Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (24 page)

With everything else going so perfectly in my life the only viable option for me is to take a step back and breathe. I will not retaliate, I will not crumble and more importantly I will not stop loving him. Who knows what or more likely, who, brought Ashton to this place but I’ll forgive him as soon as he’s finished being stupid and comes back home. It’s just what we do.

***

Wednesday morning comes fast and our meeting with Jack goes exactly as planned. He felt extremely confident in our model and said that with the capital I’ll be investing we should be good to go as soon as some final paper work is filed. He’s putting together the tax forms and other incidentals for us now and we’re hoping to have some sample products ready to sell by the end of next week. This should be my moment. I should be swinging from the damn chandeliers (Has anyone ever really done this? It just doesn’t seem safe.). Unfortunately though, there’s this stupid Ashton-sized hole in my heart that’s trampling all over my cheer and I don’t know how to fix it.

When your best friend breaks up with you it’s a bitter pill to swallow to be sure and plus I’m really bad at swallowing pills, which is pretty ironic. My life is starting to sound like one long, tragic Alanis Morisette song and I’d like it to stop. It’s imperative that I get out of here quick and go clear my head before this depression flies off of me and lands on the ever cheerful elf. No one wants to be the person who kills the enchanted fairy in a story and I’m no different.

“I’m off, Lidd. Would you do me a favor and not mention any of this Ashton stuff to Connor? He’s going to want to kill him, and even though I’m hurt, I’m not quite ready for him to be dead just yet.”

“You know I’ll keep your secret. Besides, it’s the D-bag’s loss and if he wants to screw up the best thing in his life, he’ll suffer with or without Connor kicking his ass.  Go home, relax and remember that what’s meant to be will be, etcetera, etcetera. Call me later and let me know how you’re doing, kay?”

“Will do. And listen, I want you to know that even though my heart’s in the toilet, I’m still really excited about the lingerie line. How about next week we get together and flush out the brand’s name, and I promise I won’t suggest anything too vulgar?” She laughs as I walk out the door, my fingers double and triple crossed behind my back. I know exactly what that little tart’s thinking.  She’s wondering how in the world the uptight virgin became the vulgar one in this relationship. It’s ironic, don’t ya think. 

***

Since reentering the world I’ve notice that my house feels empty and dare I say, lonely. It used to be the place I sought peace and solace, but not anymore. Now all I see everywhere, on every surface is Ashton. His butt on my counter, his butt on my couch, his butt on my bed. His beautiful butt has been on every seatable surface in the place and… I miss it. My own butt hasn’t even seen that much action here accept in the areas you’d expect, like the toilet, but (no pun intended) he’s even done that. And even in there I’d say he’s gotten more action than me. It’s just so sad.

Wednesday night comes and I do something I haven’t done in a while. I pull out my laptop and find my dad’s videos. Instead of going to the closet to watch them like I used to, I lie in my bed and listen to him from the comfort of my California king. As I lay thinking of my past, I’m reminded that I have a box full of my dad’s stuff in the attic that I never went through. 

After his death I was in a dark place (shocking) for a long time and the idea of rummaging through his personal things and getting rid of any of his belongings has always been just too unimaginable to bear. But, now? Now it’s different because now, I’m strong.

Unable to sleep because of this revelation, I climb out of bed, get the handy three-step ladder Ashton forced my short-self to buy (I’ll never admit how much I use it) and head up into the attic. I’m bent in half rummaging through all my holiday stuff and other memorabilia when I finally hit the pay-dirt I came up after, the lockbox full of my dad’s most private possessions. After carefully climbing down the ladder with the priceless, shallow box in hand I close the attic and head to my bed, at last ready to inspect its contents. As I look upon the treasure trove before me soothing music spills out through my laptop, carrying me the melody I most need to hear. With a firm resolve and Ashton’s voice in my ear, I open the box and am at once transferred back in time to the day it was packed.

***

“
CeeCee where do you want me to put these clothes? Donate, keep or trash?” Are you kidding me?

“What do you think I want?” This is not a good time for me to be picking a fight with Ashton. Not when I’m this vulnerable and he’s this frustrated. “I think it’s your decision and I have no freaking clue what you want. Don’t make this harder than it already is. I happened to love him too, you know. He’s the only real dad I ever had. So tell me. Donate? Keep? Or trash?” 

I forget. My own pain clouds my mind so it’s been easy for me to forget that he’s lost a dad as well. That he’s hurting too. I think it’s fair to say that sometimes, grief makes us selfish.

“Forgive me.” I say while crossing the room to him. I land on his lap, criss cross my arms behind his warm neck and stare into his whisky eyes, hypnotized by their affection for me. I slam the door shut on the confusing raw feelings our shared grief has evoked in me and squeeze his big body to mine and say, “Please?  I’m sorry.”

