Disarm (23 page)

After the class he took me back to his place, which was a one-story redbrick house with two bedrooms and a one-car garage. He parked the car in the driveway and entered the house through the garage, past the Harley, a lawnmower, and a small collection of tools.

“So thanks for taking me to a stinky gym for the first of three very important dates,” I teased as he led me inside. “There, amongst all of those sweaty, grunting men and women, I fell madly in love with you.”

He laughed in surprise. I grinned like a fool beside him, infected with his good mood. “I thought you might like to see what I've been working on the past year. And like I said, you kind of ruined my first-date plans.”

“What were they?”

“Now you'll never know,” he said.

I puffed out my lower lip in a mock pout. “Aw, come on.”

“That's the first and last time that's going to work on me,” he said, flicking my lower lip as he grinned. “I was going to take you to a romantic dinner at the new Devon Tower, then maybe a horse-carriage ride through Bricktown. Or maybe a boat ride along the canal.”

I wasn't successful in suppressing a snort.

“What?”

“Sorry, sorry,” I said quickly. “It's just . . . too much.”

“Good thing I went with the sweaty, grunting plan then,” he said and disappeared down the hall, leaving me to stand in the living room by myself.

I looked around, noting that the interior had clearly not been updated since the eighties with its dark brown carpet and wood paneling. Henry had not decorated yet; picture frames were still leaning against the walls and boxes were still stacked, unopened.

I ventured down the hallway and peered into his bedroom, which looked very much the same as before, down to the same blue covers. I would have thought the new Henry would have at least bought new sheets to match his new life.

I was about to look into the second bedroom, hoping to see his paintings, when the bathroom door opened and he came out, rubbing his head with a towel.

“Did you just take a shower?” I asked, taking note of his fresh clothes. “While you had a guest waiting?”

He gave an impatient little sigh and beckoned me over. “Just get over here.”

I walked over, pretending I hadn't just been caught snooping, and looked inside the bathroom. The lights were off, but the room was filled with the soft flickering of candles that ran along the sides of the filled bathtub. “Oh,” was all I could say.

“Is this
too much
?” he asked.

“No.” I walked inside, shaking my head. I turned around, nearly running into him. “But I don't have a change of clothes.”

“You can borrow some of mine,” he said and motioned to a pile of folded clothes on the counter. “And before you start assuming, no, I won't be joining you. This is just for you. I'll be cooking dinner while you take a bath,” he said. He gave me a kiss on the cheek, smelling so fresh. “Enjoy.”

Okay, I had to admit that the bubble bath was a smooth move. I sighed when I slid into the warm water, not realizing until that moment that my body had been tense all afternoon. The truth was, even though I'd agreed to this challenge, I was still very much afraid. Every time Henry was near, I felt tight with worry that each moment we spent together would be the last, always looking out for signs that he was going to leave me again.

Then again wasn't that the goal? The challenge was a chance for him to prove that he was trustworthy, that I could believe in him again. He was trying, at least. I had to give him points for that.

I closed my eyes, leaned back and tried to clear my head, but I could hear Henry moving around in the kitchen, clanging pots and various things around, putting him front and center in my thoughts.

True to his word, Henry left me alone during my bath, but several minutes later the noises in the kitchen stopped and I found I could no longer sit still. I jumped out of the tub and dressed in his clothes—a tan shirt and a pair of gray sweat pants—and practically ran out of the bathroom.

Henry, thankfully, was still in the house. He hadn't run away.

I sat at the dining table just off the kitchen, watching him drain pasta noodles as I silently berated myself for being so silly. Of course he was still here. Did I really believe he was going to just ditch me in his own house?

Did I?

“That was quick,” he said, scooping the spaghetti into bowls. He placed them onto the table with a flourish and said, “
Voila!
Spaghetti a la Henry.”

I made a big production of sniffing the food. “Mmm. What is the secret ingredient, Chef?”

He winked. “Love.”

I snickered. “And cheese. Plenty of it.”

