We are missing our friendship. That's what it must mean.
Still... I wonder.
After some debating over what to do with our day, we decide to head over to Museum Mile and hit the Met. Rowan has never been before and I figure on this chilly November day that it's warm and fairly quiet, and we can just hang out.
We take our time as we travel through the various galleries. Neither one of us are the type to seriously study a painting, but we do at least move past each one and give it more than a cursory glance. We could spend months in the Met if we wanted to study everything but I wanted to give her a taste of it all.
We make idle chitchat when we can, but for the most part, we are silently enjoying the art.
As we walk among some Spanish Renaissance pieces, Rowan stops before a painting and studies it a bit longer. I hold up and wait for her but she doesn't move, so I walk the few steps back to stand beside her.
She's gazing at El Greco's View of Toledo. I've never seen it before, or if I have, I've forgotten it, but it's quite beautiful with its dark storm clouds shadowing the lush, green hills, and the medieval city of Toledo, Spain in the distance. The more I look at it, the more I can see why Rowan is taken with it. It's both peaceful and edgy, which is a good way to describe Rowan.
"It's old," she says quietly.
Peering at the placard beside it, I see it was painted over four hundred years ago. But so have many of the paintings we've seen so I don't understand the significance of her statement.
"I can't imagine what it takes to preserve something this... special."
There's something about the tone of her voice that is haunting and I turn my eyes to her. Her profile is so fucking beautiful. Her lashes are long and lay like whispers on her cheeks, and her nose has just the slightest tilt upward that gives her that pixie look.
"I imagine a lot of techniques have been learned over the years," I muse, turning my gaze back to the painting.
"I imagine it takes a lot of hard work. I bet there's painstaking focus on the details."
I nod. "If it wasn't hard, then it wouldn't be so treasured."
She turns her head and I meet her gaze. She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment before she says, "Exactly."
Rowan turns and walks on to the next painting, and I'm not quite sure if we were just talking about art or something else.
We decide to eat a late lunch in the cafeteria at the Met, which has a surprising array of food. I choose a pastrami sandwich and Rowan tries their sushi, which I'm a bit dubious about eating from a cafeteria. She swears it's good after she takes the first bite and offers me some, but I decline. I'm not about to get food poisoning.
Her mood does seem to be lighter though, and after I decline her offer of sushi, she demands I give her a bite of my sandwich. I laugh and willingly hand it over to her, watching as she takes a huge bite.
She only chews twice and then she closes her eyes in rapture and lets out a moan. She clearly thinks the sandwich is amazing but damn if the sound she makes doesn't cause a surge of lust to drive through me. I thought I had made it past these feelings, but apparently not. I watch as she finishes the bite, giving a final swipe of her lips with her tongue, and I realize I am no further removed from my feelings for Rowan than I was right at the moment I first sunk my finger into her while she was pressed up against my door.
The image of that night flashes hot in my brain and I take a deep breath to move past it.
"Is something wrong?" Rowan asks.
I drag my gaze to hers and shake my head. "No. I'm good."
I'm anything but.
I still fucking want a woman that doesn't want me the same way. I decide a change of subject is order.
"So, what are your plans the rest of the weekend?" I ask her. I have four glorious days off and I have no clue what I'm going to do for all of it.
Rowan shrugs her shoulders. "No major plans, but I'm up for hanging out if you want to."
"Sure," I tell her, although I'm sure I'm setting myself up for some serious frustration. "And before I forget, we need to leave for my mom's house around noon on Thursday. I think she wants to eat around 2:00 PM, if that's okay with you?"
I hadn't mentioned Thanksgiving to Rowan lately, and I assume she's still on board with going, but since our friendship had been a little rocky the past few weeks, I'm greatly relieved to see her smiling.
"Sounds great. I'm going to make the pie early that morning but that's plenty of time."
"We won't stay over there too late because I have to be back to work the following morning."
"Not me. Nix gave me that Friday off."
