Crave

by Violet Vaughn

  Clara says, “I kicked him off my couch last week. Do you know he’s slept there every night since Tim’s death? He thinks he needs to replace Tim.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want that. I’ll be fine. He forgets I was an independent woman with a mind of my own before I got married.” She puts a piece of prosciutto in her mouth.

  “I had my suspicions. Last week I let myself in to his apartment. It looked abandoned. I cleaned out his fridge, and the only things that were still good were condiments and a couple beers.”

  “Does he call you?” She sounds concerned.

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him in over a week.” I put a piece of cheese in my mouth.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve been so…” She waves a hand. “Well, you know.”

  I reach over and touch her arm. “Don’t. You are in no way responsible for this. We’ll work it out. Everyone needs to grieve in their own way. Give it time.”

  “Okay. I can’t help but worry.” She sits back and bites into a plum. She lets a small moan escape. “Divine. I don’t know why everything tastes so good today. It must be the company. I’ve missed being with you.”

  “Can I come make dinner for you and the kids this week?” I don’t want to push, but I think she may be lonely and ready for a distraction.

  “We would love that.” Clara flashes a genuine smile. Then she sobers. “I’ll invite Blaine too. Maybe he’ll come.”

  Maybe. Or maybe not.

  Chapter 22

  I know Blaine is grieving, but I decide it’s time to intervene. Instead of seduction, this time I’m going through his stomach. I have two subs, chips, soda, and cookies from his favorite deli. I know he isn’t working and I hope I catch him at home. He declined dinner at Clara’s and hasn’t answered a text or a phone call in two weeks. I’m beginning to get worried.

  Feeling a bit like a stalker, I go check his Jeep. The windshield appears dusty. How long does it take a car to get dusty inside? I have no idea and abandon any idea of joining CSI. I walk around to the front of his building and start up the steps to his door. My cowboy boots clunk on the concrete. I’m not exactly stealthy and decide I won’t make a good private investigator either.

  Maybe I’ll be a good predator? I think if he won’t answer calls and texts he won’t answer the door, either. I tiptoe up and press my ear against it. Cold metal chills my cheek. I can’t hear anything and wonder if I would if there was something to hear. This looks so much easier on TV.

  Moving to the window, I plan to peek inside but the blinds are drawn. I suppose I could knock and say, “Pizza.” I snort at how ridiculous I’m getting. My back thumps against the door, and I slide down to sit on the cold concrete. I take my phone out of my back pocket and text him.

  “At your door and I have lunch.”

  I watch for it to read “delivered.” It does. My fingernail taps against the screen as I wait for it to say “read” like the others he has read but not responded to. I get an idea. I have a find my phone app, and I know his Apple ID. Yes. I feel clever now. Maybe hacker is my next job? I chuckle and look at the screen. “Read.”

  I’ve got you now, Blaine.

  I plug his Apple ID into my app and wait. Bingo. The blue dot is on the other side of the door. I’m so excited by my amazing detective skills; I bounce right up and knock hard. I jiggle my leg. I hate waiting. He’s doesn’t open the door. I text again. “I have a key and I’m not afraid to use it.” I wait.

  “Read.”

  I pull out my keys and look for it. Just as I put it in the lock, the door opens. “Hi?”

  He makes a sweeping motion with his arm. “You may as well come in.”

  I’m hit in the face with a stench worse than my ski boots. I crinkle my nose. On the kitchen counter, pizza boxes are stacked up. At least he’s eating. Next to them is an array of soda and beer cans. Through the stinky-sock smell, I detect something moldy. I don’t want to know where that’s coming from. Blaine has retreated back to his couch and flips off the TV.

  I hold up the bag. “Lunch?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. If this man has learned anything about me, it should be that I’m persistent. I want to go get plates in the kitchen, but quickly change my mind. Instead, I clear space on his coffee table by sliding the glasses over. I plop myself down on the floor across from him. “All right. I have here your favorite roast-beef-and-cheese sub with onion. I brought condiments galore.” I’ve opened his sandwich and spread out the paper. Onion wafts up and I hope the smell makes him hungry. I tear open the chips and pour them onto the wrapper. “Soda?”

