by Amber Burns
The door is open, slightly ajar when I enter. I lock it after me, but then I’m stuck, unsure of whether to take off my sneakers off or not. No one is there to greet me.
I worry, for a moment, wondering where she could be. It’s that worry that has me slipping off my sneakers and running into Vanna.
Thankfully for my reflexes, I catch her by the shoulders, keeping her that wonderful ass of hers from kissing her carpeted flooring, and bringing Vanna against me.
It’s the closest we’ve been since she ripped my heart out and left a gaping hole in its place for the past forty-eight hours. Part of that is my fault – most of it. Instead of chasing after her that fateful, storm of an evening, I let her run from me into the arms of her siblings.
No differently I went home with Iris after making it very clear to Princess I wasn’t and would never be interested, and that Vanna Sterling was, indeed, my girlfriend. And now my ex.
My insanely hot ex.
Fucking hell. Was she this dazzling two days ago, or has the time and distance – the fact that I can’t touch her like this – made her that much more appealing? And how messed up is that?
“Thanks,” Vanna is ready to get out of my hold. If her body tensing and her step to the side isn’t a clear indication, then her hovering fingers and her turning face fill in the blank.
“No problem. It’s my fault anyways. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” I pause, a little embarrassed by the wording. I’m thinking she thinks it’s deliberate; an opening for me to tag on something cheesy like, “Oh, and by the way, if you couldn’t tell already, I wouldn’t ever hurt you”.
Cheesy but true.
I don’t need to say it to feel indignation against her if she even doubts, for a second, that’s entirely on her.
Sgt. Amos Fuller of the United States Marine Corps might shoulder the blame for most of why we’re standing here, I won’t deny that. But I won’t take the fall for that. From the day I saw her in that display window, I’ve wanted her and I hadn’t ever once made that unclear.
One thing I am not is indirect.
I’m a blunt sonuvabitch, and it’s made me enemies and it’s made me some life-long friends.
“Did you want anything?” she’s asking, moving towards the small kitchenette, blasting an image of the time I’d spent in her apartment, cooking in that tiny space, fingering her until she struggled to turn off the blackening eggs and bacon and complained that I’d help burn them –
Sadly, Vanna isn’t on the menu.
And sex is definitely not on the menu.
Talking is another thing. That’s why I’m here. Still my pretend-jog while I really moped drained the granola bar I inhaled on the drive to the city. It’s passed through me now, and food, maybe coffee, is looking good.
“I haven’t started breakfast yet.”
I can see that.
Her modest PJs are rumpled. One thing I’d hoped to do before I left, or sometime in our future together, was rid her of the comfy, but very un-sexy, home-wear.
The drawstring outdoor look with my growing beard and shaved head make me out as a slob at best.
The drawstring look on Vanna is just a tragedy.
I’ve seen what’s under and it goes beyond any fantasy I’ve had of her prior. Vanna Sterling is a undeniable goddess under her questionable fashion sense.
“I can wait.”
“Okay. Let me just change.” She smiles, but it’s wobbly, lacking the sunshine I’ve associated with her.
I want to scream you look fine.
Vanna, I’ve seen you walk around in the buff, in a bed sheet, your beautiful brown hair rumpled, without your morning shower or any make-up…
“Sure,” I nod, letting her go do her thing. If she believes that’ll make her comfortable, or ready her for what I have to than who am I to take that security blanket – or bed sheet – away?
I need her relaxed anyways for my plan, for what I have to say.
Vanna returns, trading the drawstrings and baggy tee for jeans and another, albeit less rumpled, t-shirt two sizes too big.
“Pancakes?”
I’m nodding, also salivating when she gets the coffee going on drip. The kitchen feels even smaller and it’s no wonder now we have the unwelcome third party of tension from the break-up joining us.
She’s mixing all the ingredients now in a bowl, her whisking hand working quickly, and I’m totally over-thinking it, but I hope it’s not because she wants me out of here faster.
Feed the scary, tatted Marine and send him on his coffee-sated way, the end.
Now I’m deciding whether it’s better to wait until we’re eating or after we eat when I finally figure it doesn’t matter either way. Toeing around the tension isn’t going to work anymore, and neither is leaving this as it is.
“So, as much as the coffee smells terrific and the free meal makes me all kinds of happy, I’m not here for that.”
“I know.”
I straighten at her whispered confession. Vanna is peeking through her long, black lashes and, without necessarily meaning to, looking sexy as hell.
“That’s why you let me in,” I smile and a part of it seeps through my cracking shield. It started cracking once I saw Vanna. Seeing her opened me up after two days of hardening myself to everything…and everyone: Grandmamma and Pops, my grandparents, sensed my off mood. I know they asked Iris, but she kept mum.
