Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  “Who cares? Do you need a written invitation?”

  His face clouds over slightly. “No. I don’t suppose I do. But if I kiss you now, it will seem like I’m merely doing it because you asked me to, not because I want to.”

  I sigh. “Just forget it. I’ve waited twenty-eight years; I guess I can wait another decade or two.”

  He laughs, then stops abruptly. “Wait a minute. You’ve never kissed a man?”

  “Or a woman, for that matter,” I clarify. Might as well get that annoying question out of the way.

  “Blimey,” he breathes. “That’s… sort of… incredible.”

  “Yeah, I’m a living relic,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.

  He looks at me long enough that it starts to make me squirm. I reach for my wineglass again. “Stop staring at me like I’m a sideshow oddity.”

  Blinking and shaking his head slightly, he says, “Sorry. I’m merely trying to sort something out in my head.”

  “Can I help?” I ask fake-solicitously. I might as well be of some use.

  “I’m sorry if this is rude or forward, but what, exactly, have you experienced and… not experienced… when it comes to, erm, romantic endeavors?” he queries. When I fidget even more, he says, “I’m not trying to make you feel self-conscious; I really want to know.”

  “This is going to require more wine,” I declare, getting up and filling my glass almost to the point of overflowing. For good measure, I take a swig straight from the bottle. His laughter at my behavior loosens me up a little. It suddenly seems silly for me to be shy talking about sexual matters with a guy I’d really like to have sex with.

  I sit down again, this time very close to him. He’s turned sideways, so his arm is resting on the back of the couch. His hand moves up, his finger wandering up to play with a strand of my hair near my ear.

  “Please don’t make me explain in detail to you how this is possible (I know you’re a smart guy and don’t need it spelled out), but I’ve never been kissed; I’ve never made out with anyone; and I’ve never had sex, in any form. However, I have experienced orgasms.”

  While he processes this information, I pause, begging him again—this time silently—not to make me explain it. I don’t look at him. When he honors my requests, I continue, “I know it’s backwards; I know what that feels like, but I don’t know what it feels like to be kissed… romantically.” I manage to utter without dying of embarrassment.

  After he’s been quiet for what feels like forever, I can’t stand it anymore. I look over at him. He’s studying me.

  I swallow loudly.

  “So,” he recaps finally, “You’ve done the things you don’t need anyone else’s assistance to do; but anything that requires more than one person will be totally new to you?”

  His use of the word “will” gives me chills and makes me break into a sweat at the same time. I gulp. “Uh… yeah.”

  “No pressure?” He tries to smile, but one side of his mouth doesn’t quite make it.

  I stop waiting. Turning quickly, I brush my lips up against his, careful not to jam my mouth into his face. His eyelids droop, but he keeps his eyes open. As do I. It seems wrong to close my eyes and rob myself of the memory of what he looked like when I took my first kiss from him. His arms go around me; my arms rest against his chest then slide over his shoulders so I can press my breasts against him. Only when he deepens the kiss and closes his eyes do I close mine. And when his tongue thrusts into my mouth, I almost melt out of the kiss, sliding down his body and off the couch. Only his tight grip on me keeps me in position.

  This is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced; at least, in real life. I seriously underestimated its magnificence. And I think he’s a good kisser, although I’m not sure how I would know for certain. It sure feels good. Not slobbery. Not too much tongue, choking me (I always kind of wondered how that worked). Maybe my future fantasies will involve a satiny-tongued Brit, just not in the way that the old Fantasy Jude was. No talking necessary, please. Did that moaning noise just come from me?

  I pull away and wipe my mouth. My eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each, but I manage to open them. After just a few seconds of heavy breathing, staring at that mouth and remembering what it was doing to me, I throw myself at him again, this time not worrying so much about mashing my face into his. That’s kind of the idea, actually.

  I think a lot less during the second kiss. My lizard brain kicks in, I guess. And all it keeps saying is, “More, more, more.”

