Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (7 page)

Actually, every time that he’s mentioned her name since then in our phone calls or text messages, I giggle. Melody. If he and I didn’t end up together, I wanted him to marry an “Eleanor,” like from the
Chipmunks
—not of the Roosevelt variety. I was convinced that he was destined to be with an “Eleanor.” All Teddies end up with Eleanors, right?

After the first time Theodore told me about Melody, I called him later that night (drunk) and said, “You should hold out for an ‘Eleanor,’ get married, make beautiful music together, and name her ‘Melody,’ it seems like the right thing to do.” I stated, laughing hysterically, while Sydney shook her head in disbelief at my immature and childish behavior. Break ups are hard. I say deal with them whatever way you want, just as long as you deal with them, and then finally get over them.

Anyway, so during dinner, while I was fingering my glass, for lack of a better word, Theodore turned to me and said, “I couldn’t do it; I just couldn’t do it.”

I nodded sympathetically at him, deciding to take a sip of my drink.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, staring intently at me.

Since I had no idea what he was talking about, I said, “If you couldn’t do it, you couldn’t do it.”

“So you think we have a shot, then?” he asked, reaching for my hand. Panic set in as his hand covered mine.

“A shot? At what?” I asked, nearly choking on my drink.

“A future. You and me … sorry … you and I.” he answered.

Apparently, Dre’s chest was extremely riveting, because I missed the part in Theodore’s story where he told me that he’d bought Melody a ring, booked a room at the most expensive hotel in Richmond, took her to a romantic dinner, and then couldn’t, could not, get himself to propose. Why? Why couldn’t he pop the question, you ask? Because it wasn’t me on the other side of the table. Holy Life Twist! I did not see that coming. Dang wine. Dang Dre in a tight t-shirt.

Since Theodore is forever the intelligent man that I give him credit for being, he said that he knew he unloaded a lot on me (darn straight) and that I needed time to mull it over (his exact words). He didn’t want to pressure me, so whenever I had an answer for him, then I was to give him a call. He hoped “sooner, rather than later.” Theodore wanted to give us another shot, a more adult and more mature effort toward a future together.

But that was last night. Right now, I am sitting on my balcony, nearly three hours late for work, drinking my third glass of wine. I’m probably going to call off; there is no way I can concentrate on some author’s fictitious story when my reality just blew whatever dumbass story that author wrote out of the water. A part of me wanted to grab and hold on to Theodore for the security he’s always given me. The other part, well, the other part has already moved on. Theodore was my past. I’d finally accepted that. But the safety and security of the past was so familiar and extremely tempting.

When I woke up this morning, I immediately wanted to call Dre. I wanted to talk to him. I knew that he wasn’t the one to confide in, but I wanted to know if I’d get that breathless feeling talking to him, even knowing that Theodore was waiting in the wings. Did I only want Dre, because I had nobody else? Did I only want Theodore back, because I know deep down that Dre Donley is the unattainable, mysterious heartthrob who will never be mine?

I didn’t know any of the answers to the million questions that were bombarding my mind. I couldn’t call Dre. I didn’t know his number, nor did I know where he lived. He was a drifter of sorts, so I knew I had to wait until he drifted back to the agency tonight at 5:30 p.m. Therefore, I’m drinking and thinking—in the embarrassingly late morning hours of the day.

Just as I decide to bite the bullet and actually start getting ready for work, my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number on caller I.D. “Hello,” I say, hoping to avoid a lengthy phone conversation with my student loan bill collectors. I needed to dodge them for a few more months.

“So should I hit up ‘Allie with an i,’ or are we still on for tonight, Kathryn?” he asks, emphasizing my full name.

“Dre, I was just thinking about you. How’d you get my number?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“I’ve got your receptionist wrapped around my little finger. She’s option #3,” he jokes. (At least, I hope he’s joking.)

“It’s probably smart to keep your options open,” I agree, without meaning a word I say.

“So, are you telling me that things went well with my bro, Theo, last night?” he fishes.

“Not taking the bait Buddy, you can fish all you want,” I say. “But no, don’t get any crabs tonight. The plan’s still the same. Meet me after work.”

“Oh great, so you are going to roll out of bed and go to work some time today?” he asks.

“I’m out of bed, thank you very much,” I say. “I’m even dressed and showered,” I lie.

“I’d almost believe you if you weren’t slurring your words,” he says. “You either just got up or you’re already drunk … And since I doubt you’re pounding back a few at 11:30 in the morning, I’m gonna go with you just woke up.”

Slurring my words? Crap. I can’t go to work like this. “You’re right, I just woke up … and I’m still pretty tired,” I lie. I can’t believe I’m lying like this to him. I don’t lie. “Actually, I’m gonna call off and sleep for a few more hours. Why don’t you meet me at the marina at 5:30 instead?” I ask.

“No chance,” he says. “You can’t call the shots. You blew me off last night … for your ex. That gives you no control,” he states. I start to protest, but he cuts me off and says, “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you outside of your apartment at 4:00 p.m. Not a second later. Sweet dreams, Kathryn.”

Son of a bitch! Who the fuck ripped off my dick and gave me a vagina? I didn’t sign up for this shit. How did I get myself into this? I had crazy-ass, hot plans to bring one Kathryn Howell to the brink of climax over and over again, withholding her pleasure until I finally drilled into her, making her orgasm harder than she ever has in her life. God knows, douchebag Theo couldn’t pull off mind-numbing pleasure like that. Could he? Nah, no way.

