by Lisa Acerbo
“You liked it?” The disbelief in Kyle’s face makes me laugh.
“Yes, it made me feel something different than when listening to, say, The Chain Smokers. And I like him. He’s nice. He held my hand.” I decide not to tell Kyle that after the concert, he wasn’t so nice and held more than my hand.
“He’s nice,” Kyle repeats. “I’m nice.”
“You are, but in a different way. You keep me honest.”
“What is it you like about Mr. I’ll take you to a crappy classical music concert?”
I do a double-take on Kyle, not sure why he’s so hostile. “He’s mature and sweet and easy on the eyes.”
“That’s a good list you have started.” Kyle sounds angry.
“Are you jealous?”
“No. I just don’t get what is so infatuating about an old guy who likes classical music.”
“He’s not that old. He’s only thirty-three, and, believe me, he knows how to use his instrument.” It slips out, it really does. The blush expands from my cheeks to my neck. I got close to his instrument, but we haven’t completed the deed. After the concert, in the car, we did everything but. The car stopped me from getting more. Not the way I wanted my first time with Brice to happen.
Luckily, the pizza arrives, saving us both from further conversation. After a few bites in silence, I attempt to make amends.
“And how’s your last round of engineering classes?” I ask, ready to change the subject.
Kyle smiles. “It’s finally getting good. I’m actually using my brain to make stuff.
“Anyone new?” It’s hard to keep up with his revolving fan base.
“There’s this girl from rec. basketball. She’s our manager, but she’s so sweet and cute. We’ve only had a few dates, but this might be heading somewhere.”
“That’s good news.”
I’m happy for him, and it is normal between us again. I stare at him for a minute as he folds his pizza slice in half, taking a big bite and letting the grease drip to the paper plate. I’m not sure what my years of college would have been like without him as a part of it. I’m thankful for that party where Kyle and I ended up sitting under a tree behind the dorm, drinking a beer and talking late into the night.
Chapter 7
February 8
Growing up, you don’t understand that sex can be a powerful drug, and once addicted, it hard to quit. Didn’t Blanche Dubois say, “Death is the opposite of desire,” in A Streetcar Named Desire? If so, I want to live.
* * * *
Brice is the third person I have had sex with, the first being in my nine-month relationship with Bogden, and then my rather intense junior year relationship with Jace. Sex with Brice is not like college sex. I never want it to end. It doesn’t help that, between my classes, his schedule at work, and a lot of broken dates, we don’t get time alone often enough. I have never even been to his apartment, but he’s made it to mine. Otherwise, we’ve had to be creative and a little daring. I’m a fan of the office after people leave. I’ve even succumbed to his SUV, but it’s a tight squeeze.
This weekend is different. Brice and I head to Middletown, Vermont, for a weekend getaway, and part of me can’t believe it’s real. The hotel is small and posh, the rooms full of luxuries like chocolates, wine, and heated towel racks. Brice ignores all the perks. He’s focused on me and the bed.
The first hour of our vacation is spent in a less than relaxing, but thoroughly enjoyable way. Afterward, I lie in the hotel bed, drenched with sweat. Warmth surges through my tired limbs. He’s an energetic lover.
“You sure you want to go horseback riding? We could stay in bed all day instead,” he says.
I consider this. It sounds like a good option, but I want the weekend to be about more than sex. “We can come right back here after.” I offer in the way of a compromise.
“It’s cold out, too.” His hand, on the inside of my thigh, tempts me to stay under the covers with him.
“Not bad for February. Close to forty degrees and sunny. I checked the weather channel this morning. Plus, I brought hand and feet warmers with me.”
He laughs but doesn’t argue. “You want to shower first?”
I nod and get out of bed. I’m naked, feeling both self-conscious and empowered.
Brice stares at my nakedness. “Can I join you?”
I nod again and grab his hand to drag him with me into the bathroom.
When I step out of the shower, towel off, I watch Brice dress. I find my jeans and pull them up. I’m usually so self-conscious. I second-guess every decision, spending hours wondering if I did something stupid that a random person will remember for years, but for today, I’m fine. I am comfortable with Brice, the same way I am comfortable with Kyle. I hope the emotional high never ends.
J&J Ranch is at the top of a hill that opens up to fields full of horses grazing on grass. The large lodge is weathered. A couple cabins fan out next to the lodge, small and rustic, with rocking chairs dotting the porches.
“You ever done this before?” Brice asks. I’m surprised by his concern as we drive down to the stable.
“I rode when I was younger. Part of an equestrian therapy program my mother had read about in some magazine. I liked it and lasted a couple years, but fear of my stern instructor finally overcame my love of the horses.”
“This is a first for me,” he says.
“I’m sure you’ll be amazing at it. You’re really good at other stuff.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“You’re a good physical therapist.”
“Anything else?” There is a hint of a smile.
“Maybe that fun thing we did this morning?” I’m happy he is focused on the potholes so I don’t have to hide my embarrassment.
“What thing?” he asks.
I playfully tap his thigh. “You know exactly what thing.”
