The Redhead Revealed Page 17

  I took another deep breath and squelched the image that kept rising in my head: My George.

  I pushed it aside with all my might, slammed The Drawer, and reached for Michael’s other hand. Walking backward into my building, I pulled him with me. “Come on,” I said, and we went inside.

  Chapter 15

  Michael followed me into the elevator without another word. I took a deep breath as I pressed the button for my floor. My head was whirling—from the sake, from the closeness of Michael, from the distance from Jack.

  When the door pinged open, I looked at him and was overcome by the warmth in his eyes. He smiled hesitantly at me, and I smiled back. I extended my hand once more to him and pulled him out into the hallway. We walked silently down the hall to my door, and when I pulled my keys out, he took them and opened the door for me. He nodded and let me walk in before him. As I passed him, I took another hit of wool and lemons, and my eyes crossed a little. It was intoxicating.

  I took off my coat. He removed his. I asked him if he wanted anything to drink. He declined. I started to say something about the mess in my apartment. There was no mess.

  And then he came to me, all comfort and safe haven, and opened his arms.

  I fell into them, my face nuzzling against the soft fleece covering his chest. I could feel his breathing speed up as mine did, and I felt his arms around me, his face buried in my hair, his breath hot in my ear.

  I was spun backward in time to a futon and a boy and a girl discovering each other. My hands clutched at his fleece as his hands dug into the small of my back.

  “Grace,” I heard him say, and I shivered.

  I pulled away to look up and was momentarily blinded by the feeling shining from his eyes. I smiled shyly at him, and he bent his head. He pressed his lips to mine as softly and shyly as my smile. My stomach tightened as I allowed myself to feel everything coursing through me at that moment.

  His hands moved across my back, gently pressing me into his body. I deepened our kiss, tracing my tongue across his bottom lip and sucking it into my mouth. He sighed, his breath fanning across my face in a heavenly way.

  He answered my kiss with a deeper one of his own, his hands now tangled in my hair. My hands slipped around to his back, sliding up under his pullover, touching his skin for the first time.

  We pulled apart for one second, the space between us crackling. Our foreheads met.

  His hands crawled restlessly from my hair to my back, continuing to press me further into him. I felt his excitement at our closeness. It was thrilling.

  I trailed my nails down his back, and he groaned.

  “Grace, you’re killing me.” He laughed, and I smiled in response.

  “Let me,” I whispered.

  His hands crept between us, and he slipped my shirt out of my pants. My skin was on fire as I felt his knuckles graze my tummy, and I inhaled quickly.

  He stopped, bending his head to meet my eyes. “Is this okay?” he asked, concern flooding his face.

  You sure about this?

  Shhhh.

  “It’s okay, Michael, really.” I brought my hands back around front and slipped them under his shirt.

  He grinned, then closed his eyes at the sensation of my hands exploring his chest and abdomen. I pushed up his shirt and kissed his skin. His scent was stronger here, the heat concentrated. I kissed across his chest and felt his hands raise my shirt. He began to undress me. I let him.

  We made our way to the bedroom, and as we walked, me backward and him forward, shirts were removed. We smiled and laughed a little, in the way that young kids do when they discover something new and exciting, but a little scary.

  We paused at the edge of the bed, neither of us quite sure who would make the first move, who would move this act beyond simple exploration and into something much more serious. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and pushed him down onto the comforter. Quickly he rolled so that I was beneath him, and held my face in his hands as he gazed down at me.

  “I’ve thought about having you this way again for so long, Grace,” he murmured, sweeping kisses across my forehead and down across my face.

  He bent his head to me, his curly hair tickling as he made his way down my body, kisses becoming more and more urgent. It felt wonderful and surreal and warm and comforting and weird and strange and too much.

  My brain and my heart began to fight, and my body waited to see who would win.

