by Jenny Wood
“I wasn’t thinking.” He says softly. He clears his throat and looks at me.
“Why not just tell me that you wanted someone else or that being with me was too much?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t want to lose you, not really. I’m selfish I guess.” He shrugs, looking like he wants to appear aloof but the look on his face says something different.
“I don’t know what to say.” I voice my earlier thought; I don’t have a clue what to say to him, right now.
“I’m sorry.” He says, sincerely; at least he looks sincere at the moment. “This is a lot, ya know? And I know it’s so much harder for you, Morgan, I can’t imagine going through what you’re going through, I’m not trying to take away from that; but on my end, it’s hard too.” He tries to explain. “Do you know how hard it is to see you so sick? To know that you’re in pain and there’s nothing I can do to help you?”
“I can imagine it was hard for you.” I say honestly, because I know it had to be hard for him. But it’s not an excuse, he was willingly giving me an alternate kind of pain when he let me walk in on him and another man.
“It was. It is.” He says adamantly. “I just, sometimes need a little time to forget, ya know?” His eyes are begging me to understand and I wish that I could, I really do. I wish I could justify why the person I’d spent the last two years with, thought an affair would be easier than just breaking it off with me or telling me that he wasn’t happy.
“Can you imagine, for just a second; what that was like for me to walk in on?” I ask softly. He flinches like he’s remembering that night like I have a hundred times, though for a different reason, I’m sure. I don’t tell him that. “Can you imagine how embarrassing it was for me, as sick as I was and hurting; to walk in on my boyfriend lying with another man on my couch?” I ask, knowing that I’m digging it in but I need him to see things from my side.
“I know.” He whispers. “I know and I’m sorry.” He says.
“I am too.” I say just as softly. “I would have liked to have ended this on better terms; I hate to think that after two years together, this is how we leave things.” I tell him. “I’m sorry that things were hard for you, I know they weren’t easy after I got sick,” I admit. “But I was trying to learn how to cope with everything too, I was trying to accept it and deal with the dramatic change in my life. I needed you to help me.” I explained, brokenly. “To be patient and supportive and just… I don’t know, not cheat on me. Not to leave me alone. Did you not think of that? How alone I’d be without you?” I ask, begging for an answer because I truly wanted to know.
“I didn’t think.” He almost sobs. I can tell he’s sorry, I can tell it. It does little to help me now though.
“No.” I whisper my agreement.
“I’m sorry.” He says again. The way things ended, I never thought he’d do this, be remorseful or tell me, even if he was. I appreciate him doing it.
“I forgive you.” I say quietly. “I’m sorry for changing the game on you. I didn’t mean to get sick.”
“Fuck, Morgan; I know you didn’t.” He lets the tears that he was holding back fall. “I’m sorry I left you, that I fucked it up.” He says. “I don’t want you to be alone.” That surprises me because for alone as I was, I didn’t feel like it. I texted with Kingsley and he came by. He brought me soup when I was sick, he texts and calls to check on me and tonight we were ordering dinner in. I had a friend now. An actual friend that wasn’t just a business contact or an acquaintance. I hadn’t felt alone since Stephen had left and that was in huge part, thanks to Kingsley. I’d have to thank him for that.
“I’m okay.” I tell him, not wanting to tell him about Kingsley. He’d probably lose his sincerity and think I was trying to get back at him. Instead, I honestly did forgive him; he wasn’t a bad person- selfish, yes, but not a terrible person.
“I guess I’ll get my things.” He says, turning to the hallway that leads to my room that I painted in. It had a small patio out the sliding door that pointed to the forest and small lake. It was a beautiful place to sit in the quiet and paint; it was half the reason I’d bought the house.
“Will you call me? If you need anything?” He asked. I hadn’t noticed he’d come back with his small box. I nodded, even though I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t. He tried to smile, but it was sad; I felt bad for that. I didn’t want to hurt him.
