Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall)

by Angelisa Denise Stone

  Feeling nervous and like I’m about to suffocate, I walk over to Kathryn, and say, “Pebbles, I’m starving. Are ya done ogling everything, so we can eat?”

  Kathryn and I had an incredible lunch, too quick, but wonderful. She was reluctant to try the oysters, claiming that I was just trying to get her turned on and ready for anything. I’m not going to lie; I know that oysters are an aphrodisiac, but they’re also delicious and light, exactly what you should want for lunch. The aphrodisiac part is just an added bonus.

  Throughout lunch, Kathryn relayed stories to me about her middle school and high school antics with her friend, Sydney. For the first time in my life, I was interested in the storytelling of a woman without feigning intrigue just to get her in bed. Albeit, I definitely still want to get her into bed—the plan has not changed. Christ, do I.

  As we walk out of the restaurant, I stop at the waterfall. I grab Kathryn’s hand and urging her back to me, feeling my body heat up as hers presses against mine.

  “So Pebbles, whattya think about this legend?” I ask, staring at her lips.

  “I think it’s a ploy to get people in the mood and feeling romantic,” Kathryn admits. “I also think it’s a great way get people wet.” Kathryn slowly licks the corner of her upper lip.

  “Get people … w-w-w—” My voice betrays me. Son-of-a-bitch, I’m stammering. The girl’s got me stammering.

  Before I can collect myself and say “wet,” Kathryn beats me to it and says, “Yeah wet.” Then, she splashes the water from the waterfall all over me, giggling and running away as she does so. It’s on.

  Not caring about the spectacle, we’re making of ourselves, I grab her around the waist and take her back to the waterfall. I stand her up, turn her toward me, and say, “Since you have to go back to work, I’m gonna go easy on you.”

  “Why? I’m not going easy on you, Dre,” she admits, and splashes me again.

  Then, taking me by surprise, Kathryn kisses me in front of the entire restaurant, wrapping both her arms around me as mist from the waterfall sprinkles us lightly. Getting lost in the moment, I deepen the kiss, tangling my hands in her hair. I could’ve stayed there all day, all week, forever. I would’ve too if the erupted applause from the patio patrons didn’t break us from our trance. Damn, I am in a trance.

  Panting and reluctantly breaking away from her lips, I put my forehead against hers and stare into her eyes. “So much for your aversion to public displays of affection.”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘affection,’ per se,” she smiles, grabbing my hand and turning toward the door. “I’d say it was more an aversion to public submersion,” she laughs, pointing to the waterfall.

  At that moment her face gets contemplative, entirely full of thought. Her eyes light up as a genuine smile splays across her face. Nodding, Kathryn looks at me, and says, “Nah, I think I’m submerged, completely submerged, almost drowning if I’m gonna be honest.”

  “Can I see you tonight?” I ask, standing on the sidewalk outside Seaside.

  “I’m counting on it,” she admits, “as long as you’re finished with Cider House Rules.”

  “Oh my God, Pebbles, it’s so long. Can’t you give me a week … or two?” I beg.

  “Nope. If you wanna see me tonight, then you’ll have the book done,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s just a matter of how much you want it, Dre.”

  “Woman, you’re killing me,” I groan. “You’re really gonna make me read it … before … before I take you out tonight?”

  “Nobody said anything about going out tonight,” Kathryn states. “I thought we’d stay in … maybe I could cook for you at my place.” I can see the uncertainty on her face, but can also make out the hope in her eyes. She’s gorgeous, the sexiest amount of confidence coupled with insecurity that I’ve ever seen.

  “I gotta go,” I say, turning abruptly from her. “I’ve got over 500 pages or some shit like that left. I’ve got to go read.”

  “It’s black, mom! You said it would be fine,” I yell into the phone, before hanging up on her.

  Granted, it wasn’t her fault. I’ll call her tomorrow and send her a cookie-gram to make up for how volatilely I just treated her. How in the world did I get myself into this? I can’t cook. I’ve never even attempted to cook anything in my life. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking—that’s what. I was still reeling with weak knees from having the most sensual tongue in the world exploring my mouth.

