He nods.
Did not see that one coming. Nope, not in a million years would I have ever thought my sexy, adorable, charming boyfriend would choose celibacy over hot monkey sex.
“Why?” I ask. Not that I’m in any place to judge. I haven’t done it in five years, so I suppose I’ve been celibate too. I just didn’t have anyone around that I wanted to “do it” with. That is, until now.
Perhaps I could have played this better. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed, he would have eventually taken the lead.
“As you know,” he begins, looking uncomfortable, “I haven’t dated anyone in two years.”
I nod.
“I’ve told you before that I used to date casually. Well, there was this girl…”
I don’t know if I want to hear this.
“We’d met a few times, gone for drinks. One thing led to another and, well…we had a pregnancy scare.”
I can barely find my voice. “Do you have a child out there somewhere you’ve failed to tell me about?”
“No! It was a scare. A false positive. No babies.”
“Are you serious? Women lie about that all the time. She could have gone off and had the kid, and not told you.”
“No, not possible. She took more tests, and got her doctor to check her out. She had done the first test wrong and gotten a false result.”
Phew. I feel like I can breathe again.
It’s not that I’m against kids or anything, it’s just that adding another person to this would totally complicate things.
“Well, you obviously can have sex,” I say.
“Yes.”
I look at him, feeling hurt and confused. “You just don’t want to have it with me.”
“Sophie,” he says. I look up at him, fresh tears matting my eyelashes. “Don’t cry. It’s nothing to do with you. That pregnancy scare shocked me. I barely knew her. It made me realize that despite using birth control, I could have been linked forever to someone that I didn’t even really like.”
Great. Is this his way of saying, “Sorry, I like you, but not enough to have sex”?
“Which is why I take this very seriously,” he continues. “I don’t want to be intimate and attach myself to someone I can’t see a future with. But I do see a future with you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“If you can see a future for us, what’s the problem?” I ask.
“I want to do this right. It can’t be just sex; it has to mean something. I don’t want to risk having babies, or getting attached to something that isn’t going to last.”
We’re silent.
“Just so we’re clear…you do want to sleep with me?” I ask.
“Of course I want to!”
He gestures roughly toward his groin and raises his eyebrows.
I guess this is good news. Kind of.
My boyfriend isn’t some freaky celibate monk, or secretly gay, or impotent, or dealing with past girlfriends who made fun of his penis.
Hmm…I suppose we didn’t exactly establish if that last one is true, but I somehow suspect it’s not.
Brett licks his lips and reaches for my hands. “Is this something you think you can do? Wait?”
“What if I said no?”
He freezes. “Then, that would be it.”
“Really? It would be over, just like that?” A stabbing pain runs through me at the thought of losing him.
“I just need a minute to think about this,” I say.
Okay. Let’s think this through.
Pros:
1) I’m already used to not having sex, so it’s not like anything will change.
2) My boyfriend is being considerate of our feelings and our futures, and cares deeply about the sanctity of marriage.
3) He won’t see my massacred pubes.
Cons:
1) I’ve wanted to ravish him since our second date, and I’m about to explode.
I rub my hand over my mouth, contemplating.
“It’s going to hurt. A lot. And we’ll drive our water bills up from the cold showers we’ll have to take.”
“I can live with that.” He grins.
“Okay. I can wait.”
We kiss, and I feel desire bolt through me. But I can’t do anything about it.
What have I just signed myself up for?
Chapter 15
Beast of Burden
“What do you mean, your basement’s flooded?” I ask.
“It’s all the rain we’ve been getting,” she says, sighing.
It’s my mom, Julie.
“How much damage is there?” I ask.
“Quite a bit. We’ll have to rip out all the carpet and replace the drywall. At least the bottom half of the walls anyway.”
“What a mess!”
“No kidding. And we have so much junk down there, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s a lot of work for your old dad and me.”
Ah. That’s what she’s after.
I sigh inwardly. It’s not that I mind helping out my parents. I know they’d help me. It’s just that Brett and I had planned on hanging out today. I suppose I could drag him along with me.
Is it too fast? Asking him to meet my parents already?
Oh shut up, Sophie. You practically agreed to marry him last night. As if he’d freak out over meeting “the parents.”
Did I really agree to that?
Hmm. Perhaps in an offhanded way, I did. You know, waiting for “marriage.” And I agreed to it. A delicious mix of happiness and anticipation swirls through me.
And an aftertaste of panic.
Ugh—why do I keep panicking?
I’m not completely over Aaron yet.
No, that’s not true. I am. I am over him. Aren’t I? Ugh.
Mom is still talking about the junk she and Dad have been hoarding in the basement.
“…and you still have all your boxes from college down there.”
“Do you and Dad want some help? I could bring my boyfriend with me to lift all the heavy things.”
Mom pauses for a moment. I can’t even hear her breathing over the phone.
“You have a boyfriend?” she eventually says.
“Yes. I’ve mentioned him before. You know, Brett?”
I’ve dropped Brett’s name every now and then, but always in a group context. Things like, “Narayan’s best friend, Brett, is going to the concert with me,” or “I had Brett, Sam, and Narayan over for a barbecue last night.”
