by A. R. Hadley
She was more than enough.
For all the helplessness and powerlessness he’d felt over the last several years of her disease, he finally realized he could give his mother something. He could give her what she needed most. What he needed most.
Love.
A wise woman once told him love didn't have to look like a picture-perfect postcard. How about that? It had only taken him twenty-four years to understand. It didn't look perfect.
Love looked like Constance Prescott.
Cal left the room and went upstairs, intent on writing Annie an email. A real letter but an electronic one. Words from his heart.
It was almost eleven o’clock, and Jesus, he was tired, but the urge to write her was strong.
The words came easily this time.
Dear Annie,
These last several weeks, I’ve missed you more than I thought possible. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Not because of you. You’re beautiful, Annie. God, you’re so beautiful. Any man would have to be fucking insane not to miss you. Maybe I am actually fucking insane. This house is about to make me insane, or it was…
It’s me, though. Not you. It’s always me. Fighting myself. For reasons you wouldn’t understand — or maybe you would? Because you’ve always understood me more than anyone I’ve ever known, more than I’ve been able to give you credit for. You’ve understood me better than I sometimes understand myself. I didn’t know that existed in this selfish, fucked-up world. Do you know that?
I’m tired of apologizing for my behavior, for my lacking, my constant lacking. I want you to see me. I want you to hear me. I want you to have all of me.
My mother is peaceful. That’s what I meant before. I feel a change. I spoke with her just a little while ago. I mean I really spoke with her. I told her about you. I told her about the baby. What I wouldn’t give to see a smile cross her dull face. But nothing I have can bring her back. I told her I love her. Maybe that sounds simple to you, but to me, it’s huge.
My mother never told me she loved me. Never. I never said it to her either. It was a habit. A horrible one. I regret it now, but she probably still wouldn’t hear of such foolishness in her house. How ironic that I can only tell her I love her when she can’t possibly say it back. Nor can she scold me with her blue eyes. Damn, I wish I could see the scolding.
I miss your eyes. Your eyes, Annie. They’re like a mirror to what’s really inside me. I’ve never seen myself as clearly as I do when I look at you. I need you, Annie Rebekah Baxter. I need you. That’s something I’ve never told a woman. It’s harder than saying I love you. For me anyway, but then again, that isn’t saying much. The truth is, Annie, I never did need a woman the way I need you.
I’m going to bed. It’s late. I’m tired. But I feel a strange peace too. A calm. One I haven’t felt in a long time. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt it quite like this. I hope you can have some of my peace too, or I hope you’re finding your own. I hope you’re feeling better and aren’t as nauseous as you were the last time you messaged. Please let me know … everything.
I love you, baby.
—Cal
Constance Marie Prescott died later that night, in the early morning, only hours after Cal had left her side. She’d passed in her sleep. Her struggle had ended. Her suffering had ceased. Cal privately liked to think his mother had not only heard every word that had dripped off his tongue, but that she’d understood.
She had understood.
He’d wiped a tear from her cheek, hoping she could honestly momentarily discern every word he’d spoken and every look he’d given. He hoped she’d truly felt his love. He hoped she’d felt it all along, from the day he was born.
Cal desperately wanted to believe the silent conversation Constance had had with her only child, her only son, meant she could finally let go. She could finally be free. She didn't need to hold on.
She could release.
Like a butterfly, slipping from her chrysalis, ready to fly.
Constance had loved him in her own way, and Cal knew it. Believed it. He accepted it. Her blistering love, her strong sense of self, her hard-knock ways — it all reverberated through every part of his soul.
At long last, Cal had had the courage to give his mom his love in a way he thought she never wanted. He braved giving her all of him. With that love, with her passing, came a peace.
Cal could finally let go too. He had to.
Her death freed him. It released his own pain. He unleashed the fist of tight control he’d held over his soul. His unwavering control. His own struggle had been dying a slow death right along with his mother.
And now, it could finally be put to rest.
I climb inside the walls you erected long ago
I tear them down with my bare hands
with my womb
with my sounds
with a gentle persuasion
we craft a house made of bricks
not cards
where promises
which began as whispers
become a lion’s roar
Saddle Up
ready to ride
courage
risk
Annie didn't know how long she’d been sitting on the couch in the grand room — the fire roaring across from her, the view spectacular, the photos and flames competing for her attention — editing pictures of a wedding she’d photographed on Bainbridge Island when she heard a rap on the door.
Who the fuck would’ve ventured out into the cold December Washington weather? What was it, like twenty-four degrees? Well, who would’ve been outside besides her crazy cigarette fiend of a mother?
Annie glanced toward the sliding glass door and shook her head.
Beverly had her own fire going outside at the tip of her Marlboro despite the freezing frickin' cold. Florida had apparently rubbed off on Annie. She missed the ocean breeze and warmer temperatures. Her mother must’ve been oblivious to the knock … the same way she wasn’t cognizant of most things.
As Annie made her way toward the foyer, her softest slippers shuffled against the hardwood, blue jeans hugged her hips, resting below her blip of a belly, and her black, long-sleeved shirt extended well over her Levis, the lamb's wool clinging to her skin.
