Our second defining moment, unfortunately, was when I saw him sucking face with some girl not two minutes after we’d made our connection that I thought was so deep. I hadn’t forgiven him for that. I hadn’t even asked him about it. That I’d refused to talk about when he’d asked me what had happened.
As if the first two moments hadn’t confused me enough, the third moment was after the sex, which was one thing. It didn’t confuse me too much that Chandler and I were great at it. Our sexual chemistry was insane.
But I questioned what the cuddling meant. Was this just regular after-sex cuddling? Did he do this with all his girls? Or did he usually kick them out after he was done? I realized I had no idea but the cavalier way he’d been with Norma and Bethany had been rather cold.
The barista handed me two coffees, mine with cream and vanilla, and Chandler’s black. How weird was I, that it wasn’t necessarily his sex with other girls that made me jealous, but his cuddling?
I walked back to his place down Muntaner Calle, enjoying the relative quiet of the warmish winter morning. If I were in Chicago I’d be freezing right now. In Spain, however, I could walk around with no jacket on a warm winter day.
As I carried the hot coffee in my hands, I thought about other hot things. Like our sexual chemistry, which was off the charts. Forget charts. There was no chart. I already felt more at ease with him sexually than I had with any previous partner.
For once, I felt that I was enough. Just me. Amy fucking Kershaw and her jaded outlook on life, and Chandler didn’t mind it. He appreciated it.
I took the stairs up to his place and Jessica greeted me at the door, wagging her tail. Chandler called to me from his room as I set the coffees on the kitchen counter.
“Squirt. Where’d you go?”
“Just went to grab us coffees,” I shouted.
“Oh, thanks,” he shouted back. “But come to bed for a few minutes.”
A huge grin spread across my face. I took off my jacket, shoes and clothes, and climbed under the warm covers with him.
Our cuddling chemistry was also damn good. His body was much bigger than mine, and I felt so protected when he wrapped me up.
“Chandler?” I said his name, and then promptly forgot the question that I was thinking about asking him. I don’t know what answer I wanted.
“Yes?” he said, stroking my hair.
A ton of questions circulated in my brain, and I couldn’t think what I wanted to ask him. Why had it taken us this long to do something that was so amazing? But I was able to settle on a curiosity that had been gnawing at me. Thinking about my own dad got me thinking about Chandler’s.
“Do you ever wonder where your father is?”
I turned my head and watched Chandler’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, his eyes locked on me.
“You’re asking me about that again? What made you think of that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always wondered that about you. Ever since our chat in the bar that one night.”
His eyes glowed. “Do you remember that night as vividly as I do?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“You went so cold on me after that night. Why?”
My heartbeat raced. I had to tell him the truth but went for the obvious one. “Because not two minutes after I thought we were making an actual connection, you were making out with Señorita Bimbo at the bar.” The statement came out more accusatory than I had intended.
He propped his head up on his elbow and shook his head. “That didn’t mean a thing. She’s the one that kissed me. What was I supposed to do?”
I raised both of my eyebrows at him. “Really?” I scoffed. “That’s your excuse? So any woman that wants to kiss you, you’re just going to let it happen?”
He signed. “Okay, fine. But she did catch me off guard. Did you also see me wipe her lipstick off my face in disgust?”
“I figured you were toying with me,” I said. “And just trying to hide your relationship with her from me. I thought I was being played and made a fool of”—I stopped, glaring at him—“You’re getting me off topic. You’re deflecting about your father.”
Chandler breathed deeply. “I hate talking about this,” he said, deadpan. “But if it’s with anyone, it would be you.”
I turned my body so we were facing each other under the covers. Chandler put his hand on the flesh of my hip.
“I’m not trying to be nosy but…I’m so close to my dad and I can’t imagine him not being in my life.” I paused, not wanting to make him uncomfortable or open old wounds but part of understanding Chandler, his ways, and whatever future we had, was rooted in his past. “It’s just… You never talk about him in any personal way.”
His face was wrought with tension. “Honestly, I don’t think much about him on purpose. I just push the thought of him out of my mind, most days. Way I see it, I’ve lived twenty-six years without him so what’s another twenty-six?”
I put a hand on his shoulder, partly in comfort and encouragement. He looked as though he was processing something. I wanted to know what but I didn’t want this to dampen our moment together. “You now what? It’s doesn’t matter,” I said quickly, backpedaling. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“No,” he went on, squeezing my hip when I was about to turn around and go back to cuddling, which was safer then this topic I’d brought up. It wasn’t my business. If he knew about my depression and asked about it, I’d resist talking about it, too. “It’s fine. You’re right. I sometimes do wonder what he’s up to. Is he even alive? Does he have a job? Is he a deadbeat? Did I get my athletic abilities from him? Why couldn’t he stay with my mom? These questions pop up sometimes, but I don’t like them. I push them under the rug.”
There were so many things I wanted to tell Chandler, and ask him, but I was beginning to feel like a bit of a prodding psychologist. I did find it a little ironic that, as a psychology major and pretty knowledgeable, none of what he learned seemed to register about himself. Or, he did know, and, as he said, pushed it under the proverbial rug.
