Wanderlust Page 11

  “She is your mother,” Cal said with disapproval.

  Hence the reason Annie was biting her lip … and avoiding his judgment.

  Yeah. Okay. My mother.

  Annie set the phone aside and walked toward the fridge with a huff. Cal disapproved because she hadn't told Beverly about him yet, but he knew what it all meant anyway. Annie had told him plenty of Bev stories. Hard truths.

  He knew what it meant, but he didn't know what it meant to live it.

  He hadn’t been there to witness Annie taking care of her mother day in and day out. The months which turned to years. The postponement of college. The resentment that grew into dysfunctional branches in the Baxter family tree. The responsibility. The sacrifice. The alcohol. The dependence.

  “Yes, but she is … she is…” Annie trailed off, looking into the fridge for a lemon, but she spotted a bottle instead. Grabbing it, she examined the label on the Chardonnay.

  “She is what, Annie? Incorrigible?”

  Annie smiled — perfect, yes — incorrigible. As she looked up from the Chilean wine at Cal, their eyes met, and she laughed.

  Even though he was amused at his own ingenuity, Cal glanced away, sure to keep his true emotion from his face. He hid it from his eyes, disguising the familiar fear, the familiar sting, the self-inflicting prophecy he thought would come true.

  She would leave.

  Travel.

  She would find someone new.

  She needed to.

  Someone young.

  Someone who wasn't fucked up and unable to tell her all the things she deserved to know. Things about his own mom. Constance’s disease made him weak, undone, out of control.

  He needed control.

  How long had he covered wounds and searched for an obscure nothing? Years. Not just since he’d met Annie. Being afraid was unacceptable. So, he shoved it down. Taking risks never worked. Only in business. He would keep covered up, bandaged. He would flash a smile, fuck like a king … only a little longer because the summer wouldn't last forever.

  The dream of her eternal comfort would die like everything else did.

  They both finished preparing the meal, together, which included lots of laughing and talking. They worked well, were in sync, and were proud of their accomplishment.

  Then they sat at the table and enjoyed eating their creation — shrimp fajitas smothered in sweet onions, green and red peppers, and mushrooms. Rosa’s homemade tortillas lay on the side, along with a generous bowl of freshly smashed guacamole, the green of the avocados brilliantly speckled with red onion and tomato. The food was fresh, delicious, and consumed rather quickly.

  Annie finished first. Pushing away her plate, she set her arms on the table and leaned forward, watching Cal dip the last bite of his stuffed tortilla into the guacamole on his plate. A nervous smile spread across her face.

  "I need to talk to you about something." Annie slid her index finger down her water glass while looking up at Cal.

  “I know."

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … I can tell something has been on your mind all night.”

  Flinching, Annie placed her palm on her chin and looked away for a moment, then she looked back at him. Her next words chartered a supersonic jet plane from brain to tongue. Sentences came out without periods.

  "I'm going back home next week I have to make plans for the fall and winter for my work and I need to be with my family I'll be gone at least a couple of weeks."

  "You already booked a flight?" His eyes sliced her in two.

  "Yes. I leave a week from Monday."

  "Mmmm. And you were avoiding telling me," he said, peering into her spleen or kidneys or all her organs.

  "I was scared."

  "Of what?" he asked, intimidating her further.

  And the way she felt as he looked at her was precisely why she’d been scared. She didn't know what he was thinking or what he might say.

  "We've never talked about this before."

  "About what? You're just taking a business trip.”

  "We've never talked about the future."

  "We have. You want to travel. I have business and family to return to. I came here for the same reason you did. To work and forget. You made it clear you didn't want to talk of plans.” He flicked imaginary crumbs from the table. His eyes were stones. “Ever."

  "You listened to me? I didn't think you did that." She gave him stone eyes too. Jade. "Ever."

  He leaned back in his seat. "Okay, Annie."

