“When someone buys a house, what do they say? ‘Oh, this is a practical decision’? Or do they say, ‘I love it’?”
He doesn’t respond. I can tell he’s processing what I’ve said, which gives me a tiny bit of vindication, and I proceed because I sense an opening.
“People make decisions based on emotions. They buy things based on emotions. They love a car or they love the color of a couch.”
How can he sell houses without knowing this basic fact of sales? I cross my arms and turn back in my seat. I’ve made my point and it’s a valid one. I wait for his response while my own emotions churn from anger to sadness to optimism.
“There’s an element of truth in that,” he admits. “But it still comes down to practicality, if they can afford it and if the schools are good and…”
“But they wouldn’t buy the house in the first place if they didn’t love it,” I emphasize. “The emotional part of it comes first.”
“True to an extent,” he counters. “It also has to be practical.”
I want to shriek at him, Is love practical? Is sex practical? But I sit silently contemplating. We’re so different. How did we ever get together in the first place? What did he see in me? What keeps us together? It can’t be all about sex. It’s not all about sex. There’s something deeper between us. I know it.
I ruminate about this all evening. We never hold hands or touch each other except in bed. I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on this before because then I’d have to face the reality of our relationship. I’ve known this on some level from the beginning because I’d suppressed the impulse to run my fingers through his hair or hold his hand at the movies or just touch his arm. I subconsciously knew this was unwelcome, though I’ve craved contact. I’ve craved more.
So he’s not perfect. I’ve discovered his big defect. Is that why he’s still single? Do other women find this intolerable or has he never felt secure enough to be vulnerable? Will he relax enough with me to allow our passion to lead to affection? If not, can I live without it? This is the big question.
I don’t want to live without it, but I also don’t want to live without Brad. I can’t imagine it. Love is an addiction, and I’m already hooked on him. Is it better to walk away with a broken heart or try to fix his? Sometimes my heart feels so hungry, I have to hold back from devouring his.
When we get back to his house after dinner, I still sense a bit of tension, but I’ve had a few glasses of wine and don’t care as long as he lets me stay. I saunter into the darkness of the house after him and, before he has a chance to flip on the lights, I succumb to my craving and impulsively pin him against the wall placing my lips on his beneath the tickle of his moustache. I could never resist kissing him. There’s something about his soft, warm lips that draws me like catnip.
I indulge myself pressing my body against his until I need to take a breath. He never kisses me first, and I usually manage to stifle my ardor to kiss him until we wind up in bed, but the wine has swept aside everything but pure hormonal urges. It’s really not so complicated to take what I want my hazy mind insists.
I muse if kissing is too intimate for him, which is ironic considering the uninhibited sex we engage in, but there’s something more intimate about kissing in some odd way. I pause for a moment as my thoughts whir, but he stays still, and I kiss him again until he gently pushes me away laughing.
“Somebody had too much wine. Let me get the lights and put this in the freezer.”
He grips a small paper bag that holds a movie we’d rented and a pint of his favorite chocolate chip ice cream we’d picked up on the way home. He heads to the kitchen, and I go into the tiny half bath.
I grip the sink in front of the mirror and draw in a few deep breaths. My face is flushed. I hold a cool washcloth against my forehead, cheeks, and neck. Our chemistry is off the charts. I often lose myself with him in the most intense and satisfying way. This is where he expresses his fervor for me, and I’m free to express all I hold inside the rest of the time. I take a few more deep calming breaths before I wander out into the hall.
The sound of the TV leads me to the family room where I find Brad watching previews on the movie we’d rented with Coco at his feet. He’s already dug into the pint of ice cream and holds out a spoon for me.
“I couldn’t wait, V.” He smiles sheepishly, which I find endearing.
Yes, I still want him despite his stifled emotions. No relationship is ideal. So, I’ve seen the crack in his smooth façade. The dazzling smile, the politeness, the effortless restraint. There are emotions in there somewhere. He loves Coco. He just doesn’t know how to show his love for me. Yet.
I kick off my shoes, put on my glasses, and settle next to him on the large brown sectional. He sits with his bare feet resting on the matching ottoman, and I casually prop my feet beside his, touching. He doesn’t pull away.
Brad enjoys comedies. Not romantic comedies, just funny movies or action movies. This one is a combination, and we laugh and finish the pint together.
I’m utterly content. Life is good. I was being silly earlier. So what, if he doesn’t give me a Valentine’s Day card or hold my hand or kiss me first? This is better. Much better. This is it.
Chapter 6
Marcy enters my apartment fanning herself with her hand. A large claw clip gathers up her light brown hair with wisps escaping everywhere. Her face is flushed, and she removes her oversized sunglasses and tosses her car keys on the scratched coffee table.
The blinds are closed to block out the sun, yet narrow slits of light cut across the opposite wall. A large standing fan oscillates slowly distributing a hot breeze back and forth across the room. The sliding glass door stands open, but the air is hot and stagnant outside. The temperature has crept up into the high 80s.
“Man, it’s hot out,” Marcy declares flopping onto my worn couch. “It’s not much cooler in here. Where are the kids?”
“At their friends’. Lacie’s friend has a pool at her apartment complex. Luke’s at the mall probably at the arcade. Air conditioning.”
“Smart kids.”
“Where are yours?”
“At my mother’s. She’s such a glutton for punishment.”
“Does she have air conditioning?”
“No. She’s taking them to some superhero movie or something. It’ll be cool inside the theater.”
“Want a popsicle?”
“Hell, yeah.”
I pad barefoot into the kitchen in my loose sundress. Even the linoleum doesn’t offer much coolness. I’ve pulled my hair into a ponytail. Earlier I’d pressed a damp washcloth to my face and neck, but I’ve warmed back up since then. There’s not much to do except wait for sunset to bring down the temperature.
“Cherry, orange, or grape?” I stand in front of the open freezer. The chilly air wafts over me and feels good.
“Grape. No, it’ll turn my mouth purple. Orange.”
“So now you’ll have an orange mouth.” I grab a cherry one for myself. “I’ll get some bowls. These will melt quickly.”
“Who thinks of bowls when our lives are at stake? There’s something wrong with you,” she says accepting the bowl and popsicle.