by Mia Soto
“What I want to know is if all the women on this island are beautiful?” Mark asks. The girls all smile and blush.
“Babe’, dey don’ get betta dan dese,” Eddie is leaning on Mark squeezing his arms.
“We got our Selma,” he points at Jan. Jan doesn’t stay single for long. With a body like that and the face to match, it’s pretty obvious why.
“We got our J-lo,” he points at Marissa who has an ass men would kill to die in.
“Our Shakira.” Sylvia could seduce a man just by dancing.
“And our lovely Jessica, Ms. Alba if you’re nasty.” He is smiling wickedly as he says this. I still try to vie for Giselle. It suits me much better to be likened to her than Jessica Alba. Jessica Alba is possibly the most annoying Latina alive. Since I don’t have one quarter of the body necessary to be likened to Giselle, they consistently shoot me down from that daydream. So it’s Jessica for me. There’s a decent resemblance, I guess. Mark is smiling at me.
“I gotta go. It’s bedtime,” I point at Sam who’s passively sitting on the counter in front of me and leaning against me. This is red flag signal for tired Sam. He’s on his way to meltdown.
“Wait take some dessert,” Jan says.
“No, I don’t need any.”
“She’s leaving her brownies here to kill us!” Bruce calls from the couch. “Mark, man, don’t eat the brownies!”
Everyone is laughing. Mark says, “bring them here.”
Jan gets them and puts the plate down in front of everyone at the counter. Mark picks one up. I don’t know whether to be grateful for his trust or to stop him before something terrible happens. Everyone is watching him as he eats it. He chews for awhile before he smiles a closed mouth smile
“They’re unbelievable.” His words are muffled. I know. I make great brownies. All the kids I cook for love them. Everyone laughs but nobody picks one up to eat. Mark grabs another one as we’re leaving. He’s still eating when we get into the car.
“I hope you survive that,” I say from the passenger seat. He’s driving, and I can’t even describe how much that bothers me. My ex always drove.
“I think I’ll make it. Is there cinnamon in these?”
“Yes,” I say watching him closely. He seems fine.
“Why don’t you have an accent like the others?” He asks once he finally gets his mouth clear of the gooey chocolate.
“I grew up in the states and we didn’t hang out with that many islanders. That’s why Bruce doesn’t have an accent either.”
“Huh,” Mark is musing. “I like that accent. I was starting to get it by the end of the evening.”
I smile, “my ‘lil islan’ boy.” Just because I don’t have the accent, doesn’t mean I can’t affect it.
***
We get home and I put Sam down. I’m standing in Sam’s dark room wondering if Mark will just go away if I don’t come back out. It’s not because he’s terrible. It’s just the opposite. But I didn’t want this. This makes it all different.
Eventually, I have to go out and face him even if it’s only to tell him that whatever is going on between us needs to stop. I plan my speech, get the words all picked out. I practice it a few times in my head for good measure. Then I walk out into the living room. He’s sitting on the couch watching the Devil Rays game on my little TV. He smiles at me as I walk over to him and pulls me onto his lap. He never even gives me a chance to use my carefully planned words. That damn mouth of his takes over, and I forget what I am supposed to be doing.
In another moment, I’m in his arms, and we’re heading to the bedroom. Once there we don’t have rock star sex or monkey sex. It’s not mind blowing or caveman like either. What we do is make sweet, passionate, beautiful love and goddamn him for ruining everything, goddamn him. I don’t love this guy. I lust for him and yes, when he’s around it’s easier. It was easier when my ex was around even if we were always fighting. But I don’t love this guy or need him. But he thinks I do and what’s worse he thinks he does. And there’s no fixing that. Goddamn him.
I’m lying on my back with my arm over my head as my fingers mindlessly twirl a lock of hair. He’s leaning on his hand watching me and caressing every sensitive part on me. I sigh deeply.
“That was quite a sigh.” He bends over to kiss my chin. He’s not kidding. That was a what am I going to do sigh. “Was it a good sigh or a bad sigh?”