  Then my hands receive some signals that tell them to unbutton Jude’s shirt. They do so, remarkably dexterously. I slide my hands against his surprisingly furry chest, which is very warm to the touch.

  When my palms brush against his nipples, he makes an “Mmmphh” sound and wrenches his lips from mine with a wet sucking noise.

  Smiling, I open my eyes. And freeze at the horrified look on his face. “What? What did I do wrong?” I ask, retreating to my corner of the couch and instinctively folding my arms across my chest.

  Words don’t seem to be forming well in his brain. He shakes his head. “Uh… no. Nothing wrong. On the contrary,” he finally manages.

  “Then why’d you stop?” I question him disbelievingly.

  As he buttons his shirt, he replies, “Because I’m afraid that’s as far as I can go before I can’t stop.”

  “So?” Relieved, I crawl across the cushions and rub against him. “Who asked you to stop?”

  He lets me kiss the corner of his mouth but says, “Right. Well. I don’t think you should have your first kiss and your first… time… at the same… time.”

  “I’m okay with it,” I assure him, trying to unbutton his shirt again.

  Gently, he pushes my hand away, then the rest of me. “I’m not,” he insists, standing up. He shakes one of his legs and straightens the front of his shorts, showing me his back. Well, at least I know his lizard brain is on my side.

  “You’re overthinking this,” I try persuading him. “Really. Lots of girls lose their virginity the same day they have their first kiss. They just happen to be a dozen years younger than me. Which is so much worse, when you think about it. I’m a grown woman; I know what I want. I know what I’m getting into.”

  Apparently composed enough to face me again, he turns around. “What if I told you I wasn’t ready? That it has nothing to do with your being a virgin?”

  I find that hard to believe, I think but don’t say. Instead, I tilt my head and wait for him to elaborate.

  He runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know… I feel like I don’t really know you, as odd as that sounds.”

  I scoff. “You know me better than any other person on this planet!” I’m not including Dr. Marsh in this statement, but he doesn’t need to know anything about Dr. Marsh, period.

  “I seriously doubt that.” Then he rushes to add when I start to assert the veracity of my claim, “Anyway, even if that’s true, it’s still not much. We seem to talk about me all the time, but when it comes time for you to reciprocate, you clam up.” He rubs his chin. “And I’m not really comfortable using a conversation with you about your sexual inexperience as foreplay.”

  “So it is about my virginity!” I accuse.

  “Partly,” he admits. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. I’ve never consciously been someone’s first. It’s a bit daunting.”

  Tears of frustration are building in my head. “Someone has to be the first,” I mumble, knowing it’s one of the lamest arguments in the world and that I’ve lost.

  He sits on the arm of the couch, facing me. “Libby, I don’t want to be merely ‘someone.’ We’ve established that you don’t even need me in order to, well, get the job done, for lack of a better way of saying it.” When I avert my eyes, he says, “So what I’m trying to get at is that I think we need to be intimate in other ways before… that way.”

  “You’re not normal,” I state, defeated. “What kind of guy pass
es up such an easy opportunity?”

  “One who wants to sleep at night? With sore tackle, granted…”

  When I figure out what that means, I burst into involuntary laughter.

  He smiles, relieved. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Trust me. I want to.”

  “Stop mollycoddling me,” I demand lightly.

  “Stop pressuring me,” he jokes in return. “No means no.”

  “Who hurt you?” I mean it in jest, but his expression turns serious. “I was just kidding,” I hurriedly say. “You know, because you asked me that once.”

  He nods. “Of course. Right. Sorry. Only… I wasn’t kidding when I asked you.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it funny. Or not. Just forget it.”

  He seems to do so fairly easily. “So.” He stands up and stretches. “I should probably get going.”

  My disappointment is complete. True, I started out the night with my only goal being to kiss him, but I got greedy in a hurry. Now I’m dissatisfied to the nth degree. But I can hardly argue one minute that I’m an adult, then pout like a child when I don’t get my way. So I rise and say, “Okay,” brightly, as if I really am okay with it.

