Rocket Man

by Melanie Greene

  Rather than extract the envelopes with her tiny childhood furniture cutouts to show him, Serena gathered her courage and opened the file marked ‘House Plans.’ “Okay, so once I’d been working a while at Lanigan, was settled into adult life in Houston, Natalie talked me into serious house hunting. I mean, of course she was looking for commissions with her brand new realtor’s license, but she’d remembered all of this bonding we’d apparently done over home decorating magazines and my floor plans and all. I was pretty reluctant at first, but once we started looking at properties I got all excited. I could just envision my own space, setting up things the way I wanted them, all of that. I mean, maybe you remember, I spent the weeks before closing drawing up color schemes, cutting out photos of magazine-spread rooms, all kinds of dreams and fancies.” She fanned out a few of her idea pages, to give him the full impact of her not-so-minor obsession.

  Big breath now. This was the part she’d been building to, and while Dillon had remained obligingly silent and attentive, she didn’t want him to underestimate the import of what she was going to say next. He’d waved off the waiter another time, which maybe boded well? As long as his hunger wasn’t driving him to distraction.

  Before she spiraled off to a land of crazy speculation—crazier speculation—she ran a finger along the final page in her stack, ready to turn it over. “And that’s the way it’s been since I bought it. My house, my stuff. I mean, I knew before Saturday that I was freaky about it. I knew that everyone who followed my rules was just indulging me. Well, except Hannah, but you know what I mean. I just thought it wasn’t a big deal. That I could have my floor plans and my rules about my space and it was no one’s business but my own.”

  Dillon stiffened a little, but something in her face must have been apologetic enough to keep him sitting, listening.

  “You surprised me. Dillon, I thought I could let you in, just a bit, on my terms. I thought we could have a fine time, but I wouldn’t need to change, you know? Well,” she glanced away, shamed by the admission, but compelled to make it, “I thought there wasn’t anything I’d need to change. That I was—well, not perfect, I’m not that arrogant. That I was perfectly fine as is, that there was no reason you’d be upset by my thing about my house.”

  When he leaned, maybe only a millimeter or two, towards her, Serena felt a rush of relief. The darkness was closing in past the patio, but suddenly his eyes were bright beacons.

  Serena wasn’t a word person like Dillon. She didn’t know how clearly, how even close to clearly, she was explaining herself. But a picture told a thousand words, and images were her strength. Just a little slowly, she flipped over the final photo and placed it squarely on the table in front of him.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Her whole living room had been rearranged. The seating area was closer to the fireplace, and one of the side chairs had been removed. All to leave room for an old steel teacher’s desk, repainted in ultramarine and cadmium orange, with a smooth solid black laminate top. There was a wood desk chair with a padded leather seat, a tin miner’s cup of pencils and pens, and a blue porcelain bowl with a couple of navel oranges. Smack dab in the center of the black blotter, one pristine legal pad slanted at the perfect angle for a left-handed guy’s writing. The light from the window spilled over it all, but there was also a chrome gooseneck lamp arcing on one side.

  “If you don’t like it, we can change anything. Or if you want to share my study, we can fit it in there. Whatever you want, Dillon. I just want you to have whatever you need. If,” Serena pressed her lips together and glanced down at her hands interlaced in her lap, “I mean, if you want to need something from me.”

  She forced herself to shut up. It was pretty much when she needed him to take over the talking, because her Desk Plan only got her as far as showing him the photo. Serena couldn’t remember why making Plan B had seemed inadvisable, because sitting there vulnerable to whatever he was going to say or do next was not her favorite feeling.

  She chewed her lip a little more, then opted for some cold calamari instead. Dillon had started running his own fingers along the edges of the picture, and that was good, right? What she wouldn’t give for a little psychic power just then. It would have meant the world to her if he would have just grinned and told her it was perfect.

