by Denise Wells
Gasps of shock echo around me. Surprisingly, I’m one of them.
“It was . . . good. I mean, it was awkward and certainly not my best performance.” We all laugh at that, including Andy. “But it was also good. I woke this morning feeling a lightness in my chest that hasn’t been there in a really long time. There is some guilt, but there’s also calm and assuredness. I don’t know what will come of this relationship—the woman knows all about Maureen—but I know that for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the future, and that feels good.”
Andy nods slightly at the group and steps away from the podium, returning to his seat. A light smattering of applause follows.
The facilitator stands. “Anyone else?”
And before I realize what I’ve done, I find myself at the podium and starting to speak. “Hi, I’m Brad.” I gesture toward Andy first. “I just want to say thank you to Andy for sharing.” More light applause. “Because I too lost the love of my life three years ago, and also to cancer—metastatic—and my friends are encouraging me to date. I promised Kat I would move on. That I wouldn’t let her death stifle me. But I just don’t know how. And I don’t even have kids. I only have to worry about me. Andy, I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you, man.”
Andy nods in acknowledgment, a grateful smile on his face.
“I have to admit, part of me is completely okay with being alone for the rest of my life. Because I can’t imagine ever feeling the same way about someone again as I did about Kat,” I admit.
“Brad, if I may interrupt,” the facilitator says. “I think, and this is just my opinion, but I think it’s unrealistic to expect you will ever feel the same way again.”
“Then what’s the point?” I ask, even though, deep down, I already know the answer.
“The point is, that different partners evoke different emotions, and no two will ever be alike. You can meet someone tomorrow and love them with all your heart. It doesn’t mean you love Kat any less. It’s two different loves. Both romantic, both sexual, both emotional, neither the same. Does that make sense?”
I nod, because it does. I’ve heard it before. I just don’t like it.
The facilitator moves to the front of the room and stands next to me at the podium. “I don’t pretend to know how anyone feels. We all have our own grief that manifests in its own unique ways. But what I do know is that the human heart has an enormous capacity for love. Larger than anything we could ever imagine. Opening your heart to another does nothing to diminish what you’ve given in the past. You could love somebody new every day, from now through infinity, and not lessen what your heart has to give. As humans, we have to love in order to feel whole. It’s a primal and basic need to survive.”
She reminds me a bit of Nessa. Not in the way she looks or in her mannerisms, but in her word choices and how she says them. It makes me want to believe her.
“The most difficult thing about moving on after the death of a partner,” she continues, “is letting go of the guilt that accompanies the progression. The guilt that wishes it were you that died and not them. Once you can forgive yourself for living, you can continue to do just that. And be much happier for it.”
She gestures to me to continue. “I apologize for interrupting, Brad.”
“No, that’s fine,” I say. “I have nothing to say after that. Nothing I can say.” I return to my seat and the facilitator calls for more volunteers. I’m shocked to see that over forty minutes has gone by. A woman gets up to speak, but I tune her out, thinking instead on whether I want to approach Andy after the meeting.
Andy and I end up grabbing a beer after the meeting at a place nearby.
“How’d you do it?” I ask him once we find a seat and order our beers.
“Which part? The sex? Moving on? Existing?”
“Yes.” I laugh, not in a cheerful way.
“It’s not easy, man. Not at all. I had to force myself, literally, and I think it’s easier to do that when I focus on the girls, right? And how having a maternal figure in their lives would be good for them. But not a lot of women want to deal with widowers. Let alone widowers with kids.”
“How’d you meet her? The woman.”
“My girls both had her as a teacher. Trina first, and then Tasha. I started talking to her a bit after Maureen passed because I needed her help to deal with Trina. And it just kind of grew from there.”
I feel nauseous as he tells me this.
“It’s true though,” he continues. “The guilt is the hardest part. Sex? That was fucking easy.” We both genuinely laugh at that.
“I’ll be honest.” Andy keeps talking. “The woman is a saint for sticking around last night. I was a one-pump, limp-ass chump the first time. But I think I made up for it after.” He smiles and raises his glass.
“Fuck, I haven’t even thought about if I’d be any good. Can I ask you something personal?”
“More personal than this?” He laughs caustically.
“Did you think about Maureen while you were with this other woman?”
“If the circumstances were different, I’d fucking deck you for that.”
“I don’t blame you.”
He takes a long drink of his beer, finishing over half of it, then sets it back down and looks at it, as though waiting for the beverage to answer my question instead. “I did. There were flashes at first where I kind of confused myself. The same thing kind of happened the first time I kissed Cathy, the woman. And the first time I went down on her—” He stops talking again and looks down at his hand encircled around his pint glass.
I drink my beer while I wait for him to continue.
“I had to stop. In all of those instances, I had to stop and look at Cathy, pull myself back to the present and remember, literally remind myself, who I was with. She’s tried to be understanding and supportive, but I know it’s difficult for her. It would be for anyone. Not like it was a picnic for me either. But I like Cathy. A lot. And I want to try to make this work. So, I push forward.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But, again, I promised Maureen I would. For me and for my girls.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
We change the subject after that, which I’m part grateful for and part resentful of. I want Andy to share the secret with me. The magic formula that will allow me to move on. Allow me to learn to love again without the constant reminder of what I’ve lost.
