Love to Love Her YAC (6 page)

Abruptly he sits up and holds his head in his
hands, pushing his fingers through his thick, dark hair.
“
Fuck
,” he whispers. Mystified, I slowly draw myself up to a
sitting position and watch as his shoulders rise and fall in an
exaggerated motion borne of heavy breathing. I’m afraid to touch
him.

After minutes or maybe years Blake turns
around to face me over his shoulder. “Come here,” he says gruffly,
so I scoot forward until I’m sitting next to him once more. He
clears his throat as he covers my right hand with his left and
gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry I got carried away
there for a minute,” he says softly.

“It’s okay,” I say. I lean closer against him
as if I can somehow convey just how
okay
it really was
through mere proximity. I hook my chin over his shoulder. “I wanted
you to,” I tell him in a whisper. He peers down at me in something
close to wonder and presses a chaste kiss on the top of my head.
That angst-ridden expression is back in his eyes, dulling the
fierce green they blazed just moments ago.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “I’d better get
you home.”

I heave a reluctant sigh, thinking my
apartment is the last place I want to be right now. I stand up and
don my boots before allowing him to shepherd me to his truck for a
quiet drive back to the city.

Blake – 7:45 AM

I
hold down speed
dial 3 on my phone and gaze absently out the window while it rings.
The early morning sun slants through the living room blinds, back
lighting the dust motes swirling like snowflakes in the air. The
phone clicks to voicemail. “Hi, it’s Jordan. I’m busy at the moment
and can’t take your call. Please leave your name and number, and I
will consider calling you back.”

I wait for the beep. “Hey babe, it’s uh, me
again. Haven’t heard from you in a few days, just checking to see
how you are. I work today and then I have class at 7, but call me
back whenever. Bye.”

I hit the end button but continue to hold the
phone, staring at it, wanting so fucking badly to scroll through my
contacts and tap on Rhiannon’s name. I don’t though. I need some
time to sort some shit out first.

Adam strolls out into the kitchen wearing a
shirt and tie and pours a cup of coffee from the pot on the
counter. He and I met five years ago during our sophomore year at
UN in an econ study group. Adam ended up getting his BS in
architecture and now works as a drafter for a small firm that does
commercial design.

“You don’t look so good, man,” he says. “You
getting much sleep?”

I scrub at my face with the heels of my hands
and shake my head. “Not enough, no.”

Adam regards me for a moment as if he’s
mentally working to solve a challenging puzzle. “Have you talked to
Jordan lately?” he asks before blowing on his coffee to cool it
some.

“Nope. Not since last Friday. She hasn’t been
returning my calls.” I try to force the bitterness from my tone.
“She’s been on Facebook plenty though,” I mutter.

“She’s busy though, right? Getting her
business going and everything.” Jordan is in the insurance
business. She’s in the process of establishing her clientele at a
State Farm outfit in Sacramento, where we’re both from.

“I guess,” I say. I can tell he’s trying to
talk me out of reading too much into her current MIA status.
Honestly, right now I’m not feeling up to reading into anything
other than the ache in my chest that’s been there like a lead
weight since I left Rhiannon at her apartment on Sunday night. I
sigh, tossing my phone on the ottoman, and stand up. I head toward
the shower, knowing I need to wash my hair and shave but feeling
little motivation to do so. Before I can get far Adam speaks up
again.

“Have you talked to that chick from the bar
lately?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end at the
mention of her, whether out of defensiveness or some twisted sense
of territorialism I’m not sure.
Why would he be asking me
that?

“Not for a few days, no.”

“You plan to see her again?”

I turn back warily to look at Adam leaning
against the kitchen table, a neutral expression on his face.

“Maybe. Why do you care?”

“She doesn’t know, does she?” I’m sure my
defeated stance tells him everything he needs to know. “You’ve
gotta tell her, dude.”

I turn away again, resolved to get in the
shower and wash away the stress of this whole fucked up situation.
“I know.”

