But he did say he wanted to get tested for me. Guess that means he has made some middle of the night visits to someone. Or someones. How many, I wonder. Probably not a question I should ask in my upcoming text…
By the time I’ve finished drying my hair, he hasn’t sent me a message, and I still have no idea what to write. I guess I could ask about our plans for tomorrow…but what if he’s changed his mind?
To buy myself more thinking time and, well, because it’s the responsible thing to do, I check my closet one more time for the murderers before applying my body lotion. Then I get dressed for bed. For the first time that I can remember, I put on old pajamas. The same pajamas I wore last night—I couldn’t make myself wash them today. Maybe his lingering scent on them will help me get some sleep during my last night without Mandy.
Mandy. She hasn’t called or texted since she arrived in Pittsburgh. She’s probably busy going—
Stop, Callie. Focus.
After flipping on my television, I grab my phone and get into bed.
Okay…a text…
Still no ideas. I start to type him a good night, and then I hear the TV chef announce tonight’s dish.
Baked lobster macaroni and cheese. Unbelievable. Perfect.
Erasing the start of my message, I begin again.
It looks like I’ll be falling asleep to another cook’s take on baked macaroni. This one has lobster in it though. And I hate lobster. Guess your dish wins.
Count. Send.
Please write back. Please write back. Please wr—
Buzz.
Count. Open.
Thanks, I think.
He’s still so distant.
I have to fix this—before I go to sleep. Not that I’ll be able to sleep anyway…
{Rod Stewart’s raspy voice sings most of “So Far Away.”}
Got it. It’s gonna take, as Jared would say, at least one pair of balls.
Count. Reply.
Maybe you should come over to cook me something better.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree.
Onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree.
Send.
Squeezing my eyes shut and trying to block out the swarm of questions and potential outcomes knocking at my brain, I lie completely still in my bed. {The song begins again.}
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Callie. He’s probably trying to think of a clinical way to say no. Or he’s already fallen asleep and will get my message in the morning and think it’s ridic—
Buzz.
Ooonnneee. Tttwwwooo. Ttthhhrrreeeeee. Open.
Under one condition: You’ll have to be wearing more clothes than you were yesterday, or I’ll never make it through the night…
He’s back. And already making me flushed.
Reply.
I’ll see what I can do.
Send.
Time to change clothes, I guess. I change into a slightly longer pair of shorts and a somewhat more fitted t-shirt before folding up my other pajamas and putting them on top of my hamper—just in case I want to wear them tomorrow night. Then I sit down on my bed to wait, not wanting to start something and risk triggering the need to restart my night preparations.
After all ten of my nails are scraped off plus about ten minutes, the doorbell rings.
When I get downstairs (with the help of lights this time), I take only a second at the peephole before opening the front door.
He’s smiling.
Thank God.
I smile back and step aside to let him in. He wordlessly takes off his shoes and puts them on the towel before shutting the door and twisting the handle one, two, three times. He then takes my hand and lets me lead him back up to my room.
When we again stand in front of my bed, this time illuminated by the glow of the television, he speaks.
“You aren’t really wearing much more than you were last night.” He smiles.
“I trust you,” I whisper as I stretch my arms around his neck.
“You probably shouldn’t.” His voice is husky, and the smile has faded from his face. His eyes start sucking me in.
As I move in closer, our lips all but touching, he murmurs, “Callie, you are going to kill me.” His lips brush mine as he says the words, making any attempts at resistance entirely worthless.
He covers my lips with his and wraps his arms around my waist. I allow my hands to roam—through his hair, on his chest, down his back…whatever I can get away with. When I reach the bottom of his back, right where his sweats begin, I don’t stop, pushing further into him and moving both hands down, down, do—
“Callie—oh my God, you really are killing me.”
He pulls back, leaving my hands empty and the rest of me completely breathless.
“Soon,” he whispers. And then his eyes search mine anxiously. “And then only if you want to.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I manage to get out while trying to restore a normal breathing pattern.
“Good.” He looks pretty relieved as he kisses my forehead and leads me to my bed.
“I’m planning to take that test early this week,” he continues as he gets under the covers.
In an obscenely bold move (I’m definitely going to check tomorrow morning to see if I’ve grown testicles), I ask exactly what I want to know.
“Have there, um, been that many others?”
“No.” He shakes his head and motions for me to get in beside him.
His eyes glaze over, and he’s somewhere else again so I get into the bed, pull up the covers, and wait for more.
{Brandi Carlile starts wailing “The Story.”}
He takes my hand and then positions himself so he is on his side facing me. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he actually begins to speak.
“There has only been one other person, I mean, other than you when we, if we…”
Oh.
I think he’s looking for some sort of reaction from me. I also think he is trying to work his way up to saying more so I squeeze his hand, lie down on my stomach, and nod in the hopes that he’ll continue.
