Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall)

by Angelisa Denise Stone

  Anyway, so during dinner, while I was fingering my glass, for lack of a better word, Theodore turned to me and said, “I couldn’t do it; I just couldn’t do it.”

  I nodded sympathetically at him, deciding to take a sip of my drink.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked, staring intently at me.

  Since I had no idea what he was talking about, I said, “If you couldn’t do it, you couldn’t do it.”

  “So you think we have a shot, then?” he asked, reaching for my hand. Panic set in as his hand covered mine.

  “A shot? At what?” I asked, nearly choking on my drink.

  “A future. You and me … sorry … you and I.” he answered.

  Apparently, Dre’s chest was extremely riveting, because I missed the part in Theodore’s story where he told me that he’d bought Melody a ring, booked a room at the most expensive hotel in Richmond, took her to a romantic dinner, and then couldn’t, could not, get himself to propose. Why? Why couldn’t he pop the question, you ask? Because it wasn’t me on the other side of the table. Holy Life Twist! I did not see that coming. Dang wine. Dang Dre in a tight t-shirt.

  Since Theodore is forever the intelligent man that I give him credit for being, he said that he knew he unloaded a lot on me (darn straight) and that I needed time to mull it over (his exact words). He didn’t want to pressure me, so whenever I had an answer for him, then I was to give him a call. He hoped “sooner, rather than later.” Theodore wanted to give us another shot, a more adult and more mature effort toward a future together.

  But that was last night. Right now, I am sitting on my balcony, nearly three hours late for work, drinking my third glass of wine. I’m probably going to call off; there is no way I can concentrate on some author’s fictitious story when my reality just blew whatever dumbass story that author wrote out of the water. A part of me wanted to grab and hold on to Theodore for the security he’s always given me. The other part, well, the other part has already moved on. Theodore was my past. I’d finally accepted that. But the safety and security of the past was so familiar and extremely tempting.

  When I woke up this morning, I immediately wanted to call Dre. I wanted to talk to him. I knew that he wasn’t the one to confide in, but I wanted to know if I’d get that breathless feeling talking to him, even knowing that Theodore was waiting in the wings. Did I only want Dre, because I had nobody else? Did I only want Theodore back, because I know deep down that Dre Donley is the unattainable, mysterious heartthrob who will never be mine?

  I didn’t know any of the answers to the million questions that were bombarding my mind. I couldn’t call Dre. I didn’t know his number, nor did I know where he lived. He was a drifter of sorts, so I knew I had to wait until he drifted back to the agency tonight at 5:30 p.m. Therefore, I’m drinking and thinking—in the embarrassingly late morning hours of the day.

  Just as I decide to bite the bullet and actually start getting ready for work, my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number on caller I.D. “Hello,” I say, hoping to avoid a lengthy phone conversation with my student loan bill collectors. I needed to dodge them for a few more months.

  “So should I hit up ‘Allie with an i,’ or are we still on for tonight, Kathryn?” he asks, emphasizing my full name.

  “Dre, I was just thinking about you. How’d you get my number?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “I’ve got your receptionist wrapped around my little finger. She’s option #3,” he jokes. (At least, I hope he’s joking.)

  “It’s probably smart to keep your options open,” I agree, without meaning a word I say.

  “So, are you telling me that things went well with my bro, Theo, last night?” he fishes.

  “Not taking the bait Buddy, you can fish all you want,” I say. “But no, don’t get any crabs tonight. The plan’s still the same. Meet me after work.”

  “Oh great, so you are going to roll out of bed and go to work some time today?” he asks.

  “I’m out of bed, thank you very much,” I say. “I’m even dressed and showered,” I lie.

  “I’d almost believe you if you weren’t slurring your words,” he says. “You either just got up or you’re already drunk … And since I doubt you’re pounding back a few at 11:30 in the morning, I’m gonna go with you just woke up.”

  Slurring my words? Crap. I can’t go to work like this. “You’re right, I just woke up … and I’m still pretty tired,” I lie. I can’t believe I’m lying like this to him. I don’t lie. “Actually, I’m gonna call off and sleep for a few more hours. Why don’t you meet me at the marina at 5:30 instead?” I ask.