"I thought he was an asshole," I tease.
She smirks. "He is, but he does have some nice moments."
Rowan reaches across the table and sneaks one of my fries. "So you want to rent some movies tonight? Order a pizza?"
Swallowing a bite of my sandwich, I take a quick drink of my soda before replying. "Um... I actually have a date tonight."
This is a bit awkward but no sense in hiding it.
Rowan glances down at her plate for a moment but when she looks back at me, there is a warm smile on her face. "So, when are you going to tell me all about your mad dating life? I mean... aren't friends supposed to share that stuff?"
Her smile looks genuine but I think she may be putting on an act because her voice sounds a little shaky. Could it be that Rowan is having second thoughts? Because if she is... she needs to fucking tell me so we can get on with it.
"Hmmm... let's see. Her name is Jennifer and she lives here in Brooklyn. She's a few years older than I am and works in a bank. She's like this really hardcore fitness nut though... I mean, really intense."
Rowan snorts. "Don't tell me she only drinks spinach shakes?"
I about spew the soda I'm taking a sip of because she's pegged Jennifer. "Sort of. It's actually a bit annoying when we go out to eat and she only nibbles on raw vegetables."
"Oh, God... I was just joking. She really does that?"
I laugh and nod. "But she's really nice and she's gorgeous, and..." I search for other words to nicely describe Jennifer but nothing is coming to mind. "And she's really successful... she's a banker." I throw that last part out because I don't know what else to say and I feel slightly guilty for even telling Rowan something about Jennifer that annoys me.
Rowan's smile slides off her face, and I have no clue what I've just said to make that happen, but she clues me in. "Wow... banker. You really landed yourself someone great."
She's trying to say it to give me a compliment on my new girlfriend, but she's saying it as a backhanded slap to herself, because she isn't an investment banker, which in turn doesn't make her good enough.
I reach across the table to grab her hand and she instantly tries to pull it away. I hold on tight.
When she looks at me, there is moisture in her eyes and my fucking heart cracks. "I didn't mean anything by that, Rowan. I was just struggling with what to say about her to you and that is the only thing that came to mind."
Blinking her eyes rapidly, I watch as the tears dissipate and she gives me a smile. "It's good. I know I'll never be successful like that. I had my shot at that type of life and I fucked it up."
"No," I tell her harshly. "Don't ever talk like that. You didn't miss your shot."
She's quietly staring at me so I continue on. "And who's to say what success is anyway? I look at you and your ability to take care of yourself in a very mean city, and you did it all on your own. How many people do you really think could do that without succumbing to things like crime or homelessness?"
Rowan blinks and then nods her head slightly. "You're right. I hear you."
"I'm serious about this, Rowan," I tell her. "You are amazing."
She smiles at me, and this time it has more light to it. "Thanks. You always know what to say to make me feel good about myself.
The thought that my words make Rowan smile causes happiness to bubble and well inside of me.
It makes me realize that I used to feel this way a lot around her, but that I haven't felt this way in a while.
I squeeze her hand and take a deep breath. "I feel like our friendship's taken a bit of a hit lately."
She sighs and squeezes back. The look on her face is one of deep affection and her smile is as warm as a desert breeze. "Yeah... I feel that way, too."
"Let's rectify that, okay?"
"Absolutely," she says, her smile flashing with joy.
We've completed Phase One of The Caldwell Thanksgiving Day Extravaganza. The food has been eaten and the top buttons on our pants have been undone. Flynn and Nora are in the kitchen, cleaning or miraculously eating another piece of pie, but everyone else has been shooed out to the living room.
Nix and Emily are on one end of the loveseat, with her on his lap, both of them sound asleep. Nix's dad, Hank, is on the other end with his head tilted back. It took that group only three seconds to fall asleep. Nick is stretched out in his recliner and, every time I glance at him, he's struggling to keep his eyes open.
Tim ate with us as his wife has Sam for this holiday, and he's passed out on the floor with Capone snoring softly beside him.
