by Megan Hart
“It’s fine. Of course it’s fine. I’m not some crazy bitch who can’t let you have a minute to yourself!”
His eyes got cold. “I never said you were. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are we fighting again?”
I sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Fuck,” Alex said, as though he couldn’t comprehend it.
“It happens, baby,” I said sadly. “People fight. Even when they love each other.”
I wasn’t expecting the kiss, and it took my breath away. His kisses always did, but this was different. Not lust. Not passion. A need of a different kind. He gathered me close, and though he was taller and the one holding me, I was the one anchoring him.
“Do you love me?” he asked into my hair.
“Yes, Alex. I do.”
“Why?”
“I just do. It happened. I don’t know why. But I think it happened the first time you kissed me.”
He laughed. “That’s bullshit. You don’t fall in love with someone as fast as that.”
I looked at him. “What if you do?”
“If you can fall in love that fast, you can fall out of it that fast, too.”
“Are you afraid of that?”
He squeezed me a moment longer, then stalked away. “I don’t know. Yes. No.”
I wanted to know who he’d been in love with, before, and why it had ended. How long it had taken him to get over it. How many times it had happened. But I didn’t ask.
He turned. “When I met you, you were still in love with Patrick.”
This was not an accusation, but truth, and it still made me feel a little sick. “Loving someone isn’t the same as being in love with them.”
“Semantics,” Alex said darkly. “Do you still love him?”
“I haven’t spoken to Patrick in months, Alex! Are you really worried about that?”
“No.” And I believed him, if only because so far I’d never been able to find him in a lie.
“I love you,” I said. “I don’t know how, or why it happened. God knows you weren’t exactly number one on my dudes to take a chance with.” I held up a hand before he could answer. “But I know you’re not Patrick. I know it’s different with us, and I believe you when you say you don’t lie.”
“I never said I don’t lie. I lie all the fucking time. I just said I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“So, what makes me different?” I swallowed all the anger and tears and everything that would turn this from an argument into the end of things.
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “You just are. Because I want you to be, I guess. I just want you to be.”
“Then that has to be enough, right?”
We stared at each other, an arm’s length apart. The distance felt much vaster. He moved first, to take my hand. His long, strong fingers squeezed mine.
“I want this to work.”
I smiled. “Me, too.”
“I have to go pack,” he said a few minutes later, after we’d kissed and hugged and generally finished the squishy love stuff. “Want to help?”
“You don’t need me to help you.”
“This is true. But you could talk to me while I do it.”
I stood on my tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. A few days before I’d have said yes, gone with him, made love to him among the piles of his underwear and socks. Now I shook my head and squeezed his ass before giving him a little push.
“I’ve got stuff to do here. Call me when you’re done.”
He was too smart not to know what I was doing, but Alex didn’t argue. He did insist on kissing me some more, following me to the door and kissing me even as I tried to go out.
“What time do you leave tomorrow morning?”
“Early. I have to be at the airport by six.”
“I’ll drive you,” I said. “You won’t have to leave your car.”
“You don’t have to do that. But okay.” He grinned. Sneaked another kiss.
“It must be love for me to get up at the butt crack of dawn for you. You know that, right?”
“I know it,” Alex said.
With Alex gone, I had a whole lot of time I hadn’t noticed I’d been missing. I put it to good use, cleaning my apartment, working on the studio. I worked full shifts at Foto Folks every day and managed to squeeze in a few private portrait sessions, too, as well as snag a couple more advertising jobs. Local businesses that couldn’t pay much, but a little was better than nothing and I’d vowed every cent I made was going back into the business. Live to work, work to live.
I also caught up on some reading. A few novels, but quite a bit of nonfiction. The Jewish Book of Why. Judaism for Dummies. A few others, nonreligious books about Conservative Judaism’s principles.
I had to believe there was a middle ground, a place between nothing and…everything.
