I have a flight out Monday morning. A full day in Florida’s paradise to do what I want. I use that morning to get a massage and meeting up with Butters and Meaty for a late Brunch; afterwards a hair appointment to go back to as close to my natural hue as possible. It just feels like time to shed the blonde bombshell. She doesn't have answers anymore than I do.
I sip on a mimosa while waiting for the guys to show up. They’d probably laugh their asses off at seeing me drink such a girly drink, but the restaurant has a special for a nine dollar bottomless glass and I am feeling relaxed enough to indulge.
They greet me with the usual hugs and happy smiles.
We order and get down to what we do best, giving each other shit.
“So Reed’s handed in his man-card, who’s next?” I ask them.
Meaty leans back in his chair and gives me a skeptical look.
“Shit girl, we thought it’d be you. How can we get season tickets? I ain’t no Seahawks fan, but I wouldn’t mind scoring some tickets when they play the Texans.”
“You know that was over before it started, Meaty.” I tell them.
“Huh,” He responds.
“So no tickets?” Butters interjects in the silence.
I throw up my hands, “You two are impossible.”
Our breakfast arrives then and the conversation turns to their return to base, and catching up on the latest gossip with the rest of the team.
The bill comes, and the guys and I wrap up our conversation.
“So, Ryan, you just heading back to Cali? Got any plans?”
I smile at Butters. Knock back the last little bit of my mimosa.
“No plans. I’m as free as a bird.”
“Maybe you should go check out Broussard’s beach house.”
I push my chair back from the table and give him a hug.
“You’re sweet, Butters.”
It’s only once I’m done at the hair salon that I check my phone- Butters has sent me an address. And I don’t need twenty guesses to know whose address it is.
I pay for my new color, cut and style. Back to honey brown with blonde highlights and short and spiky.
It’s close to four in the afternoon. I catch a Uber back to the condo.
As I’m packing up my little bit of clothes in preparation for tomorrow, I think about Broussard. Wonder what he’s doing. Before I can analyze my actions, or talk myself out of it, I order another Uber.
I’ll just do a drive by. See what his house is all about.
Only when I get in the Uber and we drive twenty-five minutes down the highway, and the high-rise condos disappear, I’m irrationally homesick.
I can’t figure out this feeling. The sun is dipping low, there are dark clouds building above us. I unroll the window and let the salty sea air hit my face.
Intake the scent.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!! I scream to myself in my head.
There is an echoing silence. I don’t know seems to be the only answer.
The driver stops at a concrete mammoth of a house, and I take a look down the road and notice all the houses seem to be set a good distance apart, their long drives denoting an aura of wealth.
Just as I hand the driver a ten from the back seat the heavens open up in a torrential downpour.
I dash along the drive, thank God Broussard doesn’t have a gate yet, and up the stone steps to the front door.
I take a heaving breath and ring the doorbell. Seconds tick by, where I brush the raindrops from my forehead to prevent them from running into my eyes.
The door opens.
“Jeez, Ryan! Get in here!”
He pulls me into the foyer without even a question as to what I am doing there.
He is gone, and in the sudden silence and coolness of air conditioning I shiver.
Back, towel in hand, he wraps it around my shoulders. He begins rubbing my arms up and down with his open palms in an effort to warm me up.
It brings our faces within inches of each other.
I am drinking him in. His strong jaw, piercing hazel eyes, coral pink lips set in a disapproving line.
“What are you doing here?” He asks me.
His hands blaze on the outside of my arms.
“I don’t know.” I tell him.
He smiles a bit at that- just one corner of his mouth turning up.
He leans toward me and warm lips meet my own. I close my eyes and savor his tongue against my own in a slow caress.
My hands reach up between us, his warmth, his clean masculine scent is heady and enveloping me. Familiar.
This isn’t what I came here for.
I push at his chest while taking a step back to break the kiss.
My brain registers the house I’m in -cataloging details, in an effort to push away the feelings that kiss erupted in my chest.
It’s a large space, the back wall comprised entirely of windows. I can only make out a deck through the windows, the rain is falling so heavily a gray curtain obscures any beach views. Directly in front of me, a step-down to what I suppose will one day be a living room- but right now sits empty, it’s concrete floors shiny, yet warm. To the right is a solid wall, anchored by a large fireplace. To the right of the fireplace, stairs lead up to a short loft-style hallway. Doors closed.
To my left, the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen in my life. Enormous kitchen island, bar stools beckoning for me to have a seat. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, chocolate cabinets. It makes me wish that I knew more than how to sauté up some chicken breasts. Above it a loft area.
“Here Ryan,” Broussard grabs my hand and leads me over to the kitchen.
Behind the back wall of the kitchen is a staircase up to the loft, and just beyond that, a tucked away laundry room.
Broussard pulls me into it, and pulls some clothes from the dryer.
“Still warm,” he turns to me handing me a dark gray t-shirt and pair of black boxer shorts.
I instinctively take them from his outstretched hands.
“Thank you.”
“You can change in here,” he’s putting the other clothes from the dryer into a laundry basket on the floor, “And then put your own in the dryer.”
