Scarred Beautiful

by Michele, Beth

  His cell phone rings on the side table interrupting our moment of bliss. “Don’t get that,” I whisper against his lips, but then I listen to the song and start laughing when I realize it’s “ABC” by The Jackson Five. “Who is that?”

  “GAH!” Matt groans in frustration and throws his head back against the pillow. “I have to get it. It’s Ma, I mean, Mrs. Brody, Caleb’s mom.” When he sees the confused look on my face he continues. “She loves The Jackson Five and when we were growing up we always had Sunday morning breakfast together. Whenever we’d walk into their house, there were only two things I’d notice, the smell of warm maple syrup and The Jackson Five playing loudly in the kitchen. She liked to dance while she was cooking.” He shrugs his shoulders with a sheepish smile. “So, it makes me think of her.”

  He reaches for the phone and I can’t help but think that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard which makes me want to jump his bones right now. He’s so unexpected in such a good way, surprising me at every turn.

  “Hey, Ma,” he answers with mischief in his eyes as he stares at my bare breasts until I clock him with a pillow. “No, it’s fine, it’s not too late.” He laughs, almost dropping the phone. “What’s up?”

  They talk for a few more minutes and when he finally gets off the phone, he drops it on the bed and tackles me. “We need to get dressed. We’re going over to the Brody’s.”

  His erection is pushing into me deliciously and the last thing I want to do is leave this bed, never mind this room.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, my eyelids flapping as his hand grazes the underside of my breast and a moan slips out. “If you want me to get dressed you better stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?” he teases, circling his nose with mine and grinding against me. His tongue reaches out for me and we find one another, bathing in the warmth of our mouths and the friction of our bodies. He sucks on my bottom lip before he releases me. “Okay, I’ll stop…for now,” he says with a devilish grin, pushing off of me and bending down to pick up his clothes, giving me a great view of his ass. “And, yes, everything’s fine,” he replies, pulling a t-shirt from one of the drawers and sliding it on. “His mom needs some help moving some bookcases and Caleb is over at his brother’s tonight. I’d rather help her tonight because I plan on spending the whole day with you tomorrow.”

  “Oh!” I shout out, remembering the gift that I bought for him. “I almost forgot. I got you something.”

  He spins around in the midst of zipping up his jeans, his blue eyes flooded with excitement. “What is it?”

  “Don’t move.” I flop off the bed and haphazardly dress myself, then collect my purse from the floor. Sitting back on the edge of the duvet, I hunt for my surprise and feel myself grinning like an idiot when I find it. I pat the space next to me and he comes to sit down. “It’s just a little something. It made me think of you when I saw it.”

  The look on his face is priceless, wide eyes and a dimpled smile like a little boy who’s getting his first present ever. Strangely, my heart soars with delight at being able to make him happy.

  “What on earth?” He chuckles, holding up the clown keychain and taking stock of its huge clown shoes, big red nose, and most importantly, the smile on its face.

  “So here’s the deal. I thought it might help start to, you know, help you overcome your….” I snap my fingers and my eyes drift upward in an attempt to recall the word. “I can’t remember the name for it, well, your fear of clowns. Baby steps and all. Plus, he’s not scary.” I point to his mouth with my finger. “See, he’s smiling.”

  He cups my cheek and touches his lips to mine. “I love it. Thank you, sunshine.”

  My lips turn up in a huge grin when he takes his keys off the table and immediately puts them on the key ring. “He goes great with your Aston Martin, don’t you think?”

  “He’s perfect,” he says, when he comes back to sit beside me. The moonlight coming through the window casts a glow on his face and a flicker of vulnerability exists behind his eyes, like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.

  My mouth practically drops to the floor of the car when we pull up to Caleb’s house. Well, it’s not really a house. It’s more like a mansion. It doesn’t have a weathered front door, nor does it have overgrown weeds in the front yard or a cracked walkway that you can break your neck on if you’re not careful. This house is pristine in every sense of the word and looks like something out of a movie set. The driveway is lit up brightly on each side by tiny floodlights as is the curved stone sidewalk leading up to the entrance. Even at night, I can see the trees are pruned to perfection and the lawn is manicured. Set back from the street, the front yard alone looks to be an acre’s worth of land, and that’s from what I can see in the dark. The design is a burnt orange Spanish contemporary with windows galore.

