Hard to Hold (True Romance)

by LETO, JULIE

  While he slowly undressed, she lit candles around the room. She dug up a stick of patchouli-scented incense, lit it, and set the fragrant herbs on the side table closest to his face.

  He inhaled and the smell instantly transported him to the park where he most loved to hike. The loamy smell of freshly turned earth and the piquant perfume of pine teased his nostrils and lulled his brain into memories of the outdoors. Even before Anne climbed over him, her hands warming something she’d squeezed onto her palms, he’d started to let go of some of the stress.

  When her slick hands met his flesh, he groaned in pleasure.

  “There we go,” she coaxed. “Just concentrate on the feel of my hands.”

  “What is that?” he asked, his voice growing huskier with each loosening of sinew and muscle. They had massage oil in the bathroom cabinet, but nothing that heated with friction.

  She shifted so that her thighs cradled his hips and her thumbs dug a little deeper into the bunched cords of his neck. The erotic rasp of lace sparked the skin on his lower back.

  “Something I picked up at the lingerie store.”

  He attempted to turn around to see if she’d also picked up new panties, but she forced him back into the prone position.

  “No peeking. This is not a visual exercise. This is strictly tactile. Close your eyes.”

  “You know this is a temporary fix, right?” he said, experiencing a jerk in his muscles even as he said it.

  “That’s not the right attitude,” she chanted, characteristically upbeat. “Take what you can get. Enjoy the moment. Then you’ll have something to think about when your stress levels go back up. You can imagine my hands on your body, digging into that spot right here—”

  He gasped when her fingers twisted through the bunched flesh.

  “And then you’ll relax.”

  “But what if—” he asked, clearing his throat involuntarily.

  She smacked him on the shoulder. “No negative thoughts.”

  She leaned across to the bedside table to turn up the music, which gave him a particularly impressive view of her bare breasts. He reached for her, but she maneuvered out of his way.

  “Oh, no,” she teased. “Until you relax, the only tactile experience you need is my hands on you. Not the other way around.”

  Talk about incentive. Mike squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the squelch and stream of her putting more oil in her hands and he concentrated on the anticipation of feeling the slippery, warm sensation on his skin. One kind of tension left his body as another kind—a much more pleasurable kind—increased. She worked magic with her hands, pressing hard into the constricted muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back, then working out the kinks between his shoulder blades. Then, with infinite patience, she traced down every vertebrae in his spine until he felt like the candle flickering on the window sill—slowly melting to nothing but the flame.

  And every time she bent low across him so that her nipples skimmed over his skin, his mind let go of another worry, another concern. By the time she gave him permission to turn over, he could hardly remember how they’d gotten into the bedroom in the first place or what he’d done to rate such an amazing massage.

  “Feel better?” she asked, her eyelids hooded and heavy.

  Try as he might, he could only keep his gaze on her face for about a split second. After that, all bets were off. He managed a quick flip so that she was underneath him, her slippery hands pinned by his just above her head.

  “You’re one hell of a physical therapist,” he said, bending to taste the delicious skin of her neck. “But I want in on the oil action. Where is it?”

  She glanced at the edge of the bed, where the bottle had nearly tumbled off the comforter. He snagged it and as he tried to pour some into his palm, she moved to turn over.

  “Oh no,” he said, holding her in place. “I’ve got you right where I want you, my love. Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  By the time he finished, they were both so slick, their bodies slid together without resistance. He banished the thought of how rare nights like this would be once he was living in New York City by memorizing every taste, every texture, every pleasure spot on her body. They wouldn’t be living on opposite sides of the world. They’d only be about four hours apart. Knowing Anne would be waiting for him, missing him, wanting him, was more than enough incentive to face this crisis like every other one that had crossed their paths.

  Together.

  He tugged her closer to him, right up against the arm that had been jerking and twitching all day. “I’m going to go crazy living without you,” he confessed.

  “I won’t be far away. And you are going to be living in my favorite city on the planet. It won’t be hard to entice me to visit.”

  “You’ll come meet me in Manhattan?” he asked.

  She kissed him, naked and slick, and his body renewed for another round. “You just have to say the word.”

  Twenty-Two

  “I THINK I WANT TO GO BACK TO THE HOUSE,” Anne said, handing him her half-eaten pretzel with a look that said the salty baked dough slathered in mustard wasn’t agreeing with her.

  But they couldn’t leave Camden Yards just now. Not because Mike had any particular interest in seeing his beloved Yankees massacred by the Orioles—who were already one run up and seemed to have much stronger pitching than his Bronx Bombers— but because he had a question to ask Anne that needed to be asked here.

  Just not right this minute.

  But soon.

  Or . . . not.

  His brain swam. When Anne’s father, David, had called with the news that he’d secured tickets for the game, Mike had been struck by inspiration. How often did the two teams they’d followed since childhood battle each other in Baltimore, only a few hours from Anne’s hometown in Salisbury, on the eve of the Jewish holidays?

