Here to Stay

by Suanne Laqueur

  “Nobody,” he said, his voice hoarse with longing, his hands sure and strong, drawing her to lie back on him. “Nobody will ever fuck you like me.”

  And there in a wooden chair, with Daisy sprawled back on his chest, her knees open, her arm hooked around his head, her mouth wide and wanton, he finally felt the needle of his sexual compass swing around and find its true North. His wet, syrupy fingers felt the length of him gliding into her and he remembered. Remembered what it was like to throw out the hook and feel it dig into her edge. The tension of the line steady and perfect as he reeled her in to him. The tectonic plate of her rumbling into the plateau of him and the buckling heave of us as climax erupted like a new mountain chain. Coming like a cataclysm, a spine of jagged rock thrusting up into her. She went limp and liquid in his arms, the back of her neck damp on his shoulder. A nearly-silent scream through her open mouth and his eyes blurred at her beauty oh, mine, you are mine, you are me, I am you, and we and us and this, only this.

  I am home.

  Home by the fire and the feast with his naked lover in his lap. Plates rattling, napkins and forks clattering to the floor and the cat fleeing for more civilized company. The pendant light swinging over the table, throwing them in and out of shadow.

  “Now let’s go back to bed,” he said. They abandoned dishes and clothing and went up to sleep like death, wrapped up in each other.

  “Is this real?” one kept asking.

  “This is real,” the other would answer.

  They loved and napped the afternoon away, falling into each other, talking afterward and then falling back asleep.

  “I keep nodding off,” Daisy said. “It’s crazy.”

  “Who knew getting back together would be so exhausting,” Erik said, yawning.

  “Do you feel all right?” she asked. “I mean…overall?”

  “I don’t have one word for what I feel,” he said. “It’s a thousand things at the same time.”

  “I know. I’m so happy and my throat has such a lump in it,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She slid closer to him then moved to lie on top of him, her heart against his. “I can’t believe you came back to me.”

  He folded his arms around her, dug his hand into the tangle of her hair. “I had to.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry about what I did.”

  “Me too,” he said, a little catch in his voice. He ran the back of his hand over his eyes once, then again and pressed it still. “I’m so sorry.”

  So the time passed in sleep, sex and apology.

  “I’m sorry,” one whispered during lovemaking, coming together in joy and sorrow.

  “I’m sorry, too,” the other whispered.

  BY DAY FOUR, they were both chafed below the belt. Sore and stinging, they agreed to get out of bed, get dressed and cool it a while before they did irreparable damage.

  “You look hot,” Daisy said. “Boxer briefs are the best thing to happen to men’s underwear.”

  Standing in his best things, Erik swallowed, staring at the sight of Daisy in nothing but a pair of pink boy shorts. She was stepping into her jeans, pulling them up over her hips.

  In college she was slender as a blade, with a ballet dancer’s uncompromisingly narrow silhouette. Clothing further diminished her. She was five feet five but looked taller and fuller when she was naked. Unclothed or not, she fit to Erik like a made-to-measure dream. The top of her head rested against the bottom of his chin. His arms could wrap neatly around her body like the bow on a present. Her small breasts and tiny butt cleaved to the curves of his hands. Her frame was spare yet it possessed a wicked, seductive strength.

  With her performing career behind her, she’d gained soft weight in her breasts and a leaner weight in her legs and hips. She was sculpted and lithe, like a young jaguar. Mouth-wateringly beautiful from every angle.

  “Stop staring at my ass,” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said. “You never had an ass before.”

  “Too bad you missed me in the nineties,” she said, opening drawers. “When I was wearing thongs all the time.”

  Groaning at the visual, he sat on the bed, palm coming to catch his brow. “I am such an idiot.”

  She laughed, hooking her bra backward around her waist.

  “Tell me you still wear them occasionally?” he said.

  “Here.” Bra fixed, she stretched a black thong around her fingers and sling-shotted it into his face. “You can take that home with you. Souvenir.”

