Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  And I finally accept the truth. I want this. Want him and everything he will give me. I want to be whole.

  Now that I’ve touched that girl I want her back.

  And I’m willing to fight for her.

  I twist a tissue, staring down at my lap as I sit on Dr. Sorenson’s couch. She’s in her normal spot, in her standard, neutral knee-length skirt and white blouse. She waits, pen and pad at the ready, but I have no idea where to start.

  I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime since I last saw her.

  Since that night in the restaurant, I’ve stopped pretending I’m not in a relationship with Michael. It’s begun, the process of healing, and slowly I’m starting to put together the fragments of my broken heart.

  I cry less, and I laugh more. I haven’t had a panic attack in over two weeks. Haven’t woken up screaming. I called my mom just to say hi, went out with Ruby without her begging me, and said good morning to my coworkers.

  I also spent every second I had with Michael. My apartment is starting to feel cold and deserted, a place that’s no longer home.

  Even when he worked late, I started going to his house to walk Belle, not because he asked, but because I want to. Something about that ugly dog’s affection—the happy excited wag of her tail, the way she dances around in circles, tongue lolling to one side in uninhibited joy at my arrival—heals something deep within me.

  I need that dog. Almost as much as I need Michael.

  And this Saturday is his sister, Jillian’s, birthday party. Where I’d meet everyone. His family. People who mattered to him.

  I was a nervous wreck about it.

  I feel Dr. Sorenson’s patient gaze on me and I raise my head. On a deep breath I blurt out, “It’s happening.”

  She tilts her head to one side. “What’s happening?”

  “Michael.” I twist the tissue again into a tight spiral. “He’s becoming a part of my life.”

  The scratch of ballpoint over paper. “Go on.”

  I bite my lip. “I can feel it…feel myself moving on. I’m starting to think about Michael in all the spaces John used to occupy.”

  “And how does that make you feel?” she asks in her calm, pleasant voice.

  The confession wells in my throat. I want so badly to push it back down, but it refuses to be repressed for one second longer. “That’s just the thing. I know what I should feel. I keep waiting for it—the guilt, the stab of betrayal, the grief, and loss. But I don’t.”

  She tilts her head to the side, nodding again. “And how do you feel?”

  I exhale from my tight lungs. “Free. Good.”

  The smallest ghost of a smile lifts the corners of her lips. “That’s a very good thing, Layla.”

  I shred the tissue I’ve been holding and the tattered remains fall crumbled into my lap. I pluck another one from the box. “I’m meeting Michael’s family on Saturday.”

  “I think that’s wonderful. You’re healing.”

  I look past her, staring at the ocean print on the wall, the blue of the water calming, as I’m sure is its intention. “I remember the first time I met John’s mom. It was just the two of them and we were home from school for the weekend. We went to a little neighborhood diner for breakfast. They’d been going there since he was a boy, and everyone knew them. That morning they fussed over him, talking about how handsome and grown up he was. He introduced me, and they insisted on making me their famous banana shake.”

  I smile at the memory, realizing it no longer rips me open and makes me bleed. “It was in this gigantic glass the size of a big gulp, heaping with whipped cream and extra cherries. They hovered over me, watching as I took my first sip so they could witness this awesome moment in my life. I looked over the glass at John and he grinned and winked at me, and I knew. In that second, I knew he was ‘the one’ and that I was going to marry him and spend my life with him. It was a happy morning.”

  There’s a moment of silence while she waits to see if I’m going to continue, but when I don’t, she prompts, “Tell me more.”

  I shrug, not quite sure where I’m leading. “It was a good memory. I don’t have any other meeting-the-parents stories and that’s a hard one to live up to.”

  “Are you afraid meeting Michael’s parents won’t compare?”

