Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  I take a shaky breath and continue. “When you finished playing, you were a different person. For the first time, I saw real confidence on your face. I was drunk on it, so far gone that I didn’t stop you from getting too close, from suggesting the very thing I tried to keep buried.”

  “What did I say?”

  “I’ll never forget—you said, ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I was your girl?’” I hold her closer. “Wanted to make you mine right then and there. I reached up and touched your face, felt the smoothness I’d been dreaming about. Thank God you left before I got any further.”

  She sighs and pulls my arms tighter around her.

  “This is too much,” I whisper. “I can’t go through this again.”

  “You’re stronger than you think. You’re doing great. I’m here, and you’re safe.” She turns in my arms and cradles my face in both her hands. A light kiss lands on my lips and I swear it even tastes like Juli.

  I’m frightened by how easily my mind is able to conjure every detail about her. With my eyes still closed, I trace the features of her face—her upturned nose, the smooth planes of her cheeks, the small indent of her chin, and the full pout of her lower lip. When I brush my thumb over it, I remember the night in Boston when she bit it then sent me away. We both knew I couldn’t stay away for long. I lean forward and take it between mine.

  Can’t hold back much longer. Something in my gut is rolling around, trying to break free. The sensation is familiar, but one I haven’t felt since I was a young boy. “Let me try again. Let me do things the right way. You deserved better.”

  A small gasp reaches my ears. “Yes.”

  That one word is a fist in my chest. Over the next few hours, I find redemption in her arms. I go slow, tracing her lines, whispering words of love and adoration that should have been said months ago. She lets me worship her, each kiss a prayer, every touch a hymn. Our communion is truly a divine act worthy of a martyr’s sacrifice.

  “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.” The words tumble out over and over.

  “Open your eyes,” she says. I do, and beneath me is her incarnation, a strange polyphonic being that is Heather and not Heather—Juli and not Juli. “There’s nothing to forgive. It’s time to let go.”

  I bury my face in her hair, and for the first time since my daddy died, I come undone.

  ***

  I wake with her in my arms, aware that this extraordinary woman has given more of herself that I could ever deserve. Her light lashes brush her cheeks while she breathes soft puffs against my shoulder. The sun is well above the horizon and spills across the wood floor, just barely touching the bed. Outside, the city stretches and yawns. Lawnmowers whine and oak leaves shake against the window in a soft breeze.

  She stirs, so I pull her closer to place a kiss on her forehead. She smiles without opening her eyes, but it quickly fades and is replaced by two lines between her brows. I rub my thumb over them to smooth them away. I want her dreamy smile back. She blinks, looking around the room—anywhere but at me. “Shoot, what time is it?”

  “Probably around seven.”

  “Oh, no. I stayed all night.” Her words are an axe splitting firewood. Don’t know what to say. “Mama will definitely want to know where I was.”

  “You can stay out all night if you like. You don’t need permission.”

  She turns away, pulling the sheet up to her chest. “No?” she whispers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. I need to shower before the furniture people get here. Then I’m going home.”

  After last night, this isn’t the reaction I’d envisioned, but she has a point. “Okay. Towels are in the–”

  “Cabinet. Yes, I know.”

  “Right. Um, I’ll make breakfast. Eggs and grits?”

  “No, just coffee, thanks.”

  Not sure what to make of the barrier she’s constructed, I make a hasty retreat to the kitchen. By the time she pads into the room, hair damp and wavy, I’ve whipped up omelets, grits, fresh fruit, and the requested coffee. I hand her a mug and our fingers brush, reminding me of the time Juli showed up here in the middle of the night. The next morning I handed her the very same mug to cover an awkward moment. It pales in comparison to this one.

  “So,” she says, “excited about the furniture?” Her smile is sweet but forced. It clashes with the sadness in her eyes.

  “I guess. I’d be more excited if you told me what the hell’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

  Instead of answering, she takes a sip of coffee and wanders into the empty parlor. The asshole part of me wants to hold my ground and eat my damn breakfast, but I know I should follow her and see if she’ll open up. With a sigh, I drop my fork and do the gentlemanly thing.

  She turns in a slow circle, taking in the empty red walls of the room. “This is going to look great, you know. Very masculine, but classy. You can have guys over for football, or entertain your family. It’ll be really versatile.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Totally. We’ll just have to make sure they center the rug under the chandelier and then the piano underneath it, so that’s the focal point of the room. We’ll build the rest around–”

  “Heather?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Talk to me.”

  “About what?” She smiles and takes another sip of her coffee.

  “Don’t be cute. About last night. May I remind you that it was your idea.”

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I’m well aware that I started it. Not sure I realized exactly what I was getting into, but yes, I take full responsibility for this awkwardness.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I ask, “So at what point exactly did you freak out?”