  His stare, smooth as ice, gouged her. She thought he did his best to act devoid of emotion, but she knew him better now. His impervious nature was an act. He was full of shit-shit bullshit.

  "What about the future?"

  "Our future." Asshole. "I want to move back home, and I know your lease is up at the end of September," she explained, a lump in her throat, contempt in her eyes.

  “Oh, you want to move back home. A minute ago, you said you were going home to set up work.”

  Annie picked up the empty wine bottle and set it down again. She drank her water instead, avoiding his question and looking into his eyes.

  Cal was silent for several seconds. Something forbidden pained his chest. He hurt. Still, he moved his chess piece. He spoke his next words with his typical bridled control. He spoke his next words without thought or with it. He didn't know anymore. Annie made him fucking out-of-his-mind crazy with need and passion and things he couldn't pocket and order and label.

  "Annie, when you moved here, you knew it was temporary." He pressed his fingers against his palm, his face looking like a rubber band being stretched and stretched. "When I moved here, I knew it was temporary." Stretching. Ready to slingshot. "This whole damn thing is just temporary.”

  Zoom…

  Although he’d spoken the last sentence with the most harshness and insensitivity Annie had ever heard from his lips, she knew deep down he was fiercely protecting his heart from pain. The way she did. But it was too late.

  He would feel the pain.

  Just. Like. Me.

  Pressing her lips together, Annie stood from the table.

  “It's all just temporary. That's right, Cal." Her voice increased in volume with each word. Pain unlike any other throbbed in her chest. She picked up his plate and stacked it onto hers. Clank! She wanted to cry but didn't. Anger fought tears. "So why actually give a damn about anything or anybody, right?" She stared down at him. Hard. "Don't be such a prick."

  "I am a forty-five-year-old prick. Did you expect something different? Didn't Maggie give you fair warning?"

  Annie had never expected him to be anything other than himself. Fuck age. She wanted him. The prick. The man whose heart was bigger than he ever gave himself credit for.

  "What did she say about me the first night I met you?"

  Annie clanged stuff onto the plates — silverware, bowls, whatever. "I don't want to do this. I'll go home like I planned. We’ll have one more week together — to fuck — and when I get back, we’ll both be packing all our temporary shit up."

  "Annie ... stop it with the fucking dishes." He stood. "I'm sorry we avoided this discussion for so long. My business is in L.A. You know—"

  "So, this whole thing is just temporary, right? Then congratulations to Maggie. She earns the gold for I-told-you-so's, Cal. Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to fulfill some self-inflicted prophecy about yourself, or do you want to prove everyone wrong?"

  Everything. Is. Temporary!

  Death. Death. Death. Life circumventing death until it jumps from the shadows and stabs you in the fucking heart. All of it one big three-ring circus that comes to town for the night and then picks up and leaves. Gone. Poof.

  I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

  Annie walked over to the sink with the noisy dishes, set them down, and stood with her hand under her nose, ugly souvenir finger sticking out, as she tried to pull herself together.

  "Annie, don't clean up,
or your cut might start to bleed again." His voice, it had switched. It held the undeniable concern she knew he felt in his very bones, not just for her souped-up finger, but for all of her. Me.

  "What do you care?" She turned on the sink. The water masked the sound. Anger had lost. Tears had won.

  He was at her backside in an instant. He shut the faucet off. But she would not turn around. She sucked the sobs inside with all of it: the temporary, the bullshit, the summer that was supposed to be hers.

  Mine!

  And now it was over.

  He put his hand on her waist, but she pushed it away, then crossed her arms. He reached for them, trying to gently pull them down by her elbows, but she stiffened, fought him, so he gripped harder.

  Annie wanted him with the same intensity with which she despised him. His harshness, his conflicting bullshit, his need. Maybe she needed him to bury himself so far inside her she wouldn't be able to breathe or cry or fight.

  He slipped his hands around her waist and spun her around to face him, but she kept her chin to the ground, eyes on the floor. Both of his hands held her hips. "Look at me.”

