All the air left my chest. I hadn’t even said it out loud before, but I didn’t deny it. “I haven’t crossed the line with her. I wouldn’t do that.”
And I didn’t—even though Celeste and I began to spend more and more time together. We ate together at work, hung out after. I never went to the bar anymore. I couldn’t stand to watch Brent. I knew he was hurting, and that’s why he was acting out, but I didn’t want a front row seat. I did have a front row seat for Celeste’s pregnancy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ANNALYSE
I can’t believe I was in New York this morning, and now need to get ready for my overnight date with Holt. Talk about switching gears. But it’s all good stuff. The meeting with the agent was much more laid back than I thought it would be. But there’s still some hoops to jump through before I sign any deals. Namely, they want me to submit my first thirty pages. I guess they want to see how I plan on translating a bunch of random blog posts into one coherent book. Hell, I want to see that, too! It causes me some stress—good stress, though. Since the holidays are coming up, they’ve given me until the end of January, so I’ve got time on that.
What I’m running short on time for is getting ready for my night with Holt, so I enlisted some help. I’m questioning that decision. I don’t know what I was thinking asking two senior citizen lesbians and a hormonal, pregnant mom of two to help me get ready for my date. It was a serious lack of judgment on my part, but Meg wasn’t in the country, so I took what I could get. Maybe opening up that third bottle of wine wasn’t such a good idea.
“Is your bush whacked?” Rachel asks, and she’s not even drinking.
“You’re crazy!”
“You’ve got to take care of that situation,” Rachel says. “Holt’s a gynecologist, so he’s probably seen all kinds of out of control bush. Take a cleaver to your beaver!”
“Stop it,” I say, laughing uncontrollably.
Judy just shakes her head at us and asks, “He must like what he sees if he wants more. So what are you wearing?”
“I have no idea. I can’t make it past my underwear. I mean, do guys really care if your bra and panties match?”
“No, they don’t care at all, but it’s nice to make the effort. Shows you care,” Rachel says.
“Okay,” I say then pull out a pretty matching set of pale blue panties and bra to wear and a matching set of pink ones to pack. I figure I’ll be sleeping naked so that takes care of that. “He won’t tell me what we’re doing, so I don’t know what to wear.”
Carla puts down her glass of wine, heading for the closet. “This sweater dress is nice.”
“It’s backless,” I say, holding it up to my body.
“Well, if you don’t have it in the front, flaunt it in the back,” Rachel says.
She’s completely right that I don’t have anything to be proud of in the boob department. “Guess that will solve the bra and panty debate too. I’ll just go without a bra.”
“Now you’re talking, sister,” Carla says.
“You’ve got to give me some juice on Holt. Is he as intense in bed as he looks like he’d be?” Rachel asks. “You don’t have to tell me his size or anything. Just is he boyfriend dick or vacation dick?”
“What?” I laugh out.
“You know, is he so huge that you could only handle that for a short time, like on vacation? Or is his dick so perfect in size and shape that you could ride it forever?”
“Wouldn’t that be husband dick?” I joke.
“I’ve managed to avoid penis my whole life,” Judy says, “and one evening with you girls, and I’ve got images running around in head. Little cartoon cocks with nametags. Hello, my name is . . .” She can’t finish her sentence she’s laughing so hard.
Carla rolls her eyes. “It’s nice you’re getting back out there, Annalyse.”
“It feels good. And I find myself hoping it lasts.”
The Dirty Truth Blog
November 19
Building love
An old proverb says, “The eyes are the window to the soul.” So I’m wondering why his are always closed.
Is it to keep me from looking in? Or to keep the darkness from getting out?
I hear the average heart is the size of a fist.
Is that because if you want love, you have to fight for it?
Oscar Wilde said, “Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.”
But that doesn’t get you a pass not to try to understand.
Cher said, “Men are a luxury, not a necessity.”
That one I just like a lot.
