by Dee Willson
I plop into my original spot and attempt to pull my feet in, but Thomas holds tight. He smells like soap and cologne. It dawns on me how intimate this is. We’re in tight quarters, alone. Being surrounded by tall, thick trees doesn’t help either. I steal a glance at Thomas; the words now what hang in the air like the smoke from a sparkler.
“Well, this is weird,” I whisper.
“Are you still tired? You were out of it when I knocked on the window.”
“I’m awake now.” And my heart’s pumping at full throttle, like the Titanic plowing through mountains of ice.
Thomas looks at me, gathering the sleeves of his snug sweater. “You’re still half asleep.”
I close my eyes. “No. I’m here.” But I shouldn’t be. We should go.
“Can I kiss you?”
I look at Thomas. He’s puffed up, holding his breath. My head feels thick and I can’t think clearly. Do I want him to kiss me? Will there be sparks?
“I . . . guess.”
Thomas looks as stunned as I feel. He expels a full chest of air with a long whoosh and then goes rigid, his eyes piercing mine. I wait, thinking he’s changed his mind.
“Maybe we should go,” I murmur, questioning my use of the word maybe.
The man decides quickly. His arm slides over my chest and he threads his fingers through my hair, cradling my head. Our body’s touch, blood heating my face and neck. I wet my lips, mimicking him. His lips touch mine, warm, and we both freeze.
It isn’t happening.
“Let’s try this again,” mumbles Thomas.
He kisses me, slow, careful, lips cautious. My eyes close and I’m able to melt into the kiss.
The pace quickens, his grasp tightening in my hair. I match his vigor, my fingers plunging into his thick curls. Thomas groans a deep growl trapped in his throat. The sound releases heat that spreads throughout my limbs, burning extremities. His torso presses into me, pinning my arm under its weight. The sound of wet lips and heavy breathing fills the air and my head swims in heat.
Is this wrong?
His lips rush over my jaw and down my throat. His fingers slide under my shirt and I shiver. My back arches in response to his touch. The echoes of hungry moans ricochet off the windows. My previously pinned hand shimmies beneath his sweater, groping strong muscles in his side. Man, he feels good. But what the hell am I doing? His muscles contract as he pulls me closer, tighter, our clothes inconvenient. His thigh slips between my legs, and heat surges into aching parts, wanting parts, parts barren too long. Soft fingertips slip under my bra, and I gasp. Thomas moans. This feels good. Really good.
Holy shit, this feels like Meyer.
Thomas stops, his entire body falling motionless. His mouth hovers on my neck, over the spot where my beating heart confesses to his swollen lips. Nothing but the sound of labored breathing pierces the silence.
“You don’t bite, do you?”
“I might.” His lips form a smile on my neck. “We should save this for somewhere other than the back of my truck.”
Panic provokes the butterflies in my stomach. Save this? As in do it again? I can’t do this again. I shouldn’t have let this happen this time. What is wrong with me?
Thomas places soft kisses on my ear. “Do you want to go inside?”
A part of me screams yes. Not the most rational part, but the part supposed to be dating BOB. I ignore it. I stare at the window. Moisture plummets in suicidal streaks. How appropriate.
Thomas wants love. He wants a wife. And I’m not volunteering.
Thomas feels my resolve without me having to say a word, which I’m grateful for, since I’m currently not capable of articulating a thing. He carefully untangles his hand from my hair and gathers my arm from under his sweater. We maneuver into sitting, sets of arms and legs finding ways to fit.
“To the mall,” he says, gripping my hand.
It’s a simple statement. With so much meaning.
Show Time
I navigate the church parking lot, slowly, begging Abby to keep the door closed until I park. Her tiny fingers are jammed into the door handle, and I’ve got her dress held in a vice-grip while I beep and buzz, pretending to be a car alarm, a computerized voice suggesting she keep all limbs inside until the vehicle has come to a complete stop.
What I really need is a battery-operated advisor who counsels regarding life. One that says, do not kiss men who should remain friends. Or, stay away from men who have you questioning your sanity.
