Now, she looks like she listens to One Direction…and Aqua since she’s definitely a “Barbie Girl”—or Barbie’s sister.
With a mixture of confusion and irritation, frown lines wrinkle her forehead. “And you are?”
Well, isn’t she friendly? “I’m his new neighbor, Jo. We moved in yesterday,” I say, pointing to my open door with my thumb.
She blinks, her icy stare deepening. “Well, Jo, I’ll be sure my boyfriend gets your package.”
I almost laugh out loud at the animosity in her voice. Wow, jealous much?
“I’d better get back to my son. It was nice to meet you…” I leave the sentence open, so she can give me her name, but instead, I get the cold shoulder.
She knocks on his door, and before I have a chance to reach mine, I hear the door open.
“Hey. I thought I could hear voices.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand tall at the sound of his burly voice.
I turn around, and I find myself transfixed to the spot, watching how his perfectly formed lips touch hers. He kisses her with uninhibited passion, holding nothing back. It lasts only a couple of seconds before he steps back, his eyes ablaze with heat as he stares down at her. It’s a look that screams hot, wild sex, and I can feel the sensuality that oozes from him.
I startle when he looks up, and his penetrating eyes lock with mine. My entire body sparks a firestorm under his gaze, his tropical-blue eyes keeping me in place. I twitch, uncomfortable with the sudden attention, and feel a thin sheen of sweat coat my skin.
A couple of seconds pass before the intensity dies down as he glances down at the box in his girlfriend’s arms, and amusement flits across his face, his lips pulling up at the corners. My mouth threatens to do the same, but I keep my face neutral, not wanting to give any tells. His hauntingly beautiful eyes return to mine for a few more beats until he finally breaks free of the connection.
“Come on in, sugar.”
He turns and ushers his girlfriend into the apartment while I’m left out in the hallway, trying to fight away the smile that threatens to explode along my face.
Sugar.
It might be a term of endearment for his girlfriend, but it was aimed for me, antagonizing me in this strange little game we’re playing. He’s challenging me, mocking me, and for some strange, unknown reason, I’m excited. It’s childish fun, and for the first time since my life turned on its head, the world doesn’t seem so ugly.
I wander back into the apartment, and I find Junior sitting on the countertop with blue buttercream around his mouth, trying to quickly stuff the last bite of cupcake between his lips before getting caught. I approach, smiling at the mess he’s made of himself.
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”
“What do you mean?” he asks innocently, as if he doesn’t have evidence of the cupcake around his mouth.
“Go and clean up your face, babe.”
“Busted.” He winces animatedly before jumping off the countertop.
“How was it?”
“It was delectable!” he exclaims with a smile, running off in the direction of the bathroom.
My laughter follows after him at his use of delectable—not nice or tasty or even delicious but delectable. I swear, he’s not my kid sometimes.
My eyes fall on the second cupcake, and unable to resist the sugarless goodness, I swipe my finger along the buttercream and bring it to my mouth. A sweet explosion erupts on my tongue, and I can’t keep the groan from escaping my lips.
Wow, Junior is right. It is delectable.
However, sugar-free? I’m not convinced as I devour the entire cupcake in approximately five bites, and I already feel like I’m drunk on sugar.
“Mama, do you believe in heaven?”
My eyes flash up to Junior’s in an instant. Suddenly, I feel as if I’m eating solid coal instead of the lasagna we’re currently eating for dinner.
I place my cutlery down and take a sip of my water before answering him, “I’d like to think there is a heaven.” The words barely strain from my throat as Christopher instantly swoops into the forefront of my mind. I close my eyes tight to capture his handsome face between my lids, latching on to his spectacular green eyes for as long as I can.
I have this irrational fear that, if I don’t lock on to the vision of him, his memory will somehow begin to fade from my conscious. It’s a silly fear, especially when five years have passed and the clarity of his face is still as vivid as if he were standing right in front of me. All I have left is his memory, and without that, I’d have nothing. This is probably the reason I have yet to find any closure from his death. I’m simply unable to let go. I don’t think I ever will.
“Do you think that’s where Daddy is?”
I smile sadly and gently nod as I reopen my eyes. “Yeah, of course he is. That’s where angels go when they’re no longer needed on earth.”
His mouth turns down with a frown as he stabs into his lasagna, but instead of eating it, he just twirls it around with his fork. His saddened expression pains me.
Why is he so focused on heaven?
Since he was a baby, I’ve always instilled in his head that his daddy is looking over him. I’m not particularly religious, but I do believe in the possibility of a god and an afterlife with heaven or hell.
None of us definitely knows if heaven and hell exist. It might just be a myth, but I cannot allow myself to think like that. I have to believe in an afterlife because the thought of Christopher simply not existing is a concept I can’t comprehend. I know he’s gone, but I have to believe he’s somewhere else, looking over us and not in a black hole of nothingness, dead and that’s it.
There has to be something more. An afterlife has to be possible, especially since we live in a world where the impossible is possible—with the natural phenomenon of gravity, the astonishing ability to breathe oxygen through your lungs, and the miraculous power of growing a little human being from two simple molecules.