He’s tense for a couple quiet moments before finally accepting my terms. Pulling me tighter, squeezing the fabric of my cotton shirt into his big, capable hands, he whispers softly into my sensitive ear, “Always.”

***

The Ashton that was there for me that day was my family, and he’s the one that I love, not this deceitful, unfeeling intruder. In the meantime I’ll just have to be patient and pray the interloper doesn’t last long because I miss the guy who watched General Hospital with me. The one who also believes in Luke and Laura’s everlasting love and would never ever leave me through a text.

Speaking of Soap Operas, I feel like I’m auditioning for one now as I stare dramatically down at the mysterious envelopes addressed to Ashton and I before me. The day we cleaned out the master bedroom we found them cleverly tucked inside my father’s underwear drawer, away from my nosy fingers. These were his goodbye letters, and he wanted them to be opened after he was gone and not a minute before. Well, he is gone and I still cannot bring myself to read his parting words. 

Connor, however, was a different story. The day I found these letters he tore his envelope open without an ounce of hesitation. To say he loved that letter would be the understatement of the century. Still today it sits in a place of honor in his house, framed and set by the entry for all to see. When I declared through tears that there was no possible way I could open mine, Ashton grabbed my hand and said, “Hey, we’ll do it together someday, whenever you’re ready. Now stop crying.” And now here I am, I think I’m finally ready and… no Ashton in sight.

My father’s messy handwriting is scribbled across the front, willing me to make a move. I wait for him to tell me what to do, guide me in some way, but nothing is happening. No voice from beyond speaks to me, no feeling in my bones propels me into action, and there are no goose-bumps alerting me to his presence. It’s just me, myself and my conscience guiding me and I know exactly what I have to do. I will hold onto Ashton’s letter, open my own and get on with my life… tomorrow. So, until tomorrow.

Goodnight daddy. 

I love you more…

eighteen

All night long I toss and turn as I wonder over the contents of the thin white envelope addressed to me in my father’s awful chicken scratch. It lays only a hand’s reach away, a mere breath beside my head, mocking me with its availability. The envelope may well be made of iridescent paper the way it seems to be glowing in the dark, begging for my attention. “
OPEN ME
,” it screams, replicating a dirty sign that hangs just inside a dive bars doors. But seeing that I’ve already decided that I’m not going to like what’s inside these thin-barked walls, I just lay staring at it because contemplation is safe and parting words are not.  They are a forever goodbye and because my dad knew me and the extent of which I was capable of tipping the crazy scale, I can only hope that he kept the letter… breezy.

Finally, at around five in the morning I give up on the idea of ever falling asleep. That letter may as well be an invite to the Playboy mansion with all the excitement it’s causing me (my dad would not have a problem with this analogy, so just deal with it! That would be pretty damn exciting and he even knew it!). What I decide to do next shocks even me though. Without any hesitation I slide out from under the confines of my cozy covers and do the unthinkable. I put on my workout clothes.

Trying to force my size eight feet into the tied, stale running shoes before me is clearly not going to happen without a fight. My feet haven’t seen a running shoe in years and either the shoes have shrunk or my feet have grown because they are suffocating. Master, unsure what’s going on with my shoe’s watches with anticipation only knowing one thing, these shoes, they’re for WALKING.

Shoes finally on and laced much looser, I leave my room with a pep in my step and Master on my heels, ready for some much needed wind in my hair. Ashton would tell me to go back to bed until a more appropriate hour after the sun has had a chance to wake up but since
HE
isn’t here, I’m doing things
my
way. 

The first shocker of this walk is that I find out that  I like the dark of the dawn. It’s soothing. With my earphones in place and running music pumping full volume between my ears I start walking (running would be overkill for my fitness level and we all know it). My mind clears along with the rhythm of my rapidly swinging arms and I start to make plans for the day just as I imagine a regular, organized girl might do.

Plans: I’ll finish up with my exercise, have a shower, then some coffee, look at my letter, get some clothes on, work with Liddy, look at my letter, have some lunch, stare at letter etc. Who am I kidding? Apart from the coffee this day is going to be solely about me and how I’m going to deal with opening that damn letter.

We make it home an hour later and Master has his breakfast and does what all dogs do after a lovely run (walk), he goes back to sleep. Don’t worry though, no way will I let him and his sweaty, hairy body back into my bed, not until he’s bathed. For now he’s quarantined to his lumpy floor pad and he’s none too happy about my declaration, either. He shoots daggers at me as he plunks down on the velvet-covered cushion in the corner and then, a moment later, sleep’s declared the winner over anger and he’s out.