For a while, after fooling around with Thomas, I felt like a teenager, like a touch could set me on fire. But these feelings of lust came with other not-so-nice feelings. Like guilt. And by the time we arrived at the mall, the spark, if I hadn’t imagined it, was gone. Thomas fell back into our routine of comfy friendship, walls thin, but up, we didn’t hold hands, didn’t kiss. Intimacy didn’t change our relationship into something more. Why not? It should have, shouldn’t it?
And then there is Bryce. I haven’t even figured out why he enters into the equation, but he does. Reality is, I barely know the man. Yet there is something about him I can’t shake. Do I let these lingering feelings lead to something? Or do I stay away and pretend they don’t exist?
Being with Meyer taught me a lot about myself, my wants and needs, but I am no longer the reckless teen I once was, and I’m no longer alone. I have Abby to think about.
As I ponder this, a more rational thought enters my mind. I really miss Grams. Florida is too far.
“All right, kiddo, now you can open the door.”
We leave our coats in the car and shuffle between parked cars. I escort Abby through the stage door and tuck my purse into its usual spot behind the velvet curtain while Sofia dances toward us in her camel costume.
“Okay, my little birds,” I say, drawing Abby and Sofia in for a mommy-sandwich hug. “You two go out there, be the best shepherd and camel you can be, smile, and have fun.” My attempt to plant a kiss on Abby’s head is thwarted as she runs off with Sofia, giggling.
Time to find my seat for the show.
Standing on the bottom stair, I attempt a head count. Bodies bop every which way, the air thick with perfume and cologne. It looks as though our entire town’s population has packed into the main hall of the church. This is an enlightening phenomenon, seeing Carlisle is dusted with a potpourri of faiths. I lose count when I see Thomas and Bryce making their way toward me from opposite directions.
“Great turn out, huh?” says Karen, embracing me with a hug. She’s come out of nowhere.
“Full house.”
I look over Karen’s shoulder. Thomas has stopped dead in his tracks.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Bryce’s voice slides up my spine like silk. I turn around.
Ah, those eyes. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him, the flesh and blood him that is, and my daydreams don’t do him justice. He’s traversed somewhere tropical, bronzing his skin, making him even more beautiful than I remember.
“Glad you made it,” says Karen, pulling his gaze from mine.
Bryce plants a kiss on Karen’s cheek, first the right and then the left. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says.
Karen hugs Bryce, lingering in his arms, and I’m shocked by my instinctual urge to pull them apart.
“How was your trip?” My mouth delivers the words but my head wants to know where my hello kisses are?
Bryce sways toward me, stopping mid step.
“Productive,” he says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He looks great in a suit and tie, debonair. “I was at a conference in Athens, presenting bone flutes from a site in Jiahu, China.”
Karen taps her watch. “Almost show time.” She blows kisses and disappears into the crowd.
“Bone flutes, huh, made of animal bone?”
“Some animal, some human. Most musical instruments of the time were crafted from degradable materials like leather or wood,” he says, “but flutes made of bone have survived years of el
emental abuse, and these examples, while dated slightly later than 8000 BC, were still playable.”
“Fascinating,” I say, truly intrigued. “I’ve been reading about Atlantis. I can see why you’re—”
“Drivel,” says Thomas, surprising me from behind. “Atlantis is nothing but myth, a legend touted by decaying minds.”
“Thomas, this is Bryce. Bryce, this is Thomas.”
Neither man moves to shake or exchange greetings. No one even cracks a smile.
“Troy was myth until 1871, when a German archaeologist discovered it under layers of mountain in Turkey, proving the legendary Trojan War to be historical fact,” says Bryce.
“Fact is subjective,” says Thomas.
“Results are subjective. Fact is theory proven. The Ice Age theory was born when geology was in its infancy and technology primitive. Today, facts show the obvious flaws in the theory, disproving it.”
“Sure . . . and we didn’t evolve from apes,” Thomas says, sardonic.
