Wesley: Work email. Found it on school website. Gotta get ready for later, talk to you soon. And, by the way, you don’t need to respond to the email.
That makes more sense, but why would he be emailing me anything? It seems like a weird way to communicate given the last few days, but I guess with Wesley I needed to redefine my perception of weird. I don’t have my work email synced to my phone, I’d rather not have parents and administrators have twenty-four seven access to me, so I decide to log on with my laptop. There it is—an email from Wesley. I can see that it’s long, and I’m intrigued by what it could possibly say. I begin to read.
My Mia,
As you know, I struggle with my words when I’m around you. Here I can be myself, free of any constraints or anxiety or pressure; those things that rob me of my ability to confess my deepest feelings to you.
I’ve spent fifteen years in a fog; a thick, black haze that’s surrounded me on all sides. I could never see past it, and it kept me in its grasp, blinding me from the world and from my true self. And then I met you, in the most unlikely of places; a loud, crowded coffee place filled with pulsating noise and flashing lights. You know what’s funny? I barely remember that other stuff. What I remember from that night is you, Mia, and how even in that lair of nervousness, the only thing in the entire room was your face. As you spoke to me at the bar I could think only of how beautiful you are—the sort of beauty that calms and excites me at the same time; the type that causes my heart to race and my lungs to expand. Your voice was music, a song that echoes and ricochets inside my nervous heart every time you speak to me.
When we were together last night, the feel of your kiss and the touch of your hands made me remember who I really am. I am privileged, but not in the way you imagine me to be, because all the wealth I could ever accumulate couldn’t buy what you’ve offered to me willingly; the bliss of your love. I’ve never felt as I feel when I’m with you. You’re my salvation; my soul saved from the depths of darkness, and without you the fog would surely fall again.
Yours,
Wesley
I don’t even realize the tears that formed in my eyes when I read his words until one falls from my face and hits the hand I have outstretched over the keyboard. I sit there in total stillness and read his letter three more times, each time catching a line or phrase that I missed the time before. Wesley is more amazing than I even realized, and he’s right, his feelings do go way deeper than I could have understood from just our night together. I’ve never thought about it until now, but I’ve actually never gotten a real love letter before, not like this. I’ve had guys send me sweet texts, and say romantic things in person, but nothing on this level; nothing this . . . poetic.
I sit there for a few minutes after reading his letter for the last time. I’m still taken aback by the depth of his words, and all I want is him in my bed, lying next to me, his hands running through my hair as we hold each other. But he’s not here; it’s just his words. I’ll have him again, but now I need to get ready for work, my kids haven’t seen me in almost two days.
THE STRESS OF DINNER doesn’t hit me until after I leave work. It was a surprisingly good day considering my kid’s routines had been thrown off. They need routine for stability, and I still feel guilty for taking theirs away yesterday. Even when they’re throwing things, or biting me, or hitting me, I’m still a source of calm in their lives; a face and voice they’re familiar with, and no matter how things progress with Wesley, from now on I make myself a vow to not miss any more days at work. My class handled everything well, according to my teacher assistants. Sara handled it the worst, she’s by far the most attached to me, despite the dental impression I can still see on my arm. She had a rough day yesterday because she has issues listening to anyone but me, and even that can be tenuous. When I got to work this morning she gave me a little wave, which for her is the equivalent of running down the hallway in slow motion with outstretched arms and leaping into a hug as I walked through the door. It’s the little victories that make my job rewarding, and her wave was one of those victories.
The rest of the day was pretty subdued for us. We went through our daily routines without incident: carpet time; freeze tag in gym; rocking out with our instruments in music, and we made it through two books together during circle time. Even with a good day, my mind is preoccupied because dinner with Wesley isn’t the only thing stressing me out. Like I explained to Wesley at lunch, my school is a private school, started twenty years ago by a small, well-off group of parents whose children were born with severe learning disabilities. Being frustrated at the state of special education in public schools at the time, the school started as a small operation at first, with only one class, and has slowly grown into a student body of two hundred students, most of who were diagnosed as being on the Autism Spectrum Disorder.
