by Dylan Allen
I feel so many things at once; Disappointment – because it’s another reminder of how discordant our pairing is. Admiration – that he not only survived an absent mother, but made sure his brothers did, too. But most strongly, I feel a sense of nostalgia.
“I used to not want kids,” I admit.
“I guess you got over that?” Stone says and I don’t begrudge him the teasing quirk of his lips. I often laugh at the irony of it myself.
“Getting pregnant kind of forced me too.” wince at how that sounds. “I love my children, desperately. Having them is without any doubt the most selfish thing I’ve done.”
He narrows one eye and frowns. “Selfish?”
“Yes. It’s selfish. They don’t ask to be born. It was purely for me. But I’ll admit, when I found out I was pregnant, I thought my life was over.”
“Why?”
“My mother is brilliant. From what I heard; she could run circles around my father in intellect. When they met, she was working the concession at the basketball stand, waiting for her moment. She found it when my grandfather offered her a job. Then she fell in love with my father. She forgot her goals, forgot her ambition and got pregnant.”
“With you and Remi,” he reminds me.
I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m just saying. I love my mother, but I spent most of my childhood thinking she didn’t love me. And, from my great grandmother on down, they’ve all fallen in love with a man who left them - whether by death, divorce, or prison – they spent their whole lives alone and brokenhearted. And even when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life professionally. I knew that I didn’t want to repeat that cycle.”
“So, you were going to outrun your legacy by making different choices,” he says knowingly.
I slant my eyes his way. “I see you’re familiar with this particular type of self-medication?”
He smiles. “Oh yeah. I think most people who don’t have rosy happy childhoods grow up trying to avoid reliving their nightmare.”
“My life isn’t a nightmare, just very different from what I used to hope for. But I chose it all.” I say.
“Because Marcel swept you off your feet?”
I laugh dryly. “Hardly.”
“So why did you marry him?”
It’s a Pandora’s box of a question. I can’t tell him the sequence of events that flowed from the night in the bakery and how it set the wheels in motion that led me to the altar. So, I settle for the bare bones, but still awful truth.
“To make my grandfather happy.”
“That’s a big decision to make just to please someone else.”
There’s no judgement in his eyes or his voice. But I know what I sound like and no one can hear that without thinking it’s stupid or reckless or pathetic, or all three.
“He raised us after my father died. Well, with my mom, but he was more maternal than she is. And he was such a dynamo.” I smile at the memory of him bounding off to work like he was twenty-five instead of seventy. Every day until his stroke stopped him.
“Old Man Wilde was a legend, man.” His voice is heavy with admiration.
“Really? Even in the Rivers household?” I eye him skeptically.
“I don’t know about that. But I know he toppled the powers that be and upset the social order. That’s why the Rivers hate him.” I remember as a boy he made the distinction between the Rivers and the brothers he considered family. I wonder if that will change now that Hayes is back and in charge.
“Yes, he was totally unpolished but rich enough to pay the cost of entry to their country clubs. He used to go to parties in off the rack clothes. And the old money set he was so desperate to be a part of would laugh behind his back,” I remember with a fond little laugh.
My grandfather said he didn’t mind that they’d laughed at him. Now that he was too rich to ignore, it delighted him to see the same people who snickered knocking on his door to borrow money. He never said no. In fact, he was generous with his new friends - he shared everything, his cars, and boat and properties.
And once, me.
I’m so startled by the intruding thought that I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood.
In the ensuing pain, the thought disappears as if it had never been there. And I’m glad because it’s not true. He didn’t share me - yes, he encouraged Marcel, but in the end, I married him because I wanted to.
“So, what happened with you and Marcel?” Stone nudges my shoulder.
I peer at him, doubtfully. “You really want to talk about this?”
He nods, his expression earnest. “Unless you’d rather not. But I want to know everything about you.”
We share a smile that makes my heart do something strange and my pulse race.
“So, it’s over?” he prompts.
I realize I’m just staring at him. I touch my flaming cheeks and blink to refocus my mind on the conversation.
But I can’t remember what we were talking about.
“Is what over?” I ask and slap his arm when he bursts out laughing.
“That’s flattering as hell, Regan…and makes me wish we weren’t talking about your marriage.”
That sobers me up and I sigh. “Oh yes, it’s over. In every way, but on paper.”
“You guys don’t have …” His inability to say sex after all the dirty things he’s said to me in the last few days is endearing. Just like everything else about him is.
“No, we don’t have sex. And haven’t since before I had the twins.” I finish his sentence for him.
“He’s crazy.” Stone’s voice is full of bewilderment
“Not really. Marriage, family -- it’s not for everyone, as you know.” My laugh is hollow, and I don’t want to give him the chance to agree or ask me anything else about it. So, I change the subject.
“So, you went to Colombia to find yourself?”
“Yes and no. I used to think I could save the world,”
“And now?”
“Turns out the world is saving me. Traveling has taught me more than any classroom I’ve ever been in. And I’m having the time of my life in Colombia.” The smile that lights his face makes me a bit envious. There’s so much I haven’t seen.
