by M. Mabie
Working as many shifts as I was, I was tired and so that excuse usually went undisputed. Others didn't have the same effect.
“Laundry again? Blake, you said you had to do laundry the other night, too. Are you mad at me? What did I do?” Grant said as we sat on my parents’ back patio. My mom and dad were cleaning up the dinner mess and Shane, my oldest brother, was in the yard tossing a ball for Randy, my parents’ eight-year-old Saint Bernard.
“I'm not mad. I'm sorry. I've just been stressed out at work and thinking about this new job thing. I don't know. I'm sorry.” I wasn't being fair to Grant and it was time I put the past behind me. The past, as if it were some long tumultuous affair.
It was one weekend and one crazy night, and there I was letting it affect my life so much. I needed to get him out of my system.
“Listen, I don't have to work tomorrow. I'm going to that interview. What about I cook you dinner and you stay over tomorrow night? I'll make that thing you like.” And for the first time in the past few weeks I put a smile on his face. We hadn't had sex since I'd left. “And I'll wear that thing you like, too.”
He scooted closer to me on the back seat we shared. “What about tonight?” he said leaning into my neck and placing a soft kiss under my ear. “I can't wait until tomorrow. Please?”
His kiss felt warm and welcome. Which made me happy. I'd been so closed off since I got back. Our relationship was great before I left. It wasn't knock-your-socks-off crazy, we weren't pawing at each other in public, but it was good. Comfortable. Secure. Traditional.
“No. I owe you. I want to do something special for you. Let me get this interview out of the way and I'll be able to focus. Can you do that? Can you wait one more night?”
“No, but I will.” He pulled my mouth to his with a gentle hand on my cheek. “You're worth a little wait. Besides, I might have a surprise for you, too.”
I had a feeling I knew what it would be. In forty-eight hours I'd probably be engaged. I'd give myself this one last night. One last night to replay those few hours I'd had with Casey then, I'd be Grant's for good.
We sat there for a few more minutes and chatted with my family. I saw Grant wink at my dad when he told him about how I planned on cooking him his favorite chicken marsala. My dad nodded and gave me a quick smile.
“Thanks for coming over, sweetheart,” my mom said a little later as she hugged us in the driveway. “Good luck at your interview tomorrow. Call me when you finish up. I want to hear all about it. And see you later, Grant.”
Then my dad hugged me, which wasn't uncommon, but this hug was tight. He whispered into my ear, “Cheer up, you look like it's the last day of summer.” He gave me another squeeze and rocked me side to side. “Good luck tomorrow, baby girl.”
I said into his shoulder, “The interview will go fine, it isn't like I'm unemployed.”
“I'm not talking about that.” And he kissed my head. “Be happy.” I knew his simple words were meant two ways. My dad could see through my bullshit. He never told me what to do, but knew how to comfort me regardless.
Like I requested, Grant took me home and didn't even attempt at coming in. I'd been carrying this weight around with me the last few weeks and even though he didn't know what it was, he knew well enough to give me some space.
I couldn't put a name to my feelings. I'm not sure there even was one. All I knew was this other man had crept his way into my head and he didn't want to leave. I needed an exorcism. A Casey-cism. And that night was as good of a night as any to try my best at making that happen.
I looked through pictures of Grant and me.
I played Grant’s favorite music.
I even made myself a rum and Coke—his favorite drink—and I did everything to put my head back into Grant-mode. And it was working. I flipped through my phone at the pictures I'd taken of him and us and played our best hits, memory-flashback style, in my mind.
We'd met when I was home on Christmas break my senior year of culinary school. We were pumping gas at pumps that faced each other. He peeked around a few times and smiled. He was cute, a clean-cut, all-American boy. It was cold and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck. When I caught him smiling at me he slunk his neck down into the argyle to hide his grin.