  He shrugs his shoulders again. A Coke fizzes when I pop open the top and set it before him. “So, let me tell you about my day. Once I decided to bring you lunch, I got a little crazy. Because you won’t answer my texts and you won’t return my calls, I decided to CSI you. But I wasn’t so good at that. So I tried being a detective. Nope, not my forte. Next up, Peeping Tom. But darn it, you closed your blinds. Then it occurred to me. What am I good at? Texting. That was the chink in your armor, buddy. I’m crafty with a phone.” I grin, hoping to break through.

  He cracks a smile. Yes! He looks like crap. He has a good week’s worth of beard growing. I guess his last shower was a few days ago and laundry was last month. I’m not even going to get close enough to find out about the teeth. Well, yes, I probably will. I reach across and take his hand. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  Since humor seems to work, I go with it. The couch lets out a whoosh and a sour odor when I plop next to him. Man, he stinks. I open up our text conversation and show him my phone. “Let me show you something.” I type in “hi” and hit send. His phone vibrates. I pick it up. “And now this is what you do.” I type in “hi” and hit send. My phone vibrates. “Oh, em, gee! I got a text!” I pick up my phone and look at it in mock surprise. He snorts and I say, “It’s good to hear that.” I drop the teasing tone. “What’s going on, Blaine? Do you need help?”

  “I don’t know.” He drops his head into his hands. “Maybe.”

  “Will you let me help you? Please?” I reach out and touch his arm.

  He nods.

  “Will you eat?”

  “I’ll try.” He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. He chews as if it’s cardboard. He swallows it down with a sip of Coke. “I’m not going to eat alone.” He nods toward my sandwich.

  “Good, because I’m hungry.” I’ve never seen him eat so slowly. I itch to clean but control the urge. I don’t think a whirlwind of activity around him is a good idea right now.

  He manages half his sandwich and I’m satisfied. “How do you feel about a shower? Or maybe a bath?”

  “Shower.” He stands and shuffles to the bathroom. The door clicks shut; I snatch up my phone and Google “depression symptoms.” Feelings of sadness, loss of hope, loss of interest in normal pleasures. I think he needs to see a doctor.

  I clear the coffee table and attack the mess in the kitchen. I don’t get very far before I hear the water stop. This isn’t going to work. I text Janet. “I need a favor. Can you send a cleaning crew over to Blaine’s apartment, 5 Forest Street, this afternoon?”

  “Yes. 2? We can settle up later.”

  “2 is perfect. Thanks!”

  The bathroom door opens, and Blaine comes out wrapped in a towel and a cloud of steam.

  “How did that feel?”

  “Okay.”

  I can tell he’s trying, but this is hard for him. “Would you like me to shave your face? I have years of practice with knees and ankles. I promise not to cut you.”

  “Sure.” His eyes look dead. My heart aches. I want to fix this for him.

  I enter the bathroom and fill the sink. Steam rises from the hot water, and I drop in a washcloth. I find his razor in the cabinet along with a new blade cartridge and switch it with the old one. I clos
e the toilet lid and instruct him to “sit.” His shoulders are slouched and his eyes sad. I shake the shaving cream can and am overcome with the desire to kiss him. I’m sure that isn’t a good idea. Water splashes as I wring out the washcloth. I place it on his face, and he closes his eyes, accepting the warmth. I remove the washcloth, lift his chin with a finger, and lather his face. The razor scrapes hair off his chin stroke by stroke. Submerging the razor in water, I watch as tiny snips of hair float away. Cream dissolves into cloudy water.

  Aftershave is in his medicine cabinet. I let a couple of drops fall into my palm and rub my hands together. His face is smooth and warm as I dab my hands against it. With the last bit, I hold his cheek for a moment. My heart aches for this man. I will his pain to enter me through my hands. Of course, it doesn’t.

  Looking in the mirror, Blaine turns his head from side to side, inspecting my work. “Nice job.”

  “Thanks. I used to watch my dad.”