  “Holy shit, this house is enormous,” I exclaim when he comes around to open my door.

  Matt chuckles and takes my hand to help me out. “Yeah, it’s big.” He stops in front of the three car garage. “I just want to let you know that Caleb’s parents are…kind of open about things.”

  My eyebrows squish together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see,” he says with a smirk, and now I’m even more curious what he means by that statement.

  “Matt.” I tug on his hand and step closer to him, trying to search for his eyes in the midst of the darkness. “That whole ringtone thing with Caleb’s mom, I think that’s really sweet.”

  “Sweet, as in sweet like my brother,” he laughs out, bringing my words back to haunt me. A lump of regret lodges in my throat at the realization that I might have actually hurt him with that comment.

  I cradle his face with my palm, skimming his jaw. “No. Sweet like you.”

  He settles into my touch. “Do you have any idea how amazing you look right now, standing under the moonlight?” he asks, and I know he asked a question but I don’t give him an answer, not with words anyway. Instead I kiss him, our tongues tangling briefly before we break apart and stroll hand in hand up to the house.

  One ring of the bell and Caleb’s mom is at the door. She’s absolutely adorable, all of maybe five-foot-two with welcoming blue eyes and wearing an apron that says “Sexy Mom Cooking.” She has an aura of warmth about her and I like her instantly.

  She engulfs Matt in a hug and the fact that he dwarfs her in size by almost a foot is incredibly endearing. “Hi, sweetie. Thank you so much for coming,” she says appreciatively, then moves over and surprises me with an embrace as well. When she releases me, she places a hand on my arm. “It’s so great to meet you, Fran. Come in, come in.” She ushers us in and winks at Matt, nodding her head toward the kitchen. “I have pie.”

  We walk in further and I immediately notice the understated and lived-in feel of their house, a stark contrast to the exterior. I expected formal sofas and designated sitting rooms, but am pleasantly surprised to find overstuffed couches and comfy chairs in muted yellows and blues. Vibrant green plants add additional bursts of color and mementos sit atop several rustic side tables.

  Family pictures spatter two entire walls and as I get closer, my heart is instantly warmed at the sight of Matt’s boyish face in so many of them: fishing, playing baseball, at the beach, and at various celebrations. This is not a house. This is a home. I’m hit with a longing, a heaviness in my chest of something that could never be, never was. There were no family dinners for me where everyone was laughing and talking about their day. While my mother was working, my father was too busy passed out on the couch in an alcohol-induced coma, and when she was home, he was demanding she bring him his food in front of the TV. He expected her to cater to his every whim when she wasn’t busting her ass to support us so we didn’t end up on the streets. My dad was worthless in the job department; he was worthless in all departments.

  Matt’s voice is a welcome interruption to my unpleasant walk down memory lane. “You okay, baby?”

 
I know he’s called me that before, but for some reason when he says it now, it gives me a fuzzy feeling in my stomach and sprinkles over me like a sun shower. He loops his fingers through mine and a shiver zaps me, starting with my head and ending at my toes.

  “Hey, old man,” Matt calls out, and we turn the corner to find Caleb’s dad stretched out on the couch in front of the television. He looks so young in his matching blue Duke University sweats, a pair of black wire-framed glasses, and hair slicked back from an apparent shower.

  “Hey, son!” he shouts, “two visits in a week. I’m likin’ it.” He peeks around Matt’s tall frame, sizing me up in a single glance. “And this pretty little thing must be Fran.”

  “Jim!” Mrs. Brody yells from the other room, “keep it in your pants!”

  “Hush, woman, that’s not what you said last night!” he counters with a deep, rich laugh.

