by S. R. Grey
I soon discovered there were a lot of firsts that went along with that title. Doug and I were each other’s firsts for a lot of things, most all of them physical. But sadly, as time wore on, those physical things didn’t mean all that much to me. I never grew to love Doug the way our mothers hoped for. I stayed with Doug anyway, out of obligation, out of habit, but mostly to please my mother. And she certainly was pleased, sometimes disturbingly so.
This one time, when I was home from school for spring break, my mother discovered my birth control pills. She’d been snooping around in my room. Doug and I always used condoms, but I was so fearful of being tied to him forever by that point that I’d started the pill as extra protection. Instead of being angry, like I fully expected, my mother was thrilled. She said it was great. It meant we were finally getting serious. I rolled my eyes at her utter cluelessness when she turned away. Unfortunately, finding those pills gave my mother and Mrs. Wilson some kind of green light to start planning the wedding. Yes, the wedding,
“Not for a few more years, mind you,” my mother assured me with a patronizing pat to my head. “But there’s no such thing as planning too early, you know. You’re going to have the best wedding, Kay. We’ll make sure of it.” She didn’t mean herself and me—she meant herself and Mrs. Wilson.
Nothing was sacred when it came to my relationship with Doug. It was me and him, and our meddling mothers. I was downright horrified when my mother ran and told Mrs. Wilson all about the birth control. Doug’s mother didn’t need to know I was having sex with her son. Ugh, where were the boundaries? My mother respected nothing.
My life spun faster and faster, things felt out of control. I was pleasing everyone but myself, and at my own expense. One morning, in the early days of summer break, after close to a year of dating someone I no longer cared to even be around, I woke up and decided to start leading an honest life. I didn’t love Doug, and it was time to tell him…and our mothers.
Unfortunately, when I went downstairs to break the news to my mother first, she showed me the guest list she’d been working on for this down-the-road, in-her-head wedding. I froze, suddenly losing my nerve. How could I fess up and tell her I didn’t want to be with her best friend’s son a minute longer? I’d shatter my mother’s dreams. Were hers more important than my own? Maybe so. They certainly loomed larger in my mind.
I was beginning to feel like I wasn’t living my own life anymore, I was living one for my mom. But I was afraid if I stopped pleasing her she’d stop loving me. She was hard like that. Always was and still is, now more than ever. And I was right to fear, her love for me was never freely given.
So, that day, I said nothing to Mom, nothing to Doug. I continued to live a lie. I stayed with someone I knew I’d never love. I think Doug sensed it too. I think he’d known for a while. He’d grown bitter, I could tell, but he stayed with me out of spite. Or maybe he stayed with me for the power it gave him. The dark side I’d sensed in him reared its ugly head. Doug began to take things out on me, he made me do things I didn’t want to do. He became pushy and mean. But I was weak, and my weakness led to disaster. Not for Doug, not for me, but for Sarah.
I wish now I’d done things differently, knowing how it all turned out, seeing how my family was torn apart. But it’s too late, what’s done is done. The biggest irony of the sad and tragic situation is that while my mother won’t speak to me, she still has contact with Doug. I may be to blame for what happened to Sarah, but Doug Wilson played a part. I guess not a big enough part to be forsaken by the woman who still calls herself my mother, even though she’s not been one to me for four long years.
I wish I’d never found out Mom speaks to Doug. It makes the ache in my heart cut deeper. But I did find out, courtesy of my father and one of our short phone conversations. I think he just slipped up, he told me the day he called that the reason he had some time alone on his hands was because my mom was out, having dinner with Mrs. Wilson and her son. She only has one son, so I knew he meant Doug. See, Doug lives in Columbus these days. My father also let out that when Doug’s mother goes into town to see her son my mother usually meets them out for dinner.
The three of them sitting around a table, laughing and smiling, while I sit here paying for all of our mistakes. Unbelievable. They can all stay in Columbus for all I care. I’m just thankful Doug doesn’t live in Harmony Creek anymore. It’s bad enough when I know he’s in town visiting his family. During those times, I avoid him at all costs. And, so far, we’ve yet to cross paths.
