by S. E. Hall
“You are precious.” I kiss the end of her nose. “Open your eyes, I don’t want you to fall.”
With a small pout, she opens her eyes and uses my hand and shoulder to climb out. It’s once her feet are firmly planted that I move her hair and slide the one daisy I’d kept behind her ear. It pales beside her beauty. “Shame for the flower really; never had a chance.” I wink and lead her by the hand through the dark to what I hope is a surprise of her dreams.
On the ground is a blanket surrounded by lit candles with a picnic set for two. Music plays softly from my phone hidden behind the picnic basket, and as my arms sneak around her waist from behind, I can feel her pounding heartbeat against my chest.
“Evan,” she sighs, “it’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful, Whitley Thompson, inside and out. And I need my ass kicked for taking so long to tell you.” Brushing her hair back, I touch my lips to her ear. “I’d have taken you out somewhere, but I kinda wanted you all to myself. That all right?”
“More than okay.” She turns, meeting my lips. “This is perfect,” she murmurs against them.
I scoop her up and cradle her in my arms, carrying her to the blanket where I gently set her down. “As you can see,” I attempt some sort of sexy accent, “we have champagne and cheeseburgers with,” I reach into the basket to reveal the grand finale, “chocolate mousse for dessert.”
Her beautiful giggle cuts through the night air, more brilliant than the stars above us. “May I propose a toast?” she asks, holding up her glass.
I grab my glass. “Ladies first.”
“To finding your first choice,” she delivers faintly.
“To overcats and admitting when you’re wrong.” I clink my glass to hers and wink.
We both take a sip, Whitley’s eyes serious and locked on mine. “Wrong? About what?”
“A lot of things,” I explain with a mocking laugh, “some good, some bad.” I stand, offering my hand to her, which she quickly accepts. “Mostly worrying more about what I’ve always known instead of what I’ve always wanted.”
What I’ve always wanted. Someone to meet me halfway, to be the other half of my team. A bubble of our own that no one bursts through, where we’re equally important to one another, we both know it, we both trust it, putting it before all else. When I lean in to kiss her, she’s already up on her toes to grab it and give it back to me, with passion. When I walk in a room, she smiles like her day just got better, and my eyes seek and find her first in the crowd.
Honestly, I really don’t ever compare the two, but I do realize something now. With Laney, I put her up on a pedestal, then spent all my time trying to get her to come down and see me. Whitley walked right up to me, out of anyone and everyone in the room, and asked me to sit beside her.
She’s been right beside me, literally, ever since.
I feel her next to me now; lost in my thoughts, I pulled her body flush against mine, one hand curled around her waist…and there she stays, content and silent. “Dance with me, pretty girl,” I croon, my voice low and sated in her ear.
“Mmm,” she hums, slinking her arms around my neck, her little body fitting perfectly into every bend of mine.
Every spot we meet incinerates me, teases me. Her head lays against my chest as we sway so slowly we’re almost not moving. “Kiss Me,” by Ed Sheeran plays softly, my new favorite song. Goddamn it feels good. Right. This moment, probably made for girls to swoon about, rocks my soul. The deep, carnal beat of the song matches the one in my chest and the one in her throat where my thumb rubs lazy circles.
When the song ends, her head rises and she asks, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. “Evan?”
“Huh?” I murmur into her hair, where my mouth has decided to rest.
“Just checking if you were still with me.”
“Oh, I’m with you, Whit,” I agree, now looking at her, “and you’re with me. There’s no reversing this spell.”
Gradually, it kicks in, a glow moving across her face. “So no more dating?”
“No, there’ll be lots and lots of dating.” She tenses in my arms. “Um…”
I don’t drag it out too long. I didn’t intend to tease her but know exactly what she thought I meant when she goes rigid. “Just me and you. Lots and lots of dating…each other.”
“That was just mean,” she grumbles, pulling out of my wrap on her and crossing her arms across her chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing this is so not the time to laugh. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
“Hmpff.” Her bottom lip pops out and she tries so hard to stay mad.
