To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Charleston, do you ever wonder why you’re named after the city where I met your dad? He was a fling, a guy I met and then decided to tag along with for a while. He was going to Chicago and I’d never been, so I thought why not. Turns out, he’d knocked me up that night we met in Charleston. So, that’s you. And that’s me. My life after you.”

  Unable to believe what I was hearing, I swallowed and squeezed my eyes shut.

  If I’d thought I was dead moments before, I was six feet under now. Nothing like being twenty-nine when you first find out you weren’t wanted.

  She thinks I’m a mistake, that I’m the reason why she couldn’t do what she wanted.

  The waitress didn’t ask; she just placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me and patted me on the shoulder. Bless her. I wound my stiff fingers around the mug and let the warmth seep into me.

  “Mom, don’t. I can’t.”

  “No, you think what I wanted was all frivolous, but it’s what I wanted. And then I had a kid who was just like her dad, smart and goal-oriented, and I was forced to play the role of soccer mom. Why? Because my mom told me to. She said you have a daughter now . . . blah, blah. When she died, I said screw it. Time for me to be me and you to be you. You want success, six figures, you get a man in New York. I want to hit the road and go to concerts, and the messed-up part of me can’t do that until you do what I know you want.”

  She’s crazy.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re going on about,” I told her. “It feels disengaged. If you want to be free, you don’t have to finish me off like some project.”

  “Yes, I do, and then I can be free and live with no regrets. Your dad will be happy. He wouldn’t want you shacked up with some guy—a music guy, no less, from Cali.”

  How did I not see any of this coming?

  “I have to go, Mom. I can’t do this.”

  I disconnected the call and took a twenty from my clutch. Leaving it on the table, I stood and left.

  Not sure whether I could face my mom if she was still at my place, I turned the other direction from home and walked. The rain barely cleansed me from the shame and guilt I felt for giving in to my mom rather than doing what I knew was right.

  That was for sure, and I couldn’t deny it. No matter how I twisted or turned my words, being a writer wasn’t going to help me this time.

  Instead of hightailing it back to the airport, I went to my expensive hotel room for one and raided the minibar. After emptying three minibottles of Johnny Walker Black into a tumbler, I knocked half of it back, the burn seizing my throat.

  I looked longingly at the chips and nuts, but felt too nauseated to even go there.

  Fuck. I paced the length of the room, trying to think straight, tugging my hair until it felt like it was going to come out at the roots.

  Who the hell did I think I was in this new body? I was still a fucking joke, that’s who.

  There was Charli, all put together, perfect for an afternoon out with some equally as perfect dude. Then there was me, sauntering up to the door, a ring burning a gaping hole in my pocket and my heart barreling through my chest with my need to say I love you.

  I tipped the glass to my lips and tossed back the rest, then slammed the empty tumbler back on the table. Glass shattered and splintered all over my fingers, sending blood trickling out of cuts and fissures.

  Like my heart. Except blood was pouring out there.

  I shook my hand like an animal as blood dripped on the table, mixing with . . . tears?

  Holy shit, was I crying? I was so freaking emotional, as crazy as a teenage girl with PMS, I didn’t even register tears dripping down my face.

  I went to the bathroom and washed my hand, wrapping it tight in a towel, and went back to the minibar. I shoved a few bottles to the side, sorting through them to find the perfect thing.

  Absolut? Nah.

  Cognac? Nope.

  Tequila? A possibility.

  Red wine? That’s the ticket.

  With my non-injured hand, I picked up the bottle, and of course it reminded me of her. Charli loved her wine. I’d learned over the last few months that a dry cabernet was the way to her heart.

  I turned the cap on the tiny bottle, heard the safety seal pop, and took a long whiff. If I tried harder, I could almost smell her breath, cabernet mixed with peppermint. I drained the wine, not even caring anymore what I drank. I just needed to feel numb.

