When in Paris... (Language of Love) (36 page)

A second later, I’m caught in his vise grip, one arm circling my waist, the other angling then cradling my head. My lips part on a startled gasp and then he’s kissing me, his tongue exploring the interior of my mouth, sucking, licking in wet demand. My senses are whirling as I lock my arms around his neck, holding on tightly for fear of falling—literally—because in every other way, I’ve already fallen.

From my mouth, he switches his attention to my neck, leaving me panting. “God, I missed you,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Stay at my place tonight.”

Fighting the passion-filled haze I’m currently functioning under, I part my lips, my mouth forming a refusal. As if sensing what I’m about to say, he hoists me up until my legs circle his hips, walks me back and then lowers me onto my bed.

His body is a welcome weight on top of mine. Then he’s kissing me deeply, touching and caressing me all over and before long, my sweater and bra are gone.

Our
welcome home
make-out session lasts a good half hour and by the time we end it, I’ve only got fifteen minutes to get over to Lawrence Theatre for rehearsal.

This time, I refuse Zach’s assistance to dress. We both know how that will end. Me, late for rehearsal and him driving to practice with a hard-on.

The ding of a cell phone announcing the arrival of a text message has me glancing down at my desk where Zach must have left his phone when he came in. I’m acting more out of curiosity than nosiness when I note the name—Ashley—and scan the content of her text that reads WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING YOUR PHONE??? all in caps.

My gaze flies instantly to Zach. In the midst of tying his boot laces, he stills and peers up at me from beneath his absurdly thick lashes.

“It’s Ashley. She wants to know why you’re not answering your phone.” My voice is surprisingly calm, at complete contrast to the jealousy clawing and scratching to come out.

It’s as if the sound of my voice is the trigger he needs to resume what he was doing, as he quickly finishes tying his boots and then pushes to his feet.

Regarding me warily, he sighs and runs a weary hand through his tousled hair. “Look, I don’t want us to fight right before we go home for Thanksgiving so please don’t give me a hard time about this. I’m dealing with her but it’s going to take a little more time.”

I fall mute as I try to form a coherent response that doesn’t scream jealous shrew. And just to let you know, it’s much harder than you think when you consider my current situation.

I cross my arms over my chest and roll my shoulders back. “Why is she still calling and texting you at all? What exactly are you
dealing
with?”

Instead of answering me, he gives me this look, the one that says he’s trying to figure out how to handle me. When he starts toward me, I have a pretty good idea what he’s come up with.

Placing his hands on my waist, he pulls my stiff body against his and lowers his head. But I’m ready for him—the kiss—angling my head so that his lips glance off my left cheek.

On a long exhalation, he raises his head and looks down at me. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about where Ashley’s concerned. Nothing to worry about where
anyone
is concerned.”

I back away from him until he’s no longer touching me, his hands falling to his sides.

“Right, like you trusted me when you saw me with Scott,” I scoff.

His lips thin and his jawline becomes more pronounced. “I wasn’t going to invite Ashley into my room.”

Seriously?
He
really
doesn’t want to go a round of tit-for-tat with me.

“Well, I’ve never slept with Scott. We didn’t go out senior year. He doesn’t call and text me every day. And he knows we’re going out. Can you say the same for
your
ex?”

By the expression on his face, I know I hit my target every single time. But his chagrin soon gives way to frustration. He throws his hands up in exasperation and rolls his eyes. “Christ, Liv, that’s all in the past and you know it.”

“And yet, there she is.” Uncrossing my hands, I gesture to his phone. Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Look, I’ve got to get to rehearsal.”

For a second it looks like he’s all set to argue his point but then his expression shutters. He grabs his jacket and yanks it on. As he passes on his way out, he pauses at my side and drops a hard kiss on my unsuspecting lips, muttering roughly, “I’ll talk to you later.”

He’s gone before I can collect enough of my wits about me to respond.

~*~*~

Rehearsal doesn’t end until seven thirty and it’s after eight by the time I’m back at the dorm. When I enter the room April’s head pops up from where she sits at the desk, textbooks spread open all around her and lined loose-leaf paper covering every square inch of the faux-wood surface.

“Hey, stranger. I wasn’t sure you still lived here,” she teases. “What are you doing home so early?”

I force a wan smile and pray she’s too busy worrying about the English paper she has due tomorrow to take close notice of me. “Trig quiz.”

“Tell me about it,” she mutters darkly, turning her attention to the book open in front of her. “I’m writing a comparative analysis of
Death of a Salesman
and
Raisin in the Sun
. God give me strength.”

I look longingly at my bed. “I’ve gotta study too. At least tomorrow’s the last day before break.” I drop onto the side of my bed and unzip my brown ankle boots.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Oh, you might want to check your phone. I swear it rang at least five times while you were gone. By the way, why didn’t you take it with you?” April asks, looking over her shoulder at me.

“I needed to charge it,” I explain as I lean over, snatch it off my nightstand and disconnect the charge.

Seven missed calls? That’s strange since the only people who regularly call me are Zach, April and Rebecca. My mother is religious about calling Sunday mornings. With some of my friends from high school, their calls come in every couple weeks.

I scroll through the calls and note three are from my mom and one’s from my dad’s cell. When I see the next one is from my brother, my heart starts to pound and panic begins to set in. I know something’s wrong. The last two are from Samantha and the voicemail icon is lit.

Don’t panic, I tell myself as I hit the button to pick up voicemail. The first one’s from my mom.

“Liv honey, give me a call when you get this message.”

