Heads Carolina

by Grea Warner

  He wouldn’t let me apologize, though. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Can you join us for dinner at the house? Dinner—no work-talk.”

  “Us?”

  “The kids and me. Is that okay?”

  His voice caught just a bit. But I knew it wasn’t because we had an audience. Luckily, the parking lot was filled with cars but not people.

  “Sure,” I answered, thinking of a more relaxed setting with him. “Yeah. That sounds great. What can I bring?”

  “I said this isn’t work.”

  “But—”

  “Look, for the time being, this is the best I can do as far as taking you on a date.” He spoke more quietly but also more confidently. “Sorry about that. But let me do it right.” His sincerity made my heart melt. On my soft smile, he continued, “But you won’t have to suffer through my cooking. We’ll wait for you and order something, okay? And I will send a car. And ... dang it, if I don’t want to kiss you again.”

  “The elevator might still be empty,” I teased.

  “Don’t tempt me, Lenay.”

  He wasn’t the only one tempted, though. The close proximity of our bodies, recognizing we were essentially alone, knowing how the feeling of our lips together felt, and the fact that I hadn’t seen him in five days, were definitely causing the devil’s side to think it was going to win. I took a mini-step closer to him.

  “I like that,” I acknowledged.

  “Like ...?”

  “When you call me Lenay,” I admitted. “The hugging contract? It doesn’t pertain to everyone, does it? I mean, we do hug a lot in the South.”

  “There is one exception.” He smiled.

  I wrapped my arms around him and whispered, “See you tomorrow,” before quickly disconnecting our bodies and walking off to the depths of the garage where Willow’s small, white Chevrolet awaited.

  ***

  When I arrived at the Thompson house, Ryan answered the door. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt and relaxed slacks, he looked casually handsome. He brushed his hand through his dark hair and stepped back to allow me inside.

  “Hi, Ryan.”

  “Hi, Bethany. You look ... you look so pretty. I like the dress.”

  A dress was something I hadn’t worn around him. I actually didn’t wear much of the garment in general. I had grown up practically living in dresses and skirts, as my parents thought that was how a lady should dress. But once I had the freedom of being on my own, I detested and very rarely wore them. Only on special occasions ... like an official first date.

  “It seemed like the perfect weather for it.” I spoke of the even seventy degrees, which complimented the material and length of the pink dress.

  After I placed my jean jacket on the coat rack, he pecked me twice on the lips and said, “The kids and I are just getting in from playing some baseball. Sorry so grubby. I’ll look better by dinner.”

  “You don’t have to. You are—”

  “I planned to.”

  Before I could question if he was just saying that because I was a little more dressed up, Sallie’s voice soared through the depths of the house. “Is that Bethany?”

  “Yeah, sweetie,” Ryan hollered back.

  “I need help with my ponytail. It’s tangled,” she whined.

  I touched Ryan’s hand and started to walk toward the family room with him at my side. “Hey, I guess I missed a big baseball game,” I acknowledged to the kids as I entered.

  “I think next time it’s going to be Joel versus Tink and me. He’s getting too good.” Ryan smiled at his son.

  “I am going to be a baseball guy like Daddy was,” Joel boasted.

  “Baseball?” I looked briefly at Ryan while kneeling and helping undo Sallie’s hair tie. “I thought it was wrestling?”

  “Both,” he said, and then admitted, “I only told you about wrestling because it made me sound stronger.”

  “Meaner,” I challenged with a grin.

  “Do you like baseball?” Joel asked me.

  “I know it. My sister is more of the sports girl.”

  “You have a sister?” Sallie, tangle-free, seemed enamored, stunned, or both by my sister revelation.

  “Yeah. Her name is Ella. She’s in college. And I have a younger brother, too. His name is Garrett. Here, I’ll show you. I have pics of them on my phone. Let me get my purse.”

  “I’ll get it.” Ryan reached for my purse, which I had laid on the armchair when first entering the room.

