Ten Days of Perfect (12 page)

Why does having someone cry in front of you feel more intimate and revealing than having sex with them? He sat there for just a minute, and I gave him the silence I assumed he needed. I rested my chin on the top of his head and felt him breathe deeper. I didn’t let on that I knew he was crying, because I wasn’t sure how much of the Y-chromosome he carried with him at all times; I didn’t want to embarrass him. Finally, he looked up with dry eyes and a puff-free face that eludes every woman on the planet. He looked in to my eyes, and when he opened his mouth to
speak I closed it with a kiss.

“Jeeeeesuusss…” Bo exhaled when I released his lips from mine, “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ve just had to tell Rachel’s and my parents’ story so much this week that I guess it finally caught up to me. Do you want to run and scream?” His sheepish grin
sucked the heavy from the room.

“No, we’re in
my
apartment
-
I’d have to kick you out first.”
I smiled back when he laughed.

Quietly, an idea tiptoed into my brain that was so specific, I looked over my shoulder to see if my parents snuck in and had whispered it into my ear. Noti
ng my confused look, Bo sat up.

“What?” He asked.

“Um
. . .
” I couldn’t believe the words that were about to come out of my mouth, “could you show me how to play something…on the guitar?”
What the hell?

“Ha, are you serious Miss ‘I never took to an instrument but my voice
is my instrument’?”
h
e mocked.

“Don’t make fun of me
!” I laughed as my face heated.

“I’m just kid
ding. Let me go get my guitar.”

“No,” I paused, “I
. . .
have one.”

“November Blue, you
own
a guitar and this is the first I’m hearing about it?
That’s
hot. Go get the damn thing!”

Operation “Crying Distraction” complete.
God, now I have to play in front of Lord Hotness of the Guitar.
I walked to my room and opened the closet door. I had to reach all the way to the back for
it;
it was a miracle I still had it at all. I carried the worn case to the living room and set it like a live bomb on the coffee table. When I
opened it,
a gasp of juvenile awe
filled my ears.

“This is gorgeous. How long have you had it? Can I pick it up?” Bo reached slo
wly toward the acoustic guitar.

“Be my guest. My parents had it when they were in high school. They gave it to me when I went to college in the hopes that I’d find someone to
teach me to play
,
or something…”

“Why
the hell don’t you ever play?”

“Don’t have to with a voice like this,” I joked, pointing to my throat and smiling.

“Lame point.
K, where do you want to start?”

“The beginning?” I shrugged
,
all ‘damsel-in-distress.’

Bo chuckled as he helped me position the guitar on my body. It felt slightly foreign, but he didn’t. He showed me a couple of cords, laying his hands on mine, often causing me to lose focus.  I had retained a fair bit of this basic information from my childhood, but I refused to tell him that; I just wanted him to keep touching me. After about a half hour of musical foreplay, he ran to his car and brought up his guitar. He’d strum something and have me follow. We laughed at my mistakes, or when he’d play something that was ridiculously expert and ask me to repeat it.

A seductive and frightening voice reappeared in the confines of my subconscious.
You love him.
You love him so much that you’re not even thinking about sex right now. You’re “guitar-playing, run-away-and
-join-a band” in love with him.

“O
K
, we’re done now. My fingers hurt,” I abruptly chuckled, lifting the strap over my head and placing the guitar back in the case. The guitar, and the L-word, could sta
y right in that case - for now.

“Baby,” he teased as
he set his guitar in its case.

“I’ll show you baby, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I said in my most seductive voice possible sliding over his
lap in a straddle.

“Ms. Harris,” a laugh choked his voice, “I do believe this would be
highly
frowned upon.” He smoothed his hands up the sides of
my torso, underneath my shirt.

Unhurriedly, I pulled his shirt over his he
ad and tossed it by his guitar.

“I don’t care. I can’t - and won’t - say no to you until I absolutely have to.” My
lips grazed his ear as I spoke.

His goosebumps answered before his voice did. “I’m glad you have that willpower, because right now I don’t know if I could ever say no to you.” He drew my shirt up my body, and it joined his on the floor.

My phone rang, interrupting us for the second time in one day, and we both let out sighs of exasperation. I
checked my phone and grumbled.

“What?” Bo said.

“My parents.” I rolled my eyes. When I remembered his parents I decided to cut the attitude, hoping he didn’t notice.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Baby Blue! We’re in your neck of the woods and we’re thinking of stopping over - is that
OK
?” My mom’s voice sang through the phone, the octave raised B
o’s eyebrows.

“What? When?”

“We’ll we’re pulling
into town now
. . .”

“Mom, come on! It’s like 10:30 on a Tuesday night!” Each time they rolled
into town,
it was a fresh reminder that they really marched
to the beat of their own bongo.

“Oh, give it a rest November Blue. We’ll be there in fifteen.” Suddenly, my mother calling me “November Blue” seemed odd,
as if it belonged to Bo alone.

I pressed “end” and let out an overstated whimper into Bo’s shoulder. My hormones would never forgive me for this.

“What?” Bo asked as he gripped my waist.

“My parents are going to be here in a fifteen minutes. Now, they would be thrilled to meet you, and wouldn’t think anything weird about never hearing about you, and yadda, yadda but…” I waved my hands erratically to indicate the insanity I was feeling. For such peaceful people
,
they could certainly
ignite something frantic in me.