  Matt puts his hand to his head and shakes it, a lame effort to hide a smile while I make a gurgling noise and snort. He looks over at me with raised eyebrows and shrugs as if to say ‘I warned you.’

  “Pops, this is Fran. Fran this is Mr. Brody.”

  “Jim, call me Jim…we’re not that formal here, as you can tell.” He winks and offers his hand. “I’d get up but I’ve got this hip thing I’m recovering from still. Limited activity if you know what I mean.”

  I walk over and shake his hand with a broad smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, Jim. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

  “Eh”—he flaps his hand in a shooing motion—“never believe everything you hear.”

  “Fran,” Mrs. Brody’s voice carries from the kitchen, “why don’t you help me put the cream on the pie.”

  The smell of chocolate leads the way, tantalizing my nose, my belly stirring from hibernation, answering the call with a rumble.

  The kitchen is tremendous, the size rivaling my entire living room and bedroom put together. With stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, a center island with seating for six, and glass cabinets, it looks a lot like something right out of a design magazine. What catches my attention though is the framed black and white print hanging above the table. Your opinion is not in the recipe. I think I love Mrs. Brody.

  “Here, Fran.” She hands me a knife and a spoon. “Let’s get the whipped cream on this chocolate cream pie so we can dig in. It’s Matt’s favorite,” she says, and now she winks at me, too. There’s an awful lot of winking going on around here.

  “So tell me how you know Matt?” We stand side by side at the center island, a silver bowl filled with freshly whipped cream ready to go. She lifts a finger in the air as if she’s about to say something of the utmost importance. “But first, we taste,” she instructs, and then both of us proceed to dip our spoons in and savor the cream swirling around on our tongues.

  “Actually, it’s kind of funny. Brad’s fiancée is my best friend,” I say, still marveling at the irony of this whole situation.

  “Ah, that’s right. Caleb mentioned that,” she recalls, before taking another spoonful of whipped cream and putting a finger to her lips. “Shhhh!”

  Matt barges into the kitchen and plods straight to the cabinets, sticking his finger in the bowl of cream as he walks by, and Mrs. Brody lightly pinches his arm before he leans in, planting a loud kiss on her cheek. My throat goes thick with emotion at the affection they have for one another, showing me a whole different side of Matt, a glimpse into his world.

  “Matthew James Dixon,” she says sternly with a hint of a smile, “fingers out of the whipped cream.”

  He continues on his mission, rummaging through cabinets until he finally spins around holding a package of Red Vines. He rips open the bag and pulls a piece of licorice out, dangling it in front of me. “Red Vine?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips.

  “No thanks.” I giggle, shaking my head with amusement.

  “All right, Matthew, we’re having some girl time in here, so out you go. The bookcases are upstairs in the guest room and I just need them moved over to Tracy’s room.”

  “You got it, Ma,” he sings, giving me a little swat as he walks by and I wave my spoon at him, casting a sharp look his way.

  We put the finishing touches on the chocolate cream pie and I can’t help but think how nice this feels. With the exception of a handful of moments with Mom, she wasn’t around a lot to bake with me or teach me how to cook. I stare down at the spoon in my hand as it loses focus and becomes one big blur, just like my childhood.

  Mrs. Brody plunks the spoon into the empty bowl, the sound pulling me back to the here and now, a now that holds so much more promise, and I have to remind myself of that.

  “Did you like to bake when you were little?” she asks, almost as if reading my thoughts.

  “I liked it but my mom worked a lot and wasn’t around much,” I reply, trying to plaster a happy smile on my face, and she lays a hand on mine. It’s such a simple gesture yet it means so much. “I do remember this one time, though. My mom had the day off and we were going to make chocolate chip cookies. She had these two glass jars on the counter, one with sugar and the other with salt, and when we went to make the cookies she accidentally put salt in instead of sugar. It ended up being the cookie disaster of the century.”

  Mrs. Brody wrinkles her nose and laughs before placing the bowl in the sink and running hot water in it. “I guess you didn’t bring those cookies in for the teachers,” she says, as she scrubs and dries the bowl before placing it back in the cabinet.