  Besides their trip to Peru, their excursion shortly after she’d left her job at the Daily Journal to Cooperstown for the Baseball Hall of Fame induction of Cal Ripken, one of Anne’s all-time favorite players and Baltimore’s favorite son, had been an amazing trip. She’d even freelanced a job writing a “Quick Guide to Cooperstown,” for her hometown magazine.

  They’d had a blast exploring the restaurants, parks, and museums she’d recommended. It was memories like that one that he clung to on the nights when their only communication was through instant messaging, telephone, or e-mails or on weekends when her school work kept their interactions limited to quick kisses in between her trips to the computer lab or large gatherings with friends, even when he truly wanted Anne all to himself.

  Mike had taken the timing of the game as a sign. He needed Anne to stay with him until he was ready to pop the question.

  He just didn’t want to do it in front of her parents—especially when the Yankees were down by one run.

  Anne’s mother, Hannah, leaned forward and put her hand on her daughter’s knee. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  “I’m just not feeling well enough to sit through a whole game,” Anne said. “I’m sorry.”

  Her father, who’d been keeping score and noting the stats inside his program, looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Anne’s sick. Maybe we should go,” Hannah offered.

  How could Mike say no and not sound like an insensitive clod?

  All his plans were falling apart.

  Though he and Anne had been living apart for nearly five months, they’d somehow fallen into a comfortable routine, traveling between upstate and the city, sharing time at their apartment, or hanging out in Brooklyn with friends so that their separation hadn’t struck them as keenly as her shift in work hours had a year ago. Of course, their relationship was no longer skating on new ice, but had solidified into an uncrackable bond nearly impervious to time and distance.

  With confidence that their separation was just a temporary inconvenience, Mike had gone into his new job with determination. His Tourette’s symptoms had returned to norma
l. Anne had thrown herself into her studies and was in the home stretch of grad school.

  They were fast approaching yet another crossroads and more than anything, Mike wanted to merge onto that highway with Anne, not as his live-in girlfriend, but as his fiancée.

  The path they’d traveled together had been rockier than some, but smoother than most. In his entire life, he never dreamed he’d find a woman who shared his love for his dog, great music, travel, baseball, and was Jewish to boot.

  He was going to propose.

  But to do it right, he needed her to stay at the game.

  “Maybe you just need some fresh air.” The minute the suggestion spilled from his lips, he winced at how stupid it sounded.

  The evening was on the chilly side, but blue skies and a setting sun made it the perfect weather for baseball. The air couldn’t get any fresher than it was in the lower reserve section behind the third base line.

  The teams had been scoreless until the fourth inning, when Baltimore’s Adam Jones had grounded into a double play, but sent Luke Scott home for the first run of the game. As a die-hard Yankees fan, Mike had not taken this as a good omen. Anne’s sudden bout of ill health did not make him feel any more confident.

  This weekend, for Passover, was going to be filled with family. He had to propose here at this game. And yet, asking her in earshot of her parents sucked out the romance. If only he could get her to go for a walk with him. If only he could get her to agree to stay.

  “Why don’t you sip some soda, honey?” her mother offered.

  Anne nodded and did as her mother requested and backed off on the idea of leaving. Silently, Mike promised never to make a single mother-in-law joke for the rest of his life.

  Uncertainty suddenly flooded through him. It wasn’t like him to do something this big without a specific plan.

  “I’m in the mood for Cracker Jacks,” he said when the third out retired the side and the teams changed places on the field, with the Yankees up to bat at the top of the fifth inning.

  Anne made a face that told him sweetened popcorn with peanuts was the last thing she wanted to eat.

  “Come with me to get some?” he asked.

  He didn’t want to wait much longer. It would be bad enough asking in front of her mother and father, but the Oriole fans who surrounded them had been giving his white with dark blue pinstriped jersey suspicious—and in some cases, hostile—looks. His proposal didn’t need any negative energy.

  Anne shook her head. “I don’t feel like walking. The guy will come around soon.”

  And as usual, she was right. A vendor selling the iconic baseball snack did indeed show up a few minutes later. Mike purchased a box and pretended he wanted to eat them, when in reality, he only wanted an excuse to get away from the crowd. As he poured the sweet treat into his hand, a square-shaped temporary tattoo floated to the top of the caramelized popcorn. If he had a pen, he could scribble two words on the slick paper.

  Marry me.

  But what good was it if Anne wouldn’t even look at the candied treat?

  He’d almost changed his mind and was seconds away from offering to take her home when the Orioles’ third baseman made an error on a single hit by Chad Moeller, sending Yankee Robinson Cano to the plate for New York’s first run. The score was tied. He risked cheering for his team, despite the unfriendly crowd, then decided this had to be a sign.

  Standing, he made a show of stretching his legs and tugging at his jeans while he rolled his neck and shoulders. He watched the rest of the inning, his brain split between hoping for another run and trying to come up with some excuse to get Anne out of her seat.

  He was heartened when Anne’s father decided to make a bathroom run and hoped his wife would go, too, but she declined and for the hell of it, Mike went with David instead. He endured a couple of minutes of good-natured ribbing about being a Yankee fan and a historical reminder that in the early 1900s, the Yankees had actually been the Baltimore Orioles. After they stopped at a concession stand for a beer, watching the game’s progression (or lack thereof, as no one else scored in the fifth inning) Mike realized he’d forgotten to do something.

