A Mess of Reason

by A. Wilding Wells

  How’s the party going birthday girl?

  Okay, she’s definitely not sleeping. Her right arm slams down on her nightstand, then she rolls to face away from me. Seconds later, a text comes in.

  Awesome!

  Oh. She’s good. Yeah, Tess, it really looks awesome from here. Awesome mess. Awesome disaster. Awesome liar.

  Where did you end up going?

  Creed flew us to L.A.—staying in this friggin amazing penthouse that he filled with a thousand gardenias and tons of presents, I’m in heaven. Wish you could see it!

  Liar. Liar. Liar. So full of shit. No question, he forgot her birthday. Next time I’ll go a little deeper and gut him—he’ll look great with entrails falling out of his ass.

  Send me a selfie! I want to see your beautiful birthday smile! I miss that face, this is the only birthday I haven’t spent with u since we were 14 !

  Later, my cake is being cut and we’re having champagne…it’s like nothing i’ve ever seen in my life…like wedding cake fabulous!

  Trumps the Hostess mash-up huh?

  yeah, pretty much!

  That’s it. I’m going in. Time to get tactical.

  I go in Blackhawk quiet, tiptoeing it all the way down the hall until I get to her bedroom, where she is back to her facedown woe-is-me position. I realize this is going to scare the shit out of her, but… It’s her birthday: it’s this or spankings. Hmmm?

  “You’ve always sucked at lying, Sass.” I’m in her doorway, just leaning and waiting.

  “Scout! Fuck!”

  Well, we know she can move, and how. She’s sitting up on her bed and the look on her face is one of, oh, I’d call it terror. No, maybe mortification is more like it. I go to her and sweep her into my arms, one hand under her ass—spanking it—one behind her back, and yes, she’s crying. Of course she is. It’s her birthday, he forgot it…and I’m here. Kidnapping her. She crying so hard that her tiny body is shaking. And each shake makes a little scratch in my heart. At this point in my life you can imagine the number of scratches on my heart that are there because of Tess. My heart is looking very tic-tac-toe, and I’m good with all of it, because I love her so damned much. I’ve seen her like this plenty of times over the years, so I know she just needs to let it out—no talking, no questions from me…just an all-out ugly cry. She just needs to be held, petted, kissed on her head. Singing helps, so I always sing to her.

  I carry her outside, taking her right into her birthday gypsy caravan. Mind you, she doesn’t realize it because her face is buried in my chest, practically in my underarm. The caravan is a full-on functional space—my thought had been that she may want to work in it. But just in case, I also had the carpenter build in a king-sized sleeping nook complete with velvet curtains and a chandelier. I lay her down on the bed and cover her up with a blanket, then nestle in next to her. My favorite spot, with my whole body pressed against hers. My fantasy of our bodies skin-on-skin like this endlessly plays through my head in a loop. Her back is to me and I’m spooning her as though we were made for each other—and, of course, in my heart we were.

  After I’ve sung four songs, I just rub her back over her sweatshirt. Sometimes Tess takes a bit of coaxing, as her stubborn side goes on overdrive when she’s sad or mad. Minutes later, she breaks the silence with words that I know are killing her inside.

  “He…he didn’t remember.”

  “I know, baby. I know.”

  “You always remember.” The waterworks go from low to geyser.

  “I always will.”

  “You really love me, don’t you, Scout?”

  “Always have, more than you know.”

  She flips over to face me. I can tell she’s been crying the entire day as her eyes, normally big juicy chocolate drops, are now just tiny slits that look as though they were freshly cut open with a knife. Her lips are chapped and puffy, her hair tangled, and yet she’s a beautiful painting to me. I could look at her all day…every day for the rest of my life.

  “Why?” She says in a barely-there voice.

  “Why what, beautiful?”

  “Why do you love me?” Her hands are on my chest, right over my heart. I can’t help but wonder if she knows how hard it beats just for her.

  “Because you’re my Tessie girl. My baby…my Sass.”

  “You know I have to marry him.” Her swallows are hard as are mine following her words.

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Why’s that, baby?”

  “Because I want to be married…I want to have kids…I want to settle down. I’m ready for that next part of life.”

