Every Rose (18 page)

Instead of exchanging gifts right away, he puts in the first of several discs containing
Lonesome Dove
. I know the action and adventure appeals to the guys, but does he have any idea how romantic I find this series? He’s a romantic, so I’m sure that he does. He probably identifies with Gus since Gus never got over his first love, never stopped loving her or trying to win her back. Gus was always my favorite character. I loved his persistence and his own sense of romanticism even though he still fulfilled his own needs with an almost constant demand for a “poke.” For the last several years though, I’ve held a more “Callean” view on life, trying to avoid any real feelings or get too involved with others, which is ironic because I always wanted to slap the shit out of Call when I was younger. I didn’t understand how he could be so obdurate.

I’m shaken from these thoughts as Michael puts his arm around me on the couch and pulls me in closer. I take a deep breath and inhale the scent of him. He always smells of musk and an exotic spice that I can’t identify. I just know that I love the way he smells—woodsy, natural, and sexy. I nudge even closer as I can’t seem to be close enough to him. He smiles down at me and adjusts himself so that we are both comfortable.

I think about the first time I ever saw this series. It invokes feelings of belonging and commiseration. I grew up on a farm, so I knew the harsh day-to-day realities of making one run. However, I was also familiar with all the joys that came from that hard work and sacrifice.

I try to refocus on the movie but get caught up in thinking about how astounded I am that Michael and I are together. I can’t believe my good fortune, but I wonder if we will we make it. I pray that we do. He’s so good for me, and I love him so much.

I absentmindedly trace a pattern on his shirt as my thoughts drift. Will I be able to accept and deal with his lifelong demon? I think so. I’ve learned a great deal about dealing with this kind of thing. It’s not going to be easy, but I think I can handle it. I want to help him overcome it. Furthermore, he wants to conquer it, making him different, more stable.

Will he be able to handle my own transgressions? I’m just barely able to come to terms with them myself. Maybe he can help me with that. He could turn his back on me completely, though. I don’t think I could bear that. I cringe at the thought. I relax my hand as I realize that it’s bunched up, grasping his shirt tightly.

“You OK?” He probes.

I bite my lip and nod my head. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about the first time I watched this movie.” I give him a half-truth. “It was really funny. All of the families on our property got together at my grandparents’ house to watch it. Like it was the landing of the first space shuttle or something extraordinary like that. Every night that week we went up after dinner. It was an amazing experience because it brought our family together for a brief moment.”

“That doesn’t seem anything to be anxious over,” he surmises.

“No, but it’s one of the last moments I remember feeling that unity before my father ruined it all. Therefore, one thought always leads to the other.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he says and rubs my arm up and down, comforting me.

We relax and enjoy the first part of the miniseries in silence except for the few kisses we sneak from each other. As the credits roll, Michael plucks something from the floor and places it in my lap. Ah…gift time. I rub my hands together excitedly. I’m giddy with anticipation.

“Can I open it now?”

“Yep, go for it,” he laughs. “I hope you like it. It’s nothing extravagant.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Extravagance is relative.” He just snorts at me. I pull the package closer to inspect it. It in itself is a gift. He’s taken what seems to be a brown grocery bag and drawn neat little patches of different gardens. It’s all pen and ink, but the flowers are exquisite. I wish I were artsy like he is. I threw my present in a bag. I can’t even wrap a present competently let alone design my own wrapping paper. “Well, that decides that.”

“What’s that?”

I tilt my head and smile up at him. “I know who will be wrapping all future gifts from us.”

“Oh yeah?” He sweeps a lock of hair from my forehead. “I like the way future and us sound together in that sentence,” he muses.

“Me too,” I admit. I lean in and steal another kiss. OK, I’m ready. I gently open my gift, taking care not to ruin his artwork. Oh, it’s beautiful. I gingerly take the dream catcher out of the box. I run my fingers over it. It looks very familiar. “Your tattoo?” I question.

“Yeah, I made it after the one I designed for my back with the exception of the paw print, of course. Do you like it?”

“I love it. I can’t believe you made this,” I whisper, astonished. The yarn of the web is a deep blood red and is intricately woven. Two feathers drop from the circle.

“Do you know about the dream catcher?” he asks.

“A little. I know that it’s supposed to protect you from bad dreams when you hang it over your bed and, of course, that it’s Native American.”

“It begins with the webbing as it works like that of a spider and catches all dreams—good or bad.”

“Neat,” I finger the design. “So how does it work exactly?”

“Well, the Choctaw didn’t invent it, but we adopted it so to speak. Legend says that the dreams are filtered by the web. Bad dreams are caught in the webbing, and the good dreams trickle down through the feathers to the dreamer.” He runs his fingers through the feathers and up my thigh as he explains. It’s almost too much. I take a deep, steadying breath. He continues undaunted. How does he do that? “That means that all you get are the pleasant dreams,” he finishes softly.

I flush, thinking of all the “pleasant” dreams I’ve had of late. Maybe I can tell him about those one day, but definitely not today. “That’s really beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it. There’s something else in there too.” He removes his hand and my thigh aches with the absence. He takes out a leather journal much like the one I bought him. I giggle. “What?”

“Nothing. You’ll see in a minute.”

He furrows his brow. “I thought since you write so much in yours that you would need a new one soon. There’s a little bonus feature, though.”

“It’s much nicer than the one I have now,” I observe. I flip it open and thumb through the pages. “Oh,” I gasp. I glance up at him and see a little secret smile waiting there.

“I don’t want you to look at it all now. I hope that you’ll enjoy it when we aren’t together. You know as a reminder of me.” He shrugs on this last thought.