I nod my ok. His body brushes against mine as he leaves the room. Scents of homely cleanliness soothe my wildly beating heart.
I peel my cold, wet jeans down my legs and throw them in the dryer. Bring his t-shirt up to my face and inhale. Tide detergent and something else. Something masculine. Something uniquely Broussard.
I pull my shirt off and over my head, and throw it into the dryer after my jeans.
My bra is damp, so I hang it up on one of the convenient rods placed along the back side of the wall.
The towel and my underwear both go into the dryer before I pull the comfortable t-shirt over my head and his shorts up my legs.
I leave the laundry room and find Broussard in the kitchen, leaning into the refrigerator.
He stands up when he senses me enter the kitchen. In his hand a bottle of wine.
“My ex left this here when I moved in. I don’t know if it’s any good. ”
I look at the label. Chardonnay.
“Just a glass.” I tell him.
He uncorks the bottle and pours itinto a nice wine glass.
“I’m afraid she still thinks she can refine me, hence the wine and glasses.”
I take a sip, while leaning my hip against the island countertop.
“It’s nice.” I tell him.
He reaches back into the refrigerator, and I admire his lats and shoulders this time.
He comes out with some craft beer bottle in his hand.
“Or, if you want you can try this IPA.”
He cracks open the top with a bottle opener that was within easy reach on the countertop.
Takes a sip.
My eyes drink in his form. Tight gray shirt pulled taut over his chest and shoulders, khaki colored shorts worn and comfortable.
I reac
h forward and snag the bottle from his fingertips. Take a sip myself. It tastes bitter after the sweet, cool wine.
I purse my lips and hand it back to him. Outside, a wind gust lashes rain against the windows.
“I’ll stick with the wine. Compliments to your ex.”
He lifts his beer bottle in a toast, and I return with a lift and tip of my own wine glass.
“I’m grilling steaks as soon as this rain passes over, you want to stay for dinner?”
He says it casually as I am studying the granite pattern of the countertop.
Broussard
Please say yes, please say yes.
“Umm. Yea. That sounds nice.” She says.
She’s tilting her head to the side, studying me, but I’m doing the same to her. Her long, lean, and tan legs are sinfully on display in my boxer shorts. Her breasts are swaying freely underneath my t-shirt. It’s all I can do not to go over there and run my hands up under her shirt with glee at having her braless in my kitchen.
I clear my throat and turn back to the refrigerator in an effort to hide my growing erection.
“You like a good ‘ole romaine and ranch salad?” I ask her as I pull ingredients from the refrigerator.
“Yea, that’s good.” Her voice is drifting away.
“What’s the story on this house, anyways?” She’s peering out the back windows, the rain has died down to just a steady sprinkle, and the white sand beach and gray-blue ocean are visible now.
“Oh. The developer that started building it went bust. He paid primo for the concrete, hurricane grade windows...but couldn’t finish it out. So it was just a shell when I bought it. Just needed it’s finishing touches.”
“Hmm. Nice deal then?”
“Yea, my ex-father-in-law owns a local construction materials company- so I was able to get a lot of things at discounted prices. The tile for the bathroom, these cabinets and granite countertop.”
I’m not really sure she is listening to me though, her eyes and entire focus seem to be on the ocean out the window.
I tell her, “Why don’t you go on out? I’ll be out in a minute to fire up the grill.”
I put the sliced romaine into a big bowl. The rain is barely a sprinkle now.
Putting the steaks on a plate, I season them.
A feeling of contentment washes over me as I take the steaks, my tongs, and beer out onto the deck.
Ryan is facing out towards the sea, her wine glass sitting by her hand on the railing. Her feet are crossed at an angle, and the wind is causing her hair to flutter lightly in the wind, the strands still damp. The storm clouds are lifting at the horizon where the sun is setting, giving us golds and grays in the sky.
This is life. Everything I really want right here. Good food, good woman, it’s home.
I fire up the grill, and walk to stand next to Ryan while it heats up.
Her scent is tantalizing, like grapefruit and coconuts.
I reach up and catch a strand of her hair.
“Back to the brown?” I ask.
It’s probably the least of my smoothest lines, but sometimes I am just adrift at sea when I am around Ryan. My usual pick-up game is non-existent. My usual flippancy towards women- gone. It doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s because I’m damn near in love with her that makes me all sixes and sevens.
“Blonde bombshell wasn’t really me,” is all she says in response.
“Well, I much prefer the real you. This you.” I tell her.
“Broussard,” She looks at me.
“Eric.” I tell her.
“Eric,” she says, “What are we doing here?” A pause and a sigh. “What am I doing here?”
She looks away from me and down into her wineglass like she expects to find the answers there.
I grab her hand and raise it to my lips.
“Just enjoying a glass of wine, a nice view, and hopefully a delicious dinner.” I tell her.
Her beautiful cool gray eyes are measuring me, contemplating the truth in my words.
She tugs her hand out of my own and uses it to raise her wine glass to her lips, taking a sip while returning her gaze back to the sea.
“You have a beautiful house with a beautiful view.”
“I do.” I say without looking away from her.