  “Why have we never talked about this before? Why not until now? We’ve talked about everything else under the sun and somehow you’ve never told me this.”

  “You never asked.”

  And that’s when I realize how she sees me. I never asked because I figured I could never have her that way because she was always, always taken. She went from one relationship to the next, no lag time, never a whisper of a moment for me to sneak in and scoop her up. Was that by design or by default? And was it because she never thought she could have me that way, either? Never thought I’d be a guy who would want marriage and kids? Too much of a player? Because my reality was, she was so taken with guys that I mirrored her every move. I never took a breath between relationships, either. Not one girl I dated was a marriage option because I won’t ever marry someone if it’s not my Tess.

  “Are you ready for your birthday outfit and dance?”

  “How do you do it Scout? Year after year…how?”

  “It’s easy: I love you, that’s how. Now come here, you old thing you.”

  I pull her legs to me, and she slides across the bed like a sleeping, rubber-legged kitten. I let her calves dangle over the bed’s edge. Then grab her feet. Just so you know, this will go on all night. And yes, every year I buy her a birthday outfit, each one better than the last. It’s a personal challenge. This year I went edgy boho because she’s so fucking hot in leather.

  “Put your feet in; help me a little, okay?” Vintage black leather leggings with lace-up sides that show some skin. I’ll admit I’m feeling kind of sick right now sliding these up her legs, especially since I’m just over her knees and about mid-thigh.

  “Lie back.” It’s either stand up or lie back, and if she stood I’d have been kneeling right there—you know, right at the golden palace—and even though she’s clearly exhausted and having a not very happy birthday, I’m not sure I would have had it in me to stop at the door. I might have just walked right in. So that’s why I choose “lie back.” But now that she’s on her back looking up at me, and I have both of my hands on her…on the hottest fucking leather leggings ever, which I’ve just dragged up her thighs…I’m not so sure this was a good choice either.

  “Lift your hips a little, baby.” No stopping now. I just plow ahead and completely ignore all the signals my cock is shouting to me. Her panties are black, lacy, and see-through. I’m so close to her most intimate parts that I’m sweating. My knuckles brush over the lace, and she grabs her sweatshirt to snug it down a little to cover her belly. Funny thing is, she hardly seems to mind that I’ve got her pussy two inches from my fingers, but her belly…why cover that? Who cares? She doesn’t even have a belly. Christ, there’s not an ounce of fat on her, but the way she’s pinning down her sweatshirt makes me wonder what she’s hiding. As in…could she be pregnant? Is that why she has to marry Creed? Fuck. I’ll bet she is. Why else is she covering up like she is? Maybe she has a tiny baby bump that she’s hiding. Holy crap. No way. She just told me she had her period the other day—was that a lie to cover this up? But then, she has been drinking like a fish, which makes zero sense if she’s pregnant, unless she just found out…and I mean today. I zip the pants and fasten the brass button.

  “Hot.”

  “You think?”

  “Volcanic. White heat. And yes, they are vintage and yes, they were Debbie Harry’s.�
�

  “Scout.”

  “Shhh.”

  More tiny tears, again making me wonder if she’s pregnant, because the tears these days with Tess have been coming in epic proportions. I will say, she’s the emotional type. A good coffee commercial has her crying. Tears always come with the birthday bash I spoil her with. Though each tear from Tess is like a little sweet thank you.

  She never lets me put her top on. It’s a rule. Never has. Not once have I seen her in a bikini top, or a tank top, or a bra. Not once. So I hand it to her and she goes into the bathroom after I simply point her in the right direction. Mind you she still has said nothing about the gypsy caravan we’re standing in.

  A minute later she comes out looking like a million bucks-ish. The ish is only because of how awful her eyes look, but other than that I have—big pat on my back—nailed the birthday outfit once again. The top is loose and flowy, funky as hell. If you could design a top that said “Tess Harlow,” this would be it.

  “Scout.” Her hand is over her mouth, and her body is trembling.

  “Joni Mitchell. 1974. Wore it during her concerts at the Berkeley Community Music Theater.”

  She’s so sexy right now that I just cross my arms over my chest, lean back on the wall, and take her in for a sec. She’s trying with all her might to smile—and I mean really, really trying to paste on a birthday smile just for me—but it’s barely forming and it’s about the sweetest thing just to watch her try so damn hard. I take her by the shoulders, steer her back to the bed, push her to sit down gently.