“Oh, Stephen?” I called out as he walked away. He turned with a hopeful look on his face. I felt like an asshole. “Can I get the key to the house back, please?” I hated to ask, it made everything feel so final. His face fell and I could tell it cost him to do it, but he shifted the box and reached into his pocket for the key. It took some maneuvering but he finally got it off and sat it on the table before walking out. Neither of us said anything else and when I’d heard the door shut behind him, I was ashamed to say that I felt a sense of relief that I’d not expected to feel. It was a confusing feeling. I wondered if I’d ever truly loved him like I wanted to or if he was just someone there to fill the time? I hated that I doubted it. I hated to feel like I may have wasted his time or maybe pushed him into doing what he ultimately done. I didn’t want to be that kind of person.
Shaking it off and getting back to my cleaning, I had almost finished tidying up the bedroom when Kingsley called.
“Hello?” I answered on the fourth ring. I’d had to halfway run to the living room where the phone was charging on the end table.
“You okay?” He asked, as I’m sure he heard my breathlessness.
“I’m fine, was in the other room when the phone rang.” I say.
“Oh, okay.” He chuckled silently through the phone. My stomach went haywire, hearing it. I needed to stop that. “Well, I’m running a little bit behind, I went to see Conner and Kayson at the hospital and I didn’t realize the time. I’ll be about 20 minutes, is that okay?” He asked.
“That’s perfect, I need to jump in the shower anyway.” I told him, thinking of how I’d dusted and scrubbed until my little heart was content today, I needed to smell clean, not like cleaning supplies.
“Great, are you sure you don’t want me to pick something up?” He asked but I declined; I wanted to be the one to pay this time. It was silly, but I liked the thought of doing something nice for him. He reluctantly, let it go and agreed to see me in a little bit. The minute we ended the call, I hurried to the shower. I wasn’t sick this time, I wasn’t tired and I was hanging out with Kingsley Kennedy.
I was freaking out.
Chapter 9: Kingsley
Stopping by the hospital to take Kayson some clean clothes and to check on Conner; it had me running a little bit behind. My brother was looking tired but he was in good spirits, I knew he was anxious for Conner to get released, he’d woken up yesterday and seemed to be doing quite well; they hadn’t been together long but I could tell Kayson was crazy about him. It made me happy that Conner was okay. I knocked on Morgan’s door about twenty-five minutes after I’d called him; he was dressed in a cute, tight pair of jeans and a navy, long sleeved t-shirt with bright, neon green socks. Yes, I checked him out from top to toe, he was adorable.
“Come in.” He smiled and held the door open for me to walk through, so I did. I waited for him to clothes the door and face me before I smiled.
“You look cute.” I laughed when he blushed. “You look like you’re feeling better than yesterday. How was your day?” I asked.
“Better now than it was.” He answered vaguely but looked like he meant it. “Come on in, I’ve got menus, galore. What do you feel like? I’m starving.” He says. I was glad to hear it, he looked like he couldn’t eat much; he was small and frail looking. Still, very attractive, but smaller than his body type.
“I’m easy, what do you feel like?” I ask, taking a seat on the couch sideways, looking back at him, in the kitchen. He was ruffling through a drawer, pulling out handfuls of menus.
“Honestly? I was thinking pizza, it’s been a while since I’ve
got to enjoy it and I feel like I could eat a whole one right about now.” He smirks, walking back into the room. He hands me the stack and I look through them all.
“I didn’t know this tiny ass place had so many places to order from.” I say, shuffling one by one, trying to find the pizza places.
“There are tons of hidden gems around here.” He says, grabbing one menu from my hand.
“This place, Jr’s, has the best pie in the entire world.” He says, holding up the old menu that looks as if it dates back to colonial times.
“Malamore,” He grabs another menu, “Best Italian in three counties.” He says, now rooting through the pile still in my hand.
“Grandy’s!” He sings in triumph, making me laugh. “BEST pizza ever!” He enunciates. I grab it back and look it over, pulling my phone from the pocket of my jeans.
“Some of these sound made up.” I glance over at his smiling face. He has good color to him today and he’s smiling. It’s a damn site better than seeing him curled in a ball and hurting. I can’t help but smile back before reading over the selection.
