Stronger (8 page)

Thank God, he clears his throat and looks away.  I return to the cucumbers in front of me too quickly and nearly hack off my thumb.  Whatever magic that was, it was a little too close for comfort.  I really have to remember that Aidan's not my chew toy, not my scratching post, not my signature brand of catnip.  He's just a neighbor.  That's all he is and that's how it's got to remain.

"Leonard is my sponsor," he says, shaking me out of my spell.  "He's got twenty-five years clean and sober.  I think you'll like him.  Lots of wisdom in that man."

I'd bet that Leonard has a ponytail, wears sandals in the winter, and leases a permanent space at Boring Central. 

"Devon and Marlisa are coming,"  he adds. "You met them already.  And my sister, Ila, will be here."

"Cool name."

"Cool girl," he says.  "She's been clean for a year.  Shane and Natalie might be late, but they're coming.  He's not an alcoholic, by the way."

"He's not?"  I mull that one over.  He must have just been out on a bender, the night he got with me.

"No."  He avoids my gaze as he grabs a cloth and wipes the counter.  I used to work with Shane--I introduced him to Natalie.  She's been sober for eight months." 

"She's a big fan of mine."

"Don't take it personally.  She's hates everybody.  She's still having a hard time figuring out who she is, away from the bar."

I laugh, trying to capture his eyes again, but it doesn't work.  "At least we can bond on that.  I'm not sure I could recognize myself in the line-up of blondes at Modo's either.  The dreads help."

"She could learn a lot from your confidence," he says. 
Confidence
.  I almost snort.  He's still not looking at me, so I figure I should go ahead and try to escort the elephant out of the room.

"So what made you quit drinking?"

He sighs, leans his hips against the counter.  "I wanted to," he says and his eyes finally find mine.  "Have you ever wanted to do something so badly that you knew there was no way you would fail?  That's what happened to me.  I got to the point of being so damn miserable and desperate that I would've been happy to die from withdrawals, rather than take another drink.  Have you ever wanted anything that bad?"

I shake my head.  This conversation, his eyes--it's all getting a little too intense.  "No."

"Never?"

I scramble for a memory that will diffuse the pressure.  "Well, there was one time...but it's stupid, compared to what we're talking about."

"Ok," he shrugs, "so let it be stupid.  Tell me anyway."

"Alright," I say, dusting off my hands.  "I was in ninth grade, and Maria Telecki and I had a gym class together.  Maria was a bitch and so was I, but then, Maria's boyfriend, Carl--he was a senior--dumped her and asked me to go with him to the Prom. 

"That afternoon, Maria bet me, in front of the whole lunchroom, that I couldn't beat her ass in a long distance race.  If I won, I told her I wanted this silver, butterfly necklace she wore every day to school.  I knew that if I got it from her, it would knock Maria off her high horse.  But if I lost, she wanted me to swear that I wouldn't go to Prom with her guy.  So, Maria and I both entered the annual 5K run in town.

"I didn't give a shit about Carl.  I wanted that damn necklace and wanted it even more in the days leading up to the race, because Maria kept taunting me with it.  She'd dangle it off her finger at me whenever she was around.  I was ready to puke up my lungs to get that necklace."

Aidan reaches over the bar and brushes my dreads away from my naked collarbone.  "And you're not still wearing your prize to this day?"

I shake my head.  "I didn't get it.  I was ready to puke up my lungs, but the day of the race...what can I say?  Maria Telecki beat me.  She was better."

"Doubtful," Aidan says.  "She probably caught you on an off day."

"She could've raced me any day and won.  I never bothered to train, but she did and she was fast."  I lean back on the counter.  "I stuck to my word though.  I puked up my guts at the finish line and Maria took pictures to prove it."

"And you didn't go to Prom."

"No. Carl and I went to a motel party that night instead.  That's the night I met my husband."

Aidan laughs. "Ahhh...slick.  Two birds and one stone."

"Yeah, well." I shrug with one shoulder.  "Shit happens."

"So you know what it's like to want something, but you don't know what it's like to do everything you can and actually succeed."

I feel this getting too preachy for my tastes.  I reach for my wine glass.

"Meh," I say.  "Success is overrated."

As I bring the glass to my mouth, Aidan steps forward and wraps his hand around mine.  His face is distorted through the glass until I lower it.

"No more, okay?"  He almost whispers it.

"It's really getting to you that I'm drinking?"