So, here I am at eight AM, showered, dressed and staring at the almost life-like envelope that’s started to haunt me from the coffee table. If it could talk it’d be shouting “nanny, nanny, boo-boo” at me while peppering in raspberry sounds just for fun in between its taunts. It has all the power and it knows it (Don’t worry, I do realize it’s an inanimate object). Unfortunately, I’m no better off than I was at five this morning, actually I may even be worse. Because now I’m caffeinated and that’s turned me into a fidgety, over-imaginative, freaked out mess who is apparently afraid of envelopes. 

My phone goes off at eight fifteen saving me from my spiraling thoughts and reminding me of the Thursday night Cancer support group that I’ve been thinking about attending. Perfect! I’ll bring my father’s letter there and maybe as a collective the group can help me figure out a solution to my dilemma. Plus, let’s not forget there will be free doughnuts and coffee. This is quickly becoming an ideal situation.

***

“Liddy, Connor!” I shout walking into their cute bungalow as if I own the place. “HELLLLL-OOOOO!” Where could they be? Both of their cars are out front and I told Liddy I’d be here this morning, and she’d never stand me up.  She’s the epitome of punctuality and dedication (unlike some people I know).

I stand quietly for a moment and listen for them in the house and that’s when I hear it. Hmm? Bam! What the heck! A picture falls in the hallway and I drop to the floor along with it. Smart picture, duck and cover. My heart is going a million miles an hour. There it is again, BAM! BAM! BAM! GOOD MORNING AMERICA, WHAT IS HAPPENING!? This is it! It’s an earthquake! In Florida! It’s the big one! And I never got a chance to read that damn LETTER! 

I start down the hall in what looks to be an army crawl, only I’d guess my butt is up way too high in the air, if there was barbed-wire above me the little bum I have would be shredded to bits and pieces like the meaty stuffing in a delicious, juicy pulled pork sandwich (I digress, apparently I’m hungry). Then I imagine poor J-Lo cruising under barbed wire and realize how devastating that would be for her butt’s insurance holders. Holy Jesus!

CRASH! Another picture down! At this point I freeze, face-first, flat on the hardwood floors (thank goodness Liddy’s so tidy or this would be disgusting). I’m going to die, a V-card carrying, non-letter-opening, recently acclimated agoraphobe, lingerie designer wanna-be! It’s so unfair! 

“YES! YES!! YES!!!” BAM! CRASH! BOOM! 

NO. FREAKING. WAY! Pictures are scattered everywhere and I realize that this catastrophe is the fallout from the sex between the fairy princess and Mr. Methodical! Well shoot me in the eye and call me Nancy!  If they are capable of
that
imagine what Ashton could do to ME! NONONONONONO! He’s gone, I’m never de-V-ing my thing with him and besides, what just happened in this hallway is a completely different thing all together. 

I’m just jumping up to make a break for it when the bedroom door flies open and out comes a very nude Liddy. “OH! SUGAR HONEY ICED TEA!” She jumps back and throws her hands across all of her most private business.

“You ready for more baby?” Connor says from the comfort of their bed behind her.

“NO! Stay there! Put on clothes. Your baby sister’s here!” I hear an ‘oh Jesus’ muffled from behind her and for some reason I’m still just standing there staring at the naked. Social cues are really not my thing lately. 

Realizing the state of her undress, Liddy finally turns around and reenters the sex chalet, loudly slamming the door shut behind her.

“I’ll be right out!” She shouts through the, apparently, very thin walls! They need to get some earthquake proof sheetrock in here, because no way is this stuff going to hold up in a real emergency.

“Take your time, no hurry here.” I shout as I continue to the state of the art sewing room at the end of the hall. As I enter the small, well organized room I see several sets of lingerie hung-up ready to be discussed and critiqued. I’m head-over-heels in love with each set and dying to tell Liddy that she’s done it and we’re ready to go. Her sewing skills really are top notch. The fine stitching technique that it took to make some of these designs happen is out of this world.

“Hey. Sorry about all that, just a little morning lovin’ to start the day right. So, tell me. What do you think?” 

“Um, just a “little” lovin’? What the hell does a lot of “lovin’” look like?” I ask before decreeing that from this day forward I will always, ALWAYS knock before entering their love chalet or thus take the chance of walking yet again into another Category Five Sexicane, aptly known as, the OH-YES!

Liddy snaps her little fingers in my face and I come to, “Oh, sorry Yes. I’m in love (oh crap I am, we’re only talking lingerie right now, though, so secret’s safe).”  Liddy beams with pride, as she should, because she’s incredible (apparently in more ways than one, wink/wink.  Oh my goodness! Ew! He’s my brother!). 

“Great!” Her smile ignites and I can instantly see that my answer has made her day (along with the activity from earlier I’d imagine).

