by P. Dangelico
Chapter Twenty-One
Amber landed a major part in a minor play. Like way way waaaay off Broadway. But it’s something to put on her resume, so I’m headed to the city for her opening night performance. I’ve had this nude colored, silk dress I’ve wanted to wear forever and had nowhere to wear it to. Now that I’m sporting a sweet tan, it’s time to bust it out. I slap on some mascara, lips gloss, shake out my hair and head downstairs to the den where Sam and Mercedes are watching the new Star Wars movie. I walk in and both their heads swivel in my direction.
“You look wonderful,” Mercedes announces. “What do you think, Sam?”
He gives me a thumbs up and a shy smile. God, I love this kid.
“Nothing is covering your back,” says a grumpy voice right behind me. While the front of the dress is covered, the back is open down to the base of my spine except for a thin strap for the built in bra.
“Yeah, Champ, it’s the style all the cool kids are wearing.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Calvin inspecting me closely. No smile to be found anywhere. By the look on his face, he’s displeased. He also must’ve just stepped out of the shower because his black hair is slick and his long lashes beaded with moisture. He’s wearing sweatpants. Thank heaven for small favors because the rest of him isn’t covered.
The testosterone spewing off of him kicks me in the babymaker…and I’m suddenly warm all over. I’m pretty certain the man could reverse menopause. Gotta get out of here before it becomes obvious; each minute I’m around him, it gets harder and harder to hide this seriously inconvenient attraction.
His eyes do a slow perusal of my bare feet and legs. Climbing higher, they glide over my dress. By the time they reach my flushed face, his frown has deepened into a stormy scowl.
“You’re gonna get cold.”
“Hmmm. It’s only eighty five with a hundred percent humidity, but I’ll risk it.” I slip on the Jimmy Choo silver sandals he bought me to go to the wedding, and say my goodbyes to Sam and Mercedes. Without waiting for more of Cal’s ‘fashion tips’, I headed for the front door, pretending I don’t hear him hot on my heels.
“How are you getting there?”
“I’m taking Uber, Dad. And don’t worry, I won’t break curfew.”
“Hell no. I’ll drive you.”
“This again? Come on, Champ, it’s fine. Millions of people all over the globe use Uber daily. I think I’ll be okay.”
“I’m coming with you.”
I stop and turn to face him. “Calvin––what’s wrong? You have training camp early tomorrow. The last thing you need is to schlep downtown and sit through what will probably be a mediocre play at best,” I say in my most gentle voice. He looks…upset? Torn? I can’t put my finger on it. The machinations of this man’s mind are a total mystery to me.
“Give me five minutes to get dressed.”
Insert eye roll. But he doesn’t see it because he’s already taking the stairs three at a time. Fifteen minutes later, Cal, who by the way looks like sex on a stick in a closely tailored pale grey suit that has Tom Ford written all over it, is driving us into the city. I’m about to tease him for his unmanly love of fashion, until I catch the dark circles under his eyes and a protective streak I usually reserve for the people I love rears up and makes a fuss.
“I’m sorry you got dragged into this. We can leave at intermission if it’s bad.”
“If you really didn’t want me coming with you, you shouda just said so.”
“That’s not it, at all,” I say, more emphatically than I intended. “Of course, I want you to come with me. I’m glad you did but––”
“You are?” he interrupts.
“You’re my friend. Everything’s better when you’re around. And I’m not sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. Man up.”
At the silence, I glance his way again and find Calvin watching me. A silly smile spreads across my face and he smiles back. Before I know what’s what, he takes my hand, places it on his thigh, and covers it with his own. I spend the rest of the ride wavering between confused disbelief and elation.
It’s a busy Thursday night, the downtown sidewalks congested with people. Naturally, we do not go unnoticed. It seems like every pair of eyes we pass follow us. Or more specifically, follow the gorgeous specimen of manhood walking next to me.
