Heartless (13 page)

Heather

Saturday dragged on forever while I waited for Sunday and my chance to see Josh again. Where was he going to take me? He wanted it to be a surprise.

I tidied my room, did my laundry, wiped up some of the plaster dust in the kitchen, and I did my best to not over think the night before. It had been good night, a good first date, and it had included a kiss. A divinely perfect kiss. I spent half the morning reliving that kiss and making myself wet imagining it going on and on and leading to… gosh,
everything
. Leading to all that I hoped and believed love—and making love—could be.

Technically, I wasn’t a virgin, thanks to Ethan and our romps in the cornfield. The machinations of the deed had been done. I hadn’t bled, as Ethan had expected, even though I’d read somewhere that it wasn’t uncommon, that riding a bike could do it, or having something poked up there, something maybe you didn’t want…I shook my head. I didn’t want to think of that now.

My problem was that I couldn’t think about the possibility of sex with Josh without thinking about everything in my past that kept me from moving forward. But I had made a promise to myself that I
would
move forward. Did that mean I really had to think about everything then? That’s what Mirada kept saying. She kept taking me back to that day in the cornfield with Ethan, because that experience had been right before the Tragedy, and she thought the memories might be linked. And if they were, anything blocked there would get in the way of being close to anyone else. That hadn’t bothered me until now. Until now I hadn’t met anyone I wanted to be close to.

After putting in a load of laundry, dusting, tidying, and vacuuming, I went up to clean my room. I was struck by the blandness of it. I still lived like a guest in this house. I hadn’t yet made an individual statement. I was still floating, as if between two worlds. But it was time for me to come down to earth, claim my place, and my identity. I had purposely left everything I owned in Wisconsin. Marsha and Wayne offered to go to the house to get my personal things before taking me with them to LA but I just shook my head (I wasn’t speaking at that point). I didn’t want any part of my old life following me. Not even a teddy bear. The state repossessed everything. There was an investigation. Once the case was closed, everything was auctioned off. Proceeds from the sale of the house were sent to Marsha and Wayne and held in a trust for me. That trust would help pay for my college tuition. So in one way the past was following me into the future. Miranda said that was always the case. No matter how many times we might try to reinvent ourselves, the past was always inside us, and if we rejected it completely we became a hollowed out shell. Miranda always talked about
integration
of the past, which sounded too complicated to me, but she said it was the only way to transform what we thought of as bad in the past into what we wanted to be good in the future.

I looked around my room. Everything was beige and white. So boring. Except for my peach rose from Josh. It was time to add some more color. I made my bed and thought about where to go to look for a new bedspread, pillows, and maybe some curtains. I wanted my room to look colorful and feminine. If Josh ever did come into my room, I wanted him to be able to recognize it as mine.

I decided to go out to Pier 1 and Anthropologie to get some ideas and maybe buy a few things. Since working full time, I’d saved quite a bit. It was for college in the fall but I knew Aunt Marsha wouldn’t blink if I spent a bit on my room. She’d been bugging me about it for the past year. Besides I would be able to take some stuff to decorate my dorm room at college.

I found a lamp and curtains at Pier 1 and then headed over to Anthropologie on West 3
rd
but the duvet cover I liked there—one with birds and butterflies against a backdrop of pale flowers and vines—wasn’t available in queen size. The shop girl offered to call the other stores and she managed to find the last queen-sized in that pattern at the South Beverly store. She packed up the pillowcases and scented candle I’d chosen and soon I was heading further west, excited to claim my new duvet cover. I couldn’t wait to get home and set everything up. When Josh finally came to my room, it would look feminine and welcoming. I pictured us falling onto the birds and butterflies locked in a passionate embrace. I wriggled in my seat, frustrated once more that I wouldn’t see him again until the next day. But my frustration wasn’t only stemming from missing Josh; I’d forgotten to eat lunch. After paying for my stuff at the South Beverly store (which included some drop-pearl earrings I couldn’t resist) I aimed for the nearest Whole Foods store to pick up some take out.

Josh

It’s already 85 degrees when I pull up to the Jackman residence at 10 AM Saturday morning. It’s going to be a hot day of painting but I should be able to get the pool house done. I got about halfway last Saturday. In part, because Marcie wasn’t around to distract me.

At first I think that Marcie’s gone for the day again, because her car’s not in the driveway, and I’m so relieved. Her husband, Hugh, is almost always away when she calls me to do odd jobs for her. I’ve decided this is the last one for a while. I’d like my weekends free now, so I can spend more time with Heather, if she wants to. After last night, I got the distinct impression she does want to. She says she wants to take things slow, and I know it’s her mind talking because her body in my arms last night felt so hot and ready to go. She seemed to buzz with electricity as I held her. And how I’d like to stick my cord in her outlet… Geez, that sounds like something Robbie would say. I’ll have to tell him when I see him for beers tonight. Tell him about Heather. I think he’ll be happy for me. He seemed to be hurtin’ for me last Friday after she dumped me off at the side of the road. After last night, I can tell him I’m now in the driver’s seat. He’ll high five me. But he’s not getting the details. First off, he’ll think I’m a pussy for not gettin’ any right away, and he won’t understand that some things are worth waiting for. Honestly, I haven’t come across much that is, but now that I’ve met Heather, I get it. She’s worth it. So I’ll take Rob’s ribbing if I have to. I can handle it. Because when you’ve got something worth waiting for, you’ve got something to look forward to. All you need is patience, because it’s just a matter of time. And I plan to savor every minute.