  “No chance,” he says. “You can’t call the shots. You blew me off last night … for your ex. That gives you no control,” he states. I start to protest, but he cuts me off and says, “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you outside of your apartment at 4:00 p.m. Not a second later. Sweet dreams, Kathryn.”

  Son of a bitch! Who the fuck ripped off my dick and gave me a vagina? I didn’t sign up for this shit. How did I get myself into this? I had crazy-ass, hot plans to bring one Kathryn Howell to the brink of climax over and over again, withholding her pleasure until I finally drilled into her, making her orgasm harder than she ever has in her life. God knows, douchebag Theo couldn’t pull off mind-numbing pleasure like that. Could he? Nah, no way.

  It was the perfect agenda for a night of hot passion and pleasure. Instead, instead, I spent the night drinking beer and throwing darts with Rory, whining about how I watched her walk away with her ex-boyfriend, arm-in-arm. Rory, of course, laughed his ass off all night, pissing me off.

  So what am I doing right now? I can’t even bear to admit it. I’m reading a book. A book! Rory decided to stalk Kathryn’s Facebook page last night at the bar, so we could find some shit on Theodore Baker. First of all, he’s a freaking physicist. I mean, what is that? He makes potions or some shit like that. What a douche. Secondly, there was actually a picture of him sitting on a Jag with some chick. What the fuck? He couldn’t be cool if he stood in a fucking freezer. Look at me; I’m getting all pissed off again. Who the fuck am I?

  Anyway, since Kathryn’s Facebook page is public, I also saw everything she’s interested in. I stayed at Rory’s last night, watching shows she loves on Netflix, hoping to find something to connect with her on. I also went and got her favorite book at the library (the library!) to read it—well skim it actually. I hate competition, mostly because I’ve really never had to compete before. I usually just get what I want. This is all too new and strange for me.

  To think, I’m doing all this work to bang and bail. That’s it. One bang and one bail. Nothing more! It’s absurd. I just can’t pretend anymore. I want this woman. I want this woman badly. Tonight. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I’m taking what I should’ve gotten a month ago. Christ. This waiting game is over.

  Or maybe not. Kathryn has me. It’s basically whatever she wants when she wants it. I can kid myself as much as I’d like, but the truth is blinding the second she exits her apartment building.

  Now, I’ve only ever seen Kathryn in her afternoon work clothes. Apparently, she’s got a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde wardrobe thing going on, because her getup is nothing close to professional or intellectual, like you’d naturally assume a literary agent would wear. Remember when I said that the first time I saw her that she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but was adorably cute and quirky? Well, cute and quirky are all hung up primly and properly in her closet. Smoking hot and sexy-as-Hell have come out to play. Thank God! I sort of thought she was a little frumpy before, but now that I can see every curve and every contour of her body, I see that I was wrong, dead wrong.

  I’d never even seen Kathryn’s hair straightened out. She typically wears it curly, or I guess it would be called wavy. But tonight, it’s poker straight, and long as shit. I didn’t realize it was that long. I retract my earlier thoughts. She should cut all her hair off—if and only if—Hell decides to freeze over. Holy shit, it’s fucking gorgeous.

&nbs
p; Kathryn’s got on a light purple see-through shirt with one of those tank top deals underneath. Man, I wish she’d have left that tank top in her top drawer. Her tiny silver skirt is so short that I doubt she could bend over without people slipping dollar bills into her panties. God, I want to slip things into her panties. Kathryn’s dressed to kill … to kill me. Christ. At least now, I know we’re on the same page. It looks like Kathryn wants me as much as I want her.

  My jaw drops; she winks at me, and says, “Where to Dre?”

  Shaking my head clear of all sexual thoughts, I finally respond. “Well Pebbles, dressed like that, it looks like we’re off to Bedrock,” I groan, raking my hands through my hair.

  Kathryn shoves me and says, “What? Too much to handle, Bam-Bam?” Damn, I dig her spunk.