Rhiannon – 9:45 AM

W
ednesdays are my
light days – Ethics meets at nine o’clock for an hour, then I have
a break until Leadership Seminar at three. Today is my lucky day,
because my morning class let out ten minutes early, allowing me
just enough time to hightail it over to the bagel place inside the
student union before Ruthie finishes her shift.

When I get there Ruthie has removed her
yellow visor and is untying her apron, obviously ready to be done
working. She picks up about ten hours a week here, mostly the early
morning shifts. A skinny hipster kid who I’ve heard her address as
Ben has arrived to take her place.

“You can’t be clocking out yet, you’ve got
another customer!” I cry as I approach the counter, slightly out of
breath. Ruthie stops and shoots me an icy look.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, what can I get you?” she
asks in a saccharine voice that is clearly meant to convey
sarcasm.

“I’ll take a cinnamon swirl bagel with
strawberry cream cheese, please.” I serve up a cheesy grin to match
her tone.

Ruthie has barely lifted a finger to fulfill
my order when Ben steals around the corner from the back and parks
himself next to her elbow. “I’ve got it,” he says quickly as he
offers me a toothy smile.

“Hallelujah,” says Ruthie wryly. “I’m out of
here.” She jabs her finger at the touch screen next to the case of
bagels to clock out then swiftly discards her apron and visor in
the back before joining me on the customer side of the counter.

Ben toasts my bagel without my having to ask,
rings up my order and takes my cash. I hand him my customer
appreciation card as well, which he stamps not once but twice
before handing it back to me with another sheepish grin. Ruthie
follows me to a table near the window.

“Now
that’s
customer service,” I tease
her as soon as we’re out of earshot. “Maybe you could learn a thing
or two from that guy.”

Ruthie rolls her eyes. “You do know he has a
crush on you, right?”

I laugh. “Not likely. I’ve seen him, what,
like two times ever?”

“Try five or six,” says Ruthie. “You’re like
one of those mean hot girls who doesn’t even notice the poor
imbeciles drooling all over you.”

I grimace. “Am not. I’m just not very
observant in general. I don’t mean to hurt anybody’s feelings.”

“I know you don’t,” says Ruthie with an
exaggerated sigh. “You’re one of those rare breeds of beautiful
women who actually gives a shit about other people. It makes me
hate you a little.”

I laugh. “Ditto, babe.”

I slather a thick layer of cream cheese over
my bagel and take a bite. Ruthie watches me chew, a question
scrawled over her expressive features. “Heard anything from the
hottie lately?” she asks.

A dull, stabbing pain overtakes me. I wince
and swallow my bite, slowly shaking my head. Ruthie’s eyes widen.
“
Still
nothing? Hmm, that’s wild. Something doesn’t quite
fit the profile.”

I snort. “There are profiles now? Are you
cataloging male personality characteristics like detectives study
psychopaths?”

“Of course,” says Ruthie as if this should
have been quite obvious. “How else am I going to know when I meet
my future husband? Or
your
future husband, for that
matter.”

I nod, feigning seriousness. “You’re totally
right,” I tell her.

I finish my bagel, then walk Ruthie to her
French class in Highsmith Hall. Next I make my way to the fountain
on the south side of campus, my favorite spot to sit and study when
the weather is nice. I drop my book bag next to one of the stone
benches and sit leaned back with my eyes closed, reveling in the
warmth of the late summer sun. The slight wind rearranges my hair
and floats around my bare arms and neck. It runs a chill up my
spine that reminds me of a similar reaction I had three nights ago
to something altogether different.

Blake had looked at me in a way I’ve only
been looked at a handful of times in my life. A long time ago it
was Reggie who bestowed those worshipful gazes on me. He was my
first love, the guy I dated through most of my high school years.
Considering the train wreck our relationship turned into, it seems
like even longer ago than it really was. We fell apart when my
little sister Tawny first got sick. Reggie was too immature to help
me cope with my grieving, and I was too overwhelmed to forgive him
for being a typical eighteen year old. Reggie and I used to have
sex – he was my first – but it was never what you’d call
satisfying, and I sure as hell didn’t want it with him the way I do
with Blake; forget the fact I’ve only known him for five days.

