by Q. T. Ruby
“I’m starting promo for that one in the next week or so.”
My mother nods. “What is it that you do for promotion?” she asks. Finally! A normal question. I set the wine down.
“More or less the main cast tours different cities to let people know about the movie. We try to build excitement to see it.”
“Like a telemarketer.” A smug grin flashes on her face before she says, “I always wonder if they believe in anything they’re selling.”
“Mom—” I begin.
“I wonder the same thing, Mrs. Parelli. It’s a good thing I only get involved in projects I believe in.” Dan smiles at her. Killing her with kindness again.
“So you believe in the movie you’re promoting?”
He nods. “Definitely. I wouldn’t have taken the part otherwise. I’m looking forward to seeing it at the premiere.”
“You haven’t seen it, and yet you’re going to promote it?”
“I’ve seen almost all of it, just not the finished product all the way through. I’ll see it at the New York premiere . . . with Claire, if she’d like to come.” He turns to me with a grin, waiting for an answer.
Caught off-guard, I blink, speechless for a fraction of a second. “Oh . . . I’d love to.” No doubt there’s a swoony grin on my face.
He winks at me. “Good.”
“Will you miss Christmas with your family because you’ll be promoting, Dan? What kind of job asks a person to work on Christmas?” my mom asks, scoffing.
“Actually, no. I’ll be done with promotion just before Christmas, so I’ll be able to fly home, which reminds me—Claire, I was wondering if you’d like to join me in London for Christmas. Meet my family.”
Silverware clanks onto plates, and the table falls silent, as does my heart, which has stopped mid-beat. Meet his family? In London? I hear my sisters-in-law giggle, and when I peek down the table, all eyes are on me.
I shake my head to clear it. “I . . . I’m . . .” I look at him. That face. Those eyes. That smile. We’re in our bubble again. “I’d love to come to London for Christmas.”
“You’re not going to be with your own family on Christmas, Claire?” my mother asks, short and snippy. Pop goes the bubble.
I look back at my mother whose anger simmers just under the surface. “I guess not this year.” My head spins. Visiting London and meeting his family for Christmas! Whoa.
Dan looks at my mom. “My mum is very excited to meet her.”
“You told your mother about Claire?”
“Of course.”
My mother examines me, examines Dan, and then asks, “Then I have to wonder why Claire doesn’t talk about you, Dan.”
“Mom,” I say, scolding.
“It’s true. He tells his mother about you, but why do I only find out about your life through magazines, Claire? And now you’re headed off to a foreign country with him, and I know so little about him.”
“What would you like to know about me, Mrs. Parelli?” Dan asks, and I want to shove those words all the way back into his mouth.
Placing her fork down, she dabs her lips with the napkin. “I’d like to know why she changed her whole life for you.” She sits back, waiting.
The only sounds come from the kids’ table in the kitchen—giggling and a little bickering, but the “grown-up” table, which hardly seems grown-up right now, is silent.
“I didn’t change my life for him, Mom. I changed it for me.”
“For you,” she says, repeating me. “Are you sure about that? You always loved teaching until you met him—then you gave it up.”
I stare at her a moment, gathering my thoughts and words and trying not to throw up. This has reached a whole new level of uncomfortable—it’s unbearable. Yes, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Of course, my brothers haven’t stopped chomping and shoveling food in their gobs. Dad’s doing the same. “I started teaching for you and stopped when I started living for me. I’m happy with my new job. I’m happy dating Dan. I’m happy living in New York. I’m just happy, Mom, and I’m happy to spend Christmas in London, meeting Dan’s family.”
She shifts, picks up her fork, but keeps her eyes on me.
Dan interrupts the showdown. “Your cooking is just as delicious as my mum’s, Mrs. Parelli.” He shoves a forkful of turkey into his mouth.
“Yes, everything’s delicious, dear,” my father says. There are mumbles of agreement around the table as the awkwardness slowly dissipates and smaller conversations crop up again. I breathe deeply and try to eat. God, she gets under my skin so easily.
Later, I’m at the sink washing platters and pans when my mother slides up next to me. I brace myself.
She grabs a dishtowel and begins drying. “I’m glad you’re happy, Claire . . . but what’s wrong with him?”
I stop and look at her. She’s perfectly serious. “What?”
“What are his flaws, Claire? He’s handsome, accomplished in his field . . .” She pauses to roll her eyes. “. . . and he seems nice and thoughtful. So what’s wrong with him?”
“Why does something have to be wrong with him?”
“Because everyone has flaws . . . except Dan Chase? He’s the perfect man? You know what they say—if it’s too good to be true then it probably is.” She stops, watching me for a moment, until she leans in and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for washing those.” She walks away. I sigh in relief, but the gnawing begins.
Flaws.
***
We arrive back at my apartment at the end of Thanksgiving Day, and no one’s home. Camille and Bridget are sleeping over their respective families’ houses. I wasn’t about to do the same.