“I don’t need any physical reminders of you,” I choke out. “You’re my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. And, yet somehow, you manage to consume almost every single thought in between as well.” My eyes are brimming with unshed tears. He helps me by running the pad of his thumb across my bottom lashes. I’m such a cry baby.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He asks.

“I’m very emotional lately.” I shrug. How do I put everything that I’m feeling into words that don’t make me seem like a freak?

“I like emotional,” he declares. “Emotion is underrated.”

I laugh and get up to retrieve my present for him. “Don’t mind the hideous bag,” I tell him. “We’re not all talented artists like you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles.

He takes out his first gift. “It’s a blank piece of paper. Um…you shouldn’t have,” he jokes.

Be brave, be brave. I chant.
“I want you to design a tattoo for me.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Really?”

“Yep, I want you to sketch a happy rose and a sad rose for me. The bitter with the sweet.” I run my fingertips over his sad rose. “I want to have those tattooed on me,” I hesitate for the briefest of moments, “along with your name.”

He stares at me for so long that I start to get really nervous.
Is this too much too soon? I wonder.
We really haven’t even discussed where this is going. “Michael?” I finally prompt him.

“Lorraina, I…” He pulls his eyes from mine, finally. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“You could say, ‘Sure, Lorraina, I will design your first and only tattoo for you,’” I suggest.

“It’s forever,” he reminds me and meets my eyes again.

“This is forever,” I correct.

His lips crush down on mine so unexpectedly that I cry out with a mixture of pleasure and pain. His tongue charges against my mouth, demanding entrance. I thread my fingers through his hair as I allow him to overtake me with his scorching kiss. I marvel for a moment about how intense my feelings are for him. Then, I lose all thoughts as he changes gears yet again and demolishes them all with a sweet, soul-stealing kiss.

He pulls back and grins my favorite lopsided smile. He looks like a little boy when he smiles like this. “I love it when you smile,” I tell him.

“I love you,” he counters.

“And I you. OK.” I clap my hands together like a little kid. I’m suddenly very excited for him to see our journal. “On to the rest of your present! I know the blank piece of paper is overwhelming, but I did spend a little money on you,” I kid.

“Alright, what do we have here?” He takes out his journal and laughs. “It looks like the one I bought for you.”

“Great minds…”

“Yep.” He winks at me. “I love it.”

“Well, there’s a little more to it than the obvious.” I flip it open to my first memory. I read the title of it aloud but let him read the memory for himself.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers and flips through to glance at the ten or so memories written down. “This is unbelievable.”

I feel a little self-conscious when he starts to read another one in earnest, so I place my hand over it and shake my head at him. “Save this for later.”

“Argh…OK.”

“I was hoping that you could journal on our memories as well. Let me see things through your lens. Wanna know how this came to be?” He nods his head at me.

I tell him how I came to find his cards and how the cashier told me he would be playing at Mona’s that night. I tell him about how I went home that night reliving our past in my mind and how I saw it in a completely different light. I tell him that I felt the need, the drive to see him and make him mine and that I was completely overcome with longing for him. I tell him that I’d never felt that way about anything or anyone before in my life.

“And I finally faced the truth as to why I had denied you for all those years, why I had hidden my feelings from the both of us,” I admit.

“Why’s that?” His voice cracks a little.

I take a deep breath and finally acknowledge, “Because you were the best friend I’d ever had. Because your intensity scared me. Because I was so young and I wasn’t ready...Because I was in love with you.”

“Well, it’s about time you owned up to that,” he chuckles and kisses me again.

……………………………………………………....

I find myself riding along the beach with the top off of the Jeep. I love the weather here. It’s Christmas and it’s seventy degrees at six o’clock in the evening. When Guns ‘N’ Roses’ “Paradise City” comes on the radio, I crank it up and belt it out as loud as I can. Michael laughs at me and joins in. It makes me feel infinitely younger. I’m excited to see another part of Michael’s routine, especially since he’s assured me that it doesn’t have any physical requirements
like his tortuous outdoor habits.

I’m surprised when we pull in the Navy Retirement Home. I knew it existed, but I had never been here. “What are we going to do here? Do you have a family member here?”

“No, not really,” he replies. “A while back, a friend of mine told me about his uncle being here and how it could be depressing, so I started coming here to play a little for his uncle every now and then. I enjoyed it so much that I started coming down once a week.”

Will wonders never cease where he is concerned? It blows my mind how kind and considerate he is. He was always that way, but this is a whole new level of compassion. I’m incredibly moved. “That’s really remarkable of you, you know that, right?”

He grimaces, “I think I get more out of it than they do.”

Spoken like a true philanthropist. “You never could take compliments. You need to get that figured out because pretty soon the world is going to be paying you compliments,” I chastise him.

“What?” He blanches.

“You’re too amazing for me to be allowed to keep you all to myself,” I predict. He just rolls his eyes at me. I can’t resist leaning in and paying my respects with a lingering kiss.

And he is truly amazing. He picks his guitar and tells stories and listens to stories and weaves his songs in with the stories. If it is all possible, I fall even more in love with him.

Chapter Twenty-three

Confessions

The next few days pass in a flurry of gigs, nightclubs, wonder, excitement, tenderness, journals, food, Mass. Every second that I’m away from Michael, I count down until we will be together again. He only leaves me when he has to work one of his many jobs. Fortunately, one of his jobs allows him to sit behind a counter so he can call me during that time. I’m able to squeeze a few visits in with Ginny while he’s at work. I’m so tempted to tell her about him, but I’m just not ready for the interrogation. I want our relationship to remain as untainted as possible.