  Now for the shoes. Naturally she loves shoes, being a woman and all. She doesn’t just love shoes: she lives for shoes. She might have around three hundred pair or so. An entire room in her ranch was made into a shoe closet. Well, I personally made that happen as a homecoming present for her, plus I added in twenty more pair because I’ll admit, Tess in heels that are hot is just…hot. She, of course, has a penchant for vintage rocker heels, and these beauties that I found are flawless. I take her right foot in my hand. Each toenail is painted in metallic gold. I kiss each one of her tiny toes because they’re the only thing I feel okay kissing without crossing a line tonight. Then I strap on the first heel. Five inches tall, red leather with studs, straps, buckles, and all that shit she loves.

  “Stevie Nicks. Got them when I was in Hong Kong from a dealer that has almost every piece she’s ever auctioned off. Oh, and this was hers, too.”

  Might want to get your umbrella out, because my girl is going to be raining tears when I put this on her. It’s an emerald-green, vintage leather motorcycle jacket covered in worn brass studs. It is by all accounts sick. And by the look on Tess’s face right now, she agrees.

  “Scout….oh, I can’t believe you….”

  Then she crawls on her hands and knees. Just like you’re picturing, her sweet ass high in the air crawling away from me, making me want to strip those leather pants off of her and enter her from behind. (Sorry for that, it’s just…well…you know.) So, yeah…she crawls to the furthest corner of the bed and lies down in a little tucked ball, facing me. Her legs are against her chest, her arms wrapped around her ankles. She looks all of fourteen.

  I go to her and lie down facing her. She just so fucking sad, not even I can shake her this time. I pet her face and her hair and just look into her beautiful eyes.

  “You’re really sad, aren’t you, my beautiful girl?”

  She nods, and cries more. And then tries again with one of those fake smiles that makes her look even more sad.

  “Do you like your new gypsy caravan?”

  “What? This is for me?” She shoots straight up onto her ass, both hands over her mouth, her head shaking no back and forth.

  “Did you think it was mine?” This gives me a solid chuckle. Seriously, if you saw it…

  “This is for me? You did this for me, Scout?”

  “Just for you.” By now you know the routine. More tears. And then she’s in my lap again, this time straddling me with her legs wrapped around my waist and, for the life of me, I cannot, simply cannot keep my hard-on down for one second longer. I of course will do nothing with it. I’ll ignore it, like the nice guy that I am, but I think my cock and I need to have a little Come to Jesus later tonight if Tess and I really are going to remain best friends and that’s all.

  “Sing to me,” she says in a dry, hoarse voice as she clings to my body. Her arms are wrapped around my chest and I can tell by how tightly she’s holding me that her fingers are laced together. To this day, I think the reason I went into music post-college instead of continuing on with my football career is because of Tess. When her mom died of breast cancer, she sat in my lap just like this and I sang to her. When she got pregnant her senior year of high school and she wanted to have the baby, but her doctor told her it wouldn’t make it to full term no matter what they did, she sat in my lap and I sang to her. When she got fired from her first job post-college and decided to start her own company even though it terrified the snot out of her, she sat in my lap and I sang to her. Then I just kept on singing.

  She doesn’t know this, but every one of the songs I’ve written is about her in some way, shape, or form. Every last one. She’s always my starting point when I write, and she’s my middle, and well…I’m sure she’ll be my end, if fate rolls the dice in our favor somewhere along the line. Two people that mesh on this level can’t possibly be kept apart forever…right? I’m not wishing ill will on her marriage to Creed, but…okay, I’m lying again…I am. You see, though, I can’t tell her not to marry him—that would be an asshole move if ever. She needs to do what feels right to her without me meddling. Then maybe a year in…they’ll get a divorce and that’ll be my chance to win her back.

  “Time for your birthday dance.” This is just another one of our birthday rituals, though usually she’s jumping around with her arms flying like a wild child. I stand up and let her hold onto me koala-bear style just the way she is. My hands are under her ass and since I don’t want to put her down, I just hold her and dance. My forehead is against hers, our noses touching, her breath falling into my mouth, feeling warm and smelling sweet like mint tea.

