by Portia Moore
“Have you talked to Helen about it?” she asks, and I feel the calmness between us shifting and I don’t want it to shift. I don’t know why I even said anything.
“I’ll figure it out.” I try to change the subject and add on a smile for good measure. She looks confused, but I give her a quick kiss on the lips, and it’s meant to be quick but it turns into something else. I forgot how much I miss tasting her, how when I kiss her everything seems better.
“I think I’m ready to go home,” she tells me and I can see the desire in her eyes, lust clouding her thoughts. I smirk, and we head back in the club to find Hillary and Aidan, who are at the bar and look to be on their fourth drink. They’re the typical drunk people—too touchy-feely and laughing their heads off. I manage to corral all of them out of the club and into the car without having to kick anyone’s ass.
“We’re going back to my place,” Hillary announces drunkenly in between slobbering all over Aidan. Ugh when the hell did they happen?
“Where do you live?” I ask trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Lincoln Park,” she announces and I look back at her as if she’s lost her mind.
“What?!” I don’t give a damn if they see I’m mad at this point.
“I’m not driving you guys all the way to Lincoln Park—it’s almost 30 minutes from here.”
“It is not. It’s about twenty-five minutes, but in this car, you could be there in fifteen minutes,” she argues back. “And since when did you get so familiar with the city?” she asks, and I put my eyes back on the road. I glance over at Lauren whose eyes are closed with a smile on her face.
“Fine,” I grumble.
“But I’ll need someone to drop off my car tomorrow,” she adds and I grip the steering wheel. That’ll be Chris’s issue not mine. I’m pissed to be missing any time with Lauren that I have right now even if it’s a minute.
“Can’t you just stay at our place?” I ask frustrated.
“I guess so,” she responds disappointed and somewhat irritated.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make the best of it,” Aidan tells her before bringing her attention back to him, and I change my mind.
“No, you know what I’ll take you to her house.” I don’t want to hear or see anything they’ve got going on. The highway is clear and in less than fifteen minutes after prying Hillary’s address from her drunk memory, I drop them off at her door. I watch as they both stumble in and then I peel out of the driveway. I’m finally pulling into our garage less than ten minutes later. I unlock the door and go over to Lauren’s side. I can’t help but look at her as she sleeps. She looks so peaceful and so happy—way different from the last time we were here. Then I was the broken doll she held together, and she was the only thing holding me together. She is probably the only thing holding us together now. The woman owned my thoughts, and with one look could make me make the right or wrong decision. I unbuckle her seat belt and lift her into my arms. Instinctively she wraps her arm around my neck. She’s still as light as the day I met her. I feel it all and wonder what they felt—Chris and that asshole Collin. To me Lauren isn’t just a woman who had my child, or a ticket to what some call sanity. She’s my everything. My love for her is still as raw as the day I admitted to myself that she was the one. At the time, I didn’t even know what that meant—what was the one? Then I met her and I realized the one was the person I’d fight for, the one I’d give myself up for just so she could have peace. I carry her to the elevator and each flight we go up a memory passes through my mind— of her and me—our memories, not theirs. Our first date, when we got engaged, when she said I do to me. I remember her desperate pleas for me to stay with her the day I left, when I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought the right thing was sacrifice but her pleas were torture because I couldn’t say yes. I couldn’t do the thing I wanted to do most in the world, which was to stay with her. The memories of that day still haunt me, but I’d go through it every day if it meant her being happy. Now she seems happy, at peace—but is she really happy?
I want her to be happy, but I never wanted her to be happy like this. I saw her happy with both Chris and Collin, but it wasn’t real happiness—was it? It’s complacency. I open our door and take a moment to look around my house. My home—the one I made and worked so hard for—not theirs. They’re coattail riders. I try to push my anger aside, so I look at her in my arms and that anger dissipates. We make it upstairs, and I lay her in the bed. She curls into a ball and I put a throw over her. I head down the hall and peek into the next room. My daughter’s room.
It’s pink and a night-light is on. It’s a room for a princess—my princess. I sit beside her on the bed and pick her up. She’s asleep, but it doesn’t matter. It’s been so long since I’ve held her in my arms. My blood boils at the thought that they’ve had time with her, that it’s them she knows when they had no part in creating her. She’s my spitting image, the best part of me and her mom combined. I kiss her cheek softly.
If it weren’t for her I would have made the biggest mistake of my life—I would have let Lauren go. I’ll never make that mistake again. No matter how hard I have to fight. If I have to die trying. I lay Caylen back down and put her little pink blanket over her. I grab the teddy bear that fell on the floor and put it underneath her arm, and run my hand across the bracelet I bought her for her first birthday. It seems like it was only yesterday. I head back to our bedroom and close the door behind me when I go in. I lean back against it and let out my world of troubles in a breath. She’s still asleep, but the blanket is off of her and she looks like an angel draped in sin. All I could think of earlier was getting her alone, making her remember that she might have given them a small place in her heart, but that I owned her body. But seeing her now, I don’t want to disturb her. I take off my clothes and lay beside her and pull her body against mine. I know I don’t have much longer. Keeping them both at bay at once is getting easier but still monumentally difficult. It’s worth it to have this time with just us and no them. She stirs next to me and a smile designed by God himself makes me lose my train of thought.
