by Maya Sliver
I know he wants me the way I want him yet he’s restraining himself. His primal desires are strong yet he’s suppressing his needs.
Is he still worried about the lengthy age-gap between us? Or that I’m his daughter’s friend? Whatever, if he still behaves weird and immune to my nearness, I’m going to walk out of his house on the morrow, never to come back.
I feel determined. With that thought in mind, I run upstairs and then to my room and start gathering my things that are strewn all over Caroline’s room.
Later in the day, I play some piano, cook lunch for me with the supplies in the kitchen and watch some TV. In the evening, I pick a book and sit on the couch waiting for him to come home.
It’s half-past five when the deadbolt clicks, and the front door flings open. He enters the house and closes the door from behind. His eyes dart across the room settling on me. Our gazes meet for a fleeting second and then he drifts his eyes away from me. Without speaking anything, he marches to the stairs and the next moment he’s gone.
Shit. He behaved no different than in the morning. It’s time to say goodbye to him. I’m not going to come back. I’ve no regrets because I’ve tried my best to get close to him, to heal him, to bring him back to life, to make him agreeable. All my efforts are in vain when he’s not only willing to embrace the happiness of life. When he still thinks that our age gap is the biggest obstacle for him to enjoy life and embrace happiness. Yet, I’ll regret that I won’t be able to learn piano now. After playing the instrument and experiencing the healing effect of music, I’ve found my mojo. The credit goes to William. Because of him, I’m able to learn the instrument and now think of making my career in the field of music. Though I’m determined to take my passion to the next level of learning, I’m not sure I would ever be able to find a teacher like William.
With a heavy heart, I trudge upstairs and then to my room to pick up my luggage. When I emerge from it and climb down the stairs with my duffel bag and handbag, I see William busy in the kitchen.
I reach the kitchen and stand at the threshold. “I’m leaving. Thanks for the hospitality. I greatly appreciate it.”
He turns around swiftly. His eyes grow narrow and his forehead creases. He looks at me and then at the bags I’m carrying.
“Your dormitory is undergoing revamping, isn’t it? You said you’ll stay here for few weeks, right?” He walks to me wiping his hands on the kitchen towel.
“Yeah, but now I’m going to stay at Ben’s house.”
A brief pause lingers between us as he watches me closely.
“You can stay here.”
“But you don’t want me here, William.”
“How can you say that?”
“You’ve been avoiding me since I’ve dropped in here. I thought you wanted me, desired me. You kissed me William, didn’t you, then why this hypocrisy.” I stop for a while to slow down my thumping heart.
He never speaks. Perhaps, he’s trying to frame sentences with words that communicate less and preach more. I’m not here to listen to his preaching. I’m not ready to placate myself, not ready to step back from the decision of leaving him forever if he’s inclined to behave like an insensitive, lifeless object of clay.
And what should I worry about. He hasn’t yet given me any signal that he likes me except those passionate kisses he showered on me a few weeks ago. He is behaving more like a cold and calculated businessman than a passionate lover of art and music of late. Doesn’t he know human emotions, feelings, desires, needs, wants, all play a crucial role in an artist’s overall evolution. Creativity blossoms and thrives only when the artist is not only physically but spiritually fulfilled. Deprivation of any sort leads to mental trauma. It abrades the soul and wounds the heart.
“Stay. Please,” he whispers, edging closer to me and planting a kiss on my forehead.
A kiss on the forehead? Why? Why not cage me in his arms and shower me with passionate kisses, bruising my lips, then removing my clothes and taking me the way he wants, rough, raw or tender.
Chapter Twenty-Three
William
I can’t let Blake go. A part of me is happy. Another part is grieving over my decision. I’m confused and muddled about my own feelings for her. Am I getting myself into trouble and not only myself but her also by letting her stay in my house? What does life have in store for us? What does the future hold for us? I know our forbidden affair would never be accepted by the people around us. More so, it would never be accepted by my daughter.
What would happen once Carrie came back? Lost in thoughts, I prepare dinner while Blake helps me with cutting and chopping. We eat in silence. Once done, she goes to the kitchen, washes her plate, comes back, and settles on the couch with a book in her hand.
After finishing my food, I too follow the same pattern. When I come out of the kitchen, I look at her. She’s still busy with the book. She doesn’t even look at me. I trudge upstairs to the patio. For an hour or two, I play the piano, waiting for her, waiting that she’ll come up and stand, leaning on the instrument, gawking at me. She never comes.
After playing for two hours, I feel tired and thirsty, so I climb down the stairs and to the kitchen. Grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator I march to the living room. She’s still on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, her eyes on the book. She’s busy reading. What the hell is she reading that she’s not able to register my presence or is she purposely avoiding me? In contrast to her previous behavior where she always chirped and fluttered like a butterfly around me, now she’s keeping quiet, maintaining a virtual distance between us. Since the fall of the evening, she hasn’t spoken a single word, let alone sneaking chances to touch me, hug me, or kiss me.
“What are you reading?” I ask, sinking into a sofa in front of her.
“William Blake,” without lifting her stare, she speaks.
“What?”