I thought I was finding my way toward it, piece by small piece. Nothing all at once, but then did anything ever happen all at once, other than maybe love? And maybe not even that.
I missed him.
Not just his mouth and hands, or that pretty, delicious cock. Not just his quirking smile and dry humor. Not even the way he said “fuck” without provocation, making one word mean so many things.
I missed the way he rapped lightly on the bathroom door before he entered, even though I wouldn’t have cared had he barged in. I missed how he stopped at the store to pick up the kind of ice cream I liked, and remembered to bring in the mail but never, ever opened mine, though I probably wouldn’t have minded that, either. I missed small pieces of him, and the whole.
He didn’t call but sent me random, sexy text messages. Not every day. But enough.
“You have it bad.” Sarah made this observation over tuna subs I’d picked up from J & S Pizza down the street.
“What?”
“Him.” She pointed at my food. “You’re not eating.”
I patted my stomach. “Too many cookies, thanks.”
She laughed. “I’m glad someone will eat them. I’ve baked so many pans of peanut butter blossoms the smell of them alone is enough to make me puke.”
“You got it bad,” I told her, without knowing who “it” referred to.
Sarah shrugged. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. It’s over. Before it even got anywhere.”
A pang of guilt flashed through me. I’d been so busy with Alex, Sarah and I hadn’t spent as much time together as we used to. She hadn’t complained or made me feel guilty, so I knew she’d been busy with her own stuff—Sarah wasn’t one to let something like that slide. I felt guiltier for not noticing she wasn’t making me feel guilty.
“Do I know him?”
“No. Hell, I barely know him.” Sarah scraped a finger over the top of her sub and tucked it in her mouth. “Pass the chips.”
I tossed her a single-serving bag I’d picked up along with the subs, and watched her look it over. She shook her head. Tossed it back.
“Pig,” she said.
“No.” I grabbed the bag and looked. “What the hell? Who makes chips in lard anymore?”
“Grandma Utz.” Sarah laughed. “How about the other ones? Salt and vinegar should be okay.”
I handed her the other bag and studied the one in my hand. “Sorry. I should’ve checked.”
“Not your responsibility to make sure what I put in my mouth won’t send me to hell.” Sarah tore open the bag and laughed. “If I believed in hell, anyway.”
I put aside the chips cooked in lard—I didn’t keep kosher but knew enough about it to feel suddenly like I should. “My mother would’ve known. She’d have flipped out, too, if I’d accidentally handed her this bag.”
Sarah snorted delicately. “Well. Your mother has her own issues, don’t you think? As do we all, my friend. As do we all.”
She nodded sagely and ate another chip, then swigged from the bottle of cola next to her on the floor. She tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling with
its bare beams. “Fairy lights.”
“Huh?”
“You need some fairy lights. Maybe some netting. Make a soft light up there, up those beams and across. It will make the room seem cozier without taking away the impressiveness of the ceiling height.”
“You are so impressive.”
“All that and I can defrag your computer like a fucking champ.” She grinned. “Except you’re a smart one, you have a Mac. Not much for me to do there.”
We ate and chatted. Boys and clothes. Television. Books. Boys. More boys. Famous boys, not the ones we were actually sleeping with.
Sarah’s phone beeped from her pocket. She didn’t look at it. This was so obvious I had to comment.
“Him?”
She shrugged. “Could be.”
“Wow, and you’re not answering?”
“I’m not a booty call.”
I looked around at our late-afternoon floor picnic. “Who makes a booty call at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon?”
“A guy who’s busy all the rest of the time,” Sarah said smartly.
I sort of felt bad for the unknown dude who’d so raised Sarah’s ire. It took a lot to get her riled, but once she was it took her a long, long time to cool down. “You want to talk about it?”
“Actually and surprisingly, I do not.” She flicked me a look. “How ’bout you? Want to gush and squee over your perfect man?”
“Oh, he’s not perfect. Far from it.”
Sarah grinned. “I’ve seen him, Liv, and he’s pretty fucking perfect.”