‘What’s it like?” I ask, hungry for details that I can use to paint a picture of it for myself.
“It’s like everywhere else on earth - families, single people, old people, public parks and traffic. But it’s got this… tenacious spirit.” His hand clenches into a fist. “There is so much misery everywhere and yet, they hold on to every scrap of joy, make use of every resource and take such pride in their town’s history. It’s turned me into an optimist.”
I huff an amazed laugh. “I’m so used to hedging my bets, so stuck on cynical, I can’t imagine that.”
He nods, a pensive light in his eyes as he gazes out at the river. “I get that. It’s safer to not expect anything. But then I see the hope on the faces of the women who come through our clinic. Their lives are incredibly hard. Poverty, political unrest, lack of food security, disease, you name it. And yet their aspirations for their children are unmitigated. It’s hard to look at them and not feel like anything is possible.” His eyes blaze with passion and fondness.
My heart blazes with affection and respect. His empathy and his conviction inspire me.
“Will you be sad to leave?”
“Yeah, especially for the flat, endless sea of suburbia also known as Houston, TX.”
“What?” I sputter, incredulous that anyone could feel that way. “The only true thing in that sentence is flat. Are you kidding? Houston is America’s melting pot.”
His shrug is noncommittal. “It’s fine, but I haven’t lived there in a long time and when I did, I didn’t exactly get to enjoy it.”
“Maybe it’s because I call it home. Besides my time at SMU and the five years we lived in Paris, it’s the only place I’ve spent any decent amount of time. But I think it’s an amazing place to live. When you’re back, I’ll show you
all the things you missed on your first stint.”
His smile dims a little and I could smack myself.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten what we agreed, I just…” I trail off not sure how to explain myself.
His expression loses all its levity and he takes my left hand in his. He strokes my bare ring finger. “I know you haven’t, but this is…nice. We could be… friends, right?” his eyes bore into mine. I don’t know what to say, and I can’t hold his gaze.
How could I pretend that he’s as much of a stranger as his brothers are? But how could I do anything else?
He lets go of my hand and the first uncomfortable silence I can recall us ever sharing, descends.
“Okay, it’s time to paddle back to the beach,” our guide calls. It’s a welcome interruption and neither one of us tries to prolong the moment. We clean up and get ready without any of our normal banter.
When we’re back on the paddle boards, we wade out, side by side.
“You’re a natural at this,” he says, his tone free of the tension that seemed to rattle us both a few minutes ago.
I’m relieved and flash him a grin. “I can’t believe it. I was so sure I’d fall off. But I’m afraid to look away,” I admit completely amazed at how easy it’s been to stay upright.
“Say cheese,” he calls.
“What?” I turn to face him again. He’s got his paddle tucked under one of his arms and his phone aimed at me.
“Trust me, you’ll want to see yourself like this,” he says
“Okay, let me pose,” I lift my arms into the air, my paddle gripped in one hand and bare my teeth like I’ve just vanquished a foe.
“Perfect,” he declares with a smile. But then, he drops his paddle into the water and pushes himself ahead of me. I’m sorry for the strain between us, but grateful for the distance, too. I need to make sense of what I’m feeling.
“To your left you’ll see a flock of Black-necked Stilts,” our guide calls.
The mangroves are fascinating – a wetland in the middle of this otherwise arid region and the tangle of trees is a lush ecosystem bursting with a wide variety of fish and birds. But my eyes are fixed on the back of the man who reminded me of all the things I’ve missed.
I always heard mid-30s were peak time for a woman’s sexual drive, but I didn’t believe it. I thought my plug-in vibrator and I had already reached it ten years ago.
But it’s not just the mind-blowing sex that’s gotten under my skin over the course of the last few days. It’s his wonder, his compassion, his conviction, his tenderness. It’s the way he wears his heart on his sleeve and the way he listens. He brought me here so I could go home with happy memories. I can’t remember the last time anyone did something just to make me happy.
This was supposed to be fun, and sex.
But it’s gone far beyond that. I’ve attributed all of my flutters and skipped heartbeats to adrenaline. But after a lazy day of swimming in the crystal-clear water with sea lions and sunbathing on sparkling white-sand beaches, those flutters and skipped heartbeats are more intense than ever. And, there’s no doubt as to why.
Which is too bad for me.
Even if I wasn’t still tangled up with Marcel, he’s just told me he wants to live footloose and fancy free. Which is nothing like my life is now.
I don’t doubt that one day, he’ll change his mind. Then he’ll find someone who can be more than just a holiday fling. The knowledge that my dream man will one day give all of this to someone else, turns the sweet aftertaste of our kisses, bitter.
I banish the encroaching self-pity.
This was never meant to last. Which is fine, because I don’t need it to. I just need it for now. But as I follow him down the river, I know I’m in for a world of hurt when we say goodbye.
I may be keeping myself upright on this board, but Stone has brought my heart to its knees.