I hadn’t had to force her to promise me either. And even though I didn’t want to talk about it – what guy really wants to air out the fact that he’s been dumped – Iris hovered in the back, bringing in snacks and keeping me as busy with her wedding planning as possible through the day.
Many RSVP calls were made and noted in an elaborate wedding binder with these hands.
Baby sisters come in handy that way.
But even Iris can’t help me now. I’m alone, facing a really hard talk without my humor to defend me. What happens when I lay what’s left of my heart on the line for her possible destruction of it?
“I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but I need you to hear out my end of it.” Okay. So far so good, Fuller. “I like you, and I don’t think I’ve ever made that unclear. If I have, stop me now. I’ll gladly change that.”
She doesn’t stop me.
“Fuck, I like you so much it. Typical, I know, but it kills me, okay? It freaking kills me.”
Vanna flips another pancake off from the girdle into a waiting plate with a growing stack of golden-brown breakfast cakes. She isn’t censoring me, like she typically does, and I don’t know to take it as a bad sign or an indication that she’s listening, hopefully pitching all of her brain power, into what I have to say.
“I wouldn’t ever want to be with Princess, not even if we…” I swallow hard, pushing on, “not even if we weren’t dating.” I don’t throw in anything about the youngest Kingston being my type or not. I haven’t considered my type since Vanna. If I had to, now, knowing my girl, I’d say Vanna’s my type – my piece of fucking perfection, the other half to this stupid SOB Marine.
My jaw clenches. I’m heading into shaky ground next. I only pray we can come out of it unscathed. That Vanna won’t turn around, slap me with her spatula and send me high and dry without pancakes, coffee and any chance with her ever again.
“It’s your fault, too.” She pauses for a few second, in the middle of planning to turn over the circular batter, her flip then coming fast, a soft groan indicating the slightly burned bottom of that pancake.
I should feel bad; I don’t.
Tough love, baby.
“What the heck were you thinking though?” I tone down my language. What I have to say is bad enough, cuss-free. “No one believed you. Princess didn’t, I sure as fuck didn’t, and my sister…she wanted to meet you.”
Vanna’s got the burned pancake off the girdle and she’s cleaning it up for the next batch of creamy batter.
“I don’t think you were thinking it all through. Otherwise I can’t
even – just why? Why did you break up with me? And why like that? So fucking out of the blue and using that Kingston woman as an excuse.” I really tried not to curse, but it slips out. I turn my back to hear, hands pressing over the plastic counter I’d been leaning on.
“If I did something to hurt you though…”
My statement hangs in the air between us. I want to turn around and see Vanna; see if I’m right about – I swallow past the lump blooming in my throat – hurting her.
I can hear her moving about the kitchen. I finally do turn around when she says, “I ran out of creamer. Is it all right if you take your coffee black? Or I could add a bit of milk?”
“Do you still want to break up?”
Vanna is stirring sugar in one mug and then transferring the spoon to the second mug. She’s putting in my preferred two sugars. How the fuck does she remember how I like my coffee, go out of the way to make me a breakfast, and then – fuck me.
My cock chose the craziest, beautiful girl ever. And my heart’s keeping me from walking out of her kitchen.
She’s rinsing out the spoon and grabbing two plates from the cupboards above the sink, using the spatula to transfer two pancakes to the plate. On her way to reaching for the syrup I came up behind her.
Vanna gasps, and I grab her hand, steadying the syrup from crashing onto the table, over the delicious meal she’s prepared more painstakingly than could be considered normal and all while trying to ignore me.
I keep her from facing me, holding her back against my growing erection. I’m coming alive at the press of her soft body, the dip of her small back nestling my shaft, the sight of her heaving breasts over her shoulder, that fruity smell to her hair, and the nearness of her mouth.
“Do you still want to break up?”
“Amos!” she gasps my name, wriggling lightly, but not gnawing my hands and arm off her.
I pry the syrup away, freeing her hand in the process to do a number of things, slapping me for one. Instead she curls her hand over my arm about her middle, her head dropping with her attention. Amidst the dark waves of her hair, I find her ear and press my mouth to the warm shell.
“Answer me, Vanna. Do you want to break up for good? Yes, or no?”
“It’s for the best.”
It’s also not a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.
“Yes or no?”
I’m pushing this harder than anything. I’ve been gentle to her; I controlled the cursing, I tossed a toughie of a question at her, and I gave her the space she asked for, but none of it gave me what I came here for to in the first place.
“Vanna, is it going to be a fucking yes or no?”
“I-I, I don’t know!”
If it wasn’t for the stammer, I’d have walked out. Shame burned my cheeks. Shame… And angry, burning-hot hurt.
“You don’t know?”
She nods. I cling onto the stammer. The doubt is as much a part of my rushing her to respond that’s given me her answer.
“Fine.”