"No, it's really bothering me that you're trying to glue your pieces back together with wine."  The pressure of his hand around mine is gentle.  The bottom of the glass tinks as it meets the counter.  "Wine doesn't work for shit as glue, Lydia."

The muscles in my cheeks suddenly go stiff, as I struggle to hold my grin in place.  I see what he's doing and it's exactly what he said he wouldn't.  My cheeks blaze with the humiliation as I push away from the counter.

"I've got to run," I say.

"Interesting choice of words." His expression is all deep and introspective and full of fucking pity.  I pick up the wine glass and toss whatever's left in his face.

"Oh, sorry,"  I say.  "It slipped."

He wipes it away slowly with his sleeve.  I head for the door.

"Wait," he says, following after me.  I spin on a heel to face him again.

"Just because I like a little wine, it doesn't make me an alcoholic, Aidan!  That's
your
problem, not mine.  So, if you need to be somebody's savior, then go find someone with an actual problem first!"

I make for the door again, but he grabs my arm.  I jerk loose and he steps back.

"I'm sorry, Lydia.  You're right.  It's not my business and I shouldn't have said anything."

"Now
that's
an interesting choice of words," I snap. "You shouldn't have said anything--because it made me angry?  Or because you think it's true?"

"It was just a stupid thing to say."

"But which one is it?"

"The stupid one.  Can we start over?" he says and he grins.  It's every bit as charming and disarming as he means it to be, but he just made me feel like a fucking, drunk loser.  He can't do that. 

"I'll see you later," I say as I slip out the door.

"Dinner's at five," he says, but the hopefulness in his voice wilts, just like the damned friendship we'd just started to grow.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FEASTING ON FRIENDS

I hear his guests as they show up.  The trill of a women’s voices, greeting each other with "Happy Thanksgiving!" and the deep gravel of the men as they greet one another.  I wonder if Aidan realizes just how thin the walls are between our apartments.

Since I do, I tiptoe around and even wince when the lip of what was going to be my party-wine bottle hits the edge of my waiting glass with a sharp tink.  I don't feel like going to Modo's anymore, but I don't want Aidan coming over to invite me again either.  All I want to do is sit on the floor near the heat vent, where the voices from next door blow through a little clearer. 

I don't know why I give a shit about listening to their conversations about the weather and construction, or pie recipes and turkey timing...but I do.  I want to hear Aidan's laugh, even if it is a little muffled.  I want to be sure no one's talking about me, or if they are, I want to be sure it's the right person and that he's saying the right things.

There is talk of the football game, the food Aidan's serving, complaints about work and the snow.  They discuss the prices of lattes and new TVs, debate public transportation policies, quote some movie they've seen.  And then comes the conversation I've been listening for. 

"Where's your neighbor?" a woman asks.  Curious, hopeful--sounds like Aidan's sister.

"She was here earlier, but she had some things to do," Aidan says. 

"She's not coming back?"

"She knows dinner's at five," he says and his tone comes through the wall like he's looking right at me.   A guilty shiver speeds through my stomach.

"It's almost five now," someone else says.

"I better pull out the turkey then." Aidan says and the conversation is dropped.  They talk about setting the table and who wants water and where everyone's going to sit.

I watch the digital clock on the shelf in my living room as it flashes through the minutes.  It's meant for the bedroom, but it got moved out here at some point and I've never thought much about moving it back.  I don't live by a clock.  I live by calls from Des and measure my days in trips to the liquor store. 

I listen as the chairs next door scrape as everyone sits down for dinner.  Aidan doesn't come knocking and I can't tell if I'm relieved or just lonely.  I hear the clink of silverware, the laughter, the small talk.  With my temple against the wall, I consider downing the last swallow in my wine glass, sucking up my pride, and going next door.  And then I hear my name.

"It looks like Lydia's not coming," a man says.  Since he's not talking Buddhism, I figure it's got to be Shane.

"What
are
you doing with that girl anyway?"  It's a disapproving woman's voice.  Oh, that's Natalie, no doubt.

"Yes, I was wondering that too."  That's Leonard. 
Dull
comes through the wall loud and clear. 

"We're friends," Aidan says.  I think he's chewing his food.  "Neighbors."

"You know, she's an alcoholic." 

I don't care who said it, I only care that it was said.  Those bastards!  They don't even know me, but they're over there chewing up my reputation over dinner.  They've never seen me at the bar.  It's not like I'm out in the hallway slamming shots.  They don't know one thing about me.  But they're over there judging me, just like Aidan said they wouldn't.  The outrage bubbles like caustic chemicals inside me--I want to put my hand through the wall and drag each of them into my world, just so I can tell them what I think of
them
.  Then Aidan replies with something that absolutely floors me.

