by Amy Matayo
So I kiss her. Lean across the seat before I can talk myself out of it, and kiss her, the feel of her soft lips underneath mine nearly undoing me for the brief seconds it lasts. When she moans into my mouth and my pulse skyrockets and plummets at the same time, I pull away. There are only so many things I can take without completely losing my mind, and right now that isn’t one of them.
But I can’t leave her, of that I’m certain. Forgetting my earlier vow to keep my distance, to take her home right away, I open my mouth and say this.
“You interested in spending the afternoon together, or do you have someplace you need to be?”
22
Kate
“I’m Only Me When I’m With You”
—Taylor Swift
I have fourteen places I’m supposed to be right now, and standing in a vintage record store in downtown Oklahoma City isn’t one of them. Yet with one invitation from Caleb, with one kiss from Caleb, I’m flipping through musty-smelling vinyl at two o’clock in the afternoon without a care in the world.
School fell by the wayside again, but sometimes life works that way.
“This one?” he asks, holding one up.
“Yep. For my eighteenth birthday from my cousin.” It’s the fifth one he’s asked about, and so far I own them all.
He gives me a look. “Your cousin bought you a two-hundred dollar James Taylor record for your birthday?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal even though I know exactly how stupid it sounds. “She knew I didn’t have it, so…yes. I think she found it in Dallas, though it might have been Houston. I can’t remember.” Her family lived in Dallas for two years before they moved to Houston, where they still live, but I can’t remember if the move happened before or after my birthday. It might have been before, because—
“Well, la di da,” Caleb says before dropping the record back into place and making a face at me like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have candy before dinner. I blink at him, because the fact that he said it is cute. Really cute. But not a phrase a twenty-four-year-old guy who looks like him should ever utter out loud.
“You did not just say that. What are you, a four-year-old girl?”
His eyes narrow. “I got a thirteen dollar iPod case from Scott for my last birthday. So yes, I did just say that. And no,” he looks down and gestures to himself, “pretty sure I’m not a girl.” I blush. Darn right he’s not a girl. Not in those faded-just-right jeans and fitted white tee that shows just enough of his tattoo to make me think bad thoughts. If Caleb notices my red face, he says nothing about it. “You, on the other hand, are a spoiled rich girl, and I’m not sure we should hang out anymore. Not with your expensive taste in music and who knows what else. I can’t afford you. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you only buy three-hundred dollars jeans and fly to New York City to get your hair cut.”
“Only once a month,” I say with a straight face. “And I think we both know these jeans cost more than three hundred dollars. I mean, look at them. They’ve got upscale written on the back pocket.” I look down at the old Levi’s I pulled on in my rush to get dressed this morning and shrug. I don’t look great, but I won’t apologize for it. It’s not my fault Caleb helped me with my car in the rain and then decided to forgive me.
I’m still in awe that he’s here talking to me.
I still can’t get over that kiss.
“I’m surprised they’re not pink.”
“You’re not going to let go of that are you? One pink coat—”
“And robe. And comforter. And—”
“I get your point. As soon as I get home, I’m burning all of it.”
He laughs. “Don’t do that. Everyone knows princesses wear pink.” And just like that, he’s back to looking at albums, flipping through them like he didn’t just make my heart leap three feet in the air and land in my stomach. Other guys have given me nicknames. My father called me Sugar Bear the day I was born, and the name has stuck through skinned knees, a particularly painful molar extraction two days before my twelfth birthday, and my first broken heart. My first boyfriend called me Katie-pie even though I repeatedly told him not to and broke up with him just to get away from the sickening moniker. My date for senior prom called me baby after midnight when I told him payment for the wrist corsage he bought wouldn’t come in the form of sex in the back seat of his Fiat, or any other place he had in mind, even if he were the last man on Earth, and for heaven sakes get your groping hands off me.
Funny how Princess is a whole lot sweeter than Katie-pie, but Caleb could christen me with it a hundred times a day and I doubt I’ll ever get sick of hearing it.
“Take a look at this.” He gives a little laugh and scans the cover of an album closely before flipping it over to read the back, and I gasp so fast that something catches in my throat and I cough. The sound is obnoxious and I can’t seem to quit, but I don’t care because if I’m seeing it right, Caleb has just stumbled across the one album that I’ve tried to find for three years with zero success. And he’s gone and found it in a record store with green shag carpet and a broken light bulb on 5th and Lewis. I dart around to his side of the isle and inch in close to his side. He pats my back as I strain on tiptoe to read the album’s title over his shoulder. I would swat his hand away because I’m not a baby who needs help to quit choking, but I like the way it feels there.
I like it even more when I stop coughing and he makes no move to drop his arm. I lean in a little closer.
“I can’t believe you found it.” The words come out on a squeal and I’m almost certain a tear or two might fall if I don’t pull myself together, but Caleb has just found my Precious and I need a moment to come to grips with it. I sniff and press shaking fingertips to my lips, overcome with pent-up emotion.
But then Caleb has to ruin the moment because he’s a guy, and that’s what guys do.
