“Because Donovan was so far behind everyone else, he had to finish at an alternative school in Santa Monica. He basically worked at his own pace, and I think even finished his requirements in March and graduated early. The alternative school is where he was initially introduced to the police department. They had a guest speaker come in and talk about a career in law enforcement. Something about it spoke to Donovan and the day after he turned eighteen he got a job at Santa Monica as a cadet. Everything just fell into place for him after that. He had direction and a goal to work toward.”
I nod, agreeing with Mark’s description of Donovan’s conviction and dedication. “He is very serious and passionate about his job. I saw that when I went on a ride-along with him. And I know the situation with Dillon has permanently changed his attitude about drugs, alcohol, and the people who use and abuse them, but not everyone who has a drink now and then is an alcoholic or the dregs of society. He needs to learn to chill out about it. If he chooses never to have a drink, which I know is not the case, then that’s fine. But he has no right passing judgment on others.”
Mark picks up his beer and pushes away from the counter. “Dillon’s death affected us all differently. Donovan is now overprotective of the people he loves, and I guess that includes you, too.”
I smile at Mark’s assumption of Donovan’s feelings toward me. “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate your candor. It helps me understand more of where Donovan is coming from.”
I can empathize with Donovan and the struggle with his past, but I don’t like how he’s projecting his issues on me. I need to just deal with this now before the feeling in me starts to fester, because at this moment, he is the least sexy person I know. And I had high hopes for some more new sex adventures tonight.
Donovan is sitting on the carpet in front of the TV console, putting away the Wii gear, when I return to the family room. I bend down and whisper in Donovan’s ear. “I need to speak with you when you’re finished with that.” He glances up at me mute, eyes wary. My lips are set firm with resolve, and I can see recognition in his eyes that we are going to go a round or two. He nods and continues putting away the gear.
A few minutes later, I’m marching back to Donovan’s room with him trailing behind. I throw open his door and sit on the edge of his bed with my head in my hands. I’m fuming.
I lift my head from my hands, looking Donovan squarely in the eyes, and in a calm, cool tone, start my rant. “You are not my father. I am an adult. I may not be able to legally buy alcohol, but I’m almost twenty years old and capable of making decisions for myself.”
Donovan is standing silently, leaning against his dresser, blinking at my words.
“If I want a drink at a party, I should be able to have one without getting the stink-eye from you. I’m not drinking and driving and I’m not drinking to get drunk.” I stop and look at him, waiting for a response.
“I know you’re an adult,” he says, his palms resting on the top of the dresser, body relaxed and open, “and you are a very capable and intelligent person, but you are not of legal age to drink alcohol. It doesn’t project a very good image, and I just feel like it’s my duty to protect you from harm’s way…and…sometimes, I think you need protection from yourself, too.”
I blanch at his last comment, but think for a moment before answering. I don’t want to say anything I might regret. “I know that is part of who you are—the ultimate protector and guardian—and part of me likes that and has come to rely on that. But I’m not Dillon. I’m not going to become addicted to alcohol and drugs and overdose. I don’t need protection from myself.”
I step up from the bed and walk over to where Donovan is standing. I stop in front of him, wrapping my arms around his waist, leaning against him, and at the same time, he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me to him.
I lean my shoulders back to look him in the eyes. “What I need from you is support and encouragement—to let me make decisions for myself, but also be there for me when I need you. Does that make sense?” I pause, squeezing my arms around his waist.
“Yes. That makes sense,” he says and lets me continue.
I exhale. “I need you to trust me. You’ve asked me to tell you what I want and what I need. You’ve asked me to open up to you and to share my feelings with you, and I’m trying. This is all new to me, though. I love you and I need for you to have a little faith in me. Okay?” I lift my eyebrows.
Donovan moves his arms from my waist up to my shoulders and hugs me to his chest. I lay my head against his shoulder and he leans his head down to softly speak into my ear. “You’re right. It’s not my place to monitor and discipline you and I will respect your freedom of choice. I may not agree with some of your decisions or choices, whether they are good, bad, or indifferent, but they are yours to make and you will either reap the rewards or suffer the consequences. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” I bring my lips to his for a quick kiss to seal the deal, and lay my head back down against his shoulder. This is my favorite standing embrace with Donovan. Our bodies fit perfectly together like two pieces of a puzzle.
I feel like I just negotiated a major clause in some contract or won the verdict I was arguing for in court. A little brave because of my victory, but not brave enough to look him in the eyes, I speak into Donovan’s chest with my head still against his shoulder. “You know that thing you did when you folded the pillow under me?” I stop there, too sheepish to expand on the details and wait for his response.
Donovan is silent for a moment, and then with recognition in his tone, he whispers provocatively in my ear. “Yes. Did you like that?”
Oh yeah. Let’s add that to the list every time
. “Yeah, I liked it a lot.” I breathe heavy with a slight chuckle of embarrassment in my voice. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
Please don’t tell me from one of your previous girlfriends or patrol bunnies.
I know he’s been with other women, more than he would tell, but I like to fool myself into believing he’s just as inexperienced as I am.
“I could tell you liked that. I’m beginning to read your body pretty well,” he says with smugness in his voice. “I’ve read about that before and it’s something I’ve wanted to try. It’s supposedly where you find the G-Spot in a woman. I wasn’t sure I was doing it right and then you tightened up so much. You don’t know how much of a turn-on it is to see you get so excited, and knowing that I’m the one doing it to you.”
That explanation makes me feel more secure and a little hot. He is more experienced than I am, but he doesn’t know everything, and we are exploring and learning some things together. I wonder what other undiscovered techniques are mentioned in this book or website he’s referring to that we can incorporate into our lovemaking.