“Actually, multiple things.”
“The more the merrier,” I say.
He laughs, parking the car. We get out, bundled in our warm gear. My green gloves, hat, and scarf match.
Brice takes to riding quite well for someone who has never been up in a saddle before, except for one slightly scary moment when we trot. He grabs the saddle horn with both hands, letting the reins drop to the ground. Luckily, the horses are well-trained, and his stands there, bored.
After, we head to the bar. It’s dark wood, low lights and crowded with patrons enjoying afternoon happy hour. We find a small, sticky table in the recesses.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he says before taking a long sip from his beer bottle.
“What do you want to know?” I worry I smell like horse, but Brice smells the same.
“What were you like in high school?”
“I attended a small, private Catholic high school. I was a good kid.”
“How times have changed.” He smiles at me.
I love that smile. “Stop. A priest actually tried to coerce me to become a nun at one point.”
“Seriously?” he asks.
“Yup. Anyone ever ask you to become a priest?”
“Never. You got me on that, but my guidance counselor in high school recommended I become an auto mechanic.”
“Really?” I scrutinize him from all different angles. “I can see it I guess. You like to work with your hands.”
“I’d like to work on you with my hands,” he says.
I blush and continue. “I knew I didn’t want to be a nun. By some miracle, I finally grew into my tall body, my senior year of high school. I got my first real boyfriend that year as well, but it only lasted a few weeks. He was younger, a junior who transferred into the school because his dad was hired as the maintenance manager. He hadn’t witnessed my stunted development in junior high school and high school. He only knew me as the older senior yearbook editor who cornered him for his school photograph, and then quizzed him on so much more.”
“Cradle robber,” Brice says.
“Look who’s talking.
” I can’t stop laughing.
“Not old enough to be your father, and that’s all that matters.” He orders shots of tequila from the waitress.
“It’s not even five,” I complain when the shots come. He thrusts one in my direction. I slug it back anyway. We order another round. “And what about you?”
“Typical punk high school football player. I got injured playing basketball on the rec. league in college, and the physical therapist, in my view, saved my ankle. That’s when I knew what I wanted to do with my life and kind of straightened myself out.”
“And how old are you?” I ask, even though I have the answer. I’ve already talked to the other receptionist at work.
“Does it really matter?”
“Are you that sensitive about it?”
“Thirty-three.” He grabs both our beers and my hand. “Let’s go find a place to make out.”
We search through the lodge, full of nooks and crannies, skirting antiques that decorate the long narrow hallways. The game room, television room, and pool are alive with children, but a few doors down from the TV room, the small library, is empty. The lights aren’t even on, and it’s cloaked in lazy winter darkness. The small stream of light from the open door highlights two sets of shelves with dusty novels and board games. Those shelves make a great barrier to anyone passing by who might peek in. We sit on the floor in the far corner, and Brice takes the last swallow from his beer bottle before he leans in and kisses me. I giggle at the absurdity of the situation before we make out in the library as we listen to the Terminator movie playing down the hall, the volume on overdrive.
“Who puts the Terminator on for small children?” I ask, distracted as screams from the movie cut through the dark stack of books. My breath rushes in and out in waves. Brice’s fingers work the buttons on my jeans. I’m both nervous and exhilarated at the fact that someone might come in, but I don’t stop him.
Brice leans into me, trying to get comfortable on the carpet. His other hand, large and warm, slides under my brown, fuzzy sweater and fondles my breast.
“What do you think of the movie so far?” he asked before kissing me again.
The sound effects from the movie are part of the blur in my brain. It’s hard to focus, but I pull my mouth away from his. I hear grunts, shouts, gun shots, and dramatic music as the Terminator shoots into the police station and chaos ensues.
“It’s pretty good.”
His eyes are on me. His hand languidly touches the skin under my sweater, tickling. He nuzzles my neck, and then plants a kiss where his breath has been.
“It gets much, much better.” His kiss caresses my lips. I shiver.
I nod, unable to find my voice. Brice’s hands are back on the button of my jeans. I inch them away.
“Let’s enjoy the moment.” His voice is soft and seductive.
I relent. One of his warm, strong hands is again on my breast. He traces the line of my bra, lingering there only for a moment. And then there’s the rush. His hand moves under my bra, and my jeans have somehow made it to my knees, not off, but wedged down by the cowboy boots I bought for this weekend. The cracked, dull ceiling is home to cobwebs in the corners. I’m so scared someone will interrupt us, I can’t fully concentrate on the pulse of him inside me or his whispered breath next to my ear telling me how amazing this is. I’m scared shitless, but part of me loves how my heart attempts to catapult out of my body.
After, he picks up the condom to dispose of, and I’m so happy. I didn’t even realize he’d put it on.
We head back to Main Street and stroll around the boutiques until dinner, the day receding in a buzzed blur as I contemplate what I just did. It must mean something that I’m willing to have sex in public with Brice. There’s a special bond here.
As we meander back to the hotel, I ask the question. It just happens. “What are we doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are we a couple?” I ask.
