To Catch a Falling Star

by L. Duarte

  Pushing the fears and doubts away, I barricade them in a corner of my heart. I focus on being present in the moment, which is a luxury stolen from me during my long years enslaved to drugs. Burying my face in her hair, I inhale deeply and relish on the incomparable thrill of holding her.

  For most of my life, I’ve dedicated to chasing after some nameless shit to obliterate the ache on my soul. I found something better. Mel sighs inside my embrace. And it is the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard.

  BEFORE I OPEN my eyes, images from the previous evening, tumble through my sluggish mind. Fearful of finding Tarry by my side, I keep my eyes closed. The morning is quiet. The air smells faintly of him. It’s a novelty. My bed used to smell of outdoors and soap, Tim’s scent. Redirecting my thoughts, I risk opening my eyes. Disappointment melded with relief runs through my body. The other side of the bed is empty.

  I glance at the bedside clock. It’s five thirty. It’s too early to collect Ella from Will’s, so I allot myself another half hour in bed.

  Daylight, pouring through sheer curtains, floods my room with warmth and light. Vibrant colors pulse from the maple tree, as its leaves sway gaily, like the fluttering of little butterflies’ wings. Soon, these branches will be bare, but right now, they’re breathtakingly sublime. Everything in life has a designated season.

  Musing on my journey since Tim’s death, I wonder if I’m allowing the natural flow of grief to run its course through my life. I’ve tried to surround Ella and I with little things and actions to keep us happy. But Tim is a constant. In a way I impose his desolate presence as a way of honoring him. Today I wonder if these artifices are only distracting us from the crude reality of not having Tim near us.

  The thought is sobering, but daunting. Ella deserves better than to live imprisoned by my memories of her dad. I love—and always will love—him. I want her to love him as well. But is this obsession healthy for either of us? Can we continue to live in the world I created, where his presence lingers and hinders us from experimenting with new things and new people? To which extent should I reinforce his obsolete presence, when it stagnates our lives?

  In the midst of my mourning, I allowed the line to blur. For the first time since his death, I question the motivation behind the barrier I raised around me and, in a certain way, around Ella. I sadly conclude that I’m selfish. Fear and passivity keeps me from living my life. The worst part is, without realizing, I trapped Ella with me.

  My mind reels, overwhelmed with a swirl of never-ending questions. Knowing I won’t be able to unscramble all the jumbled thoughts, I swing my legs off the bed and stride to the bathroom. My half hour is up.

  The glow of after sex clings to the tiles of the bathroom. Exasperated, I shake my head. I need to learn to stop overthinking things. I climb under a jet of scalding water. Slowly, the shower appeases the confusion of my agitated nerve endings.

  I close my eyes and thoughts of Tarry’s skilled fingers flood my mind. Even considering my limited experience, I suspect that the man has mastered the lovemaking task as no one else. Unfortunately, my female instinct hints that now that he has gotten inside my panties he won’t bother to glance my way. The thought slashes my chest. Call me naïve, but I want to believe in a connection deeper than raw and primal sex.

  Tim and I married as virgins. Please don’t judge. I’m the daughter of a pastor. Tim respected my abstinence. Our first night could’ve been a disaster had not Tim researched with friends and books about the sealed secrets of a bedroom. He bought a book called A Hundred and One Sex Positions. Well, we did our homework and the result was a spicy bedroom life that would make the proper ladies at our church blush.

  Tim was an apt sexual partner. Everything about our intimacy was deliciously perfect. He had this mixture of bad boy and gentle. The combination made him excel in the art of mating. We knew every nook and curve on each other’s bodies, every like and dislike, and the secret triggers.

  I know I shouldn’t do it, but I’m comparing what happened last night with my prior sexual experience. I want to understand the difference. I conclude: It was not better, nor worse. Just different.

  Tarry had been consumed with a degree of desperation. His eyes had begged. They penetrated inside my soul in a way Tim never had to. Tim knew me too well.

  I scramble out of the shower and dry my hair. I open the medicine cabinet and swallow my birth control pill. After Tim died, I found myself depressed, which got severe around my menstrual cycle. My gynecologist insisted that I remain on birth control for the hormones or take an antidepressant. I opted for continuing on the pills. I’m so relieved. Tarry and I were reckless last night. I hope Tarry is clean. The man is very sexually active.