“Evolution. Also a theory.”
The two of them argue without emotion, the effect disturbing, yet I sense I’ve been here before, like the three of us have had this same discussion.
“Freaky,” I mumble.
“I agree,” says Thomas, glaring at Bryce.
“I mean the déjà vu. I just felt like I’d heard this before.”
“Déjà vu is your soul recalling a snippet from a past incarnation,” says Bryce. “It’s your—”
“It’s time we had a seat,” says Thomas, attempting to take my hand.
I pull away and step back to view the two of them standing a few feet apart, glowering at each other.
Bryce sighs, turning to me. “I saved you a seat if you wish to join me.”
“Tess is sitting with me.”
Bryce stares past me at Thomas. “Tess can sit wherever—”
“She sits with me.”
“Enough!” I regard them both. “What is it with you two?” Thomas’s possessiveness has me pissed, and Bryce . . . I point to the right of the stage. “I’ll be sitting over there. Alone. I’m responsible for the light switches during the performance. Lucky me.”
I inhale deeply, about to give Thomas a piece of my mind, but he stomps off, swiftly vanishing into the throng.
“I guess I’ll see you later,” says Bryce, shifting uncomfortably. He endeavors to pull together a smile but falls short.
I wave and walk away, already devising a plan to avoid them both after the show.
The music starts and my brooding fades as I rush to my seat and focus on the curtains that have opened to reveal three boys walking through a desert setting. The boy in the blue velvet robe I painstakingly sewed steps forward to speak his lines. “I am Melchior, and I am wealthy. My entire life I’ve watched the stars and I know them all by sight. Tonight, there is a new star that dazzles my eyes as it outshines, by far, all the others in the sky.”
The second boy jumps forward to stand next to Melchior. He says, “My name is Caspar, and I believe I know the story this star tells. Soon there will be a birth; the birth of a prince, a king, our ruler!”
The third child raises his hands, displaying a large perfume bottle. Stepping to stand beside the other two, he belts, “I, Balthazar, will bring myrrh to the new babe. We shall follow the star that will lead us to our savior.” His exuberance prompts a rumble of laughter from the audience.
Another boy steps out from behind the curtain dressed in the outfit that took me over four hours to make. It has gold buttons and gold-sequin trim, giving him the royal air due to his character. He searches for his spot on the floor marked with masking tape and a red dot and when he locates it he pounces like a lion, coming to stand tall and proud. Again the crowd erupts. “I am Herod, the king,” he says, pointing a finger. “You three men, you shall go forth and find this babe!”
The boys flee the stage, ducking their heads to run under a raised section of curtain. Herod is the only one left on stage and this is my cue. I flick all three sets of switches, bringing the house into complete darkness. One spotlight highlights Herod, casting a villainous shadow as he announces, “There shall be no other ruler but me. I will find this babe, and he will cease to be.” He laughs a menacing laugh, the kind you hear in horror movies, but it sounds so strange coming from a child with a high-pitched voice that the crowd laughs again.
The curtain closes and people take the opportunity to chat. Comments are hurled across aisles to friends and family, mingling with the noise of skidding shoes, and the squeal of the piano as its pushed center stage.
When the curtains open I immediately search for Abby. She’s at the far end of the front row, holding tight to Sofia. Her patent leather Mary Janes tap in anxious spurts. I’m so proud I could scream, and it takes a conscious effort to keep my ass in the chair. I reach to adjust the lighting, and Mrs. Johnson pounds the piano keys, cueing the kids. The kids sing off key and slow but they try really hard. I fumble for my cell. Abby looks adorable in her holiday dress, and my view through the lens is so distorted I have to swipe tears to take the picture.
What I would give to have Meyer here right now . . .
The choir sings their last song, the curtain closes, and the noise resumes. I sense someone staring. I pivot and locate Thomas two rows in, sporting the forced grin of the guilty.
“Sorry,” he mouths.
I keep my response to myself, determined to keep my attention on the show, which has resumed, to Abby as a shepherd standing center stage with the three wise men.
