by Costa, Bella
"Yes," I eventually manage.
He gazes at me a moment longer, then seems to make a decision about something and turns to start the jeep. I watch him pensively as he steers us out of the drive and we hit the road leading down the mountain. Realising he is not going to share what is on his mind; I turn my attention to the scenery hurtling past.
It is nearly an hour before the oppressive silence is broken.
"You won't have much work to do in the morning. It's Sunday," he says, throwing me an accusatory glance.
"I'm moving from my flat, into the shelter."
"How are you moving?"
"What do you mean?” I ask, confused by the question.
"Who is helping you move?" he rephrases, glancing quickly at me.
"Oh, um – I don't have much. Just a few boxes, I can manage on my own with a taxi."
"I'll bring your Camper-Van tomorrow and help you," he offers quietly.
"I would appreciate having my van back, but you don't have to help with the move."
"I want to."
Oh! "Why?” I whisper.
He glances at me again then pulls over onto the verge of the road. "Because I want to see you again," he sighs, staring ahead at the empty road. I stare at him for a long while, unable to respond. He turns to me eventually and takes my hand in his. "What do I keep doing to offend you?" he asks, his expression pained.
"What? No, Nothing! You don't offend me," I splutter. Why would he think that?
"So what's the problem, Acacia?" I shudder as his thumbs stir up strange sensations on my knuckles.
"I'm just not ready for anything. 'No strings' remember," I mutter, eyes fixed on his thumbs.
"It is still 'no strings' - if that's what you want."
"It's complicated. It feels like something I can't control and I just...can't," I whisper and hear his sharp intake of air.
"It doesn't have to be controlled," he whispers.
"For me it does."
"Does this mean we won't be together again?"
"I..." I swallow hard. I had not thought about my withdrawal in such a permanent way. Never being with him again? It hurts. Maybe it is a sign that this is how it should be. "I guess so," I reply, unwilling to commit.
"Okay. However, if you change your mind, Acacia, I am here. I'm willing to change the terms of our agreement if that's what it takes."
He places my hands gently on my lap and turns back to the driving position, leaving me pondering the meaning behind his words.
"Please let me help you move tomorrow?" he says as he pulls back onto the asphalt again.
"Okay," I reply because I really don't know what else to say.
~.~
Even though it is not the expected time of the month to be suffering from PMS, hormonal is the only plausible explanation, I can find to describe my mood this morning. Before I had even opened my eyes and lifted my head off the pillow, I was in full green 'Hulk' mode, ready to wrap a lamp post around anyone who so much as looked in my direction.
I tackle a jammed zipper on one of the suitcases with gritted teeth and a few choice words. Thankfully, or maybe not, I had yet to have contact with any members of the human race, today. I hate feeling like this and I do not remember ever having it this bad. I idly wonder if it might be unfair to Mike Tyson if I challenged him to ten rounds - just to get it out my system.
"Here we go again!” I grumble, just as the offending zipper slides free. The phone has already rung five times. Each time, I have hurdled over furniture, risking life and limb, to answer it in time. Each time, only to find another lady or gentleman from Calcutta or Mumbai called 'Mary' or 'James' wanting to take 'just three minutes of my time' to conduct a Consumer Survey. Do the marketing experts, who think it necessary to gather this information, honestly assume that the public are so stupid, that we would believe a call centre is based on U.S. soil, just because the heavily accented speaker is named James, and that we might be more willing to be harassed by another American?
I could just ignore it, but I have disconnected the answering service and it might be someone important.
"Hello.” I answer.
"Good evening Madam, am I speaking to Mrs. Acacia Ward?"
"Probably not, who is this please?” I ask abruptly.
"My name is Mark, Madam and I'm phoning from the Washington Consumer Council. Madam you are being entered into a prize draw..." Here we go again.
"What's your real name?"
"Sorry, excuse me Madam?"
"I said, what is your real name?"
"Um Madam, we are not allowed to disclose personal information," he replies sheepishly.
"But you expect me to disclose personal information?"
"I'm sorry Madam," he says with just the right levels of remorse.