I just conveniently left out the “I got piss-tank drunk in front of them too, and fell asleep with him on the couch and kissed someone new for the first time in five years, and…” etc.
“Oh. I suppose you have,” she replies. “That’s lovely, darling. I’m glad you’ve met someone.”
“Thanks, Mom. What time do you want us out there?”
After hanging up the phone, I text Brett.
You up for hard manual labor today? I’d love to see all those muscles in action.
Ha—that should do it. I doubt he’d pass up an opportunity to show off for me.
Are you after me only for my body? I feel so used.
I roll my eyes. What a goober. Another message comes through.
And I’ve never been so happy in my life. My muscles are at your command, gorgeous. What do you have in mind?
—
We decide to go in my car, as it’s a longish drive and I’d rather have him relax and take in the countryside. That, and my parents can fit less crap into my car than Brett’s truck.
“Where do they live?” Brett asks while handing me my coffee. We’d stopped at Tim Hortons on the way.
I take a sip before answering. Hmm…not bad. I might convert someday. Not that I’ll admit that to him.
“An hour or so northwest of the city,” I reply.
“Did you grow up there?”
“No, I grew up in south Edmonton, across the street from Samira. My parents moved out here six years ago, after Dad retired.”<
br />
“Your dad’s retired already?”
“He’s twenty years older than my mom, although he doesn’t look it. He was a history professor.”
I smile to myself, thinking about Dad. The history buff. Well, “addict” is more like it. He watches the History Channel all day long, muttering things like:
“What a load of crap! Julie! Come take a look at this—they’ve got it all wrong.”
Or…
“Julie! Pack your bags, we’re going to Vienna. I’ve got to see this Kunsthistorisches Museum for myself.”
After thirty years together, you’d think he’d have learned by now that Mom couldn’t care less about museums or the History Channel.
Accustomed to his usual chatter and halfhearted plans, she simply replies, “Wow, that sounds fascinating, Henry.” She’s usually flipping through a book, not really paying attention to what he says, or sometimes smirking at his absurd running commentary.
“And your mom? She’s still working?”
“Yep. She teaches high school English.”
Brett sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I hated English class. All those stupid essays, and Shakespeare. Could never get into it.”
“Then you’ve never had my mom for a teacher.” I laugh. “She’s the sort of person you’d remember as being your favorite teacher. She’s the reason I love books so much.”
Brett grunts. “I doubt that anyone could make me enjoy Hamlet. Or essay writing. Although I didn’t mind Lord of the Flies.”
“I loved Lord of the Flies. Poor Piggy.”
He grins at me, seeming pleased that I remember the characters.
July has passed seamlessly into August, and the drive to my parents’ acreage is filled with green fields and cows grazing sleepily along fence lines.
We eventually pull into my parents’ yard. Their old white farmhouse is surrounded by a circle of tall willows. A large vegetable garden and greenhouse are behind the house, just to the south.
My parents greet us in the yard before we’ve even left the car. Dad, tall and thin as ever, with his horrid dress sense. Today he’s wearing pleated brown plaid wool trousers that are about two inches too short, an olive green sweater vest (doesn’t he know it’s summer and thirty-five degrees outside?), and reading glasses from the seventies. In an offhanded way, I suppose he might be considered a hipster. My dad wore suspenders and pointy shoes decades before they were “cool.”
Mom is more conservative. Her graying blond hair is tied neatly into a low ponytail. She’s wearing a loose white T-shirt, baggy jeans, and flip-flops. I’ve never, ever seen her wear makeup. She often reminds me of Jane Goodall. I tried once to get a picture of her holding a chimpanzee toy, but she refused.
Spoilsport.
“Hey, Mom! Hey, Dad!” I call out.
We do the cursory introductions, and my parents offer to show us around the yard before we go in. Mom shows us her garden, while Dad talks incessantly about world history, and how gardening and planting crops changed the course of humanity.
Brett smiles politely and nods along.
“Oh, stop bothering the poor boy, Henry,” my mom says. “As if he cares about hybrid corn.”
“It was revolutionary! It grew in drought conditions, and now hybrid seed is common—”
“Who wants lunch?” my mom interrupts. We walk across the front porch and settle into the cluttered kitchen. She’s set up a fantastic spread of food: chicken and pecan salad sandwiches, fresh salad greens, lemonade, and oatmeal raisin cookies.
“Can you cook like this?” Brett mumbles to me.
“Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out,” I reply.
“Julie,” my dad says, “did I take my pills yet today?”
“How should I know?”
Dad teasingly narrows his eyes at her. “You should know—you’re the one who fills the pill thingy every week.” He leans toward me and points at Mom. “Some nurse she is, eh?” he says in a stage whisper.
I giggle, and stand up from the table. “Where do you keep your pills?”
“On the counter by the microwave. Thanks, love. Oh, and while you’re up, can you grab my juice from the fridge please?”
I clutch the pill organizer, then start rooting around in the fridge.
It’s completely full of grapefruit juice.
“Why do you have so much grapefruit juice?” I ask.