  He threw it back at her. “Wear it later so I can take it off you. Then I’ll take it home. Do you know nothing about souvenirs?”

  Dressed, she picked up his shirt from the floor and walked over to him, turning it right side out. She sat across his knees and pulled the neck hole over his head. Kissed him as she fed one arm, then the other through the sleeves.

  “Come on,” she said, running her fingers through his hair, messing it up. “Off the bed. Out.”

  Barbegazi had three bedrooms upstairs. Daisy slept in the largest with its adjoining bathroom. The second was a guest room. The third had a barre and mirror along one wall, and her desk and file cabinets in a corner. The windows were uncovered, allowing bright, southwestern sun to stream in and throw two large rectangles on the hardwood floor.

  “Is this where the magic happens?” Erik said, running his hand along the barre.

  A corner of Daisy’s mouth went up, then she pointed across the hall to her bedroom. “All magic happens in there, babe.”

  Smiling, he pointed at a set of double doors in one wall. “What’s behind those?”

  “Ah. A tiny bit of magic,” she said, crossing the room and opening the doors. They revealed a galley room, no more than four feet wide. Ostensibly a closet, but Erik saw no clothing rods or shelves. Just the long narrow space with a porthole window at its end, sectioned like a compass rose, looking out through the branches of a tree to the lake.

  “You don’t store anything in here?” Erik asked.

  She was looking out the window. “No. The attic has tons of space with a cedar closet. I was thinking it would make a sweet place for one of Lucky and Will’s kids. A little hideaway. You could put a tiny desk in it. Or even build some kind of bed under the eaves.”

  “Absolutely,” Erik said, tapping on the plaster walls. The studs were right where they should be. It wouldn’t be hard.

  She squeezed by him and took his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you something else.”

  Outside the kitchen door, a concrete foundation was along the back of the house, facing the lake. But nothing was yet built. Erik noticed it yesterday during his walkabout but forgot to ask her about it. Sex made him stupid that way.

  “Was this supposed to be something?”

  “A screened-in porch,” Daisy said. “It was their last planned project, but it never got past the foundation. They left me the plans they had drawn up. It was going to be pretty spectacular.” She gestured to one side of the kitchen door. “All this side would be a table and chairs area so you could eat out here in summer without being bitten up. Then over on that side, wicker furniture. Three ceiling fans along the length of it.”

  “Strings of lights around all the windows,” he said, seeing it manifest before his eyes.

  “A door out to the yard here,” she said, pretending to open and close one. “A path down to the water. And then on either side, all below, flowers.” Hugging her sides, she paced the length of the concrete slab, tracing imaginary curved beds. “Drifts of color.”

  “Daisies,” he said.

  She grinned up at him. “Of course.”

  He looked out at the icy lake, squinting into the past. “Being on the water like this, it reminds me of where I grew up.”

  “That’s right, you were on the river.”

  He nodded. She waited to hear more, but his train of thought sat idling in the station and he shook his head. “I don’t know where I was going with that.”

  Shivering
, Daisy came back inside and shut the kitchen door.

  He folded his arms around her. “What should we do?”

  “I need a Christmas tree,” she said.

  A window shade snapped up in his heart, flooding him with joy. “Yes, you do.”

  They took a ride. Sunglasses on, music blasting, they drove up Route 101 toward Fredericton, singing their faces off. At Heighleau Farms, Daisy picked a tall Douglas fir and Erik cut it down. As it was wrapped in netting and trussed with twine, Daisy bought an apple pie, chatting in French with the proprietor as she paid.

  Erik had been hearing a lot more French out here in the rural areas of New Brunswick. But even when they drove closer to Fredericton to get some lunch, his ears continued to pick up the language. In parking lots, on the streets, on overheard cell phone conversations. Hostesses, waitresses and bartenders trilling a double greeting, “Bonjour. Hello.” Always the bonjour first.

  “This must be a treat for you,” he said, as they sat in a booth at a café. “Speaking French all the time.”

  “It’s not the French I grew up with,” she said, laughing. “I call home and my mother is appalled at my accent.”