  Dillon closed his eyes in a fairly futile attempt to get his emotions under control. He’d known—the universe had known—that she was a maniac about her house. Pushing her on it was at least half the reason he’d moved the table, then refused to return it, in the first place. All those little graph paper room diagrams, though. The firmly dug trench lines of child-Serena’s number two pencil marking off each quadrant of the space she had to make her own or feel unanchored in the world. Each diagram labeled ‘Pine Street’ or ‘Glassbury Avenue’ instead of the name of a parent or stepparent.

  Then talking about owning her own home, the planning and love that went into making it a kind of sacred space for her, an anchor that no one could disrupt through divorce or remarriage. All he’d cared about for his place was that it was easy to get from Shannon, in a good area for him and he’d liked that it had enough room for a big entertainment center and tons of bookshelves. He’d used the in-store layouts at Ikea to be sure he had the right numbers of chairs and tables and rugs in each room. Of course his books and posters were essential to him, but it wasn’t like it mattered if they were in the bedroom or the hallway or wherever.

  He liked his place. But as soon as he’d walked into Serena’s living room, he’d felt invigorated and grounded. The other reason he’d set the table up there was so that he could have the pleasure of working in that space, the window and the room and the essence of Serena everywhere.

  And just by refusing to do what she’d asked and work at the island, he’d basically fired a photon torpedo at that essence. He’d beguiled her into lowering her shields, and then casually blasted away.

  So it looked like he had been a jerk. He’d yelled at her, actually raised his voice and thrown a temper tantrum to rival the one when eight and his mom had refused to adopt one of their neighbor’s puppies. He’d walked out on her. Given her a cold shoulder for a week. Invented this dumbass steamroller philosophy, instead of just freaking talking to her to figure out what had been truly going on with her.

  And instead of kicking him to the curb, she’d gotten him a desk. A stunning desk, just the kind of thing he’d love to work at, but better because she’d fancied it up to make it a real part of the room. A part of her house, which, he was seeing, was the same thing as making him a part of her soul.

  On top of that, she’d gotten all of these supporting documents, and planned this dinner. That outfit. The knot on her skirt, which had been a fully formed obsession since he’d seen it, no matter the sailing ships and the pelicans on the pier and the table between them obscuring it from his vision.

  He should just turn the steamroller on himself.

  “Serena.”

  She looked up, her chin lifting a little resolutely, and Dillon's heart was free-falling. He shook his head a little, remembering the things he’d thought about her since Saturday morning.

  “You hate it.” She slumped back against the cold metal frame of the chair. “Honestly, Dillon, we can get whatever you like. It was at the flea market, but Natalie and Gillian helped me scrub it down real well before we sanded it so I could put the new color on. The one drawer, that middle one, squeaks, I couldn’t bang it out, but it’s one of those mousy squeaks, not a fingernails on chalkboard kind of thing.”

  Dillon dropped the photo on the pile and grabbed her shoulders so he could pull her forward to meet his kiss. Rapacious. The entire reason the word ‘rapacious’ existed was to define that kiss. He needed to take the soul she was offering, take it and fuse it to himself. Leave no uncertainty, stop her from thinking he would reject her desk. From thinking it was even possible that he could reject the desk. His desk. His woman.

  It took her by surprise, her soft li
ps falling open, but that suited Dillon just fine. They were easier to nip, to suck between his teeth, when she was open to him. One of his hands stayed on her shoulder, anchoring her to him, and the other raked back her hair to mold itself against the base of her skull, her neck and ear freed for further ravishment. Back to her lips, her tongue, her gorgeous smile emerging beneath his kiss. He was almost entirely lost in her. Not totally entirely, fortunately, what with the waiter appearing over his shoulder with two dinner plates. Dillon managed to still his mouth and bring his forehead to rest on hers. His lungs were working fast, his heart beating hard.

  “I love you.”

  Her eyes locked with his, wide from the darkness, silver from the passion. She didn’t answer him, but she’d said so much already, both her words and everything that had gone into the desk.

  “Serena. You don’t know how much I look forward to sitting at that desk. It’s amazing. I can’t wait. Thank you.”

