by Lulu Wright
“Aw.”
“You were so weird, but in a good way. You always put your hair up in the afternoon with this barrette with a bumble bee on it. And you wore the color green all the time. And you always had a book…”
“I noticed things about you too.”
His face brightens in a smile. “Yeah? What?”
“I remember all the food you ate in the cafeteria. And that your locker was always neat. And that you tied your shoes with double knot and…” I sigh. “Yeah, I noticed you too.”
Suddenly I see the past in a whole new light. I flash back to different scenes with that new piece of startling information. His monosyllabic answers. The tension in his body when he was around me. How long it took him to finally speak to me outside of our project, which I assumed was because he hated me.
Then later. Those lingering kisses and deep stares.
“You hurt my feelings a lot.” He stares at the ceiling when he admits this, and I watch him carefully, concerned.
“I did?”
“You would call me stupid sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. You were kinda mean. But I liked you a lot, so I just kept going back like a chump.”
“You were mean to me too, you know,” I point out.
He squints his eyes at me, then blinks. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I…” He softly chuckles, then rolls back on the pillow and rubs his face. “Yeah, I guess I was. I just felt like I wasn’t, you know, enough for you. Like you looked down on me. So I was mean back, I suppose, sometimes.”
I stroke his chest and look into his eyes. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are set in pain. “Mark, I am sorry if I made you feel that way. But I honestly thought—still think—that you are amazing. I was impressed with how you carried yourself, how you soldiered on in spite of everything going on at home.”
He blinks at me but says nothing.
“I was super self-conscious at that age. Most kids are, I guess. I was convinced you were ashamed of me and didn’t want your friends to know about me because I was the fat nerdy girl. So I kind of took that out on you.”
He bursts out laughing and rubs his face again. “Nope. No way.” He sits up. “I didn’t want to tell anybody because I was terrified you would break my heart and everyone would know. I had some self image problems too, you know, with everything that was going on at home.”
“Of course.”
“I guess we both had our issues. But that was then and this is now…”
I shake my head. He’s right. “But I am sorry.”
“Me too.” He strokes my face. “Can’t we just be together? Here and now?”
I straddle him and bend down to kiss him in response. The kiss deepens and he wraps his arms around my hips to tug me down against him. Just when I’m warming up to the idea of sexing him up, there’s a knock at the door.
“Food is here.” He reaches down to grab his boxer shorts.
“Nope. Against the rules!”
“But how am I…”
“Be creative.” I wink.
I watch Mark rise from the bed, grab some cash off his nightstand and walk to the door buck naked. “Coming,” he shouts with a laugh. “How the hell am I going to…”
I tiptoe down the hall behind him, peeking around the corner to see how he plans to pull this off. He opens the front door a crack and slides his arm through. “Uh, keep the change and leave the boxes on the porch, dude…”
As I dissolve into laughter, Mark runs back over to me, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me back to bed. We can wait a little longer to eat.
Right now I am on my 4th slice of pizza and grease is dripping down my chin. Mark’s response? He flips another slice onto my plate and dangles another mozzarella stick in front of me. “Fried cheese rules,” he says.
I gobble up the gooey glob from his fingertips.
“That piano is beautiful,” I say with a full mouth. “Do you throw elegant parties and hire someone to play?”
Mark shakes his head. “I play,” he says quietly.
“Really?” I blink. I don’t remember him playing in high school.
“I know. Not a lot of pianos in the sticks.”
“I just meant, you never mentioned it in school.”
He looks away and cracks his knuckles. “There was this nice old lady that lived next door. A widow. A real grandmother type, you know. Always making cookies and watching kids in the neighborhood for free…”
Moving next to him, I touch his shoulder to silently encourage him to talk.
“Anyway, she would have me over, you know, when my mom was a mess. To keep me busy, she taught me to read music and play her old baby grand. ”
“So you kept up with it, I see.”
“First thing I bought when I got this place.”
“So. Are you going to show me how well you’ve kept up with it?” I wink at him.
“Is that a challenge? Are you asking me to prove I can play?”
“Hell yeah I am. I’d love to hear it.”
Mark stands and grabs my hand. He leads me to the piano and sets me on the wooden bench. Then he sits down beside me and cracks his knuckles.
A rippling melody fills the room as his fingers drift over the keys, and I can feel the vibrations tickle my body through the piano bench. “That sounds familiar. Fur Elise?”
“Good ear.”
He changes the tune to something more upbeat and rhythmic. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t name it. “I think that’s a rag?”
He nods. “Maple Street Blues. Scott Joplin.” He changes the melody again. This one is annoyingly familiar and makes me grimace.
“Say My Name? Seriously?”
He laughs and raises his hands in surrender. “OK. How about this one?”
His face changes as he lowers his hands to the keys again. A lighthearted tickling of notes peppered with some dramatic chords. It’s a beautiful, haunting melody, but I can’t place it. “Can you give me a hint?”
“Close your eyes and listen.”
Shutting my eyes, it feels like the melody is making me rise. “Is it a pop song or something from classical?”
“Listen.”
