Lily's Temptation Vol. 1

by Michaels, C. C.

  What seemingly willing thing do I do when trying to impress someone? This thought, however, has little time to infect my mind. We enter the kitchen where Maddox quickly turns around, kisses me, and then sets to work on the stove, lifting a sweaty glass lid off of a pan. The combination of onion, garlic and chicken mixes into one brilliant scent. After checking the chicken, he sets the glass lid down carefully. He shifts over to a bubbling pot of noodles, scooping out a trembling strand of pasta. With a swift hand, he carries it over the stove and lays it on a cutting board. Pinched between his finger and thumb, he places the noodle in his mouth and tells me the pasta is ready, but the chicken needs about a minute more. His focus is on the food, as if each piece of the meal requires the attention and thought of a resume. His hands move with precision, with accuracy, and I realize this isn’t some half-hearted attempt to win me over with a box of Bisquick and a greasy chicken breast.

  I walk through the kitchen, ever mindful of the chef’s agile movements as I search for the recipe he used for the meal. I would simply asked Maddox myself but he goes back to the pasta, taking it out of the pot again for the test. His face is wrapped in self-doubt. This is the kind of doubt that has you second-guessing yourself even when you have done everything perfectly the first time. In a stainless steel pan, sauce bubbles, sending a gorgeous aroma up to my nose. Maddox dips the tip of a spoon into what looks like a lemon pepper reduction sauce, offering me a taste. I form my lips to blow on it and notice a glint in his eye. I touch my finger to the sauce, never breaking eye contact. Then I wrap my lips around my finger as he shivers with desire. He reaches out and replaces my finger with his lips.

  But there’s no recipe in the kitchen. Finally, I asked Maddox where the recipe is, curious to see what dish is taking so much time and attention to prepare for us. As he blows on the noodle pinched between his thumb and forefinger, he moves his other hand up to his head. With his index finger he points to his temple, poking it a few times before chewing on the floppy noodle.

  “My grandmother showed me how to make this,” he says after swallowing. He nods at me and says, “Okay, I think this is all ready,” Then he lifts the glass lid with one hand and scoops out a noodle, a third time. He stops when he sees my smile. He nods and mumbles that dinner is ready, speaking more to himself than to me. There is no cute way of saying it. No sugary sweet expression can accurately encompass the situation. Tonight is special to him and he really wants this meal to be great for me.

  The dining room is lit by the soft, low glow of candles. A smooth cloth lays over the table, draping its longer edges to the floor. Thick plates with crisscrossing patterns on the outer edges hold the main course. Flowers in a vase stand gallantly in the center of the table. This is so sweet of him and so romantic, but the flowers are so tall they obscure my sight of Maddox to the point where I have to lean to the side to see his face. I sit at one end of the table and Maddox sits across from me. Part of me wants to devour this meal so I can rush to him again for another kiss. Though the table isn’t exceedingly long, it does have enough length to make the person across from me seem miles away. Although I appreciate his gesture to serve my dinner in a grand dining room, I hop for something a little more intimate. The kind of dinner scene where two lovers gaze into each other’s eyes while holding hands.

  I lean to the side to see that Maddox has a pensive look on his face. We unfold our napkins in our laps. I wrap some noodles around my fork, making sure not to fling any piece off and stain the table cloth. Maddox leans to the side and starts to say something but stops. I lower my fork and wipe my face, but he tells me its fine. The second my taste buds register the meal, I have to fight the urge to grab fistfuls off my plate. I’m impressed at how good it is.

  In the past, I have had a few opportunities to try fine cuisine. And while my palate isn’t nearly as refined as the price tag on those meals demands, I still enjoy the plate to a great degree.

  Maddox asks me in an anxious tone, “Do you like it?”

  I wipe my mouth and try not to talk with my mouth full, but the sensational flavor is so amazing that I want to blurt out my response. I set my fork to the side and say, “I do,” then I swallow the last delicious bit and say, “I like it so much, I want to elope to Cancun with it.”

  His cheeks flush and the corners of his eyes wrinkle into a gorgeous smile. He begins to eat, but stops after a few bites. He throws the napkin to the side of his plate and puts his elbow on the table, asking me, “Is this how we are supposed to sit?”

  I put my fork down and lean to the side to meet his face. “What do you mean?”

  He scratches the side of his head. “I don’t know, it feels like...well, this is just annoying.” He reaches for the vase in the center of the table. He sets it to the side so we can see one another. Now, I can see his face unobstructed. His forehead tightens. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

  I nod with a cheek full of food. He shoots out of his seat with his plate in hand. With the other hand, he swings his chair next to me. At the corner of the table, we sit together. It feels better this way. This is how I want to eat every meal; next to him. We sit together with the rest of the insanely large world across from us, and once we are next to one another I feel a weight lift from me. It’s better we sit next to one another and he notices that. So often, it is the case that when I talk to people, patients or friends, I find them across from me. Against me. There’s a subtle, unnerving, almost antagonistic manner in this kind of positioning. Fighters stand across from one another. Chivalric jousters square off across from one another and Toreros across from the bull. But this is Maddox, not my contender, and so I’m glad he moves his seat next to mine. Now we can get on with what we both want, and let this underlying tension out.

