Can I See You Again? (25 page)

It must be the promise of this day that is making me quiver as Nixon glides his hands toward my hips. The spirit of the ceremony is why my body is weakened by his touch, as he pulls me closer. It's the vows for a new love that warm my skin as Nixon breaks our kiss, then presses his forehead against mine.

We share a breath.

“Now that's what I call good luck for the bride and groom.” Mrs. Voss cheers.

The crowd claps, then breaks its circle and dances to the restarted music.

Nixon and I remain still.

The music slows to one of my favorite songs, a Dire Straits ballad, “Why Worry?”

“Dance?” Nixon whispers.

“Yes.”

He clasps my hand in his.

“Baby, when I get down I turn to you. You make sense of what I do . . .”

We sway, moving slow, body to body. Aware of nothing else. No one else.

I forget all about the lies. I forget about Randi, Candace, his family, Jo. I forget about my book. I forget about the 1058 form. I forget about Sean.

The following morning, I sit alone on a bench swing in the Vosses' backyard. The tequila has worn off. The bride and groom are gone. The toasters packed up and hauled away. Only my guilt remains.

With my laced hands together, I pillow my aching head and recall all the lies I told Nixon's family and their friends.
Yes, Nixon and I enjoy art museums. No, we haven't seen that movie. Yes, we'd love to visit south Florida sometime. Blah-blah-blah.

God, I'm so sick of hearing myself spew one half-truth after the other.

Not to mention, I still haven't told Nixon about Sean. What the hell do I think I'm doing? Yes, I know Nixon said these past weeks were pretend. And I know we had no choice but to march through the path of love, but when he kissed me . . . I didn't pull away.

I'm engaged to Sean. I love him. I've
loved
him. I criticized
him and nearly threw everything away because of one short-lived lapse of judgment. But look at me now. Am I any better than him?

God, all I want to do is get home. Take a long shower and wash away my behavior.

Thank goodness Sean and I have our special night at La Valencia this evening. I will rush into his arms and never let him go.

Point is, I'm crawling out of my skin, dying to get my
real
life started. Enough of this make-believe.

Until then, Nixon will drive me home. We'll wrap up the interviews and go our separate ways. I'll forget about his family. I'll forget about the kiss.

“Morning.” He stands beside me in gray jeans and a white T-shirt clinging to the outline of his chest from the breeze.

Forget about his body pressed against mine.

He kneels down and plucks a small yellow wildflower from the grass and hands it to me. “Thanks for posing as my date.”

I twirl the flower between my fingers. “Yeah, well, it wasn't easy.”

He laughs. “Thanks for soldiering through. You ready to go?”

“All set.”

We hug and thank his family, saying good-bye to everyone. And though Mrs. Voss asks that I visit often, I don't expect to see the Voss family again. Still, I'm grateful they allowed me in their home and to celebrate a special moment with their family.

Forget about his family, too.

“Remember, when you break up with me, make sure they know what a good time I had.”

“I will, thanks.”

Nixon says nothing more about last night, about the kiss,
or my head resting on his shoulder while we danced. We're silent during the drive, as if none of it ever happened. And yet the air has changed between us.

You need to know, these past couple weeks have all been for show.

Yeah, well, I wish he weren't such an amazing actor.

We follow a different route home. No freeways, no honking horns, just quiet side streets. Though I'm eager to get to Sean, it's nice meandering our way back. We drive slowly past women digging in flower beds, dads washing cars in the driveway, kids spraying each other with the garden hose. The ease of a Saturday morning.

We're still a few streets away from my house when Nixon pulls curbside.

“Something wrong?”

“Nope.” He hops out and walks around the car and opens my door.

“What's going on?”

He tosses the keys in my lap. “Drive.”

“What? I . . . I can't.”

“You don't know how?”

“Of course, I know
how
.”

“Do you have a license?”

“Yes.” I got it when I turned eighteen, even drove for a year before another driver nearly sideswiped me on the freeway and my memories overwhelmed me.

“Then drive.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, it's not!” This must be what a panic attack feels like. My heart is pounding. My fingertips grow numb. “Nixon, I—”

“Hate me if you want. But don't spend the rest of your life letting the world pass you by. Literally.”

“I can't drive.”

“You can't? Or you won't?”

“Nixon, please.”

He stands with a wide stance. Arms crossed about his chest. Any body language expert will say his posture is certain and resolute. But I think he looks like a jackass.

“You're being a real jerk, you know that?”

“I do.”

As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. I do want to drive again. I don't want to depend on Uber for the rest of my life. Even Andrew pointed out time and time again that if I'm ever lucky enough to have children, how pathetic will I look strapping a car seat into the backseat of a glorified taxi?

“I'll be right beside you,” he assures me.

“Fine. Fine. Fine.”
Not fine.
The keys jingle within my trembling fingers as I slide into the driver's seat. Sweat drips down the nape of my neck.

“When did you drive last?”

“I was eighteen or nineteen years old.”

“Well, it's like sex.”

“How is driving like sex?”

“Think you'll ever forget how?”

I laugh in spite of myself, thankful for the comic relief.

