In the Nick of Time

by Laveen, Tiana

  Pride… we both have a lot of that shit…

  “I don’t rent it. I own it.” He glared at her as he worked his jaws, enjoying the last remnants of flavor.

  “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to pull my weight, okay?”

  “That’s only fifty pounds…a preschooler weighs more,” he teased.

  “Shut up,” she mock chided with a grin. “Anyway, that print ad worked wonders and landed me another gig… I got checks coming in, woo hoo!” She did a fist pump.

  “…And yet you still don’t seem happy.” He wished there were seconds to the feast but he’d devoured everything off his plate and the pots on the stove had been emptied. So, he simply sat back and took a lazy glance at the gorgeous lady before him, waiting for her response, figuring he could gnaw on that for a bit.

  “I am happy. It’s just…” She shrugged. “Oh, fuck it.” She clasped her forehead. “I’m not unhappy, okay? Only, things are different than I remember. Maybe I’m changing, I don’t know. Do you know how many women would kill to be in my shoes? The next print ad isn’t for some Wal-Mart flyer; this is for Cosmopolitan…and here I am complaining!” She shoved her plate out of the way as her brows dipped and her forehead creased with weariness.

  “Just because someone else would be happy with something you’re doing in your life doesn’t mean you have to be. Look,” He took a sip of his water and placed the glass back down. “Baby, it’s like this… not everything we did before, we will be okay with doing now. You aren’t fooling anyone but yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever stop and think that maybe you weren’t getting the gigs at first because your heart wasn’t in it? You blamed it on your surgery, your illness, the sun and the moon, but did you stop and think that people can smell that shit on you? Insincerity has a look and a scent… and you wear it oh so well.”

  Her expression changed as she crossed her arms and puckered her lips in anger.

  “Don’t give me that look, baby… you know I’m right.” He smirked as he crossed his ankles and wiggled his toes.

  “No, I don’t know that you’re right. I was very depressed about not getting any work, Nick, or did you forget that?!” She leaned a little closer to him, her eyes narrowing as she itched for a fight.

  “I didn’t say you knew you were doing it. I’m just saying it happened.” He cocked his head to the right. “I knew before you left treatment that your heart wasn’t in it. You said you wanted to try other things, and even before you admitted it to me, I could see you wanted to do something else, touch something new, feel something different.”

  She looked away, her intensity softening, her resolve melting.

  “I have the same problem, but I’m kinda stuck right now, because I have to prove all over again that I have what it takes. Anyway, this isn’t about me, it’s about you.” He sighed. “You have to be honest with yourself, Taryn, and you haven’t been honest with me, either. You said you’d tell me what it was you were working on, what you’re up to. Why are you so resistant?”

  She looked away, fiddled with her napkin. “…Because I wanted it to be done, have the finished product and then show you. I didn’t want you to see part of it. I wanted you to see the whole thing.”

  “I don’t need to see the whole thing. I’m interested in the process, too.”

  The silence stretched between them.

  “Why are you trying to be perfect for me?” he asked at last. “Look, that’s your life out there.” He pointed towards the door. “In here, in this house, it’s just Taryn and Nick, alright? Anyway, you already know what I’m telling you is true, so why are you fighting me? More importantly, why are you fighting yourself?”

  She took a deep breath and hung her head, causing her loose curls to fall slightly forward. Staring down into her lap, she disappeared within herself, and he felt sorry for her. She looked damn near pitiful.

  “You’re right,” she muttered.

  “Thank you, but I don’t care about being right. What I care about is helping you through this. You’re hard headed. You think you always have to do things by yourself, prove how tough you are. I don’t need tough, I need Taryn. Now, what is it you want to do?” He placed his napkin onto the table and glided his hand back and forth across the light gray table cloth, the texture a bit stiff and new creases denoting it as fresh out of the pack.

