight. Natalie is more than occupied with her budding, positive relationship to her sisters and all I am doing presently is providing a target for her to glare at. I am sick and tired of perpetuating it.

  There is dancing, too. Outside, they have a make-shift dance floor, below the little stage they set up, where, all evening long, the town’s musical talent is on display. Everything from the accordion, to guitars, to folksongs and serenades, not to mention plenty of oldies were featured. A few of them were quite talented. By now in the beer garden, the crowd is growing exponentially. Kids are running all around the area, and white, twinkling lights create a festive atmosphere. The warm weather means we only need light sweatshirts and can still be comfortable wearing our shorts. Jessie and Will dance. I watch them swaying together, talking, smiling into each other’s eyes, or just quietly embracing. Max and Christina dance too. Melissa and Emily find a group of local kids around their own ages; and I wince as they blatantly flirt with boys who are way too old for them. I almost get up to intervene, but Will notices what’s going on about then and charges over to end it.

  Chuckling, I glance up to find a woman sitting on the stool near me. There is a large bar set up and I’ve been here for a while now. I am enjoying the ambiance and drinking, while trying to relax. I was an uptight mess in Ellensburg. Self–induced. And well–deserved. But tonight, I am trying to remember that I am not the devil. I have to learn to live with what I’ve done, so I drink and watch the town. It is quite pleasant, in all honesty. I don’t want to talk, but the woman on the stool starts asking me direct questions. I’d be rude not to answer, so I do, as best I can, without really turning towards her. I contemplate the dark amber of the ale I am drinking. It is provided, I learn, by a popular local brewery. That information first comes from the bartender and then from the woman who sits next to me. I sip the dark ale and pick out a pretzel from the bowl before me.

  The woman beside me has long hair. It falls on top of the bar whenever she leans in to talk to me. She is young, attractive and her breasts are unfortunately quite large. They keep spilling from her top. I don’t look, of course, trying to stay focused on my beer. I want her to leave. I’m not a freaking idiot. My wife, the one I cheated on and want to prove how sorry I am to, is somewhere around here. The last thing I want is for her to see me with another woman, as if this is how I really am. Or what and who I truly am. But the blonde refuses to disappear. I turn my back just a smidgeon, trying to convey the vibe that I’m not interested. She freaking switches to the other side of me and moves over to sit there. She’s very grabby too. She touches my hand. Then a little rub of her shoulders against mine. Her hair keeps swishing this way and that. Good God! She will not give up.

  “Do you want to dance?”

  I slam the mug of ale down and the foam slips over the rim. “No! My wife’s around here and I’m waiting for her,” I finally just grumble at the woman. Then I wiggle my left hand at her, flashing my wedding ring. Yup, I still got it and I plan to use it for as long as I can legally justify wearing it. Jesus H. Have a bit of self-esteem, I want to say to her. When I finally glance at her, she’s not bad–looking. Other than a patch of acne on her chin, she’s pretty attractive. There is no reason she can’t find a guy. But it’s not me.

  “Oh.” The woman’s face falls, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. As if our five–minute, brief interaction could cause so much disappointment. “The good ones are always taken.”

  “You barely conversed for five minutes with me. You have no idea if I’m a good one. You don’t know if I’ve just cheated on my wife, or embezzled a million dollars, or injected a fresh dose of meth into my arm. You don’t know me.”

  She jerks back at my verbal attack. I realize how grumpy I must sound. I’m fast losing my patience. This is what my future holds? Dating. Being single? Simpering girls looking to me for validation? I can’t; no one can validate another person’s existence. I can’t stand clingy, needy, crestfallen women who blame me for their own shortcomings. I rub my already pounding temple. This glimpse of my future gives me a headache and the ensuing pain zings down all of my nerve endings. No. I don’t want clingy, needy, annoying females. I want Natalie.

  Natalie who never once needed any validation. She told me what was up. She is hot and she knows it. She is smart and knows it too. We could talk for hours and I never once felt this level of annoyance with her. Or the need to censor my words to avoid injuring her fragile self–esteem.

  “Sam?”

  I hold in a groan when Natalie’s voice comes from behind me. The question in her tone is not weepy. It’s not like, How could I be flirting with another blonde right now? No. It’s more like, Sam, what the hell are you doing now? I nearly lay my head flat on the bar. I can’t catch a freaking break.

  Natalie

  I’m buzzed. The beer that I ingest warms my stomach and spreads further from there. I am not giggly when drunk, but more open than I usually am. I’m hanging with Christina, and she is acting a bit drunk as well. I ignore the fact she’s obviously snuck some beer. I suspect her parents know she’s having it, as I saw her sipping some of her dad’s drink. Seeing as how she’s six months from being of age and her parents are right here, I take their cue, and ignore it. We talk. Like, we really talk. Sister–to–sister kind of talking. We discuss her relationship with her parents, and sisters and Max. I tell her about my own parents and even Sam. There is no simpering, or giggling, or slang, or selfies taken. I think I like Christina. She’s tough, intelligent, rational and funny. And hell, her boyfriend is an ex–fight clubber with a complex. There are edges to her that one might not think she has at first. She’s isn’t nearly the namby–pamby wuss I initially pegged her to be.

