by Kim Bailey
But it doesn’t.
The opposite, actually. It’s freeing. To know I don’t have to put on a show for him. To know that she accepts me, flaws and all.
“Stay,” I tell him. “I want you both to stay.”
Garland adorns the mantel and every doorway and railing in sight. The smell of so much pine would be an assault, but it’s joined with apple, cinnamon, and something identifiably spicy—frankincense, maybe? The combination is relaxing, comforting, and warm.
It’s a world away from the tacky kind of Christmas gauche my mother insists on. I’m happy that she puts in effort, but blow-up plastic characters that remind me oddly of sex dolls do not belong on the front lawn. Or anywhere else.
Thankfully, Sylvie Anderson has much simpler tastes.
“Dad!” Hunter calls from his seat at the large picture window. “Come see!”
His raw, pure enthusiasm is so tangible, it reaches out to me, drawing me into his excitement. I feel like a kid again myself—high with giddy anticipation.
“What’s going on?” I ask, planting my hands on his shoulders, giving him an affectionate squeeze.
“There’s a deer in the backyard,” he says quietly, pointing to the majestic creature that looks like it was purposely placed as an ornament of the season. Like a real live version of one of my mother’s blow-up figures.
Laughing at his attempt to be quiet, I tell him, “It’s too late to start whispering now.” Crouching down beside him, my arm wrapped around his back, we sit and watch as the deer munches away, unperturbed by the party going on inside. “Looks like she’s having a relaxing evening.”
“How do you know it’s a girl?”
“No horns. A male would still have antlers this time of year unless it’s a baby. But this one’s too big to be a fawn.”
“I like that you know stuff about the outdoors and animals,” he says, leaning into me. “Mom and Eric haven’t ever been fishing, so I promised I could teach them since you taught me.”
Smiling to myself, I think of the brightly wrapped tackle box sitting under my tree at home. It makes me feel good to know I picked a gift my kid will enjoy. Except it’s more than that. I’m proud to have a connection with him that no one else does. For the first time since he was born, I actually feel like his father, not just some dude with the title dad.
The deer eventually wanders off, and Hunter, being the restless twelve-year-old that he is, strolls off, too enticed by the table of food and Caleb’s insistence that they should try one of everything.
It’s amazing to me how much has changed in just a year. This time last year, I was holed up in my own self-loathing, only venturing out to my mother’s place on Christmas day, and not seeing Hunter until after the festivities had all wound down. I’d sulked like a teenager, lamenting my inability to have what I wanted.
This year, I’m surrounded by people enjoying the holiday season in the Anderson’s home.
I think this place might be growing on me. I didn’t even attempt to politely argue my way out of the invitation, although most of the people here still aren’t my friends, and none of them are my family, except Hunter. I’m still feeling like less of a reluctant stranger than I did before.
I’ve even indulged in a couple of drinks this time around. And I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about that.
Funny thing, though; no one’s noticed. Not a single side-eye or frown thrown my way. No snide comments or carefully placed hints about responsibility. The only mention of my drink was when Eric’s brother, Marc, offered to get me another.
It all seems so stupid now. Knowing this was always within reach and I allowed false impressions to hold me back. My insistence on holding on so tightly turned ideas to concrete, definitive things. But it was all just stuff I made up in my head.
Perceptions and expectations are strange, aren’t they?
I realize I don’t have to live a certain way or uphold specific values to be considered worthy. There can be more than one side to me. I can be a real, complex person. I can be the good, respectable guy—a father and a police officer who cares about his family and the community. And I can be the deviant fucker—the guy who gets off on being dominant, on having two lovers.
Regardless if perceptions are real or not, I’m still careful not to react outwardly when Chantal and Sean show up to the party, hand in hand.
It’s not a surprise. It’s exactly what we discussed. They will let everyone know they’re dating and Sean is my new best friend. It makes the most sense logistically since they live in the same city. The lie makes it easier to excuse our behavior in public.
Hell, the scheme was my idea, but it’s still a punch to the gut seeing them so easily connected. Without me.
Feelings of jealousy or anger would be easy and familiar—it was my go-to combination with Jamie for so long—but I’m done with easy. And, if I’m being totally honest with myself, seeing them together now only reminds me of what it feels like to be naked between them.
Chantal’s eyes catch mine from her spot near the doorway. My insides heat when I see the spark of lust in her gaze. Even from this distance, I can feel it. Sean, on the other hand, plays it relaxed and cool. He’s not even looked in my direction, and I’m perfectly okay with that.
“I’d be careful with that if I were you,” Eric advises as he comes to stand beside me
Looking over at him, the first thing I notice is that he’s alone, no Jamie in sight. The second thing I notice is the worried crease of his forehead.
“Careful with what?”
His eyes search my face, and for a moment, I wonder if he knows. “That smile you’re wearing. I’m not sure if I’ve seen one on you quite that big before. People will start to think you’re actually enjoying yourself.”
“You really think I’m an asshole, don’t you?”
“Actually, no. I’ve always thought you were a tool. You didn’t exactly make a good first impression. But I can see how hard you’ve been trying, so you might not be as bad as I originally thought.”
