by B. N. Toler
“Wa-wa,” Pim babbled as she raised her hand up into the running stream of water. The kid loved bath time from what I could tell and seemed to be loving shower time with the grown-ups.
“All our clothes are soaked,” Waverly pointed out.
“Gasp,” I mocked. “Whatever shall we do?”
Still using my arm for balance, she slid back from me. Her shirt was plastered to her body, the soaked fabric clinging to her, revealing the swell of her breasts, leaving very little to the imagination.
In the back of the shower, there was a wooden bench. “Can I at least sit if you’re going to trap me in the shower with you?”
Helping her over to the bench, she sat, and then I sat Pim on the shower floor just beside her feet. Grabbing the hot pink loofa from the shower caddy—obviously it was Waverly’s because it appeared after she started staying with me—I held it under the water, then handed it to Pim hoping it would keep her busy for a few minutes. When I turned back to Waverly, she’d taken her hair down and was running her fingers through her wet tresses. I swallowed hard as I felt the tingle, the shiver, the one I always felt when we made contact. Only this time, I wasn’t even touching her. Tucking my fingertips under her chin, I tilted her head up, forcing her dark gaze to meet mine. Her lips parted slightly as our eyes locked, depleting the air from my lungs.
A shiver skated up my spine as something, like a whisper, pushed me on. Kiss her, it urged. I forgot myself. I forgot who I was and who I wasn’t. I forgot the rights, and wrongs. All I knew was her and want. The two were separate, but as I stared into her eyes, they were hand in hand, the both of them taunting me, daring me to give into my urges. Leaning down, I searched her stare as I held her face, brushing my thumb across her cheek. Beads of water dripped from my hair and her lashes, but we never severed the stare. When I leaned forward slightly, my will on the brink of breaking, a small whimper escaped her, something between a plea to stop or keep going.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I kissed her.
Her hands reached up, her fingers threading through my hair as my tongue swept between her lips. Dropping to my knees, I grabbed her hips and yanked her to me, deepening the kiss. She clung to me, her hands reaching everywhere, her fingers digging into my back. I was gone—my reason and strength had left me. There were a million reasons why I shouldn’t have kissed her, but with her in my arms, her mouth against mine, I didn’t care.
Nothing could stop me.
Almost nothing.
The kiss ended almost as abruptly as it had started when Pimberly grabbed my shirt and tugged. I yanked away from Waverly, jumping to my feet as I sucked in ragged breaths. Pim babbled something as she smacked the tile making the water splash.
What the fuck just happened?
When I moved my panicked stare back to Waverly, she wouldn’t look at me. Which could only mean one thing—she regretted the kiss. Or she was pissed. It was too . . . much. I should’ve known she wouldn’t want a man, especially Max, to carry her into the shower like that, but I got lost in the moment. I thought we were having fun, flirting, but that was stupid. Flirting with Waverly was not an option because in reality, she was not an option. Not for Max. Certainly not for me living as Max. He’d burned that bridge for both of us, and I really fucking hated him for it.
I kissed her? In front of Pim?
What was I thinking?
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Removing my shirt, letting the wet material plop to the tiled floor, I quickly washed away the sweet potato from my hair and off my face. “I’ll get us some towels.” When I climbed out, my pants were dripping wet, so I yanked them until they were off, keeping my boxers on, before I went to the closet to grab a few towels. Wrapping one around myself, I left a stack by the shower door.
“I’ll be right back with your crutches.
“I’m pretty sure she’s the cutest thing ever,” Helen noted as we watched Pim use her hands to shove spaghetti in her mouth. I’d stripped her of her clothing, so all she was wearing was a diaper. It was a good thing, too, because she was covered in sauce.
“Yeah,” I agreed as I grinned at my daughter. “Spaghetti is her favorite.”
Helen went to the kitchen and brought back the pot from the stove. She scooped a little more on Pim’s tray before taking it back to the kitchen. Helen returned with the bottle of wine I’d already had one glass of.
