“So, after holding this guy at a distance for four months, you go on your first date on Wednesday, and then have a major fight on Friday?” Her voice is impatient. “Ok, Sara, don’t tell me that’s just a coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sara, I’ve known you for years now. You are running seriously scared. If it hadn’t been for your friends getting laid off, it would have been something else, wouldn’t it? You are petrified of letting this guy in; letting yourself be vulnerable.”
“Can you blame me?” I ask defensively.
“Sure.” Her reply is prompt. “I know this narrative you have, I’ve heard it before. Guys always break up with you. Blah blah blah. And I always roll my eyes when you start that nonsense, because you’ve written your life story based on two relationships that didn’t work.”
I start to protest, but I shut up. Amanda’s reading me the riot act; a rare thing, and she’s generally pretty insightful. Maybe she’s on to something here?
“And my nightmares, any theories?”
I can almost see her shrug. “Who knows?” she says. “Dreams are weird. They aren’t always about what they appear to be. Have you ever felt frightened when you and Doug are doing the bondage thing?”
My response is instantaneous. “No.”
“And when things were going well with you two, did you have the nightmares?”
“No,” I mumble again.
Her voice is slightly impatient. “Then, perhaps your fear and pain are more a response to the way you feel when you push Doug away,” she theorizes. “In any case, stop running scared and call him.”
“He might not want me anymore,” I whisper my worst fear.
“After one fight?” Amanda sounds skeptical. “I met Doug, remember? He couldn’t take his eyes off you at your birthday. He seems like a great guy. Call him. Fix this.”
“Ok,” I mutter, and we hang up.
I whistle as I wander around my parents’ house, trying to find my scattered possessions so I can pack to head back to Toronto. I am suddenly hopeful.
***
I’ve tried Doug, but his phone has gone directly to voicemail. I don’t leave a message though; I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry I’m an idiot,” seems like a good place to start, but instead, I hang up. He’s still on holiday. I’ll call in the New Year.
***
I spend New Year’s Eve with the same group of friends I spent my birthday with. They all make it a point of asking where Doug is, of mentioning how much they liked him. Each word twists a knife in my heart. I have called myself all kinds of an idiot for running scared.
I hope desperately that he hasn’t given up on me.
Chapter 15
The first of January finds me and Amanda doing all kinds of running around town, checking that we have enough Scotch for our tasting, setting up the tables, making sure all the donations for the silent auction have come in, having tax receipts ready for the tax-deductible portion of the evening, all the normal last minute one does when throwing an event like this. This is the fifth year I’ve done this, and if it weren’t for the fact that Doug’s phone has yet again gone into voicemail, I’d be enjoying myself tremendously.
Amanda takes a look at my face and tactfully refrains from asking any questions about Doug. Instead, we go over our tasting notes. I’ll be leading the tasting this year while Amanda works the tables and makes sure everyone’s having a good time.
We work hard all day. It is almost 7pm when we are done. I go home, but I can’t face unpacking my bags, so I just drown my sorrows in bad TV, and fall asleep early.
***
The second of January is a Saturday night; the tasting is at 7pm. I head to the bar at 5.30, make sure all the tables are set up correctly, check that place cards are in order, double-check that the wait staff know what sequence to bring out the scotch in. I’ve taken care with my make-up, I’m wearing the same black dress I wore to my birthday. I look good; a confidence booster.
Amanda joins me at about 5.45pm. She flashes me a smile. I’m a little nervous about doing all the talking, and she can sense it. “You’ll be great, Sara,” she tells me confidently.
“I hope so,” I mutter. I fiddle with my notes to expend some nervous energy.
***
The guests start arriving at half-past six. Amanda and I work the room. We greet familiar faces, introduce ourselves to new faces and talk up the cat shelter to everyone in the room.
I sense Doug before I see him. He walks into the room with his familiar air of calm competence. He’s laughing at something the woman next to him has said. They are gazing at each other with affection; his hand is placed protectively in the small of her back, and he leans in as she mutters something that causes him to laugh yet again.