"I know," he says. 

He doesn't defend my honor or anything!  He should be over there telling his table full of quitters that they're all crazy, but instead, he
agrees
with them.  That
son of a bitch
!

"You know you can't have a relationship with her, so what are you going to do about it?" Natalie says.  I can
hear
her thin little lips flapping and picture her weaselly little eyes narrowing for an answer.

"I'm not doing anything about it," Aidan says.  At least there is a little tiny bit of
back off
in his tone now.  A little chivalry would go a hell of a long way right now. 

"It sucks...I was that party girl once too."  It's a quieter woman's voice, but not Ila, not Natalie.  Must be Marlisa. "When I was using, I wanted to be saved.  There was a guy in Tulsa, he offered to lock me in a room with him, do everything I needed to get me clean and sober..."

Natalie groans.  "Let's not sidetrack into another Marlisa story."

"She's just sharing her experience."  I think it's Shane that defends her?  Or maybe her husband--what was his name?  Devon.  That's right, even though it really doesn't matter.  Marlisa jumps right back into her story.

"All I'm saying is that I wanted to be saved.  When I had the needle hanging out of my arm and the cops busted in, I wanted..."

Natalie's voice crests over the top of Marlisa's tale. "What do you think of it, Leonard?  In relation to what we are supposed to be doing to keep ourselves healthy, I mean.  Don't you agree that Aidan should be careful since she's an alcoholic?"

"It's not my business what she is," he says. 
Huh. 
I'm liking Mr. Dull a little more.  "However, as your sponsor, Aidan, I will say that I don't think it's wise to date a person that could endanger your sobriety in any way."

--And now I like Leonard a little less.

"She won't," Aidan says and someone laughs.  Or snorts.

"You have a very strong spirit," Leonard says, "but sometimes remaining strong requires avoiding those temptations that could weaken your will."

"I understand," Aidan says. 

"In your experience, Leonard," Natalie's
needling tone prickles at me, "how many guys have you known that have thrown away their sobriety because they thought they could save a girlfriend?" 

A deeper voice intercedes- it has to be Marlisa's husband, Devon.  "It happened to us, Natalie," he says.  "Marly only had five months when we met.  A lot of couples don't make it, but some do.  It might be against the odds, but if it means that much, sometimes it works."

"Rarely," Natalie says.

"It is against the odds," Ila chimes in, but it sounds hesitant. 

"So why risk it?" Natalie says.  God, I hate her.  Then, as if to set the cement on my feelings for her, she adds, "And how many thought it wouldn't happen to them, Leonard?" 

"Quite a few." 

"Did I tell you two to quit your relationship when Nat started?" Aidan asks.

"It's a completely different situation," Shane argues.  "We were already together.  Established."

"All I'm trying to say is that you kept it together and I think we can too."

"But it's a
new
relationship--"  That, of course, comes from Natalie.

Marlisa jumps in with, "Anyone want to help clear the dishes?"

"Me," Ila says. 

The dishes clank and throats clear and I can feel the tension that's got to be a hundred times worse over in Aidan's apartment.  A simple difference of opinion and it's like everyone's dividing up and jumping into their foxholes. 

I'm sure there is pie and coffee, but I don't listen anymore.  I take my party-wine into my bedroom, shut the door, and strip down to my panties and bra.  I slip into a long-sleeve shirt that Des left behind over six months ago.  The scent of his cologne is long gone, it's just a ratty old shirt now, but it's at least good for a night shirt.

I flick on the
flat screen, hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed, and bunch up the pillows behind my back.  With my drink on the bedside table, any other night this would be cozy, but I can't get Aidan's dinner party out of my head. 

Part of me wants to make a late entrance and fire off acidic responses to what I've heard. 

Part of me wants to hide, just like I'm doing.

I drink my wine, hoping it will erase what I can't get off my mind, but after a few more sips, my mouth goes dry.  I get restless, too hot under the covers, too cold once I throw them off.  I retrieve my phone, and despite my better judgment, I call Des.  He picks up on the second ring.

"Desmond Strong," he answers, all professional as if he doesn't have caller ID.  Another dinner party murmurs in the background, silverware chiming against plates.  Before I have a chance to speak, he says, "Well, thank you for letting me know about the back order on that ceiling fixture, Lydia.  I appreciate you taking time out of your own holiday celebration to touch base.  Yes...you too!  And have a wonderful Thanksgiving with the family.  Thanks again for calling, Claudia and I are delighted to have you on our team."

