Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max)

by Abby Brooks

  My thoughts spin while I take Reagan on a nice long run. They tumble over themselves as I shower and shave. My past and my present, tangling together. My grandmother’s loving hands, wizened and wrinkled, clasped together as she pulls me up into her lap. Chelsea’s long fingers sliding up my arm, the last thing I see before I touch my lips to hers. My mother, tight-lipped and arms crossed, chest sunken, shoulders hunched. Whispered conversation with my dad. Rage in her near-silent voice. My dad, strong arms and a quick smile. Gentle hands on her shoulders and reassuring words from his snake oil tongue.

  “I’ve got this, babe,” he says to her, his voice deep and warm, rumbling down to me through the years. I hear it now, distorted as it is and I hear it then, as I was, a little boy peering around the corner at a discussion I wasn’t meant to hear.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” he says. “I’m getting out. For you. For Max. It’s over.”

  “It’ll never be over.” Tears clamp down on her throat like a vice, breaking her words.

  “Yes, it will. It is.” And he pulls her into his arms. Runs his hands up her back. Soothing. Reassuring.

  Two days later, they were dead. Turns out, they were both right. For them, it was over. For me, it will never be over.

  16

  I can’t remember the last time I cared what I looked like naked. I mean, like, really cared. Typically, I’ll shave up to my knees, throw on some mismatched underwear that might be a year or seven old and call it good to go. Today though, I’m in full on primp mode, shaving every inch of my legs, even paying extra attention to my bikini line. It’s been a long time since I’ve had eyes (or hands!) on my body. A long time since I really and truly felt pretty.

  I pull on the new black lace bra and panties and study myself in the mirror, turning this way and that to get the best view of myself. I cover my belly with my hands. Pinch the soft spots on my hips. Press up on the cups of my bra, lifting my breasts into a better position. Maybe the lingerie was a mistake. The little demon-bitch in my head goes to work, counting up all my flaws and cackling shrilly when I try to bat her away.

  You’re not good enough, silly girl, she says.

  You’re too pale.

  Too soft.

  You’ve let yourself go.

  You’re too fat.

  You’re too old.

  You never were very pretty.

  You should be better than this.

  And the worst of them all:

  He’s not going to want you. No one does. You are not enough.

  I flip on my phone and pull up Pandora, drown out the voice with some loud music, happy and upbeat. The only way I know how to quiet her is to overpower her. I’d love to find the magic button that just turns her off. Shuts her up. I’d love to look in the mirror and tell the demon-bitch that I am good enough and for her to disappear in a puff of smoke. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. But I think she’s just a permeant fixture in the Chelsea London psyche.

  And I can actually thank her for a lot of things. Her constant nagging has driven me to achieve more and more, reach for new heights, ask new things of myself, to never settle for where I am, to know that I am capable of more…

  It can’t be all bad, right?

  One last flutter of my hands over my belly. One last little lift of my breasts. One last turn of my body, a new angle to see it all. I sigh.

  No, it’s not all bad, but it sure could be better.

  I get dressed and do my hair and makeup. The new outfit is a complete success and, even though the demon-bitch is whispering about all the flaws I’m hiding under the cut of the sweater, I actually feel pretty. And that’s what I’ll focus on.

  A text interrupts my music, a picture from Dakota. Her cheek pressed to her husband’s, her smile rivalled by his. The sun setting over the desert stretched out behind them.

  Don’t know what’s better, finally seeing the Serengeti or finally getting to see it with Dominic, she says.

  Neither is better, both are good, I respond.

  I put the phone down, smiling. I’m beyond happy for her. She met Dominic and her whole life changed just like that. A snap of the fingers and everything she ever wanted in all her life came into existence. This perfect fairy tale of a love story. It was fast, so fast that I should be worried about her, but there’s this magic when they’re in the room together. There’s no denying that Dakota and Dominic are made to be together. Before seeing it, I was the first to laugh at people who talked about things like true love and soul mates. Relationships are hard and messy and a lot of work. They burn bright and fade as lust gives way to comfort and compromise.

