The Ground Rules: Undone

by Roya Carmen

  I am so not good at this.

  “Do you want to talk?” I venture with a little smile.

  A slow grin stretches across his face. Yes. He knows me well. He knows what I want. I can see it in his expression, in his playful smile.

  And I know he’s going to make me work for it. This is a side of Gabe I don’t get to see often, playing hard to get looks so good on him. I’d kick him if I didn’t want him so much.

  He ventures a step or two into the bedroom. “What would you like to talk about?” he asks, that mischievous smile still plastered all over his face.

  “Uh,” I stammer a bit, struggling to come up with a subject of conversation. “Uh… faucets. We should discuss faucets.”

  His face breaks into a smile as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, close, close enough to tease. “Sure.”

  My gaze lingers on the inked curves of his shoulder and travels to the silver chain and the cross falling on his chest. “Uh…what kind were you thinking of?”

  He scratches his week-old beard. “Chrome or brushed nickel?” he asks as he leans back on his arms. His arm brushes against my leg. Just.

  “Nickel is nice,” I say, pulling my knees up, making my slip ride up higher…accidently…on purpose.

  His gaze lingers under my slip. I know he can see my panties. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Um...” he stammers, “brushed nickel is uh… sleek…cool. Chrome is more…” he pauses to catch his breath, “…traditional. I like chrome and how it reflects like…”

  I smile. “Like a mirror?”

  He clears his throat, his gaze still on my panties. “Exactly.”

  I twirl a lock of my hair and tilt my head. “And there’s also black.”

  “Uh…” he says absent-mindedly. “There’s that.”

  I slip a hand under my slip, the material silky on my hand. “Do you want something sleek and straight, modern?” I ask, pulling at my panties. “Or something curvy?”

  He swallows. Hard. “Definitely something curvy.”

  I pull the pink cotton panties over my knees, ever so slowly. “Then it’s decided, something curvy and chrome, traditional.”

  His gaze meets mine and it’s searing. “Traditional,” he echoes.

  I finally pull the panties over my feet and shoot him a smile.

  He stares at me, deadly serious, for what seems like an eternity before he whispers, “Come here.”

  I slither up to him and he pulls my face to his. As soon as my lips hit his, I can feel it in my sex. It’s always been like this with him. It’s like there’s a super-highway straight from his kiss to the deepest part of me, the part that wants him inside me. I feel the desire throbbing deep.

  A groan escapes at the edges of his kiss. I can tell he wants me as much as I want him. And I can tell he’s desperately trying to rein himself in, control himself. I’m sure he doesn’t want to just ravage me after all this time. He wants to handle me gently. But Gabe has never been very good at ‘gently’ — a slam against a wall, a hard rip of the panties, a bite on the fleshy part of the shoulder — unbridled passion, that’s more his speed.

  He pulls at my hair, and I feel him losing control and I eat it up. “You want me?” I ask as I pull myself over him, my bare sex straddling the hard length of him — the towel has long slipped off. I want him to tell me how much he craves me.

  “God, yeah,” he breathes, his mouth against my breast. He pulls my vintage slip up my torso and tears it off me, ripping the delicate embroidered edge.

  He doesn’t apologize. And I couldn’t care less.

  He cups both my breasts in his large hands, my nipples hard against his palms. I close my eyes as he takes my breast in his mouth. I trail my hands through his wet hair. He pulls away from me and looks at me with soft eyes. “Are you sure this is okay?”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s been over six weeks.”

  He moans as I take him in my hand and guide him to me.

  He closes his eyes as I press onto him. He sinks into me very, very slowly. When he opens his beautiful eyes again they get lost in mine. A shiver spreads up my spine as he fills me deep, deeper than anyone ever has. He strokes the side of my hip softly as I push in and off him slowly. He doesn’t move much, still holding on to that reserve of control. He studies me and there’s nothing in his eyes but love.

  I lean in and kiss him again, a tender kiss.

