Sally grabs me from behind, linking her arm through mine, squeezing up as I try to help her walk in a straight line—she has definitely had too much to drink, as have most of this group, other than, well … me. And Michael. We’ve been too busy talking, getting high off the fact that we are together, no alcohol necessary.
“He’s so cute!” Sally whispers furtively. “What the hell is going on? There I was, about to fix you up with Craig, and suddenly a handsome stranger appears, and you’re like, totally engrossed in him for the whole evening. Are you interested?”
“Michael? Oh my GOD no!” I have no idea why I lie, but I want to keep this private. If, in fact, there is anything to keep private. And God, how I hope there is. Please, God, let it all come true.
“You so are interested!” Sally insists. “I can tell.”
“No,” I bluster. “He’s just my oldest friend.”
“Riiiight.” She squints at me, and, damn it, I burst out laughing. I can’t help it.
“So there is so much chemistry between the two of you it’s like, freaky.”
“Bullshit,” I say, but the smile on my face gives it away.
* * *
The party is crazy crowded. My heart sinks slightly when we walk in because I can’t see Michael. I can’t see anything, other than a mass of people crushed together, drinking beers and trying to dance in a small, sweaty apartment, the only dim light coming from a few colored lightbulbs someone has screwed in.
And then Michael is in front of me, and he grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, and I swear, I am so instantly calmed it is like I just had an IV hit of Xanax or something, and I have no idea where he is leading me but I really don’t care. At this point he could jump out the window, and I’d be right there, jumping with him.
“Trying to find some space!” Michael turns around and yells in my ear, and I just nod as I mutely follow him. Eventually we are on the other side of the room, and it’s really not much better. It’s like we’re trapped in some giant game of sardines.
Michael turns to face me and shakes his head in disbelief.
“This is crazy!” I shout, then Michael’s face is right there, and suddenly he’s not smiling anymore, and my heart jumps because—thank you, God! Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!—there’s this huge charge of electricity between us, and his face gets closer, and I move toward him without even thinking about it, then his lips are on mine.
It is the sweetest, softest kiss I have ever had. Tentative, nervous, searching. We pull away for a second, open our eyes, and look at each other, and I have no idea why but I am so scared; then he smiles, and I know it’s all going to be okay. He kisses me again, and his arms are around me, and our tongues are intertwined and I am so happy, I think I may be about to cry.
I have never been kissed like this before. And as crazy as this sounds, this feels like so much more than a kiss. I can literally taste the tenderness and love, and when he sighs, “Emily,” and pushes my hair gently off my face, I think I may have started to dissolve.
Thirty-seven
My head is pounding before I even open my eyes. When I do, it’s slow, and I am completely disoriented. The sheets don’t smell like mine, nothing smells like mine, and as my eyes gradually come into focus, I remember where I am.
I turn my head very slowly, just to check, and no, it wasn’t a dream.
Michael.
In bed.
With me.
I snuggle under the covers, not nearly ready to get up. I have no idea what will happen: Will Michael be cold? Distant? Will he say it was a terrible mistake, or that he loves me but only as a friend and it will never happen again?
A familiar dread fills my head, but I force it out and instead go over every detail of last night. I press mental rewind, and in slow motion go through the moment I first saw him, wrapping my legs around him, trying to remember everything we talked about, everything he said, through to him kissing me, and then, eventually, to coming back here.
* * *
We left the party, all of us, in the early hours of the morning, and walked back to Jed’s apartment. Everyone sat in the living room for a while, watching TV and talking as Michael and I curled up on a sofa at the back of the room, not really joining in, just cuddling up. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around me, and with the other he kept taking strands of my hair and stroking them across his lips, just like he used to do when we were kids in the tree house.
“I can’t believe you still do that!” I watched him do it in amazement.
“I can’t believe your hair still feels the same. Don’t ever dye it again, okay? Promise?”
“Promise.” I smiled as he kissed me again, and I wondered if that meant he was thinking of a future, for why else would he care?
“I think we have to call it a night,” Michael said to the room in general, after everyone had slumped into a silent fixation on some rerun of the game.
“I’ll crash here,” Jed slurred, half-turning and raising an arm from his prone position on the other sofa. “You guys take my room.”
We mumbled thanks as Michael led me out of the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered as he kicked the bedroom door shut with his foot and took my face in his hands, kissing my eyelids, cheeks, nose, then lips. “It’s only me.” And I don’t know how he knew I was scared, and I have no idea, in fact, why I was, but the minute he said that I started to relax, and as he continued kissing me, unbuttoning my shirt, cupping my breasts in his hands, I found myself sighing with pleasure.
I slid my hands under his shirt, feeling the muscles in his back, how strong and solid he felt; then I slid my hands around to the front, tracing my fingers ever so lightly down the line of hair from his navel downward, and it was his turn to gasp.
I had to keep opening my eyes because I wanted to see him. This was Michael!
Michael!
This is what I haven’t even been able to openly admit to myself I had been wanting to do for years. And I was! And it was so, so, soooo much better than any fantasy I had ever occasionally allowed myself, it wasn’t even funny.
