Lilies on Main

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “Go change,” he says.

  I quietly shut the door behind me, rummage through my bag, and find the wrinkle-free, simple black dress that I haven’t worn in years. It was stuffed in the back of my closet. Separated and pushed to the back via the “before” skin cancer days. I threw it in the bag because Alex had told me to. I’m glad I did.

  Removing my breathable, long-sleeved top, I shimmy out of my skirt and let it fall to the floor. I decided on the color red for my bra, as panties weren’t an option, per Aaron.

  The soft material is a good mix between silk and spandex, though I’m fairly certain I purchased this dress from a street vendor in Costa Rica. It feels cool against my skin. Breathable. Like a glove worn as a second layer of protection.

  That reminds me; Aaron and I haven’t had the condom discussion yet. God. Will that make things awkward? I’m not on any type of birth control. I stopped taking my birth control long before Brett and I split—not out of good reason, but because I didn’t want to be intimate with him. The more he hurt me, the more I shut down. On occasion, he’d force me to do it. Some might call it rape. I didn’t. And, looking back on it, I’m not sure why I didn’t call it that ugly four-letter word. Maybe that was my body’s way of preserving itself. Maybe the feelings that went along with it the morning after, days after, weeks after, months after made me feel somehow more empowered if I didn’t use it. More in control of myself. More than what the quiet voices whispered in my head—weak, timid, broken, less than. Because those are the words that Brett used when he was in a manic mood.

  This is different, Lydia. You are not what he thinks. You are better. You were made for good. You are strong. Courageous. A fighter.

  The little black dress fits me snug in all the right places. But I see the scars. The scars on my legs, my back, some on my shoulders. The big scar that runs from my collarbone to the middle of my chest, the length of my sternum, is courageous. One six-year-old would give her heart to another six-year-old, the end of one little life, to continue another little life. These marks that I’ve allowed to define me for so long are somehow giving me power, choice, and control.

  I put on a little more mascara, a little bronzer, a few sprays of perfume. I throw my shoulders back and believe, just for the evening, that I am who I’m becoming. Not what Aaron thinks of me. Not what Brett thought of me. Not what Lilly thinks of me or my mom and dad. I have to be with myself for as long as I live. I have to believe that the person staring back at me in the mirror is the same person who fought so hard to be here. And that this step is the most crucial one.

  Aaron might have given me the courage to be strong, brave, but I’m the one who has to believe it.

  I take a deep breath, turn from the mirror, and open the door.

  Aaron is standing by the windows, looking out. He turns to me.

  Everything is still. Existing and quiet.

  Time passes but only through a very small window that’s hard to see through.

  We’re given one gift in life, and that’s to exist. Everything else is just temporary situations. Defining moments along the way. This is one for me.

  I don’t know the look Aaron is giving me because I’m blinded by his love. It’s the kind of love that makes lilies grow in outdoor fields. The kind of love found written in books, in fairytales.

  “Delana,” he whispers softly.

  I don’t wince even though that’s how Brett used to start an apology. Another broken promise. The word Aaron just said wasn’t spoken out of regret, guilt, or shame; it was spoken from the softest place of his heart and breathed so beautifully.

  “You look like all the times I didn’t run out of fear.” He takes a few steps closer. “When running would have been easier. Like every time I received a call from overseas, praying it wasn’t the military calling on behalf of my dead brother.”

  He’s close enough to touch me. Takes his thumb and slides it the length of my scar on my chest. I think he does this to remind me that this is where I’ve been, how I’ve come through it, and how I’ll live to tell Lilly that she can do the same. Tears get caught in my throat as he hits the end of the scar.

  “You can’t be defined, Delana. Nobody can define you, except you.”

  With tears dying to fall, I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to push them back.

  But one escapes.

  Then, another.

  He takes the same thumb and pushes them away. “Why are you crying?”

  I try to speak but can’t because I don’t want this to come out unclear or broken, as if, somehow, I’m weakened or scared, showing weakness.

  “I … will always be stronger than my circumstances. Lilly will always be stronger than her circumstances.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Twenty-Four

  Aaron

  The dining room is packed with quiet chatter. The hostess seats us near the window, tucked away in a back corner. When I made the reservation, I requested somewhere private, secluded.

  The hostess pulls Lyd—Delana’s chair out, and I grow a little jealous. I wanted to do that.

  “Thank you,” she says to the woman.

  “You’re welcome. Your server will be with you shortly. Would you like wine?” she asks as she places a menu in front of each of us and sets the wine list in the middle of the small, intimate table.

  “Yes,” Delana says.

  The hostess looks to me.

  “Please.”

  She turns over our wineglasses that were already neatly placed on the table and promptly leaves.

  A small candle, protected by a glass jar, flickers.

  “What would you like me to call you?”

  “Lydia for now.” She peers back at me. “You look very handsome tonight, Warden.” She pauses. Looks around the room. “I think every woman in this restaurant has her eyes on you right now.”

  I stare at only Lydia. “On the contrary, Lyd. Those women are staring at you and how perfect that black dress fits you.”

  “Ah.” She laughs. Picks up the wine list. Scans it.