  And I still press into him.

  “I’m not hurting you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  No. Actually you’re rocking my world.

  “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

  I throw my head back and press myself harder into him, wanting him to hit my sweet spot just right. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” I whisper, the words jagged, breathless. “You can’t.”

  I am ready, so ready.

  My hips bounce back against his. “I know you have this whole new ‘gentle love-making’ thing going,” I whisper against the lobe of his ear, “and I respect that, I really do,” I go on, the words caught between whimpers. “But maybe we can try that another time, because right now I just want to be fucked.”

  A hint of a smile curves on his lips and I feel him tense, and after a quick pause, he trails his hand slowly along my side and grabs my rear. Hard. And he doesn’t ask again if he’s hurting me.

  And he does what Gabe does best.

  He loses all control.

  I’m chopping onion and mushrooms for an omelet when my phone rings. I run around the house looking for my purse which isn’t where it’s supposed to be again. When I finally find it, I scrounge for my phone. But it’s too late.

  When I finally manage to get my hands on it, I can see Weston has called. I walk back to the kitchen, phone in hand. I’m tempted to ignore his call. I stare at the carton of eggs and the chopped vegetables on the kitchen counter. I need to make breakfast. I pick up the chopping knife, but I can’t focus. I need to stop pretending he doesn’t exist. I need to face him. I wipe my hands with the kitchen towel hanging off the stove, grab my phone, go down the list and press his name.

  He answers on the second ring.

  “Hello, Mirella,” he says, his words soft. I still love the sound of his voice. Always have. There’s something so soothing about it. He should have been a therapist or a counselor.

  I take a seat at the kitchen table, my feet wobbly. “Hello,” I say. The word seems so small, so insignificant when there’s so much I want to say.

  “I know you don’t want to be bothered,” he says, “I’ve managed to stay away for a while.”

  I smile. “I know. Thank you for respecting my wishes, Weston. It’s nice to hear from you.”

  I can almost hear the smile on his face when he says, “It’s so nice to hear your voice too. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been good. How about you?” I suspect the loss of Oliver has been as hard on him as it has been on me. Although he didn’t carry the child, he did plan for him, for a new life for us.

  “I’ve been better,” he admits. “I’ve missed you. I’d really like to see you.”

  My heart sinks. I’ve missed him too.

  “Is there any way…” he starts and falters, “any way we could see each other?”

  I know I need to face him. To say goodbye. But a part of me is afraid he’ll pull me back in. It seems I’m completely without control when I’m around him.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “We should talk.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, his voice cheerful. “I also have something for you.”

  I shake my head. “No more gifts, Weston.”

  He sighs. “I thought I could come to you,” he says. “There’s a hiking trail not too far from your house, the one with the meadow.”

  I smile. “I know the one. I’ve never pegged you for the rugged type.”

  He laughs. “Well, I’m not really. But the day is beautiful and the colors are just starting to turn,” he points out. “I thought it would be a nice cha
nge.”

  “It would.”

  “What time can I pick you up?” he asks. And it sounds like we’re just going on another date. I hope that’s not what he thinks, because that’s definitely not what we’re doing.

  “About two…or I could meet you there.” I venture, not wanting it to look like a date.

  “I insist,” he presses on. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Sure,” I say with a heavy heart.

  I really hate break-ups.

  Gabe digs into his plate. “This omelet is really good.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my appetite just about non-existent.

  “Yeah, Mom,” Chloe echoes her dad. “I’m glad you remembered to not put mushrooms in mine.”

  “How could I forget?”

  Gabe downs a sip of orange juice. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but I am going for a hike with a friend at two.”

  “Which friend?” Claire pipes up.

  I wince a little and look at Gabe. “A friend from Chicago.”

  “Do we know her?”

  I shake my head and venture another look up at Gabe, who knows who I’m speaking of. “I thought it was time to say goodbye because I’m moving to Phoenix soon.”

