Heaving myself off the cushion with much reluctance, I retrieve my coffee cup on the beech coffee table in front of us.
“Do you want another, Jess?” I murmur between fits of laughter, raising my cup as indication.
“Please,” she splutters with a mouthful of chips. I stifle a giggle at my best friend, and shake my head feigning disgust, but failing with notable misery.
I am startled by three sudden knocks on the apartment door, when I begin to stroll through the dining room to get to the kitchen. Placing the cups down on the dining-room table, I make my way to the door and peek through the spyhole. A wrecking ball connects with my stomach––winding me momentarily. Panicked and shocked, I stagger back.
“Jessie, Jess,” I call quietly as for him not to hear through the door.
“What?” she points the remote control towards the DVD player and stops the movie.
I wave her over urgently. “You got to answer this for me, Jess––I can’t do it,” I protest, shaking my head in refusal. My eyes flare with abrupt anxiety; my legs are shuddering, and my heartbeat is rapid––overwhelmed by the bombshell that lurks on the opposite side of my door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s my boss,” I cringe, bouncing up and down, eager to get my ass a safe distance away from, Mr. Hypnotic. I thought I would be over him once I had experienced him, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about our exploit since it happened. He’s burrowed himself under my skin, and there is no denying that I would crave his touch again if I saw him––dammit––I’m still craving him, but it’s for the best that I step away.
“You should answer, Sammy. After our conversation last night––”
“I know, I know…please, Jessie. I’m not ready for that step––I don’t trust myself–– Please.” I clasp my hands together in supplication.
She sniggers loudly, and finally shakes her head. Directing her long manicured index finger at me while narrowing her bright green eyes, she mutters pointedly, “You owe me one, Kennedy.”
I blow her a kiss of gratitude, and dart to the edge of the hallway at the right side of the apartment door that leads to my bedroom.
Eavesdropping won’t get you anywhere;
my subconscious mocks, flicking through her glossy magazine. I wave my hands dismissively in her direction to shoo her away, and resume listening.
Oh, my. Mr. Wentworth sounds genuinely concerned when he talks about my safety. I have never witnessed anybody be that concerned––that tense over me. Well, apart from Jessie, but that is a different matter.
Jessie peeks over her shoulder toward my direction. I throw her a wide-eyed, hurry-up-glare, and she disappears––stepping into the hall––and closes the door slightly behind her. Great, now I can’t hear a solitary thing––it’s maddening. No matter how hard I strain my ears, how tightly I narrow my eyes, and purse my lips together––regardless of how hard I concentrate, all I can hear is silence.
“What the Hell was all that about?” I jeer when Jessie come back inside and closes the door securely behind her. She gapes at me and shakes her head in profound disapproval. “What?”
“That man––” she stares at me with sombre, big eyes while pointing towards the apartment door. “––was worried sick about you, Sammy. You didn’t see the unease in his eyes when he was talking about you. He looked reassured when I told him you were okay.”
Impervious of her indication I collect our cups from the dining-table and finish what I was in the process of doing before we were disturbed by the unwelcomed visitor, when Jessie halts me and frames my face with her hands. I sigh to myself, fully aware of what is about to come next––
Oh, Jessie, how I love you…but by, God, you go on and on sometimes.
“Sammy…he took the time from his weekend to travel out here, just to make sure that you were okay––you don’t just do that for anybody. I think he is a genuine guy, who doesn’t make a habit of doing what you two did last night. Give him a chance,” she implores.
“I would very much appreciate, if we could have a nice cup of coffee, forget about that incident”––I raise my right hand in a curt gesture–– “and go back to enjoying the movie, and recover what is left of our Saturday.” I make no attempt to suppress the sardonic tone in my voice.
Removing her hands from my face, she drops them to her sides, and curls her mouth in a sad but compliant grin.
I appreciate that Jessie is trying to help, but, I need to do this for me––not for her. I welcome her insistence, but shouldn’t
I
be the one who needs to display this intensity of enthusiasm?
It’s been five years; five long years that I have maintained my perspective––to ensue no more agony, no emotional suffering––to refuse anyone the chance to discard of me and my emotions. I rest my hands on the edge of the kitchen worktop––bearing my weight through my arms. I tap my fingertips against the cool, white counter and watch the objects shimmer and fade into oblivion. Only my thoughts weave and spiral through my mind.
