Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (9 page)

“Think cuss? What the fu—what the heck does ‘think cuss’ even mean?” I ask, correcting my language.

“Just because I don’t verbalize it, doesn’t mean I don’t think it,” she elaborates. “Four. My middle name is Denise.”

“Come on, Kathryn, give me the good stuff, not the stuff I can read on your Facebook page,” I pry. “Don’t be a coward.”

“Me? The coward? You sat on an invalid horse,” she points out.

“Touché. touché”

“Five. I’ve been in love once, maybe one and half times.” My eyebrows rise, questioning her on the half, but she doesn’t reveal anything further. “Six. I haven’t had sex in over 14 months—not that I’m counting.”

“Fourteen—”

Cutting me off, she continues, “Seven. My middle toes are my longest toes.”

I glance down, laughing that she has those silly knee socks and tennis shoes on. I reach down, grab her foot, and take off her shoes and socks. She’s right; her middle toes are her longest toes. I’ve never seen that before. I have to admit; it’s pretty ridiculous. Absent-mindedly, I start massaging her feet. Kathryn’s eyes widen in surprise, but she makes no effort to remove her foot from my lap.

Winking at me, she says, “Eight. I have two tattoos.” I eye her carefully, looking for visible ink. Not finding any, my penis hardens. Shit.

“Nine. I want to write a book someday about my parents’ marriage.”

A book? Now that’s interesting. About her parents? That’s something I could never do—nor want to do. I sit listening to her continue to pepper me with little facts and tidbits about her life. With each number, I get more and more intrigued and interested in her. I listen intently to her likes, dislikes, funny idiosyncrasies, and I cannot get enough.

“And finally, number 26 … um … um … you’re the hottest guy who’s ever spoken to me,” she confesses, looking away from me.

“That doesn’t count! It’s about me,” I say, wiping my shoulder, feigning arrogance until she looks at me again. “That does not say one thing about you,” I argue.

“Actually Dre, you’re wrong. It says a lot about me,” Kathryn says sadly, dropping her eyes from my gaze.

At that point, my body takes over; I have no control over my actions. Pulling Kathryn closer to me, wrapping her one foot around me, I lean over and lift her chin, forcing her to look me in the eyes. When she does, my stomach flutters. Her eyes are stunning, dark and full of mystery, but also full of worry and hope.

I take a deep breath, and say, “Then those other guys don’t know what they’re missing.”

Kathryn smiles and closes her eyes. It’s beautiful the way she looks, almost as if she’s absorbing the compliment, letting it wash over her. When she opens her eyes again, I pull her close to me, and kiss her, lightly on the lips, praying for an invitation to deepen the kiss. Kathryn’s mouth opens more as my tongue finds hers. Pure bliss. I could never touch her again and know that I just experienced Heaven.

Kathryn wraps her arms around my neck, and teases the hair at the nape of my neck, sending chills down my spine and fire to my groin. I begin to kiss her jawline, working my way down her neck. She gasps as my tongue flicks the flesh behind her ear.

“And now, we’re done,” Kathryn says, standing abruptly. “Number 27. I’m not a big fan of public displays of affection.”

Kathryn bobs up and down on her toes, shaking her hands and arms back and forth. She looks like she’s warming up for a race. “I gotta hand it to you, Dre, that was one pretty good kiss,” she compliments. Kathryn bends over to put her shoe and sock on, and I’m awarded with an excellent view of her ass.

I stand up, wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her entire body back against mine, and whisper, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Kathryn’s breath catches. Then shoves back against me, and says, “Whatever Mick Jagger.”

“Mick—” I release her immediately, stepping back in astonishment. “Mick Jagger? Did you just confuse B.T.O. with Mick Jagger?” I turn from her, pretending to be disappointed.

Realizing her mistake, she says, “Oh my God, you’re right. B.T.O! How could I forget?”

“Seriously, you do something like that again, and you won’t ‘get no satisfaction,’ Miss Howell,” I threaten.

Laughing, Kathryn nods and says, “I’m terribly sorry … I’ve … I’ve seen the errors of my ways.”

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who’s Jose?” I ask.