  His mouth sought me, nuzzled at my breast, and his wonderfully kind hands reached my bra, beginning to touch the skin underneath. I closed my eyes and felt his warm tongue touch me. My body reacted, and I arched underneath him. I heard him groan, and felt his lips encircle my breast. I opened my eyes and looked down to see his looking up at me.

  His eyes were warm.

  My body was cold.

  His rich, cozy scent of wool and lemons was now too thick, too much, too there.

  Lemons. Lemons. My lemon trees. Home.

  Home is where your heart is. Where is your heart, Grace?

  This was wrong. Grace and Michael lived perpetually back in college, what might have been. As lovely as this idea was, it was now all wrong.

  I felt my eyes burning. My heart had won. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and all I could see was my sweet Jack—the pain in his eyes when I closed my heart to him.

  “Michael, please,” I begged.

  “Grace, I know, I know,” he whispered, kissing me intimately.

  “No, Michael, I can’t. I just can’t,” I said, pulling him back up my body.

  “Gracie, what’s wrong?” he asked, sitting up and caressing my face.

  You are not his Gracie.

  “Please don’t call me that,” I said, tears running freely now.

  Horrified, he sat back on the side of the bed. I sat up, pulling my shirt back in place to cover myself.

  Tears ran down my face as I tried to explain to my dear, sweet friend why this couldn’t happen. “Michael, I’m so sorry, but I just can’t,” I said, brushing his hair back from his face. He’d slipped his shirt back on, and now sat with me, arm around my shoulders. I’d wrapped myself tightly in a blanket.

  “I knew this was too soon,” he said. “I should never have come up here. This was too soon after, well…” He rocked me back and forth.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Oh, Michael, I just adore you,” I cried, throwing my arms around him again. I felt safe, now that I’d stopped what this was about to become. I still had alarm bells going off in my head, but they were starting to quiet down.

  “We just need to slow down. I’m not going anywhere,” he replied.

  I stopped short. I needed to be clear. I couldn’t leave him behind as another casualty.

  “No, Michael, I can’t do this. Ever,” I started, as he stared at me, blinking. “You’re too good a friend to me, but I think…I think our time has passed. Don’t you feel it? Doesn’t this feel too much like we’re trying too hard?” I begged him with my eyes, wanting him to see it, feel it too.

  “Aw, Grace. You’re too crazy for me. What the hell?” he slumped back on the bed, covering his face with his arm.

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I never meant to lead you on. This just isn’t—it isn’t right.”

  This wasn’t about two old friends who should have. This was about two reinvented friends who should not.

  He studied my face carefully, not speaking for several minutes. I blushed under his scrutinizing gaze.

  Hurricane Grace: another victim.

  Jeez, I’m an asshole…

  “I really wish you could’ve figured this out before I was almost naked.” He grimaced, winking at me.

  I threw back my head and laughed. That felt really good. “Is this okay? I’m so sorry, Michael.”

  “Grace, just don’t, okay? I’ll be fine. I’m not gonna say I’m not upset, but I’ll be fine. You need to get your shit figured out though. ‘Cuz damn, woman. You’re fucked up.”

  We laughed for a few more minutes
, and then after wiping the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of his fleece, he got up to leave. I followed him to the front door, my feet slapping across the wood floor.

  He turned to me again, shrugging into his jacket and buttoning up. “Grace, for what it’s worth, I love you,” he said, his face serious, but kind.

  “I know. I love you too. Friends?” I asked, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

  “Of course friends, and I can still see your boobs, by the way,” he scoffed and opened the door.

  I looked down to find my shirt in place and the blanket still wrapped firmly around me. He could not! I prepared to fire off a smart-ass remark, but the look on his face stopped me.

  “’Night, Grace,” he said, and leaned in to kiss me softly.

  I let him.

  “’Night. See you tomorrow.”

  He nodded and was gone.

  I went back to my room, put on my white polo, and got into my now-unmade bed. I turned on the TV and watched the end of The Wizard of Oz. My favorite part has always been when Dorothy realizes she’s had the power all along. She can go home whenever she’s ready.

