by Kim Bailey
Someone wonderful. So fucking wonderful.
Walking side by side, my hand is still firmly attached to his.
We haven’t stopped talking. Even with food in our mouths. The question game, quickly forgotten, was replaced with natural, easy-flowing conversation. It’s a friendly banter, punctuated with even friendlier looks and tentative touches.
It’s not a date, but it’s still perfect.
Too perfect.
I’m struggling with the fact that our first date—that’s not actually a date—will also be our last. Once Caleb learns the truth I’ve been hiding, I doubt he’ll have much interest in dating, or anything else.
“Can I ask about Sean?” His hand’s still holding mine, and our arms still swing cheerfully. But there’s tension building. Is it his or mine? Maybe both.
“I wouldn’t know where to start, even if I wanted to.” I definitely don’t want to.
“I guess I’m just curious how you’ve never been on a date, even though you lived together.”
“Promise not to judge?”
“What kind of crappy friend would I be if I judged you?”
I hate this story, but maybe telling it is one step closer to telling the truth. Maybe if Caleb hears a bit of what I’m actually like he’ll decide friends is more than enough.
“We never dated. The first time I met him I was working in a club, back home.”
“Where’s home?” he interrupts. “You never told me where you’re from.”
“Calgary.”
“You came all the way from Alberta? And you called me brave?”
“There’s a difference between bravery and impetuousness.” He looks doubtful. “Anyway, I was working in an upscale place. It was constantly filled with rich assholes who thought if they paid enough they could have whatever they wanted. That’s where I met him. He was there practically every night, for months.”
Thinking about it now, I realize that should have been the first warning sign. What decent man spends months at a time, partying in a nightclub?
“Everyone already knew who he was, but he was kind of our urban legend too. There were so many rumors about him, all bullshit of course, but when you’re immersed in it, lines blur.”
“What do you mean?” He asks, our stride slowing, our hands no longer swinging.
“I was struggling. Money was being waved around like it was candy, and I was desperate. I wanted out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, out. I’d just ended another disastrous relationship. I’d moved back into a rented shack to support my cheating mother and deadbeat father. My dreams were on hold because my parents never grew up. I needed out of that. And you know... desperation breeds stupidity.”
Stupidity, or insanity? Hard to tell which it is, when the mistakes you’re making are obvious from the start, but you choose to make them anyway.
“One of the rumors floating around was that he was interested in me. So, I flirted with him. Talked to him every night. Wore shorter skirts, higher heels. I tried to hustle him, hoping for bigger tips.”
“Zadie —" Caleb tries to protest.
“Caleb, you wanted to know about this. I need you to just listen. Please.” My words are hard, but my voice is weak. “He noticed me, and I felt special. He flirted with me. Sweet-talked me. Tricked me. Or, maybe I tricked myself—into believing we had a connection. And then we had sex in the alley, behind the bar. We did it again the next night, in the bathroom. And then every night after that, wherever we could. That’s all we ever had. Sex.”
He stops walking, stopping me in the process, and turns to face me, our hands still intertwined. His throat bobs as he swallows, “But you told me he begged you to come here, that he was madly in love with you.”
“Yeah, he did. But I think he was fooling himself too. And, truthfully, he didn’t have to beg that hard.”
“Well, he sounds like an ass to me.”
“He kind of is. But this is how pathetic I was—you can tell that just from a story. I lived with the man for months and was clueless.”
“You’re not pathetic. Wanting to believe in something, in someone? That just makes you a romantic.”
“A romantic? No, Cal, I’m far from romantic. The polar opposite. Sometimes, other than Chante, I think I’m the only realist in the crowd.”
With a warm squeeze of my hand he says, “It’s your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“To ask me a question. Better make it a good one.”
“Cal,” I interrupt. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Can you tell me later? I already feel like I’ve ruined this date. And even though it’s just a friend date, it’s still your first one.”
“But, it’s important,” I tell him. “And it might change your mind about being out on this date with me at all.”
“Nothing could change my mind, Zadie. Especially since you’ve finally agreed that it is a date.”
“It’s not —” My protest is blocked by his finger across my lips.
His firm touch captures not only my attention but my breath as well.
“What do you say we just pretend like it is?” The tip of his finger drags over my lips. Down, down, down. Until it rests below my chin. Gently, ever so gently, he pushes up, tilting my face to meet his gaze. “No pressure. No expectations. Just you and me and no regrets for one night. Okay?”
I smile up at his handsome features, prominently shadowed by the dim walkway lighting. I’m transported. I’m taken to the make-believe place he’s so perfectly described. The place, where we’re just two normal people, having a respectable first date. No baggage or babies in our way.
“Okay,” I whisper. “One night.”
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? You get this tiny little crinkle in your forehead when you’re worried, and you do this thing with your mouth.”
“Cal.” I sigh.
That sigh turns to a rough gasp as he pulls me closer. His chest brushes mine. His free hand moves to the small of my back, and the hand still holding mine, squeezes gently.
“What are you doing?” I stammer.