“You can’t be serious. This thing?” His arm falls and he’s looking at me like I have two heads, but I ignore him and carefully take the album from his hands. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—even prettier than the pink cashmere scarf my mother bought me last month that I’m sure as heck never going to tell Caleb about.
“That is the most ridiculous album I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says.
“It is not!”
“Donny and Marie’s Osmond’s greatest hits? You’re crying over Donny and Marie’s greatest hits, sung by what is quite possibly the cheesiest act in musical history? The fact that you’re the only person I’ve ever met who owns Dylan’s Freewheelin’ doesn’t even make up for the shame you ought to feel for wanting this.”
“You wouldn’t understand. My grandfather bought me this album when I was a kid, but I lost it when we moved. He died of cancer three years ago and I guess I thought if I could just get my hands on one—”
“Oh, cut the crap. Are you going to use that fake cancer excuse for every dumb decision you make? I suppose you’re going to tell me he died of breast cancer like your aunt?”
I suck in some air, and a tear finally slips down my cheek. He has to be the most insensitive person in the entire world. I clutch the album to my chest and breathe deeply, telling myself to remain calm. After all, he’s not trying to be a jerk.
He looks at me, and his whole face falls. “Hey, Kate, I didn’t mean—I thought you were kidding. That you were just making up an excuse for your bad taste in music.” I think it’s supposed to be an apology, albeit a bad one. He makes up for it when he gently slides the record from my hands and tucks it under his arm. With his other hand, he pulls me to him and folds me into his chest. He smells so good, like mint soap and leather, like musk and man and everything right in the world. I close my eyes and inhale, and quite possibly bury myself a little deeper into him. “I have an idea,” he whispers into my hair, “It isn’t that expensive, so I’ll buy the album for you. That way, you’ll have something to remember him by. Is that okay?”
I nod without raising my head, an
d nearly die when his lips brush against my forehead. He holds them there for a moment and the feeling is heaven, but then he breaks away and exhales long and slow, like he can’t decide if all this kissing is a good idea or not. I’m not sure, either, but I want it to happen again and again. Of course that’s when I start to feel guilty, and because fate has a way of kicking me in the teeth, when he finally releases me and I swipe under my eyes and turn away to scan the racks and racks of vinyl, it happens. I’m an idiot, and it happens. And if I’d waited one second longer, I might have been home free.
“Did you just smile?” Caleb asks.
Forcing my face into a neutral expression, I turn back around blink up at him. “Excuse me?”
His eyes narrow. “You smiled. I saw you.”
I feel my stupid lip twitch, which doesn’t help me at all. “Well—I mean, you did kind of kiss me and—um…it was kind of nice, and…well…” I run my finger along a row of forty-fives and think about whistling, but decide it might not be the best move.
He shakes his head. “You are the biggest con artist I’ve ever met in my life, and I spent forty-eight hours in jail. Cancer, my butt. You probably don’t even have a grandfather. Buy your own stupid album.” In one swift movement, Donny and Marie land back in my hands.
“Are you seriously accusing me of lying just to cover my embarrassment over this?” I hug the record and try to muster up some genuine outrage. All that materializes is fake outrage, but that’ll work, too. “I do too have a grandfather!”
A hand goes on his hip. “Did he die of cancer?”
“Not technically, but—”
“Is he dead at all?”
I tilt my head. “Dead in what sense?”
“Dead in the dead sense.” He rolls his eyes. “Donny and Marie. What a joke.” He snatches the album back from me and begins to read the titles out loud. I’m A Little Bit Country, ‘A’ My Name is Alice—is that actually a song? That’s the dumbest title in the entire world. Now, let’s see—” Okay, now I’m a little embarrassed and I grab it from him before he can shout out anything else.
“Stop it! There’s nothing wrong with wanting this record. Just because you’re an album snob—”
“Says the woman who has a forty thousand dollar one tucked away inside a cheap Wal-Mart bookcase at home.”
“I’m buying the album, Caleb. Because despite what you might think, I did have it as a kid and I did lose it in a move.” I head for the register, secretly hoping he’ll follow. He does. “I’ve been trying to find it for three years, but funny enough no one seems to have it—”
“Because they were all wisely destroyed in a church album burning,” he interrupts.
That stops me cold, and I wheel on him. “Churches do that?” The idea is preposterous. Outrageous. Wrong on every level. What if something was burned that I don’t have yet?
“Not since the eighties, and not mine. Not one I personally know of, in fact. I was just making a point.”
I roll my eyes and plunk my purse on the counter. “A stupid point. I’ll take this,” I say to the heavily pierced guy behind the counter, wanting to ask if the barbell running through his top lip hurts, but keeping the question to myself because the guy looks scary and I wouldn’t want to make him angry, even with Caleb here to protect me. Which I suddenly doubt he would do since he thinks I have horrible taste in music. I dig out my wallet and pull out two bills.
“Dude, you’re buying this?” pierced guy says. “I didn’t think this would ever sell. Couldn’t see the point of carrying it in the first place since it’s so incredibly lame and only someone with rotten taste would—”
“Please just tell me how much is costs.” Men. Is there really a point to their existence? And why is he calling me a dude?