  He spun his spoon on the tabletop. “What did your parents say when you told them I called?” He looked up at her. “I mean, I assume you told them.”

  She set her chin on the heel of her hand. “Are you worried when you see him Pop will sic the proverbial dogs on you?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “But I like ‘when’.”

  Her other hand slid across to twine with his. “They’re happy for me,” she said. “For us.” But then her fingers were tight between his and he saw some of his own unease mirrored in her eyes. “What did your mother think of this trip?” she asked.

  He let go of her hand and slid his palm along her cheek. “She told me love doesn’t give a shit about geography. It’s not a thing you can abandon at will. She said what I had with you deserves a second chance. I should come here and take it. And then we’d both be free.”

  She smiled, but her lips were pressed too hard to make it much.

  His hand kept caressing her face. “It was long ago,” he said softly. “And everyone sees a lot of things we didn’t see back then. Including our parents.”

  She nodded. “So many young relationships… They exist in a vacuum. A little self-centered bubble. We were never like that. Do you know what I mean? To me, it always felt our little love story was part of a larger epic. Which sounds really smug and big-headed except so many people told me when you and I broke up… It broke a lot of other things.” She leaned against his palm. “Not that us speaking again is going to fix the world, but…”

  He nodded, adoring her. “It’s going to make my little world feel a lot better,” he said. “I know what you mean. What you did hurt my mother as well. And what I did hurt your parents. And I hurt Will bad. I really need to make time to talk to him alone. Or listen.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out along with her full, beautiful smile. “We’ll get to it all.”

  They sat back so the waiter could put their plates down.

  “Bon appétit,” he said.

  Back at Barbegazi, they wrestled the tree into its stand. Erik brought a stepladder up from the basement and Daisy brought boxes of ornaments down from the attic.

  “A little mood music?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She opened a CD case. “Pop burned this for me,” she said. “It’s all the oldies.”

  “I’m warning you, if Nat King Cole is on there, it’s going to be ugly.”

  She slid the disc into the stereo and hit the play button, then held out her arms. “First track. Let’s get it over with.”

  With the opening wail of violins, Erik’s chest constricted. “Ugly,” he said, drawing her tight against him.

  “Evil,” she said against his shoulder.

  Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

  Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

  And then Erik was back in time, to a 1992 Thanksgiving at Daisy’s Pennsylvania home. La Tarasque in all its hospitable glory. He, Will, Lucky and David guests at Joe and Francine Bianco’s table. More than guests, cherished sons and daughters. Through the long weekend they ate, drank and laughed. Stayed up late and slept in. One night they decorated the Christmas tree while all the vintage holiday standards played. And for a short magic time, the shooting had been forgotten.

  The weekend imprinted in Erik’s mind as the last of the great times, before he and Daisy began to spiral down into the dark.

  “Fuck this fucking song,” he said.

  “I never forgot,” she said, lifting her tear-stained face off his chest. “I never knew anything like it again. I didn’t decorate another tree for years.”

  This tree would go undecorated for twenty-four hours. They started kissing and kissing made them spiral up into the light and back into her bed. Soft, careful touching under the covers, bringing each other around. Coming gently as falling snow and melting into deep sleep afterward, relaxed and warm and safe. Just as they had that long ago winter weekend.

  They woke around four o’clock to the tone of an incoming text on Daisy’s phone.

  “It’s Will,” she said, yawning against the back of her hand. She turned the screen toward Erik.

  Tell Fish to put some clothes on. I’m taking him out for a beer and a beating. Not necessarily in that order.

  WALKING DOWN PRINCE STREET, shoulders hunched against the wind, Erik saw Will waiting by the pub. His back and the sole of one foot were against the brick building. Bare-headed in the cold night, his breath exhaled small clouds as he looked down at his phone.

  Erik met both Daisy and Will on the same day his freshman year of college. It was like being struck by lightning twice. In Daisy’s case, he sat still and let the bolt hit him because one look and he wanted her. When Will crackled onto the scene though, Erik backed away. Keeping a distance measured in equal parts distrust and fascination.

