Every Breath You Take Page 7

  He let his eyes linger over the photographs in her living room, the framed, glossy squares brimming with the smiling faces of friends—no family, of course. He palmed the books on her bookshelves, featherweight tomes about succeeding in business and living your best life. She didn’t seem to read many, what his mama used to call, supermarket novels, bursting with heaving bosoms and glistening, muscular chests. All her fiction tended toward serious, highbrow works teeming with critical acclaim and shiny gold stamps denoting awards of some sort. She was always so serious. He’d have to help her with that.

  He used her toothbrush to brush the morning coffee from his breath, closing his eyes as the bristles tickled his gums and scraped against his tongue. He was delighted to find a silky pink bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. He stripped down until he was naked, already bulging and ready to pop. Once he slid between the cool, soft cotton of her bed, whatever tension or nerves strumming through him released the minute he felt those sheets swirl around him. He held her pillows to him, imagining it was her as he inhaled the scent of roses, winding her bathrobe around him as he relieved himself in a matter of moments, not needing much stimulation, as he was already skimming the clouds. He kept stroking and relieving himself, careful not to spill any on the sheets. He lost count after the fourth time, so dazed and drunk on the proximity to everything that was in proximity to her.

  Finally, as late afternoon began to cast shadows across those creaky wooden floors, he’d reluctantly torn himself from her bed and straightened up after himself before going home, so excited he could barely stand it.

  Over the next few months, he’d gone in a few more times, having to restrain himself from going in every day as he wanted. He didn’t want to tip her off. Then, out of the blue one day, she moved, cutting him off, leaving him to adjust to a whole new routine, leaving him without access. He used to wonder . . . did she know? Is that why she left? Running away yet again.

  It stung.

  He was back to wondering. Waiting. He sat down on the bench, still looking up at her building, thinking about what she was doing right now.

  Chapter 15

  SHE

  Natalie’s hands were sweaty as she gripped the now grubby paper handles of the shopping bag that had been burning a hole in her hand the entire walk from Water Tower to her apartment.

  Then again, what was inside the bag had been burning a hole in her mind for the better part of the last month.

  Jason. She would sometimes look at him a little nonplussed, a little afraid, expecting a calamity to intrude upon his latest romantic overture. True to his word, he was wooing her, lavishing her with attention and affection and himself. Since the chocolate-making class, he’d sent flowers to her office and coaxed her into renting a bicycle built for two for a bike-riding debacle down the lakefront one Sunday afternoon, which left her with a skinned knee and both of them smeared with needles of grass and streaks of mud and quaking with uncontrollable laughter the whole time. He packed picnic lunches for the park, invited her to his place at least three times a week for gourmet meals he whipped up himself, and called her for deep, probing phone conversations that sometimes tiptoed into the waning hours of the day.

  Before long came the “meeting of his friends,” the knobby-kneed boys with crusty snot crawling out of their noses, according to the discolored old photographs posted on Jason’s Facebook page. She’d never bothered getting a Facebook page—she didn’t see the point—though it did thrill her more than a little all the times he showed her the pictures he posted of the two of them, further solidifying their “coupledom.” He’d roughhoused with those boys as a kid and they’d grown up to be his trusted confidantes: Kevin, the lawyer and perennial bachelor; Chuck, an appliance store manager married with four kids; Pete, the mechanic who Jason said always seemed to drink a little more than the rest of them, who had three kids by two different ex-girlfriends and lived with his mother; and Ollie, the roly-poly accountant with an equally hefty wife and preteen son. They had gathered in the back room of a favorite restaurant to celebrate the roly-poly accountant and his wife’s joint birthday party, and Jason reported later she’d been given an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the whole gang.

  Meeting his parents for Sunday dinner had produced its own special brand of stomach-churning anxiety. She knew he’d introduced girls to his family before, but she also knew this was different and it terrified her. Would she measure up to those beautiful, brilliant girls? (She’d met one by accident when they were out to dinner once, bumping into her and her date in the bar. Gorgeous. Big muckety-muck VP at a bank.) But her nerves slithered away the moment his mother opened the door of their spacious, sophisticated home—outfitted with beiges and creams, family photos and stunning art—and beckoned her into the warm and raucous enclave where the men roared over Sunday football and the women squeezed around the kitchen island to gab about family, Real Housewives antics and current affairs, while children banged in and out of the house, alternating between a haphazard touch-football game in the backyard and climbing their beloved uncle Jason like a tree. Jason’s mother, sister, and cousin hadn’t pestered her with incessant questions about her background. Instead they stuck to polite, friendly inquiries about what she did for a living and what books she’d read lately, and, of course, telling embarrassing stories about Jason, who ambled into the room seemingly every five minutes to make sure she was okay. His father and grandfather had been suitably impressed to learn Ricky Scott’s daughter was at their dinner table, having been bowled over by “what a hell of an athlete” her father was. Instead of making her feel sad or weighed down by the legacy, for the first time it made Natalie feel good to see how happy her father’s prowess made people.

  She finally felt like she belonged somewhere.