With a grin he sat down beside me and we began to eat, the atmosphere in the tiny dining room reminding me of much simpler times, back when a quiet attraction was the only thing between us.

We watched some television after dinner, but inevitably he had to take me back home.

“You can keep the clothes,” he said at my doorstep, giving me that sexy sliding look.

“Oh no, you're not going to tell me I look good in your clothes, are you?” I asked. “You know, that clichéd thing that guys do?”

“No. I was going to say keep them until you wash them” he said. He pinched my cheek. “But you really do look cute in my clothes.”

I laughed and gave him a light jab in the stomach.

He grasped my wrist, then brought my hand up to his lips. He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Well, I'd better get going,” he said, sounding like he wanted to do anything but.

I wanted to invite him inside—at least, a part of me did—but it was too soon to let him jump with both feet into my life again, so I just stood on my tiptoes and pressed my forehead to his mouth. “Good night, Henry. Thank you for the strange date.”

I felt his lips forming a smile against my skin. “Are you in love with me yet?”

“Not yet.”

He didn't look too bothered when he drew away. “I still have two more dates to win you over,” he said, wriggling two fingers at me.

“Good luck to you, Mr. Logan,” I said, giving him a very formal handshake.

He gave me a quick peck on the lips before pulling away. “Good night, Miss Sherman. I love you.”

SECOND DATE

The next morning I received an email from Rebecca detailing the new job description along with a link to the company's website. I sat at my desk with a heavy ball of worry in my stomach, looking through photographs of the large, creative office space complete with a Zen garden and a rock-climbing wall. Shake Design was one of Denver's most promising companies and boasted several large national clients, and according to their website, also treated their employees well. The benefits package that Rebecca had attached was proof enough.

Shake Design was offering me a huge opportunity—a job that would allow me to direct while still getting my hands dirty with design. To top it off, I'd always wanted to live in Colorado. It was, in a nutshell, the offer of a lifetime and only a fool would refuse.

But then again, when it came to matters of the heart, I haven't always done the smart thing.

Henry was waiting for me in the parking lot when I got off work that Wednesday afternoon. He was seated casually on his motorcycle, his helmet in his lap, looking like an ultra-sexy magazine ad for Harley-Davidson.

His face lit up when he saw me approach. “Hi.”

I placed my purse inside one of the saddlebags and settled in behind him, feeling heat emanating through his jacket. I squirmed when I slid closer, my crotch pressing against his ass.

“Stop that,” he said. “Or I will take you on this bike right here, right now.”

“Empty promises,” I teased, suddenly unable to keep from thinking about having sex on his motorcycle. I didn't even know if it was possible, but boy, did it sound erotic as hell.

He turned and flashed me a wicked smile. “This is no empty promise, Els,” he said, his voice taking on a gritty quality that indicated he was really turned on. “The past few days have been torture. Just say the word and I'm all yours.”

I gulped, seriously contemplating saying yes just to see what he'd do. “You're right, we'd better get going,” I said and popped the helmet over my flushed face instead.

Henry took me to a coffee shop on the north side, near the Oklahoma City University campus.

“The Red Cup?” I asked as we got off the bike. I didn't want to judge, but was he taking me to an artsy-fartsy coffee shop for our second date?

“Yep.” He grabbed my hand and led me through the parking lot toward the converted house, painted a bright green. On top of the roof was a giant red cup with a silver spoon. It was quirky and cute, sure, but didn't really indicate g
rand gesture
.

Inside the place was a riot of color with black-and-white-checked floors, brightly painted walls, and art everywhere. After we ordered our food, Henry led me to the back—to what I assumed was the old living room—and we sat down in a yellow pleather booth that curved around a corner.

“So, interesting place,” I said, studying the eclectic collection of art and people. There were students, paintings, bohemians, prints, hipsters, and suits. “Why here? This place is not exactly romantic.”

He leaned back into the booth, his head nearly hitting the canvas painting on the wall above him. “You didn't want romance, remember? It was
too much
?”

I glanced around. “Yeah, but . . .”