“Songs of Innocence and of Experience by William Blake, the poet.” She lifts the book and shows me the hardback cover of it before placing it back in her lap and burrowing her gaze into the black lettered yellow pages of it.
Have I made a mistake by asking her to stay? Does she really want to go and stay at her friend’s house?
Before I can derive any conclusion, I see Blake closing the book, setting it at the coffee table and switching off the lamp on the side table. “Goodnight, William.” She covers herself with the fur blanket. Hell. Why didn’t I notice the fur coverlet before. She’s planning to sleep on the couch. Why? She herself had chosen to stay in Carrie’s room.
“You sleeping here?” out of curiosity, I ask.
“Yeah. It feels better on the couch. Here, it doesn’t feel like the four walls are closing in on me. I can’t sleep alone in a tiny room. It’s like a prison to me.” With that, she covers her face with the blanket and curls herself up into a ball.
I don’t want to disturb her further. Putting the water bottle back into the fridge, I walk up the stairs to my room. Once inside, I deposit my fatigued body on the mattress and close my eyes. The day’s fatigue feels heavy on my eyelids. Unlike other days, sleep comes pretty early. Probably because, I feel happy and relieved. Happy that Blake is with me. Relieved that though she’s staying she’s learned the fact that I’m pretty immune to her advances, but only I know how immune I am. My resolve is hanging by thin fragile threads. I’ll be a goner the moment she succeeds in breaking those weak threads of morality, ethics, and principles. But until then, I want to wallow in my new-found happiness and relief.
***
I wake up to a ringing alarm clock. It’s five. I push myself to a sitting position and drop my feet down on the carpet. Next, I rise from the bed and charge to the en-suite. After getting freshened up, I put my jogging clothes on. Wrapping a towel around my neck, I emerge of my room and walk down the stairs.
The side table lamp is on, and I see Blake slumped on one corner of the couch, her legs folded to her chest, arms wrapped around the folded legs. I hear her sobs,
melancholic whimpers of pain and anguish floating in the serenity of the living room.
What’s wrong? Has she again had a bad dream?
I march to her. “You okay?”
She doesn’t speak. I perch next to her and touch the top of her hand and then her forehead. “God! You’re cold like an ice slab. What’s wrong?” I edge closer and snake an arm around her, ruffling her messed up night hair. She slithers toward me and throws her arms around me, burying her head in my chest. She sobs and cries and sniffs.
“It’s okay. Relax. Forget what you saw. It’s only a dream. We are going to have a bright sunny day today.” I stroke her head in an attempt to calm her down.
“They are after me,” she whispers, sobbing.
“Who?”
“Monsters.”
“Monsters?”
“My foster parents’ son and his friends are running after me.”
“What?” Shock hit me like a thunderbolt.
“I was eight when they attacked me, tried to assault me, but somehow I managed to flee away from them, managed to escape their attack and since then I’m having these nightmares.” She pulls back and wipes her eyes.
Anxiousness creeps around me. A wave of regret and grief lances through me. I throw an arm around her and pull her closer to my chest, hugging her tight. “Everything will be all right. I’m with you. Nobody can harm you now,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head.
She sobs for a while and then calms down. I feel her muscles relaxing, limping against my chest. At that moment, I loosen my grip and pull back a little only to find her head tilting to the side and her eyes slowly closing down. She has had a sleepless night. I see dark circles under her eyes and prominent eye bags. In the circle of my arms, she slowly drifts to sleep. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get to the bedroom.” I scoop her up in my arms and carry her to the stairs and then to my bedroom. There, I lay her on the bed and cover her with the blanket before slipping next to her and pulling her cold body against my chest, enveloping her in my arms.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blake
My eyes open to the yellow sun streaming in through the window blinds. I’m lying on my side and in front of me lay an armchair. I see William sprawled out on it like a weary soldier back from war.
Thirsty and hungry, I slowly try to push myself to the sitting position. I don’t know what time it is, but the bright sun sprinkled across the room clearly indicates past nine.
Did I pass out in his arms last night? For as far as I remember, I was trembling with fear, shivering on the couch when William wrapped his arms around me. I don’t remember what happened after that. He must have carried me from the living room to the bedroom, to his bedroom. But why is he sleeping on the chair? There’s enough room in the bed. He could have still lain on his side of the bed. I can’t infer any conclusion except he’s avoiding my nearness. Then why does he care about me so much? I know he’s a loving and caring father, but I’m not his daughter. I’m nothing to him except an intruder in his house and an invader into his privacy.
Thoughts sprout in my head and I feel guilty of my cruel and selfish conduct, but no matter how hard I try I can’t keep my feelings to myself. I can’t confine my emotions to my heart. Emotions that I’ve started feeling for this single Dad of late. It’s not only limited to physical attraction, but there’s something more powerful. Something that’s day by day drawing me closer and closer to William despite the stiffness and rigidity with which he treats me.
I’m lost in my thoughts, staring at him, when the chair creaks. The man in the seat changes position and opens his eyes. His sleepy eyes meet mine and I try to gather myself.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
I nod and bury my stare to the blanket that lay spread on my legs, now.