  I got home from work and decided to make lasagna, since I knew I wouldn’t see Dre until later tonight. Cider House Rules is a pretty tough book to get through. Anyway, I figured that I could put some noodles in a pan, throw on some cheese, and drown the thing in marinara sauce and call it a day. Wrong. It’s hard. Really freaking hard. I also thought it’d be easy to whip up a fancy salad and put some garlic bread in the oven. My lettuce was brown, and the tomatoes turned to mush when I tried to slice them. Who knew lettuce could go bad within in a month? That’s just stupid. People can’t possibly eat a whole bag of lettuce in a month. I really should eat at home and cook more often, if this wasn’t proof of that, then I didn’t know what was.

  The garlic bread turned out wonderfully. It was delicious. Was. After seeing my black, crunchy, lasagna, I buried my sorrows in the cheesy, buttery, deliciousness of that perfectly warm and soft garlic bread (exceeding my points value for the day). I’m now scouring my apartment for menus of delivery places that can deliver something more than just pizza and fried chicken. I’m so screwed. I don’t even think I have time to run somewhere and get a fancy takeaway meal.

  Of course, there’s knock at my door. Of course. As I open the door, I realize that I’m still in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. I threw them on quickly when I got home, as not to spill sauce all over my work clothes. My plan was to change and freshen up before Dre got here. I’m beginning to learn the hard way that planning doesn’t necessarily guarantee how everything is going to turn out. I planned to look sexy. I planned to cook an incredible meal. I planned to knock Dre’s socks off. None of that planning was panning out. Looking down, I giggle. He’s in flip-flops. No socks. Finally, something that went my way.

  As I start to apologize and explain, Dre says, “I’m not done with the book. I had to put it down for a bit.” Dre hands me a bottle of wine and brushes past me and slumps down on my couch. He hasn’t even really noticed me yet. Truly, he hasn’t even glanced my way or greeted me.

  Continuing he says, “I thought I knew exactly how I felt about abortion and everything. This book is totally fucking with me.” He props his feet up on my coffee table and leans his head against the couch. “I mean, I keep questioning everything. And Homer … my God … what more does he have to endure?”

  I sit down on the coffee table and take his legs into my lap. “Dre, when was the last time you read a book?”

  Finally noticing me, he says, “Well … ummm … I’m not sure. High school?” Dre’s eyeing me carefully now, taking in my spaghetti sauce-stained shirt and Spongebob pajama pants. “Uhhh … Kathryn? I’m supposed to be here, right?”

  I launch into my disastrous attempt at culinary cuisine and multiple failures, apologizing profusely at my ineptness. Laughing, he takes my face in his hands, pulls me toward him, and kisses the tip of my nose. “You are irrefutably the most adorable woman in the world.” He stands up and pulls me up with him.

  “So then, will you help me decide which pizza joint we order from?” I ask.

  “Pizza? No way! You promised me a home-cooked meal; we’re home cooking tonight, Pebbles.” Dre says making a beeline for my kitchen.

  “Oh Dre, thank God. I didn’t know what we were going to do. So, you can cook?” I ask.

  “Fuck no. Do I look like I can cook?” he questions, looking shocked. “I guess we’re just gonna have to figure it out together.”

  Dre and I ate a culinary feast of shrimp-flavored Ramen Noodles and pretzels. He even decided to “kick it up a notch” and put slices of hot dogs in
our noodles. Although it looked like the most disgusting meal ever created, it wasn’t too bad. There wasn’t a bite left of anything on either one of our plates, so we can therefore call it a success. Or so he claims.

  “Alright woman, get this place cleaned up, while I watch Sportscenter,” Dre says, flopping down onto my couch.

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that, Your Highness, just as soon as I massage your feet and finish your sponge bath,” I reply, throwing a dishtowel at him.

  “Just the words ‘sponge’ and ‘bath’ coming out of your sexy little lips is enough to send me over the edge,” Dre whines, shaking his head at me as he removes the towel from his head. Standing up, he takes my plate from the coffee table and says, “You grab the glasses.”

  “Don’t you want more wine?” I ask.

  “Nah, I don’t really like wine,” Dre admits. “I’d just rather have soda.”

  “Then why’d you bring it?” I ask, rinsing out the glasses.”