It was the perfect agenda for a night of hot passion and pleasure. Instead, instead, I spent the night drinking beer and throwing darts with Rory, whining about how I watched her walk away with her ex-boyfriend, arm-in-arm. Rory, of course, laughed his ass off all night, pissing me off.

So what am I doing right now? I can’t even bear to admit it. I’m reading a book. A book! Rory decided to stalk Kathryn’s Facebook page last night at the bar, so we could find some shit on Theodore Baker. First of all, he’s a freaking physicist. I mean, what is that? He makes potions or some shit like that. What a douche. Secondly, there was actually a picture of him sitting on a Jag with some chick. What the fuck? He couldn’t be cool if he stood in a fucking freezer. Look at me; I’m getting all pissed off again. Who the fuck am I?

Anyway, since Kathryn’s Facebook page is public, I also saw everything she’s interested in. I stayed at Rory’s last night, watching shows she loves on Netflix, hoping to find something to connect with her on. I also went and got her favorite book at the library (the library!) to read it—well skim it actually. I hate competition, mostly because I’ve really never had to compete before. I usually just get what I want. This is all too new and strange for me.

To think, I’m doing all this work to bang and bail. That’s it. One bang and one bail. Nothing more! It’s absurd. I just can’t pretend anymore. I want this woman. I want this woman badly. Tonight. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I’m taking what I should’ve gotten a month ago. Christ. This waiting game is over.

Or maybe not. Kathryn has me. It’s basically whatever she wants when she wants it. I can kid myself as much as I’d like, but the truth is blinding the second she exits her apartment building.

Now, I’ve only ever seen Kathryn in her afternoon work clothes. Apparently, she’s got a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde wardrobe thing going on, because her getup is nothing close to professional or intellectual, like you’d naturally assume a literary agent would wear. Remember when I said that the first time I saw her that she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but was adorably cute and quirky? Well, cute and quirky are all hung up primly and properly in her closet. Smoking hot and sexy-as-Hell have come out to play. Thank God! I sort of thought she was a little frumpy before, but now that I can see every curve and every contour of her body, I see that I was wrong, dead wrong.

I’d never even seen Kathryn’s hair straightened out. She typically wears it curly, or I guess it would be called wavy. But tonight, it’s poker straight, and long as shit. I didn’t realize it was that long. I retract my earlier thoughts. She should cut all her hair off—if and only if—Hell decides to freeze over. Holy shit, it’s fucking gorgeous.

Kathryn’s got on a light purple see-through shirt with one of those tank top deals underneath. Man, I wish she’d have left that tank top in her top drawer. Her tiny silver skirt is so short that I doubt she could bend over without people slipping dollar bills into her panties. God, I want to slip things into her panties. Kathryn’s dressed to kill … to kill me. Christ. At least now, I know we’re on the same page. It looks like Kathryn wants me as much as I want her.

My jaw drops; she winks at me, and says, “Where to Dre?”

Shaking my head clear of all sexual thoughts, I finally respond. “Well Pebbles, dressed like that, it looks like we’re off to Bedrock,” I groan, raking my hands through my hair.

Kathryn shoves me and says, “What? Too much to handle, Bam-Bam?” Damn, I dig her spunk.

“Not at all. Not. At. All.” I say, appraising every inch of her voluptuous and dangerous body. “I just think that the daddies and kiddies at the fair might think you’re the amusement for the night.”

“The what?” she asks, bewildered.

“We’re going to the Ladson Fair. Ya know, rides, games, funnel cakes, the works,” I say. “Ya might want to put on something a little … a little … well more.” I tease. “I wouldn’t want any family men leaving their kids and wives to ride the Skyline with you in that skirt.”

“You’re serious? You want me to go change?” she asks, looking at me shocked. Nice. Looks like I got my upper hand back. Relenting, she looks at me in defeat with an impressed look on her face. “Alright, wait right here then,” she instructs and walks back toward her apartment.

“Let me know if you need any help getting those clothes off,” I offer. “I’m kind of a savant at undressing people.”

Turning around to look at me, she nods, and says, “Oh I know. You sure are a savant … an
idiot
savant.” Then she hops up the front steps and walks back into the building.

As I’m waiting for her to come back out, I start thinking about how the score’s tied for the night. This is like a personal tennis match, back and forth, back and forth, a battle to the death. So far, it’s one point awarded to me for making her change; one point to her for calling me an “idiot.” Sometimes, I think when it comes to her, I’ve definitely met my match. Then, she walks victoriously out of her building. Screw it, I’m definitely outmatched. Another point for Kathryn Howell.

“Well Pebbles, you definitely changed,” I say, shaking my head at her.

Kathryn’s now wearing track shorts, an old high school football t-shirt, knee socks (knee socks!), tennis shoes, and pigtails. Frigging pigtails! I’m not talking about those sexy kinds that models in magazines wear that are low on their heads. I’m talking about those kinds that are really high on a chick’s head that stick out like ears. Not only that, she’s got big, white ribbons tied around them. And, she no longer has on one bit of makeup. She looks like she’s 12-years-old, making me look like some creepy-ass pedophile. But here’s the biggest problem: she’s still goddamn irresistible. What the Hell is going on?

“What? Did I not get this right either, Dre?” she asks, feigning innocence and ignorance. There was no way in fucking Hell that Kathryn was innocent or ignorant.

“I thought you didn’t play games?” I asked.

“Katniss didn’t either, but when she was thrown into the arena, she had to play or die,” she said, matter-of-factly.