Breaking the Seventh

by Allie Gail

  “Good boy!” she praises him.

  “I was a good boy, too.” Sliding my hands into the pockets of my sleep pants, I gaze at her meaningfully. “Thought you should know. Just in case you’re passing out treats for good behavior.”

  “Were you? In that case, I’ll be sure to save you a doggie biscuit.” She slaps at a mosquito on her arm and then wipes the remains on the backside of her shorts, staring at the front of my t-shirt as if she’s reluctant to look me in the eye.

  “Would you like to come in before the mosquitoes carry you off?”

  “I would, but I’m worn out and all I want right now is a bath. I’m not sure what it is about long drives, but they just make me feel icky and tired.”

  She sure as hell doesn’t look icky. A little tired, maybe, I’ll give her that. “I know what you mean.”

  “We could hang out tomorrow, though,” she proposes, glancing up at me askance. “If you want to. I mean, if you’re not busy or anything…”

  “Sure. I don’t have anything pressing going on at the moment.” None of the projects I’m working on right now are under any time constraints, thankfully. Even if that was the case, I’d work around them somehow. I intend to take full advantage of her time off.

  Reaching down to scoop up a wiggling Charlie, she adds guiltily, “Sorry I’m getting back so late. Did you have to miss your Sunday appointment?”

  “No. I didn’t miss it. I took Charlie with me.”

  For some reason, that seems to surprise her. “You did?”

  “Uh-huh. He had a good time. Really seemed to enjoy all the attention.”

  Her mouth drops open slightly just before she sets her jaw stubbornly. “Well, if Charlie gets to know where you go on Sundays, I don’t see why you won’t tell me!”

  “Oh. I wasn’t aware that you were interested in knowing.”

  “Can you tell me? Or is it a personal thing?”

  “I suppose I could tell you.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s have it.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I really want to know!”

  “You sure you want to know?” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying stringing her along a little bit.

  “Ye-e-sss…” she drawls uncertainly, as if having second thoughts. Her sudden doubt has me choking back a laugh. She’s probably thinking the worst. That I’m attending support meetings for Sexaholics Anonymous or something along those lines. Hate to disappoint her, but it’s nothing that exciting.

  “All right then. How about I just take you and show you? Tomorrow.”

  Judging by her expression, she wasn’t expecting the offer. “You want to take me there? To the…place, wherever it is you go?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “So it’s not just a Sunday thing then?”

  “No, I can go anytime.”

  “You’re not gonna try and recruit me into a cult or anything, are you?” she demands, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “What, are you kidding? Of course not. Not tomorrow, anyway. It’s too soon. Our policy is to run extensive background checks before recruiting any new members.”

  Shifting Charlie so that one hand is free, she slaps at another mosquito, her wary eyes never leaving my face.

  “No, I’m not in a cult!” I finally allow myself to laugh at her apprehension. “It’s nothing skeevy, I promise. You’ll just have to trust me. Look, you need to take Charlie on in the house before you both get eaten alive. Why don’t you just come over in the morning and we’ll take a ride to Pensacola, okay? You can see for yourself.”

  Nodding assent, Leah blows a wayward strand of hair out of her face. “Okay.”

  “Is nine too early?” I figure we can go someplace and have lunch afterwards.

  “No, that works. I’m planning on going to bed early anyway.”

  “Good deal. Well, get some rest and I’ll see you in the morning then. Oh, wait – should I go grab Charlie’s stuff?”

  “That’s okay, he’s got food at home. I can just get it tomorrow.” Flashing one of her trademark smiles, she takes a step backward. “Thanks again for keeping an eye on him. It really helped me out,” she adds gratefully before turning to head back to her house.

  “Anytime. Sleep well.” Even with the cloud of hungry mosquitoes swarming me, I stand in the open doorway and watch the casual sway of her backside until she’s let herself into her own house, out of sight.

  Ah, that girl.

  I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go.

  She’s back at my door promptly at nine o’clock in the morning.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there and stare at her like an idiot, but she’s busy digging through her purse looking for something so hopefully she doesn’t notice my jaw dragging the ground.

  All I can think is, how the devil can someone like her be unattached? How does she not have a slew of men fighting over her like mad dogs? It boggles my mind that Brad – I can’t even think that fucker’s name without grinding my teeth – could toss her away with so little regard. Without living each day filled with regret.

  Especially this morning. She looks like a ray of sunshine. Fresh-scrubbed and smelling lightly of jasmine, dressed in a strapless yellow sundress and white sandals, her softly curled hair is swinging loose around her bare shoulders. And I envy every strand. I want to be the one caressing and tickling that satiny skin.

  It takes all the self-control I possess not to brush her hair out of the way so I can touch those smooth, bare shoulders. Stroke them. Kiss them. Maybe grip them tightly while I bend her over the patio table…

  She looks up and smiles at me, and it is almost my undoing.

  Her voice is bright and chipper, oblivious to my lewd thoughts. “Ready to go?”

  Go? Hell no, I’m not ready to go anywhere!

