Chasing Wishes (24 page)

Anger builds up inside me and I grind my teeth in frustration as I search fruitlessly in the darkness. This is impossible! I can’t find the toaster, but even if I do, then what? I’ll get to search all over again for butter knives, a plate, jam... I
hate
this! I hate being blind
so
much!

Suddenly, a warm body presses against me softly from behind, and I nearly leap out of my skin as gentle hands clasp around mine.

"Relax," whispers Irene. "Just let me guide you, okay?"

"I’m so sorry about last night," I blurt out. "I didn’t mean to take adv—"

"Hush," she interrupts me. "Let’s get you some breakfast."

"But..."

"The kitchen counter is covered in dark stone tiles, and it forms an L-shape from the fridge to the stove," she whispers, guiding me slowly to the left and then reaching my hands out in front of me. "The chef reorganized the kitchen on you, and the toaster is shoved back against the wall, behind the blender and two glass jars full of rice and flour."

I could have hunted all morning and not found it. I feel like such an idiot.

"I’m letting go of you for just a second, so hold onto the counter, okay?" she whispers, and she starts rummaging through drawers. "Ah ha! Found a butter knife for you."

"Irene, hold up a second," I tell her. "I need to apologize for..."

"No, you don’t," she cuts me off again as she pressed herself behind me and takes my hands in hers again. "There’s nothing to be sorry about."

"I shouldn’t have—"

She ignores my attempt at apologizing and instead talks right over me as she guides my hands to the knife and bread.

"Everything in the kitchen is wood-paneled, and I still think that a whole forest went into this room. Recessed fluorescent bulbs light the countertops, while the rest of the room uses track lighting. It’s a gorgeous kitchen, Terrence. The only thing a bit odd is that they disguised the fridge as a wall."

"Seriously? How’d they do that?" I ask as she hands me a jar of jam and then guides my hand to retrieve my breakfast from the toaster. She's going completely overboard with assisting me, but I was so frustrated at myself that I'm grateful beyond words for her help now.

"You have a wood-paneled refrigerator in a wood-paneled kitchen. It looks exactly like the walls except for the ice dispenser," she answers, pressing herself even closer to me. I swallow hard and try to focus on making my breakfast, but it’s impossible to ignore the feeling of her body against me. This isn't how my apology was supposed to go; I'm supposed to be telling her there’s nothing between us, but instead she’s turning me on and making me want her even more.

Irene continues describinnuer theg the kitchen—the brass and ivory drawer handles, the gleaming copper hood over the oven, the cabinet of sparkling crystal glassware next to the fridge—and the world blossoms like a flower inside my mind. I give up on breakfast, close my eyes and listen to her voice as she describes the world around me in beautiful detail.

This
is why I can’t let myself tell her that there’s nothing between us. I love that she can do this to me, that she can open the world up to me again. Even more, I love that she's willing to.

"And for the last, most important detail," she whispers in my ear, "there are two people standing in the kitchen. A tall, handsome man with beautiful green eyes is trying to make his breakfast while a short, brown-haired woman in flannel pajamas whispers to him."

"Irene..."

"I know you're worried about last night," she continues quietly, "and I want you to know that I'm doing alright."

"Really?" I ask, taking in a sharp breath in surprise. I didn’t expect this; I thought she’d hate me for what we did last night.

"Yes. I had an
amazing
time," she whispers.

In my mind, she’s wearing blue plaid pajama pants and a gray tank-top that leaves little to the imagination. Her straight, shoulder-length hair is dark brown this time, almost black, instead of wavy blond locks trailing all the way to the floor.

"How’s your headache?" Irene whispers, releasing my hands and instead wrapping her arms around my waist.

"It’s doing better," I answer, my heart pounding in my chest. "You feeling okay?"

"I’m wonderful today," she says, just barely pressing herself into me.

Her touch is so incredible that between the feeling of her arms around my waist and the gentle pressure of her breasts against my back, my body tenses up with desire. God, I need her again already!

"Terrence, what happens next is up to you," she whispers in my ear. "I can get you settled with your breakfast and pretend nothing ever happened, or..."

"Or what?" I ask as she trails off.

"Or I can take you straight back upstairs," she whispers, her breath hot against my ear, "and show you just how okay I really am with making love to you."

I don’t wait for another word from her, but instead spin around, press her back against the counter and kiss her passionately. A wonderful, indescribable feeling shoots through my veins as she puts her arms around my shoulders and kisses me back.

There’s no fear this time, no resistance, no alcohol dulling our senses and aiding questionable decisions—this is the real thing. It’s still a terrible idea, but I don’t care anymore.

She giggles as we co
me up for air from our long and passionate kiss, and her laughter again reminds me of Nina. I want Irene so much I can hardly stand it; I need her more than anything right now.

Do you want her more than even Nina?
asks a voice in my head, its tone marked with disapproval as if angry that I'm sullying her memory.

Irene lets out a soft sigh as I leave a trail of kisses first down her neck and then down to the curve of her shoulder until my lips finally find the thin strap of her tight-fitting tank top. I want desperately to grab those straps and pu stses firsll them down, to bare her body to me and have her all to myself, but I can wait until we get upstairs again. I think.

Yes—more than even Nina,
I silently answer, and I kiss Irene again without a moment's hesitation.

"R
oot breaking through the sidewalk in three steps."

The autumn leaves rustle in the breeze as Terrence and I walk arm in arm down the crumbling sidewalk along the Mystic River. The water is slow and languid today, matching how I feel after a second round in bed with him. I’m tired—exhausted in the best way possible, really—and... well, just the slightest bit sore. It’s the good kind, though, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world right now.

