by Cathy Lamb
The doorbell rang. I sniffed under my arms. Oh no. I felt my hair. Yuck. I glanced at a mirror in the hall. Yikes. I knew I’d let myself go some after saying good-bye to Ethan, and now it had caught up to me. “Get the door, Tate,” I whispered. “And you’re grounded for . . . for . . . forever. I’ll be down in a minute.”
I shot up the back stairs and leaped into the shower.
How do women talk and lust at the same time? How do women coherently discuss their greenhouses, the climbing frogs on the post, the watering can collection, and an obsessive number of books on herbs and spices while thinking about making love between potting tables?
How do women explain why they enjoy having their teacups, favorite teas, and a full and complete spice rack inside that greenhouse, when staring into the brown cinnamon eyes of a man they love?
How?
I tried. I did. But my, it was burnin’ hot all of a sudden with Ethan next to all my herbs. Maybe it was all the candles I’d lit at first, being jittery and nervous, and not knowing what to do with my hands. I must have lit thirty, all now flickering. I am endlessly strange.
Ethan was kind and funny and gentle. “Tate didn’t tell you that he invited me out, did he, Jaden?”
“Ah, no.” I picked up a group of clay pots, I don’t know why, and held them in front of me.
“Ah. He invited me to lunch here. . . .”
“Yes . . . to lunch? We can have lunch soup or pancakes or Popsicles and, and, and . . .” I rushed. “I’m . . . I’m glad you’re here.” I put the clay pots down. I don’t know why they had to be set down. I forgot to check and see if the pots were over a shelf or a table and they broke into a hundred pieces on the floor. “Darn it.”
We picked up the pieces and I grabbed paper towels, a broom, and we had that pot mess cleaned up in a second.
“Would you . . . could I pour you some tea, Ethan?” I wiped my simmering brow when I thought of him strolling naked amidst my tomatoes. “I also have gingerbread cookies out here. Tate, the triplets, and I made them. We even decorated them with icing. We turned them into Cyclops, robots, and pink spiders, but they still taste tasty. He calls them the Gingerbread Brigade.” Please do shut up, Jaden.
“Sure. Thanks. This is the most incredible greenhouse I’ve ever seen.” He grinned. “It’s not a traditional greenhouse, though, is it? The woodstove, the Chinese lanterns, your collection of teapots. It’s amazing. I can see why you like being out here.”
I hoped I wouldn’t start to sweat profusely. “Yes, it’s peaceful and romantic.” Shoot! Shut your mouth, Jaden. “Not romantic. I didn’t mean that. It’s herby. Spicy. Peacefully.” Peacefully?
We waited in the awkward, steamin’ silence together. I reached for another clay pot, then withdrew my hand as I thought of straddling Ethan on my wicker chair with the red pillow. The pot toppled over and I caught it before it hit the floor. I put the pot back, then stared at a ceramic peacock I had on a shelf to distract my rampaging lust.
“Jaden.” Ethan took a step closer, towering over me. He seemed taller, and broader, he was a love-tractor, without the white coat on.
“Jaden, I don’t know how to say this exactly right, so you’ll have to forgive me.” He exhaled heavily, and I knew he was nervous. That made me nervous. I had lust and nerves, all swimming around together.
“What . . . what do you want to say? It’s nothing about Tate, right?”
“No, he’s fine, but yes, it is about him. It’s mostly about what we talked about earlier. Last time. When you were in the office with Tate. Me. And . . . and you.”
“Me . . . me and you?” Ha! A me and him! His soft brown eyes were luscious.
“Yes.” He turned away for long seconds, then turned back, steel in his voice, brooking no argument. “I have found another doctor for Tate.”
My lust flew out the windows of my greenhouse. “Oh no! You didn’t! I thought we talked about this? You can’t do that. Please say you didn’t do that.”
Something deep and painful flashed in his eyes. “His name is Dr. Raminsky. The hospital, on my recommendation, has hired him and he’s here now. I’ve known him for years. We went to medical school together. He graduated second in our class, and he’s an extremely talented pediatric neurosurgeon. Top-notch.”
