Her skin is supple beneath my hands as I rub them up and down her knit-covered arms. I gaze into her hypnotic eyes. “I wasn’t sure what you’d say.” Something comes over me—the reminder that there is no time like the present—and all my fears about the unknown and moving too quickly vanish into the narrow space between us. “Can I tell you something I’ve wanted to say for a while? Without you freaking out?”
The corners of her smile wobble. “Too late. You can’t say that and expect me not to freak out.”
Grabbing her hands, I lift one to my lips and kiss each delicate knuckle. “These last few months have been fucking incredible.”
Her smile widens; her cheeks become big round balls of joy; that little dimple that rarely makes an appearance pops out to play. “You can say that again.”
“How about I say something a little more special?”
She tilts her head, appraising me. When she narrows her eyes and starts to nibble the inside of her cheek, I scoop her hair out of her face, trace my palm across her skin, and caress her bottom lip with my thumb. “I love you, Willow. I couldn’t wait another second to tell you. You don’t have to say it back. I don’t even know if you feel the same way, but—keeping it locked up inside was killing me. I needed you to know how happy I am that you came into my life, and how complete I feel now that we’re together. I had plans on how I’d tell you, where, and this seems sort of a shitty way to do it, but I just couldn’t—”
“Would you just shut up and kiss me? I love you too, Noah. I was afraid to tell you. You fought so hard in the beginning to set boundaries, and ever since we’ve been together things have just fallen into place so perfectly. And . . . and now I’m babbling, but the bottom line is . . . I love you too!” Sweater covered arms pull me closer; her soft tickle-light touches graze the back of my neck. Barefoot, she stretches up on tip-toes to kiss me and together we forget about everything else—including our friends downstairs—and let our hands and mouths show each other just how in love we are.
That is, until we get carried away, wind up half naked and panting and interrupted by Blaze’s obnoxious barking from the living room. “If you don’t get your horny asses down here right now, I’m leaving! Sloane’s had two glasses of wine and she’s not a nice drunk!”
“Can’t we just ignore him? Pretend we didn’t hear?” Willow asks. She nibbles my ear while she readjusts her clothing.
“Haven’t you learned by now there’s no snubbing Blaze? Besides, if we leave him alone with Sloane any longer she might break another one of his bones. We need him back in action by Thanksgiving so you and I can get away.” I extend my hand and Willow accepts so I can pull her up from the bed.
“Very true. Let’s get game night over with so I can tell you how much I love you—” Her hand snakes out to grab my ass. “While you fuck me every which way—” She turns on her heel to lead the way out. “For the rest of the night.” I halt, dumbstruck. Staring after her retreating back. Breathless . . . and hard.
“God, woman, I love you.”
I’ve never been one to handle tragedy with dignity. I remember when my grandmother died. I was twelve. She was a huge part of my life; lived in the apartment of my house from the time I was born. Grandma Paulette was like a second mother to me, and when I went down to wake her one morning for our Sunday bagel breakfast ritual, she wasn’t breathing. She was stiff, cold, and lifeless. It was my first experience with death. I screamed my head off and rocked from side to side until Dad found me, clutching Grandma Paulette’s hand and whimpering like a scared puppy.
As manly as I like to think I am, that weakness is something I’ve carried with me my entire life. Death freaks me out, funerals make me want to hurl, and the idea of anything happening to my parents puts me in full-on panic mode.
In times like these, my life seems to move in slow motion. For some, it’s an instant, blinding flash, awakening you to the possibilities and outcomes of the tragic event. For others, it’s a rush to safety, a survival instinct that overpowers everything else. But not me. Me? When I get bad news, I freeze. Deer in headlights. System failure. Mental shutdown. Ka-fucking-put.
“Noah! Noah! Do you hear me? What can I do?” Willow’s worried cries barely break through my imagination running wild.
“Huh? What? I—What the hell do I do?”
“You tell me. What do you need, baby?”
“I need to get there. I have to make sure they’re okay. I—why can’t I get in touch with them?”