  He grabs deodorant and rolls it on under his arms. The spicy scent I associate with him wafts over to me. My fingers ache to touch his chest. He seems exhausted by the simple chore. I take his comb and slide it through his hair. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  Ignoring the chaos of his bedroom, I approach the dresser. A drawer grinds open, and I find clean briefs and jeans. In the T-shirt drawer is the one I had worn, and I grab it. I recall the soft embrace. I hear light footsteps as Blaine joins me in the room. Still in his towel, he looks at the clothes helplessly. I gather up the T-shirt in two hands and motion for him to bend down. I tug it over his head and guide his muscular arms through as if he’s a little boy. Struck by the thought, I almost remove his towel. Instead, I pick up the pants and underwear and put it in his hands. “I’ll let you do this part.” Leaving him, I pull the door almost shut.

  Surveying the apartment with my eyes, I locate the laundry basket. He walks out of the bedroom as I gather up dirty clothes and towels. The smell of despair surrounds me. I slip past him and do the same in the bedroom. The basket is overflowing and heavy. I set it by the door and retrieve two pillowcases stuffed with more. Blaine has made it to the couch and sits there with a blank look on his face. “Blaine, I would like you to come with me in the car. You don’t have to get out and see anyone, just go for the ride. Will you?”

  “Sure.” He gets up and lifts the basket. I grab the pillowcases and lead the way.

  Chapter 23

  Grateful for what money can buy, I drop off the laundry and pay to have it done by five. I have plans to take Blaine on a walk. Traffic is light. Most of the seasonal residents have gone to coastal towns to gather the money that gets them through winter. Spring can be lonely in a ski town. It’s too cold to open the windows, but I pop open the sunroof and let in fresh air. It blows through Blaine’s hair with the promise of summer. We weave our way up a side road heading toward hiking trails.

  “Casey, will you take me somewhere?”

  “Sure, where do you want to go?

  “The park beside the fire station.”

  That’s the last place I would have taken him. It offers a spectacular view of Peak 6. I’m not sure what he thinks, but I prepare myself for emotional demons. Rolling to a slow stop, I push the gearshift into park. A yank of the emergency brake and I turn off the ignition. He stares at the mountain. Without breaking his gaze, he says, “Don’t come. I need to do something alone right now. I’ll be back.”

  My pulse quickens. I’m afraid. A surge of adrenaline pumps through me. What is he doing? He walks behind the fire station. I roll down my window so I can listen. I hear a thunk. What? I hear another. My brain frantically tries to decipher the noise. Something is being hit. Wood. A tree? I want to go see, but he asked me not to. I have to trust him. A burst of profanity that would make Gretchen blush rushes to my ears. It is directed toward the mountain and God and anything associated with that awful day. It stops as suddenly as it starts. Fear of the unknown holds me hostage, I wait.

  After what seems like an eternity, I hear gravel crunch as Blaine approaches the car. He’s fine, no blood. The door opens with a creak. He slides in and turns to me. “The alert went off just before seven.” He tells me the whole story. The panic and hope as he rushed to help. The tumultuous emotions of jamming a pole into the snow, hoping to hit Tim but hoping he didn’t. The stabbing pain he felt in his heart when a dog found a glove. And the anguish of seeing his dead friend’s destroyed body. At points he’s sobbing, but won’t take my comfort. He needs to get it out. When he’s finished, he reaches for me. His embrace is desperate, and it hurts. I let it as the tears flow.

  When we return to his apartment I give Blaine the basket of folded laundry to carry up the steps. He seems to breathe in its fresh scent. Turning the key, the lock clicks to release the heavy metal door. The aroma of fresh flowers greets us. On the coffee table is an arrangement full of color. Everything is neat and clean. Blaine turns to me. “Casey?” He shakes his head and a small smile grows. “Thank you.”

  I read the note set by the flowers. “Janet’s mac and cheese is in the fridge. Heat at 350 for 30 minutes. <3”

  “Hungry? Macaroni and cheese can be ready in a half hour.”

  He nods. “That sounds good.” He brings the clean clothes to his room.

  The light reaches out to me when I open the refrigerator. Inside are fresh milk, eggs, bread, and orange juice. Underneath is the casserole. I put it in the oven I have set to bake.