Instead, we discuss the baseball playoffs and which teams will make it to the big game.
17
Tenley
By the time I’ve changed my clothes and fixed my hair and makeup, I’m a little more excited for this date with Neil than I was earlier. He’s a nice guy, good-looking, well-built, and there’s nothing wrong with a little male attention. I go for a more casual look tonight than I did last night. Distressed, slim-fitting boyfriend jeans, a loose, black, off-the-shoulder blouse, and a pair of black ankle boots. I leave my hair down in loose curls, and the overall look is sexy without being blatant.
If I’m honest with myself, there’s a teeny-tiny part of me that wishes I was seeing Brad tonight. I just . . . I don’t know. I had fun with him this morning, which was unexpected and nice. I want to figure out how he ticks. The mood swings aside, there is a true dichotomy going on with that man’s psyche that I want to decipher. He can be so wonderfully warm and charming, and then an unfeeling blank slate at the blink of an eye. It’s a little fascinating to me.
My doorbell rings at six o’clock sharp. Neil is lucky I’m ready since I never really agreed to six o’clock. I open it to a beaming Neil who presents me with a large bunch of flowers.
“Something beautiful for someone beautiful,” he says, leaning in and kissing me lightly on the lips.
“That’s sweet, Neil. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” He steps inside, as I try to step out. “Wow, this place is incredible.” He walks through the entryway into the main room
, which are the kitchen, dining, and living rooms combined. I’ve always loved the concept of a great room, so that was my secondary reason for this house. I won’t have to knock down any walls when I renovate. Not that I would literally knock them down, but I’ve had to do it before and it’s just such a hassle to live in that kind of construction zone with the dust and debris. I swear it takes a year to get rid of all the dust.
“Thanks.” I trail after him. “I couldn’t pass up the location. There’s still a bunch of renovating I want to do, but I’m taking my time.”
He turns and pulls me into his arms. “We could have some killer parties here.”
“We could, huh?”
“Hell, yes.” He leans in captures my lips with his. The kiss turns heated quickly. Neil is a good kisser, and he knows it. His hand snakes down from my waist to cup my ass, and I feel his hardening length against my stomach. His other hand moves up my blouse to fondle my breast.
“Okay, let’s slow down.” I pull my lips from his and push against his chest. I’m not opposed to sex on the first or second date. I’m not even opposed to sex with no date. But I’m not ready to have sex with Neil. I just can’t put my finger on why.
“I don’t want to slow down,” he says, moving toward me.
My stomach growls, loudly, saving me from further protest.
“I’m kinda hungry,” I tell him. “Save that thought for after dinner.” I smile flirtatiously to get him to stop.
It works.
“You’re the boss. Let’s go.” He takes my hand and leads me out to his car, which is a slick sporty-looking red car that sits low to the ground.
The tires on Neil’s car squeal as we hit each corner, and they aren’t tight corners.
I place my hand on his forearm. “It’s a residential area.”
He looks at me, eyebrow raised. “And?”
“Slow down, speed racer.”
He revs the engine in response as we pull up to a stop sign. I love fast cars, but not in a populated neighborhood. Especially one like mine, where there aren’t sidewalks, and people walk their dogs or babies and stroll or jog on the roadside.
We head through downtown and over to the other side of town. I don’t know the area well, but I also don’t think there are many restaurants over here. Except for maybe the one we were at last night. It comprises an odd blend of residential and industrial, with more commercial buildings than homes.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise.” He smiles and pats my knee, leaving his hand there until it’s time for him to use the gear shift again.
A short time later, we pull into the driveway of a smallish ranch-style home. Kind of reminiscent of Sadie and Ethan’s.
“Whose house is this?” I ask.
“Mine.”
“Did you forget something?”
“Nope. I’m making you dinner.”
“Oh, wow. Okay.” I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I’m opposed to it either, just that I may have prepared differently mentally. Dinner at his house is intimate, and I’m not in the mood for intimate. It’s been too rough a day for that.
The inside of his house is not what I expected. It’s cool in temperature and dimly lit. He flips on a light and I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t mid-80s bachelor pad complete with a fur rug in front of the fireplace. Everywhere I turn, I see chrome, mirrors, and black. His furniture looks to be black leather and at first glance, I count at least four mirrors from my vantage point in the entryway alone. We move further into the room.
“What do you think?” He turns to me, his face expectant.
“It’s not what I expected,” I reply honestly.
“I get that a lot.”
The entryway leads directly to the living room, which leads to the dining room. There’s a wall with swinging half-doors, to what I assume is the kitchen, on one end and a pass-through window on the other. Two low-back black leather loveseats face one another in the living room, with a glass and chrome coffee table in the middle. End tables, also made of glass and chrome, flank the loveseats, and the walls behind each are adorned with oversized mirrors. At one end is the fireplace, with a large screen television hung over the mantle, and the other end features a large black leather recliner.
