Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  It’s not just that I feel this could be a long-term relationship; it’s that I think it could be a very meaningful one. And so I let go of any inhibition I might have harbored, and I pull him deep inside me, taking as much of him as I can possibly have.

  He starts to pick up his pace, easing back with long slides, and then pushing back in smoothly until he is fully seated.

  “Ah, God, it’s amazing.”

  He looks down, his hair falling across his forehead, and watches where our bodies connect. He continues pushing and pulling in exquisite strokes, and then tilts his head back, closing his eyes as though he’s savoring the sensation. He’s practically glowing with ardor.

  The speed of his thrusts increases sharply, and I feel the familiar tightening in my thighs. I throw my head back, arching into the pillow.

  “Please don’t stop,” I gasp out, finally exploding in a haze of mind-blowing sensation, as my orgasm rolls though me with unexpected force.

  “Oh God, Sarah.” He plunges deeply, hitting the very back of me with every thrust. “It’s so good.”

  Then he shudders almost violently inside me, and stills as he finds his own release. His eyes are closed tightly, and his breathing is rapid. When his eyes open again, they’re a brilliant green.

  He smiles at me sweetly, bending to kiss my lips in a gentle display of affection.

  We did it, he seems to say. Yes, we did.

  §

  We finally get ourselves together after several spectacular rounds of sex, and a healthy number of orgasms between us. I’ve decided that leaving the bedroom is definitely overrated. But his stomach is growling like a lion–a situation that can deteriorate quickly into extreme grumpiness. I get up to see if we have any food in the house, and when I come back to the bedroom with some crackers and cheese, he’s looking at the piano-savings jar on the my desk. It’s been mostly depleted.

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I dismiss the question. “It’s just this silly idea I had.”

  “You’re saving for a piano?”

  “Not really. Even if by some miracle I could afford one, it’s not like I have the room for it.”

  “What kind do you want?”

  “Well, anyone who plays with any degree of seriousness would prefer a baby grand to an upright, but I wouldn’t be picky. Right now, I’m lucky to just get a few minutes here and there using the piano in the choral room at school.”

  He’s thinking about this when he asks, “What kind of music do you like to play?”

  “All kinds, really. My father insisted I learn classical piano, but eventually I started playing show tunes, and now I prefer modern music or writing something of my own.”

  “I didn’t know you write music.”

  “I have a program on my laptop that I mess around with. It’s not serious.”

  He studies me as I answer, and then something else catches his eye. He dips his fingers into the jar, and produces the white napkin from Charlie’s with his email address written in that sprawling handwriting, as well as the receipt for the purchase of his photograph.

  “You used this money to buy my picture?” I can’t quite discern the expression on his face.

  “Like I said, I never really expected to be able to save enough for a piano.”

  I need to change the subject quickly; I’m not comfortable with where this is going.

  “I’m putting the cash back in your jar. I’m not taking your money.” That’s exactly where I was afraid this was going…

  “You are definitely not. I bought it before we knew each other, and I would do it again.”

  Danny knows me well enough by now to know that my mind is made up. He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t argue.

  “We’ll see.”

  Two days later, the money is back in my jar. I don’t bother arguing, either. This was never I battle I truly expected to win.

  Chapter 10

  Danny

  THE PALATIAL FOYER OF THE Callahan’s Mediterranean-style home is a little awe-inspiring. As I close the door behind us, Sarah plays absently with the delicate necklace at the base of her throat. We’ve slipped in unnoticed, and I take advantage of the momentary calm to reassure her once more. No question–they’re going to love her. Wrapping my arms around her, I take her in close, and feel her relax into my hold.

  “Those are cool,” she says, suddenly pulling back from my chest.

  A set of four 11x14 framed black-and-white photographs hangs on the wall below the staircase. They’re all close-ups of a hand, Jamie’s hand to be exact, strumming a guitar, holding a drumstick, playing the piano, and grasping a mic. The images are tight, so you just see a portion of the instrument in the background–it’s a great effect.

