by gard, marian
Reveling in how conversational Collin is tonight, I ask about a nearby painting hanging on the wall. It's of a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old, he's kneeling, staring at his reflection in a pond. Behind him children play ball in a field. You don't get the sense he's being left out; he's alone by choice. It's as though what he's looking for is somewhere in the water, not with the kids in the background. My assumption was correct that it's one of his. The emotion in it is tangible, unlike the flaccid, commercial ones, (I suspect Leighton chose) hanging on the other walls. He doesn't offer a lot of insight into it, but he doesn't need to for me to feel like I understand where it came from. He segues into a discussion of photography, and then I find myself feeling courageous enough to approach him about the basement.
"So, I feel like I should tell you something."
He tips his chin to me. "Go ahead."
"When I came to drop off the borrowed clothes, Reba showed me the photograph in the basement…the one of me." I suck my lower lip into my mouth and try to hold his gaze, but he rolls his eyes and looks away.
"Why am I not surprised…?" he mumbles.
He says something else I can't quite hear and I find myself holding my breath. He stares off into the kitchen, and I begin flinging thoughts all around in my head, trying to find the right thing to say.
Before I can, he turns to face me again. "So, did it freak you out?"
"No!" I answer too quickly.
Collin cocks an eyebrow; his bullshit sensor has been tripped. I take a breath; let's try this again.
"OK. Yes, a little at first, but not anymore. It's a great photo. It actually made me feel…" I pause, conjuring the courage, "…kinda beautiful."
He shifts his body closer to mine and now our legs are touching.
"Well, you are beautiful." I feel my face go hot, and I bow my head. "I'm sorry, Rachel, that was probably inapro—"
Before I lose my nerve, I grab his face in my hands and press my lips to his, cutting him off. He's stunned for a split second, and then much to my relief, he begins kissing me back.
Collin
Grabbing my face and kissing me like that—just might be the hottest thing Rachel has ever done. She's always been so controlled and restrained. I have no idea what I did to earn this, but whatever it was, I hope I can repeat it. It's taken me a second to get over the shock of it, but now that I have, every inch of my body is responding to hers. Her lips are warm, and soft, and her kiss is perfect, just as I remembered it. I trace her lower lip with my tongue and she responds passionately, grabbing a fistful of my shirt as she kisses me urgently. I pull her closer, and have to remind myself to control my grip—I want her so badly. She pushes her fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck and I run mine through her long, thick waves. She shifts on the couch again, trying to get closer, and I swiftly pull her onto my lap. Without my lips leaving hers, my fingers explore the soft exposed skin at her waist between her shirt and jeans. She makes a satisfied noise, and I'm lost. She eases her hand under my shirt and begins raking my back with her fingernails—holy shit—her touch feels so amazing. I am so unbelievably turned on that suddenly no amount of contact with her feels like enough. I tug on her hips, closing as much space between us as I can, and she thrusts against me—provoking a moan from both of us.
Then, without warning, I have the most poorly timed epiphany ever. I don't know why the hell this is happening and that should matter. It fucking needs to matter, whether I want it to or not, and I can't ignore the alarm bells ringing in my head, no matter how much I want to. Why the hell is this happening? What about her boyfriend? If I keep this going, we are headed for another devastating crash, one that I don't think I'm equipped to survive. I've never been so torn in my life between mind and body. Everywhere we are touching feels electrified. It's clear she wants me, and I sure as hell want her. The last thing I can imagine doing is severing this connection, which is why I feel completely certifiable when I gently push her away from me. I rest my head against hers as we both breathe heavily. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but we should probably stop."
I feel her forehead leave mine. I'm trying to ignore the similarities rapidly multiplying in my head from tonight and the last time we kissed. I'm not going to be that guy all over again. The one she kisses and regrets. The one she loses her relationship over. The one she doesn't see or talk to for years on end. I want her to choose me. If she doesn't, I'll have to live with that. I wont take her like this, though…not again.
She exhales a long, slow breath and I open my eyes to look at her. "You're right, Collin. I should go."
I feel her resistance, and my own. I hold her hand as she eases off of my lap. I squeeze it once before releasing it as she stands. I need to say something. She turns to go and I immediately follow her. She's almost to the front door when I ask, "Did I upset you?" I don't want to hurt her. I try to squash the panic I'm feeling.
She looks up at me; her crystal blue eyes stare straight into mine. "No, not at all. Stopping was the right thing. That was…well…" Her voice trails off as she looks down at her feet. "It's just late and we've both had a really long night. I need to get home."
To Beckett—I finish the sentence for her in my head, and my heart aches in response.
"Let me get your coat." I scoop it up and hold it behind her as she slips her arms into the heavy, woolen sleeves. I stand in the foyer while she gets her shoes on, and then hand her her purse. I'm not running this time. I need her to know that. "Can I call you?"
She pulls her car keys from her purse and looks up at me. "I'd be pretty pissed if you didn't."
It could be my imagination, but her lips look redder than before, a little puffy even, from all the intense kissing. I feel a strong impulse to put mine all over them again and kiss her until both our lips are numb—the rest of the world be damned. It is taking all the restraint I have to let her go.