  I cried myself to sleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, we had rehearsal only in the morning, and we were finished by one. Michael and I seemed surprisingly okay. My thoughts about an uncomfortable repeat performance of our previous morning-after behavior were quickly put to rest when he asked me to grab a quick coffee before I could run away. I smiled and agreed, and we headed to a coffee shop around the corner.

  “So, this is awkward, huh?” I asked, as we settled into a booth.

  “It doesn’t have to be. So what if you ruined me last night and I had to lift a few cars on the way home? I’ll manage,” he teased, and I banged my head on the table.

  “I really am sorry, Michael. Truly,” I managed, talking to the Formica tabletop.

  “I know you are, Grace. But you could’ve at least given me a little hand action before you sent me on my way,” he said, eyes twinkling.

  “Shut up,” I instructed. “You know, not for nothing, but I really did think you and I were going to end up together,” I admitted.

  “I did too,” he answered thoughtfully.

  “You and me in college together, now back in each other’s lives—I feel like it means something.” I said, my voice trailing off.

  “It does. It just isn’t going to be the way I wanted it to be. But it’s good. We’re good.” He smiled and took a bite of his bagel.

  I munched along with him.

  “I have to ask, why the hell did you break up with that guy? What did he do?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” I said helplessly. “It was all me. I lost my shit and let my head take over. And your sister didn’t help matters either, planting all these seeds in my head about kids.”

  He laughed.

  “What? Why are you laughing?” I asked, kicking him in the shin.

  “She says that to everyone! She thinks everyone should have kids. All women need children to be happy in her eyes. That doesn’t mean she knows what the hell she’s talking about, though.”

  “Yeah, yeah, now you tell me. But really, she got me thinking. What if I do want kids someday? I can’t have them with a twenty-four year old. That’s ridiculous.” I laughed, an image springing to mind of Jack pushing a baby carriage.

  Funny.

  “Why not? Have you asked him?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I don’t know! We talked about it once, in a very random way, and he said he didn’t want kids—for sure he didn’t want kids. And I thought I didn’t either. I still don’t know, I just—Jesus this is a mess,” I said, shaking my head.

  “So, you broke up with a guy you’re in love with because of kids you don’t even know you want, and you didn’t even tell him that? Wow, did I dodge a bullet last night.” He raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Shut up, O’Connell!” I threatened, kicking him a little higher on the shin. He quickly moved his legs out of the line of fire, then looked at me seriously.

  “Besides, Grace, no guy wants kids when he’s—how old did you say he is?”

  “Twenty-four. He’s twenty-four.” I sighed.

  “Grace, for the record, when I was twenty-four the last thing on my mind was having kids. If you’d asked me then, I would probably have said no way.” He sipped his coffee.

  ~ ~ ~

  That afternoon, as I traipsed through the city on one of my walks, I thought about what Michael had said. I really never did explain things to Jack.

  No shit.

  I found myself in front of a movie theater, and on impulse I bought a ticket and went in to see Time. I was overcome when I saw Jack onscreen. He was larger than life and beautiful and sweet and funny and brilliant.

  I would like to say that I paid attention to the plot and the story, but all I could see was my Jack. I cried and cried, and ate an entire bucket of popcorn.

  I passed on the Milk Duds.

  As I left the theater, I thought again about whether or not I wanted kids, and what I really was giving up. I walked back to my apartment, changed into a pair of leggings and a fleece, and went out for a run. I had to work off all that popcorn.

  I ran over to Central Park and followed my normal path, up to the reservoir and back again. I cursed myself for forgetting my iPod. For the last few weeks, whenever I ran I made sure to turn my old-school gangsta rap up loud. That way Eazy-E, NWA, and Ice T kept my thoughts at bay.

  As I ran today, though, no such luck.

  I thought about Jack and his grin. His hands and his lips. His humor and wit. His good heart. I thought about how much he loved me.

  Flashes of The Wizard of Oz kept coming to me, and I thought of Dorothy, who had to go all the way to Oz and back before she realized she had everything she truly wanted right in her own backyard.

