Retreat to Love

by Greene, Melanie

  As his mouth moved down my throat, his hands up my ribs, I don’t know what I did. I remember the feel of his vertebrae and muscles, their contours under my fingertips and the stretch of his cotton t-shirt across the backs of my hands. I’ll know when I’m eighty the electricity of our thighs touching through my jeans and his, the muscles contracting for each other as if transmitting some sort of code. Which they were, a message of tender urgency, a need needier than just need: it was demanding, but solicitous. My shirt didn’t last long; his fly flew open. We were talking but not listening to ourselves or each other, just touching: flesh, tongue, cloth, and mind to mind.

  He sat up enough to pull off his shirt, then we rolled so I hung over him. As I tasted his chest, he swept my hair into his hands, and my breasts brushed his skin, nipples crinkled hard through their restraining cotton. My crotch slid down his thigh, encountered his kneecap, stayed for a ride. One half of me was flitting over him like a butterfly, agonizingly light, while the other half dug in, desperate to meld.

  Each stretch of skin he touched radiated chills to my nerve endings. All my favorite romance novel descriptions kept flying through my head: hot loins, pulsating desire, searing flames of passion. I giggled, trying to come up with a definition for ‘loins’—was it a gender-specific term? I decided if I had them, they were somewhere between the belly button and the actual genitalia, because that’s where I was most throbbing. Eventually Caleb paused long enough to ask if I was ticklish, his hand playing gentle sonatas on my abdomen, which, I was embarrassed to note, quivered with delight.

  “You? Want me to stop?” he was reluctant to ask.

  “Oh Goddess no.” His flushed face in the half-dark was even more gorgeous. I was becoming quite fond of his jaw line and the faint ‘hmm’ he often breathed before speaking. It was so deep and low in his throat, you hardly noticed it, unless you were close to him. He hummed it a bit while he was kissing me, too.

  His eyes scanned my face, searching for latent reluctance. I grinned at him. “You know what I am? I’m giddy.” But he didn’t look any more reassured. “Happy,” I clarified. “Giddy. Pleased to be here, to be with you.” I kissed his cheek and whispered, “Excited.”

  A hmm-groan. Woah. I was going places on his voice alone. Then there was his warm breath on my nipples, making me want to cry every time he moved his mouth from one to the other. And the sheer solidity of his torso, the grace and ease with which he moved his body over, under, around mine, as if we were the two parts of a lava lamp sliding and curving around each other, fitting, our shapes defined by each other—sinuous oil and water dancing, always moving but never parting.

  It’s not like I hadn’t had good sex before. It’s not like I hadn’t had shit-hot sex before. But frankly, it had been a while. And there was an electricity with Caleb which, if I’d felt it before, I didn’t remember.

  He was so tender, then. So damn tender I did cry, and he kissed my tears, and we were carried away to some salt-water world where we were each other’s life rafts, and we clung to each other, buffeted by the waves, and it took us a long time to arrive at the shores of our own personal desert island together.

  When I could breathe semi-normally again, I pulled the quilt up over the drying sweat of our limbs, rolled into his embrace, and just said, “Cool.”

  He burst into laughter. “Ashlyn May, you are the queen of understatement.”

  “So shoot me.”

  “Okay.” He rolled over and leaned off the bed a minute, then came back up and pointed his loaded Canon at me. I dove for cover under the quilt but he took his pictures anyway.

  “My hair’s a mess,” I squealed, and twisted then pinned him down so I could snatch the camera and take one of his mock-horrified face bleached by the flash bulb. Then he chased me into the bathroom to get it back, which was an amusing sight since he still wore the spent condom.

  Soon enough we were naked as jaybirds in the shower together, where Caleb proved to have quite the back-scrubbing arsenal. I’d never felt anything like it. I was putty—not boring putty-colored putty, but Aegean Sea turquoise and teal putty, as smooth as the sand at low tide, as relaxed as a day in the sun listening to the waves. As willing to give in to his natural force as a dune in the wind. Whatever else, if the time came I would be making spiteful quilts about him, I held myself to being glad I—we—had decided to ignore any reservations and just go for it.

