by Loomis, Lisa
His tone was like when we were strictly friends, just very casual, la-la-la, talking about our day and it annoyed me.
“Ryan, you said you wanted to talk. Let’s get it over with. What is it you need to say?” I asked.
“Not over the phone. I want to take you to dinner,” he said. “We can talk over dinner.”
I pulled the phone cord from the kitchen to the small dining table and sat down.
“Oh no, I didn’t agree to a date. I agreed to listen,” I said.
“I don’t want to talk over the phone,” he objected. “It needs to be in person.”
The curiosity was killing me. What was there left to say? The whole time he’d been gone, I had tried to figure out what it could be.
“Okay, not over the phone,” I said, relenting far too easily. “When do you want to get together?”
“Friday night. I’ll pick you up,” he said thankfully.
“Fine. What time?”
“Seven?” he questioned.
“I guess,” I said, angry with myself for relenting.
I obviously hadn’t worked him out of my heart because it ached when I hung up. The butterfly’s wings felt like they’d been pelted by monsoon rain, heavy and couldn’t move. Three days until Friday, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get him off my mind. Damn you, Ryan. It was like he’d picked off the scab just when it was starting to heal.
I wanted to call Mom, but I knew they would sit and talk. She would want to hear all the details of his trip; I had to hope she would call when he left. I turned on the TV and watched some stupid sitcom. I turned it off and tried to read a book. I finally called Liz.
“What is he trying to do? Drive me fucking crazy?” I asked angrily.
“Nice to hear your voice,” she joked. “And I assume by he you mean Ryan.”
I sighed and lay down on my bed. Every damn time I looked at the paint and the crown molding I thought of him, he was everywhere.
“Liz, I am ready to explode. Between my mom and Ryan, it’s making me insane. You know I never thought I would love him. I never thought it would be more than friends, and when it happened, I was blindsided. Then when it didn’t for him, when he moved out, I was even more so. I really thought he’d had feelings for me from the first time we met. I was so hurt,” I said despondently.
“I know you were. You still are,” Liz agreed.
“Now he wants to talk. He’s taking me to dinner Friday night. I can’t imagine what he has left to say,” I said. “And I have no idea why I care to hear it.”
“Are you sure you should go?” Liz asked. “I think, deep down, you hope Ryan has changed his mind, but I think if he had, he would be telling you by now, screaming it over the phone, not like ‘we need to talk’. What the hell is that? I’m afraid you’re hoping for something that won’t be happening.”
My stomach tightened with her words, knowing what she said made sense.
“Liz, remember that song ‘I’m Not in Love?’ I can’t remember the artist, but it’s from, like, high school days. The singer talks about not being in love and don’t forget it. Do you remember that one?”
She chuckled.
“Yeah I remember it.”
“Okay, so ‘just because he called me up’ doesn’t make me think he’s in love,” I laughed, feeling a jolt through my heart, like an electrical shock.
“I want to know your head’s on straight. Let him speak his peace and run back to Tate,” she implored. “I think he sounds like the perfect distraction.”
Liz and I both knew that Tate was a name that went with a face. Tate represented another choice, as Liz said, he served to remind me that there were other men in the world. Tate and I left it that I might come back. We weren’t keeping in touch, though. Tate had his own wounds to heal, and I knew neither of us was in a hurry for another serious relationship. Tate knew Ryan still had a hold on my heart, and I knew he would want that part gone.
“Shit, Liz, even if I do decide to go, he’ll probably be hooked up with someone else by then. He’s too good-looking to stay single long,” I said.
“You never know,” she said with hope.
My phone beeped again, telling me another call was coming in.
“My call waiting has beeped a bunch of times, Liz. I hate that. I don’t know why I even have it. It’s probably Mom. She’s been as hurt as I have over this whole breakup. She loves Ryan, so does my Dad. In fact, I think Ryan is the only guy I ever dated that he’s liked,” I said sadly.