  “I played around with the exposure to keep the foreground sharp, and blur the background.”

  “You took them?”

  “Yeah, at a music festival a couple of years ago. I gave them to Jamie for Christmas.”

  Before she can respond, the Irish voice of God calls down from upstairs.

  “If you like those, Sarah, you should see the hand shots hanging in my bedroom. I’d show them to you, but they’re quite special to Danny and me.”

  Sarah laughs at his bawdy sense of humor; she and Jamie will get along just fine.

  “You mind?” I call back. “I’m trying to impress this girl.”

  Jamie appears at the top of the winding wrought iron banister with a giggling 7-year-old Shane thrown over his shoulder.

  “What were you thinking, bringing her here, then, mate?”

  He comes down the stairs, firing a blazing, full-dimpled smile in Sarah’s direction. Then, he turns to me, “How the hell did you get a beautiful woman like this?” But before the mini pair of jeans slung over his shoulder has a chance to broadcast his use of the word hell, Jamie chides, “Nobody likes a rat fink.”

  He tickles Shane mercilessly, before setting him down to consume Sarah in a massive hug.

  I’ve known Jamie pretty much my entire life, but it’s interesting to see him tonight through Sarah’s eyes. Of course, there’s always been a lot of media fanfare about his looks. Some call him rugged, probably because of his strong jaw, and the nose that’s been broken at least once that I know of. Some say he’s charismatic–likely the accent. And the dimples. He smiles a lot. But I really think his appeal is in his transparency. Everything he feels shows on his face, so people come away from his shows or interviews feeling like they know him.

  He also keeps himself in good shape. I’ve got a few inches on him height-wise, but he’s very fit, and he looks every bit the rock star with his tattoos and leather wristbands. As you might expect, he’s a phenomenal performer. He’s got that voice, which is crucial, but he’s also loaded with personality, and really captivating to watch.

  Sarah looks a little awestruck as they chat and, suddenly, I’m kind of wishing my best friend were an accountant.

  Jamie seems to be soaking her in, too–absorbing each little detail in a way that only an artist can. For him, everything is viewed through the lens of a song, and I can almost see him composing one for Sarah in real-time.

  My guess is that hers would reflect her complexity. She has the sweetest face–so innocent and guileless. But he would recognize the grit in her; he would be able to see that behind her gentle blue eyes is someone who knows more of the world than she’d wish to say. Sarah carries herself with tremendous dignity, but Jamie, of all people, would understand that dignity is often hard won. And he’d love her all the more for those things.

  “This bit of magic here is Shane,” Jamie says to Sarah, placing a large hand on top of Shane’s head and wobbling him around until he giggles. That’s when I realize I’ve lost track of their conversation. “Come, let me introduce you to my wife.”

  They both turn to me expectantly, and I nod once in case there’s some question hanging out there that awaits my response. That seems to do the trick, although I can almost feel Jamie gi
ving me silent shit for whatever look may have crawled onto my face. I even out my expression, and gesture to him to lead the way. He turns, but not before those damned dimples make another appearance.

  I intentionally look instead at Sarah, and smile reassuringly as we make our way down the hall to the spacious rustic kitchen that is the center of the Callahan household.

  We’re greeted in the usual manner with an explosion of affection from Mel. This is a very demonstrative family–I love it, but it makes me wonder if that’s what Sarah is used to. She seems more surprised than she does uncomfortable, and I’m pleased that they hit it off right away.

  They’re talking and laughing like old friends, so my participation doesn’t seem particularly necessary. I just lean against the counter, chiming in here and there, when appropriate. At some point, Jamie comes over to offer me a beer, along with a complex look that only 25 years of friendship can decipher:

  I like her.

  You really like her.

  It’s about time.

  I meet his gaze with a look of my own: Right on all counts.