  I tried to talk her out of the insert that she put into her dress to hide the scar down her chest.

  She said, “It’s not what others think, Aaron; it’s the way they look at me after they see it. Pity doesn’t sit well with a woman of my variety.”

  “I think I’m going to try the house red. Do you want to try it, too?”

  Her green eyes have turned darker in the dining room and yet more alive than I’ve ever seen them.

  “Do you know your eyes change shades of green?” I ask before I take a sip of water.

  “I’ve heard that before.” She sets down the wine list. Stares back at me. “The wine?”

  “Oh, yes, red sounds good.”

  Our server comes over. “Welcome to the Harbor Inn, Warden Casey, Lydia. Good to see you both here.”

  “Zach, it’s good to see you, man.”

  Zach is attending the local community college and will be starting the Warden Academy in the fall.

  “Good to see you, Zach,” Lydia says.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Have you looked at our wine list?”

  “We’ll have a bottle of the house red,” I say. I look over at Lydia, whose eyes are as big as the bottom of a coffee mug.

  A bottle? she mimes the words. Smiles. Shakes her head.

  “I will be right back with that.” Zach walks away.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” Lydia laughs. Drops her head to the side.

  “I will never get you drunk before I make love to you, Lydia.” I see her arms break out in chills. “Just want extra in case we want it for later.”

  Lydia’s mouth is open only slightly. She closes it.

  Zach returns with the wine and pours it in each of our glasses. “Have we decided on dinner?”

  Without missing a beat, Lydia and I both say in unison, “Fish and chips, please.”

  And then we both laugh, leaving Zach with an awkward moment on his
hands.

  “I don’t get it, but two fish and chips on the way.”

  The bottle is halfway gone, and the food was good. Not quite Merryman’s fish and chips, but a real good fish and chips. I pay the bill even though Lydia tries to pay for it.

  “Listen,” I whisper in her ear as we stand in front of the table, “I know you’re an independent woman, a successful businesswoman, and you have the means to do so, but let me always get the bill—not because you can’t, but because I want to.”

  We begin to walk.

  “Why do you have to make things sound so sexy all the time, Aaron?” she whispers back.

  We make it back to our room, which is part of the addition Harbor Inn added in one of their many remodels.

  My hand rests on the small of her back, and before I grab the key from my pocket, I slowly turn her to me. Look into her eyes. I lean in and put my mouth on hers as her back gently falls to the door. A moan escapes her mouth as she reaches up and pulls me to her. I taste the grapes on her tongue and feel the softness of her mouth. Her body comes alive.

  She pulls away, resting her head on the door. “I need you to unlock this door and take me inside right now, Aaron.”

  I release my right hand, pull the key from my pocket, and unlock the door. She spins and takes a deep breath, pushing a few strands of fallen hair behind her ear. I set the bottle of wine and the room key on the small table next to the door. That’s when she notices the rose petals and the candles.

  It’s semi-dark in the room.

  “Oh, Aaron. Someone made a mess in our room.” She bends down to pick up the rose petals.

  I see her ass in the black dress, and I can’t help but want to touch it. Slow it down.

  “Those are for you, Lydia.”

  She stands and falls back to me.

  “For me?” She looks around our room, which is covered in rose petals. Our bed included. “Who did this?” Lydia turns to me. Her body against mine.

  “The staff.”

  She puts her lips to mine, and my grip tightens around her waist.

  “You … you are full of surprises. I’m going to change into something more comfortable,” she says as she pulls away from me, pulling her blonde hair from its spot tied neatly on her head. Her strands fall down past her shoulders as she saunters to the bathroom.

  The moonlight shines through the windows and reflects off the ocean.

  I don’t get into anything more comfortable because I didn’t bring anything more comfortable. I didn’t bring pajamas because I don’t sleep in pajamas.

  As I’m pulling off my shirt, I hear the bathroom door open and turn to see the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.

  Lydia slowly walks toward me. Her light-blue nightie barely covers her thighs. Her nipples have grown hard. Her blonde hair waits patiently to be pulled. I toss my shirt on the floor. I try to act casual, but I don’t think I can. My heart begins to slam against my chest as she gets closer, and somehow, my feet meet her in the middle of the room.

  My hands slide to her backside as I feel myself grow against her.

  She’s felt me here before. We’ve gotten this far before, but I’ve always waited. I want our first time to be special, and I know Lydia does, too.

  With my hands gripping her, she somehow shimmies out of my grasp to undo my jeans, belt, letting them fall to the floor.

  Lydia is at my waist. I feel her hands slide down my thighs as she grabs for my boxers and pushes those down, too.

  And she kisses me there.

  “Please, Lydia, not yet. This will be over in two seconds if you touch me there right now.”

  I feel her smile against me, and she slowly makes her way up to my mouth, leaving a trail of kisses in her wake.

  My hands move to her backside again, and I hoist her up, her legs wrapping around mine. She whimpers when her middle touches mine. Bites her lip as she stares into my eyes while I walk her over to the bed, push her against the pillows. I gently fall between her legs. I lift the nightie to expose her body, pulling it up over her head. I look down at her beautiful body.

  “What do you need from me, Lydia?” I ask.