I exhale loudly as I slowly concede my defeat.
Could I even trust another man in my life? The mere contemplation of the last man I trusted––who I gave myself entirely to––leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and my blood torrid through my arteries. Could I allow myself to become that vulnerable again?
This isn’t something that will happen overnight, Samantha. Stop fretting over it, and bloody enjoy what is left of the day,
my subconscious scolds me––and for once, I decide to take her advice, and push all thoughts of my pending rapport
with Mr. Wentworth to the back of my mind…for now.
“That movie never gets old,” I warble through happy tears as the credits roll.
“Will there be a time where we can watch it without you sniveling through the ending? I could barely hear a word,” she teases while unpeeling herself from her butt-print to pick the next movie.
I impishly hurl the crimson pillow at her.
A faint knock on the apartment door abruptly ceases our schoolgirl giggling. I freeze, unable and too scared to move from my position. I glance at Jessie who is kneeling down in front of the TV media unit fumbling with the DVD player. I’m a deer in the headlights––powerless to act as a cocktail of trepidation, disconcertment and dread waits beyond my door.
Jessie shakes her head slowly at me, her mouth curling in unveiled pleasure.
“Don’t. Even. Ask.” she enunciates her answer to my unspoken request.
Under duress, I stride to the door, dragging my feet behind me. Holding my breath and grimacing, I peek through the spyhole, fearing who I am going to see on the opposite side.
Please don’t be, him. Please don’t be, him,
I plead with all substance of my being.
“Oh, thank God for that.” I droop with palpable relief.
Taking the cold, gold doorknob in my grasp, I pull it open and offer and apologetic smile at the young blond stood tapping her foot in the hallway. I sweep my hair over my right shoulder.
“Miss Kennedy?” she asks tersely. I nod and trace my tongue across the seam of my lower lip. She hands me a huge bouquet of bright pink roses. “Have a nice day.”
I offer a shy curve of my lips. “Thank you,” is all I can muster, all the while gazing upon the beautiful arrangement. I bury my nose into the center––inhaling generously, savoring the sweet, heavenly scent of the thriving blossoms. And I bathe in an unexpected, blissful appreciation.
“Who was that?” Curiosity pierces through her tone, however, words fail me. I am in awe, dazed at this simple yet ardent gesture.
With tears pricking the back of my eyes and a lump in my throat becoming more prominent, I stride to the breakfast bar and deposit the flowers onto the surface, refusing to free my emotional waterfall.
Jessie gasps. “Wow. Now that is an impressive bouquet if ever I did see one.” She lunges herself into the middle of the blossoms and inhales. “Here––” she recovers a card and hands it to me before continuing to admire their sweet aroma.
The card is cold and rigid between my fingers. Uncertain of what I’m to do next, I stare down at it as though what is scripted inside is going to ascertain the meaning of life.
“What is it, Sammy?”
“I have never received flowers before. I want to value this moment before I open this card and come crashing back down.” My voice cracks under the power I uphold to disallow the freedom of my happy tears. My fingertips brush gently against the stiffness of the card as I silently pray to a higher power for guidance.
Observing my hesitation, Jessie caresses my upper arm and I soon lift my head to meet her gaze. Her affectionate, wide emerald eyes offer much required encouragement.
“Open it then,” she whispers desperately, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. I mirror her expression––although not with the same amount of enthusiasm that my best friend exudes.
My heart rate spikes, butterflies stretch their wings. My body cowers to the adrenaline as it swells, feeling myself tremble internally, and being highly aware of every muscle in my body, as they tenses and relax incessantly. How can one card hold so much power? Taking a deep cleansing breath, and regaining my composure, I open the little card.
I called by this morning wanting to make sure you were feeling better.
We need to talk––please. Call me (415) 509 6998. Hayden.
My grasp on the card tightens and I automatically graze my thumb across his neat, italic handwriting. My stomach constricts unpredictably as I succumb to the hankering sensation to return his call, to talk to him––to see him––slowly annihilates my reluctance.