I kissed him on the lips, and then on the chest, taking a moment to suck on his rose tattoo because why not?
“Why do you have this tattoo?” I asked, changing the topic.
“You and your questions today,” he said, but he didn’t sound mad.
“It’s a rose. You’re not a rosy kind of guy. Is it a ‘beautiful things have thorns’ kind of rationale?” I asked, tracing the outlines of each petal.
“I wish I could say there was a rationale. When I broke my arm one year in high school, I was bored and this girl I liked said a rose would look good on my chest. So I did.”
“As smart as you are,” I posed, propping my chin on his chest, “you’re not really a thinker, are you?”
He laughed. “Sometimes yes, sometimes not.”
As close as I felt to him, as good as the chemistry was, I still hadn’t figured this man out.
* * *
We puttered around the house for much of that day. I took a quick shower and dressed back in my skirt and top while Chandler walked the dog then he made us grilled cheeses with tomato soup for lunch. He mentioned off-hand while we were eating that he’d never been to the Joan Miró museum, which I found preposterous since he had been living here for four years after college, and Miró was the most famous artist to come out of Barcelona in the twentieth century. We decided to go to the museum, since we’d been spending a borderline unhealthy amount of time in bars during this trip so far, and our livers needed a break.
I tidied up the kitchen while Chandler finished cleaning up. Afterwards, I found him in the bathroom, just in jeans while he finished shaving. He’d paused and he was holding something in his hands, but I couldn’t see what. I surprised him from behind, running my hand over the smooth skin of his muscled bareback. He jumped a little but then tensed up.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked, leaning the side of my head into the warmth of his body.
He didn
’t say anything. When I shifted around to the other side of him, I found him with a rather grim expression on his face. “I should be the one asking you that. What the fuck is this, Amy?”
I let go of him and moved off to the side. A ball of anxiety started in my throat and worked its way down to my stomach. He’d found my Ambien, Xanax, and Prozac bottles, which I’d carelessly left out when I rearranged my luggage earlier that afternoon.
“What is what?” I croaked, trying to make it seem like the pills were no big deal.
He turned towards me. He held all three pill bottles in one big hand. “You didn’t mention to me that you were on antidepressants. It’s like a goddamn depression cocktail here.” He shook the bottles, then slammed them on the counter for emphasis. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
For as free as I felt sexually with Chandler, seeing him holding those pills in his hand made me feel suddenly shameful. Our conversation on depression came back to me in vivid 3D color.
“I haven’t even been taking them,” I blurted out. It was the truth but not the answer to the question he’d asked.
“Really?” His eyes seared through me. “Then why are they out?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Were we fighting? “I brought them along for the trip. Just in case. But I haven’t needed them while I’ve been here. Why are you so mad?”
“So you’ve been taking them…for who knows how long…and you expect me to believe that you would just stop taking them all of the sudden?” He turned, hands on his hips, and stared at me. “Your mood was always extra fucked up when we were in Spain last time. Is that why? Because you have depression?”
Your mood was always extra fucked up…
I took a step back, like he’d screamed them at me. I knew at some point this was bound to happen, just not so early on. In other ways, I was glad that it wasn’t some dirty little secret anymore but I couldn’t get a read on Chandler and his anger. “Are you mad at me because I’m taking them, or because I’m not taking them? I don’t understand.”
“If you need them,” he said, gritting his teeth, “you should take them. But hey, I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“Yeah, well, truth be told, I haven’t needed to take them,” I repeated, still flustered. “I’ve felt great these last few days.” I shrugged. “Not sure why, exactly.”
Chandler squinted back at me, jaw tight and still angry. “Right now, I’m not sure what to think, Amy. I’ve always felt like you’ve always been keeping something from me…and I find out about this. If you’ve kept your depression from me, what else is there?” He shook his head. “I hate surprises like this.”
“I just don’t like talking about my depression,” I snapped, snatching the pills from out of his hand. I went to where my luggage was in Chandler’s room and put them back in my bag. He didn’t come after me and I heard the bathroom door shut a second later.
Instead of waiting for Chandler, I grabbed my purse and left his place, needing some air.
I didn’t look back. And I sure as hell didn’t expect him to follow.
* * *
The Joan Miró museum was a healthy thirty-minute walk from Chandler’s apartment. Inside, I meandered through the halls, looking at the different pieces from all of the epochs of Miró’s life. There were colorful, surreal paintings—which I could really relate to at the moment—to sculptures and ceramics.
It felt oddly calming to look at the art of a man who, judging by his art, may have been insane. Or a genius. Probably a little of both. His pieces ranged from details, realistic landscapes to pictures that seemed stick-figureish, like he drew them in thirty minutes. Plenty of sculptures were mixed in with his canvas art and it put me in a contemplative rather anxious or even sad state. Of course I’d still be on a Chandler high even when we were fighting. How the hell was I going to make it after I left?
My phone buzzed in my purse. Chandler and I had exchanged numbers at baggage claim but it was the first time he’d called it. However, I’d put it on silent after the seventh time.