“Get the call.”
I put my hand over my eyes blocking out the light.
“Let’s go to the beach tomorrow. I’m not working. We can drink beer and bake in the sun and not talk about boys,” I rushed out.
“Call me, I’d be up for that,” she chuckled.
I pressed the hang up button on the phone to answer the other line.
“Hello.”
“You must have been on the other line,” Mom said.
“I was talking to Liz.”
“What’s Liz have to say?”
“That I shouldn’t go Friday. that maybe I’m hoping for something that isn’t possible,” I said.
Mom hadn’t shared much about her conversations with Ryan at my request. She swore she didn’t know anything about what he wanted to say to me. Liz was right; if it was a change of heart, he would have told me already. After a lot of soul searching, I saw Friday night as a chance for him to say he was sorry, sorry things didn’t work out. What Ryan was afraid of from the start had happened; he’d lost a friend. He missed his friend, but there was nothing that could fix it.
I wanted our talk over with so I could finally convince Mom that we were through. I told her I couldn’t go back to being his friend, certainly not now anyway. I tried to be cheerful to ease her sadness about the whole mess. She understood that I would get through it. It just wasn’t what she wanted.
Friday night finally came, and I was a nervous wreck. I changed my clothes three times and finally decided on a light blue jumpsuit with a white belt and white sandals. It buttoned down the front, and I wore a push-up bra knowing the view would torture Ryan, seeing something he liked, but could no longer have. I smiled, remembering our lovemaking. We had fit so well. Everything about us fit, except the love part.
I finished getting ready and poured a glass of wine, hoping one might take the edge off. I was nervous and edgy, pacing, checking myself in the mirror, wishing Brad were here and had some blow and I could just get stupid, forget a talk. I had become cynical about love again, not believing. The breakup opened my eyes, and the more I looked at the whole love thing, the less I saw. I was dissecting various relationships in my head, how love had failed, when the doorbell rang. It felt strange for him to come here and not just come in. His key still sat on the shelf where he left it, prompting memories of the day I’d come home and every piece of him was gone.
When I opened the door and saw him standing there, I had to remind myself to breathe. I looked into his blue eyes, and despite all my efforts, I could feel the emotion, could feel the butterflies flapping, drying off their wings. He smiled. I pictured the morning I spent on the lake, the sunrise, how the sun spread across the smooth dark water and looked so beautiful—it felt like that. The love I still felt spreading slowly through me.
“Come in,” I said nervously.
Ryan had on his normal attire: jeans, a coral button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his cowboy boots. I wondered whose bedroom they had been in lately. His hair was longer again, the blond streaks back.
“You look nice,” I said, coming back to his eyes.
“So do you,” he said, as he took a quick peek at my boobs. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah, ready,” I said, getting my purse and my jean jacket.
Hell no, I’m not ready! I didn’t feel ready; I’d spent hours worrying about this talk.
“Where are we going?” I asked when we got in his van.
“Croce’s restaurant. It’s downt
own. Remember Jim Croce, the singer? I read a review that says it’s good, has live music.”
I could picture the singers face on an album cover I’d owned, dark curly hair, mustache. “I Have to Say I Love You in a Song” popped into my head, one of my favorite Jim Croce songs.
“I remember him,” I said. “Sad he died so young. A plane crash, right?”
“It was,” Ryan answered.
My nervousness increased the closer we got to downtown. I worried about what he wanted to say. What we could possibly talk about through an entire meal.
Thank god we were seated at a table by the window where we could observe people on the street outside. If things got tense, at least I could look out the window.
Ryan ordered us each a dirty martini, up—it came with small chips of ice floating on the top the way we liked it. We, I missed the we. Stop going there I reminded myself. The gin tasted smooth and cool. I realized when I finished mine that I drank it too fast. Ryan noticed also and ordered a bottle of chardonnay before he finished his.