“But, but, but . . .” I swallowed hard. “I don’t want Dr. Raminsky, I want you. I want you to be Tate’s doctor.” I felt myself growing cold now. Freezing cold.
Ethan ran a hand over his face. He was so stressed, so strained.
“You’re not moving, are you?” That was my worst nightmare. Losing Tate’s doctor for Tate and losing Ethan for me. “Please say you’re not moving.”
“No, no. I’m staying right here. But Jaden . . . you see, I . . .”
I felt Witch Mavis start to rise; it did whenever I was scared or worried about Tate or his well-being. I became snappish and rude. Was this because of our last conversation? Couldn’t he ignore what was between us? Maybe he was sick of all this. I was an embarrassment to him. “I know this is awkward, maybe I’m clingy, too. I’ll be better. I’ll be more calm. Sweet. I can be sweet and detached. It’ll be hard for me, but I’ll change. Please. I don’t even have to come in with Tate anymore to see you. I’ll stay in the car. I’ll sit there. No honking. I’ll wait. Please. I want Tate to be your patient.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, feel free to ask me to leave immediately, but I think I owe you an explanation.”
“I think you do, too. Yes, you do.” I crossed my arms over my pounding heart. “Give it to me.”
“He doesn’t need me anymore, Jaden. He’s doing great. If something comes up, Dr. Raminsky can handle it.”
“He does need you. I need you—” I shut my trap. I need you. Lord. “I mean. I need you to be the doctor for Tate. Don’t hand him off, please . . .”
“Jaden, I can’t be his doctor anymore because I don’t have a professional relationship with you.”
“What? Yes, you do. We have for years! What are you talking about? It’s always been us. The three of us.”
“That’s it, Jaden, right there. It’s always been the three of us.”
I saw the anguish on his face, the unleashed emotions running below the surface.
“Always,” I whispered. “I don’t want that to change.”
“Jaden. I like you.” His jaw clenched.
“I like you, too.” And I love you. Please stay as Tate’s doctor. “But then . . . why? Why would you leave us? Why, Ethan?”
“I can’t be Tate’s doctor because I . . .”
He was sick of us. Oh my God. He was sick of me, my pitiful, longing eyes, my semi-obsession with him. He probably knew I daydreamed about him all the time, and wanted to get away from my daydreams . . . he felt stalked . . . “But we’re all friends . . .”
“Yes, we are. But I . . . I haven’t said this before because I wanted to make sure, absolutely sure, that Tate wouldn’t need me anymore, but he doesn’t, and Jaden, I . . .”
I held my breath, then tipped my head back for a second to study the dried lavender hanging from the rafters between wicker baskets and tried to get my heart to slow down.
“Jaden, for years now—”
I could barely stand this.
“Jaden . . . I . . . I am in love with you.”
I am in love with you. I am in love with you.
For once, I was speechless, in a spectacular sort of way. In a relieved, joyous, click-my-heels way. I am in love with you.
“I think I’m catching you off guard, not going about this right, but I have felt this for a long time.” He pushed his glasses up. “I have not felt that I could develop a relationship with you”—he raised his hand—“and I am not presuming that you would wish a relationship with me, but I never would have told you today that I loved you if there hadn’t been another doctor for Tate that I trust implicitly.”
I put the love part aside for a millisecond. “You’re sure about the doct
or? No question on your end? I have to have an outstanding doctor for Tate . . .” Dare I hope?
“I would never let Tate be with any doctor that wasn’t outstanding. Surely you know that by now?” he said. “This is why I’ve waited until I knew he was completely stable, had been for a long time, and I had another doctor in place.”
My thirty-odd candles flickered again as I felt happiness slip on in. . . .
“I . . . Jaden, I have loved you for years, pretty much since the first day that we met. I thought I was falling, but in a good way, in a way I never have before, and I have fought with myself about how I felt about you because I didn’t see a relationship working. And maybe it won’t work now, but after all this time I . . .” He rubbed his face with both hands, then lowered them. “I’ve been alone for a long time, waiting for you, waiting for this to possibly work, and I don’t want to turn eighty and always, always wonder what would have happened if I’d been honest with you.”