From the outside the school is a total success story; a small group of parents fighting to have a place where special needs kids from different communities could be educated in a safe, loving environment. And all of that narrative is true, but behind the scenes the reality is that the school is in near constant legal and financial battles to keep their doors open, and we rely heavily on private donations from the parents of current and former students. There are more fundraising events each year than I can even keep track of, but it never seems like we can raise enough money.
At this point in my career I’m considered a senior-teacher. I only have seven years’ experience, which isn’t a lot for a teacher in a public school, but we have a much higher turnover rate here. I understand why; the job is stressful, difficult, and pays a fraction of what public schools pay. Because of that, the start of each new school year is as much of an introduction to new staff members as it is for new students. We lose teachers and TA’s to public school jobs or stress every year, so my seven years of experience pretty much made me a hardened veteran, and because of that I’ve been giving some influential positions on hiring and budget committee meetings with administrators. My opinion is sought after and respected for important decisions, and I always appreciate the faith the school administrators puts into me. Speaking of which, I forgot that today is another budgetary meeting. My selective memory kicks in full force when it comes to stressful things like this, plus I’ve been a little distracted. Thank God for the reminder app on my phone!
When I walk into the conference room on the third floor during my lunch break I can feel the tension in the room. It’s obvious from the somber looks on everyone’s face that this is not going to be a cheery meeting about all the extra grant money that would be pouring in unexpectedly. After thirty depressing minutes of staring at Excel spreadsheets, the takeaway message from the board of directors is clear: we’re losing money, a lot of it, and the school staying open for the following year was legitimately in jeopardy.
I leave the meeting upset, but not for myself. As annoying and stressful as it can be to look for a new job, I know that I have the resume to get hired by another school. What really upset me is the thought that my kids won’t have the safe haven they’ve come to know and depend on, and I’m really sad at the prospect of all of those parents having to find appropriate new placements for their kids.
So basically work was an emotional roller coaster, and dinner has the potential to be the same, but I’m trying my hardest to not obsess over it once three o’clock comes. I know that I didn’t need to do much tonight except order pizza and drink enough wine to make the situation bearable if it gets weird, which it definitely had the potential to. I’ve never seen Wesley around people in a situation where there are more social demands than just undressing me with his eyes and doing his introverted brooding thing. He has to speak to other people, and not just any random people, but two of my closest friends. I hope he’ll be okay.
It can be daunting for any guy to meet their girlfriend’s friends, because we all know it’s like one big job interview, only the position he’s applying for is future fiancé and maybe husband. It’s h
ard for a normal guy, but for someone like Wesley having to navigate both of their big personalities? Ugh, why did I put him in this position? I feel guilty, like he’s walking into a social ambush. Not that I think either of them would be openly rude to him, but all they had to go on is me telling them about his “weirdness.”
Dacia and Kev always have my best interest in mind, but sometimes they can be a little overprotective. They each have their own ways of testing a guy they know I might be serious about, even if it wasn’t obvious. Kevin’s subversive about it, just like he is with everything else. He’ll make snide remarks that only I’ll catch, or be so sarcastic that my potential guy won’t even realize he’s being ridiculed. I really hope Kevin dials it down tonight, because Wesley’s intelligent enough to pick up on that, and I have no idea of how how he’d react if he does. Basically I’m worried about what’ll happen if Kevin acts a little too . . . Kevin.
And then there’s Dacia, the outlier of our little friendship triad. She went to high school with us, but she didn’t come from the same type of family that Kevin and I did, and she easily has the worst track record when it came to relationships. But it’s actually that track record that makes her opinion of guys the most important to me. She has this way of reading bad qualities in a guy almost instinctually, even better than I can. Not that I think there’s anything bad that I’ve missed in Wesley, but I still trust her overall intuition the most.
