by A. O. Peart
“I really am sorry. And I’m here for you if you need to talk about it.” I hope he will; if not now—hopefully one day.
Colin slowly strokes my back with his hand. I feel his heart beating fast against my palm. His breathing quickens.
“Are you okay?” I look at him, alarmed.
“Let’s get out of here. Do you want to take your food to go?” He puts twenty-five dollars on the table.
“No, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”
We leave the building. The air outside is crisp, and I shiver.
Colin notices and immediately draws me to him, wrapping his arm protectively around me. He kisses the top of my head and quietly says, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to ruin our lunch date.”
“It’s okay.” I mutter against his coat. I lift my face to his and look in his eyes. “Colin?”
We stop by my car, and he watches me, waiting for me to continue.
“Don’t shut me out. I’m here for you. Always.”
Colin nods. “Okay.”
I hug him, but I feel his mind is far away from me. I decide not to press him. He needs space, and I can wait for him to open up. I kiss him and get inside my car. Colin closes my door, but a moment later motions to me to roll down my window. He leans over, bending at the waist and smiling sadly. His blue eyes search mine. He gets closer, leaning his forearms on the window. I tilt my body toward him and put my hands on the sides of his face. His one-day stubble prickles my palms. Colin moves even closer, and we kiss, first slowly and gently, but then more urgent. His fingers find their way to the back of my head and entwine in my hair.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” Colin asks against my lips. “I would like to take you out to dinner.”
“Of course. But only if you really want to. Don’t feel obligated because we didn’t eat lunch today.”
“Baby. Stop!” Colin shakes his head in exasperation.
Ugh, smooth, Natalie. I didn’t mean to vex him.
“I always want to spend time with you. No matter if it’s dinner, movie, walk, you name it. I want to be around you, silly. And I’m sorry about today. It was—”
“Shh.” I put my hand over his lips.
He kisses it.
“We are okay.” I tell him. “Just promise me one thing: if you still feel awful after work because you saw that girl, and you need me, please—call me. Don’t hold back. Please?”
Colin smiles his sad smile. He nods and moves away from my car, hands in his pants pockets.
I turn on my engine and drive off, peeking into the rear view mirror to see Colin still standing and watching me leave.
After work I go to the gym, even though the only thing I want to do is to crawl in bed and sleep. But I know the physical exertion will be good for me.
Colin texts me right when I pull my car into a parking spot at the gym. “Thank you for being you. I miss you.”
How can I not keep falling for him?
TEN
You don’t get to choose how you’re going to die, only how you’re going to live.
Joan Baez
About two weeks after the incident at Good Eats Guys I stay over at Colin’s. I wake up in the morning to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen. I get up and pull my t-shirt on. After a quick bathroom visit, I follow the heavenly scent of coffee. I find Colin in the kitchen with a cup in his hand. He’s leaning against the counter, reading the Seattle Times. What a yummy scene he is! He’s shirtless, and his boxers lusciously hang off his hips. That tattoo over his chest looks especially sexy this morning.
“Hey, baby.” He smiles at me, puts the cup and the paper down, and opens his arms to me.
I swiftly fold myself in his embrace. Ah, this is where I belong.
He kisses the top of my head. “Are you ready for your coffee?”
I murmur something as close to the sure I am as I can utter with my mouth pressed against his hard pectorals. I feel his laugh rumble in his chest.
“What’s the plan for today?” I ask taking a mug of hot goodness from his hands.
“Let’s read in bed, sleep, have sex, read again, sleep, have sex, you get the picture.” He shrugs.
I grin. “Good plan. Are we going to fit food into that schedule?”
“Sure, why not.”
I stand on my tip toes and peck his lips. He leans to me and holds me against him, making the kiss longer.
“I want you to wear that bra again.” Colin winks.
“What bra?” I’m puzzled. I have a lot of bras.
“The bra. The one you had on when I first saw you.” He grins, and there is a spark of mischief in his eyes.
I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?” I feel a hot prickle of blush spreading over my face. Crap. By now I should be completely comfortable with Colin, so why do I feel self-conscious?