Calvin’s been holding my hand since we got out of the car. I don’t know what to think. Are we still playing a part? Am I still a fugazi? It feels like more than that…it’s starting to feel real.
No surprise, photographers are stationed at the entrance of the theater. Which is not as off, off Broadway as I had initially thought. They see fresh meat and start snapping wildly. Cal hangs his arm around my neck as if he’s been doing it all his life and pulls me closer. The brush of his soft lips on mine triggers a tsunami of feels while the wild flashing lights from the bulbs nearly blinds me permanently––no seriously, I almost walk straight into the glass door of the theater.
By the time we get inside, the play is about to start. I’m surprised to find that, not only is not small, it’s also packed. For a big man, he’s insanely coordinated. He nimbly squeezes past a wall of bodies standing to let us get to our seats. Duh, his accuracy throwing a ball fifty feet plus downfield is legendary, why would this be any different.
One hour into the play, a modern retelling of Little Red Riding Hood set in Aleppo, Syria––no, I’m not making this up––I glance at the man sitting next to me and my heart squeezes painfully. Eyelids heavy, he’s fighting tooth and nail to stay awake. My gaze travels down to his lap, where my hand has been since he took it hostage an hour ago. When I pat his thigh, he blinks and looks at me.
“That’s it, we’re leaving.”
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. Move it, or I’ll carry you out.”
At my threat, his mouth kicks up on one side and my stomach does backflips. Goddamit! This is extremely inconvenient. The lights blink on. Saved by the bell.
It took only five minutes to convince him to let me drive. That’s when I grasped how tired he really was. Two minutes after that he was asleep in the car. He didn’t stir once until we were home and I opened the passenger side door.
“Let’s go, Champ. I can’t carry you to bed.”
Without hesitation, he swings his arm around my neck and leans on me. Together we walk into the house and up the stairs. By the time I drop him on his bed, I’m feeling mighty uncomfortable. This feels very intimate. I don’t get how he can be so casual about this. But that’s men for you. He’s sitting on his bed, not making any move to undress. His eyes flutter shut.
“Champ, you should probably undress and go to sleep.
“Help me.” Then he looks up…and for the life of me, I can’t look away.
“You’re serious?”
“Okay, don’t.” He falls onto his back, his eyes shut, his Tom Ford suit in danger of becoming a casualty of my inability to touch him without spontaneously combusting.
How? How is this my life? I’m trying my hardest not to crash into love with this man because God knows it won’t end well for me––he’s made it abundantly clear he’s not interested in a relationship––and yet life keeps having a good chuckle at my expense.
“Okay,” I grumble as I reach for his hand. I try to pull him up into a sitting position, but it’s useless. Might as well try to lift Mt. Rushmore. “Cal? Can you sit up please?” Eyes closed, he pulls himself up by my arms. Thank heavens he took his shoes off downstairs. I can just picture it. Me crouching down to take his shoes off, eye level with his crotch…no, just no.
I push his jacket off his broad shoulders and he sighs. I unbutton his shirt and pull it out of his pants and he lets out a relaxed breath. Meanwhile, I’m frigging sweating bullets. Sweating bullets. Every delicious square inch of skin I reveal makes me warmer and warmer. It feels like I’m being slow roasted over a spit of hot ass man. When I take his shirt off, his eyes slow blink open. There�
��s no heat in his gaze. Just… gratitude.
Jezuz, I’m an idiot.
He really isn’t attracted to me. He’s tired and I’m his friend, someone he trusts not to maul him. And here I am getting all hot and bothered.
“Thanks, Cam. I can handle the rest,” he mumbles.
Of course, he can. Because this attraction is a one way street––a dead end street.
The slow rock of the hammock and the canopy of stars blinking brightly in the clear night sky all make for a ridiculously romantic scene––minus the romance of course. My thoughts drift to Matt and I’m surprised to find that I don’t feel the familiar pang of pain that usually grips my chest, only a slight soreness. The letter has definitely moved things into a different space, both in my head and my heart. One step closer to closure.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Agghh! You scared the shit out me!” I jerk up and the hammock almost dumps me on the ground.