He’s a man. I sighed to myself as he lowered me to the bed, and when he asked me what I was smiling about, I just shook my head and kissed him, but it was true.
Michael is a man. And maybe … maybe … he might be my man. Even if only for one night.
I didn’t think about very much at all after that. Michael moved down my body, and I panicked slightly—I’m not ready for this; I’m not ready to expose myself so fully—and I tried to pull his head up, but Michael pushed my hands away and whispered that I should just relax and enjoy, and suddenly I was lost in all these new sensations.
I had never felt anything like this before, and then this … this … wave, this huge wave of pleasure started to build and build, and it was flooding my whole body with pleasure, and I could hear someone moaning over and over and I was wondering who the hell was making all that noise, and I came back to earth, and Jesus H. Christ.
It was me.
Michael’s face was then above me, and he was smiling down at me, and he said he was glad I liked that.
And I burst into tears.
* * *
“Really? Never before?” he said, again, later that night, long after we made love, and it was, for the first time in my life, truly making love. “You really never had an orgasm before?”
I shook my head. Embarrassed.
“But … you’ve had a baby!” he said. “You’re experienced.”
“I know.” I had no idea how to explain it myself. “All these years I’d heard people talk about orgasms, and I just hadn’t had one. After a while I thought I was just someone who couldn’t. And you don’t miss what you’ve never had.”
“So was it … good?”
“Are you kidding?” I looked at him in disbelief. “Did you hear that crazy lady shouting? It was amazing!”
“Amazing awesom
e? Or amazing good?”
I burst out laughing. “Would you like more compliments? Shall I tell you how wonderful you are all night long?”
“Woudja?” he’d shot back, as eager as a puppy. We both laughed, and when we went to sleep, I was wrapped tightly in his arms.
* * *
I turn my head.
Michael.
His face pressed into the pillow, mouth slightly open, his golden bare back rising and falling, the comforter pushed down to his waist.
I fight the urge to reach out and touch him. I want to stroke his back, bury my nose in his neck just to smell him, savor every inch of him just in case.
Just in case this is the last opportunity I ever get.
I don’t dare.
As long as he’s sleeping, I can hope that last night means something. As long as he’s sleeping, I can continue with the fantasy that this is just the beginning, because honestly? If this turns out to be a one-night stand, I think my heart might actually break.
I can’t stand the not knowing. It would be easier to … leave. That way, at least, I won’t get hurt, and if Michael wants me, he knows where to find me. It’s 8:42 A.M. I can easily tiptoe out, gather my clothes off the floor, get a ride back to the farm without waking him.
In an ideal world you don’t want to leave without saying good-bye, but I’d rather do that than have to put up with that awful, uncomfortable dread that comes when the man you have woken up in bed with knows he made a terrible mistake.
I push the covers back slowly, then jump. Michael’s hand is clamped around my wrist. Too late. Damn.
“Where are you going?” he mumbles, one eye open.
“I was … going to get dressed,” I stammer as he pulls me back over to where he is lying.
“Liar,” he says. “I know exactly what you were doing. You were trying to sneak out because you thought it was going to be all weird and that we’d feel awkward, so you were leaving before I woke up.”
“I wasn’…” I start, then, because he pulls me close to him and nuzzles my hair, I turn to face him. “Okay. I was. Sorry.”
“S’ okay. Pull the covers up. Bet you never knew I was psychic.”
“Well, if you’re so psychic,” I tease, relief flooding my body, “how about telling me what’s going to happen between us.”
Oh, shit.
Shit!
I cannot believe I just said that. I cannot believe I just said something as pathetically insecure and needy as that. What the fuck am I thinking? As soon as the words are out, I want to inhale them back in because this is not who I want to be with Michael. This is sure to drive him away.
“Oho.” He raises an eyebrow, which is pretty impressive given that one eye is still closed. “Let’s see. First”—he nips at my upper lip and a shiver goes through me—“I’m going to make sure you have an even better time than last night, then”—he sweeps his tongue over my left ear—“we’re going to go out for breakfast. After that I hadn’t decided. Maybe a hike?”
“Do I get any say in the matter?” I am so reassured, so filled with a warm bubble of delight, I pretend to be exasperated just to try to play it a bit cool, although granted, even I know it’s a bit late for that.
“No.” He pulls me closer to kiss me, then leans his head back. “You just get to gaze at my gorgeous body. Don’t pretend you hadn’t noticed. Ow!” He grins as I hit him.
“I can only get away with saying that to you,” he murmurs after we have kissed long and hard, and before we have taken it further, although his hand is already sliding over my thigh, “because you know I’m really a geek underneath.”
“And I can get away with smacking you every time you get too arrogant because you know I’m really an angry goth girl underneath, and if you don’t stay in line, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Em?” Michael breaks off from kissing me, stroking my hair with a tenderness that makes me want to weep. “You are so beautiful.”
* * *
I feel like I have fallen into some sappy romantic Kate Hudson movie by mistake. Our day is so perfect, I can’t quite believe this is happening to me. We do all the things that Michael has planned: we talk, laugh, cuddle, kiss, and I’m not scared at all anymore because this doesn’t feel like something I could lose.