  What I really want is to drag her inside and throw her across my bed, push that dress up to her hips and make that pussy mine. All mine. Fuck that girl until my name is the only sound her tongue is able to form. Until our hearts are pounding and our bodies are sweaty. Until we don’t have a single drop of fluid left in either of us.

  Until…

  “I wasn’t sure how to dress,” she tells me, fiddling uncertainly with the jade pendant hanging from her necklace.

  Clearing my parched throat, I make a point of looking her up and down. “If you want my opinion, I’m partial to you in nothing. But seeing how that might raise a few eyebrows, I’d say what you have on is just fine.”

  “You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there, nosy.” I grin at her confidently, in spite of the fact that I’m starting to think this might be a bad idea. She’s no doubt expecting something enjoyable and upbeat. Something fun. I can’t say this is going to fall under any of those categories.

  What was I even thinking when I suggested it? Our first time going anywhere together, and this is what I come up with? Brilliant. Just brilliant.

  What if he’s having a bad day? What if he insults her to the point that she’s pissed at me for bringing her? What if he…what if he throws something at her? He’s been known to do that. Just last week, one of the orderlies got beaned on the head with a flying picture frame.

  It’s too late to back out now, I suppose. Nothing to do but hope for the best.

  Once we’re on our way, I try to distract my errant thoughts with idle conversation.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask you last night. How’s the new mama doing?”

  “Great! She’s recovering just fine, and the baby is healthy as a horse. Eats like one, too.” Pulling up a picture on her cell phone, she shoves it underneath my nose, even though we’re doing seventy down the interstate. “See? That’s him. Isn’t he precious?”

  “He is,” I agree, though truthfully I couldn’t tell much from a quick glance. I’d rather not kill us by rear-ending a semi today. “What’s his name?”

  “Jeremy.” K
icking off her sandals, she settles back in the seat and props her small feet on the dashboard. If anyone else did that it would probably seem obnoxious, but with her it’s just…her. Every unconventional thing she does seems natural, simply because those things are perfectly attuned to her personality.

  Like her choice in nail polish. I notice that today, each toenail is meticulously decorated in colorful zigzag stripes. I can’t help but wonder – does she paint them herself or does she get someone to do it for her?

  “You don’t have any kids, do you?”

  Somewhat affronted, I give her a sidelong look. “Have you seen any kids?”

  “Just checking,” she tells me blithely. “These days, you never know.”

  “Do you?” I ask facetiously.

  “Yes. Did I forget to mention it? I have a two-year-old boy.” Grinning at my expression, she clarifies, “I believe you’ve met Charlie.”

  “Ahh…right.” Yeah, she got me there. “The bathroom bandit. How come you didn’t bring him with you?”

  “I didn’t realize you wanted me to.” Fiddling with the radio, she settles on a station playing Def Leppard. “Damn, it’s nice not having to go to work today. You’re lucky you’re self-employed. If I worked from home I’d probably never get dressed again. I’d be a total slob, like Johnny Depp in that movie…what’s it called? I can’t remember. Where he was living in this cabin and he went crazy and killed his ex-wife and then planted some corn on top of her…anyway, the point is I’d be the one lounging around in my pajamas all day long.”

  That statement conjures up some very intriguing images, but I’d better file those away for later. “You don’t like your job?”

  She shrugs indifferently. “I don’t not like it. I mean, it’s all right. It’s just…you know. A job. Pays the bills so I can’t complain. Everyone there is easy to get along with and my schedule is flexible. I told you I work for Melanie’s dad, right?”

  “Your sister-in-law.”

  “Uh-huh. She sweet-talked him into offering me a position after I left the paper. It started out as just part time, twenty hours a week while I was still going to Northwest, but after I got my AA I started working more. I guess they kinda like me because I’m basically full time now.”

  “Sorry, but I just can’t picture you in law,” I confess. “It’s too clinical. Too by-the-book for someone like you.”

  “Really? Interesting. So what would you picture me doing then?”

  That’s a tricky question. “Hm…let’s see. Selling sunglasses and airbrushed t-shirts by the beach, maybe? Or an art or drama teacher. Interior design. Something visionary like that.”

  Noting her raised eyebrow, I hastily jump in for damage control before she can protest.

  “I wasn’t trying to insinuate that you’re not smart enough to practice law if you wanted to. That’s not what I meant. Just that…you seem like too much of a free spirit to be chained to a desk or boxed up in a courtroom. Weighted down under all those rules and regulations. It’s just not you. It doesn’t fit your personality. Am I making sense?”

  Obviously I haven’t offended her too much, because she smiles. “You make perfect sense. You also happen to be right. It’s not for me. The problem is, I have no idea where I’m supposed to go from here.”

  “What did you study at Northwest?”

  “Just general education courses mostly.”

  “You weren’t planning on getting your bachelor’s degree?”

  “Nah. I was burned out on school at that point.”

  “So you were burned out on school, but decided to…go back to school to become a certified paralegal?” I feel like I’m missing something here.

  “Hey. I never said I was consistent.” Twisting a lock of hair around one finger, she winds and unwinds it absently. “Willow likes to refer to me as a hot mess. Do you know, she took me to this palm reader once, and the woman told me my life line had no distinct direction. Not surprising, right?”

