by Cari Quinn
Pain flickers in his eyes, before his face gets serious. “What did you eat today?”
“What? I’m not trashed, Jason. Just a little buzzed.” I sniff my shoe. It does stink.
“I know. That’s not why I’m asking. So tell me, what did you eat today?”
I haven’t missed the food police. But I know one thing; he won’t stop until I tell him, so I might as well get this over with. I think for a minute. “Coffee, half a sandwich, cheese, and an apple.” Okay, so he doesn’t need to know it was a tiny piece of cheese and one slice of apple. I add, “Hey, at least it’s not junk.”
“There’s that.” He pauses. “What’s going on? Something’s wrong. You’re skinny and not eating.” There’s concern in his voice.
Oh man, tears pool in my eyes. “I’m fine.” My voice cracks and gives me away.
Warm fingers wrap around my hand. “Casey.” His voice is soft, and my tears start to fall.
I snap open his glove box in search of a tissue. He has three packages. I take one out and look over at him. “Tired of snot on your shirt?”
He chuckles.
The truck groans as he puts it in park. The seat belt snaps back as he turns to me. “Come here.” He opens his arms.
I unbuckle and slide over. He pets my hair as I cry, and I breathe in the musky-wood scent of him. Each stroke sends a jolt to my heart. I look up into his eyes. Their color is deep in the darkness of the night. My eyes fall to his lips, and I want to kiss him. I bite my lip in reflex, tamping down the impulse. I reach up and touch his mouth with my fingers. He pushes me away. “You need to get back on your side of the truck.” His voice is husky. He holds his head for a moment and then takes my shoulders. “Really, I need you to move.”
I move over with a questioning look in my eyes.
“Hey. You’re just a little too tempting that close.” He shifts in his seat. “So why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
You’re pretty tempting yourself. “I can’t. I just can’t.” I pick up my shoes and my purse. “Thanks for the ride.” The door creaks open, and I slide off the leather seat. The gravel in the driveway hurts my feet, but I walk on it anyway. I wave and let myself in as headlights swing away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Can you give me a ride into town for my car?” I text Megan instead of Blaine. I can’t face him yet.
“Sure. Be over in a bit.”
I pace. What the hell is wrong with me? I think I would have slept with Jason last night. Heaven knows I wanted to. If he hadn’t stopped me? And the sex dreams I had? Whew. I sure have some imagination. I want to call Gretchen.
Megan pulls into the driveway. I jog out to her car and open the door. When I’m sliding into the seat she says, “So catch me up. What happened after I left last night?”
“Tara took some guy home, and I was too drunk to drive. I got a ride home with Jason.” I pull on the seatbelt.
“Who’s Jason?”
Oh boy. “Remember that first guy I was dancing with last night?” She’s turned around and backs up.
“What? Really?” She stops in the middle of the street and looks at me in shock.
“Yup, and it gets juicier. He’s my ex-boyfriend from Vermont.”
Driving forward she says, “Oh, my God. He’s the one that moved here and is teaching with us next winter, right?”
I don’t say anything.
“I think Blaine is great and all, but I’m your friend first. We girls have to stick together. Whatever you tell me doesn’t even make it to Nick. Okay?”
“Thanks. I think of you the same way.”
“So I guess you still kind of like Jason, don’t you? I saw the way you looked when you were dancing with him.” Her voice is sympathetic.
“I do. Nothing happened last night. But there’s still a spark.”
“Whoa. What about Blaine?” She pauses. “I mean if he’s the one, then you shouldn’t be affected by Jason at all. Right?”
“Right. I think. It’s complicated.” I sigh. “Crap, what do I do?” I hear the desperation in my voice.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I’m here for you no matter what.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I pull up to a blue house with a white picket fence and a cottage garden full of color. I put my Saab in park and gather my camera gear. Stepping back, I take in the overall image. White shutters accent a dark-stained oak door on this saltbox. The New England feel appeals to this displaced East Coaster. The slate walk is set with grass growing between the irregular slabs. I notice a child-sized table and chairs on the front porch. A family lives here.