“Don't be nervous, you'll be fine.”

I slip the key into the ignition and start the engine.

“Step one complete. Adjust your mirrors and put on your seat belt.” He fastens his.

Oh, God. I can't believe I'm doing this.
With a shaky hand, I shift the truck into reverse and then, once it's clear, inch out of the spot. My palms sweat underneath my iron grip on the steering wheel. I turtle down the street.

“If you go any slower, we'll roll backward.”

“Shush.”

“Make a right at the light.”

I steer toward the intersection, not hitting a single car or tree.
Hooray for me!

He reaches over and lifts the blinker.

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

“You're doing fine.”

I drive for another mile or so, quite well, thank you very much—only two people flipped me off—and relief seeps through my body. “For the record, this is nothing like sex.”

“No, not exactly.”

For the next several minutes, I steer and navigate, stop and start.
Look at me, I'm driving!
Sooner than I like—I am enjoying the hell out of this—I swing in close to my curb, rubbing the tire only a little bit, and shut off the engine.

I hop out and jump up and down like a toddler standing at the gates of Disneyland. “Did you see that? I drove. Me. I can't believe it. This is totally liberating. Now I can drive Jo to her appointments and bridge club games. Hell, I can even take Martin to the dog park.”
Well, maybe not so much.

“You did good. I knew you would.”

“Thanks, Nixon.” I nod. “I mean, really, thanks.”

“No problem.” He walks me to my front door and sets down my bags.

One of Sean's sticky notes is stuck to my front door.

Love you.

I quickly tuck it into my pocket.

“Why is your porch all wet?”

“Leaky sprinkler valve, remember?”

“You should—”

“Get it fixed. Yeah, I know.”

“Well, thanks for coming to the wedding,” he says. “My family totally bought into it. A spot-on performance.”

“Yes, yours, too. You displayed one heck of a show.”
Especially with that kiss.
“Your family is amazing. I had a great time.”

“I did, too.”

“And thanks once again for twisting my arm. I'm glad you made me drive.”

“You're welcome.”

It seems unnatural
not
to hug Nixon good-bye. We may not be lovers as everyone suspects, but we are friends. At least, I'd like to think so.

Nixon leans toward me and I wrap my arms around him for a long body-molding-to-body hug.

We part and he says, “One more interview and that's it.”

“Then you're free of me.”

“I'm counting the days.”

“Yeah, whatever. You know, people might miss reading about Nick the urologist.”

“Nah, in a few weeks you, along with the rest of America, will have long forgotten about me. Out of sight, out of mind. I'll be a thing of the past.”

He's right. Outside of a professional relationship, our contact will be minimal. In a handful of days Nixon and I will be
history
.

Something tells me Nixon will be hard to forget.

“Baby.” Sean greets me with a kiss at the door of our La Valencia suite later that evening. “I'm glad you're here. You look gorgeous. No, I take that back. You're glowing.”

I stand before him in a strapless gray cotton maxi-dress and black flip-flops. My hair is pinned loosely in a side bun, my scar is hidden underneath my thrice-wrapped gold armlet, and I
am
glowing. Inside and out. Because my heart is full enough to explode. Not only am I happy to be here with Sean, ready to start a new chapter in the story we've created over the last four years, but because—thanks to Nixon—I've rented myself a Prius for the week and just came from Jo's house, where I showed it off.

Thrilled to find me behind the wheel, she clapped her hands and everything, said she was glad I'm no longer anchored by my fear.

Martin wasn't as impressed. When I jiggled the keys in Jo's direction, he snarled and lunged toward me, tugging at my dress until he formed a tiny hole in the hem. But the furry little pissant didn't dampen my elation. Truth is, I'm glad he
wanted nothing to do with a car ride. I worried he'd piddle on the floorboard and I'd get hammered with a cleaning fee.

Jo and I hopped in the Prius. We cruised with the windows down and the radio up, singing along to Van Morrison's “Brown Eyed Girl.” Sharing a mint-chocolate-chip triple-scoop sundae at Crystal Pier, we talked about driving to the Temecula wineries next weekend. We didn't talk about the house, but I can tell by the lift in her shoulders and the brightness in her eyes, she's relieved.

And that makes me happy.

“Thanks,” I say to Sean with a broad smile, tossing the car keys into my purse.

“Wait . . . did you drive here?”

“Yes, isn't it great? I rented a car but I'm half thinking of buying one of those snazzy BMW X6s. Jo said she'd come along and help me choose a color.”

“Whoa . . . slow down. When did you start driving?”

“Today. Nixon taught me—strong-armed me, actually—on our way home from the wedding.”

“Nixon, eh?”

“He's a nice guy,” I say with an edge to my voice.

“Hey now, I'm sorry. Let's not get started off on a bad foot. Tonight is about us.”

“Yes, you're right.”

“First things first.” He slides on the engagement ring and kisses my fingertips. “Isn't that a beautiful sight? And, rest assured, the stones are secure.”

“Looks like they cleaned it, too. It's so shiny.”

“Yes, they did. Wine?”

“I'd love some.” I step out onto the balcony, overlooking the rectangular pool, breezy palm trees, and endless Pacific Ocean. “I could get used to this view.”