“Whit,” I step to her and pull her closer, “forgive me.” I nuzzle her neck, teasing her with my tongue. “Please.”
“Convince me,” she replies, then gives herself away with the moan.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She can stay mad all night.
PSYCHEDELIC
Freaking voicemail!
I haven’t heard from Dane since he dropped me off last night around 11. His phone keeps going to voicemail and all my texts to him remain unread. So I sit here, forcing myself to finish up my Psych paper, which started out as your average pain in the ass homework assignment but has turned into quite the epiphany of self-reflection.
That’s what alone time will get you.
The assignment was to write a ten page paper, double spaced, where you are both the Psychologist as well as the patient, and portray one session concerning one prime topic or “issue.” Now if that doesn’t sound like hella fun, I don’t know what does. Yet here I sit, merely the medium, as the paper writes itself. It’s suddenly one of my favorite assignments ever.
I was going to write about Evan and my feelings of guilt, heartache, some regrets, but the imaginary doctor started out asking “about me” (that seems like something the doctor would do first session, right?). After softball and Dane, I may have mentioned Disney movies, and then my family, or lack of…and voila! My paper, “Disney and Mommy Issues,” is written. I’m thinking it’s pretty brilliant.
Surely it hasn’t escaped everyone’s attention (but mine) that Disney doesn’t do moms.
Bambi—mom killed in first ten minutes of movie. Cinderella—mom dead, enter evil stepmother Snow White—again with the evil stepmom
The Little Mermaid—no mom or stepmom
Finding Nemo—mom eaten in first five minutes of movie
Beauty and the Beast—you guessed it, just a dad
Sleeping Beauty—you see the mom for five seconds, long enough for her to let three fairies disappear with her newborn for 16 years
Aladdin—he’s got no one, Jasmine’s got just a dad
Peter Pan—no parent or bad parents? Who knows, but YO— there’s a dude sneaking in your kid’s window every night and flying away with your daughter!! Red flag!
I think I’ve made my point, and I fear I may be subconsciously drawn to Disney because I connect with the recurring absence of mother theme. Too much? Overdramatic? It’s a Psych paper…I’m totally getting an A.
Am I playing it off like my mom thing doesn’t bother me?
Probably.
Am I now gonna actually mail her the letter I wrote her?
Possibly.
The edge of the folder sticks out from the pile on my desk; I can clearly pick it out of the pile of clutter from here. All the information Dane gathered on her is in it, the answer to many unanswered questions just five feet away. Where she’s been, where she’s at, probably even an address. Does she love me? Okay, that answer probably isn’t in there.
And why is it all of a sudden important to me to know?
Or has it always been important to me and I’ve just been kidding myself?
I should have never taken Psych.
If I lay across the bed and stretch this arm…a little further…got it! Page one, I already know all this; name, birthday, etc. Page two, yup, right there—address. She’s only about two hours away.
Mayb
e I should take the chance. Maybe this is an opportunity to heal, unafraid of any backfire, any more hurt. Maybe it would help, or at least get rid of this nagging burn in my gut that surfaces out of nowhere every once in a while. Maybe I should send the letter. Maybe I should take a road trip.
Can you just show up for a visit at this type of place? I could call and ask. Yeah, I’ll call and ask, and if they say I can’t come, then that’s my sign that this is in fact a terrible, Disney, Psych 101-induced bad, bad idea.
I clutch my phone, staring at it, willing Dane to call right now and talk me out of this. One more try; surely he’ll answer this time and save me from doing something rash.
Voicemail again. So done.
Snatching up the paper and slicing one very painful paper cut into my finger, I dial the number. As it rings, that juicy, extra saliva in your mouth, tingly jaw, I’m about to puke feeling kicks in, but I bite it back. I’m a big girl now and I fight my demons like a big girl. By myself.
“Rosehill, can I help you?”
“Y-yes, I was wondering if I could just come visit my, uh, someone?”