  I shred another tissue, and she leans over, shifting the garbage can closer to me. I gather up all the little bits of cotton and dump them into the container before brushing the lint off my beige work pants. Work pants Michael had declared not interesting enough, and insisted my panties be removed for the rest of the day. My lips quirk, it’s something John would have done too. The similarity between them is pleasing instead of frightening. I think John would have liked Michael. In a different life they would have been friends, devising evil plots to drive girls wild.

  I shake my head. It would be easy to nod and let that be the reason for my unease, but it’s not the truth. “No, that’s not it.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Michael.” His name on my lips comes out as a croak and I clear my throat. “I feel that same kind of happiness with him that I did with John.”

  She nods. “Go on.”

  I take another Kleenex and once again begin my restless twisting. “I was wrong. That day in the diner. I didn’t end up marrying him. I didn’t spend my life with John.”

  I let the words hang, not finishing the rest of the thought. Because there was no need.

  I could love Michael. In a truth I could barely admit to myself, I probably already did. I’d lost my happy ending once. I no longer took happiness for granted. A future shimmered right beyond my reach, bright and glittery with promise.

  But I didn’t trust the shadows not to steal it away.

  Clutching Michael’s hand, I stand on the front porch of his stately, neoclassical childhood home and will myself not to faint. He’d taken pity on me before we’d come, picking out my outfit, my shoes, how to wear my hair and makeup. I huffed, pouted, and stomped around my bedroom, until he’d turned me over his knee and given my ass quite the beating and I settled down. While I put on a good show, we both knew I was thankful he’d taken away my ability to fret.

  With my rampant nerves, I would have spent hours agonizing over what to wear and worked myself into a frenzy. Michael’s way may not make me a candidate for feminist of the year, but it calmed and soothed me as nothing else could have.

  I wore what he told me. A brown suede A-line skirt and a soft cream, fine knit, scooped-neck sweater, and the same knee-high boots from the night of our first date. I begrudgingly have to admit he picked out a good outfit. It’s trendy, flatters my dark, chestnut hair, and hugs my curves.

  Of course, my ass still burns from the palm of his hand, the bare skin rubbing against the silk of my underwear. Today, my ass isn’t the only thing that’s pink. My cheeks now glow with health and their natural rosiness has returned as the hollowness has disappeared. There are no shadows under my eyes. My hair is down, shiny and flowing in soft waves down my back. I look good.

  Probably better than I have in a long, long time. I look like the girl I’d been, mixed with something else I can’t define. In the last eighteen months my face has lost the round softness it used to have. I look like a woman instead of a girl.

  Now that I’ve lost the haunted look of grief, suddenly, men have a renewed interest in me. Everywhere I go, men seem to strike up conversations. In the morning line at Starbucks or Walgreens. At work, the new guy asked me out. And I couldn’t help noticing the heads turning as I passed. After spending so much time living like a ghost, it’s an odd, strange experience.

  It’s all because of the man next to me, who doesn’t even flinch at the way my nails are digging into his hand. He gives me a little wink as the door starts to open, sweeping down to quickly whisper into my ear, “Don’t worry, sugar, they’ll love you.”

  And, then, it’s happening. I’m meeting his family.

  An attractive, older woman—a sleek brunette wit
h expertly placed gold highlights in her chin-length bob—is smiling at me. No, beaming is more accurate. She holds out her hands like she’s going to embrace me and says, “You must be Layla. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I smile back and toss a furtive questioning glance at Michael, who shrugs. “Hey, Mom. Yes, this is Layla Hunter.” He gives my palm a squeeze. “This is my mother, Miriam Banks.”

  I extricate myself from Michael and hold out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Banks.”

  “Oh, none of that,” she says and pulls me into a hug before pulling back and studying me closely. “Call me Miriam.”

  She shifts her attention to Michael. “Jillian was right, she’s very pretty.”

  Michael shakes his head. “Of course she is.”

  A flush heats my cheeks. “Thank you, and thank you for having me.”

  “Come on, everyone is out back. Didn’t we get a perfect day?” Miriam leads us through a large open foyer with high ceilings and an intricate winding staircase that could only be original. Expertly restored, of course.