“Because their power’s down, baby. Don’t think the worse. Let me help you. What can I do?”
Since I turned on the news this morning and saw the television coverage of Sandy’s ruthless wrath, Willow’s asked me what she can do to help at least nine hundred times. I haven’t been able to answer her once. My body’s not equipped for shit like this. I have no game plan, no creative strategy, absolutely zero common sense telling me what the fuck my next move should be. “Willow, babe, please stop asking and just tell me what to do.” I’m so grateful I’m here with her. Thank God I have her to keep my pulse somewhat in check. If I’d gotten this news alone, I’d be pacing mindlessly and halfway to a heart attack. I’d be even more lost than I am right now.
“Okay. Let me check the airlines and book us a flight.”
“Us?”
“Yes. Us. You think I’m gonna make you do this alone?”
“I don’t expect you to drop everything and just—”
“And just what? Be there for the man I love? Comfort him during a scary time? This is what relationships are all about, babe. I’m here for you. Let me help. We’ll figure this out together.”
“And what about work?”
“Noah, your hometown was just rocked by a horrible storm. I think your clients will understand if you have to postpone a few jobs. I’ll get on the phone with Angela right after I book the flights. Blaze can cover some of the jobs, and in the meantime, we’ll take each day as it comes. Okay?”
God, she’s a fucking angel. I don’t know what I’d do without her right now. “Thank you.” It doesn’t even cover what I want to say, but in my state of shock it’ll have to do. I’ll make it up to her. I owe her so much for all she’s done for me since she walked into my life. Hell, I may just have to marry this girl.
Willow books last minute flights into Philadelphia and arranges for a rental car there. All flights in and out of Newark Airport are cancelled until further notice, so this is the best she can do. Her best is way better than mine would be. I’m still a ball of nerves, images of third-world-country-like strife engrained in my mind.
At least one bit of stress was taken off my back when I learned my parents weren’t harmed. I managed to get in touch with them through a neighbor. Mom made sure to have enough water and food, but the two dummies forgot to charge their cell phones and computers. Thank God they’re in one piece and their house is still standing. I haven’t heard anything about my vacant house, but the rest of the Jersey shore—a place where my childhood memories are rooted and where many old friends created their families—has been literally washed up and ripped apart. People are dead, missing. Death tolls keep rising. The damage isn’t even fully decipherable yet. The northeastern coast is in a state of emergency and come hell or more high fucking water, I need to get there to do something, anything, to get rid of this feeling of defenselessness.
“Relax. We’re almost there.” Willow grabs my hand from the passenger seat. She can almost coax me into believing this is all some surreal nightmare. I kiss her fingers, thankful for the millionth time in hours that this woman navigated this entire trip with minimal information, on a wing and prayer.
“So, tell me a little more about your mom. The circumstances totally blow, but I’m still really excited to meet her.”
Her positive attitude erodes my fears, and comforts me in a way that soothes my worry-tense muscles. “She’ll love you, you know? I can just tell. You’re her kind of ‘gal,’ and when I tell her how you orchestrated thi
s whole mission, she’ll probably cry first and then hug the shit out of you.”
“She’s a hugger. Duly noted. I like to hug too. ’Kay, so what about your dad? You mentioned the weird couponing thing, but you know what—I bet you’ll be happy when we get there and don’t have to fight the angry crowds at the market for the last roll of TP.”
“Now, this is true.” I laugh for the first time in hours, so happy that Willow gets me. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. Thank you for doing all this.”
“Would you stop thanking me! You were a wreck. What was I supposed to do? Just watch you crumble?”
“I acted like a pussy, didn’t I?” I cringe, realizing I didn’t show myself in the best light, the way I acted all it’s-the-end-of-the-world and I-need-my-mommy.
“A little,” she admits with her thumb and index finger inched apart for measurement. “But it makes you that much more loveable. Perfect people are no fun, Noah. It’s imperfections that make someone interesting and unique.”