Entering the house, I smell the faint scent of cinnamon and apple. I set up the video camera and let it do its thing. Off to the left is the dining room, painted a pale yellow. I imagine Thanksgiving dinner with loved ones. In the back are the kitchen and a family room, but I don’t go there yet. On the right is a set of stairs for the second level. My video is done, and I take pictures in the kitchen. Bright and cheery letter magnets hold a child’s artwork on the fridge. The window over the sink looks into the back yard. I picture a mother preparing dinner and keeping an eye on her kids as they run and play on the swing set. Off to the right is the family room with a big TV and a fireplace.
This is the kind of house I want for my family. I take my time walking up to the second floor. There are framed photographs along the wall. I think of Clara and her children. Various stages of the family’s life are on this wall. I’m almost at the top when the agent enters the front door.
“Hi, Casey.” A trim woman in her thirties, she is dressed in navy slacks, a button-down shirt, and blazer.
“Hi, Sandy.” Sandy is Mr. Jones’s daughter. She’s a good agent and often comes to the shoot with me to get the images she knows will sell the house. Working together, we capture the essence, and it’s probably why she does so well.
“So what do we see here?” She has walked into the kitchen and I follow.
“I see a house that would appeal to a family from the East Coast. It has ocean charm and feels like a happy home for children. Are they leaving the swing set? If so, we should get a back yard shot.”
“Interesting. Because I’m not sure it’s a happy home.” She looks out into the back yard.
“Really? Why?”
“It’s being sold because of a divorce. I hear it’s a nasty one. It had something to do with a horrible secret hidden for many years. You sure wouldn’t know from the looks of things, would you?”
“Wow. That makes it kind of creepy here now.” I hug my shoulders.
Sandy says, “It makes me sad to see people live a lie. They create a life based on it, but if it isn’t real? At some point the whole thing crumbles down around them like a house of cards.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Day two of avoiding Blaine and way too many days of avoiding Gretchen, I resist the urge to curl up on the couch and just cry. I need to deal. I call Gretchen.
In a fake answering-machine voice Gretchen answers my call “This number is no longer in service. The owner’s best friend left her hanging, so she died from a broken heart. Please don’t leave a message. Save it for hell.” She chortles at herself. “Because the owner will save her a seat.”
I snort. “Hi, Gretch.”
“What’s going on, girlfriend?”
I tear up. “My life sucks. I’m an idiot. I want to marry one man and sleep with another.”
“Wait, what? Who do you want to screw?”
I sigh. And close my eyes for the hit that’s coming. “Jason.”
“Fuck.”
“Yup, that’s what I want to do.” I giggle at my Gretchen joke.
She snorts. “That was good.”
“I know.” Tears well up in my eyes. Where the hell is that tissue box?
“So, tell me again, why the hell aren’t you with Jason?”
The tears fall now. “Oh, Gretchen. I wish I could flip a switch in him to make him want a fam
ily.”
“Not everyone has children. It’s not the end of the world. There are so many ways to have kids in your life. They don’t have to be yours.”
“They do for me.”
“And you think you can have them with a man who can’t sleep with you?”
“That’s not true!” I throw a pillow across the room. “It’s just…” I sigh and speak through clenched teeth. “We’re working on it.”
“At the risk of not hearing from you for another month, you have too many rules in place. You’re a control freak, and life doesn’t bend because you command it to. My advice is to listen to your heart because your head is fucked up.”
There’s silence for a minute, and then Gretchen says, “Look, I know you’re pissed at me right now. It’s okay. I think you need to be. Take a long look at why.” Then she adds. “I’ll call you in a few days, and you will answer. I promise I won’t be a bitch. Okay?”
I cut the conversation short. “Okay. Bye.”
She’s right. I’m pissed off. She has no idea how amazing Blaine is. We’ll fix this. In a few years, I’ll wonder why I let this be such a big deal. She’ll see.
Minutes after I hang up with Gretchen, my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Megan.
“Chick flick day?”
