A Mess of Reason (9 page)

Liar. Liar. Liar. So full of shit. No
question, he forgot her birthday. Next time I’ll go a little deeper
and gut him—he’ll look great with entrails falling out of his
ass.

Send me a selfie! I want to see your
beautiful birthday smile! I miss that face, this is the only
birthday I haven’t spent with u since we were 14 !

Later, my cake is being cut and we’re having
champagne…it’s like nothing i’ve ever seen in my life…like wedding
cake fabulous!

Trumps the Hostess mash-up huh?

yeah, pretty much!

That’s it. I’m going in. Time to get
tactical.

I go in Blackhawk quiet, tiptoeing it all
the way down the hall until I get to her bedroom, where she is back
to her facedown woe-is-me position. I realize this is going to
scare the shit out of her, but… It’s her birthday: it’s this or
spankings. Hmmm?

“You’ve always sucked at lying, Sass.” I’m
in her doorway, just leaning and waiting.

“
Scout! Fuck!
”

Well, we know she can move, and how. She’s
sitting up on her bed and the look on her face is one of, oh, I’d
call it terror. No, maybe mortification is more like it. I go to
her and sweep her into my arms, one hand under her ass—spanking
it—one behind her back, and yes, she’s crying. Of course she is.
It’s her birthday, he forgot it…and I’m here. Kidnapping her. She
crying so hard that her tiny body is shaking. And each shake makes
a little scratch in my heart. At this point in my life you can
imagine the number of scratches on my heart that are there because
of Tess. My heart is looking very tic-tac-toe, and I’m good with
all of it, because I love her
so damned much
. I’ve seen her
like this plenty of times over the years, so I know she just needs
to let it out—no talking, no questions from me…just an all-out ugly
cry. She just needs to be held, petted, kissed on her head. Singing
helps, so I always sing to her.

I carry her outside, taking her right into
her birthday gypsy caravan. Mind you, she doesn’t realize it
because her face is buried in my chest, practically in my underarm.
The caravan is a full-on functional space—my thought had been that
she may want to work in it. But just in case, I also had the
carpenter build in a king-sized sleeping nook complete with velvet
curtains and a chandelier. I lay her down on the bed and cover her
up with a blanket, then nestle in next to her. My favorite spot,
with my whole body pressed against hers. My fantasy of our bodies
skin-on-skin like this endlessly plays through my head in a loop.
Her back is to me and I’m spooning her as though we were made for
each other—and, of course, in my heart we were.

After I’ve sung four songs, I just rub her
back over her sweatshirt. Sometimes Tess takes a bit of coaxing, as
her stubborn side goes on overdrive when she’s sad or mad. Minutes
later, she breaks the silence with words that I know are killing
her inside.

“He…he didn’t remember.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“You always remember.” The waterworks go
from low to geyser.

“I always will.”

“You really love me, don’t you, Scout?”

“Always have, more than you know.”

She flips over to face me. I can tell she’s
been crying the entire day as her eyes, normally big juicy
chocolate drops, are now just tiny slits that look as though they
were freshly cut open with a knife. Her lips are chapped and puffy,
her hair tangled, and yet she’s a beautiful painting to me. I could
look at her all day…every day for the rest of my life.

“Why?” She says in a barely-there voice.

“Why what, beautiful?”

“Why do you love me?” Her hands are on my
chest, right over my heart. I can’t help but wonder if she knows
how hard it beats just for her.

“Because you’re my Tessie girl. My baby…my
Sass.”

“You know I have to marry him.” Her swallows
are hard as are mine following her words.

“You do, huh?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Why’s that, baby?”

“Because I want to be married…I want to have
kids…I want to settle down. I’m ready for that next part of
life.”

“Why have we never talked about this before?
Why not until now? We’ve talked about everything else under the sun
and somehow you’ve never told me this.”

“You never asked.”

And that’s when I realize how she sees me. I
never asked because I figured I could never have her that way
because she was always, always taken. She went from one
relationship to the next, no lag time, never a whisper of a moment
for me to sneak in and scoop her up. Was that by design or by
default? And was it because she never thought she could have me
that way, either? Never thought I’d be a guy who would want
marriage and kids? Too much of a player? Because my reality was,
she was so taken with guys that I mirrored her every move. I never
took a breath between relationships, either. Not one girl I dated
was a marriage option because I won’t ever marry someone if it’s
not my Tess.