I tried to make breakfast for us, but Terrence insisted on taking me out instead. Rather, he insisted that I assist him in his attempt to take me out for breakfast—things can get a little convoluted when Terrence is involved. We’re going out to a nearby diner called Kitchen Little.

The sun shines down through a narrow gap in the clouds, making the leaves overhead glow in beautiful tones of fire and earth. It’s almost too gorgeous for words.

But not quite
, I think, and I lean in close to Terrence and whisper into his ear.

"The leaves above us look like a sunset. Blazing reds and yellows intermingled, burning on the branches above us as the sunlight filters through them," I begin. Terrence closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything, but the faint hint of a smile on his lips tells me everything I need to know.

"One short, stout tree up ahead hasn’t made up its mind yet," I tell him. "It has one branch of copper-tone and one yellow, but the rest of it is still green. The other trees have all reached their peak, and if the little one waits much longer, it’ll miss the whole season."

"What kind is your favorite?" he asks. "The leaves, I mean."

I smile and gently nudge him with my shoulder before answering. I know
exactly
what my favorite is, even though I haven’t seen it in years.

"When I was a girl, there weren’t many trees where I lived," I answer, "but there was an old lady down the block who had an enormous bush in front of her house. Every autumn, its leaves turned the deepest, riches red color. It was a beautiful splash of color against my ugly, gray neighborhood, and I walked by her house every day just to see it. No idea what kind of bush it was, though. My mother called it the burning bush, after the old bible story."

"Where did you grow up again?" asks Terrence, and without thinking, I actually answer him.

"Downtown New Haven."

Terrence’s arm tightens around mine and his eyes widen as if he’s surprised by my answer. After what feels like a decade of silence, he clears his throat and finally speaks up again.

"I don’t have a favorite type of leaf or anything," he says, his voice quiet and uncertain. "For me, the big thing was always the contrast between the colorful leaves and the gray sky. There were a lot of trees where I grew up, and I loved looking out at the woods and seeing the fiery red and orange horizon set against the clouds."

A cold gust comes in off the riv stselooking er, chilling me as it shakes the branches above us. Terrence stares up at the rustling leaves and a wide smile covers his face as his imagination fills with all the radiant colors his eyes can no longer see.

****

K
itchen Little is... well... little. ‘Tiny’ might be a better choice of word, even. The diminutive restaurant looks smaller than my old apartment, and a line of waiting customers stretches out the door and down the sidewalk as far as I can see.

"Um.... Terrence?" I start, nudging him with my elbow. "The line’s like a mile long. Want to go somewhere else?"

"Are you kidding me? No way—this place is the best!"

"No breakfast can possibly be worth waiting in a line like this," I argue, and he gapes at me as if I’ve just insulted his mother.

"You’ve never eaten here before, have you?"

"Nope," I answer, and he sighs and shakes his head at me. What did he expect me to say? I don't own a car and used to live easily eight miles from here. There’s no way I would ever have come here.

"Irene... you have no idea what you’ve been missing," he says. "We’re eating breakfast here, and I’m not making you wait in that line either."

"But—"

"Just get me to the door and watch, okay?"

I bite my tongue and say nothing. He's demoted me to employee status again and his order unexpectedly infuriates me.

"Yes sir," I answer coldly, and just as I’ve made up my mind that we’d only had a one-night stand after all, Terrence leans in and kisses me softly on the cheek, his morning stubble grazing my skin.

"Okay... follow me to the door, then," I tell him, ignoring the kiss. I have no fucking idea what we are right now. No idea whatsoever.

The waiting list—a cracked chalkboard, its once red frame bleached pink from long years of sun—hangs beside the door. As I grab the chalk to add our names to the mile-long list, the door bursts open and an old woman in a blue apron waddles out with an oversized, egg-coated spatula in her hand.

"Terrence! My God, I haven’t seen you in six months now!" she squeals with the slightest hint of a Jersey accent. She yanks him away from me and hugs him tightly, smearing eggs on the back of his shirt in the process. From her delighted smile and almost teary eyes, you’d think Terrence was her long-lost son or something. When she finally releases Terrence from her crushing embrace, I quickly steady him and loop my arm around his again.

"Are you married now, Terrence? You should’ve told me," she says, eyeing me up and down and then smiling approvingly. I turn bright red and shake my head in embarrassment.

"No, this is my new assistant, Irene," he says, glancing in my direction and shooting me a smile. "Irene, this is Dahlia. She owns the restaurant."

My heart does a cartwheel and my knees get all mushy as he leans into me, his shoulder touching mine, but I try my best to ignore it as I shake Dahlia’s hand. She smells strongly of bacon and sausage, and it’s making me uncomfortably hungry.

She looks back and forth at the two of us and then winks at me with a half-smile. Why does everyone else seem to know what’s going on with our relationship except for us?

"Well, don’t just stand here in the cold. Come inside and get cozy!" she says, clapping her hands together excitedly, and then she holds the door open for us.

"The line’s back here, buddy!" shouts a man from halfway back in line. "How about you wait in it like the rest of us?"

Dahlia spins around in a huff and puffs up like an angry mother hen protecting her chicks.

"Oh, so you want to be at the front, huh? Tell ya what," she shouts back to him, her Jersey accent coming through loud and clear. "Go blind yourself, come back, and then I’ll let
you
skip the line too."