  He grasps my upper arms and bends his knees a little so he can look me in the eyes. “Do you want to brave the predicted thunderstorms tomorrow?”

  The thought of not seeing him the next day fills me with melodramatic despair. “Yes! If it rains, we’ll figure out something else.”

  Fortunately, he agrees. Then he catches my mouth with his. It’s a lot less frantic than the last kiss, but it has the same effect on my insides. I’m not sure if I’m glad or disappointed that it’s short.

  “Go away,” I tease.

  “Absolutely.” He walks to the door, which is about three steps away. “I’ll, uh, see myself out.”

  After he leaves, I catch Sandberg staring at me from the foot of the bed, where he’s waiting fetchingly for me. If a cat could roll his eyes, he would.

  15

  I cancel my next two appointments with Dr. Marsh and screen his calls to check up on me. I’m not ready to talk to him about Jude, now that he’s really my boyfriend (I’m confident about that fact now—we definitely do things that people don’t do with their friends). I don’t want him to say anything or ask any questions that would put a damper on what I’m feeling, which is near-constant euphoria mixed with a little bit (okay, a lot) of sexual frustration. And Dr. Marsh has a real knack for putting a damper on things. I think it’s one of the first skills he lists proudly on his resume.

  About the only thing that could make my life more perfect right now would be if the Cubs had a chance of making it to the post season. But not so. Fall is almost here, and my team is well out of it, as usual. The boys’ll be hanging up their pinstripes for a few months with the usual promise of “Wait till next year.” But for some reason, it’s not as disappointing as it usually is.

  I’m more interested in rounding some bases of my own.

  Unfortunately, I’m not a sprinter. By any stretch of the imagination. I’m more like the veteran catcher trying to run on two bum knees. And Jude’s the pitcher who has a mean throw to second and is keeping me close to the bag.

  He’s also a crafty guy when it comes to not giving me many chances to tempt him. At least that’s the construction I’m putting on it so that I don’t take offense and assume he just doesn’t want to sleep with me at all. I’m choosing to trust his original statement that he wants to get to know me better before taking that step. And I’m trying not to think of the possibility that he won’t want to take that step after he gets to know me better.

  Fortunately, he’s keeping me too busy to sit around obsessing, like I normally would. We’ve been to more Chicago venues in the past few weeks than I’ve been to in my entire life. There are plenty of places that I’ve never visited because it’s no fun to go there alone. It’s a blast experiencing these things for the first time together. It’s especially funny when Jude assumes I’m the all-knowing local and I end up being just as clueless as he is.

  And I hope I’m giving him what he wants: insight into my personality. I think I am, anyway. The other day, as a matter of fact, he got out of the car after I drove us home from the Medieval Times Dinner and Show (which was non-stop hilarity, by the way, even though I don’t think it’s intended to be as funny as we found it) and said proudly, “My testicles didn’t try to re-ascend once during that drive.”

  “You’re getting to know me and trust me,” I replied pointedly, putting plenty of emphasis on the word “know.”

  “I think it’s because you’re actually driving more safely. But you may be right about the other,” he admitted, smiling at me over the roof of the car.

  “I know I’m right,” I boasted.

  He grinned even more broadly and fingered the radio antenna. “Don’t get too confident yet, though.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I won’t. I know you’re right there to knock me a down a few pegs and dash my hopes.”

  But I really thought he was getting to know me better, on my terms, and I couldn’t help but get my hopes up.

  That’s why it’s so disheartening when he turns to me tonight after we’ve finished watching a movie at my place (on my bed!) and says, “So, when do I get to meet your parents?”

  My heart races, but I manage to calmly toss out this rejoinder: “When do I get to meet yours?”

