Rumble (26 page)

unload my bike from the bed of

the truck, all the while staring at

my girl. I open my arms, and when

she slides into them, everything feels

as it should. We kiss, and my upside-

down world turns itself right again.

Her lips are soft puffs, flavored

raspberry, and suddenly I’m hungry

for more of her. Starving for her

skin, bare against mine, the warm

of her, the wet of her. Without

pulling back, I talk into her mouth.

“I love you. I love you. And I want

you.” My hands underscore that desire,

and that makes her tell me,
Stop.

You’re turning that old guy on.

Sure enough, maybe ten feet away,

some creepster man is ogling us.

“We’d better go before he pulls

it out and whacks off right here.”

Matt! Sometimes you’re really

disgusting, you know that?

“Me?
I’m
disgusting? Disgusting

would be if he did pull it out. Let’s go.”

The Trail

Is in decent shape, considering

it’s February. It’s a little slick

in places where overhanging trees

have dropped leaves to rot in the rain,

but Hayden and I are familiar

with these, so use care. I let her

ride ahead of me so I can observe

her slender form, rather stunning

in clingy jeans. The river is high

along the mostly level terrain,

its song loud as it rushes over

the rocks. Too loud to talk above,

so we keep pedaling all the way to

the Dorena Covered Bridge.

It’s a favored place for weddings

in the summer and fall, but few

want to chance the weather in winter,

so even on Valentine’s Day it’s quiet.

And this romantic location is where

we stop. We sit on the railing, and

I find myself slightly winded. “Man.

I need to get more exercise. I think

I’ve got enough air for a kiss, though.”

She smiles.
Only if you promise

to be a perfect gentleman.

“What for? There aren’t any dirty old

men hanging around. And anyway,

you’re the only one who’s perfect.”

The kiss is also perfect, and it’s like

I’ve got the old Hayden back, the one

who fell as intensely in love with me

as I did with her. Is she really here

with me? Is it because we’re so all

alone, away from her friends and father

and nonjudgmental minister who does

nothing
but
judge? The intensity builds

and my body responds, but I keep

my hands away from everything

they’re begging to touch. “Just so you

know, being a gentleman sucks.”

Her Response

Is an easy laugh,

and its music is infectious.

When was the last time

we laughed together like this?

It makes me bold enough

to reach into my pocket

for the little foil-wrapped box.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The size of the box throws her.

She looks at me, a mixture

of curiosity and fear

in her eyes.
What is it?

“Only one way to find out.”

Still she hesitates,

and a mad jolt of fury

flashes. “Don’t worry.

Even your Judah

would approve.”

Her entire body stiffens.

He’s not
my
Judah.

Does everything have to

come back to him?

Quick! Damage Control

Don’t mess this up

now, dimwad. The anger

bolt fades to black.

“No. It doesn’t, and I’m sorry.

Really, I am . . .”

(
Aren’t you sick of asking

for forgiveness? 
)

“I’m an idiot, okay?

A jealous jerk, and I know

it, and I’m trying desperately

to work on it. Just, please

take your present. I looked

all over to find just the right

thing, and I knew this was

it the minute I saw it.”

(
We do need to talk.
)

Her shoulders relax,

but her hand quivers

as she reaches for the box,

opens to find an emerald

pendant shaped like an angel.

“To go with that sweater I like.”

Hayden Melts

Into a sticky mess,

warm, luscious caramel.

It’s beautiful! Thank you.

But I—I . . . All I got

you is a card.

“I don’t care. I just want

you to be happy. I just

want you to love me.”

Now it’s me who goes

all soft. “I don’t want to

lose you, Hayden, and

I feel you slipping away.”

She looks down at

the necklace, as if deciding

whether or not to keep it.

Then she lifts her eyes

again to meet mine.

Both pairs glisten tears.

She hands me the pendant,

turns her back, lifts her hair.

Fasten it for me, please?

The gesture is incredibly sexy,

the wavy wisps at the nape

of her neck so beautiful,

that I fumble the clasp

twice. Finally, I manage

to close it. Then I lower

my lips to her neck.

“An angel for my angel.”

I kiss the circumference

of skin just below her jaw,

turn her to face me.

She closes her eyes,

but instead of moving

my lips to hers, I open

the top button of her soft

flannel shirt and kiss down

the V to where the necklace

hangs. She trembles and I pause.

“Sometimes it’s really hard

to stop. Don’t you

ever want to?”

Of course. I want to right

now. But I can’t. I won’t.

Not until I get married.

I Step Away

Seems to me like being here,

teasing me and tempting

herself, is little more than

a form of self-flagellation.

But I shall remain wordless

on the subject. I take her hand.

