by Maggi Myers
“What do you want to know?” I try hard to sound casual, but I sound defensive. Shoot, I feel defensive.
“Please don’t do this, Caroline,” Tate pleads.
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. “Don’t do what, Tate?”
“Don’t hide inside my problems to avoid dealing with yours.” His words are a punch to my gut. They’re harsh, blunt, and totally true. He takes a step closer to me, and I take a step back. His eyes flash auburn with frustration when I step out of his reach. “That sounds harder than I wanted it to, but, Caroline …”
“Don’t, okay? Just don’t.” My voice breaks as stubborn tears spill from my eyes. I turn my face away, cursing under my breath. Just once, I’d like not to dissolve into tears. Any show of strength at this point would be greatly appreciated. Shit. “You don’t know how hard this is for me.”
Tate looks at me, incredulously. “I don’t know, and I never will unless you tell me. I asked about Lily because she’s a part of who you are, and I want to know every part of you, Caroline. Not just the parts you want me to see. All of them.” His chest heaves as he breathes, like he’s been running to catch up to me. I guess in some ways he has. I want to believe him, but there’s still the Lily factor. Until I know with certainty that he’s open to all that is Lily, he can’t possibly mean what he’s saying. After all, she is the biggest part of me.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I whisper. He wants to know all of me, but I’m petrified of what will happen when he gets to something he doesn’t like. That’s why I’m not ready to share everything about Lily yet.
“I want you say that you have enough faith in me to believe I can be there for you, the way you’ve been here for me.” He takes a hesitant step toward me, reaching for my hand when I don’t back away. He holds his hand out between us, waiting to see what I’ll do. I reach for it, meeting him in the middle, and lace my fingers with his.
“There’s a lot going on with Lily right now, so it’s hard to know where to start,” I confess. Between her tantrum in the EMU and her impending registration for kindergarten, there is plenty to overwhelm him with.
“Why were you banging your head on the table in the courtyard the other day?” So much has happened between now and then, I’d almost forgotten about Cameron James, the parent liaison for the school district. “Tell you what, there’s a bench up ahead, why don’t we go sit?”
“Sounds good.”
I’m grateful to have a moment to collect my thoughts. I haven’t given much thought to Mr. James or what role he’ll play in my life in the near future. There are so many questions I’ve been too scared to ask about what school will look like for Lily. I’m the worst kind of coward. I never thought I’d be the kind of mother who would allow her fear to hold her child back.
We walk for a few more minutes before the narrow trail meets up with a creek bed. Beside the trickling water is a bench with a brass statue behind it. The statue is of a man in robes, leaning over the bench like he’s praying.
“Saint Joseph, I’m assuming.” Tate gestures toward the figure.
“The patron saint of the dying,” I murmur to myself.
The sculpted face is agonizingly beautiful. The artist didn’t give him a peaceful expression. His face is twisted in pain, like he understands the hurt that death leaves in its wake. I wonder if there’s a saint for the vacillating. I want Tate to be a part of my life; I’m just wary about whether he’ll accept Lily’s place in it. We’re a package deal; non-negotiable. It’s a tremendous responsibility to take on, for a child who’s not your own.
We sit down on the bench, shielded by the hovering saint. If I was planning on curtailing some of the grittier points, or skimming the details, I can’t do it now. Not with Saint Joseph’s pained face staring down at me. What the hell am I being such a chicken about, anyway? Tate has all but begged me to unburden myself. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to resolve my anxiety and explain.
“Earlier that day, a social worker came to speak with me about Lily.” It’s just one sentence, but the first is always the hardest. “She wanted to go over the options we have available for her when she starts school next month. It was a really hard visit.” I hesitate, unsure of how much of myself to reveal. “It still hurts to think about how limited our options really are. It breaks my heart that my little girl won’t have the same first-day-of-school experience that other little girls her age will have.” I dip my head and sniffle back a fresh wave of tears. Wrapped up in what to tell Tate, I forgot how much the telling hurts. I feel better that I told him, though. Not because the pain is somehow less than it was before, just because it’s shared.