  He acts like he’s jumping from the bed. “Let’s go. I’ll meet you at O’Hare in one hour. Maybe they can get more information from you than I’ve been able to get.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask incredulously, pulling him back down next to me. “I tell you everything!”

  “Liar.” His tone is light, but I can tell he’s serious. “I know all sorts of things that anyone who sends out those ridiculous ‘get-to-know-me’ email forwards can find out: your favorite color, athlete, song, wintertime activity, the name of your first pet, who you think is most likely to keep the forward going, etcetera, but do I really know anything deeper than that?”

  “You know one thing deeper than that, that’s for sure,” I point out and add under my breath, “not that it matters or that you care.”

  “Not fair!” He props himself on his elbow, trapping Sandberg’s tail under his arm in the process. The cat yowls at him and jumps down with an indignant hiss. “Sorry, mate!” he says, leaning over the edge of the bed to try to make amends. “Your mum made me do it.” When he sees the cat’s forgiveness is a hopeless cause, he returns his attention to me. “Anyway, you know I care, so don’t play that tired card.”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you’re so damn virtuous?” I turn it around on him, expecting him to dodge the question and give me a bunch of crap about not wanting to cheapen the experience for me.

  He sighs. “We’ve already been through this.”

  “Lie to me again, then. Or tell me half-truths. Same thing.”

  The irony of my statement isn’t lost on either of us, but he’s gracious enough not to call me on it. Instead, he sighs and says, “Fine. I’ll give you the whole reason. Because I think you deserve that after all this time. And then I don’t want you to accuse me of holding back anything ever again.”

  I give him a look that lets him know I’m not impressed with his big talk.

  He chuckles at himself but makes good on his offer. “I really don’t like talking about this, because I hate even thinking about her, but my first wife, Kiersten, was a very secretive person. About big things, little things, every thing. It didn’t matter if she had nothing to gain by keeping something from me; she did it for the sake of having secrets. And it drove me bonkers.” He frowns and picks at the bedspread.

  “Give me an example,” I urge, wanting to compare myself to her and come out looking better.

  He thinks about it for a second. “Okay, here’s a good one: when we were first married, she had her post sent to her parents’ house so I couldn’t look through it.”
>
  I wrinkle my nose. “What did she have to hide? Credit card bills? Porn?”

  He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing. She just wanted me to wonder.”

  “How do you know? Did you ever see her mail for yourself?”

  “Loads of times,” he affirms. “Her parents didn’t know it was a big secret, so if ever I was at their house without her, they’d give it to me to take to her, moaning about not understanding why she didn’t have it forwarded to our address. I’d go through weeks’ worth of post, searching for whatever she could possibly be hiding. Nothing. A bunch of junky catalogues and maybe the occasional postcard from a friend on holiday.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say, shaking my head at her and getting annoyed on his behalf.

  He raises an index finger. “But it never failed to wind me up. And that was the whole idea.”

  Sandberg jumps suddenly onto my stomach from the floor, startling me. I think he’s trying to tattle on Jude for hurting his tail. I pet his head distractedly. “Did she ever have any big secrets? Secrets worth hiding?”

  “That bloke she kept on the side was probably the biggest secret,” he reveals nonchalantly, scratching an itch on his knee. “At least, that was the final straw.”

  “What a slag!” I cry, outraged for him, using my favorite English insult he’s taught me to date.

  He laughs. “Right. Well, I was the one who acted the fool, marrying someone I barely knew. Because I confused being on the pull with choosing a life partner, and it all went tits up.”

  I only understand half (maybe) of what he’s said, but I get the gist.

  “Which one are you doing now?”

  Tilting his head, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and shakes his head in a gesture of confusion.

  “Are you ‘on the pull,’ or looking for a life partner?” I ask, my heart pounding.

  He narrows his eyes and answers casually, “I dunno. Who wants to know? I only share that kind of information with someone who’s willing to share alike.”

  “Well, I’m not hiding anything major from you,” I promise. “I’d never torture you that way.”