“I thought the same thing. Maybe this should be our new
anniversary spot?” He uncorks a bottle of Merlot and we clink glasses. “To us.”

“To us.”

“What do you say to dinner served here, on the balcony? I'm thinking the grilled swordfish. And the bellman said they have the best crème brûlée in all of La Jolla.”

I stare at the sand, just past the pool. Spotted with fire pits, the beach reminds me of Idyllwild. “You know what? Instead of this fancy stuff, how about we grab a package of hot dogs and a six-pack of beer. We can build a fire on the beach.”

Sean laughs. “Since when do you like hot dogs? Aren't they processed junk?”

“I know, but it'd be fun. Casual.”

“Now I know you've gone crazy.” He pours more wine. “Besides, aren't we supposed to be incognito?”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” I offer him a smile. “Maybe another time?”

“Anything you want.” He kisses my shoulder, then traces down my arm with his fingertips, lacing our hands together. He wraps our arms behind his waist and pulls me close. “To hell with crème brûlée. I'll have you for dessert. And I'm hungry now.” Setting my glass on the table, he kisses my neck soft and slow, then leads me toward the bed and lays me down on the comforter.

“Eww . . . gross.”

“Huh?”

“No, sorry, not you.” I know I shouldn't complain. This is a huge moment for us, consummating our engagement and all that. Closing the door on his confusion. But I can't relax, let alone strip off my clothes and lie naked, I mean, this comforter is likely
never
washed. “Get up.”

“I'm trying to.” He points at his manhood.

“Funny. Now seriously, get off the bed.”

“What are you doing?”

I scramble to a stand—resisting the urge to pop in the shower for a quick rinse-off—and fold the comforter in half. Then half again. Then I take the whole damn thing off and drape it over a nearby chair.

“Better?” He laughs.

“Better.”

Sean unclips the latch on his watch and rests it on the nightstand. He unbuttons his shirt and slides my arms around his smooth-skinned waist.

This is nice. This is . . . dammit. Why is the balcony door still open? What if someone outside hears us?

“It's been too long.” Sean nibbles at my neck.

The sheer curtains kick up in the breeze.

Aww . . . for Pete's sake.
“One sec.”

“What the . . . ?”

“Sorry, I'll be right back.” I slink away from him, shutting the door and curtains. I fasten the lock for good measure. How embarrassing would it be if a burglar broke in and caught sight of my bare bum. I mean, I work out and everything, but . . . why am I so nervous?

“Bree?” Sean regains my thoughts, though his tone isn't quite the same playful tenor as a moment ago. “Want to check for chips in the shower grout? Maybe the Internet connection?”

Bree, you're ruining this special moment. Knock it off!
“No, sorry. I'm good.” I saunter toward him and peel off his shirt. I stroke his bare chest with my fingertips, following behind with tiny kisses. He's right. It has been too long. I wander up his neck and blow softly behind his ears.

Sean moans. “God, I've missed you like this.” Once again he lays me down and straddles me on the bed.

His lips find the crevices of my neck and my ears. His hand
snakes toward my hips. Without moving his mouth from mine, he gathers the skirt of my dress and inches it above my thighs.

“Sean.”

“I love you, baby.” He slips his fingers underneath my panties.

“Sean.”

“It's okay. We'll go slow.”

“Sean.” I grab his wrist.

“What's wrong now?”

“We can't.”

“What do you mean we can't? I'm quite certain we can.”

I stare over his shoulder, embarrassed. “No . . .
I
can't. It's my time of the month.”

His head drops onto my chest. “You're killing me.”

“I'm sorry.”

His sigh reminds me of a city bus coming to a stop. “It's okay.” He kisses my forehead, then forces a sweet tone. “We have lots of nights to make love.”

“Yes, we do. A lifetime.”

He rolls off me.

Turns out neither of us is hungry. Sean finishes the bottle of wine as we watch
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
on the suite's flat screen. Sean falls asleep before the credits roll.

I slide off my ring and set it next to his watch, then close my eyes.

Hours later I wake, finding the sun about to rise.

Sean snores peacefully. He had a long week of traveling and working late into the night. It'd be a shame to stir him.

I tiptoe from the bed, slip into a sweatshirt and jeans, then hurry along the cold sand to a secluded spot on the beach. Wrapping my sleeves over my hands, I hug my knees against my chest and listen to the waves splash onto the
shore before receding out to sea. Ebb and flow. Give and take. A lot like love.

The sun peeks above the horizon and within seconds the sky is ablaze with bands of orange, red, and yellow. The swaying palm trees are silhouetted against the brilliant sky, and the ocean reflects the sun's colors as if the water is one boundless mirror. And though Tahquitz Peak is nowhere within sight, I gaze across the rolling waves toward the tumbling mountains, hoping to catch sight of the man searching for his bride.

With my pinkie, I engrave a heart shape in the sand, over and over, deeper and deeper, outlining the symbol of love.

I glance over at our suite's balcony. The curtains and door remain closed.

I wonder if Sean knows I slipped out.

I wonder if he knows I lied about my period.