“So, what? I get no say in this? I don’t get to decide what’s best for me and what’s not?” she asked, incredulous and frowning again. This seemed like dangerous territory. Her anger both stunned and confused him.
“No, you don’t,” he said with finality. “Because I know what would happen.”
Maren scowled, stood up, and slung her satchel across her shoulder.
“I’m not listening to any more of this.”
Malcolm jumped out of his chair as she strode to the door. She grasped the doorknob and froze. Malcolm thought that she might begin to cry again, and he stepped closer to her. When she turned to him with fury in her eyes, his gasped. She grabbed his lapels viciously and spoke through gritted teeth.
“You are really fucked up, Malcolm.”
Then her mouth was on his again. But this was not the sweet spiral of ecstasy they had shared the night before. She kissed him with outrage. His mouth opened with hers, and her tongue was a tantrum, wrestling his. Their teeth collided, and Malcolm heard the strangled grunts in his throat as he crushed her body to his, feeling her breasts against him, her waist encircled in his left arm, his right hand clutching the base of her braid.
Malcolm would not push her away this time. Even as the spade of his tongue filled her mouth and tussled with hers, he knew she would never kiss him again. This riot of flesh would be all he’d have, and he hung onto it, surrendered to it with his own aggression. In the root of his brain, where reptilian instincts still held their sway, he understood the simple truth. She was his mate. That message made its way to his prefrontal cortex, and a soul-crushing sadness nearly split him in two because he could not have her.
When she broke the kiss by shoving him back, he released her at once, and his arms had never felt so empty.
“You don’t know what would happen,” she hissed at him. “And the worst part is that you won’t ever know if you don’t fix yourself.”
And in an instant, she pulled the door open and was gone.
Chapter 19
Maren
The horn of a Chevy pickup blared at Maren as she rode her bike through the stop sign at Juliet and St. Landry. A million shots of adrenaline jabbed into her, and she came to her senses. She could only remember climbing onto her bike and later crossing Johnston Street. The rest of her ride was a blank; her attention was still in Malcolm Vashal’s office.
Maren shook her head in self-ridicule. She’d get herself killed if she wasn’t more careful. Consciously making the left hand signal, she turned onto St. Thomas, pushed herself onto Louisa, and bounced into her driveway.
She had kissed him. Again. She could not believe it.
But this time she was not awash in shame. In fact, her earlier humiliation was now just a memory that had lost its sting. Everything had changed when she’d heard him say that he’d wanted to kiss her. His confession had left her feeling validated—and angry.
So angry.
How could Malcolm think that he couldn’t make her happy—when that was all he’d ever done? Until he’d pushed her away, of course. Didn’t he see that? And his arrogance! He was so sure that he knew everything, knew her better than she knew herself. It was infuriating! And, worst of all, now that she knew how he felt, she had caught a glimpse of what he was denying them.
In a short time, she had learned that friendship with Malcolm meant laughter, comfort, and care. She had never felt so cherished. Malcolm as a friend was bliss; Malcolm as a lover would be rapture. After their two kisses, Maren had no doubt of that. And she knew it would not simply be because of the sex—although Maren felt sure that a night with Malcolm would leave her boneless and replete—it was because as his lover, she would be granted admission to explore him, body and soul. To spend hours, days, and nights, talking, touching, witnessing without limits. She wanted all of him.
And he’d said no.
She felt cheated. In a way, it seemed like he was denying her something that already belonged to her.
Because of his self-loathing, she reminded herself.
In spite of how she wanted to feel, her anger could not stand as tall when she thought of that. Malcolm was wrong, and his decision hurt her, but what was perhaps just as upsetting was how he saw himself.
I’m a rotten human being, and I can’t bring anyone happiness.
Where on Earth did that come from? It had the timbre of an old, perhaps lifelong belief, but one that had been reinforced over time. Maren suspected that Malcolm’s failed marriage was part of the source, but what about the rest? His father? His mother?
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and reassure him. To prove to him that he was lovable. Did that mean she loved him?
No, not exactly, she told herself. She had not known him long enough, but she could see how one could love him—quite easily.
Could she make him see himself the way she saw him?
Not if he keeps me at arm’s length.
But even though she had left his office in a rage—kissed him, in fact, in a rage, Maren decided that she wanted the chance to set him straight. Knowing how he felt about her gave her patience, and she would take her time in breaking down his barriers.
She had come to this conclusion in her driveway, standing beside her bicycle and staring at its basket. She locked up her bike and made her way to her kitchen door where she could hear Perry’s impatient crying as he scratched the door in anticipation of her entrance.
“Sorry, boy,” she said as she stepped in, and she watched the hefty terrier scamper to the back door to be let out. Just as she followed him, her phone rang in her satchel, and she smiled as she saw Helene’s wry face on her screen.
“Hells, yes, I’ll go out tonight!” she answered, rejoicing that it was Friday.
Silence.
“Helene?” she asked, thrown.
“Um…You wanted to go out?” Helene asked, sounding timid.
“What? You don’t? It’s Friday, and I could definitely use a drink.” Maren rolled her eyes as she thought of the last 24 hours.