I release her, stepping away until the fridge on the opposite end stops me.
“How’s about this? I’ll help you decide.” I’ve got my arms crossed over my chest, hands tucked under my pits, legs planted apart, and all to keep from closing the gap to holding Vanna again.
She looks pitiful. Face scrunched up with all her emotions hanging in the open: There’s that irksome doubt, the sadness, and the desire…
Fuck. I’ve got her turned on. It’s a perfect segue to my idea; the best damn green light if there ever was any like it. In lieu of grabbing and groping Vanna, I grab this chance with both hands.
My cell is out and I’m scrolling through my call history, finding the number I want in under a minute. Time is of the essence, and I’m glad the front desk at Pearlwater Lodge understands this too.
“Is there a room available right now? Say,” I refer to the clock on Vanna’s oven, “in two hours. Three tops.”
I don’t wait long. Luck, the universe or whatever you want to call it is on our side. “Yes. It’s for two.”
I confirm the speedy reservation, accept the charge if I don’t show up, and thanking the prompt service, hang up.
Vanna kept quiet, but once I’m on the cell she asks, “Who was that?”
“The fantastic staff at Pearlwater,” sliding my cell back in my pocket, wondering what to do with my hands now. “On such short notice, we got a room for the night.”
That would be Step One, the reservation. Step Two is bringing Vanna to the Lodge.
She’s already shaking her head.
“I-I can’t.”
I know what’s coming, and my response is to pull out my cell again, and my wallet. I find the card wedged where I’d initially tucked it. Solid business pro that he is, Wes picks up his cell on Sunday and on two.
“Wesley Sterling of Sterling Outfits, how can I help you?”
“I thought it was Wes.” I note Vanna’s perking interest. She’s moving a step, two, three closer.
“It is, and who is this?”
“Amos.”
“Of course it is. Wait, how did you get this number? Is this about Vanna – because you’re lucky I’m not hunting you down, asshole.”
“Easy, mama bear.”
“Ew. I am not a bear.” Wes’ disgust slaps me in the face. His drama is starting to wear on my cracking nerves, and I don’t even know what’s got him worked up.
“What? Okay, just shut up and listen. Vanna is with me. I’ve got her booked for the day, so she’s a no-show.”
“Mhm, ‘kay? I don’t trust anything you’re saying. Put my baby sister on the damn phone.”
“For you,” I hold the phone out, anything, at this point, to shut Wes up and rid Vanna of her excuses.
She chews her lip, Wes’ voice floating out of the receiver, and given the opportunity to finally speak, Vanna says, “No, I’ll be all right.” Our eyes meet and I see the trust as plain as the sunshine coming in through her east-facing studio windows.
Does she know how happy she’s made me with that comment?
“He wants to talk to you.” I take the phone back and wait out Wes’ long-winded rant, only causing my eyeballs to suffer from all the eye-rolling.
“Great. We’ll make sure to bring back souvenirs. Bye.”
I click off before he gets his second wind. Vanna shifts, her hands holding her elbows, arms loosely round her middle.
“Are you planning on going like that? Oh, and we’ll have to stop at my place.”
“Did you really book us into a hotel?” she looks down, staring at the invisible pattern her toes are tracing over the plain, white kitchen tiling.
“Yes. I really booked us in for the night.” I shift from the refrigerator, to grasp the counter behind me now. It’s not time for me to hold her. There’s a friction between us, and one phone call isn’t going to change anything.
The hotel reservation is my final stand. After this I’m going to have to let her go, for both of our sakes. I know I won’t find another girl like Vanna, and I wouldn’t be shocked if my marital and family aspirations ended with her, with us. It’s scary; life without Vanna. More frightening is thinking about Vanna moving on, coping, healing and then finding some guy and making pretty babies who look like her with this phantom bastard.
What will it feel like losing you?
I’m hoping I can think and say otherwise in the next twenty-four hours.
10
I’ve held positions under the pressure of dust storms, scorpions and other potentially malignant desert insects and held the un-welcome duty of alerting of enemies on fire picket duty.
I haven’t faced anything like getting Vanna from Point A to Point B, or in this case from her apartment to Pearlwater Lodge and our hotel reservation.
She isn’t kicking and screaming, but my stomach is doing the former and the deafening silence is compensating more than enough for the latter.
“Any request?” I’m playing with the radio dial in the Pops
’ 1987 pickup again, flipping through the stations, trying to entice a response from Vanna.
“No,” she has her hand in her chin, eyes glued out the window at the trees and shrubbery whizzing past on the freeway.
Other than that response.
She’s been giving me that ‘no’ or ‘yes’ or occasional two-word answers, but all of those didn’t add up into a conversation; a healthy one at least, and that’s what I want, the whole point doing seventy-five on a sixty-five road.