Laying my body down across the piano’s mantel, I open my eyes and find he’s staring at me as he plays. The mood of the piece shifts to a darker tone, but then melts back into the joyous melody, but this time it’s layered and dramatic. “What is it?” I whisper with a smile.
He takes the volume down and loops the melody. “I wrote it.”
I smile. I am not surprised. Eighteen year old me would be, but adult me knows that the man before me isn’t a dumb jock from the sticks. He has depth, so much more than I ever glimpsed. Now I want to know more. “What do you call it?”
His smile widens. “A Rose is a Rose is a Rose…”
20
Mark
When Rose sleeps, nuclear bombs can’t wake her. It’s Sunday, so no radio show this morning, but I am up at the crack of dawn like usual. I wake up hard, and watching her chest rise and fall doesn’t help matters. I think about maybe stroking her pussy a little to rouse her and arouse her, but she’s sleeping so peacefully, I can’t interrupt her now. Later, baby.
As Sleeping Beauty slumbers on, I shower and make a few calls. Our show will be over in a week and I’ll be off to spring training with my team in Florida. Yankees management are aware Rose will be coming, but I have to button up a few more details.
Once that’s finished, I head into the kitchen to get a head start on breakfast. Everything in my fridge and pantry is breakfast related. Just breakfast. I get delivery for everything else. As I grab the bacon, the eggs and the potatoes, I feel grateful that I finally got a chick who fucking eats.
The fresh brew in the expensive coffee maker doesn’t rouse Rose, and neither do the scents of the homestyle potatoes or the eggs. But when the bacon aroma fills the cabin, I feel her arms around my waist and a whispered, “Good morning,” in my ear. Thank god
she’s up. My balls are aching from lack of love.
“Sit down,” I murmur. “I will serve the Queen of Sighs.”
“Queen of Sighs?” She chuckles.
“You should hear yourself sometime.”
After I fork eggs into her mouth and feed her bacon, I wiggle my eyebrows at her to indicate I want to fuck.
“Is that your special signal for me?” She smiles and wraps her arms around my waist, while I let my hands wander down her hips.
This, right here, is exactly what I want.
“OK, Mark. Open your eyes.”
My therapist Todd is sitting across from me, still in that weird green sweater, still in those silly gold rimmed glasses that make him look like a yuppie John Lennon, but somehow he looks different now.
I used to hate these breathing and meditation exercises, but now, after breathing and meditating, I think he’s awesome. It’s a strange magic I could only perform on the mound or at the piano or when I am banging Rose.
“How do you feel?” he asks me in that calm voice he always has. I nod, but I know it’s not enough for him. “Words, please. As we discussed.”
After a swallow and another breath I am ready to describe how I feel. “Relaxed. And also energized. Which is kind of surprising.”
“Good,” he says as he writes in his notebook. “That’s good, Mark.”
I rub my legs and then my face. “It’s getting easier to calm down now.”
Todd nods as he continues to write. “Good, now you have another exercise to go a little deeper into those emotions and purge them.” I can’t help but to let loose a little laugh. “Something funny, Mark?”
“It’s just, when I first starting working with you, I thought it was going to be a waste of time, but now I can see that it’s helping. So, I guess what I am trying to say is thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And although you have made great progress, you know you still have a lot of work to do.”
The weight of the world feels like it’s been dropped on my shoulders, but I let that sensation pass. “I’m guessing you have more homework for me.”
Smiling, he rips off a page from his notebook and hands it to me. “For the next week, I want you to take some time and make a new list.”
I glance at the page and read aloud. “List what makes you angry?”
“What we’ve been facing in our sessions is that your first response to extreme emotions, emotions like sadness or embarrassment or even pressure, is anger. So what I want you to explore now is what triggers your anger so that next week, we can discuss appropriate responses. Good?”
“Sounds good, doc.”
Squinting his eyes, he taps his pen on his notepad. “How is the new romance going?”
My skin flushes a little hot. Yep, I fucking blush. “Well…”
“Words please, as we…”
“I know, I know.” Looking around the room, my eyes land on the piano and I smile at the thought of Rose perched naked on it. “It’s just been a couple of weeks. But so far so good. And it’s weird…”
“What?”
“Even when I have gotten frustrated…I don’t get the crazy anger thing happening when she’s around.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno.” I shrug.
“OK. We can explore that next time.”
After I see Todd out, I give Rose a ring on her cell. She’s working late tonight to splice together highlights for the show, but I want to do something special. That is, after I visit another special someone.
Clutching the book to my chest, I exit the elevator to head to room 14B. Stanley is going to love my gift. Rose happened to be college roommates with someone at the publishing house, so she scored me an editor’s advance copy of the new Mickey Mantle biography three months early.
Walking down the hallway, I check my emotions, my anxiety. I haven’t so much as talked to Stanley since the night of the heart attack. Between Bev’s presence and his touch-and-go status, I figured staying away was the best solution. Bill agreed, unfortunately.
But I can’t explain why I’m so jumpy to see him now. Maybe because I want to impress him, please him and make him happy. But also, because so much has changed since that night. Between me and Rose, between me and myself… I want to share it with him.