  But I won’t be surprised if Dakota and Dominic avoid that. If they are one of those lucky few who love each other into old age, still holding hands as they hobble down the street. I wonder if I’ll ever have that. Actually, I wonder how many people in this world are lucky enough to actually find it.

  I grab my phone and head downstairs, thoughts of my sister morphing into thoughts of Max. Is he the guy that can give me that? There certainly wasn’t any palpable magic the day we met. I didn’t like him very much and I don’t think he liked me very much, but we didn’t exactly have the most auspicious of first meetings. But as the weeks passed, I found myself liking him more and more. And now? I’m holding my breath until he gets here.

  I’m up to my hands in ground beef, making meatballs for tonight’s dinner, when my phone buzzes again. Probably Dakota, who can wait, but I check anyway and my body zings with excitement when I see it’s Max.

  Thinking of you.

  It flashes across my screen and I smile, happy to know that he’s thinking about me while I’m thinking about him. Another text comes in, but I can’t see it so I wash my hands before picking up my phone.

  That car come back?

  It wasn’t there when I came downstairs, but that was a good twenty minutes ago. I head over to the window and take a peek, breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see it.

  Nope. Think you scared him away.

  I wait for the next text to come in, hesitant to put my hands back in the meatballs in case he still wants to chat. But as one minute stretches into two, I start to feel a little silly standing there staring at my phone while dinner waits for me to finish it in the kitchen. Just as I slide my phone into my pocket, it buzzes again.

  Soooo … would it be a bad thing if I was early?

  My heart leaps. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

  I want him here, always. The thought takes me by surprise. But there it is, my attraction for him spelled out for me in no uncertain terms.

  Of course not, I respond. Still working on dinner, but you’re welcome anytime.

  I hit send, hesitate for only a second and then tap out another text. The earlier the better.

  Heart racing, I wait for a reply. Just stare at my phone like it’s the only thing that matters in this world. So, when there’s a knock on my door about twenty seconds later, I about jump out of my skin. Cautious, I peer through the slats in the blinds, trying to get a look at the front porch. This is the way of it now. Can’t just open the door because there are weird guys in cars out there. I can’t see the porch, but I can see the driveway and I bounce happily to recognize Max’s sleek black car.

  I bound to the door and throw it open. “That was fast,” I say, trying not to show just how excited I am to see him.

  “Couldn’t wait. Got ready, got in the car, was mostly here before I thought it might be a good idea to find out if you were ready for me.” Max gives me a sheepish grin, which transforms his rugged looks—almost harsh sometimes in the wrong light—into something sweet and boyish. I invite him in and take his coat. He leans down and pulls me in for a kiss the moment we’re close, arms around me, claiming me. I melt into his strength, sheltered by his size.

  “Couldn’t wait for that either.”

  A tingle of warmth starts in my toes and zings up and through my body. “Well, no need to wait. You can have as many of those as
you’d like.”

  “Good,” he says and kisses me again. He’s brought the smell of the cold in on his skin. I take a deep breath and another knot of tension inside me slips free. “You smell good,” I whisper.

  Max smiles. Runs a thumb across my cheek and taps the end of my nose. “So, what’s going on in the kitchen? You need any help in there?”

  “I was just getting started on the meatballs. You want something to drink? Keep me company while I cook?”

  Max lifts his eyebrows. “Meatballs? Damn, woman. You really want on my good side don’t you?

  “I take it you’re a fan?” I lead him back to the kitchen, absolutely beaming. Max studies his surroundings, his quick eyes taking in everything. I try to see my house as he does. It’s tidy with lots of neutral color. Pictures and paintings I found on sale at random places that I hung because I liked the look of them. Nothing personal anywhere. No pictures of me and my family. No awards from work. This could be anyone’s house. What’s it telling him about me?