I wrung my hands. Oh, how I loved his romantic honesty!
“I don’t want to be pushy here, Jaden, but think about this, if you want to. Call me. Or e-mail if you don’t want to talk. Send a smoke signal.”
“Ethan.” I tried to gather my thoughts. The man was a wreck. Anxious. Worried. And in his eyes . . . oh my goodness. There it was. Love.
Love. Tra la la. Love.
“I . . . Ethan.” I could be coy. I could take this slow and easy. Ha! That is not my way! “Ethan, I have loved you since I met you, too.”
His eyes grew bright, and I realized there were tears in them. Tears! For us!
“You have, Jaden?”
“Yes. For me, too, it was the first day, when we shook hands.”
“I remember. I didn’t let go of your hand.”
“I know. You didn’t. Tate had to pull our hands apart. But are you sure about me, though? I’m temperamental. Moody. Too serious. Sometimes vengeful. I have a bizarre relationship with my herbs and spices that no one else appears to have. I’m picky about cooking. I’m blunt and pushy and I have not had a boyfriend in years, so that’s going to make me awkward. And I am clumsy and blunt, I don’t even know if I’m romantic. . . .”
“You’re incisive. You’re interesting. You’re light and laughter and depth all in one. I love how loud you laugh, how you love Tate. I love the sound of your voice, how engaged you are in life, and the way you move. I love that you’re unselfish, you gave up your life for Tate. I love your dedication and your loyalty and your whole family. I don’t mind the temper or the seriousness I see in you because I understand where it comes from. It’s who you are. And I have never, ever felt around anyone as I do you, Jaden. I’m happy when I’m with you. And when you walk out of our appointments I’m not happy anymore. I miss you.”
“You miss me?”
“All the time.” His voice caught. “I miss you. I want us to be together, as a couple. It feels as if we’ve been dating for years, only not the normal way.”
“Then, then . . .” I paused. “Okay!” I chuckled. I didn’t mean to, but I did, and he smiled and I chuckled again. I think the chuckles sounded how a chipmunk’s chuckle would sound. “Okay!”
I don’t know who moved first. Let’s say that lust powered us forward, his arms pulling me in close, and I sank into his kiss, warm and sexy, my head tipped back, my chest pressed up tight to his and we kissed and kissed, hands running around some, and a few pants and groans and we only stopped kissing when we realized I was on fire.
Literally, truly on fire.
I smelled smoke, I felt heat, I saw the fire leaping on my shirt.
Within seconds Ethan literally ripped my shirt right off my body, then dumped a watering can, full of water, over my back and side.
“You’re quick, Ethan.” I stood there, soaked, no shirt on, my pink lace push-up bra on full display.
“Are you okay? You’re not burned, are you?” He was worried, professional all of a sudden, touching me where the fire had been. I had apparently leaned back into one of my scented candles.
“Yes, I’m fine.” I laughed. “That was an unforgettable kiss.”
He grinned at me, his gaze for a millisecond slipping to that pink push-up bra. I glanced down. I am rather proud of my lush rack, and in one of those expensive push-up bras, the boobs were up and alert and bouncy. I was deeply grateful that I had worn my pink lacy one, rather than the white, stained one.
“You don’t know how grateful I am that I didn’t wear my white stained bra,” I breathed.
Then he laughed, and I laughed and he swept me up into another kiss, chest to chest, and he took my pink push up bra off and sent it to the floor.
We were positively on fire.
That night, as I stared at the stars from my rocking chair in the dark, I dared to hope. I dared to believe I could be with Ethan, that I would have him holding my hand, holding me, for the rest of my life.
Finally, some of the loneliness and aloneness that had been with me for years was ebbing away. I felt myself losing some of my own hardness, my own toughness, my temper mellowing because the anger inside of me was mellowing.
It was love that was doing it. I knew it. It was love.
I rocked gently.
TATE’S AWESOME PIGSKIN BLOG
I want to thank all of you who wrote to me and said you would be my date to the Winter Formal. I now have nineteen requests from girls at our school and about forty from other places, and I am pumped up. But see, now I have a problem because, who do I take to the formal?
