Love Happens

by Claudia Burgoa

  She pulled back the sheet. “You can.”

  I hesitated for less than three seconds before getting back in bed beside her. “I can’t resist you. But you have to kick me out in ten minutes.”

  “OK.” She laid her cheek on my shoulder and put a hand on my chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t try to tempt you.”

  I kissed the top of her head. “Don’t be sorry. It will be OK. If there’s a meltdown, I’ll handle it and I will remember that this feeling was worth it.”

  “Awww.” She kissed my chest and threw one leg over mine. I could feel the dampness on her thighs, and my cock twitched.

  Fuck. Just don’t put your hand on it. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to say no.

  But she didn’t touch me there. Instead she brushed her fingertips back and forth over my chest. For a moment, I wished I had a body like Sebastian’s—bulging with muscles, cut with lines. I was muscular in an athletic way, but I didn’t have the kind of abs and arms he did.

  “I love your body,” she said, as if she could read my mind.

  I laughed a little. “I was just thinking I wish I had more time to spend at the gym.”

  “What?” She picked up her head and gave me a furrowed-brow frown. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Settled again, she slid her hand around my ribcage and hugged me tight. “You’re perfect. You’re real.”

  “Well, thank you. You’re perfect too, but actually you’re unreal. Too beautiful.”

  She snorted. “Please. I think unreal would have bigger boobs and a better ass. If I wasn’t so tall, I could probably wear the same clothes I wore in middle school.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I kissed her head again. “You have a beautiful body. Perfect legs, perfect ass, perfect breasts, and—don’t think I’m weird, but I fucking love your neck and shoulders. This necklace drove me crazy the first time I saw you in it, at the wedding, and then when I saw you had it on again tonight, I almost lost it right there at the bar.” I touched the pearls on her neck, then ran my hand down her arm. “And your skin is like heaven. What the hell do you put on it anyway, to make it feel like satin? And it smells so good—like grapefruit or something, but it’s so sweet. ”

  She laughed. “Thanks. That’s probably essential oil. I have an allergic reaction to most perfumes.”

  I inhaled deeply. “God, I love it.”

  Her fingers found my scar and traced it. “What’s this from?”

  “That is from an unfortunate run-in with a chain link fence. I was trying to climb over it and my shoelace got caught. The top of it gouged my side.”

  She winced. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, and I fractured my wrist breaking the fall on the other side.”

  “Jeez. Are you accident prone?”

  “Not anymore. I was a dumbass daredevil as a kid, but since I became a dad, those days are over. Now I have to watch my own daredevil at the park.”

  “Is he? A daredevil?”

  “Yes and no.” I rubbed her back as I thought about it. “He’s aggressive in some ways, and he will play rough like boys do, but it takes him a while to feel comfortable joining in with other kids. He also doesn’t feel pain the way most people do. So I worry about him hurting himself and not even knowing it.”

  She patted my side. “I should let you go home to him.”

  I squeezed her. She felt so good in my arms. When was the last time I wanted to hold a woman all night? “I wish I could stay.”

  “Another time.” She sat up and looked down at me, a wry smile stretching her lips. “You might want to fix your hair before you go.”

  I frowned. “I thought I did.”

  “Think again.”

  I tackled her, getting her by the shoulders and throwing her onto her back. With her head at the foot of the bed, I took her wrists in my hands and pinned them above her. My hair flopped forward, making her grin.

  “Be nice, little girl.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll take these bedsheets and tie you up, then torture you with my tongue.”

  She giggled. “That doesn’t sound like torture.”

  I kissed her smug little grin. “Just you wait.”

  While I got dressed, Jillian used the bathroom, then threw on a t-shirt and underwear. “Give me two more minutes,” she said, taking a pair of blue plaid pajama pants from her dresser drawer. “I want to send some soup home with you.”