“Kind of like you’ve been robbed, huh?” He doesn’t mince words or try to tell me it’ll be okay. He hits right at the heart of my guilt.
“I shouldn’t feel that way, though,” I say. “I should accept Lily for who she is, not who she could’ve been.”
“Hey.” Tate dips his head, so his eyes are level with mine. “Grieving a lost dream isn’t betraying Lily. It doesn’t mean you love her less; it just means that you wish her life could’ve been different.”
“It’s not that simple,” I whisper. I don’t know why I bother; whispering won’t soften the harsh truth I’m sharing. “I don’t just wish things were different so Lily’s life could be easier; I wish it were different so my life could be easier.”
I’m a horrible person, and now Tate knows it, too. I try to hide my face in shame, but Tate tips my face toward his, holding me captive in his stare.
“You’re human, Caroline.” His eyes are intense, his tone adamant. “I don’t know a single person who set out to be a lifelong caregiver to anyone, let alone their child.” He lets me lean against his shoulder and cry my eyes out.
When I feel like I can speak again, I lay the rest of my guilt at his feet, suddenly desperate to have it all out in the open.
“You’re right; I don’t know anyone who would choose that for themselves or their children,” I sniffle. “I can’t get past this guilt in my heart. If I’d known that Lily would be born with this kind of disability, I would’ve stopped trying to get pregnant. What kind of person does that make me?”
I watch Tate’s eyes as he takes in my words, looking for a hint of disgust in his expression. It never comes.
“That’s an awfully big cross you’re carrying there.” He sighs.
I don’t know whether to feel insulted or redeemed. It’s not like I’m not aware that I crucify myself at every opportunity, but I never expected anyone to understand why.
“As for what kind of person you are? You’re the kind of person who isn’t afraid to own up to her own feelings, no matter how dark or ugly some may perceive them.”
I want the ground to open up and suck me in; I knew I’d never be able to hide the dark and twisty piece of me.
Tate rests his hand on my shoulder and continues. “However, I think they’re the most honest words I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
I pull back so I can see his face more clearly. “You don’t think less of me?” I ask, shocked.
“I think more of you, actually,” he says matter-of-factly. “You could honestly be the bravest person I know.”
An undignified snort erupts from me. He can’t be serious. Me, brave? I’m the biggest chickenshit out there.
“Don’t tease,” I say.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “No one I know would ever admit to feeling that way, but I promise you they’d be feeling it. It takes a lot of courage to put it all out there. I feel pretty special that you told me.” He smiles at me, and my heart melts.
I’m in love with my stranger. I swore that I would slow the pace and take a step back. Instead, I let myself fall in love.
But there’s no way I’m saying a thing. Despite his perfect words, I still can’t believe he can accept me, Lily and all. How’s that for brave?
take a chance
The walk back to the hospice center feels much
shorter than our walk out to the creek. It makes sense that it wouldn’t be a lengthy trek; it’s just far enough from the building for it to feel like an escape. That seems to be a recurring theme in our budding relationship: we find ways to get far enough away from reality that we feel like we’re escaping. I wish there were a way to prolong those moments, to stay in the refuge of our own world for just a little while longer. I want just a few more minutes of holding Tate’s hand and pretending that I haven’t gone completely mad by falling in love with him.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Tate asks me, saving me from the cacophony in my head. He pauses at the foot of the spiral staircase and glances over his shoulder. He seems nervous, and it makes me smile. I can’t help it; I’m thrilled to know I’m not the only one who gets a little jittery.
“Outside of spending time with you, I was going to do a little writing.” I try to act like it’s no big deal. I haven’t told anyone that I’ve started writing again, but after spilling my guts earlier, I know I’m safe telling Tate.
“Writing, eh?” he shoots over his shoulder. When we reach the top of the stairs, he turns and smiles broadly at me. “Dabbling?”