Overcome by romance—not

to mention the need to cool

things off just a bit—I say,

“Lots of people get married

on this bridge. You’d want

a church wedding, though.”

Absolutely. I’d never consider

any other kind. The reception

could be outdoors. Not the ceremony.

“Not even if your fiancé asked

you to change your mind?”

I’m treading rocky territory.

I can tell because she extricates

her hand from mine.
My fiancé

would know me better than that.

Nothing But the Truth

I sidestep the possible subtext,

eager to avoid upsetting the tenor

of this day. “Maybe we should

start back. A predinner shower

is probably in order.” I sniff

my armpits dramatically. “Phew!

Definitely in order. Don’t want

someone confusing me with the brie.”

She laughs that crystal-pure laugh

and I think I may have crossed over

that rough patch of ground.
Ever hear

of an invention called deodorant?

“Sure, baby. But even the strongest

antiperspirant can’t touch this manly

smell.” We hit the return, and when

we reach town, agree I’ll pick her up

at six fifteen. She cycles to her house.

I take my truck and when I get home,

there’s no one there. Not Dad. Not

Lorelei. But when I peek into the master

bedroom, there’s plenty of evidence

of her visit, my dad’s obsessive neatness

totally denied by the ridiculous state

of the bed. Unmade does not come close

to describing the blankets, tossed

to the floor, and the sheets, completely

untucked by whatever action they had

going on. And the most damning proof

of all—a pair of lady’s lacy panties,

tangled in a pair of Dad’s boxers at the foot

of the bed. Half-disgusted, half-envious,

I head to the shower, already hard from what

I just witnessed, coupled with my earlier

encounter with Hayden. But the scent

of the soap and the smooth lick of lather

remind me of only one person. Alexa.

Traitor

That’s what I am.

A slimy

(satiated),

no good

(definitely

could be better),

cheating

(can’t argue with that),

masculine stereotype.

I am a soap opera.

I dress in my best

imitation
GQ
outfit—

crisp chinos, button-down

chamois, decent suit jacket.

Think about a tie,

but decide against it.

No use going overboard.

Just for fun, I leave

my dirties in a small heap

in front of the clothes hamper.

At least there aren’t any girl’s

pretties piled in with them.

We Hit Our Reservation

A few minutes early and have

to wait. I’m admiring the angel

hanging in the scoop of Hayden’s

green sweater when I hear a familiar

laugh at the back of the room.

It’s Dad, and he’s not alone, which

might not be so bad except pretty

much everyone here knows their high

school’s basketball coach. And

they also realize his Valentine’s Day

date is not his wife. “Excuse me

for a minute.” I leave Hayden behind

and make my way to the offending

couple. Dad tears his gaze away from

Lorelei, who is not so all that, if you ask

me. “What do you think you’re doing, Dad?”

His smile slips, and his warm, open

(totally foreign to me) demeanor

ices over.
Uh, we’re having dinner?

This is my son Matthew, Lori.

She turns concerned eyes my way.

They are the dark gray of summer

thunderheads.
So good to meet you,

Matthew. Wow. You look like your dad.

“It’s Matt. And pretty much

everyone else says I resemble Mom,

who my father is still married to,

by the way.” I redirect my attention

to Dad. “Do you really think this

is appropriate? It was bad enough

having to listen to the two of you last

night. But a public display of affection?”

My voice has risen in intensity

and volume. Dad tries to counteract

that.
Please sit down, Matt, so we can

discuss this using our inside voices.

The implication is clear—stop

acting like a child. The people

around us react nervously, and

so does the restaurant manager.

I Might Back Off

Except for the smug smile spread

across Dad’s face. He doesn’t give

a good goddamn about what anyone

thinks. Well, Dad, neither do I.

Anger blasts like a furnace, sears

my face. “You’re embarrassing

yourselves! How can you sit there

acting like this is okay?” The entire

restaurant is staring pointedly now.

I mean it, Matt. Sit down before

Paul over there kicks you out of here.

You’re the one who’s embarrassing

yourself, and us.
He stands, comes

around the table, and takes my elbow.

Sit down or leave and we’ll talk at home.

“Excuse me, but I’ve got a dinner

reservation myself, so I don’t think

I’ll be leaving.” But my own smile

disappears when Dad nods

toward the front of the restaurant.

Pretty sure you’re leaving.

Your girlfriend just did.

I Catch Her

Several paces down

the sidewalk. “Wait!

Where are you going?”

She keeps moving

forward, in a quick, straight

line.
Home. I don’t need this, Matt.

“Need what?”

To witness you being

a jerk. What is
wrong

with you? I don’t know

who you are anymore.

I grab her hand, tug

her to a stop. “Look,

I’m sorry . . .” That fucking

word again. “It’s just I’m

having a hard time dealing

with my parents breaking up.”