“Sure. What’s up?” It’s dreary weather, and while I could shoot interiors, I can blow off work for Megan.
“Nick and I had a fight. I need to get out of here for a while.”
“Come over any time. Want me to get anything?”
“No. I’ll bring stuff. Thanks. Got tissues?”
I smile at that one. “Cases :)”
Still mad at Gretchen, I enter cleaning mode. I race around picking up the spent tissues and do a quick vacuum. The bathroom gets scrubbed. Standing in the kitchen, I ponder a deep clean of the fridge when I hear Megan in the driveway. Instead, I gather popcorn and chocolate truffles and set them on the counter. I think this might be just what I need, too.
With a quick knock, Megan walks in. “Your place is always so clean. I love it. I don’t suppose you’d give Nick a lesson? He’s such a slob.”
“What happened?”
Megan plunks down on the sofa with her bags. Tears brim in her eyes. I grab a box of tissues and hand it to her.
“Oh Casey, I moved in with a pig. He leaves his clothes wherever he took them off. It’s crazy; if I didn’t pick them up, they would stay there for days. For all I know, he would just put them back on again instead of doing laundry. And the kitchen. The man doesn’t know how to load a dishwasher. No, it’s worse than that. The dishes don’t even make it to the sink. I swear he thinks moving in with me was like getting a housekeeper. Don’t even get me started on how gross the bathroom is. What was I thinking?”
I take the bags from her and move to the kitchen to empty them. “Did you try to talk to him about it?”
“I have. I’ve asked him nicely to pick things up, but it doesn’t work. So this morning I lost it. He told me I was a nag.” She cries harder. “And if he’d wanted a mother, he would have moved home.”
I sit next to her and pull her into my arms. “Megan.” She sobs on my shoulder. When she’s done, I wipe hair out of her face “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry. I get it. Want a truffle?”
Her eyes light up. “Yes.”
I go to the kitchen and I empty the bags. Cookies, chips, and Diet Coke go on the counter. I grab two truffles and the DVD. “Magic Mike? This looks a little like porn, Megan.” I chuckle.
“It’s not porn. It’s eye candy. Male strippers. You haven’t seen it? Channing Tatum is delicious.” She smiles.
“Ah, I do like candy.” I flash a wicked smile at her.
“You put it in and I’ll organize the snacks.”
She returns with the cookies on a plate, the chips in a bowl, side plates, and two glasses of Diet Coke over ice. The movie cued up, and I hit play.
Taking a cookie she says, “The acting is awful. We’re watching it for the dancing. And Channing’s body.” She snickers.
I sit back prepared to lose myself in silliness.
A few minutes into the movie, I hear my phone vibrate on the kitchen counter. I guess it’s Blaine, so I don’t go look. I’m not ready to deal with him yet.
During a scene full of bad acting instead of skin, I get up for ice cream. With two coffee mugs on the counter, I dig hard to get the ice cream out. That freezer is too cold; this stuff is hard as a rock.
“Casey? Did you know Blaine was coming over?”
“No. Is he here?” Crap.
“He just pulled in.” The sound of the movie stops.
I walk back to the living room, and Megan is clearing the table. “Don’t do that. I’ll tell him to go.”
“Ah, I don’t think so. He has flowers.” She carries the food into the kitchen.
Flowers? What’s that about? Did someone tell him about me dancing with Jason? Damn it. I see the movie play on the TV as I walk to the door. Megan must have muted it.
Before he can knock, I open the door. He pushes the flowers out toward me. I take them and give him a questioning look. “These are lovely. What’s the occasion?” Pale peach roses, I can’t help but be intoxicated by the smell.
He leans in for a quick kiss. Whispering, he says, “It seems like you’re mad at me. I’m apologizing in advance.” Oh, boy.
“Um. Let me put these in water.”
Back in the kitchen, Megan mouths, “What?”
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. I give her hug. “Thanks for cleaning up. You’re good at it.” A big grin is on my face.
She smiles at me. “Thanks. Keep the movie for a while. Maybe it’ll be inspiration.” She turns to leave.