“Oh, come on, baby.” He pulls me to him and kisses my neck. He continues tracing kisses all the way to my collarbone. “You looked scrumptious in that bra. Just thinking of it makes me hard.”
“Everything makes you hard,” I retort, smirking and pushing him gently away.
“Everything about you.” He pulls me back and remains the exploration of my neck and shoulder with his lips and tongue. “I’m serious. I want you to wear it next time.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“Let’s eat breakfast. Eggs and bacon okay?”
Colin enjoys his culinary skills, and I’m more than happy to let him take over in the kitchen department. He cooks our breakfast, whistling happily and grinning at me from time to time. I love to see him so happy; so carefree.
When the eggs, bacon, and pieces of toast are arranged on two plates, Colin brings them to the bedroom and motions for me to follow. I carry our coffee mugs and a few napkins. He puts the plates down on the nightstand and pulls the covers off.
“After you, my dear,” he announces, gesturing to bed with a flourish.
I happily oblige, and soon we are having a classic breakfast in bed. I marvel again on the fact that Colin doesn’t have a TV set in his bedroom. None of my previous boyfriends has followed that rule. “I know better than to put one in where the magic happens” he told me once, grinning suggestively. I couldn’t agree more.
We cuddle after putting the empty plates back on the nightstands. I feel Colin’s growing erection against my body, but we are taking it easy. There is no rush. Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Although we have all day. And night too.
“So what went through your head when you saw me the first time… you know… in the office?”
He pulls away to look at me. His expression is filled with delight. “Let’s see. I thought, hey, that chick knows how to have fun.”
That earns him a smack on the shoulder. He laughs and restrains me, pinning my arms over my head and crawling on top of me. His knee gently forces my legs apart, and soon his hard penis presses over my sex. He doesn’t enter me though, but instead torments my aching clitoris with the head of his erection. I lift my hips to push against him, but he retreats, grinning.
“Not yet,” he teases.
I growl in pretend frustration. Honestly, it is not as pretend, as I would like it to seem.
Colin kisses me lightly on the lips, and then on the tip of my nose. He rolls off of me and reclines on his side, propped on his bent elbow. His fingers brush stray hairs off my face, and his touch resonates through my whole body. I involuntarily shiver.
“There was something vulnerable about you, baby.” Colin’s voice is low and raspier than normal, his eyes on mine. “I couldn’t deny or suppress the need to come to your aid… to protect you. It sounds weird probably, but that’s exactly how I felt when I ran into you half-dressed in your office.” He smiles.
“Hmm,” I muse.
“I haven’t experienced anything like this for years. Not ever before I’ve met Faith. And not ever after she died.” His smile disappears, and I immediately face him and put my arms around him.
He r
ecovers quickly though. He lies on his back and pulls me to rest my head over his heart. “There were many women, but none of them meant much. Even though I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. None of them have made me feel the way you do. You touched something deep inside me. You awoke my heart.”
I’m speechless. Totally, undeniably, foolishly speechless. What do you say to this? It’s so unexpected and so wonderful at the same time. But my mouth is known for having the mind of its own, of course, so it says, “You unbound my heart.” I think this time I agree with my mouth for a change.
I lift my head and look at him. His lips part, and his expression is that of amazement, and then slowly changes to content.
“You never told me if there is a significant meaning to this.” I trace the tattoo on his chest with my finger.
“I got it after she died. To remember and to heal. It used to mean a lot, but now it’s just a… memory,” he says quietly. I get a feeling he doesn’t want to elaborate, so I won’t press him.
The tattoo depicts a slender angel with folded wings. A few feathers drift down from the wings and fall by the angel’s bare feet. Her long hair is swept over one shoulder, and her head is bent in prayer. She holds a water lily in her cupped hands. Droplets of water are collected on the pedals and seem to reflect light. I press my cheek to his chest, right next to the image, as if I didn’t want to disturb it. Or maybe it’s because it makes me feel uncomfortable to know there will always be the memory of another woman between us.