  So I’m feeling pretty good as I get up for another beer. That’s when I spot Sam, sitting at the bar, and turned toward… a freaking blonde, of course! Always the blondes. She’s twirling her hair around her finger, and touching his hand. Then his shoulder. She leans in towards him, creating an effect of intimacy, acting as if they are the only two seated at the bar.

  She seems to miss all of his signals. My gaze instantly zeroes in on him as I watch him pulling his shoulder away, and sliding his fingers away from hers. He’s leaning farther back to avoid her face being right in his. I know what’s happening then and I have to laugh: he’s being hit on and doesn’t want to be, but the woman refuses to take no from him.

  I should be annoyed. But somehow, this feels so much like the usual. I have to laugh again to myself as I remember the countless times I came to his rescue. Lots of women, from the young to middle–aged to old, try to pick him up. He’s that freaking good-looking; but also that much of a gentleman. He knows how to make a person feel like the only person in the room, or the world, for that matter. He has no idea he’s even doing it. I can see by his body language that I’m right. This is Sam being himself, trying not to attract the woman. Somehow, knowing this truly helps my confidence: I do know Sam. He hasn’t completely morphed into a monster, despite what my heart often considers him to be now.

 
; As I approach him, he mumbles something to the blonde; something about not knowing him. The girl, who’s probably in her early twenties, looks crestfallen. I lean on the bar and smile as I say his name.

  He jerks to attention, his back going ramrod straight as his head whips around. He lays his head down flat on the bar for a moment, as if totally defeated, before he suddenly jumps off the stool. In an impassioned tone, he exclaims, “She came on to me. I told her to leave!”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. He sounds like a typical guy who just got caught cheating right now. It makes me laugh a little bit. Insecurity was never a part of Sam’s personality. Assuming I don’t know what happened here is new too. I don’t know how many times I rescued him from such lame pick–ups. It’s kind of our thing. I enjoy seeing him squirm. The poor girl looks from me to Sam as she shifts her feet and backs up. Then she spins around, almost running away.

  “I swear, she kept coming on to me. I wasn’t… I mean, I don’t…”

  I burst out laughing. He’s staring at his feet, shuffling them like a little boy caught peeing in public. “You can’t help being so pretty. The girls just lose their minds. Always the victim, aren’t you?”

  He glances up and holds my gaze, finally breaking into a grin when he realizes I’m kidding him. It’s a smile that sends rockets of emotion zinging down my nerve endings. Even my toes curl in my shoes. God, I’m so cynical and competitive, almost as bad as a guy, not to mention I half hate this man right now for betraying me. It is such an ugly, disrespectful, disgusting thing to do. Really, it is. And yet, even I am almost swooning at his feet, under the power of his grin. And his dark eyes studying me.

  My teasing smile starts to fade along with his grin. We stare at each other, both buzzed, I’m pretty sure. At least, I know I am. He steps towards me. A tentative, almost unsure step. I feel his hand reaching out towards me. I look down at the hand wearing the ring that I put on his finger. He is waiting for me. My tears replace the smile. I close my eyes. Sam. I just want Sam. How do you hate and love someone at the same time? It is so unclear and it makes me feel unclean. I should hate him. But all my nerve endings ache for him. I lift my fingertips and let them touch his. He closes his eyes as if the sensation of my contact overwhelms him. That’s how he gets me. He always makes me feel like our love, and how we feel about each other, are so much more than the way other couples feel.

  He pulls me forward, and that quickly and easily, I fall against his chest, looping my arms around his neck. I cling to him, as needful as the blonde he just turned down. We start to sway to the music and slowly meander closer to the other couples. There are no words, just music. I relish the warm feel of his body against mine. I love his hands on my back. The white lights strung from poles twinkle and sway in the clear night sky as I pretend and remember how easily it is to fall back in love with Sam.

  As if it never stopped. Not even for a moment. Not even in that terrible moment did I stop loving him. I hated him; and I still might. I resent him. I want to hurt him still, even in my fantasies. But the line separating love from hate is very undefined for me right now.

  We cling together for so many songs, I lose track. I have no coherent thoughts. I forget. I let myself forget temporarily that we are over. Done. In many ways, this should be us saying goodbye to each other and letting go of one another. Clearly, there are big problems for us. Maybe our personalities are too strong individually to mesh together. Maybe we are too polarized.

  He takes my hand at some point and pulls me toward him. We disappear into the darkness. I let him walk us to a private spot, away from the twinkling lights and crowds. There is no one around. He stops and pulls me against his chest. My heart suddenly pounds as my bloods starts to pump with eager anticipation. Something painful drums in my chest, and releases me when his lips touch mine. I let his mouth press hard, his lips and tongue completely tasting mine. I stand up on my tiptoes and lean my head back to reach him better. It’s incredible. On and on, we kiss and his hands entangle my long, thick hair. His lips travel from my mouth to my cheekbone, and under my jaw, down along my throat. His hands leave my hair and he suddenly lifts his mouth from me and hugs me tightly.