Her eyes are still closed but she brings her lips to mine, her fingers trail over the prickly hairs on my scalp, and she presses her body against me. I drink her in, her lips make way for my tongue, and soon her body is pressed under mine. I feel her melt into me.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers, and I pull back examining her face, her eyes only half-open and a seductive grin on her face.
“You missed who?" She doesn’t answer but pulls me into a kiss that almost makes me forget the question. I pull away from her again and pin her arms above her head, our bodies pressed against each other.
“Who do you miss,” I ask her, my voice almost desperate.
“You…” she says but her voice is wobbly and I know she’s tired and sleepy. It’s moments like these when you get the truth, the honesty without any secrets, and that’s what I need to hear from her—what she really feels, who she really wants—even if it kills me.
“Say my name,” I try to keep my voice gentle, but the urgency is there and if she was sober enough she’d hear it. Her hazel eyes flirt with mine and she leans up to kiss my lips but stops right before our lips meet.
“Cal,” and when she says that, the idea of just holding her tonight is ripped to shreds faster than I can rip off her dress. She doesn’t know the power she has over me, that I’d do anything she asks. I can’t get our clothes off fast enough. She wraps her body around me as if she’ll never let me go and I never want her to. Our kisses start manic, almost panicked before they morph into something else entirely—slow and deliberate—she’s kissing me like she misses me and my pace changes completely. I want to savor every moment—but I don’t want to be sweet and timid like Chris or clinical and strategic like Collin. I want her to know it was me she was with, and that I can give her whatever she wants. Her eyes are closed as I slide into her, but the whimper she gives me is a sound I’ll never
forget. Inch by inch her sighs get longer, and it’s hard to concentrate as I get lost in her. She’s an ocean that a man can get lost in, make him lose sight of things he thought were important, Collin showed that, she made him lose his fuckin’ mind.
“Cal,” she says again, and I lose myself in her, my hands dig into her skin, and she clenches around me. I pin her hands down, and look into her eyes—they were once so full of innocence and wonder and it’s still there, but clouded by lust and desire—I can’t help but smirk and I know I did that.
“Don’t stop,” she begs me, and I don’t. I take her in every way I can think of, and dare her to forget me. I know she won’t, and when we’re done and she’s recovering, she turns on her side towards me and I trace my name on her back marking her.
I thought it was a dream. I swore it was. Last night was hazy and confusing, yet wonderfully amazing like tasting a bite of your old favorite food and remembering how good it was. How could I have been so stupid? I knew Chris was acting strange last night, but with the alcohol and my emotions, it was hard to see clearly. Why didn’t he say anything? Cal has never pretended to be Chris, but Cal has always been a mystery—my very own enigma. Seeing the look on Chris’s face now, I feel terrible. Guilt bleeds through my soul as I look at him, his expression a mixture of anger and confusion.
“I-I’m not sure but… I think Cal was here last night…”
“What happened?” Chris asks, and I can tell he’s trying to keep his voice steady and his expression free from what he’s feeling. I save him the effort by gluing my eyes to my lap as the guilt consumes me. I sift through my thoughts of what happened last night—dancing, kissing, talking and making love. My face flushes.
“I had too much to drink. I can’t recall everything, but I remember you being different—not bad different—just different.” He lets out a frustrated breath and runs his hands over his head. I’m not making this situation any better. “He never said it was him, so I thought the whole time he was you.” He didn’t say it with his words, but as I focus on the little moments I shared with him, I believe now he was telling me in other ways.
“Well, this is just great. It seems as if both he and the other guy are parading around pretending to be me.” Frustration and anger radiate off of him.
“How could no one realize that it wasn’t me? Weren’t Aidan and Hillary there too? Have we started to all just blur together to everyone that we seem as if we’re the same person?” His voice raises, but I know it comes more from hurt than anger.
“We were all drinking, Chris. Aidan was entertaining Hillary…” I try to plead with him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.” I’m on the verge of tears spilling, my hangover colliding with shock. He tilts his head up slightly and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Why would he pretend to be me? Since when does he do that?” he mumbles, and that’s the question that makes my heart speed up. This is not normal Cal behavior— it seems beneath him—at least I thought that’s what he would think. I am surprised that I didn’t realize it and for me, it changes everything. Did I know it? That question is even scarier to answer. I was not exactly myself last night but, I should have realized something was off about him.
“I need to talk to Helen.” He mumbles and stands from the bed. The air of easiness that he had less than twenty-four hours ago is long gone, and the weight of the world back on his shoulders.
“Chris,” I call to him before he heads to the bathroom. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He asks with defiance in his tone that reminds me of Collin. I swallow hard, unsure of how to answer. “That’s what I thought,” and with that, he shuts the door and leaves me alone with my thoughts.