It works. Nice strategy, Callie. Looks like I’m a degree away from being a psychologist myself–a psychologist with balls, apparently.
Focus, Dr. Royce.
“She was a girl I met in a graduate class. We were, um, engaged.”
Wow. I can’t say I expected that, but I do my best to keep a game face.
“We dated for a few years before I, ah, proposed. Things didn’t get really bad until after I put that ring on her finger.”
Where is she now? Who ended it? Do you still love her?
Those are the questions you want to ask, Callie?
Upon further thought, I should probably never study any type of counseling.
He moves to his back and looks up before continuing.
{Brandi’s song continues but fades into the background, thank goodness, so I can hear his words.}
“I guess there were signs before we got engaged. She spent a lot of money and always wanted to go out for expensive meals and extravagant activities. But we were dating, and this was my first adult relationship so I really had nothing to judge it against.
“That stuff didn’t really bother me anyway. I had money, especially after I finished school and started my job. I guess I was just happy to have someone to spend it on.”
He pauses and peeks over at me. To see if he should go on? To see if I have questions?
None that I’d like to voice right now, thank you.
A teeny tiny nod and a brief smile from me, and he goes on.
“She never had much patience for my mom though. That always bothered me. I tried to move my plans around to suit what my mom would or couldn’t do. If a restaurant was so crowded that it freaked her out, I would leave with her. If she called and wanted to talk, I would spend long periods of time on the phone with her. And whenever Dad would call to tell me sh
e was in panic mode, I would drop my plans to go over and try to help.
“You know, stuff a son should do for his mom. Just decent human being stuff, really.” Pause. “That’s how I saw it, but my fiancée didn’t agree. I think she was embarrassed by Mom. She seemed much more irritated than concerned when Mom had freak-outs in public. I never really understood why it all irritated her so much. Sure, we might have had to leave a restaurant or two, but it’s not like Mom was screaming or making a scene or anything. No one else probably had any idea what was going on so there really was no need for embarrassment.
“But my fiancée, um, Elizabeth, was like that. So concerned about things like whether the shade of her eye makeup was exactly right and whether the buckles on her purse matched her jewelry. It was exhausting.”
Maybe he’s somehow missed how exhausting I am.
He hasn’t. “Not that Mom’s issues weren’t exhausting. But she couldn’t help it.”
He is still looking straight up at the ceiling, basically creating a verbal free write. Almost as though he’s forgotten I’m here. It’s kind of nice though. It seems like his thoughts are less censored this way.
“Anyway, we got engaged. Even though the Mom stuff bothered me, I figured that all relationships had to come with some problems. I proposed, and she started moving ahead with wedding plans right away. Mom even got excited about hearing the plans. I think she really liked it when we’d show her pictures of the dresses or the flowers, or, well, that other wedding stuff.
“I would try to get Elizabeth to take pictures over to Mom, and really, she did go to see her quite a few times. She even took copies of reception menus to her when she was in the hospital. I guess that was probably the last time she saw her.”
He stops talking. From my side view, I can easily see the big, labored swallow he takes. He then does this thing where he rubs his upper teeth along his lower lip.
Do I say something? Or move closer? Or—
He shakes his head, appearing to shake off the direction where his mind was heading. When he starts talking again, he sounds all doctory, clinical.
“Mom died shortly after that, a couple of months before the wedding, and I, obviously, was in no frame of mind to be talking tuxes, or program covers, or honeymoon packages.
“That was okay for about a week, and then I guess it was unacceptable. We had some pretty major fights where she yelled at me as I sat and listened. I tried to tell her to just keep making plans, that I would trust her judgment. But that wasn’t good enough for her.” Pause. Another big gulp. “She called it all off about a month before the wedding, a month after Mom died.”
He rolls back over to his side to face me. “All right, now you know a case history of the only person I’ve ever slept with. I don’t anticipate having positive results for any diseases since we were each other’s firsts, we always used condoms, and, well, because no symptoms or anything have shown up over the past few years.”
He smiles…ish. “Sorry—that’s gross to say.” Real smile now. “You still want to sleep with me?”
I nod. I don’t know what to say. Or how to take this sudden mood change.
Rolling over toward me, he pulls me into the nook of his arm. “Good. Now, I believe I promised you a meal.” He begins to “make” London Broil, and I eventually pretend to fall asleep. A little while later, he trails off, and I soon hear heavy sleep breathing beside me.
Luckily, the television is still on to lull me to sleep hours later when I’m exhausted from thinking of possible answers to all of the questions lined up in my head.
HIS STORY STORMS BACK INTO my mind as soon as I open my eyes. {“The Story” is already playing again too. Or has it been playing all night?} I try to push it aside as he looks over at me and smiles.
“Hey. You better get up and get your routines moving. We have a road trip to take today.”
Mom’s dinner. Right. I’m going to have him drive me to my mother’s birthday party the day after he’s recounted all kinds of events surrounding his own mother’s death. So unbelievably thoughtful, Callie. I’ve got it all together just as well as usual.