“Mama needs a refill,” she announced as she filled my empty glass.
“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “One glass is enough. Wine gets me giddy.”
“Oh, you have to drink it,” Helen insisted. Then rubbing a hand over her small belly, she pouted her lower lip. “I need to live vicariously through you. I miss wine so much.”
I chuckled as I raised the glass in a toast. “If you insist,” I replied, before taking a long sip.
“Really had to bend your arm behind your back on that one, didn’t I?” she jested sarcastically.
I laughed again, almost spitting my wine out. I was never one to turn down a glass of wine. Not really. Plus, if I was completely honest, I was enjoying myself. I swear the more I hung out with Helen, the more I liked her. She was so damn nice and had the best sense of humor. That’s why it boggled me so much that she was friends with Max.
Max.
Even thinking his name made my stomach flip. The previous evening seemed so surreal. That entire afternoon and evening we’d been playful. We’d flirted. Our playful banter and the way we always had witty quips to toss back at one another had been fun. I couldn’t remember ever having that with Max before. When he tossed me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing and carried us to the shower, I forgot I didn’t like this man. I forgot all his wrongs. For a brief time, I let my walls drop and let him approach, and we had the best time.
Then he kissed me.
I should have stopped him. I knew what he was about to do when he tilted my chin up and stared into my eyes. The word no sat poised on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. He didn’t ask me if it was okay. He just did it. I wanted to be mad; feel violated that he did it without asking, but I couldn’t. The way he moved in, the way he didn’t ask but took excited me. It was a double-edged sword. I had re-played that kiss over and over again in my mind all night and the following day, and every time I did, my skin tingled everywhere and heat ravaged my face. Thinking about it stirred something tumultuous inside me, but the excitement, thrilling as it was, was always followed by a deep and choking regret.
I let Max kiss me.
Worse—I kissed him back.
Like really kissed him back.
With tongue and everything.
So much tongue.
Ugh . . . what was wrong with me? How does a person kiss someone they loathe and actually enjoy it? I was a walking, talking contradiction. A cliché.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Helen asked. I realized I’d been staring blankly into space running my fingers over my lips. Looking at her, it hit me again. Who was this woman? That’s when I decided I had to ask. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know how and why they were friends. This time, though, I wouldn’t settle for vague answers that weren’t answers at all.
“Helen,” I began as I ran my finger over the rim of my wine glass.
When her gaze cut to me and she took in my expression, she tilted her head as if to say, “Ask away.”
“What’s the deal with you and Max?” I got right to the point; no dancing around it. “I mean, really?”
Licking her lips, she looked down at her belly and rubbed it again. “It’s hard to explain, Waverly,” she admitted. “It’s not romantic or intimate. He’s not my baby daddy,” she assured me with a smirk that made me smile. When her eyes flicked up and met mine, I didn’t look away and I didn’t speak. She had a thought, something she wanted to say, and I was afraid if I spoke she’d change her mind about whether she wanted to share it with me or not.
“Do you believe in fate? O
r even miracles?”
I shrugged and sipped my wine. “Sure I do,” I admitted. “I think they happen every day.”
She nodded a few times. “Me too.” Then added with more conviction, “I know they do.”
“Are you saying Max is a miracle?” I snorted, but she didn’t laugh. Her expression went serious.
“Do you agree that he’s different?”
Widening my eyes, I let out a long breath. That would be an understatement. “He’s very different,” I admitted.
“Is that not a miracle?” she asked, one brow quirked.
Narrowing my gaze at her, I asked, “I don’t know if I’d call that a miracle, Helen.”
“But he is different, yes?”
“Different or experiencing a temporary moment of insanity?” I asked, dryly.
“Or,” she paused, staring intently into my eyes, “he’s a completely different person.”
“What are you saying, Helen?”
Leaning her head to the side, she pursed her lips in thought. “I’m saying that—”
“Anyone home?” We both jerked our heads toward the sound of Max’s voice. He must’ve just walked through the door.