  “When I realized you were still one hundred percent in love with her, that it wasn’t just some rebound fling for you, like I am. You really love her. I know you, Isaac Laroche, because you’re just like me. Neither of us trusts anyone, and it’s no wonder when we were both betrayed so horribly. For you to let her in like you did, she must mean the world to you. I had this crazy idea that I could fix you. I thought, we’ll just get you some motivation, get you on the right track, and then Mama will see she can’t continue to mess up your life like she has mine. But I see now that she already did, and I’m so sorry.”

  “No, Heather–”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad you found someone you care about so much. I’m jealous, but not for the reason you think. I’m not jealous that it’s her and not me, but because you found love like that and I haven’t. I convinced myself I had it with Walter, but I couldn’t go through with marrying him, even if it meant Mama disowning me. If it weren’t for the drama with Daddy, I think she would. If she ever found out where I spent last night, I know she would.”

  “Then stay here. Move in with me.”

  She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Kinda glad, because I need a second to mentally kick my own ass.

  “Aw, that’s sweet, Isaac. I appreciate the offer, but–”

  “But what?”

  “But you’re in love with Julianne Casquette!”

  “But I shouldn’t be. Don’t want to be. I need to let her go with someone who can make her whole, and that person’s not me.”

  “Well,” she says, setting her coffee mug down on the floor, “I’m glad you realize that. Guilt does not a love story make.” She lowers herself to the floor, folding her legs underneath. Before joining her, I grab our plates from the kitchen. She takes one from me, but only picks at her food. I devour mine.

  After a few minutes, I clear my throat. “You’re right, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “That I needed someone to light a fire under my ass.”

  Her snicker echoes off the plaster walls. “I believe I said you needed motivation.”

  “Same thing, and you were the person to do it. Thank you.”

  “Welcome.”

  An engine grinds to a halt outside, foll
owed by heavy pounding on the door. We look at each other and smile. “Showtime,” she says.

  The next hour flies by in a chaotic barrage of foam wrapping, underpaid delivery workers, and Heather gracefully showing me and the men where she wants everything placed. When they finally leave, the room smells of leather and sweat. It’s a combination that has me hungry for more than lunch.

  “Ta-da!” She holds her arms out and turns in a circle. “Well, what do you think? Didn’t I tell you it would all come together?”

  I follow her gaze around the room. The red walls and refinished floors are the same, but it has a completely different feel to it, a different sound. My piano rests on a new patterned rug under the antique crystal chandelier that came with the house. In front of it near the bay window is my new leather sectional, with the end tables and coffee table “strategically placed for usability” according to Heather. Thrift-store paintings of classical scenes break up the wall space, and there are even a few accent pieces that pay homage to Mardi Gras.

  “Ah, there’s one thing missing.” I dash up the stairs, retrieve my hard-won prize, and return to the parlor with it.

  Heather raises an eyebrow. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Sure is. Deserves a place of prominence.” Can’t wipe the grin off my face as I carefully place my Alabama Crimson Tide pillow in the center of the couch.

  “Ugh.” She heaves a dramatic sigh. “You can take the boy out of ’Bama, but you can’t take ’Bama out of the boy.” She collapses onto the couch, but picks up the pillow and chucks it at my head. I deflect it and return her attack with one of my own. Soon I’ve got her pinned beneath me on the long section of the couch. At first she giggles, but too soon she’s pushing me away.

  “What? After all we’ve been through the last week, now I can’t even touch you or kiss you?”

  Seconds slip past as she closes her eyes and presses her lips into a thin line. I watch her thoughts flit across her face like pages fluttering in the wind. “It’s for the best, Isaac.”

  Like hell it is. “So, that’s it? You come in here, fuck me into next Sunday, shake things up, and then leave when I do what you tell me and it freaks you out?”

  “Isaac!”

  “Isn’t that about what happened?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is,” I tell her, and lightly run my finger from the base of her neck to the valley between her breasts. I’m pleased when she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “But you know what? You leave, it makes you no better than me. Everyone accuses me of running from my problems. Tell me how this is different.”

  Her cheeks burn red. “It’s different because you’re not my problem.”

  A growl forms in my throat. “The hell I’m not. You made your decision. Time to live with it.” Without warning, I flip her over onto her stomach and grasp her arms, pinning them behind her at the wrists.

  “I need to get home.”

  “Not until you admit I’m right.”

  “Never.”

  I haul her ass into the air and shove her knees underneath. Those denim cutoffs are begging to be violated. They’re so short I can see she’s not wearing panties. My fingers lightly brush the insides of her thighs and she shivers. I’m equal parts aroused and relieved that I have this effect on her. If she truly didn’t want anything to do with me, she’d be fighting, but there’s no resistance coming from my pretty little captive. “Say it. I’m right.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “As you wish.”

  Chapter Eight

  We christen the new couch, knocking the throw pillows to the floor and testing the suede’s stain-resistance. She comes hard, moaning my name over and over. That’s when it hits me—I know what she needs to hear.

  “Heather, God, Heather, you feel so good. So tight and sweet, just like before. Nothing’s changed.” She needs to know I’m seeing her, not Juli or some hallucinated hybrid.

  “More,” she says.