  When morning came I felt the same. Caleb was a peaceful sleeper and he didn’t rumble or start or, blessedly, drool. Like a sexy log to curl up against, with a gentle radiance keeping my feet warm and my heart warmer.

  I don’t know if we were stealthy going to breakfast, but we didn’t leave together, since Caleb had to spend the morning setting up his exhibition for us. I had seen a few prints and we’d talked plenty about our respective projects, but I was curious—a little trepidatious, to be honest—to see the finished products. He had a good eye. The photos were sharp and original, kind of nervy in the way they got into your visual field, but I couldn’t imagine the message coming together the way he’d enthused about. I was afraid the brashness of the image quality wouldn’t gel with the natural theme.

  But that’s what the artist does, is make his or her mind’s eye apparent in unexpected ways. If it were beautiful but expected, it’d be design, not of art. Or so a theory went, anyway.

  And Caleb pulled it off.

  Fearing my lack of objectivity would lead me to talk over his work in an effort to ‘make’ everyone like it and praise Caleb, I winked at him and held my tongue. But it was exciting to see my pregnant doe grazing on the porch of the ice cream shop, and the woodpecker who hung out in the glare of the afternoon sun outside the computer room instead attacking his reflection in what looked to be the men’s room of the Austin airport. He had images from California, too—a tumble of ice plant growing down the windshield of a Porsche. A blue jay, presumably as naked as we were the night before, fussing at the squirrel who sat at the desk opposite his. The edginess of the photos kept them on the provocative side of kitsch.

  All in all, the group was pleased. A couple of the shots fell flat, and after some discussion we still couldn’t pinpoint why, but Rafa went so far as to give him a nod and a slap on the back at the same time, and Wren, who had been rather sullen going in, got downright chatty about his use of light enhancing the blended truth.

  No one had much to say to me. Wren and Lizzy took off together, not shunning me but not going out of their way to ask me along. Or Caleb. So we were left to entertain each other.

  We spent the night at ValeSong again, then decided to switch to LakeFire the next morning, for a change. I went back to my studio to work on Patchy Men after breakfast then packed a duffel with extra underwear and socks and other essentials, and left it at Caleb’s. He was in the darkroom, and as I was coming out I thought I heard a noise at the door, so I paused to wait for him. But instead it was Angelica at Brandon’s door, and we were face to face coming out of cabins not our own.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  I paused. “Lunch time?”

  “It should be. I was just helping him set up his studio.”

  “Oh,” I nodded. We had to look at Brandon’s pics soon, I’d forgotten. Guess I couldn’t worm my way out of it anymore. Opting against explaining my own presence, I said, “Well, that’s nice of you. Should be fun to see his stuff.”

  “Yeah, it looks great. I think it’ll be a hit.”

  I suppressed my smirk mid-way and tried to model a grin. “I’m sure.”

  “See ya at lunch, then,” she said, since I hadn’t moved off of Caleb’s porch. This time I knew the sounds were from the darkroom door.

  I nodded again. I was beginning to feel like a bobble-headed doll. She walked off, but turned at the sound of Caleb’s emergence into the light. I smiled at him but didn’t say anything, inclining my head towards Angelica turning back towards the Main House.

  “Hi. You ready to eat?” he asked, nibbl
ing at my neck.

  I tasted his warm skin. “Starved. You?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Sometimes his laughter vibrated out of him, as if from some earthquake-prone core of his being. It was fabulous.

  Chapter 13

  Brandon’s work was about as derivative and uninspired as, well, Brandon himself. He’d even included some of those dumb tree prints digitally tinted mauve and orange, and didn’t even try to justify them. I mean, even a blind pig will occasionally snuffle up an acorn, but this stuff was unredeemed.

  Rafael didn’t bother to show—I was beginning to respect his judgments. Angelica, meanwhile, was fluttering around straightening things and Theo was standing against the back wall as if Spackle pasted him to it, arms across his chest. And then it happened.