After I leave work I start a group chat with a simple directive:
Mia: Be nice to him tonight, this one’s special to me.
Dacia: Okay
Kevin: When am I ever not nice?
Mia: Do you really want me to answer that?
My last text gets no reply because we already know the answer. This is shaping up to be an interesting evening.
A few hours later it’s finally time for dinner, and to incorporate Wesley into my life a little more. I’ve spent just about every minute since I left work prepping my place as much as possible. I definitely wouldn’t call myself a slob, but let’s just say my house would not be featured in any upcoming issues of Better Homes and Gardens magazine. I did all of the usual things: I made the bed for the first time in about a month; I horrified myself when I saw the real color of my carpet after I ran the vacuum over it; and I generally tried to make it look like I wasn’t about to appear on an episode of Hoarders.
Wesley texted earlier that afternoon to tell me how much he’s looking forward to tonight, but deep down I feel like he’s still trying to put on a brave face for me. I appreciate the effort, but I’m hoping he genuinely enjoys himself. His place was about a half hour drive from mine, even though it took me a solid forty-five minutes to get there the other night after getting lost in the forest labyrinth that led there. I have a feeling that Wesley will be showing up first, probably to calm his nerves and get familiar with the place before being bombarded by my crazy friends.
When I hear my broken doorbell let out the saddest ring ever, I know that it’s him. I open the door and lose my breath. He’s every bit as gorgeous as the first time I saw him, and standing there in my doorway, flowers in hand, he looks like an old-school Hollywood gentleman come to take me out on the town. “Wow, you look great,” he tells me after eyeing me with the same intensity I’m giving him. You have it so backwards, I think, but I’ll take it.
“You, too,” I say back. “How are you feeling?” I don’t want to treat him like a patient, or like he has a disability, but I do want to know where he is with his social anxiety.
“I feel great, actually,” he answers without missing a beat. “Better than expected. How are you, you look nervous, do you need one of my antianxiety pills, I brought a few just in case your friends were viscous.” He has a big over the top grin on his face as he pulls out a few loose pills from his pocket.
“Oh, I see,” I say raising my voice to give him a hard time. “So that’s why you’re so calm, you needed to pop a few pills to have dinner with me, okay, I get it, I see how it is, message received loud and clear.” I love messing with him, and he’s a very good sport about it.
“I actually haven’t taken a thing; I just always keep a few on me in case the feeling starts to take over. Just a little trick I’ve learned, but I have no intention of needing to take them to get through pizza.” He means it, I know he wouldn’t lie to me, and it makes me happy that he’s legitimately calm. Hopefully it’ll last. He steps through the doorway and wraps his arm around my waist. He pulls me in and kisses me deeply, and I put my hand to his face. His skin is smooth and freshly shaven and I can feel the sharp angles of his jawline as I caress his face. He places his tongue deep in my mouth and I can’t help but moan. As he pulls me in tightly against his chest I feel completely protected, hidden in his huge frame. The kiss lasts for longer than I expect, and I completely forget that he’s here for dinner. I want to reach my hand down his pants and tease him; to let him know that I want him inside me right now, the hell with dinner! But before I go too far I hear a loud, exaggerated cough from behind Wesley’s back. I can’t see behind him, but I know that it’s Kevin.
“Well, darling,” he says in his fake southern accent, “I didn’t know the invitation was for dinner and a show, I would have brought my opera glasses.” Wesley disengages like he’s embarrassed, and turns to face Kevin.
“Oh shut up, Kev, we both know you don’t own opera glasses,” I say. “And we’re having a ‘no fake voice’ rule this evening; your normal voice will be just fine.”