  Naked, I set my iPhone on the same playlist as yesterday and scrub the bathroom until it is spotless.

  Satisfied with cleaning the bathroom, I don a comfortable pair of jeans, a tank top, and a black cardigan. I gather a knitted scarf and tie an elaborate knot to hide the hickey Tarry left. Note to self: Keep the scarf on, no matter what. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I decide to apply some mascara and lip gloss. All the while, I fiercely attempt to convince myself that the possibility of meeting Tarry has no influence on the sudden care over my appearance.

  Having had sex with Tarry changed something inside me. I’m uncertain to the extent or dynamic of the change. But the surge of new emotions makes me giddy. I embrace the feeling. It is far better than the guilt and sadness of last night.

  Considering the way I’ll handle the new me, I drive to Will’s house to pick up Ella. At the spur of the moment, I stop at Starbucks and indulge myself with a cup of coffee and a scone, courtesy of Tarry. With a wistful smile, I hand the one thousand dollar card that Tarry generously donated to Larry, to the drive-through cashier. I might as well use it since Larry is no longer with us. His body finally succumbed to the unforgiving hold of cancer. The day I heard of his passing, I tried to return the gift card to Tarry, but he had refused to take it back.

  Along the road to the farm, the lake entices me to stop and admire its beauty and splendor. I park facing the glacial water and savor the rich coffee. I split the scone in half and toss crumbs to the ducks, expectantly loitering near the car. The water reflects a smudged orange and red from the trees. It is glorious.

  I ponder how I’m going to face Tarry. A crucial side of me wants to see him, desperately. Screw my former overthinking nature. I’ll just enjoy this moment.

  I GET OUT of the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror. With the knowledge that I won’t bother to get one, I remind myself for the hundredth time that I need a haircut.

  I run my hand through my stubble, which is now almost a beard. Images of Mel’s soft fingers stroking my face prevent me from shaving. Damn, this woman infatuates me in a way that is driving me insane.

  I quit trying to shave and stride into the kitchen to drink a glass of milk. I’m not hungry, but I stand by the fridge and intently study its contents, hoping that will miraculously trigger my appetite. Remembering the way Mel’s lips ran across my chest makes me reach for the eggs. I want to look good for her. Damn, I sound like a fucking teenager. My hormones are raging and I’m fucking hard just thinking about her ass that is so perfect inside my hands. Holy shit, I need to rein in my crazy desire to devour that woman.

  After I scramble and cook the eggs, I sit at a table by the window. Portia and Nillie would be proud of me at this moment. Not only because I’m eating a healthy meal, but also because I’ve been drug free for one hundred and twenty-four days. Who am I kidding? I’m damn proud of myself. Fearful and skeptical, yes, but nonetheless I’m proud. I haven’t been clean for this long since I was a boy.

  HOLDING ELLA’S HAND, I push the glossy red door. A smile dances on my lips as I remember when I was eight and asked Dad to paint the door this color. It was after a trip to Maine. I had seen a small church with its belfry reaching for the face of heaven as an offering hand and a red door arching against its bright, white
walls. It stood alone on a cliff, making me wonder how many storms the small construction had weathered. Of course, Dad indulged me and together we painted the door of our church blood red. It has been the same color since. I enter the sanctuary where I grew up. Though it’s early, a few parishioners already gather in the back of the church.

  After taking Ella to the basement for her bible class, I find my usual spot in the second row.

  The sun filters through stained-glass windows and, like a kaleidoscope of vivid colors, it reflects on the hardwood floor spreading before the pulpit. In my mind’s eyes, I can see Tim and me as children. Barbie dolls and GI Joe soldiers surrounded us, strewn everywhere as we spend the afternoon enclosed in a fairy-tale world.

  Closing my eyes, I meditate on my life. In all honesty, at this moment, I would gleefully comply with the role of lover of Tarry Francis. The thought is nerve-racking, but fighting the attraction I have for him is exhausting.

  Now, I only wonder—and fear— whether he still wants to be with me, as he repeatedly has claimed.