“Because your father’s on this new health kick,” Mom calls out.
“It’s great for your blood vessels. Stops hardening of the arteries.”
I examine his meds.
“Dad, are you still taking Verelan and Lipitor?”
“Lippy what?”
“Your blood pressure and cholesterol pills.”
He takes another huge bite of salad. “Yup.”
I come back to the kitchen and set his pills and a glass of water in front of him.
He looks sternly up at me. “Funny-looking juice.”
I laugh and settle back down into my chair. “Listen to Nurse Richards,” I say happily. “You can’t have grapefruit juice with those pills.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because grapefruit juice interacts with those medications.”
He frowns at me, contemplating. “How?”
“Basically, it reacts with certain medications in such a way that you risk overdosing.”
“Hmm.”
“Call your pharmacist if you don’t believe me. Or Google it.”
Eventually his expression relaxes into a smile. “Oh, if you insist. Nurse Richards.”
—
After we’ve finished, Dad claps his hands and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “All right, kids, let’s get this show on the road!”
He leads us toward the basement. I can already smell the dank, moldy scent of wet carpet and cardboard.
“Ugh!” I protest, hearing my shoes squish into the saturated carpet.
I survey the main room, and glance toward the three bedrooms. They’re stuffed with furniture, boxes, broken TVs, and whatever else that managed to make the move from our old house. Dad rubs his hands together and smiles encouragingly at everyone.
“Well, let’s get this show on the road. We just need to move one thing at a time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.”
Mom simply rolls her eyes, and leads the way.
I peek up at Brett. What is he thinking? Perhaps this wasn’t the best way for him to meet my parents. You know, stomping through a mushy basement and sorting through thirty years of their accumulated crap.
He shrugs and smirks at me.
“Let me show you my muscles in action,” he whispers, while bending over to pick up a couch.
My goodness…he just lifted up an entire couch. By himself! I feel like I’ve just discovered that I’m in love with Superman.
Oops. Did I just think the “L” word?
Am I in love?
—
It’s four hours later, and we’ve managed to clear out everything.
“It’s going to take forever to go through,” my mom says fretfully, looking at all the boxes stacked in her kitchen and foyer.
“Most of it should just be thrown out,” I say. I can guarantee that nothing in that basement has been touched since the day they moved in six years ago.
“Absolutely not! There might be something important in there.”
“Important. You mean like…” I say while rifling through the box closest to me, “…the June 1994 edition of Good Housekeeping?”
She crosses her arms. “I won’t keep everything. Just the really good things.”
Dad bursts through the front door, looking red-faced and sweaty. Brett joins him a few seconds later, fresh as a daisy.
“We’ve just loaded your car up,” Dad announces proudly.
“With what?”
He shrugs dismissively, while cleaning his glasses with his sweat-drenched green sweater vest.
“So, what’d you pu
t in my car?”
“Mostly a few boxes from your college days.”
Translation: ratty scrubs, that gross floral bedspread I used at Samira’s house (I really should just burn it), and a sweater that I never wore because it was boxy and stiff as cardboard.
Mom grabs Brett’s hands warmly. “It was lovely meeting you, Brett. Thanks so much for all your help. You can come back anytime.” Her eyes dart toward his well-toned arms. Did she just flutter her eyelashes at him?
I laugh, and grab him by the arm.
“Come on, lover boy. Let’s get this show on the road.”
A snorting sort of laughter erupts from his chest.
“What?”
“You sounded so much like your dad there.”
“Really?” I ask, screwing up my nose.
“Yep. ‘Let’s get this show on the road’ is pretty much his catchphrase.”
Huh. He’s spent an afternoon with them, and already knows them better than I do. Go figure.
We wave goodbye and start the drive back home, bathed in the glow of a perfect sunset.
—
“That’s the last one,” Brett announces, heaving a heavy box onto my bed.
“Thank you for today,” I say. “I think my parents love you.”
I think I might too.
We lock eyes, and can’t seem to look away. Our lips meet; our limbs entwine. It’s a slow, deep, languid kiss. One that steams up the windows and makes me want to act out scenes from my favorite smutty romance books.
“Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure about this no-sex thing?” I ask, jokingly. Well, not really.
Brett laughs, pressing his forehead to mine.
“You’re killing me over here.” He takes a cathartic, cleansing breath. “I’m going to get a glass of water. You want one?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I could use a cooldown.
Once he leaves, I go about opening the boxes. Rummaging through random things, like old tea light candles and term papers.
And that’s when I see it.
It’s a cheap, green plastic picture album.
Adrenaline runs wild through my veins. I can feel my pulse near my ear, roaring with blood. Each beat seems to say, “Look. Look. Look.”
I cautiously pick the photo album up, as if touching it might hurt me. I take a deep breath and turn the first page.
The first half of the book consists of pictures from my trip down the Atlantic coast with Samira, when we took a year off between high school and university. A year of campfires on the beach, wrapped in sarongs we bought in California. Eating take-out pad Thai in the front of the Volkswagen camper van. Beautiful sunsets.
Can't Always Get What You Want Page 14