“Jose? How do you know—”

“The day your battery died, you were leaving him a message,” I remind her.

“Oh, he’s a high school boy, who wants to be a writer. I’ve been helping him with his writing for about a year now. It’s kind of fun,” she explains with a glint in her eyes.

Kathryn and I start walking to the exit of the fair, when she says, “So what was the deal with counting the times the horse went around the merry-go-round? What does the six mean?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot! You get to ask me six questions,” I declare. “Go easy on me.”

Kathryn smiles and says, “Ooooh this game just got a lot better. Alright, what’s ‘Dre’ short for?”

“What a waste of a question!” I respond. “It’s not short for anything. My name’s just Dre.” I lie. “Wow that sucks for you—wasting a question like that. Next question.”

“Have you ever been in love?” she asks, looking away from me as she does so.

“Seriously, I’m almost 28-years-old. What? You think I’m a loser, that nobody’d ever love someone like me?” I joke.

“No, I didn’t say that. I was just checking. So, with whom?” she probes.

“Really? You’re gonna waste question number three on her name?” I ask.

Waverly Harrington was my first love, but lately I’ve come to realize that maybe it wasn’t love at all—more like convenience. I thought that since everyone in the world wanted her that she must be worth all the time, effort, and love I could muster up. I was wrong. So wrong. Unfortunately, it took three years to figure it out.

When I finally ended it, Waverly looked at me said, “You have no idea how sorry you’re going to be.” Waverly turned on her heels and walked out of my life. I haven’t seen or heard from her since. Thank God.

“No! You’re right. Hold on … Let me think. Okay, number three, what was the best day of your life?”

“Now that’s a good question. Now you’re thinking,” I compliment. This game will go much better with questions of opinion rather than questions of factual material. “Well … truthfully … I haven’t had it yet.”

I eye her carefully to see if my answer is going to fly. It does. I’m impressed with her willingness and restraint to not pry into my personal life. Most girls jump at the opportunity to delve into a man’s privacy. Kathryn respects my boundaries. I like that. No, I love that.

“I hope I haven’t had mine either,” she admits, nodding in agreement. “If so, the rest of my life is really gonna suck.”

We both laugh, and she bumps into me, like we’re old middle school friends. If Kathryn and I had been friends since high school, then I could pretty much guarantee that my life would have turned out differently.

“Number four. Did you grow up in Charleston?” she asks.

“Nope,” I say, hoping to avoid any further questions of where I’m from.

“I knew it! You’re some paranormal angel or alien put here to help people in Charleston with their groceries and broken door hinges,” she says, excitedly.

“Holy crap! It was a secret. Please don’t tell anyone, okay, Pebbles?” I laugh, shaking my head at how goofy and carefree she is. Kathryn Howell doesn’t try to be the most beautiful, perfect woman I’ve ever known; she just is.

“Number five. Where do you see yourself in ten years?” she asks.

“Hmmmm … another good question … well … I really don’t know. I want to be alive. Maybe married,” I speculate. “But above all that stuff, I just want to be happy.” I cannot believe I just said that. How could I just admit such personal thoughts and feelings to her?

“Me too, Dre, me too,” Kathryn agrees. “Number six. Hmmmm … I’m gonna need some time to think about the last question. Let me think for awhile.”

Kathryn and I drive back to her apartment. The car ride is quiet. She stares out the window for a long time. Breaking the silence, she says, “Can you please drop me off at my friend’s house?”

“What? Why?” I ask.

“Well, remember the rules … numbers two and five from that first dinner we had?” she asks. I laugh, remembering them vividly. Kathryn put a strict rule out in the open that she was not sleeping with me.

Continuing, she says, “Well, I don’t trust myself—and I don’t trust you. Something tells me that if you take me to my apartment that those rules will be null and void.”

“Pebbles, are you thinking about sleeping with me?” I ask, feeling every inch of my body rise up and pay attention.

“Dre, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I came out of work, and you were lounging on the hood of my car in those tattered jeans and t-shirt, Kathryn admits, bluntly.

“Let’s just get that straight right now,” she states. “But just because I’m thinking about it … a lot … doesn’t mean that it’s happening … yet.”