He marked himself for life because of her. I can’t deny this stirs some uneasy and unwelcome feeling inside me. But I chastise myself quickly. I am a big girl and won’t let myself feel jealous because of his past—especially because how horrid it was.
As we planned, we stay in bed all day, and not even a moment of it is boring. We talk, we sleep, and we make love again and again.
I want this man to be in my life forever. But forever is a long time, and if I expect that, I may get hurt again. Will we manage to keep alive this thing we have? I can’t help but worry. Ugh, old habits die hard.
ELEVEN
“It doesn’t matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”
Mrs. Patrick Campbell
Colin’s twenty-seventh birthday is tomorrow, and I have no idea what to get him. What do you get a guy for his birthday that’s not cheesy like a tie or something? I’m not good at it. I asked Ali at work, but she was totally preoccupied with sorting through new customer profiles, so her advice wasn’t original at all: ‘just dress up as a French maid and tie his wrists to the bed with your stockings.’ Yeah, yeah, and gag him with my garter belt. Like I couldn’t think of that on my own. Honestly, I don’t think gagging Colin is my best bet. Or dressing up in French maid costume.
I text Jena, but she’s in class and can’t talk. I call Caroline, but get her voicemail. Where are your friends when you need them? I open the fridge and contemplate the contents: milk, croissants, fat free vanilla yogurt, baby carrots. Well, there are a few other items like soda and turkey breast, but my mind is wandering, and can’t concentrate on food. So I close the fridge and flip through the People magazine on the kitchen counter. One photo catches my eye—a model in some really cool lingerie, stilettos, and a chef’s hat, holding a cupcake on the palm of her uplifted hand.
That image just rings the big-gun bells in my head. The longer I study the photo, the clearer it becomes what I’m about to do for Colin’s birthday. I grab my purse, put my shoes and a coat on, and go to my car. I’m going to drive to Garnelli’s bakery. Their birthday cakes are to die for.
Garnelli’s is crowded. Or it rather looks like it since the place is tiny, and a couple of customers make a good crowd inside. Mr. Garnelli and his wife are both taking orders and moving with a grace and speed normally reserved for people fifty years younger than these two tiny Sicilians.
When my turn comes, Mrs. Garnelli smiles widely at me. The smile makes the deep creases around her eyes even deeper and longer. “Ah, Natalie, my dear,” she says in the thickest Italian accent possible. “What would you like? Try these Tartufi al cioccolato.” She gestures to the small, chocolate truffles displayed behind her.
My salivary glands are already working overtime, and pretty soon I might start drooling. And my stomach decides to clench and whine. I cave in. “Yes, I will take a dozen. No, make it two.”
She beams at me and hands me a napkin with a truffle to sample. I’m easily persuaded, of course, and so I immediately stuff the chocolate in my mouth. My senses explode, and I experience a short but satisfying case of culinary orgasm. I immediately envision myself at home, curtains drawn, doors locked, eating one truffle after the next, and shooting nervous glances around in deep resolve not to share this heavenly creation with anyone else.
“Ohh, that is good,” I moan.
“La mia ricetta preferita.” She giggles.
“Your favorite recipe?” My Italian is a bit rusty, but I understand that one.
“Yes, from Sicily. From the aunt on Benito’s father’s side.” She points to her husband, Benito, who’s shouting something in rapid Italian into the ancient-looking rotary phone.
I nod. “Oh, I need to order a cake. A birthday cake. What would you suggest?”
“For Miss Allison?”
“No, for… uhm… for my boyfriend.” Why do I have such a hard time with admitting that I actually have a boyfriend? Old habits don’t die easy. I curse all the crazy men I’ve dated in the past who made me become overly guarded.
“Ah, orange Neapolitan cake then. Or Cassata Alla Siciliana. I will make one for you with my special almond extract.” She rubs her small, brown hands together, excitement shining in her eyes.
“I know the Neapolitan cake, but what’s the Cassata Alla Siciliana?” I inquire.
“He will love it.” She waves her hand indifferently and proceeds to explain what ingredients she will use.
