Wait For It

by Michele L. Rivera

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s cool. This is why we’re dating, right?”

  What is wrong with me? Why do I not want to have sex with my own girlfriend? “Yeah. Right.”

  Reese is at the stove again. Something sizzles in the pans. The coffee maker beeps. “What time are you heading out?” Reese asks, eyes trained on the food she’s cooking.

  Now seems good. “Noon-ish.”

  Reese nods, letting me know she heard me. “Home fries are done. How do you want your eggs?”

  My eggs! You should really be asking me a more pertinent question like how the hell is this our relationship?! “I’m not hungry.”

  Reese turns and looks at me. “You’re not?” She gestures to the stovetop with the spatula she’s holding. “But…breakfast. I’m making it.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’m in dire need of a shower.”

  Concern clouds Reese’s face. “You don’t even want coffee?”

  I shake my head. “I’m going to wash up,” I say hastily and practically sprint to the bathroom.

  Truthfully, I’m afraid of what I want.

  Chapter Twelve

  I sit on the marble stoop outside of The Whedon Museum of Contemporary Art, where Abby asked me to meet her at 12:30. I glance at the screen of my phone. It’s 12:23. I’ve been here for an hour already because it was somewhere that was not home with Reese. I use my free hand to bring the paper cup full of caffeinated, dark roasted goodness up to my lips and take a liberal mouthful since the once-piping hot beverage has long ago cooled off into lukewarm goodness. I swallow and accidentally unleash a loud burp. I lower my head, praying that none of the passersby overheard me belch. “Excuse me,” I say quietly.

  “You’re excused.” Abby is standing an arm’s length away from me, pressing her lips together to curtail her own laughter.

  Mortified, I grimace and wait a second for my blush to fade before looking at her. “You have impeccable timing,” I say.

  “I do.” In my peripheral vision, I see Abby take a step towards me. “Sucks for you, huh?” Abby asks.

  “Can you please pretend you didn’t hear that? It was disgusting. I’m sorry.”

  “No way!” Abby finally lets loose her chuckle. “That was impressive.”

  I shoot Abby a dirty and disbelieving look. “Oh yeah. Completely prim and proper.”

  “Completely.” Abby takes a seat next to me. “Besides, it means you’re enjoying your drink, and satisfaction is important.” She winks at me. Gulp.

  That wink. It awakens parts of my body that either have been dormant for thirty-one years or that I didn’t know resided in me. “Yes, well quality coffee is hard to come by.”

  Abby eyes the logo on my cup. “Is The Bean your go-to supplier?”

  “Sure is.”

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black,” I say.

  “Is that a lesbian thing?” Abby asks.

  “What?”

  “Every lesbian I meet drinks black coffee. There’s a pattern I’m seeing.”

  I laugh. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “What makes you think I’m a coffee drinker?” Abby’s voice has a challenging yet blithe tone to it.

  “I worked as a barista at The Bean my senior year of college. Thusly, giving me the ability to espy a coffee drinker from miles and miles away.”

  Abby giggles and points her index finger at me. “Did you really just say, ‘thusly’?”

  “Yes.” Another blush rises up my neck and into my cheeks. “That was nerdy. I’m a nerd.”

  “Nerdy is the new hot.” A twinkle dances across Abby’s beautiful light brown irises. My breath hitches.

  “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.

  “As you should,” Abby says. “So, this ability you have to detect coffee addicts…it’s like a superpower or something?”

  “Or something.” I smirk. “Was I right? Do you drink coffee?”

  Abby narrows her brows. “You were right, but how super is your power? Can you guess how I take my coffee?”

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  Abby tilts her head. “Yes.”

  “Then by default, if your theory is correct, shouldn’t I assume you drink it black?” I ask.

  “Huh. Someone has on their sassy pants today.”

  “Do you want me to take them off?” Whoa. That came out way more flirtatious than it was supposed to. Abby and I stare at each other for a second in grave silence.

  “It’s best if I don’t answer that,” Abby says, causing my heart to plunge into my stomach.

  I clear my throat. “Okay. Um. What were we talking about?”

  “Coffee. You were going to tell me how I take mine.”