I’m at my dresser, taking off my earrings when Dan slides his hands around my waist and presses our hips together. He leans his chin on my shoulder and watches me through the mirror. Turning his head toward my neck, he breathes hard on purpose to tickle me. I giggle a little. “No one threatened me tonight, so that’s a step in the right direction, I think,” he says with a laugh. “Dinner was amazing. I know where you get your cooking skills from.” He spins me around, keeping his hands on my waist. “What’s wrong? You’ve been quiet since we left your parents’ house.”
I shrug and mindlessly toy with his shirt buttons. I’m not sure I can identify one thing since it feels like a million things are occupying my headspace.
“Are you still upset about what your mum said at dinner?”
I meet his eyes. “I’m really sorry about that. She is the Queen of Discomfort. Let’s make everyone squirm while I roast Claire and Dan in front of everyone on a fucking holiday.”
He strokes my face. “You handled it very well.”
I shrug again. “But she said other things later on, and I can’t shake them. I’ve gotten better about letting her comments go, but this . . .”
“What’d she say?”
I sigh. “She asked if you had any flaws.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“No. She thinks you’re too good to be true—a fake.”
He laughs.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because of course I have flaws. A lot of them. You know I do.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“A lot of them, Claire. I was not always this rocking Adonis you see before you.” He wiggles his eyebrows and tickles my waist a little. I shake my head and give in to a smile. Dan strokes my cheek and presses his lips to mine before slowly kissing his way to my neck. His hands draw a leisurely line down my spine to my hips, resting his hands there. In my ear he whispers, “Not so long ago I was infinitely more awkward than dinner was tonight.”
The idea of him ever being awkward makes me snicker.
He continues stroking and nibbling along my neck. “When my grown-up teeth
came in, they were enormous—like those mini-marshmallows. And when I smiled, I looked like I could eat a village. Children shrieked in horror as I passed.”
I pull back to look at him, laughing at the image. “Really?”
He snickers and shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes to the teeth, but no to the children shrieking, although I wouldn’t have been surprised.” Leaning in again, he presses his lips to my cheek then up to my ear where he nibbles on my ear lobe for a moment.
Chills prickle down my arms, and I’m suddenly aware at how tense my shoulders have been. He stops again and pulls back to look at me. “And my hair had mad cowlicks, so it went in every direction. My mum thought I looked adorable though, so there was no cutting it off.” He takes my hand, leading me to the bed, where he sits at an angle on the edge and pats the spot next to him. “Sit. Give me your back.”
I sit, as instructed, with my back toward him and one leg on the floor, the other folded under me. He begins massaging my neck and shoulders. I exhale, a calm emanating from his fingers. “And then I started growing taller, like a lanky beanstalk, and I was really self-conscious about it, so I hunched over when I walked around.” He grabs my shoulders and leans around me to meet my eyes. “I was not attractive in the very least.”
He sits back and continues to rub my neck and shoulders. I can feel the tension leaving my body bit by bit. “So on top of those raging good looks . . .” He snorts. “I was also sensitive—I cried at everything. My sisters like to remind me of that. Anyway, I’ve always been able to empathize with people, so when others were upset, so was I. It was awful not to have control over my feelings when I was younger. I absolutely thought I was defective. Look at me, Claire.”
I twist around to look at him.
“I was a big-toothed, bushy-haired, gangly, sensitive kid. And the best part? I had a hard time learning to read, so add feeling stupid to the list, and you have the start of my flaws. “Turn around.”
I turn my back to him and his fingers weave into my hair, massaging my head with tiny swirls that unwind my mind.
“It took a long while for me to accept myself—and figure out hair gel.” He chuckles. “I have great parents who really encouraged me, and helped me learn to read. My face grew, too, so the teeth started looking less like they belonged to a horse, and I somehow figured out a way to make a pretty lucrative living out of being sensitive—and love what I do. Frankly, I never expected to be known for acting or my looks, or that I’d be able to land any girl, much less a girl like you.”
“Now you’re just being silly.”
“No, I’m not. I’m serious.”
“But everyone has awkward stages. Those aren’t really flaws.”
“Look at me.”
I turn again to face him.
“I can be selfish, stubborn, and a dickhead on occasion.”
“Okay, but again, that’s normal—everyone can be those things.”
“Which is my point exactly. I’m a normal person with normal flaws . . . except . . .” He stops as if he’s unsure of the next words. “There might come a day when you discover some flaw of mine that will make you wonder if it’s worth it, if I’m worth it.”
I’m taken aback, and it takes me several moments to respond. “I can’t imagine there ever being something that would make me wonder if being with you is worth it.”
“Why’s that so strange? It happened before.” He’s tense—his face, his posture. “You left me because of it.”
“I left because of my faults, Dan, and anyway, I have a mountain of flaws next to you.” I shake my head and look down at my hands.
“Like what? Name them. Because from where I’m sitting your only flaws are that you’re equally as sensitive as I am and you’re scared—you’ve been scared for too long to listen to your heart. You hate people not approving of your decisions, think you’re hurting them by doing something unexpected, so you’d rather hurt yourself and not make waves, right? Dinner tonight made it very clear why you’d rather not make waves.”