  “My buddy, Rory, sent it over with me. Said it was a surefire way to get your panties to drop,” he boldly admits. I look at him, shocked that he would admit that and not care about offending me. We’ve definitely hit a new place of comfort with one another. And in such short time.

  I pull out the waistband of my jammies and look down. “Nope, panties are still there … haven’t dropped yet,” I joke, grinning at him. Dre laughs and smacks my butt. It’s fun being with him, playful and sexy at the same time.

  Dre and I load the dishwasher talking about my job and the few odds and ends that he does around town. “So that’s it?” I ask. “You just do work for people here and there, and it’s enough for you?” I know I’m prying, but he seems too smart to waste his time fixing people’s chairs and swinging doors.

  “I guess I haven’t decided what I want to be when I grow up,” Dre says, smirking at me, like a schoolboy.

  “Well then, tell me about your family? About where you’re from? Tell me anything … ya know … that I can make fun of you about.” I say, hoping to erase the scowl forming on his brow.

  “Well, are you sure? ‘People only ask questions when they’re ready to hear the answers.’ At least, that’s what I always say.” Dre grins.

  “Oh for God’s sake. I’ve created a monster … Irving would be so proud that you’re quoting him … good quote by the way. But seriously, dish some goods,” I joke. “Tell me something good.”

  “Not much to tell. I didn’t have much of a childhood. I turned eighteen, packed up, moved out, and haven’t talked to anyone in quite a while,” he admits, averting my gaze. “I grew up further north … on the east coast.”

  Apparently, tonight was not the night that Dre Donley was going to open up and share his innermost secrets with me. I can catch on pretty easily. I know better than to try to pry things out of a man, who’s nowhere near ready to part with certain secrets. I can wait; I’ll wait until he’s ready.

  Patience is a virtue that I was given an abundance of. Most people, men especially, are not like me. Men are private and impatient. I’m patient and an open book; I’ll share all and tell all.

  Dre obviously isn’t an open book; he’s private and reserved about intimate and personal topics. It’s strange not knowing anything about the man that I plan to sleep with tonight. Yes, tonight. I can’t wait one more day; he’s got me all tingly and ready. Heck, when I was talking to Sydney today, she said that even she felt sexually frustrated and jumpy, all because of me—that’s a lot coming from a porn star. My sexual tension is becoming contagious.

  I can’t figure it out. I made Theodore wait five months before I slept with him. I knew Kyle for almost 10 years before I had sex with him. And now, with Dre, I’ve basically been on three dates with him, and I’m crawling out of my skin just waiting for him to touch me, taste me, ravage me. Whatever. Anything. I’m game for anything at this point.

  Once the kitchen is cleaned, Dre walks back into my living room, and says, “So, are you gonna give me a tour?”

  “A tour? It’s a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. You’ve seen it all,” I say, facetiously. “Unless you have to use the bathroom. It’s down the hall to the right.”

  “Well, mathematically speaking, that would leave one other room I haven’t seen,” he says, grinning, pretending to count on his fingers.

  “Really? That’s seriously the best you’ve got, Donley?” I ask, rolling my eyes and shaking my head. “I’d have pegged you for better game than the old ‘can I have a tour’ pickup line.”

  “No really; it’s the best I’ve got. I told ya, I’ve never worked this hard, Pebbles. I wasn’t kidding.” Dre groans.

  “So what? You buy a chick a meal, and she basically seduces you, comes on to you … just like that?” I ask, snapping my fingers.

  “Pretty much, yeah,” he admits, as he puts his head in his hands. “This shit’s crazy. If I had to do this all the time, I’d probably still be a virgin.”

  “Doubtful,” I laugh.

  “I’m serious. This shit’s hard.”

  “So ultimately, what you’re saying is that some bimbo would come up behind you … and just start rubbing the back of your neck … and running her fingers through the back of your hair?” I ask, making my way across the living room toward the couch.

  Still not looking at me, he says, “Yeah, I guess.”

  I sit on the arm of the couch, wanting so badly to reach out and touch him. I really want the courage, the chutzpah, to initiate this. I thought I could do it. But I can’t. I’m actually afraid he’ll turn me down. I know it’s a ridiculous notion; Dre’s been one giant flashing green light since the day I met him. I just can’t let go of my insecurities, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I’m no longer pathetic Katie Howell, shy, backward, little girl. That girl still lives inside of me. She totally needs an eviction notice. I fricking hate her.