Eric’s holier-than-thou attitude may still drive me up a wall, but he’s got integrity. Jamie and Hunter could do a hell of a lot worse.
“Well, you’re not as bad as I thought, either,” I reply, turning my focus to look him in the eye. “You may not know it, but my son is more important to me than anything else in this world, and I appreciate that you treat him like he’s your own,” I admit. “I didn’t like it at first. But I’m not so stupid that I don’t recognize the alternatives. If it couldn’t be me, I’m happy it’s someone like you.”
“Huh.” He chuckles, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “I appreciate that. And I appreciate that you’ve stopped chasing Jamie.”
Stopped chasing Jamie? I guess that’s true. I’m not playing the game with her anymore. I’m not concerned with trying to force my way back into her heart. I know she doesn’t love me, and I’m okay with that, too.
I don’t love her anymore, either.
And that feels good. Really fucking good.
Most people will probably tell you falling in love is the best thing to happen to them. For me, it was falling out of love. Sure, I guess if your love is reciprocated, it’s probably a fantastic thing. However, when you’re like me, stuck in a loop of rejected atrophy, love is sick and twisted.
My love was a parasite. Temporary insanity.
And I couldn’t be happier to be moving on.
Purging myself of the illness of love has opened the door for something new. Something exciting. Something bold, intense, and more meaningful than I could have ever predicted.
What’s developing with Chantal and Sean may not be love, at least not in the traditional sense, but it has potential. What we have is different. Unexpected. And, in some ways, something far more involved than simple, straightforward love.
Looking back to them now, I watch how they interact. I search for hints of our plans for later. Hints of the game we’re playing.
But this is mor
e than just a game now, isn’t it?
Because, when the blinds are drawn, the walls we each put up to shelter us from the world will fall away. We will expose ourselves to each other. Not just our bodies, but little bits of our souls.
What do you call something that seems so entangled but strips you to your most basic, most uninhibited self?
Is it love? Lust? Infatuation?
Whatever the label, it’s passionate and consuming. My new infatuation. My two new infatuations. And it feels deeper than the love I held on to for years.
It feels right.
I feel right.
And I’m finally okay with that, too.
I’m finally okay with me.
THE END
(for now)
Read on for an exclusive excerpt from Fairytale Kisses (Here & Now #2), releasing summer 2017
(unedited and subject to change)
Caleb
The lighting is dim, the music loud, the air thick with humidity. All around me, people are moving; some in time with, others against, the rhythmic sound that surrounds us. Those that move with the music seem in sync with each other, flowing and bending, adapting to the space around them. Those that go against the beat are like boats in a storm being tossed around as they try to maneuver their way from one place to the next. No matter the method, for or against, in time or not, we’re all affected.
My body buzzes with energy. Charged by the crowd. Lit up by the excitement. I’ve plugged into this place, the feeling of it tangible. For the first time in months, years—maybe ever—I feel fully awake.
I feel alive.
“What the fuck?” Chante yells.
We were just joking about the sticky floor, arguing over whether it was inhibiting or enhancing our dance moves. We’d loudly debated the cause of the stick, and if anyone’s ever tried to clean it; our overall mood, light and playful.
I have no idea what’s prompted her outburst.
Looking around, I try to find the source of her anger. But all I see is the same thing I’ve seen since we arrived—a packed nightclub, vibrating with energy.
When she told me we were going to an underground bar, I’d thought she meant it was illegal. Turns out, it’s literally underground.
Right in the heart of downtown Montreal is an underground city. It’s mostly shopping and restaurants, places for the weekday warriors to have their breaks, but set back in a corner is a place you’d never expect—a nightclub that doubles as a lounge. When the other shops close for the day, the club opens its doors and loud dance music pours out into the corridors of the deserted underground.
The place is a weird mix of bar, dance club, and lounge combined—things that shouldn’t work cohesively together, yet somehow, this place pulls it off.
“Fuck d’ostie!” Chante tosses her hands in the air like she’s attempting to flag someone’s attention. It’s impossible to tell who she’s signaling, and I have no idea how she expects them to see her in this mass of people.
I’ve spent a week of my summer break here, in Montreal, visiting my cousin. My parents were agreeable to me spending time with family, but to me, this trip was an escape from family. A time out from being fussed and worried over. A break from the protective bubble my family has stuck me in.
Most of my time has been spent on my own, wandering around the historic city, taking in the beautiful architecture and some of the famous sites. I’ve savored each moment spent lounging in cafes, discovering eclectic shops, and touring museums. Each day here felt like waking up, like I’ve found a place that lets me be. I feel normal—even when I’m alone.
Although, I’m still not a fan of being alone. Turns out, being in a city of strangers isn’t as isolating as I’d expected, in fact, it’s been oddly liberating.
My cousin Chantal—or Chante, as she’s told me to call her—has been too busy working, sleeping, and upholding obligations made to friends for us to spend any real time together. She welcomed me readily into her home, and she’s been extremely relaxed and friendly when she is around, but she’s still like a stranger I’m temporarily living with—we just happen to be related. Over the course of my life, I can recall only a handful of moments where we spent any real time together. I’m sure that’s got something to do with the fact that she’s ten years older than me, our visits were always based on family obligation and ritual.
