LoveLines

by S. Walden

  “I didn’t mean to,” I cried.

  “I knew you, Bailey. I understood your problems. And I wanted to help you through them. I knew it would be tough, but you never let me try. You never gave me the choice. I wanted you. Always. And you wouldn’t let me choose you.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “You’re selfish,” he spat. “You shared yourself when it was convenient for you. When it felt good for you. When you enjoyed it. But then you pushed me away when things got rough.”

  “I didn’t want to be a burden,” I cried. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with me. I know how I am. I know I’m impossible. I can’t expect someone to handle that.”

  “That was NEVER your choice to make!” he roared. “Why don’t you understand that?”

  “I wanted to save you the heartache,” I replied. “I wanted you to be with someone who was normal. Someone you wouldn’t have to manage.”

  “Why don’t you get it?” he asked. He pulled me from the couch forcefully and placed his hands on my head. He pressed his fingers hard against my scalp. “How do I make your brain understand?”

  One, two, three, four . . . I counted because I was frightened. He increased the pressure, and I didn’t know if it hurt or felt incredible.

  “How do I open your brain and rewire it, huh?” His words were low and heavy. Ominous. “How do I rewire it to make you trust me? Accept me?”

  “I do accept you,” I whimpered.

  “Then why won’t you let me love you?” he asked. “Why won’t you let me be with you? I choose to be with you.”

  I sniffed and wiped my nose.

  “I choose. But you want to take the choice away from me,” he said. He dropped his hands. I dropped my face. “Look at me,” he demanded.

  “I can’t, Reece,” I said. “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m afraid you won’t look at me the way you used to,” I said.

  “You don’t know unless you look at me,” he replied.

  I paused a half-second before lifting my eyes to him. His face relaxed. Jaw no longer set. Eyes softened. Inviting, even. And I saw it—the love that had never left. It was buried deep inside his eyes, but I could see it flickering from afar, signaling a will to fight.

  For me.

  I wouldn’t let him. This was my battle. I had to be the hero. I had to be the one to rescue because I was the one who discarded.

  “Marry me,” I said.

  His eyes went wide.

  “Marry me, Reece.”

  “I’m supposed to—”

  “No. I’m supposed to. I’m supposed to ask you. I should have gone to you. I shouldn’t have waited six months. I shouldn’t have waited a day. I should have gone to you the moment you walked out my door. I should have gone to you and clung to you.” I took his hand. He didn’t resist. “I spent many years convincing myself that I wasn’t deserving of love—that I was a problem that couldn’t be fixed. Who could possibly want me?”

  “I wanted you,” he said. “I still do.”

  “And I knew that. But the devil in me kept feeding me lies. Telling me you’d leave me. Telling me I’d mess it all up. I thought to save us the trouble and just break up with you. Let you find someone better.”

  Reece crushed me to his chest and sucked in a ragged breath. “Jesus, Bailey. Don’t you know by now that there isn’t anyone better than you?”

  I mumbled something incoherent against his shirt.

  “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You adopted me, for Christ’s sake! Remember?”

  I thought back to that conversation in the office parking lot. I’d made what I thought was a sweet and clever statement, then feared I’d offended him: “I’m adopting you.” I’d never seen that look on Reece’s face. It was confusion, at first. Or maybe just his “I’m trying to process this” look. For a moment I thought I’d said something insensitive. But then his look changed. His eyes lit up. Clarity and pure joy. It was the look of a little boy who heard for the first time in his life that he was loved. That he was wanted.

  It turned out to be one of the happiest days of my life.

  “I remember,” I said.

  He pulled me away from him and looked down at my face.

  “I want you to adopt me again,” he said. “And this time, you’re not allowed to let me go.”

  “Never,” I cried. “I’ll never let you go. Marry me, Reece. Please marry me.”

  He considered the desperate look on my face.

  “I came here to propose to you,” he said finally.

  I smiled.

