“Does that answer your question?” His voice is deep and sexy.
I nod my head. My ability to speak has vanished. What does he expect? I haven’t been kissed in more years than I care to remember. The closest I’ve come to a smooch is a lick from my cat and his sandpaper tongue.
“Now, what’s your answer, Rachel? Do you want to be more than friends and see where this goes?”
I’m not ready for this, and I know it. Old fears shroud me in doubt as he gently holds me. Yes, I want him. Who wouldn’t want him? Handsome, strong, intelligent, kind, and the list goes on. I can’t believe, though, that anyone like him would want me. Maybe he wants in my pants, and he’s trying to figure out if I’m an easy lay. That’s it.
“It frightens me,” I whisper.
“Why?” His eyes narrow.
“Just does.”
“I like you, Rachel, a lot. You probably get that by now.” He smiles. “The moment you lifted your head off that steering wheel and turned and looked at me, something clicked inside. Can’t explain it.”
“I like you, too, Ian. Does this mean you want to date me or something?”
He grins. “Yeah, something like that,” he says, giving me an endearing look, which melts my heart. “Come on, let’s get back to the car.”
He turns me around, and I inhale a deep breath. Yes! This guy wants to date me, I scream inside with glee. A silly grin plasters across my face and stays there the entire way down the mountain until my cheeks hurt. God, this really can’t be happening to me.
Even though I feel elated, my fears are standing by the sidelines ready to snatch the emotion away. I wish they’d back off and take my insecurities with them. My smile fades by the time we make it back to the SUV, and a foreboding feeling grabs my tummy.
“You want to get a bite to eat in the lodge?” He’s standing by the car door hesitating.
It’s the dine-with-him offer again. I glance at the lodge and the memories inside. It’s been so long since I’ve sat inside the stone walled and wooden beam restaurant.
“Okay, maybe a Coke and a bowl of soup.” If I don’t have anything solid, I might make it home. Ian looks as if he’s won the lottery, because I agreed to eat with him. We climb the stairs and a hostess greets us.
“Would you like a table by the window?”
I see there’s an empty table by my favorite spot, and immediately I blurt out my preference. “How about the table by the fireplace?”
“Yes, of course,” she answers. We’re escorted there, and Ian pulls out a chair for me. He waits for me to be seated before he takes his. The menus are put in front of us, and I remember their good brewed coffee.
“Would you like anything to drink?” the hostess asks.
“Coffee.”
“Same for me,” Ian replies.
At last we’re alone and looking at each other across the table. “Nice place. Too bad the weather is too warm for a fire,” he says, glancing over at the empty hearth filled with ashes.
“I know. This used to be my favorite table when we drove down here on fall and winter mornings for breakfast.” I let the word “we” slip out of my mouth, and immediately I regret the personal leak.
“We who?” He gives me a curious glance.
He picked up on that slip fast. I look at him, and my heart pounds in my chest. He kisses me, tells me that he wants to date me, and now I have to start my true confessions. I might as well get it over with, because he has some confessions of his own.
“My ex-husband,” I say in a low voice, while my eyes shift over to the empty hearth so I don’t have to see the look on his face. Before he can reply, the hostess pops back with our drinks. Thankfully, I have a few more moments to collect my thoughts.
After stirring in the cream and taking a sip of coffee, I raise my eyes to look at his face. I’m surprised he’s staring into his own cup, swirling the spoon around in aimless circles. He’s either digesting my confession, or deciding whether to spill the beans about his past.
He lays the spoon down and then looks at me. There is a recognizable sadness in his eyes, which throws me for a loop.
“I have an ex too. An ex-wife, that is—Susan.”
Susan. I wish he would have never dropped her name into my head. Nevertheless, Ian looks embarrassed as hell, as if he just revealed the biggest failure of his life. The miserable look on his face makes me feel sorry for him, so I make light of it.
“Yeah, I know. I saw your marital status on your social media page.” I smirk, and then lower my lips to the coffee cup and take a sip.
“Boy, you’ve really done your homework.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Did you run a background check on me, too, to make sure I have no outstanding warrants?” His eyes are gleaming at me, filled with mischievous intent.
“Not yet, but the thought crossed my mind.”
He relaxes and sits forward. “Okay, that’s out of the way,” he says. “What next?”
“That’s enough confessions for one day,” I say emphatically. I have my own dark secrets stuffed behind a closed door, and I don’t know if I’ll ever let them out to this perfect male specimen.
“Can I at least ask how long it’s been? I mean since your divorce,” he inquires in a low voice.
He has the right to know if I’m on the rebound, so I tell him the truth. “Five years.”
“Wow, that’s a long time. Have you dated since then?”
This is certainly going to sound like a lie, but it’s the sad, awful truth. “Not really. Just once or twice for a few nights out here and there.” His eyes widen in surprise. “I never found anybody I liked.” Or someone I could trust, I honestly confess to myself.
“Do you ever see your ex-husband?”
“No, thank God, nor do I want to. He lives out of state.” I think to myself, okay tit-for-tat. “How about you?”
“Three and sometimes.”
“Define sometimes.”
He glances down at his coffee cup for a moment and then looks back up at me. “Our paths cross in our jobs.”
