In the Mix (12 page)

“Is this what you want?!” I yell through my teeth as I slam into her repeatedly.

“Yes . . . oh God, yes!” she pants.

“You just want to fuck hard and not feel anything else?” I pound harder only to get the same answer from her. I rip myself from her and get off the bed.

“Kyle?” She tries to grab my arm as I walk away and towards the bathroom, slamming it open before going in, slamming it closed, and locking it. I turn to the sink and hold on the edges as I try to steady my breathing. Finally, I look up to face myself in the mirror. Sweat is trickling down my temples, my cheeks puff in and out, and my neck vein is pulsating as I continue trying to control my breaths. The truth hits me like a Mack truck.

She’s fucking using me.

Some shit is going on with her and she’s using me to escape from it for a while. She’s been off all night. I’m a distraction. It’s the only logical reason for her sudden change of behavior towards me. Fuck, I really am like Mr. Spock. I let out a deep sigh and head into the tiny shower. I need to calm down and get my thoughts together before I head back out there.

Everyone warned me.

Okay, maybe it was just Mitch, but for one man, he can seem like a damn crowd sometimes.

I can do this, though. I can reach her. I make a living (a very good one) solving massive problems, figuring shit out that no one else knows where to begin with.

I don’t know where to begin with her . . .

I thought I did. I thought it was working. My mom was right. I should’ve just stopped for a moment and gone a different direction. But, at the end of the day, I’m still just a guy. And, being a guy, I totally fucked up tonight and gave in to her vulnerability. I wasn’t going to let this happen. I knew it was wrong. Damn it, though; she felt so good, her response to my touch, clouding my judgment.
Great.
Could I have been any more of a dick to her just now? What’s even better is that I’m about to walk out there—soaking wet—in the buff to do my back paddling.
Note to self:
Next time you angry “I need to clear my head” shower, make sure you have a fucking towel waiting for you afterwards!

With one final deep inhale, I open the door only to have a towel thrown at my head.
At least it wasn’t something hard!
I wipe my face and drag the towel down my body before wrapping it around my waist. I glance up at her. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in a long t-shirt-like nightgown. Her long hair pushed behind her ears. Puffy, reddened eyes stare at me, breaking my heart. I can tell you right now, I never want to see this look on her face again—it’s crushing me to the core.

“Ceese,” I start.

“No!” she snaps. “Just leave. I don’t want to hear it—whatever it is. Just go.”

I sit next to her, ignoring her demands. “I fucked up tonight.” I shake my head. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“God, Kyle . . . please just go.” She closes her eyes tightly.

“Fuck, that came out wrong.” I run my hands through my hair. “I don’t mean
this.
Well, I do, but I mean it shouldn’t have happened tonight. Not like this. Not while you’re dealing with whatever it is you’re dealing with.” I grab her right hand, placing it in my palm. My fingers doodle patterns on the back of it as I continue, “I was weak tonight. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve spent this time getting you to tell me what was wrong so I could help you.”

“To fix the problem?” she asks quietly.

“Yes.” I squeeze her hand and nudge her shoulder slightly with mine.

“That’s what I am to you.” She breathes with slight scary humor. “You see me as a problem to fucking solve!” She stands up. “That’s why you’ve been chasing me these past few months. You want to be the one who figures out what makes CiCi O’Brien tick!”

“No!” I jump up.

“Yes! That’s exactly what you see!” She pokes at my chest angrily. “Well, I’m not a fucking problem for you to solve, Kyle!”

“Knock it off—that’s not true! I didn’t say that you were a problem I wanted to fix or that I see you that way. All I said is that I want to help you figure out whatever it is you’re going through right now.” I try to keep my cool. I have to say, though, it’s pretty fucking difficult to be accused of something you are not guilty of and trying to keep your cool about it.

“I don’t need your help figuring shit out! My problems should be no concern of yours. I. Am. Nothing. To. You!” she bites out.