  “Okay, but…”

  “But nothing. Tell me what it is…”

  She slowly looked back up at him; her eyes slightly moist and a faint, crooked smile on her beautiful face. “I want to be a designer…”

  “Clothing? That’s great! You already have one foot in the door.”

  “It’s not that easy, Nick… Matter of fact, it’s complicated.”

  He was quiet for a moment, reflecting. Taking a deep breath, he succumbed to the new world he’d entered. He was in love with a woman that, at times, spoke a different language than he. As each day passed, he became more and more aware of this little notion called, ‘Give and Take.’ In his sobriety, he saw not only Taryn differently, but all women in general. He could hear a bit more of what they were saying, but that caused more complications and frustrations on his part. So, he’d secretly began to read her magazines… one after the other. In between the pages displaying scantily clad models and ones dressed in thousand dollar attire, there would be an article or two, tucked away like a tooth under a pillow for a fairy to catch in her star studded sling and replace with a golden coin. He’d read them… and more. Some read like humorous prose paired with cartoonish satirical images, while others offered a platform for new ideas—food for thought placed before him from a well-meaning relational expert or psychologist.

  This led him to want to know more, and a bit more after that. Something had to be around to cure his curiosity. Sure, he’d heard the jokes and been the author of many; trying to understand a woman was a distant cousin to trying to be a rocket scientist and biophysicist all rolled into one—but he’d try, nevertheless. After collecting his books on sobriety, addiction, alcoholism, and PTSD, he’d found himself searching for quiet times in small hidden reader haunts, bookstores with shelves and shelves of love stories packed tightly together—and second hand sections filled with musty, pre-read wares that had served duty and educated, enlightened, and entertained hundreds. He’d surpass all of his first choices and dive nose first into the romances. And books about relationships. He wanted step by step courses, for surely he could follow such things, but that was nonsensical. No woman or man came with a handbook. There was no police protocol he could apply. No slick, sly, sneaky maneuver he could use and then be okay with it. The woman had blood running through her veins; her eyes told stories and her body told more.

  She’d given him permission to fall in love with her. Not that he needed it, but she made it so fucking easy; he was constantly grateful for her generosity. After all of his research, reading and devouring of online information and magazine quizzes, he realized he still didn’t know shit. He had to shoot from the hip, to trust his gut, just like he did as a cop. He simply knew and understood people. And though women proved to be a bit more complicated, all he had to worry about was one… and she was worth the energy and determination.

  He shuffled his feet about, settled into his seat as their silence stretched a bit longer. There was so much he wished to say to her, but no… that wasn’t the course of action he’d take. He realized she needed to talk… but not necessarily receive his award winning advice. So, he followed the lady’s cues, let her bloom like the flower she was, work it out in front of him.

  “Tell me about it, I’m listening.” He reached across the small table and gripped her hand. In that moment, she offered a stilted smile and squeezed his fingers.

  “I draw.”

  “I know.”

  “No.” She smiled ever so slightly, “I draw designs. It goes beyond those sketches and smiley faces. I draw clothing, people…everything.”

/>   A faint nervous smile caught the side of his lips. “Why would you not want me to know something like that?”

  She shrugged, looked away. “It’s not that I was keeping it a secret so much as it was like, my ‘thing’.” She emphasized her words in quotes after slipping her hands away from his. “It was my personal medicine, in a way. I hadn’t done it in a long time and got back into it once I first entered recovery,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much I loved it.”

  …Those ones on the wall in Firststone were hers… I knew it…

  “Let me see ’em,” he asked, almost unable to curb his enthusiasm.

  “Hmmm.” She tapped the side of her face as if in deep deliberation. “I don’t know…” she teased, a glimmer in her eye.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” He jumped to his feet, demanding entry into her hidden little world. He knew it was selfish, possibly even intrusive… but how dare she keep this love affair away from him?

  “At Firststone I told you a bunch of times that I loved your doodles. You didn’t say one word…not one!”

  “Drawing is my boyfriend,” she egged him on, seemingly getting a kick out of his reaction.