Out of the darkness, I watch him saunter up to the second hammock dressed only in a pair of shorts––with nothing underneath I suspect, though I keep that to myself because really, what difference would it make at this point. He throws himself down in it, the wood creaking loudly.
“It’s a wonder how that oak hasn’t come down yet,” I say, glancing up at the massive tree.
For this, I get one of his lazy smiles. Then he tucks his hands behind his head and his biceps pop out. He’s so damn handsome it’s a crime against every straight woman that lays eyes on him and isn’t allowed to touch. And I’m suddenly afraid that I may do or say something wildly inappropriate, so I don’t let that thought settle for long.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
Why did I mention sleep? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. My mind instantly conjures images of us tangled up in my bed, his nose buried in my hair, his groin smashed up against my rear end…and now I’m sweating. It’s cool out and I’m sweating bullets.
Note to self: invest in clinical strength deodorant.
“I’m only playing a couple of snaps tomorrow. What are you still doing up?” He inspects my face closely. “The letter?”
“That and the fact that I need to come up with a plan for the rest of my life…Amanda will be here soon.”
He watches me thoughtfully. The silence stretches on. We both rock back and forth, the creaking of the wood soothing my nerves. This easy comfort between us is addicting. I can’t relax into it. I can’t because I’m drawn to it like a fly to shit. And if I’m not vigilant, if I let my guard down, it could get out of hand real quick.
“You’re still in love with him?”
I almost fall out of the hammock. Wow. He’s just dropped the bomb on me, the million dollar question that not even Amber has the courage to ask.
Am I still in love with Matt? I’m surprised at how quickly the answer pops into my head. I’ve done my best not to think about it much. Mostly because for so long I couldn’t think about him without letting all the extenuating circumstances taint my feelings. And yet it’s true what they say about time and distance lending perspective. For the first time since the police knocked on my door, the thought of Matt isn’t clouded by the pain of his betrayal.
“Not anymore,” I say to the man brave enough to ask. The Christmas lights wrapped around the oak offer only the dimmest of light. Even so, I can see his alert gaze is on me. Sometimes it feels like those eyes could pry every truth out of me if he were to set his mind to it. “I’m different…and I’ve had enough time to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t the man I thought he was. The man I loved didn’t exist…it’s not all his fault though. I chose to ignore the parts of him that didn’t suit my narrative.” He nods in understanding. He, more than anyone, knows what I mean. “Do you miss it? Being married?”
His scrutiny moves away from me. “I’m fine by myself.”
“You don’t say.” I don’t even bother to hide the eye roll.
“What about you?”
“Yeah…I want kids. I want a family. But I want something different next time. And I’ll definitely have my own money.” His face screws up into the most ridiculous scowl. “What’s that about?” I say, half laughing at his weird reaction.
“Any man worth marrying will share everything he has with you.”
His words reach into my soul, hitting me in a spot so tender and vulnerable it scares the living daylights out of me. I want to believe that, I really do. And yet, I’m almost one hundred percent certain that I’ve lost the ability to trust without reserve.
“Amber says every woman should have ‘fuck you’ money.”
Cal arches a black brow. “The only thing Amber is qualified to advise on is how to shrivel a man’s nuts.”
I watch him rock back and forth, a long, long muscular thigh draped over the side of the hammock. This handsome man that I’m grateful to call my friend. Not too proud to admit his mistakes. Taking on other people’s responsibilities without a word of complaint. He really is a good egg.
“I don’t think I can trust a man like that again,” I mutter. I get no reply to this. He holds his silence, and as it stretches on, we both relax into it.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
His query catches me off guard. Turning, I find him watching me closely. As if my answer means something to him. Or maybe the rollercoaster I’ve been on for the past three years has finally sent me over the edge of madness. I could be making all this up in my head…I don’t know what to believe anymore. The fact that I can’t trust my own judgment anymore is incredibly depressing.