“Another Pinterest quote?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, and uses her finger to tap her temple. “That one’s all me. I love you. Pussy imperfections and all. You know all the shit about me that makes me suck and yet you stick around and love me too. If your biggest qualm is handling tough times with the need of some extra lovin’, I’ll take it.”
“I don’t deserve you.” I don’t know why I just said that. I’m pretty sure I do deserve someone good, and generous, and sweet—exactly like Willow. But the voice in my head that once warned me to stay away from her sometimes gets the best of me. It brings to the forefront that if I hadn’t been so defiant and didn’t listen to my gut, I’d be all alone in this car right now, with no one to help me through this disaster.
“Screw that! I ain’t too proud to brag about finally getting what’s owed to me. We both deserve this happiness, love.” She rests her hand on my thigh, then leans back in her seat.
“Close your eyes for a little while. We have another hour before we get there.”
As if on cue, she yawns and visibly surrenders to the last days’ worth of hustle and bustle and time crunched arrangements. “Wake me a few minutes before we arrive. I don’t want to look like total shit the first time I meet your mom and dad.”
“Baby, you couldn’t look like shit if you’d been rolling around in a pig sty all day. Get some rest and quit your worrying. I do enough of that for both of us.”
With a smile and nod, she dozes off. I’m left with the peaceful sound of country radio and the lull of the highway to keep my mind occupied. But as we cross the border into my parents’ county, my breath catches in my throat. Roadblocks. Flooding. Abandoned cars. Houses torn in half. No indication of where the shore ends and land begins. I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me. This is worse than anything they showed on TV. This is bedlam. I now know why Willow was put into my life when she was. She’s my calm before the storm.
“Willow. Wake up. We’re almost there.” Noah’s velvety voice stirs me from a dream. One of those delicious, don’t-wake-me-out-of-this-amazingness, I-never-want-this-to-end dreams. I ignore the tap on my relaxed shoulder and sink deeper into the beautiful delusion. My subconscious allows me a few more seconds to revel in my fantasy.
Noah and I are celebrating an anniversary sometime in the not too far off future. A warm breeze floats off the ocean waves, and entangles my hair with a gentle sea mist. The palm trees and exotic foliage lead me to believe we’re in the Caribbean. Or maybe it’s Mexico. Either way, it’s magnificent. Sunny skies, calypso music, frozen drinks, my man.
With the breathtaking coastline surrounding us, he lies asleep beside me beneath a cabana framed by sheer curtains that blow in the balmy wind. I admire how peaceful he looks, and give in to the heaviness of my eyelids and the relaxation of my muscles. My body molds itself to his by memory, and I decide to join him for a lazy afternoon nap.
As I turn on my side to inch closer and wrap my arms around Noah’s torso, an uncomfortable barrier comes between us. I look down and recognize an odd roundness to my belly. It’s swollen, as if I’ve gained weight—a lot of it. But at second glance, tears prick my eyes with the realization that I’m carrying a child. Oh my God, I’m pregnant. With Noah’s baby. With our baby.
It’s weird not knowing how far along I am or why this is such a shock to me, but all that registers in my foggy mind is that my dreams are coming true. I’m about to be a mother. It’s a miracle. I need to wake Noah and tell him how happy he’s made me.
But instead, he wakes me. I startle when reality knocks me in the gut. We’re in a car. I must have fallen asleep for the duration of the ride. My eyes dart from Noah to my stomach—my very flat, barren, childless stomach—and I choke back the disappointment I’ve become all too familiar with.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Have a good nap?”
I roll my neck from side to side and ignore the stabbing pain of a letdown. How can I hide this? How the hell can I not cry when what I want most in the world with the man I love most in the world was dangled in front of me so vividly? I want to curse whomever it is in charge of dreams for being so cruel. For teasing me with this fabricated blessing and then yanking it away. False hope, false happiness, false illusions. But there’s no one to curse except for myself. When things fester subliminally long enough, they find a permanent place in the forefront of your mind.