“Sarah,” I said fondly, “you love guys. All guys. Quasimodo gets you hot.”
“Hey, ugly guys give the best head. Don’t dis me because I am an equal-opportunity provider of cunnilingus practice.”
We both laughed. “Better an ugly dude with a long tongue than a hottie with a soft prick.”
“Pfft. You know it.”
We laughed some more.
“When’s he coming back?” Sarah asked.
“Tomorrow. I have to pick him up at the airport after Pippa’s birthday party.”
“Ooh, that is love. Picking him up at the airport. Hey, I get to be your maid of honor.”
My laugh went a little stilted. “Yeah, that’s getting a bit ahead of us, don’t you think?”
Sarah paused, her hands full of paper and napkins. She shrugged and tossed the trash into the industrial-size can by the door. “Don’t rule it out, is all I’m saying.”
“I don’t think so.” Loving him was one thing. Marriage something else.
“That’s what my sister said. And look at her.”
“Your sister’s been married four times!”
Sarah fluttered her eyelashes and clasped her hands to her chest. “And evewy time has been twuuu wuv!”
“Not exactly the poster child for marriage.”
“My point is, she was burned three times, and she went back again. Some might think that makes her stupid,” Sarah said. “But I think it just proves that you have to give love a chance, even if it hurts.”
“Huh.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Including you?”
“Oh, fuck no,” Sarah said. “I’m running away from that shit as fast as I can.”
“I got new shoes.” Pippa pointed her toes, one foot and the other. “My daddy Devon bought them for me. And my daddy Steven bought me this dress.”
She twirled as I took picture after picture, the camera Alex had bought me weighting my hand differently than I was used to. It made a difference. Lots of the pictures came out blurry or off center. Those were sometimes the ones I liked best.
Not Pippa. She demanded to see the pictures in the view screen and frowned if they didn’t show her off to her best advantage. She crossed her small arms and shook her head until her curls flew. A moment later she was sweetness again, in time for me to take another shot.
“Livvy.” Devon opened his arms to hug me, and I disappeared for the full minute it took him to greet me. He turned me, an arm around my shoulders. “I want you to meet some folks.”
“Some” turned out to be everyone at the party. Devon and Steven had gone all out for Pippa’s birthday, complete with a bounce castle in the backyard and professional catering. Gifts towered on a table and servers dressed as Disney characters passed trays of kid-friendly treats like chicken fingers and mini hot dogs. I took some chicken fingers, but without knowing if the hot dogs were made with pork, I passed. I wasn’t quite sure why, just that it felt right.
“Leah, this is my friend Olivia.” Pippa had another small girl by the hand.
Both of them stared up at me. Leah had long dark curls, big brown eyes and beautiful dark skin. She wore a pretty dress, but hers was a little rumpled and her hair bow askew. Chocolate dotted the corners of her mouth.
“Hi, Leah.”
Pippa nodded. “Leah has two daddies. Like me.”
I was pretty sure a lot of the kids at the party had either two daddies or two mommies. I wasn’t sure what Pippa wanted me to say. If you’ve ever been put on the spot by a four-year-old, you’ll know how I felt.
“I grew in Livvy’s tummy,” Pippa said matter-of-factly.
Stunned, I stuttered, “Who t-told you that?”
“Daddy Devon showed me a picture of when I was in there.”
I looked across the room to where Devon was chatting with two other men. Steven was nowhere in sight. “Does your daddy Steven know about it?”
Pippa raised both eyebrows and put her hands on her hips. “He’d better! I didn’t grow in his belly, don’t you know that? Boys don’t have the babies, they only donate the perm!”
Leah listened to all of this with wide eyes and didn’t say much. I racked my brain for a memory of any pictures taken of me while I was pregnant. I knew there were a few, but nothing Devon would’ve had. Except…
“What did the picture look like, Pippa?”