“Shrimp fettucine pizza, taco pizza, hot dog pizza.” I laugh, that sounds disgusting. “What the hell is spaghetti pizza?” I ask.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like.” He laughs, grabbing the menu back. “I know what I want, do you?” He asks. “How about chicken and anchovies?” He smiles mischievously.
“So the fish can watch me eating them? I’ll pass.” I say, shuddering at the thought of fish on pizza. Kayson begged our mom to order it like that once because he’d seen it on the Ninja Turtles; never again.
“Hmmm, you look like a meat lover.” He says, making me throw my head back and laugh. He looks downright embarrassed when he realizes what he said. “I mean….” He tries again. “You look like the kind of guy who likes meaty, stuff. Steaks and burgers and grilling wild boars or something. Don’t be a perv.” He laughs at himself as he tries to explain.
“You said it.” I murmur, scooting closer to him to get a look at the menu.
“Meat lovers would be fantastic though, what do you like on yours? We can half and half if you don’t like…. meat.” I snicker as he rolls his eyes at my obvious innuendo.
“I like ham and pineapple.” He says, grabbing my phone from my hand to call and order. I smile at his boldness but shrink back in disgust when I register what he’s said.
“You’re one of those?” I ask, disgust obvious in my tone. He looks confused and concerned.
“One of what?” He stops dialing and looks at me.
“I suppose you put ketchup on your mac-n-cheese and salsa on your grilled cheese too, don’t you?” I shake my head in mock disgust. “You’re one of those people! I swear, you think you know someone.” I feign my outrage and he laughs.
“People do that? Put ketchup on mac-n-cheese? Why?” He asks, horrified but laughing.
“I don’t know, I’m asking you!” I say. “What would possess you to put nasty shit on good shit?”
“Hey!” He gets loud. “Pineapple on pizza is a thing! A lot of people do it!” He defends himself. I can’t help but laugh.
“Yeah… people also collect bugs, go deep sea diving and tour old abandoned hospitals; doesn’t make them normal people, does it?” I ask, feigning affront.
“What?” He asks.
“What?” I ask, back.
“Where did you get those examples?” He wants to know. I realize I’ve given away some key facts about myself.
“I was just saying.” I try to play it off like any of those things don’t make my skin crawl with just the thought.
“You scared of bugs?” He asks.
“No.” I answer too quickly.
“You are!” His eyes get wide and he laughs. “Have you ever deep-sea dived?” He wants to know, now.
“Noooo.” I draw the word out. I haven’t because I never would. It’s dark as hell down there in the hidden depths of the ocean. Why would someone do that?
“Kingsley….” He asks too calmly.
“What?” I grumble, refusing to look at him.
“Are you scared of…. ghosts?” He whispers, amusement quite evident in his voice. Asshole. I refuse to answer his question.
“Oh, my gosh.” He whispers again. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, in my life.” He laughs now. The body shaking, stomach bellowing laugh. I want to stay affronted but I can’t. His laugh is too contagious and I love seeing him feeling so good. I grab the menu and pull my phone out of his hand, ignoring his amusement at my expense. I call up Grandy’s and order a delicious sounding meaty pizza and one disgustingly pineappley and ham pizza. Morgan is still giggling himself sick on his side of the couch and I decide that disgusting pizza or not, I could get used to hearing him laugh at me.
“You have to admit; it wasn’t that bad.” Morgan says as we both lounge on the couch with full stomachs. He’d hounded me to try a bite of his ridiculously topped pizza and I will not admit that it wasn’t that bad because, it was.
“I’m not going to say that you should talk to someone about some of your life choices… but I’ll say that should you find a professional to confide in about such things, it might not be a bad thing.” I tease him and he laughs. It’s quickly becoming one of my favorite things about him.
“You clearly have no taste.” He says, imperiously.
“I have impeccable taste, thank you.” I say on a smile. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head but he too, is smiling.
“Will you show me some of your paintings?” I ask. I’ve been dying to see more of it since I’d spied the tree painting on the wall, here in the living room. He looks surprised but recovers quickly.