She’s strong-willed and opinionated, but her sudden outburst has still caught me off guard.
“What’s going on?” I ask, straining to see what’s caught her attention.
“Just stay here a minute, okay? I’ve got to take care of something.”
Staying put isn’t a choice. We’re in the middle of the dance floor and I can barely lift my beer to my lips without being jostled by the person next to me, even if I am trying to flow with, not against, the music. Yet, somehow Chante easily slips through the crowd, disappearing out of sight. I have no idea how she managed to see anything in this place other than the immediate wall of people in front, behind, and on each side of us.
Not that I’m complaining. This is exactly the type of environment I’d been hoping for when I asked her to show me around. I love the gritty atmosphere of drunken depravity that surrounds me. I’m in a room full of people and not one of them gives a shit about me or my problems. It’s terrific. It’s just too bad this is my goodbye party. I’ll be heading home tomorrow. If I’d known about this place, I’d have been here every night.
Suddenly, Chante reappears, looking distressed, discouraged, and a little pissed off.
“Everything okay?”
“No! I need you to do me the biggest favor ever, and you can’t say no because you’ve stayed for free at my place and I’ve brought you out tonight. So be a good cousin-slash-roommate and do exactly what I ask.”
“How can I refuse; you’re such a sweet-talker.”
“Cut the bullshit, Caleb, this is serious.” Her tone leaves no room to argue. “My good friend is here on her own, and she’s shit-faced, ready to pass out. She shouldn’t be alone.”
“Okay. Should we take her home?”
“Yes, you should.”
“Me? What about you?”
“Remember when I said I was on call tonight? Well, perfect fucking timing, I just got called in. I’ve got to go to work.”
Without waiting for any further response from me, she grabs my hand, pulling me behind her. The beer in my other hand sloshes around with each elbow and shoulder I bump into.
I guess that’s it for my goodbye party. My night of carefree abandon gets tossed aside as we approach the bar and the woman I’ll be babysitting for the rest of the evening.
Sitting quietly, her small frame tucked up to the bar, she’s almost unnoticeable amongst the chaos that surrounds her. Head in hand, she stares absently at the empty glass in front of her.
“Zadie!” Chante yells, tugging on the woman’s sleeve. “Zadie, pay attention!”
Sitting up abruptly, the woman twists to look around, causing her beautifully curled, chestnut hair to fly wildly. When her deep brown eyes finally land our way it feels like I’ve been sucker punched. She’s breathtaking. All that fabulous, soft looking hair frames a perfect, heart shaped face. Her porcelain skin is practically flawless, with just a small spattering of freckles, running across her nose and cheeks. The look on her face—a mixture of confusion and sadness—is so raw and honest, it practically brings me to my knees.
My cousin is absolutely right; this woman should not be left here alone. A woman who looks like this—so beautiful, so vulnerable—should not be left alone anywhere. Ever.
Her open expression, the one that’s made me feel like I’ve been knocked flat on my ass, is quickly hidden as she registers what’s going on around her.
“Caleb, this is Zadie,” Chante says, pulling us in close so we can hear her above the music. “Zadie, meet Caleb. He’s a good guy, you can trust him and he’s going to make sure you get home safe tonight. Now I gotta run. Be good! I’
ll check in when and if I can,” she calls as she walks briskly away. “Salut!”
And just like that she’s gone, leaving the two of us a little awe struck and speechless in her wake.
Turning my gaze back to Zadie, I ask, “She always that bossy?”
Laughter. Sweet, melodic, exuberant, and pure. The sound of Zadie’s lilting laugh is like a full-body experience—it starts in my ears, but travels the full length of my body, settling somewhere around the base of my spine. Or maybe it just traveled straight to my dick; I can’t be sure because I’m having a hard time concentrating on anything other than that gorgeous sound. Everything else, even the vibrating electro-mix that assaults us from all sides, fades to background noise. The way her beautiful mouth curves up so sweetly, as her eyes squint and sparkle with intoxicated delight—there’s nothing and no one else in this place that could hold my interest now.
“She’s an emergency room doctor. If she wasn’t bossy, people would die. Trust me, if you ever end up in the hospital, you want her to be in charge,” she says.
Her words should bother me, or at least remind me of all the time I’ve spent in and out of the hospital, but they don’t. All I notice is how her eyes rove over me, and how incredibly sober she sounds.
“So, Chante didn’t tell me much except; you’re here alone and I’m supposed to get you home.”
“She loves to look out for me. It’s alright, Cal, was it? I’m fine,” she insists.
“It’s Caleb, actually. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me Cal.”
“I like Cal. It’s very masculine, very sexy sounding, and it suits you perfectly. You should go with it.”
Well, maybe she’s a little shit-faced after all.
This little gem would not have become a reality if it weren’t for the love and encouragement of three fabulous women. Suzanne, Bella, Saffron: you are the freakin’ wind beneath my wings. If it weren’t for you, I would never have the courage to finish writing a novella while I was already in the thick of another story. You all told me to listen to my heart. I’m so very glad that I did. I love you all. I’m proud to be part of the Fabulous Four.