I go deathly pale. It hurts to breathe. My eyes fill with involuntary tears and I fiercely blink them away. Not now, Sara, I mutter. Hold it together. But inside, my heart breaks into a thousand little pieces.
Amanda shoots a quick concerned look at me, starts to walk towards me, but I shake my head. I can’t take her sympathy right now. I’m barely holding it together myself.
It took barely a week to replace me, I think bitterly, and my mind is reeling. Right now, I want to go home and fall into bed. I want to burst into tears, and bury myself in my misery. I don’t do any of that though. I walk forward.
Doug looks up at my approach, there’s surprise in his eyes, but also warmth. “Hello Sara,” he says. I ignore him for a second and turn towards his companion.
“Hi, I’m Sara, I’m one of today’s organizers,” I introduce myself to Doug’s lady friend.
“Hello, Sara, I’m Charlie,” she replies, with a friendly smile. She has a slight French accent. Of course. She radiates chic, in her dress of grey silk, with her hair drawn back in an elegant chignon. She is so much of a better fit in Doug’s world. I can see her in wine bars and fancy restaurants, not in dive bars with big plates of nachos and cheap beer.
“And you already know Doug?” She adds, looking at Doug, a little surprised.
Doug starts to say something, but suddenly, I can’t cope with what he’s going to say. “Yes,” I interject, before he can say anything, “Doug and I used to work together.”
Doug gives me that patented look of his, the one that is considering and expressionless, but I do my best not to react. Right then, Amanda comes to my rescue. “Hello Doug,” she says, “We are almost ready to begin. Can I show you to your table?”
***
The rest of the evening passes by in a blur. I will myself not to look at Doug. Pain stabs at my heart every time I breathe but I go through my notes, lead the group through a tutored Scotch tasting, run the silent auction, and then, finally, I find Amanda, beg her to cover for me and flee.
***
The phone has rung three times Sunday morning. Amanda’s trying to reach me. I’ve ignored the calls. I’m sitting on my bed, staring at the wall, trying to get past the incredible pain.
I cried myself to sleep last night. Today, I’m just numb.
The phone has thankfully, finally gone silent. I just stare at the wall. I have laundry to do, and unpacking, I think, and I try to find the energy to get up and go to the Laundromat. But I can’t, and so I just sit on the bed and stare.
At about eleven in the morning, there is a banging at my door, and I hear Amanda’s voice. She sounds more than a little annoyed. “Sara, I know you are in there, open up.”
Sigh. For a second, I contemplate ignoring the door as well, but then I rethink that. Amanda lives on the east end of town. It must have taken her an hour on transit to get here.
“Coming,” I say, and get up. I’m still wearing the black dress I was wearing last night; I’ve had no energy to change. It is a crumpled mess. My mascara has run down my cheeks in one of my crying fits. I look utterly dreadful, and I don’t care.
Amanda eyes me as she enters my studio apartment and takes a seat on the only chair in the apa
“Yup, this is what I was expecting,” she drawls. I stiffen at the tone in her voice. Does she not understand why I would be shattered?
I open my mouth to say that, angrily, but then, I close it. What’s the point of fighting with Amanda anyway? She’s not the person I’m angry at. I’m angry at Doug, for replacing me so quickly and I’m angry at myself for letting myself fall in love with him, and letting myself care. Same old pattern.
“Sara,” Amanda sighs. “I could let you bask in your misery, or I could just tell you that Charlie is Doug’s cousin. Which would you prefer?”
I gape at her. “What?”
“Mmm. After you fled, I went over to talk to Doug. I was going to yell at him. But, yeah. His cousin. Not a girlfriend, or whatever else worst-case scenario you’ve imagined.”
I breathe. Hope blossoms in my chest. “Not a girlfriend?” I repeat, in dawning wonder. Charlie. Short for Charlotte, maybe? The shy girl who was beaten as a child by her father? I can scarcely reconcile that image with the image of the sophisticated, laughing woman yesterday.