  When I dropped on the sofa, something jabbed into my thigh—the ring—and I realized I was nowhere near numb enough. So I got up and snatched the other bottle of red from the minibar and emptied it too, then sulked back into the sofa.

  The room spun around me. The painting above the bed looked crooked, and the mirror by the door resembled one of those fat mirrors in a fun house. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and reprimanded my feeble, stupid brain.

  Eventually, my eyes dried, my throat clogged, and my breathing was shallow, almost nonexistent. I was a sorry excuse for a man when the phone rang.

  I heard it, but didn’t see it, a loud shrill in my already aching head. When it stopped and started again, I forced myself up and found the phone next to the bed.

  “Hello?”

  “Sir, this is Chester at the front desk. I have a young woman here who’s demanding to know your room number. Ms. Richards.”

  Of course she would know where to find me. This was my place, sometimes our place when I came to visit. We’d spend a night in a hotel, pretending to be on vacation when all we were doing was borrowing minutes.

  Actually, I was stealing them.

  “Would you like to speak with her?” the front-desk guy asked.

  I’d already forgotten his name, my head was such a clouded, confused mess.

  “Um, yeah.”

  A shuffling sounded through the phone before her voice came on the line.

  “Lay, listen to me, give me a minute to explain. Let me come up.”

  Her words were as clogged as mine. I could hear tears in her throat.

  “Okay, 1225,” I muttered and slammed the receiver down, mistakenly with my cut hand. It started bleeding again.

  Shit.

  I grabbed another clean towel from the bathroom and held it tight around my fingers. The mess of shattered glass on and around the table caught my eye, and I grabbed a washcloth and swept it all into the trash basket at the end of the table.

  There was a soft knock on the door. I glanced around, realizing there was nothing more I could do to cover my fit of rage. I’d ransacked the minibar and the table. Thankfully, there wasn’t much else.

  When I opened the door, Charli was slumped over, bracing herself on the frame. As she stared at my feet, I did my best to hold my shit together. I told myself to be stoic, impermeable, resistant to her charms. I had to be . . .

  And then she looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen, narrow slits, really, and her face smeared in black mascara. She was a mess, and the sight of it devastated me.

  I pulled her against me and wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight. She was wet, damp from the rain, her hair a blond bird’s nest. I’d never seen her like this—broken—and I couldn’t take it.

  She sobbed into my chest, and I already hated myself for comforting her. I couldn’t control my body; my hand started to stroke her back as I walked us backward into the room and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sobbing. “It doesn’t even cover it; it’s not enough. I’m just so, so, so sorry.”

  Her apology soaked right through my shirt, taking up residence in my heart.

  “My mom,” she said between hiccups, “told Garrett I’d go to this thing with him, and then showed up here. It doesn’t matter, I still agreed to go. But it didn’t mean anything.”

  I hadn’t said one word yet, afraid I might spit out something hateful, and at the same time, scared to reveal how broken I was from seeing her with another man. I couldn’t be mean, yet I didn’t want to be a pushover either.

&n
bsp; I leaned against the table in the entrance of my room—I think they call it a crescendo like where our relationship was. A peak, where something was going to happen. Oh no, they called it a credenza. I remembered that’s what the nursing home lady said about my parents’ room . . . it has a lovely credenza.

  My mind had gone elsewhere. Somewhere safer. A place where I couldn’t hurt anymore.

  Charli continued to cry into my chest, mumbling, apologizing. When she grabbed my shoulders and shook me, I realized I wasn’t listening.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against hers. “I’m sorry. I zoned out. Honestly, I didn’t hear a word you said. I’m not right . . . right now.”

  She hugged me tight. “I said I was sorry. I know this is my doing, and it was foolish. But it didn’t mean anything other than getting my mom off my back. She’s been crazy and I couldn’t handle it. She doesn’t think you’re right for me. How could she not?”

  Charli dropped to her knees at my dirty Chucks, and it didn’t feel right. I wanted her to make her way up to equal footing. This wasn’t me. Or her.