“That is
your
choice!” I scream in her face before grabbing at my clothes. I take a deep breath, trying to collect myself again. I turn back to her. “If I had my way,” I say calmly, “you’d be everything to me.”

I can see the fight all over her face. Her nose is flaring, chin quivering, and her eyes sit in a pool of tears.

I wait.

She looks away.

Shaking my head, I throw my clothes on and head to the door.

“Don’t mistake my leaving tonight as me giving up. I never quit, Birkita.” And with that, I leave. I could almost swear that I felt the heat from a fire hit my back as I closed the door. I definitely did hear a shoe or something hit it.

I go down the stairs and back the way we came earlier only to run into Mitch in the kitchen. “Dude, are you drinking a Capri Sun?” I chuckle at him.

He breaks away from the tiny yellow straw, “Shut-up, man, I’m thirsty. Besides . . . I like this flavor.” He shrugs.

“You have another one?”

“Yeah.” He opens the fridge. “Here. Hurry up before Charlotte catches us,” he says with a bit of urgency.

“Why, is she the juice box police?”

“Affirmative.”

“So . . . this has become a problem with you, has it?” Yes, I’m smirking.

“I guess so. Why don’t they make this shit for adults? Kids get everything.” He shakes his head before slurping the rest up.

“Dude . . . I think you got it all.” I laugh again as I put my straw in. Yup . . . I forgot to not squeeze the container while doing so. “I’m glad I’m providing entertainment for you,” I say as he laughs and grabs me a towel.

“Here.” He throws it at me. “What are you still doing here anyway?”

“Uh, safe to say, screwing things up with CiCi.”

“Oh, I’m sure that she’s putting in most of that effort.”

“No, man, I fucked up tonight.” I put the juice down and rinse off my hands. “Do you, by chance, know what’s going on with her? I mean, other than what she mentioned earlier?”

“No, can’t say that I do. I’d ask Charlotte for you but I’ve put myself in the dog house, as well.”

“You two going to be ok?” I turn and lean against the counter, drying my hands.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “We’ll be real good once I get cured from this ‘foot in mouth’ syndrome I seem to suffer from.”

“Did you start seeing a therapist?”

“Nah. My first appointment is next week.”

“Make sure to mention the whole surrogacy thing. I know that’s weighing heavy on your mind,” I remind him. A few months back, just when he and Charlotte had come to grips with their feelings, she had informed him that she was going to be the surrogate for Ava and Trent’s baby. It didn’t go over too well, but in the interest of not losing her, Mitch conceded.

“Shhh!” He puts a finger up to his lips and peaks out of the kitchen. “Don’t talk so loud. Especially, about that shit.”

“Sorry.”

He leans back against the counter next to me. “It took,” he says quietly.

“Shit, man,” is all I say. I don’t know what else to say. I know he doesn’t really want this and while this is a wonderful thing Charlotte is doing for her friend, I can totally see and agree with his side of things.

“I know.” He blows out a big breath through pursed lips.

“So . . . now what?” I sip my juice.

“Now,” he opens the fridge and grabs another one, “we sit back, wait, and watch her have someone else’s baby with a supportive smile on our faces.” He pops the straw in. We both stand there, leaning against the counter . . . sucking on tiny yellow straws, contemplating life. Within seconds, we’re slurping the rest of our juice down. I throw my shrunken, twisted juice pack out and get my car keys out of my pocket.

“Thanks for the juice box, buddy.” I slap his shoulder. “See you at preschool tomorrow,” I add.

“Laugh now, but you’ll be feening for one of these bad boys before you know it!” He warns.

“I’ll take your word for it!” I nod before heading out the front door.

It’s almost 10pm. My head is swimming (drowning really) in thoughts about tonight. I need to talk to the one person who always seems to help me swim against the current. Go ahead! Call me a Mama’s boy; I don’t care.