“You know, I really can drive myself to this. You don’t need—”
“Stop. I’m taking you.”
He squeezes me further into his side with his arm, the arm that has been around me all night. I really hope it’s not asleep.
“Unless, of course, you’d like me to get some popcorn to watch your morning show.” I can hear him smiling.
Ugh. “Fine. When should I be ready?”
We discuss our traveling plans, and he soon heads out to leave me to my preparations. He kisses me goodbye, but it’s brief. He’s still not all here, even though he’s trying to pretend otherwise. Perhaps I should tell him that, for him, pretending to be normal should not involve a cheesy smile.
Of course, I don’t tell him that. I wave as he drives away, shut the door, and get to work.
Morning routine. Leaving routine. Church. Wrap Mom’s presents. Another check-in call from Melanie. Stare at poetry notebook for a couple of hours while picking my nails and never even reaching the point of needing a pen. Leaving routine.
3:30 p.m. He’s here. Open door. Grey pants. Royal blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the top. No tie. Casual, comfortable. Big smile. Not fake this time.
He leans in to brush his lips against mine. “Hi,” he whispers, only a centimeter from my face. I close the space between us, my lips finding his and my hands grasping the collar of his shirt to pull him closer yet.
{An oldies station accompanies us. The Supremes with “I Hear a Symphony.” They get more than halfway through the song before—}
“Callie, Callie, Callie,” he mumbles against my lips as his hands continue to move up and down my back, my neck, my hair. “We have to go. You know we have to go. Dinner. Your mom’s birthday. Remember?”
“Yeah…I remember something like that,” I breathe out between kisses on his cheek and neck. As I rub my head against the slight stubble on his cheek, he leans down to my ear, breathing once before speaking. Heated, hot, hot breath on my ear.
“Soon,” he promises again in a whisper.
Not soon enough.
Unfortunately, I know he is right so we disentangle ourselves, and he waits as I triple check the lock on the door. He then takes my hand to lead me to his car. His screaming quiet car. Is his radio broken? Does he really not have an iPod?
His car is not quiet for long this time. He fills the silence with constant questions, continuous chatter. He asks for a run down on my family members. I scrounge up what information I can think of, spending more time on Jared and my sisters than on my parents. I probably offer no more than one sentence on Mom.
He seems genuinely interested in my siblings and tells me how different it is to have grown up as an only child.
{Cue The Beatles (once again) with “Eleanor Rigby.” Guess we really are on an oldies’ station today.}
When we finally arrive at my parents’ house, he probably has enough information to write a decent sized research paper on my family. He parks the car, and we head toward the house. He doesn’t hesitate to grab my hand, the one not holding Mom’s presents.
Guess that sheds some light on the question I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask: How am I supposed to explain you to my parents? Since we are holding hands, I’m guessing that introducing him as my doctor isn’t really good enough. Doctor with benefits? But not really all of them yet because first I’m insisting that he is tested for all possible sexually transmitted diseases. Or, wait, is he the one insisting?
The door opens before we even get up the last porch step. Dad and Mom are both standing in the doorway like they are in some holiday food commercial or something. Melanie has clearly filled them in on my traveling company.
“Glad you could make it,” Dad says as he opens the door. Normally they both would have hugged me by now, but I’m still attached to him.
Here goes.
“These are my
parents, and Mom, Dad, this is Aiden.”
Our hands naturally drop in the jumble of greetings. Dad promptly shakes his hand while Mom gives me a cheesy grin.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” I blurt out in an attempt to wipe off her suggestive grin and, well, because I really do hope she is having a nice birthday. As I hug her, I hear that low, soft voice from behind me.
“Yes. Happy birthday, Mrs. Royce.” He reaches out to shake my mother’s hand as he says it. Smooth. Natural. Charming.
Dad motions for us to go inside so I lead the way to the dining room. Dinner isn’t bad. The steaks Dad grilled are good, conversation flows pretty freely, and Mom seems to really like her presents. There are only a couple of differences from any other family dinner—the arm that periodically reaches over under the table to squeeze my hand, and the nudges and looks shared between different sets of my family members when they think no one else is watching.
{Here’s Elvis Presley and “Suspicious Minds” with a special dedication message for my family members: Hello—could you be any more obvious?} The only person acting completely normal is Abby, who has sung a number of songs, shown us several dance moves, and tried to get out of eating the asparagus on her plate.
When it is eventually time to go, both Melanie and Mandy offer to drive me back. Before I can give either of them a response, they are both gently told no, that he will take me back, that he wants my company on the trip. I, of course, offer no arguments. We say our goodbyes, thank my parents for dinner, and wish Mom a happy birthday once more.
When we finally step back out to the porch, each holding bags of leftovers and extra slices of birthday cake, he smiles, takes my hand again, and leads me down the driveway.
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