  “Yes. Alright.” I carefully run my gaze over Abby. Her truffle brown hair is in a braid that hangs over her right shoulder. She’s wearing another pair of skinny jeans only this pair is of a darker rinse of denim than the ones from last night, and what I’m thinking is her signature jean jacket. Her coat is unbuttoned, however, and beneath it she has on a blue ringer tee shirt with the word “Boston” emblazoned on it. Her tennis sneakers are the same style as before only they’re red now. I realize I’m ogling her and I snap my eyes back up to her face. There’s a gratified smile playing across her lips. For some reason I cannot pinpoint, I don’t feel ashamed that she caught me checking her out. My eyes meet hers. “You take your coffee with…” I wait to create a suspenseful effect. “A splash of milk and sugar.”

  Abby gapes at me. “Holy Moses! You do have a superpower!”

  I shrug with a smile. “I guess I do. And you…well, it looks like you’re wrong. Because really in essence, you yourself disprove your own theory, girlie. Your theory blows chunks and that’s what it boils down to.”

  Abby curls her top lip up at me in mock irritation. “Fine…girlie. I’m lame. But I own that shit.”

  I chuckle. “Good because lame is the new sexy.”

  Abby grins and places her hand on my knee. A chill runs down my back. “I like you, Parker I-don’t-know-your-last-name,” she says.

  I’m still laughing a little. “Finley.”

  “Parker Finley.” She nods. “Okay.”

  “And I like you back, Abby your-last-name-is-also-unknown-to-me.”

  “Hoffman,” Abby says. “Abigail Hoffman.”

  I’m done laughing and I just smile at her. “Abigail…that’s pretty.”

  “You’re pretty,” she says.

  “No. You’re pretty.” I return the jest only I’m not sure either of us are joking.

  Abby giggles. “So, Ms. Finley, will you do me the honor of wandering the art museum with me?”

  “I will.”

  Abby takes my hand, gets to her feet and gives my arm a slight yank. I stand up beside her and as we climb the stairs together towards the entrance, our fingers link and it’s perfect.

  Abby has her arms crossed over her chest and her head tipped to the right as she studies a painting of a topless woman. The bottom half of the woman is covered in the colors of a rainbow. The woman’s arms are outstretched and there is a tear on the left side of her face. Behind the woman are two bare trees whose branches are hooked around each other, the sun shines between them.

  I am standing in back of Abby watching her marvel at the portrait. This is the last painting on the wall in the concluding seventh room of the museum. The room is deserted except for us. For the past two hours, we have not spoken much save for a few comments here and there about the artwork on display. In the third room I asked Abby about her fondness for art and found out that, as a teenager, Abby used to go to any of the several museums in the city after school on the days when admission was free. Art was her refuge from being bullied during her high school career for being the only openly gay student in a strict, Catholic Institution. Once Abby finished telling me her story, she went ahead of me to the next room without giving me the chance to make any more inquiries. I wanted to resp
ect her vulnerability so I followed in silence. What I really wanted, though, was to wrap myself around her as if somehow that would alleviate the pain from her adolescent life. I was surprisingly at ease in the quietude amid us, but every time she pointed to a painting or a sculpture and made a remark, I savored the sound. I savored her words, her voice, her perception of the pieces she favored and the unique beauty she saw in them. I savored the way her mouth moved when she spoke and wanted desperately to taste her breath. Somewhere in the fifth room, I resigned to the fact that I am utterly infatuated with this woman. Nothing more than infatuation…that is what I told myself. Repeatedly.

  I am lost in a thought about my infatuation with Abby when she turns her body slightly towards mine and winds her fingers around my forearm. My heart pounds wildly. Abby now has my full attention.

  “What do you see?” Abby asks me, her head nodding in the direction of the painting of the nude woman with a rainbow-colored lower body.

  I stare intently at the portrait. “She looks sad.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “There’s a tear on her face,” I say. “She’s crying.”

  Abby sets her gaze back on the painting, but she is still holding onto me. “It could be a happy tear. Haven’t you ever cried because you were overcome with a good feeling? Like joy or love?”

  “No.”

  “Huh.” Abby nods.

  “Why? Have you?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” I immediately begin to wonder what has ever brought Abby to cry tears of joy, but decide not ask. “So, you think the woman is happy?”