“Do we have to have this conversation now?” his voice is soft, constrained.
“Do you not want to?”
“No, we can,” he says. “It’s just that we’re having such a great time. I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Will this conversation ruin it?” I’m pressing for an answer because he doesn’t want to give one.
“I hope not.” He stops by a playground. The ground is covered with a picture-perfect layer of snow, amplified by the streetlight overhead. It sparkles like magic. “I need to make a snow angel,” he says, distracting me.
Brice lies on his back, flapping his arms and legs. When done, he stands and jumps away from his creation.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“How old are you that you can’t enjoy a snow angel?” He pitches a snowball at me.
We stroll the last few blocks to the hotel.
“Well?” I’m persistent.
“Well, what?”
“Are we a couple?”
“We are a couple people having a great time. Come on. Let’s get a drink at the bar.”
By eleven, we’re cuddled up in the hotel, enjoying our last night, but not getting a lot of sleep.
In the morning, Brice leaves the bed to shower and go downstairs to grab coffee. After he leaves, I sneak into the bathroom to freshen up and brush my teeth. On his return, we sit in comfortable silence, drinking coffee, Brice on his tablet, scanning the news.
He catches me watching him. “Some breakfast?”
“I’d rather have you kiss me.” My cheeks color.
He sets down his coffee cup on the desk with a distinct thud. “So much for a restful morning away. You’re too tasty.”
He kisses me, and thoughts disappear. His lips taste mine, and his hands clasp my back. I lean in and in and in. Falling. My arms wrap around his neck as he slides me down to the bed. He kneels. I stare at him as he parts the bathrobe I borrowed from the closet. I’m nervous as he takes in my nakedness. He stares, each second an hour, and then his lips caress my navel and lower.
Later, as we head back to Connecticut, his hand on mine, I wonder if this is what love feels like. And then I am sure this is real. I love him like the smell of leaves under the melting snow or the afternoon sun coming through the classroom window to warm the drab, cold desks.
* * * *
I come home early on a Friday to meet with Sandra, my therapist. Inside her office, I hear a boy screaming invectives at his mother. As I wait for Sandra to finish with this lovely patient, I consider the recent events in my life and why I’m here today. I should be thankful to my dad for raising me, but after the divorce, I’ve been his go-to girl. Whenever something goes seriously wrong, I fix it. My mom wants nothing to do with him, and my sister lives too far away in Las Vegas to be of any help. I’m the buffer, the go-between, the fixer. But more and more things are going wrong, and I’m not sure I can handle it anymore.
A few minutes later, Sandra calls me into her office, slightly frazzled.
“Tough case?” I ask.
“They can’t all be wonderful as you.” Her smile is sincere, even though she is attempting to joke.
I can’t help but smile back at her. “Thanks. I’m all better now and plan to leave your care. Look at that, I’m your first instant success. You should be the next Dr. Phil.”
That gets a laugh from her. “I’ve known you for nearly three years.” She centers herself in the seat across from me and fixes strands of long, brown hair that have fallen out from the clip on the top of her head. She’s ready for business and grabs her note pad. “What’s up? How’s school?”
“School is good, but I don’t think I can do it anymore,” I tell her.
“School?” She is concerned. “What’s going on?”
“Not school, my dad.” I clarify, fiddling with the ends of my sweater sleeves, which are long and cover my hands. “He’s getting crazier and crazier, and I’m the only one around to deal with it. Wait, can I say crazy in here, or is that derogatory?”
“Yo
u can say whatever you want.” She jots down some notes.
I tug out my phone. “Just listen to this text he sent me last month.” I read it out loud: “Thanks for being such an amazing daughter. I can only fantasize about how awesome your life is now that you are reaching for your dreams. Don’t let your mom or her crazy family ruin it. They’ve always only been about the money. They’ve deprived me of everything, but they won’t deprive me of your love. It's fresh, unconditional, and unadulterated. Big hug and kiss from me. See you at graduation.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Sandra asks.
“It sounds creepy. Seriously creepy.” I decide not to tell her about the other anonymous stalker notes. One problem at a time. I slam my phone into the palm of my hand, causing it to sting.
“He’s trying to figure out how be part of your life.”
“If only that was so simple, but it’s more than that. Lately, he’s having trouble paying his bills. I don’t want to end up having to do everything for him. I can barely manage my own life.”
“Let’s brainstorm your options because I know finding a solution for him will help you.” She hands me a pen and paper. “Are there any community programs that can assist him?”
“I’ve already signed him up for some. I have no idea about others.” My shoulders rise and hunch down in defeat.
“I guess it’s good that I know about a variety of them. I might even have some literature.” She stands and retreats behind her desk where she opens a drawer and starts shuffling papers around. “Here they are.” She hands me pamphlets about Meals on Wheels, the community center, public housing, and the senior center.
“What do I do with these. Is he old enough for the senior center?”
“Take them home and read them, maybe call the numbers and find out if they can help your dad.”
“Great, more work for me to do.” My face scrunches up as I think about the time it will take to do this.