“I guess you hadn’t had anything since last night. Shall I get something for you to eat?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine now. I’ll go down and fix something for myself. You need not worry.” With that said, I toss the blanket aside and drop my feet down to the carpet. Next, I rise and brush past him making my way to the exit of the room and then down the stairs to the kitchen.
Once in the kitchen, I fix myself a bowl of cereals and saunter to the dining room, taking a seat on one of the brown walnut chairs.
William is still upstairs, perhaps getting ready for work.
I finish breakfast and walk back to the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine. My eyes travel to the vast fields and shrubbery that faces the kitchen window. What a bright sunny day it is. If only I could feel the brightness of the morning.
When I come out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee, I see him descending the stairs. He’s still in the same clothes, gray sweats and a sky-blue tee. His crumpled clothes scream fatigue and sleeplessness.
He pulls a chair at the head of the table and slides into it. The coffee cup is right there in front of him. He stares at me in silence.
Is he not going to work today?
He clears his throat before lifting the coffee mug to his lips and taking a swig of the beverage. We drink in silence. Once done with my coffee, I saunter back to the kitchen.
While rinsing the cup, I hear him enter the kitchen. Again, he clears his throat. “I’m going for some grocery shopping. Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks.”
After washing the cup and placing it in the shelf, I turn around. Our eyes meet and for a moment it feels as if he’s wanting to say something. But then he never speaks and leaves the kitchen, marching his way to the stairs. Within moments, he disappears on the first floor.
Why am I behaving like this? He has helped me, looked after me last night. And instead of thanking him, I’m behaving as if he has done something very mean to me or has asked me to leave his house, when in reality, he has requested me to stay.
Why did he request me to stay when he doesn’t like my company and treats me like an unwanted piece of furniture? A lifeless object he probably purchased from a town fair without any intention of using it.
Again, the question arises. If he’s so weary of my presence in the house that he doesn’t bother to talk or interact with me, why is he keeping me in his house.
I’m banging pots and pans on the pretext of arranging them in the shelves to vent my confusion, anger, frustration when footsteps thump on the staircase. Next, I hear him behind me. “Would you like to go with me?”
What? He wants to take me out to the grocery store? Whatever.
I turn around only to find him aptly dressed for the grocery shopping. He’s wearing a cargo and an ocean blue T-shirt. The color of his shirt matches with the color of his eyes.
I gaze at him for a while only to make certain he’s seriously looking for my company or it’s just his conservative disposition of treating women like china vases. Especially those who are years younger than him and happen to be his daughter’s friends. Can’t he just ignore the age-gap and the daughter’s-friend thing and go with the blow of the wind, listening to his heart? Can’t he notice my unstoppable affection, my untamed admiration for him? Or he notices everything and feels the tension building, the sparks flying, and the chemistry brewing and ignores them. But for how long? For how long can he keep the spark from kindling into a passionate fire? An inflammable passion that won’t spare anything and burn all the old notions and conventions.
When I don’t speak and stare at him, he asks again. “Would you like…?”
“Okay,” I speak in a low tone.
“Cool. I’ll be waiting for you in the truck.” His eyes travel from my face to my chest and then to my nude legs.
I’m still wearing my night clothes—a white T-shirt and black panties. Heat rises to my cheek and shame creeps around me when I lower my eyes only to find pebbly nipples protruding through the flimsy cotton of my shirt.
Shit. His single stare and I feel all hot and horny.
I smile naughtily before walking out of the kitchen. Next, I’m climbing the stairs to
dress.
Chapter Twenty-Five
William
Weekly grocery shopping wasn’t in my mind until morning. But then Blake looked so lost in thoughts. Also because of the awkward stillness slowly sprawling between us and clasping us in its firm grasp day by day, I decided to take her out.
I’m not her boyfriend, nor am I a young lover that would take her out on dates. I’m her best friend’s father, almost twice her age. Shopping seems the best idea to break the awkwardness between us.
The door to the truck opens and she sinks into the passenger’s seat. I gaze at her from the corner of my eye. Her face shines in the bright light of the sun. Gone is the gloominess of the night, now she looks as lively and vibrant as I saw her the first day of our meeting. She’s wearing jeans and a crop top. Her long golden locks loose and moist from the recent shower splayed across her back, reaching up to her narrow waist.
Vanilla wafts into my nose as she gathers her freshly shampooed wet tresses over one shoulder.
“Shall we?” I ask, smiling. I want to keep things simple and casual between us and there’s no other way than a smile to lead us to that road.
“Yeah, let’s.” She smiles too yet her smile is suffused more with angst and restlessness than happiness. Her vibes are incomprehensible. I can’t fathom what she’s thinking. Don’t know how to deal with her introspection. When I’m pretty much experienced with dealing with youths as most of my students are about her age, Blake seems like an unsolvable puzzle, a strange mystery to my eyes. How much does this girl hide inside of her? She’s been through a rough past, but she never lets the shadows of that gloomy past hover over her easily. It’s only during the nights when those shady remembrances clasp her and make her vulnerable. Perhaps, her inclination toward me, to a man who is years older than her is the result of her orphaned childhood. Perhaps, she’s seeking a protected homely environment in me. Perhaps at our house, near me, she feels safe and at home.