Our gas pumps went off at the same time. We walked into the station to pay. He held the door open for me and let me go first in line at the register. I paid. He paid. We both walked out. As I was starting my car, I watched him do the same, he gave me another look and didn't hide his smile from me that time. Then he started to pull away. It was then that I noticed he'd left his gas cap and flippy-door open. I sprang from my car and ran after him, waving my arms, “Wait! Your gas thing is open.”
He slammed on the brakes and shifted into park. Jumping from the vehicle, he ran back at me.
“What? What's wrong?” he asked huffing.
“I'm fine. It's your gas cap. You left it open.”
Grant turned behind him to see what I was talking about and then embarrassment covered his face, he looked back at me. “God, I thought you wanted something else.” He ran his gloved hands over his short hair. Then out of the blue he said, “Let me buy you dinner.”
His statement shocked me, as I wasn't expecting a date out of the whole ordeal, but I simply said, “Okay.”
He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and asked, “Can I have your number?” I gave it to him and he promised to call. I knew that he would. I never doubted I'd get a call from him and I had looked forward to it.
“What's your name?”
“Grant Kelly. What's yours?”
“Blake Warren.”
“I like it. I've never known a female Blake before.”
“Well, you do now.”
“Yes. I guess I do.” He shuffled his feet like he didn't want to leave, but had somewhere to be. “I'll call you, Blake, the female, and we'll work out our date.” With that he beamed.
“Sounds good. Merry Christmas.”
“It is now.” He walked back to his truck and closed the gas thing. He looked at me, no short of three more times, before he shook his phone in the air and he stepped inside the cab of his truck.
I let those memories wash over my consciousness, I felt better than I had in the weeks since I'd returned. Grant was a great guy and come the next night he'd be my fiancé, for real.
I had needed that.
I needed to get my head clear of him and focus on what I had. A man that loved me. A man that would take care of me. When my phone buzzed, I assumed it was Grant telling me good night, as I lay in my bed ready for a peaceful night's sleep. But when I read the name on the screen, I knew it was a lost cause. My dreams would be hijacked. Again.
Casey: Good luck at the interview tomorrow.
What the hell?
My stomach knotted with a need. A need to reply. I didn't want to text him. I didn't want to think about him. Sometimes you don't get what you want or need, but sometimes you just can't tell the damn difference.
So much for pretending I didn't have his number.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
I COULDN'T KEEP PRETENDING I didn't have her number. It had been almost a month and she was all I thought about. If she didn't reply, or told me to fuck off, I would have left her alone. Probably. But what I couldn't do was have her number in my phone and act like I didn't skate past it ten times a day anymore.
Honeybee: Thanks. How did you know about that?
Me: Micah. I overheard her talking to Cory about it. She said that she'd wanted it, but didn't want to travel. So she recommended you. Do you want to be away from home that much?
Honeybee: I like to travel.
ME: Me too. I've been doing a lot more of it for my job. I'm in Phoenix now.
There was radio silence for a while. This wasn't as easy as it was when we were together. Maybe, hopefully, this will work her out of my system and I wouldn't have to jerk thoughts of her out of my dick in the shower every morning.
Probably ten
minutes went by before another message came through.
Honeybee: Well, thanks for the well wishes.
Me: I can't stop thinking about you.
Delete.
Me: It's nothing.
Honeybee: It's something. I almost erased your number. Like every day.
Now, that was something. These past few weeks I'd been going to trade shows, trying to get Bay's brand and name out there and into restaurants and bars outside San Francisco. It was nice being away. But every night I stood outside of my hotel room imagining what it would be like if she was on the other side of the door again. Wishing that she'd be there. It was getting pathetic.
Me: Why didn't you?
Honeybee: I don't know.
Me: I know the feeling.
And, fuck, did I. Every time my phone rang I wanted it to be her. It never was.
Me: So are you married yet?
Delete.
Me: How are things going with the guy?
Another long pause. I should have stopped while I was ahead.
Honeybee: Fine.
Fine? That sounds really fucking fun.