“You mean she’s an attorney too?”
“Yes.”
Oh, great. His ex-wife probably looks classy, makes tons of money, and is smart as hell. Maybe they met at Harvard. “Okay,” I mumble.
“Does that bother you?”
“You over her?” I pry.
“Yes.”
“You over him?” he quickly asks in return.
“Yes.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t see any problem with us…”
“Can I take your order now?” The waitress stands by our table with her pad in hand, and I haven’t even opened the menu yet.
“Not quite,” Ian replies. “Can we have a few more minutes?”
“Sure, I’ll come back later.” She leaves, and he reaches over and touches my hand. “As I was saying, I don’t see any problem with us dating. Do you?”
Only that my self-esteem is in the toilet, I have bizarre needs, and I know you’ll leave me one day, my mind quickly rants.
“No.” I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Maybe I’ll get laid.
The menus get read, I order soup, and barely sip a fourth of it. Ian doesn’t comment on my lack of appetite, thankfully. Since my hand shakes every time I lift the spoon to my mouth, he’s probably picked up on the fact I’m petrified to be eating in front of him. I hate my nerves and lack of confidence.
We have superficial conversation about nothing substantial. Before we leave, I make a quick visit to the ladies’ room to collect myself, check my makeup, and go before the long ride home.
Ian takes the freeway back, rather than the scenic route, and returns me home mid-afternoon. After he pulls into a parking spot, he turns off the SUV and looks at me.
“When can I see you again?”
“Whenever you like. I think my calendar is wide open.” It’s not exactly like I have dates penned in for every day.
“How about tomorrow? You
go to church or anything in the morning?”
“Who me? I used to, but not anymore.”
“Yeah, me too.” He hesitates and then offers a suggestion. “Well, how about we take a drive to the coast tomorrow?”
Wow, gorge one day, coast the next? Now I’m singing praises in my head. I’m starving for a chance to walk the beach.
“Yeah, that sounds great,” I reply in a perky tone.
“Cannon Beach okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Pick you up at nine a.m.?”
“Perfect.”
He’s smiling from ear to ear, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that I get to spend more time with him. Guess things turned out okay, and I haven’t scared him off yet.
“Thanks for today. I had a lovely time.”
“Yeah, me too. Let me walk you up to your apartment.”
He jumps out of the car, opens my door, and grabs my hand. We walk together up the stairs, and he stops. The usual question looms in my brain, do I invite him in or not? I don’t want to, because I need a break to process our time together and prepare for tomorrow.
“Mind if I kiss you?” His blues eyes beg.
“No,” I sheepishly reply.
He puts his arms around me and draws me close into his firm torso. My body responds to his touch, and suddenly I’m mush. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the embrace of a man. I literally want to sob in his arms because I’m being held, but I control myself. After another sweet and tender kiss, he looks at me adoringly.
“So glad you ran into me. See you tomorrow.”
With that, he turns and trots down the steps and out of sight. Suddenly, the absence of his presence is painful. The tears I held in a moment ago, sting my eyes. I insert the key into the lock and disappear into my solitary cave to be the lonely, pathetic Rachel once again.
Chapter 5
A Time to Snoop
Whiskers wanders out of the bedroom, meows and flashes me an about-time-you-got-home look of disdain. I pick him up and cradle him in my arms, rub his belly until he purrs, and then give him a kiss on his black nose. He’s my rescued cat, who rescued me—for the most part.
The taste of Ian’s kiss lingers on my lips, and I remember his warm arms around me. It’s been so long since I’ve received a tender touch, I still cannot process the act with clarity. I love the feel of a man’s embrace, yet at the same time my alter ego wants to push him away. He’s invading my space. It’s a carefully planned and well-built line of defense that follows me like a protective bubble wherever I go. When breached, I feel uncomfortable, threatened, and unnerved. There is so much I want out of life, but I possess so little courage that I cannot make myself believe that anything worthy awaits me in this relationship long-term.
After spending a few minutes sulking around the house, I turn on my computer and sit down. Windows comes to life. I connect to the Internet, and click on my page to see if I have any pseudo-friend comments. I look at my four hundred and eighty-two friends, most of whom I’ve never met face-to-face. I think only twenty-five people I actually know. The others are pictures of smiling faces or false identities. My own consists of some nineteenth century painter’s portrait of some beautiful woman. I hate my photo, and this makes me feel better about myself.
The first thing I notice is a new friend request, so I click on it. Ian Richards wants to be friends. My heart skips a beat, and I stare at the confirm or ignore button. I could ignore it, but then I’m dying of curiosity about his locked-down domain. Surely, it will reveal more about this interesting man. There will be pictures of him, family, and friends I can peruse, quirky statements, and who knows what else. With trepidation, I hit confirm.
The picture he uses as his header is a scene of the ocean. It looks so peaceful. I hope to God his pictures aren’t locked down, but before I get a chance to peek around, I see the red notice of “1” on the top of my page. Dang! He’s posted on my wall already.
“Had a terrific time today. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Now go ahead and snoop all you want, while I snoop over you!”
