Grace Grows (29 page)

He pulled the covers back and got into bed, fully clothed. Not touching me, just lying on his back beside me.

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to catch this?” I whispered.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Why wouldn’t you call Peg?”

He rolled onto his side and looked at me. “Because
I’m
here. Why shouldn’t I take care of you?” His eyes were fierce.

“Thank you,” I said. “For taking care of me. . . . I wish . . .”

“What?”

“That song,” I said. “ ‘Something Sacred.’ ”

He nodded, barely.

Tears came. They were hot, rolling down my face. “Ty, how could you? That was private, what happened between us.”

He sat up on his elbow. “It’s still private! No one knows if it’s true, or about someone real. Maybe I just made up a story, for all anyone knows.”

My whole body was shaking, I was crying so hard. “It hurts me when I hear it.”

“I’m sorry.” He smoothed my tangled hair, blotted my face with the edge of the sheet. “Baby, don’t, please. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s stop talking,” I said. “I feel so sick.”

I slept for a while and at 1:30 a.m. woke up with the worst sore throat of my life. And the fever, high again. He helped me pull on my jeans, commando, and took me to Beth Israel Hospital. Turned out the triage nurse was a big fan. Ty unleashed the killer smile and the homey drawl and she was all aflutter. After midnight in a Manhattan emergency room, I only had to wait forty-five minutes to see a doctor.

They scraped my throat with a long Q-tip. Or maybe a white-hot piece of metal wire. Yes, probably that. “
Owwww
,” I wept.

Turned out to be strep. I was given a shot of antibiotic.

“Now give her something for the pain,” Ty said to the doctor. She looked at him, looked at me, and ordered another injection.

Ty was given a bag with more medications for me to take home. By three thirty I was out of the jeans and back in his bed, drinking a big glass of Sprite and really not feeling so bad at all. Not even sleepy.

There was no lamp in his bedroom yet, just the glaring overhead light. He saw that it was bothering me and turned it off, and in the dim illumination from the bathroom I watched him take off his shirt and jeans. He was just wearing his black boxer briefs now, and dear God, his body. Those push-ups were definitely working.

“I bet you’re glad you didn’t kiss me, now that you know I have strep.”

“I bet I’m not.” He got under the covers beside me.

“Shut up.”

“You.”

I knew that I still had fever, because although it didn’t hurt, my skin felt so terribly sensitive. Even between my legs. Especially there.

I turned on my side and scooted over till I was all up against him. I took his hand and put it on me.

“Grace,” he said. Maybe thinking he shouldn’t take advantage of me in my sick, altered state.

I kissed his chest. He slid an arm under my shoulders and ran the other hand up under the T-shirt and all over me—my breasts, belly, hips, thighs, bottom. I shuddered; it was almost too much. He felt my skin rise up in violent goose bumps, and when he touched me again between my legs, it was feather-light.

I came, so quickly.

“Again?” he whispered, a few minutes later.

I nodded.

He shoved the covers off me and knelt between my legs. He put his mouth on me and burned away the remaining fever.

Sometime in what seemed like early morning, he said my name and felt my face and gave me my antibiotic with a glass of apple juice.

“How does your throat feel?” he asked. “Do you want a painkiller?”

I shook my head. It only hurt a little, now.

I went back to sleep.

I woke up alone in the apartment. I sat up slowly, a little dizzy. Got out of bed carefully and shuffled out to the living room. I found my purse and cell and called work. I also left a message for Peg that I was with a friend for the weekend and not to worry.

Just getting up and doing that much exhausted me. I went back to bed.

It was dark in the bedroom when I woke again.

“Hey,” he said. “How are you?”

“Better.” I felt so shy.

“Are you hungry?”

I nodded.

He brought me soup. And ice cream.

When I woke Saturday morning he was asleep beside me.

I got up quietly and took a shower. It felt great to wash away all that sweaty sickness. I scrubbed my teeth with toothpaste on a washcloth, and combed out my wet hair. I wrapped up in a towel and went back to the bedroom.

He was awake, watching me. I sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Not too bad.”

“That medicine took care of things pretty quick.”

“Quickly,” I said.

He smiled.

“I love you,” I said. “I’ve loved you for so long. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you.”

He nodded, like it was not a revelation. Like
Yes, of course. I know you do
.

He opened the towel and looked at me. He drew me down beneath him and touched my face with trembling fingers. His mouth was hot in the hollow at the base of my neck, on my breasts.

“I’m not going to stop,” he said, already pushing into me.

“
Don’t
.” Dear God, the relief. I wrapped my arms and legs around him.

When he was all the way in, he groaned and stayed still for a while. Then he took my face in his hands, looked into my eyes, and pounded the hell out of me. I had to put a hand up and brace myself to stop inching toward the headboard.

It was rough, and brief, and not about me. And that was just fine.

We made up for lost time.

We had more sex in the next twenty-four hours than I’d ever had in an entire month. We slept and ate, too, but only for brief intervals before we were at it again. At first, in between, I pulled on one of his T-shirts a time or two, but soon gave up. Clothing became a frustrating waste of time.