Her response didn't really convince me that she was all too ga-ga over the dude. Not that I thought we had a shot. We lived nowhere close to what would be deemed remotely proximal to one another, but morbidly, I liked the idea of her out there being just fine with him when she was way more than that with me.
Me: So you think about me every day, huh?
Honeybee: The truth?
I had been joking. Okay. Maybe not. Maybe I wanted to know if she was thinking about me. I sure as hell was thinking about her. It was getting tiresome and I needed to either make a move or let it go.
Ah, let it go. I love when people tell you to, “Let it go.” What bullshit. It's usually them who bring up the sensitive topic anyway. And you of all people know how bad you should just let it go, and you're trying your damnedest. Then, some know-it-all prick reminds you that you should, in fact, forget about it.
Let it go. Bullshit.
I say do the opposite. If someone can tell that you're thinking about something so much that they tell you to let it go. That's the fucking thing you shouldn't. That's what's got you worked up.
That's the girl you should chase...hypothetically.
It's just, if one gets one's self in such a position where something is commandeering every waking thought that skirts around one's poor lonesome head, then you aren't working hard enough. Go get it.
Don't. Let. It. Go.
I realized this, about three minutes before I sent Blake that first message. I realized I had two options: Either be a chump and think about a girl who is with another man or be the other fucking man.
Me: Good or bad. The truth.
Honeybee: I don't know why, but I can't let it go.
If I had been a person waiting for a sign, I would have just got it.
The bait.
I'd fight. I might lose. I might wish I'd let it go. But I wasn't going to be the old man with the regrets. I'd definitely be the old man. Maybe I'd even be alone. Maybe I'd be with someone else, but maybe, just maybe, I'd be with her a little more first.
Honeybee: You left before I woke up. You should have stayed.
Me: Nah. If you think it's rough now, think about how bad it would be if I had stayed.
There would have been no leaving. Not me. And there was no way in hell I'd let her leave either. I had to go that night. My sanity could only take so much.
What am I getting myself into? This is going to get way worse.
Honeybee: Guess you're right.
Me: I think we should be friends. Real friends.
I knew my terminology was all wrong; by friends I meant lovers. I wanted to be more, but I had to see where her head was. I couldn't go balls-in if she was only looking for a fling on the side. My gut said that wasn’t it, but I barely knew her. She had a boyfriend.
Still did.
Honeybee: I don't know.
Me: Well you can't stop me. You're my friend now. You'll have to block my number or something. I'm hanging around.
I thought while the silence screamed at me how big of a fool I was being. I sounded like some lame fifteen-year-old sending letters through neighboring classmates in homeroom. Do you like me? Yes or no. It felt like my only in. My only way to be near her. For now.
Me: Let's go back to where you couldn't stop thinking about me.
Honeybee: See!!! Friends don't say that.
Me: What do they say?
Honeybee: They say pleasant things like. Have a good day. What did you have for lunch? Things like that.
Me: It would have been a real good day if I'd had you for lunch.
I sent that one before I had the better sense to delete it. It was too easy and fun riling her up.
Honeybee: I might block you.
Me: No you won't. You can't get enough of me
Honeybee: Neither can what's her name.
She sounded jealous. A rational person would pacify her. A rational person would want to make her feel better and reassure her. But her having a boyfriend made me irrational and misery loves company.
Me: Who? Aly? I know. She's called twice already in the past twenty minutes.
Honeybee: I'm sure she has. Listen, friend, I have to get up early. I'll let you know how it goes. Tell Aly hi for me. Goodnight.
For a girl with a steady boyfriend, she sure did like the chase. Maybe I'd let her chase me for a little while. It was my best option. After all, I opened the door by texting her. And as much fun as it sounds grabbing her by the hair and dragging her through it, it would feel much more rewarding when she crawled through on her own. I just had to play the game she wanted to play.
Being forward didn't get her attention, but being cool did.
I'd be the coolest motherfucker around.
Me: Nite, Betty.