  I came upon a family walking together. The man held a baby, and the woman pushed the stroller. A little girl in pigtails walked in front of them. I smiled and stopped to stretch a little. I watched them as I stretched, and as I watched, I waited.

  I waited to feel something. I waited for something to happen. I waited for something to strike me over the head, like a giant gong or a sign that said:

  THAT’S IT, GRACE.

  THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT.

  THAT’S A FAMILY. GO GET ONE.

  As I waited for the gong, as I waited to try and feel something, a small, quiet voice spoke up.

  What are you waiting for?

  Shh! I’m waiting for a sign.

  What do you think I am?

  You’re not a sign. You’re the idiot who got me in trouble in the first place. You’re the one that convinced me to break up with Jack.

  No, love, you did that on your own.

  Then what the hell are you saying? What the hell kind of sign are you?

  You want a family? Who defines what a family is?

  An image appeared: Holly and Nick parading into my bedroom, laughing and carrying on. Another image: Holly and me sitting on my back patio, cocktails in hand, laughing until we cried. Holly and me sitting on the floor in front of her fridge, passing the Easy Cheese. Michael and me arguing politics while others rolled their eyes. Michael and me sharing a bagel, a schmear, and The New York Times. Nick driving me home from the airport.

  Jack.

  Jack shirtless and shoeless, playing guitar for me while I made our bed. Jack holding my boobies while I washed his hair. Jack lying next to me in bed, Chex Mix bag between us. Jack driving to Santa Barbara with his hand on my knee. Jack asleep in my lap as I played with his hair and scratched his scalp. Jack in my home, in our bed, naked, watching Golden Girls.

  There’s your family.

  Who says you can’t have kids someday, with Jack? People change their minds. You have time. And can you imagine two funnier parents on the face of this earth? Or no kids, and the two of you spend your lives together. Not a bad way to sail off into the sunset, eh?

  One more image came
to me: Jack listening to me sing to him at open mic night.

  What was the song you sang?

  “Strong Enough.” But it was never a question of whether he was strong enough.

  No, but are you strong enough to be his girl?

  I thought so.

  Why do you doubt yourself? Who cares what the press calls you?

  I do.

  Get the fuck over it. That boy—that man—loves you. He needs you. You walked away just when he needed you to be strong enough.

  Sweet Nuts. Johnny Bite Down. George.

  I inhaled so deeply I almost choked.

  Stop being afraid.

  Don’t worry so much about what you think you should have. Take care of what you do have. Or did have.

  Oh no, what have I done?

  Nothing that can’t be fixed.

  I’d been afraid so long, I almost didn’t recognize it as fear. But it was, and it was ugly. I’d carried fear with me my entire life. Fear was what made me leave L.A. the first time. Fear was what made me give up the dreams I’d had for a lifetime—only now I’d found a way to get what I wanted. Why was I still letting fear come between me and Jack?

  If I could create the perfect man for me, he would bear a striking resemblance to my George. And he was right: I did push happiness away. I used errant thoughts and passing fancies to distract me from what was real, what was true. Why the hell did I care that he was twenty-four? Maybe he was supposed to be twenty-four.

  Fear. It was a fickle bitch. It was time to let it go.

  One last image, unbidden, flashed to my mind: Me, at my heaviest, drowning in sadness.

  No more.

  No more.

  I want him back.

  Well, now, hold on a second there, sassafras. Who says he wants you back?

  That stopped me cold. Would he want me back?

  Last time I checked, you left his ass on his big night—walked away from him at his premiere. Embarrassed him in front of his family, then broke his heart. Who says he’ll take you back?

  Jesus, what a fucking mess. I was such an asshole. Everything had been about me lately—What did I want? What was best for me?—I never stopped to think how hard all this was on Jack. I took my love from him when he needed it most. I was a weakling, totally wrapped up in my own head, when all he wanted was my heart. And all he needed was my support.