  We’re standing in the kitchen, Max leaning on the wall, peering at the beginnings of the meatballs. “Oh, I’m a fan,” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “But let’s not get crazy here. A lot depends on the execution. There’s a lot that can go wrong between the meat and the balls.” He surveys the ingredients I have lined up next to the mixing bowl, lips pursed, eyebrows raised, while I try desperately not to think about his balls.

  “Well? Everything pass muster up to this point?” I roll up my sleeves and get ready to plunge my hands back into the mess.

  Max eyes me warily. “I’m withholding judgement until I’ve had a chance to taste them.” His tone is so serious it’s hard to know if he’s joking. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s joking, because why wouldn’t he be? But he’s so deadpan, it’s hard to tell.

  We talk and laugh as I work on dinner. Max rolls up his own sleeves and joins in, teasing me the whole time about his superior meatball rolling skills. We talk about everything. Work. Movies. Music. High school. He was way more of a daredevil then I ever was and his experiences far outweigh mine. I never got too drunk at prom. Never skipped school. Never cheated on a test.

  Him? It sounds like he had a rebellious streak a mile wide tempered by an equally strong desire to be good.

  “My friends would all be skipping school, doing drugs, getting caught. I skipped a couple times, but only on days when I knew I didn’t have anything important going on. And I never did the drugs. And I always got myself back in class without being caught.”

  “I never did anything like that. I could just see the disapproval in my dad’s eyes. And the thought of something being on my record, my permanent record…” I roll my eyes. “Nope. Not for me. I just put my head down and worked hard on my grades.”

  “Seems like that worked out pretty well for you.” Max leans onto the counter and stares deeply into my eyes. I’m lost in the blue upon blue upon blue that will forever mean safety to me from this point forward. His eyes aren’t weapons today. They are the calm after the storm. “The house, the job…” He gestures around my pristine kitchen. “Must feel pretty good.”

  “Kind of. I still feel like I could be more, you know?”

  Max frowns. “Actually, no. I don’t. It sounds like you work your ass off and it looks like you’ve got a lot to show for it. What more could you possibly want?”

  I could be thinner. Better. Richer. Harder working. I could be a surgeon instead of physical therapist. I could have more friends. I could have a pet. A garden in the back. I’m just not living up to my potential…

  I silence the demon-bitch with a shake of my head. “I don’t know. I think my family just had their sights set higher for me.”

  Max takes a moment to digest that, studying me so intently that I feel absolutely exposed, and not in the best way. “Anyone who is not satisfied with a beautiful woman who works miracles in her field, who pushes herself to learn the latest and greatest, a woman who has earned enough to buy herself a house, a woman who does it all with a smile on her face and a kind word for the people in her life … maybe that person needs to step back and take a good look at what’s in front of him.”

  I stare into Max’s eyes. His words sear down into my heart and touch some broken part inside me that hurts.

  “You’re good enough for me, Chelsea,” he says. “I think everything about you is amazing. Perfect. More people should be like you.”

  You’re good enough for me.

  You’re good enough for me.

  You’re good enough for me.

  Those words. They stretch and roll through me, unleashing a torrent of fear and hope and panic and a goddamn outright need to hear them again.

  We have accidentally stumbled into highly awkward, not appropriate for second date territory. I break eye contact with Max. “Thank you,” I mumble towards the counter and then hit him with a smile, searching for a lighter topic. “So, I never did get you a drink. What are you in the mood for?”

  He steps into my space, invading and protecting in the same instant. “You,” he says. “I’m in the mood for you.”

  17

  We kiss. A frantic thing, my emotions boiling inside me in this barely containable combination of need and fear. Max’s words awoke something in me, something I don’t know how to keep quiet. He sees me. He wants me. I am enough for him. His hands travel my body, learning the topography of my skin, mapping it out, unable to settle in one place. Our breath is a symphony, twining together as our tongues dance between us. I press into him and he pulls me closer, the tiniest of spaces left between us too much to bare.