"Count on it, then," I say, hoping the firmness in my voice translates to sincerity.
"I will," she whispers.
We embrace and I kiss her lightly on the cheek before she disappears through the doorway. When I return to the kitchen Reba is standing there.
"How much trouble am I in?" Her brow furrows.
I stroll over to the island where she stands visibly apprehensive, and look her directly in the eyes. "None." I smile at her stunned expression as I head up to my bedroom.
Chapter 28
Rachel
I'm putting together sales binders in my office when I hear my phone buzz inside my desk from across the room. I glance at the clock on my wall. It's a quarter after ten at night. Who the hell? Probably Mindy. I line up some of the printed sheets carefully and then use the three-hole puncher to puncture perfect circles for the binders I have strewn across the credenza. I should really have interns doing this sort of thing, but if you want something done right…Well, whatever.
A moment later it buzzes again, and I walk over to the desk and roll out the metal drawer to see what's come through. It's a two-word text from Collin. "Hey there," it says on my screen, and I nearly miss the seat of my rolling chair as I slump backward attempting to sit down. I stare at the conversation bubble for nearly a minute and then type back, "hey". His return text is immediate.
Collin: Is this an ok time?
I grin as I type my reply.
Me: For what?
Collin: You'd said it was cool if I called. So….
Even via text, his trepidation is obvious, and it provokes an impulse within me to try to tease the worry right out of him.
Me: Yeah, I did. So, why didn't you?
My smile stretches as I withhold a giggle. I can see his perplexed expression in my mind's eye.
Collin: ???
Me: This is texting. Not the same thing, dude.
There's no reply and then, after a few moments, full-on panic sets in. I type out at least three different messages back to him and delete them all before sending. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it! No good c
omes from caffeine after nine at night. I must remember that. Then, almost two full minutes later, my phone begins to ring. I erupt in goose-bumps and feel a wave of nervous energy flood my system. The phone is almost through it's third round of the ringtone before I answer.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much," I reply, trying to play it cool. "So, this is you calling?" I ask.
"It is," he answers, and I note the undercurrent of nervousness in his voice that I suspected during his texts. "I wasn't sure if this was too late in the day or if you would be busy. It's tough to know when it's a good time."
"I'm actually still at work, but it's fine. I'm not doing anything that requires much brain power at the moment." That is a damn good thing because my pulse has begun to pound away so loudly, that I'm barely able to concentrate on anything apart from Collin's voice.
"You're still at work?" I can't tell if the disapproval I hear in his voice is real or a joke.
"Yup. I'm afraid I am. We can't all have the luxury hours of a CEO," I tease. I line up more sheets of paper, giving my hands something to do besides shake.
"I was just kidding," he says. I would've bet a decent chunk of change that you were still sitting at your desk when I texted you."
"Is that your quirky way of suggesting that I'm both predictable and pathetic? How sweet of you."
There's a small pause before he speaks again and I worry it's too soon for sarcasm, but Collin plunges ahead.
"Actually, I think that makes me observant and attentive."
"Ha!" I laugh into the phone. "How do you figure?"
"Well, you're the one who told me that you put in a million hours of work and can't delegate for shit, partially because you're controlling and partially because you work in a sea of political land mines. You leave a lot of the mindless tasks for the end of the day, because you know you're tired and because you try really hard not to bring work home, even if it means staying at the office late." He pauses. "Did I miss anything?"
I collapse backward into my chair and release a long sigh. "I said all of that?" I ask, knowing full well that he just repeated what I'd shared with him, practically verbatim.
"Yup."
It's my turn for a dramatic pause now and he lets me have it. "Wow. You could've just said yes to the pathetic thing, you know? I think that might've actually been less depressing."
He laughs. "You're not pathetic, Rachel."
"Oh yes, I am," I reply, not bothering to mask the defeat in my voice.
"Hey, don't start with that stuff." He lowers his voice. "In the interest of full disclosure I am also still at work."
"Oh you are, are you?" For some reason that really does make me feel marginally better.
"Yes, believe it or not, Rachel, I can relate to the working hard, working late and trying to work well. I get it," he says seriously.
"Hmm…do you always stay late, too?" I wonder about his work. He's told me some things, but most of it has been self-deprecating and general. I don't know a lot of specifics or much about his day to day.
"It's hard to say what my hours are. I work from home periodically and it's not unusual for me to leave the office, have dinner or something, and then work well into the night. I don't mind. I kind of enjoy it, actually." He sounds like he's smiling. "I know, shocking, right? I bet right now you're wondering where I hid the body of the real Collin. You know, the lazy one."
"I feel confident that I could recognize an imposter. The real Collin, as you call him, was never lazy. He just pretended to be. Difficult, stubborn, indifferent, refusing to rise to his potential—"
"OK! OK!" He interrupts. "That's enough."
I giggle. "Oh, you wanted the other list. Let's see he's brilliant, funny, kind, good at everything to the point of complete irritation."
"Irritation?" He interrupts again.
"That's the part you caught?"
"Well, that's the part that makes sense."
"You're an ass."
"Finally, something we can agree on," he says whimsically.
I laugh and mentally note that he still can't take a compliment.