  Brandon, mid-drivel about how he’d started out because of rave reviews of his sister’s wedding portraits, turned and said, “Where is my shot of the bride and groom by the cake, Angel?”

  And Angelica said, “Oh I think you left it on the bed after you showed me. I’ll get it.” And she darted through the study door.

  Theo, I don’t know how to say it. He imploded or something. He had a bowling ball to the gut look, arms unhinged at his sides. Angelica gave him a long stare then pointedly turned away and handed the photo to Brandon. Theo nearly fell. Caleb caught hold of his arm and, hand on his back, walked him outside, Lizzy at their heels.

  Angelica just stared after him. “What is his problem, anyway?” she shrugged at Wren, and Wren shrugged back. We glanced at the wedding photo—sharp focus on icing flowers, blurred be-jeweled hand feeding mustache-framed face—and fumbled out farewells. Angelica stayed behind.

  “Okay, I know Theo was a jerk with his painting and all,” I said to Wren as we hit the back path to my cabin, “but did she just pull a stone cold move or what?”

  “No shit.” She sounded stunned, too.

  “What a pair.”

  She barked a laugh. “What a ménage. Can they suit each other less and deserve each other more?”

  Then we were both laughing in the clearing and I hugged her and asked, “You will tell me if I piss you off, won’t you?”

  “No.”

  I stared at her, unable to figure if the laughter had washed clear the air between us, or if it was just a break in the storm.

  She squeezed my arm. “Well, maybe. Only if it’s enough to make a difference.”

  It felt sincere. “Fair enough. But you have to promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good.”

  I brought her in and showed her the sketches for Nine Patchy Men, which she was, predictably, very helpful about. By the time we’d rearranged the layout and tightened up the lines, she had to go make dinner. I offered to help, in case Rafa was MIA.

  Caleb came up behind us on the path and put an arm around both our shoulders. The barometer spun as happy warmth at his touch collided with the cold front of Wren’s reaction to his peck on my cheek. Men can be so stupid.

  She joked it off, but didn’t make us welcome in the kitchen, already crowded with Rafael in there, wrist-deep in some dough and muttering something about stirring the tomato sauce before it scalded. Caleb and I headed to the computer room.

  Zach finalized our plans for Friday—he would pick me up at the May-family version of bright and early, which put us in Houston in time to have a visit with Gran before the birthday party. Frank was in on our attempt at surprise, and would bring her to their favorite Tex-Mex joint, where we’d arranged for candles in a tray of her favorite spinach enchiladas, since Bernadette wouldn’t eat the refined sugar in a cake.

  Zach replied to my reply right away—he must have been frustrated or bored with his current project, ‘cause normally he won’t stop what he’s doing for fear of losing his groove—and asked why Caleb and I were both in the lab instead of working.

  “Hey, quit writing my brother.”

  “Quit writing my friend,” he countered.

  “What did you tell him? Did you tell him about us?”

  “Oh, you’re ashamed of me now?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s your problem?” He grinned and muttered as he hunted and pecked with the hand not resting on my leg, “What is your sister’s problem? Send.”

  A moment later, from Zach: “What is your problem? Is there a problem all the sudden?”

  So I copied Caleb on my reply: “The only problem is people trying to interrupt my creative juices.”

  From Caleb: “I’d never interrupt your juices.”

  From Zach: “I think I don’t want to know.”

  From me: “I give up on you both.” And I logged out.

  When Caleb and I looked at each other, we burst into giggles, just in time for Wren to pop in and announce dinner. By the time we closed ourselves in Caleb’s cabin, I was shy again. His turf continued to disorient me, despite the stern talking-to I gave myself: why was I having mini anxiety attacks when we’d had a couple of nights together and he had yet to reveal latent axe-murderer tendencies? Being in LakeFire was hardly a step too far from home. And ValeSong wasn’t even my real comfort zone; it was just a place I’d been sleeping for a couple of weeks.

  Caleb, though, was a doll. A big sexy doll. He didn’t even ask me why I was so jittery, just wrapped me in a bear hug and suggested we take a shower to relax. A brief Psycho image phased out to the rhythm of his fingers across my shoulder blades, circling and testing the knots, gradually convincing them—and me—to relax.