"Well Mark, the Acacia Ward you're after has just been dragged out in a straight jacket, for trying to eat a door to door salesman."
I slam the phone down, determined to ignore if it rings again. I know they are only doing their job, but really? Perhaps when I have finished packing, I will expend some energy doing sit-ups and push-ups. What I really need is to pound the pavement for a few miles but my ankle isn't ready for that yet.
I have my worldly possessions packed up in record time. I really do not have much, just two suitcases containing clothes, linen and shoes, a box of kitchen paraphernalia and a box of papers and old photos.
When I de-cluttered my frenzied psyche, I had applied the same abstemious assault on my personal possessions. With callous intent, I had sorted then donated, disposed or destroyed the bulk of my chattels, retaining only what I deemed necessary. I repeated the process again and again, until my entire life's accumulations amounted to the approximate volume of a supermarket trolley. It had been brutal but felt so very, very necessary at the time.
Victoria and I still disagree on my motivations. She firmly believes that it was a clear demonstration of Passive Self-Aggression, one of apparently many.
I rip the packing tape a little too vigorously across the top of a box in frustration. Victoria sees my denial as a symptom of this so-called Passive Self-Aggression. I find it annoyingly typical that every unpleasant psychological malady has denial as its number one symptom, making sure that any repudiation by the patient is an automatic confirmation of the diagnosis. It is no wonder psychiatric patients do not have a hope in hell!
I pile my effects by the door and give the small, furnished apartment the once-over to make sure I hand it back to the Landlord in good condition. Satisfied that everything is in order, I glance at my watch. Still an hour and half before Chayton is due to collect me.
I forfeit the exercise, not relishing the effort of unpacking clothes, toiletries and shower cleaner just to exercise off a bad mood. I decide to indulge myself instead and head down to the fifties-style diner, one street down from my apartment.
They have the most amazing pecan nut pies and my mouth is watering in anticipation as I place my order. I glance around the diner. It's empty so no one will notice if I pig out.
"Oh, and can you throw in a banana float?” I manage to add before the waitress disappears.
I gaze out the window, not seeing anything. I wonder pensively where I'm going with my life. At Donavan's Pass, I had been determined to get back into... into what? My old life? Is that what I want? Ugh, this is frustrating!
The waitress interrupts my introspection with my meal and I push my strained thoughts aside for the moment. I take a small scoop from the ball of ice cream floating in my banana milkshake. Yum. I smack my lips together and release a long, contented sigh. Heaven in a glass. I dig into the pie. It is delicious and I give it my full appreciative attention for a few mouthfuls before returning to the questions nudging at me.
So, do I want to go back to my old life? Define 'old life!’ I realise that I am delving into that big nasty suitcase of messy issues and panic stricken I mentally slam it firmly shut, sipping instead on my milk shake.
The milkshake is undeniably hard work a
nd my cheeks ache as I encourage the viscous liquid through the thin plastic tube. All junk food should be like this. You work off the calories as you eat them. I gasp as the cold liquid finally floods my mouth and I have to press a palm against my forehead. Brain freeze! I giggle.
"That's a charming sound."
My eyes fly up at the unexpected but very welcome voice. I have been so lost in my thoughts; I had not noticed anyone else enter the diner.
He is sitting a few tables away, cradling a coffee in his hands and looking devilishly hot.
"It takes a very brave person to dine alone!" He murmurs softly into his mug of coffee. I can feel the growing smile on my face reaching goofy proportions but I just cannot help it.
I feign indifference. "Is that so?"
"The trick is to look confident about it," he explains, "to look as though it was always your intention, to eat alone."
I recognise the conversation from an old movie with Sandra Bullock. I do not remember the name of the movie or if he is quoting, word perfect. However, it is amusing, considering the movie was definitely a chick flick. I frown, trying to remember how the conversation goes. Um, okay. Here goes!
"Would you care to join me?" I lay on the sugar batting an eyelash. If I remember the scene correctly, he declines and leaves the diner. Oh, I hope not.
