by Jane Porter
I’m so bare on the inside right now, so much like Brian’s apartment, that I let him touch me, let him look at me. It’s hard living alone, hard trying to know what to do all the time.
Then he clasps my face between his hands, and kisses me. The kiss starts out tentative and slow and then morphs into something else completely, and yet I’m frozen on the inside, unsure how to respond. The kiss feels so new and different, and I’m not sure what to think, or feel.
Suddenly with a little twist, I pull away from Brian and jump to my feet. “Wow.”
Brian stands up. “I didn’t scare you, did I?” he asks, and he’s suddenly touching the back of my head, a very gentle touch, and it’s such a contrast to the intensity of his kiss.
“No.” But I blink back tears.
“Because I really like you, Holly. You’re a very special woman.”
Woman. Woman! When did I become a woman? I still feel like a girl.
It’s sprinkling outside when I step from his building. The streets are damp and dark, and my hair and skin soon feel equally cool and damp.
Brian waits with me on the curb until we manage to flag down a cab. “I can take you home,” he says for the third time in as many minutes.
“I don’t want you to lose your parking spot,” I reply as the taxi pulls up.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, putting me into the back of the cab and bending low to kiss me good-bye, a light peck on the lips.
As the taxi pulls away, I touch my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m not wiping away the kiss, but it feels odd. Brian’s the first man I’ve wanted to kiss since Jean-Marc, but kissing him wasn’t what I thought it’d be. When I kissed him, I didn’t feel like me. But that’s silly. A kiss is just a kiss... or is it?
There’s so much talk about kissing. Everyone (at least on TV) does it You see them at the park, lying on the grass even after a rain, kissing as though there were no tomorrow, and it appears easy, kissing. But I have to tell you, kissing baffles me. It’s a complete mystery.
A kiss either works for me or it doesn’t. There’s no in-between, and I can rarely be convinced that a kiss is good if my instincts are telling me otherwise.
The problem is, I didn’t feel anything when Brian kissed me, but I did like him. I do like him. Maybe I just need more time.
The next day at work, David calls an all-company meeting, one of the first in weeks. He’s got the Chronicle article up on the wall in the boardroom, and his expression is closed, impossible to read.
Once everyone is seated around the table, he walks to the door, pushes it closed, and turns to face us. “This,” he says, pointing to the paper on the wall, “is amazing. This is what we do. This is what we’re about. Positive. Supportive. Professional. Relationships.”
David glances at Tessa. “You and your team are to be commended. I don’t know how you got the paper to run the feature above a write-up about the Leather and Lace Ball, but it’s fantastic. The phone has been ringing all morning.” He nods at Tessa. “Do you want to share the good news with everyone?”
Tessa is wearing a hot-pink turtleneck that clashes brilliantly with her spiky red hair. She blushes, her freckles dark against the pink of her skin. “The ball has sold out. The event has been completely underwritten.”
David smacks his hands together. “Which means the Hospice Foundation should clear at least 2.1 million dollars.” He grins. “At least. Amazing work, team.”
Everyone in the boardroom claps, and Josh whistles and Tessa smiles, but Olivia is barely clapping. I think her fingers might have touched twice, and she’s not smiling. She’s looking at me.
Straight at me.
And her eyes are hard, brutally hard, and I inhale swiftly, my blood chilling.
We leave the boardroom, and I think Olivia is going to call a team meeting of her own, but she doesn’t. She disappears into her office and closes the door. I grab the phone, dial Brian’s number.
“Did you hear the news?” I say. “The ball’s sold out—the tickets are gone and we picked up all new corporate sponsorship. The Hospice Foundation will raise more money this year than ever before.”
“Fantastic.” He’s pleased, too, really pleased. “We’ve got to go celebrate again.”
I remember last night’s kiss and think I’m not ready for another one of those, but I also want to bask in the glory of the ball’s success a little longer. “Okay. When?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Is there a problem with tonight?”
“I was going to buy a new computer after work, try to get it up and running. I haven’t had a computer since I moved from Fresno.”
“I can help you set it up,” Brian offers.
“Really?”
“Sure. I’ll bring dinner over and get to work.”
I’m a little nervous about him coming over to the apartment, but he’s been so awesome, such a great resource as well as supportive that I can’t say no. Besides, I could use the help with my computer. Technology baffles me.
“All right. By the time I hit Circuit City and get home, it’ll be six thirty or seven.”
“Not a problem.”
I smile, relax. He is so nice about everything. And it’s wonderful getting help. I feel as if I’ve been battling alone for such a long time. “Thanks again, Brian, for all the help with the ball. The event wouldn’t be a success without you.”
“My pleasure, Holly. I’d love to see Olivia’s face right now. I’m sure she’s frothing at the mouth.”
“She did not look happy in the staff meeting.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No. But she gave me a look that could kill.”
“She doesn’t think you’re involved, does she?”
“I hope not. If Olivia knew—” and I suddenly stop because something’s wrong, very wrong, and I can feel it all the way through my bones. I look up. Oh, God. No.
Olivia is standing next to my desk. Her gray-green eyes are fixed on me, and her expression is strange... neither warm nor cold, kind nor harsh. It’s... empty. Vacant.