  But just as he did, Joel ran by, knocking the purse from his father’s grasp. The boy was truly, constantly in motion. When some of the contents spilled, Ryan reprimanded his son and started picking up my sunglasses and wallet from the floor.

  “Sorry, Daddy.”

  I was a little distracted because I was putting Sallie’s hair back into a proper ponytail, but when I gazed up, the look on Ryan’s face was downright chilling. With my small, brown leather purse still in his hands, he was staring at me straight on. And it was ten times worse than the way he had dismissed me and my talent on the show.

  “What?” I gasped more than said.

  His mouth barely moved, but his one word was distinct. “Rooms.” I had no idea what he meant as he continued to stare at me.

  But I guess the kids did. “Daddy, I sorry,” Joel repeated with a plea. “I didn’t mean—"

  “Rooms,” Ryan said again in that same unsettling tone. “Bethany and I need to talk, and I’ll be right up.”

  “But I want to see the pic—” Sallie started.

  “Now.”

  I swear Ryan’s eyes actually darkened on the word. I would have known. They hadn’t left mine at all.

  The kids scurried up the back staircase directly off the family room. I wondered if the scene was similar to what it had been like at the end of Ryan and Kari’s marriage because the young Thompson siblings knew what to do. They knew what Ryan was asking. And I did then, too. I knew he was suddenly upset—very upset—with me. But I had no idea why.

  “Ryan? What—” I finally stood to meet him.

  “Leave.” He took my arm as if to direct me out of the house.

  “What’s going on?” I was scared and upset and confused all at the same time.

  “I don’t know how we’re gonna ... I mean, the songs are all ready. But you ... you and ...”

  “What? What’s going on?” I repeated.

  “Bethany, leave. I don’t want my kids anywhere near this. Take your paraphernalia and leave. I never ... I never thought ... God. To think I thought ... go.” And then he shoved my purse at me.

  “I don’t know what—”

  He was walking toward the front door, and I had no choice but to follow. The next thing he practically threw at me was my jacket. “I’ll have someone contact you.” And he opened the door.

  “What?” What! What?

  Everything had changed and was going so fast, I couldn’t even focus on what he was saying. I needed him and the world to pause and let me think about what words were spewing out of his mouth. But he wasn’t giving me time. He wasn’t giving me a chance to understand or even question. Ryan had never, ever been even remotely like that around me. What the heck was wrong?

  Directing me out, he remained inside and was ready to shut the door. I couldn’t help but think of all the symbolism of the scene. I could write a whole song on just those five minutes.

  I put my hand up to the door. Darn it if I wasn’t going to go out fighting ... or at least understanding. “You need to at least tell me why.”

  Ryan stepped outside with me but left the door open. “You think I’d let my kids around that shit in your purse. You brought that into my house? What? Did you think I was into that? All Hollywood? Bethany, I can’t believe ... I never thought you ...” His voice rose in the beginning and then sounded disappointed at the end.

  But I still didn’t understand. I still did not have a clue. What had caused his quick change of demeanor? It was about my purse? Hollywood?

  “What are
you talking about?” I know I managed to keep my voice lower, but I was screaming inside.

  “Your f-ing drugs.” Although clearly upset, he used a variation of profanity and somehow kept his volume down, too.

  As I was wondering if the control of his voice had to do about the precious Hollywood neighborhood or his two impressionable children inside, I realized what he actually said. He thought I had drugs? He thought I was doing ...

  “Drugs?”

  As Ryan started to speak again, I finally made the connection. “You have—” As I went to pull the evil culprit from my purse, he vehemently tried to stop me. “Don’t take that out.”

  But the capped needle was partly out, and I left it just that way. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful with the kids here. But they couldn’t get—"

  “They what?” If I wanted to agitate Ryan, the safety of his kids would be the number one trigger, and he proved it in the way his voice rose. “What do you do?”