“What’s with all the heaven talk?” I ask Junior after a few minutes of silence.
He just shrugs, staring down at his food, moving the noodles around with his fork, which definitely isn’t like him.
“Hey”—I nudge him until his gaze meets mine—“talk to me.”
“Some girl at school told me there wasn’t a heaven and that when people die, they just die.”
My eyes widen. Okay…how do I handle this?
All I can say is, I’m glad this little girl didn’t tell him that Santa Claus didn’t exist. That would be a much more difficult subject—for him, I mean.
I edge closer and focus solely on the hue of his green eyes. “I’m sorry she said that, baby, but unfortunately, not everyone believes in heaven.”
“Why not?” he questions with confusion wrinkling his little face.
“Well, some people have different beliefs and religions. Some believe in God, and others don’t. There isn’t a right or wrong, but not everybody believes in the same things.”
“What are my beliefs?”
“I don’t know; you tell me.”
I want him to answer for himself. He’s incredibly bright for someone of his age, and he’s very much his own person. He doesn’t need me to tell him what he believes in; he knows himself.
He glances down at his unfinished food for a brief moment, deep in thought, before looking back up at me. “I believe in God, and I believe Daddy is up there with him, watching over me.”
I gently nod and smile. “Well then, that’s what you believe in. You stick to your beliefs and don’t ever let anybody tell you any differently, okay?”
“Okay,” he agrees.
“Now, finish your food.”
“Yes, Mama.”
We continue our dinner with him telling me about his day at school. He started his new elementary school on Monday, and after only three days there, he’s settled in brilliantly. Thankfully, kids adjust a lot quicker than adults, so the transition has been fla
wless.
However, me on the other hand…well, it’s debatable.
I’m not talking about the new move to Austin.
I’m talking about my life and how Christopher still consumes me. How can I adjust to a new life in a different city while I’m still struggling to adapt to my world five years after his death? Surely, that can’t be normal.
I want to be at a stage where I can finally move on, find somebody whom I can spend my eternity with, but when you spent forever being in love with your soul mate, planning a lifetime with him, it’s hard to picture that with somebody else.
A week ago, I would have hated the thought of being with somebody new, a stranger, but after witnessing the heat-filled kiss between my neighbor, Drew, and his little girlfriend—ahem, jailbait—perhaps I’m missing that heat, that romance, that pure sexuality that radiated between them.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been sexually active. Hell, I’m surprised I don’t have cobwebs growing under there with how long it’s actually been. Who knows? Sex might have changed a lot since then, especially since the whole Fifty Shades of Grey came out.
Am I expected to be that adventurous with floggers and kinky sex dungeons?
The only sex I’m familiar with comes in the form of my eight-inch dildo that’s tucked safely away in my underwear drawer, and to be honest, that probably has its fair share of cobwebs, too.
I’m abruptly brought out of my daze at the sound of my son asking, “I’m finished. Can I go and read now?”
I shake my mind of all things sex-related and give Junior my undivided attention. “Yeah, sure. You have half an hour, and then it’s bath time,” I say as I begin to clear the dishes from the table.
“Then, can I read some more?” he asks with puppy-dog eyes.
That look has me laughing with a shake of a head. “Another ten minutes won’t hurt, I guess, but only if I read to you.”
“Fine,” he groans like a petulant teenager. He stands and begins to make his way to the couch where his Kindle awaits. “But please don’t do those weird voices again. You ruined the whole experience for me.”
A roar of laughter rips from my throat. Seriously, my boy is older than his time.
“Kid, my voices rock, especially my pirate voice. Ahoy, matey. Shiver me timbers, ye scallywag,” I say in my best pirate voice.
This has Junior in a fit of giggles, and that sweet sound tells me that my little boy is back to his normal self.
Once Junior is tucked up in bed and fast asleep, I get settled on the couch and open up my laptop. Since my job has flexibility, enabling me to take Junior to and from school, my boss and I made a compromise that I would do some work from home, too. I actually like having something to focus on. It helps take my mind from the darkness that is buried deep in the soul of me.
So, for the next two hours, I become engulfed in my work, putting together contingencies and ideas that my client might like. When I plan an event, however big or small, I always ensure I have at least three proposals with individual mood boards for the client to choose from. I love mood boards. In the digital age that we’ve become accustomed to, traditional mood boards are now deemed as old-fashioned. Instead, we have Pinterest, and I’m obsessed with that website. It’s a perfect visual aid for my clients, and I get to surf the net all day, looking for pretty things to pin. It’s an awesome job.
As I’m searching Google for sleek, elegant centerpieces for the gala dinner—according to my client, the more extravagant, the better—my finger suddenly pauses over the trackpad when I hear the echoing sound of “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction coming from the other side of my door. I glance at said door and purse my lips to stop myself from laughing.
Is he fucking kidding me?
I’m thankful he only has it playing through my door and not blaring it at a thousand decibels from his apartment, or I’d have to kick his ass. However, I do move quickly toward the door because it could still wake Junior up.
