Falling in Deep Collection Box Set

by Pauline Creeden

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve been so… so confused lately—so jumbled. It’s like I’ve got this writhing ball of everything I need to say fighting its way out of my body. That sounds so stupid.” I hang my head, a limp jellyfish on land, the strength zapped by his reaction. I can’t say how I am feeling—not if this is the outcome. I don’t want to push Connor away and harden his joyful face.

  Connor says nothing at first, but we have stopped moving at the top of the stairs. We stand in a small foyer with whitewashed walls that seem purposely damaged for effect. A single picture hangs in a worn frame—it is the sea on a stormy day; a bolt of lightning brightens the monochromatic scene. I want to be there, waiting for the lightning to strike, rather than standing here waiting for Connor to hit me with his own form of lightning: that he will not like me now—now that he realizes who I really am. A woman who has outbursts and is unsure of herself, fighting her internal feelings of loneliness and lovelessness.

  “Lena…” His voice stops and the ball of words wanting to erupt from me falls lower into my stomach. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. I didn’t mean to make you feel like what you were saying wasn’t important, like I didn’t want to hear it.” He stops again.

  And I wait. My heart is not beating; I know he wants to say more.

  “I always want to hear what you have to say. I want to hear your voice. All the time. Every moment.”

  I want him to say such things, but I also don’t want him to say them, because the more he says, the closer I get to having to make a life choice—one that will be difficult, maybe too hard for me. The woman who blurted out that she didn’t like to be interrupted rolls into a ball and I am just the orphan again, desperate for love and a family and a home. The things that I have with Truman. It is not true love, but it is a love and a family and a home.

  Part of me wants to rush down the stairs and leave him behind, but I don’t. I can’t. “I want you to hear me too, Connor.” I am facing him now and his hand rises to my face.

  His fingers play with a drying lock of hair. It is curling into the most perfect ringlet. As his lips come closer to mine, I flinch. I pull away until he is no longer touching me and my back hits the frame holding the picture of the ocean.

  Something in my face must contradict my actions, though, because he closes the new gap between us with a determined expression. His arms push behind me until I am fully in his embrace, and when his lips come closer, this time I do not flinch. This time I give into him and the feelings that are ever growing in my heart.

  My bag with dry clothes has been unceremoniously tossed onto the wood floor. I don’t care. I don’t need clothes. Connor’s deft fingers are pulling off my damp running pants. They roll down my waist, and once they are off my hips, they fall to the floor. As I stand there in pale pink panties, I realize that we are still at the top of the stairs, in full view of anyone who happens to peek around the corner of the stairs’ entrance by the restrooms. Connor seems to realize this, too, following my glance toward the downstairs.

  He takes my hand and pulls me out of the foyer and into the open concept living room. We are a jumble of hands as we stumble toward a leather sofa with bronze studs. A blanket is haphazardly tossed across the back, ready to slide off the slick leather at any moment.

  In seconds, he is beneath me; I straddle him, my bare calf and thigh wedged between his hip and the smooth leather of the couch’s back cushions. It feels strange to be on top rather than on bottom. I’m so used to being submissive. But I like this; I like the perception of power. “Is this okay?” Even with that power, I suddenly feel unsure of myself, fully exposed: every flaw in my body will be obvious as he looks at me from this angle.

  Connor sits up, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist so that his shifting doesn’t move me too far from him. In fact, in this position, I could not be closer to him. Every inch of us is touching. It could be claustrophobic, but it is not. It’s wonderful and safe. I am cheating on Truman; I am breaking his trust and I know the diamond on my finger is tarnishing with each sensual moment, but I cannot stop this—no more than a weak dam could stay the rushing waters of Niagara.

  “It’s not okay,” Connor breathes into my ear, his breath warm and smelling of espresso, “it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

  “Okay,” I breathe back at him; I sound like Marilyn, like every actress whispering in anticipation. “Can I take off my shirt? Do you want to?”

  “Lena, you don’t have to ask me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to and you don’t have to ask me.” Connor’s hands go beneath my shirt and his fingers play up my spine, dancing from each little knot. “You’re so thin, Lena.”

  I don’t think he means to say this, because his hands go still and rest frozen on my skin immediately. Instead of reassuring him with words, I put my arms around his neck and I gently pull his face toward mine. I kiss him fully on the mouth and our lips move in tandem, like they were made for one another. My kisses move down his face and to his neck. His skin is tan and warm, like the sun has darkened him and then left a few eternal rays behind. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” But I don’t stop kissing his neck.

  “Because of Truman?” His voice is raspy, full of heat.

  “Because cheating is wrong—it’s breaking his trust. I’m better than that. He’s not, but I am.” I do stop now so that I can look into Connor’s eyes and see if my words will stop what we’ve started.

  “I don’t want to stop, Lena. I don’t want to watch you get dressed and go home to someone else. It’ll break me.”

  On some level, I realize his words could be a line, the right thing to say to keep me in his arms, but in my heart—on that other level that relies on emotions rather than common sense—I believe that my leaving will truly break him. We have started this and it cannot be stopped or undone. We’ve opened the door to this passion and I realize what this means.