It sounds great, and so I settle on Cassata Alla Siciliana. Ricotta cheese filling and candied fruit is the perfect choice for my plan. Plus a thick dark chocolate frosting. Mhmm.
The next day I leave work early and go to the gym. While abusing my triceps with a fifteen-pound dumbell, I decide to get a set of tiny crystal aperitif glasses at Macy’s for Colin’s birthday. After a quick stop at Bellevue Square, I’m on 405, heading to Seattle. I find a parking spot close to Garnelli’s and practically run there to get my cake. Mrs. Garnelli hands me the box with a red satin ribbon tied into a bow on top.
“Wow, this looks perfect,” I say and inwardly regret that Colin will never see his cake so beautifully wrapped. I dismiss the pang of disappointment and scold myself for such girly thoughts. What I have in mind is so much better.
Colin’s supposed to meet me at my apartment at six p.m. I told him that I would leave the door unlocked, so he needs to walk in and go straight to my bedroom. He made me promise to wear some sexy lingerie for him. I smirked, saying that we have a dinner reservation and would be leaving right after he arrives. I made it up of course, since the reservation is for seven thirty. Bad, bad, Natalie. But that’s the part of my big surprise. I doubt he came even close to suspecting what is to await him tonight.
I race back home and take a shower. After I get my hair to cooperate and look the way I want it to, I apply some makeup, and then put on my naughty-girl red lingerie with the fishnet black stockings and stilettos. I pose in front of the mirror, puckering my lips and fluttering my eyelashes like an idiot. That cracks me up and, despite having to admit that I look totally hot, I roll my eyes at myself. “You’re so immature,” I tell my reflection.
A champagne bottle chills in the ice bucket by my bed, and soft music plays in the background. I light a few candles and take a look around, mentally patting myself on the back for creating such a romantic ambience. The birthday cake is still in its pretty box in the kitchen. I go to unwrap it, stick one tiny candle in the middle, and bring it still in the box to t
he bedroom together with a lighter. I set the cake and the lighter next to the champagne, and then pull the comforter off the bed, and cram it underneath.
“Okay then,” I murmur to myself. “Now we wait.” I’m not sure who we are, but it sounds better than ‘now I wait”. Somehow ‘I wait’ seems lonely and desperate. And I’m not feeling like either.
I climb onto my bed and lie on my back, with my knees bent. I’m half-reclined against the pillow behind me. The stilettos heels sink into the sheet as if trying to puncture all the way through the mattress. I lift one leg, straightening it to examine my fishnet stockings and garter belt. I’m not wearing any panties, and the lacy babydoll ends right where the garter belt hugs my hips. Perfect.
My butt itches. I don’t want to scratch it, fearing that my nails would leave red welts on the skin. Not sexy; not good for the overall image I created. So I kind of rub my butt cheek on the sheet a few times until the itching stops.
The display on my alarm clock reads five fifty four. Six more minutes. Colin should be here at any moment. My heart pounds in my chest when I reach for the cake. Carefully I set it down over my pubic bone and very slowly lower my back onto the bed. My abs scream at that motion, but I can’t recline any faster. “Patience, Natalie. Patience,” I whisper, biting my lower lip. When I feel my back touch the sheet, I exhale in relief.
I hear a loud knock on the front door. Finally. “Come in!” I yell.
The door opens with a little creak, and there are steps on my hardwood floor. I lift my head and glance around one more time to see if everything—especially the cake—looks right. It does. Phew.
And then I hear old Mrs. Yeng, “Natalie, darling. Where are you? The mailman messed up again and put your letters in my mailbox.” Her elderly voice sounds like a squeaky herald of doom.
“Fuck!” I whisper. My first thought is to get up and grab my bathrobe from the bathroom. But I remember the cake. If I move, it will slide off and onto the bed. Or the floor. “Fuck,” I say again very quietly, and then I holler, “Mrs. Yeng, just set it on the hallway table. I’m… uhm… I’m in the shower!” The lie comes to me curiously fast. I seriously need to evaluate my dark side.