  Radiant. Her smile was radiant. It caressed him even as he disengaged from her to sit back and allow the snapper to land at last on the table.

  The faint brine added a tang to the air, the breeze cooled her flushed cheeks, and Serena had never felt more at peace. Well, maybe she had, but that kind of casting back wasn’t important. Looking into Dillon's slightly crinkled eyes was important. Nudging her chair closer so their knees lolled against each other was important. Grazing her hand over her neck, still damp from the kisses that were drying against her skin, was important.

  “So, you like it, then?”

  “Funny girl.”

  “Funny woman. But I’m serious. Well, okay, you said ‘amazing’ and I’m taking that as a good thing. Plus, that was a pretty decent kiss.”

  “Funny Serena. You know damn good and well that the desk is perfect. Much like this yucca relish. Want a bite? I can’t believe it’s not all overcooked at this point.”

  She waved him off, busy with her crab cakes and basking in the freely-given ‘perfect.’ It was perfect, she knew that, and she owed Gillian and Natalie big time for the hours they’d put in helping her refinish it. And for Gill volunteering her brother’s pickup to get it from the flea market to her driveway in the first place.

  “I’m picturing many fine summer mornings spent scribbling at that desk. I’ll keep my stash of paperbacks in the squeaky drawer, that way whenever you hear it open you can chide me for not buckling down to work.”

  Serena flushed hot again, and reached up to rub at her collarbone.

  “What is it? Is the food okay?”

  She nodded, shook her head, tried to smile. “I’m fine. This is good, actually, help yourself.”

  His eyes trapped hers again, this time more assessing than devouring. She like the devouring better, it was a lot more fun. “So what’s up?”

  “Nothing. I just had a tiny flash of panic, but it was like a habit, not a real feeling.”

  “Panic.” His voice had gone cautious and flat. “Panic doesn’t sound like a good habit to have.”

  “Oh, Dillon,” Serena kicked herself for including all of that ‘be honest about feelings’ crap in the Desk Plan. “It’s nothing. I’m just not good at the future talk. I told you, with Natalie and Jonas and all, living in the present. It’s just not something I’m good at, and when you said about summer mornings I only freaked for a second. It was nothing serious.”

  “You do want summer mornings with me? Or you don’t?”

  “I do,” she protested, moving her hand from her almost-itchy neck to take his. “That’s why I made the desk. For summer mornings. Just, I’m not good at the future.”

  He took back his hand, sat silent and thoughtful a moment, but at least his knee still knocked hers. “Don’t use that as an excuse, Serena. I’m not just a friend or a half-brother you barely know. Making that desk does say a lot to me, don’t get me wrong. But it could just be talking about the present, leaving the future out of the equation. I don’t want you to leave the future out, to just brush it off, say you’re uncomfortable. I want you to get good at talking about it. To want to get good at it.”

  Serena’s hands were fluttering, restless, and she fought to urge to sit on them. “Me, too. I do want to get better at it. I’m not going to let things end between us because I have trouble talking about next season.”

  He nodded. “Okay. That’s good. I’m glad. But, Serena, do you want to get better at the future for me, because you’re maybe worried about losing me if you don’t? Or do you want to do it for you?”

  She plunked her fork down on her plate and sat back, staring out at the distant lights across the water. Every step she tried to take down that damn path of his, of theirs, he was leaping ahead to some new signpost. Was it too much for him to just accept that she was trying to walk alongside him? She’d already bared so much of herself with her presentation, and the last thing she’d wanted was for him to take that as an open invitation to strip her down further.

  What would the Desk Plan call for here, if she’d anticipated such a spot? Well, that honesty thing, of course. Being emotionally open was far from easy, she noted wryly, as if Gillian hadn’t pretty much pointed out the same thing to her while they were cautiously maneuvering the almost-dry desk into place.