This is the most excellent problem I have ever had in my life. General Noggin and I are stoked and we appreciate all the ladies.
So, I have a thought.
Let’s all go together. Dudes and dudettes. No one has a real date, know what I’m saying? We’ll go in a group to the Winter Formal and dance our brains out.
Boss Mom said we could all come over here before it starts. We can have pizza, pop, beer. Ha! No, I’m kidding on the beer. No alcohol. Boss Mom would call the police herself if she saw anyone here with alcohol, so leave it next to your Barbie collection, or in Uranus, or under your sister’s armpit, or wherever it is you keep your liquor, and come on over.
Who wants to come?
Later that night, Tate banged down the stairs with a sheepish grin.
“Hey, Boss Mom, how many kids did you say I could have here before the Winter Formal?”
“Why?”
“Uh, ugh. Hmm. You know I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry. How about another Cornish game hen? I believe you named the first one you ate tonight Sarah Intestine. Maybe you can eat her sister, Sarah Intestine II. There’s an extra one.”
“Yeah, that’d be sweet. I’ll eat it, but about that number.”
“You invited a few people, right?”
“Yeah. Boy. Yeah, okay. Ugh.”
“What’s the number, Tate?”
“Dudette, you know you always say I can have people over.”
“How many?”
He put an apple in his mouth and muttered something.
“What?”
He stuck a banana in there, too, and muttered something else.
“Now, Tate. What’s the number?”
“One hundred and twelve kids.”
Brooke had to stay in Los Angeles until her face lost the purple/blue/green colors from the bruising, that was a given. I could not have Tate traumatized by her most recent beating, but I told him he could call her at my mom’s house in the Hollywood Hills if he wanted.
After basketball practice, lasagna, and a huge piece of chocolate cake with peppermint ice cream, I said, “Are you sure you want to call her?” I was sickly nervous.
“Yeah, Boss Mom, I am.”
“Okay, son.” It felt like I was pushing my son to the edge of a cliff and we didn’t know if there was a parachute attached to his back.
“She’s my Other Mother. I’ve never talked to her. I want to hear her voice. I want to know something about her that I
don’t already know. It’s weird to worry about someone you’ve never met, and I know she doesn’t deserve for me to worry over her but I do. I want to know about her, who she is, so I know more about myself and our whole family. I’ve heard a lot of stories about Faith and Grace, but not a lot about her. It doesn’t make sense, I know, but I can’t get this out of my head.”
“Here’s the number, sweets.” I bent over as my stomach cramped and I envisioned Tate’s toes edging over the side of that cliff.
The clock ticked loud in my kitchen. The kettle whistled next to the tiles painted with red poppies. I was making black tea.
My sister knew that Tate was going to call tonight. I hoped she answered. I hoped she didn’t.
“Hi,” I heard Tate say. “Uh . . . this is Tate.”
I waited for a minute, listening carefully, feeling my stomach sink, my hands sweat, my mind a swirling mass of emotions. I couldn’t tell if Tate was going over the cliff with a parachute or in free fall.
“Oh no. You’re crying, aren’t you?” Tate said into the phone. “I’m sorry! No, okay, I won’t be sorry. . . . I don’t want to make you cry. . . . They’re happy tears? . . . I know you’re sorry . . . I know.... General Noggin and I aren’t mad. . . . General Noggin is my head.... Mom told you that already? We’ve had a cool life.... Yeah, Boss Mom is rockin’. . . . We all make bad choices, Brooke. Is that okay to call you Brooke? . . . You’ve always loved me? You have?”
I drank my tea, then ate four red cinnamon Gummi Bears. Only in the future would I know if Tate had that parachute on.
15
Tate’s team played Sunrise, our school’s closest rival, on Friday night. They were a good team, but there was one kid on the team, TJ Hooks, who was a beast. I knew TJ Hooks because I knew his father.
Martin Hooks and I were the same year in high school. He was madly obsessed with Brooke. She turned him down, she was not attracted to beefy football players who weren’t that bright and had faces scrunched up like warthogs, but he would not take no for an answer. My mother had to call the police so he would quit pestering her.