I pick up my phone and read Blaine’s text. “Miss you. Are you avoiding me?” Ah, so he noticed. Damn.
I hop on the counter and search the top shelves of Clara’s cabinet, hoping to find a vase. I pull down a rectangular one with little glass pebbles in the bottom. Tim must have brought her flowers often. Cold water drowns the pebbles. They’re iridescent, and the grayness of the day makes them reflect the shades of an ocean storm. Placing the roses in the vase, I take care in arranging them. I’m stalling. With a deep sniff of the flowers I return to the living room and place them on the coffee table.
Blaine stands up and without a word pulls me close and kisses me. It’s not the tender kiss I’m used to. It’s deep and passionate. At least I think it is. I push my hips closer and notice he’s hard. My stomach flutters. He pulls me with him as he sits down on the couch. I straddle him and he says, “Kiss my neck.” I lower my head and lick the salty musk of him. Hands move under my shirt and up my back. My skin tingles in response. I don’t know where this is coming from, but I will it to keep going. Making my way back to his lips, he pushes me aside and starts to kiss my shoulder. I throw my head back and lift up so he can go lower. He responds by rising to stay on top of my shoulder. Okay, kind of weird. But heck, we seem to do weird. I grind into his hardness. It’s still there. I think it might be time to move this to the bedroom. Standing up, I pull him with me. There is no mistaking the lust in his eyes.
Once in the bedroom, I direct him to the bed and push him down so he lies on his back. I crawl onto him and start to kiss his neck. My hands lift his shirt. I feel his gentle fingers under my top and on my back. He flips me over and straddles me. He makes quick work of removing his shirt. Channing’s got nothing on Blaine. I reach up and grab the waistband of his jeans. I unbutton them and start on the zipper. He helps me. Oh, my word, this is really happening. My hands reach to pull his jeans down. His hands follow mine but pull on the boxers too. Blaine’s head is back and his eyes are closed. Wow, this is good for him.
While he stands to remove his pants, I whip my shirt off and then my bra. I waste no time. God, he’s beautiful. I lay back down as he returns to his knees. He leans over me and kisses my neck, and a hand reache
s for my breast, rubbing me the way I showed him. Waves of pleasure storm through my body. His mouth repeats the action. I reach up to touch his maleness and stroke, but he isn’t very hard. I squeeze with more pressure. Crap. Here we go again. It doesn’t work. It’s like I’m wiping it away. I stop.
He pulls himself away and sits back on the bed and says, “Fuck.” He has his head in his hands, and I can’t see his face. I’m not sure what to do. I sit up and say nothing. He gets up, grabs his pants, and pounds out without a word.
Damn it. I hear water run in the bathroom sink and get dressed. My resigned steps lead me to the living room. An almost naked Channing dances. I watch for a second, and then I go cold. My stomach clenches. My hand goes to my mouth and I whisper, “Oh, my God.” I turn and see Blaine come toward me. He has fear in his eyes.
“Casey. It’s not what you think.” He reaches for me. I stumble back.
“No. Please don’t touch me. I…” I shake my head. Where have I heard that before? Of course it’s what I think. Holy shit. He really is gay.
Blaine takes the remote and forces the TV to stop. He looks into my eyes, and I see absolute fear. Oh God, this poor man. I reach out toward him. “Blaine?” He grabs my hand like a man drowning. He latches onto me and pulls me down as he crumbles to the floor.
After what seems like an eternity, he speaks. “I don’t want to be gay. I want to be a normal man. I’ve been trying forever, but I can’t seem to make it work. I don’t know what to do.” There’s desperation in his voice.
My heart aches for him. “Blaine, I don’t think you get to make it happen.” I reach up and cup his face in my hand. “You deserve to love someone you want to be with physically. Someone whose body turns you on with a touch, who makes your skin tingle, your insides melt. Someone who makes you feel the things I’ve felt with you. Don’t you want that?”
“It’s not right.”
My heart is breaking. “You’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t see being gay as wrong or unnatural. It just is.”