“Well?”
I give way to a shy smile. Unable to speak, I sink my teeth into my lip and hold out the card to Jessie whom seizes it from my grasp. Staring down at the floor, I struggle to fathom the inexplicable clash of emotions I feel. I’ve never experienced longing and aching, over anything other than needing a sexual requirement, but yet I am aching to see
him
, to inhale
his
scent, to hear
his
voice and get lost in
his
boundless, mesmerizing eyes.
“Last night, you were in agreement about a new start, a new approach––let’s start it today.” She places the card back into my palm. I study Hayden’s handwriting once more, his number goading me. “Call him,” she whispers, then plants kiss on the top of my head before leaving the room––leaving me marveling about the conversation I thought I would never have to have, but only moments away from having.
I salvage my cell phone from my purse and stand immobilized––my legs too heavy to lift. I concentrate on the handset in my left hand and Hayden’s number in my right. Prudently typing in Hayden’s number, my thumb hovers over the little green ‘call’ button for what seems like an eternity.
Stop hesitating, Samantha…you’re giving yourself too much time to think…you’re going to talk yourself out of this…just do it!
Cringing,
I screw my eyes shut, and allow my thumb to slip onto the button.
He answers on the second ring.
“Samantha?” Oh, my––the deep, husky sound of his voice is enough to make my knees buckle. I stagger to the barstools and prop myself up onto one before I collapse. “I see you got my flowers.”
“They’re beautiful––thank you.” I show my gratitude whilst visually fixated on the pink rose buds in front of me.
“As are you,” he speaks softly, and I feel that familiar uneasiness anchoring me. Powerless to respond, I screw my eyes shut and take a moment to push his kind, complimenting words aside. “Samantha, you still there?” he sounds alarmed.
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Good––listen––I’ve booked a table at 1300 for 8:00 p.m. this evening. You have no idea how hard I am crossing my fingers here that you agree to accompany me.” He sounds his optimistic self again. “But if you don’t––”
What? After what happened last night––the way I was––is he really asking me out? Why? Dates are used to build a foundation before engaging in the sex; we have already had the sex, so what he is asking is surely meaningless and a waste of time.
Stop thinking negatively, Samantha. Don’t even think about it. Don’t think, just do, my subconscious spurs me, motivating me.
“Okay.” I glide my left hand down my thigh to dry the moisture that seeps through my pores. Jessie’s repetitive cite echoes in my mind, ‘
the first step is always the toughest––but once you have achieved it––the others will seem easier’.
I roll my eyes in exasperation; she better be right, that’s for damn sure.
“R-really?” he stutters, surprized but my insistence I presume.
I giggle at his tone and imagine him pulling the phone from his ear and studying it with widening eyes as my answer trails down the speaker.
“So, if I pick you up at 7:15 p.m. would that be okay for you?”
“7:15 p.m. will be fine. Don’t be late,” I answer friskily down the handset. Before he even has a chance to reply, I hang-up.
Tipping my head back in reprieve, I allow the moment of my acquiescence to sink in. My limbs tingle yet I visibly relax, aware of the natural flow as my body steadily returns to normal.
“Jessie,” I call, sliding myself off the barstool, “––get your ass out here.” I reclaim my jacket from the back of one of the high-back, leather dining chairs.
Swaying her hips side to side, she rubs her hands together. “How did it go?”
“He’s taking me to 1300 tonight.” I pull my hair free of the collar of my leather jacket.
Her eyes widen, her mouth falling open, yet the curl at the corners of her mouth betrays her enormous grin. “Oh, Sammy, that is wonderful.” She sashays over to the table, and encases me in a triumphant embrace. “I know how much of a big leap this was for you, sweetie. The first step is always the toughest––”
“I know,” I interject, disinclined to hear her motto again. “Come on then…get your coat.”
Scrutinizing me with her perplexed expression, she cocks her head. No way is Jessie this obtuse; she’s totally making a meal out of this.
“I have a––” I inhale deeply and roll my eyes as I surrender to recognition of this evenings meeting with Hayden. “Oh, God…” I hang my head, “a
date
…tonight, Jess. I have never done the date thing before. I need your help and we’re going shopping.”