  Reaching for her free hand, I inspect it out of the corner of one eye while still keeping the other eye on the road. “Looks perfectly normal to me.”

  “Willow thought so, too.”

  “You don’t really have any interest in becoming a paralegal then?” Instead of relinquishing her palm, I press my own against it and lace our fingers together.

  “Not really. I just thought since I’m already working in that field, it would be the smart thing to do. It makes sense.”

  “Does it?”

  Catching the challenge behind my question, she gives me a contemplative look. “Well. On paper, I guess it makes sense.”

  “Forget all that. What is it you’d like to do?”

  “Me?” Her lips quirk up in a sheepish smile. “Okay. You know in elementary school when they make you write one of those stupid essays on what you’d like to be when you grow up? And all the other kids are picking the usual stuff like animal doctor and rock star and astronaut? Well, mine was all about how I wanted to be queen of the mermaids.”

  I have to laugh, though I can’t say I am surprised in the slightest.

  “I’m serious! I remember my teacher wrote on it in big red letters. ‘I can appreciate your creativity, but queen of the mermaids is not a viable career choice.’ She gave me a barely passing grade. I thought it was so mean.”

  “The bitch.” My grin widens as I envision the small pigtailed blonde, clutching her essay and staring at the red marks in bewilderment as she tries to come to terms with the revelation that she will never get to be a mermaid.

  “Yeah. She was a bitch!” Leah agrees with a laugh. “My point is, I can’t answer that question because in all honesty, I don’t know. Never have. Some people are born just knowing what it is they’re meant to do, but that was never me. There’s nothing in particular I’m really all that good at. Nothing that stands out.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I leave it at that. There’s plenty I could say, but I don’t. I’d like to tell her that every single thing about her stands out, but coming from me the words would sound insincere. She’d take them with a grain of salt, assuming they are nothing more than an effort to butter her up because I’m trying to get into her pants.

  Which, let’s face it, I am. I can’t deny it. But it’s more than that.

  I like her. I do. I genuinely like being around her.

  And that is my own bewildering revelation.

  “I used to enjoy my editing job,” she reflects thoughtfully.

  “Did you?”

  “Uh-huh. I know it sounds like it would be tedious and all, but to me it wasn’t. I liked reading the articles, and I liked finding mistakes and fixing them. Making the wording better. I was kinda good at that, I guess. Melanie hired me to proof her last two books for her, did I tell you that? She used to do her own editing but she doesn’t have the time anymore. Oh, and she wants me to do her future ones as well.”

  “Well, there you go. Have you ever considered freelance editing?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it,” she confesses hesitantly. “I’m just not really sure how to go about getting my name out there.”

  “I could make you a kickass website,” I offer. “And you could use Melanie as a testimonial. I’m sure she could refer some other authors to you, as well.”

  “You think?” There is a spark of genuine interest in her voice.

  “Sure. I could help with your search engine ranking, too. So you’d be more visible.”

  “How much would something like that cost?”

  “Don’t insult me, Leah. Do you really think I’d charge you anything?”

  “I wouldn’t let you do all that work for nothing,” she protests stubbornly. “You should charge me the same as anyone else.”

  “If you’re really interested, we can work out all the details later. Don’t sweat it. We’ll get it figured out.” No point quibbling over this right now. Besides, she may be obstinate, but she has no idea who she’s dealing with here. Bullheadedness r
uns in my family.

  As she’s about to find out.

  When I pull into the visitor’s parking area of Rosewood Terrace Care Center, I brace myself for an interrogation. But that’s the thing about Leah – she’s nothing if not unpredictable. Instead of asking me what we’re doing at a nursing home, of all places, she merely watches me curiously. Waiting for an explanation without saying a word.

  Procrastinating, I wait until we’re out of the car and making our way across the parking lot before attempting to fill her in.

  “Since I’ve moved closer to home, I try and make a point of seeing my grandfather at least once a week. He’s only been in the nursing home for a few months, but he’s been going downhill for some time. A couple of years ago he had a stroke, and his health started deteriorating. Then he had another one back in March. He’s been partially paralyzed since then.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

  “I should probably warn you. He can sometimes be a little ill-tempered.” I may be whitewashing my caveat just a bit. Okay, more than a bit. Yesterday he called one of the nurses a donkey-fucking whore right to her face. How do you even begin to apologize for something like that?

  Last month one of them actually turned in her resignation because – and I quote – Joseph Bellamy is the devil himself! I’ll admit he’s always been a feisty one, but his behavior has spiraled out of control. It’s like he’s not the same person anymore. The lively, easygoing Poppa I used to love visiting as a child has become the cantankerous old codger everyone wants to avoid.

  “Understandable,” she calmly acknowledges.

  “His short-term memory was affected, too. It’s the strangest thing – he can remember details from sixty years ago but forgets basic things like where his clothes are and whether or not he just ate. Names, too. He’s always calling us by the wrong names. A lot of the time he thinks I’m my dad.”

  She bends to brush her fingers across one of the yellow marigolds lining the front walk. “Must be frustrating for him. Not being able to remember things.”

  I punch the code into the keypad at the entrance and wait for it to buzz before pulling the door open and waiting for her to walk through.