  Still trying to will myself to run my fingers through his hair, I say, “So ummm, then what?”

  Laughing, he turns to face me, and says, “Really? That’s all you’ve got Pebbles? I thought for sure you were going to be running this show tonight.”

  “I wanted to,” I admit. We both laugh, shaking our heads. “I chickened out. I guess my sexy courage went right in the trash with that blackened lasagna.”

  “Well now, we’ve got a problem here, then, don’t we?” he asks. “We’ve got one douchebag whose game is so rusty that it’s embarrassingly cliché. We’ve got a blind brunette who can’t see how incredibly sexy she is. Looks like it’s either not going to work out,” he explains, as he inches closer to me. “Or … or … someone needs to grow a pair and make his move.”

  Just as he moves in to kiss me, I shove him back on the couch, and straddle his legs. Willingly, he lies back as I crawl up the length of his body until our mouths are inches apart. “You’re right,” I say, winking at him. “Someone needed to make her move.”

  I lean down and kiss him delicately, barely touching his lips, but lingering softly and as excruciatingly long as possible. I’m breathing his air; he’s breathing mine. Every one of his exhales fills me as I inhale. Our eyes are locked on each other, staring intently, waiting for the next move to be made. Dre’s eyes are mesmerizing with every last hint of sexual desire and want. They’re saying exactly what I’m screaming.

  “Thank God,” he mutters, breathlessly, and in one motion, Dre flips me over. He’s lying atop of me, our legs entwined around each other’s. I can feel every part of his body pressed against mine. The sculpted muscles of his thighs and chest are hard against my legs and breasts. It’s almost as if every inch of my body wants contact with his, begging for a connection.

  Dre tangles his hands in my hair and kisses me hungrily. His mouth drowns out my moans as I allow his tongue to guide mine around. He’s in control, knowing exactly what to do to make me yearn for him. Pulling back, but not breaking contact, Dre eases our tongues out of our mouths. Kissing him in the open, feeling the cool air around our mouths, with
the warmth from our kiss, sends a burning heat throughout my entire body. When he sucks my tongue all the way into his mouth, my pulse quickens. I’ve never felt such arousal in my life.

  Slowly, we separate, and Dre lightly trails his tongue along my lower lip, and whispers, “Delicious.” My body ignites. I want him. I need him.

  Dre kisses his way down, gliding his tongue along my jaw, working his way slowly toward my ear. Once he reaches my ear, he breathes softly against my neck, sending chills down my spine, and quietly says, “You’re so beautiful, Kathryn,” just as he sucks my earlobe into his mouth. I respond with a moan, wrapping my legs around his waist.

  Kissing his way down my neck and over my collarbone, his hand finds the swell of my breast, while his fingers circle the hardened bud of my nipple. Dre delicately teases it through my shirt and bra.

  “Oh God, Dre,” I say, encouraging him to continue.

  Dre rubs his hands along my side, running his fingers over my ribs, toward the bottom of my shirt. He slowly eases my shirt up, kissing my stomach as he does so. I shift my body to help him remove my t-shirt. Dre leans back on his knees, staring at me hungrily, his breathing labored.

  “Found the first tattoo,” he says proudly, tracing his finger over the tattoo surrounding my navel. “Ying-Yang? It’s so sexy. So hot.”

  “How about I give you that tour now?” I ask sitting up. Dre just nods and backs up off the couch. As I stand, he pulls me against him and kisses me again. Dre returns to my ears, kissing and licking them teasingly, as I lead us back toward the bedroom.

  Wrapping only his one arm around me, he sweeps his other hand under my knees, lifting me off the floor and carrying me down the hallway. “Where to, Kathryn?” Dre murmurs into my mouth.

  I jerk my head to the side, indicating to the left. Dre walks into my bedroom, as his hand searches for the light switch. Pulling back from his lips, I say, “Just leave it off.”

  “Not gonna happen, Sweetheart,” he says, still reaching for the switch. “I wanna look at you. I don’t want to miss one second of this,” he whispers. Dre kisses me softly, and says, “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you.”