  She’s right about the weather. One of those unexpectedly warm fall days that sometimes graces Chicago right before the weather turns cold for good. I nod in agreement. “It’s lovely.”

  The house is beautiful, rich with charm and history. It’s big, sprawling actually, with wide-open spaces and big windows. A mix of old and new. In today’s market, in the heart of Evanston and close to the lake, it has to cost a fortune.

  For the first time it dawns on me that Michael comes from money. I try to picture him roaming through this house as a boy and find I have no trouble. It both looks exactly like Michael and nothing like him at the same time.

  “Your house is gorgeous,” I say as we stroll through the massive kitchen right out of a luxury designer catalogue with its massive, clearly custom cabinets, commercial appliances, and warm, brown-and-cream countertops.

  “Thank you, dear, we just had the kitchen remodeled.”

  Michael takes my hand again as we’re led through French glass doors out to a big backyard, complete with an outdoor kitchen. There is a group of people sitting around a large, long table, all looking at me with wide grins on their faces.

  Michael gives me a little squeeze, and I’m thankful for his silent reassurance.

  I recognize Jillian and her boyfriend, Leo, but the rest are strangers to me.

  Jillian jumps up and runs over to me, hugging me like we’re best friends. “I’m so glad you came.”

  I pat her back and say, “Thank you for having me. Happy Birthday. I feel bad crashing your party.”

  She pulls back and waves a dismissive hand. “Are you kidding me? We’re thrilled.”

  She hooks her arm through my elbow and tugs me toward the rest of the group. She points toward an older man that looks just like Michael. “That’s our dad, Richard.”

  Before I can say anything to Michael’s father, she continues, “You know Leo, that little girl is our niece, Amy. That’s our sister, Sarah, and her husband, William.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” My voice is polite and cordial, as they all start shouting out hellos.

  From behind us, Michael says, “Do you mind, Jillian?”

  Jillian cranes her neck and gives him a sassy smile. “Yeah, I do, you’ve been hoarding her for weeks and we need a chance to grill her before the rest of the party starts.”

  I swallow hard, looking back at him with pleading eyes.

  “There will be no grilling.” Michael gets that hard set to his jaw I’ve come to recognize means business, but of course it has no effect on his family, who just laugh at him.

  Michael juts his chin at Leo. “Can’t you control your woman?”

  Leo grins and winks at me. “Well, yeah, but this is way more entertaining.”

  “Ignore them,” Jillian says, pulling me over to an empty chair next to her.

  This separates me from Michael, who sits down across from me, giving me a shake of the head and an eye roll.

  My heart gives a tiny flutter at the silent communication between us. Such a couplely thing to do.

  “We’re glad you could come, Layla,” Michael’s father says. He’s not quite as tall as his son, but the two of them are obviously from the same gene pool.

  “Thank you for having me. Your home is beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Richard says with a warm smile. “And where did you grow up?”

  “Winnetka.” I know enough about Michael’s dad to know he’ll be pleased that I’m a North Shore girl. “My parents still live there, but my sister and her family live in Barrington.”

  “Good, good,” Richard says, before nodding at Michael in what I can only assume is approval.

  The little girl, Amy, who named Belle, comes running over to me, her brown pigtails bouncing. She giggles, her Banks’ hazel eyes shining. “Are you Uncle Michael’s girlfriend?”

  I blink, at a loss as to how to answer the question.

  “Yes, she is,” Michael says, no stress in his tone at all.

  Michael’s other sister, Sarah, shakes her head, laughing, her blue eyes dancing. “Sorry, she hasn’t learned to censor her questions yet.”

  Next to her, William snorts. “Please, you put her up to it.”

  Michael lets out an exasperated sigh, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing. And for a moment I marvel at how far I’ve come, it’s been forever since I had to repress laughter instead of tears.