  “Not at all. Not. At. All.” I say, appraising every inch of her voluptuous and dangerous body. “I just think that the daddies and kiddies at the fair might think you’re the amusement for the night.”

  “The what?” she asks, bewildered.

  “We’re going to the Ladson Fair. Ya know, rides, games, funnel cakes, the works,” I say. “Ya might want to put on something a little … a little … well more.” I tease. “I wouldn’t want any family men leaving their kids and wives to ride the Skyline with you in that skirt.”

  “You’re serious? You want me to go change?” she asks, looking at me shocked. Nice. Looks like I got my upper hand back. Relenting, she looks at me in defeat with an impressed look on her face. “Alright, wait right here then,” she instructs and walks back toward her apartment.

  “Let me know if you need any help getting those clothes off,” I offer. “I’m kind of a savant at undressing people.”

  Turning around to look at me, she nods, and says, “Oh I know. You sure are a savant … an idiot savant.” Then she hops up the front steps and walks back into the building.

  As I’m waiting for her to come back out, I start thinking about how the score’s tied for the night. This is like a personal tennis match, back and forth, back and forth, a battle to the death. So far, it’s one point awarded to me for making her change; one point to her for calling me an “idiot.” Sometimes, I think when it comes to her, I’ve definitely met my match. Then, she walks victoriously out of her building. Screw it, I’m definitely outmatched. Another point for Kathryn Howell.

  “Well Pebbles, you definitely changed,” I say, shaking my head at her.

  Kathryn’s now wearing track shorts, an old high school football t-shirt, knee socks (knee socks!), tennis shoes, and pigtails. Frigging pigtails! I’m not talking about those sexy kinds that models in magazines wear that are low on their heads. I’m talking about those kinds that are really high on a chick’s head that stick out like ears. Not only that, she’s got big, white ribbons tied around them. And, she no longer has on one bit of makeup. She looks like she’s 12-years-old, making me look like some creepy-ass pedophile. But here’s the biggest problem: she’s still goddamn irresistible. What the Hell is going on?

  “What? Did I not get this right either, Dre?” she asks, feigning innocence and ignorance. There was no way in fucking Hell that Kathryn was innocent or ignorant.

  “I thought you didn’t play games?” I asked.

  “Katniss didn’t either, but when she was thrown into the arena, she had to play or die,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Damn, three to one.

  “So, are you really not going to tell me how it went with your ex, last night?” I ask, while we’re sitting on a grassy area stuffing our faces with French fries, funnel cakes, and cheese-on-a-stick.

  “Before you do though. Who knew this cheese shit tasted this good?” I’d never tried it before; she insisted we get two of them.

  “I knew. Actually, everyone does. It’s cheese. It’s fried. Duh,” she laughs, stretching her cheese from the stick and dangling it above her mouth. She glances over at me, smirks when she sees that I’m watching her every move, and then sticks her tongue out to wrangle the cheese into her mouth. Really Dre? Watching some chick you barely know eat cheese (cheese!) is turning you on?

  Continuing she says, “Honestly though, growing up, I’d only tried a fried food once. Fried cauliflower. It was despicable,” she grimaces. “I had my first French fry in college.”

  “No way, that’s a lie,” I argue. Laughing and shaking her head, she goes into the craziest story I’ve ever heard. Don’t get me wrong, I know firsthand that parents do some messed up stuff, but Kathryn’s mom sounded insane—and delusional if she thought there was one thing wrong with Kathryn’s body.

  “Unfortunately now though, I just love anything fried. Heck, I’d fry my toothpaste if I could,” she adds. “But I’d have to add up the Weight Watcher points every time I brushed my teeth. Heck, after this meal, I’m probably over my points for the whole dang month.

  “You’re cute, Pebbles,” I say, staring at her. I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

  “Well thanks, that’s the adjective girls just die to hear,” she says, flipping her head back and forth, making her pigtails bounce around.

  “I don’t think you get it. You’re sexy as shit, but your personality is just cute, fun … and … and refreshing.” I admit.

  “Refreshing. You just called me cute and refreshing. Wow. I’m like the perfect date … for the Kool-Aid man,” she says.