  “I wrote that ad campaign the moment I learned the perfume’s name. I saw you running away from me. I saw you making excuses, thinking you weren’t good enough. Thinking you didn’t deserve happiness in your life. But I knew better. I knew you’d round that corner and ask me to keep you. That’s what you always needed, Bailey. Someone who wouldn’t comply. Someone who wouldn’t let you push him out. And I’m sorry I wasn’t that someone for you all those many months ago. But I’m that someone now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  I flung my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his. He opened his mouth to mine, kissing me hungrily. I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like, but his lips were like the familiar, worn sweater—soft and warm. And cherished. I wanted to kiss him forever, but I needed his words. I needed him to say it.

  I pulled away. “Marry me. Tell me you’ll marry me, Reece.”

  “I’ll marry you, Bailey. And I’ll be married to you for the rest of my life.”

  This time I jumped on him and wrapped my legs around his waist. I was desperate for his love. I was desperate to be naked against him. I needed him in me, filling me with all the sweetness I’d missed out on for so long. I needed the emptiness filled with his promises of forever. I needed the safety of his arms. I didn’t need any more words. I just needed his touch.

  He carried me to the bed and collapsed on top of me. Ahhh the weight of him! I’d missed the weight of those muscles, so easy to bend and break me, but he never did. He was careful. Cradling me, not pinning me. Asking. Not demanding. Though I wouldn’t mind if he demanded.

  “Bailey?” His voice was ragged and hoarse.

  “Do whatever you want!” I cried, and I meant it.

  “I don’t know what I want! That’s the problem.”

  I was confused.

  “Do I rip your clothes off? Do I take them off slowly? Do I kiss you? Bite you? Do I put you on top? Do I get on top of you? Do I . . .”

  I smiled, listening to his list. It was a long list. And it was Reece. The same old Reece who found himself talking way too much when he was nervous. It was precisely what we needed to temper the intensity of the moment. Why? It’s simple. We’d had enough intense moments to satisfy for years to come. I thought I needed passion. All I really needed was silly, nervous Reece.

  “. . . Do I eat you out on the bed, the table, the floor? Do I tie you up? Tie you down? Punish you? Reward you? Do I—”

  I kissed him hard. Our teeth struck, and I tasted blood. But I kept kissing him. I violated his mouth with my tongue, tasting the faint remnants of whiskey—his pre-game energizer. I smiled against his lips thinking of that shot. Thinking of him standing at the bar saying to himself, “You’re fucking Reece Powell. Now go get her!”

  I pulled away.

  “You’re not gonna do any of those things,” I said, my voice low and sultry.

  “I’m not?”

  “Nope.”

  “And why’s that?” he asked.

  My mouth curled into a naughty grin. “Because I’m taking over this entire operation.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied. “Now take your pants off. And be quick about it.”

  He showed me all his teeth with that smile.

  “You’re amazing,” he breathed.

  “No, you are,” I replied.

  I watched him slide out of his shorts, then stan
d in front of me, waiting for further instruction.

  “Underwear,” I said.

  He slithered out of those, too, and I looked at what I’d been missing for six months. Six long, hard months.

  I knelt in front of him. It seemed like the appropriate position. I imagined I’d ask for forgiveness by means of the most explosive blow job he’d ever had. He deserved it. And I thought suddenly that I deserved it, too. I deserved him. After all these months of working on bettering myself, of learning to love me and to let others love me, I deserved him.

  “I deserve you, Reece,” I said, wrapping my tiny hand around his shaft.

  “Yes, you do, Bailey,” he replied.

  He closed his eyes in anticipation of my lips, my tongue. It darted out and licked the tip of his penis. He hissed. I licked that soft spot right under his head, and he moaned.

  “I deserve every bit of you,” I said. “And you deserve every bit of this.”

  I took him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the tip before pushing farther down. I wanted to choke on him—on the love I gave him—and pass out in a state of sweet ecstasy.

  “Bailey,” he breathed, his hands folded over my head. In reverence.