“Are you ready for your birthday outfit and
dance?”

“How do you do it Scout? Year after
year…how?”

“It’s easy: I love you, that’s how. Now come
here, you old thing you.”

I pull her legs to me, and she slides across
the bed like a sleeping, rubber-legged kitten. I let her calves
dangle over the bed’s edge. Then grab her feet. Just so you know,
this will go on all night. And yes, every year I buy her a birthday
outfit, each one better than the last. It’s a personal challenge.
This year I went edgy boho because she’s so fucking hot in
leather.

“Put your feet in; help me a little, okay?”
Vintage black leather leggings with lace-up sides that show some
skin. I’ll admit I’m feeling kind of sick right now sliding these
up her legs, especially since I’m just over her knees and about
mid-thigh.

“Lie back.” It’s either stand up or lie
back, and if she stood I’d have been kneeling right there—you know,
right at the golden palace—and even though she’s clearly exhausted
and having a not very happy birthday, I’m not sure I would have had
it in me to stop at the door. I might have just walked right in. So
that’s why I choose “lie back.” But now that she’s on her back
looking up at me, and I have both of my hands on her…on the hottest
fucking leather leggings ever, which I’ve just dragged up her
thighs…I’m not so sure this was a good choice either.

“Lift your hips a little, baby.” No stopping
now. I just plow ahead and completely ignore all the signals my
cock is shouting to me. Her panties are black, lacy, and
see-through. I’m so close to her most intimate parts that I’m
sweating. My knuckles brush over the lace, and she grabs her
sweatshirt to snug it down a little to cover her belly. Funny thing
is, she hardly seems to mind that I’ve got her pussy two inches
from my fingers, but her belly…why cover that? Who cares? She
doesn’t even have a belly. Christ, there’s not an ounce of fat on
her, but the way she’s pinning down her sweatshirt makes me wonder
what she’s hiding. As in…could she be pregnant? Is that why she has
to marry Creed? Fuck. I’ll bet she is. Why else is she covering up
like she is? Maybe she has a tiny baby bump that she’s hiding. Holy
crap. No way. She just told me she had her period the other day—was
that a lie to cover this up? But then, she has been drinking like a
fish, which makes zero sense if she’s pregnant, unless she just
found out…and I mean today. I zip the pants and fasten the brass
button.

“Hot.”

“You think?”

“Volcanic. White heat. And yes, they are
vintage and yes, they were Debbie Harry’s.”

“Scout.”

“Shhh.”

More tiny tears, again making me wonder if
she’s pregnant, because the tears these days with Tess have been
coming in epic proportions. I will say, she’s the emotional type. A
good coffee commercial has her crying. Tears always come with the
birthday bash I spoil her with. Though each tear from Tess is like
a little sweet thank you.

She never lets me put her top on. It’s a
rule. Never has. Not once have I seen her in a bikini top, or a
tank top, or a bra. Not once. So I hand it to her and she goes into
the bathroom after I simply point her in the right direction. Mind
you she still has said nothing about the gypsy caravan we’re
standing in.

A minute later she comes out looking like a
million bucks-ish. The
ish
is only because of how awful her
eyes look, but other than that I have—big pat on my back—nailed the
birthday outfit once again. The top is loose and flowy, funky as
hell. If you could design a top that said “Tess Harlow,” this would
be it.

“Scout.” Her hand is over her mouth, and her
body is trembling.

“Joni Mitchell. 1974. Wore it during her
concerts at the Berkeley Community Music Theater.”

She’s so sexy right now that I just cross my
arms over my chest, lean back on the wall, and take her in for a
sec. She’s trying with all her might to smile—and I mean really,
really trying to paste on a birthday smile just for me—but it’s
barely forming and it’s about the sweetest thing just to watch her
try so damn hard. I take her by the shoulders, steer her back to
the bed, push her to sit down gently.