  As I muse on the unsettling new desires, I hear the buzzing of people increasing throughout the church. I sense someone sitting next to me. My heart catapults when the familiar scent of citrus and cigarettes invades my senses. My eyes remain closed, but Tarry’s warmth envelops my body. That’s a good sign, right? He sat near me. I question my appearance. I should have worn a pretty dress. Oh, yeah, the hickey. A shiver runs up my spine. Settle down, you are at church. I order myself.

  Slowly I open my eyes. I risk a glance at my side. Tarry’s deep stare meets mine.

  “Good morning, Mel,” his voice is a low rumble that connects with my groin. Darn, I need to calm the hell down. If Dad only knew my thoughts, I flush.

  “Good morning, Tarry,” I whisper.

  We stand as service begins. Nervous as hell, I try my hardest to focus on the lyrics of the songs. God, this man is so intoxicating.

  Dad takes the pulpit and I settle next to Tarry. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand resting on his thigh and the back of his long fingers brush against mine. Wow, I need to focus on Dad’s sermon.

  “Melody,” Dad’s voice snatches me from my wanton thoughts. I’m crimson. I hope no one notices.

  “When Maritza and I were expecting our beloved daughter, we searched for a perfect name,” Dad preaches. All eyes turn briefly toward me and I forge a smile.

  “As many parents here might relate, our bundle of joy arrived nameless.” He grins, warming my heart. “At Maritza’s bedside, I gathered our little one in my arms and the sweetest sound escaped her little lungs. I knew then that heaven had whispered upon me and it was the most pure melody I had ever heard.” He gazes at me for a moment, and I see different emotions crossing his face. Does he know I had sex with Tarry? God, I want the polished wood floor to part at my feet, so I can disappear. Dad continues.

  “To wander through life ignoring your worth is rebuking the principle that you were created in God’s image and likeness. We are all vulnerable to the whims of circumstances. But, heavens will always find a way to send you a message. At times, it will be a very unlikely vessel. But God is God, He does what He wants.” My dad shrugs. “So I ask you this morning. What melody has heaven whispered on your heart lately?”

  “I’m a fraudulent man, but I’ve made a point to never neglect to tell my children of the love I have for them. Melody, Will, and Portia, along with my grandchildren, are the greatest gifts God has bestowed upon Maritza and me. In my infinite limitations, I have endeavored to display to them my love,” Dad continues, but my mind drifts away to think of what is happening between Tarry and me.

  Tarry and I are as opposite as black to white, as south from north, as fire to water, as day to night. The list of opposites is endless.

  For the first time in my life, I’ve felt attracted to someone other than Timothy. The heady thrill traveling my body when Tarry approaches me is a feeling I thought I buried with Tim.

  I inhale deeply. Would Tarry want me as his lover?

  “Enjoy this God-given day,” Dad says from the pulpit. Before I stand, I turn to my side and Tarry regards me with cautious eyes.

  “We need to talk,” he whispers.

  “Sure.” I forge a natural smile. “Do you want to stop by before dinner?” I babble. “Maybe for guitar lessons? Ella has been dying to continue her lessons.” Gosh, I hope I sounded nonchalant. And damn the blood flushing through my face.

  “Okay.” He pauses. “I’ll stop by.”

  After I pick up Ella from her class, I go home. I tell her about Tarry coming over and her anxiety matches my own. She rushes inside the house, gathers the guitar, and sits on the couch where she strums the cords with a natural ability that continues to amaze me.

  I pour a glass of water and perch on the barstool, watching her play the guitar. She has mastered a few songs. Tim would be so proud of her. I hear a soft tap at the kitchen door. Is he already here?

  “Come in.” My voice falters. I swallow the big lump on my throat and wrap my fingers around the glass to stop it from shaking. I can’t believe I’m going to propose being Tarry’s lover. Oh my. Even the thought of having him inside me again, makes me weak in the legs.

  “Hey, Mel.” Tarry enters the kitchen, and his tall build fills the room.

  “Uncle Tarry!” Ella sprints from the sofa.

  Tarry kneels down and his long arms wrap Ella into a tight embrace.