  She turned back to Dillon. “I want it for both of us. I mean, the last thing I’d want is to lose you because I can’t talk about the future. But it’s another of those walls I’ve been working on smashing. Or rebuilding, whatever is psychologically healthy to do with walls.” She smiled, and got a glint from him in return. “Is that okay? Mentally, I can see that wanting to change like that for myself is the right way to go about it, but emotionally, I’m not all there yet. I guess it takes wanting to change for you, too, to put the sledgehammer in my hands.”

  “I’ve got a steamroller if you need it,” he said, then laughed at her befuddled look. “Never mind, too dumb to explain.” Dillon picked up the photo of her new living room arrangement and studied it for a moment. “Yes, I think it’s okay. I think it’s more than okay. Maybe because I’m just really selfish about wanting those summer mornings, but maybe because changing for each other is fine, when we’re moving towards things that are also good for ourselves.”

  It was Serena’s turn to laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how close that is to something Gillian said to me. She’s always been the perceptive one, which is one of the reasons I called her about the desk. I needed her ear as much as I did her brother’s truck.”

  “I always did like Gill best.”

  “Funny boy.”

  “Funny man.”

  She leaned in to kiss him, squeezing his hand. “Funny man.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Tasty as the food was, they barely managed to eat a respectable amount of it, being too busy smiling at each other, reaching out for little touches, stealing quick kisses. Dillon was beyond eager to just get her to himself, so after they paid the bill they took a long walk along the short pier, pausing between street-lamps to kiss. They’d walk, and Serena would pull them onto a park bench, where they’d get lost in each other’s roaming hands for a while. Then they’d walk, and Dillon would twirl Serena into a sudden dip, exposing her neck for a series of light nuzzles. Then they’d walk on, meandering, laughing.

  “Did you know today is Shakespeare’s birthday?”

  “Happy birthday, Shakespeare.”

  “Well, his death date, too.”

  “You are cheerful tonight.”

  “Hush, funny girl.”

  “Romeo, Romeo, Romeo, I keep telling you: funny woman.”

  “Two Romeos, then the wherefore art thous.”

  “Wow, you’re a scholar, too. Sexy. Give us a kiss.”

  Dillon complied.

  “Come on, then, Professor Dillon, lay some poetry on me.”

  “You are poetry.”

  “What your hands are doing is poetry.”

  “Mmm,” Dillon kept them dancing across her spine. “Okay, here’s a truth about you, from Sonnet Eight
y-Three: ‘There lives more life in one of your fair eyes/Than both your poets can in praise devise.’”

  Serena stopped swaying against him and gazed, arrested, at his tender face. “Wow. That’s sweet. Shakespeare was a bit of a romantic, huh?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “And you, what, scrolled through your mental rolodex of sonnets and came up with that? Because if so, I’m super impressed. I don’t think I’ve ever read any except the most famous—mistress’ eyes and all that.”

  He pulled them back along the pier towards the parking lot. “I think the validation from the restaurant is up soon. Let’s get out of here before they charge for parking.”

  “Hmmm. Classic avoidance technique, the redirection. Spill it, Professor Dillon.”

  Stopping between streetlights so she couldn’t see any embarrassment on his face, Dillon admitted, “It’s the only one I really know. I mean, I’ve read probably all of them, between college and everything, but I had to have a poem memorized for debate team freshman year, and my mom couldn’t find any poetry besides Shakespeare in the house. I picked that one because, well, I understood what it meant, and I didn’t want to do a super popular one so I’d have something no one else had.”

  Serena almost doubled over laughing. “Oh, you were a smug little teen, weren’t you? I bet you wore black turtlenecks to debate tournaments. Admit it.”

  “Please. It was southern California. Way too hot for turtlenecks.”

  “Oh, yeah? What then? Black blazer over a black t-shirt?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I knew it. Did you write poetry?”

  “Stop it.”

  “No, seriously, I want to know. Soulful black-clad Dillon, the deepest boy in Los Angeles, was there a black composition book always in your backpack where you jotted down your deepest thoughts?”