  “Totally. If your lady bits were the color of a rainbow, wouldn’t you be happy?” Abby grins at me.

  I smile. “I suppose…or I’d be concerned and make an appointment to be examined by a physician.”

  “That’s legit.”

  “What do you see?” I ask.

  Abby points to the painting. “Well, I think she’s crying because she’s overjoyed. Look at the way her arms are spread as if she’s flying and then there’s the rainbow. It reminds me of coming out…that feeling of liberation. And then the trees behind her…they’re identical but their branches are joined. I think that represents equality. And the sun is rising, not setting. To me, rising suns symbolize new beginnings.” Abby looks at me. “Does that make sense?”

  I am in awe of Abby’s analysis of the painting. My want to kiss her returns. “Yes. That makes sense. I can see that,” I say. “Do you think the piece is about coming out?”

  “I do.” Abby’s hand slides down my arm and our fingers intertwine. “Ready to go?”

  I do not answer her right away. All I can feel is the warm tingle that started at my fingertips when Abby’s hand made a home within my own then it spread into my swelling chest, momentarily preventing me from breathing, then into my belly like a hunger I have never had, but want to feed, then the tingle went between my legs. My gaze drifts from Abby’s shiny lips to the various achingly gorgeous hues of brown in her eyes. She is staring back at me, reading me. “No.” My voice is low. “Wait.”

  “Okay,” Abby says.

  Please see me.

  Abby slowly swivels left on her heels so that now she is directly in front of me.

  She sees.

  “Parker…what?” Abby asks in a thick whisper.

  “I want to kiss you.”

  I hear Abby’s sharp intake of air. I watch the smile glint in her eyes. I feel the tips of her sneakers touch the tips of my hiking shoes when she steps up to me. Abby is so close I can smell the fresh fragrance of her skin. There is heat in her stare and I bask in it, long to be melted by it. “Then kiss me,” Abby murmurs.

  My right hand is still joined with Abby’s left. I pass my thumb over her knuckles and cup the side of her face in my other hand. She is soft against my palm. I take an imagined photograph of Abby’s face in this moment that will forever be known to the both of us as our first kiss. I tilt my head slightly and inch closer. With my eyes shut, my mouth blindly and instinctively finds Abby’s. I slowly brush my lips across hers. My insides quake at the point of contact. Abby’s lips are cherry flavored and smooth. She is delectable and I know now that before her, I have been starving. Abby partially opens her mouth and I do the same just enough to graze her tongue with my own. The movements of our lips, our tongues synchronize as our mouths familiarize themselves with each other’s. The kiss intensifies. I am suddenly light-headed. Abby’s right hand threads through my hair and she grabs the short strands at the nape of my neck, bringing me impossibly closer to her. It is intimate and sexy. My body throbs throughout. Abby circles her tongue around mine once more then she nips at my bottom lip and gradually pulls back. I open my eyes. We are both breathless. Abby’s eyes meet mine while we recover air. She smiles up at me.

  “Hi,” Abby says.

  “Hi.”

  “Do you make out with girls in museums often?” She asks.

  I exhale a small chuckle. “No. You’re my first.”

  Abby nods. Her hand has yet to leave the back of my neck. “Can I be your last?”

  “Yes,” I tell her because I know she will be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abby and I are less than a quarter of the way into our mile long walk to O’Neil’s, the local pub nearest the art museum, when she hooks her arm around mine. I smile to myself.

  “For real…how did you know how I take my coffee?” Abby asks me.

  I laugh a little. “You’re still thinking about that?”

  “Um, yes. It was kind of eerie.”

  “What?” I gasp. “That was not eerie…it was mystical.”

  “Psht. More like stalkerish.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. That is exactly the kind of thing a stalker would know,” Abby says.

  I put hand on my chest. “I am not a stalker.”

  Abby giggles. “That is exactly what a stalker would say.”

  “You’re just a skeptic, and nobody fancies a skeptic, Abby.”

  “Ha!” Abby points at me. “I call your bluff.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Do I ever,” Abby says. “You fancy me…so there.”

  “I don’t recall telling you any such thing.” I grin. “You’re being a little conceited.”