  I wander to the bedroom and help Blaine put clothes away. When we finish, he comes to me. Holding my shoulders, he says, “We’re playing house again.”

  “I know. We do it well.” I reach up to his face and trace the outline with my finger. “Help me make the bed.”

  He takes my face in his hands. His lips touch mine. Testing and once sure, he presses harder. His tongue darts into my mouth. The kiss grows deeper and a familiar flame flickers. Breaking away, I see desire smolder beneath the surface, “Stay with me tonight, Casey. I want to hold you. I want to wake up and see your face. Please don’t leave.” A hint of desperation sneaks into his voice.

  “Of course I’ll stay.”

  When dinner is ready, I call Blaine to the table. The buttery smell of comfort food curls up from the casserole as I dish it out. I sit myself next to him, close. I stab a noodle wrapped in stringy cheese. “Blaine, did you ever talk to the grief counselor at work?”

  “No. I thought I’d be fine. I needed to take care of Clara. I didn’t have time.” He scoops up a large amount of the pasta. I think his appetite is back.

  “And now what do you think?”

  “I think I should make an appointment.”

  I set my fork down and touch his arm. “I do, too. You lost the most important person in your life. It’s no wonder you’re having trouble getting over it.”

  “Most important person? What do you mean?”

  I set my fork down. “Tim had been your best friend since you can remember. He was your go-to guy no matter what. He knew all your secrets and was the one person in the world that loved you beyond unconditionally. You could tell him anything. He probably never had trouble telling you the truth about your actions. I know you felt the same way about him. He was your person Blaine. You would have died for him and he for you. We should all be so lucky to have someone like that in our lives.”

  “Person.” He nods. “I see what you mean. Do you think Clara was his person too?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know. I know they loved each other. They were a team in many ways. But marriage is a different, complex, thing. Things like divorce happen. I don’t think you ever divorce your person.”

  “Hmmm,” he says with his mouth full.

  After dinner we decide to cuddle on the couch and watch a movie. We settle on a light comedy. I don’t hear Blaine laugh. This is more than I can handle.

  “Casey, I’m so tired. Do you mind if we go to bed?”<
br />
  “That’s fine. Can I borrow a T-shirt?” Oh boy. My nerves stand on edge. Where is this going to lead? While he has been affectionate tonight, the sexy stuff had been minimal. I’m not sure why, but I hope it stays that way. I’m kind of—jealous. Jealous of how Blaine felt about Tim. I know it’s unfair, but I want him to adore me the same way.

  “Sure. Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. Sliding open the drawer he says, “Help yourself.” As I touch each one to find the softest, he walks out and I hear the door click shut. Whew.

  When I open the door, I have a view of the bathroom. Standing in just his jeans, I hear him brush his teeth. He reaches out a hand for me. Stepping onto the cool tile, heat leaves my feet. He hands me a toothbrush with toothpaste already on it. I begin to brush and look at us in the mirror. His blond, tan, California-boy looks make me think of the summer sun. He’s strong, tall, and has the athletic body of a swimmer. I look almost waif-like next to him. With willowy arms, flowing reddish curls, and pale skin, we don’t match. The look on his face tells me that’s not what he thinks. He doesn’t smile, but I sense his appreciation and feel loved. Yet I’m also uneasy. I need to get a grip. He just lost his lifelong best friend, and I’m worried that he loved him more than me? I give myself a mental slap for being so selfish.

  Blaine finishes first and steps behind me. He wraps his arms around my body and pulls me back against his chest. “Look at us. You’re so beautiful in my arms. My angel.” His hot breath nuzzles my hair.

  I smile, and then I spit. I turn around to face him. “Was that beautiful?”

  “To me? Yes.” He takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. He stops by the light switch, and I slide into the cool sheets. Shivering, I wait. The light snaps off, and the heat from his body radiates toward me when he climbs in. He pulls me over as I turn away. We fit together, and he lets out a big sigh. His strong body is pressed against the length of me. “Thanks for being here.” He yawns and whispers, “I love you.”