“No big deal,” he chuckled, “I’m not really ‘meet-the-parents’ ready right now,” He said as he s
hagged his hair back and forth.

I petulantly stepped to the floor as he stood up. I tossed his shirt carelessly in his direction, admiring the view. He hugged me bare-chested before he put it on; when he pulled away I noticed a fairly large greenish b
ruise to the left of his navel.

“Jesus, what happened?” I asked, realizing that, by the color, it had been there for a few days. I’d been too involved in oth
er parts of his body to notice.

“This? Nothing.” He brushed my hand away. “I was helping my friend in his barn last week and I bumped into his tool bench - serious idiot.” He shrugged into his shirt
.

“Well, you better not damage anything else, I love this body.” There. I said
love
in a completely innocent manner and the floor didn’t swallow me whole.

Bo smirked, “And I love
this
body.” He pulled me closer and ran his thumb under my eye. I let my head fall into his hand for a second.

“Damn straight you do. I don’t go running for my own mental clarity - gotta keep it tight for the bedroom,” I joked, flexing my muscles.

Bo let out a full-bellied lau
gh and kissed me goodnight.

“See you tomorrow at the office, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I toned out derisively
.

“It’ll
be good, I promise. Goodnight.”

I left my hand on the door after he closed it, praying for a split second that it really
would
be all right.

At precisely 10:46pm, I heard the unmistakable sound of my parents 1980’s station
wagon in front of my apartment.
Their laughter carried them up the stairs before they knocked. The fact that I trained them to knock seared me with pride. Growing up, Ashby and Raven didn’t even have a door to whatever bedroom they lived in at the time. I braced myself and opened the door.

“Rae! Ash!” I cheered as they walked in. Calling them
mom and dad was out of the question growing up. They said it forced an uncomfortable hierarchy in the household.
You mean like parent and child? Imagine that.

“Bluebell!” My dad squeezed me around the waist tightly, his arm snuffing out any memory of Bo’s hands.

“Ember, baby, how are you?” My mom wrapped her arms around me and my dad before they both stopped dead and dropped their arms.

I turned to see what happened, and saw them staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the coffee table. I didn’t have time to put the guitar away, and now I was going to have to
explain.
I walked the long way around the coffee table and stood facing them on the other side.
Talk about a five-ton elephant.

“November, what’s this about?” A hint of a smile graced my mother’s face.

“When did you take this out, Sweetie?” Dad had a “no judgment or expectations”
air.

“I met this guy. He’s a musician.” My parents shot each other a look in t
he hopes I wouldn’t see. I did.

“No,” I continued, “I mean, Monica and
I sang with him at Finnegan’s last week when he played a set. He’s from New Hampshire. He
. . .”

My voice was gone. As I tried to put everything i
nto
words for my parents, the two people who had more love between them than anyone I had ever met,
a
heavy sob escaped my body. I crumpled to the couch with my elbows on
my knees, crying into my hands.

“Sweetie!” My mom rushed to my side and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. My dad sat next to her and cocked his head in concern. He’s the only dad I know that’s not afraid of tears.
Thank you, hippies.

For several minutes the tears fell. Each one I shed held reasons why I loved Bo, reasons why it was irresponsible, reasons why I didn’t care. My parents maintained their protective stance, and when I finally stopped I told them
everything.
The singing, the, meeting him at work, about his sister, his parents and about his foundation - it was all on the table. I told them that we had sex and it was the best thing that’d ever happened to me, physically and emotionally. When I explained that if our organizations collaborated we’d have to stop seeing each other - for a while at the very least, and forever at the most, I spilled more tears onto my mom’s shoulder.

“You are so perfectly amazing, November,” were the first words my mother spoke, “you need to decide what’s important right now.” Her words sat me up.

“Isn’t it all important? Didn’t you spend my entire life teaching me to follow my heart, and the wind, and whatever else?” Her practicality irritated me for the first time in my life.

“November,” my dad offered, “it
is
all important.
But
it all can’t be first-place. For instance, remember when you begged us to stay in one place long enough for you to go to one high school? While Raven and I valued our freedom as a family over everything else, the look in your eyes raised your desire for a home base to the number one spot on our list of
things that were important.”

My dad reached across my mom’s
lap and gave my knee a squeeze.

“What are you saying? That I need to give up this core-shaking love to focus on what could be one of the most important career moves I’ll ever have?” I was thoroughly confused.

“You need to
really
take time to think it all through. These are tears of confusion, love, sorrow and betrayal.   Self-betrayal. You’re feeling like no matter what you choose - if you have to choose - you’ll be betraying the other half of yourself. Your free spirit and your practical spirit have worked together beautifully your whole life, and this is the first time they’re at odds with each other. It’s a bitch.” Mom nailed it.

They stayed for another hour, told me they were headed back on the road, but would be back through next weekend. I told them that I wanted them to meet Bo, but I wanted them to meet him only i
f we were meant to be together;
I knew they’d love him instantly and I didn’t want to give anyone false hope. I assured them that there would at least be a decision bet
ween the organizations by then.

My mom interrupted me, “Don’t let your job decide this, Ember.
You
need to decide this.
Work through it and commit with reckless abandon. Even if the decision happens before your organizations decide what th
eir positions will be, commit.”