  “I love you, Scout.” It’s a whisper that makes my throat wants to close onto itself but I just keep swallowing.

  “I love you too, Tess,” I answer back, and her eyes open. She pulls her head a tiny bit away but keeps looking at me through her long, drenched lashes. She studies my face, drifting from the top of my head down to my chin and then back to my eyes. I’m smiling because even though she’s sad, she’s in my arms and she’s looking at me with love that’s blanketing me like a balm for my soul.

  Seconds later, her lips are on mine. Not by my doing…by hers. But she’s getting married in less than two weeks so I do nothing but hold them to hers. I want nothing more than to open my mouth to taste and feel her tongue on mine, but that would once again be me crossing a line I promised her I wouldn’t. Then she pulls off my lips and looks into my eyes with question in hers.

  “Kiss me back. Please, Scout, kiss me.” Her voice comes at me like an instrument of nature. My lips are on hers in less than a second, my heart doing all it can to escape my chest. My hands grip her ass, pulling her into me, against me, onto me. Her hands grip my face forcefully, then move behind my neck. And this kiss…oh fuck, this kiss is filled with more passion and depth and want than any kiss we’ve had before. This isn’t a slow, meandering kiss—this is an aching, craving, crazy, I-can’t-live-without-you kiss. I pin her against the wall as I’ve pictured myself doing a thousand times over, our lips never separating. Her breaths are intense, the sort of breaths you take when you’re fucking and you can’t get enough of the other person: you can’t get close enough, you can’t get enough of their air into you. Her hands roam everywhere, touching me with squeezes, pulling me into her. Her fingers skate down my back, up my arms, then onto my chest. Everything feels like a test and a challenge to my very core.

  She pulls away from my lips, look
s into my eyes. I see no question…only love, want, need—passion. Then her hands are at the buttons on my shirt. She opens them down to my navel, then places her hands inside, against my naked chest, as her face comes back to me and her lips rest on mine. She fucks my mouth with her tongue so intensely that I have no other choice…every signal she’s sends me is forward moving.

  “Tess, are you sure? I…”

  I walk her to the bed, and I lay her down gently, moving her to the center, and I climb onto her.

  “Scout…please…I want you…”

  My hips are pinned to hers. I’m harder than a steel girder as I rest my upper body on my elbows for fear of crushing her tiny body. Her hands go to the back of my neck and pull me down to her lips with a forceful tug. And again we kiss as though we’ve been doing it all our lives. But it’s all so new to us, intoxicating and exciting, earth shattering and exquisite…she’s blowing my mind and I’m doing all I can not to think. In this moment, I just act and go with everything that feels right.

  “Scout,” she says in a sweet whisper with the smallest smile at the corners of her mouth. Her plump lips glisten with saliva as the edges of her snow-white teeth peek out just barely. My hips are moving against hers in slow, deep thrusts as I imagine what it will feel like to be inside of her. She mirrors every roll as though we truly are making love.

  As my hand goes to the bottom of her sweatshirt, about to make my way under, she pins it down, stopping me. Really? I’m grinding into you, wanting desperately to feel your naked breasts in my hands, and you stop me? I’m all for taking our time, but this is fifteen years in the making—I think we’re ready.

  Then I remember, and I still my body. Is she pregnant? Pregnant with his baby? My Tess, lying underneath me, pregnant with his baby? The man she’s going to be marrying in less than two weeks. She’s getting married. She’s made him her choice, not me.

  I can’t do this to her. If I keep going, I’ll be fucking her in minutes. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and she’s under my body moving with me…but if I fuck her, what then? It would kill me to have her once, then never again. I’m walking her down the aisle to her fiancé so she can be with him, have a family with him: their family. I can’t do this to her; I can’t ruin our relationship because of my own selfish want and need. I can’t ruin her relationship with her almost-husband because I can’t stop myself from taking her. She’ll regret this the day she walks down the aisle with her hand in mine as I take her to him. Then every time she looks into my eyes, she’ll think about how she cheated on him with me and she’ll resent me for it. I’ll be the bad guy, the guy who makes her feels guilty every time they make love.