The rain comes to a sudden stop and breaks me from my disturbing reverie. A sliver of sun peeks out from behind a cloud. I’ve spent enough time here today, dwelling on the past.
It’s time to move on.
I comb my fingers through my dampened hair and stand. Crazy thing, my hair probably looks better all rain-damp wavy. Not that anyone will see. All the parishioners are gone for the day.
My clothes are dry, but the ballet flats are still a soggy mess. However, I am not about to walk barefoot all the way back to the car, so, with a grimace, I squish the shoes back onto my feet.
The clouds disperse as I make my way out of the cemetery. A bright blue sky is revealed, along with the promise of a beautiful day. Maybe a new beginning, I tell myself. By the time I reach the stone pathway the sun is beaming, blindingly so. I detour over the grass terrace and start across the church lot to where my car is parked. But I can’t see a thing with the sun glaring in my face.
I lower my head and fumble around in my bag, searching for the pair of knock-off designer sunglasses I bought the other day.
“Where are they?” I mumble to myself, nudging Peetie and pushing aside my hardly-ever-used makeup bag.
I spot the edge of a mirrored lens under the stuffed bunny. There. Without ever slowing my pace—or lifting my head—I victoriously lift the sunglasses out of my bag. And at that exact second I plow right into someone. “Oomph,” I cough out as I make contact with a broad, muscular chest.
I hear a smooth, male voice say, “Shit, sorry.”
At the same time, an ominous crunching noise is heard. Uh-oh, there goes the sunglasses.
All this happens in just a few seconds, and I sway a little post-impact. Two sure hands find purchase on either side of my waist, steadying me, keeping me right. What a kind stranger. I glance up—curious to see who this tall, kind man is that I’ve just wrecked into.
Shit.
I realize two things simultaneously: One, I’ve just collided with Chase Gartner. And two—dear God—the man is absolutely beautiful up close. Gorgeous, stunning, there are not enough adjectives to adequately expound. He’s just wow, just…freakin’ w-o-w.
I’ve seen Chase in church recently, sure, but it’s always from afar.
Picture me throwing a quick glance to the back from the front pews, Missy squealing in my ear, “See, see, he’s hot, right? Oh crap, turn around. He’s looking this way.”
Yeah, that sort of thing.
And sure, Chase always looks damn fine sitting in those back pews, better than in the pictures the newspapers printed of him when he was arrested. But up close, here and now, I can see the guy is physical perfection personified. I am not exaggerating. He’s incredibly nice to look at, so look is what I do. Possibly, I stare.
Chase licks his lips a little, in a kind of hot manner that makes me notice right away how highly kissable his lips happen to be—full, slightly moistened, and ready to go. I’m somewhat mesmerized, but I don’t want this man to catch me staring at his kissable lips, so I move on up to his eyes. But his eyes, oh my, they do me in more than the lips. I could get lost in their depths, surely I could. In fact, I kind of do just that.
Chase’s eyes are this amazing blue—pale and kind of light, but with flecks of gray around the irises. His eyes hold me captive—like they’re a weapon he’s wielding—so I christen them gunmetal blue.
His eyes, his lips, his hands on my waist, Chase stirs me up and spins me out. A wanton lust courses through
me. I like his hands on my body, I like the way his fingers flex when I remember to breathe. And I really do have to remind myself to take in oxygen. Breathe, Kay, breathe.
Forget it.
I quickly discover oxygen is secondary when all you can think about is crazy-good sex, and how this gorgeous man is the one who could give it to you.
I make no effort to extricate myself from his grasp, I don’t even move. And why would I? I want Chase’s hands to stay on my waist. I want him to squeeze a little tighter, maybe slide a little lower. My pulse is flying as I suck in a gasp of air.
My reactions reveal me, though, I see knowing in those gunmetal blues.
The corner of Chase’s mouth turns up in a particularly captivating manner, and it tells me two things: One, this man can read women, and two, he’s just read me. All in about a minute. Damn, he’s good.
But, this isn’t me, I remind myself. Why am I thinking these lust-filled thoughts? Why am I checking out Chase-freaking-Gartner?