  “Ryan ...” I was trying yoga breaths, something I did every morning in an attempt to start my day the right away. I obviously had not done a very good job that morning. My day had been downward spiraling ... not downward dogging. I needed to figure out how to pause his anger and have him listen ... really listen to what I had to say. “It’s not what you think. I have a nut allergy. I have to carry it. It’s cheaper than the pen. I already had to use one of those in college, and I still have one in my other purse. I have to have it just in case.”

  “Uh ... what?” I think Ryan and I had reversed roles somewhere during my explanation. He suddenly seemed like the one who couldn’t speak and didn’t know what was going on.

  “I have to.”

  “You’re allergic?” I liked the way his eyes seemed to be allowing a little more light in. Hopefully, his brain and heart were, too.

  “I’m allergic to nuts. Peanuts and some tree nuts. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh. Oh, geez. I jumped to conclusions.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt bad for him because he felt bad. But I was also coming down from being so instantly and emotionally distraught.

  “I’m sorry.” He seemed to be calming, too.

  “Everything ... okay?”

  “Yeah.” He breathed in. “Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  My sigh surely meant more to me than him because I had been dealing with that question my entire life. “It’s so not a big deal,” I started. “But my parents made it be one.”

  “How?”

  “First of all, Ryan, I’m totally aware of what I need to do and look for. I am very careful. And besides when I was little, there has only been one incident—reaction. The one in college. And it was because I was drinking and wasn’t thinking clearly ... just like another poor choice I made when drinking.”

  “The bastard,” he acknowledged, and I found it interesting how he not only didn’t forget but had it so fresh in his mind. When I blinked to agree with his answer, he continued, “So, no kind of nut product.”

  “No—peanuts, tree nuts, and, of course, products that contain those. But I’m very aware. Haven’t you ever noticed me checking food labels?”

  “Yeah, but you know, I thought you were one of those skinny minnies. Too many of those around here.”

  It was the first legitimate laugh I had since arriving, and it was much needed. “For real? Ryan, you’ve seen what I cook. And I work out a little.”

  “And walk ... a lot.” He rolled his eyes at my non-transportation lifestyle.

  A car drove past, seemingly on route to exit the neighborhood. It was a Genesis or Aston Martin or something equally as pricy as a BMW—most likely an affluent neighbor. Ryan did a half-wave and then looked at me.

  Knowing he already felt guilty for accusing me, I recognized he didn’t need any more pressure. “We should go back inside,” I said. “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

  “You’ve been here plenty of times.”

  But had anyone seen me? And ... and it was different now. Even if other people didn’t realize it, I knew—we knew—it was different.

  “Am I allowed back in?” I hesitantly questioned when he didn’t speak.

  “Beth—geez, yeah.” He nudged at the partially opened door, and we walked back inside.

  We sat side by side on the second step of his grand foyer’s staircase, and I told him the rest of my tale. How, since I could remember, my parents—especially my mom—obsessed and worried and advocated about my medical condition. And I told him how I had worn a medical alert bracelet.

  When he scanned his eyes over my vacant wrists, I said, “I hated it. It made me different. In high school my parents agreed that I could get the necklace.” I pulled it out from behind my dress and showed Ryan the practical yet decorative dog tag. “I wear this or a similar ring.”

  “You wouldn’t know—”

  “But medical personnel do. That’s what’s important.”

  “Kids in school ... they made fun of you?”

  “Didn’t have a chance. I had a pretty bad reaction in kindergarten, and I had to be wheeled out on a stretcher and taken to the hospital. I remember it was in February right before Valentine’s Day, and I was so looking forward to getting the little cards and things. I never went back to school, though.”

  “What? Why?”

  “My mom freaked. She was neurotic. She blamed the school ... everything. She decided to homeschool me then until I finally convinced her to let me go to public high school. By then, though, I was even more of an outcast. It’s actually when I started writing lyrics.” I saw the sympathy in his eyes, so I continued with, “I don’t want that. That’s why I don’t make a big deal about it. I can handle it. I’m not different.”