  I followed her to the kitchen, which was actually on the second level of her townhouse, a long narrow space with plain maple cabinetry, stainless appliances, and beige marble countertops. She had two framed photos on the breakfast counter next to a wine rack holding six bottles of red. One photo showed her wearing a white lab coat and holding a diploma, a stethoscope around her neck, and her entire family surrounding her. The other was a close-up of Jillian with an arm around each sister, taken when they were kids.

  I picked it up. “Look how cute you guys are.”

  “Thanks.” She pulled a plastic container and matching lid from a low cupboard, and a large blue pot from the fridge. “I think I’m about ten there. We thought we were so cool because we’d eaten red popsicles and it made us look like we were wearing lipstick.”

  “You’re close to your family.”

  “Very. What about you?” She ladled soup from the blue pot into the container.

  “Yes. They helped me out a lot when Scotty was a baby. Took us in. Gave me a lot of advice. As you can imagine, I was clueless.”

  “Most guys your age would be.”

  “Yeah.” I set the picture down. “But it started to get a little stifling, all the advice, especially after we got the autism diagnosis.”

  “Is that why you moved here?” She put the blue pot back in the fridge and pressed the lid onto the container.

  “That’s one reason. But I also felt like it was time for us to be on our own. Scotty was about to start kindergarten, so I figured that would be a good time to do it. The move was rough on him, though—a new room in a new house, no grandma and grandpa living with us, a new neighborhood, new school … he doesn’t like things to change.”

  “Well, I’m glad you made the move.” She came over and handed me the soup. “Hope you like pumpkin.”

  “I do.”

  “I made it last night. It’s Natalie’s recipe. She’s teaching me to cook,” she said sheepishly.

  “Why do you look embarrassed about that?”

  She threw her hands up. “I don’t know. Because I’m thirty and I should know already?”

  “Fuck that. There’s no deadline on learning new things.”

  “True.”

  “I love to cook, you know.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Really?”

  “Yes. Does that surprise you?” I poked her in the side, and she giggled.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “My dad was actually the cook at my house when I grew up, so it never seemed strange to me. Plus, without another parent in the house, it’s been on me to put meals on the table by myself.”

  “Is that enough?” She glanced at the soup, looking worried. “I should have given you extra for Scotty.”

  “It’s plenty. I’m sure he’s already eaten. His dinner is at six sharp or the world ends.” I kissed her cheek. “Thank you. Next time, I’ll cook for you.”

  “Sounds good.” She put her arms around my neck. “This was fun. I hope you aren’t home too late.”

  “I will happily suffer the consequences if I am.” Wrapping my free arm around her waist, I hugged her close, inhaling her sex-and-citrus scent. “I’ll call you this week.”

  “OK.”

  She walked me to the door, and after one more kiss, I forced myself to leave.

  On the fifteen-minute drive home, I did nothing but think of her, every sense bombarded with memories. I could still feel her softness, taste her sweetness, smell her skin. I could still see her eyes closing, her back arching, her fingers clutching my shirt. I could hear her quiet sighs and
her loud cries, my name a plea on her lips.

  Fuck. My balls ached, and my cock did not seem to understand that there would be no encore tonight. I shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, trying to adjust myself.

  But it wasn’t only that I wanted to have more sex with her—although I did. (We hadn’t even gotten to position two on my church list.) That feeling of lying next to her afterward, talking and laughing and touching each other … I wanted that, too. I’d never had that with anyone, and it was so easy with her. And I wanted to hear more about her—what did I really know?

  I knew how she liked her martini. The name of her vibrator. That she was allergic to perfume. Drank champagne at weddings. Wore fuck-hot lingerie under her clothes. She liked red wine and popsicles, pumpkin soup and flannel pajamas, black lace and pearls.

  But what was her favorite song? Her favorite color? Her favorite movie? Did she sleep on her stomach or back? Did she like e-books or paperbacks? Sand or snow? Staying up late or waking up early?

  Then there were harder questions.

  What was she looking for with me?