“In here!” Helen yelled as she stood.
Within moments, Max appeared, his expression seemingly stoic and unreadable. Then he saw the spaghetti covered Pim and his features lit up as a wide grin spread across his face. “Look at that,” he beamed. There it was again. My skin got tingly. It wasn’t just the sight of him, or me remembering the kiss. It was something purer. Something sweeter. It was the way he looked at Pim like she was the most precious thing in the world.
“Balls!” Pim gurgled as she raised her sauce cover hands toward Max. I slanted my eyes at Pim wondering where that came from. Balls? Why would she say that right now?
Seeing Pim so happy, beaming up at Max—paired with the wine—briefly crumpled my proverbial wall and made my heart melt. When Pim had awakened at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. that morning, and Max had gotten up with her, it definitely earned him some brownie points. That morning, through the opening of the bedroom door, I could see him holding her and dancing, quietly singing Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton to her. It was . . . sweet. I couldn’t deny it.
“Hi, Max!” I chirped, unable to stop the slightest smile from forming on my face.
His body froze, his blue gaze darting from me to Helen, then back to me again, his eyes riddled with confusion.
“Did anyone else just feel the shift in the space-time continuum?”
My smile fell. He was being a smart-ass. My friendly greeting was unlike me, at least where he was concerned it was, but he didn’t have to be a dick about it. “Ya know—”
“You want a plate?” Helen interrupted, her tone an octave higher. She was playing interference. Forced to let it go, I sipped my wine again.
“If you made it you know I do,” he told her.
“I’ll make you one.”
After Helen had scurried off to the kitchen, Max went to Pim and bent down, kissing her cheek, so it was no surprise when she got sauce all over his shirt.
“Your shirt, Max,” I pointed out. “She’s making a mess of you.”
When he stood again, he waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just a shirt.”
“If you say so,” I muttered.
“Maybe I’ll have you wash my shirt this time,” he jested.
My face heated as I remembered, once again, my bold move of removing my shirt the other night. Picking up one of the cloth napkins from the table, he wiped at his face. “How’s the ankle today?”
“Better,” I admitted. “Doesn’t hurt as bad.”
“Good. Glad to hear that.”
The room fell quiet as he shifted his gaze back to Pim. He didn’t know what to say. Neither did I. After our shower kiss, he barely spoke a word to me, and this morning he left early after Helen arrived, and was gone all day. Apparently, we were still struggling today. If he wanted to pretend the kiss didn’t happen and ignore me, what did I care?
Okay, I cared, but I refused to bring it up.
Helen entered and sat a plate of pasta on the table. “You two chat. I’ll go give this little mess pot a bath, if that’s okay with you, Waverly.” This was one of the things I liked most about her. She checked with me.
“Are you sure you don’t mind, Helen? She’s a mess,” I stated, glancing at my daughter unable to stop myself from giggling. Pim had two long noodles in her hair, and they were hanging down her face.
“I’d love to do it.” With that, she plucked Pim out of the high chair and carried her at arm’s length toward the living room on her way to the bathroom. When I looked back to Max, he was shoveling food in his mouth, staring off at nothing. He was so lost in thought he didn’t even seem to notice I was still sitting there with him.
“You okay, Max?” I asked, the wine preventing me from remembering I’m not supposed to care.
He continued to stare forward as if he hadn’t heard me.
“Max?” I boomed. Jerking his head toward me, he raised his brows in question as he chewed.
“What’s with you tonight? You look like you’re a million miles away.”
After he swallowed, he looked around before his gaze fixed on my wine glass. Pointing at it, he asked, “Can I have a sip?”
“It’s your wine,” I joked, finding myself extremely humorous.
After he had taken a long swig, he sat it down in front of me, wincing. “How do you drink that?”
I stared at him blankly. Was he serious? “You love wine,” I pointed out.
Shaking his head, he twirled some more pasta on his fork. “Not anymore,” he grumbled.
