More Than Water (18 page)

“Marriage?” I state, flabbergasted. “Gerard, you’re only twenty-five. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“And I want to spend it with her.”

“What do your parents think?”

He laughs, like a giddy child in a candy store. “It doesn’t matter. For the first time, it truly doesn’t matter. I don’t care about what they think. Since meeting her, everything is so simple.”

“Simple,” I repeat, saying the word, trying to understand how he feels.

“Like breathing air and taking that first step, all at the same time.”

He’s taking a bigger-than-life leap with someone else, going beyond the expectations of his breeding. I beam, unable to be anything but ecstatic for him in this moment.

“I’m so happy for you,” I say, throwing my arms around him.

Circling his hands around my waist, he breathes, “Thank you, Evelyn. I was hoping you would be. I’m going to need someone to lean on if she actually says yes. My parents won’t likely be pleased. She’s not you.”

“Of course, she isn’t. No one could be as fabulous as me.”

“You’re so modest.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” I giggle. “Even though she’s not as remarkable as me, I’m sure no one could be better for you than her. I’ve never seen you look the way you do right now. You’re freaking glowing.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And she’d better say yes, or else I’ll kick her law-knowing ass the next time I’m in New York.”

“I’d expect nothing else. Thank you.”

Squeezing him tightly, I cherish his happiness. The kind of love he projects is something I’ll never be able to enjoy. It’s beyond stipulations, expectations, and all the rules we have both come to abide by through the years.

With Gerard’s arms wrapped around my waist, I spy a figure peeking through the doorway. She doesn’t budge, only allowing the pleased look to grow upon her face as she continues to watch Gerard and me in an embrace.

There’s an anticipated knock at my apartment door, only four minutes past Foster’s estimated arrival. He never disappoints when it comes to punctuality.

I’ve been back in town for almost three whole days, and I don’t miss the sunshine, the boat, or all that comes in the expectant package of spending a holiday with my parents.

After the formal Christmas with our longtime friends, we all parted ways. The Beauchamps headed back to France, Gerard took a flight north to New York for what he’d claimed to be a business trip, and my parents began the next part of their journey to Madrid. I packed my bags and flew home to the quiet campus where many of the students were still on break with their loved ones, including all of my friends.

The silence was a welcome friend when I first returned from the angst surrounding my family. While the trip on the surface was easy, it left a bad taste in my mouth. Gerard’s sudden news about his upcoming engagement and the unsettling knowledge that our parents will not likely embrace it has left me feeling a little…funky and flustered.

So, when Foster texted me earlier today, inquiring if I was back in town, I was thrilled by the idea of having some company, a distraction. Foster is a good one. My fingers dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring. As a formality, he and I exchanged a few words in greeting, got down to the nitty-gritty, decided we were both losers with no friends in town—other than each other—and now have plans to watch a movie this evening. Of course, I asked if that was code for ripping off my clothes and sticking it in. He sarcastically replied that he had no idea what I was talking about.

As the sound of a second knock echoes through the walls, I pick up the play prop from the counter and proceed toward the door.

I call out, “Just a second.”

With my heart racing, I’m excited to actually have human contact after days of solitude.

I hold the fake mustache on a stick to my upper lip and open the door.

Foster is dressed in a canvas jacket and a beanie due to the snow, and his glasses are fogged from the balminess of the apartment building’s air.

He gazes upon me with confusion when he notices my prop. “What is that?” he asks.

The sound of his familiar voice steadies my pounding heart.

“I mustache you a question,” I state in a serious machismo voice.

“Okay…”

“Are you ready for the greatest night of your life?”

“I’m not so sure. Are you going to be wearing that?”

“Maybe. I’ve been told that men like a curly mustache.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of lip hair that’s being referenced.”

“Are you saying it might be something else?”

He tightens his mouth, trying not to laugh. “Think about it.”

My mind goes over what he’s trying to insinuate. It only takes me a few moments before it clicks that he’s made a joke about cunnilingus.

“Damn, you’re naughty sometimes.” I shake my head and lower the mustache.

“Just trying to stay ahead of the game with you.”

“Good luck with that. Come on in.”

“Thanks.”

Stepping aside, I allow Foster to enter my apartment. He sets down a small bag at his feet, and then he proceeds to take off his coat and hat. Like any good hostess, I hang his things and then show him in. This is the first time he’s ever been here, seeing that we usually go to his place. I just thought it was safer to avoid confrontation and questions from Chandra. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Foster or what we have going on, but it’s easier not to put a label on it for others. Plus, he lives alone, so his apartment makes more sense for our trysts. There, we’re less likely to disturb anyone while doing the bump and grind.

“Drink?” I ask, leading him through the living area toward the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he responds absently, his eyes wandering over the walls of the apartment. “Nice place. It’s…colorful.”

“Thanks.” Opening the fridge, I say, “We have beer, soda, beer, chick wine, wine coolers—who the hell brought those over? Beer, water, prune juice…” I peek over the door, chuckling at his inquisitive look. “Don’t ask. Beer…and—”

“Let me guess. Beer?”

“You got it.”

“A beer would be great.”

Pulling two off the shelf, I shut the door, pop the caps from both of them, and then join Foster at the small bar space in the kitchen where he’s patiently waiting.

“Here you are,” I say, handing the cool brown glass bottle into his hand.

“Thanks.” He offers a gift bag in my direction. “And this is for you. It’s good manners to bring a gift for the hostess.”

“I didn’t realize I was having a formal dinner party.” I set my beer on the counter. “What is it?”