“Holly?” Brian’s speaking to me, but I can’t answer. “Holly, are you there?”
“I have to go,” I whisper into the phone, and hang up before he can say anything.
Olivia is just standing there, and I know I’ve royally fucked up. Not a little screw-up, but the kind of screw-up where I can’t breathe.
I go numb, the air bottling inside my chest. My skin turns colder and colder until I think I’m just better off dead. “Olivia.”
“Who was that?” she asks, her voice quiet. Calm. Perfectly detached.
I can’t answer. I just look at her, a horrible spaniel-like pleading look saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But Olivia ignores me and leans forward, hitting the last number dialed on my phone, and Brian’s name and number flash.
“Brian Fadden,” she says, straightening.
Shit.
“I’m sorry.” Usually my biggest fuckups are private. I don’t think I’ve ever humiliated myself quite this way at work before. My stomach is grinding like a kid who’s learning to drive and can’t find the right gear.
“For what?” Her tone is glacial, her expression just as frigid and brittle.
I open my mouth to confess but see Josh and Tessa from the corner of my eye, and suddenly I don’t know what to say. Because if I confess, I’m probably fired. If I don’t, I’m lying. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I always used to be honest, straightforward, but honesty is beginning to seem a little overrated. I do a sidestep instead. “For taking care of personal matters on company time.”
“Personal matters?” One of her elegant eyebrows arches higher. “Brian Fadden? My contact at the paper?”
“He and I... well, we’re sort of... dating.”
Her head jerks back. You’d think a snake had bitten her between the eyes. “Dating?”
“He’s coming over for dinner tonight.” I’m so
numb and scared and the words are just pouring out of their own accord. “We were finalizing plans.”
She looks at me so long that I shrink in my chair.
“You better not have been involved with that article, Holly.” Her voice is hard. Ruthless. “Because a mistake is one thing. Betrayal’s another.”
I can’t wait to get home. I hardly leave my desk the rest of the day. Josh shoots me an e-mail: “You okay?”
I answer, “Can’t talk about it right now.”
Later Tessa sends me an e-mail: “Everything’s fine. Take a deep breath. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
Maybe not to her.
Even Sara stops by my desk, leaves a big chocolate-chip cookie on the corner. “Thought you could use a little something sweet,” she says.
Why do I suddenly feel like a death row prisoner getting her last supper?
I go to Circuit City after work, buy the computer I saw advertised in the Sunday paper, haul it home, shower and change, and am just getting dressed when Brian arrives.
Brian’s brought a big pizza and Caesar salads and a bottle of red wine. “She was standing there, wasn’t she?” he asks, opening the wine in the kitchen.
I reach into the cupboard for wineglasses. “How did you know?”
“You sounded like Dead Woman Walking.”
I still haven’t quite gotten over the shock of seeing Olivia standing there behind me, and shudder a little remembering. “I felt that way, too.”
I rinse out the Waterford glasses, and Brian pours the wine—the first time I’ve used the stemware since moving to the city.
“I think I’m doomed,” I say, clinking glasses with him, far less celebratory than I was this morning at ten.
“She can’t fire you without David’s approval, can she?” he asks, leaning against one counter.
“I’d hope not.”
“You’ve been pulling your weight, haven’t you?”
“I’m working hard.”
“David will see that. From everything I’ve heard, he’s a reasonable man.”
I nod and get busy setting the little kitchen table with a red-and-white-checked picnic cloth that now looks Italian and festive, and we sit down and eat and drink and continue talking.
“She’ll get over it,” Brian says later, as we finish eating.
I wipe my hands on my napkin. I’ve had two and a half glasses of wine and am mellower but not yet fully recovered. Those bad feelings today were so bad, they’re hard to forget. “So what’s the story of you and Olivia?” I ask. “Because you both are a little cagey about each other.”
Brian eyes me above his wineglass. “Really? What does she say about me?”
“Not a lot. It’s what she doesn’t say.”
He shrugs. “We went out once.”
“Just once?”
“Mmm.”
“And...?”
Another shrug. “We didn’t click.”
“She used you.” The words just popped out of my mouth, and I don’t know why or how, but I look at him, make a face. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I used her, too.”
I feel my eyebrows climb.
“She does have an incredible body.” His look is pointed, and I feel small on the inside, small and insignificant because I can’t compete on this level. I will never, ever be the chick with the hot bod.
Brian flashes me a humorous smile. “You asked.”
“I wish I hadn’t.” And it’s a struggle to get the rest of my pizza crust down without gagging. I’d give my right arm to have half what Olivia has. Olivia is smart, worldly, sophisticated. She’s tough, has attitude, doesn’t get stepped on, does the stepping instead.
That’s power.
That’s something I don’t have and don’t think I ever will.
We carry our wineglasses to the living room and the little table I’ve set up in the corner, awaiting my new desktop. “So what kind of computer did you buy?” Brian asks, hunkering down in front of the boxes lying on the floor. He’s so big, he makes the table and chair shrink. Even the computer box looks small.
“I’m not sure. But the price was good,” I say, stepping around him.