  I stroked him with my hand to the rhythm of my mouth—long, slippery strokes that twisted my hair and elicited moans. I concentrated on giving him the pleasure he needed. It took me six months, but I learned how to love. Sounds simple enough, but love isn’t about you. It’s about the person you love. And once my heart understood, it freed me from . . . me.

  “Bailey, I’m coming,” Reece whispered. “Oh God, I’m coming!”

  He exploded in my mouth. Built-up love. Too much love. I-can’t-swallow-all-of-this love. Hit-the-back-of-my-throat-and-make-me-gag love. I spit up everywhere, coughing and spluttering and squealing. It wasn’t the sexy finale I wanted. I wanted to take his come elegantly—can you take someone’s come in your mouth elegantly?—and swallow it like a saucy vixen.

  “Oh, Bailey,” Reece said, chuckling. “Do you want some help?”

  “Help with what?” I asked, cupping my chin. Drool and semen leaked from the corners of my mouth.

  He held up his hands and shrugged.

  “I need practice,” I said, walking to the bathroom. He followed, standing in the doorway and watching me clean up the mess on my face. “It’s been a while. Obviously.”

  “I’m glad,” he replied.

  I threw away the toilet paper and turned to him.

  “You are, huh?”

  “Yes. And I suppose you figured out that it’s been a while for me, too?”

  I giggled. “Well, you did come pretty fast, and I ain’t that good.”

  “You’re better than you realize,” he said.

  We stared at each other.

  “I was never with anyone else,” he said. “Not one.”

  “Me neither,” I replied.

  “My only regret?”

  I held my breath.

  “Not coming to you sooner,” he said. “I hope you’re prepared for a week-long shut-in. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  I laughed. “Already took the time off of work?”

  He shrugged. “I took a chance.”

  “Paid off.”

  “Yes, it did,” he replied.

  “I guess I should put my request in then.”

  “You better.” He paused and smiled. “Your face is glowing.”

  “I swallowed some of your come,” I explained.

  “Is that what it does?”

  “Yep.”

  “I like it,” he said. “Now get over here.”

  I walked into his open arms. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Bailey’s turn.”

  “Oh my God, Bailey! Move it!” Nicki smacked my hand away from my head, then resumed curling my hair.

  “I’m not sure about this one,” I said, pointing to a less-than-springy curl.

  “I swear to God, if you go all OCD on me . . .”

  “Girls? Stop,” Mom chided. “Nicki? Do your best. Bailey? This is what you get for not hiring a hairstylist.”

  I huffed. “Nicki said she was a ‘miracle worker’ with the curling iron.”

  “I am!” Nicki replied. “I will fix the curl. Just stop touching your hair. In fact, put your hands in your lap.”

  I shook my head. “I need champagne.”

  “Erica, will you get Bailey a glass of champagne, please?” Mom asked. It wasn’t her usual obligatory “please” attached to the end of that command. In fact, it didn’t even sound like a command. It was an actual question that offered options: you can do it, don’t do it, whatever. I was impressed.

  Erica kissed my cheek, then handed me the champagne flute.

  “You only get one because we don’t want you stumbling in the sand,” she said.

  “Understood.”

  “And we don’t want you having to go pee in the middle of the ceremony,” she added.

  “Understood.”

  “And we already put blush on your face, so we don’t need you looking like a cherry.”

  “Understood.”

  Erica grinned. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m nervous,” I confessed.

  “All brides feel that way on their wedding day,” Mom said.

  “I didn’t,” Nicki noted, and Erica and I giggled.

  “All brides but Nicki feel that way on their wedding day,” Mom revised.

  “Your mom’s right,” Erica said. “It’s natural to have the jitters. But you and Reece live together. There’s nothing that changes except your names on a license. Think of it that way and take deep breaths.”

  I breathed deeply and watched as Nicki fixed the curl I didn’t like. She sprayed my hair all over, waited a minute, and then ran her fingers through it, breaking up the ringlets.