“Seventeen ninety eight. But are you sure you want—”
“I’m sure.” I plant two tens on the counter and storm toward the door, forgetting about the change, not caring about a bag, hearing Caleb high five pierced guy and chuckle softly as he trails behind me.
“You don’t have to get so mad,” he says as the door closes behind him.
I’m not mad—how could I be when I still haven’t wrapped my mind around the fact that Caleb doesn’t hate me—but then again he’s still laughing, so all of a sudden I am, in fact, slightly ticked off. It’s like a whiplash of emotions around him. Surprise. Fear. Regret. Sorrow. Embarrassment. Attraction. I’ve run the gamut today, and the sun hasn’t even made a full pass across the sky.
I toss a half-hearted glare over my shoulder. “You’re a pain.” A childish thing to say, even if it’s true. I clutch my new album to my chest like a favorite teddy bear, thinking about how excited I am to listen to it when I get home, because despite what Caleb says, ‘A’ My Name is Alice is a brilliant song, one I’m currently humming in my head as we walk. He opens the truck door for me and I climb in.
“What’s that you’re humming?” Caleb asks as he slides in beside me.
So apparently it wasn’t just in my head. “Nothing.”
He starts the car and slides me a wink. “That isn’t nothing. It sounds pretty upbeat, a little on the silly side, almost like—”
“It’s nothing. Not anything you would know. Definitely not a Donny and Marie song. Shut up.”
He laughs harder and shifts the truck into reverse.
*
Five minutes later, he’s no longer laughing. Neither am I. In fact, the whole mood inside his car has changed, and not for the better. Just as we pulled onto the highway, Caleb got a phone call from Scott, one that lasted less than a minute but was filled with more tension than a two hour horror film, and he hasn’t said a word since. Not to me, not even to himself. I wish he would scream. I wish he would yell. I wish he would pound the steering wheel and call me a hundred different names whether I deserve them or not, except I’m pretty sure I do. I heard the call. I heard Caleb’s responses.
It doesn’t matter that he only said four words. I know what Cease and Desist and Defunded means.
The lawsuit was filed. Caleb’s job…the kids…his reputation…
Everything he’s worked for is in jeopardy, and I have no idea what to do.
I only know that every time our relationship takes a small step forward, something comes along to drag us right back into disaster.
23
Caleb
“A Church, a Courtroom, and Then a Goodbye”
—Patsy Cline
The best way to guard against unnecessary emotion is to surround yourself with a barrier, an invisible fence so intricately constructed it’s impenetrable by even the most well-meaning of souls. That worked for me for years, but it’s hard to hold a fence together when outside forces are constantly pushing against it.
The first chink in the fence fell the day Scott Jenkins walked up to me at a Boys and Girls Club and asked me point blank how long I planned on carrying around that crate-sized chip on my shoulder. Like most other days, I was high at the time—don’t remember on what—but I do remember that he came there often, tried to talk to me often. I made fun of him for it. The guy was scrawny, practically a waif. I was twice his size.
Turned out he wasn’t intimidated by me in the least.
I wanted to punch him for his question.
So I did. Right above the jaw on that spot where the lower lip meets the chin bone. Instead of the cowering I expected, Scott stood up from the dirty gym floor and fought back. The pitiful effort earned a laugh from me until his stupid high school class ring cut a three-inch gash in my left hand. Despite the wound and my failed attempt at not squealing like a girl, it earned both of us an exit from the place. Not sure anyone has ever been evicted from a Boys and Girls Club before or since. We hold the distinction. We became friends that day. He’s my best one now.
The second chink in the fence appeared when I got arrested and Scott’s father bailed me out of jail. The third when Chris Jenkins’, at Scott’s insistence, brought me into his home and gave me a place
to stay because his son wouldn’t give up on me. I had no idea why back then; now I know it was his belief that anyone as stubborn as me could be just as tenacious about God if harassed enough to actually develop a relationship with Him. The fifth and sixth and seventh chink unraveled without my noticing, but I guess that’s what happens when you find yourself living among a group of people who eagerly make you part of their family.
I hadn’t been part of a family in forever. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
The fence fell in a heap the day I finally found God. For the first time in years, I was free.
I can feel the fence going up again. Choking me. Binding me. Snagging me in its grip.
Link by link by link.
I want to stop it, but I’m not sure how. Even prayer doesn’t seem to work.
I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.
It’s been exactly eight days since I dropped Kate off at her apartment without saying goodbye. I know this because I’ve thought about it six hundred and ninety-one thousand times since then, once for every second that’s ticked by. I’m not proud—of my thoughts or my behavior toward her—but sometimes life is just life, and I can’t change what happened.
I can change my clothes, though. I’m going for a run.
By the time I’ve made it to the bedroom, I’ve slipped off my shirt and both shoes, my whole body on edge, ready to take out some pent-up frustration on the pavement. I normally run every morning before work, but in between reporters calling and appeals being filed and nerves being soothed, everyone involved at the church is jittery. I haven’t run all week. My muscles are tight, gripped in an iron fist of protest, screaming for release.
If I have to run twenty miles in one direction, I’m going to give it to them.