  “Hello, sunshine. I see you are practicing.” He grins.

  “Yeah, I practice every day. I’m going to be as good as you’re, someday.”

  “Well, you’re better than I was at your age.” He pats her wild curls.

  “For real?” she asks in delight. The poor thing melts under his silver gaze.

  “For real. I had to work much harder, and was not even close to how good you are.”

  “What are you teaching me today?” She holds his hand, pulling him to the sofa.

  Tarry looks over his shoulder, expectantly.

  “Go ahead with the lesson,” I say. “I’ll make coffee.”

  With my stomach twisting, I prepare a pot of coffee. I wish I wasn’t so affected by Tarry’s heady presence.

  After forty minutes of watching them interact, my nerves are humming in agony.

  “So, that’s your homework, Ella. I’ll set up another lesson with your mom, okay.”

  “Sure, I’ll practice every day,” Ella solemnly says. She turns to me and asks. “Mom, can I watch TV before we go to Grandma’s?”

  “Sure, baby.” I pour a cup with steamy coffee, and hand it to Tarry.

  “Thanks.’” Tarry sits on the stool bar, and regards me with inquisitive eyes.

  We are silent for a moment and an awkward tension hangs in the air.

  “I, um,” I start, but Tarry interrupts me.

  “Listen, Mel, I need you to forgive me for yesterday. I don’t know what got into me. I should never have done that.”

  Ugh, I swallow hard unable to respond to Tarry’s nervous apology. Is he trying to say that he regrets it? God, I hate this.

  He pauses as if searching for the right words and then continues, “Truth is, I really enjoy your company, I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand.” He rubs two hands over his thigh. “I promise it won’t happen again, Mel.”

  “Oh, I, um, I thought about it, Tarry. Please, there is no reason for apologies. I was a willing participant. As Mom would say, it’s all water under the bridge.” Jeez, this sucks ass.

  My stomach writhes. How stupid of me to think rock star Tarry Francis would want me—average, ordinary me, as a lover. I feel pathetic considering it. Thank heavens he spoke first or I would have made a fool of my average self.

  I attempt a smile. “We can be friends though, right?” I ask, unsure. Now that he’s gotten into my panties, he certainly is done with me. I’m such an idiot. Can shame kill someone?

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. I mean, I would like it very much, Mel,” he says nervously.


  Damn, he’s so awkward. He’s probably concerned I’ll stalk his ass. God, I just want him to leave. He’s probably dying to get out of here.

  I guess it’s time I admit it. Tarry captivated me with his charm. Well, duh, no surprise here. It’s not that hard to fall for the guy. What really bites me is the idiotically idea that he would want to have an affair with me.

  “See you later?” he asks stoically.

  “Of course.”

  He stands in the kitchen, his hands rubbing the delicious stubble of his face. Oh, no, no. I order my mind not to reminisce on the texture of his face under my fingers. Tarry forges a smile, his hand slides over his shaggy hair and he cups the back of his neck. He’s so uncomfortable. Jeez, at least pretend you’re not crazy to get out.

  “Later, Mel.” He turns on his heels and leaves the kitchen with a thud at the door.

  Whew! Thank the Lord I wasn’t the one to speak first. Tarry seemed repulsed enough without me proposing to be his lover

  FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.

  How hard was for me to control my overly active, testosterone-induced body near Mel.

  To stand in that damn kitchen so close to Mel and not touch her was torture. No, it was hell. The worst part was when I identified regret in her words. What did I expect? For her to welcome back with open arms after what I’ve done?

  I wonder how much she hates me. I screwed up, I really did.

  I’M THE LAST one to arrive at the Millers for supper.

  “Hi there, Tarry, we were just waiting for you to have dinner,” Maritza tells me after a tight embrace.

  “Sorry for being late, I was writing a new song and lost track of time. You guys shouldn’t have waited.”

  “Oh, please. You are part of this family.” Holding me by the hand, she guides me to the kitchen.

  “Portia, you and Mel can serve dinner, we will be right there.” We stop by the kitchen door briefly. I glance at Mel. She shoots me an inquisitive stare. With a discreet shrug, I mutely follow Maritza through the hall. We enter a room, and she closes the door.