by C. M. Lally
“Oh no, big boy. I’m not sure how this is going to work.” I hear Nick laughing as he comes back into the room, snapping his fingers and pointing down to the floor. Zeus eyes him, whimpering like a puppy and begging to be loved on. Nick doesn’t fall for it and they commence a stare down. Defeated, Zeus gives up and jumps off the bed with one last whine. I laugh at them both. “Aww, Daddy. Don’t you feel bad, making him sleep on the floor?”
“Nope. I get you tonight. He needs to learn that you are mine.” He settles under the covers, and I notice he’s still naked. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer. “I’m afraid to touch you during sex. How bad is the pain if I do?” I lay my head on his chest, drawing circles around his nipples with my fingernails, hoping it doesn’t hurt. I feel his chest shake as he snickers, grabbing at my fingers to stop the tickling.
“It’s not bad, sweetheart. I can handle anywhere you touch me except my neck. It’s too sensitive there.”
“I wish I would have known that before. This would have been a whole different experience tonight.”
“Didn’t you like it? I personally thought it was magnificent … beyond my wildest dreams. I want to do that every night now and maybe in the mornings too.” His eager tone makes me smile.
I laugh at that suggestion. “I’ve got moves you won’t believe. You’ll just have to wait and see,” teasing him smugly.
I settle down and close my eyes, completely content. This enigma of a man is barreling his way into my heart. I just hope I can survive the heartbreak when he leaves me, because I know for sure I won’t push him away even to save myself.
Chapter 14
Nick
I walk into the backyard of my parents’ home and enter through the kitchen door. I’m not comfortable ringing the front doorbell in case my dad answers. I haven’t had keys to this house in who knows how many years. Through the window, I watch my sister pull Mom’s signature baked spaghetti out of the oven. I open the back door slowly, appreciating the rich aroma of the pasta and cheese bubbling in the pan. I set a bottle of wine on the table, grateful that my Dad isn’t in here. I get a few more minutes reprieve.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm! That smells just like Mom’s!”
Aran smiles proudly. “Oh, good. I’m glad you can’t smell the poison,” she teases, swiping at me with an oven mitt. “Thanks for bringing the wine. Ooh, and it’s the good stuff that I can’t afford yet. Yay!”
There’s a loaf of Italian bread and garlic butter on the counter. “Ahh, you’re spoiling me tonight with homemade garlic bread?” I slice the loaf up into thick slices and smear them with the garlic goodness. I see out of the corner of my eye that my Dad strolls into the room just as I put the garlic bread in the oven. “Hey, Dad,” I stumble awkwardly. I haven’t said those words in a few years. He looks in my direction and rasps back at me “Hello, son. Finally remembered our address, huh?”
Aran shushes us immediately and threatens to make us hug it out if we continue, so we both drop that line of conversation quickly. I’m coiled as tight as a snake under attack tonight, ready to strike and hiss at him, but he’s my father. We’re like a frayed rope; one last tug will break us, so we both stand in silence, afraid to move. I guess we have that one thing in common. Excruciating moments of silence pass as we wait for the oven timer to ding. This has got to be the longest seven minutes of my life. I’m so antsy I look desperately for something to do.
I brush past him and pull the dinner plates down from the cupboard, slamming the door shut as I walk toward the table. He tugs the silverware drawer open and rifles through it to gather the utensils, then slams the drawer shut. He bangs his knuckles on the cabinet edge, releasing a mild “damn it” under his breath. It’s going to be a long night.
Aran sets the bread and wine glasses down as we take our seats opposite each other. He’s watching me with uncertainty in his eyes. This is the point in the meal where Mom would have instructed us to join hands and say grace as a family. I’m not sure if we’re going to continue that tradition or not, but I’ll be damned if it’s me that doesn’t hold true to tradition. I nervously hold a hand out to each of them and am shocked as shit when they both take hold. I clear my throat to begin, but Aran starts to recite the familiar words of Grace that we were raised on. Her melodic voice soothes my soul. She sounds like Mom. We all conclude in harmony with “Amen”. One moment down, ten or so more to go.