“Most people do something called
open it
to find out.”

Widening the mouth of the bag, I mutter, “Smart-ass,” and then dig into the package. I pull out a solid cylinder object wrapped in tissue paper and begin to tear the delicate covering from the gift, revealing two stacked clear pint glasses. Separating them from one another, I turn them within my hands to have a better look at the printed design.

I laugh. “Is that Sir Isaac Newton?” I ask, referring to the image of a man in a wig, holding an apple in one hand while making a rock-and-roll hand gesture with the other. Underneath the bust of the ancient-looking gentleman, the words
My Laws Rule
are scrolled across the glass.

“The one and only. The other is a cheat sheet in case you ever play the elements drinking game again,” he adds, pointing to the pint with the periodic table of elements.

“These are perfect.” I wash them quickly at the sink and then place them on the counter, one in front of him and the other next to my beer, for immediate use. “I love them. Thanks.”

We empty our bottles into the new glasses and each take a drink. I then invite him into the living room in preparation to watch a movie. He takes a seat on the overstuffed tan sofa across from the television.

“So, how was your Christmas?” I ask, crouching down to shuffle through the film collection Chandra and I have acquired through the years.

“It was nice.” He places his glass on the coffee table. “We all went to my grandmother’s farm. She doesn’t like to travel much, ever since my granddad passed away.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It was a few years ago. But it makes the most sense anyhow. Her place is really the only one big enough for all of us.”

“All of you?” I ask somewhat absently, trying to weed through the large amount of chick flicks that he would have no desire to watch.

“Yeah. My aunts, uncles, and all the cousins.”

“Sounds like you have a pretty big family.”

“Kind of.”

Still sorting, I ask, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Two older sisters and a younger brother.” He sips his beer. “Both of my sisters are married and live out of town. One lives in Texas and the other in Georgia. They usually come back for the holiday, but Camille couldn’t make the flight from Georgia this year. She’s expecting a baby, and her doctor said she’s passed the flying window—whatever that means. My brother is still in high school and will graduate this year.”

“Sounds like a lot of people. Are you guys a clan or something? Do you have Team Blake T-shirts, too?”

“Yes. We wear them whenever we get together and go out to dinner. That way, the whole world knows we’re coming.”

I peek over my shoulder, smiling at him. It’s good to see Foster again. While away with my family, my entire life was all about the show and the facade. This, our friendship, is easy—low maintenance and without any expectations, comfortable and free.

“So, what do you think?” I ask, holding up three movies. “
Twilight
,
The Hunger Games
, or
Star Wars
marathon? The originals, of course.”

His fingertips touch his brow. “The Force is leaning me toward the dark side.”

“I knew you would pick
Star Wars
. All guys have a thing for watching Princess Leia run with no bra.”

“One can’t deny the beauty of breasts and gravity.”

“I’m in it for the clothes and Hans Solo’s ass.”

I pop the disc into the player and join Foster on the couch. Pressing play from the remote, the familiar intro music cues through the speakers, and the long prologue scrolls up the screen.

Foster sits back, settling into the cushions. “I always thought this movie was some psychological experiment about the profound way all of the universe’s problems really just come down to daddy issues.”

“What?” I guffaw. “How many times have you seen this?”

“Likely too many.”

“I would say so if you’re going all philosophical on Obi-Wan and the Rebel Alliance.”

“How many times have you watched this?”

“Enough.”

The movie begins, and we’re both immediately engrossed in the opening scene.

“I can’t believe you own
Star Wars
,” Foster comments. “You don’t really seem the type.”

“Why? Because I don’t go around speaking Yoda all day?”

“No.” He looks me up and down. “You just don’t strike me as a Jedi fan.”

“Well, I’m not, truth be told. These actually belong to my roommate. She has a thing for costumes and bought the entire set for research. I’ve watched so many movies with her for just the clothes that it’s kind of ridiculous. I could probably tell you every outfit in every scene for this entire series. And that’s a lot.”

“So, you really are in it for the clothes.”

“I told you.”

“What about the hairstyles? Do you know all of those, too?”

“Yes, those are easy,” I state, mocking his simple question. “The men all have the same shag-o-rific hair, including Chewie, and all the girls look like some form of Kabuki. The end.”

Foster smiles, takes another sip of his beer, and then edges a little closer to me. Getting comfy, I draw my feet onto the cushions, tucking them at my side. Our bodies aren’t touching, but the natural heat builds in the minute space between us. As the movie continues, I take in his unique and familiar scent. It’s pleasant, comforting…Foster. Sitting next to him right now is like crawling into bed and smelling the sheets after a long trip away. You know you’re home.

“So, how was your Christmas?” Foster asks about thirty minutes into the movie.

“Pretty much the same as every year. Lots of sun and water.”

“Must have been nice to see your family though?”

“Sort of.” I crinkle my nose. “It’s always good to see my dad. My mom is my mom, but she wasn’t that bad. My sister ditched us this year, spending the holiday with her new husband’s family in Vermont.”

“What is it about your mom? I know you said you two have issues, but you never said what they were.”

“Typical mother-daughter crap, I guess.” I bite my lip and focus on the television screen. “She just doesn’t know me.”

“Have you tried talking to her?”

I laugh at how absurdly simple his question is. “There’s no talking to that woman when it comes to certain things. And yes, I’ve tried talking to her on several occasions. She’s like the Hoover Dam when it comes to outside thought—somewhat impenetrable.” Then, without any thought or pause, I say, “And something tells me when she finds out about Gerard, I’ll never hear the end of it.”