Why, indeed? I planned on keeping an eye on the guy, but certainly not like this.
I start to apologize—for crashing into him, ogling him, I don’t know which. But he cuts me off with a softly delivered, “Hey, I really am sorry. Are you okay?” His voice isn’t just smooth, it seduces.
But what’s got me turned around is that under all that seduction Chase sounds sincere, genuine, like he isn’t just asking to ask. And damn if that doesn’t make him all the more attractive. I step back. Really, I have to, or God knows what I might do. Grab him and kiss him, run my fingers through his kind of messy tawny-shaded hair. Who knows?
His hands slip from my waist, and though a part of me instantly misses the heady contact, it’s actually for the best. I can finally think clearly. Sort of.
“I’m fine,” I begin, my voice all breathy and soft.
What the…
I just shake my head, get a grip, and continue, “Really, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I wrecked into you. It’s completely my fault. I was distracted, looking in my bag for these—”
I raise the sunglasses up a little and one of the mirrored lenses pops out. I try to hold it in place, but the lens slips and slides and I have to keep adjusting my fingers so it doesn’t fall.
“Um, I guess they didn’t fare so well in the collision,” I glumly conclude.
“Looks bad,” Chase concurs, nodding sympathetically. But I see what he really wants to do is laugh.
It is kind of funny. But I guess he feels bad too, ’cause when I go to place the damaged eyewear back in my bag, he says, “Do you mind if I take a look? Maybe I can fix them for you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I try to tell him, not wanting to waste his time. But he holds out his hand and gives me this sweet, pleading look that no woman could possibly resist. Certainly not this woman, I don’t even try, I just hand the man the sunglasses.
Chase smiles and takes the glasses. He starts to mess with the lens, but it slips and slides under his fingers too. It won’t stay in place for anyone apparently. He lets out a low growl of frustration, and I have to look away. God, even his growls are sexy. Chase is a sensory delight, sight, sound, touch. I bet he smells and tastes good too. I lean a little closer to see if I can discern the former, but fearing that he’ll notice I step back and just enjoy the view.
Chase is lean, but it’s obvious he’s strong, he emanates physical power. I’ve heard he never loses a fight, which accounts for the perfect face. What a sexy badass. He doesn’t fully fit the part though. Not today. He has the sexy part down completely, yes, but his clothes are too nice to be badass. The shirt, pants, and shoes scream upstanding citizen, nice churchgoing young man. I practically snort;, since we all know that isn’t true. But his intent is probably to look the part, seeing as he’s here at the church. However, even his dressy clothes can’t hide his edge of pure bad boy, and the nice fabrics sure can’t cover up his amazing body.
His shirt is really nice, a crisp white button-down, with the sleeves rolled up. His exposed forearms display long, corded muscles, muscles that flex and move, especially when he snaps the lens of my sunglasses back into place.
The black pants he’s wearing look great too, fitting him to a tee. I find no fault anywhere. Damn, his body is a wonderland, meaning I can’t help but wonder what he’d look like unclothed. I’ve heard he has tats and I’m suddenly dying to see them. Wonder if he’d let me touch them.
I’ve obviously completely lost my mind.
Chase is just about done—the lens is fixed—so I avert my gaze and try to pretend I’m searching for something in my purse. He assesses the sunglasses for a few more seconds. As do I. From the corner of my eye I see there’s a bend in one of the arms, maybe from the collision. Chase straightens it back and says something about the sunglasses being nice. Instead of just offering up a simple thank you, I go into a long-winded explanation.
“Thanks. But they’re not really worth anything. They’re not real designer glasses. I bought them at one of those dollar stores.” Chase glances my way and gives me a little smile. “Not the one in town, the one a little north of here. Do you know where I mean? Up by the Agway on seven…” I trail off. God, ramble much.
But Chase doesn’t seem all that bothered by my babbling. He hands me the sunglasses, and they look perfect, like brand new.
“Wow, you fixed them,” I gush, turning them over in my hands. “Amazing, I think they’re actually better than when I bought them. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He smiles, and oh, what a smile. “I’m Chase, by the way.”