  “I’m going to ask Anne to marry me,” he blurted out.

  With a beer halfway to his mouth, David’s bushy eyebrows arched upward. He set the drink down and stared at Michael without saying a word.

  He didn’t need to speak. Something in his expression made Mike replay his words in his head and then make a very important amendment.

  “I mean,” he clarified. “I want to ask Anne to marry me. If I have your blessing.”

  He hadn’t really planned to ask permission. As traditional as both he and Anne could be in many aspects of their lives, Mike had the distinct impression that Anne might not appreciate being bartered by her father. On the other hand, she’d understand that her father would want to be included on the decision that would ultimately affect the rest of her life.

  After his initial hesitation, David lifted his beer and took a sip, the foam clinging to his moustache before he licked it off with a quick swipe. “Think she’ll say yes?”

  Mike downed a good quarter of his beer. Was this why he was so nervous? Did he think that Anne, after living with him and sharing his bed and confessing her secrets, was going to turn down his proposal?

  “Yeah, actually, I do,” he replied.

  “Then why are you so nervous?”

  Leave it to David to cut to the chase. He was a numbers guy, an accountant, a man of few words but deeply held convictions. A cheer rose up around them that indicated the Orioles had scored, but David’s eyes never left his.

  “I love her,” Michael replied. “I’d move the world to make her happy.”

  He didn’t reply specifically to David’s question, but his answer seemed to satisfy his future father-in-law, who lifted his beer in a toast and then took a hearty sip.

  “Gonna do it now?”

  “I’ve been trying all night,” Mike said. “Anne loves the Orioles. I thought she’d appreciate a proposal while they were trouncing my team.”

  Another roar exploded through the stadium. They returned to their seats to find Mike’s chances of getting a yes to his proposal had increased by five runs—so far—scored in the sixth inning. Though Anne still wasn’t eating much, her mood had elevated to the point where she felt more than comfortable razzing him about how much her team was killing his.

  But he didn’t mind. Maybe the Yankees had to lose in order for him to win.

  After the seventh-inning stretch, Anne decided she really wanted to go home. She’d been feeling woozy since the car ride and though she’d sipped an ice-free soda the whole game, she was desperate for a nap. Between her demanding schedule at school, preparing for the trip home, and getting ready for the holiday, she’d pushed herself to the limit. And no matter how far she went from Albany, she couldn’t forget that her graduate project was due in less than two months. The upside of not having Michael around during the week was that she could work late. The downside was that she wasn’t getting very much sleep.

  And yet, even though the Orioles had scored seven runs, Michael still didn’t want to go home. He insisted that Chad Moeller’s homerun over the left field fence in the top of the seventh constituted a comeback, but she wasn’t convinced. She considered taking the car herself and leaving him to go home with her parents, but she’d spent too much time away from him lately. She settled for remaining in her seat, occasionally putting her head on his shoulder until his enthusiasm or disappointment regarding the game sent her flying.

  When the Yankees failed to score again by the ninth inning, the game ended. She mustered up enough strength to razz Michael about her team beating his, but her heart wasn’t in it. Darkness had fallen and she just wanted to go home.

  “Camden Yard is awesome,” Mike said as they streamed out of the row and up the stairs.

  The stadium was an impressive place, particularly at night when the lights sparkled against a crisp Balti
more sky. Her parents had parked at a different entrance, so they left, but Michael lingered behind, wanting to look around.

  “I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to come again. Can we just walk around once?”

  The crowd was thinning. Anne didn’t feel one-hundred percent, but she understood that while the Yard was nothing new to her, Mike was a baseball fan of the first order and poking around the stadium was just the sort of thing he’d enjoy. Their shared love of this sport had been yet another tick in the tally list of their compatibility. They both liked hiking. They both enjoyed yoga. They adored basketball and had similar—his Phish obsession notwithstanding— taste in music. She could no more deny him this chance to explore the home of her beloved Orioles than he would say no if she needed extra time at a knitting store to pick a new pattern.

  By the time they reached the section between center field and the bullpen, the stadium was mostly empty. Mike walked to the railing, leaned over as he gazed across the sea of green grass and bright orange clay. The scoreboard had frozen with the game’s final score of Orioles 8, Yankees 2. She took the opportunity to tease him a bit about the lopsided win before pointing out the two orange seats in the sea of dark green that filled the stadium.

  “That one,” she said, pointing to a spot in right-center field in the Eutaw Street Reserve seats, “is where Eddie Murray’s 500th homerun landed back in ninety-six.”

  “And that one?” he asked, pointing to the orange spot in left field.

  She smiled. “That’s where Ripken hit his two-hundred and seventy-eighth home run, the highest any shortstop had achieved since Ernie Banks.”

  He turned and grinned at her. “You do know your baseball.”

  “One of my many charms,” she replied.

  He took her hand. In the space of a heartbeat, his expression changed. His bright blue eyes seemed to darken with sudden seriousness so much that her mouth dried and her blood thudded in her ears.

  “Michael, what’s the—?”