"I might just do that." He is oozing charm and humour as he settles onto the bench opposite me, bringing his coffee with him. He smiles and life in general seems to light up. A flash of perfect gleaming teeth and two adorable dimples sweep my previous distraught thoughts and foul mood away.
"Interesting choice of food?" Chayton eyes my pecan pie and banana milkshake float.
"My soul is playing catch up. You want some?"
"No thank you. Catch up from what?"
"My Ex, he had very strict dietary rules."
"He was a diabetic?"
"No. He was an asshole." His face registers his shock and I take another sip of my milkshake to hide my mirth.
"That bad, huh?"
"Yup."
"Considering recent revelations, it sounds par for the course." I flush, knowing which revelations he's referring to.
"So what, he told you what you could and couldn't eat?"
He is unusually talkative today, isn't he? "What, when and how to eat, wear, sleep, where to go to, who to talk to," I sigh.
"Wow. That bad!" He leans back into the padded bench and regards me intensely. I must have been over this a thousand times in the last three years. With the lawyers, my therapist, my aunt, the police.
It reminds me of something my aunt once said about childbirth. 'When you give birth you are inspected, poked and prodded by so many people, that you could walk down the busiest street in town during rush hour, stark naked, and not bat an eyelash'
"So how long were you with him for?" His voice is low and his expression is hard to read.
"Since I was eighteen. Five years," I shrug, numbing to it all.
Chayton has gone quiet and slightly broody so I focus on the last of my pie, aware that I am only eating now for distraction. I push my empty plate away and concentrate on my milk shake. The waitress returns with a pot of coffee and offers Chayton a refill but he declines.
"How did you know I would be here?" I ask eventually as I scoop some of the ice cream from the bottom of the tall glass.
"I didn't. I was running an hour early. My business was taken care of and I figured I'd have a coffee in here before coming to fetch you."
"Oh. Okay. Well I'm all packed up so we can head back to the apartment now."
"You don't want to finish your shake?"
I flush a little. "My eyes are bigger than my stomach!" I pout and rub my belly and we both laugh. He has a lovely laugh.
He insists on paying my tab and I don't have the energy to argue. We walk - well he walks; I am still paying penance for my dance mania and limping - discussing normal things, like the pending warmer weather, the shortage of parking and whether or not Cotton will be elected Seattle's Mayor for the next term. As we arrive outside my apartment block, I spy the Beast parked in a loading bay. A traffic warden is inspecting the vehicles plates.
"Challenge on!" Chayton grins and saunters confidently over to the warden who is preparing to write a ticket and I shake my head at his cheek. Leaving Chayton to work his charm on the traffic warden, I head inside. If he fails – he is paying the ticket!
I just manage to put the last of the three pieces of luggage outside the door and I am about to lock it when Chayton catches up with me looking very satisfied with himself.
"So I guess you succeeded in coaxing your way out of that ticket then?"
"Hell yes, and very smoothly I might add." He studies the four pieces frowning. "Is this it?"
"Um yes," I flush. "I just need to hand the key back to the Land Lord, next door."
He nods, still staring at the small pile of luggage in disbelief.
I slide the key under the door as agreed with the Land Lord. When I return Chayton is waiting in the hall for me and my luggage has disappeared. He rests a hand lightly on the small of my back as we leave the building and head to the Beast, insisting on driving.
"So tell me about the mysterious Chayton.” I ask as we pull smoothly into traffic.
"I had no idea I was mysterious." He glances at me, smiling.
"Oh, very mysterious indeed. The mere fact that you had no idea just proves how mysterious you are."
"Is that a fact? Well what would the circumspect Acacia like to know about the mysterious Chayton?" He is still smiling and I feel emboldened to probe.
"Well, let's see. How about - what does Chayton actually do?"
"Actually do?" He glances at me again.
"You know, to earn a living?"
"Ah. Well, I invest." He says simply. This does not fit in with the images I have: Chayton - The Woodsman, or Chayton - The Maintenance Man, or Chayton - The Wilderness Guide or Chayton – The Biker.
He glances at my face seeing my bewildered scowl. "You disapprove?"