This feels like home.
In the late afternoon, we find a small coffee shop that is filled with the warm smells of fresh-baked cupcakes and cookies. We grab cappuccinos and a lemon bar to split, then settle in at the table by the window.
As Michael puts his head down to sip his coffee, he looks at me thoughtfully over the top of the cup.
“What? Do I have crumbs?” I wipe my mouth instinctively.
“No. It’s not that. I was just thinking. You should go home.”
I put down the napkin and frown. “Home?” I am confused.
“To California. I told you, I’m taking a year off before graduating, maybe even two. I’ve got a job in the city, and I’m going back. You could be with me. It’s time you were with your family again. And…” He pauses and reaches over to take my hand. “I know this is uncomfortable for you to talk about, because you always avoid the subject, and you never say anything about him in your letters and e-mail, but I have to ask. What about Cal?”
I look at him blankly. I feel a combination of guilt, defensiveness, doubt. No one here knows about Cal. I haven’t heard Cal’s name spoken by anyone other than my parents, and I know Michael must be sensitive about Cal given how he feels about his own birth mother. I bristle instantly.
“What about Cal?” My voice is defensive. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. Relax.” He puts his hands up. “I’m asking. Do you see yourself as having a place in his life? I mean, whoever’s raising him, you still gave birth to him. You are his mother.”
“I don’t know that I am,” I argue. “You wouldn’t say your mom wasn’t your mom, would you? She’s still your mom even though she didn’t give birth to you.”
“It’s true, she is, but there is also my birth mother.”
“Whom you’ve never met.”
“Whom I’ve never met, but not for want of trying, and you know how hard my life has been, knowing she gave me away.”
I shake my head. “You know what, Michael? This is totally different. I didn’t give Cal away, he’s being raised by family, and I could still be around if I chose.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” he says. “If you could be around, wouldn’t you choose to be?”
No, I think. That’s precisely the reason why I’ve stayed away for three years. I haven’t wanted to be around. But now … things may have changed. I’m starting to think that maybe I should be with my family. Maybe I should get to know Cal. Maybe Michael has a point.
Maybe, even, the three of us could start again? I think about finding a little house, or a garage apartment, making a home. I think about Michael coming home from work, and me working on a farm, and Cal being with my parents during the day but then me picking him up on the way home from work, making dinner for everyone. Being a family.
And it feels weird. And wrong. Maybe it’s a thought I have to play with for a while. I don’t have to make any decisions. Maybe I just need to think about it and see if I can get used to it.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s confusing. I don’t, or, I didn’t…” I change the emphasis because I want to please Michael; I want to do the right thing; I want to tell him what he wants to hear, but I’m not sure. Not yet. “… want to be a mother, I mean, a full-time mother. I don’t think I could handle it. I don’t feel old enough. Or ready.”
“I’m not saying be a full-time mother.” Michael sounds patient in an exasperated kind of way. “Just be in his life. I’m only saying this because I know what it’s like, and you can’t do that to Cal. It would be better for everyone if he knew you, if you were, at least, around. And, Em? Selfishly?”
I meet his eyes, only for Michael to take a deep bre
ath, suddenly awkward.
“I think … you and I … I don’t know. It feels … right. I mean, I know that’s nuts, I only just turned twenty-one for God’s sake, but … I don’t want to just walk away from this. I want us to give this a shot. And I’m going to be back in California, and I’d love you to be there, too. And, I don’t know, maybe we can build a relationship with Cal together.” He swallows, then looks at me.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, shaking my head, then I put down my coffee and throw myself, once again, into his arms.
Thirty-eight
Andi sits Cal down in a corner of her showroom, emptying out a basket filled with toys to keep him busy. Later today, a new interior-design client will be in to sign off on boards Andi has put together for her master bedroom.
The past couple of weeks have been frantic, getting hold of the right fabric samples, the paint swatches, having the freelance artist sketch the new bedroom, pinning it all together to look delectable.
If all goes according to plan, the client is likely to give Andi the whole house. Right now, she doesn’t think she needs to do much to the rest of the house, perhaps re-cover some furniture, she said, buy some matching pillows. Andi bit her tongue when she first went over, merely nodding and agreeing that the tables she bought from the consignment store were, indeed, fabulous, and no, no one would know they were made from MDF.
The client is wealthy enough to spend significant amounts of money on the best decorators in the area, but, as she laughingly said to Andi, “It’s just not my thing.” Her husband demanded the master be renovated to give them his and her closets and a bigger bathroom, and Deanna, who teaches the client yoga, suggested she might want to meet Andi to fully take advantage of the newly renovated room.
She and Andi had hit it off, had met again to leaf through magazines to enable the client to show her what look she liked. Andi is confident she will love what she has put together.
It has been hard only because she picks Cal up from school at one P.M., and he is no longer napping. And she doesn’t have a babysitter even though there are times when she desperately needs one, because she is his mother, and endlessly grateful that that is the case, and why would she hand him over to someone else in the afternoons unless she absolutely had to?