Todd would be proud I made that connection, I think with a smirk.
Pausing in front of Stanley’s door, I force a smile. Stress is contagious and I don’t want him catching mine. I shake off my nerves and tap on the door. It swings open to reveal Bev. Her curious expression morphs into an oh, it’s you face. “Mark. Now is not the time for your shit.”
I hold up the book. “No shit, I swear. I come bearing a gift.”
Her eyes squint at the title and she shakes her head. “I can’t have any drama or any stress in this room.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.”
She scowls at me. “You’d better.” She widens the door.
Shit.
Stanley looks like hell. The Miami tan is gone and he’s pale and hollow looking. His eyes blink open and focus on me, a faint smile on his lips. “Kid,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.
Stretching my fake smile, I inhale hard and approach the bed. “Hi, Stan. How you feeling?”
“Aces. What you got there?”
“You know that Hal Britain bio about Mickey you’ve been talking about?” I hold the book to him and he takes it with a trembling hand. I notice I am trembling too.
He closes his eyes for what seems like an eternity and then opens them, trying to smile. It hurts to watch. “Thanks, kid. How you been? Bill hasn’t told me much.”
“We’ve been keeping work out of the room,” Bev interrupts behind me. Her tone is stern, so I take that as a warning.
“Doing great. We raised a lot for the Little Sluggers.” Stanley nods and closes his eyes again. I wait, but he doesn’t open them again and panic stabs my heart. “Stan…”
Bev touches my arm and her nails dig in. “He’s fine. He does that. Just drifts off.”
“Oh.” I look at the book which he still has hugged to him.
“It’s time for you to leave.”
I sit on my couch for half an hour and make my List of Things That Make Me Angry. As instructed by Todd, I write for twenty minutes solid and rarely let the pen leave the note pad.
Heart Attacks.
Foul Balls.
Blue Balls.
Flat tires.
Burned coffee.
Gossip.
Rumors.
Amber’s rumors in particular, since she’s moved on to spread the word that I cheated on her. Like the thing with Rose isn’t on a whole other level than Amber and I ever were.
TOMMY FUCKING PIZZA.
Bev’s harsh words.
Where my locker in the locker room is. Too close to the showers.
That ding on my truck hood. Where the fuck did that come from.
The traffic on the 17 in the mornings.
The hangnail I have on the ring finger of my left hand.
Apologizing to Tommy Pizza.
Eric’s scars.
Potholes.
Head colds.
My mother’s mugshots for her arrest for drugs and theft and prostitution.
I stop and look at the last item on my list of fury. Where did that come from? Todd is a sneaky fuck and I can now see why he wanted me to write this list. I get it. A flat tire is not equal to Stanley’s heart attack. A hangnail doesn’t compare to my shit-tastic childhood.
I have tried everything to help my mom. At first I thought straight-up cash would fix things. When I signed to the Yankees, I bought Mom a house in the burbs and filled it with beautiful things.
Stupid me. She stopped getting busted for stealing and hooking, but she still did her drugs. After an overdose, I got tough. Just paid all her bills directly and had groceries delivered.
She sold everything she could out of the house, first the furniture, then the appli
ances, then the copper wiring.
Then I put her in rehab. Five places. Now a sixth. She’s in Arizona and has been clean for three months and I am hopeful, but cautious about it.
After a long moment of thought, I pick up the phone and dial the number at the rehab. I need to talk to her. I need to tell her how much she fucked things up for me. I need to tell her I am sick of carrying around this anger.
Then I need to forgive her and let this shit go.
21
Rose
Mark and I have slipped into a routine before our shows. While I’m still sleeping, he takes a shower and while I’m showering, he makes breakfast for his Queen of Sighs. I haven’t slept into my own bed for days and I might not be able to going forward. His Tempurpedic is the bomb, and not just for sleeping.
This morning he cut up some fresh fruit for me with a scoop of yogurt in it. And that isn’t the only way he’s been spoiling me. He heats my towels. Not to mention we have exchanged many a joyous massage on that sweet table of his.
My personal items have been slowly accumulating at his place, too. First it was a tooth brush. Then a couple of pairs of panties, but in the last couple of weeks I’ve added my makeup bag, several changes of clothes and some books. I even got him to upgrade the toilet paper.
What’s up with guys having cheapo TP? I mean, he’s got this expensive Japanese luxury toilet, but bargain basement paper.
Even the drive to the station this morning is wonderfully routine, despite the fact that we have to be in extra early for a meeting about the show going national. This is our last official week before Mark and I go to Miami. I’m starting to find comfort in that. Like I’m in the whole lovely safety bubble.
I love that he drives me, and surprisingly I don’t miss my car at all. I love that we talk about stuff on the way in. I love that he is growing a beard. As he drives, I reach over and stroke the soft stubble on his face.
Nice.
This morning the diehards are in the parking lot as usual. At this point they are like old friends and I know many of them by name.
“Good Morning, Delores,” I say to the older lady decked out in bedazzled Yankees accessories. She must have a million pictures of me by now, but always seems to want another. I don’t get it, but I always accommodate her and I know my best selfie poses now.