Melchior says, “The route is clear, the light is strong, I hardly think we can go wrong.” He points to the paper-mache star hanging above the stable by a skinny wire. It glows from within, utterly magical, and I steal a glance at the audience, delighted to witness their rapture in my handmade miracle. I should ask Karen if I can keep the star. I hate the thought of it collecting dust in the church storage room, and it would make a cool light fixture in Abby’s room.
The three boys pass the camel reins (one attached to Sofia) to Abby. She says her first line, “Inside the stable a wonderful . . . oops, I mean wondrous . . . a wondrous sight that filled their hearts with great delight. A baby lay in a wooden manger yet smiled upon these three rich strangers.” Abby beams, sticking the end of her tongue out from between her teeth, and I clap with extraordinary enthusiasm, trying to keep my hovering rear in the seat.
A distant part of my brain registers laughter so I scan the audience for the source only to find all eyes on me. Heat flushes my face and I drop to my chair.
The wise men present their gifts to baby Jesus. Mary lifts the baby from the manger, pulling a cord, and he cries over the audience’s collective ah. The camels spit, the donkey heehaws, and my daughter speaks her last line with perfect clarity. An angel appears on the roof of the manger, having climbed a ladder unseen, and when the last word is spoken the audience rises, hooting and hollering their endorsement.
The show was a resounding success.
A moment later my baby girl is tightly wound around my legs.
“You were wonderful!” I say, swinging her around.
“Did you see me, Mom? Did you see me?”
“Are you kidding? I watched your every move. Totally cool.” I plant a mushy kiss on her cheek then chuckle as she wipes my saliva off her face, annoyed. “I’m so proud of you!”
“The lights were bright. I couldn’t see you, Mama.”
“I was here the whole time.” I show her the yellow chair that had difficulty containing me for the performance.
Bryce walks over and tickles Abby. “Good job, young lady,” he says as Abby squeals, almost falling from my arms. He looks at me. “What a wonderful show. I heard you made the beautiful costumes.”
“Yes, a comical sight. You should’ve seen me work the old sewing machine.”
“Lots of laughs,” says Thomas, having snuck up beside me. “We were a great team.”
I take a deep breath. I’m pleased the two of them a
re behaving, but I’m too tired to maintain a pretense. “Fun had by all. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I should congratulate Karen before I go.”
“You’re not going to the bistro?” Thomas says.
The families involved in the pageant made plans to celebrate at the bistro after the show. I hadn’t decided if Abby and I were going. “I think we’ll pass, Thomas.” I peek at my tiny shepherd, noting her slight wobble. “I’m beat and Abby’s had a busy weekend.”
Thomas shifts his weight from one foot to the other, at a loss for words.
“Well, goodnight guys.” I take Abby’s hand. “Hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”
I shuffle past the chairs now scattered about the room in an unruly manner.
How appropriate.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still looking for Karen. There is a caravan of cars waiting to escape the parking lot, and Abby and I shiver on the church steps scanning the crowd for a mass of red hair. Friends pass and I enquire about Karen’s whereabouts, but nobody has seen her.
“Perhaps she’s already left,” I say to Abby. “We should head home and thank Karen later, baby girl.”
Abby can barely summon the energy to agree.
We maneuver through the obstacle course of vehicles until we find our Magic Carpet. The doors are unlocked as always. I’m helping Abby with her car seat buckles when I hear a distinctive voice.
“Was that great or what?” Karen says.
We hug. “Flawless,” I say. “You must be stoked.”
Karen eyes Abby almost asleep in the back seat. “You’re not going home, are you? No! Come to the bistro with us.”
I assume Karen’s church buddy, Marjorie, is the other half of us since Karen’s husband is AWOL.
“I’m too tired to be good company, Karen. Besides,” I point my chin toward Abby, huddled for warmth, “Abby is officially out.”
“That sucks.” She embraces me, pouting. “We’ll talk soon,” she says, and smacks me on the ass in parting.