Love—there’s been countless songs written about it, poems, movies, television shows. It’s the center of who we are as people. I don’t believe we are on this earth for fame or fortune. I believe we are here to learn to love.
So how do we go about building this love we are so desperate for? Like anything, you’ve got to lay the foundation. You can’t start at the top and work your way down.
Have you ever watched two people fall in love? Did it happen quickly or was it a slow burn? Did they start off as friends that turned to lovers? Were they fuck buddies who ended up lifelong partners? Was it the standard meet, date, fall in love? Were they scared or did they go all in?
That’s the problem with love—there’s no right or wrong way to do it. And can I just say, I think the term “falling in love” is all wrong. We should be saying “building love.” Falling in love and out of love seems to happen everyday. What we ought to be doing is building love that lasts. Building it on trust, laughter, honesty, and yes, sex!
I’m not going to sit here and list all the mushy emotions you need to make a relationship work. Yes, you need those things, but let’s face it. If your man doesn’t know how to kiss you, fuck you, make you weak in the knees, then it ain’t going to work, either. And you should be able to do those things for him, too. Passion is just as important as anything else. That’s why there’s no right way to build love. A one-night stand can turn into the love of your life. Passion may be the first layer of the foundation to build on.
But what if you get stuck?
Unfortunately, love is hard. It hurts. But love is also the ultimate healer, too.
I’ve walked around numb for years. The only thing that has lessened my hurt is love. Love from my sister, my friends. But it’s not just getting love that heals us. It’s when we give love that we are healed the most. I think we take love with us when we die. Those that have passed on have our love with them.
I have to believe that.
So to all the people who I love in my life, living and dead, I hope you know what’s in my heart, no matter the distance between us.
Maybe that’s the point. The point of everything.
Love lives forever.
*
ANNALYSE
Holt’s late. That’s not a good sign for our first official date. He did call, so that counts for something. Besides, he doesn’t have control over when women go into labor. I recheck my overnight bag to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I used to live out of a suitcase, so I have packing down to a science, and I haven’t lost my touch. I double-check that I’ve packed my toothbrush, razor, and deodorant. More than once, I’ve forgotten deodorant and was reduced to using hand sanitizer. Don’t judge me, it works in a pinch. The worst is forgetting tampons when you are traveling abroad. Did you know that in a lot of countries, tampons don’t have strings? Gross!
Suddenly, I realize I’m forgetting my sunglasses. It’s starting to get dark out now, but I’ll need them for tomorrow. I’m sure they’re in Meg’s car. Stepping into the garage, I flick on the light. The fluorescents hit the chrome on Logan’s bike. Damn thing looks like it’s smiling at me. Logan is obviously happy about my date. Running my hand across the seat, I circle the bike. It’s a shame she’s locked up all the time. She deserves to get her life back, too.
“Annalyse,” I hear Holt calling out. We talked while I was gone. I gave him all the details
on how well things went in New York with the agent, but it’s not the same as being with him. And I can’t wait to get to him. It’s only been a little over twenty-four hours since I’ve seen him, but apparently my heart can’t tell time.
He meets me at the door to the garage, pinning me to the doorframe, but he doesn’t kiss me. His eyes lock on mine. They’re no words, no kissing—his eyes are telling the whole story, though. It starts with how much he missed me, turning into how much he wants me, and ends with how he never wants to be without me again. It’s all right there, laid out through the open window to his soul.
“Me, too,” I whisper, leaning close, my eyes looking down to his lips then back up into his eyes. Slipping my hands around his waist, I give his mouth one last look. “Me, too,” I say again.
He kisses me slowly, like he’s trying to kiss me long and deep enough to make up for all the kisses we missed while I was gone. Then he does something he’s never done before. He ends the kiss with a hug, pulling me into him, his arms wrapped completely around me, trying to tell me he missed all of me.
“I hated that I was late, today of all days. I’m sorry,” he says softly, playing with my hair.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“What’re you doing in here?” he asks.
“Think I might be saying goodbye,” I say, walking back over to the motorcycle. “Maybe it’s time to get rid of her.”