  The noise level in the room is lulling, and I take in the whole scene in sort of a fly-on-the-wall way–Mel and Sarah exchanging stories, Jamie mixing some god-awful alcoholic concoction, and the boys helping to set the table for dinner.

  In the middle of it all, I have this odd thought that I never got the chance to bring a girl home to meet my parents. No one rose to that level of significance while they were alive, and I realize, now, that I’ve lost the opportunity. This, in fact, may be the closest I’ll ever get.

  And it’s one of those many random things that people like Sarah and me come to accept as our fate–those moments in our lives in which we know we’re missing something. Even if we can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, or reason out its significance. We know that something has been taken from us permanently. Torn away without mercy; torn away without our consent.

  §

  Having completed his job with the silverware, Paddy comes over to lean against my leg in a little hug.

  “You bored?” I ask him, ruffling his hair a bit.

  He steps back, nodding as he looks up at me with expectation.

  “Did you bring us anything?” Sadly for him, all I brought for this visit was a woman, which is definitely less interesting to a 9-year-old than a fetal pig.

  “Hmmm.” I make a face. “Want to shoot some hoops?”

  Paddy nods enthusiastically.

  I catch Sarah’s eye. “How about a quick game before dinner?”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “For sure! But I want them on my team,” she says, indicating Paddy and Shane. And just like that, I add yet another item to the list of a zillion things that I love about Sarah.

  Of course, Paddy looks at her like she’s an alien.

  “No way,” I tell her. Motioning with my beer to Jamie, “You get him.”

  §

  As it turns out, both Sarah and Jamie are scrappy players–maybe pairing them was not such a good idea. They check and foul the boys and I constantly. Like two ill-behaved peas in a pod. So like my uncle used to roughly quote, ‘If you can’t set a positive example, be a horrible warning.’ We abandon all rules of decorum, and just go for the win.

  Shane jumps on Jamie’s back while I grab Sarah around the waist, lifting her in a football hold. Paddy takes the ball, and shoots repeatedly until he gets something in. The game pretty much goes to hell after that, with shirt pulling and hideous displays of goaltending, but we’re all in hysterics by the time dinner is on.

  And dinner is a ruckus affair as well. I blame Sarah.

  “So, how did you and Jamie meet?” she asks Mel, who is sitting directly across from her.

  I close my eyes and shake my head, knowing–just knowing–this is not going to go well for me.

  Jamie is sitting to Mel’s right at the head of the table, and with some industrious chewing and a hasty swallow of the world’s best short ribs, he manages to insert himself into the conversation.

  “I love to tell that story!”

  The kids groan, almost in unison, and look over to me as if I can do anything to stop this. Believe me, if I could, I definitely would.

  “What?” Jamie asks innocently.

  “First of all, you’re the worst story teller,” I tell him. “Half your stories make no sense, and the other half are pointless.”

  “He’s a spiral thinker,” Mel acknowledges to Sarah, before Jamie can feign too much affront.

  “Second,” I continue. “No one wants to hear that story anyway.”

  “Bollocks. Your girlfriend just asked.”

  Girlfriend. Hearing the word spoken out loud by someone other than me feels strange. It’s definitely more official when someone else says it. I look at Sarah to see if she’s having an objection to that label, but she’s just smiling–as though it’s just another word in a whole collection of words. No different from any other.

  “I would like to hear it,” Sarah says eagerly.

  With elbows on the table, I lean my forehead into my hands. I feel Sarah squeeze my knee, and when I turn to her, she’s grinning quizzically.

  “I have to say, it’s a very good story that happens to involve our friend Daniel here,” Jamie begins. “You see, he was out for a visit over summer break one year, and came upon lovely Mel in distress at the market.”

  “Mel wasn’t always the cook she is today. Right, M?” I tease.

  Her answering expression tells me that you can, in fact, flip someone the bird with just your eyeballs. I crack up, turning to Sarah.

  “She wasn’t sure what was the difference between a scallion and a leek, and I was helping.”