  Once we were clean, calm, dry, tense again, wet again, dirty again, and dry again, I was feeling at ease. The endorphin buzz and the way Caleb’s hand moved up and down my spine like it was frets on a jazz guitar had me at maximum zoned out.

  That, of course, is when it happened. It could have been twenty minutes earlier, and neither of us would have cared, but in the quiet it made quite a racket.

  “What is that?” Caleb asked me, sitting up. “Who is that?”

  I listened. It was eerie enough I tucked the sheet protectively around my torso—Psycho visions again, perfect—but I eventually deciphered it. “I think it’s Theo. He’s calling for Angelica.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess he misses her.” Obviously.

  “No, why here?”

  “He’s probably at Brandon’s, not here.” He was still confused. “They’re sleeping together.”

  “What?”

  I got out of bed and found some of my clothes. “Just for the past couple of days—but I guess he figured it out at the studio visit today.”

  Caleb dressed, too, and I gave him credit for not asking me more, though he clearly didn’t know how I knew, or how Theo knew.

  Theo, meanwhile, continued sobbing. By the low gold light of the moon, we found him right at the edge of the woods, staring in Brandon’s dark bedroom window. “Hey, Theo,” Caleb started, but it didn’t do much.

  I sat next to him in the pine needles. His flannel shirt didn’t hide the way his arms trembled. “Sweetie, I don’t think they’re in there.”

  He just looked at me. His eyes were freaky-shiny and unfocused.

  “I don’t think they’re in there,” I repeated, the image of patience, a calm palm on his shoulder. “Do you want to come inside?”

  “Uh,” Caleb began. Shrugged. “Let me help you up.” He offered his hand.

  “Am I at your cabin?” Theo asked me, slowly.

  “No, sweetie, I was visiting Caleb. Will you come in?”

  “Where’s Angelica?” It was hard to make out his words, what with the mucous drain and all—but every syllable compressed the available space in my lungs.

  I worked on keeping my voice smooth and focused. “I don’t know. She’s probably at home.”

  “I went there!” He stood up and threw his arm towards the north. “No answer.”

  “Come on inside. We’ll figure it out.”

  Finally he started nodding, and Caleb led him inside. I got him some tissues a
nd a glass of water, and he swabbed at his face. A couple of ragged breaths later, he met my gaze.

  “You okay, sweetie?”

  “You don’t know where she is?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “You promise?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But she’s with him?”

  I nodded. “Probably.”

  “I guess it’s okay, then.”

  Caleb looked quick at me. “What did he say? What’s okay?”

  Theo just sighed. My own breath wasn’t coming so readily.

  “What’s up, Theo?” I asked, rubbing his upper back. “Tell us what’s going on?”

  His eyes were totally bloodshot, the rims shadowed. “I thought she’d come back, but she didn’t. And then she went with him. Him! Of all people; he has no soul. We laughed about him.” Theo closed his eyes and slumped against the back of the chair. My hand was trapped. “I took some pills. Aspirins, a lot. I didn’t want to tell anyone but Angelica, but she’s not there, and I think I need to tell someone.”

  “My God.”

  “You what?” I pushed him to sitting, felt his cheek—why, I don’t know, but I did. It was clammy. “Theo, are you serious?” But I knew he was. He’d gone beyond tears and into some interior whirlpool of depression.

  Caleb crouched at his feet, shook him. “My God, you idiot. How much did you take?” Theo didn’t look at him. “Can you throw up? If I help you, can you throw it up?”

  He shook his head. I said, “I don’t know if that’s safe. Is it safe?”

  “I think he should.”

  “I don’t think he even can.”

  Theo tried to slump again, and together we pulled him to his feet. Squeezing Caleb’s hand, I scanned the cabin, as if its amenities would suddenly include a paramedic where none had been there before. Focus. I gripped Caleb tighter, dug my fingertips into his Mount of Venus. Found a plan. “Look, I’ll run to the Main House, call 911. You walk him over there. Can you?”