I open the door, expecting to find Drew standing there. Instead, I look down to the floor to see the source of the god-awful music—an iPhone attached to a mini speaker dock. I take a swift glance around the hall, and when I find that I’m alone, I glare at his door with a stare that’s traced with humor. Then, I pick up the iPhone and pull it from its dock, immediately ceasing the music.
Fucking One Direction.
I make a step forward to return his iPhone when the phone suddenly vibrates in my hands with a text message. I glance at the message, unable to help myself since he left his phone for me to find, but I smile to myself when I realize the message is directed to me. I swipe the screen and go to the Message icon.
Drew: You’ve found the phone then?
I retreat back into my apartment, already typing out a message.
Me: Kind of hard to miss when it’s blaring 1D through my door. Again, 1D. Really?
By the time I’ve reached the couch, he’s already replied.
Drew: I was trying to get your attention since you didn’t return yesterday’s gift. And I know you love 1D.
I smile as my eyes glance over to yesterday’s gift still in its box—an orange mug that says, Without sugar, I can be a real bitch.
Me: I decided to keep it since the description is pretty accurate for me. I am a real bitch without sugar…and coffee and food. The list is endless.
Drew: I’m glad you liked it, but I have to admit, I missed your RTS.
Me: I hope that’s an acronym for Return to Sender and not something kinky. And I never said I liked it. I just happen to be low on mugs. You saved me $7. Thanks.
Drew: $7? I’m not that cheap. It was around the $20 mark. When sending gifts to my beautiful neighbors, I tend to go all out. ;)
I’m taken aback as my eyes trace the word beautiful.
Wow.
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word, especially aimed at me.
“Has anybody told you how beautiful you are?”
I blushed coyly as I looked down at my prom dress—a simple ballgown with a black bodice, elegant silver sequins sparkling against my waist, and a pink chiffon skirt. Soft fingers lingered against my chin, lifting my head, until my eyes were met with a pair of striking green ones, and I found myself transfixed within them in an instant.
“Don’t do that. Don’t look away. You’re beautiful, and I’m sorry if I don’t tell you enough. But, wow, Jo, you’re breathtaking.”
I looked up at his handsome self in his tuxedo, and I traced my fingers against the lapel of his jacket before smoothing my hand down the center of his chest until it came to rest over his beating heart. “I’m not the only beautiful one.”
“Me?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes, you. Christopher Joseph Bailey, you are beautiful and handsome and breathtaking and every other adjective that describes how gorgeous you are, especially in this tux.”
He smiled and moved closer to me until we were chest-to-chest. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The pure magnitude of love within his eyes were telling me everything I needed to know. With no words needed, he leaned in until his warm lips brushed gently over mine.
All too quickly, he pulled away, and like a true gentleman, he held out his arm for me. “Your carriage awaits, ma’am.”
And, with that, I looped my arm with his and let him lead me to the limo.
With the memory from my senior prom, pain ricochets through my chest, almost causing me to double over from the impact.
I remember that day as if it were only yesterday.
Since Christopher and I were little, we had made a pact to go to senior prom together, and that was always the plan, even with him away at college.
I already had my dress picked out, which was hung up all pretty inside my wardrobe, waiting to be worn. However, two weeks before, I decided to skip the prom altogether. Christopher was under a lot of pressure, getting ready to take his college finals. I couldn’t expect him to drop everything, so he could t
ake me to some dumb prom. I couldn’t be that selfish.
But, Christopher being Christopher, he did exactly that.
On the day of prom, when I was getting ready to spend the evening watching trashy movies with a pint of ice cream, he surprised me by turning up on my doorstep.
He’d traveled miles just so I could go to prom. It was by far one of the most romantic things he’d ever done for me. He went all out—flowers, dinner, and a limo.
It was perfect.
I’m jolted out of my reminiscent daze at the feel of a vibration against my hand and the sound of an alert tone. I look back down to the phone, but my vision is blurry, and that’s when I realize that I’ve been crying. I shudder out a breath and wipe away my stray tears, the words coming back into focus again.
Drew: You still there?
I read the words, and I’m confused for a moment as I retrace my thoughts before I became lost in the world of my past. I read the previous message, and it all comes back to me. Drew called me beautiful.
I begin to type out a text message when another one comes through.
Drew: The anticipation of your next text is killing me.
My mouth turns up with a hint of a smile as I reply. This is new. I find it mesmerizing—how he can put a smile on my face even though my heart is aching inside my chest.
Me: Did you know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?
Drew: Who says I was being sarcastic?
Me: Were you being sarcastic?
Drew: Well, yeah, but still, you should give people the benefit of the doubt. I highly doubt you can do that though. Your lack of compassion is probably a side effect of your bitchiness, right?
I type the next message with an eruption of laughter.
Me: Exactly. LOL.
Drew: Am I seeing things, or was that a laugh? I didn’t realize you knew that emotion.
I hadn’t meant to put LOL in the text message, but God, he is such an ass. Yet I can’t resist continuing this insane conversation with him—on his cell phone.
Me: Yes, but not because you’re funny. Quite the opposite actually.
Drew: Ouch! Hit me where it hurts! ;)
Our Forever Page 4