Checked Again (30 page)

And
we do move on to a new conversation, several new conversations—about Mandy’s
next few sorority events, my conference articles, and Melanie’s ridiculous work
schedule.

My
mind doesn’t move on, however. It stays on him. Where it’s been all night.

As
we clean up and decide to get some sleep, I still think about him…wonder what
he’s been up to this evening. Then, as Melanie and Mandy hug me goodbye before
they go to their room (322), I stand out in the hallway with them...and I
continue to think about him, even though I try to keep my eyes away from room
317.

After
that, as Mandy starts walking down the hall and turns around to nod in the
direction of his room, saying, “Totally doable,” I, well, of course keep
thinking about him.

My
thoughts don’t change as I begin my modified night routine. Thermostat and door
checked.
Him.
Phone alarm on.
Him.
Teeth brushed.
Him
----
worrying about me.
Clothes out and
nails painted.
Him not wanting to be my doctor anymore.
Inbox emptied.
His
eyes when he said goodbye this evening.
 Shower taken and lotion applied.
Second set of silky, skimpy pajamas on.
His kiss last night
. Hair dried
and prayers said and—

Him
wanting to come over last night. Him wanting to come over last night. Him.
Wanting. To. Come. Over. Last. Night.

Me.
Wanting. Him. To. Come. Over.

Now.

No
more thinking.

Grab
phone.

Type
new message.

Come
over.

Send.

Wait
for a response. Wait for a response. Wait for a response.

Did
he get my message? Is he sleeping? What if he doesn’t want to—

Buzz.

New
message. His message.

One.
Two. Three.

Open
your door.

Chapter
19

him

ONE.
TWO. THREE.

Over
to the door. Undo the deadbolt.

Open
the door. Slowly.

And
he’s here.

Blue
and white checkered pants hanging loosely. Short-sleeved white t-shirt…not
loose at all…clinging tightly around his arms…his stomach.

His
eyes move across my bare arms, my tiny shorts.

Then
his eyes meet mine. Hungry. Needing.

I
start to take a step in toward him, but he holds his hand, his palm, up to stop
me.

I
freeze. Confused.

He
squeezes his eyes shut and groans. When he opens them again, I can see
regret…and resolve.

Oh
my God.
He’s
going to leave again. He’s…

My
head starts to spin. Suddenly very aware of my lack of clothing, I drape my arm
across my chest, my hand over my shoulder. My other hand, the one still holding
the door handle, starts to sweat and—

“I’ve
been thinking during the last few hours, and I’ve made a decision.” As he
talks, he steps into the room, closer to me, but not touching me.

Closer
and closer. Eyes on mine. Still full of regret. Resolve. Desire.

He
whispers, “I have three reasons for my decision…” He pauses. “So you pretty
much have to listen to me.”

I
stand still, still holding the door handle with one hand. I have no idea what
he’s talking about. And my ability to think…to reason…isn’t working very well
right now. Everything is clouded up by the smell of his cologne…the smell of
him.  

Out
of the corner of my eye, I see his hand start to move…start to move toward the
door handle…toward my hand.

One.
Two. Three. His hand…warm…burning…covers mine and lifts my fingers off the door
handle. He moves a little to the side and allows the door to swing shut behind
him. Still holding my hand, still looking at me, he shuffles around a little to
kick off his shoes.

He
stops shuffling around. I’m guessing his shoes are now sitting right next to my
black heels, but I don’t know for sure. Because I can’t look. Because his eyes
are still on mine. And he still has my hand. He pulls it up to his lips,
brushing a kiss on my palm and then cupping my hand under his chin. Pushing my
fingers into his cheek. Pressing my hand into the light stubble on his face.

He
breathes in and out. And he whispers. “My decision.” He breathes in and out
again. Eyes frustrated. “My decision is…that I’m not going to sleep with you
tonight.”

What?

I
start to pull my hand away from his cheek, away from his face.

He
doesn’t let me. He presses his hand into mine, holding my fingers firmly
against his cheek.

He
whispers again. “You didn’t listen to my reasons yet.”

