I giggled, thinking about how humorous it really was. My sister, Miss Prim and Proper, workaholic, mother of the year for eighteen years was now being the drama queen she’d accused me of being my whole life by going to the extreme of changing her ringtone to one of the most depressing (but beautiful) love songs of all time. But although really funny in a way, the reality of Laura being in so much pain that she went to this extreme was incredibly sad.
Laura answered, “Hi Mom. I’m at Em’s, unpacking some of my stuff and hearing about her date.” After a few moments of what I assumed was my mother complaining that I hadn’t gone into enough detail when I came to pick up Isabelle, Laura said, “Okay, well how about lunch this week? Wednesdays are the best day for me…uh huh…okay Mom, I’ll tell her. Okay, bye.”
She hung up and then said, “Mom wants to talk to us about something.”
“Is it me or is something going on with her?” I asked.
“Something’s weird and I can’t put my finger on it.”
“I hope dad’s okay,” I said.
“I know. I actually asked her that and she said he was. You don’t think she would lie, do you?”
“I don’t, but something’s definitely not right.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out Wednesday. Can you go to lunch?”
I looked at Laura, my giddy mood turning a bit somber, “Am I free? Is that what you’re asking? Because if it is, of course I’m free. I have no professional life, no job to go to, no aspirations. I’m just a middle-aged woman who’s having amazing sex. That’s it.”
Laura smiled, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Is he a good guy?”
“I don’t know. My gut says yes, but is that really important right now? I mean, I’m not even sure if I’m ever going to see him again.”
As those words came out of my mouth, I got a text. It was as if Preston was listening to our conversation and decided he had to set me straight. I read it aloud. “I want more.”
Laura gasped.
While giggling, I texted back my gut instinct of a reply, “Yes u do and u will have it!” I couldn’t believe how bold I was. Then again, I couldn’t believe anything about myself, starting at the point where I was on my knees (pre-scraped) on my friend’s kitchen floor kissing a complete stranger. But there was something about Preston that caused me to be the definitions of daring and uninhibited.
“When am I seeing you next? How about Wednesday?” his next text read.
My fingers seemed to be on autopilot. “Yes.”
I burst out laughing and then sent another text, “Yes Yes Yes!”
Trying to hide her smile, Laura warned, “Just don’t forget about lunch.”
When Wednesday came around however, there was a head-on collision on the Eden’s Expressway and four of the victims were brought to Laura’s hospital, forcing my sent-from-God sister to kick it into overdrive and cancel lunch. So I never saw my family that day (with the exception of my parents for five minutes when I dropped Izzie off.)
This time my dad walked me to the door. “So who is this fella?” he asked.
“Just a guy dad,” I smiled, “He’s really nice and we’re having fun.”
Dad took a deep breath that said it all right there. He was trying to learn to adapt and accept the reality of his widowed daughter’s new life.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, putting my arms around him and hugging him tight, “I’m just having fun. I’m just…” I pulled away and finished, “Actually, I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
Dad gave me a big grin. “You’re living, Em. Enjoy yourself. It’s okay.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
“I understand more than you think,” he replied.
“What does that mean?”
At this moment I heard shouting from the kitchen, “Stan? Is she gone?”
“No mom, I’m still here!” I shouted back with a laugh, “If you wait a few more seconds I’ll be out the door and then you can talk about me as much as you want!”
My dad and I laughed and I hugged him again.
“I love you, Stan.”
“Me too, sweetie.”
Exactly two hours later, a hot babe appeared outside my window. I watched him peruse my garden before he knocked on the door. So nervous for the date (but in a good way), I cracked open a bottle of Pinot and had a glass before Preston even got to my place. And since the bottle was open, I offered him a glass when he walked in.
“Sure,” he said with his dashing smile, “Let’s have it on the patio so I can check out your garden more.”
Now I was truly in heaven. My newly updated, enhanced, renovated, fixed up, whatever you want to call it garden was of interest to my new man, and I had the luxury of showing off all my recent hard work, the same work I’d offered to show Luke, my new friend, who had texted me a couple days earlier.