  It was just another in a series of the small pushes that propelled her into being honest with him about her checkered past beyond the bits and pieces she allowed to drop from her mouth in cautious dribbles—about that awful night and the decade-long trauma that had ensued.

  And so she did.

  Buoyed by three glasses of wine and the way the moonlight was bouncing across his face as they sat on his balcony after attending a reception hosted by his firm followed by a late dinner, she allowed the dam to burst and all the water to gush out in a long, ugly torrent. As she talked, she couldn’t look at him, shielding her face from his, her voice quivering, the tears streaming. He was mute, leaning forward on his haunches, chin cupped in one palm. He just listened. Without judgment. Without questions. When she was done, he’d folded her into his arms as she sobbed, her snot trailing across his periwinkle silk blend polo. Finally, he’d taken her into the house and into his bedroom, laying her down on the bed and wrapping around her. They were in the same position the next morning.

  He was It.

  Natalie spit her bland, waxy pit of gum into a stray receipt from the bottom of her purse, her fingers gratefully closing around the box of cinnamon gum in the next instant.

  “Oh, scheisse,” she mumbled when she turned the box upside down to discover it vacant of spicy cinnamon rectangles. She’d run out to Walgreens later to stock up.

  She smiled at her doorman as she headed toward her mailbox, afraid of how much mail was likely inside, as she hadn’t checked it in a few days. She groaned when she saw the stacks of envelopes and thick magazines lodged inside the tiny box. She struggled to pull everything out and flipped through the bills, dropping the junk mail into the mailroom wastebasket. She stopped when she got to a large square cream linen envelope with her name printed in neat block letters and no return address. She frowned, not recognizing the handwriting and for a moment, just a moment. . .

  No. She would recognize the scrawl of his handwriting. And this stationery . . . it was too sophisticated for him . . . too . . . composed. It wasn’t his style.

  “Probably an invitation or a direct mail piece,” she murmured in an attempt to tamp down her rising panic. She closed her eyes an
d took a few deep breaths as she rode to the thirtieth floor, tapping the sharp corner of the envelope against her palm the entire time. She strode down the hall, fumbling with her keys, the metal tip of the house key missing the lock with several tries until finally she got the door open. She dropped her purse and shopping bag to the floor and ripped open the mysterious envelope with the letter opener she kept in a tumbler in her kitchen with her pens.

  Dear Scotty,

  I just got home after walking you to your door after our date. Felt all nervous as I leaned down to kiss you goodnight, like I was a greasy, gangly, pimply sixteen-year-old all over again. As I was walking home, thinking about you and about these past few weeks, for some reason I just felt like writing you a letter. You know the last time I wrote a letter—like, handwrote a letter—was probably in, like, high school or something, and only because they made me.

  Most women would have curled up and called it quits with everything you’ve been through. You’ve not only survived, you’ve thrived. You’re so pulled-together no one would even know how much you’ve suffered. I couldn’t have even guessed just how deep it went.

  I know you were afraid that by telling me your secrets I’d run screaming in the other direction—that’s why you wouldn’t look at me—like you were ashamed. Scotty, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. If anything, you should be proud of how you’ve come through the fire still standing, still strong. Still here.

  I have to say, knowing what I know and knowing how hard it must have been for you to share that with me . . . well, it just made me love you even more.

  You know how I told you I’ve been in love with you since our first date? You probably think I’m crazy—wait—I know you think I’m crazy, but when you came walking into that restaurant—smelling like flowers, your hair kind of blowing around—I was done for. And as we sat there talking and getting to know each other, all I could think was, I hope I’m not being punked. What did I do to have this beautiful, smart, ambitious, funny, sweet woman fall into my lap? Then I was worried we were hitting it off too well, that maybe I wanted it too much. I just kept hoping I wouldn’t blow it and then you’d never talk to me again (yes, guys get nervous, too!). I didn’t want to scare you off.

  Thank God I didn’t!

  I think you know I don’t have any problem saying what I think or feel. I have to say, though, I kind of like the idea of expressing my feelings to you this way. Keeping it old school, right? There’s something about the scratch of the pen against the paper while sitting in front of my window, Miles in the background, writing a love letter to my girl after a movie date where you laid your head on my shoulder and our fingers bumped against each other in the popcorn tub (oh, and good call on putting the Raisinets IN the popcorn—who knew?). I’m digging it.

  So, I guess what I’m trying to say is: expect more. Lots more. I know you think sometimes I’ve been going overboard by wooing you (per our agreement, I might add), but I want you to know how sincere I am about how I feel about you. I hope you find the written word to be an expression of that sincerity and, more importantly, my intent.

  Love, love, love,

  Jason

  The tears came in soft, persistent waves. She lost count of how many times she reread the sheaf of cream stationery, picturing him sitting at the desk in his study, forming the thoughts and the words he wanted to convey, of writing her name across the envelope. She laughed to herself as she picked up her shopping bag and headed to the bedroom, taking the letter with her. Natalie turned the contents over on the bed, the silky rainbow of lingerie spilling out like a waterfall, and plucked a lacy black nightie with matching thong out of the pile to examine it. She couldn’t help but wish there was a crash course—short of working a corner—she could take on how to be more experienced in bed in twenty-four hours or less.