"How was your day?" he asks, predictably shifting the topic.
"Well, on the scale of calm to homicidal, I'd say I scored somewhere around stabby." I chuck my pen across the desk for added emphasis, not that he can see. He full on laughs into my ear and it is the best sound I've heard all day. I join in, helplessly.
"I sure hope scoring a ‘stabby' just means you wanted to stab someone, not that you actually did!" He laughs again.
"No worries. Everyone is safe. I just can't get over the political bullshit that goes down around here. Some of the top managers, including mine, at the very best overlook it, and more likely, flat-out encourage it. I'm just not good at it, you know? I mean, I'm no pushover, but I could really care less about all the stupid gossip. Except when it's about me, I guess." I grimace.
"About you?" Collin sounds concerned. "You didn't mention that the other night."
"Yeah, well..." I fall silent and he does too.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.
I sigh, shaking my head before speaking. "Not really."
After a few minutes he says, "For the record, you don't deserve that shit…whatever it is."
"Thanks," I say, not sure if that's true. I'm ready to get off this topic, like now, so I say, "I'll survive. Anyway, I saw this indie film the other day that made me think of you."
"Really? I'm intrigued," he says, and he sounds it. "Was it about a total slacker pretending to be a CEO?" Ah, back to the teasing.
"No."
"A poser artist?"
"No!"
"Ugh…was it about some total loser who took over his stepdad's company?"
"Collin!" I shout, grinning ear to ear. "Stop it!"
He laughs softly. "OK, OK. What was it?"
"I forget the name, but it was on the Sundance channel and this guy started painting after he returned from war—"
"With his non-dominant hand?" Collin interjects.
"Yes!"
"I was watching that, too!" He exclaims.
"That's really random, because I don't watch much TV and I didn't think you did either."
"I don't." He chuckles. "So, wait a minute. That guy reminded you of me?" He sounds mildly alarmed.
I shake my head. "No, no, no. I just thought you'd like the movie."
"Hmmm." He hums thoughtfully. "I did."
"Yeah. Me, too."
*** *** ***
Over an hour later, I'm sitting at my desk with my feet propped up on the completed sales binders. I gave up doing anything productive about a half-hour ago.
"I know what you mean," I say. "It's like when someone gives you a dirty look while your trying to read the print on their t-shirt. If you don't want strangers looking at you, don't wear something with a bunch of words on it. Geez…"
"True," he replies. "Although, you compulsively read everything."
I giggle. "I do?"
He makes a tsk sound. "Really, Rachel? Don't even act like you don't remember taking both of our lives into your hands, just so you could read some ridiculous bumper sticker. You broke many a traffic law for the sake of getting a glance at some hillbillies' slogan on the back of his beater." He laughs. "I bet you still do it now." He pretends to sound annoyed, but I can hear his smile reaching out to me through his words.
"I hate bumper stickers."
"No," he says, laughing even harder. "You freaking love bumper stickers."
"Love isn't the right word…I'm fascinated by them. What I mean is, I'm fascinated by the choices people make with them. They say a lot about a person, you know? They've decided to share something with every single person who ever sees the back of their car. For most people, that adds up to a lot of cars. C'mon you should be interested, too! Bumper stickers are like little ads for your soul. A banner that says, ‘this is who I am.'" I can hear him chuckling and a wide grin spreads across my face in response.
&nbs
p; Then he says, "I know you'd rather set fire to your car than have one yourself, right? That stance hasn't changed, I assume."
He's done this a lot during our conversation—offered up little reminders about how well he knows me, while still inquiring about the details of my life now.
"Totally. Although, I have to say, if I were forced to put something on there it would be a positive message. It still astounds me how many people choose something hateful, like more than half."
"Well, I guess if anyone would know…"
"It's a sad commentary on our world," I interject, with more melancholy than intended. I don't want him to think I place too much importance on intolerant stickers.
"Hmmm…there's plenty of that." He sounds quiet and contemplative and I get the sense he isn't mulling over bumper stickers.
"Yeah," I reply, lowering my voice to match his suddenly quieter volume.
"Listen, it's pretty late," he murmurs.
He must want to hang up. Of course! I worry about how long he's felt this way. Collin has never been a phone person, so I know on some level this conversation has likely felt obligatory to him. Hell, I practically forced him into it.
"Oh, yeah it is." I swing my feet off of the stack atop my desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I should let you go. Sorry!"
"No apologies," he says quickly. "I was just thinking. How do you usually get home, you know, when you stay this late? Does, um, Beck come get you or do you take the El?" He's stumbling over his words, which isn't like him. I think about correcting his notion about Beck, but it's late and I'm not going to burden him with my drama now.
"I'm fine, actually. I had meetings in the burbs this morning, so my car is in the parking garage here. There's security in the building all night…so…"
"Oh, good. It's none of my business, really. Just trying to be a friend." He says quickly.
"That's nice," I say. "Friends."
"Yeah…" he replies almost inaudibly. "So, at the risk of ruining, um… It feels like we really might be friends again…Are we?" The nervousness in his voice from the start of our conversation has returned. I can't exclude the idea that I'm responsible for all of it now.