  Sarah swings around and gives him an appalled look. “I most certainly did not!”

  William grins at me. “She totally did.”

  Amy nods her cute little head. “She told me to ask.”

  A blush stains Sarah’s cheeks.

  Jillian gasps, putting a hand to her chest, her eyes wide and filled with mischief. “Sarah, how could you?”

  The older sister sputters, cheeks pink, but before she can explain herself, Amy chimes in, “Aunt Jillian told me to ask you when you’re going to get married.”

  Michael shakes his head. “God help me.”

  Jillian narrows her gaze on her niece. “You little traitor.”

  And then they’re all off, talking all over each other, taking the pressure and attention off me. Michael shrugs as if to say See, I told you they were crazy.

  I grin back, and try not to think about the fact that they mentioned the M word.

  It’s been a long, happy day and we’re sitting on Michael’s couch after the birthday party. I’d done it. Even more startling, I did more than suffer through it, I had fun. Nobody had looked at me like I might break. Nobody had avoided my eyes as they searched for a way to avoid the murder of my fiancé.

  Michael’s family had accepted me with open arms, and after the party had died down, we’d sat in the great room while they’d told me embarrassing stories about him, and his mom brought out the family photo album. The pictures of Michael as a child had fascinated me. It was hard to reconcile the innocent-looking boy in the pictures with the man he was today.

  And through it all, Michael had just shaken his head, laughed and was generally good-natured about the whole thing. Oh sure, he put on a good show, but it was clear he came from a loving, supportive family.

  Belle pushes her way between Michael and me on the couch, interrupting my thoughts. With a little whine, she puts her head on my lap, staring up at me with excited pet me, pet me, pet me eyes. I can’t deny her anything, and I stroke her soft fur, and play with her floppy ears. I smile down at her. “You are a con dog, aren’t you?”

  She wags her tail and presses her head harder into my lap.

  “She loves you,” Michael says, his arm over the back of the couch.

  Belle rolls over so I can pat her belly and I laugh. “I love her too. My mom was allergic to dogs growing up, and I always wanted one. I couldn’t wait to get one.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Michael asks, expression curious. He’s sitting there, relaxed and gorgeous. We’d changed into comfy clothes w
hen we’d gotten home. And we both wore sweats and T-shirts. How the man manages to still look dangerous in a T-shirt that reads Hmmm… Beer is beyond me, but he manages it.

  I clear my throat, and pay rapt attention to Belle, who keeps squirming farther and farther into my lap. “We were going to as soon as we got home from our honeymoon.”

  The grief is still there, but it’s lost all its sharp, jagged edges. I can think of John now without crying. Without it being an open wound.

  “I’m sorry, Layla.” He covers my hand. “Do you have pictures of him on your phone?”

  I do. In a locked album. I also have his last voice and text messages. I’d refused to update my phone for fear I’d lose those parts of him that made him real. I nod.

  “Let me see.”

  I shake my head.

  He squeezes my fingers. “I’m not asking.”

  My head snaps up. “Hey, that’s not fair.”

  In this way he’s different from John, who kept his dominance about sex, whereas Michael tends to exert it in everyday interactions.

  He laughs. “Who said anything about fair?”

  “I’m not ready.” While I’m better, that part of our relationship still feels private.

  “I believe differently.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters because he was a part of you and we’re not going to pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s not healthy for you, and it doesn’t help you heal. He sounds like a good man, and I know how much you loved him. I want to put a face to the name. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”

  I scowl, giving him my fiercest glare. “You can’t pull that out whenever you want to get your way.”

  “I don’t see why not.” His tone is laced with amusement.

  “Because it’s not fair.”

  He shrugs. “The pictures, Layla.”

  I puff out my bottom lip, still not ready to concede, even as I feel my body responding. “We need to lay down some ground rules.”

  “The rules are you do what you’re told. You don’t dig in your heels over a simple request, or deny me a chance to get a deeper understanding of who you are, then or now.”