  It never got old. The look at me shit. Those three words were so powerful, but they couldn't stop the tears tonight. If anything, they came faster now, dropping from her eyelids like hail.

  He lifted her chin and saw the devastation. The storm. His eyes transformed into those of a million different men on a journey from prick to prince. A prince with his foot shoved so far up his ass he couldn't speak. He stepped away, took out a bottle of Crown and a glass, and began to pour himself a drink.

  Bandaged finger jutting out, stomach a pretzel, Annie shook. Great. No talking. No angry fucking. She could’ve used a drink. God, even the whiskey looked appetizing to her cracked throat.

  "Don't you have anything else to say to me?" Her damn words rattled as they flew from her mouth.

  He slammed back the liquor. "I have plenty to say to you," he replied, disguising his true hurt, his real fear.

  If he couldn’t drown it in her pussy, then he sure as fuck wanted to drown it in the drink.

  But Cal was quiet. Silent. His lack of words had never been more deafening than at that moment. He picked up the bottle in one hand, the glass in the other, and went toward the stairs. Alone.

  Like a drone, Annie stood motionless, watching him as he moved along with effort, walking as if he was treading up the steps against his will. After he reached the loft, she stayed in the kitchen for several more minutes. Her stomach churned, and the room seemed to move as though she were drunk or inside a kaleidoscope, spinning.

  Everything was clear, and everything was hazy.

  Her feelings for Cal became clear the way a blue sky appears after fog parts. His body as he’d walked up the stairs … it belonged to her. His understated ways, his concern, his regrets. Hers. They fit together, Cal and Annie. Somehow, they fit. His company never got old.

  Old… He wasn't old. Not to her. Ever. They could talk about anything. He supported her. He listened. He made her feel safe.

  But he wouldn’t let her in. Not all the way. Did she open herself up to him?

  Still...

  She loved him.

  What was she supposed to do with that?

  Deny it forever.

  Call it temporary.

  Go ahead … take the Crown. No amount of alcohol will change it.

  No more doubts.

  No more fucking running, Annie.

  Or hiding.

  Truly.

  Then what am I doing?

  Leaving?

  Working.

  Living.

  I am done running.

  He can follow.

  I've loved him all along.

  From the beginning.

  From the very first time he kissed me in the rain … on the sidewalk.

  Annie could no longer pretend she didn't want more of Cal, that she didn't want all of Cal, and that she didn't want to really be with Cal for more than just their summer of whatever, no plans, and what-ifs.

  Annie knew now she could no longer pretend she didn’t love Cal.

  But she knew she would continue to pretend on the outside, in front of Cal, for as long as she could stand. Because what would he do with her words if she proclaimed them aloud? Squash them? Pulverize them?

  They were her words. Hers. She owned them. She could love him quietly — for a few more weeks at least. Until her heart became a grenade.

  Cal held the pin.

  Annie awoke in the middle of the night, agitated, unsure if Cal had even come to bed. She’d had to force herself to fall asleep after their fight.

  There was a reason for the popular advice: Never go to bed angry.

  And so it was with great relief — her hurt and anger had dissipated, and all she felt now was the same damn ache in her chest — that Annie glanced to her left and saw Cal’s form in the gray of the room.

  A book lay open across his bare chest. His glasses rested at the tip of his nose. His lips were closed, his breathing heavy, then light, his chest rising, the book falling with his exhalation.

  A little unsteady at first, Annie stood and walked to Cal’s side of the bed. She removed his glasses, careful not to wake him, and closed the book — the same one from before: Infinite Jest. It was over one thousand pages after all.

  A nonsexual, but sexual, be-my-companion aching held center court in her throat. It attempted to claw through skin, and it hurt, resonate and strong, utterly distasteful, and yet, it was never more appealing.

  Hurt and remedy. Pain and pleasure. Each word had a perfect partner. An opposite. A yin and yang. He was her partner. Him. The sleeping, beautiful man. Him. The perfect antonym. Calvin Warner Prescott.