“Sir, is this one correct?” the waiter asked, holding out the bottle.
“Yes,” Ryan confirmed.
We sat quietly, somewhat stiffly, while the waiter went through the performance of opening the wine and pouring us each a glass. While he did so, Ryan finished his martini. I fidgeted with my glass, glancing out the window, hoping he would say something. A guitar player sang softly in the bar. I could feel him looking at me and I wished he would start. Damn you, Ryan.
“This is awkward. It’s like we’re strangers, but we’re not. Ryan, what do you want to talk to me about?” I asked.
I could tell my question made him uncomfortable, which irritated me. I wasn’t going to pretend this was some casual date, like I was here to have a good time. I was suddenly sorry I agreed to dinner.
“You said you wanted to talk, so talk,” I said in an angrier tone than I’d meant too.
The waiter came back to take our order. Ryan ordered a steak, and I ordered salmon. We used to order different things so we could share. I didn’t feel like sharing. I gazed out the window at the street. I watched the people walking down the sidewalk to avoid looking at Ryan. Liz was right. I had hoped for something that wasn’t. He reached across the table and put his fingers on my chin, turning my face toward him.
“I’ve missed you,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said.”
I pulled away and tried to recall something specific that he was referring to.
“What I said?” I asked.
“About the fireworks, how I expected fireworks to go off when I fell in love. You were right, I expected to know, maybe I was wrong,” he said.
I stared at him, trying to remember when I’d said that. There had been so much said in those days before he moved out. He searched my eyes, he was totally serious. I started to laugh.
“You’re kidding me, right? This is what you wanted to talk about? Fireworks? That maybe…” I said, stressing the word, “that maybe you were wrong. Let me tell you something, Ryan, you are absolutely wrong. If you expect some big mallet to hit you on the head in order to know you’re in love, you will be waiting a very long time.”
The anger and hurt grew, spreading through my body like hot lava and I wanted to go home. The waiter interrupted us with dinner arriving. I pushed my food around the plate while Ryan ate his steak; I wasn’t hungry. I drank my glass of wine, and he poured me another. I went back to watching people on the street. A homeless man with a shopping cart full of stuff went by. I wondered what his story was. Maybe he’d died of a broken heart and changed his situation. I wanted to go home and crawl in my bed.
“Morgan,” he said softly.
I looked at him. Why, am I here?
“I’m trying,” he said.
He was trying? Trying what? I’d heard those words before, words of trying. I wasn’t like some goddamn pair of shoes that you tried on. Hmm, I tried them on, but decided I didn’t like them. I wondered why, when I fell in love, I knew, and yet the men I loved wanted to try. If they had to try and love me, it wasn’t enough.
“Take me home,” I said putting my cloth napkin on the table.
We drove back to my place in silence. I didn’t understand it. The evening was uncomfortable and resolved nothing. He walked me to my door and then proceeded to come in.
“Ryan, I think you should go,” I said, leaning against the counter.
“I want to see you,” he said. “I want to date you.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Seriously? My chest felt like someone was stepping on me. I tried to grasp the meaning of his words and not fly completely off the handle. I took a deep breath and rubbed the muscles in my neck. I rotated my head to one side and then the other, trying to think of what to say.
“Ryan, I can’t go back to dating. With everything that’s happened between us, I just can’t,” I said, more unemotionally than I felt.
I walked to the front door and opened it.
“Please go,” I said, holding it open. “I need you to go.”
Chapter 45
I thought Ryan would give up, go back to whatever he thought he was looking for, to the girl. But he didn’t. He called to ask me out, and I continued to refuse him. He showed up at The Chart House a couple of times and sat at the bar where he made it hard not to at least be civil to him. I went on a date with a guy Liz and I met at the beach. I was trying to be normal. Mom would tell me when Ryan came by, or that they had talked. She constantly told me he missed me.