  Chapter 32

  Some aspect of Maddox is uneasy in seeing me across from him. He might be completely overwhelmed with joy to be with me and just has to sit as close to me as possible. I can’t help but notice his lips. My mind locks in on the image of me kissing him. I see the lean, sinewy muscles of his forearms and think about pulling him into my kiss. Just being next to him is a tease.

  Maddox was and probably always will be a fighter. In some way, he might always express that part of who he is. He might square up on a guy he sees walking towards him on the sidewalk. He might size up every potential threat in a bar. He might even feel a need to step in on a fight and try to break it up, but the point is he has enough wherewithal to notice that being across from someone just doesn’t feel right.

  It’s hard not to get caught up in his eyes. His gaze can be direct, but in an affirming way. He returns my look with every bit of interest. Just to have his eyes on me is enough to send my pulse racing.

  Maybe it’s not the fighter in Maddox that sways him to sit next to me. Maybe it is just the adult in him. We sit across from bosses or interviewers. We sit across from review boards. We only position ourselves like that for bad news or to be judged. Whatever the reason for his decision didn’t matter now. I was enjoying a fantastic meal with a great person.

  We are both eating, not at all concerned with the silence, but then it happens. A phone rings from some distant room. So far off is this ring I hardly think it’s real. Maddox excuses himself from the table, kissing me as he makes his way out of the room. It isn’t long before I begin to think of the woman who owned this house. How she might have been, what her attitude was like, what her company was like, these sorts of superficial things. Her passing. How do you just pick up and move on after something like that?

  Maddox comes rushing back into the room with that irresistible smile and I’m reminded that this is a happy occasion. I have to shake the thick coat of inevitability off of my shoulders. I see enough of that on my job and I don’t need that now. I don’t want to think about that while I’m with him. He’s invited me over and made a perfectly wonderful dinner and here I am letting my job and dreary thoughts get in the way. Why do I always sabotage relationships with my own obsessive thoug
hts? Plus, it doesn’t seem fair to throw such an idea at him so soon after death has claimed his own family. Still, I can’t help but think that maybe the artifice of happiness is Maddox’s way of placating me. Or it’s simply the case that he’s reeling from a very serious loss and confiding in me is the only thing keeping him afloat. But that is a vain assumption on my part.

  I’ so wrapped in my own thoughts that I don’t see what Maddox brings with him into the room. In his hands, he carries a silver bucket that sloshes and clinks. From just one glimpse of this thing, I can tell what it is. A slender neck pokes itself out of the top of the silver bucket and leans against the polished brim. Maddox pulls the bottle out of the bucket while small slivers of ice slide off the dark sides. He digs a corkscrew into the top, and with a few swift turns he pops it open. He angles the bottle over a tall glass. The wine falls, curling against the inside of the glass like red waves.

  As soon as Maddox finishes pouring, I raise my eyebrows. I hoped he was done with drinking. Can he handle a glass of wine over dinner? Or am I about to be the witness to his defeat? Because I don’t think I want to sit here and watch the downfall of this magnificent man. I didn’t come over here for that. My eyes widen and I ask,

  “What are you doing?”

  He jerks his head up from the glass. His eyes are wide with suspense, his lips slightly parted. He puts the bottle down, never breaking eye contact with me. He pushes the glass towards me and sits down.

  “This is a very old bottle of wine.” He speaks with no trepidation, no condescension. His line of sight is locked with mine. “It’s been sitting in this house for too many years and...it’s the last bottle of alcohol in the house.” With his right hand, he points to the wine, saying, “I don’t want it anymore.” His lips tighten as he brings his hand back to his lap.

  I slowly sit in my seat with all the world’s confusion and anger welling up inside me. “What’s it for, then?”

  He smiles, looking away from me as his eyes glaze. He wipes his forehead with his hand, saying, “I’ve just been waiting for some good news...I guess.”

  My eyes flash from the bottle to Maddox and back to the bottle. I ask him, “Do you mean to drink this?” He leans back in his chair, shutting his eyes tightly. He opens his eyes to stare at the wall across from him. I ask again, “Were you going to drink this?” I feel the backup of words in my throat. They clump together like wet paper towels.

  He looks at me and slowly nods, saying, “I was...but then you showed up.” His head shifts quickly to the side as if punched by some unseen fist.

  “There were dozens of bottles. Enough to fill a damn pool.” His voice gets rough. He props his head up with his hand and his elbow on the table. “I poured them all out except this one. I thought it was better that you enjoy it.” I glance down and that’s when I realize there’s only one wine glass on the table. He has tempted himself with this bottle. To him, this last bottle is either his redemption or his downfall.

  “What’s the good news?” I ask, not completely sure how to feel in this moment.

  “I just got a call about the finalized will of my grandmother.” The room drops. Have things been moving this fast? I feel embarrassed. I haven’t even waited until the damn will was read and now I’m on a date with Maddox. I feel like such a heel.