“Don’t do that because of me,” he says, staying in his spot by the door. I don’t think he wants to interrupt or intrude on my memories of Logan.
“It has nothing to do with you. I’m moving on with my life, and she should, too.” I run my hand along the handlebars then turn to Holt. “No decision yet; I’m just thinking about it.”
He holds his hand out to me. “We really need to get going.”
“I’m ready,” I say, taking his hand.
*
Nothing could prepare me for the most romantic date in forever. I had hours on the flight home to think about what he had planned. I figured dinner and maybe a night at a downtown hotel. I wasn’t prepared for the amount of thought he must have put into this. We took his SUV to Hot Springs, which is about an hour west of Little Rock, and checked into a spa hotel, which I knew to be the best in town.
Then he took me to see the Christmas lights at Garvan Gardens. It was the opening weekend for the display. There’s something like four billion lights that cover the seventeen-acre forest. It’s completely beautiful. There’s something about Christmas lights and hot chocolate that makes you feel like a kid again, that makes you believe in magic, and all the things you can’t see—like love.
Holt pulls my winter hat down, covering my ears, and adjusts my scarf. Then I crash my lips into his. “I want to see everything—the lights, the carolers. I might even sit on Santa’s lap.”
He swats my butt. “That’s where I draw the line. Your ass is mine.”
But I sit on Santa’s lap, anyway. Holt even buys the stupid picture, but I don’t care. I’m having the best time, and I can tell he is, too. He hasn’t stopped smiling since we left Little Rock. I swear, I even caught him whistling, but he denied it.
“I wish it was snowing,” I say as Holt sticks hand warmers inside my gloves. He came prepared for anything, as usual. He’s probably got umbrellas, life preservers, and a fire extinguisher in the back of his SUV.
He leads me along a little path and pushes open a huge wood and glass door. “Wow!” Stepping inside, I feel like I’m in a tree house. As tall as a small office building, the chapel is covered in floor to ceiling windows, the rest thin, wooden beams. And at the altar stands a huge Christmas tree covered in white lights. “I believed in Santa until I was like twelve.”
He chuckles. “Me, too. My mom gave me the sex talk and broke the news about Santa at the same time. Scarred me for life. Never will think of Santa and Mrs. Claus the same way.”
I cuddle into his side. Why are guys always so warm? Ever notice that? I’m almost always cold. Not Holt. We’ve been walking around in freezing temperatures all night, and he still feels so warm. And he never minds me putting my cold hands or feet on him. Love that about him. Snuggling deeper, I say, “Think I’ll get a tree this year. I haven’t ever done that. Never had my own, I mean.”
“I haven’t put a tree up in years,” Holt says. “But I know a place. It’s on the way back. You can cut your own tree down and everything.”
“Can we go?” I ask.
He kisses the top of my head. “Sure, think I’ll get one, too.”
“We can decorate them on Thanksgiving,” I say.
“I’m on call for the holiday.” Feeling my excitement grow heavy, I start to put my scarf back on. “You know, maybe we should just get a tree together,” Holt says.
“I’ll keep it at my house. Meg and Patrick are coming back, so there should be a tree.”
“That works,” he says. “Sorry about Thanksgiving. I just can’t plan anything. I’d hate to plan some big meal and have things get ruined.”
“I’ve been alone plenty of holidays. It doesn’t bother me.”
His nose wrinkles up in this cute little way. Obviously, the thought of me alone on a holiday bothers him. “What if we just keep it simple? Have takeout, maybe watch a movie,” he says.
“Throw in decorating the tree, and you’ve got a deal.”
He kisses me in agreement. “We should get going. I’ve got special plans for you.”
I’m really hoping these plans involve nudity. We haven’t had sex in weeks because of the flu and my period. I’m not sure how I went all those years celibate. I miss it. No, I miss him.