I chuckle at his snoop comment. He knows darn well I’m going to read every entry and check out every picture. Before I do, I write a comment underneath his.
“I’m looking forward to the snoop.”
Suddenly, it dawns on me that he’s probably reading all of my entries and looking at my pictures. I close my eyes and cringe. Like a computer doing a check disk, my brain tries to remember what I’ve been posting on my timeline for the last year.
Of course, there have been a few off-colored comments. I’ve posted a few pictures of hot models with six-pack abs. Moaned about a doctor or dentist appointment. Most of my friends do the same. Then I remember a few photos of myself, and I wince. There are some seriously lousy ones of me in years past where I was overweight and more depressed than I am now. He’s going to die when he sees those goodies.
Since it’s too late to start deleting pictures left and right, I leave it and pop on over to his page. I hit the picture album link, and suddenly my tongue hangs out of my mouth. There’s a couple of him on the beach, without a shirt, and damn does he look hot. He’s tan, toned, buffed, and scrubbed, and everything else a woman could want. I open the picture, right click, and save it on my computer. Me bad, I think to myself, but I don’t care. I need visuals.
His other pictures appear to be with friends or family, and I can’t tell who is who. His page is as neat as his wallet. His friends are kept at a minimum of one hundred and twenty-three. Nothing uncouth is written in any of his comments, which are few and far between. Everything is perky and upbeat. I hate him already.
I check out all his friends, but don’t see any marked as family. They’re probably too sophisticated to be on a social media site. The perfect life, perfect family, and perfect past—he possesses everything I don’t. The whole comparison stings me, and the usual loser feeling is back with a vengeance. I know when he finds out everything about me, my heart is going to be broken into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, I want to pick up the phone and call tomorrow off.
After a few more torturous minutes, I leave my computer and walk into the bedroom and lie down on my bed. I curl my knees up to my chest and bring my arms across my breasts. My head lowers to the pillow and my eyes close. The feelings of dread and fear push me into the mattress like heavy weights upon my body. My chest constricts, and the familiar sense as if I’m suffocating takes over. I’m a mess again as I struggle with self-doubt, and my eyes well with tears.
“Why am I doing this?” I scold myself aloud. I know why. It’s because I want to believe someone can love me, but I can’t believe. I’ve never known unconditional love from a man. Frankly, I don’t even know if such a thing exists.
Do men genuinely love? No, I’ve convinced myself that they don’t. They just want sex and have no emotions. The male race consists of lust-driven robots that want to screw. All I know is that I’m never good enough, and when Ian discovers my secrets, he’ll leave me after he’s gotten what he wants. There’s no way around it.
My head sinks deeper into the pillow. I want to sleep, so I don’t have to think. When I sleep there’s no pain, no thinking, no chiding myself for being a failure, no memory, and no voices in my head to haunt me, unless nightmares return. It’s a place where I can retreat and cease to exist, as long as I don’t dream about the man with no face. I take a deep breath and wait for darkness to arrive.
* * * *
The telephone rings and awakens me out of a sound sleep. I sit up in bed startled and try to clear my fuzzy thoughts. It continues to ring, so I get up and run to the kitchen to answer it. The caller ID shows it’s my brother, and I wonder what he wants.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sis!”
His voice sounds like I’m his loving sister that he talks to every day. Usually, he calls when he’s drunk to tell me how much he loves me. Other than that, I never hear from him.
“Yeah, Bob, what’s
up?” I sound annoyed.
“Did I wake you or something? You sound groggy.”
“As a matter of fact, you did.”
“Oh, sorry. I wanted to let you know I was coming out to Oregon this fall for a conference, and I was wondering if I could stay at your place.”
The idea of having my brother here suddenly gives me shivers down my spine.
“If the conference is downtown, you’d be better off staying at a hotel. The commute from where I live is a killer.” There, I’ve warned him off, so now maybe he’ll bug off.
“Well, I just thought…”
“Bob, I haven’t seen you since dad died, and now you want to stay with me?”
“Okay, I get it,” he says, annoyed. “I thought I’d make the effort.”
“Well, it’s a bit late for that!” The anger explodes inside of me, and I slam down the telephone receiver.
“Damn you!” I scream at the telephone as if he can hear me. Tomorrow, I’ll probably be sorry that I was so mean to him, but we’ve never been close.
I’m feeling cranky, so I go back to my computer to see if maybe Ian has visited my page again. I open it and have email. Let it be him, I think to myself. I click the mouse and it is.
“Hey, you got a home phone number? I forgot to ask.”
I smile, type the number, and hit send. As soon as I get up, the phone rings again. I run back to the kitchen, look at the caller ID, and see that it’s blocked. “Shit,” I mumble, staring at it. I’m afraid it might be Bob again, but then it could be Ian. The phone keeps ringing, and I know my voice mail is going to pick it up, or they’re going to hang up.
Swiftly, I pick up the receiver and answer with a hesitant, “Hello?”
“Hey, Rachel, it’s Ian.”
“Oh, God, I’m glad it’s you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but I almost didn’t pick up because the number was blocked.”
“Oh, crap,” he says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to do that; just forgot to undo the block. Sorry.”
Conflicting Hearts Page 6