  “Yeah?” He smirked. “Well, I’m gonna kick his ass…”

  She burst out laughing and slowly got to her feet. “Wait right here. Some are under our bed and the rest are still boxed up in the closet.”

  “Under our bed?” He frowned. “Tell me something, when have you been drawing? I want all the details of this little affair.”

  She chuckled. “While I’m on the train, if I get home before you, when you sleep…”

  “So you’ve had another man in my bed while I slept?! You just don’t give a shit, do ya? Unbelievable!” He quipped, causing her to crack a smile.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He went to the couch, getting comfortable as if about to see an exclusive art show. In some ways, he imagined that he was. A few minutes later, the woman returned with large drawing books dangling this way and that from her arms. Jumping to his feet, he helped her place them down on the coffee table. They made themselves comfortable next to one another and he waited, staring at the things, wanting to take a peek at what she and her secret lover had been up to.

  Slowly reaching forward, she gently grazed the side of one of the large, yellow sketchpads. The thing was rimmed with silver spirals along the top. She took a deep breath and flipped it open.

  “I drew all of these in Firststone…” She handed it to him, turned on some music, and sat back. Sam Smith’s, ‘I’m Not The Only One’ began to play. “I love this song…”

  He looked at the lady as she leisurely tossed her arm behind her head, her long lean body stretched out along the couch, her legs over his lap, ankles crossed in a care free sort of way.

  “I do, too.”

  She closed her eyes and he focused on the pad. Taking the corner of the cover in a tender grasp, he turned the page.

  “Damn, this is incredible, Taryn…”

  She didn’t respond, simply continued in her restful way. He scanned the sketch, the beauty of the firm yet controlled lines, the detailed, delicate shading. He could barely see the texture of the pencil marks, only light and darkness against a cream backdrop. Now, he understood. He saw why the woman cheated on him, fell to pieces for her first love, and returned to him time and time again.

  “You’re fucking amazing…” he mumbled. “So much talent… just look at these…” Page after page after page, he stared in awe, and then, he paused. “You drew the people at Firststone?” There everyone was, all the residents in that room he’d grown to hate and love all at once. The few windows allowed them to see where they could no longer be, and she’d somehow captured the pain and hope that they caused, even showing the tiny one with the blind that never came quite all the way down. He recalled all the faces, knew their names, their stories, but one thing struck him as rather peculiar—he wasn’t in the picture…

  “Must’ve been before I arrived…” he mumbled as he tossed a glance at the lady, her eyes still closed.

  “Nah, you were there… I was just trying to pretend that you weren’t…”

  He swallowed, uncertain if he wanted to open that door, to inquire why he was purposefully excluded, but then she saved him the trouble.

  “I was still upset about our first introduction to one another.” She sighed and shrugged. “It was a way for me to control my anger, draw you out of the picture if you will. I liked you, and was disappointed…so, I took care of it on my own terms.”

  He nodded in understanding then turned another page, and another… and he winced, trying to focus, make sense of it all.

  Is that?… It is… That’s me…

  He’d been so accurately captured, it was eerie. He’d been held and loved on before he even knew her last name…

  There they were in her ebony rendering, catching snowflakes on the tip of their extended tongues… How surreal it felt, as if he could reach right through the damn thing and relive the experience all over again. He could feel the damn cold, imagining he could get frostbite, and recalled the snapping noise his buttons made as he’d ripped them away from his coat, not giving his foolhardy sacrifice a second thought…

  He turned another page and paused… His heartbeat accelerated.

  In that image, he kissed the top of her bald head, her scalp tickling his lips as tiny strands of barely visible hair struggled to break free and peek through. He loved every damn strand, ever cell of her body, every piece of her dreams, too.

  He turned another page, and there he was once again, kissing her scarred flesh, loving on her, taking heed of her femininity, whether she’d recalled it or not. She was more woman than almost any lady he’d had in his company.