Coming to and doing my best to brush off the debilitating hurt once more, I force a smile and stroke my hair off my face. “Yes. It was a much needed rest.” Lie. “I really needed that.” No, I didn’t. It’s just another reminder of my failures. “Are we close to your parents’? I can’t wait to meet them.” What’s the use? We can’t wind up together. I would never bestow my horrible curse on someone as kind and loving as you.
“You sure? You seem a little—” Heartbroken? Sad? Pitiful? “—nervous.” He places a finger under my chin and lifts my face to his. I close my eyes to fight back the imminent tears. When I reopen them, I’ve found a way to regroup. I’m okay. It was just a dream. I can’t let something as trivial as a fantasy impede the real reason we’re here.
“Of course, I’m a little nervous, but that’s normal. It’s not every day you get to meet the two people who gave life to the man of your dreams.” As the words leave my mouth, a lump forms in my throat. I’m torturing myself—it’s a sick self-destructive thing I’ve always done. Like buying those baby clothes when I knew deep down there would never be a newborn of my own to wear them.
“You’re so sweet, not to mention adorable when you sleep. I kept looking over because you were making these little mewling sounds like a cat. Must have been having some dream.” His warm smile reaches his blue eyes. It shows his love for me better than any words ever could. It’s a shame that I feel anything other than gratitude for finally finding this happiness, but I can’t disregard the true feelings wreaking riotous havoc in my heart. I’m not enough for this man. I’ll never be enough, no matter how much he loves me.
I thank him for his kind words anyway, and remove my makeup case from my purse to freshen up. All the while I stare into the mirror, I hate myself for being so jaded. If I hadn’t had that dream the mood of this meeting would be so different. I’d be focusing on the positive, not fixated on the negative. I hadn’t put too much thought into a serious future with Noah until he told me he loved me. And even then, I was so thrilled that we shared the same feelings for each other that I didn’t think about what this could possibly mean. I never envisioned the next steps—commitment, engagement, marriage, family—until that stupid dream flashed right before my eyes.
But as my pessimistic Pinterest board would so aptly remind me, sometimes we create our own heartbreaks through expectation.
With my glass half empty attitude behind me for the time being, we cruise around Noah’s old neighborhood before arriving at his parents’. Some of the surrounding homes have errant branches and debris strewn all over their property. Others h
ave more serious damage—fallen trees splitting roofs in half or water levels rising higher than the first story of their two story homes.
Noah shakes his head with his hand held over his mouth as he rolls past the houses. “This is insane. Look at the Brickman’s front yard—it’s like a fucking crime scene!”
He has sad observations for almost all of what must be old neighbors. My heart aches for him, and as much as I hate to admit it, it’s a good ache because it alleviates my own prior grief.
His fingertips are like ice when I reach over to pull them from his worry-worn face. “Hey, it’s okay. Right now it’s impossible to see past all the mess and suffering, but in time it will go back to how it was. Think about Katrina. It’s only two days since the storm hit. This is the worst of it. It can only get better.” I don’t know where my optimism comes from, but I have to wonder if it’s due to the effect Noah has over me. Since he’s come into my life, I see things a little brighter than I used to. Screw that dumb mind-fuck of a dream.
“I hope you’re right, because this is simply devastating and we’re not even in the flood zone. I can only image what went on over there. And in case I forgot to warn you, my mother has a bit of a dramatic flair. She’s probably a wreck.”
“Like mother, like son?” I joke.
“Worse. Although she’s definitely who I got it from. When I played ball in high school, God forbid she was at a game when I got hurt. Not only was it embarrassing, but it was incredibly over the top, theatrics and all. I had more unnecessary trips to the ER growing up than anyone I know.” His smile brightens as his worry and sadness wane. I love this little insight into Noah’s childhood. It makes me even more excited to meet his parents.
His car comes to a stop in front of a beautiful ranch style house. Aside from shattered trees, uprooted shrubs, and a huge puddle—more like a pond—of water in the driveway, the house seems to be intact. In fact, all of the houses on this particular block have similar, minimal damage. Thank God. One less thing for my worrywart boyfriend to fret over.
After the Storm Page 16