“Okay, fine,” he says in his real Kevin voice while extending his hand to Wesley. Watching my boys shake hands looks friendly enough from the outside, but I know what must be going on in Kevin’s vain head. The psychological legacy of years of grooming by his grandmother made Kevin believe he was the best looking guy in the room, and in most cases he actually is. When we would go out Kevin was always the hot guy in the room, the one that makes all the girls do a double take, but in this setting Kevin’s self-confidence would have to border on the delusional for him to not realize that the real alpha in the room is standing about three inches above him, looking down and cupping his outstretched hand like he was a little boy. “Kevin King, of the Georgia Kings.” Oh Jesus! Kevin is so insecure right now that he’s leading with his family name, not even realizing who he’s talking to. I should say something to save him some embarrassment, but it isn’t my place.
“Wow, that’s quite the distinction,” Wesley responds while still moving Kevin’s hand up and down. “Wesley Marsden, pleased to meet you.” I can see Kevin recognizes the name. Wesley finally breaks the handshake and turns away in my direction.
“I’m sorry, did you say your last name was . . .”
“Marsden. And I can see by the look in your eyes that my family needs no introduction.” I want to take a photo of Kevin’s face at this moment and make it the background on my phone. He’s legitimately shocked at who my mystery man ends up being. I can see him fighting the obvious look of shock and recognition on his face, but it’s fooling no one. In the battle of name dropping, Wesley’s drawn first blood, and completely outflanked Kevin in his little one sided battle. I’m proud of how effortlessly Wesley navigates that introduction, and I felt better about how the evening might go.
The guys talk for a few minutes and things are at least cordial when Dacia finally shows up, a few minutes late as usual. She walks in the room, frantic as ever. The girl is always late! “I’m so sorry, car issues.” She confesses while doing a double take at Wesley. I forget that she’s never seen him before, and I don’t have any pictures of the two of us on my phone. I can see that look on her face that says, you didn’t tell me he was this good looking! Wesley introduces himself, giving her a big hug and I can see her melt in his arms. It’s hard not to react that way, or generally swoon over his size and good looks. When he’s calm and confident like he’s being right now, his presence fills the entire room without him having to say much. He has this way of making you feel like you’re the only
person in the room, and only your words matter to him.
Some guys try that routine; they do the fake, “uh huh” and nod like a zombie as you talked about a bunch of things they clearly don’t care about, all the while their eyes are magnetized towards your tits. Those guys are acting, playing the role of a man who cares about you, but really they just tolerate your complaints about your job, or stories about your childhood, just so they can get in your pants a few hours later. Wesley actually is the man that he presents himself to be. He really does care about people, and I can see in her face that it’s as clear to Dacia as it is to me.
I open up a few bottles of wine before the food comes—some old, cheap bottles I have from a house-warming party when I bought the place. We all sit around the living room, devouring way too many slices of pizza and laughing. I enjoy watching Wesley speak to other people, but what makes me the most satisfied is watching him be the smooth, handsome, engaging person that I know he is; the true version of himself when all his social potential is allowed to flourish, unencumbered by his nerves. He’s beyond interesting.
Whether it’s watching him tell stories about growing up as a Marsden, or listening intently to one of Dacia’s jaw-dropping stories about her loser ex-boyfriends, or even going quip for quip with a much humbled Kevin, I can see our future more clearly now. Dinner is like a movie teaser, and I start imagining dinners like this being a regular thing, and lunches in Seattle with my parents, or exotic trips to places only Wesley can afford to go. Maybe I’m being stupid by projecting all of my dreams onto a simple dinner, and I know that Wesley is complicated and wrestles with some very real demons, but I still need to see those possibilities in my mind to envision a future with him. And when he’s like this, the future is very clear to me.
“So then this guy finally pulls a knife out of his pocket,” Dacia says, continuing a story she began about one of her exes. Wesley’s face looks a little horrified as Dacia wows him details. Kevin and I have heard most of these already, but Dacia’s tales of romantic woe are new to Wesley, and he listens closely, never looking away, and asking her questions about whatever she’s saying.
Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1) Page 14