She didn't respond after that, I didn't think she would. I hoped she was stewing over it. I hoped she was uncomfortable and irritated. That's how I felt.
I put my phone on the charger and turned it off, ensuring I wouldn't keep stoking a fire I hoped I'd set. I didn’t want to be a flash flame. I wanted to be a slow burn. I wanted to heat her from the inside out. And as I stood there alone in my hotel room, I thought about that night.
With my hands on the bathroom counter and my head hanging, I closed my eyes and remembered what it was like being between her legs. The way she smelled like jasmine and a fresh shower. Her lips were minty, but I could still taste the lingering bourbon on her silky tongue.
I didn't have to look. I knew I was as hard as the granite holding me up. So, I did what I did nearly every night since the one at Hook Line and Sinker, ripped off my clothes, set the shower to cold and climbed in.
I wasn't proud of the fact that I'd had plenty of opportunities to get laid and passed them up for yanking myself in a cold shower. But there I was. Again. One arm up on the wall and a fist around my stupid cock. Every pull I fought for the feeling of her wrapped around me. With every flex of my grip, I pictured her head thrown back against the pillow. I could hear her moans; I could see the flash of honest passion in her eyes.
Then I'd come and felt no better for having done it. Sometimes I'd go at myself again and others, like that night, I'd let my dick suffer for making me victim to reliving the night I couldn't forget.
My flight home was early the next morning, I didn't sleep well but that was nothing new. I decided that since my mom lived so close to the airport it would be a good time to pop in and say hello. Yeah, I was a momma's boy.
My feet shuffled up her driveway after stopping at her mailbox and getting her mail. I read her name, Deb Moore, and wondered why she never changed it after my father and her divorced. If I were a woman, the second my marital status changed my name would, too. Especially if the jerk ran off with a woman ten years younger, like my dad had.
Don't get me wrong, I was well past over that by then. People get divorced and remarry. But he d
id it in a hurry. My dad and Carmen married after a three-month engagement, then they gave Cory and me a little sister, Audrey, about eleven months later. They gave us two actually, Audrey and Morgan. Audrey was seventeen and wild, where Morgan was sixteen, shy and quiet. They were both good girls and I loved them as much as I loved Cory, even if we didn't share the same mom. It's funny how things like that work out.
I opened the door to my mom's house with the key I'd never part with and yelled, “Mom!? It's your favorite son and I'm hungry.”
“Cory is that you?” she yelled back as I saw her round the hall into the foyer where I was standing. We're twins, but she knew my voice. She just liked teasing me. “Cory, you look like hell,” she said sheepishly, laughed, then complimented herself. “That was a good one.”
“How long have you been waiting to use that?” I pretended to be wounded and placed my hand over my heart. “That hurts, Mom.”
“Oh you poor baby. If you visited your old mom more, I wouldn't forget what you looked like. Come here.” My mom was the picture of graceful aging. She was about five foot five and in great shape. That day, she wore cargo shorts and a tank top covered in dirt. Her tan made her long, wavy, silver hair seem even more polished. Her blue eyes sparkled as she leaned up to kiss me on the cheek. “I'd hug you but I'm mucky. I've been out back harassing the plants.”
I wrapped both of my arms around her anyway and picked her up. She protested and hit my shoulders telling me to put her down. “Casey, you'll get dirty. Knock it off,” she scolded through her contradicting giggles. I placed a kiss on her head when I put her back on her feet. She was the mom to twin boys and used to being manhandled by us.
“I flew in this morning and decided to stop by before I headed home,” I told her as we walked into the kitchen where she immediately started washing her hands to make me something to eat. I didn't expect her to, but telling her not to was a losing battle.
“Well, I'm glad you did. I've missed you. You're a busy man these days. I'll probably never get that shed painted now.” She opened the fridge, knowing exactly what I was after. She didn't like pastrami, but it was always in there. I wondered how much she threw away when I didn't show up for a few weeks. “Provolone and mustard? You want me to slice a tomato?”