  Jamie continues. “Yes, our vegetable expert swooped in to provide some valuable assistance. Unsolicited, I might add.” I glare at him amiably.

  “They’re both alliums,” I tell Sarah. “But leeks are generally cooked, and scallions are often not.”

  She doesn’t seem particularly impressed with my knowledge of root vegetables.

  “It was an extraordinary pick-up line,” Mel smirks. “I could listen to a man talk about alliums all day long.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be a pick-up line,” I insist. But then, I laugh. “Well, I guess it kind of was. But I thought it was slightly more insightful than ‘Come here often?’”

  “So, Danny continues to follow Mel through the produce department, laying it on thick about being brilliant at basketball and great with small children and puppies, and the like.”

  “I definitely didn’t mention children,” I object. “But she did say she had a new puppy,” I offer in my own defense.

  Mel continues. “So, he tells me about this barbecue that he and his friends are having that evening, and he says that if I come, he’ll grill some leeks for me to try.”

  With that, the entire table explodes into laughter. Okay–I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best work.

  Mel looks at me sympathetically. “How could I say no to leeks? Plus, he was hot.”

  “Gross,” Paddy grumbles, assessing me critically and, apparently, finding me lacking.

  “So, Danny spends hours in the bathroom in preparation, arranging his Ken-doll hair just so, applying several dollars worth of Polo cologne, and selecting the tightest t-shirt he could find in his suitcase.”

  “That is a load of crap,” I protest. “It wasn’t like that,” I tell Sarah. She’s not listening.

  “Anyway,” he continues. “Mel arrives, looking like an angel from heaven–in a Cure t-shirt,” he says with emphasis. “And Danny and his cloud of cologne usher her inside.”

  “There was no cloud of cologne. I smelled good.”

  “We were all pleased to see his cologne phase pass,” Mel confides to Sarah in an exaggerated stage whisper.

  “Very cute. Can we just move on?” I ask.

  “Gladly.” Jamie leans in as if this next part is so good it needs to be underscored with dramatic posture. “So, Danny is doing the full court
press. He’s apparently showing off his best DJ Casper Cha-Cha Slide moves (which I don’t remember doing, at all), and tempting her with his grilled leeks (which I’ll never be able to serve again, thanks), and generally doing anything he can do to entice her.”

  “Smooth,” Sarah says to me, smirking.

  “This guy was no better,” I tell her, pointing at Jamie. “He comes outside with a guitar around his neck like he’s about to break into song at any moment. It was the most incredibly transparent move to impress a girl I have ever seen.”

  “They were quite a pair,” Mel agrees.

  Jamie laughs. “It’s true. But you can’t blame either of us. She was the loveliest woman I’d ever seen in my life,” he says, smiling. “And, thank God, she had an eye for me, too, because she obliterated me the moment I saw her. I was determined to have her, even if Danny sulked about it.”

  “I never sulked. As I recall, my cologne and I were very gracious about your stealing my date.”

  “I can’t argue there,” he says to me, with the full depth of our friendship in his eye. “What do you think, Mel, have I about summed it up?” He looks to her, and then around the table for affirmation.

  “There might have been a little more to it than that,” Mel concedes to Sarah. “But he’s right, I was smitten, too. I have a thing for musicians.”

  “Hey now. Let’s not go there, love,” Jamie chides in a good-natured way. Mel just laughs.

  “It was pathetic.” I shake my head, half laughing, and half cringing at the dating rituals of 22-year-olds.

  I’ve always been glad that Mel had the good sense to choose Jamie that day. Had she gone for me, she and I would never have become friends. I readily admit to having been an idiot at that age; I was certainly not in the market for anything meaningful.

  “The truth is,” he begins again, looking at Sarah. “I wasn’t much of anything at that time in my life. A junior college dropout, struggling musician, piss poor. I had absolutely nothing of value to offer a woman like this.” His smile wanes slightly as his face clouds with some strong emotion. “Just a head full of songs I instantly wanted to write about her. It didn’t seem a lot.”