This is what I mean. I don’t want to have this conversation. I shouldn’t have to have it yet. Contrary to the wishes of my mother, I’m ok with ending bitter and alone with eighty cats. He turns my face to his.
“Are you ok?” He asks with concern.
“Mark,” I sigh again and look away. This poor, poor guy has no idea. “I’m broken. And it wasn’t just my ex who did it. I just can’t seem to get things straight in my head. And some of it’s me and some of it’s everyone else. But that’s who I am. Trust me - you want no part of this.”
He’s listening intently until I finish. “Margo, you don’t have to tell me you’re a train wreck.” Ouch. “I’ve been telling myself to walk away from you from the first day we met. I can’t, and the more I’m with you the more I don’t want to.”
Tears start. This is what I mean. Take this power away from me. And when he kisses me, my body can’t help but respond to it, and it’s even better this time than it’s ever been. Afterwards, he’s kissing me, and it looks like he wants to say something. And it looks like he wants to say those dreaded words.
“Please,” I beg. “Don’t say anything right now. It’s been a long day. We’ve crossed all kinds of lines. Let’s leave it at that for now.” He drops his head to my shoulder. I can tell he’s frustrated.
“I mean, Mark, I don’t even know you. And you’re ready to say something that could change the course of our lives.” He doesn’t speak for minute and then he rolls over onto his back. He’s staring at the ceiling, and he’s not happy.
“Ok,” he says. “Ok, you’re right. Let’s do this. Let’s talk. And when we’re through if we both still feel the same way, then those three words are no longer off limits.” He looks at me and he’s annoyed. “And for the record, Margo, the reason you know nothing about me is because you never bothered to ask. You’re good. I’ve been with women who tried to play the guy card. They come on all indifferent and non-committing. But they eventually crack and start wanting something. But not you, you win. You’re totally content to wallow in your self pity. You’ll let a strange man in your bed, in your home with your child, and not one question.”
God, it sounds terrible when he puts it like that. “Well, you don’t seem like a stranger.”
“That’s because I’ve injected myself into your life. I’ve gone out of my way to show you I’m someone you can trust. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve wondered if you’re doing this with someone else. I know you’re not though. You’ve just allowed some blind trust to ease you into this situation. We couldn’t go on like we were forever. I don’t know why you thought it could.”
We’re silent for awhile after that diatribe. I’m feeling a little foolish because he’s not even a little bit wrong. He finally speaks again, “well, ask. What do you want to know?”
Sufficiently humbled, I turn on my pillow so I can look at him still staring at the ceiling. “Where are you from?”
“Denver, Colorado. Actually Aurora, it’s a suburb of Denver.” I know it well because something else we’ve never spoken about is that I went to Boulder for my undergraduate. I don’t bother mentioning that right now. It would only be salt in the wound.
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Three sisters, one autistic brother.”
“Five kids?” I’m feeling overwhelmed with one. “And they all still live in Colorado?”
“No, one lives in Chicago. She’s a waitress. My youngest sister is in Houston, Texas. She’s a little bit of a lost cause. My eldest is still in Denver with my brother. She’s married with kids.”
“A
nd your brother is autistic? Is he with your parents?”
“My parents are dead,” he says. “Car accident when I was thirteen. My oldest sister raised us after that. She was already married. It was a huge responsibility for a twenty year old.”
He doesn’t seem upset. What do I say to that? It was obviously years ago. He can tell this bothers me, and he caresses my cheek. “I’m thirty two, Margo. That was a long, long time ago.”
I clear my throat, “so you went into the Marines…”
He smiles. “Ok, I guess you’re going to make up for lost time. I graduated high school and went into the Marines. It was suppose to pay for college. And I went for a few years, but it was hard doing the school thing and being transferred all over the world, sometimes in eight month intervals.”
“What were you studying?”
“Engineering,” he’s smiling again.
“You’re a math guy?” I ask and he nods. My ex is too, applied mathematics from Dartmouth to be exact. I don’t bother telling him this.
“So why Tampa? Were you stationed here?”