  That I must make that choice—the one that I’ve ignored and left dangling in the subconscious of my head without an answer: to stay with Truman and die slowly from his “love” or pack my bags and leave his family, his home, the comforts I’ve cleaved to for so long.

  “I never saw you before, Connor. Not really. Now that I’ve seen you, seen who you are, I don’t think I can unsee you. Do you understand that? Do you?”

  “Are you happy with him, Lena? Do you love him?” A question for a question. And both deserve an answer.

  “No. I don’t think I’ve been happy for a long time.” The words are sad and I feel so empty.

  “Let me make you happy. Let me see you like you’ve seen me.”

  “You’ve already seen me, Connor. You’ve seen more of me in a few hours than Truman has seen of me in years.”

  And with that, we are entangled again. My now-dry shirt leaves my body; my sports bra is unclipped by nervous, fumbling fingers; I slither out of my underwear quickly, not even the tiniest bit self-conscious about the large, bluish birthmark on my left butt cheek.

  In every sense of the word, I am naked with Connor—mind, body, soul.

  This is so different from sex with Truman. Connor is attentive and gentle and he makes my pleasure a priority. He is only the second man I’ve ever been with. And I can’t help but think, as Connor kneels in front of me, my knees on his shoulders, my calves and feet resting against his back, that I could make love forever if this is how love makes love.

  Chapter 18

  The Calm After

  He holds me so close; our legs are intertwined and our bare skin sticks to the leather, now damp with the sweat of body heat and sex.

  It is well after noon. The bustle of the café at lunch is a buzz that filters up to us from the still-open door to the apartment. We were quiet, most of the time, and my cheeks become hot thinking about Pete or anyone else hearing my moans and my soft calls of Connor’s name as we made love not once, but three times these past hours.

  Not just sex. It isn’t about sex. It’s intimacy, true and unbridled
and without conditions.

  But in my head I know that there are, indeed, conditions. There always are.

  I must make that choice. I must stay or go. I must pick Connor or Truman or… maybe neither. Perhaps I should pick myself, shutter out love and find out who Lena is. But then I’d be alone again, alone and orphaned in a world that is none too kind to those like me—a daydreamer with no real dreams. A sane person who hides the insanity.

  At one point in my life, I had them—dreams. They were bright, brilliant, shining things that drove away the shadows in my mind and future. Now they’re gone.

  There is a snake in my head reminding me that I have had an affair, that I am no better than Truman and his current mistress now.

  Why should I care that I am cheating on Truman? He has cheated on me, time and time again. I should tell him that I’ve always known, that he’s never fooled me. But I’ve ignored the string of women, like a wound that persists and will not heal. I’ve always just considered them a condition of being with Truman—that he is rich and handsome with a good family, and to be a part of those things I must accept that I am not enough and never will be.

  But that’s so wrong! I am worth it; I’m worthy of being loved unconditionally by one man who only has eyes for me.

  I deserve to be loved by someone like Connor.

  He shifts beside me; perhaps the heat between us is too much for him. It is for me, at this moment. I need to be cooled off.

  “Connor?”

  His face is buried in my hair and he murmurs intelligibly. “Hmm?”

  “I… I think I should leave now.”

  The stress that floods through his body is apparent—he is a rigid log, and we no longer feel like two people intertwined into one person; we feel like two people who are separate and must be separated. For now.

  “You don’t have to leave, Lena.”

  I sit up, and it takes some effort. His arms do not want to leave my body. “Connor, I really do.” Pulling the rough, hunter green blanket off the back of the couch, I wrap the material around me like a shield so that I have the courage to say what I need to say. It surprises me that the blanket has stayed in place. We’ve rolled around and touched and kissed like wild animals. If the world was a logical place, then that blanket would be on the floor. For my part, I am glad the world is illogical, irrational, and unpredictable. Otherwise, the blanket would be further from my reach and I would not have its comfort to cover my nakedness, literally and metaphorically.

  “It’s not because of you, Connor. It’s me.” God, how many times in the history of humanity has a lover used that excuse? “No, please, try and listen to me. Try and understand before you get hurt.” I see it in his face, the pain and torture of having tasted something that could be true love just to have it ripped away and ruined. “It is not fair to either of us—me staying here with you while I’m still attached to someone else. I’m not happy with Truman. I do want to end it. And I won’t start…” I trail off, motioning with shaking hands between Connor’s body and my own, “… whatever this is with deception and… and… immorality.”

  My last word causes the hint of a smile to tease around Connor’s mouth. Immorality. We’ve already been immoral in the eyes of most people. We’ve made love. And I’m still wearing that hateful ring on my finger.

  I watch as Connor shifts his body so that he is sitting up also. Our legs still touch, but the distance between us is made larger. I hate that distance.

  I hate it. There are so many thoughts and emotions warring inside of me.

  “I get that, Lena. I do.” His index finger, connected to his beautiful hand, reaches up and brushes softly against my cheek. “Will you be okay? Can I go with you?”

  Am I doing it right now? Am I leaving Truman?

  “No, I need to do this on my own. And I need some time, Connor. Can you give me that? Can you wait while I break my life into pieces and then put it back together again?”