Now for the shoes. Naturally she loves
shoes, being a woman and all. She doesn’t just love shoes: she
lives for shoes. She might have around three hundred pair or so. An
entire room in her ranch was made into a shoe closet. Well, I
personally made that happen as a homecoming present for her, plus I
added in twenty more pair because I’ll admit, Tess in heels that
are hot is just…
hot
. She, of course, has a penchant for
vintage rocker heels, and these beauties that I found are flawless.
I take her right foot in my hand. Each toenail is painted in
metallic gold. I kiss each one of her tiny toes because they’re the
only thing I feel okay kissing without crossing a line tonight.
Then I strap on the first heel. Five inches tall, red leather with
studs, straps, buckles, and all that shit she loves.

“Stevie Nicks. Got them when I was in Hong
Kong from a dealer that has almost every piece she’s ever auctioned
off. Oh, and this was hers, too.”

Might want to get your umbrella out, because
my girl is going to be raining tears when I put this on her. It’s
an emerald-green, vintage leather motorcycle jacket covered in worn
brass studs. It is by all accounts
sick
. And by the look on
Tess’s face right now, she agrees.

“Scout….oh, I can’t believe you….”

Then she crawls on her hands and knees. Just
like you’re picturing, her sweet ass high in the air crawling away
from me, making me want to strip those leather pants off of her and
enter her from behind. (Sorry for that, it’s just…well…you know.)
So, yeah…she crawls to the furthest corner of the bed and lies down
in a little tucked ball, facing me. Her legs are against her chest,
her arms wrapped around her ankles. She looks all of fourteen.

I go to her and lie down facing her. She
just so fucking sad, not even I can shake her this time. I pet her
face and her hair and just look into her beautiful eyes.

“You’re really sad, aren’t you, my beautiful
girl?”

She nods, and cries more. And then tries
again with one of those fake smiles that makes her look even more
sad.

“Do you like your new gypsy caravan?”

“What? This is for me?” She shoots straight
up onto her ass, both hands over her mouth, her head shaking
no
back and forth.

“Did you think it was mine?” This gives me a
solid chuckle. Seriously, if you saw it…

“This is for me? You did this for me,
Scout?”

“Just for you.” By now you know the routine.
More tears. And then she’s in my lap again, this time straddling me
with her legs wrapped around my waist and, for the life of me, I
cannot, simply cannot keep my hard-on down for one second longer. I
of course will do nothing with it. I’ll ignore it, like the nice
guy that I am, but I think my cock and I need to have a little Come
to Jesus later tonight if Tess and I really are going to remain
best friends and that’s all.

“Sing to me,” she says in a dry, hoarse
voice as she clings to my body. Her arms are wrapped around my
chest and I can tell by how tightly she’s holding me that her
fingers are laced together. To this day, I think the reason I went
into music post-college instead of continuing on with my football
career is because of Tess. When her mom died of breast cancer, she
sat in my lap just like this and I sang to her. When she got
pregnant her senior year of high school and she wanted to have the
baby, but her doctor told her it wouldn’t make it to full term no
matter what they did, she sat in my lap and I sang to her. When she
got fired from her first job post-college and decided to start her
own company even though it terrified the snot out of her, she sat
in my lap and I sang to her. Then I just kept on singing.

She doesn’t know this, but every one of the
songs I’ve written is about her in some way, shape, or form. Every
last one. She’s always my starting point when I write, and she’s my
middle, and well…I’m sure she’ll be my end, if fate rolls the dice
in our favor somewhere along the line. Two people that mesh on this
level can’t possibly be kept apart forever…right? I’m not wishing
ill will on her marriage to Creed, but…okay, I’m lying again…I am.
You see, though, I can’t tell her not to marry him—that would be an
asshole move if ever. She needs to do what feels right to her
without me meddling. Then maybe a year in…they’ll get a divorce and
that’ll be my chance to win her back.

“Time for your birthday dance.” This is just
another one of our birthday rituals, though usually she’s jumping
around with her arms flying like a wild child. I stand up and let
her hold onto me koala-bear style just the way she is. My hands are
under her ass and since I don’t want to put her down, I just hold
her and dance. My forehead is against hers, our noses touching, her
breath falling into my mouth, feeling warm and smelling sweet like
mint tea.