“Sure, if you wanna see them.” He says, I nod that I do and he stands off the couch. “I need to take my medicine for the night, do ya mind hanging on just a second?”
“Not at all, do what you gotta do.” I say honestly. I’d seen him take some the other morning when I was here and then again last night when he couldn’t stop coughing. I wonder if they’ll make him feel bad again or make him sleepy. I don’t ask, instead, I follow him to the kitchen where I’ve noticed he keeps his weekly, scheduled medicines. He pops the top off of the nightly square, labeled “p.m.” under “Saturday”. He grabs a water out of the fridge and hands me one before tossing them back and washing them down with a small gulp. I have so many questions that I don’t feel right asking, so instead I follow him quietly, down the hall to a closed door. He opens it up and flips on the light and ushers me in.
“This is where I paint. You can’t really see it right now, but I have the most gorgeous view outside those doors.” He points to the sliders that are covered with long, white, curtains. The room is filled with canvases; some painted with dark colors, some with bright, some finished, some not. There are stacks and stacks of them in the corners, some up on tables, a couple drying on easels. There are so many and they’re all breathtaking.
“Can I look at them?” I ask. “I mean, closer?” I clarify. He nods and tells me to have at it. Every single one is a masterpiece in my eyes. I come across one of a nighttime sky; there are stars, a full moon and clouds. Typical starry night, right? Somehow he makes it seem so real and endless that once you look at it, it’s impossible to look away. I have to stare at it for 10 minutes before I remember there are literally hundreds to look at.
The next one is a wood cabin in the middle of the forest; it looks rundown and dilapidated and it’s a distance away. There’s a small creek behind it, leading around to the bottom corner of the canvas, it takes me a few moments before I see on the porch of this cabin in the distance; an older man, in overalls sitting on the porch in an old rocking chair. I can’t make out any features on his face, except for wrinkles and the gray hair but he looks happy. There are wildflowers growing all around and it looks as if the lawn hasn’t been mowed in ages, still… the man looks happy. I like this one.
The next one is a portrait of a woman and a small boy; she’s holdin
g him to her chest, his wild, blonde, curly hair is splayed across her face and they both have a smile of contentment on their faces. I wonder if this is someone he knows. It feels personal though, so I don’t ask.
“Which is your favorite? Of all of these, which could you never part with?” I ask, looking around at all of them. He walks over to an opposite wall and pulls an out another portrait. It’s an older woman with white hair, big, blue eyes and a kind face.
“This one.” He says, propping it up on a table.
“Someone special?” I ask.
“She was, yes.” He tells me, running the tips of his fingers over her face. “She was my very last foster home. Her name was Mable; doesn’t she look like a Mable?” He glances at me and smiles.
“I went to her when I was 13. I was an angry teenager, just bitter at not having anyone in the world to give a shit about me, ya know? I’d gone into foster care so young, I didn’t remember anything else. I was pissed off at the world and at myself a lot of the time, because I thought I had a character defect, or ya know, something that made me unlovable. Nobody ever had before, so I thought there had to be something wrong with me, right?” My heart breaks at the picture he’s laying out for me.
“Mable though, she was tough. She didn’t let me get away with any shit. I could be angry and I could lash out and push her until she wanted to get rid of me; save her the trouble of discovering what was in me that nobody wanted, right? She sometimes had to hold me down, literally shove me to the ground and wrap me up in her arms and just hold me still. I would scream and curse and thrash my body all over the damn place. She’d just hold me and tell me how sorry she was; sorry that people were terrible, sorry that anyone made me feel unworthy. She done that for years, even though I’d long sense stopped with the temper tantrums. She was like a grandma to me or something, she never hit me or even raised her voice. She was the first person to say “I love you,” to me and it was three days before she died when I was 17.” He looked to me, one tear staining his cheek but still, he smiled. “I don’t have any pictures of her, but that’s how I remember her.” He shrugged. I hadn’t realized I was rubbing at the pain in my chest until he asked me if I was okay.