Bound Hearts (2 page)

It sure wasn’t for lack of trying. She’d serially dated ever since her sixteenth birthday. She’d done casual, semi-serious, and monogamous from her late teens to today. All the men she’d ever seriously considered and tried to make a go of it with had ended up pulling the plug. While they all said different things when they left - “it’s not you, it’s me,” or “this isn’t working out,” or “I don’t think we’re in the right place together to make this work” - the simple fact of the matter was no one could put up with her neurosis and insecurities. She knew it. They all eventually figured it out themselves and took off. Who could blame them? She wasn’t equipped to deal with any man who mirrored her issues. Why did she expect any man to be willing to take hers on?

Then there was the fact that the only guy she’d ever truly wanted – the kind of want that haunts your dreams, distracts your thoughts during class and fuels your late-night fantasies - didn’t even know she existed.

David Shalvington, the mysterious forward on her co-ed soccer team, was built like a linebacker with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and an even deeper voice. At six foot three, he was one of the few men who made Calleigh feel small and feminine when she stood next to him, a double bonus. Even in three-inch stilettos, he easily towered over her. In a city full of metrosexuals and hipsters, he was a man’s man; a throwback to the days when men opened doors for women, lit their cigarettes, and held out their chairs to seat them at dinner.

Shalvington had joined her co-ed team the prior year. She noticed him right off the bat. While there were a lot of good-looking people on the team, he’d stood out the way a thoroughbred stood out, with his height, dark blonde hair streaked with even darker shades of honey brown, deep blue eyes that whispered of midnight, and a smartly tanned face. His face was too harsh to be classified as classically handsome, but the cumulative effect was arresting, all masculine angles and hard edges.

After their first game, she’d sidled up to him and introduced herself.

“You’re new here,” she began as she extended her right hand. “Calleigh Stuart.”

He’d encompassed hers in a much larger, warm hand, roughened with use, the hand of a man who mowed his own yard, weeded his own dandelions, owned power tools and used them on a regular basis. “David Shalvington.”

“Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“I need to be on my way. It was nice to meet you.” He’d left without giving her an opportunity to work any of her natural wiles on him.

She wasn’t used to any member of the male species over the age of twelve not making an effort to attract and hold her attention. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had literally walked away from her, which was part of the rub. Attracting men was never the problem. Keeping them interested was the challenge. The fact Shalvington had done so both annoyed and intrigued her. He’d been polite, but nothing more. He demonstrated a noticeable lack of interest. He hadn’t worn a wedding ring and no gay man could emit the amount of testosterone he’d blasted her with during their brief introduction. Coupled with a lack of any rumors swirling about his dating life, her interest was piqued.

Without appearing too forward, she shamelessly and doggedly pursued him. She attempted to gain his attention at every one of their soccer games and did her best to encourage him to ask her out, remarking on new restaurants and bars in town, sporting events she had tickets to, go Blazers! Finally, she tried to draw him out by talking about art exhibits, festivals, and a host of other city events that normally presented the perfect first date opportunity.

Unfortunately, he remained remotely polite. No heat, no flirting, nothing. No encouragement whatsoever. Never once did he take her up on any of her offers. Not a single one. Even the innocuous ones involving other members of their soccer team. She couldn’t have made it more obvious she was interested in him, but he didn’t reciprocate. She should have been embarrassed and worried about reeking of desperation. But more than anything, confusion and frustration plagued her.

Despite her attraction and twenty-first century values, her pride refused to let her ask him out. She recognized her own hypocrisy since she was constantly advising Mary to pursue potential prospects, yet she couldn’t do the same.

She and Mary traced their friendship to their college days in Madison. After she graduated from Wisconsin and began teaching at Walker High, her mother had gifted her with enough money to buy her loft on Southeast Belmont, a purchase she’d never have been able to otherwise afford on her modest teacher’s salary.

Belmont’s funky edge suited her perfectly, a fact which drove Lauren, her mother, nuts, another part of the loft’s appeal. Juvenile, but she’d take her subtle digs where they would bloom.