“Kissing you.” With his face lowered to mine, his mouth barely out of reach, he whispers, “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”
A thrilling sort of panic runs through me. He’s given me an option, a way out, but I can’t make my way to the exit. My vocabulary’s lost, the only word I can utter, “Please.”
“Please, what? Please stop? Please kiss you? I need to know, Zadie.”
When his mouth hovers over mine I become very sure of one thing—I want him to kiss me. Badly. I silently wish for it.
Silently beg for it.
“Zadie?” he prompts, but I don’t know what the question was. If he needs permission, he fucking has it. For kissing and a million other things.
With all language dead to me, the only thing I can do is show him. I raise up on my toes, tilting my face to his, my free hand moving to the back of his neck, urging him closer. Closer. Until our lips meet, and I sigh in relief at the contact.
His mouth is soft, molding to mine in a kiss so simple, yet engulfing. We linger there for what feels like a sweet eternity.
But it still ends too soon.
He pulls away from me, like I’m quicksand he’s afraid of getting pulled into. His breathing, unlike mine, is slow and smooth, but his eyes stay glued to my lips.
My heart beats wild and frantic, in part from the kiss, in part from the dread crawling through me.
I want him.
Far too much.
My impossible to tame hormones aren’t helping. I’m starting to think my pregnancy grief has turned a corner—no more angry bitch. Now I’m a horny bitch, and having a hard time keeping it to myself.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask, afraid to know the answer.
Instead of replying with words, he tugs me back to him. He crushes me in an embrace so tight, so warm, I may never want to escape it.
<
br /> With his mouth at the shell of my ear, his low voice rumbles through me when he says, “Trust me, I don’t want to. But I’m trying my best to be a gentleman.”
Pulling away again, he looks around the nearly empty park.
I watch as his calm confidence gives way. Nervously, he rakes a hand through his hair. His controlled breathing is obviously a struggle. And his poor bottom lip is getting mauled as his teeth chew at it from the inside.
Pretend or not, this date is suddenly too much.
Too much angst. Too much ache. Too much hope.
It’s all too fucking much.
Taking it upon myself to declare the night over, I release his hand and start walking toward home. He can follow if he likes, or not. At this point, I’m not sure which it is that I want from him. I want him to want me—that’s for sure—but I hate myself for feeling this way. I hate myself for going along with this farce to begin with. For not just telling him the fucking truth the moment he walked through my door.
“Zadie, wait,” he calls, catching up to me quickly. “I’m sorry,” he pleads.
It’s more than I can take. Tears—big fat ones—start rolling down my cheeks in waves. My stomach revolts as well, the feeling of sickness rising quickly.
Shit. Not now.
Ignoring my queasiness, I manage to hold back the urge to vomit as I break into a run. I just need to get away from him. Need to clear my head.
Thankfully, we’re not far from home. I’m only slightly winded by the time I reach the condo lobby. I don’t bother to look behind me, as I slip through the door. Punching the elevator button repeatedly, I pray it will make the car come faster.
No luck. He’s there, beside me, staring up at the elevator display in pensive silence. When the doors open he follows me inside, standing at the back, while I wait at the door, anxious to escape. I should have just taken the stairs.
He doesn’t touch the button for Chantal’s floor. I don’t want to ask him, I don’t want to acknowledge him. I’m so afraid right now, I can’t even bring myself to look in his direction.
But I feel him.
God, how I feel him. His eyes burn holes in the back of my head, his breath fans hot down my back. He’s standing at least a foot away, but it feels like there’s no space between us at all. No space, just a giant, unspoken secret.
When I wipe the tears from my face, he reaches from behind me and hits the emergency stop button on the elevator.
The elevator crawls to a halt, and immediately a very loud, very obnoxious alarm sounds. We both react, our hands flying to our ears. The panic on his face would make me laugh if I wasn’t already crying.
“What the hell!” I yell at him.
I can’t hear what he’s saying to me, but he’s definitely speaking—I can see his lips moving. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long to fix it. Slamming his hand down over the console he somehow releases the button and stops the alarm.
“Shit. That’s not what I was expecting.” His voice echoes with the ringing in my ears.
The elevator shudders once and then slowly starts moving again. When the doors swoosh open at my floor we both hesitate, looking at each other to see who’ll take the lead.
Tentatively, Caleb peeks his head out—stealth mode activated—and I giggle at the absurdity of it. His shoulders shake, adding his silent laughter to my own as he quickly looks up and down the hallway.
“Coast is clear. Come on.” He grabs my hand and together we break into a run, both of us now giggling like idiots.
A surge of adrenaline hits me, the fear of getting caught lighting an odd kind of thrill within me. With shaking hands, I open my door and we scramble inside, both of us falling back against it as it closes.
We stand there, panting, leftover laughter catching us in spurts.
“What the hell was that about?” I ask, once I’m able to breathe again.
“I just wanted to talk to you,” he explains. “I thought it might be my last chance—figured you’d lock me out of your apartment. The elevator trick always works on television.”
“Well, now we know it doesn’t work like that in real life.”
“Oh, doesn’t it?” He laughs again, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Seems to have worked out a bit better than I expected, actually.”
Shit, he’s right. I’ve locked myself in with him—the door is closed at his back. I’m trapped. I know he’ll leave if I ask.