We’re kind of hitting it off, flirting a little, even. So I don’t tell him I already know who he is. Why ruin things?
I just say, “Nice to meet you. I’m Kay, Kay Stanton.”
“Kay,” he says my name slowly, and I like the sensual way it sounds coming from his mouth. “Like, short for Kaylee or Kayla?”
“Nope, just Kay.”
“Hmm, I like it,” he says, pressing his lips together and nodding approvingly.
Oh, and I like you.
I think this, but I don’t dare say it. I drop my gaze and lick my lips.
I better think of something to say if I want to keep this conversation going. And I do want to keep it going. I don’t want him leaving just yet, so I blurt out, “Hey, I didn’t see you in church today.”
Chase puts his hands in his pockets, turns up the charm. “I’m flattered you noticed.”
His tone is pure flirtation, making me fidget and tug at the edge of the left sleeve of my sweater. “Yeah, I did. Notice, that is.” A thread pulls loose and I hastily tuck it up under the sleeve, hoping he doesn’t notice. “That you weren’t there, I mean.”
Chase looks down at the pavement, all cute-like, and I can see he’s smiling. Hey, he’s smiling, not running. I see this as a good sign.
Encouraged, I continue, “S-o-o, you’re the guy Father Maridale hired to work on the church and the school, right?”
“I am,” he confirms. And then, after a beat, “Father Maridale is a good man. I owe him a lot.”
“He is,” I agree, nodding. “He truly believes everyone deserves a second chance, no matter what they’ve done in the past.”
I realize what I’ve just said, and so apparently has Chase. His gunmetal blues pierce, eyeing me like he’s just put together that I know exactly who he is. And that I have right from the beginning.
Sure enough, he quietly asks, “You know who I am, don’t you?”
And we both know what he means—I know his past.
I wince, sigh. “Yes, I know who you are.”
“When did you realize?”
Very quietly—eyes downcast—I admit, “I knew right away, Chase. As soon as I looked up and saw it was you I’d wrecked into.”
Neither of us says anything, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I fully expect him to take off, but instead he says softly, “Hey, it’s fine. But can I ask you something, Kay?”
I nod
, and dare to open my eyes and glance up. To my surprise, when our gazes meet, I see an emotion I’m all too familiar with—a deep kind of sadness, the kind that reaches into the soul and just kind of burrows there. Chase is lonely, like me. I’m sure of it. And in the recognition that here is someone possibly as sad and alone as I, all sense of pretense on my part crumbles. I’ve obviously misjudged Chase Gartner.
He scrutinizes my face. Does he see in me what I see in him? If he does, he keeps it to himself. What he does say is this: “I know a lot of people in this town expect me to fuck up again.”
I start to shake my head, deny what he’s saying. But that would be a lie, and we both know it.
“I see the way they look at me,” he continues. “I know what they’re thinking, what they say behind my back.”
I can’t deny what he’s experienced, so I just say, “I’m sure it’s not easy.”
His eyes pin me down, all blue intensity. “So, okay…What about you, Kay? You’re part of this congregation.” He motions to the church behind me. “Do you think I deserve the second chance Father Maridale is giving me? Or do you believe—like everyone else—that he’s wasting his time?” He makes a scoffing sound. “’Cause I’ll surely just screw up again.”
I suddenly feel like crap. Less than an hour ago, I was thinking he might screw things up, mess up again. Did I not question Father Maridale’s judgment? Did I not think Chase needed watching? I did, but I don’t tell him any of these things. What good would it do? And, more importantly, who am I to judge?
I say in a quiet voice, “Trust me, Chase, out of this whole town, I’m the last person you should be asking these questions.”
He shakes his head and looks away. “That’s not an answer, so I’ll take it as yes, you expect me to fuck up again.” He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned.
I’m so used to shutting people out and evading the tough questions. But if Chase is willing to be this real with me, then he deserves a real answer in return.
It takes me a minute to gather my courage, but I finally say, “Okay, it’s true, it has crossed my mind that you might screw things up again.” He winces, like my admission, said out loud, kind of hurts.