  “Grrr! You’re going to get it.”

  I glance over at Abby and waggle my eyebrows. “And are you going to give it to me?”

  Abby licks her lips. My knees get wobbly. “I was hoping to,” she says, poker-faced.

  I cough abruptly.

  “Sorry,” Abby says. “Too forward?”

  I shake my head. “Nope,” I wheeze. “Not at all.”

  “You good?”

  “Me? I’m awesome,” I say.

  Abby chuckles. “Alright. Then will you please tell me your coffee trick?”

  I throw my head back. “Aargh. Okay. Okay. But it’s not a trick. It’s studying people—their outward appearance, how they carry themselves, their attitude, how they speak, and then using that to guesstimate their coffee preference.”

  “Ahh.” Abby nods. “Sort of a gaydar but with coffee?”

  “There you go!”

  “Huh. So you studied me?” Abby asks, smirking.

  I roll my eyes. “Puh-lease. I took a gander at you,” I lie.

  Abby raises an eyebrow at me. “Riiight.”

  “What? You don’t believe me?” She shouldn’t.

  “Ha! Nope.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because who the fuck takes ‘a gander’ at anything? No one. That’s who,” Abby says. “You’re a stalker, but I’m cool with that. I’m not judging. Go on and let your stalker flag fly.”

  We arrive at the entrance of the pub and I push the door open and hold it for Abby. “Punks first,” I say.

  Abby stops in front of me. “Wow. Did you just call me a punk? That’s rude.”

  “Ahem. This is me holding the door for you. That’s polite. I�
��m polite. I’m not rude.” I give Abby a smug smile.

  Abby playfully nudges me through the doorway. “Get your rude-o ass inside and buy a girl a drink. That’s polite.”

  I chuckle but comply as I take Abby’s hand and lead her to the bar. When we reach the seating area, I pull a stool out for Abby and settle myself in the one beside her. I rotate on my seat so that I’m facing Abby. I put my left elbow on the bar and rest my head against my palm.

  “Hey there,” I say in my most kittenish voice.

  Abby pivots in her stool and smiles at me. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

  I disregard Abby’s question. “So I’ve been stalking you around town…”

  Abby roars with laughter, shaking her head. “You have, have you?” She asks after winning her battle for breath.

  “Yes,” I say, fighting to keep a straight face. “And I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?”

  “You may.”

  I grin. “Awesomesauce.”

  “Language,” Abby teases.

  A brawny, older gentleman tending the bar comes up to me and Abby. He strains himself to smile at us.

  “Afternoon, ladies. The name’s Nolan,” he says. ‘What’ll be?”

  “Hello, Nolan,” Abby says. “I will have a bourbon, neat.”

  Nolan nods and looks at me. “You?” Clearly, this man is not a proponent of speaking in full sentences.

  I straighten in my stool. “I’ll take a glass of cabernet.”

  “I’ll have those drinks up in a second,” Nolan says and walks away.

  I eye Abby. “You drink whiskey? Yuck.”

  Abby purses her lips. “Yuck? Parker, have ever even had whiskey?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  Abby clucks her tongue and puts her hand up in front of my face. “Uh uh uh. You can’t bash what you haven’t tried.”

  “Okay. You’re right.” I finger a groove in the wood of the bar. “What got you into whiskey? I heard it’s an acquired taste.”

  Abby places her hand on top of mine, stilling it. “My grandfather used to drink it.” She inhales. “He used to sit in the den in his leather recliner every night after dinner reading that day’s issue of Your Town’s Tabloids with his tumbler of bourbon. And I’d go into the den to kiss him goodnight when it was my bedtime, and I’d smell the whiskey on his breath and he’d give me this great big bear hug and it was…” Abby smiles at me. “Awesomesauce.” Abby squeezes the tip of my index finger between her forefinger and thumb. “On my twenty-first birthday, Nana handed me a plate with a slice of cake on it and Papa handed me a glass of whiskey.” She chuckles to herself at the memory, looks at me and shrugs. “I know it’s silly, but it was the first alcoholic beverage I ever had and since then, I’ve tried some different beers and whatnot, but I always go back to bourbon.”