He
pushes his face, his body, closer to me. Another whisper. “One. You haven’t
seen my test results yet. I don’t want you to have any doubts in your head when
we do this.”

“But
I—” I try to talk, but I don’t get very far.

He
cuts me off. “I don’t want you to have any doubts. None.”

Before
I can open my mouth again, he steps even closer to me, his body only an inch or
two away. His face, right…here.

He
whispers again. “Two. I don’t want you to think that this was my plan…that I
came to this conference to sleep with you.”

“I
would never—”

“Shhh.”

And
I do “shhh.” Not because he tells me to…but because he takes one more step in,
pressing his body against mine.

My
body reacts to his, moving closer, moving into him. Purple silk cami against
white t-shirt. Silk shorts against checkered pajama pants.

Thin
layers of clothing against thin layers of clothing.

So
close to skin against skin.

His
mouth moves right up to mine. Lips burning lips.

He
doesn’t kiss me though.

He
inhales to speak again. In a blur, I hear his words. I feel them.

“Three.
I have this feeling that if you’ve never had sex, you’ve never…”

He
trails off, his lips still resting on mine…his heart beating against my chest.

He
whispers. “I’m going to take care of that first.”

My
arms tremble. My heart pounds. My mouth opens in a gasp…a gasp that falls right
onto his lips.

{John
Legend comes in with
“All
of Me
.
”
}

In
a blur, we start moving back, back, back toward the bed. Lips touching. Not
kissing. Breathing against each other. Grasping for air.

Just
as I feel the bed behind my knees, I start to fall backwards. I clutch his
t-shirt, pulling him down with me, pulling him as close as I can.

His
lips begin to move frantically over mine. Over and over and over and over and—

Trailing
kisses over my face, down my neck, he rolls off of me. His lips find my ear as
he stretches out beside me.

“Callie.”
He breathes into my ear, exhaling slowly.

My
body shakes. Wanting. Needing.

I
move my hands over his t-shirt, down his chest, past his stom—

His
hands grip mine…stop them, firmly pressing my wrists against his stomach.

He
sighs into my ear. Then he whispers again. “I already told you—that’s not on
the agenda for tonight. You are on the—”

His
breath against my ear is too much. I turn my head and cut him off, pressing my
mouth onto his. A heavy sigh breathes out of him. Then his mouth starts moving
impatiently with mine. My lips fight to keep up with his. I pull at my hands,
trying to get out of his grip, trying to touch him, but he only tightens his
hold.
{
“All of Me
.
”
Refrain. Refrain. Refrain.}

He
pulls his lips off of mine. “You aren’t making this easy.” He buries his head
into the side of my neck. He rubs his mouth, the stubble on his chin, across my
shoulder.

My
head goes limp. My hands give up, stop struggling to be released.

He
raises his face from my neck. “I’m up for a challenge, though.”

Before
I know what is happening, he tightens his grip on my wrists and pushes up, up,
up, tossing me onto my back and pressing my arms, my hands, above my head.

He’s
not letting go. He crushes my hands against the pillow above me, now holding
both of my wrists with one of his hands.

His
other hand…now free…moves down. His fingers slowly slide over my neck, over my
shoulders.

My
breathing becomes heavy. Loud.

His
hand slides down over the silky material of my camisole. Slowly. Touching every
inch of fabric. Every inch of me.

He
leans over, his body hovering over mine.

His
mouth starts to follow the same path as his hands. Kissing and biting and
rubbing and—

A
rush of desire…need…blazes through me. My eyes close. My chest rises up to meet
his mouth.

His
mouth. Warm. Wet. Amazing.

Only
the thin layer of my cami between his mouth and me.

My
skin is burning. Shaking. Alive.

His
mouth still…still everywhere, he slips his hand down…down…down…over my pajama
bottoms…squeezing and grasping and—

Oh
my God.

And
pressing and massaging and—

And
somehow my senses shut down and awaken at the same time.
{John Legend gets
louder and louder and louder.}

There
is only this moment. And his mouth. And his fingers. And him.