“Nope,” she says, her eyes compassionate. “And, also, this would have been a lot easier on me if you’d just picked up your damn phone.” She’s grumbling, but she’s not really angry.
“Amanda, I have to go talk to him,” I say. I’m nervous. This is twice I’ve run. Twice I haven’t listened to Doug. Twice I haven’t allowed him to explain.
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Amanda agrees. “Ok, girl, I’m going to leave now. You need to shower, change, and then, head over there.”
I glance at the time; a quarter past eleven. If I shower quickly, catch a cab, I can be there by a quarter past noon. Doug’s football game is at one today and I’m assuming he’ll have his friends over as he does every Sunday. I’ll have a half-hour to talk to him, max, but I find I can’t wait till the end of the game. I need to talk to him now, to apologize, to plead for another chance.
***
I’m outside Doug’s door. It is a quarter past noon. I take a deep breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I tell myself. My heart is beating wildly in my chest. I raise my hand and ring the doorbell.
Alia’s volley of barks greets the doorbell. “Coming,” Doug yells out, no doubt thinking I’m one of his football buddies. He opens the door and sees me there.
An instant passes, then another. Finally, he steps aside, gestures me in.
“Can we talk?” I ask him, disconcerted by his silence.
He looks at me, expressionless. “The game’s going to start at one; the gang will be here in twenty minutes.”
I close my eyes, crushed at his words; the rejection contained in them. The pain courses through me, and then, finally, I find within me the same resolve I found when I was being whipped at the House of Pain. I straighten, looked into Doug’s eyes. “Please,” I ask simply.
He eyes me and nods. “Come into the kitchen,” he says. “I have chilli cooking on the stove I need to keep an eye on.”
Okay. A start. In the kitchen, I perch myself on the island, the scene of so many companionable evenings. “Can I help with anything?” I ask.
Doug shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.
I gulp. He is giving me no easy openings here.
“I’m sorry I ran,” I start tentatively. “Both before Christmas, and last night.”
“Why did you run?” Doug’s voice is level. He leans against the kitchen counter, watching me.
“I was afraid,” I mutter.
“Of what?” Again, his voice is level. I’m gazing at my hands, clasped together in my lap, afraid to look at him. Afraid to see rejection in his eyes.
I take a deep breath. Time for the truth, and nothing but the truth.
“I was afraid that I’d fall in love with you, and sooner or later, you’d leave.” My voice is a mere whisper.
“Why would I leave?” His voice is now puzzled.
“Oh come on, Doug. I live in Parkdale; you live in Rosedale. You are way, way out of my league.” My voice rises slightly.
“You think I’m way out of your league?” He sounds incredulous. “Sara, you led a Scotch tasting yesterday. Every single guy in that bar thought you were amazing. You are funny and bright and beautiful. You are braver than I could ever be, why would you think that?”
Oh. I finally dare to look at him. He’s still looking astonished. Just then, the doorbell rings.
“Fuck,” Doug swears; looks at the time. Half-past twelve. “Great day for people to be early,” he mutters.
He looks at me. “In or out, Sara?” he asks. “Staying or going?”
I meet his eyes. There’s no doubt. I’m not sure if there ever really was. For months, I’ve been trying to pretend that Doug does not matter. But I’ve been lying to myself. He matters, more than anything in the world.
“I’m in.” My voice is certain.
“Good,” he smiles at me. “Stay and watch the game with us?”
I nod. That smile has made my heart beat faster, and hope stirs, for the first time since I’ve entered Doug’s house.
Chapter 16
It is Patrick at the door, the guy who tended to me when I was sick. He smiles at me when he sees me, greets me warmly. “Happy New Year, Sara,” he says. “Did you have a good holiday?”
I mumble something. I cried most of my holidays; what do I say?
Patrick helps himself to a beer from Doug’s refrigerator. He’s comfortable in Doug’s kitchen. They are clearly good friends. Doug offers me a beer and I accept a little tentatively. I haven’t eaten breakfast and beer on an empty stomach will go straight to my head.