“Would you like me to show you that again?” he asks as he grabs my wrist and slides my hand down to his stiff proof of arousal, “or do you want to go back into my parents’ house for dessert?”
“How about you show me it again first, and then we go into your parents’ house for dessert,” I say with a heady breath, stroking his hardened length.
“Kenna!” Sunny yells from the living room. “You have a letter to sign for at the door.”
I’m in my room getting ready for my Zumba class—a typical Wednesday routine for me—for now. It looks like I’m going to be working part time for Sarah’s friend at the law firm in Century City. The pay is twice what I make at the health food store and they will let me adjust my hours around my school schedule. I’ll need that flexibility next year when I start at UCLA, because I don’t know my class schedule, yet. I walk to the front door and the postman is waiting for me to sign for a package or something. “Good morning, Sunny.” She smiles and steps aside, walking out the door, leaving for work and to let me deal with the postman.
I smile slimly at the postman. “I need to sign for something?”
“Yes, miss. The sender has requested a signature as confirmation. Please sign here.” He points to the line on the paper.
I sign at the designated spot. “Thank you,” I say and shut the door.
I immediately recognize the handwriting and my heart starts beating uncontrollably. My breaths come in short gasps. I can’t get enough oxygen. I can’t breathe. I need to sit down. My legs barely find the nearest chair and I drop down, leaning forward with my head between my knees, panting. I concentrate on my intake of air—in and out, in and out, trying to steady my breaths. They come longer, fuller, deeper. That’s better. My heartbeat slows. I sit up and lean my head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, until my breathing evens.
Okay. I’m ready for this, I tell myself. I lift my head and eye the envelope. I turn the letter over and sure enough it’s what I thought.
Myra Tinning
2816 Via Marina Ave., Unit C
Marina Del Rey, CA 90291
It’s a letter from my mom. This is the first contact from her in over a year and a half, since she dumped all my stuff on the front lawn, the day after my escape, and drove off.
I can hardly believe the change in my life in such a short period of time because of great people around me and in my life, lifting me up and helping me move forward. I don’t want to go backward, to shrink back into the darkness that was. I’ve worked so hard to break out into the pure, cleansing light, illuminating my path and feeding me life.
I can’t do this now.
Damn it. I should have looked at the return address before signing.
I take the unopened letter back to my room and bury it in the top drawer of my dresser. I refuse to ruin my day by reading this now. My mom has written something cutting and calculating. She is good at twisting words to make you feel the way she wants. She also likes to craft double meanings with her words. I will need time to read between the lines, to understand what she is saying. I just don’t have time for that right now. She is already exerting control of the situation by having me sign for the letter.
I take the letter back to my room and bury it in the bottom of my top dresser drawer and continue about my day.
* * * *
“Do you want some plantains, Uncle William?” I ask, dishing myself a plate full of Cuban lemon-garlic chicken and black beans and rice.
“No, thanks, hon. Too much potassium. My dietitian has been admonishing me lately about my levels being too high,” he says, picking at his small serving of chicken and rice.
I notice a large bruise on the underside of Uncle William’s forearm. It looks fresh, recent. “What happened to your arm? You’ve got a huge bruise on the underside.”
“It’s okay. It’s nothing,” he says, waving his hand in the air.
“No, it’s not okay. Did they do that to you this week at dialysis?”
“Really, it’s nothing, sweetie. I just fell in the bathroom when I was trying to get out of the shower earlier this week. It’s not that big a deal.”
I feel my eyes go wide. “Well, it looks like a nasty bruise.” I then notice another lighter bruise on his cheek. I didn’t notice it before because he hasn’t shaved for a few days and the stubble was hiding it. “And what happened to your cheek? Was that at the same time?”
Uncle William rubs his hand along his cheek. “No. Last week I got up too fast and got a little dizzy, and when I went to grab the back of the chair for balance I missed it and hit the wall with my face,” he says on a laugh. “Don’t worry about this old workhorse, Matilda. I’ve got bones harder than steel. Strong bones and good teeth,” he says, clicking his teeth together. “It’ll take more than a few dizzy spells to keep this old guy down.”
I know what he’s doing, but a “few dizzy spells” is still one too many for my liking. I don’t like hearing about that. “You know, Uncle William, maybe it’s time to have Felix stay with you full time. What happens if you fall and you can’t get back up? You may end up lying on the ground for a day or even two if it’s over the weekend before anyone shows up to help you.”
“I don’t need you admonishing me, too, Kenna,” he says. “I already got it from Felix and the staff at dialysis. I’m not senile. I’m still capable of making decisions for myself.”
I exhale, remembering my place, and hunch my shoulders in defeat. “You’re right. We just all care about you so much that we don’t like hearing or seeing you hurt, and if we can do something to help prevent it from happening, then we’re going to say or do something.” Wow. The words I speak remind me of the discussion I had with Donovan. We do become more protective of the ones we love.
He reaches over and rubs my forearm. “I know, dear. And I’m very fortunate to have so many great people who care about me.”
“Then at least think about it. Or think about getting one of those emergency call buttons to wear around your neck. Just in case you fall and can’t get up.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll think about it. Now, enough about me. Tell me how your interview went with the law firm,” he says, changing the subject.
“Um.” I stammer, trying to recover my train of thought. “Yeah. It went very well. I got the job,” I say with excitement in my voice, “and I start after spring break. I’ll be working with the paralegal in charge of document management for a large class-action lawsuit. It’s kind of boring work, but the pay is really good and the hours are flexible. I don’t need anything all that stimulating, and my new boss seems nice.”