  His face is jumping from expression to expression, like a slideshow that can’t quite settle on any one image. Finally, he nods. “Lena, I never expected any of this. Being with you, even once, was like a dream. You could come into the café tomorrow, pretend like none of this ever happened, and I’d let you, if that’s what you really wanted.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Not at all.”

  He raises a hand and, although I want to sputter out a million other words, I clamp my lips together. “I know that. But I need you to know also that this didn’t come with strings. I will take you forever, if you’ll let me. I’ll take you for a month or a year.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean why?”

  “You hardly know me. We only talked for a few hours before now. Otherwise, I’ve just been this stranger coming in for coffee. So… why?”

  “If I try and explain it, you’ll have me certified.”

  That makes me smile. Sure, I’ll have him certified. Me. The woman who thinks she’s turning into a mermaid. “Try me, Tru—” I clamp a hand over my mouth, mortified that I have said Truman’s nickname rather than the name of the man I now sit beside.

  Amazingly, it doesn’t faze Connor. The fingers of his right hand are playing with the freckles on my left calf. He looks up at me, his smile understanding. “How long have you been with him?”

  “Since high school.”

  “That’s a lot of history.”

  “It is.”

  “You’ve been into the shop with him several times, but I have to be honest…” He pauses, continuing to play his fingers across my leg. “…I never really noticed him. Only you.”

  A quiet builds between us, like the storm of our passion is changing. We have only been within the eye while we’ve sat in the aftermath. Soon, the second wave will come and the winds will be destructive, the drone deafening.

  “So, tell me,” I break the silence, keeping us within the eye and the current calm, “why should I have you certified?”

  “You’re not a normal person, Lena. When I see you, I don’t just see you. I see this halo of light and color. It’s like a strange rainbow, made up of only a few hues, surrounds you—iridescent… like mother-of-pearl.” Connor gets up abruptly and walks to his kitchen. When he comes back, he is holding a ring. It is unusual—a simple band of silver inlaid with a wave of opal that wraps around it entirely. “Like this. How at one moment, the stone in the ring is only white, but when it catches the light just so…” He holds the ring beneath the small lamp next to us and flips the light on. The rays find the stone quickly and the opal becomes fire, a myriad of colors parading around the endless silver.

  “It’s beautiful.” I breathe my words out slowly.

  “There are two: One was my dad’s. This one is my mom’s.”

  “Their wedding bands?”

  Connor nods.

  “When I opened that bathroom door, you weren’t on the floor, Lena. You were floating on so much water and your legs were merged and they shone like this opal under the light right now. Your hair,” His hand reaches for my claret locks and then falls away without touching them, “was like seaweed crowned with coral. And then I blinked and you were you again. You were so still on the floor. I didn’t think you were breathing. I thought…” His voice breaks and the sound of it is terrible, but he collects himself, he shifts gears, he holds the ring closer to me. “I blinked and it was gone—the opal on your legs and the ocean wave of water in that bathroom. But I know what it means, Lena. It means, like this ring, that I am right and you are not a normal person.”

  The sight of the simple, beautiful ring in his hand reminds me of the large, hateful diamond on my finger. I feel uncomfortable. I want to rip it from my finger, run to the ocean, and throw it into the water to find a home with that stupid coin with that stupid Pelican image. “It’s beautiful,” I repeat, because I do not know what to say. He has shown me a ring—one that means something, one that I cannot and will not accept until I am free and rid of the tie that already binds me
.

  But then something bigger hits me in the stomach, so hard that the wind rushes out of me in a gasp and Connor looks at me in surprise. “You saw it too…” I trail off, not able to wrap my brain around the fact that he saw what I am becoming. Because it proves that it is truly happening, that it is not an illusion. Or it proves that we are both daydreamers.

  “I saw it,” Connor says simply, as if he understands me perfectly.

  “You can’t have seen it. It’s not real,” I murmur in protest.

  “I saw it, Lena.” And his voice is firm and unyielding.

  I can only nod and change the subject. “I have to leave now, Connor.”

  It is his turn to nod now. “I’ll wait, until you tell me to stop waiting. And if you come back to me and the waiting ends, then I’ll put this on your finger. If you want that.”

  Do I want this? Do I want to get rid of one cage for another? Life with Connor wouldn’t be like that. He wouldn’t be like Truman. He wouldn’t control me. “What if I don’t want that, Connor? What if I just want to be me for a while? Me with you, I mean.” My head lolls forward and I cover my face with my hands. “That makes no sense. I’m sorry. I’m making no sense at all.”

  “Don’t ever hide your face.” He pulls my hands down and holds them, but he does not grip them firmly; he holds them loosely so that I know that leaving them there is my choice and not his. “I don’t want to own you, Lena. I want to love you.”

  “I don’t know the difference. Not really. With Truman they’re the same thing. For him to love something, he has to own it, to control it.”

  “You are a separate person, Lena. You are amazing and separate. I don’t want to own you, and I’ll say that as many times as it takes for you to believe me.”

  When Connor says the word separate, I find that it bothers me, even though I have thought the word in my head many times while we’ve sat together. It makes me wonder if love can be love when the people are truly separate.