That leaves just Fil and me. We are sitting on the couch and she's trying to teach me about football.
I absolutely adore Fil. Since meeting her earlier this month when we went clubbing, she and I have developed a good friendship. We've gone out together a few times, which ironically seem to coincide with the nights that Flynn has gone out on his dates, and we text each other all the time. She has a hilariously filthy mind and loves to text me shocking photos, usually of naked men. She tells me I'm in a dating slump and wants me to get out there and steam up the sheets with someone, and she figures the photos will get me in the mood.
The other day, my phone buzzed with a text and I saw it was from Fil. It had an attachment that said, Hawt guy in kilt with huge pole!
I immediately scrambled to open the picture, because she has sent me some really hot men before. When the jpeg opened up on my screen, I started laughing. It was a man... in a kilt, and yes, he was hot. But the pole? Yeah... not what I was expecting. He was literally carrying a huge, wooden telephone pole in his beefy arms. It looked like one of those Highland games or something.
"Okay, now pay attention, Rowan, because I'm going to give you a complete run down of all the rules today as we watch this game."
Fil leans forward on the couch and gazes seriously at the TV. The Raiders and the Cowboys are playing and although I've heard of the Dallas Cowboys--I mean, who hasn't--I have no clue who the Raiders are. Sorry, but hockey is my game.
Fil gives me a rundown of the National Football League and how it's broken into two conferences with four divisions in each. I look longingly over at Nick Caldwell, who has succumbed to a nap.
"Now, this is important," Fil says with flourish. "Our team... the Giants... are in the NFC east, same as Dallas. Which means we hate Dallas and so we're pulling for the Raiders today."
"Wait... why am I a Giants fan?"
"Because you're a New Yorker, that's who you root for."
"But maybe I'm a Jets fan. That's who Flynn roots for and besides, he got Capone a Jets collar."
Capone raises his head after hearing his name and looks around with bleary eyes. When no one says anything further to him, he gives a deep sigh and lays his head on Tim's stomach.
"Fine... whatever... be a pansy-assed Jets fan, but don't come crying to me at the end of your pitiful season."
I'm pretty sure I won't be doing that because past watching the games today, I have no intention of following football.
After silently watching for a few minutes, I ask, "Okay, here's a question for you... what's that yellow line on the field?"
Fil doesn't answer me so I poke her in the ribs. "Teach me, Yoda."
She looks at me with frustration and then looks back at the TV. "That splits the field in half."
"Liar," I hear from the doorway and I turn to see Flynn there with a plate of pie in his hand.
Fil turns around and looks guilty for just a second, then her face splits into a grin. "Busted."
"Wait... that line doesn't split the field in half?" I ask, because that made damn good sense to me.
Chuckling, Flynn walks in and comes over to the couch. "Scoot down," he says.
I try to move to the left, but Fil is ignoring me in favor of the football game. I jab her in the ribs again, she moves over a quarter of an inch, and I move along with her. It gives enough room for Flynn to jam his body in between the end of the couch and me, and the heat of his leg against mine sends my pulse dancing.
He takes the last bite of pie and sets the plate down on the coffee table. After he swallows, he says, "Okay... the yellow line represents the first down marker. You do understand the concept of downs, right?"
"Sort of," I tell him. "Not really. And what's the blue line?"
"That's the line of scrimmage," Flynn says and, before he can explain further, Fil lets out a curse. "I can't believe he got sacked. The offensive line sucks."
"What's a sack?" I ask.
Flynn chuckles. "Slow down there, Speedy. One question at a time."
He takes my hand and turns it palm up. "Here's the easiest way to understand it. See these two lines running parallel on your palm?"
I glance down and his fingertip traces two of my lifelines, which do indeed run exactly parallel across my hand. The feel of his skin against mine causes me to shiver slightly and I'm mesmerized by the movement.
"Yeah," I say and it feels like it comes out in a croak.
