by A. R. Hadley
I did deny myself. He had been right. But I was done lying. I wanted to fuck Pierce every which way I possibly could. I still did.
But I loved him.
This man.
The fucker with the paintbrush.
The man who held my most private papers — and my heart — in his hands.
One dick was enough, I’d decided. I made the decisions. The choices. My thoughts didn't have to be my actions.
"Do you want me to read this out loud?"
I shrugged. He didn't need to. I knew all three sheets word for word.
He scanned page one and decided to read silently. I rattled off the words in my head anyway like an inaudible prayer.
1. Scruff. Your beard is comfort. Pancakes and syrup. I need to put my palms on your face just to feel you. The sensation pacifies me.
2. Hands. Wide and worn in the best ways possible. Gentle and rough. Precise enough to hold a paintbrush and delicate in ways I could not have imagined. Showing toddlers how to paint, feeding starving children, fixing stupid shit, and stroking breasts, nipples, and giving back rubs. I can feel your hands on me if I close my eyes. My body turns cold without your touch.
3. Patience. I don't understand patience, but you explain it in everything you do. Like now. Reading my exhausting words and pretending they are the most interesting bits of consonants and vowels you've ever seen.
4. Voice. I think humans are attracted to certain tones. I am drawn to yours. I miss hearing you say my name. I miss listening to you counsel people at the shelter without a hint of accusation or blame.
5. Eyes. You paint them with a clarity and realness I have seldom seen. The reflection I see in your sapphires scares me. You look past the physical and see what’s inside of me.
6. Honesty. True honesty. No little white lies. No appearances.
7. You are an adult with the precociousness of a child.
8. Everything. You are numberless. A list cannot confine you.
taken for granted
you replace what life rung out of me
the place I escaped from
haunts my dreams
I am the tortoise
with the earth on my back
and I step forward
but it is never enough
there is more
another
someone is born
I die slowly
but you have given me a mask
to replace the wrong one I wore
yours is lifesaving oxygen
mine was only for show
Biting my tongue to block the tears, I watched his throat bob as he slipped page one behind page three. He glanced at the title of page two.
Man List Two.
Everything changed — his expression, his posture, his eyes.
Maybe this would not go over.
"It's not what you think," I whispered, holding my lip captive with teeth. "Please."
He read silently again. I recited the words in my head.
1. He wanted me.
2. He looked at me.
3. He saw me and affirmed something about my body and mind that I couldn't see.
4. He took advantage of my weakness.
Jeremiah looked up. He had to be on number four.
"What happened?" He gritted his teeth.
"He's gone."
"I know. I watched him leave."
He was gone. Indicted. Poof. Pierce had spoken the word Drazen that day as though it could do things for him. Well, his wish had been granted in the form of the very name he had praised.
"I was in his office, Dee. Twice that night. Once before you went in and again after you fled."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I've been waiting."
"For what?"
"For this."
"It was consensual. It was unspoken, but it was..." I looked away and swallowed. He touched my cheek. His lower lip twitched. Our eyes watered. "Don't," I said. "I don't deserve—"
"You do," he said, crying openly now; a few tears slid down his beautiful face, along his kind, kind jaw.
"It wasn't. It wasn’t when you and I were together. And I didn't let him—"
"It's enough, Dee. Shh." He stroked my cheek.
"I'm so sorry." I lowered my head, played with my cross. He brushed his fingers over the edge of the glossy black T. "Please," I said, glancing up. "Finish." I nodded through my tears at the paper. "The list."
He smiled. We both silently picked up reading where we’d left off.
5. Power.
6. Money.
7. Something sad in his eyes I couldn't put my finger on.
Jeremiah looked up at me, shaking his head. "Always taking after the wounded bird."
We continued...
8. I'd never love him.
9. He's not Jeremiah
10. He's not Jeremiah.
I’d filled the page with those three words like a kid in detention. As though filling the page with my creed would abolish the remaining sins inside of me, the ones I must not have believed the cross could touch.
Pulling a lighter from my pocket, I took Man List Two from his hand and flicked the Bic. The two of us stood in silence and watched it crumble and burn.
"There is still a third," I said.
"Jesus, Dee. How much do you think I can take?"
"Read it."
"List of Me," he said.
Standing tall and proud, he cleared his throat and chose to do this one aloud.
"My name is Deirdre Drazen.
I'm too tall.
I like black coffee.
I’m an alcoholic."
He glanced at me with that look I had witnessed many, many times — replete with love, not pity. He looked like he wanted to spread a wing and fold it over me. Clearing his throat, he continued.
"I love feeding children.
I work long hours to avoid looking in the mirror.
I fill notebooks with little bits of everything. I write what I'm afraid to speak. Some people call it poetry. One sister calls it bullshit. Another calls it creativity. I don't let them see my words or the real me.
I love a man named Jeremiah Holden, and I don't even know how old he is or where he lives.
I can't sleep without him.
He holds the key to my heart."