He’s thinking and I can see he’s picking his words carefully. “I was engaged. She was my high school sweetheart. We’d been on and off through our twenties. I was in Spain after my second tour in Afghanistan. She lives here in Tampa.”
“What happened?”
“I came to visit on leave. I thought it would be fun to surprise her. Turns out she’s living with another guy.” He’s watching me closely for the reaction.
I’m just dumbfounded. Someone cheated, on him? “Really?” He smiles. Now I’m confused. “So why are you here?”
“She had a change of heart and convinced me the reason for her infidelity was our distance. I had the option of leaving the service so I did and moved here.”
“And joined the police?” He nods. “But obviously it didn’t work out.”
“No,” he agrees. “She bounced back and forth between me and that other guy for awhile before I finally put an end to it. That was almost three years ago.”
“So you quit the army for her?”
“The Marines,” he says offended.
“Sorry, the Marines,” I smile apologetically.
“Uh huh, I gave up my rank, and I had gone up through the ranks quickly for an enlisted. I help my older sister with my brother, and my income totally changed when I joined the force. In the Corps, I was a sergeant major in line for promotion. Tampa was a step backward.” Now I know why he works all of the time.
“Why do you stay? You could leave and go to Denver.”
“Not anymore,” he has that serious look, and I start to panic again. Please tell me this guy is not making life decisions based on us. “Ok, I obviously just hit your panic button. Your turn.”
“You know a lot more about me than I do you.”
“Not really. Did you grow up here?”
I shake my head, “New Orleans.”
“Oh, yeah? I like that town, fun town.”
“That’s my hometown – like the easiest girl at a frat party - always up for a good time.” I say.
“Yeah, it was ashamed to see all that happen to it.” I don’t tell him it was inevitable. No one wants to hear that bit of truth. “So, from New Orleans, you went to college.”
“At Boulder.” It takes a minute for it to register before he’s pulling me to him and tickling me fiercely. I’m fighting to control those hands and muffle my laughter.
“You are unbelievable.” He shakes his head before he kisses me. “So Boulder and then New York.”
“Sort of. I came here and got my MBA at UT and then the Big Apple.”
“Smart one,” he says.
“Not so smart, not at all” I assure him. He’s caressing me again and hopefully loosing interest in serious conversation. It strikes me how good looking this guy is and I have to ask, “Three years is a long time, alone… How are you single?”
“I’m not,” he says and laughs when the panic flashes.
“You know what I mean.”
“If I wanted I could be married or tied down. I could be jumping from bed to bed. My ex calls once a month trying to get me back.”
“She does?”
“Yes, but I don’t want her, not anymore. At first, I was just angry, but I got over it. And I casually went about until Margo Hunter fell into my lap. It was a normal day as far as I could tell. Now I can’t get her out of my head. I can’t get her kid out of my head. I worry about them. When I’m not with them, I wonder what they’re doing. After awhile I realized I am totally and completely in love with this woman.” It takes a minute for it to register what he’s said. And he’s smiling when my shocked eyes meet his calm ones.
“You loved your ex too didn’t you?” I ask, annoyed that he’s done this.
“Not like you. But that’s probably why I was ok with our snail crawl. I thought I’d been down this road, and it hadn’t ended well. There was no need to make believe that it was any different than before. But it’s different. You’re different. And I think you know it.”
I do. I don’t think he realizes I’m simply not where he is in terms of moving on. I guess the conversation is over because he’s pulling me to him, and his hands are wandering.
“Come here, Jessica. I don’t want to talk anymore.” He’s laughing as I slap his back. God he’s good in bed, and it just keeps getting better. I wonder if he has Latino in him. I wouldn’t be surprised. Sometime during it, it flashes across my mind that maybe I don’t just lust him, maybe there’s a little love sprinkled over. Then I close my eyes and shut out those thoughts and just enjoy the nice feel of his heavy weight on top of me.
***
I wake him up at five. “Mark you have to go.”
“It’s early,” he says into my hair as he gathers me into him.