“I can’t believe he tricked us like that!” Hillary laughs, as if the seriousness of the situation hasn’t exactly sank in yet—as if she hasn’t been on the same roller coaster with me. I’m going over my to do list for the gallery opening which is in less than two weeks and my thoughts are cluttered. Memories are making their way to the forefront of my mind that have been dormant, or so I’ve tried to keep them that way.
“You know, I thought something was a little off. I never imagined Chris to be a dancer and the way he was all over you…” She helps me look at the wallpaper samples for an accent wall for the upstairs of the gallery.
“I should have known.” I grimace.
“I like these two the most,” she says making an x on her two choices. They’re a little bolder than I wanted to go but nothing about Hillary is subtle. “You were out of it. We went out to drink and have fun, and I mean it’s not like he morphed into a guy with a different face. You know why I think this is all ridiculous—he’s the same person! I can’t believe how guilty he makes you feel about this. It’s a load of shit,” she declares with a hand on her hip.
“They all look the same, and you can’t help it if they confuse you. Chris is more Old Navy while Cal’s more Armani and Collin has his metrosexual thing happening. But at the end of the day, they are the same person. And if anyone should be offended, shouldn’t it be Cal? He was the first.” She shrugs moving her attention over to the bio files of each artist who will be at the opening.
“Oooh, he’s so hot!” she squeals eyeing one artist that was recommended to me from one of my old classmates. He’s a photographer and has a growing Instagram following.
“Yeah, his work is hotter,” I tell her dryly and she scoffs at me.
“Please get out of this funk. You’ve got your hubby back even if it’s Fifty Shades of bat shit crazy,” she jokes giving me a nudge. “I’ve been really into blonds lately,” she says grinning at the artist like a Cheshire cat. I snatch the picture from her.
“Focus please.” I beg her pointing to the stack of bios I called her over to upload on our social media accounts.
“On what? Your domestic woes or this boring stuff?” She points to the papers. “You guys are rich. Why don’t you just hire someone to do this?” she whines.
“Because I hired you, remember?” I remind her with a grin and she pouts.
“Oh, yeah I forgot,” she says. Hillary has been temping, and working at this new club. She has a degree in marketing but seems hell-bent on not making any use of it right now. Even though she hides behind her brash mouth and childish tantrums, she’s extremely intelligent and has taught me a lot about social media, analytics, and things that I’ve obviously gotten left behind in early 2000 about.
“You need to take a picture for the website,” she reminds me. I comb my hands though my hair.
“I did that already.”
“Yeah, we need a picture where you don’t look like someone’s librarian.”
“It has to be professional,” I retort back. I don’t look like a librarian.
“Yeah, but you’re opening a gallery which you’re marketing to be hip, chic, and cool. It’s not boring, old and stuffy which your picture implies.”
I pull up the picture I sent her. I’m wearing an oversized green sweater and my hair is in curls.
“Wear a black sweater that’s showing a little cleavage, straighten your hair, and it wouldn’t hurt to throw on some mascara. Also I’m going to get you a new photographer. You look like you’re taking your high school yearbook picture in this one.”
“Fine,” I tell her and she claps her hands excitedly then walks toward me and swings her arm around my shoulder.
“You know I love you, right?” she asks, a genuine smile on her face.
“I know.”
“So I’ve been wanting to ask you something, but I was thinking it might be too sensitive right now. But you know me and since we’re on the subject…” I frown already preparing myself for the worst. “I took a peek at the picture under the big blanket.”
“I wasn’t exactly hiding it.” Not from her at least.
“I think it’s amazing.”
“You do?” I ask, surprised and she nods enthusiastically.
“Yes, when are you
going to be finished with it?”
“I don’t really have a set date. It’s been more for therapy if anything.”
“I think it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The emotion bleeds off it, and you know I’m not an emotional person.” I’m surprised because she’s not, and she’s never been that interested in art—unless it’s of a hot guy—though I guess this one has three hot guys on it.
“Wow, thanks Hillary,” I tell her unable to fight my growing smile.
“You think you could be finished before the opening?” she asks hesitantly and my smile drops.
“Oh no. I can’t show it there,” I tell her as if she’s lost her mind.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s so personal.”
“Lauren, it’s amazing and I think it could be a breakout piece for you. I know you. You love art, not just showcasing it. You have to do it.” I cross my arms, and shake my head.
“Things are different now. That piece is the first thing I’ve been able to come close to finishing completely and I can’t show it.”
“Come on! It’s too good to be kept hidden in your office, and if we’re going to buy into this whole mental illness being legit thing, wouldn’t this be a great piece to further the cause?” she argues and my heartbeat starts to accelerate. I rub my temples to ease the headache that is coming on.
“No not this one.” I say quietly.
She looks at me, and her perfectly arched blond brows furrow together. “If you don’t want to include your inspiration or what it’s about, you don’t have to.”
“People aren’t blind, Hillary. They’ll know it’s my husband.”
“But they won’t get what it means.”
I shake my head. “A lot of people from Crestfield Corp will be here. It’s not a good idea,” I tell her adamantly.
“He’s the president of the company’s son. Who cares what they think. I’m sure they’ve put the pieces together, Lauren.”