He hangs up and I never even said a word.

I toss the phone down on my bed and yank his shirt off my back.

<<<<>>>>

It's around ten o'clock when there is a knock on my door.  I ignore it, but then there's a second knock, and a third, and then Aidan starts shouting and it sounds like he's going to kick down the door.  I slip Des's shirt back on, carry out my wine glass and open up.  Aidan's standing there with a hefty tower of foil-covered dishes.

He gives the shirt a once-over as he brushes past me.  Mrs. Lowt pops into the hallway just as I close the door.

"I see you had a million plans and couldn't make it to dinner," he says, depositing his tower on my kitchen counter.  "So I brought the dinner to you."

"I already..."

"You've got to try my turkey." He says, popping off the foil on a plate loaded with meat and clumpy cranberry jelly.  "It's the first one I've ever made and I want an honest opinion.  Ila made the sweet potatoes.  It's her first too, but sweet potatoes are nothing compared to cooking a turkey, right?"

"Aidan..."

"You're lucky I like you.  I also got you a piece of the pecan pie
and
a slice of pumpkin."

He drops the foil on the counter, pushing the plate toward me, a fork clattering off the edge.  I lean on the wall beside the kitchen and bring my glass to my lips.  I empty the contents into my mouth.  He takes the glass from my hand, set it on the counter and turns back to me.

I think he's going to speak, preach or complain, but instead, he kisses me. 

He flattens my back to the wall, crushing his body against mine.  My body responds, spearing my fingers into his hair and twisting a leg around his.  If he's going to kiss me like this--then he's not getting away from me.

The small moan that eases out of his throat makes me wonder if it is my kiss or the wine on my tongue that he is enjoying most.  He deepens the kiss and when he pulls away, he takes my lower lip between his teeth with a soft tug that ignites me.  I clutch him and drag him back for more.

He complies, opening his mouth and devouring mine; his palm at the back of my head, as if I'd want to get away.  All I want is more of him.  I hitch my leg up around his thigh, opening to his clothed excitement.  I want him so bad, I think I might choke him with my tongue, but he slows the rhythm, matching the motion of the kiss with a slow grind of his hips against me.

This is the part I live for, the sensual build up to the release.  My heart is banging as hard as Big Ben approaching midnight and the beat sinks all the way down between my legs.  The whole world seems like something I'm standing on, instead of muddling through.  He steals my breath and gives it back to me.  My body sings its siren song as my brain entertains every orgasmic daydream I've had about how good this sex is going to be with the man trapped between my thighs.   

"I'm so bad for your sobriety," I murmur against his lips.  I have to give him one last chance to run.  "I don't want to wreck it for you."

"I wouldn't let that happen," he says with a slow smile. "But I'm going to wreck your taste for booze."

"Oh yeah?  How are you going to do that?"

"I'm going to make it so all you'll want to be is sober...just so you can remember every damn thing I do to you."

<<<<>>>>

Mornings-after are always weird, but this one is beyond even that, because I actually know the name of the guy that's got his arm wrapped around my waist and his body glued to the length of my back.  And he knows mine.  Maybe that's what makes it so uncomfortable. 

Or it could be that I don't want Aidan to leave. 

That's a really bad turn of events, considering he's still my neighbor, I'm still married, and I'm like a wrecking ball, swinging straight at his sobriety.  It's not like I didn't see this coming or did a damn thing to stop it, but now that my neighbor is sleeping with his face in my hair, the whole idea of being able to handle this delicately has gone right out the window.  Especially now that I know Aidan is even better between the sheets than I'd ever imagined. 

Last night was incredible.  A feat of stamina and control.  Maybe the best surprise was that Aidan blew George out of the water when it comes to sex talk.  Most guys haven't got a clue.  They're full of groans and
oh baby
s, but have no idea how to say
tits
without it sounding like they just hit the whore jackpot.  Or worse--they talk about my
breasts
and
vagina
and
clitoris
like they're conducting an anatomy lecture.  I mean, damn.  In bed, it's a
clit;
the things on my chest are not
mammories
or
fun bags
, they're either tits or just
mmm;
and anything below my waist should be slowly admired, piece by slippery piece, in silence--but never,
ever
, referred to as a gynecological whole.
 
And there's absolutely no reason to ever mumble even the most amorous words about my
clitoris
while trying to get some
. 
None.
Bad sex talk can get a man gone from my bed faster than anything else.