  Claire drains her small glass of chocolate milk. “Will she miss you?”

  I top off her glass. “I think so.”

  “As long as she doesn’t follow you to Phoenix,” Gabe chimes in. “I don’t think you should give her a forwarding address.”

  Claire looks at me, wide-eyed. “Is she crazy?”

  “A little bit,” Gabe says.

  “Who is this again?” Chloe asks. “Who are you talking about?”

  I sigh. “No one you know.”

  I wait for Weston, sitting on the front step, dreading the events ahead. “Let this all be over with soon,” I say to no one in particular. I’m all decked out in my hiking gear: skinny jeans, a cotton t-shirt and hoodie, hiking shoes and a red baseball cap with my pony tail tucked through the hole in the back.

  Gabe walks by as he waters the flowers in the front. Claire trails behind him. She’s practically glued to him these days. She’s always been a daddy’s girl, but lately, it’s worse — ever since he left us. I think the poor little thing was left with abandonment issues. “Wow,” he says, “you look hot.”

  I laugh. “What?”

  “You could have tried to look a little less attractive.”

  I smile. “I’m wearing a t-shirt and jeans and the ugliest shoes on the planet. I don’t even have make-up on.”

  “You’re just a natural beauty, I guess.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  “Is he picking you up soon?”

  “Who’s picking you up?” Claire chimes in, curious.

  “Uh…” I stammer, suddenly remembering my little white lie. I lean in to Gabe. “Could you bring her in, you know…”

  He nods. “Hey, let’s go in for a freezie,” he says with a pat on her shoulder.

  “Yay,” she cheers.

  He looks at me one last time as they make their way in. “Don’t have too much fun now,” he says with a hint of a scowl.

  Weston’s sleek black sports car pulls into the driveway. I’m not sure what kind it is — I know nothing about cars — but it looks expensive. I run over to the car, and the window slides down.

  “Hi,” he says, leaning back in a fitted t-shirt and sleek silver-rimmed shades, his rebel lock of hair acting up. He looks like the coolest guy on earth. But I know he looks cooler than he is, because I know the real Weston — the one who uses hand sanitizer, organizes his desk with military precision, and who can’t stand tardiness.

  I smile. “Nice day.”

  He flashes his wide smile. “Get in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  One last kiss.

  We don’t say a word as we make our way out of my neighborhood. It’s busy today, people working on their yards, kids playing on the street. I venture a look up at him, and feel slightly nauseous. This might be the last time I ever see him. If all goes well, it will be the last time I see him. It feels like there’s a great big weight pressing on my insides.

  I hate this.

  Satellite radio is on — soulful acoustic raspy covers of classics — the coffee house station. He looks over at me for a fleeting second, and I look away. “Do you enjoy hiking?”

  “Yes, sometimes,” I say, looking out at the scenery. “Haven’t done it in a while.”

  “Neither have I,” he says. Somehow, it’s strange again between us. It seems we can barely string a few sentences together, making small talk like strangers.

  “Every day is getting easier,” I say, without preamble. “I can see the light. Can you see the light?”

  He smiles. “Yes,” he says simply. “I can see it. And you’re in it.”

  My breath catches. He hasn’t let me go.

  I smile thinly, not knowing what to say. I look nervously around the car and I spot a blue blanket and a picnic basket on the tiny back seat. It’s one of those old-fashioned wicker baskets with a checkered blue and white cloth lining. “Are we having a picnic?”

  He smiles. “I know you’ve probably had lunch, but I brought a few snacks along. Some of your favorites.”

  My stomach growls at his words. “I’m actually starving. I couldn’t eat a thing at lunch. Too nervous.”

  He turns to me. “Why?”

  “Uh…I don’t know,” I stammer. “Did you bring that goat cheese and spread I like?”

  He smiles and nods.

  Sweet.

  “I thought we could have our picnic at the meadow,” he says.

  No.

  I clear my throat. “Sounds good.”