I rolled my eyes dramatically before I sipped again. Apparently now he liked nothing from when I knew him. His clothes, his drinks, his food. Max never ate pasta. Carbs were the enemy in his mind. “What’s up your butt tonight?” I sassed.
His lip curved up on one side as he cut a sideways glance at me. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Just got a lot on my mind.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” I was giving him an opening—an opening to address the elephant in the room—the kiss.
Letting his fork drop and clink against his plate he scooted his chair closer to mine and leaned toward me. “It wasn’t you,” he stated plainly, his stare intently fixed on mine.
I watched him, unsure of how to respond.
“Whatever happened in the past, just know . . . it wasn’t you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
My face went numb as I absorbed his proclamation. Was this . . . an apology? Is that what he was trying to do? I’d waited so long for an apology from Max, and I thought that if I ever got it, somehow it would heal me—at least a little. There was a part of me that wanted desperately for him to acknowledge what he’d done to me—to us, but his apology didn’t feel as comforting as I thought it would. Then again, it wasn’t really an apology, was it?
Darting my tongue out, I licked my dry lips. “Why are you saying this to me?”
Sitting back, he huffed. “I don’t fucking know. It needed to be said.”
Standing abruptly, he pushed his chair in and started grabbing dishes off the table. “I’m going to clean up the kitchen.” As I watched him stalk into the kitchen, I wanted to call after him; make him come back and explain what he was saying—or trying to say—but I stopped myself. Something told me what he’d already said was all I was going to get out of him. It was up to me to interpret his words and their meaning and take it as I wished. I also realized even though I had pined for remorse from Max for years, maybe I wasn’t ready for the apology. Not really. There’s a difference between needing something from someone to heal and actually being ready to heal.
After Max left me when he found out I was pregnant, I’d read every damn inspirational quote ever written about healing; about letting go and moving on. How simple those words of wisdom read. The people who say holding on is only hurting you, and to let go of the hurt, are t
he worst. Does anyone really fucking think for one second that’s not what a person in pain would want to do? Of course we want to let go. Hurt is a living and breathing thing with long cold fingers that reach inside you and tear you apart. I struggled with that for so long—letting it go. I realized after some time it’s not as simple as just waking up and saying voila . . . it’s done, I’m letting go. It’s a culmination of many variables. Variables such as space and time apart; keeping busy, doing other things that bring you joy. There’s also feeling heard; seeing your pain recognized by the person that dealt it to you. That was something I would never get from Max, and it was a hard pill to swallow. No, I had to do the impossible. I had to forgive a person that wasn’t even sorry. Wanna talk about something that takes strength?
Then, in the mix of all that—the forgiving, the space, the hobbies—is a choice. They all go hand and hand, but that doesn’t mean you’ve healed, and it doesn’t mean you ever really will. It just means you’ve decided to drop the weight of hurt and store it away in the proverbial attic of your mind and heart, and walk on.
There was still hurt, and deep down I knew there always would be, but there was also room for more.
For more love.
For more happiness.
Tipping my glass back, I polished off the remainder of my wine. Laying my head on my arms on the table, I closed my eyes. The wine helped me relax tonight, but it was more than that. I was at peace, and I would savor the moment, however brief it might be. Max offered me something that night . . . maybe not an apology, per say, but an acknowledgment. Honestly, his words weren’t what comforted me. No, what filled me with contentment is I realized I no longer needed his acknowledgment or apologies. Maybe I was finally letting go after all.
Just as I closed the dishwasher, Helen entered the kitchen holding a freshly bathed and dressed Pimberly. As soon as Pim saw me, she reached out for me, practically flying out of Helen’s arms.
Squeezing Pim’s tiny little body to me, I kissed her temple, closing my eyes, inhaling her. She smelled like baby powder. The appointment with Dr. Banahan had been mentally clobbering, and it felt good to hug something, or rather someone, so untainted by this ugly world. I’d learned more about Max than I had wanted to. Today I learned that bad people aren’t born bad . . . they’re made that way.