  I hadn’t dated anyone in years, because I wasn’t good at balancing Scotty’s needs with anyone else’s, even my own. There was the occasional friendly fuck with a woman who did some design work with my uncle’s firm, but Alison was older, divorced, and not looking for anything more than I was, which was basically just an adult human connection. (For about twenty minutes.) But when it was done, it was done. I never thought about her afterward, and I doubt she thought about me. I certainly didn’t give a shit about her favorite color. And the sex was just functional. It was sort of like maintenance on your furnace or something—from time to time you needed to do it, but once it was done, you didn’t think about it again until the following winter.

  It was so different with Jillian. I wanted her to need me for more than just sex. I wanted to make her happy, and not just physically. I wanted to do things for her and with her. I wanted her in my life.

  But how could I do it?

  Seeing her during the week would be impossible with our schedules. Weekends were when I caught up with work, household chores, and made time for outings with Scotty that got him socializing in non-classroom situations. Saturday nights were our movie nights. Where would time with Jillian fit in? Was it fair to even start something with her, knowing that I’d probably end up a disappointment? What woman wants to fall for someone who can never put her first, never live with her, never promise her all the things she ultimately wants—a husband, a home, a family?

  Because I couldn’t. I wasn’t free to make those kinds of promises.

  But for the first time in eight years, I wished I were.

  I was a little later than promised, but Scotty seemed OK with it, and happily hugged me hello and Sarah goodbye. While I warmed up the soup Jillian had sent home with me, he went back to lining up his dinosaurs on the family room rug. As I ate—the soup was delicious—I tried to engage him in conversation, asking about his time with Sarah, about swim therapy today, about his dinosaurs. But although he made noises while he played, he largely ignored my attempts at conversation, and once he told me he was too busy to talk.

  When I was done eating, we went upstairs and got him ready for bed, putting on his dinosaur pajamas, brushing his teeth, reading a story, turning on his nightlight and switching off the overhead light in just that order. Even our prayers had to be recited a certain way, the list of people and things we are grateful for named in the exact same order every night. So when I added something new—“I am thankful for making new friends”—he got upset with me and told me I had to start over.

  “Nope. I’m not starting over, Scotty. Prayers are how you feel at the end of the day. They don’t have to be the same every night.”

  “But you said it wrong,” he insisted, and even though he was lying down, I could see the agitation in his body in the way he started rolling from side to side, hands at his ears.

  “It’s not wrong, buddy. It’s just something I added. We can be thankful for new things, don’t you think?”

  “Start over, start over,” he repeated, and I sensed a meltdown coming. “You have to start over or it’s not right. Start over, start over, start over.”

  I sighed, closing my eyes for a second. This was one of those moments where I wanted to be firm. I wanted to say No, I don’t have to start over. If I want to be fucking thankful for a new friend, you should let me say it, and stop acting like this. I love you, and I know you’re doing the best you can, but stop it. Just stop.

  He began to cry, and I said nothing, just pulled back the covers and got in bed next to him. Maybe his day had been harder than I knew. Maybe his sensory input was already overwhelmed. Maybe this tiny change in the prayers sounded like an avalanche to him, where I heard only a marble bouncing down the stairs.

  I didn’t know. Because he couldn’t tell me, and I felt ashamed of myself for wanting him to be something other than he was, even for a moment.

  Just leave the prayers as they are tonight. Maybe tomorrow, you can talk about adding some new things to be grateful for, at a time when you’re not trying to get him calm enough to fall asleep.

  I put my arms around him, trying to quiet his restless body. “Hey, hey. It’s OK. I’m sorry, I’ll start again. Let’s say them together.”

  Was I doing the right thing? Who the hell knew? Maybe I should have insisted he be more flexible. Ten fucking times a day, I second-guessed myself.

  Which was another reason why it had felt so good to be in Jillian’s bed tonight. No second thoughts or hesitation. I’d felt more confident, more relaxed, more myself than I had in years. It was like some part of me had been silenced for so long—the part that was just a man with his own needs and wants and self-interests apart from being Scotty’s father—I’d forgotten he even existed (aside from the occasional furnace maintenance).