Aran serves herself and passes my dad the dish. When he’s finished, I lift my arms up to receive the dish from him, but he hands it back to Aran. Okay. I guess we’re going to play games tonight. She passes the dish to me, annoyed, and so the long evening begins.
I pass the time catching up with Aran. We continue our talk about school and possible future internships for the next two summers. She’s already talking to the Seattle Reign FC, a professional women’s soccer league. They have an agreement to mentor some of her school’s more devoted sports photography students. She’s the only one currently interested, so she feels like she’s got a great shot at getting it. I’m proud to hear that she’s as enthusiastic about her future as she should be. My Dad sits in silence, soaking it all up like a sponge but not contributing anything.
She voices her concerns about moving away from home. She’ll miss her friends and family, but I tell her to jump at the chance, because you never know if another will come along. My Dad grunts under his breath as soon as I finish speaking, and the table shifts slightly to the left. Aran must have kicked him since I watch him slump forward and rub his leg. Another long moment of silence passes before he clears his throat to speak, “How’s your landscaping business doing?”
“It’s doing well. It keeps me busy. I can’t complain.” He never looks up at me while I answer his question. He just sits there, slouching over his plate and shoveling his food into his mouth. I’m not even sure he heard me because he’s slurping his spaghetti so loudly.
“How’s the dog?” he asks around a mouthful of pasta.
“Zeus is great. Jenna has him right now. He’s kind of staying with her for now.” I groan inwardly and realize too late that I gave up one of my secrets. It’s out there now. Damn it. Her sweet name is always on the tip of my tongue, since thoughts of her are always on my mind. Two sets of silverware clank as they both turn to stare at me, waiting for me to continue.
“What?” I ask, as I struggle to hide the mile-wide smile that comes with just saying her name.
Aran swallows her last bite and pours herself more wine. “Who’s Jenna?” she asks, trying to be nonchalant.
“She’s just a friend. She sings down at the Beer and Brood Tavern on the weekends. Her uncle owns the place. Her boyfriend, well, her ex-boyfriend, trashed her car and apartment, so I let her borrow Zeus for protection. He’s grown up since the last time you saw him. He’s not a puppy anymore—he’s 180 pounds of solid dog coming at you.” I throw that last bit in quickly for good measure, steering them away from any other questions about Jenna.
“So, why the big lovey grin on your face, if she’s just a friend?” Aran elbows me as I try to get up to clear my dinner mess from the table.
“Well, if we’re going to go there tonight … who’s the ‘good kisser’ calling you in a restaurant that’s so top-secret you had to walk all the way outside to have the conversation? Huh?” I sneer back at her, sticking my tongue out teasingly. I watch her nose twist on her face as her eyes nervously dart to my Dad. He sits watching us both and throws his hands up in the air. “I’m not getting involved in this,” he says, as he gets up and excuses himself from the room. From halfway down the hall, I hear him bellow over his shoulder, “Nice to see you, son.”
And that’s all I get. No words of forgiveness or anything. No heartfelt communication. No outpouring of regret over lost time and mean words spoken in anger? Am I just supposed to forget them and move forward? Am I supposed to forgive and forget? Can I forgive? I sure as hell won’t ever forget. My mind is crowded with memories that I’d dearly love to forge
t. They play like a movie reel in my mind every time I close my eyes. Maybe it just hasn’t been enough time, but damn it. How much time is enough? Maybe I’ll never fucking know. This town can’t seem to forgive my sins, so why should I forgive his?
Aran tries to take my plate and wine glass from my hand, but I give her my famous stubborn scowl and walk into the kitchen. She practically has the dishwasher already loaded, so there isn’t anything to really help her clean up. “Go on. I’ve got the rest of this. Go talk to him,” she says, as he motions towards the back family room with her head.
“Nope. I’m just going to count this night as a victory and leave it at that.” I give her a tight hug and make sure to pull her hair hard for teasing me in front of Dad.
“Owww, jackass,” she shrieks as she grabs hold of my left nipple and twists.