"So, this line right here is the line of scrimmage. It's where the offensive line starts and the quarterback will be roughly in the middle of the line." Flynn traces the line of scrimmage on my palm and then taps the area where the quarterback would stand.
"And this here," he says, as he runs his finger across the other line. "This is the first down line. This is the distance, which is ten yards, that the offensive line has to get the ball to be able to advance further. They have four tries to get there... and those are called downs."
I want to know more, not because I give a shit about football but because I want Flynn to keep holding my hand and tracking patterns on my skin. Which is decidedly not within the purview of a regular friendship.
"And a sack?" I remind him.
He pushes his index finger into my palm and holds it there. "When the quarterback starts the play at the line of scrimmage, he will most times step backward to get some distance from the defensive players that are coming toward him. If at any time they get him behind this line," and here he pauses to drag his finger across my palm, "that is called a sack. Understand?"
"Yes," I say but really, no. I don't remember a damn thing he just told me and could care less. I am, though, trying to think of other questions to ask so he can teach me more palm football.
Sadly though, Flynn releases my hand and props his feet up on the table. He leans back into the cushions with a sigh. I'm sitting almost ramrod straight, trying to follow the game, while Fil sits beside me, alternating between cheers and curses that, funny enough, don't wake up any of the nappers.
After just a few minutes, Flynn touches my shoulder. "I can't see the TV, Rowan, with you sitting forward like that."
Before I can respond, he grips my shoulder and pulls me back into him. As I sink back into the couch, he raises his arm and drapes it over my shoulder. I'm stiff and unsure, but then Flynn leans over and whispers in my ear, "Relax" and I let myself melt into him.
Pressed up against his side, his scent and warmth calming me, I tentatively lay my head on his chest. He responds by giving me a slight squeeze and then his thumb starts rubbing the edge of my shoulder. It is heaven and I close my eyes so I can concentrate on the feel.
When I wake up, I'm completely disoriented. I first take in the fact that the same football game is on so I must not have been asleep long. Next, I immediately realize that I am lying down with
my head in Flynn's lap, and his arm is holding me around my waist.
Carefully, I ease my shoulders up and sneak a peek. His head is tilted back against the couch and he is sleeping soundly. I pick up his hand and move it off my waist, gently rolling off the couch so as not to wake him up. Glancing at Fil, I see she is curled up on the other end of the couch fast asleep, and everyone else is still down for the count.
I step gingerly over Flynn's legs and head into the kitchen to find Nora sitting at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a magazine.
"Hey," she says when she sees me. "I just peeked in a few minutes ago and you were sound asleep."
My cheeks burn slightly that she found me sprawled on her son. "Yeah... all of a sudden, I was out."
"Turkey does that to you," she says warmly.
Walking to the fridge, I open it up and pull out a bottle of water. "Then how come you aren't sleeping?" I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders. "I guess I just like taking advantage of the quiet when I can. I have plenty of time to sleep later when I've gone from this earth."
My father used to say that very thing when my mom would try to urge him to come to bed late at night when he would still be working. The unbidden memory actually makes me smile and I realize that this is the first time in five years that I've had a memory of my parents that didn't cause me pain.
"Now that's a lovely smile on your face," Nora says, her Irish lilt ringing like music.
"I just thought of a nice memory, is all. My dad used to say that very thing... that he would have plenty of time to sleep when he was dead."
Nora smiles and rests her chin on her hand. "You miss your parents, huh?"
I meet Nora's gaze and keep the same smile on my face, but I'm honest with her. "Actually... I don't."
"I'm sorry, honey," she says. "I didn't mean to open up a can of rotten worms."
"No, it's okay. It's kind of funny... but I used to miss them. Even as toxic as our relationship was, I would miss them a lot during holidays. But for some reason... right now, I don't."
Nora cocks her head to the side, curious, but she doesn't ask. I go ahead and volunteer. "Thank you for inviting me into your home, Nora, and for such a great time today. You created a new memory for me that I'll have to cherish."