But I know I’m not going to.
“Why’d you run away?” His voice is low and serious, his head bowed to the floor.
“Cal —”
A loud, tortured sounding groan tears through him, halting my words—stopping my heart.
Suddenly, his arm is wrapped around my back, pulling me close to his side. With his face buried in my hair and his lips at my ear, he sighs, “Please don’t call me that and then follow it with something bad.”
“Caleb,” I try again. “I can’t date you. I can’t even pretend. This was a mistake. My mistake, and I’m sorry.”
“Was it the kiss?”
I want to tell him yes, but it would be a lie. The problem isn’t the kiss, it’s that I want so much more.
When I don’t reply, he adds, “I didn’t mean to push you. I should have waited.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, Zadie, it’s not. I’m too damn eager when I’m around you. I wanted to kiss you again—honestly, I’ve spent most of the night thinking about it—but I wanted to do it right.”
His words—so pure, so wonderfully ideal—are everything I could ever hope to hear. More than I’ve ever dared to hope for.
Hope, so stupid and useless, never wants to rest.
“I wanted it too,” I admit, a new flood of adrenaline coursing through me.
Tugging me even closer, he wraps his other arm around my back, his hand sneaking up into my hair. Effortlessly, he curls around me until our chests press together. The only thing in our way is the tangle of our legs and my lies.
Breathing deeply, he runs his nose along mine, his lips lightly brushing my cheek. His hand clenches in my hair, not pulling, just feeling, exploring.
My heart skitters as he bends further over me, his hold tightening, locking me in place. With the same tender sweetness as before, his lips skim over mine—a gentle, teasing glide. He repeats the motion, brushing his full bottom lip over the bow of my upper. It’s slow and sensual. It’s lingering and light.
It’s fucking agony.
I pray one of us has the willpower to stop.
“Zadie,” he whispers in a pained sigh.
“Cal,” I groan back.
Suddenly, his soft lips are everywhere—my neck, my ear, my face—before his mouth smooths its way back to mine. His tentative tongue finds me, ready, waiting.
My heart explodes, racing so quickly the rest of my body trembles.
His gentle hold shifts—a tender embrace turning to an evocative possession. My skin tingles as he strokes his hand through my hair and down the back of my neck, before lightly curling around my throat and framing my jaw in his splayed fingers.
“I want you,” he murmurs against my mouth.
With our bodies pressed together, I can feel the truth of his words, but I know it’s more than simple lust. He wants all of me. Even the parts I’m afraid to let go of. Even the parts I don’t have left to give.
His mouth is back on mine, enticing me to move closer, to rub my hand over his stomach. Encouraging me to press into his hand as it makes its way from my jaw to my chest. Forcing me to moan loudly as the friction of his fingers brings my nipple to a tight peak.
I want to get closer, to feel him against me, skin on skin. I want to get totally carried away.
Instead of giving into the pleasure, I find myself pushing him away. His hand falls from my chest, grasping at my waist, attempting to keep me from moving away. Breaking the kiss, I look up at him, lust still hazing my vision. He returns my stare, need reflecting back at me.
&
nbsp; Violently, I break the spell.
“Caleb, I’m pregnant.”
There’s a silent pause. It stretches long. Thick with tension and uncertainty. I wonder if time has stopped. Maybe this is my punishment for my lack of courage. Maybe I’ll be forced to spend the rest of eternity witnessing his shocked expression. I’ll be stuck here, in this moment—the repercussion of all my mistakes displayed in the ruined look of his face.
His eyes fall to my stomach, his hand sliding along my middle.
“Pregnant,” he whispers, as though in awe.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.”
His eyes snap back to mine, his hands both falling to his sides. “It’s alright, I understand why you didn’t. I can’t imagine...”
“Can we still be friends?”
“Friends?” he bites.
I don’t back down. I simply hold his stare, trying hard not to look too longingly at his mouth, or notice the ice seeping into his gaze.
“I can’t keep pretending, Zadie.” His expression is unreadable as he continues staring at me.
What does he see?
Do my broken pieces stick out in jagged edges—as unsightly as they feel? Can he tell how terrified I am? Am I a list of regrettable actions and mistakes that can never be corrected? And will this moment sit at the top of that list?
He grasps my arm lightly, backing me up a step, and bends down to place a light kiss on the corner of my mouth.
“I don’t want to be your friend.” His soft, warm breath hits my lips, instantly crystallizing from the ice of his words.
I don’t respond. I can’t.
All I can do is watch in regretful silence as he walks away, and doesn’t look back.
Caleb
ON UNSTEADY LEGS, I shoulder my way into the crowded underground nightclub. The atmosphere is exactly as I remember it. The music is the same rhythmic beat. The people all look the same; dancing, smiling, having fun. The lighting. The smell of sweat and alcohol. The strangely appealing sticky goddamn floor. It’s all the same.
Everything but me.
The excitement, the intensity, the buzz from the crowd—I don’t feel it. Instead, there’s a nervous tremor in my hands, and I’m filled with edgy anticipation. I’m not plugged into the people around me. There’s only one person I’m interested in connecting with now.