Upon further inspection, I see the furniture is actually a kind of pleather that is slightly sticky to the touch. I follow him through the dining room—adorned with a chrome and glass dining table combined with chrome and black pleather chairs—into the kitchen. Everything I’ve seen so far is so . . . shiny. And, surprisingly, dust free. It must take forever to clean all this glass.
I step into the kitchen which is only slightly outdated with tile countertops and laminate cupboards. I don’t want to judge him for it. For all I know, he just bought the house and hasn’t updated or renovated, but I feel coerced into seeing him tonight and it’s made me feel bitchy and capricious. Part of me keeps expecting him to flip a switch and activate some kind of cheesy, sultry background music, where the lights dim, candles automatically light, and a round velvet-covered bed rises from the floor.
I snicker at my thoughts.
Then I get a whiff of whatever he is cooking, which smells amazing.
“Ohmigod, what is that smell? It’s incredible,” I tell him.
“Lasagna. It’s my mom’s recipe.” He opens the oven door to peek in and sets a timer on the stovetop. “It’s got about another ten minutes to cook, then I need some time for the garlic bread and we’ll be ready to eat.” Neil opens a bottle of wine and hands me a glass. The kitchen is warmer than the other rooms, understandably since the oven is on, but it also has a closed-in feel that makes me feel almost claustrophobic. It’s shaped in a symmetrical square with a sink and a window at the opposite end of the swinging doors and pass-through, and the other walls are comprised of counters and cupboards. It’s a ton of storage, but just not a real welcoming feel.
“I’m going to take this in the other room, if you don’t mind,” I say.
“Good idea,” he says, then uses a remote to switch on some music, “Your Love is King” by Sade floats through the room. I guess that checks off the sultry music box. Now we just need the candles and round bed.
“I love this song,” I tell him, which is true.
Neil comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. “I love the way you smell.” He bites lightly on my collarbone, causing me to shiver, in a good way. He takes my wine glass from me and sets it on the coffee table next to his own, then spins me to face him.
“Dance with me?” He pulls me into his arms, wrapping his around my waist, leaving me to put mine around his neck. Neil nuzzles my nose with his, rubbing his cheek against mine. I’m having a hard time rectifying my feelings since I’m a little turned on, and a little pissed off at the same time. Usually, when I feel like this, pissed off wins out, but so far, the two emotions are fifty-fifty.
This time, when he reaches down to cup my ass cheeks, I let him. And after he slips his thigh between my legs, I rub myself against it. As he captures my lips with his and swirls his tongue with mine, I return the gesture. I give myself over to the lust building as we kiss, not stopping until I hear I hear the timer ding for dinner. My stomach growls hungrily in response. Loudly, making Neil laugh.
“Let’s get you fed, then we can move on to dessert.” He winks and I relax. I’m not quite into a good mood—still angry aroused—but into one that is far more affable than what I’d been feeling.
Neil had already set the dining table when I arrived, so there isn’t much for me to do, aside from bringing the wine and our glasses to the table and wait while he carries out the food. Tossed green salad, lasagna, and garlic bread. The salad has a basil vinaigrette I could bathe in, given the opportunity.
“That salad dressing is absolutely delicious. Did you make that too?” I ask.
“I did.”
“I want to lick my bowl clean,” I admit.
“I don’t mind.” He gestures towa
rd my bowl, as though giving me permission to lick it. I’m tempted, but I can’t bring myself to actually do it. If I were with Sadie and Ethan, absolutely. But here with this guy I barely know—definitely not.
He seems disappointed I don’t lick my bowl and takes it into the kitchen, along with his. Now, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. When he returns to the table, he serves us each a large serving of lasagna. I’m only slightly worried about garlic breath after this. But if I have it, he will too. I’m still not ready to have sex with him, even after the pre-dinner make out session, which was hot.
I think I just don’t trust him. Partly because he doesn’t immediately give off that trust-worthy vibe, despite being a firefighter, and partly because I know Sadie doesn’t care for him, and her opinion is usually spot-on. Her own dating past notwithstanding.
I offer to help him with the dishes once we’ve finished eating, but he waves me off. “I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”
We take our wine to the couch and sit side-by-side.
“That was so good,” I tell him. “I can’t believe how much I ate.”
“I love a woman with a healthy appetite,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, making me laugh.
He takes my wine glass from me and sets it on the coffee table. So fluid is the maneuver, both now and earlier this evening, I’m sure it’s a practiced move on his part. With just as much finesse, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. Gently at first, and then with more force. And like each time before, the kiss turns heated fast.
If I could separate my attraction from my emotions, I could keep going and fuck him. But I can’t, not anymore. This new, more mature, Tenley is looking for more from her sexual partners than a quick lay. So, when he moves his hands up my blouse, I tell him no.
And when he tries to undo my jeans, I tell him no.
“I thought you were enjoying this?” he asks.
“I am,” I tell him. “I’m just not ready to go past this point of just kissing.”
“You sure seemed ready when you were humping my leg earlier.”