Doug notices. “Didn’t eat breakfast?” he asks me. I shake my head. He rolls his eyes at me and slices some bread, puts a bowl of chilli in front of me. “Eat,” he orders. I do as I’m told, half-listening to the conversation between Patrick and Doug, who are speculating about their team’s chances in today’s game.
The doorbell rings again and Patrick wanders away to open the door, leaving Doug and me alone for a minute. I look at him. There’s a world of emotion in my eyes but this isn’t the time. Instead, I simply thank him for the chilli.
He smiles at me, but whatever he is about to say is interrupted by the entering couple.
Oh. Great. It’s James Milner, the COO of the company I work at. I remember Doug mentioning they were old college buddies. He doesn’t look too surprised to see me though. He greets me, his manner friendly. He introduces me to his wife, Alison. “Sara just joined the Marketing department a few months ago,” he explains to his wife.
She is hands-down, the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. She’s a tall blonde, and she also smiles at me warmly. “Hello Sara,” she says, her voice amiable. “I’ve heard so much about you. Are you a fan of football too?” She wrinkles her nose as she says this. She’s clearly not a fan of football.
“Hush, Alison,” James laughs at his wife. “Don’t scare the girl already, it’s her first football game.”
Alia’s dancing around the kitchen in the greatest of excitement; her tail wagging furiously. The doorbell rings again; and she hurtles down the hallway, followed by a laughing Alison.
***
The game is about to start. Everyone wanders into the living room, bowls of chilli in their hands. Doug’s friends seem really nice and normal and I’m slowly beginning to relax.
Everyone crowds into the couches, with some good-natured shoving taking place. Doug pulls me next to him. I’m pressed against his body. Instinctively, I nestle up against him, before I catch myself. I don’t know if my gesture will be welcome.
I close my eyes briefly. In that instant, his body felt so good against mine. I desperately hope we can make this work.
***
Hope rises in me as we settle down to watch the game. I don’t really watch football, and many of the finer points of the game are lost on me. Doug senses my confusion at times, and softly explains what’s going on. At some point in the game, Doug puts his arm around me, pulls me into his body. I nestle there, utterly content.
***
The game is over; everyone takes their leave. And finally, we are alone again, seated on the couch.
“You were saying?” Doug prompts. I was hoping I’d be let off the hook, but I see that’s not likely.
I look at Doug. What I’m about to say is going to take the most courage I’ve displayed in a long time but I’m ready.
“I love you,” I say, looking into Doug’s eyes, not trying to hide. “I’m sorry I ran. Can you forgive me?”
He takes a deep breath. “Of course,” he says automatically. “And I love you too.” He starts to add something, but my emotions have finally overflown, hearing his words. The words are easily spoken as if the conclusion was never in doubt. He sees my reaction, the tears forming in my eyes, and there’s warmth and understanding in his eyes as he pulls me into his body.
“You didn’t know?” he asks. “All those times I kept asking you out, persisting through the countless rejections, you didn’t know?”
“I knew you wanted to date me, and I was afraid I’d fall in love with you, so I kept saying no,” I mutter.
“You should trust me more, Sara.” His words are a mild rebuke. I flush. He’s right. I don’t deserve him.
“Doug,” I mutter, “can we go downstairs?”
***
I kneel in front of Doug in the dungeon; I’m still fully clothed. Doug gets the fire going and the room slowly fills with warmth. Emotions whirl in my brain. Mostly, I feel unworthy of Doug’s love and understanding. I need to be punished for running, for having so little faith in Doug. This need is roaring in me, and my thoughts are churning.
“Doug,” I beg, my voice hesitant, “I need to be punished.”
Doug hears the inflection in my voice. I’m not referring to our typical ‘punishment’ sessions in the dungeon, which are primarily about pleasure. No, I want to be punished painfully. He’s forgiven me, but I need to be punished before I can forgive myself.
-->