His voice cracked on the last line, and my entire body split open.
I couldn't feel my feet or toes, but I managed to move my fingers.
Opening his palm, I laid a key in it then closed his fist. "When you're ready." I nodded, sucking back a deluge of tears. "I love you."
I turned and bolted. I had never wanted to get away so fast. He would reject me, think I was too sentimental or full of shit. He would turn my seriousness against me and ridicule me the way every TV talking head did to the people who bared themselves, spoke out, or made mistakes.
I hadn't gotten very far when I felt his arms encircle my waist and his warm breath in my ear. We came to a roaring stop a few feet from a restaurant.
"Deirdre O’Drassen Drazen." He squeezed me. I giggled. He spun me around, cupped my cheeks, and kissed me. "I love you despite your stature and your poetry and your coffee breath, and I am thirty-three."
He nuzzled my nose and then kissed me long and hard. Afterward, he stared at me for what felt like ages, forcing me to see the reflection that terrified me, and then he took me back to his little make-do street shop where I sat on the ground and filled pages with words while he painted the California sun, my fiery curls, and a pair of eyes as green as stones.
TWELVE
Epilogue
"I don’t like surprises, Jonathan."
"Too bad." He spun me around in circles, a scarf around my eyes. All I saw was black.
"Your wife might like this sort of thing, you dick, but I do not." I tugged at the knot at the back of my head.
"Stop it, you brat. Play along." He fixed me in place and pushed me forward. I could hear whispers and shuffles, and I could feel
the AC blowing in a straight line out of one of the large ducts in the warehouse ceiling.
"Are you ready, Dee?" Jon asked.
"No," I muttered as he removed the scarf from my eyes.
People filled my peripheral vision, Drazens, big ones and little ones, maybe even my father, but it didn't matter. My only focus was the block wall I stood about ten feet from. I studied it top to bottom, side to side. What was formerly only grey concrete had been transformed into a mural.
Weeds grew tall over phallic symbols. Black crosses dangled from the sky, hanging from rosary beads. Dozens of hands without limbs, open and reaching, and my eyes, in the center of it all. Except he’d painted my eyes differently. Not hypnotic or haunting but like the Emerald City. Inviting and sparkly.
I was no longer afraid to be afraid.
"Monica," my brother called out, jolting me from my stupor.
It was then that I truly noticed my family, all in a room together and smiling, along with the three guys who made our bike restoration shop stand out from the rest of the city — Denny, Brighton, and Sven.
Monica Drazen appeared from behind the wall to the left with a beautiful little toddler on her hip. She placed Gabby on the ground and whispered something in her daughter's ear. And in an instant that little girl was off and chanting, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy." She skated so fast across the concrete I thought she would trip.
Jonathan knelt, caught her in his arms, and then pointed at me. "Go give Auntie Dee her present."
"My pwesent," she protested, stabbing at her chest. "Gabby pwesent."
He kissed her cheek. Some of the others laughed.
"We talked about this, Gabs. Your present is at home. This present," he said tapping the corsage on her wrist, "is for Auntie Dee."
"No, Daddy." She shook her head in rapid succession. I could tell my brother was trying not to smile, but the grin lit his eyes.
Picking her up, the two of them trotted toward me with pouts on their faces, Gabby's quite serious, but Jon's almost had me in a fit of hysterics. I screwed my face up, kept my mouth shut.
"Show Auntie Dee the flower."
Gabrielle held out her arm and twisted her wrist left and right. “Pwetty flower, Auntie Dee-Dee."
I smiled. "Yes, it is." Just as I touched it, she snatched her hand away.
Jonathan laughed.
"Don't encourage her," Monica said, joining us. "Gabrielle, look. Auntie Dee wants to see this box. Remember?"
"I have chocowate, and Dee-Dee gets box."
Jonathan laughed again. Monica smirked and made goo-goo eyes at her husband.
"How about you keep the pretty flower," I said. "They make me sneezy."
"Achoo," Gabby said. "Achoo, achoo, achoo."
Most everybody laughed at that. It echoed around the building.
"Let's move this along," one of my nephews called out from the small crowd behind us.
Gabby started to wiggle the box out of the rubber band, tape, and the orchid while Jon and Mon helped. They set her on the ground, and I knelt to her level.
"For you, Dee-Dee." She smiled then started to do twirls, holding a piece of her dress in her fingers as she hummed a familiar song. If I’d had to guess, I'd have said it was one of her mom's.
Gabby distracted me for a moment, all carefree and adorable, and then my gaze got stuck on that wall. The detail was unbelievable, and the texture made it seem like I could swim inside the symbolism. I knew he had done it. I just didn't know when. We had been together practically every day for months at the shop, the shelter, and the matchbox.
The conniving little fucker. Where was he?
Shoes and legs suddenly blocked my view. They looked way too fancy to belong to my Mr. Zen-Happy, but as my eyes slowly appraised the legs, the hips, the stomach, chest, and face, well, I realized they did belong to him. Man List One. In a suit. Wow.