  I'll always feel the ache to feel the love. I'll always feel the hurt to find the cure. I'll always desire pain when you give me pleasure.

  She looked at his golden eyelashes, touched his sugar-soft hair. She inhaled his rising and falling exhalations, wishing to stay in the quiet moment forever.

  I love you...

  Annie woke Sunday morning after the sun had risen — after the dark, the ache, and the realizations — and sat up in the bed.

  After glancing over at Cal’s empty place next to her, she turned and reached for her phone. Underneath it, something caught her attention — a piece of copy paper folded in half with her name neatly written on the outside.

  Annie’s heart sank, slithered off the bed, and fell flat on the floor as she rubbed her eyes, scooted to the edge, and planted her feet on something solid.

  Was there such a thing as solid?

  She opened the note. Short, sweet, to the point, but it confirmed what she knew in her heart.

  Annie blinked back tears.

  Seeing those words written right there in pen...

  Sure, they weren't I love you, and God save the man who proclaimed his love on a sheet of copy paper, but still, the words, I care about you … well, this made it a fact. Right?

  It was true.

  It wasn’t just sex.

  They had feelings for each other.

  Real feelings.

  The ones she usually heard in his tone and always saw in his eyes.

  The note solidified it. The note poured concrete into the cracks of her doubt.

  He did care. Deeply, monumentally, wholly. He cared more than he could bring himself to speak. The pen had done the talking for him. The pen had spoken what he could never seem to say.

  But he had said it. She had felt it in his eyes and lips and hands. In his actions since the beginning.

  God. What were they doing? It was still just the summer. But it never was.

  This note didn’t change anything. She was still leaving, and she couldn’t tell him she loved him. Because in a few more weeks, they would move on. She would start over, lost or stronger or sick to her stomach. She would keep going.

  It was fine.

  Fine, fine, fine.

  "Good morning." Rosa chir
ped her way into the bedroom, passing Annie, who, by the way, jumped out of her skin. She knew Rosa had a way of coming and going as she pleased, but still, she’d startled her. Thank God for the lock on the door.

  "I scared you," she called out from the bathroom, where she must’ve been retrieving the dirty laundry. Laughter sprinkled her tone.

  Annie's mind remained on the note, the words, the man who was... Where is he?

  "Where are you, mi amor?” Rosa took a seat next to Annie. “You are awake dreaming, soñar despierto."

  Annie smiled a little, finally greeting Rosa with a, "Hi,” as she folded the note and set it on the table. Letting out a nervous breath, she began to twirl her hair.

  Rosa waited.

  She waited longer.

  "What’s wrong, love?" Rosa tried to meet Annie’s eyes, but Annie only replied with a sigh and a drop of her chin.

  "Cal is not here. He’s on his run. If you want to talk to me, now is the time, mi querida."

  Shifting her body toward Rosa, bending her left leg on the bed, Annie fiddled with her fingers, making a string decet or, you know, the these are my hands and the steeple and the church full of people or whatever the hell it was.

  She dropped her chin again, but this time, Rosa lifted it. "What is it, child?"

  "I told him I’m leaving in a week to go home, to schedule work.” Annie forever fidgeted with her church full of people. “But I may move back home. I miss it. We fought. He won't tell me how he feels about me."

  But he had. Not out loud. Not on her terms. Accept him.

  Rosa put a stop to Annie's busy hands and cupped them. "And you, did you tell him how you feel about him?"

  "I can't." She looked away. "I need to hear it from him."

  "Maybe he needs to hear it from you,” Rosa said, stroking Annie’s cheek and making a clicking sound with her mouth. “You’re both foolish in love. You are so young, and he’s so scared.”

  "Of what, Rosa? I've given him all of me." Annie believed the lie.

  "All of you?" Rosa’s brows knitted. "Did you tell him you love him?"