  I slide my hands up back, dig my nails into the fabric of his shirt, my fists tight little balls, clenched with need and some strange form of fury I’ve never experienced before. I want him naked in front of me and I want to be naked in front of him. I want it with a passion that devours all other things. It is need in its purest form. This man, this strange man with his perfect words has awakened a part of me that I don’t know yet. A part that wants to melt around him, conform to his hard edges, accept him inside me, hold him tight and never let him go.

  Desperate, my hands go to his belt, fumble with the thick leather in the lack of space between us. He growls, a low rumble that sends shivers up and down my spine and I whimper against his lips. I don’t know this sound. I don’t know this woman. So needy. So out of control. This is not tidy. This is not clean. This is everything I’m not. Devouring each other in the kitchen while the meatballs sizzle in the oven.

  Max slides his hands up under my sweater, his skin electrifying mine. He pulls it over my head and drops it on the floor. As much as I wanted this, to be bared to him, fear works its way into my belly. He’ll see me for what I am now. Flawed. Imperfect. Not enough. I want to cover myself right up again so he’ll keep on wanting me.

  Instead, he steps back, his bullet blue eyes hooded and dangerous. “Fucking black lace,” he says, his voice molten. “You are absolutely perfect.”

  I rejoice as his hands go to my pants, unbuttoning them slowly, pulling down the zipper and sliding them down my hips. He kneels in front of me and I steady myself on his shoulders as I step out of the pants. They join the sweater in a pile on the floor, while his words flit through my head.

  Perfect. He said I was perfect.

  I tilt my head back as he traces his hands up my thighs, around my hips, and grabs my ass with both hands, squeezing tightly. My hair brushes my bare back and I gasp, goosebumps flaring across my pale skin.

  “I want you, Chelsea London.” Max kisses my stomach, pulls on my panties, licks the soft space near my hipbone. “All of you.”

  “I want you, too.” I can barely breathe.

  He looks up at me, captures my eyes with his own, and slowly drags his thumb over my clit. I gasp. Quiver. The thin lace of my new panties is too much of a barrier between us. I want … no, I need … his skin on mine.

  “Please, Max,” I moan.

  “Please what?” Another flick o
f his finger, a flicker of his tongue. A whisper of his breath.

  “I need you. Touch me.”

  “Oh, you needy little girl. You want my hands on you?” My eyes fly open and I look down at him, lips parted, half afraid of the edge in his voice, half ignited by it.

  I nod and he smiles up at me, dragging my panties down my hips.

  “Spread your legs,” he says, and I do. Chest rising and falling with my frantic breath. My body throbs. I am nothing but sensation and desire, so eager for his touch. I have never wanted anyone as much as I want him right now. Never understood what it meant to covet someone, to yearn for something with every ounce of my soul.

  I do now.

  Max runs his hands up my inner thighs and I quake with anticipation. And then, without warning, he stands, hands at his sides, and I am bereft. He pulls off his sweater, drops it in a forgotten heap and I am left to stare at this man who might as well be carved from stone. His pants hang low, exposing the deep V of his hips. His abs are harsh lines intersecting his ribs. His chest begs me to run my hands up it, to squeeze the strong flesh.

  Max comes in close to me, his body not quite touching mine. Heat between us. His lips graze my neck as his hands trace my stomach, my breasts, my shoulders. With one hand he unhooks my bra and it falls to the floor, another piece of unnecessary clothing. He trails a finger down from my throat to my breast, traces a circle around my nipple before he pinches and rolls one between his thumb and forefinger. I gasp and moan. No one has ever touched me like this before.

  His hands are everywhere, tickling and teasing. His mouth, his breath, his teeth. I am undone and he hasn’t even taken his pants off yet.

  “I love this body,” he says. “I could play with it all night. Learn everything there is to learn about what you want and what you like.” He runs a finger up my slit. “So wet. You like this, don’t you? Being exposed to me.”

  I nod and he dips one finger inside me, just the lightest of touches that has my heart racing through my body. I make another sound I don’t recognize.