Being a travel writer, I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels. Some glamorous, others not so much. And Holt definitely took more the glamour route when he booked this room. A huge, king size bed, jetted tub, but the best part is the dual fireplace that you can see from the bedroom and bathroom. The fabulous room wasn’t even the shocker. As soon as we get to the room, I see the candles surrounding the huge tub and realize his surprise.
The name Hot Springs kind of gives it away, but the town is named for these natural hot springs that have been known for centuries to relieve common body aches and pains. People come from all over to have one of these natural thermal mineral baths. There is actually an entire area in town called “bath house row.” Our hotel is one of the few that has one of these natural springs inside it.
It isn’t long before he’s holding me in the bathtub, the fireplace the only light in the room. The flames dance, showing off their vibrant colors—red, yellow, orange. And if you look close enough at the bottom of the flame, where the hottest fire burns white, it almost looks blue.
Despite the raging fire, the warm mineral water starts to cool. Our conversation is light and fun, but my heart is freaking out—and the voices in my head suddenly get loud. Why’d I have to ask for a date? As if it matters, anyway. I can’t seem to stop what I’m feeling. And even though I know it’s going to end in a disaster, I don’t want it to stop. Nothing could possibly hurt as badly as what I’ve already been though, right? We step out of the tub, and Holt wraps me in a fluffy white towel.
Holt must have heard my crazy voices. “Don’t start holding back on me now. What is it?” he asks.
“I think we’re breaking our rule,” I say quietly.
“How? Tonight is all about pleasure.”
The muscles between my legs clench. The man knows exactly what to say to me. His mouth finds the smooth flesh of my neck, and the towel drops to the floor. His fingers caress the damp skin of my thighs. “You have no idea how much I want you,” he whispers, planting little kisses up and down my body. Each kiss feels like a little promise being whispered to my heart.
Feeling my skin flush, I turn my head down, catching a glimpse of my scars. I’ve never thought of myself as sexy or beautiful. Logan used to tell me I was, but since he died, I just sort of gave up. I never even gave much thought to how I looked. Holt tilts my chin up, and his eyes lo
ck on mine. “I think you’re beautiful.”
I swallow hard to keep from crying. Why does it mean so much to me to hear him say that? Because I’m building love with him. I know it may be too fast, and I know I’m breaking our rule. But he’s making me. Yes, he’s closed off about some things, but then he says things like that. He brings me here, he takes care of me, he gives me stupid, overprotective orders, and my heart betrays me. I know I should tell him to screw me, quick and dirty, but I can’t do it. God help me, I don’t want it that way. What is happening to me? Lowering myself to the bed, I whisper, “You want me? Slow and sweet?”
“No.” The look on his face as he stalks down over my body is wicked. “I don’t want you. I fucking need you, Annalyse.”
“Don’t say that,” I say softly. “That means you’d die without me.”
“No, it means I’m not ever letting you go.” His eyes move along the curves of my body like he’s searching for something lost. His hands follow the same path over me, and I wonder if he’ll find what he’s searching for in me. I wonder if he’ll find the most important part of me—my heart.
My legs part, and he sinks into me. Everything about this moment is overwhelming—the feel of him inside me, the way the muscles of his back move under my fingertips, the rhythm of our bodies, the fullness in my heart. I don’t want to rush it or run away from what I’m feeling. “Make it last,” I whisper.
“Please,” he adds, only it sounds like a prayer.
*
Morning comes, and I’m wondering: do we talk about what happened last night? Because something seriously different happened. And I’m not just talking about the tantric-like marathon of sex, either. Emotions were flying left and right last night, big, scary, commitment-sounding emotions. I need to know where his head is at, although currently it’s resting between my breasts. He’s in a perfect boob cuddle.
Sleeping with Holt is always interesting—either it’s the dresser drama, or a porn scene, or the boy is coiled around me so tightly I can barely breathe. This morning is no different. One hand is possessively holding my boob, while his head is on my chest, and his leg is thrown over me, so his morning wood is pressing against my thigh.
The Reason for Me Page 16