  “Can’t count all the nights I dreamed of doing this with you again. Never imagined you’d turn into such a beautiful little slut. My slut.”

  “Isaac, I can’t stop…”

  “Go ahead. Come for me, sweet pea.”

  She does, right on command. It’s glorious to see, right up until tears streak the leather under her cheek.

  “Shit, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  She shakes her head but remains silent. The longer this goes on, the more panicky I get. “Talk to me.”

  She shakes her head again but makes no move to get up or push me away.

  “Heather?”

  “Shhh,” she says.

  “Why are we whispering?”

  After a few more torturous minutes, she reaches out for my hand and I help her sit up. She doesn’t look upset, so the tears make no sense. In fact, she looks completely…sated.

  After settling herself in my lap, she nuzzles my neck. “Have you ever been so thoroughly and completely well-fucked that you can’t speak?”

  “I suppose, but what’s with the tears?”

  She shrugs. “Didn’t realize I was crying. Take it as a compliment, because that doesn’t happen very often.”

  “I sure hope not.”

  “No, you’re looking at it the wrong way. It isn’t always a bad thing. Didn’t you learn that with two sisters?”

  “Uh, no. When they cried, it meant I should stay in my room.”

  She laughs. “Well, sometimes when you’re feeling so much that you can’t contain all the sensations, they come out in strange ways.”

  I chew on that for a few seconds. “So you’re saying I fucked you both speechless and to tears?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Damn.”

  She wriggles out of my lap, adjusts her clothes, and grabs her purse. The two lines between her eyes have returned. “I’ll text you during the week. You know, to see how you like the new room.”

  “Heather, I was serious. If things are too difficult at your parents’, you can stay with me.”

  “I know,” she says. I don’t like the sad smile that’s replaced the ecstasy that was there just minutes ago.

  And that’s when the front door opens.

  Both Heather and I stare in horror as Uncle Robert’s gaze travels between us. A tiny smile curls one side of his mouth before he reaches for Heather’s hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Swann. I hope you’ve been well?”

  Heather’s eyes are the size of Georgia peaches, but they soften at Uncle Robert’s kind demeanor. “Yes, thank you. And you look handsome as ever. I’d love to stay and catch up, but I need to get going before the rain hits.” She glances up at the darkening sky beyond my front porch.

  “Of course, dear,” he says, while holding the door. Once she’s gone, Uncle Robert’s tiny smirk turns into a full-blown, toothy grin. “Well now, I realize a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but it appears you have been busy, Isaac.”

  I hold up a hand. “Don’t even–”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, son. Oh, my. Is this the surprise you mentioned?” He peers over my shoulder at the room beyond. “Goodness, that’s…that’s really something.” His cane doesn’t echo nearly so much this time as he shuffles into the parlor.

  I move out of his way, pleased at his reaction. He takes in the floor, the couch, touches the pillows I remembered to move off the floor, then gravitates toward my piano. Thanks to him, it sports a fresh coat of polish.

  “Am I having another stroke, or is this real?”

  “Completely real, my aching shoulders and credit card can assure you. Like it?”

  He nods. “I do, but more than this”—he waves his hand in the air—“I’m glad to see you making progress. You know what I mean. Well done, Isaac, I’m proud of you. Can I ask what it all means?”

  Good question, and not one I can answer right away. “Guess it means I’m putting down roots. Investing in a future in Mobile.”

  Uncle Robert twists his hea
d around, noting the paintings on the walls. Finally, he taps his pointer finger on the piano. “And your self-imposed ban is over?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  The first thing I play is the completed lullaby I’d begun to compose the night Juli showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night. It bears the influences of Debussy and Pachelbel, but I hope the underpinnings of my style shine through. For me, music is always like a residual haunting—it retains the ambiance of the time and place in which I first play or compose it. This piece is quiet shadows, cold bitter coffee, and the smell of Juli’s skin. It’s a bare room with stark lighting, apprehension mixed with longing, and finally an uncharacteristic sliver of hope.

  My hands fall to my lap when it’s over. Uncle Robert stands at the other end of the piano, mouth gaping. Never seen him like that so I don’t know what it means. “That bad?”

  He smashes his lips together. “Oh, hush, you know it’s not. Not sure what to say, that’s all. It would be trite to say magnificent or stellar. Welcome back, son. Bravo! If that’s any indication of what else you’ve written, I’d say you have a new career waiting for you.”

  “Other than digging ditches, you mean?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to hold on to that one a bit longer, but I’m sure the publisher will be very pleased with that piece. May I ask if it has a title?”

  It does, but I can’t tell him I think of it as “Juli’s Nocturne”. “Uh, maybe ‘Night Shadows’?”

  “Good, good. What else have you got?”

  The next piece is much more frenetic and a challenge for my already arthritic fingers. It’s not the most original piece, but it captures something valuable, I think. So far, all the pieces are strictly piano.

  “The publisher also wants some full orchestra pieces. Do you have any of those?”

  “Not yet. Wanted to get your reaction to these first, before I moved on to such a big project.”