“What’s the next step? I’m ready to make this thing a go.” I say while clapping and skipping around the room copying the happy dance of the sprite.

“Well, first thing we need to do is decide on the name of the line. All the stores that I currently sell to are ready to put in their orders whenever we’re ready. So really it’s just a matter of branding. Jack texted me this morning and said the tax paperwork is done and our business licensing has gone through. We, my friend, are good to go.”

She follows me to the sewing table where we each take a seat at one of the four accompanying padded stools, ready to come up with a name for our brand. As I sit looking around the room for inspiration I decide it would be best to make a list because we haven’t even started and my brain already feels fried. The only names popping into my head are words inspired from all my recent therapy sessions with Chris and they’re not sexy, pretty or appealing in any way. I shout them out one after another and after each ridiculous suggestion Liddy visibly cringes.

“I got some names for you. Aversion (our clothes are not averse)! Reinforcement (hmm)! Modeling (we’ll need some of those)! Journal (what?)!” And her least favorite of all, “Operant conditioning!”

“What?” She’s so confused (so am I). We both want the same thing and that’s for our brand to have a clever name, a sexy name and thus far my suggestions are neither. This lingerie represents growing up, being a woman and learning to take risks. Some would even say it’s the lingerie version of my life. I’d agree. 

“Your words suck. No offense.”

“Offense taken.” I wink to show I’m teasing. She slaps me to show that I’m not funny.

“Seriously? For someone so obsessed with lingerie and all things sexy and naughty you have an appalling ability to come up with some pretty crap words. Now think sexy, think sex.” Her eyes look like they’re rolling back in her head as her mind goes to sex, probably the sex she
JUST
had and suddenly I feel like I need to give her a minute and go find Connor to come and help her out… but I won’t. Check the box marked jealous please, only, for the love of God, please take my brother out of the equation… G to the mother fudging… ROSS!

“I can’t think with you making those faces and those noises,” I say flicking my hand in her general direction.  How can someone who frequents the Playboy site as often as I do be so freaked out by the “deed”, you ask? I realize the paradox that I am, I just can’t explain it. Ignoring my comment, she tries another angle.

“Okay. This isn’t working. Let’s do this instead. First thing that comes to your mind. I’ll start… Underwear.”  She finishes and points at me.

“Bras.”

“Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.” She looks annoyed, “sorry, it’s the truth, it just popped in,” I say adding an exaggerated shoulder lift for emphasis.

“Lace.”

“Lovely.”

“Sex.” She shouts!

“Yes please.” Her eyes grow big at my word choices.

“With who?” She fires.

“Ashton.” Oh crap, I said that out loud. If eyes could jump out from skulls and then run around in hysterics, then hers just did.

“You want in his britches, you filthy, naughty girl. I knew it! The question now is, does he know you want to get personal with his Mr. Ashton?” 

“Nope. What? His Mr. Ashton? Good Lord you are weird. I definitely need to name the panty brand if that’s your idea of a clever penis title.”

“That’s it! Why didn’t you think it sooner?” What?

“What did I say?  Clever Penis?  Is that it?  You want to name our beautiful, lovely, girly lingerie line after boy’s sweaty junk. I don’t get it. Sorry, but no.”

“You’re an idiot. No… PrettyPanties. All one word. I mean come on, the boys you play with drool over you without ever even having laid eyes on that cute little mug of yours and it’s all because you use the word panties in your call sign or whatever you call it… it’s hot. And of course our stuff is pretty
and
hot.  I mean, it sounds playful AND fun AND a bit naughty. I can hear it now, ‘Hey babe. Why don’t you go and get some of those PrettyPanties?’  GAH! I love it!”

“All of that is going on in your head right now simply because I used the word panty in a sentence? I’m impressed, maybe a little frightened but leaning much heavier on the impressed side. For the record, I agree with you. PrettyPanties was fated and now that it’s been suggested I can see no other option, it’s perfect.” We’re both smiling like a set of tools before either of us notices Connor’s large frame standing in the door.

He enters into our lingerie lair as I loudly and proudly declare PrettyPanties the name of our brand. Instantly, his handsome face reddens as he squirms in his well ironed and finely tailored chinos. There are only two possibilities for his discomfort. One, he’s embarrassed by his little sister’s use of the word panties or two (my vote), the fact that said sister caught him in a rather loud Cat Five Sexathon only minutes earlier. Nothing to be embarrassed about, though, because everything I’ve been reading lately suggests sex helps keep you healthy as a horse. Add a well-timed breast massage while you’re at it and, Voila!  Even better! I’d say too bad, so sad for Ashton because I was planning on curing all his ailments (with my body) before he abandoned me but let’s be real; he’s getting all sorts of healthy with what’s-her-name over in Arizona so it would appear that I’m the only one in danger of dying in poor health.