“Oh…Actually, I was calling to tell you that—”
“Get out!” Maren exclaimed, catching on.
“What?”
“You’re going out with Jess!” It wasn’t a question.
“Well…yes, it would seem so,” Helene admitted.
“Finally! That is so awesome! Where is he taking you?”
“That’s just it,” Helene sighed. “He won’t tell me.”
“Ooh, a man of mystery,” Maren teased, laughing.
“Maren, stop. It’s just Jess,” she pleaded, sounding miserable.
“What’s wrong?” Maren dropped her teasing tone and wondered what on Earth could be amiss when two people finally allowed themselves to be together.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear…Help me, Maren.”
“Okay. No problem. Take it easy,” she soothed. “What did he tell you?”
Maren heard her friend sigh again.
“He said he’d pick me up at 8:00 and for me not to eat before.”
“Okay, so dinner. He wouldn’t let you starve. What else?” Maren asked, eagerly. It felt good to get excited for someone, even if she couldn’t feel excited for herself.
“He said it’ll be ‘the best time we’ve had in a blue moon.’ And that was weird because he said it twice,” Helene said, and Maren could almost see her frowning.
But Maren smiled.
“Helene, you’re going dancing,” she said with certainty.
“What? How do you know?”
“He’s taking you to the Blue Moon Saloon downtown,” Maren explained. “I wonder who’s playing….I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Saloon???” Helene asked, as Maren searched for the website.
“It’s cool. You’ll love it,” she said, still navigating. “Oh, wow. It’s Prince Hoot Night tonight. How fun!”
“Prince Hoot Night? Is that a band?”
“No!” Maren laughed. “A bunch of local bands and m
usicians will get together to play Prince songs. It’ll be a blast!”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Helene said, thoughtfully. “So, what’s it like? What should I wear?”
“Do you have a raspberry beret?” Maren teased, beginning to giggle.
“Please. Please, Maren. I’m dying over here.”
Maren tried to recover from her laughter.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Well, we don’t know where he’s taking you for dinner, but the Blue Moon—well, the live music and ‘saloon’ part of the Blue Moon is outside on this funky little covered deck.”
“Outside?” Helene sounded doubtful. “Won’t that be a little cold? The lows are in the 40s tonight.”
“Helene, it’ll be packed on that dance floor with everyone partying like it’s 1999.”
“Maren,” Helen droned.
“I’m being serious. This is helpful information. Wear shoes you can dance in but nothing that will get caught in the wood decking. Wedges, maybe?”
“I have some brown leather wedges that are kind of sassy,” Helene said.
“I have this sleeveless purple dress with a flared skirt and an open diamond back. It’s fun. Not too dressy.”
“Sleeveless? Diamond back? I’ll freeze!” Helene protested.
“So, you’ll wear a jacket at dinner, and when things get hot and heavy on the dance floor, you’ll blow Jess’s mind when you ditch the jacket and he realizes you’re not wearing a bra.”
“Maren!”
“And I have matching nail polish. Come over.”
“Oh, alright.”
“I’m two inches taller than you. It’s not too short?” Helene, clad in purple, stood in Maren’s room, looking back over her shoulder at the cheval mirror.
“No, your legs look amazing. Jess is going to swallow his tongue.”
Helene winked at Maren’s reflection.
“Not if I do it first.” The two women squealed, and Maren felt like she was closer to 14 than 24.
“Here, sit down while I do your nails,” Maren said, shaking a bottle of Plum Pearl. Helen carefully arranged the flared skirt and settled herself in the one chair in Maren’s bedroom. Maren was on her third nail when Helene started asking questions.
“So, what was up with you today? You were in such a funk this morning, and now you seem fine—giddy, even.”
Maren glanced at her friend, who was watching her closely, and then returned her focus to the nail polish.
“What do you mean?” she asked, innocently.
Helene tsked and squirmed in her seat.
“You know what I mean. Look, if you don’t want to tell me about it, just say so, but don’t bullshit me. It’s not like you.”
Maren blew on the nails of Helene’s right hand to buy herself time. She didn’t know how much she could get away with saying or not saying, but she wished that she could spill every detail of the emotional roller coaster she’d been on for the last several days.
“Let’s just say that I don’t want to tell you,” she said, finally.
“Oh my God,” Helene’s eyes bugged. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” Maren muttered, moving onto Helene’s left hand.
“Yeah, right. It’s a man.” Helene stated with conviction.
Maren covered Helene’s thumbnail with the rich purple polish and said nothing.
“It’s eating you up. I can tell. You’re dying to tell me.” Helene pulled her hand away so Maren had to look her in the eyes. Maren watched as the curiosity in Helene’s face gave way to concern.
“Maren, why won’t you tell me?” she asked, softly.
Maren pressed her lips together. She had let too much show. She thought of Malcolm and how dangerous it would be for him if others knew that they had kissed, that she’d been to his house for dinner. The thought of bringing him harm made her physically ill.
Never.
