Almost Home. Debbie Macomber
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I clutched the sheet to me. I wanted to let him have it face-to-face, but I sure as heck was not getting out of bed naked. It’s one thing to feel fat in the darkness of night, overcome with excitement; it’s quite another to parade around and about naked, bouncing bottom, thunder thighs and all. Plus, I was pissed.
“Let’s get something straight, Aiden, before I get off-the-cliff ticked. I slept with you because I wanted to. I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted to manipulate you or your precious career. Not a bit.”
“Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe.”
“I don’t care what you find hard to believe, you … you difficult, rigid, journalistic prick. Things got carried away last night, and I”—my voice shook and wobbled—“I made a mistake.”
“You made a mistake?”
“Yes, I made a mistake. I slept with a man who woke up in the morning, and instead of saying, ‘Good morning, how are you, can I make you some French toast and coffee, want to go for a walk to the ocean?’ he accuses me of having sex with him to get something out of it.”
“How can you blame me for thinking that? The first thing you asked this morning was for me not to write the article.”
“Hey, Aiden, I blame you for thinking that because you know me better than that. I have never stopped asking you not to write the article. Not once. Did you think I would have changed my mind this morning because we rolled around naked? That pisses me off even more than I was pissed off to begin with! How dare you think so little of me! How dare you think I would stoop to sleeping with you to manipulate you, to get what I wanted.” The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to throw something at his head.
“I hate this situation, I do, Chalese, but this is the way it is. I can’t believe—” He stopped, pulled himself together as his voice got deep and scratchy. “This article has been assigned to me to write. I said I would, and I will. I’ll write it with respect for you, with kindness, with care and consideration, but I’ve got to write it.”
“You said you would, so you will,” I mimicked him. “Well, I’m going to throw this yellow pillow at your head.” I threw it. “I said I would, and I did. Here’s another one.” I shot another pillow across the room. “Here’s a third,” I yelled. “I said I’d throw it, and I will!” Another one went flying, and another.
“Stop it, Chalese.”
“No, you stop it, Aiden. Did you sleep with me so you could have a fuller picture? Perhaps you want to know my mind, and my boobs and butt, too? What is this—the full-body interview? Maybe you can give your readers a play-by-play.”
He paled, white as snow. “I slept with you because …”
“Because what?”
“Chalese …” He swore, turned away. “You know why I slept with you.”
“Yes, I do know why, and clearly we let passion shrink our brain cells. Get out of my house. Right now!” Two dogs named Sherbert and Mr. Green ran in, tongues lolling about. When they saw me yelling and upset, they stood in front of Aiden and growled.
“Get out, Aiden. Go. Go skedaddle back to that newspaper of yours, tap away on your keyboard, and do your thing.” I felt a wave of depression, of black, gooey sadness, take hold. It was a sense of inevitability, a sense of dismal doom. I had been hiding for years, but the hide-and-seek game was over. The game was up. I leaned back against my wooden head-board, bracing myself for what was to come. “We’re done. We are completely done.” In case there was any doubt about what I wanted him to do, I threw a light blue silk pillow at him.
I did not miss the shattered expression on his face. I felt it in my own heart, which was shriveling, shrinking, dying.
“Can you quit throwing pillows and understand for one second how this is for me? I’m sorry about this—”
“Sorry about this, Chalese,” I said, mimicking him. “You poured out everything last night, all about your childhood, and, hey, I’m sorry about blowing your privacy and about dragging up that you are Annabelle Purples, children’s writer who has a truly famous crook for a father, but thanks for the sex!” I wanted to run. Run as far as the ocean shore, then jump in and swim until I couldn’t swim, swim to the whales, swim with the whales. “Get out. Get out now.”
I did not miss the hopelessness mixed with anger in his expression. I felt the same way. Like my life had been crushed.
As soon as he left, I pulled the covers over my head and soaked my one remaining pink pillow with my tears.
“Hello, Mom,” I said into the phone, muffling my weeping with a tissue. “You’re going to Los Angeles next? I received the box of peaches and the box of kale. Yes, the natural spices from Africa arrived, too. I’ll be sure to use them liberally, as your instructions dictated. I love you, too, and yes I’ve been thinking about more designs ….”
I braced myself for the article. Each day I checked online. It did not appear.
I kept working on my book at a frantic pace, while shoveling in orange truffles and coffee, but in my off moments, almost breathless with despair, I took a break and drew away my anger.
I drew Cassy Cat, the presidential contender who usually wore glasses and simple clothes, in a low-cut red gown smoking a cigarette in a biker bar. Above her I drew a bubble that read, “Hey, baby, want some of this? Aiden Bridger, a little man, if you know what I mean, sure didn’t.”
I drew Fox with his pointy nose from behind, his tuxedo coat pulled open by his sharp claws, clearly flashing a group of puppies in front of him. I put a sign on the fox’s coat that said, “Aiden Bridger: Exposing Everyone!”
I drew the prissy Goose as a streetwalker. A fat dog with a long tongue leaned out of his truck. “How much?” he asked. The truck was a twin to Aiden’s, and the license plate said, “A. Bridger.”
And popular humble Herbert Hoove the Horse? I drew him at a poker table, aces sticking out from his sleeve, his hat, his shoes. He had a name tag on. It said, “Aiden Bridger, Gambler.” The bubble above his head read, “I get so tired of screwing people.”
It was my silent way of revenge. My way of getting back at Aiden while I raced to meet the deadline. A way to rebelliously cope while the tears streaked down my checks as if I had faucets in my eyeballs.
Little did I know that the rest of the nation would be cackling their hearts out—or screaming in outrage—by the middle of the next week.
It was announced that I had won the Carmichael Children’s Book Award. My agent and publisher began fielding calls and requests for interviews.
All were denied.
I wished I felt happy about the award.
It was one of those things, though. If you don’t have that special someone to dance around with when cool things happen, the cool things don’t seem that cool.
“I think if we grabbed your sister, the crying Christie, took off our shirts, and drove through the night half-naked, I could get rid of my writer’s block,” Brenda told me, crossing her red and white polka-dot heels on the top of my blue picnic table in the clearing of the woods. “My life would be better. I’m tired of Shane, you know. He wants me to dress up in a superhero costume, and I am so done with that.” She dropped cherries into her mouth. “I mean, how many times can you be Wonder Woman and still keep it fun?” She clicked her heels together.
I went back to my draft of another picture for my book. I was giving one of my characters, a llama, dreadlocks. He was a hippie sort of llama.
My hair was slung up in a ponytail, I had been wearing the same jeans for days, and I was operating on approximately four hours of sleep a night. I smelled; my hair was gross. Besides Brenda, the only person I had seen in days was Reuby, who came in to pet the cats when I walked the dogs one afternoon.