  “I love you, Nat. I love you so much,” he mumbles into my ear. I know. My heart is screaming at me and at him, I know he loves me. But if that were sincerely true, then how could he cheat on me? How could his body dive into another woman’s? How could he allow her legs to wrap around him? Moving their bodies together. Her head thrown back, her hair trailing down on his desk, and her long neck, a curving C… I so easily see that image again in my mind. I witnessed too damn much to gloss over the details, or for any of it to be abstract.

  I shove him away. “I can’t. I can’t tell you that now. Not anymore. Just… I’m going to catch a ride with Christina. I’ll see… you back there. Later.” I fumble for excuses, along with my footing as I push away from his heat. I head back toward the lights and people, my heart tripping in my chest. I am buzzed enough that I want to turn around and fling myself at him and pretend. I really want to pretend that everything is so different than it actually is.

  I find Christina sitting on Max’s lap. Her eyes are quite bright and her cheeks are red. She’s sloshed, I’m guessing, by the open way she’s hanging all over Max. He keeps trying to gently push her away a little bit, while glancing frequently at her parents. I take pity on the poor guy for trying to do the right thing. “Hey, Christina, do you mind if I ride back with you? I’ve had enough fun for tonight, and Sam wants to stay awhile longer.”

  Although I highly doubt she’s ready, she consents to let a sober Max drive us back to the house. Christina is chatty and buzzed, but I’m coming down fast. I listen to her cheerful chatter as Max and I readily exchange glances and snicker. She keeps trying to hug him when we sit down on the deck together and Max lights a fire in the fire pit the deck is built around. No one else is back yet. As she tries again to hug him, he finally grabs her arms with his fingertips in a tight grasp, saying, “Damn it! Stop it, Christina.”

  I am a bit stunned. I jerk to attention at Max’s tone and the rough way he is gripping her forearms. I don’t like it one bit. But to date, I’ve only ever heard Max being considerate, if not a little unreal, about her. He seemed to adore her until this very moment. She immediately stills and quits fighting him. Her voice crumples, “Oh, Max, I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” Her voice sounds way too serious. What harm is there in the little bit of flirting she did?

  I stand up. “What’s your problem, Max? Quit strong–arming her.” I put my hand on her arm and she turns towards me. I can see the incident sobers her up almost instantly.

  “It’s okay, Natalie.”

  “No, it’s not. He doesn’t have to act like such an ass over nothing. Don’t let guys just grab or manhandle you at their will, Christina.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not like that.” I notice Max releasing her. He backs up and hangs his head, as if in shame. My stomach knots. Does he ever hit her or anything? They appear to be such a nice, cute couple, but is that just a gimmick to hide something more sinister? And Christina saying the typical excuse: it isn’t his fault for having a temper? She thinks she provokes him? Does she really believe that? Does Jessie know? My head is leaping to conclusions. I feel ready to get my gun and empty a clip into Max. I think I have some serious aggression concerns with men right now. “He has this thing about being touched. It’s a condition called by many names, one being haphephobia. You can look it up if you don’t believe us. I usually… don’t push him like that. But I was drinking and…. Well, it’s not what your cynical mind is thinking, Nat.”

  Rarely does anyone but Sam call me Nat. It makes my heart bump. I like the unexpected familiarity. And how she seems to know I’m cynical. We stare each other, and I start to think, Holy shit, we might have connected a bit over the last few days.

  I’m startled, however, by her quiet statement and Max’s subsequent, obvious embarrassment. He finally lifts his head u
p. “I can’t handle being touched. We… Tiny and I usually work it out, but sometimes, she goes too far for me. I don’t mean to react so sharply. I just…. It’s a real phobia.”

  I nod. I have heard of it. It must be tough to carry on a sexual relationship when you hate to be touched. I look at my sister with new eyes. The privileged, kind of selfish, bratty image she first projected easily vanishes in the depths I’m beginning to see inside her.

  “People generally aren’t what we think they are. It’s okay, Max. Sorry I thought….”

  He gives me an understanding nod. “I’m glad you reacted like that; and I know you would never let something like that happen.”

  “Must be tough having such an unobvious aversion, especially when everyone comes at you, touching. I’m not a real touchy–feely–let’s–hug–because–we–met–once kind of person either, so I get how much you must endure your discomfort. Except I’m nowhere near the extent of what you suffer from.”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  Christina shakes her head. “No, it’s just how it is. No big deal,” she says, her tone crisp and matter of fact. She gives me a little smile when I catch her eye and we share a look. I’m slightly startled, it’s our first communication through body language and eye contact. Like what she does with Emily and Melissa, her sisters.