  Still crying, still laughing, she went in search of her cell phone to tap out a quick text to Jason, wondering if he’d glance down at his phone during his client dinner to see it.

  You sure know how to woo a girl.

  She picked up the letter to read it again.

  “I’m coming for you, baby.”

  He watched his mother twist the strap of her purse around her finger until the tips turned red. Then she’d release the strap and her fingers would turn white. Red. White. Red. White.

  She was going to the store and did he need anything? She hesitated, eyeing him with a weary nervousness that was a new layer to their relationship. She’d never been so anxious around him until the day they’d come to collect him from the hospital. There’d been all these papers to sign and procedures to follow. Their interactions now consisted of her asking him up to a hundred times a day if he needed anything (he’d kept a running tally one week and, indeed, her inquiries averaged to one hundred times a day) and foisting soup on him from sun up to sun down, as though all his ills could be cured with steaming bowls of Campbell’s.

  Not that his father was much better. He regarded him with a curious mix of fear and embarrassment, speaking only when necessary and eyeing him like he thought he might come completely unspooled at the slightest provocation. Sometimes, he’d talk to him like he used to, back in the old days, before he remembered, then he would back away mumbling something about needing to make a phone call or run an errand.

  They both hovered around him like silent clouds, ready to swoop in on him at a moment’s notice. In many ways, being with them was worse than being in the hospital. But it was only a pit stop. He’d be on his way soon enough.

  He picked up his jump rope and shook his head at his mother. “No. I’m good,” he said, wanting her to go so he could get on with it. Jump rope for half an hour. Run for half an hour. Lather, rinse, and repeat.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

  He nodded, already feeling himself get warm, wanting to pace himself not to push it too hard, too early. Patience. Patience.

  His mother hesitated yet again before slinking out of the room. He shut out all thoughts of her and his father, who was out working in the yard, stopping for a just a moment to glance out the window to make sure she was indeed climbing into her car and going to the store.

  He knelt down next to his bed and shoved his hand between the mattress and the box spring, extracting the crumpled newspaper article with her picture. He kissed it and put it back in its hiding place.

  “I’m coming for you, baby,” he whispered as he resumed jumping rope. “I’m coming for you.”

  Chapter 16

  SHE

  She couldn’t remember if she’d read it somewhere or maybe had seen it in a movie or TV show, but, supposedly, people who were in captivity for a long time eventually got used to their confinement, embraced it even, in some bizarre sort of way. They began to forget what the world was like and eventually lost their yearning to be on the “outside.” Their captors brainwashed them to the point that they came to believe their life was so much better on the “inside.”

  She couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way. She thought about life on the outside every day. What people were doing, thinking, saying, being, feeling. She never wanted to “forget” her other life as she’d come to think of it. What she existed in every day wasn’t life. She didn’t know what to call the maw she was trapped in now. “Jail” probably wasn’t the most accurate term, since she wasn’t in a six by nine cell and didn’t have to fend off rapist guards or lesbian cellmates. “Solitary” wasn’t it either, as she wasn’t fed bread and water through a slot in a door.

  Even prisoners got time out in the yard.

  Perhaps the best terminology was she’d been dropped into her own special asylum. Yes. That had to be it. An insane asylum, population: two. An insane asylum designed to make her slowly lose whatever slender grasp she had left on her sanity. Some special hell meant to steal her soul, whittle her mind down to the finest, most useless of points.

  Her warden. Watching her all day long. Monitoring her every move, her every breath, pouncing
like a cat on a ball of yarn if there was a disruption to either. Smothering her with questions, comments, observations about any unusual behavior or shift. Wearing her down until she was a nub of a pencil, too weak to do anything but agree with whatever asinine diagnosis he’d settled on for what was ailing her.

  No, there was no way she would ever get used to this.

  Chapter 17

  SHE

  “It was a nice ceremony, huh?” Jason said as he handed Natalie a plate of wedding cake and sat down next to her at the table where she’d cried uncle with her stilettos and retreated to a corner to prop her bare feet up on the padded seat of a straight back chair.

  “Oh, yeah. It was totally Christine. As you can probably tell, she’s not really the traditional bride type.”

  “No, I pretty much figured that out when she did the little mock striptease to show everybody her dress before she walked down the aisle.”

  Natalie laughed and took a bite of cake. “That’s our Christine. I mean, hello, have you ever seen bridesmaids wearing black?”

  He ribbed her in the arm. “Well, whatever color it is, you are working that dress.”

  “Are you flirting with me?” she asked, grinning.

  He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. “Only a little.”

  She laughed and pulled him close for a kiss. He leaned back and licked his lips. “I think I like my cake like this.”

  “Okay, that was bad.”

  “Too much?”

  She mimicked his earlier motion with her thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”

  “So what’s the plan after the reception? Hittin’ up some bars or what?”