  Doesn’t sound romantic in the least…not at all.

  He looks kind of ridiculous, holding the huge picnic basket in one hand, a blanket slung over his shoulder.

  “I can hold the blanket.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he insists.

  I swing my stainless steel water bottle, holding it by its keychain clasp. I peruse the map of the trail, making a mental note of the number of stops. The trail forms a big wide circle and brings you back right where you started. The meadow is right smack in the middle.

  “It’s only about an hour,” I point out. “Shouldn’t be too hard of a workout.”

  “Well, maybe for you,” he teases. “I know you’re not one for exercise.”

  I snarl at him. “Running around after twenty-one kids is exercise enough, thank you very much.”

  “You have twenty-one kids this year?” he asks as we make our way down the trail. It’s chillier under the shade of the trees. I slip on my hoodie as I take in the forest around me.

  “Yep.”

  The leaves have just started to turn. That delicious fall smell fills my nostrils. The trees are gorgeous as always, but it’s the little details I love the most. I love the moss on the base of the trees, the ferns lining the trails, the broken tree trunks lodging what looks like secret homes. I always like to imagine which little creatures live there — squirrels and chipmunks I guess. And I also love the occasional splashes of brilliant color; the beautiful wild flowers, and a colorful mushroom or fuzzy caterpillar is always a magical find. But I must admit, the eerie strange sounds of the forest sometimes make me jump a little.

  “How is it so far?” he asks, walking a little too close to me. I can smell his familiar woodsy scent, or maybe that’s just the wonderful smell of the trees around us.

  I smile. “It’s…uh…good.” Suddenly, I’m being odd again.

  He smiles as he side-steps a giant root spurting from the ground. “Watch it,” he warns.

  “This hike smells like you,” I say out of the blue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I mean you always smell woodsy, earthy. I don’t mean that as an insult,” I’m quick to add.

  He laughs. And looks at me in that same familiar way he has so many times. His head ti
lts, his eyes linger on me, a hint of a smile — like he could just look at me for hours, if given the chance.

  This goodbye meeting is definitely not starting out on the right track.

  “It’s Dior Homme Sport,” he tells me.

  “Oh, I wondered.” It never occurred to me to ask.

  He smiles. “What about you?” he asks. “You always smell so delicious, almost fruity.”

  “Uh…I don’t really wear anything. Herbal Essence shampoo,” I confess.

  He laughs. “Well, it just makes me want to eat you up.”

  I swallow and falter a bit, and almost trip on one of those damn roots sticking out. As he grabs my arm, the blanket slips and falls to the ground.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Uh…yes, I’m fine,” I tell him as I pick up the blanket, which is now covered in pine needles and dirt. “I’m sorry.”

  He takes the blanket from me. “It’s fine, as long as you’re not hurt.”

  “Yes,” I say. I am fine, physically at least.

  Where is that damn meadow already?

  As I walk beside him, I try to focus on the crackle beneath my shoes, and not on how beautiful he is and how sweet he’s being. It occurs to me that perhaps a solitary walk in the woods and a quaint picnic in a romantic meadow may not have been the best choice for a break-up location. In movies, break-ups always happen on a street corner, in a busy restaurant, or even over the phone. But I’ve tried the restaurant break-up before and it didn’t go so well. I thought he wouldn’t make a scene, being in public and all, but he did. And what we’ve shared is too important for another soulless break-up in a coffee shop. He deserves more. I fear how he’ll react. I don’t know what to expect and it scares the hell out of me.

  I trail purposely behind. Every now and then, he turns back to me and shoots me a smile. I don’t want to walk beside him and flirt. There is no need for foreplay today because nothing will happen between us.

  Finally, the sun shines through as we near the meadow. It stretches in front of us, in soft wisps of lime greens, dotted with yellow and white — buttercups and wild daisies. It’s quite breathtaking and I ask myself why I don’t come here more often.

  I follow Weston into the meadow.