Teasing
and kissing and touching and burning. And—

My
heart hammers against my chest, against his lips. Everything tightens and
tightens and builds and builds and—

And…And…And—

Oh.
My. God. {And louder and louder and LOUDER.}

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.

And
releases.
{Music blaring.}
And releases.
{Music blaring.}
And
releases.
{Music blaring.}

And
then—

{The
song, the refrain…it gradually slows and quiets. Fades into the background.}

An
extraordinary sense of calm suddenly overtakes me. His hand stops moving. His
mouth stops moving. He releases my hands and puts his arms around my waist,
laying his cheek on my chest. My heart slowly begins to beat at an almost
normal rate.

I
pull my arms, my hands, down from above my head. And I hold him, running my
fingers slowly through his hair.

Eventually,
he inhales and starts to talk. To whisper. “Next time we do that, there won’t
be any fabric between us.” My heart rate starts speeding back up.

He
raises his head, his body, and lies on his side next to me, his lips at my ear.
“Next time, I want…I need…to touch you, to—”

“Why
not now?” I turn my face to his, speaking in a rush of words. “Don’t you want—”

“Shhh.”
His face, his lips, one breath away now. He whispers, “Callie, of course I
want.” He groans, brushing his lips over mine. “I want. I want you.” His lips
graze mine again, and then he slowly falls to his back, tugging on me to move
with him, to pull my head to his shoulder.

He
grabs my hand and holds it on top of his chest. His heart beats erratically
under my fingers. “We have to change the conversation, or I’m not going to be
able to stop my—”

“Then
just don’t st—” I try to cut him off.

“Shhh.
Shhh. Shhh.”

After
he speaks, silence fills the bed, the room. We lie there. Together. Hearts
beating together.
{Damien reappears with his refrain. He repeats it over and
over.}

After
I don’t know how long, he speaks quietly. “Callie, I really have been thinking
about option number three. About—about being the one to help you.” He pauses.
He breathes. “I want it to be me. I want to do this with you. I’m going to do
this with you.” Another pause. Another breath. “I just…”

I
wait. I listen.
{Damien keeps singing. He—}

“I
just worry…with the Mom thing…and—”

“But
I’m not her,” my thoughts fall out of my mouth in a whisper. A very small
whisper. So quiet that I’m not even sure that he can hear it.

The
silence returns.

One.
Two. Three. Silence. One. Two. Three. Silence.
{Well, except for Damien.}
One. Two. Th—

“No.
You aren’t her. But the similarities…they’re so hard to overlook…to ignore.”
Another pause. “And I couldn’t help her, Callie. I couldn’t stop her from—”

He
breaks off. I freeze, my body becoming dead weight on his chest.

Is
he going to tell me? Is he finally going to bring up the—

“She…she
really had it rough at the end…her checking and worrying just got out of hand
and she…she had some stuff going on that…that made her even worse. Much worse.
And then she…she died.”

Tell
him, Callie. Tell him that you know about his mother. That you know how she
died. That you know that
“
stuff
”
equals music in her head.

That
you have that
“
stuff
”
too.

That
the
“
stuff
”
honestly doesn’t drive you crazy (or crazier), though. That he doesn’t need to
worry about you committing suicide. That you would never do that.

I
open my mouth to talk.

Then
I close it.

Then
I open it again. And close it again.

{A
Great Big World and Christina A. are back again with
“Say Something
.
”
}

I
try once more to push words through my lips. Nothing comes out. Nothing—

“You
two are different. And I really am going to try to do a better job of
separating the two of you in my mind, of separating your conditions.”

Ask
him, Callie. Ask him what he thinks is different between his mother’s OCD and
yours.

{A
Great Big World and Christina get louder.}

I
don’t ask. And he doesn’t tell me.

He
also doesn’t ask me anything. He doesn’t ask me to confirm that our conditions
are different…doesn’t ask me if I’ve ever experienced “stuff” like his mother
did. So I don’t tell him.

We
exist together in silence. Holding back information. Lying by omission.