“But Sam is going to be up soon. And I’m not ready for that yet, please.” I push him away gently.
He puts a hand over his tired eyes and responds, “ok.” Then I hear him breathing rhythmically again.
“Mark, wake up.” I shake him again.
He stirs. His voice is still heavy with sleep. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I feel dead.”
I nuzzle his neck. “It’s probably the night of orgy we just had.”
He laughs and rolls until his weight consumes me. “That may be. You’re insatiable.”
I start to argue, but I’m silenced by the long, soft, gentle, wet kiss that leaves me tingling all over. When we break it’s to drink in each others eyes for so long I forget he’s supposed to be leaving.
His hand is smoothing my hair away as he speaks, “God, I love you.”
It’s almost as though he’s surprised by how much he means what he says. I’m not upset by the words because for a split second I let myself believe them and feel them, and I understand what he means. He gets dressed and as he’s walking back to me to say his goodbyes, I stop him.
“Open that drawer.” I point at the top drawer of my nightstand that’s too far away for me to reach from the bed. “There should be a key on a plastic ring with a number inside.” He holds it up. “That’s for you. The number is my gate code. I think you get the rest.”
He’s smiling at me as he pulls me up to him and kisses me thoroughly. He’s still smiling after that.
“Don’t be so smug,” I warn with my own smile.
He just says, “I’ll see you tonight.” I hate to admit it, but it feels really good to hear that, and it feels even better when he kisses me again.
Chapter 7
Looks Like I Tried Sandwich
Sandwich meat
Pickles
Mustard/mayo
Three slices of cheese
Gourmet bun
Lettuce/tomato
Salt and pepper
Preheat your oven to 400
Prepare your bread with mayo/mustard. Using a nicer bun makes it seem a little finer than a sandwich but regular sliced bread will work just fine. First layer cheese, then a
meat layer, then cheese then a meat layer or two depending on how many varieties you’re using and finally a layer of cheese on the top of the bun. Slip under the heat and let melt for 5-8 minutes. Add pickles, lettuce, tomatoes and salt and pepper. Enjoy!
Sam and I go through our routine of church and things and while he’s down for his nap I return some of my calls. I’ve had three more calls and five emails with new requests. I’m in business so I can’t exactly turn them down in spite of the fact that I may be an inadvertent killer. Some good news does come my way, Denise calls to tell me that Brian will be home tomorrow and no worse than some broken ribs and a fractured wrist. So I schedule most of the new requests for the next few weeks hoping by then to have regained my confidence and some normalcy. It’s the last call that is adamant that I cook tomorrow night.
“Well, I don’t usually do dinners on the weekdays because I’m the rectory chef at St Patrick’s.”
Mary Ellen is adamant. “I’ll pay double. I really would like you to cook tomorrow.”
“Is it a special occasion?” I don’t get the urgency here.
“No, I just would like it to happen tomorrow if it can. Our kids will be here as well.”
“How many kids?”
“Three.”
“Well…”
“Please Margo, I’ve heard great things about you.” She’s already told me she’s a friend of Denise’s.
“Well, we’ll have to do something like spaghetti and meatballs.” I’m hoping this will turn her off. Three hundred dollars for spaghetti and meatballs even if they are homemade is a lot for around here. She’s all for it.
“Oh, the kids love that!”
I sigh, “ok, tomorrow then. I’ll try to wrap up early at the church and get to you by six. You’re probably looking at a seven thirty, maybe even eight o’clock dinner.” That seems late for kids, in my opinion, but there’s no dissuading her.
“Perfect, I’ll see you then.”
We hang up, and I hear Sam cry out so I never have the chance to ponder the immediacy of her request. Sam and I go to Mom’s for Sunday dinner. It’s kind of a tradition now. In between dinner and home, I run to the grocery to get some things. I feel bad that I can’t even offer Mark a coke. All I have is milk and water. As soon as Sam’s in his car seat heading home he’s asleep. You never know with Sam. It’s barely eight thirty. Thank goodness I get him ready for bed at Mom’s when I’m there that late.