“Women,” he mutters, but gently, teasingly, as he tears open the box containing the new hard drive.
For the next fifteen minutes he attaches cords and plugs in things, connecting the various components until he boots the computer, and magic—there’s sound and color. Action. Inserting one of the CDs, he does something else, reboots the computer, hits a few keys, registers me, and boom, I’m ready to go. “You’re connected, online, free to surf the Net, shop, whatever your heart desires.”
Whatever my heart desires. If only I knew what my heart desires.
“Thanks so much,” I say, collecting all the plastic bags and bits of Styrofoam and empty cardboard boxes that protected the computer, screen, and keyboard.
“Piece a cake.”
“Well, for you, maybe.”
“It’s easy. But I’m glad I could help.” He reaches for me, pulls me down on his lap. “I like helping you.”
“You do?”
“I missed you today.”
“You did?”
He nods, smoothes my hair. “I think about you a lot.”
And I think about him, but not like this. I like him, but I’m not sure what I feel. I’m not sure about anything. Brian is everything good and kind and wonderful, but I’m still so numb on the inside, still so scared about everything.
Brian hands me my half-empty wineglass. “Finish,” he says.
I take a few halfhearted sips, and his head lowers. I know he’s going to kiss me, and I know that I’m not ready to be kissed. Not by him. Not by anyone. His lips touch mine, and I try to relax, try to let the fear and tension go, but I can’t. I can’t get past the hurt and the hint of panic, can’t get past the feeling that I’m Goldilocks trying to find the right porridge, the right bed. Nothing feels comfortable inside me yet. And even Brian Fadden, who is smart and clever, thoughtful and helpful, isn’t what I need.
At least not yet.
As his kiss starts to deepen, I put my hand on his chest and gently but firmly push him back. “Brian.”
He looks down at me, says nothing.
This is going to hurt him; I know it will, but I can’t keep ignoring what I feel. Or what I need. “Brian, I like you. I do.” I take a quick breath. “But I’m not ready for this. I need time. Time to sort things out.”
He nods, the corner of his mouth curving. “I know you do.”
He hesitates, then kisses me in the middle of my forehead before lifting me off his lap and putting me on my feet. He rises, reaches for his coat. “But when you’re ready to date, call me.”
“Okay.”
For a moment he hesitates at my door, and I feel odd—prickly, emotional, sad—but this isn’t about him; it’s about me. About the things I have to learn and understand and do.
His mouth quirks again, and then he’s gone, and the door shuts. I’m alone.
I realize, as Brian’s footsteps echo outside, that I’m alone because I want to be.
I’m alone because it’s what I need for me.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s strange when a week goes by without a single e-mail from Brian.
It’s what I wanted, but suddenly my life does seem a little lonelier. Brian and I had been e-mailing quite a bit lately, and it was nice getting his quirky notes once or twice a day. He always made me smile, and I looked forward to the interruption, but at the same time I didn’t want to be leaning on him like the proverbial crutch.
The whole point is that I have to—as unpleasant as it sometimes seems—stand on my own two feet. I’ve got to be okay without a man. I think of my mom, and she says she is, but is she really?
If you know the story of Snow White and Rose Red, two sisters, daughters of a poor widow, you’ll recognize my mom. She’s the Snow White sister, the one the story describes as qui
et and gentle, who sat at home with her mother and helped her in the household, or read aloud to her when there was no work to do. That’s my mother. A woman who keeps her cottage beautifully clean and is unfailingly cheerful. A good, sweet woman deserving of a prince.
But to get princes, Snow White and her sister Rose Red had to be so good. They had to make sure there were always roses in vases on tables. The copper kettle had to shine. The floor had to be immaculate. And the girls had to be gentle, loving, obedient.
Obedient.
I’m sorry, but that sounds awful. Those stories teach that love is reserved for those who sacrifice themselves, rather, like the beautiful ballerina from “The Steadfast Tin Soldier,” who burns up with her guy at the end, symbolizing true love. I don’t think so. One shouldn’t have to die—physically or psychologically—for love. Love should be about strength, not weakness. Empowerment, not dependence.
Shouldn’t it?
Katie’s back in town, and Friday night we go out for happy hour and have such a good time that Katie calls me up Saturday morning, insisting that I go clubbing with her, her buddy Kirk, and a few others. I haven’t been to a club, or dancing, in so long I feel like my grandma Bishop, but I’m still basking in the glow of a successful Friday night happy hour so I agree.
I spend a long time Saturday evening trying to figure out what I’m supposed to wear for a club. Most of those places are dark, so I figure anything black will do, and make a huge fashion statement with black jeans, a low-cut black top, and black belt and boots.
Studying myself in the mirror, I know, even without anyone’s help, that this is a wrong look for me.
I change out of black jeans and try the top with regular jeans, and it’s better. Far from snazzy, but knowing the contents of my closet, I’m forced to accept that “snazzy” isn’t part of its vocabulary. “Safe” is. As is “boring.” “Predictable.” Which is what we’ll do tonight.
I make an effort with my hair, try to do something interesting with earrings, and head outside as soon as my phone rings, letting me know Katie’s in the drive.