  “How could she think that?” she cried. “I love you, Layton.”

  My ears perked up. Afraid I was hearing things, I yanked her to her feet and stared her straight in the eye. “What did you say?”

  “I love you.” Her eyes welled up again, sending more mascara sliding down her cheeks.

  I couldn’t stop myself—I kissed her hard.

  “That’s what I flew here to tell you,” I said into her lips, not breaking free. It was messy, her tears mixed with mine, but I kept at it, loving her mouth.

  She pulled free and said it again. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said, still fuzzy on what happened with that dude but too relieved to care. Something with her mom . . . Who the hell knew?

  “But you kind of stink, Lay.”

  Tucking her wild hair behind her ear, I admitted, “I had a run-in with the minibar.”

  “I can smell that.” She turned my hand, which was resting gingerly on her hip. “What happened here?”

  “I had a run-in with a glass.”

  “Come on, let me get you cleaned up.” She took my good hand and led me to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower.

  Her fingers began lifting off my shirt, removing my pants, and it was way too slow. I toed off my shoes and shrugged off my pants, kicked them off my feet. I yanked off her shirt and bent down on the floor, pulling off her boots and sliding her jeans down with one hand. Then I lifted her and pulled us under the warm spray of water.

  We kissed long and hard, breaking to lather each other up, our hands touching everywhere we could. She tenderly washed my hand and kissed each one of my knuckles. I ran my good hand down her side, traveling over her side cleavage, my finger sliding over to her nipple and circling it. My fingers got greedy and traveled lower to slide inside her and she moaned out loud, the sound reverberating off the tiles.

  I wanted to roar.

  I wanted to punch.

  I wanted to cry.

  But the primal caveman inside me took over, and I savored the woman in front of me. She came on my fingers, bucking and squeezing. I milked it for all it was worth, and then my index finger got bold. It followed the seam of her folds, back to her ass, and toyed with her hole. She clenched her ass cheeks tight and then released them, granting me access.

  I’d been down that road before, but not in a glorious ass like this one. Her cheeks were firm, yet ripe. Her hole was tight and puckered, ready and waiting. I traveled past the seam and pushed my way in.

  Charli bit my shoulder. “It feels good. Different, but good. Is that weird?”

  “It should feel good, and nothing we do should be weird.”

  Her lips grazed my neck. “Yeah,” she said, and she pushed her ass back into my hand.

  My erection rubbed against her wet stomach. Our mouths fused again and I greedily swallowed all of her moans as her climax mixed with shower water. When I slid my finger out, she let out a whimper that lit my soul on fire.

  “I want you,” she said, now riding my thigh. Before I could react, she wrapped her arms around my neck and hoisted herself around my waist.

  “Okay?” I wasn’t sure why I checked in. She’d gone on the pill two months ago and we’d ditched protection, but after what had happened earlier . . . all of a sudden, I needed reassurance.

  “Hey.” She kissed my lips, her kiss closed-mouth and full of feeling. “I. Love. You. I’ve not been with anyone else, even a kiss on the cheek.”

  The fact she knew what I needed was reassurance enough. I guided myself inside her, going slowly until I was balls-deep.

  “Yes,” she hissed.

  I pressed her back against the tile and tried, really tried, to keep it slow. But I couldn’t. Emotion controlled my dick’s pace and I rammed into her, holding her steady so her back didn’t bruise.

  “Yes,” she hissed again.

  We went at it like that until her release coated me, her beautiful breasts rising and falling with her heavy breaths, and I couldn’t last much longer. One pump, two, and I was climaxing. It felt like a dam burst inside me, releasing the misery of the entire afternoon and letting it wash away.

  The water turned cool and I shut off the faucet, grabbing two towels from the rack and bundling Charli before wrapping the other around my waist. I hoisted her out of the shower stall and carried her over my shoulder to the bed, where I yanked down the covers and settled her in. I snagged my jeans from our rumpled pile of clothes in the bathroom and checked my pockets before climbing in, grabbing my girl, and never letting go.