Pippa was busy dancing and singing to the sudden burst of “Part of Your World” from the speakers. She’d already moved on. I snagged the sleeve of her dress to catch her attention.
There was only one photo she could’ve seen—a black-and-white self-portrait I’d taken of my swollen belly just a few days before going into labor. I’d felt huge, ripe, ready to burst. Feminine and full. My breasts had been like melons, resting on the smooth, taut drum of my tummy. My belly button had popped. My body had never been the same after having her.
Nobody had told me about that part.
“Pippa, sweetie, how did you know that was me?”
“I saw the lady,” she said.
“What lady?”
“The lady in the pictures, silly.” Pippa, still dancing, waved a hand. “She’s in some you took today, too.”
Then she was off, Leah in tow. I stared after her, then lifted my camera and thumbed the button to view the shots I’d taken today. Many were motion-blurred, a few out of focus. A couple of Pippa were clear as glass, but with a faint fuzz in the background I’d passed off as someone moving behind her.
The lady.
It had been a long time since she’d shown up in my pictures. I held my camera close, over my heart, smiling.
“Hi. Olivia?”
I turned to see at my elbow the blond man Devon had been chatting with. “Yeah, hi.”
He held out his hand. “Chad Kavanagh. Leah’s dad.”
“Oh, hi. I just met your daughter. She’s adorable.”
He grinned. “I know. Devon was showing us some of the gorgeous pictures you took of Pippa. My partner, Luke, and I were wondering if we could make an appointment with you to get some portraits of our daughter.”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely.” I fumbled in my bag for a card to press into his hand. “Did he tell you I work at Foto Folks? So my hours are a little odd.”
“That’s okay. We’ll find a time that works.” He looked past me to where Pippa and Leah were accepting chicken fingers from a not-so-little mermaid. “Those two are quite a pair. I thought Leah was a princess.
But Pippa…wow.”
I laughed. “She’s something else, isn’t she?”
“She’s a beautiful little girl.”
I wondered if he knew I was her birth mother. I wondered if I should tell him, if that was bragging. Devon wouldn’t care. Steven would.
“She is,” I said.
“The pictures you took of her, wow. Amazing.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“How long have you been taking pictures?”
We talked for the rest of the party about photography and art, and kids and work. About life in Central Pennsylvania and how different it was to move here from other places. Chad had grown up close by but lived in California for years. I’d come from suburban Philly.
“That’s a pretty necklace,” he said after a while, as we watched the children gather around to pummel a piñata.
I lifted my camera to focus. “Thanks. My mother gave it to me.”
“Are you Jewish?”
Snap. Click. I kept the camera to my face. “Umm…”
He laughed. “My sister’s Jewish. That’s why I asked.”
I took a shot of a little boy in a bow tie whacking the starfish-shaped piñata as hard as he could. Not even a dent. I glanced at Chad.
“Your sister is? But you’re not?”
“She converted before she got married.”
“Ah.”
“Sorry, it’s not my business. It’s just unusual. The necklace, I mean. Striking.”
I touched it and stopped taking pictures for a moment. “Thanks. It was one of those gifts that sort of made me say what the hell, but then I put it on, anyway.”
“I have a few sweaters like that.”
We laughed. I took a few more photos of the kids as Devon, frustrated by the lack of carnage, pulled out the handful of ribbons from the piñata’s back and handed one to each kid. They were supposed to all pull, releasing the candy. I thought they’d all had enough sugar, but whatever, I wasn’t the one who’d be trying to peel them off the ceiling later.
“So…your mother is Jewish but you’re not?”
I turned away from the candy chaos. “Long story, but yes. Sort of. I don’t know.”
“I’m being nosy,” Chad said but without apology. “Sorry. I guess it’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately, now that Leah’s getting older. We want her to be exposed to all sorts of faiths and cultures, you know? Neither of us is really religious. I want her to have something beyond Santa and the Easter Bunny. Luke’s an optimistic agnostic.”