She turns to look at me, noting that I am looking directly at her when I state my agreement.
“I’ll be right back, gotta put the steaks on.”
What passes in the next hour is a comfortable relaxed dinner in the company of an extraordinarily beautiful woman.
43
Ryan
After finishing my steak and salad, I grab Broussard’s plate and my own to carry inside. I place them both in the sink and began washing them.
“Hey, you don’t have to do that.”
I turn to find Broussard has followed me in, carrying my wine glass and his beer bottle. This side of him is so different from the military man I know.
“I know. I just...thanks for the steaks, they were good.” I tell him while rubbing my hands dry on a hand towel he has hanging from a drawer.
“Would you like one more drink?” He says from behind me, “We can lounge under the stars and watch the moon rise over the water.”
“I really shouldn’t…” But he already has the wine pulled from the fridge and is filling up my glass.
“That’s just sensibility talking,” he says, “let’s live in the moment.”
His words ring in my ears echoing a ghost.
“Sounds like we are surrendering to the moment.” I tell him. I walk out onto the deck and select one of his loungers to lean back on.
He follows and lays back on his own lounger. We listen to the waves and watch the fading twilight.
I’m transported to another beach, another weekend with another man.
The sun is high, the wind rolling off the Pacific caressing my bikini clad body. David reclines on the blanket next to me, Ray Bans on, Boston Red Sox hat flipped backwards on his head, beer in his hand.
He reaches past me into the cooler to get a new beer. Dropping ice cubes in my lap along the way.
I screech and fling them off me.
“Very nice, David.”
“You looked hot, babe.”
I look over at him, his abs and chest glistening with sweat in the sunlight. He pops the top and takes a deep pull from his beer.
I think I love him.
Sure it’s been just a year since we met, and most of that time it’s been crazy weekends at his apartment that he rents with two other guys, or the occasional weeknight he’ll show up at my dorm. But, I just love this guy.
I smile at him, “We should get Shcmick’s for dinner tonight.”
He rolls his eyes at me, “You always want the fancy stuff, Everly. Is’nt Phil’s just as good?”
I laugh at him. “If your diet is as restricted as mine, cheat days are the days you have to go for the good stuff.”
“Well, I guess I can treat my girl, just this once…”
It was at that dinner he told me he was being deployed. A tear escapes the corner of my eye and I dash it away with the back of my hand.
Sheesh, maudlin after two glasses of wine, I guess there is a lot of truth to alcohol being a depressant. I look over to see if Broussard’s noticed, and sure enough he’s looking at me with concern in his eyes.
“I should probably go.” I say.
“You can talk to me you know, Ryan. I make a good shoulder to cry on.”
I sigh, cringe at laying myself out there, ripping out my past hurts for someone as strong as Broussard.
“I’m just overly tired. It’s been a long weekend…” I pause and take the last sip from my glass and sit it on the deck, “Hell, it’s been a long ten months.” I finish.
And to my embarrassment, the truth in that statement has more tears leaking out of my eyes.
I throw my arm above my head in an effort to hide them from Broussard.
I hear him stand
up, and before I realize what he’s doing, he has his arms slid behind my back and under my knees. He lifts me up against his chest.
“C’mon, Ryan. Bedtime.”
I’m sniffling, my eyes bleary in effort of holding back unshed tears as he carries me up the staircase behind the kitchen into the loft space. There is a platform bed, unmade with the fluffiest looking comforter I’ve ever seen in my life. The bed is pushed back against the wall, underneath skylights. Again the wall facing the ocean is floor to ceiling windows. Broussard places me down on the bed and pulls the blanket out from underneath my feet.
“Here. Just relax. Rest. I’ll be right back.”
The bed’s cool sheets, the blanket warm above me, maybe just Broussard’s presence moving around the house is all affecting me like a tranquilizer. My eyes are heavy and I close them.
44
I wake in confusion. Stumble from the bed, taking note of the glorious sea vista splayed out in front of the windows. I shake my head, remembering that I am at Broussard’s house and look behind me for a place I can relieve my urgent bladder needs. There’s just one door, and I open it to a white marbled space, with a superlative tiled shower and gleaming white countertops. I take care of business, and splash water on my face. My stomach rumbles, so I head down the stairs and into the kitchen.
It’s only then that I register the voices. Not a voice. But two distinct voices. I walk the short hallway and enter the kitchen.
Broussard is there at the stove, cargo shorts, t-shirt, bare feet and spatula in hand.
At the table, a mini-person, a boy with blonde hair sits while coloring quietly and humming.
I look down at what I am wearing. My nipples are standing at attention, pushing against the soft fabric of Broussard’s t-shirt in an obscene manner. I grab the material at my stomach and pull it outwards.
I look up, hoping nobody has noticed my entrance.
Only they both have.
“Luke, I’d like you to meet Ryan. The lady I told you about before.”
I smile at the small human at the table.
“Ryan, this is Luke, my son.” Broussard states proudly while indicating the small human at the table.
He’s looking at me expectantly, in fact they are both looking at me with twin expressions of expectancy.
The Distance Between Dreams Page 16