“A patient here?”
No, the janitor; I really need to see him.
“Yes, a patient there.”
“Are you a family member?”
“Um, yes, she’s my…” I clear my throat, swallowing down the pool of nervous fluid in my mouth. “She’s my mother.”
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Tricia. Trish. Tricia Walker.” She probably thinks I’m guessing since I’m stammering like a skittish schoolgirl.
“And your name?”
“Laney. Laney Walker. I’m, well, I’m her daughter.”
“I need to place you on hold for a moment, all right?”
“All right.” Oh my God, is she going to ask my mother if she wants to see me? What if she says no? I am such an idiot, just laying myself out there for more fucking rejection. I should hang up. Shit! I gave her my name! Breathe, in and out, breathe. She can’t eat you through the phone.
“Miss Walker?” the woman’s voice comes back on the line, surprisingly stalling my panic attack.
“Yes?”
“I’ve put a call in to your mother’s doctor as well as her guardian. As soon as I talk to them both, I can give you a call back. When were you wanting to visit?”
“I guess, I mean today is fine, if that’s all right.”
“I’ll ask. What number can I call you back at?”
I give her my number and hang up, nervous she’ll never call back, scared she’ll call back and say no, terrified she’ll call back and say yes.
I want to talk to Dane. Obviously I can’t be left to my own devices—look at the catastrophic mess I stirred up. For years I’ve tucked it away, but left alone for one harmless Sunday morning and I’m planning reunion road trips and digging up bones with a big ass shovel.
And where the hell is he??? Lemme guess, he lost his phone and didn’t memorize my number to call me from another one. Been there, done that; he better not even try and go there. He owns planes, he can get to a fucking phone. Or here’s a thought…your brother dates my roommate—phone a friend! Use your 50/50!
Okay, so I’m losing it. Calling my other man. “Hello?”
I feign cheerfulness. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Slugger, how are you?”
“Fine, just thought I’d call and see how you were.”
“I’m the same as when you called me yesterday,” he goads, “what’s new with you? I know your life has to be more exciting than mine.”
“Nothing’s new.” LIAR! “Just missed you.”
“Uh huh.”
I know that tone…the jig is up.
“What’s really going on, Laney? Out with it.”
Deep breath, and go, “IcalledtogovisitmymotherandnowI’mfreakingout.”
“Did you go?”
“I just called a second ago. I wrote a paper, and Dane’s busy, so I got crazy. Did you know Walt Disney’s mother died of asphyxiation in the house he bought her?”
Perhaps I should be checked for PMDD. It’s different than PMS, worse, in fact, and I’m almost positive the commercial I saw was scripted specifically to my current symptoms. Is the P before or after your time of the month? Either way, pretty sure I have it.
I take a minute and google it…that’s how sure I am. Jesus, the list of side effects from suggested medication is longer than the symptoms! I think I saw everything from blurred vision to run out of gas in your car to give off a scent attractive to werewolves to ingrown nose hairs on there. No, thank you, I’ll deal with this on my own…
“So, what’d they say?” His voice is as calm as ever, monotone and infuriating. Also, he seems to care nothing about the horrible news of Walt’s mother, which is kinda harsh.
“They’ll calling her doctor and her guardian and gonna call me back. She might not want to see me. And who is her guardian? Shouldn’t that be, like, you?”
He may seem cool and collected, but once in a great while, like now, the slightest shift in his voice betrays him. “I have no idea who it is; I quit getting information or options years ago, Laney. Can’t guard somebody who doesn’t want me to. And she’ll want to see you.”
“You don’t know that for sure, Daddy.”
“It’s the only thing I know for sure, kiddo,” his voice doesn’t exactly crack, but it’s strained, “is that she’s your mama, Laney. She loves you. Always did, always will.”
My dad is a very “B comes after A” kind of guy, so he won’t speak again until I do; it’s simply my turn now in his eyes, but damn if I know what to say to that. We may just sit here in silent standoff for hours.