The strange thing of it is, I could see my
own raging desire reflected back at me in Blake’s silver green
eyes. I’ve been puzzling it out for days, waiting for him to call,
and I still can’t figure out why he broke it off so abruptly and
then stopped trying to contact me.

I’m roused from my musings when my phone
sounds its text message alert beside me. Immediately my heart rate
escalates and my palms begin to sweat. I’m a bit crestfallen when I
see the message is from Corinne…then I feel guilty for being
upset.

What’s up?

Are you texting me during class again?

It’s not my fault my psych prof is boring as hell. I
have to do something to keep from falling asleep.

Daydream about Vince.

I don’t wanna think about him right now. Let’s just
say my little scheme to get him to pursue me for a change
backfired.

Ah.

So has he called yet?

Nope.

Why don’t you just call him?

Says the girl whose MO is playing hard to get.

For the record, just because I’m a hot mess doesn’t
mean I don’t know what I’m talking about when I give you advice.
I’m way better at other people’s lives.

Point taken. And I’ll think about it.

I tuck my phone away and attempt to get some
studying done, but in the end my mind settles on something – or who
am I kidding, some
one
– far separate from the textbooks
spread out before me. I’m still lost in my thoughts when one
o’clock rolls around and it’s time to pack up and head to the
soccer fields for my weekly Frisbee date with Spence.

Blake – 2:00 PM

T
he mental health
clinic where I work sits just off the northeast corner of the WSC
campus, so taking breaks to walk around the athletic complex has
become a part of my daily routine. I step out just before two
o’clock and jog across the street to the edge of the tennis courts.
I’m in bad need of this time away to clear my head, still swirling
with thoughts of Rhiannon and the clipped conversation I shared
with Jordan this morning. When she finally called me back I was in
a meeting with my boss, Herb, who still thinks he’s grooming me to
take his place. I haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell him I
have other aspirations, even though he knows I’m working on my
master’s.

Jordan had used being busy at work as her
excuse for not returning any of my calls lately – no big surprise
there. I want to believe her, and she may indeed be telling the
truth, but a part of me can’t help but feel slightly suspicious.
We’ve been through too much to just forget about the sequence of
events that brought us to where we are today. I resolve to keep my
eyes focused forward as I walk, determined to take in my
surroundings. I know if I look down I’ll become consumed by the
dark thoughts railing against the door I keep them locked
behind.

I start down the path toward the basketball
courts where a middle aged guy is shooting layups. I pause for a
moment, listening to the thud of the ball as it bounces on the
concrete followed by the tinny sound of its ricochet against the
hoop. I continue along my usual trajectory by hanging a right
toward the soccer fields. Typically I turn before I reach the
fields in favor of taking a shortcut across the quad back in the
direction of the tennis courts. Today, though, I want – no, I
need
– to take some extra time, so I keep walking. I target
a cluster of oaks straight ahead, thinking I’ll sit for a minute in
the shade before heading back to work.

As I draw nearer to the huddle of trees, my
ears perk up at a familiar musical laugh. I swivel around, honing
in on the origin of the sound. I see Rhiannon twenty yards away
sprinting down the field, her face turned upward, tracking the
progress of a yellow Frisbee as it slices through the air over her
head. I chuckle in spite of myself, able to judge from this
distance she won’t catch it. She lunges for it as it begins its
ascent but misses and lands several feet short, belly down in the
grass. She isn’t dressed up today like she was the last two times I
saw her, but she is possibly even more alluring in a pair of black
yoga pants and a form fitting t-shirt. The sun draws out the
reddish tone in her hair, causing her loose curls to glint copper
and gold.

As Rhiannon pulls herself back up to
standing, I turn to seek out the person who threw the Frisbee. My
eyes land on a guy with cropped brown hair in a Sigma Tau t-shirt.
He flashes a dimple as he laughs. I can feel my chest tightening.
Suddenly I have to suppress the inclination to morph into an alpha
male and go stake out my territory – territory which, in truth, I
have absolutely zero claim on. My anger shifts to a sadness that’s
almost too much to bear as I consider this fact.