“Damn it, let go,” I claw at her fingers to loosen her grip, while wrapping my hand up in her hair close to the scalp. She’s got a monster grip on her that I’d forgotten about. She quickly calls a truce and we release each other.
“So, is this girl special?” Aran looks at me with those brilliant green eyes that are so similar to mine. She looks hopeful, but I don’t want to discuss this with her, mostly because I haven’t yet figured out if Jenna is real or not. I don’t want to jinx it or let karma know that I am even remotely thinking about being happy.
“Yes, she’s special, but I don’t know if I’m special to her, so don’t ask.” I voiced my worry and now it’s out there in the universe. It’s a weight that I carry in my heart every day I spend with her. “She’s a crazy-talented singer, and she’ll probably hit it big enough to leave town someday. I’ve had that life, you know. I was forced away from it and don’t think I can go back there. We’re nowhere near that yet, so I can’t bring it up. It just sits in the pit of my stomach and I’ll deal with it when I have to.” I blow out a huge breath now that I’ve aired my concerns.
“Well, I’d say that if you’re already worried about losing her to an unknown future event that may never happen, then you are already at that point in your relationship. You need to discuss it. Nick, it sounds to me like you have already fallen.”
I shrug helplessly. “I know I adore her, and every minute away from her is like living alone on the dark side of the moon. I’m already in deep with her—have been for months. I just need to let it run its course and see what happens.”
I hug her goodbye and walk down the hallway to my father’s den. I can hear the television blaring; he’s watching an old war movie. I push the door open against the heavy shag of the carpet, and see him reclining in his chair, sound asleep and holding the remote in one hand and a picture of my Mom, Aran and me as kids in the other.
He doesn’t wake as I approach him. I grab an old crocheted blanket that my Mom made from the basket by his chair and lay it across him, covering his chest. I gently remove the picture from his hand and lay it on the side table next to him. Sneaking out of the room quietly, I bump into Aran who was watching me with Dad. She kisses my cheek and simply whispers, “Goodnight. Be careful going home.”
Chapter 15
Jenna
I enter the floral shop and find my mom sifting through the daily mail. I jump up on my stool behind the counter as she hands me a few pieces of it, but these envelopes are all crinkled and messed up like they’ve been sitting somewhere for a while. “These came for you at home,” she says. “Your Dad didn’t want me to bring them to you since he thinks you should come to visit more often, but I can’t hold on to them forever waiting for that to happen.” She sighs heavily and walks away carrying order slips, ready to start her day.
I just have to learn to ignore the guilt she lays on me. We see each other all day, every day. I don’t know why they expect me to drop by in the evenings or on weekends too. I love my parents very much and am grateful that they’re still in my life. I know I’m one of the lucky few. Most of the kids I went to school with left this town behind the minute they could. I don’t want to leave. Ever. Period.
I’ve been out there in the world, on vacation and running errands to the big city. The big cities make me sad. Everybody’s hustling to go nowhere in a hurry and are just plain rude to each other to shave a few seconds off of their trip to nowhere. Then they lose that time when someone cuts them off in their hustle. It’s all craziness and I want no part of it.
I see the envelopes are from Media Music again, dated two weeks ago. Geesh, they don’t give up, and they won’t forget about me. I really wish they would. My best friend submitted a copy of my CD to them a few years back when she wanted me to make it big—I really think she just wanted to go on tour with me and meet a few hot guys. This is probably their hundredth letter to me in so many years. They want me to come and sing a few demos for them, do some background vocals for up-and-comers, blah, blah, blah … not my thing. I keep pitching them in the garbage when I get them, but apparently they just send more.
Mom and Dad want me to get out of this town and do something with my life. I am doing something. I’m working their store, their dream, and keeping it on track for my future. I know it’s going to be mine one day. I love this store. I love the flowers and how people turn them into what they feel: a visible, touchable, scented memory. Yes, they die—everything eventually does—but the feeling those flowers gave you never goes away. Sometimes that memory is so strong that you can smell the memory, or remember how the petals felt when you rubbed them between your fingers and brushed them against your nose when you inhaled them—memorizing that moment in time so that it may bring you comfort during hard times.