Southeast Belmont drove Lauren crazy. She rarely ventured over, instead, insisting that Calleigh come over to her house or they meet somewhere else. Somewhere more like the Pearl District. Or Nob Hill up by Northwest Twenty-Third Street, home to Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma, and Kitchen Kaboodle dotted alongside upscale pizzerias, fancy pet stores, and designer restaurants.

Conversely, independent retailers selling everything from designer dog collars to beads, jewelry, clothing and books lined both sides of Belmont. Neighborhood grocery stores rounded out the neighborhood, making it convenient for residents to pick up gallons of milk along with their organic dog biscuits, and local vegetables.

Her loft welcomed her home with open arms every evening. One long square that she’d cornered off with strategically placed furniture and plants, it measured approximately seventeen hundred square feet on the inside. A perfectly perched terrace managed enough space for a grill and small table and chairs. A grill that pretty much existed for aesthetic purposes only.

Her muddy cleats and tennis racket were propped against the marble island that dominated the northern section of the loft. The primary living area with two couches, one writing desk, several chairs, and several tables was south of the kitchen. Her platform bed finished the loft off in the back. Lights and lamps throughout illuminated the otherwise cavernous space. A variety of yellows, blues, and greens on her furniture and pillows completed the soothing, peaceful environment.

Calleigh placed her cordless phone in its charger, swallowed the last sip of her non-fat grande latte and stared at her half-eaten cranberry and orange scone before throwing it away. Her frugal half rebelled at wasting the food, but her waistline conscious other half caused her to toss it. Even consuming only half the scone summoned feelings of guilt and shame. Remorse threatened to choke her.

Breathe in, breathe out. You are in control. One half of a low fat scone does not equal Armageddon. Your pants will still fit tonight, tomorrow, and Monday. You will not gain weight.

Would this ever end? Would the voice in her mind ever say, “Eat more? Eat up! Enjoy your scone! Add some clotted cream! Scones are even better when accompanied by full-fat hot chocolate! What’s for dinner? Fried chicken? Delicious. Buttermilk biscuits? Perfect. Chocolate sheet cake for dessert? Have a second slice. Ditch the frozen yogurt for Ben & Jerry’s. Or Häagen-Dazs. Even better.”

No. It was entirely unlikely the voice in her mind would ever make such blatantly dangerous and false statements. The loop that played in her head was full of blasphemous fantasies. Fantasies where food played a central role. An incredibly sad statement of her single life where her biggest wish list was full of fatty foods.

How many times growing up had she been subjected to Lauren saying, “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,” whenever anything remotely sweet or heavily caloric, be it cookies or burritos, tempted her taste buds? Too many to count. Too many to remember. Too often ingrained to be anything but a fundamental part of her adult psyche.

Her mother frowned equally on fruit. “Sugar is no friend to you, Calleigh, in any form. You’d do well to remember that regardless of what the USDA has to say. The feds can’t be trusted to know and understand your body type.” Fruit, baked goods, bread, and dessert all contained the same amount of sin and in Lauren’s mind, constituted the functional equivalent of crack or meth. Discipline in body, discipline in mind, and discipline in spirit were Lauren’s mantras, instilled in her only child from birth. Lauren didn’t recognize any such idea of “caving in,” or “giving in” at any time, particularly when said cravings related to food.

“Craving is nothing but another word for want. There are wants and there are needs. You need vegetables. You want chocolate. Remember the difference and select your food choices accordingly.”

Calleigh couldn’t consider any food without quantifying it as a want or a need and mentally calculating its calories and fat content. She would immediately follow up that thought with a mental calculation as to how many minutes she would have to put in on the elliptical machine in order to work it off. The hold it had on her defined her in many ways.

Her food neuroses were as much a part of her as her physical characteristics. Maybe even more so.