Finally, I croak out a “well—”
Must have been enough, ‘cause he jumps in. “I’m proud of you, Laney. Real big thing you’re doing. Praying it works out for you the way you want it to.”
“Thanks, Daddy. Do you, uh, do you want to go with me?”
“Better not. I think this needs to be your thing. You understand?”
I nod even though he can’t see it. “Yeah, I understand. Anyway, they may not call back or even let me come, so we’ll see.”
My phone beeps then and I’m not sure if I want it to be Dane or Rosehill more. “Daddy, I have a call. I’ll let you know how it all goes.”
“Love you, Slugger. Good luck.”
I glance at the screen as I quickly flip the call over. It’s not Dane. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Laney?”
“It is.” my answer anxious and wispy.
“Laney, this is Joan, calling you back from Rosehill.”
“Yes.”
“I spoke with both parties, and everyone is in agreement it would be fine if you came for a visit. You are over 18, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right, then it is fine for you to come by yourself, which is the preferred plan as of right now. Your mother’s guardian would also like to be present, so can you tell me what time you’ll be here?”
“Um…” I look at the time on my phone; it’s almost noon and I haven’t showered. “Is around three o’clock all right?”
“Should be fine. I’ll let her know and we’ll see you then. Press the buzzer by the front doors and ask for Joan. I’ll come up and see you back.”
“All right, thank you.”
I’m going to see my mother. In mere hours. What do I wear? Do I bring anything? I can look directions up on my phone. Do I have gas in my truck? I need a shower. I need to throw up. I need to calm the hell down.
Decided for me, I run to the bathroom, emptying all I had in my stomach and then some. When the dry heaves stop, I rise, brushing my teeth immediately. I use my left hand to hold the right one for the task, since just one alone isn’t stable enough to do the job. Next I turn on the shower, going to grab my phone while the water heats up, trying Dane again. Even though I said I was going to.
All previous plans are obviously out the window; I
can’t even brush my own teeth functionally. I am officially a hot mess.
And his voicemail is now the most annoying fucking sound on the planet.
This time, I leave one in return.
“It’s me. Not sure where you are, but when you get this, call me, please, kinda a big day here. I love you, Dane, I really hope everything’s okay.”
“Where we going?”
Oh, look, I invited Sawyer to go with me…except I didn’t. “Hello to you too, Sawyer.” I laugh at the big teddy bear who just hopped in my truck out of nowhere. “I am going to see someone. Not sure where you think you’re going.”
“Someone who? Where? Where’s Dane?” His eyes squint, grumpy scowl aimed right at me.
“Someone personal, a couple hours away, and your guess is as good as mine. He hasn’t answered his phone or texts all morning. Now jump out, stowaway, I gotta go.”
“No can do, Gidge, no way you’re going on a couple hour mystery trip alone. P.S. though, I’m excellent company. You just hit the fucking travel buddy jackpot. You need to recognize.”
“You’re pumping the gas every time.”
“Done.”
“And don’t touch the music.”
“Now hold on a damn minute,” he growl-whines, “I said travel buddy as in buddy system, not dictatorship.”
My lips purse as my eyes cut to him, my fingertips drumming the steering wheel. I’m actually very happy to have this silly man’s company, he will no doubt lighten the stress of the trip, but no way am I showing my cards and listening to Metallica the whole way.
“How about every other song I get to pick?” How cute, Sawyer has a pweeeeaseeee face.
“How about you buckle your seatbelt and zip that lip right after you tuck the bottom one back in.”
“Every two songs?”
“Sawyer!”
“Fine,” he rips his seatbelt out a little too hard, “but no boy bands.”
I’m already driving at this point, my Backstreet Boy playlist starting to shake the windows because I can. Sawyer tosses his head back against the seat with a dramatic groan, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. I know his big ass is uncomfortable right now, his knees scrunched up almost touching his chin, but I also know he’s putting on a pout show that’s awful important to him.