Cuffs tucked into her palms, Annie cracked the door, then sucked in a sharp breath and opened it wider.
Holy fuck…
Cal fucking Prescott.
He looked fresh.
Gorgeous.
He looked like he belonged to her.
A coat over his clothes, the collar around his neck, dark-blue jeans and boots — hot despite the cold. How was that possible? She could feel a wonderful stinging behind her neck. The hairs all over her body stood at his commanding presence.
Cal stared at Annie, their gazes locking.
His green eyes seemed more intense than she remembered, and they roved over her the way they had the first time he’d seen her on the staircase at Maggie’s.
Motionless, she cradled the door, frozen like the air. Both of them stood staring, silent for a few seconds, gazing into each other’s eyes. God, Annie felt warm all over, roasting, even though the cold air hit her flesh.
"Hello, Annie." His voice still sounded like sex. A smooth metronome.
She didn't flinch. Didn't move a muscle. She didn’t even blink. "What are you doing here?"
Cal touched the wood trim on the outer frame of the door. "You stopped emailing me."
He flung his bold eyes in her direction, and the force of his gaze struck her. He immediately saw all she had been and was and could be, just as he always had.
“You didn’t answer my calls.”
"So, you just show up here after … what? Months. Without even a word?"
“No, I called. You didn’t answer.”
“Would you like a medal for your efforts?”
Cal let out a deep, shaky breath and looked at Annie. He continued to fiddle with the wood. It would probably give him a splinter.
/>
"Constance died a few days ago." He shifted his eyes, but it was no good.
Annie saw the look in them even though he did his best to hide it. She saw the vulnerability sweep over his face and saw him hold it back by the reins with the might of one hundred gorillas. Her frustration over his absence immediately softened. She wanted nothing more than to douse his pain.
Dropping her hand from the door, she stepped toward him, but he pulled back.
It was subtle, but he pulled back.
Annie wanted to reach out and grab him. She wanted to pull him in close, but after weeks and weeks of not touching him, it seemed he didn’t want her embrace, and so she held back. She put her thumbs in her front pockets and inched away. Her heart followed.
"Oh, Cal," she said, leaning toward him again without a place to go. "I'm so sorry."
"How are you? How have you been feeling?" he interjected, glancing at her belly, avoiding her beautiful sympathy and unwavering compassion.
"I'm fine. The baby’s fine." Her eyes darted around his lost face. “I felt it move.”
“Just now?”
“No.” She smiled, realizing his voice had gone up an octave. "Last night. I felt it for the first time. I think."
Cal’s eyes were fixated on the damn cedar trim all along the frame as he fidgeted with a splintered piece and smoothed his fingers over the non-jagged edges. Then he stopped and looked directly at Annie.
"Are you going to ask me in? It’s freaking cold out here." He peered at her in the same way he’d spoken — indifferent — as the warm air from his mouth mixed with the cold. Clouds blew toward her face.
Annie narrowed her eyes, trying to gut him with a fierce stare all her own. And, as usual, it probably wasn’t working.
With the cuff of her black sweater bunched inside her fist, she rested her palm over her cold nose, resisting the impulse to smother him and kiss him and hug him — the impulse she had to let him in.
Do I want him to come inside?
Do I want him to meet my mother?
She didn’t trust herself around Cal.
No matter his attitude or absence or sadness, Annie wanted the motherfucker with a passion.
And now to find out his mother had died. Died. How could he not have told her? He’d called, but she hadn’t wanted to hear his voice. It would’ve been too much. Now he was here. And typical Cal — he was too much.
His presence was an army, and now the soldiers wanted to break down the front door. She was a nice little bundle of shock and nerves and shock. She needed to pull it together. Relenting, she relaxed her posture and stopped the ridiculous squinting. It wasn't working anyway.
She gestured for him to come in, rolling her hand in a circular pattern, trying not to roll her eyes. Instead, she bit the insides of her cheeks.
After stepping over the threshold, Cal looked around, glanced up at the high wood beams across the ceiling, then toward the fireplace — not talking — past the thick pillars separating the entry from the grand room and began to remove his coat.
Not. Talking.
Annie slipped up behind him and finished sliding the wool coat off his shoulders. She couldn’t help but bring the material to her nose.
Holy shit. His smell. Gah!
Why did he have to smell so good? The same as she remembered: beach, cotton, coconut. She hung the garment on the hook near the door, trying to ignore the scent.
Hold. It. Together.
Mmm … but the smell. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. I'm melting.
Annie rolled her eyes at her out-of-control hormones and animal-like attraction, and then she turned and stared at Cal's profile.
He did look good, not just handsome, but well. The peace he’d wrote about in the heartfelt email was obvious. The email she’d ignored because she’d been hurting. Tired of holding out for more, and when it had finally come, she’d ignored it, hurting and aching, wishing to turn him off and tune him out, thinking avoidance meant not feeling pain.
Apparently, he must’ve thought the same thing.
She hurt now.
She ached.