“With my life,” I say without hesitation. “That’s different, though––we’re friends.”
His eyes hold mine for a second too long, long enough that we’re entering the weird zone. Goosebumps crawl up my arms.
“You consider me your friend?” There’s an indecipherable look on his face.
“Sure, I do…I don’t know if that look on your face means you don’t want me, but tough noogies, Champ, you’ve got me. So deal with it.”
“I want you,” he finally says, his tone hushed.
I’m incapable of looking away. Aaaaand we’re back in the weird zone. With the way he’s watching me, I’m petrified he can see what I’m thinking. And what I’m thinking, I’m mortified to admit, is that Amber may be right. This feels like more than friendly affection. This feels like the little crush I was harboring is growing into a monster. One I have no control over.
Ughhhh. A crush on my friend, one that’s been good to me, one of less than a handful of friends I have left and who isn’t the least bit interested in a relationship. Or anything else for that matter because, quite frankly, I haven’t seen him look in a woman’s direction once since the day we met. So he’s not exaggerating in the least when he says he likes being alone.
“What do you miss most?” His voice cuts into my idiotic inner monologue.
“About what?”
“Being married.”
My inside voice immediately starts screaming, Sex! Seeeeeexxxxxx! A flame of shame burns right up my neck and over my face. He grabs onto my hammock and we both stop rocking. His pale eyes narrow, bright with a little mischief and a lot curiosity.
“You don’t have to be married for that.”
The thought of having casual sex with a stranger makes me nervous as all get out. I let my imagination run wild regularly, sure I do, who doesn’t. However, they’re fantasies––that’s all. I know I don’t possess whatever it is that allows a person to disconnects emotions from sex. Maybe it’s my history, the fact that I’ve always been in love when I’ve had it. Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever had sex with one person. The bottom line is, I can’t imagine sharing myself with someone I don’t care about.
“Don’t judge, but I don’t do casual sex. And falling in love again is a long shot at best, which pretty much eliminates sex with another person.”
He’s back to staring very intently. I feel the full brunt of it and it kind of fre
aks me out a little.
“I don’t judge you.” His voice is low and soft and does strange things to my body. Suddenly, my heart is pounding fiercely and my nether region is achy and empty. I watch his tongue dart out and lick his lower lip and oh my God if I’m not immediately picturing myself sucking on that tongue. I have to put a stop to this before I end up embarrassing myself.
“Are you…uh,” I mumble semi-coherently. I can’t take my eyes off his mouth. Shit! This is my friend, my good friend, and I’m eye fucking his mouth. “Are you…uhh…ready to date? What about that chick in the PR department?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He lets go of my hammock and I’m back to swinging. “Not my type.” His gaze returns to the stars above, neatly avoiding mine.
“Attractive and sweet isn’t your type?”
“She just isn’t,” he repeats.
“Fine, be mysterious.”
His lips quiver and I know we’re back on safe ground. Time to make a graceful exit before I jump him. I get up to go back to my room.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow?” The nonquestion makes me snicker.
“Stop begging. It’s so unbecoming for a man of you stature.” The small smile I get out of him makes me feel like I just won a gold medal.
“I’ll leave the clubhouse passes and tickets on my desk.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I freeze. He scans my face, his expression hyper-alert. “Why do you look weird?”
“I don’t look weird.”
“Yeah, you do. Whenever something bothers you, you get that look––like you’re sucking on a lemon.”
“I do?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m worried some of the wives or girlfriends won’t want me there––and I know I sound like I’m in junior high, it’s just that I’ve been through this before.”
His expression alters lighting quick. His face crystalizes into a mask of pure malice. “No one is going to do, or say shit to you. I promise.”
He looks like he’s about to go mental. Probably not a good time to argue this point. “Whatever you say, Champ.”