Maren was overcome by an urge to protect that was so strong it stole her breath. The feeling seemed to pull from her sternum all the way to the soles of her feet. She knew without a doubt that she would never let anything hurt Malcolm Vashal. The sensation amazed her. She had never felt its likeness before.
“Helene,” she said, calmly but firmly, looking her friend in the eye. “Drop it. It’s okay. I’m fine now.”
Helene blinked at this side of her friend that she had never seen up close.
“O…kay…Just know that I’m here if you need anything,” Helene said, before an amused smile came to her. “Boy, now I see what Jess was talking about. You can be kinda scary.”
“Don’t you forget it,” she teased, and feigned turning her attention back to the purple manicure. The wave of protectiveness still coursed through her, and she studied it, feeling its expansiveness and intensity.
How could one person make her feel so many things over the course of one day? She longed to tell him what he had done to her, but that was not an option. There was really only one thing she could do.
“So,” Helene began, blowing on her now finished nails. “What are you going to do tonight?”
“Actually, I have some writing to do.”
Chapter 20
Malcolm
Ready or Not
What if Bernadette
had gone to the grotto
an hour early
and caught the Virgin
in her bathrobe
with curlers in her hair
puffs of tissue
wedged between her toes
to protect the French pedicure?
Would that not still have been a miracle?
Would she not have told her sister?
Called the parish priest?
Put Lourdes on the map?
Even if the Blessed Mother
had not been ready for her,
would she not still have fallen to her knees?
Rubbed her face with mud?
Felt her life made new?
This is God’s mom we’re talking about.
How often does that happen?
So you’ll forgive me
if I don’t have the grace
to shield my eyes
to turn away
to deny that I’ve seen you.
Malcolm clutched the handwritten poem with expanding disbelief. It did not matter that she had not signed it or that he had never seen her handwriting before. The moment he saw the folded sheet placed across his keyboard on his desk, Malcolm knew it was from her. His heart had begun pounding frantically even before he’d picked it up.
He quickly crossed his office to close the door so he would not be disturbed as he read the poem a second time.
You don’t hate me.
Relief, deep and wearying, rushed over him, and he sunk down in his chair. In the week since she had told him, clearly and accurately, how fucked up he was and effectively kissed him goodbye, he had avoided her with such skill that he never had to confirm for himself whether or not she was avoiding him. He could not blame her for hating him. But he held the note with shaking fingers as he traced over her letters, so grateful that she did not.
I miss you.
The poem was an echo of her, nothing as fresh and full as being in her presence, but after his agonizing week of bitterness and longing, it was her. Her humor and boldness, already so familiar to him, leapt off the page.
Maren.
She had come into his office while he was at lunch. Surely, that had been her intention, to leave it while he was out. It made his head swim to think about her being in his space. He read the poem a third time. No one had ever written a poem for him. And such a poem. He could not accept the comparisons she made. Clearly, she had been fooled. But it moved him, completely.
He had to admit that there was some truth in it. She had seen more of him than anyone had in years. It was a strange realization. He had not talked about his parents to anyone since J.J. He had never shown a woman his treasured study or the screened porch—the house on St. Patrick he had purchased after
the divorce. And except two regrettable, whiskey-soaked encounters that both happened to fall one year apart on the date of his erstwhile anniversary, he had not shared his desire or his kisses.
But Maren’s kisses, even the angry one, lived in a world above those confused and pitiful grapplings with partners he’d rather forget. She had seen more of him, felt more of him; it was true. Still, she did not understand her folly. And he now cared for her too much to punish her with himself.
Even so, she had opened her heart with the poem. Opened herself, again. And he could not bear the thought of hurting her anew with the wrong response. He would not ignore it.
A million lines of verse—in English and Spanish—sprung to mind. Pages of nouns and adjectives. Dearest. Longing. Diosa. Congoja. As always, the Spanish captured it best. She was his diosa and his congoja. His goddess and his grief. The pair of words he had never joined before seemed to become inseparable now. He could write poem after poem for her, but he would never be able to share them.
He also could not risk speaking to her. For myriad reasons. He thought about the kiss in his office, how he had crushed her against himself. There was no telling what his body would do. Beyond that, there was no way he could look into her eyes and say what her poem meant to him. He swallowed a knot in his throat at the very thought.
He pulled his phone out from his pocket. It was the weakling’s way, but he and Maren both knew he was weak. He tested out messages.
I love the poem. Thank you.
He deleted this immediately. He could not use the word “love.”
I read it three times. Thank you.
He erased this, too. It might communicate how much the poem meant to him, but it also could imply a lack of clarity. He finally settled on honesty—as close to honesty as he could manage.
Friday, Nov. 3: 1:21 p.m.
I don’t know what to say. Thank you. It’s wonderful.
He sighed and set his phone down, ready to turn his attention to the latest round of essays from his 202 classes. Just as he pulled the stack toward him, his phone chimed.
Friday, Nov. 3: 1:22 p.m.
You are quite welcome.
How are you?
His breath hitched. Where was she? Just down the hall in the bullpen? If he summoned her, would she come? The temptation was almost overwhelming.
Fall Semester Page 19