“Yet? You said, ‘yet.’ Damn, I knew I should’ve worn those jeans tonight,” I joke. I would never tell her this, but I actually have two pairs of jeans. I thought the ones I had on were the nicer ones.

“Probably should’ve worn them, might’ve made all the difference,” Kathryn says, laughing.

“So you want me to take you to your friend’s? What if I just promise to not touch you?” I offer.

“Right, almost believable … Anyway, I’m not worried about you, Dre. I’m worried about me jumping you as soon as we get to my apartment,” she clarifies. Son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to need more than a cold shower when I get home; I’m going to need an ice bath.

“Plus, I’m going to end up over there tonight anyway. A girl doesn’t go on a date like the one we just had without dissecting every word that was said, every touch of the hand, and every kiss,” Kathryn explains. “Sydney and I have a lot to analyze.”

“You really don’t have much of a filter, do you?” I ask, chuckling at her straightforwardness.

“What’s the point? Playing games doesn’t get anyone anywhere,” she says.

As I put the car into park, I turn to look at her. Kathryn unbuckles her seatbelt and turns toward me. I don’t have to slide toward her or pull her to me, because she leans over the counsel and kisses me. Kathryn starts slowly and softly, but begins to hungrily explore my mouth with her tongue. Her scent and taste are intoxicating; I adjust in my seat, relieving some of the pressure of the growing strain against the zipper of my pants. We stay entwined in each other’s arms, kissing, tasting, and savoring each other. It feels like high school, nah like middle school, making out like this, knowing it’s going no further, but wishing with every fiber in my being that it will.

Finally, Kathryn releases herself from my embrace and leans back against the car door. Breathing heavily with a flush on her face, she says, “I know number six.”

“What?” I ask, not following her.

“I saved question number six. I know it now,” she clarifies.

“Alright, hit me,” I say, hoping that it’s not something I’m going to have to lie about.

“Are you going to break my heart?”

“Shut up! You did
not
fucking ask him that? No way!” Sydney screams.

I love that I can knock on her door at 8:00 p.m., unannounced, tell her that I’ll need a ride home, and that we need to talk, and all she does is step aside and says, “I’ll get the corkscrew.” Better than that even, Syd looks at the half-naked guy on her couch and says, “Dude, the bestie’s here; hit the road.”

I tried to apologize and get a cab, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She scurried the Orlando Bloom-look-alike out the door and grabbed a bottle of wine and a bag of chips, while I started recapping every single detail of my night, ending with question number six.

“Yes, I did,” I admit. “I’ve gotta know where I stand.”

“Well, what the fuck did he say?” she asks, bouncing on the couch, spilling red wine in the process. “Fuck! Hold on.” Syd rubs the wine into her couch cushion with one of her throw pillows, and then flips the cushion over. “Perfect, good as new, now what’d he say?”

“Ummmm,” I stall, not wanting to repeat it; hearing it the first time hurt enough already.

“Fucking tell me,” she orders.

“Alright. Fine. He said, ‘Fuck Kathryn, I wanna say no way, but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you; I don’t want to at all.” I relay, remembering the agonized look on his face as he answered my sixth question. “Then he shook his head, kissed me again, and said, ‘I’m gonna try like Hell not to.”

“Holy shit. That’s like … raw … honest … and hot as fuck,” she exclaims. “Why the fuck are you here and not on your knees in your apartment?”

“Sydney!” I scold, hating when she talks like that. “I don’t know … I’m kind of scared.”

“Scared of what? How fucking hot he is?” she asks.

“Of getting hurt! Syd, he can crush me,” I whine. “It’s so different than it ever was with Theodore.”

“Well no shit! Have you ever actually seen Theodore?” Sydney asks, rolling her eyes at the thought of comparing Theodore and Dre.

It was true though. I’ve spent a grand total of five, maybe six hours with Dre now, and I already know there’s something there, something incredible. Every time any part of his body as much as brushes up against mine, I can feel it from my toes to my neck. I just want to bust out in song, singing, “I’ve got chills; they’re multiplying.”