  He asked some more questions—the procedures if an allergic reaction would happen, how to look for and identify potential hazards, and finally about him eating food with nut products. I answered them the best I could. But with the last one, I’m sure I had the most incredulous look on my face.

  “As long as you’re not allergic.”

  “I meant”—he took his knuckle and softly grazed my cheek right where I knew my little line of freckles resided—“and then kiss you.”

  The words and his action made me smile. “I don’t seem to have that severe of a problem, but the doctors have said it can happen in some cases. Let’s just not have you eat a jar full of peanut butter or a chocolate-peanut candy bar and then immediately kiss me. Provided you still want to do that,” I tacked on at the end.

  “More than ever.”

  And I thought we were going to right then. But the kids started to make some kind of noise on the floor above us. From the sound of it, they had not taken Ryan literally with his plural use of the word “rooms” because they were most definitely together.

  “Shoot, they probably think I am mad at them,” he lamented.

  “Nope, pretty much me you were mad at.”

  “Sorry. I ... yeah. I was upset but mostly disappointed. I couldn’t believe ... Thanks for bullying me into listening to you. You really are going to be a tough negotiator.” I wanted to tell him that it upset me as much as it did him, but he yelled up toward the kids. “Sals, Joe-Joe, come here! Bethany wants to show you those photos now.” And then he leaned in, and I got that kiss.

  Chapter Six

  “Hey, Mr. All-Pro WWE,” I teased Ryan. “I will take you down if we don’t order food soon.”

  He had been checking the websites of restaurants he usually ordered from to make sure they were all right for me to eat. And it was taking too long. And it was annoying. And unnecessary.

  “Oh, will you now?” He shook his head.

  “The southwest salad with grilled chicken ... please.”

  “O ... kay.” Even the kids cheered when their dad finally placed the order and informed the guard at the neighborhood entrance.

  Ryan then briefly explained to Sallie and Joel about my allergy situation, and he did a nice job balancing how serious it was wi
thout scaring them. Joel was nonchalant, saying there was a little girl in his preschool who had the same thing. Sallie, on the other hand, told me not to worry because she had to be careful with what she ate, too. When I looked at Ryan, surprised he hadn’t mentioned anything, Sallie explained that she had a sore in her mouth from falling and biting it and, consequently, some foods still caused irritation.

  “Yeah, that wasn’t a pretty sight for a couple days,” Ryan admitted.

  I scrunched my face. I was not good with blood and medical stuff. I think my mom being so allergy-crazed had a part in that. I decided to change the subject for all our benefits. “So, Joel, you want to be a baseball player when you grow up. Sallie, what about you?”

  “I want to be a teacher like Aunt Megan and Miss VanLeer.”

  I was surprised it wasn’t an author. “Is she your teacher?”

  “Yeah, she’s super funny and plays games with us.”

  “That does sound like a cool job. Aunt Megan?” I was pretty sure she was one of Ryan’s two sisters, but I wanted to clarify.

  “My oldest sister,” the man himself said. “Same thing my mom was before she retired. She actually became our principal in high school.”

  “Yikes!” I exclaimed. “That’s almost like me being homeschooled. Couldn’t get away with anything, could you?”

  “Not. At. All. Couldn’t skip class, couldn’t call the school and pretend to be our parents, and she knew all our friends way too well. Plus, of course, we had to be into academics.” I could hear the frustration in his voice. “Hence, the honor society.”

  Ryan Thompson couldn’t be more all-American if he tried—large family, married parents, middle of the country farm town, creative, smart, athletic. He had probably been super popular and would have never even looked my way in high school. The attempt to shake the thought from my brain must have been more physical than I intended because Ryan squinted one eye as if wondering what I was thinking.

  “Bethany, what did you want to be when you were my age?” Sallie asked. “My friend Yasmine wants to be a vet.”

  “When I was your age?” I thought back. “Everyone was into gymnastics. You know, cartwheels, roundoffs ... I didn’t have the right body for it, though.”