  Kathryn makes me laugh. Everything she does; everything she says. “How about I just say this then, I haven’t seen a girl that I wanted to sleep with, much less talk to in over a year, and I gotta say, just this past hour with you has been … well worth the wait.”

  And make that three to two. Kathryn’s eyes widen and her mouth clamps shut quickly. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she’s obviously thinking something. Her eyes narrow and then widen and then narrow again, like she’s trying to figure out if she wants to say something to me.

  “Theodore told me that he didn’t propose to his girlfriend, because he’d rather be proposing to me,” she blurts out. Then her eyes really widen at the same time she covers her mouth with her hand. Just as I’m about to respond, she says, “I have no filter. It’s my biggest flaw. I say what’s on my mind. I never hold back.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  She continues, “No, not really. Everyone knows that girls are supposed to play it cool, be coy, and challenge men. I’m not like that.”

  “Kathryn, believe me, you are very challenging,” I admit. “I’ve never worked this hard in my life to get a girl interested in me. It’s usually dinner, maybe some slow dancing, and then … well, you get the idea.”

  “Dinner? Dancing? I get fried, processed food on a wooden stick, and you think you’re working hard?” she asks.

  “I am; I’ve never talked this much in my life. Typically, I just feed a girl a bunch of lines, and I’m golden,” I admit. “With you … I … I … have to think,” I whine, rubbing my head, faking pain and turmoil. “This is like a serious game of strategy and skill.”

  Staring at me intently, she takes a deep breath, and then says, “So, I told Theodore that for months I dreamed of the day he’d come back to me and say those exact words.” I feel my shoulders fall, but I keep my eyes on her, not wanting her to see right through me, and register how disappointed every ounce of my body is.

  Smiling, she says, “Then I told him that I’ve moved on, and although he’ll always be special to me, he’s my past.”

  I can’t help the smile that is betraying me and splaying itself ridiculously across my face. She’s right; she doesn’t hold anything back. God, I don’t want to hurt her. But I have no idea how I can possibly walk away like I should. I should finish this date, take her home, and forget I ever met her. Utterly impossible. I could never forget the honesty of her words, the sincerity of her voice, the beauty of her presence … all things I’m not used to. I’m definitely not used to spending so much time trying to get a girl interested in me. But the truth is Kathryn Howell is too wonder
ful to be crushed by the weight of my lies and deceit.

  As much as I don’t want to believe it, I like working this hard. People should have to work hard for what they want, what they get out of life. People shouldn’t be handed every little thing they want on a silver platter, like it’s hors d’oeuvres at a fancy country club dinner party. If you want something, then you have to go get it, not just wait until someone gives it to you. That’s not the way life works.

  I have no idea what to say to her; I’m not even sure that a response is necessary. She just gave me the green light, when I know damn well I should hit the brakes and come to a screeching halt.

  “If you’re done gorging yourself, I’m ready to ride some rides,” I say, pulling her up to her feet.

  “Dre, I’m not really a thrill ride kind of girl,” she confesses.

  “They have like five rides here. You can at least ride the merry-go-round with me,” I say.

  Walking up to the ticket booth, I yell, “Hey Dave, two tickets please.”

  Dave hands me a bunch of tickets, a lot more than two, and says, “Hey buddy, thanks for coming by earlier and—”

  “No problem, anytime,” I say, cutting him off.

  Nothing Dave says in front of Kathryn right now will be a good thing for her to hear. I have to remind myself of the goal: Bang and Bail. I have no intentions of getting serious with a woman right now—not even Kathryn Howell. Not even Kathryn Howell. Damn, it’s nuts how much I have to remind myself.

  Dave nods and turns to the next customer. “Looking back and forth between Dave and me, Kathryn inquires, “What was that all about? Did you do some stuff for the Fair earlier today or something?”

  “Or something,” I say, handing her some tickets.

  “Dre, ummm, do you know everyone around here?” Kathryn asks.

  “Nobody could possibly know everyone,” I say, blowing off her question. “That would be hyperbole—right? People don’t like exaggeration, do they, Agent of the Literary World?”