Somewhere in there I came back from the bathroom and found him sitting on the end of the bed holding his wallet. I sat beside him and he handed me a folded piece of paper that turned out to be test results from a clinic in Los Angeles. He was HIV-negative. Negative for other things, too.

“Oh,” I said. “Great! When did you do this?”

“Seven weeks ago.” He pointed to the date.

“And you always used condoms since then?”

“I haven’t been with anyone since well before then.”

I’m sure I looked mighty surprised.

“And I always used condoms before, anyway. When I needed to. Which
wasn’t
that often.”

“Even all those times you’d been partying? Are you sure?”

He scowled. “Don’t believe all the shit you read about me, okay, Grace?”

“Okay.” I tried not to sound dubious.

“I do have some restraint.”

“Okay.” I looked again at the paper. “Well, why did you get tested?”

“ ’Cause I knew I was coming home and I was gonna do whatever it took to get inside you. I figured that might mean documentation.”

I wanted to laugh. But should I be offended? This was a brain-bender.

“Well, you didn’t need it, apparently.” I felt a little sheepish. “But congratulations. Mission accomplished!”

He laughed and then I did, too, and he pulled me onto his lap and we somehow ended up on the bedroom floor. I woke there later sprawled across him, my cheek stuck with sweat and drool to his chest.

He was awake, stroking my hair. I took a peek up at him. He smiled.

“I can hear your heart,” I said. “You’re alive!”

“I am. For fuckin’ sure.”

We did it so much that we ran out of condoms. And then we did it again, one more time.

I got in the tub at midnight, to soak my pleasantly exhausted body. He came and got in behind me, with lots of sloshing overflow. I lay back against him and sighed. His hand crept down my belly.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Sorry,” he laughed, cradling me, scooping warm water over my breasts.

I dozed and dreamed.

Kittens!
There were so many of them! It was my job to contain them. I had to make sure they didn’t get up this flight of endless, very steep stairs. I sat down on a step and gently shoved them all back, tried to block them with my legs and feet, but one tiny little calico devil leapt and attached, with splayed, needle-sharp claws, onto my dress.

“Ouch!” I squeaked.

He climbed over my shoulder before I could grab him. I turned and saw him scamper up the steps. He was so fast! Now more kittens slipped past me.

Ty’s musing voice, far away, intruded on the kitty chaos. “I guess I shouldn’t have come inside you those times. That was pretty stupid.”

“Mm,” I said, surfacing just long enough to be polite. Then I went back to the dream stairs, where I was
very
upset. Extremely anxious. There was just no way I was going to be able to stop the kittens. There were too many, and they were so fast! That little calico, leading the pack, was so far up the stairs now I almost couldn’t see him.

I shook a fist at the little guy and then felt like a jerk. He was a kitten, for heaven’s sake. And why was I supposed to stop him, anyway? Oh, wait . . . this was a
dream
. Not real! I could stop worrying.

Phew!

plans b and c and the Walrus, laughing

Sunday morning, lying in bed, I heard words and music from the living room:

Did you think I would ever

work up the nerve

and touch you

and touch you like I did

Did you think I would ever

ever return

and hold you

and hold you again

Tell me to turn up this flame that I feel

Tell me you burn up cause I’m touching you still

Did you think I would ever

turn on your light

and love you

I love you tonight

Tell me you’re feeling the way that I do

Tell me, I’m reeling cause you’re touching me too

Did you think you would ever

turn on my light

and love me

You love me tonight

“Are you coming tonight?” he asked.

We were sitting on his couch eating giant bowls of cereal. I looked at him blankly.

“Roseland, remember? Day after tomorrow I’m leaving.”

My spoon faltered between the bowl and my mouth. “Where are you going?”

“Atlanta first, then all over.”

I still did not understand.

“I’m going on tour. Colleges and festivals and nightclubs. We start in Atlanta, and end in St. Louis next spring.”

“Oh.”

“You should see the tour bus,” he said. “I have my own room. Everyone else sleeps in a bunk bed.”

He was leaving.

We looked at each other for a long time. He blinked and looked away. Then he looked at me again and grinned, excitement and shadow in his eyes.

I stood up.

“Do you—” he said.

“What?”

He pointed at my bowl. “Do you want some more cereal?”

“No thanks.” I headed for the kitchen. “I think I’d better go home.”

“I’ll walk you.”

A gray, mid-September Sunday morning. Chilly, as if winter was close already. And then we ran into Roberta, coming toward us on Grove Street. Blond, beautiful, boobalicious Roberta, in her tight jeans and high heels. She gave him a Big Hug. She aimed her lips at his mouth, but he turned his face just in time and she left a wet spot on his cheek. He rubbed it away, glancing at me. Probably doing some mental scrambling.

“I’m coming tonight,” Roberta cooed. “I can’t wait!”

She said hello to me, too.

“Hello. Oh, hey,” I said politely to both of them. “Why don’t I let you two catch up? Sorry to rush away, but I’ve got to get on home.”

“Okay!” Roberta said.