  Want and need hangs heavy in her eyes.

  She takes her hand and cups my cheek, sliding it into my hair. “All of you. Every single last part of you. Even the broken parts, the ones you keep hidden from everyone else. I want those, too. The times you deliver unbearable news to families, I want you to come home to me, so I can help you mend.”

  I drop my head to her chest, resisting the urge to cry. She sees those times? I rest my cheek against her scar. “You see those times?”

  “I’ve seen your heartbreak, Aaron. As much as you try to hide it from everyone, I see it,” she whispers. Her hands in my hair, she holds me to her—not in a sexual way, but in a way that makes me want to show her this side of me.

  “I see the way you look at your brother. Worry about him. Knowing he’ll never be the same after what he experienced at war. Watching his every move.”

  How can I feel so high and so sad at the same time? This woman sees right through me, exposing my vulnerabilities that nobody’s ever seen.

  After a moment and after my heart slows down, I push my lips to her scar between her breasts and kiss the entire length. Our naked bodies intertwine as if we’d spent the last twenty years lying in bed together.

  I get up on all fours and stare down at my future below me. She doesn’t know it yet, but I want to spend the next twenty years intertwining our bodies, adjusting, growing, moving, connecting.

  “You are so beautiful, Lydia.” I reach down and caress her nipples, giving them a tug, watching her as her eyes close and her body moves as if she needs me inside her. Leaning down, I put my mouth around her breast and toy with her nipple, using my tongue.

  She gives a throaty laugh and sucks in her bottom lip with her teeth. She watches, and I watch her as I move to her other breast. I trail kisses down her scar and reach her navel, then her pelvis, and then her thighs, and I go to the center of her body and pull her apart.

  I dip my tongue against her middle and hear her sigh. Then, again. And, again, I hear her cry out. Her legs are limp at her sides.

  “Aaron Casey, if you want to make love to me, you’d better stop right now,” she pants, grabbing my shoulders.

  I smile against her and give her one last touch with my tongue.

  I pull my head up to her mouth and kiss her with everything I have. “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  Centering myself above her on all fours, I push into her, and she cries out.

  “Yes,” she hisses. Her eyes fall to me.

  Again, I push into her.

  Wanting to imprint this memory into my head forever, I don’t dare close my eyes.

  Stars appear as spots at first. I call out and stop moving because I’m about to explode, “I can’t—I can’t—we need to slow down, Lyd. I’m about to let you down.” I pull out only for a moment. “I just need a minute.” Breathless, I leave my mouth on hers. Kiss her. “I’m sorry.”

  Lydia jerks her head back to look into my eyes. “Sorry? Don’t be sorry, Aaron. Don’t you dare be sorry.”

  Nodding, I slowly enter her again.

  She whimpers as I flip her around, and she sits on top. I pull her tightly on top of me as she rocks.

  We both come together.

  Stars are seen.

  Black spots trail the ceiling.

  Bodies shudder.

  Sweat seeps from our pores.

  In a matter of minutes, we lie here, sweaty, tangled in the sheets, panting, both having climaxed.

  “That was quick,” I say.

  She laughs. “Again.” She takes me in her hands and puts her lips to mine.

  I need to tell Lydia about Sarah soon. Tell her about how I fell in love once before and how it all ended.

  Twenty-Five

  Lydia

  It’s Saturday morning, and the soft breeze blows through
the open window in a timely manner, as if it were prearranged. We’ve just made love again, and Aaron’s arm is curved around my side, down across my chest, holding my breast as if our bodies were built for only one another.

  The salty breeze from the ocean blows over my skin. If I opened my mouth, I’m sure I’d be able to taste the salt that drips from the air. He’s behind me, his body touching mine.

  Standing Sideways sits on the nightstand.

  “Read me a few pages from the book?” Aaron asks, his voice full of love, content, hushed, and broken at the same time.

  Slowly, I reach to the nightstand, take the book, and open it up. We read some last week. Now, we’re at the part where Liv is telling her love interest, Daniel, about the staging center where her family was awaiting news because we still don’t know how Jasper, Livia’s brother, died.

  Daniel takes his napkin and wipes his mouth as I finish my sandwich. “Your brother was great?”

  I, too, wipe my mouth. His knee pushes into mine in the softest way possible. I nod, justifying what will come out next but feeling the desperation inside to share it with someone else.

  “When we got the call, one of the surgeons donated his pilot and his jet to us to take down to LA.” Feelings pile into my chest like mounds of bricks. “My dad and an FBI agent were there to pick us up at the airport and drove us to the staging center.”

  Daniel doesn’t look at me, but his knee presses harder into mine. He gently cups his hands around his water glass. Crowded, the butterflies push on my insides, and my chest grows with an ache, making more room for the butterflies and the bricks.

  “It was at the fairgrounds in one of the halls where they held the exhibits. The art exhibits. The craft shows. There were cots. And families. And sadness.” I nod, as if trying to convince myself that it doesn’t hurt that bad. That the sadness and despair don’t come flooding back. But they do.

  Reality: the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

  The place I’m in right now, at this very moment, is hard to exist in and even harder to breathe in.