He raised both eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I want a little bit of romance,” I said, holding two fingers close together.

He shook his head. “I can't win with you, can I?”

I grinned. “Is it too much to ask that you read my mind?”

“I'm sorry. Next time I will use my ESP and take you to Starbucks instead.” He smiled widely, his features relaxed.

I studied his face for a long while, then said, “You seem happy.” It was true; he seemed so at ease with the world, no longer that brooding guy who didn't know himself. This new Henry was grounded and relaxed, different but still the same boy I'd fallen in love with many years ago. It felt strange, like I was cheating on the old Henry with the new.

“I am.” He stretched his arms on the back of the booth and gathered me into his side. “Deliriously,” he said in a sigh.

I leaned my head on his shoulder, wishing I could say the same and completely mean it.

We sat in comfortable silence for a long while, his hand rubbing my shoulder as he occasionally kissed the top of my head. It was cozy, even if beneath my skin ran an undercurrent of tension and worry. We finally separated when the waitress brought our food, and we ate in silence all the while casting glances at each other.

I was keenly aware of the little things: the faint scent of Henry's cologne, the hint of orange in my salad vinaigrette, the love song playing softly in the background. It was as if all of my senses were heightened, and even though it was nearly overwhelming, I wanted more.

Then I saw it.

I was studying Henry's wavy hair—noting how different it made him look from the buzz cut—when I noticed that the signature on the canvas behind his head said
H. Logan
. I twisted around in my seat to get a better look at the large painting, which was an abstract in browns, tans and blues.

“It's about time you noticed,” Henry said with a chuckle, wiping his mouth with a napkin and twisting around.

“You did this?” I asked him, still staring at the painting, trying to make sense of the shapes and swirls.

“You like it?”

“Yes,” I said. “What is it?”

“I'll give you a hint: It's a semi-abstract. It's titled
She Is Love
.”

Then it all came together, the oval that came to a point at the bottom, the brownish green orbs for the eyes, and the long curly hair. “It's me?”

He nodded. “Beautiful, don't you think?”

“Yeah, it really is,” I said, unable to believe that Henry could create something so wonderful. Being a designer, I liked to consider myself aesthetically selective; I had seen many illustrations and paintings, had even created a few of my own. Perhaps I was being a little subjective, since I was the inspiration for the piece, but Henry's painting was definitely gallery-quality.

“I wasn't talking about the painting,” he said, his eyes fixed on my face, making the air in the entire place too thick to breathe. He was going to kiss me and, as much as I wanted to taste him, I couldn't risk getting attached again. Not when I was considering leaving.

I blinked and cleared my throat. “So you learned to paint in Korea?”

He leaned away, trying to hide his disappointment. “Yeah. I took a class on base, taught by this old skinny guy who always smelled like whiskey,” he said. “Davis was critical, which really helped me improve. He told me over and over to loosen up, to stand back to get a better perspective.”

“And that worked?”

His eyes were on my face, the heat of his gaze warming my cheeks. “It helped with my painting. And I'm hoping it'll help with other things in my life.”

I turned my attention back to my food, picking at a piece of lettuce. “So what else did you do in Korea?”

“I worked a lot. Also tried a lot of classes.”

“Did you date?” The question slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it. I hadn't meant to bring it up right then.

He hesitated before saying, “I did. I dated two women before I gave up.” He paused, taking my hand. “But neither relationship lasted more than a few dates.”

My eyes flicked up to his face. “Why not?”

“
You
know why.”

My heart throbbed in my chest, begging me not to ask the next inevitable question. I swallowed hard. “Did you sleep with them?”

His eyes were all intensity as he looked at me. “I thought about it, but no.” He paused for a long, tense moment before asking, “How about you? Did you and Seth—?”

I hadn't expected his answer. I had steeled myself for a yes, and was now instead faced with a confession that did not match my own. “Yeah, we did.”

His nostrils flared as he stared down at the table. “Fuck,” he said under his breath, crumpling the napkin in his hand.