“Hi Emma, it’s Luke. It was great meeting you. Now you have my cell phone number. Call if you ever want to go for a run. Hope your knee caps are healing. How was your date?” That was the first text.
I’d texted back, “The date was good.” Ha! If he only knew! I continued, “Thank you for taking care of me. I would love to run with you sometime. Say hello to Lucky.”
“Lucky’s all over me. It’s the most action I’ve gotten in awhile. If Lucky was a woman I’d tell her she needs to learn how to play hard to get. That being said, I’m not into dogs. More into girls. We’ll talk soon. Glad your date was good, by the way.”
I was very happy to hear from Luke, and thought he was sweet for being happy for me. Yet, part of me was disappointed because I wanted him to be jealous, not happy. His texts did seem a little flirty, though, and that was a good thing. I was getting mixed signals. Did Luke want to be my buddy? Or did he dig me? Maybe he had a girlfriend he didn’t want to tell me about. Maybe he just didn’t want to date. Or maybe he wasn’t attracted to me in that way. I wasn’t sure, but something seemed odd. Without sounding completely arrogant and conceited, my gut instinct was telling me Luke liked me. So why he was asking me to jog with him instead of have a meal was puzzling.
Would I go out with him if he asked? Probably. Although at this point, I wasn’t thinking about it too much. I was having a hard time focusing on anything or anyone other than the man who’d led me out of Egypt and into the Promised Land, the man who deserved a humanitarian award for saving my soul, and the man who I now craved more than
Carol’s Cookies
with vanilla ice-cream when I was pregnant.
I poured the wines and then led Preston out to the patio.
“I just planted those two white centennial rose bushes,” I said with pride, pointing to the flowers.
“I like the white. Very pure…”
“Unlike what we did in my bed a few nights ago?” I wanted to ask. Instead, I smiled and said nothing, my cheeks turning as red as my potted Hydrangeas.
If I had to estimate, not fifteen minutes went by before we were passionately kissing on the patio and making our way into the house and up to my bedroom. Who needed food? Who needed to go out? The two of us had only one necessity: each other. That’s why we spent the next couple hours naked.
I didn’t think the sex could get any better than it was the first time we were together. I was very wrong. Tonight was even more intense, and I wondered if this was a fluke, or if Preston loved all his women the same way he loved me.
“Do you feel okay?” he asked me at one point.
“Yes, Preston, I feel okay,” I whispered as I lie there, my naked body being showered with kisses. I wanted to tell him I felt more than okay. I wanted to tell him I felt physical bliss that was amazing, the best I’d ever felt in my life. And it was surreal, because I never knew this kind of pleasure existed. It was strange, but acceptingly inexplicable.
“I have to tell you something,” said Preston. Now resting and lying naked, Preston’s head was on my stomach and his arms were wrapped tightly around the outsides of my thighs.
“What?”
Preston sat up. “Well, I know about your husband. John told me what happened. I’ve actually known since the day after our date at
Donatella’s.
”
Not wanting to face him, I rolled over and covered myself with the comforter. “Oh.”
Preston jumped over to the other side of me so I’d look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be divorced like everyone else. I didn’t want you to see me as the sad widow.”
“You should have told me, Emma.”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. This is only our second date.” I started giggling, “And it’s not really even a date.”
“Sure it is,” he smiled.
“No, it’s more of a hookup.”
“I have a great idea,” he exclaimed, “Let’s go have a dinner date in your kitchen. I’m starving.”
“Me too,” I responded, relieved that the subject had just changed. I got up, went to my dresser drawer and pulled out a t-shirt. I put my arms in it and was just about to pull it over my head when I felt him pull it up and off of me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Preston took my arms and said, “You should have told me, Emma.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hide anything from me, okay?”
I nodded and went to grab my t-shirt again, but Preston just took my hand and led me out of the room and down the stairs.
“Um, can I put some clothes on?” I asked.
“No,” he said softly, “I want you to be naked for our date. I want to eat dinner with you while I look at your beautiful body.”