  But suddenly he had a voice. Was it selfish of me to listen to it? I’d made a promise to my son, and I intended to keep it. I knew that was right.

  But being with Jillian felt right too.

  I couldn’t walk away.

  Jillian

  After Levi left, I had some soup, poured some wine, and stared at the same page in the book I was reading for an hour, a silly grin on my face. Eventually, I gave up reading and got in bed, which still smelled like Levi and sex. I lay on my side, hugging my second pillow and breathing in the scent, my stomach fluttering as if I’d swallowed a flight of doves for dinner.

  Moment by moment, I relived the hour we’d spent here, relishing each kiss and caress, each sigh and moan, each dirty word from his mouth and every thrust of his cock inside me.

  I’d be sore tomorrow.

  I didn’t care.

  Flopping onto my back, I smiled at the ceiling and wondered how soon we could do it again. I was still lying there, thinking about all the things I wanted to do to him next time we were together, when I heard my phone vibrate. I glanced at my clock and saw it was after midnight.

  Rolling to my side, I picked up my phone, hoping it was him. It was.

  Get out of my head already. I’m trying to sleep.

  I grinned. Me too.

  I’m sorry I had to leave so fast.

  Don’t be. I’ll be sore enough as it is in the morning.

  Is it bad that I’m proud of that?

  No. You can be proud.

  I want to see you again.

  Under the covers, I wiggled my toes. When?

  Next weekend?

  Want to come over for dinner?

  Yes. Thank you for the soup. I ate it all and licked the bowl.

  Doesn’t surprise me. You like to lick things.

  Things that are delicious.

  I smiled. I will have something delicious here for you, I promise.

  I know you will. And I’m getting hard just thinking about it. But it’s my turn to make dinner. I’ll bring it.

  OK. What night?

  Friday? Sorry it can’t
be sooner.

  Don’t be. During the week is hard for me too. I don’t mind being your Girl Friday. But I wondered how much time he’d have. How was Scotty tonight?

  Pretty good. I think he’d give me another hour on my curfew.

  I laughed. How nice of him.

  Hey. What’s your favorite movie?

  Of all time? Vertigo.

  Hitchcock fan, huh?

  YES. What’s yours?

  Shawshank Redemption.

  Never seen it.

  What? We need a movie date.

  We needed all kinds of dates. Deal. Favorite color?

  Blue. Like your eyes.

  My lips tipped up. Haha. Smooth.

  Thank you. Now you.

  Red. But not cherry red. Deeper.

  You like it deep. I like that about you.

  I gasped. You are so bad.

  I know. Oh fuck hold on.

  He was gone for a few minutes, and I figured Scotty had called him. His next message confirmed it.

  Hey I’m sorry. I have to go. Scotty’s up.

  I was disappointed, but I understood. It’s OK.

  Talk soon. Night.

  Night.

  I set my phone aside and turned onto my side again, hoping everything was OK with Scotty. Did Levi ever get a full night’s sleep? Being a single parent had to be hard enough without throwing in all the extra issues he dealt with. And he was so devoted to his son. Clearly it would make dating difficult, if that’s what we were doing—I wasn’t even sure yet. But it also made him more attractive to me. Not only was he gorgeous and good in bed, he had a huge heart.

  Was there room in it for me?

  On Sunday evening, he called me. “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “How’s my Girl Friday?”

  I smiled. “Good. Just doing some reading.”

  “About what?”

  “Autism research, actually.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes. It’s very interesting, the genetic links they’re finding, what brain scans are revealing about neurological connectivity.”

  “Yeah, I used to read some of that stuff, but it wasn’t very useful to me.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s interesting, but there’s a disconnect, you know? I’m glad they’re making gains in understanding how autism looks in the brain, but that doesn’t help me deal with the meltdowns on my kitchen floor.”