“Ha ha.” I smile back at him. “Yes, I’m dabbling with a story. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you read it sometime.”
He leans in and whispers, “Oh, I’m already lucky.”
Did someone say something about getting lucky?
He chuckles and I shiver when his breath skitters across my shoulder. Ignoring the warmth spreading through my body, I take a deep breath and try to act unaffected. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I have something for you, but it’s not here.” He looks at me sheepishly. I can’t help but wonder where his train of thought is going. I cock my head and wait for him to continue. “It’s at my place.” He crinkles his nose and bites his bottom lip. I think it’s supposed to be Tate cringing, but it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh … uh … okay,” I stammer. He smiles his relief, and his dimples just about buckle my knees.
“Tarryn and Tom are going to stay for a while so I can have a break,” he explains.
“Of course,” I reply. “Whatever you want to do, I’m free for the rest of the day.” Suddenly I’m anxious to make a break for it with Tate and run away. We walk through the lobby of the hospice and pause at the front desk.
“Wait right here, okay?” he says. “I’m just going to let my sister know I’m leaving.”
He’s off down the hallway before I have a chance to reply. I’m thoroughly intrigued; my mind is running wild wondering what Tate has for me. Part of me—let’s face it, a big part of me—is hoping it’s a ploy to get me alone at his place. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the desire to be alone with a man that way. I’ve thought about sex plenty; I just haven’t missed it until now. My life with Peter was so broken, sex hadn’t been a part of our relationship for a long time. In fact, we hadn’t had sex in over a year when he left. The last time we did, it was after a particularly hateful fight that had left us both emotionally spent and raw. Not the best foundation to build a healthy sexual relationship on, but by that point, we were already experts on sabotaging ourselves.
Hey, knock it off! This is not a threesome.
I shake my head; I don’t need to be thinking about Peter right now. What I should be thinking about is whether I can emotionally handle a physical relationship with Tate. I need to figure that out before I find myself in an awkward position, like pinned beneath his hard, naked body. I close my eyes as images of Tate’s nude form assault my imagination. He’s hovering over me, with his hips pressed against mine. His lips brush my neck as his hand cups my breast—
“Caroline.”
My eyes fly open at the sound of my name. I find Tate’s eyes burning into me. My face flushes with heat as I look away. I am so busted, and from the look on his face, Tate knows exactly where my thoughts were. He stays silent as he guides us out of the building into the parking lot. When we get to my car, I muster the courage to look at him again. Big mistake. His soulful eyes bore into me, and I swear they can see every thought I’ve ever had.
“Follow me,” he says, and all I can do is nod in agreement.
He reaches around me to open my door, making sure not to touch me. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s thinking the same naked thoughts that I am, or if he’s afraid of mine. Either way, it’s unnerving. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him senseless, just like he’s done to me, but we’re in the parking lot of a hospice. Talk about inappropriate.
I slide into the driver’s seat and force myself to smile casually at Tate. “See you there?” is all I can think to say. Some wordsmith I am. I wait for him to step out of the way so I can close the door, but he doesn’t move. Instead he rests his forearms on the doorframe and leans into my space. He surrounds me, his presence consuming me. “Tate,” I whisper. I want to tell him that I need to go home, that I’ll see him some other time, because I’m all out of self-restraint.
“Follow me,” he repeats, like he knows I’m wavering. “You’re killing me, Caroline.” He squeezes his eyes closed, like the sight of me is too much. I want to die; he must have whiplash with all my back-and-forth. “If you don’t stop looking at me that way, we’re not going to make it out of the parking lot.” He smirks at my expression, which I can only imagine must reflect something between “mortified” and “horror-stricken.” A quick flick of my neck and I’m facing my lap. The curtain of my hair shields me from Tate’s penetrating stare.
“Well, if you don’t let me close my door, we won’t be making it out of the parking lot, either.” I lift my eyes back to his and grin. A little humor to cut through this tension. I really hope it works, because I might burst into flames if he keeps looking at me like he wants to climb on top of me right here.