  He tells me, “It has been a few days since the actual will. They called me to say they finalized the last little details.” There was something off about his voice now. It was somber but not devoid of life. Usually, he had a particularly charismatic way of speaking, but now it’s watered down.

  He puts his hands on the table, interlocking his fingers as he stares at the wall. He turns to me and says, “She left me everything.”

  Just like that, Maddox suddenly and unexpectedly becomes...rich. I glance up at the elegant crystal chandelier, over to the mahogany-covered walls and down to the finely carved wooden arms of the dining chair and I could tell that his grandmother was more than just financially secure. Maddox was now bequeathed, along with the monetary assets, something more precious than all these material belongings; he was given a fresh start. But his face doesn’t reflect the good news. His eyes slowly fall to the side. He sighs, dropping his head into his hands and then slams his fists on the table. “I’m sorry.” he says, then covers his face in shame.

  I don’t blame him for his outburst; he’s entitled to that. So much has happened to us in such a short time, and after a while the good news starts to be corrupted by the bad and I can see it in his eyes. Yes, Maddox is rich now, but at the cost of his grandmother’s life. He quickly apologizes to me.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.” He sniffs, pushing a tear out of his eye with his thumb.

  I tell him, “This is good news.” I make some pandering statement about how his grandmother felt he was getting better. But in the pit of my stomach, I can feel my words souring. They can’t change what had happened. Seeing Maddox like this hurts. It stings me deep and the pain is focused within my chest. You never feel your heart more than when it is breaking inside you. I want to cry with him. If not for his situation, then for mine. I want to weep and bawl my fucking eyes out and tell him to just let it all out, but I can’t. I grab his wrists and pull them towards me. He sets his eyes on me and I feel the warmth of his attention. Now he can’t hide, and I tell him, “You and me, we have to take any good news we can get, okay?” His eyes latch onto mine. I slide my hands along his wrists and lock fingers with his.

  “We have to appreciate every little victory, every small prize, every seemingly infinitesimal occurrence.” He steadies his breathes. I can feel his pulse in his hands slow. His heart beats out smooth pumps now. I narrow my gaze, saying, “I’m sick of feeling like the world is a bad place. If we don’t let ourselves be happy, even for a moment, then the weight we put on ourselves will crush us to death.” I lean in close to his face, saying, “We’re not going to live that way. We are going to be better.” I kiss him on the forehead and hold him tight to my chest.

  I don’t know if we are really better. I can’t honestly claim that. I lean back and stroke Maddox’s hair. All I can say is that there seems to be a constant, never-ending sludge of decay washing over us. It ages our bodies and wears down our minds. It pits us in battles we can’t possibly win. It supplants every kind memory with a gnarled, tempestuous angst.

  I hold his head in my hands and stare into his beautifully aqua eyes. Maddox holds my hand against his face. In his eyes, I can now see a history of violence coupled with an over indulgence in vice. There is something else, though. In the deep expanses of blue-green, there’s more. He cannot be so simply deconstructed; no mere surface scanning can produce the complete man and I want to know this man better.

  I guess what I am trying to say is that humans, much to our discontentment, are beyond the tactile, simplified, easy-to-get understandings. The leanest qualification of this sentiment is that the world is much too difficult to be condensed into sweet categories. When we get good news we have to cherish it. The other end of that ideology is pure cynicism. I’ve seen too much of that in my life, in the people I work with like Mandel and Wernicke. They are just two old, bitter and resentful men. But I’m not going to let them overshadow my quest for a connection with someone, someone like Maddox. I will not allow their pessimistic outlook on life to crush my chance at happiness. With Maddox here in my arms, I have hope, hope for love, and I’m not going to fight it any longer. I can’t fight it even if I want. When we were outside in the rain, Maddox told me I changed him. I, somehow, without knowing it, affected his life in a good way. But what he doesn’t realize is that he’s the one who saved me. I was drowning in an ocean of mediocrity and he came along and saved me, like he was some kind of superhero or something.

  I swirl my fingers through his hair with my new found resolve. I will not allow myself to be cynical. No, no matter how crazy my life as a doctor can be, from patients drinking beer in their rooms to dealing wit
h the death of a white supremacist, I’m not going to let it all pull me into the undertow. I want to feel every scary moment of my life, the ups and the downs. I want to dare to be me, take a risk and follow my heart for once. I feel exhilarated, like I’m standing on the edge of a great pool of water about to dive in. It is a comfortable enough thought process but one that, well, for me at least just isn’t fun. What ever happened to fun?

  Chapter 33

  I read somewhere that happiness is something you make. So Maddox and I are going to make it happen and we certainly both deserve a little joy right now in our lives. We stand in the ornate dining room of his grandmother’s house, lost in our own world of each other. It’s like the world itself has disappeared outside these mahogany-paneled walls. I don’t want to think about anything but him right now. He lifts his hand and gently strokes my cheek with his fingers. He trails them down and along my jawline until he reaches my lips. He brushes his thumb across my lower lip, bringing the tingle of happiness back to the surface again. He holds his thumb there, his eyes blazing holes in me, then slowly replaces it with his warm lips. My heart jumps and my knees weaken. He pulls back and narrows his eyes like he’s trying to figure me out.