  When he moved to yet another page, his eyes grew large, as his chest instantly begun to constrict.

  He saw himself once more, this time all by himself. White birds with their wings spread far and wide flew all around him amongst smoky swirls as if the Earth and air around him were on fire. He stood there, arms outstretched and a tranquil smile spread across his face. All alone in a field, he appeared exultant and free. On one side of him, carved into a tree, was the name, ‘Jonathan’. The roughness of the bark called to him, drew him in further and as he inspected her meticulousness more closely. He noted the contrast of the imperfect letters, that looked as if someone had taken a knife to the thing during a jaunt in the wilderness. On the other tree, the word ‘Ma’ was whittled in the middle of a heart. Nick’s chest swelled and burned, as if he’d just gulped a shot of elixir. He inspected the drawing, and took notice of the shining police crest above his head. The damn thing picked up the reflection of the overhead sunrays. Below his bare feet sat a broken wine bottle with dark liquid spilling forth from the opening, partially swallowed by the soil and saturated onto the surrounding blades of grass…

  He paused, tamped down the emotions, not in the mood to let go of his manufactured machismo. His muscles grew rigid as his heart went into overdrive. He’d been given no warning of such a discovery; the woman simply let him walk into the shit, absorbed into a world that was his own, yet seen through another’s eyes. These were the things he’d shared, the words he’d uttered; yet some of it he’d not disclosed at all at the time… Maybe it was implied?

  Or maybe she just knew him so damn well, she’d been able to fill in the missing pieces with the touch of her pencil to paper. As he deliberated, the music continued to play. Sam sung, and his spirit did, too. Nature had taken its course in the picture in more ways than one. He slumped back onto the couch, closed his eyes real tight. One quiet tear fell, then another, and soon, he was enveloped in her feminine warmth. Her alluring, healing scent surrounded him, medicinal as it was. He kept his eyes closed for dear life, while her hands roamed all over his back and shoulders, and her soft lips swept against his moistened face.

  He reached for her, taking her hand into his, held it tight. He squeezed, hated that he may
be hurting her just a bit, but he didn’t know what else to do! His damn soul was screaming, a magnificent release… Someone else understood him, captured his pain and healing in a way he’d never dreamed imaginable. She’d made his misery magnificent, his demons delightful, and his fears wither away like weeds in a harsh winter.

  “Taryn!” he wailed, scaling her arm with both hands, and pulling at the fabric wrapped around her waist. Unable to say anything more, her name poured out of his mouth like a call for help, and yet, he could say nothing less. She held him tighter, indulging him, loving on him so damn hard that any man in his right mind should have been satisfied—but at that moment, it still wasn’t quite enough. He swiftly got to his feet, taking his precious gift right along with him, carting her away to their bedroom as he held her close to his chest. She said nothing, only wrapped her arms tightly around his upper back and laid the side of her face gently against his shoulder blade, relaxing against his urgency, becoming the calm to his storm.

  He could barely comprehend what was happening, what his mind and body were doing. He tore at her clothing as if the damn things were mocking him, making matters difficult. The silky articles flew across the room here and there, strewn colors in shades of the past, the present, and the future. Soon enough, he tugged and pulled at his body, taking himself apart via his shirt and pants, piece by frantic piece.

  “Ahhh!” She sighed when he pressed her into a heap of soft pillows, his weight hard and strong on her welcoming flesh. Grabbing her by the neck with one hand, he guided himself inside of her with the other, plunging within her security deep and hard, making her plead, scream obscenities, and moan.

  “I need you so bad!” He gnashed his teeth, his body tormented as he plunged hard and forcefully within her. He couldn’t move quite fast enough, hard enough… rough enough. Unable to control himself…unable to stop… unable to leave her or release her from the bond that kept them glued to one another in a way that was beyond anything he’d ever known.

  He craved the woman, needed so desperately to pour himself inside of her, dominate her damn body and mind, draw her deepest, most coveted reveries forward, and make her face them front and center.