Taking a step back, he chuckles under his breath as he closes my door. He taps my window and gestures for me to roll it down.
“Your smart-ass sense of humor doesn’t make you any less sexy.” He arches his eyebrow and winks his dimples at me. Damn. “Just sayin’.”
In my rearview mirror I watch him cross the parking lot. I can’t believe I’m following him back to his house, knowing what might happen. Better yet, hoping that it does. While this newfound boldness is shocking, I find it far more startling that I’m okay with it.
desire
I watch in fascination as Tate disappears into a black Toyota Highlander. I think he really enjoys knocking me off my game. Can’t a girl just lighten things up a bit? Oh, no, the tenderness of our connection is heating and fostering a whole different set of feelings in me. Tate just stokes the flame until I feel like I want to climb out of my skin. I roll my head in circles on my shoulders, but it does nothing to help me relax.
I follow Tate for about ten minutes, to the edge of town. The tiny rectangular land-lots of urban living give way to open acreage. We pass the horse farm where Lily has equine therapy and turn left on one of those little dirt roads you’d fly past unless you knew what you were looking for. Eventually we pull up to a small Craftsman-style cottage, set against what looks to be tobacco crops on the right and open land on the left. I follow Tate around the side of the house and pull up between him and a second building. My curiosity is piqued when I step out of the car and look around.
“Mechanical engineer, photographer, and tobacco farmer?” I tease. “Is there anything you can’t do, Mr. Michaels?”
He comes to a stop at the back bumper of my car, leaving just enough space for me to think I’m safe.
“Come here.” His voice is as rich and warm as his caramel eyes. I stand completely still, terrified to take a step toward him and terrified not to. “Caroline.”
His tone commands me to focus on him as he walks toward me. I hold my breath when he reaches around me, waiting for his body to come into contact with mine in some delicious way. Only when his hand closes over mine do I realize that my arm is folded
behind me, white-knuckling the door handle. He peels my fingers away from the car, and begins rubbing them until the circulation comes back. “Are you okay?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?” I try to smile, but my lips quiver to betray my nerves.
“Because you’re looking at me like you’re scared to death of me.” He brushes my cheek with the side of his hand. “I just want to spend time with you. The last thing I want is for you to be scared of me.”
“I’m only scared of how badly I want you.” I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked that I spoke out loud. Tate’s lips part, and his eyes burn into me with so much intensity, I’m sure I’ll burst into flames. He tugs my hand away from my mouth, letting his thumb drag across my bottom lip.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re killing me, Caroline. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want you.”
Knowing that the desire is mutual leaves me feeling dizzy and drunk. Inhibitions long forgotten, my tongue darts out to graze the pad of his thumb. His breath hitches as he watches me taste him. Suddenly his thumb is gone, and his mouth is hot on mine. He nips at my lip at the same time he reaches around and grabs hold of my bottom. I moan at the sensation, giving his tongue room to explore my mouth. He pulls us around the front of my car and lifts me onto the hood. I gasp as the heat from the engine seeps through my shorts, but it’s nothing compared to the fire Tate’s generating in them. Nudging my knees apart, he steps between them and grabs my face in his hands. Passion ignites his kiss, making me tremble at his touch. When he pulls back, I whimper at the loss of him.
My eyes drift open to Tate unfastening the Velcro straps of my sling, sliding it carefully from around my neck. When his eyes lift to mine again, I’m struck by the reverence I find there. Not just lust from wanting me, but something more, something deeper that gives me hope that maybe he could be falling, too.
“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he pleads.
He doesn’t need to ask twice; I drape my arms around him, and at the same time he pulls me flush against him. His erection is hard and hot between us; it makes me feel wanton and desperate for more. He lifts me with ease, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His lips are back on mine as he crosses the yard. Once he clears the front steps of his house, he lets me slide down the front of his body so he can pick his pockets for his keys. He mutters a curse as he fumbles with the lock, until the door finally swings wide.