I park my bike on the road and carry my helmet and tool belt to the back of the house. I find the paint and brushes from last weekend stored in the driveway. I work the first hour in the shade but after an hour I have to move into the sun. An hour later, I’m sweating bullets and I take my shirt off. The pool looks awfully inviting. I know Marcie wouldn’t mind if I took a break and went in. Shit, she’d tell me to go naked. I resist the pull of the turquoise water. I just want to get this job over and done with, ideally before Marcie gets home. She can mail me my check. I already know what I’m going to do with the money.

The job’s going well but I’m not as lucky as I’d hoped to be. I hear Marcie’s Range Rover pull into the driveway.

“Well, hello, Josh,” she says in her singsong voice.

“Hey,” I say, not taking my eyes off the half-painted wall in front of me. I hear her car door slam, and then the house door open and close, and I think, whew, she’s gone inside, she’s gonna leave me alone today.

I focus on the gray paint sliding over the brown boards and let myself think about taking Heather for a ride on my bike. I can’t wait to feel her arms around me...

About fifteen minutes into my reverie I hear the patio door slide open and Marcie says, “Wow, it’s a hot one. No wonder you took your shirt off.”

I’m tempted to put it back on so as not to distract her. When I turn, I see that she’s in her bathing suit and making her way to the far end of the pool. “I missed you last Saturday,” she says, her full lips curled into a fake pout. “I would have been here, but I had to take Dixon to the vet. I hate having to miss … watching you work.”

I don’t say anything. I go back to painting, listening to her splashy dive into the pool, imagining how refreshing the water must feel as she swims a few laps.

“You could take a break,” she says coming to rest on her elbows at my end of the pool. “You could slip out of those jeans and join me in here.”

“No thanks. I think I can get this job done today.” I really don’t want to be distracted. I can’t afford to be, even though the sun’s beating down on me and I feel sweat trickling down my back. I hear a whoosh of water as Marcie hauls herself out of the pool. I catch a glance of her picking up her towel, dabbing at her smooth, tanned skin.

She’s a dark-haired beauty slowly turning bitter from being trapped in a golden cage. Her husband’s a good guy, descent if busy, but she’s flighty. The first time she seduced me, I hadn’t met her husband, and she’d described him as an ogre. Emotionally, I took pity on her. Physically, who turns down an easy, voluptuous fuck? That’s what it was. And it earned me an extra Ben Franklin. When she asked me back to retile the pool house bathroom, she made herself available a few times during that job.

Some might call her a Desperate Housewife. She’s a housewife, true, and she seems desperate sometimes, but she’s a real person just like anyone, trying to get her needs met in a situation that doesn’t suit her but she’s unwilling to give it up—the situation that is, not her needs. And they were pretty consistent.

Of course, I’m a walking cliché, too. Or rather I was. I still am a twenty-something odd job carpenter with a tan and the illusion of a chip on his shoulder. I’m not really that chippy, but the bike and the looks contribute to the tough guy persona that makes some women—women like Marcie—call up their inner panther. They strike and I let them, because, like I said before, what single guy turns down an easy fuck? But I’m not that guy anymore. I’m not a cliché anymore. I don’t want it easy anymore. I want to work at it. And I want to work at it with Heather.

Suddenly I feel Marcie's hand on my back as it follows the trail of sweat between my shoulders blades. “Boy, you’re hot.” I spin around and take a step back from her.

“I’m fine,” I say. She steps toward me and slides her cool fingers into the waist of my jeans, just behind the belt buckle, and tries to tug me towards her. I keep my feet planted, hold firm. I breathe slowly and evenly, willing only my spirit, and not my body, to respond with firmness.

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“Sure you do. You’re a virile young man. I’ve been doing Pilates for the past month. My whole body will feel different to you. You won’t believe how
flexible
I am already.”

I give her a light nudge, try to take a step back. “I’ll take your word for it. I’ve got a girlfriend now.” It’s not official or anything, I know that, but I want to get Marcie off my back. As lovely as she is, I’m not dipping my wick anymore.

But she’s not buying. My admission seems to be adding to her turn-on. She’s pouting because I’m saying no, feigning disappointment, but she’s not giving up. I can tell by the look in her eye, and the way she’s not letting go of my belt. I transfer my paintbrush to the hand holding the paint can and I reach down to lift her hand away from me, saying, “Do you want me to finish the job, or not.”

“
I’m
the job I want you to finish, Josh. You know how I like it. I bet your girlfriend doesn’t give you any of
that
.” I swallow as she proceeds to slide one bathing suit strap off one shoulder and then the other.

I shake my head, meaning, no, I’m still not interested, but she thinks I’m agreeing with her about what I’m not getting and, after exposing her tits, taut from the pool water and the light breeze rustling the palms, she lays her fingers against my bare chest. My nipples tighten. I’m still firm in spirit but now I’m firm in body, too. She notices. I silently curse the male burden.

“That’s it, honey. I’ll turn around, lean over the picnic table, you can take me right here. Just the way you like it, right up my sweet, tight ass.”

“That’s the way
you
like it, Marcie.”

She told me last year her husband wouldn’t fuck her like that but she liked it, more than she ought to. And, I found out, so did I. But even in my wildest dreams I can’t imagine subjecting Heather to that—well, maybe in my dreams—but not in reality. So what if my back door entry days were done? So be it. I’m taken.