I cut the lights just before I pull in the driveway in case Linz is sleeping. I don’t want her around for this conversation. Mom peeks out the curtain in the living room and gives me a little wave. I swear this woman never sleeps. Hitting the lock on my car, I head up to the door that is already being opened. There she is . . . my Ghandi, looking just as pretty and put together in her robe as she is in her dresses during the day.

“What happened?” She hugs me.

“I messed up with her tonight, Mom. I did something I shouldn’t have.” I walk in.

“Well, what do you mean by that, son?”

I begin to explain everything to her in the most PG way possible while we sit on the sofa, eating cookies.
Jesus,
forget I just said that.

“So what are you going to do now?” She folds her napkin, gliding her fingers across the crease, making it perfect.

“What do you mean ‘what are you going to do now?’ I’m here to find out from you what I should do next,” I say with a little panic in my voice.

“Well, son, you didn’t listen to my advice the last time.” She shakes her head in a “tsk tsk” way.

“I was going to but then . . .”

“But then what?”

“But then, I didn’t. I couldn’t help it, Mom.”

“I call bullshit, Kyle.” Yes, she said that sweetly.

“Mom!”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me! Start thinking with the right head.” She sips her tea.

“When do you think I should call her?”

“Don’t call.” She shakes her head.

“How can I not call? Won’t that make it worse?” I throw my hands out in protest.

“She can hang up. Send her a note.” She sips her tea again.

“Should I attach it to a pigeon?” I ask in the most serious, sarcastic way. Mom gives me a closed-mouth smile, leans forward, palms my left cheek then abruptly slaps me upside my head. I had a feeling that was going to happen but then she tricked me by being endearing. Besides, my mother always looks innocent and she works that shit to her benefit.

“Ok, why a note?”

“You have a higher chance of not only screwing up what you want to say on the phone, but of her hanging up on you. With a letter, you can say everything perfectly and though she may fight the urge to read it at first, she’s more likely to do so. How would you know if she did, if she doesn’t tell you?” She shrugs.

“You’re a wise woman, Mother, dear.” I wink at her.

“Ugh, you make me sound ninety when you call me that.” She complains.

“Mommy dearest?” I raise an inquisitive brow.

“You want me to slap the other side of your head?”

“So aggressive!” I tease.

“Hmm. Speaking of, I need your help with something.” She places her cup and saucer on the coffee table.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

Leaning in closer, she looks around at both entrances to the room before speaking up, “I brought laundry into Lindsay’s room earlier and she started ruffling papers around frantically when I walked in, like she was hiding something. I asked her what she was working on and she said nothing; she was just doodling. Why would she freak out like that if she was just doodling? Something’s up and she’s keeping it from me. Now you know, I wouldn’t pry—I’m not like that—but I have a strange feeling about this. I need to see what she was working on. Can you please, maybe during the party, go into her room and investigate?” she asks in a whisper.

“Why don’t you look while she’s at work?”

“I don’t snoop. I’m not a snooper. Never have been. Never will be,” she states matter-of-factly.

“Oh, but you can send me in to do it and be the bad guy?”

“Yes. Because you love your mother, right?” She nudges me.

“Mom, this really is out of character for you.”

“I know, but I just have a weird feeling. Please, just humor me.” She grabs and squeezes my hands.

“I’ll see.” I shake my head at her slightly, smiling. “Alright, I better get going. I’ve got a letter to write tonight and work in the morning.” I stand up. “Thanks for listening, Mom. I really appreciate it.” I hug her when she stands up with me.

“Anytime, you know that.”

“Ok. I’ll see you at the party then.” I give her another squeeze before letting go. “Love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too. C’mon . . . I’ll walk you to the door.” She slips her arm through mine, hugging it to her as we head towards the door. “Kyle . . .”

“Yeah, Mom?” I turn to her after opening the front door.

“Make sure to do the note thing with your flair,” she says.

“What are you talking about?”

“From what you’ve told me, which I’m sure has been dulled down a bit; you two seem to be over-the-top with each other in one way or another. Don’t change that.” She pats at my chest, hugging my arm to her one last time before letting go.