I fell into a trance in front of one particular piece, Self Portrait. It looked more like a cartoon than a classic piece of art. The piece was a big, round outline of a head with two eyes, and a few hairs on top. It seemed likely to me that Miró had intentionally drawn this one badly. One of the eyes had a red ring around it.
Only when you examined the painting closely did you find the vast detail in the background, intricate patterns that were barely visible unless you dared to stare long and close.
It was at the Self Portrait piece that I noticed Chandler in my peripheral. Trailing me but giving each other much needed space but he was also looking at the art intently.
A minute later, Chandler sidled up next to me, crossing his arms and cocking his head at the work. “What do you think it means?” I asked him, testing the waters.
He shrugged. “No idea. Looks like he made a cool pattern in the background and needed something to draw on top of it to give a theme, so he put a stick figure thing. What about you?”
“This is one of his earlier pieces, so maybe he still couldn’t see how amazing he was—that’s the intricate designs behind him on the canvass. Instead, he sees himself as this scarred, cardboard cutout. An ugly stick figure.”
Chandler nodded and put a hand on his chin. “You’re good. I don’t understand how you got all that, though.”
He seemed to be looking hard at the painting, straining to see what I saw. “Hey,” I said softly, and put a hand on his back. “What happened back there, in the bathroom? You flipped out on me. I’m honestly at a loss as to why. It was a little scary, to be honest.”
His body went rigid. I could feel the muscles in his back tightening; saw his fists clench. “That was a little of an over-the-top reaction. I just don’t like it when you keep things from me like that. Like you didn’t trust me…”
I took my hand away from his back and crossed my arms to match him. “Really? That’s it? It’s not like when I stepped into your apartment this week we made some pact to tell each other all of our darkest secrets. Not that I wouldn’t have told you, at some point…I just—”
“Let’s go into the courtyard,” he said, cutting me off. “I need some fresh air. And it’s gorgeous outside today.”
I was a little peeved that he’d cut me off, but there seemed to be something on his mind, so I complied. And, I had to admit, I had some explaining to do as well.
Chandler brought me a coconut smoothie and himself a coffee while we awkwardly sat on a bench, and surrounded by chatter in all sort of languages. Spanish, Catalan, French—the white noise was rather comforting.
“You’re right,” he said, sipping his coffee from a rather comically small cup. “I did flip out a little. Sorry about that. But, I was taken by surprise.”
“It’s okay,” I said, putting my arm on his forearm. Time for some real truth, I decided, because Chandler had given me some and I did trust him. Even after all this time and having just re-connected, I knew I could be real with him. “I could have handled that better myself.” He looked over at me, a little surprised. “I’ve just gotten burned, y’know? People knowing. Trusting too soon. Most react…not well.” I paused, shrugging. “It affected a couple of my past relationships, and it’s always been this thing that I don’t want to rule my life but I got afraid, that you’d reject me because of it, so…I don’t know.” I hesitated then forced myself to say the rest. “Do you remember our conversation, that one morning, about your major…”
He swore under his breath. “I do remember—but that’s not fair to put my response on me like that, especially when you were being sneaky instead of honest with me,” he went on but sighing. “I would never judge you for having depression anymore then you’ve ever judged me for being, well, me. And accepting me for me, regardless.” He paused. “But it does explain a lot.”
I met his gaze. “You mean my extra fucked up mood?” I asked, glumly.
He winced. “I’m sorry, that was a dick
move on my part and very poor choice of words. I was reacting because I…didn’t like that you kept that from me. Look, anytime I get caught off guard like that, it’s always been bad news. Like finding out my dad was a loser, or my mom marrying Bob when I knew she might not love him.”
“Okay, fair enough…” I mumbled but I looked down, fiddling nervously with my smoothie cup. “If we were to have that same conversation, but I told you I have depression—would your response be different?” I raised my eyes to meet his.
He considered me for a long time, so long that I felt a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. He reached out and laced his fingers through mine, like he’d done when we were on the plane. I stared down at our hands, warmed by the gesture but also weary.
“Yes and no,” he said and I tensed. He squeezed my hand, hard enough for me to look at him. “Not wanting to ‘deal’ with mental disorders on a professional level is far different from you, someone I care about, having depression, Amy. Huge difference.”
I blinked at him, at the maturity in his words. I was wrong to say he wasn’t much of a thinker. I just didn’t know all the sides to him. “I…you’re right,” I admitted.
“Mostly, I was just worried about your well-being,” he said, still serious. “From what I remember, it’s best that you take your meds regardless of whether or not you feel like it or not.” A ray of sunlight sneaked through a tree and landed across his face. There was nothing but warmth in his eyes but his expression was somber. “When I realized you left my apartment, without a word, that really shook me. But it also made me realize that you were running away—like you did the last month before I left. I don’t know where this is going but I like it, and I want you in my life. I know there are a lot of things we have to figure out to make that work but if you keep running away, or me, too, then we’ll end up the way we did five years ago.” He paused, searching my face. “Do you want that?”
The Casanova Experience: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Ballers Book 2) Page 20