I gasp. Tears prick at my eyes. He’s dislodging the stopper on my well of emotions, and it makes me squirm. I want to shut down this conversation, but he’s now standing in front of me.
“Look at me.” His voice is commanding and deep.
I breathe deeply, hoping to contain myself before I look up. “Claire,” he says again. I meet his eyes, which are serious, and his jaw, set. He grabs the bottom of his T-shirt and whips it over his head.
Perfection.
Once again, his staggering beauty overwhelms me. He searches my eyes before he begins to unbuckle his belt, slowly, deliberately. My eyes are drawn to his perfect fingers unbuttoning the lone button on his jeans and unzipping them at an equally slow pace. My body revs when he drops them to the floor. My eyes scale his wall of abs, crest the hard peaks of his chest, and finally dive into the green waters of his eyes. He’s more intense than I’ve ever seen him. “No one’s perfect.”
Your accent sure is—are the words on the tip of my tongue, but I’m distracted by him reaching for the hem of my sweater and whooshing it over my head and off of me, throwing it to the side. Kneeling down, he takes hold of my feet and slides off my shoes. With nimble fingers, he quickly unbuttons and unzips my pants, sliding them off me. He stands, his eyes focused on me sitting here in my bra and panties. He’s breathing harder—his abs are a testament to that.
“Lie back.”
As I follow his command, his eyes remain fixed on mine. He licks his lips and reaches down to slip my panties off me. “Scoot up the bed.” I do.
He slides his boxers off, nice and smooth. He is utterly perfect, and I suddenly feel so unworthy of all that he offers me. I turn away.
“Look at me.” There’s frustration in his voice, and I look up at him. His gaze seems to be both a challenge and an invitation—don’t move, stay here with me. He slowly spreads my bent knees apart and kneels between them on the bed. I stretch my legs up and out. Leaning forward with one arm by my head, he reaches down and takes aim, but stops just before he fully connects our bodies and says, “You’re not perfect; I’m not perfect.” My back arches slightly as he gradually slips inside, and damn, his fullness feels so close to what I imagine perfect to be. “But we’re pretty perfect together.”
One quick thrust. Two. Then he stops, the veins in his neck throbbing and larger than before. His eyes meet mine again, but this time there’s a twinkle in his. “For fifteen minutes anyway.” He smiles, and I laugh, and that’s when the fear and sadness and whatever else dissipate, and the joy and fun of loving him and being loved by him take over.
***
As always, my long holiday weekend with Dan flies by. We’re waiting inside my bedroom on top of the made bed for the car to pick him up. I’m snuggled into him—leg over his, head in his nook, his arm under my neck, cradling me. “You sure you don’t want to come on promo with me? It could be fun,” he says.
“You won’t have time for me. You said yourself the schedule is tight.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’m happy you’re coming to the premiere, though.”
“Me, too. And we leave for London right after?”
“Pretty much. There’ll be a party after the premiere, and then we’ll leave the next morning for London.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to London.”
“Liar! You said you always wanted to go to Italy to see the statue of David and the Sistine Chapel.”
“True, and I do, but London’s got . . . um . . . you.”
He laughs, squeezing me hard and tickling my sides. “Right, same thing.”
Giggling, I do my best to wiggle away until he stops the torture and we resume our snuggling. “Are you nervous to introduce me to your family?”
“No, although my sisters will absolutely try to embarrass me. Are you
worried about meeting them?”
“Of course!”
“Eh, don’t be. They’re really laid back. So what are you wearing to the premiere?”
I shoot up, panicked. “Shit. I have no idea. What should I wear? I mean, what do people wear to these things?”
He tugs me back down. “I’m sure Bridget’ll help. I like what she puts on you.”
“So, slutwear. Sure. Who’s that? Oh, that’s Dan Chase’s slutty girlfriend.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
I roll my eyes. “Men.”
He laughs and snatches me close, burrowing his scruffy face into my neck. I squeak and squirm, and soon enough I can barely breathe. He’s shifting from spot to spot, blocking all of my efforts to push him away.
“Stop!” I finally push him off me and rub my neck.
He hovers over me, still laughing. “I’m sure whatever you wear, you’ll look amazing.”
“You’re lucky if I even show up now.”
“Will you watch me on TV interviews and pine for me?”
“Yes, pine . . . real wood would be nice for a change.”
He successfully attacks my neck again even though I give it my best defense. “Pine for me, dammit!” he says, laughing against my vulnerable neck.
“I’ll pine! I’ll pine! Now get off me!” My face hurts from laughing.
His phone dings, and he stretches across the bed to the nightstand to check it. “Car’s here.”
“Oh.”
He stands and grabs my hand, pulling me to standing, too. “I’m going to miss you. At least you can see me on TV—I can’t see you at all.”
“We do have phones, Dan. We can FaceTime.”
“What?” he shouts. “But you’re afraid of technology!”
I swat at him. “I was going to send you dirty photos, but now? Forget it.”
“It’s called sexting, Claire,” he says smugly and snickering.