  “I can’t promise you that this’ll last through the entire ceremony,” she said. “The wind and all.”

  “I don’t care,” I replied. “As long as he can see me before I get all disheveled.”

  I really wasn’t a fussy bride. I let Nicki choose my dress. I put Erica in charge of the bridesmaids dresses. Erica was my matron of honor; Nicki, my only bridesmaid. That proved a tiny hiccup in the wedding party. Reece wanted Christopher, Camden, and Noah included, but I didn’t have enough girls. And I wasn’t asking any of my “surface” friends because that’s bunk. You don’t ask “surface” friends to be in your wedding.

  “This is bullshit,” Camden said over lunch several months back. I explained my problem and asked if he’d like to be an usher.

  “Camden, you’re a guy. What do you care?”

  “I’m Reece’s family, Bailey. Family! I’m the freakin’ best man!”

  “Hold up,” Christopher chimed in. “I thought I was the best man.”

  “Are you crazy?” Camden said.

  Reece sighed and took a huge chunk out of his burger.

  “He grew up with me!”

  “He works with me!”

  “Shut up!” I screamed, and patrons turned in our direction. “I don’t have enough friends, apparently, so here’s the deal: Camden, you’ll be best man—”

  “WHAT?!” Christopher cried.

  “And Chris, you can walk me down the aisle.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t want your uncle or somebody to do that?”

  I shook my head. “I want my surf buddy to.”

  “You wanna do it up in style? Ride a wave in together?”

  I laughed. “Hell no! Though that is kinda cute.”

  Reece sighed relief. “Are we all happy now? Because I’m this close to eloping.” He held up his thumb and forefinger millimeters apart.

  “We cool,” Christopher said, and then muttered, “I got the better job anyway.”

  In another half-hour I was all dressed up and ready to go. I wore a strapless ivory gown with a high-low hemline. I thought it was perfect for a bea
ch wedding. Nothing dragging in the sand. The gown was simple—its only adornment was a band of beads and pearls that wrapped my chest, giving me the illusion of slightly larger breasts. I liked it. I thought Reece would, too. I decided to go barefoot for the ceremony, my toenails painted a cheery fuchsia. Nicki cried when I showed her. I did it to include a little part of her ceremony in mine. I wore one of those short veils with the netting that hugs your face close. It was decorated with the same beads and pearls featured on my dress.

  Nicki grabbed my reception shoes, and Erica grabbed my second glass of champagne. I begged her and promised I wouldn’t stop the ceremony for a pee break.

  “I’m serious, B,” she warned.

  We clambered into the car—Mom, Nicki, Erica, and me—and headed to our spot on the beach. I didn’t even think about the event set-up. I figured someone would put chairs out, and if not, well, so what? I didn’t care about perfection. (Yes, I just said that.) I cared about seeing Reece. In fact, as soon as we parked, the urge overwhelmed me. A good urge.

  Nicki could see it on my face.

  “At least put these on!” she said, holding up my white sparkly flip flops.

  But I couldn’t wait. I wouldn’t. And against my mother’s orders that the bride not be seen until she walks down the aisle, I ran across the parking lot barefoot and midway down the slippery bank.

  “Reece!” I shouted. “Reece!”

  The wedding guests were seated, waiting. Dozens of faces turned in my direction, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over my dress. Some chuckled and whispered to one another.

  “Bailey?” Reece called. “What are you . . .” And then he really looked at me, studying my dress and my hair and the veil that obscured my face. Observing me bouncing from foot to foot because of the sizzling sand. “Bailey,” he whispered. I couldn’t hear. I could only see his mouth move, forming my name.

  “Do you like it?” I squealed. I held my hands out to the sides. And then I held up one foot and pointed. “Look! No shoes! Can you believe it?”

  He laughed.

  “I did it all wrong, Reece! I did it like that on purpose! My sister did my hair! It’s not perfect, but I love it!”