  “Nope. The only place they went was right in the garbage,” I recall, giggling, and she laughs again, too.

  “Well, the kids did a lot of baking, and with six of them, they made a lot of messes. Actually, make that almost nine with Matt, Brad, and Clara,” she declares, her lips curled up, her eyes smiling.

  “Come sit.” She motions to the table and puts the pie in the fridge before coming to join me. “Can I make you some tea or would you like something to drink? Juice, water?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” I feel completely at ease with Mrs. Brody and the words begin to flow without apprehension. “Matt speaks so highly of you and Mr. Brody and I think the fact that you were there for him when his mom died is pretty spectacular. You helped him make it through,” I say quietly, watching her face and her eyes shine with so much admiration and love that it takes my breath away.

  She lets out a sigh that is happy, yet somehow tinged with a morsel of sadness. “Brenda was such a wonderful woman,” she begins, grabbing onto the table with one hand as if needing to brace herself for this conversation. “She was always there for them—playing, watching their games, encouraging and supporting them, talking them through the tough times…and when she passed….” She pauses and releases a breath. “They were devastated. I think Matt got it the worst because he saw how Clara and Brad were handling it and felt like he had to make it better for them.” She smiles and it lights up her eyes. “He’s such a good boy, well, good man. Do you know that when Caleb was still living in New York and my husband was traveling for business, Matt would come by here once a week to check that we were all okay and see if the kids needed any help with their studies, or really anything at all. He wanted to make sure we were taken care of.”

  I smile at his thoughtfulness and my heart warms at her words.

  “Even with all of his struggles, he’s grown into an amazing man and I’m very proud of him.” She stares at me and my cheeks flush in response. “You care about him.” It’s a statement not a question and she taps a finger to her lips as she waits for an answer.

  “Yes, I do care about him…a lot. We’re having a nice time together. But, well, I go back to New York in eight days…back to my life.” The words leave my mouth and I feel as if I’ve eaten something rotten.

  “Right. Matt mentioned that to me.”

  He did?

  She pats my knee with a warm smile, the kind of smile that tells you everything will be okay, the kind that makes you feel it, too. “One moment
at a time, sweetie. Because in the end, that’s all we’ve got. So make the most of each and every one.” She stands up and heads to the fridge, looking over her shoulder at me. “I like you, Fran. You’re like a breath of fresh air. Matt hasn’t brought too many girls here over the years, but the ones that he has brought.…” She grimaces and shakes her head. “Well, they weren’t like you and me.” She winks like she just told me some big secret and holds the pie up in the air. “Let’s go eat pie!”

  We trot back out to the living room just as Matt is coming down the stairs. He purposefully bumps into me and grins.

  “Watch it, Dixon,” I warn, my lips quirking up into a teasing smile.

  He grabs hold of my arm and pulls me close, his warm breath filling my ear. “When you say my name like that it makes me hard, and when I get hard I think about how much I want to fuck you. I’m so ready to be inside you, Fran, and if you’re not careful I might take you up to the guest room and spread you open right there. So choose your words carefully, baby.”

  I let out a gasp I’m praying no one heard and shoot him a warning glare. “Mr. and Mrs. Body are right over there,” I whisper, and sure enough when I look up, Mrs. Brody is watching us with a pleased smile. Clearing my throat and willing away the desire unfurling between my legs, I link hands with Mr. Sex On a Stick and we plop down on the couch across from Mr. and Mrs. Brody.

  It’s quiet for a minute as we all dig into the pie, Mr. Brody’s voice being the one to interrupt the silence. “So Fran, Matt tells us you’re in design, also.” And for the second time tonight I realize Matt’s been talking a lot about me and I grin internally at the thought.

  “Yes, I work at Hudson & Mathers in New York. They’re an advertising firm, heavy into consumer branding and marketing campaigns. I like it a lot.”

  “It’s interesting that you’re both in the creative field,” he says, his salt ‘n’ pepper eyebrows raising on a grin. “Quite a coincidence, I’d say.”