We had heated discussions about why I wouldn’t see him. I explained more than once, that after knowing each other for almost eight years, dating for two—which included living together for one—that I wasn’t going back to dating him. Either Ryan was telling her things he wasn’t telling me, or she was purely obsessed with some crazy notion we should be together.
Ryan had stopped by The Chart House on Sunday again. He was wearing me down, I could tell. I longed to be with him, curl up in his arms and feel his touch. I couldn’t close my eyes anymore without seeing his. I hated what was happening and trying to discuss it with Mom simply frustrated me even more. I was thinking about him when my phone rang.
“Ryan’s on his way over. I told him you were at home. He said he needs to see you,” she said.
“Oh, Mom,” I said, disgusted, hanging up the phone.
I’d run bleachers earlier at the local high school, showered and put my sweats on, no makeup, expecting a quiet evening alone. I wasn’t going to change on his behalf. I should be mad he was coming unannounced, but instead my feelings were betraying me because I wanted to see him. When he knocked, I took my time opening the door.
“Hi,” he said.
“Where are you headed?” I asked, noticing his clothes, his boots.
“Here,” he said, walking into the condo past me.
“Come on in, Ryan, can I pour you a glass of wine too?” I said sarcastically, closing the door.
“I would like that,” he said, sitting down on the couch.
I went to the kitchen and pulled a glass from the rack and filled it. The nerve he had. I wished I had the strength to throw him out. Once again I felt Mom’s hands in things. Whether I was right or wrong, I couldn’t be sure. I brought both our glasses into the living room and handed him one.
“I miss you,” he said, taking it from me.
He stared into my eyes, following my eyes as I sat down in a chair across from him. Thoughts whipped through my head, a jumble of them. He had no idea how much I missed him, had tried to get him out of my head, and had thus far failed. He wasn’t making it any easier on me.
“So my mom has told me on several occasions,” I said, feeling tired. “What do you want from me, Ryan?”
The desire to run far away filled me.
“I want to see you, be with you. I understand that date and trying weren’t the right words. I can’t stop thinking about you, about us,” he said.
I searched his eyes,
eyes I’d longed for. I saw his face, and the sadness that was there. He put his glass down on the coffee table and stood up, coming to me. He pulled me from the chair into his arms. I felt limp and shaky, like I’d been beaten down and then run over on the way out. He kissed me tentatively on the lips.
When I let him, he held me tight to him and kissed me more passionately. I tasted him and smelled him, my head spinning. The butterflies within took flight spinning out of control with delight. I wanted to resist, but my feelings and his nearness were colliding together, breaking down my resolve. I ran my hands down his back, down his arms, a body I’d missed; a body that filled my dreams regardless of my attempts to stop it. It was almost painful, the longing I felt. I wanted words, wanted him to scream I’m in love with you, I know it now. When he backed away to see my reaction, I put my fingers to my lips, not wanting to forget the feel of his. He searched my face and I reached for his hand leading him down the hall towards the bedroom.
I let him slowly take my sweatshirt off and then slide my sweat pants down. Standing in my bra and panties, I leaned into him and kissed him, breathing him in. His lips were soft and open slightly, coaxing me for more. His tongue was warm and hungrily sought mine, rolling, and probing.
“Oh,” I murmured.
I could feel the tingling, the ache, between my legs, the wetness. I unbuttoned his shirt and ran my hands down his chest, and then pushing his shirt down his arms, I squeezed the muscles in them, felt the firmness, yet the smoothness of his skin. A body I had felt so many times and yet hadn’t tired of. As I moved away to admire him my breath caught and the butterflies in unison did a swooping dive, and my stomach lurched like it did when racing down a roller coaster. He stood shirtless, his jeans tight and low, his abs flat.
“Take your clothes off, cowboy,” I sighed, giving in.
He smiled at me.
“I wasn’t sure what would happen tonight, but I had to come. I had to see you. I hadn’t planned on this,” he said with a sexy grin, as he bent down to pull off his boots.