Everything
Stone
It’s our final night together. We got lucky and the hotel we picked has a hot tub on the deck. I climbed in while Regan called her kids and changed. I gaze up at the star-spangled cosmos. Every star, every planet, every speck of dust has a role to play. The universe looks like beautiful chaos, but it is in fact, perfectly precise and predictable.
“Is the water nice?” Regan appears in the doorway, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel.
“Yeah, come join me,” I hold up the two bottles of beer resting in the cup holders.
She wrinkles her nose. “I just showered…”
“Thank goodness there’s more water so you can do it again. Come on. It’s our last night.”
She sighs, but nods. “Okay, let me put on a suit, I’ll be right out,” she smiles, slides the door close, and disappears back into the suite.
The tension from our conversation on the banks of the mangroves is gone, but the question that sparked it, is still unanswered.
And for now, it’ll stay that way. We’ve got this one night left in this perfect dimension we’ve carved out of nostalgia and attraction and I want to spend it happy. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to the real world. And no matter how much I wish it, no matter how bright and shimmering this thing between us, we’ll go our separate ways.
But there’s no way I can go back to a life that she's not part of.
Cosmos taught me that the universe is an impeccable timekeeper, every single thing happens as it should. Us meeting here like this wasn’t an accident.
In my line of work, brilliant women aren’t rare. And almost all of them can claim something that makes them physically attractive. But, as cerebral as I am, I’m even more adventurous and thrill seeking. I know it’s a rare combination, and I’ve yet to meet a woman who can hang with me on a hike and then talk to me about all of the things that interest me - movies, books, food, travel, family, politics.
Until I met Regan Wilde. She’s adventurous, beautiful, bright, and kind. But she’s not the kind of woman you win with a few nights of sex and flattery. Nah, if I want it all, I’ve got to earn it all.
I need to be in the same city, and I need a plan. But until she wants me more than whatever she’s getting out of staying married to a man she doesn’t like or live with.
I might fail. She might trample my heart again, but to be able to finally claim her as mine, is a hell of an upside.
The door slides open, Regan steps out onto the balcony, and my eyes nearly fall out of my head.
I’ve seen her naked and it shouldn’t make me nearly swallow my tongue. But as she walks toward the hot tub, bathed in silver moonlight, I see Venus, - my ultimate woman – come to life.
She’s got on this tiny silver bikini. Her dark hair is swept back and off her face and sits piled on top of her head. It gives me an unobstructed view of her exquisitely symmetrical face, and her long, graceful neck. Her wide, thickly lashed eyes look bigger. Her kiss swollen lips are slick with the coconut lip balm she bought from the small gift store in our hotel lobby.
“Where’d you go?” she asks as she climbs in and sits next to me.
I reach over the side and lift up the tightly rolled joint. “To get this, our tour guide told me where I could.”
“I didn’t know doctor’s smoked weed,” she looks scandalized when I lift it to my lips.
“And, now you do. And it’s not something I’d do if I had to work in the morning,” I say, light it again, and hand it to her.
She gives the joint a dubious side eye, her pert, sunburned nose wrinkling. “I’ve never tried it. I don’t want to be hungover.”
“You won’t be hungover. But, no pressure.” I pull it back to my lips.
“Wait.” She lays one of her small, neatly manicured hands on my forearm.
“Change your mind?” I ask with a knowing smile.
She nods, but instead of taking it from me, she leans forward. “Show me how?”
There’s meaning layered in those three words that gives them a gravity that I’m helpless to resist. It pulls me to her the wa
y the moon and the sun pull the tide.
She puckers her lips to make a tiny ‘O” for the joint, I put it to her lips, my heart hammering wildly when her lips touch the backs of my fingers as she draws in the heady smoke. I slip my other hand behind her neck and pull her forward, so that our lips are almost touching. When she exhales, I pull the curling white smoke into my mouth.
Her eyes dart to my lips. I trace small circles on the soft, damp nape of her neck. She sighs and a wide smile spreads on her face, her eyelids droop as the joint starts to take effect.
I take her hands in mine and lift them to press a kiss to each of her palms.
What started as a casual caress turns into a genuinely interested inspection. Her nails are short and painted in a glossy color that reminds me of Marble Slab’s sweet cream ice cream. They’re elegant and with not a single chip in sight. But her fingers and the back of her hands have faint scars that are completely at odds with the rest of her.
“Don’t look at my hands,” she says and pulls them out my grasp and tries to tuck them under the sheets. I grab her wrists and pull them back up and after a few seconds she stops resisting and lets me look at them.
“Why not?” I ask.
“They’re terrible. My kids are picky eaters, and most nights I make three different meals, and my hands take a beating, nicks and cuts, oil splatters, whatever. I draw as little attention to them as possible. Nude nails, no extravagant rings.”
She curls her fingers inward and I lower my head to press kisses to her knuckles as I uncurl them one at a time so that I can press our palms together. My hands dwarf hers.
“They’re beautiful. And your kids are lucky. Even before I went to Blackwell, I don’t remember my mother cooking a single meal.”
She turns our joined hands over and examines mine. “Tell me about her. Where is she?”