I absentmindedly tear open one of the envelopes and unfold the letter; it’s the same old request to come and sing demos for them. I jam the letter back into the tattered envelope and stuff it into my back pocket.
“Well, you got rid of that pretty quick.” Mom says as she brings a bucket of carnations into the workroom and sets it down in front of me.
“I don’t want to sing demos. I just want to sing for people. My people. At the bar.” I know I sound like I’m whining, but we’ve had this conversation a million times since I graduated from high school. She’s accepted it, but my father pushes her to push me. I know where it’s coming from. I grab a few carnations and start to strip them of their stems and leaves.
“Mom, I love music and I love singing, but I don’t have a passion to share it with others on a grand scale. I enjoy performing, but I only want to share it enough to get rid of the energy inside me. When the bar closes for the night, I’m done. It’s enough for me. I don’t want a million screaming fans, endless autographing, strange sleeping hours, or different cities every night. It’s a lonely life. Trust me.” I finish the bucket and push it towards her, hoping to get her busy with another topic, like the orders hanging on the board.
She continues to try to sway me. “How do you know you don’t want to do it until you try it? You may love it. You could help others discover their dreams.”
“Mom, enough. Stop it. I don’t want this in my life.”
“Just think of the people you may meet. Other doors could open that you don’t even know exist. Sometimes dreams needs fostering. That’s all we’re trying to get you to see. We just don’t want you to regret your life and hate it, or us, later.” She shrugs her shoulders and drops her orders on the table. She comes to me with her arms outstretched for a hug. I can sense her frustration.
How do you resist the arms of your mother? I give her the tightest hug I can manage without crushing her. Maybe I just need to do it once to get them to leave me alone. “If I call them, and if it seems interesting, AND I do it once, will you leave me alone about it?” I hope that appeases her. “If I do it, I’m going to do it on my terms, okay? No bugging me about it.”
“Yes. It’s just like eating your vegetables. Try it once, dear. Maybe you’ll love it.” She beams her ‘I’m your mother and I know what I am talking about’ smile at me.
I really don’t want to put this ball in
motion. It means missing work, band practice, and possibly playing at the bar, but missing out on Nick and Zeus is the part I hate the most. I’m going to have to return Zeus now. Fuck. I love having him at my house, going for walks and playing tug-the-rope every night. Nick’s been working crazy hours to keep everyone’s yard beautiful in this drought. Plus, it’s forest fire season. It seems that season keeps getting longer and longer with this drought, too.
I take my phone and flowers into the backroom and resign myself to making the call, heaving a heavy sigh that I hope she heard. I just want to get this over with. The faster it’s done, the faster I can move on with my life and get back to the things that I want to do. The longer I drag it out, the more she’ll quietly guilt trip me in that way that only a parent knows how to do.
I dial the number listed and am amazed at how quickly my call is transferred to the person whose name is on the letter, Mr. Weaver. I hope he isn’t expecting me. I really don’t want to think I’m just like everybody else who calls him because they want to be famous.
“Thank God,” I murmur when I end up with an assistant on the line. I explain my reason for calling and she proceeds to schedule an appointment for a phone call. Weird. I’ve never made an appointment to have a phone conversation with anyone. It all seems so big-city wheeling and dealing. Perfect. Another reason why I don’t want to do this. She confirms that Mr. Weaver will call me later that afternoon at 4:30, since that’s his first available appointment. Great—looking for forward to it like hernia surgery. Ugh!
I’ve stewed in silence all afternoon. Just because I’m giving in to their request doesn’t meant that I have to discuss it with them. I’ve tried to think of every scenario, and each one ends badly. I threw in a few where it might end well, just to convince myself that I tried.
My stomach’s in knots waiting for the clock to tick by. I hate being forced to do something that I don’t want to do. I don’t like talking to people in suits and ties. Give me a jeans and T-shirt type of person any day of the week. And damn! Now I’ve got Nick on my mind. Well, he’s always there, but now he is front and center. I don’t want to tell him that I’m leaving. “Stop it. You’re not leaving,” I tell myself.