§ § §

Twenty miles south of Calleigh’s loft, in a nice one-bedroom condo in the satellite community of West Linn, David pulled his undershirt over his head and threw on his white button down over it. He reached for his sneakers at the foot of the bed and turned back to the woman who’d sold him his house when he moved to Portland, splayed out, her body flushed with excitement and release, limp and completely silent, not just because of the gag in her mouth, but entirely worn out by their last three hours.

The night he’d closed on his house, he’d taken her to his bed. A year later and he still wasn’t completely sure why he was doing this. It wasn’t fair to Missy. He knew she didn’t date and suspected it was because of him. Because she harbored some fantasies of their relationship becoming more, something approaching normal regardless of how many times he told her he was solely interested in a physical relationship.

Physical relationship was a fairly benign term for what they did. What she begged him to do to her every time they came together. What he needed as much as she did. What he promised and delivered to her every time. The release that only derived from the type of activities that involved hours, not minutes, ropes, not beds, clamps, not sheets, and indescribably dark, sophisticated pleasure.

David wasn’t proud of it, but his life was the way it was. The way he’d designed it. The way he’d worked towards it since he left for college. He had no desire to live in suburbia, with the white picket fence, the dog, and the two point five kids. He’d grown up with it and knew the picture postcard was never destined to be his life.

“I’ll call you,” he said to her as he let himself out of the bedroom.

§ § §

David placed his three cans of wood stain for a dresser he was refinishing, and primer and paint for the upstairs bathroom in the truck’s cab, closed the door, fired up his truck, and roared out of Home Depot’s parking lot so he could put his purchases to good use. The morning’s acrobatics with Missy replayed themselves through his mind. Six months ago, he would have considered returning for a second round, a round she would have welcomed him with open arms for. But not anymore. It was becoming increasingly difficult to fuck her.

The problems with being with her were all his own, problems that circled in his mind every time they came together. He didn’t ask anything of her she wasn’t prepared to give. Wasn’t dying to give. Wasn’t begging to give him. He’d never made any promises about anything. She knew all he was looking for was a good time. In return, he showed her how much fun he was.

In bed.

No where else. No dinner dates, matinees, or any social events that would indicate there was any emotional component to their relationship. Because no such relationship existed and never would. Missy knew the score of their game. She willingly offered everything he needed and in turn, he provided the pleasure she enjoyed.

He couldn’t keep calling on his favorite and ever increasingly present fantasy every time they were together. It felt like a violation even though he’d never requested monogamy from Missy or offered her his.

For the last few months, there weren’t any interludes with Missy in which the blonde wasn’t present, completely front and center. At least in his mind. His eyes wouldn’t remain open because it was too much an intrusion on his fantasy. A fantasy he’d been clinging to lately both with Missy and when he was alone. He was reaching the point where he had to fantasize Missy was someone else in order to become hard and stay that way. Someone who he knew he had no business thinking about and had done his damndest to ignore no matter how hard she made it.

However, Calleigh Stuart evidently had different ideas. She had been making overtures for the last year that he’d systematically ignored, hoping she’d eventually get the hint, a novel position for him to take with an attractive woman who was clearly interested. He never denied himself anything offered by a woman, especially not when it was offered so readily. Calleigh was a consenting adult, and yet, he’d pulled back. She had no idea exactly who she was dealing with. Her come-ons were akin to Goldilocks inviting the Big Bad Wolf in for porridge. Except his brand of porridge was a whole lot darker and more painful than what she would expect.

Driving home on I-5, he decided it was time to move on from Missy.

Chapter 2

The following Sunday, Calleigh called Mary and then jetted over to her apartment for a long overdue evening walk. She was dying to discuss how Mary’s dinner with Michael had turned out. As a thank-you for participating in College Career Day, Mary’d invited Michael over for dinner. Calleigh wouldn’t be satisfied until Mary disclosed every last detail about the night. The nuances of the conversations. Mary’s outfit. Whether she’d chosen her diamond studs or her turquoise sun catcher earrings; the only jewelry she ever wore. And maybe she’d be able to work in her own Tide connection along with her feelings about David, a subject she’d intentionally avoided bringing up with her best friend for the better part of a year.