Huh? Me? Beautiful body? Hello, I’m 42 and had a child. I have varicose veins, a permanent tummy bulge, and back fat (it’s minimal but it’s there.) To say that feelings of immense self-consciousness and vulnerability enveloped me is putting it mildly. Then again, only Preston could cause me to feel somewhat open and okay with the whole thing.
So, standing in my kitchen completely naked, sipping red wine and eating grape and avocado salsa and chips with a man I’d met no more than a week ago was a vastly sexy experience. What was funny, though, was that we actually had very normal conversations, as if we were having lunch at a restaurant, two ordinary people getting to know each other.
“This is awesome,” said Preston about the salsa, “Where’d you get it?”
“I made it.”
He seemed surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. Then I opened up the fridge, took out another container and took the lid off. “Try this.”
Preston dipped a chip in the container and then put it in his mouth. “Wow, what is this? It’s really good.”
“Eggplant salsa,” I said with pride. I realized right then that for the first time in what seemed like years, I felt proud of something I’d created, other than my daughter, of course. Feeling gratified simply by making salsa that I knew deep down really was good gave me a sense of self-confidence I’d been missing for a long time.
Cute naked guy had another bite. “This is like really amazing and I’m not just saying that,” he said.
“Thanks. If you want to take some home, feel free. I’ve got plenty more in the fridge. I also have black bean salsa, and I think, fusion peach salsa.”
“What’s with the salsa obsession, Baby?” he asked.
“I have no clue,” I replied, “I’m just into making salsa all the time. All different kinds. It’s crazy!”
“Do you just make it, or do you eat it, too?”
“I definitely eat it. I joked, “Actually, I read somewhere that cilantro can act as an aphrodisiac. Maybe that explains my attraction to you.”
“Give me a little more credit than that,” he teased.
“Here’s my theory,” I said to my date, who looked oh so sweet right now, his cute little cheeks moving as he continued to chew, “I think for a long time, I’ve felt numb, unresponsive to anything or anyone besides my family.”
Suddenly, my eyes filled with tears as I realized how much Preston Christiansen had actually done for me in this short time, not just with his hard abs, but with his unrestrained attitude and his soft-hearted demeanor. I literally had to take a deep breath so I wouldn’t break down.
I continued, “The taste of the lime juice that I use in every salsa I make is so tart and so sour, and I like the sensation…the pain almost…of the acid on the insides of my cheeks.” I felt a tear spill out of my eye. “Feeling that makes me realize that I can still feel. Does that make sense?”
Preston looked into my eyes and nodded slowly. Then he gave me a big bear hug, I think because he didn’t really know what to say.
I let his strong arms temporarily protect and shelter me from my hideous past, and I realized right then just how much baggage I was carrying around. I still had so much to work out, so much to understand, so much to accept, so much to learn. And gardening and making salsa, although therapeutic diversions, couldn’t even make a dent in my healing process. I was starting to think, however, that Preston Christiansen was the catalyst who was bringing me to the beginning of my road to recovery. And I adored him for that.
I pulled away from the hug, wiped a tear, looked at him and said, “We have a thing, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re seven years younger than me. And let’s be honest, my body isn’t half as good as most of the girls you’re probably used to dating. It doesn’t matter, though, does it?”
“First of all, that’s not true about your body, but the age difference…no, that doesn’t matter.”
“We lead completely different lives. We spend our days and nights doing extremely different things. You have a social life, I have a child. You have a time-consuming job. I have salsa. We’re polar opposites.”
I wanted to ask him if our relationship was more than sex, but I didn’t, because I knew he would say yes, whether it was or it wasn’t.
“In some ways, yes, we’re polar opposites,” he smiled, “But you’re right. We have a thing.”
I realized right then, Preston had just answered my question. This was more than sex.
We put the salsa away and headed back upstairs. And we slept. And I rested in a peaceful way that I hadn’t in so long. It was bizarre. I could actually feel my heart opening up. And from this point on, as we began to see each other regularly, the opening got wider and wider, and our relationship, although still highly physical, started to grow.
A few nights later we went to a movie, and then of course back to my place. When we walked in the door, Preston practically tripped over a ball that Isabelle had left in the middle of the kitchen floor.