It felt like an apology was in order but upon further reflection, between the two of us, I was the one definitely owed.

“I'm sorry, Elsie,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “I'm a grade-A dickhead. I'm the one who fucked everything up and now I'm jealous as hell that someone else, someone
not me
, got to sleep with you.”

“You
should
be sorry,” I blurted, taking even myself by surprise. “You ruined everything we had.” I could feel the energy crackling around us. This was the first time we were really hashing it out, the first time I was voicing my opinion that, yes, he screwed up. Finally saying those words felt good in a small way and terrible in an even bigger way. “You took what we had and threw it away because you felt confused,” I said, gathering steam. “Well guess what, Henry? We all get confused about ourselves but we don't go hurting those we love just so we can get some clarity.”

“I'm sorry, Elsie. I was a selfish bastard.” He grasped my hand on the table. I tried to let go, but he held tight. “I'm so, so sorry.”

I shook my head and tried to keep my lips from trembling. “It might be too late, Henry. I really don't know how you can prove to me that you're sticking around for good, that I can trust you again.”

“I don't know how either,” he whispered. It was the first time since he'd come back from Korea that I'd seen his confidence falter. He looked genuinely fearful, a feeling that then spilled over onto me. “I have no clue how to gain your trust back.”

I looked away, trying to collect my thoughts and steady my breathing. I didn't realize until that moment how angry I still was, how unwilling I was to forgive him. He had made the past few years of my life miserable; I'd have to be a saint to forgive and forget so easily.

“Elsie?” Henry asked tentatively, giving my hand a squeeze.

I looked down at our hands, then up at him. “I received a job offer in Denver,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “And I'm going to take it.”

The breath whooshed out of him in one word: “What?”

“A big design company in Denver offered me a job. I'd be crazy to turn it down.”

“I didn't know you were looking,” he said, his eyebrows drawing together.

“I was, several months ago, before you came back. Even before I met Seth.”

The frown deepened. “When did you find out?”

“Monday.”

His face turned red and the veins in his forehead swelled. “So these dates are all for nothing? I've been racking my brain trying to figure out how to make you love and trust me again, but you're leaving anyway?”

I jerked my hand away. “You're not seriously angry that I'm leaving, are you? Because at last count, you've left me a grand total of four times. This is our history, Henry: I trust you, then you leave. Well guess the fuck what, you're not the one who gets to leave this time.” I slid out of the booth, gathered my purse and jacket, and stalked out. God, it felt so gratifying to finally be the one to do that.

My jubilation was short-lived, however, when I got outside and remembered that I'd come here with Henry. I stood over by the Harley and gave the back tire a kick, imagining it was his crotch I was inflicting pain upon. The guy had some nerve.

Henry came bursting out of The Red Cup a minute later. The worry on his face eased when he saw me standing in the parking lot. “Elsie,” he said, stopping a few feet from me. He didn't say anything for a long time; he just stared at me with deep lines creasing his forehead.

“Just say it, Henry! Demand that I stay in Oklahoma for you, because that's what you do. You demand and take. And me, I give.” I choked on the words. “But I'm done giving.”

“Then tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it,” he said with a desperate tint to his voice.

“I don't know what I want you to do,” I said. “I only know what I
need
to do.”

That night I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time, just thinking about my life—where I had been and where I was headed.

There was no question in my mind that I loved Henry, but was it worth more than my love for myself? I had given him so much, had followed him and waited for him, and still it hadn't been enough.

He had come back for me, and even though I wanted nothing more than to finally get to our happily ever after, a little voice in my heart kept insisting that I needed to do right by me first. My job here had become stagnant, the promotion I'd been hoping for dissolving when the company fell on hard times. The job in Denver was going to be a leap in my career. Now more than ever I needed to put my own future first even if it meant leaving my past behind.

If Henry really loved me like he claimed, he would do the right thing and set me free. I had let him go once, to go find himself; he needed to do the same for me now.

So it was with an aching heart that I turned on my laptop, composed a new email, and told Rebecca Holt of Shake Design that I was going to take the job.