I release a breath after I hear her voice. She doesn’t sound her usual happy self but there’s nothing in her general tone that gives me cause for concern. My mother wouldn’t sound that calm if something absolutely horrific happened. And I mean sickness, injury or death. Relieved I can dismiss that from my mental list of possibilities, I go on to the next one.

My dad.
Who
never
leaves messages. My panic returns, pulsing in my veins stronger than before. I clutch the phone tighter and press it closer to my ear.

“Livvie, it’s Dad.” That’s my dad. As if I wouldn’t know his voice. “I-I-I—”

Now I close my eyes. My dad is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and oversees a staff of over five hundred people. Not once in my entire life have I heard him stutter.

“—I’ll be traveling for the next two days, but I’ll talk to you when you come home for Thanksgiving. I love you, sweetie.”

The breath I’ve been holding comes out in a
whoosh
. I have no idea what to think. Next message, my brother, who sounds pretty normal and leaves me a simple and to the point
, you need to call home
message.

The last is Samantha, my best friend from high school. We touch base once every couple weeks or so and I spoke to her three days ago.

“Liv, oh my God, I heard. Call me.”

Oh my God, I heard?

Okay, it’s official. Something bad has gone down at home. But after listening to the three messages, I know nothing more than I did before. In fact I’m three hundred percent worse off.

Lowering the phone from my ear, I look up and see April swiveled around in the chair watching me, her expression both questioning and concerned.

“Is everything okay?” she asks tentatively, which means I must look exactly the way I feel, fearful and nauseated.

“No.” This I know for sure. “Something must have happened at home.” I hold up the phone. “Both my parents and brother called and said I need to call home.”

Her brow puckers. “What did they say?”

“That was it, nothing else.”

“Are you going to call?” I know she means now. I glance down at the phone. It’s 10:45. My parents are usually in bed by now but there’s no way I’m going to be able to study or get any sleep until I call.

“Yeah,” I say, hitting
Home
under my favorites.

April points to the door. “Do you want me to leave?”

I shake my head no.

My mom answers after the third ring, her,
Hello honey
very subdued. I get straight to the point. “Okay, Mom, you guys are freaking me out. What’s wrong?”

A telling silence follows. “Before you hear it from one of your friends, I wanted you to hear it from me.” She pauses and I’m instantly consumed by fear.

“What, Mom?
What?
” My panic and fear rise exponentially with every second of delay.

“Your dad and I are getting a divorce. There was a scene at the restaurant and I’m afraid everyone in town who hasn’t heard about it
will
by tomorrow. Samantha’s parents were sitting at the table beside us.”

My mind reels. It’s funny how calm she sounds. Like this is happening to someone else. Disconnected. And maybe she is.

“But why? What happened?” My voice cracks as I feel a sob well up in my throat. And as hard as I try to prevent it, tears fill my eyes.

April, who’s abandoned her studying, watches me in growing dismay. Her green eyes silently asking me
what’s wrong
?

Unable to talk, I shake my head, which makes me dizzy and heartsick. Instantly, she’s at my side, her arm around me, her hand rubbing my shoulder, comforting.

“I really don’t want to get into it over the phone,” my mom says quietly. I can now hear the distress in her voice. “We’ll talk when you come home day after tomorrow. I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else first.”

It’s clear I’m not going to get the answers I’m looking for so I don’t ask. Instead I ask, “Are you okay, Mom?”

My mom is perpetually upbeat and optimistic. She gave up her career in public relations to stay home with me and my brother and she always claimed if she had to do it all over again, she wouldn’t change a single thing.

“We’ll talk when you come home,” is all she says, not giving me an inkling of what went wrong.

My parents’ relationship has always been my roadmap of how relationships ought to work. Love, trust and respect are how I’ve always summed it up. This, whatever the hell is going on now, leaves me gasping, a chasm between fiction and fact that I’m struggling to comprehend.

April squeezes my shoulder as I mumble goodbye to my mom and tell her I love her. She says it back, her tone more heartfelt than usual. When I end the call, the phone falls from my fingers to my lap and I turn to April, her face blurred and distorted by my tears.

“My parents are getting divorced.”

“Aww, sweetie. I’m so sorry,” she croons, pulling me into her arms.

~*~*~

Waking up the next morning after a furious bout of crying is almost the same as waking up with a hangover, the only difference is the copious amounts of alcohol you drank the night before and the fun—presumably—you had thereafter.

Red-rimmed, puffy eyes and lids I have to peel apart isn’t exactly my best look. My body feels heavy and lethargic but I force it through the paces under April’s vigilant gaze. After telling me she’s there if I want to talk about it, she doesn’t probe, which is what I so love about her. She knows when I need space, time to adjust.

Why am I taking this so hard? I’ve asked myself that a thousand times since the phone call. I mean, parents get divorced every day. Just not my parents. After twenty-six years of marriage, you’d think they’d make it through the worst. You would have thought wrong.

It takes me twice as long to get ready but I manage. April plays mother hen, not so much by what she says and does, but by what she doesn’t do or say. An outfit is laid out on my bed when I get out of the shower, shivering from the inside out. Without saying a word, she turns on the cordless kettle we keep near the mini-refrigerator. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, fully dressed, wearing more makeup than usual to cover up my washed-out appearance, she hands me my favorite mug, steaming hot chocolate inside.

Her actions alone make me want to cry but I shed enough tears last night. Between the fight with Zach and my parents’ split, I’m well and truly spent. Happiness is easy, unhappiness is not only misery personified but it’s completely draining.