"I think I am the one who is supposed to be on my knees." He took my hand. I stood as he knelt.
I started to tremble from the inside out, bit my lip profusely, really chewing on it. My face probably turned the color of my hair. The room became eerily silent; even Gabby had stopped singing.
"Open the box, baby."
"Open, open, Dee-Dee." Gabby clapped.
"Shh," Monica said.
My brother had that same goofy smile plastered across his face. I looked back at Jeremiah. He looked as nervous as I did. I couldn't blame him. Poor guy in a room full of Drazens.
My hands shook as I lifted the lid, moved a piece of cotton, and saw a ... a key. I started to cry and shake uncontrollably. "Is this a joke?"
Looking around the room, heart in my throat, clutching my neck, I couldn't breathe. Afraid I’d faint. My head caught fire. My knees buckled.
Jeremiah grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand toward his chest, then he slipped a ring on my finger — a platinum thing. A thin band with an intricate butterfly made of diamonds in the center.
"No joke, baby. The key is the key to my heart. I want to spend every day with you. I want to make it official. Will you marry me?"
"Jesus Christ, you fu—"
"Language," Theresa called out. Old habits apparently died hard.
"You did all this." I flicked my shaky hand at the mural decorating the wall. "When did you do it?”
"All night and over the weekend."
"You." I pointed at my brother and scowled. He was certainly behind all of this — this public display of attention he knew I would hate. The all-night, weekend painting thing.
"Daddy, put me down." Gabby slapped his chest. "Down. Down."
"Ask nice, baby," Monica said.
"Pwease, Daddy." She made that perfect little pout.
As Jeremiah played with my fingers, I looked down at his face. Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead.
"Stand up, J." Wrapping my arms around his neck, I lifted my leg the way they did in the movies, heel to ass, as I slipped my tongue into his waiting mouth — as if no one was looking. They wanted a show, they would get one.
"Daddy, they kissing like you and Mommy." Gabby squealed, then she hummed.
Keeping my forehead resting against Jeremiah's, I glanced over at my family and stroked my fiancé’s beard. "Yes," I whispered. "Yes, yes, yes." I nuzzled my nose against his.
Gabby started to twirl in circles around us, humming and humming until I finally placed the tune. I had been wrong. It wasn't one of Monica's original songs after all; it was Sinatra's, but Mon had made it her own the first night I’d met her.
I remembered.
What a long way I had come...
Gabrielle's humming and babbly rendition of "Under My Skin" couldn't have been more appropriate.
How did she know?
I had gotten under my own skin.
Jeremiah had climbed inside and become quite comfortable.
We would die together, embedded in my marrow and tissue.
But first we would live.
And write and paint and feed children.
Together.
Forever.
Sapphires and emeralds.
The End
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My writing life is made possible by the support and love of my wondrous family. Thank you to my husband, my son, and my daughter for smiles, eye rolls, and snuggles. Big hug. Little kiss.
Christine D. Reiss! Thank you for this amazing opportunity (again!) and for your unending inspiration and support to all the indie authors and fans.
Early readers, betas, and friends — Renee, Rebekah, Cat, Monica, Danielle, Peter, Cassie, and Jack. And my editor and proofreader this go ‘round — Catherine and Devon! Thank you for making my words better. Thank you for your snappy decision-making and for reminding me I can endure and persevere.
Readers! Thank you from the bottom of my crazy, crazy, introverted heart!
Listen to songs I chose for Deirdre’s story on Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/user/arwriter/playlist/2tk9ARlLlHew7OoNSru3bT
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ALSO BY A.R. HADLEY
Release: A Drazen World Novella:
I chose Jessica.
I married her.
She saved me.
Me — Jonathan Drazen.
What would happen if the wind shifted direction? If I made new suggestions?
I changed my line of sight. I started to focus on the unattainable because nothing was out of my reach. Nothing.
Children.
Happiness.
Success.
I had the universe by a string. A yo-yo. I could bring it up or down. I could fit it inside my pocket and carry it anywhere I pleased.
Then why did I have an uneasy feeling? The kind of sensation an animal feels just before a storm or an earthquake? It was subtle enough to ignore yet strong enough to prick me, reminding me that denial would result in severe repercussions to my psyche or my marriage.
Suffer now, or suffer later.
I had a choice.
Fly away from the clouds, or dive head first into the nebula.
Buy it here:
http://amzn.to/2aLAgmd
Releasing in 2017:
The South Beach Connection — Book One: Landslide
You've heard the story.
Boy meets girl.
Man meets woman.
Alpha meets innocent.
Mysterious guy meets girl next door.
They kiss.
Fall in love.
Happily ever after.
Annie Baxter is the girl.
The photographer.
The woman.
Except...
She is spinning.
Falling.
Crazy.
Sad.
She is all over the place.
Who can handle her?
She can't.
Let go, Annie.
Hold on, Annie.