  A son of New Brunswick, a quarter Native American, a uniquely talented ballet dancer and a black belt mixed martial artist on the side, William Kaeger was incapable of being ignored. Erik watched him, at a loss how to process this strange, charismatic presence. Will wasn’t a clown, he didn’t demand attention. Like Kees Justi, Will simply had a compelling gravitational force. Wherever he went or was, that was the place others wanted to be. Erik hung back and observed through curious, narrowed eyes, realizing Will knew this, yet treated it as a responsibility, not an entitlement. He was decent to everyone and demonstratively loving to those he held dear.

  “What’s up, asshole,” Will said, pushing off the wall.

  They shook hands and Erik waited for an accompanying touch of some kind. Will’s brand of affection was unapologetically physical. Hair ruffling, head locking, shoulder patting. Nudging, shoving, hugging. And often coupled with suggestive remarks.

  Nothing about Will ever struck Erik as effeminate. Even within the context of ballet, Will’s demeanor exuded masculinity and strength. Yet he was openly bisexual and he occasionally flirted with Erik. You couldn’t call it anything else. Rather than dissecting it, looking for intentions or threats, Erik found himself teasing right back, firing innuendos and verbal side-jabs from their arsenal of inside jokes. Keeping up banter on who was checking out whose ass.

  Tonight? Nothing.

  Will finished texting something and slid his phone in his inside pocket. Then he looked at Erik with undisguised expectation.

  “How’s it going?” Erik said.

  Will raised his eyebrows.

  “Swing away,” Erik said, offering one side of his jaw.

  Fast as a cobra strike, Will reared up, fist curled. Erik stepped back, a little slower, forearms coming up to shield his head.

  “God, you’ve gone soft,” Will said, relaxing. He opened the pub door and with a curt flick of his head, said, “After you.”

  “After you.”

  “Go so I can look at your ass.”


  “It’s not what it used to be,” Erik said over his shoulder.

  “What is?”

  “Bonsoir, good evening,” the hostess said, gathering menus. “Deux?”

  She seated them in a booth where they shrugged their jackets off and ordered a round.

  “All right,” Will said, rolling up his shirt sleeves, showing his tattooed forearms. “Since it’s our first beer in over a decade, I propose we do this speed-dating style. No gory details. You get sixty seconds to go from our last phone call to today.”

  Erik inhaled against the guilt of that long-distance argument. Friendshipicide. Twelve years and some of the things Erik said on the call still filled his chest with shame. It was a heated, top-of-the-lungs exchange that went beyond the severing of diplomatic ties into emotionally economic sanctions. Other than a brief conversation a few days ago, they hadn’t spoken since.

  “Sounds fair,” Erik said.

  “You go first.”

  “Your idea. You go first.”

  “Fine. Time me. I got a job with National Ballet of Canada. I danced in the corps for a year. In ninety-four, I got an offer from the Frankfurt Ballet and decided to get the hell out of North America.”

  “Where was Lucky?”

  “In New York. We finally split up because I…” Will trailed off and touched his brow with his left hand. It was missing the ring and pinky fingers that were blown off in the shooting. He wore his heavy gold wedding band on his index finger.

  Erik gently cleared his throat. “Because no details.”

  “Right. So I was in Germany the next four years and that’s where I had my spectacular mental breakdown. No details. I got my shit together, headed to London for a spell. Then my dad started having some health issues, ended up having heart surgery and—”

  “Time out,” Erik said. “Is he all right?”

  Will smiled. “All good. I took some time off to be with him and did some teaching workshops with New Brunswick Ballet Theater. They offered me a principal contract and I decided to take it. I started seeing Lucky again. We did the long distance thing. Then Daisy came up to audition and the company made her an offer. The girls moved up here in ninety-nine. Luck and I got married in two thousand. We had Jack. We had Sara. Number three to be determined. I went over to the theater to do a little work. I looked up and saw your ugly face. The end.”