The uncertainty of it all was more than she could stand.
"Why didn't you tell me about your mother sooner?"
“Annie, I called."
He didn't take his eyes off the walls. He may as well have been talking to them. They seemed friendly. He. Called. How nice. Why couldn't they move on from the lack-of-communication bullshit?
“I’m sorry," she exhaled.
Quiet — still not elaborating — Cal walked farther into the home, running his hand over his clean-shaven face. It was his first time seeing where Annie had spent part of her life, and he moved about the space like he owned it.
Annie blew past him. She stopped at the kitchen table, where she picked up her water glass and took a sip, swallowing past her tight stomach. The tension in the room was rising, making a swimming pool of her thoughts. She was drowning. Help. Nothing she could say would make it better.
She had forgotten the sensations Cal provided.
The butterflies. The anticipation. The pins and needles. She had forgotten the fucking quiet.
She didn’t much like it: the tightness, the tension, or the smug look now on his face. Still, despite his cocky stance and his denial, despite his fucking quiet, he appeared to be holding on or holding back or waiting.
I want to tell him I missed him. I missed you, you big jerk. I want to tell him how much I've hurt.
But he had fucked a promise into her. Understand me, Annie. Be patient, Annie. Timing, Annie.
God, she wanted to know just what in the hell he was doing at her house — and prying that out of Cal could be worse than pulling out a million teeth.
Cal glanced at her while casually making his way over, still smug. They met on opposite ends of the rectangular table, facing each other while standing at the backs of the chairs.
"Do I not even get so much as a hug from you after all this time?" he asked with a smart-ass gaze and stance.
Was that supposed to be a sick joke?
As Annie set her glass down, her heart took over her throat.
She glared at him with a cold confidence, standing her ground. Why was he being cruel? If he had wanted a hug, he could’ve had one when the front door swung open.
He knew she wanted his embrace.
He knew she couldn’t resist him.
He knew she would give him...
All. Of. Her.
Cal noticed her hesitation. Her expression. He waited for an answer, but she didn’t move a single muscle.
"What, Annie?" He stared her down while smoothing his palm over the tabletop. "Do you think if you touch me I'm going to just fuck you — right here — on the kitchen table?"
If Cal hadn’t been thinking about having Annie before that moment, he was thinking about it now.
He could see in her eyes she wanted him too.
God, how he missed her.
He could never be as free with anyone as she allowed him to be. And the freedom she gave didn't cost a thing.
It was truly free.
It came without him having to sacrifice a part of himself. He never knew he could feel this kind of love without sacrifice. There had always been one. Love never seemed complete. And now, here she was, Annie, pregnant and beautiful, him wanting to marry her, and still he was able to take her and fuck her on this table at the spur of the moment if he wanted to.
Annie was what he needed.
Cal could be himself with her fully — sexually and emotionally. He peered at her, wondering if she realized all she gave him.
"You never hesitated before." Annie matched his gaze from across the table. Tossed him the Ping-Pong ball.
"I can recall a time when I needed your permission first." Ping. Pong.
"And I can recall that never stopped you from trying," she said, ready to change the subject. "Did you come all this way for a freaking hug?"
Now she might cry. She swallowed back t
he gunk. Don't cry. Deep breath. Inhale. He would not see her cry.
Cal's face changed from playful and domineering to lost little boy. "I have something to give you that was my mother’s."
Annie’s stomach tingled deep in the pit of her gut. Her logic was trying to make sense of it all, but her adrenaline won. It was off-the-charts high. Her insides rattled with anticipation.
"Don't you think that’s something personal you should hold on to?"
Cal was distracted from the question by Annie's mother walking through the sliding glass door to his left with a dog trailing behind her. Beverly's face lit up with inquisition.
"I didn't know you were planning on company today," Bev said, standing near the center of the table, looking at Cal on her right and Annie on her left.
"Neither did I. Mother, this is Cal. Cal, this is my mom, Beverly."
Beverly made a strange noise, a quiet little pig squeal. God, she sounded like Barney. She picked up the pug and introduced him in her expert baby tone, then scratched the dog behind his ears as he snorted.
“It’s nice to meet you both,” he said, feigning a smile as he looked to Annie for solace. Strange, he was actually starting to become uncharacteristically nervous as his time in Annie's presence ticked on.
“Would you like something to drink, Cal? I see my daughter hasn’t given you anything." Bev glared at Annie as she set Barney down. “We have water and juice, or I can make coffee.”
"I would like a whiskey, please, if you have it." He asked as if he’d been in her home a hundred times over, as if Bev weren't an alcoholic. His eyes never left Annie's.
"Oh, well, a man after my own heart. Jameson okay?" Bev said, and Cal nodded as she grabbed the bottle from the upper cabinet and poured a glass.
“How long will you be staying?” Bev handed him the drink.
He took a sip while looking out at the room over the rim of the glass, the same strange uneasiness part of his eyes and hips.
"Mom, I think we need some privacy," Annie said before Cal had a chance to speak, sensing his hesitation, picking up on his unusual trepidation.