"No. Gosh no! It's just that..." how do I explain this? "I just expected you to have a more...um...manly occupation." As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret it and groan inwardly.
"Manly huh?" he asks very quietly. "So, now I'm not manly enough for you?" His eyes blaze and I feel the air sucked from my lungs.
I clutch at the bench seat with both hands as he veers into an empty parking lot, the tires squealing in protest. Shit? I am frozen to the seat, anxiety and something sinister gluing me down, rendering me unable to speak. He yanks the parking brake up and switches off the engine. I cringe against the door, as the energy he exudes, washes over me tangible and stifling. He turns in the driver's seat, his gaze searing me for a long, long moment before he pushes his door open and exits the Camper-Van. The door slams, making me jump and my eyes follow him warily as he strides past the windscreen, coming to a halt at my window.
He pulls my door open and offers me his hand expectantly. When I don't budge, he swiftly leans across me, releasing my seat belt and bundles me out, depositing me on the asphalt. My door slams and I jump again.
Fuck!
He leans toward me, trapping me against the hard metal of the vehicle, almost touching; but not quiet. I swallow hard as his narrowed eyes burn into me for an eon and I am mesmerised by their intensity. Fear and desire weave a silent riot through my blood.
Breathe woman, breathe!
Then in one sinuous motion, the full length of his body is pressed against me and his mouth is ravishing mine, greedy and ardent. A small squeak escapes from the tight confines of the back of my throat. He groans loudly and his groan awakens something in me. Something hot and dangerous. I feel his hips tilt, the full length of his arousal pressing into the hollow of my hips, goading me. Part of me wants to press back but the cadence of his assault has left me loose limbed and his weight is just too smothering.
Then like the suddenness of an African thunderstorm - he is gone. I
am left standing on the asphalt with only the Beast at my back for support. My wits thoroughly stunned and pooling on the asphalt at my feet!
It takes a good minute or two for me to compose myself before I am able to climb, albeit unsteadily, back into the vehicle to the welcome of his victorious smirk.
"Manly enough for you?" he asks, raising a sardonic eyebrow at me.
"There was never any doubt," I mutter sulkily as he pulls back into the traffic.
"You should be more careful, Acacia. Men are very sensitive creatures. We're very easy to wound," he teases.
"Well if you're going to react like that every time we wound you, then you should expect to be wounded more frequently," I mutter, slowly recovering my wits and he laughs.
"So you run an investment company?" I ask trying to forget the very effective demonstration of his manly prowess. I now have two powerful urges clawing at me from inside, seeking release - the urge to beat the crap out of Mike Tyson and the urge to be fucked senseless by my Chick Flick loving, Mountain Man Investor until I just don't have the energy to think!
"Of sorts. I'm quite good at it."
"No modesty then? What about family?"
"You want to know what my family does to make money or you want to know if my family has any modesty?"
"Don't be obtuse! I want to know what family the mysterious Chayton has." I start to laugh but his expression halts me. I am desperate to rekindle the easy conversation we were having before I put my foot in it, but I it looks like I am just making it worse. I groan, wondering what I have said as he stares sullenly out the windscreen.
Strike two. One more and you're out!
"That's a story for another time. Okay? So what are your plans for the evening?" he eventually mumbles.
"I have to attend a dinner thing in Bellevue," I sigh, "you?"
"Similar plans," he mutters. "You're not going to drive are you? I could send a car."
"No. Grace, the Shelter’s counsellor is also going. I'll tag along."
"Oh."
The mood in the vehicle is sliding south fast and I am relieved when he finally pulls into the shelters drive. Grace and our tenants have all gone out and the huge house is empty. I show Chayton which room I have claimed for myself and he helps carry my few things up the stairs. Morgan arrives to pick up Chayton, just as the last piece of luggage is hauled upstairs. Morgan declines my invitation for a cup of coffee, choosing to wait in the Jeep. Chayton mutters a quick apology about a prior arrangement and offers me one brief, chaste kiss and then he's gone, leaving me alone with my growing melancholy.