  With her settled against my chest, I asked, “Smell better?”

  Her hand skimmed my stomach. It wasn’t quite as toned as when we hooked up in February, but still pretty tight.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “Shhh.”

  Her hand found mine and our fingers entwined. “It is. My mom, I don’t even know. She just had this idea and it was all wrong, and I hurt you.”

  We lay there silently for a beat or two before she asked, “Why are you here? You didn’t tell me.”

  “I missed you and I decided to come. I kept thinking we hadn’t said I love you, and I wanted to. In person.”

  A tear trickled down my chest, and then another. Softly, she said, “I wish it didn’t play out the way it did.”

  “You know what? Our story isn’t straight and boring, and this just adds a little more flavor.”

  She squeezed my wrist. “Thanks, but this is more than enough flavor. Bland may be good right about now.”

  “Nah, like the ice cream you love so much, that’s us. Rich, creamy, and it takes a lot of licks to get to the cone. Our cone is strong, babe. A big waffle cone.”

  “I think you’re still drunk.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered, tracing figure-eights on my hand.

  “’Kay,” was the last thing I remember saying.

  I lay there a long time, awake, somewhat shaken about what path this all could have taken if I didn’t find Layton. My mom used to make me laugh with her advice and antics, but she’d gone too far this time.

  Why?

  And why was Layton so forgiving?

  Everything was why, why, why.

  My nervous bladder refused to let me rest, and I pried out from underneath him and padded to the bathroom. When I came back out, something by the TV caught my eye. There, halfway underneath the remote and casting a hypnotic prism around the room, sat an engagement ring. I picked it up with shaking fingers and turned it in my hand, hazily remembering him snagging his pants and rummaging through the pockets after he set me in bed.

  I guessed he came to say more than I love you.

  Well, my mom ruined that.

  No, I did.

  It was time I accepted responsibility for my actions. I went along with Mom’s plan, didn’t push back. And I’d allowed Janie to bully me when
my mom wasn’t. I had to accept it all.

  “Hey,” came from the bed.

  Quickly, I set the ring down and turned. I’d been caught.

  “I bought that for you.”

  I stared at the floor, the floral pattern on the rug making faces at me. If I looked hard enough, I could see it sticking its tongue out at me.

  Layton stood and walked toward me, pulling me against his chest when he got close. “I’m going to give you a ring, Charli. Just not this one, not today.”

  “I ruined all this too,” I whined, nuzzling my face in his neck.

  “You didn’t ruin anything. It just wasn’t the right time.”

  His hand ran the length of my back. I was naked, and the warmth of his hand mixed with the cool air caused little goose bumps to raise up all over my skin.

  He spoke softly, his breath warming my scalp through my hair. “I really wanted to tell you I didn’t want to live apart anymore. I hate the distance between us, and I was thinking I’d move here.”

  Startled, I glanced up. “What? No, you need to live in LA.”

  “But you’re here.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to be.”

  “Listen, let’s go back to bed and discuss this in the morning when we’ve both had a full night’s sleep.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Before I could overthink it, I rejoined him in bed, where he took his time allowing me to fall asleep.

  “Mom!” I screamed loud enough to wake the whole building. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

  She sat up on the couch, blinking owlishly. “You never came back last night, and your phone was off. I was worried.”

  “Be quiet. No, you weren’t, you’re just . . .” I waved a hand in the air, exhausted. All the fight had been fucked out of me. “God, I don’t even know what. Can you please leave?”

  “Where were you?”

  “I went to find Layton, who showed up here when I was walking out with Garrett.”

  “He called me. Garrett, I mean. Not your freeloader,” she said, tossing her tangled brown hair over her shoulder.

  “You need to go, Mom. Seriously.”

  “I only want what’s best for you. You don’t want to be me, fancy-free. Your dad wouldn’t have wanted that.”